Surfboards inside the museum at Nazaré, Portugal, all of which have ridden the biggest wave in the world.
Things I have found while surfing. Have a look at these, and maybe leave a comment about which link grabbed your attention and what you learned there.
(PS…the headlines are links! Click for more)
John Coltrane’s ideas behind “A Love Supreme.”
I adore this piece of music. I think I first heard it about 20 years after it was recorded, which was nearly 60 years ago now. It is a high form sacred music piece, as important and meaningful as anything that Bach created (it is the season of the Passions, after all) and it so perfectly captures Coltrane’s theology and perhaps every artist’s theology. This article is worth a look for how Coltrane thought about the work and the way he used form as prayer.
Imagining Yourself in Another’s Shoes vs. Extending Your Concern: Empirical and Ethical Differences
An interesting paper about the contrast between The Golden Rule and the idea and practice of what Eric Schweitzgebel calls “extension.” In the paper, Schweitzgebel writes:
“A different approach [to The Golden Rule] treats concern for nearby others as a given and as the seed from which care for more distant others might grow. If you’d care for a nearby child, so also should you care for more distant children. If you’d want something for your sister, so also should you want something similar for other women. This approach to moral expansion differs substantially from others’ shoes / Golden Rule thinking, both in its ethical shape and in its empirical implications.”
This reminds me of the Buddhist practice of Metta, and is food for thought for someone like me who places stock in The Golden Rule.
Every Dr. Johnny Fever DJ break woven into a single show.
If you were a music fan and maybe also if you were involved in radio in the 1970s and 1980s (both of which are true for me), then WKRP in Cincinnati was a must-listen to show. And you had to see the original versions, because the music they played was great but the producers couldn’t afford to syndicate it all, so in re-runs, all the original tracks are just filler tunes and not the originals.
But here is some genius. Someone has taken all of Dr. Johnny Fever’s DJ breaks and announcements and cut them into a three hour show. It contains the live audience laugh track, but it is otherwise a BRILLIANT project and elicits much loving nostalgia for me.
The Implosion of the Retirement Contract
I love a good policy discussion. I admit to being at a loss about how to address inequality and inaccessibility to basics like food, housing and education in a country that thinks of itself as “an advanced economy” and has no political party that is willing or able to make fundamental changes. But policy choices dictate the constraints that create outcomes like unaffordable good food, inaccessible housing and clipping student debt. This paper talks about an interesting underlying assumption that keep property prices high (and therefore also rents).
In nearly all liberal democracies, it is quite normal to treat “property” as “the ideal retirement asset for homeowners, with high house price growth helping downsizers release cash to fund their golden years.”
The Cluetrain Manifesto was a gamechanger for the early web. Those of us that were blogging back at the beginning of the century all knew about it and if your work extended into the organizational world, reading Cluetrain just laid bare how poorly prepared your company or agency or government was to deal with the oncoming onslaught of conversation, creation and disruption to the ways communications, marketing and organizations worked. Cluetrain is 25 years old now and it’s interesting to think about what is different now. Community is largely gone, for one thing.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Ritual
Ted Gioia should be a must-read on everyone’s list. He writes on music and culture, and everything he says is thoughtful, skillfully economical, and insightful. He points you to pieces of music you would have never found. He provides takes on culture that you aren’t going to get anywhere else. This piece is so insightful about what it takes to live with boundaries that make our lives meaningful in an era where our attention has been nearly completely colonized.
The Origin of Last Summer’s Maui Wildfire
It’s hard to overstate the impact of the fire that destroyed Lahaina on Maui last summer. Having been there in February and witnessed the destruction myself, it is profoundly sad. To make matters worse, the fires ripped open a wound on Maui that private interests have rushed in to heal. The community is now in serious danger of being lost to outside owners and investment companies who have predatory designs on the land and property that was destroyed by the fire. Locals are in danger of forever losing their home places because there is no public support that can compete with what the wealthy interests are offering. It’s a shit show. In this article, Cliff Mass undertakes an analysis of the causes of the wildfire.
Raise energy and reduce ‘meeting fatigue’ by making meetings optional
My mate Mark McKergow has a research-supported idea for lowering cognitive fatigue for online meetings. It’s simple enough, but it requires managers to let go of control and let the work speak for itself. And it requires organizations to loosen up on the samara of accountability culture that is killing many of the workplaces I am working with.
Evaluation is one of those things that become a massively problematic constraint on a project if one doesn’t understand it, or worse, fears it. My friend Ciaran Camman is offering his course on Evaluation called “Weaving it In” and you should go to that. To get ready for that though, let this whimsical discussion whet your palate.
It’s Advent right now.
Although everyone talks about this being the “Christmas season,” liturgically speaking, the Christmas season begins on Christmas Day and lasts 12 days until Epiphany. In the Christian year, Christmas represents the incarnation of God into the world, and Epiphany represents the physical manifestation of Christ to humans.
These are times of joy and release that correspond with the return of light to the northern hemisphere and which come after a period of deepening darkness, which is Advent.
When you live on a small dark island in the North Pacific, this season, Advent, becomes meaningful. It is a time of rain and sometimes snow and a time of cloud and fog and the deepest darkness of the year. The sun is gone by 4:15 and doesn’t return until after 8 in the morning and because there are miles and miles of cloud stacked atop us, there are some days when it never really gets light at all. Everything that is not water is still and quiet. Creeks and rivers flow in torrents and the moody sea swings between calm and agitation at will.
It is a season of lingering. What lingers are the odd creature that should have left for warmer climes by now. A humpback whale that has decided to stay for the winter. A sea lion barking every night from its haul-out in the bay below my house is definitely out of time and place. The odd tourist who has wisely chosen to travel during a period in which they will have a whole mountain full of trails to themselves.
But what also lingers is the warmth of community. During the deep darkness of the Advent weeks, we move from event to event, experiencing light and warmth around the fires of other’s homes. We sing together, we visit and drink and eat and tell stories about our year and make plans for the future, and then we head out into the dark and rainy nights, flashlights in hand, careful with our steps, to make our way home. We travel between islands of light and warmth in a sea of darkness and cold. We linger on the memories of summer, or the impressions made by friends that we love. We linger on the memories of those who are no longer with us, who have died or who have moved away and who leave a little hole in our lives once occupied by the delight of a random encounter or intentional co-creation.
This is also the season in which traditions linger, in which a rhythm of community helps guide us and hold us through the dark season. The stringing of lights in Snug Cove and the annual lighting up of the village. The choir concerts and recitals. The reading of A Christmas Carol or A Child’s Christmas in Wales, performed yearly, as it was again last night, by the inimitable Martin Clark.
In the four Sundays of Advent, we reflect on the values and practices of Hope, Peace, Joy and Love. We do so in the darkest month, mindful of a world full of darkness. We reflect on Joy and Hope in its absence, and we practice waiting for it to return. I think one of the reasons why December is so full of contradictory emotions for people is that this is the time of year when we most deeply feel the loss of hope and joy and peace and love. And yet all around us, the market has seized on hope and joy as the reason for the season and exhorts us to buy and give and fill the hole of longing.
But that is not the purpose of Advent. Advent is the season in which we deeply feel the possibility of a world WITHOUT these things. And we acknowledge the pain and anguish of a world absent of light and love and peace and hope and joy. It is perfectly timed in the north to be a season of four weeks when we reflect on and embrace the darkness in anticipation of the return of the light.
We can be together in darkness if we hold each other there. We can have faith that moments of light will return, that love and peace will come back to the world. To people, to families, to whole nations. The liturgical seasons are both a symbolic representation of the reality of the heart’s topography and a container for practice. It is a aberration brought on by commerce that we are denied a chance to rest in sadness and despair together for a while. It is good medicine to do so.
As we approach the Solstice, I wish you days of subtle turning. That the fleeting moments of light that come into your life are grasped and held. That the sadness and despair you may feel at this time of year, in this time in history, can be acknowledged and held. And that joy and hope and peace and love may return to you and your beloveds.
Most mornings, when I’m at home, I stroll down to a local rocky beach, coffee in hand, to begin my day in meditation. The beach is a pleasant 15-minute walk from my house. When I reach the water, I step from the asphalt onto a gravel path that meanders through trees, past thickets of blackberry bushes, and ends in a secluded cove facing east, towards the rising sun that crests over the 1200 meter ridges of the Brittania Range, the mountains that make up the eastern edge of the inlet in which I live.
I began visiting this spot regularly the day after my father died. This beach, in all its varying weather and seasons, became my sanctuary for healing and introspection. Whether on a sunny summer morning or during a dark, rainy winter day, it offers a place to simply be. It’s a space where I am held in the vastness of the east wall of Atl’kat7tsem/Howe Sound, where I sit still, observing the ever-changing dance of the waves, wind, sky, and sea. This spot is undeniably a container, but it is one that’s vast and overwhelming, akin to entering a cathedral. It’s a space so grand that my presence doesn’t alter it, inviting me instead to enter and surrender.
There are containers in our lives that we create with intent and control. There are emergent containers, birthed from many small collaborative actions. Then, there are containers like this one, pre-existing, ancient even, that hold us and are accessed by deliberately crossing a threshold that ushers us into a different state of being, thinking, and feeling.
Having a space like this in one’s life is beneficial, as many of the containers in which we work, live, shape, and co-create are embedded within much larger ones, over which we have little control or influence. The practice of surrendering to a larger context helps us fully immerse ourselves in a place and moment, to quiet our minds, rest, observe, and experience. In doing so, we also discover our inner reactions to our surroundings.
Maybe you have a place like this, or you can find a place like this. It might not be the mountains of a fijord, but it could be a forest, a park, a lake, a field, or the heart of a bustling city. Go there, observe, listen, and notice how little your presence in that space changes it, but how much you are influenced by it. Consider the audacity of imagining how you could affect or change it. Familiarize yourself with your humility and insignificance.
Our work in the world requires us to dance between the spaces we make and the spaces we inhabit. We can dance between these spaces and we can witness the dance of these spaces with each other. And all the while, we inhabit our own little containers of thoughts and feelings and intentions and motivations, every so subtly shaping and being shaped by dancing space.
I’ve known Tenneson Woolf for 20 years, and we have worked together, offering learning, facilitation and organizational support in various settings all over the place.
Tenn is a global Art of Hosting steward and was amongst the first people to bring the Art of Hosting practice to North America in 2003, back when he worked with the Berkana Institute, and we all saw a need to bring a set of deep dialogic and participatory leadership practices into the world.
Tenneson has a great blog, and devoted writing practice. He has extended his creativity engagement into the world of podcasting, where he brings on some great guests to talk about human-to-human connection.
We sat down last week to have a conversation. We touched on joy-seeking, the need for micro-dosing appreciation and gratitude, curiosity, generosity and support. It was lovely, and really just the same kind of conversation we always have when we are together.
Have a listen.
Reading: Psalm 119:1-8
Nan Merrell Version from Praying the Psalms.
Blessed are those whose ways are blameless
Who live with spiritual integrity
Blessed are those who honour the Inner Being
Who follow you with their whole heart
Who enfold the world with love
and walk on the peaceful path
You have shown the way of Truth
the way that leads to freedom
O that I might ever reflect the Light
Then I shall know inner peace
as I surrender myself into your Hands
I will praise You with a grateful heart
as I lean on your great kindness
As I forsake the path of Darkness
O have mercy on me.
Sermon
Back in 1994 when Caitlin and I moved to the west coast, we drove across the country, taking three months to do so. We followed our hearts or the intriguing names of places on the map, driving no more than three hours a day, camping every night, exploring the country between the Ottawa River and the Pacific Ocean as we drove into our new life together.
One day we stopped at Grasslands National Park. It was late September, and the prairie grass was dry and brown. We had the whole park to ourselves. We camped in a tipi ring on top of a coulee overlooking the Frenchman River and looked across the valley. From horizon to horizon, we counted seven trees, so we decided to visit them all. It took us two days.
Our first hour of walking was boring. We traveled down the side of the coulee into the valley and saw nothing of the wildlife that we were promised by the breathless copy in the Parks Canada brochure. With every step we took, the tree we were heading toward seemed to retreat into the distance.
Finally, we rested by the side of the river, where we encountered a coyote trail. Instead of mindlessly chasing the tree, we decided to follow the trail and see where it would take us. Almost immediately we spotted a badger den, and then a prairie dog colony full of gophers nervously nosing the air and keeping one eye on us. The trail took us past burrowing owl nests, rattlesnake hibernacula, and within sight of a herd of antelope who could see us coming for miles. At one point we were joined by coyotes, one leading us and one following behind, both a couple of hundred meters away, like respectful guides or watchful parents. I had the stunning realization that the continent at one point was covered with this uninterrupted meshwork of trails and that they carried a walker past all of the living features of a landscape.
When you walk the path, life is revealed.
This reading comes in the midst of Epiphany, the liturgical season in which we reflect on what has been brought into the world through the teachings and example of Jesus. In ten days we will begin Lent, which is an intense time of practice for us. For many of us, Lent centers around a commitment. That might be giving up a habit that no longer serves us or perhaps, more positively, focusing on a habit that we can build over 40 days of practice. If we grew up with a dose of Christian guilt we might be conditioned to think that the way to be holy and righteous is to look at all the ways we are bad in the world and punish ourselves for it. Lent might carry with it more than a little trepidation. Years ago however, I read that 40 days is enough time to secure a new habit and that a more affirming way to approach Lent was to do something different rather than stop doing something. Our minds can’t hold a negative – don’t think about a pink elephant – so as we focus on things that make us feel guilty or shame, we simply allow more of that to take over our hearts.
Instead, choose something different to focus on, something we know brings us closer to the sacred and beautiful source of life and love. Do that one thing diligently for 40 days and see what begins to take hold in you.
The last time I was reflecting here I talked about how the Greek word for “repent” is “metanoia” which means, turn around, do something differently, notice the things that aren’t serving you, and do a different thing. It is a positive word, a choice that takes us closer to the sacred, to the Divine, to the source of unconditional love that reminds us that we are Beloved. Like Caitlin and I on the short-grass prairie, it means taking a turn onto a path that will deliver us towards living.
So just in time for Lent, this Psalm shows up in our Lectionary. If we are looking for a few things to practice during Lent, this psalm may offer a nice sourcebook for that.
The Psalm is 176 verses long and structured as an acrostic poem, with each section beginning with a successive letter of the Hebrew alphabet. In all, there are 22 sections with 8 verses each. The Psalm is an at-time ecstatic plea that the writer may live in accordance with God’s law, which is best thought of as a path towards wisdom, truth, and spiritual freedom. The law, the way, the precepts, and the path that is spoken of is about the actions of aligning ourselves with a higher purpose and growing closer to the Sacred. The Law here is about living a more loving and meaningful life, mindful of how we encounter the world and cultivating a spiritual awareness that awakens us to beauty, mystery and the goodness of the world so we might live with reverence and joy in every moment. The Psalm is a dance between things the writer longs to practice in accordance with these basic principles of spiritual development, and a plea for the discipline to actually to do it. Sounds like all of us, right?
Nan Merrill’s translation of the first 8 verses of the psalm gives us a few things we might want to focus on. And I will be the first to stand here and tell you that these things are simple to say and hard to do, and if you want stories about how to fall well short of one’s intentions, I’ve got a long list! None of us are perfect. But we are all good-hearted, and these practices are for polishing that goodness, not becoming perfect.
We might want to live in a way that stops us from feeling ashamed, by practicing what we preach, and doing what we say. In that case, spiritual integrity is the path. Being aware of what arises in our minds and hearts and what comes out of our mouths or what actions we take. Awareness and mindfulness help us to notice our patterns and habits. Noticing is the first step to change. So what do you want to pay attention to?
Or how about honouring the Inner Being? The Inner Being refers to our true, authentic self that lies beneath the surface of our daily thoughts, feelings, and experiences. It is often described as a spiritual essence or soul that is innate within each of us and that seeks connection with a higher power. It is seen as the source of our deepest wisdom, intuition, and guidance. It is the part of us that is connected to the divine and that experiences a sense of peace, joy, and purpose in life. When we honour the Inner Being, we are tapping into this inner wisdom and allowing it to guide us in our actions, thoughts, and relationships with others. That sounds like a good practice for Lent.
We could choose in every moment to enfold the world with love and practice a commitment to truth. These two precepts go hand in hand. Speaking the truth is made more powerful by embracing love and compassion. Jesus’s teaching to “love one’s enemy and one loves oneself” is the lesson here. So who could you love a bit more? What part of the world could you enfold in love?
Or we might choose to reflect the Light we speak of when we refer to the Christ amongst us, that conscious pattern of love and connection and belonging. In a world of separation and alienation, we can remember how we are connected together and choose to walk a path of peace, gratitude, and surrender to the beauty and awe that surrounds us. We can sing with others, creating sweet moments of harmony. We can engage in deep conversations about what matters to our hearts, and what we love and long for. What we miss and cherish. These days, it is easy to lay hate on the state of the world, for the changes that are happening to us, and for the conflict that consumes us. Can we find moments to rest in the peace of the world, to watch a seal in the sea, or listen for the changing songs of the birds in the dawn chorus, as spring creeps upon us? Can we daily surrender to the gratitude of a world that hosts us on its surface? Forty days of that is good for the soul.
This is not an intellectual exercise. Like my experience on the short grass prairie, this is about noticing what arises when we walk in spiritual integrity when we walk a path of wholeness and alignment to our true selves. It requires us to be in the world, carried and buffeted by the struggles and celebrations of our life. It is through human experiences that we come to know who we are as spiritual beings. We come to recognize the Inner Being of the Divine within us, to see ourselves as living, loving pieces of stardust. And in knowing this, we come to the ecstatic praise of the intricate nature of love and the gift of our life here at this time and in this form.
As we walk this path, we are invited to enfold the world with love and be enfolded by it. We are invited to become the Beloved, brought into a deeper connection with all that is, a love that opens our hearts to the beauty and wonder of this world, and a love that brings us into the embrace of the divine. It is a love that touches and transforms us and those with whom we interact.
The spiritual life is one that is enhanced by discipline and practice, regular prayer, reflection, learning, and self-examination. Christ’s teachings in their simplest form point us to practices that lead us to a life that is for our benefit, that brings us happiness and peace, and that makes the world a kinder, more just, more equitable, more loving place. The promise of these teachings is that unconditional love awaits you at every step on the path. It is right here. The Kindom is at hand.
I encourage you to read the whole Psalm at some point this week. When you do, listen for the longing the writer has for the ability to stay true to a path of loving practice. This is all of us, diligently tuning our hearts to The Way, opening ourselves to the life that unfolds as we walk through this world, feeling the struggle of suffering and the liberation of blessing. Every day become a little more attuned to the fact that we are always, and ever becoming Beloved.