Why did I steal the pears?

I didn't actually. The question is raised by Augustine, writing in North Africa in the late 300s.  He is reflecting on a youthful misdemeanour when he and some other lads raided a neighbour's pear tree late one night, for it was, he writes, our bad habit to carry on our games in the street till very late.

His point is that he didn't actually want the pears: they weren't very nice, and he and his friends ended up throwing them at some local pigs. So why did he steal them in the first place?  He reflects that he would not have done so, but for the company he was in; but presumably the same was true the other way around.

All of which took me back to some of the misdemeanours of my adolescence: why did I do them?  In part, of course, showing off, and fear of losing face with my friends with whom I was wandering the night streets of West London for it was our bad habit to carry on our games in the street till very late.

But where was the pleasure? What was the gain? These are the hard questions with which Augustine wrestles.

Not being as profound a thinker as he is, I am struck by something else: that sense of recognition in what he writes about. Sixteen hundred years later, in another country and another culture, we were exactly the same.

And whilst I am ashamed of my adolescent bad behaviour, there is a certain pleasure to be found in that sense of common humanity, even if it is humanity at its less edifying: boys, as the saying goes, will be boys. And for me that is one of the reasons that reading ancient literature is so satisfying: connecting across time and space in extraordinary ways; and when that connection is with a mind as fine as that of Augustine, one realises that he may well have much to teach us, even in the 21st century.

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With thanks to Dan Gold for sharing this photo on Unsplash

Comparisons

One of the things that comes up time and again in my coaching work is the business of comparisons. Very frequently, people compare themselves unfavourably with some luminary in their field.  And that makes them feel inadequate and even, potentially, hopeless.

As I see hope as very important, I like to counter this.  I also place great value on humour (qv).

And, because it is always someone stellar with whom they draw the comparison, it s fairly easy to tease them about it. So I talk a little about my being an adult learner of the piano, and yet, for all my practice, not being as good as Rachmaninov.  I then go on to my attempts to play tennis, and lament that I am still nowhere near Federer's standard.

By this stage, they are beginning to get the point; however, never one to be subtle when hobnailed boots are available, I then deliver the coup de grace: "My one consolation is that I am a better pianist than Federer, and a better tennis player than Rachmaninov!"

And that moves the conversation on, normally with some laughter, to a consideration of the value and limitations of such comparisons.

Personally, I like Jordan Peterson's take on this. I know we're not meant to approve of anything he says, but actually I find him a stimulating character, who is often insightful when discussing his professional practice; it is when he strays into other areas beyond his professional competence that I think he is more... what's the word?...  Nonetheless, I think that he is wise on this; for his take is that the best comparison to make is with ourselves, yesterday.  That is, am I better at (whatever it s I am working on) than I was yesterday, or last week, or last year.  That is a useful comparator: for if we are making progress, it is good to acknowledge that; and if we are not, it is worth addressing. 

But I must end now, as I'm off to give Roger his piano lesson, before meeting Sergei for a quick game of tennis.

The benefits and limitations of models

We had a fascinating CPD event recently at the Coaching Supervision Partnership.  We had decided to explore John Heron's model of interventions, in the context of supervision, and to to that by analysing a live supervision, using the model.

Heron's model, in brief,  suggests that interventions are either Authoritative or Facilitative; and within those two styles, there are three types. Authoritative interventions may be Prescriptive, Informative or Confronting; and Facilitative interventions may be Cathartic, Catalytic, or Supportive.

So one of my colleagues supervised another, with myself and a third observing, using a checklist to record the supervisor's interventions and categorise them accordingly. 

This was an interesting exercise.  For a start, not all interventions were easy to categorise, so rather than the ticks I imagined I would be putting in the various columns, I found I had recorded a series of question marks. But it was also interesting to note that both I and the other observer had seen in the session examples of all six categories of intervention, suggesting a good range of approaches being taken by the supervisor.

But we were all surprised at how few interventions were categorised as supportive; even though we all (and particularly the person being supervised) had felt that it was a very supportive session.

On the plus side, I find models and taxonomies like this helpful: they provide a way of analysing and discussing practice, and in particular spotting patterns, both of usage and omission. For example, many coaches I work with tend very much to the facilitative style, and that is often appropriate.  But it can be helpful to get them to reflect on when a more authoritative approach might be appropriate, and how to gain the skills and confidence to deploy it. 

But there are limitations, of course. One is that looking at an interaction as a series of interventions can cause us to miss the bigger picture: this was a supportive session because of the attention and intention of the supervisor, that was communicated in many subtle ways - but not through a series of 'supportive' interventions. Further, people often experience my approach as challenging; but that is most frequently not because of 'challenging' interventions, but rather because of my use of silence: encouraging people to go further or deeper than their initial responses to questions. Yet this approach might risk missing that aspect completely. 

And, of course, our difficulty in categorising some of the interventions (and indeed our categorising them differently from each other) highlights the problems with describing the subtlety of human interactions in such a reductive way.

Nonetheless, the exercise - and the framework - were valuable, not least as they provoked and enabled a rich conversation about one aspect of our professional practice, and our different approaches to that: not least our different reactions to the benefits and limitations of such models! At least one of us was far less forgiving of its limitations than I was...

Why I lose at Chess

I have recently become a convert to online Chess. I play it with both of my sons-in-law, using lichess. Of course, when they visit, we play real chess, but most of the time they are somewhere else, so online is a good option.

We are none of us Chess experts, but we are improving with practice; and lichess provides a post-mortem analysis of the matches, which is very good, I imagine, for those keen to improve their game who have time to study it.

But what I have learned most is about my own impulsiveness.  I know that I play well, and often win, when I take my time, consider my next move, the possible responses to it, and my possible responses to that (occasionally I look even further down the track). But I don't always do that. Sometimes, I see a move that looks great, and I play it. And then I realise (again) why that's a poor strategy: something I hadn't seen or considered happens, and I lose (or draw, which is nearly as bad!) 

The interesting thing to me is that I repeat that pattern, even knowing full well, in the abstract, that it is a bad idea. So why is that?

One reason is that I tend to play Chess in the gaps between - between meetings, between ending work and starting the next thing, between cycling and having breakfast, and so on. So it is in snatched moments, when I am not, perhaps, at my most recollected.  And I play for fun: I want to move the game on (though I also want to win - I am also interested in this as one of the few areas of my life in which I feel a real spirit of competition: who do these youngsters think they are anyway, to beat me at Chess?...)

But there is also something about adrenalin, I think. It is excitement that over-rides my caution, and causes me to make that clever move with my queen that attacks his king and prevents him castling - but, alas, means that he can move his knight to put me in check and attack my rook at the same time, resulting in the loss of the rook (and the game - we find that whoever goes one significant piece up tends to win, as we are fairly evenly matched).

So my resolution is to work on being less impulsive.  And why am I blogging about this? Well, it just came to me, and I couldn't resist the impulse.

Is Understanding Over-Rated?

Regular readers of my musings will know that I am a big fan of Nancy Kline and her work (see my numerous posts on my blog with her name as a tag...).

More recently, I have also become a fan of Kathryn Mannix (only three posts mentioning her, prior to this one, but as I say, I am a recent fan).  Her latest book is Listen: How to Find the Words for Tender Conversations. For those interested, I have reviewed this briefly on the Coaching Supervision Partnership blog, here. It is an excellent read.

There is, of course, a lot of congruence between what they both write about listening, which is hardly surprising. But I was also struck by some stark differences, or even contradictions.  In Nancy Kline's world, it is not important that the listener should understand the thinker. In her books, she gives examples of times when she has not understood, and  that has not, finally mattered.  Whereas interrupting to clarify or check understanding would, in her view, have interrupted the thinker's waves of thinking, and would therefore have been unhelpful. 

I have blogged previously about listening to somebody thinking in a language that I do not speak, and how valuable the person I was listening to found that experience.

However, Kathryn Mannix sees understanding, and communicating understanding, as incredibly important. The fourth chapter of her book is called Listening to Understand.  She writes: These occasional interruptions to check understanding don't usually put the speaker off. In fact, they help the speaker to feel properly listened to. This feels almost like heresy to someone steeped in Kline's approach (though very conventional in terms of most teaching about active listening). For Kline, interruption is the big problem: that is why her latest book is called: The Promise that Changes Everything: I Won't Interrupt You.

So what do I make of this? I have already said that I am a fan of both: I find both of them inspiring and wise guides, who have taught me much. Is one right and the other wrong? And if so, which is which?

But in fact, I think both may be right; and that the difference springs from the contexts in which they are thinking of listening, and the purpose of such listening.  

Nancy Kline is very clear that the singular purpose of her Thinking Environment approach is to help the other person to do their very best independent thinking: to think as herself and for herself. In that context, my understanding may not be necessary (or even helpful, as I noted in my post linked to above, about someone thinking with me in Hindi). For here we are concerned with the thinker's individual cognitive journey, and we do not wish to interrupt that.

Whereas Kathryn Mannix is concerned about listening when a tender conversation is needed: when there is a hurt to be tended. This is primarily the realm of emotion; and in that realm, in order for someone to process their emotions and for the listener to be able to respond with appropriate tenderness, it may well be important for them to feel truly understood by the listener. 

That is not to say that Kline's model doesn't allow for emotional exploration (it does) nor that Mannix's doesn't expect intellectual engagement (it does); but I do think that both the context, and the purpose, of these conversations may change our sense of what is most helpful, as listeners.

All of which brings me back to a question that one of my supervisors once told me was the most important question in any one-to-one work: what are these two people doing together? If we can answer that (ideally together - which is a large part of what I call contracting and re-contracting) we should have greater clarity about what listening processes will best serve us.

From KIT to KIA

I was reviewing a coaching programme with a client the other day; a very successful leader working at a high level in a complex organisation.

And he said that one of the things that had been most beneficial was almost a blinding flash of the obvious. Along the way, I had recommended that he read David Rock's book, Your Brain at Work (I recommend it to you, too, of course). 

He, of course, learned what he needed to from it, not necessarily what I had imagined he might. The most significant thing being that the brain gets tired during the day; and that doing highly demanding brain tasks in the evening is not very productive. 

He already knew that, of course.  But he knew it as a piece of intellectual knowledge, neatly filed in some area of his memory. 

What he hadn't done is access that knowledge each day, when he decided to get through all the relatively straightforward (though urgent and often important) emails first thing before going into a day filled with meetings. That left his important work on organisational strategy and planning, and work to progress key projects, to the evening - on the basis that he could give them his full attention then, without interruption.

But having read Rock's book, he realised why he was finding the important work so difficult and so draining: his brain was already tired. 

So by way of experiment, he booked some morning time each day to work on these priorities; deferring some meetings and doing his emails later in the day.  The results were most gratifying: he found the strategic and project work both easier and more enjoyable.

And as he said, he should have realised that years ago. But for me that highlights the difference between KIT (knowledge in theory) and KIA (knowledge in action). It is very easy, not least in intellectual environments such as Universities, to assume that if we know something, we know it. But that is not the case with practical skills. I may know how to do all sorts of things, from playing golf to playing the bagpipes, but until I have practiced sufficiently to acquire the skills involved, that knowledge is purely theoretical.

So it is valuable to remember that distinction, and when you have learned something of value, create ways to use that learning in a practical way, until it is not only KIT but also KIA. 

And returning to my client's particular insight, do the important stuff early in the day; and if you are thinking that in your case that's not good advice, think again. If your brain is not more awake early in the day, is that because your lifestyle needs to change? Or, of course, you may have small children and no sleep,  in which case, give yourself a break: the important thing is to spend the time with them, and love their other parent. KIT and KIA become Kip If Tired, and Kip If Awake - whenever you get the chance...

Talking to the Bereaved

One day this week, I had occasion to speak to two different people who were bereaved. One had lost a beloved son, and the other (unrelated) a beloved brother.  Like many people, I imagine, I was somewhat concerned: unsure how best to engage but sure that we should not avoid the topic.

By the grace of God (for there is no room for coincidence in my philosophy) I was just getting towards the end of Kathryn Mannix's excellent new book: Listen: how to find the words for tender conversations. And I discovered a short section, just three pages, on Advice from Bereaved People About Making Contact.

This was so helpful that I thought I would share the main points here, and encourage you to buy this excellent book (which I will review more fully once I have finished it). Mannix opens by making the point that Grief is not an illness, it is a response to loss. The grief will last as long as the loss does, and after a death the loss will last forever. (Or at least until the next life, I would add).

So here are the pointers that she has collected from the bereaved:

Please don't avoid us

You don't have to 'cheer us up.'

Say their name. You won't make us sadder by mentioning the person who died.

'How are you?' is too big to answer 

Practical help can be welcome

Remembering to check in is supportive

Instead of platitudes, just express kindness

It's awkward. We get that.

Help us to return to work and social circles

Listen to us

I found these extremely helpful; though how well I conducted the conversations is really not for me to judge.  But I am confident that simply by remembering, for example, to 'say their name' that I did better than I might otherwise have done.

If you think these are helpful, please share them widely, as I am sure that is what Kathryn Mannix would want.  And if you buy her book and value it (as you most certainly should) then share that widely too (and I am sure she would want you do to that, too!)

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With thanks to Claudia Wolff for sharing her photography on Unsplash