What kind of person

Asking questions - significant ones, sincere ones - is a powerful way of opening up possibilities for yourself and for those around you.The best questions are the ones whose answers don't come readily. Such questions have the capacity to undo what you're standing on, and to unravel what you're most sure about.That way, something new can emerge. Some new way of understanding yourself. Something outside of the familiar world you already inhabit.It is the process of asking and inquiring itself that can change things. If the question is big enough, important enough, you might find that instead of answering the question, you are answered by the question.Which question you choose is important, though. The bigger the question you can ask, the bigger the change that's possible.How do I earn more? is not as big as What kind of work do I want to do? which is not as big as What contribution am I called to make?And none of these is as big as that most important of questions, the one from which every other question flows: What kind of person do I wish to be?

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What makes our difficulty possible...

Of course it's not just by being good that we think we'll be deserving of escaping life's difficulties.We imagine that if we make enough money (always more than whatever we have now), have enough friends, own the right kind of house or car, or make a name for ourselves, then suffering will not be able to touch us. That everything will be ok.And all the while we're pursuing this, we're turning away from life, denying our inescapable part in it. It's another version of the mountain myth about which I wrote in September.I wrote yesterday that part of growing up (which may come very late in life) is finding out that this is not true, and that there is nobody to save us from life itself.But releasing ourselves into life at last is our opportunity to discover that we don't need saving at all. That our life, which itself is so incredibly unlikely, is holding us at every moment. And that this is precisely what makes all our joy, delight, trouble and pain possible at all.

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On being good

When we are young we are taught that rewards come to those who are good. Good grades, good behaviour, good work, we learn, guarantee recognition and the next big opportunity. A place in a new school. A prize. A degree. A job.

And so as adults we come to think that being good will save us: from pain, confusion, failure, and from having to face life. If we’re good, the world will bring us what we want, and what we need. If we're good, we secretly hope, we'll be spared illness, and perhaps even death. People seen as good, we think, are exempt from all of that.

Growing up - whenever it comes - means finally finding out that none of this is true.

The world is not set up to guarantee, or owe, anything. It is not waiting for you to show how good you are. There is nobody to save you from life itself.

We'd better do our best, most important work not because of what it will bring us, or because of how it will look to others, but for its own sake, then.

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The way we do meetings... is just made up

Why do you do meetings in such an extraordinarily wasteful way?Perhaps because it makes you feel good. You get seen to be busy, involved, making things happen, even if the result of your time together produces disengagement, poor decisions made, and time wasted. Or perhaps because you've taken the form of meetings to be a fixed feature of the world - a 'truth' that is self-evident, unquestionable, just 'the way things are done'.But, simply put, meetings are just something that somebody made up. And you then took on. And, consequently, there is no 'right' way to meet.Which means when you find yourself, as so many do, locked in stultifying, oppressive meeting practices - that have you bored, overstretched, checking out, distracted, attending when you're not needed, or when you don't wish to be there - you're complicit in keeping things that way.Unless you choose to speak up. Unless you choose to change things.Which you could. If you stopped insisting that the way you do meetings is simply the way things are. And if understood that instead that meetings are an invention, ripe to be reinvented.

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For some powerful, provocative support in undoing your assumptions about what meetings are for and how to go about them, take a look at Al Pittampalli's book Read This Before Our Next Meeting. You'll see a whole new way of thinking about what meetings are for, and why most of them are an unnecessary, wasteful distraction.

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Taking responsibility for our stories

Given that we are the only creatures (that we know of) that can tell stories about ourselves;and given that we live totally, inescapably in the stories we tell;and given that stories of any kind can be more or less truthful, more or less kind, more or less generous, more or less creative, more or less freeing of our enormous potential...... given all of this, don't we have a profound responsibility to question the stories we were handed? To not just take things 'as they are'?And to actively find - and consciously live by - the most truthful, kind, generous, creative, possibility-freeing stories about ourselves, about others, and about life that we can?

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On Automatic

We often feel that we're exercising choice when it would be more accurate to say we're on automatic.So much that we do is invisibly shaped, far beyond our awareness,

by the culture in which we grew up (what 'one does' in this or that situation),by the long trajectory of habit,by the many untested assumptions that the world is this way or that way,by our fear,by our longing to be seen,by the expectations of those close to us,by the tension and shape of our bodies,and by the stories we tell.

Our automatic reactions are how we mostly navigate the world. It has to be this way. How impossible would life be if we needed to exercise conscious deliberation for each of the many things with which we have to cope in an ordinary day?But our automaticity is not, really, conscious choice.Alongside our necessary capacity for automatic reaction, which we share with all other animals, human beings have a unique capacity for self-observation and reflection. We can get on to ourselves, and bring about change in the narratives from which we're living, and in the actions and practices that keep them going. But choice comes only if we're willing to pay attention, to slow down for a while, to stop and really look over time, to find out what we're actually doing that might be quite distinct from the weary explanations upon which we so readily settle.The more frantic we are, the more intent on throwing ourselves into endless action, the less we're prepared to do all of this - to wake up from our reactivity, and take responsibility for our lives."I'm too busy to pay attention" we say, "I have too much to do."This is, at least, the plea made by even very senior people in many of the organisations in which I work.Being busy this way keeps us feeling safe, comfortable... at least we appear to have a place in the world this way, at least we can feel needed.But is a life lived on automatic, or an organisation run in this way, really an expression of responsibility? And is it really the life and work you're intending?

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Please stay

You asked everyone to join you for a meeting at 4.30pm."It will only last half an hour", you said.But it's now 5pm, and it's quite clear that the report you wanted everyone to read and comment on needs more time than you'd anticipated.Perhaps, somewhere, you knew half an hour was way too optimistic. And you were worried that if you were honest about the time it would take, nobody would come.But now the meeting has gone on way beyond the time you'd promised.What do you do to address this? Many people, it would seem, do nothing. The meeting's not finished, nobody seems to have left, and in any case, you all chose to be there, didn't you?It's embarrassing to own up to your miscalculation (or your deliberate manipulation). And so you save yourself from this by carrying on, as if nothing significant has happened.But you can be sure of something: the unremarked passing of your deadline is significant. You have broken a promise. And many of your participants, as embarrassed as you are to bring up that this is not what they agreed to, have checked out, mentally and emotionally, already.By continuing a meeting beyond its agreed time, and by keeping silent about it, you're making an unspoken request of your co-participants. "Please stay" (a request without a speaker, which you can read more about here).And because your request is unspoken, you're making it much harder, perhaps deliberately, for them to say no. After all, if you don't ask, you save yourself the possibility of finding out they had better things to do than stay around.It's a small benefit (you feel momentarily better) with a huge cost because you're creating the ideal conditions for resentment and resignation to grow. And a roomful of people who can hardly be expected to be engaged now, or in the future, in what you said was urgent, important work. 

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Holding back

Our attempts to hold back from the difficulty of our lives, paradoxically, bring us exactly what we are trying to avoid.Why? Because suffering, confusion, feeling lost - as well as joy, and fulfilment, and meaning - are an inevitable part of any life. How could it be otherwise? Life promises only that it will bring us change. And it does this, even when we wish it were not so, endlessly.Our attempts to deny our anxiety, fear and loss are attempts to control what cannot be controlled. They end up with us holding back life itself.And in this way, perhaps we could learn to see our difficulties as an invitation to step deeper into our lives, rather than turn away.I came across this, from Franz Kafka, recently, which says it beautifully:

"You can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world. That is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature. But perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid."

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Living close by

We human beings have a unique ability to live in stories about ourselves and about life, rather than directly in life itself.

In this way we are unlike almost every other kind of entity we come across. Trees, stones, cats, and ants can each only be themselves. But we are always in the midst of a particular interpretation of life. We're rarely just ourselves in some straightforward and unmediated way.

It is this capacity to interpret and to invent our own identity that has allowed the astonishing diversity and creativity of human life. We are not bound to live in a particular way, as ants or trees are, fixed by our physiology. We invent tools, clothes, technology, roles, structures for living together, buildings, and the stories and interpretations to make sense of them. We can inhabit remote and hostile environments as hunter-gatherers and as astronauts. We can be musicians and engineers, soldiers and artists, CEOs and scientists. We can take up roles and forms handed to us by others - how to parent, or work, or run a government - and invent radically new ones, so that the forms of human life available to us today are substantially different from those available even a century ago.

Interpreting ourselves is right at the centre of our lives. We can hardly be human without it. And because of this we can choose interpretations which are more or less expressive of our essential qualities: and hence lives that are more or less us-like.

We can choose to live close in to our lives, allowing what seems truest about ourselves its expression in the world. And we can choose to live far, far away from ourselves - denying, distorting, or distancing ourselves from what seems most essentially, fully us.

And making this choice - what kind of life to really live - is our unique human capacity too.

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Not like you

When you're repeatedly irritated by someone - on your team, in your family - perhaps you could try to discover what you're really judging them for.It may not be quite what you think.On close inspection perhaps you'll see that you are irritated, not because they are irritating, but because they are not like you in the ways you wish them to be.

not as calm as younot as lively as younot as rational as younot as emotional as younot as logical as younot as prepared as younot as forceful as younot as gentle as younot as fast as younot as timely as younot as controlled as younot as realistic as younot as creative as you

Your irritation is a way you try to make them just the same as you are.It can't work out the way you're hoping it will.And so much becomes possible if you'll entertain the possibility that what they need to be is not like you at all... but just like themselves.

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