The Box

Imagine sitting in this box.  It’s comfortable. Where are you sitting?  At the front or back?  Shade or light?  Center or corner?  What thoughts come to mind?

You look around.  The sides of the box are familiar boundaries; they hold important truths about who you are.  Are the sides of the box firm or could you punch a hole through them?

If you decided the box was no longer the right fit, how would you get out? A. Unfold the box? B. Destroy the box? C. Peek out the window?

Assuming you decide to look through the opening, what is in your line of vision?  And if there is something on the horizon you really want, how much of your box do you want to take with you?

Thoughts? Safe journeys, Allyson

Lucia Koch, Vinho

www.progessive.com/rootfiles/annual-report/2016/assets/images/12000/Vinho_1200.jpg

What is the difference between being human and being humane?

This question surfaced during a discussion with 15 youths and continues to percolate for me a month later.  What is the difference?  Their conclusion was that to be human describes what we are: the full range of desires, emotions, ambitions that we collectively share.  By contrast, to be humane reflects how we choose to be: the decisions we choose to make towards ourselves and towards others relying on our ability to care for and to care with.

To be humane is a lot more work.  And perhaps we have used the excuse of being human to absolve ourselves from being humane (“I am just human after all!”). 

With the youths, we generated examples reframing the relationship between being human and being humane:

·      To be human is to get frustrated when someone is not respectful, to be humane is to show grace.

·      To be human is to feel impatient when projects don’t go as planned, to be humane is to find patience.

·      To be human is to want attention, to be humane is to show curiosity towards someone else.

·      To be human is to criticize oneself, to be humane is to offer encouragement.

Thus, I leave you with two questions next time you are feeling very human:

What is the human response?  What is the humane response?

Safe journeys, Allyson

WHEN NOT KNOWING IS OUR FRIEND

In life transitions, the most visible markers are the endings and the beginnings.  What lies in the middle, between the ending and the beginning, we prefer to avoid.   How to best describe this indeterminate space?  It’s a space of numbness, amoeba like with no clear contours or perhaps a fog with seemingly unrelated ideas. 

Worst of all is the feeling of disconnection: disconnection from self, from purpose, from direction.  Suddenly the self we knew is no longer who we are and there is no map in sight to guide us.  It doesn’t matter whether the ending was a personal decision, a good choice, or imposed.  We think we should know what to do…be happy, be decisive…but we don’t.  Not knowing is a space so uncomfortable at times that we fight.  We fight against the feelings of nothingness, we are angry at the unsolicited disorientation.  Not knowing feels bleak.  So how can it be our friend?

William Bridges describes this period of time as a “neutral zone,” one essential to any form of transformation.  He says, “the neutral zone provides access to an angle of vision on life that one can get nowhere else.  And it is a succession of such views over a lifetime that produces wisdom.”  So where in this neutral zone is the wisdom?

What if sitting with “not knowing” is a good place to start?  Like two strangers sitting on a bench, getting comfortable with each other’s presence opens the way for a gentle curiosity. What does this stranger have to say?  What questions does this stranger want us to ask?  What if not knowing opens us to an unexpected understanding that triggers something…and then something else? 

There is no real timeline in the neutral zone and probably not one single revelation.  Yet we can trust that important knowledge occupies this space on the bench, as a friendship offering…to ourselves.

Bridges, William. (2004). Transitions-Making Sense of Life’s Changes. Da Capo Press: Cambridge, MA. P.142.