Month: May 2016

the question is…

~ steve.ridgley ~ Leave a comment

Steve Chapman - Can Scorpions Smoke?

A friend of mine has created a brand around the question “Can scorpions smoke?”. Steve Chapman is a creative genius who helps people think differently and explore the world with new eyes. His website is here, take a look.

His book of that name was on my desk today and the title kept catching my eye.  I wondered how silly a question can get?

Can pigeons whisper?
Can the sky tickle me?
What if wind is sucking not blowing?
Can bananas plot?
What if my eyes were on my toes?
Can water drown?
Can an itch be drawn?
Does anger like peanut butter?

Children have this wonder. As adults we lose it. Ironically education, society, organisation drive it out of us.

Yet our ability to face the world wearing a coat of possibility allows us to weather many storms. Breaking with convention, with patterned thinking, is a source of joy and creativity and possibility.

Just thinking about those few questions brought a smile to my face.  Thanks Steve.

 

thinking on your feet

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Language is strange sometimes isn’t it?

Someone said to me today we would be thinking on our feet. The phrase actually suggests we won’t be thinking at all. Rather it implies we will react, in the moment, under time pressure, without giving ourselves time to think.

Today, the group we were facilitating spent time in thinking pairs. Nancy Kline’s model which gives the gift of attention and permits time to think… best done often on our feet.

Ironically.

 

listening to being listened to

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Being listened to, has amazing properties.

When we need to be heard, and someone makes time, it feels like a gift. The gift of attention. It makes us feel special. Helps us make sense of our own thinking. Connects us to our own feelings. It’s cathartic. Warming. Connecting. It sets us on an even keel again. Able to move forward once more.

Being listened to, however, requires a listener.

Often a good one. One who listens. One who hears. Little, if any, interruption.

All too often though as the potential listener, we don’t pay attention to this gift giving capability. We are too busy. In our own world. We move on, neglecting. Not because we don’t care, but often because we just don’t value sufficiently the benefit of listening to another person. We are captured by our own selfish need. Our priorities. Our world, in that moment, is worth more than the world of the listened to. So we interject, we opinion give, or we don’t even see that the listened to seeks to be listened to.

We should stand regularly in the listened to space and remember its gifts.

From there, step across. Stand more frequently in the listener space. Give gifts back. Gifts to others. To those who need to be listened to.

 

the spectacle of spectating

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I’m spectating today.

Many of us do this. Watch other human beings do things. Sport. Competing. These are common environments to spectate.

I’m not aware any other species does this. Just watch.

Is it to admire the abilities of others? To observe excellence?Do we aspire to their level of capability?
Maybe it’s about the experience? The thrill? The enjoyment?
Maybe it’s a throwback to learning? Learning to hunt?
Maybe it’s about the other spectators? A social thing? Being with others, enjoying the watching?
Maybe it’s tribal? We are part of a gang of like minded watchers?

What do we get from this watching? This voyeurism? And why is it only human beings who seemingly spectate?

the start of a trip around the sun

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I celebrated a birthday recently.

As age envelops me, I become increasingly cognisant of its consequences. My body less responsive than I would like; for example, simply sitting on the floor ultimately concludes with the stiffly stretching movements, punctuated by oohs and aahs, returning me to an erect position. My eyes demand assistance if they are to focus on things held close to me. I forget why I’ve entered a room or where I’ve put my keys. Characterful wrinkles, a testimony to my life of smiling, grimacing, speaking and being. My hair greyed. We have aging parents.

My daughter gave me a birthday card, and in it penned…

A birthday is just the first day of another 365 day trip around the sun.

Enjoy the trip

The thought of the adventure lifted me. What a journey to contemplate.

Age won’t prevent me from setting off, enjoying the trip, the experiences, the learning, the views, the feelings, the thrill. Bring it on.

Age doesn’t change your outlook, your perspective… unless you let it.

I’m off to dance with a giraffe

the caveman in my passion fruit

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I have always thought of troglodytes as rather primitive cavemen.

So therefore might presume ‘troglodytes troglodytes’ to be a gang of primitive cavemen. A tribe maybe? Often in urgent combat with neighbouring gangs. Fighting to survive. Living a tough existence. Crude, hardy, simple.

Yesterday’s blog post referred to a nesting wren we have.  A sweet little bird just outside my window.

I discovered today that the scientific name for the wren is ‘troglodytes troglodytes’.

Now my understanding, my presumptions, my knowing… is blown apart. Boom.

New connections, new meaning, new awareness. Wow that’s good.

nesting values

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We have a wren nesting right outside our living room window. It’s a bay window and there is a climber running up the side of it – a passion fruit, glorious in flower. The nest is in the climber. We can watch the wren, from barely 18 inches away, entering and emerging, singing as it goes. Oblivious and care free.

I think the wren is my favourite bird. Discreet, unobtrusive, inconspicuous. Busy in its own life, flitting, industrious, always moving. Its perky little tail its only nod to ‘look at me’, here I am’.

Maybe these are qualities I value in other human beings? Maybe I value them in myself? Maybe these are things I aspire to, or respect, or admire?

How do we decide these things and why do they matter so? Who knows? Something to be curious about though? Maybe a little birdie can tell you?

Thank you little wren.

the discombobulation of Monday…

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patterns

Today I have been discombobulated.

I feel a visit to the Recombobulation unit is required.

Bank Holiday Mondays do this.  A longer weekend, a shorter working week, my internal calendar all askew and confused.  Tomorrow should be Tuesday but it’s Wednesday.

Patterns in our lives, conscious and unconscious – we cannot escape them. Somehow I am conditioned to believe today is Monday, because I have returned to work.

When is a pattern constraining and when is it useful?  The pattern of the week helpfully allows me to unconsciously orient myself, but what do I lose? Do we lose sight of possibilities, tied down by the pattern? Does a pattern that becomes a habit make us lazy, rigid, stuck?  Maybe there are many more unseen patterns in our lives, driving us down certain pathways?

Recombobulate.  Recombobulate. Recombobulate.

Now I’m a Dalek !

chariots of fire

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Today the peace of a quiet cup of tea al fresco in Windsor was disturbed by two drivers disputing one parking space.

Both pulled in from opposite directions, both at forty five degrees, both nose to nose. One sounded the car horn in a pained expression of perceived right. Ironically one car white, the other black, like monochrome representations of right and wrong, good and evil.

They sat, drivers in cars, both with their metallic stake in the ground. Two full minutes passed before the driver of black got out and approached the other vehicle. “I was waiting.” he proclaimed. Inaudible exchanges took place, peppered with finger pointing and fist waving. He returned to his car and urged forward his chariot a full foot so that its nostrils were breathing into the bonnet of his white opponent.

Three full minutes of stand off passed. Then the driver of white emerged. His rant built around his claim that the first driver had in fact been waiting further down. More pointing, raised voices and threatening gestures. In both cars the female passengers looked away. As if eye contact might condone or inflame the behaviour of their chariot champions. Passers by could be heard to wager on the outcome, or to chastise the antics of these proud, if somewhat childish, warriors. Some tutted, some raised eyes skyward in a knowing nod to each other.

The second driver returned to his trusty white steed.

Three or four more minutes passed. The driver of white reversed out and pulled alongside the black. More words exchanged. Then black pulled into the space and a little beyond. White jerked forward then quickly into reverse. Surely a back to back conflict wasn’t about to begin?

But no. Black ceded the space. White triumphed like a checkmate move on the chess board. Black King was taken.

Pride?
Competitiveness?
Anger?
A sense of right and wrong?
Stubbornness?
Male testosterone?

Who knows? Human behaviour is always purposeful, but often the driver behind it is invisible to us. Just like today’s car joust, the actions attract attention, but the motivations remain hidden.