I spent yesterday afternoon on a phone call with my friends and colleagues Jenn Williams, Cedric Jamet and Troy Maracle talking about our next offering of Reimagining Education, to be held in Peterborough Ontario, near Toronto, October 16-18.
Our conversation was very much about the role of the practitioner in fields and contexts of uncertainty and complexity and how our work aims to support the capacity of practitioners who shape those systems.
This is an Art of Hosting, and its focus is one asking how to to bring more hosting and participatory learning work to education. In the past we have had folks from schools systems and post secondary institutions attend who come with a deep inquiry about how to improve the systems they are working in. We’ve had government folks, people who work in community services and folks who work as consultants with larger systemic issues as well. These gatherings have become an important place for people in education to encounter folks from outside their usual orbit, and for people who work with groups and systems to meet educators who are trying to deliver learning within systems that often conspire against them.
To me this focus, and the diversity of encounter, makes this a rich Art of Hosting workshop.
This is the place of no easy answers, fraught choices and no obvious way to effect the changes that are needed. In that sense, the conversations and the projects that we work with in this Art of Hosting are representative of the very biggest social challenges we face: cracking open places of genuine learning and co-creation in a context that seeks control and certainty.
Our team is well suited for this work. Jenn has been carrying this calling for her whole career as an experiential educator and consultant. She has worked on tall ships, in wilderness settings, in classrooms and in conference halls crafting spaces of encounter and genuine learning. Troy has spent his career in Indigenous education as a teacher, and leader, mustering resources to support Indigenous students and communities, and tending to a network of Indigenous educations leads in Ontario. Cédric teaches at Concordia University in the Human Systems Intervention program, working to prepare change makers in human systems.
Because of this team;s work and the people who come to this gathering, the particular Art of Hosting goes into a deep examination of what it means to lead, catalyse, and design interventions within powerful and seemingly unchangeable systems The focus is on education, but the applicability is broad. That focus though brings a grounded imperative to the work. We teach methods, tools, and perspectives that are going to be used right away to support change work. And we host in a way that the brilliance of the group, and the experiences each person is able to offer becomes a key resources for the learning.
We’d love to have you join us. Working in a forest for three days in a southern Ontario autumn with 30 other people who will get you and challenge you and support you is a gift. Registration is now open.
The Var River below the high village of Touët in France.
This is going to continue the series of posts that began with The Inundated Delta, which was a response to Dave Snowden’s thoughtful position of the Art of Hosting in the context of anthro-complexity.
I want to name the four most influential streams that have shaped my professional life. This is important because it names my intellectual and practitioner lineage so people understand where I am coming from and what questions have formed my practice. This post focusses especially on how I arrived at anthro-complexity as a theory-informed dialogue practitioner and it connects it to the longest standing curiosity I have had which is essentially “What are you going to do about it?” That question has driven every inquiry in my life. It is important to talk about where one is coming from.
The first: my work with Friendship Centres and other Indigenous organizations through the 1990s gave me a practical experience of applying what I learned during the five years I spent at Trent University in what was then called Native Studies, with an emphasis on community and organizational culture. That already shaped much of the way I approached working with people. My practice was further formed by the organizers, facilitators and leaders in the Friendship Centre movement who had built an influential national grassroots movement in Canada.
The second: I’ve talked before about how Open Space completely changed my approach to group facilitation by introducing my to a mode of working with groups that was rooted in the people, their own intelligence and knowledge and not the performative or interventionist nature of the facilitator. Learning about Open Space fundamentally changed the way I looked at organizations, governance and facilitation, and it led me into an inquiry with a wider group of people who were asking questions about what self-organization, complexity and participation meant for these milleaux.
The third: In 2003, at a gathering called by Harrison Owen and others we spent five days in Open Space and I came into the Art of Hosting community through an explicit invitation from Toke Møller who was one of a small number of people forming a community of of practice around the idea of the Four Fold Practice. This appealed to me because I recognized right away that the communities of practice associated with process methodologies were too limiting in terms of trying to understand what happens in a groups space that is truly complex. I was looking for what I later called “communities of praxis” where theory and practice were meeting.
The Art of Hosting itself – the four fold practice – provided a useful heuristic for facilitating practice (and design of participatory facilitation work) and was disruptive enough to the understood norms of facilitation that it was named “hosting.” This naming pointed at the idea that it wasn’t the people or the process that was being actively facilitated by the host. Rather it was the conditions of interaction that were being shaped by the host. The work of the dialogic container was done by the people themselves. The work was not just tools, but rather developing principles of practice.
Several threads from different large group method practice found their way into this nascent understanding of what hosting seeks to generate. It is about highly participatory work, rooted in dialogue and shared meaning-making. From the World Cafe, it was about the “magic in the middle: as Finn Voldtofte named it: the emergent possibilities of what happens in truly participatory spaces. From The Circle Way practice of Baldwin and Linnea, it was “leadership in every seat.” From Harrison Owen and Open Space it was about self-organization and “trust the people, not the process.” All of these point to something that didn’t yet have a mainstream frame of reference, but we understood them to be rooted in complexity.
At that time complexity in humans systems was tied more to the chaos science world, and my own understanding had been informed by the sources the Open Space practitioner community pointed to: Capra, Gleick, Kauffmann, Isaacs, and Bohm. I was less enamoured with Senge et. all’s systems thinking stuff with its causal loops and leverages and flows. In the Art of Hosting world, Tøke and Monica had spent some time with Dee Hock in a Kaos Pilot cohort in San Francisco in the late 1990s and his idea of the dynamic relationship between chaos and order (producing chaordic space) helped us to understand that hosting was a process that helped address the volatile and unknowable nature of true complexity. Hock formulated that thinking in the 1960s when he was trying to create a currency – the VISA cared – and he struggled to find organizational structures that could provide some stability while allowing for self organization. Hock’s work, formed in the 1960s, was more in line with the living systems/chaos theory approach to complexity rather than the more mechanistic systems thinking stuff that Senge and Meadows and others were producing.
Still my curiosity about how complexity happened in groups and organizations and what implications it had for facilitation practice and leadership – and what I was going to do about it – continue to seek deeper understanding And that’s where the fourth big pivotal shift in my practice happened.
Sometime in 2008 I became aware of Dave Snowden’s work and the Cynefin framework entered my awareness. I had been searching for a framework that helped me to understand all the different ways humans systems work and in particular the need to be context specific when doing all of this. My degree in Native Studies had taught me that; context is so much bigger and more important that anything that might happen within it. Maps were central to this understanding.
During my years at Trent, the medicine wheel was perhaps the first framework that was introduced to me to help me understand how context operates. We talked about holistic ways of seeing and working, and be aware of the mental, physical, emotional and spiritual aspects of all that we do. Medicine wheels were extremely powerful frameworks used in the cultural revitalization movements of the 1970s and 1980s when I was studying this work. They represented a way of seeing that recovered Indigenous perspectives on conditions and situations and demanded a deeper accountability to the interconnectedness of living and non-living things in order to create healthy lives. HOW they were used was important though.
I actually wrote my honours these on this, looking two Indigenous organizations and how they were expressing Indigenous culture in the their work. One used the medicine wheel in an almost fundamentalist way, structuring everything according to directions. So it assigned roles to people who lived in the north, east, south and west not according to ability but according to where they lived. Action, healing, vision and strategy had nothing to do with competencies or need, and everything to do with the structure. This was an abject failure and created confusion, conflict and despair in the organization. It was led by two Anishinaabe Elders and cultural practitioners and it was a blanket application of an Anishinaabe values onto a national organization made up of people from many different cultures, spiritual traditions and ways of working.
By contrast, the other organization – the National Association of Friendship Centres, for whom I later worked – organized itself along traditional non-profit ways of doing things. It had a representative board, a standard staffing model, with an Executive Director and a small staff and a pretty clear mandate. The form was light, the staff was small, and it allowed for the organization to be agile and flexible in pursuing funding and program opportunities with the federal government. The work was deeply cultural as well, and the organization had many different cultural practitioners, spiritual leaders and Elders within its ranks and every meeting was supported by this role. We had Elders like Bruce Elijah who attended to our national board meetings and our AGMs were full of ceremony, appropriate to the territory in which we were meeting or supported by people who stepped up to take responsibility for caring for the spiritual and cultural life of the organization. The light, grassroots, member driven structure gave rise to a rich organizational cultural life that was able to handle depression conflicts, emergencies and crises, but also to create a movement in which people were cared for and chose to spend their careers.
The conclusions that stayed with me from the year long piece of research were essentially that culture does not live in imposed frameworks, no matter how sacred or rigidly applied they are, but rather lives in the ways in which people can bring their skills, themselves, and their experiences to bear on the situation at hand. There were many medicine wheels used at the NAFC, but they were used to orient us and make sense of what was happening and to ask questions about what we might do, not to prescribe action or, horror, demand outcome accountability.
This is the backdrop to how I saw and used maps. (I even mashed them all together at one point in what is clearly a whimsical folly.)
Of all the maps I saw, Cynefin said this most explicitly: “horses for courses.” And also, one of Dave’s important principles “data precedes the framework.” Do the appropriate thing given the context you are working with. Don’t impose anything on people that forces them to make meaning according to your frame. And beyond that, Snowden’s work on complexity was exactly what I was looking for to explain how to work with human systems. Hock’s chaord and the way we talked about it in the Art of Hosting mapped well enough onto what Snowden called “linear Cynefin.” I still use this framing to lightly introduce people to complexity, becasue the idea that we default to control when confusing things get unpredictable rather than leaning into a “shallow dive into chaos” is still – and maybe increasingly – radical to most people. The Chaord and Cynenfin are NOT the same thing at all though, and this point will be explored in a subsequent post.
After many years of reading, teaching, and trying stuff out, I took my first Cynefin course in London in 2014. I was especially interested in how complexity would change my approach to harvesting and evaluation, but it did so much more than that. What became “anthro-complexity” offered a significant redirection to my own hosting practice and changed (and continues to inform) my practice of the Art of Hosting. This redirection was strong enough that it knocked me outside of the mainstream practice of the Art of Hosting community of practice. This included the way methods are used (and the primacy of methods), the way training happens, and the way we use this approach for making change. The lessons of that course still resonate with me to this day and have shaped my Art of Hosting practice.
I find myself now in a world that straddles both approaches to this work and I believe that there is a very fruitful area of overlap and generative engagement to be had, the inquiry of which is the basis of our Complexity Inside and Out program.
I also recognize that I am very nearly alone in this inquiry. Many folks in the Art of Hosting community disagree or just don’t understand some of what is core to my practice, and Snowden has made it clear where he understands the limits of the Art of Hosting to be, as he understands them. The confluence of anthro-complexity and the Art of Hosting has distorted my own practice in a way that I feel honours the depth of what both bodies of work are getting at, but it hasn’t left me too many close colleagues. I am still and active member and global steward of the Art of Hosting community of practice, but my stewardship focuses on the Four Fold Practice. I believe that, with use and experience, that framework is incredible helpful for facilitators and leaders to expand their practices deeply into complexity. It helps us to convene better participatory meetings and it helps leaders to lead more engaged teams and organizations, all of which is much desired. Learning to convene well, to host dialogue and to lead in an inclusive way is worthy work.
This commitment to the Four Fold Practice is shaped by what I have learned from anthro-complexity over the years. My next post will dive into some of the specific ways that principles and practices of Snowden’s (and Cynthia Kurtz’s) work have influenced mine, and why I feel like these are important lesson for Art of Hosting practitioners to take on board, especially those of us working explicitly with complexity and change. And following that, I’ll write more on what I think are valuable and important contributions that the Art of Hosting makes on it’s own with respect to convening and learning.
So this post is one of a series that is seeking to describe some of this development in a little more detail. It is also intended to invite Art of Hosting practitioners to further develop our practice especially as we use it within organizations and communities to support change and strategy work. More to come.
Walking and birdwatching on the Camargue, near Saintes Marie
I have just finished reading Frederic Mistral‘s Mirèio in English through a florrid but free translation hosted at Project Gutenberg. I was slowly reading it during the two weeks we spent in Provence on this trip to the south of France. It’s amazing.
It is an epic poem, about the silk maker Mirèio who comes from a a family that owns land and livestock, and who falls involve with an itinerant basket weaver called Vincen. It’s a classic Romeo and Juliet story, of star crossed lovers. The plot is simple enough: boy and girl fall in love but their class differences make marriage impossible. The girl repels all suitors, and her parents angrily forbid her from ever seeing her true love. She runs away across the bleak plains and salt marshes of The Crau and the Camargue until she takes sanctuary in the chapel of the Saintes Maries. She is pursued by her father’s harvestmen and by Vincen but by the time everyone catches up with her, she has succumbed to heat stroke and dies in the arms of her true love.
The poem is structured across 12 cantos. The extended form allows Mistral to slowly move the action across the various regions of his beloved homeland in Provence. The poem is a love letter to the land and is written in Provençal, as an artistic expression of his cultural work, to revitalize the language and tell the stories of the land and the people in their own tongue. It was largely on the basis of this work that Mistral received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1904. The poem is a love story, a geographic meditation, a travelogue, a history and a collection of myths and magical experiences.
Mistral’s very name is soaked in Provencal lore. The mistral wind is the strong cold northwesterly that blows down the Rhone and clears everything away, especially in the winter months. It is the predominant atmospheric feature of the region and even in mid May, as we were walking between hill towns, it blew relentlessly for several days, a few hours at a time, but with a force and character that was unmistakable.
We weren’t walking through the region that Mistral describes in Mirèio; we were walking further north in the Luberon and Vaucluse, but we did visit the Camargue and stayed a night in Saintes Maries de la Mer, the town in which Mary Magdalene and her entourage were said to have been blown to in a storm as they escaped the Holy Land after Jesus’ crucifixion.
Nevertheless, the landscape, the architecture, and the way of life that Mistral describes in Mirèio are all present to this day in some ways in this part of the world. Having his words and impressions, lovingly committed to the page with dedication to his people, history and culture that is unparalleled. It was a beautiful gift to walk with.
Posting a link to Corina Enache’s LinkedIn post, because I don’t think she has a blog.
This one on purpose, with a hat tip to David Graeber’s work, is important. I was ruminating on this post as I walked in the Dentelles Massif yesterday in Provence.
Here is a long quote:
Purpose-driven culture, under [Graeber’s] lens, is a moral vocabulary the organisation uses to manage its people not a gift of coherence, engagement and direction. It reframes compliance as meaning and it asks you not just to do the work but to feel good about it on terms someone else defined.
The tell is what happens when you don’t feel it, when the “purpose” doesn’t land for you, when the why feels thin or disconnected from your daily reality, that becomes your problem. A coaching conversation, a culture fit question. The purpose is never interrogated but you for sure will be.
Here is the alternative: stop writing purpose statements and start asking purpose questions. What do the people doing the work think this organisation is actually for? What would they protect if they could? What makes the work feel worth doing from where they sit, not from the executive floor? You might find your purpose statement survives that conversation and you might find it needs a complete rewrite.
Purpose that is handed down is a message and purpose that is built together is a belief.
This is the best argument for taking a narrative approach to planning work. Many organizations are approaching me these days to get folks clear on purpose and it largely comes from the planning committee or the leadership and a desire for coherence or — shudder — alignment. Of course good leaders can sense a moment when a group of people feels incoherent, when they seem to be at odds with one another or somehow drifting. That’s often when consultants get called.
Enache’s antidote is probably the wisest thing that one can do to begin the process of finding purpose. Purpose hasn’t disappeared. It just shows up at different scales and in different ways. If your organization pays well to keep people around but treats them badly, expect to have a lot of employees who are there for a pay check that funds their lives rather than whatever higher or loftier goals you have.
On the other hand be wary of using purpose to coerce people into working for you and putting up with poor job conditions or underpaid labour. I see this in non-profit and other settings where an appeal to a person’s sense of duty is sometimes used as a cudgel to get them to settle for a lower standards and pay.
Mary Parker Follett famously said that “purpose is the invisible leader.” This is true. But it is true in the sense that purpose is everywhere and unless you can surface it in some way any attempt to superimpose a purpose on what’s already there will set your people at odds with one another and with the strategic decision makers. They are already being led by purpose. Do you know what it is?
Starting with a narrative capture doesn’t always give the results leaders want. One organization I worked with did this as a prequel to some focuses planning and they learned a lot of uncomfortable truths about why their staff worked the way they did and especially, why their senior staff seemed so individually focussed. It had to do with how much control the executives held. There was nothing room for anyone else to contribute and so each person just didn’t their own thing. No amount of conversation could undo the structure of the field that had been laid down for many years.
For that organization the retreat became a pro forma offsite, with the leaders unwilling to have the conversations that needed to be had. But the narrative work we did offered a repository of questions and insights that they can back to over the years and helped them let go of the control they held so tightly. It let the organization evolve through successorship phase as a few left and a few felt the shift in an invitation to step deeper into stewarding the future of the organization.
The lesson is that purpose lives in the texture of the field, not in the aspirational statements people sometimes use to structure accountabilities. Surface and explore it and it becomes possible to work with it.
Over the past several weeks, Dave Snowden has been writing a very extensive series of long blog posts that serve as a watershed declaration of the state of his work thus far in the field of anthro-complexity. The posts both define what the field is and make sharp distinctions about what it isn’t, especially in relation to practices, ontologies, and theories that sit adjacent or close to it. I believe this represents a moment where Snowden is making a strong declaration about what anthro-complexity is, and being very deliberate about pulling it back from interpretations that seek to fit it into pre-existing understandings of complexity. Anthro-complexity is a new approach to complexity in human systems, and these posts are a strong statement of what that is.
In the course of these posts, Dave has focused in part on the Art of Hosting, among other approaches to working in complexity, and has named me explicitly as someone who has been trying to work within the field of the Art of Hosting to bring my own practice more in line with what I have been learning about anthro-complexity over the past 15 years or so, since I was introduced to Cynefin.
The entire series is very important to understand the context, and it is very long and dense stuff, but it’s important to understand some of the context. You can start the most recent series on the channel and the estuary here. For these posts I am going to write, I encourage you to read the two most direct posts about the Art of Hosting:
These posts have helped me to reach an important moment in my own thinking, and I promised to respond to them personally and messily, so I’ll do my best here, probably in a series of posts. I am just heading out on a three-and-a-half-week walking holiday, so I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to get to, but long walks do offer a chance to ruminate.
So here is the first of what will likely be a number of posts on this topic.
First, thank you, Dave, for naming me, and for naming the Art of Hosting as a practice field, and for putting some deeply important questions to me and to us. These are questions that help guide and deepen our understanding of the field we work in. The Art of Hosting field is a broad one, spanning every continent, made up of people who arrive from many different traditions and levels of experience in the worlds of facilitation and change-making. Originally, the field was formed by folks moved by their experiences in social change, new metaphors of organizational leadership and systems change, and large-group facilitation methods. We are, and always have been, a community of practitioners first, and so the field has taken on the feel of a place where methods and tools are top of mind. I think the world sees the Art of Hosting as a collection of tools and practices for convening dialogue, and I don’t think that is incorrect. But it presents a problem that Snowden has identified, and it’s one we have to deal with.
The basic problem is this: while we use the language of emergence and complexity in the Art of Hosting, our use of methods and pre-designed processes, and our emphasis on “hosts,” means that we run the risk of not always being coherent with our own claims about emergence. Our approach to hosting conversations that matter certainly acknowledges emergence and can create conditions in which emergence happens, but it does that largely because humans operating in any constraint regime will create emergent outcomes. The question is whether that emergence is relevant to the field out of which these people come, or whether it is a distortion brought about by the container in which people are gathered and in which we convene conversation. A powerful conversation on its own is not helpful if its effects cannot survive contact with the system that it seeks to change.
The critique is important because it raises a question of epistemic justice, and I don’t think we answer that question very well: whose knowledge is being surfaced, and under what conditions? Are we enabling the distributed intelligence of the system to become visible, or are we shaping what can be said and heard through the design of our processes, invitations, and harvests?
If the conversations we convene are to truly matter, they must be coherent with the field in which they are situated. More than that, whatever emerges in those conversations must be able to travel back into that field and interact with it: shifting patterns, enabling action, and surviving beyond the temporary conditions of the container.
The issue, then, is not whether to convene, but how to do so in ways that remain accountable to the field. We need to be aware of the constraints we introduce, conscious of the power we hold as hosts, and attentive to whether what emerges is actually usable once people return to the systems they inhabit. And we need to be constantly critiquing our positionality.
Dave’s work lately has been to discuss systems as geological features. He locates the work of anthro-complexity firmly in the metaphor of the estuary, and yesterday his post very helpfully described the Art of Hosting (as a body of work) as a delta. These are two different kinds of systems, and the distinction is important. I want to quote from that post at length:
Art of Hosting is the delta of the leadership and organisational field. Over two decades and across dozens of cultural contexts, Toke Møller, Monica Nissen, and the community they built have produced real moments of collective intelligence, genuine emergence, and authentic contact. The practice carries real generosity and real craft, and this post takes that seriously.
But the delta has been building. The hosting aesthetic, the circle, the open space, the world café, the council, the harvest: these are now a recognisable repertoire, instantly legible to anyone who has spent time in that world. And a repertoire is a structure that precedes the encounter. The hosting team designs the invitation, shapes the container, holds the process, and harvests the outputs. The circle looks leaderless. The architecture is not.
Chris Corrigan, who has engaged generously with this argument in previous conversations and stated plainly that he is trying to change Art of Hosting from within, deserves acknowledgement here. That is the most intellectually honest position available to a practitioner committed to a tradition they have also diagnosed. It is exactly the move Griffin made with Stacey and the matrix: following the argument toward its conclusion, regardless of the professional cost. The question is whether the tradition as a whole is willing to follow that argument, or whether the delta will continue to accumulate.
The delta’s generativity is real. The flood plain moments, the occasions when Art of Hosting breaks through its own container and something genuinely distributed happens, are not accidental. They are what the tradition has been reaching for, and they occur. The problem is that the method cannot reliably produce them, cannot fully explain when they occur, and cannot sustain them when they do. The hosting team is still in the room. The design is still prior. The harvest is still shaped by hands that arrived before the conversation began.
In order to fairly deal with this critique we must honestly look at the ways in which it is true. And so to all my friends and colleagues in this field, I invite you and us to find the genuine questions in here that help us deepen our practice and rise to the challenge posed by serious questions of epistemic justice, legitimate change, and a deeper understanding of complexity and its dynamics.
My experience of reading Dave’s posts lately has been at times feeling a bit defensive but on the whole (and especially after yesterday’s) more akin to what a delta might feel during and after an autumn king tide, when it is overwhelmed and inundated by the sea and the rain. When the deluge stops and the tide ebbs, one finds that the landscape has been gently rearranged and new patterns of flow and precarious stability arise. I find myself in somewhat familiar location, but standing on new ground and needing to re-navigate and re-orient myself and my practice. I genuine experience of estuarine thinking. As I have been doing so over the past few days (during which I was also co-leading an Art of Hosting training) I found myself operating with heightened curiosity and inquiry.
I’ll write more about these questions, and especially as they relate specifically to how I understand the practice of the Art of Hosting, the usefulness of methods (including harvest), the importance of dialogic containers and how anthro-complexity helps us make better change. Stay tuned, and enjoy the view.