Why we Listen to Bad Ideas (2)

I ended my previous post on this topic with a promise to consider the boundaries to what we might be prepared to listen to, and I will come to that in this post (difficult though it is to establish clear boundaries).

But before I do so, I want to add to the positive reasons for listening to bad ideas.  I realised after posting the first post that I had missed a few of these.

The first is that we may learn something. Which is why, in the context of the work I do, which is largely based in Higher Education, I think this is so important. Somebody may be wrong, but listening to them may give us some insights; they may not be wrong about everything, and may even express a truth that we have missed along the way. Or at the very least, they may make it clearer to us why we disagree, and that is valuable.

A second reason is that wrong ideas can often stimulate better ones. That is one of the assumptions of brainstorming, for example, and why censoring self or others in that context is counter-productive. As we react against the bad idea, we may sharpen our understanding of our better alternative, or possibly see a new better alternative that we had not previously seen. 

Further, if we listen, we are better able to refute a bad idea. That works on two levels; on the level of information, we can more accurately identify where the person's thinking has gone awry if we listen to it; and at the level of emotions, we are more likely to be listened to, if we have first listened. We have bought, as it were, a psychological right to be heard: this is the law of reciprocity in action.

And thinking back to my early career in telephone sales, and then as a sales trainer. we always tried to hear all of a clients' objections to a pitch before answering any of them: which makes perfect sense. 

So, given my strong advocacy for listening to bad ideas, what do I see as the boundaries?

These are hard to pin down, but I think that we can recognise, at least, some principles.

One is that children should not be subject to ideas that will be harmful to their health, well-being and development. The modern notion that children are simply younger adults is wrong-headed. We know enough about developmental psychology to assign such idiocy to the bin.

That principle of limiting what is harmful extends also to adults. We all know that it is an abuse of speech to shout 'Fire!' in a crowded place. Likewise, the guidelines around the reporting of suicides are agreed by the press because we recognise the real risk to some vulnerable people of social contagion.

But how that principle applies in other contexts, and who decides, are difficult issues.  Reflecting on this with a colleague, I made a link with the boundaries to confidentiality in a coaching relationship. I am always very clear that confidentiality is not absolute: that if someone discloses that they are breaking the law of the land, or the policies of the University that employs them, or proposes to harm others or themselves, that I may have to tell someone else. So perhaps the same, or similar, criteria could apply to the limits of what we are prepared to listen to; and it would certainly be valuable to have a similar clarity on the subject, at the start of any such discussions.

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With thanks to  Mimi Thian and raquel raclette for sharing their photos on Unsplash

Why we listen to bad ideas

Are there boundaries to what we are prepared to listen to, when we are coaching someone, or facilitating a meeting to generate and exchange ideas? 

I'll come back to that question, but think that there's another that sits alongside it, which I will address first. And that is, why do we listen to bad ideas?  And here, I mean both ideas that are erroneous, and those that are unethical.

The first point, of course, is that  we must be careful not to judge someone else's thinking as erroneous or unethical too quickly. But nonetheless, there are times when that is clearly the case. 

 A white (etc etc) man

Let us imagine that someone says ' I hate white, middle class, middle aged, Oxford educated men' (to take an example wholly at random, you understand, of a completely irrational point of view...). In my book that is both irrational and unethical; I deem it wrong (as well as muddle-headed) to hate a whole class of people, based on a few shared characteristics. That is a reasonable definition of prejudice. 

But if I challenge that statement, it doesn't take a genius to realise that the most likely reaction of the person I'm challenging is to defend it. That will mean summoning to mind all the reasons he or she can think of in support of it. Further, in the felt need to win the argument, and with the support of confirmation bias, new reasons may be manufactured in support of the reasonableness of the stance. The net result of which may be to strengthen the individual's conviction that this is a reasonable stance to take.

On the other hand, if I continue to listen, there is at least a possibility that the person will start to add nuance to the proposition: 'Well, not ALL...' and so on. And that represents a move in a more positive direction. Further, if the statement was made as a provocation, it will be clear that it has not had the desired result, and that in itself may prompt a slightly more reflective examination of the statement, and even a felt need to moderate it somewhat. 

And if given the space, attention, support and respect to continue to think about the statement, the individual may move a long way from it, and generate some real insight: perhaps that this view is based on a small sample size, consisting of one man who has behaved badly in the personal realm, and a number of public figures who share those characteristics, who are variously reprehensible; or that hate is bit of an overstatement and so on.

That is relatively clear in a one-to-one session; but what about a group? Is it reasonable to expect others to listen to people expressing bad ideas?

Here, I think, a lot depends on context, and on the contract you have with the group. If you have agreed that all views are welcome, it is hard to say later 'By all views, I mean, of course, all views that everyone is comfortable with.' That is highly problematic, not least for the reasons that Margaret Heffernan outlines in her excellent book, Wilful Blindness. This is the territory of group-think.

I think it is more fruitful to agree that if we are going to say all views are welcome, we must agree some other principles for the meeting. These will include a principle of equality: that we will ensure that all participants have an equal opportunity to contribute; and a principle of attention: that we will listen to everyone, seeking to understand their perspective. With these in place, and confident facilitation, then the person who voices the 'bad ideas' will be listened to but will also be obliged (morally and by peer pressure and a felt need to conform to the agreement made at the start of the meeting) to listen to others' thinking that is different from his or hers. And that, it seems to me, is the most likely way to achieve good outcomes in such a scenario.

But what about the risk of distress or harm to those exposed to hate speech? That is indeed a difficult question, and I sympathise with the instinct not to give a platform to such speech. But the risks of not doing so (in the contexts in which I work, at least) seem to me to be greater. A complete refusal to engage with those who hold different views fuels a toxic polarisation that makes any kind of nuanced discourse much more difficult, and reduces the likelihood of people moving beyond their initial bad ideas.

So are there any boundaries? There certainly are. And I will come back to this in a future post.

Thinking about Place - and Humilty

I participated in an excellent session sponsored by the EMCC and led by Claire Bradshaw, who shared both her passion for, and some research about, outdoor coaching.  That is something I have practiced for many years, and so it was fascinating to hear her take, and to compare notes with other coaches.

One theme that emerged was the impact of impressive natural landscape, which evokes a sense of awe - and a corresponding humility - in us and our clients when we work outdoors. One of the words that was used about this was perspective, and we discussed how valuable that is.

Certainly I think an appropriate degree of humility is valuable as a coach; moreover, I think the same is true for some of our clients - that, and a sense of perspective. Big egos and a too intense focus on a particular work issue as all-important are both potential interruptors of good thinking.

I was reminded too of the excellent C W Metcalf, and his advice: 'take your work seriously, but don't take yourself too seriously...'  Perspective is very helpful in that context, too.

And then I reflected on Nancy Kline's take on place, as a component of a Thinking Environment: place is a silent form of appreciation, so we try to choose a place that says 'you matter.' 

But working in the grandeur of nature?  Perhaps that says 'you matter - but not that much.'

Human Connection

I wrote recently about the vagaries of blogging, and how interesting it was that a fairly light-hearted post, such as one I wrote about my self-consciousness when putting my foot down when cycling, seemed to generate more interest than more thoughtful (and I hoped) thought-provoking pieces about my professional work.

Then, over the last week or so, I have been struck by the far, far higher level of engagement in response to a brief post about meeting my new grandson for the first time. I think that was partly as a result of the picture that accompanied the post - he is very photogenic. But I also suspect that something else is going on here, and that is about human connection.

I have written before about the huge importance of giving attention to others, and the impact that can have. This is, of course, foundational in any coaching or mentoring work, and it is no coincidence that the first, and arguably most important, of Nancy Kline's components of a Thinking Environment, is Attention.  However, I would argue that it is equally important in many other settings.

Last week, I facilitated an event for fifty or so people to refresh the Global Strategy of a Russell Group University. I started the day by reminding them of the need to pay attention to each other, throughout the day, and inviting them to do so during the introductions, when I asked them to say (in addition to who they were) something that had made them smile recently. That, of course, made people smile: and also invited them to share human moments. A few commonalities emerged - cats, children, natural beauty, and so on - and the result, I think, was that there was a real sense of human connection.  And I nearly hadn't done it: 50 people taking just 30" each meant nearly half an hour. But it was half an hour well-invested.

Likewise, we structured the various activities in ways that supported attention and connections (and reminded them of the importance of attention regularly). Several told me that this reminder and the way it was embodied in the design of the day, had made it very different - more engaging, more generative, more enjoyable, and more energising - than their typical awaydays.

The same applies to teams, to relationships between line managers and reports... in fact just about everywhere, except ChatGPT. Human connection is essential.

Of course it takes time; but if you haven't got time for other people, we know what that communicates: you don't value them. And if you don't value them, why would you expect to get good outcomes from your interactions?

On the other hand, if you take the time, and make the effort, to connect as human beings, not only will the relationship be more satisfying, but it is likely to be more productive; and that productivity will also be more sustainable, as the mental and psychological benefits of human connection are well understood.

But that's not the most important reason to connect. The most important reason is because it is the human thing to do. All else flows from that.

And thanks to everyone who connected with me about my grandson's birth!

'I'm doing the best that I can...' or am I?

As I continue to explore my interest in Gestalt approaches to coaching (see previous posts, passim) I am reading Peter Bluckert's book on the subject. I had high expectations, as the last book of his that I read was very good (see my reflections here).

And I am not disappointed. Bluckert writes clearly and concisely, with authority and wisdom. But I was brought up short by this sentence: People are always doing the best they can from how they see, experience and make sense of the world, and taking into consideration their personal histories. Bluckert describes this as a 'Core proposition' of Gestalt.

The trouble is, I don't subscribe to it. Without even going to the extreme examples of the various evil dictators and despots who caused such carnage in the twentieth century, or of the self-interested and power-hungry politicos of our own time, I don't subscribe to it. Because I look into my own heart, and as St Paul observed 2,000 years ago "the good that I would - I do not: but the evil which I would not - that I do."  Or, as Solzhenitsyn, another wise observer of humanity put it: "The line separating good and evil passes ... right through every human heart."

Indeed, the proposition, as Bluckert states it, removes any moral agency from us.  If whatever I do is the best that I can, then I am an automoton, not a human agent.

I do understand where he is coming from, and why that assumption is a useful starting point for any productive coaching with people who wish to change. It's the word 'always' that made me stop and revolt.  Perhaps I am too literal; or perhaps it is because I really do believe in absolutes that I take absolute claims very seriously and investigate them carefully.

So I would treat this core proposition as a useful fiction as discussed on my Shifting Stories blog: it may not always be true, but it is a good assumption to start with, at least.  And that much is fairly self-evident.

My late granny, who was a vibrant character, took the other starting point. She seemed to assume that anyone who disagreed with her was either mad or bad or (most probably) both. It made for an interesting life, of course, but was not, perhaps, the most peaceful or the most productive way to relate to others. And we see the same in the polarising conversations that characterise the so-called culture wars: the assumption that anyone who is not whole-heartedly one of us is both malicious and deluded. And that doesn't play out too well, either. 

But as those who have worked with me may remember, I am often on the look out for false binaries. So whilst rejecting my granny's outlook, I think I can find a more nuanced place that Bluckert's counter-proposition.

Which leaves me with an interesting question. Is it legitimate for me to use an approach, such as Gestalt, when I dispute one of its core propositions? And that legitimacy question is perhaps two questions: is it intellectually legitimate, and is it morally legitimate?

I think so, on both counts. Intellectually, I have two lines of defence. One is that using any approach does not necessarily mean that one subscribes to every claim that it makes; and if anyone is interested, I am happy to explain my useful fiction concept. 

But also, I have a theory that with Gestalt, as with many other approaches, the useful practices were discovered experientially as much as anything, and the philosophy and intellectual framework was built either concurrently or subsequently. Further, I think that some of that theorising is often mistaken. For example, Carl Rogers was clearly an incredibly gifted and skilled practitioner; but it is noteworthy that those whom he trained in what he thought he did that worked were rarely anything like as accomplished. So I suspect his theory of what he thought he did that worked was, at best, partial.

The moral question is in part answered by my intellectual answer; but there is a further dimension: do I risk doing (or implicitly teaching) anything harmful by working with an approach whose philosophy I don't subscribe to? And here I think that my more nuanced approach is less likely to be harmful than the approach Bluckert advocates. If one is coaching someone whose boss is, for example, very political, somewhat narcissistic, and manipulative, how well does one serve the individual by encouraging her to base her plans and approach on the belief that he will always do the best that he can...?  And as far as implicitly teaching an absolute that is not universally true is concerned, again, I think being explicit in my assumption that it is a useful fiction is a morally sound stance. 

Having said all of which, I still highly recommend Bluckert's book, as very readable, practical and thought-provoking. But as with any book, don't swallow the ideas whole...

The Vagaries of Blogging

The other day, I wrote a blog post about a tiny incident that had amused me: catching myself looking around, a bit embarrassed, to check that nobody had seen me be less than perfect. It struck me as a mildly ridiculous, but very human, moment. 

I nearly didn't post it, as it was pretty light weight and inconsequential; but I did anyway.  And to my (mild) surprise it got more likes and comments on Linked In than anything I had posted for quite a while.  That, too, struck me as amusing. Normally I try to share something that is thought-provoking, or offers an insight, or at least some musings about some aspect of my professional practice - all things that you think might better engage the type of people who read my Linked In posts.  But no, it was the trivial and inconsequential post that got more people engaged. And it's not the first time. And -interestingly - the comments were often quite insightful and always thoughtful - more so than the original post.

And that got my wondering: why? I came up with several hypotheses. One is simply that I had given the post a punning headline, so people may have been misled or intrigued by that, and got sucked in to reading it. A second is that people find it refreshing when a Linked In post isn't 'how wonderful I am, buy from me' or 'How inspirational this person/quotation is!' A third is that my laughing at myself prompted the reaction: in some a sense of vulnerability that is a common human condition; and in others a sense of pathos - a number were keen to reassure me that I wasn't a failure of a human being... (this one missed the mark, somewhat, as I am more inclined to an inflated sense of my self-worth than the reverse, and such posts are, in part, an antidote to that).

The question that then arises, of course, is: do I therefore publish more posts of that nature, rather than my (clearly less engaging) thoughtful pieces? And that raises two further questions. One is, was that post really more engaging, or (for example) am I indulging in confirmation bias?  And the second question is, is the point of my posting to get the most likes/comments, or something else?

A quick skim back over Linked In shows that there was certainly more comment on this post than on others recently; but perhaps not as much as I was thinking. On my own blog, comment is much less frequent (that in itself is interesting) and reader numbers were similar to other posts.  Also, my own blog (on which it is much easier to see these stats over the long term) shows that my most-read post of all time was a more thought provoking one (about non-judgemental coaching, as it happens, and what we really mean by that). 

Turning to the second question, whilst it is easy to be gratified by likes and comments, that is clearly not the reason for my writing - otherwise I could produce much more click-baity posts. So why do I do it?

There are several reasons. One is that part of my identity is as a writer. I believe I have a certain talent for writing, but have only written one (published) book - blogging (in which I include posting articles on Linked In, as I always cross-post my blog posts in that way) is an outlet for that part of me. Related to that, I find that writing is often a good way for me both to clarify and to capture my thinking at a point in time; and writing for others (as in blogging) is very different from my own reflective writing. On the one hand, I clearly can't go into specifics about individual clients without fictionalising them to make them unidentifiable; but on the other, writing for others has a different dynamic, in terms of meaning-making, and reaching (at least) some tentative conclusions etc.

However, the most important reason for blogging is that I see it as an effective way of staying in touch with a wide range of people who have come across me and my work, in a way that I hope they find enjoyable and thought-provoking. And perhaps that last point - thought-provoking - is why I will continue to post mainly more reflective pieces about my practice and my thinking, and save the trivial life stories for the odd occasion when they arise and may speak to the enjoyable part of the mix...

Parallel process

The other day I was reflecting on a coaching session I had just finished. I was uneasy; but could not pinpoint the source of my dissatisfaction with it. I had prepared well, opened the conversation well, listened well, helped the individual think in depth and with fresh insight about the issues under consideration, and generate some ideas for action to try out; and I had closed the conversation well, inviting a summary of the learning and actions, and a review of how we were working together; and the individual was happy with the session and the process. 

And yet, I wasn't. And I couldn't quite pin down why - my review hadn't highlighted any particular flaws; I just felt that I hadn't been very creative or resourceful in the session, and I wasn't sure that they individual was really committed to the actions identified.

It was the following morning, first as I was reflecting during my early morning cycle, and then in a supervisory conversation with a colleague, that I realised: parallel process! 

Parallel process is the name we give to the experience of taking on someone else's emotional state as our own, without realising that we are doing so, and that distorting our perception and behaviour.

In this case, I had listened with sympathy to the very difficult situation my client was in, and his sense of powerlessness, arising from having tried many things (he had done a great deal right, and yet some situations remained unresolved). And I had moved beyond empathy into sharing his sense of stuckness. And that had contaminated the session (or at the very least, my experience of it) so that I left the session with some of his feeling of powerlessness.

It remains to be seen, of course, whether he does actually take any of the actions we discussed, and what impact, if any, they have. But regardless of that, it is valuable for me to have identified what was going on for me: it enables me to learn from the experience, and in particular to ensure that I prepare for our next session with a focus on not getting drawn into the same situation.

More broadly, it reminded me that I still have work to do on that most difficult of skills: reflection-in-action. That is, being mindful in the moment, whilst giving full attention to my client, of my own response and how to manage that so that I stay in the most compassionate and also the most resourceful state of mind, so as to offer the best coaching I am capable of.

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With thanks to  Alex Motoc for sharing his picture on Unsplash