TaleCatcher

Play

I watched Stuart Brown on Play a few weeks ago and haven't got it out of my head.

Stuart Brown begins an argument that play is just as important as sleep and dreams in building our physical and mental health. I say begins, because he and his colleagues are only at the beginning of their discoveries.

Some of it didn't work for me, but I have drawn many analogies and anecdotes to use in my work. And I guess it's safe to say it's changed me: I now make more of a point to make sure I play.

For instance: juvenile rats play too. It's part of their progression in growing up. Scientists took a set of rats and suppressed their play instinct. The rats grew up normally in every other way, and were able to cope as adults same as their peers. Then the scientists introduced a collar that had been worn by a cat, and watched. All the rats ran for safety, but there was a difference. The rats that had played as youngsters came out after a time, sniffed the air, found out if the coast was clear, and then resumed normal life. The rats that had never played, however, stayed in hiding. Until they died. They hadn't been curious and explored. They didn't know how to cope with risk, how to recover from a fright, how to measure their options and make a decision.

And so a few hours later I was playing monsters with Adele. I pulled on my eyes and mouth and lunged for her, saying BOO! Her frightened face was priceless, just for a flash, then it erupted into laughter. Over and over. It was just a few moments of fun. But I can see it as more now. She's learning to recover from fear. And the laughter we shared helped me recover from bureaucracy, systems, commuting, convention.

Go make a game, and play.

Tasty elephants

Elephants again.

There's the expression 'You can't eat an elephant all in one go. You have to eat a lot of elephant burgers.'

I get that. Slow down. Pace myself. Be patient, I'll get there in the end.

Being positive and constructive, I am using the inverse of this analogy to console myself. You see, I tried having the conversation about having something to say with my colleague.

I am going to have to start feeding her elephant burgers. Ho hum.

Making meaning

I have various meetings where people want to know some stories. They invariably ask me how many I have. And they think I'm dodging the question when i say it's impossible to count.

I could give you a dozen stories. Or four dozen. How many do you want?

But within each of those I tell you there are countless others, and their backgrounds provide potential for another set, and then the varying infinite meanings we take out of them, and the various applications we find for them, make that set of say 12 stories an impossible number to count.

But that's with only choosing stories. The fact is, the stories don't turn up until we have something to say.

So you need to talk to your team about the importance of building an atmosphere of trust, before it's put to the test? All of a sudden your knowledge and experience from another situation, in which the learning is the same as what you would have your team to learn, that learning you've been carrying around with you can become a story, when you tell it as narrative, for the purpose of making meaning.

I have seen people in many workshops tell a story that they never knew was a story. But given the opportunity to be meaningful, what was previously just an experience becomes a story. And with their own reflection and telling, their listeners found it invaluable in learning how to handle similar situations of their own.

And so I go into these meetings where people expect me to just tell them stories with an uncomfortable and unusual heavy air. They want me to give them significance. If I knew what they wanted to say, what they were intersested in, what impact they were hoping to have, then we could work together to find the stories I've colected - or even better, in them - to really bring home the point. But until somebody has something to say, the communications will be flat, and the stories will be novelties. An anecdote has to have meaning to become a story. I cannot give these certain colleagues meaning, if they are not open to finding it in themselves.

Known for

I keep hearing that yesterday the guy who wrote the theme tune to the Adaams Family died.

There's a supermarket story for you - something to instantly be known by.

And it's a great example of how one story, unless it's overtaken by another, can become what you're known by. In his case, it was even more than his name.

I had a very pleasant coffee and chat with Mags yesterday. I am so fortunate to have simple and wise friends, who keep in mind what is important, and pull me back. She had walked into another conversation I was having about doing some storying work for the church, and asked to know more. I don't usually bore my friends with the details of work, but as the conversation got into supermarket stories, she stopped me.

'Why should I care what people tell about me?' Apart from validity of the question itself, I am amazed that it was the first time I had been challenged on it. It's a huge and fundamentally important point. That it had never come up before tells a lot about people in general. And it tells a lot about Mags that she asked.

We explored it. If people tell that I'm the one who always arrives 30 seconds before school or work or a meeting starts, then I guess I don't care very much. It doesn't interfere with how I see myself, and actually I'm realistic and confident enough to such a character trait be public. If they're telling, though, that I have a temper, or that I am difficult to talk to, or that I'm awkward with shopkeepers, well that's a different story. That's not in line with the values I try to live by. It matters then. And then it's an entirely different conversation - how you change your story.

Strengths, part 3: learning from Mr Gumpy

Ann bought the girls a copy of Mr Gumpy's Outing for a birthday last year. I enjoyed the book but didn't get it for a long time.

It goes like this: Mr Gumpy lives in a house by a river. He has a boat, and he decides one day to go out in it. The children ask to come along. Mr Gumpy is kind and says yes, but you mustn't mess about. The dog and cat want to come along; Mr Gumpy says the dog mustn't tease the cat. And so it goes on: the sheep mustn't go around bleating, the pig can't muck about, the chicken can't flap. Predictably, they all do exactly what their natures predispose them to do, and the boat topples. Mr Gumpy is also patient, so after they all swim to the shore, they walk across the fields and then sit down together for a lovely tea of fruit and cake.

That they each brought their own natures - or 'strengths' was obvious. And that they didn't mix was obvious. But I sensed there was a deeper application, and I just couldn't put my finger on it.

Until I used the expression 'liberate' to describe letting a member of staff go who just wasn't able to do the job. She had been coached and trained for six months and never grew in the role, just grew more frustrated. I referred to when she'd been set free, and those around me laughed, and I made a passing reference to how she could go find a job that would better suit her.

That night we read Mr Gumpy together. And I got it. Companies that force people in who don't fit, will topple, just like Mr Gumpy's boat. If the stakes are no higher than getting wet, then it doesn't matter. In an organisation in which people are putting their lives and livelihoods into it, however, we can't risk an all-inclusive, more-the-merrier approach. We've got to be clever and actively recruit on the strengths that will best fill the role, both in practical and emotional needs.  

Strengths, part 2: less to more

Marcus talks about how 'work' does necessarily have to have its bits that aren't play, but that the key is to learn to see the chores in ways that will appeal to stengths. So when I did my clouds exercise on myself the other day, I saw a direct correlation between the things that are holding me back and the things I need. Red lights, green lights, same issue, diferent names. Flip sides of the same behavoiur: obstacle or opportunity. Easier said than done, maybe, but identifying it is a start. And it makes for a fascinating half-hour of self-reflection.

In our old team we talked about 'lesser strengths,' when they occasionally needed to be acknowledged. Sometimes they get to be the elephant in the room, what everybody can see but nobody's talking about, even in our own minds. When they're obvious and causing problems, then it's time to pull out the 'lesser strengths', have a good look at them, and find out how we put them in the spaces we play in most naturally.

Marcus's example was about doing expenses, or something admin-y that he didn't like to do. But he had a huge completion strength, so he would focus on how pleased he'd be when he finished it. Rather than getting dragged down by the chore, he let his incentive for that 'done' rush pull him along.

Strengths, part 1: Every child matters

I love 'every child matters.' It is kind of a philosophy I think they're trying to run and measure schools around. I hadn't encountered it until we were getting Elena in school.

I was invited to her celebration assembly on Friday. I'd gone to one the previous year, so I knew that each child gets a certificate at some point during the year. Elena's, this time, was for her amazing reading abilities. I could barely contain my pride.

Now for lots of reasons my mind has returned to the strengths space, and it was clearly the way they are training up these kids. I loved seeing the reasons they got certificates: 'for always saying please and thank you, and being so eager to help.' 'For always offering to play with children who don't have anyone to play with.' 'For having such a confident voice in PE, always ready to call out boldly to his friends.' 'For always jumping in and having a go, no matter what anybody else is doing.'

The closest we got to this when I was at school was when John Byrd, our 9th grade biology teacher, announced at the end of the school year that he had been asked to recognise students' achievements, and did anybody think they deserved recognising?

I used to be excrutiatingly shy. I had been quiet all year long, hidden safely and quietly in the shelter of my lab partner Holly Denise Holley's boisterous and constant laugh. Mr Byrd had given out certificates for everything imaginable to 14 year-olds. I whispered to Holly, 'I didn't say anything all year.' I got a certificate for Silentism. Signed in Ronald Reagan's name.

Now John Byrd was the teacher who submitted a photo of a snake eating a mouse as his official image for the yearbook. And he was skirting scandal by living with my English teacher, the bohemian who taught us tap dance instead of literature for a while. Strange as we thought he was, John Byrd was onto something. I still have my certificate. I have outgrown it; silence is no longer a value for me. But the recognition, the moment of writing something down and having the class applaud me for what was uniquely mine, was an important moment. A first look into my strengths.

In the clouds

This is not the place to be deeply personal.

But it is the place to record the moments that make up the big changes.

I am putting myself through the exercise of the cartoon - I am making a cloud of where I have been, which is never as clear as we imagine, and of the space I am going into - which is always unclear, but the cloud metaphor seems (again) to work really well as I look ahead. Positively foggy.

So I'm pulling the fog apart, seeing what it's made of. What goes on in there. And I'm finding that bit in the middle, where I feel unclear, to find what steps to take to get clear.

Two things occur to me. One is a chapter in GM's 'Orbiting the Giant Hairball': 'Orville Wright did not have a pilot's license.'  

And: the word 'intimidation' has crept into my 'former' cloud. I broke that one a year ago - that's the word that I'd written on my block of wood. It's valuable for me to tell myself that story again.

Employee engagement

Norwich, like all cities, has its 'local colour.' We find the Puppet Man embarassing - the videos glorify him; the real thing just sort of moans over an ancient tape player. He doesn't even try to sing the songs properly. Ray commented that he's lost his passion for it these days - that he seems like he's just doing a job, putting up with it, getting his day's work in, just like the rest of the drones who drag in to work past him every day.

Just goes to show that every job needs its people switched on. Present. Engaged. In the moment. Otherwise it becomes just a job.

Up, down, and rest

Our lovely Elena, a new 5 year old and still excited by school and the thrills of being in Year One, has come home with an idea for our mealtimes. She explains in her detailed and confused way that we will each introduce ourselves around the dinner table, and then say what we've been doing during the day. Or another time it may be what we saw around us during the day. Today she said she saw people hoola-hooping and playing hopscotch.

My turn. 'My name's Mummy, and you're not going to believe this...' Here's what I saw: I parked the car on the roof of the multi-story where we have a space, and noticed a man sitting next to me still in his car, with one leg out, like he wasn't sure what to do. He saw me looking, and left.

I gathered my bags. And jumped. Out of the corner of my eye, I was sure I'd seen the car move. I went back to my bags.

It happened again. So I watched.

The front of the car was rising and falling, like it was doing press-ups, with great effort. Over and over and over. When some others arrived, I got out and asked if they were seeing what I was seeing. How strange!

I'd taken a tiny film on my tiny phone, and I put it in Elena's hand as a distraction so I could finish my dinner before getting her one of the cinnamon rolls we made at the weekend.

She sat open-mouthed. Ray never got a turn to say what he'd seen during the day.