My husband and I have been in a very long process of adopting a baby --so long that it can safely be called a saga. Almost five years long. So long that our investigation of the many pathways and possibilities for bringing a child into our family have filled a whole file cabinet.
And being on this path involves a huge amount of risk analysis: what do I not know about the health background of the birth parents? what might the impact be (in international adoption, which is where we started, but didn't end up --due to risk analysis) of time in an orphanage?
It also involves constant innovation and creativity; how can I re-imagine the path I'll take to parenting? In all the ups and downs along the way, how can I keep seeing the possibilities?
Risk and innovation are two sides of the same coin. Both involve asking "what if?" Both require acute imagination of circumstances different from the comfortable present. Both require heightened awareness. Both are about being attuned to bits of evidence on the edge of our radar screens.
Yet while one brings us into the staid world of insurance, and emotions of anxiety, the other brings us into the wild world of design, and the buzz of possibility and play. In organizations, the people who worry about risk are often different from the ones who are responsible for innovation.
I think these should be more integrated, both in organizations and inside each of us.
How can we embrace both of these sides --as leaders? As parents? In our relationships?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Clearing the Shelves
I spent a good part of last weekend clearing my shelves of books to give away to Good Will. This was long overdue, but until that moment, I had been unable to do it, even though i haven't touched many of those books for years, if ever. At least 85% of my wall of books was devoted to past professional eras --a vestige of sorts, of my life as an academic specialist on international relations and the former Soviet Union. I realized that while I have clearly moved on, and haven't worked in that area for over ten years now, I was clinging to it as part of my self image.
I parted with titles like, "The Soviet Bloc: Unity and Conflict" published by Zbigniew Brzezinski in 1961, Dmitri Volkogonov's "Stalin: Triumph and Tragedy," (a tome that weighs several pounds), a dense volume called "The State and Political Theory," by Martin Carnoy. Also included in my purge was a book called "The Gentle Art of Verbal Self-Defense," which some well intentioned person (possibly my mother) had given me probably a quarter of a century ago. An issue of the journal Global Governance, from 2003 got tossed, and a copy of the 2003 Writers Market.
Books are like artifacts; sometimes you keep them for show -- to yourself, as much as to others. These earlier parts of myself were precious; they spoke about an earlier passion, like photos of an old lover. I remember the pleasure I felt when I added the classics of Soviet Studies, Russian history, and several other subject areas, to my shelf, treasures I had found in old bookstores. At the time I thought I might need them for my career of teaching and research; but as important, (or moreso), I placed them there as show to students or colleagues perusing my shelves -- that I was a true expert; the impulse of the collector.
As I added books to the discard pile I felt increasingly buoyant and encouraged. These books were weighing me down; they were taking space -- a physical representation of how my prior professional self remained too present in my life.
I held on to one shelf for each of my previous areas of focus --nationalism; international relations; Eastern Europe; Jewish; holocaust/World War II; Russian and Soviet Literature. The one topic I couldn't reduce to one shelf was Soviet politics and foreign policy --my original grad school focus. Maybe it is because I had such a good collection of these books; no need to ask why.
The operative question was: which of these can you leave behind, and which do you want to ship ahead, in case you might need them some day? This question is iterative, I think; I may revisit in a few years, and toss some more. But for now I have made space for the professional self I now am.
I keep looking at the space I cleared on the shelf, pleasantly empty now, but waiting to be filled with new topics, new curiosities and new artifacts. My long transition from my past life feels more complete.
If you are in a transition, try this as an exercise:
What is most essential on your shelf?
What is expendable?
What can you leave behind, and what do you want to ship ahead?
I parted with titles like, "The Soviet Bloc: Unity and Conflict" published by Zbigniew Brzezinski in 1961, Dmitri Volkogonov's "Stalin: Triumph and Tragedy," (a tome that weighs several pounds), a dense volume called "The State and Political Theory," by Martin Carnoy. Also included in my purge was a book called "The Gentle Art of Verbal Self-Defense," which some well intentioned person (possibly my mother) had given me probably a quarter of a century ago. An issue of the journal Global Governance, from 2003 got tossed, and a copy of the 2003 Writers Market.
Books are like artifacts; sometimes you keep them for show -- to yourself, as much as to others. These earlier parts of myself were precious; they spoke about an earlier passion, like photos of an old lover. I remember the pleasure I felt when I added the classics of Soviet Studies, Russian history, and several other subject areas, to my shelf, treasures I had found in old bookstores. At the time I thought I might need them for my career of teaching and research; but as important, (or moreso), I placed them there as show to students or colleagues perusing my shelves -- that I was a true expert; the impulse of the collector.
As I added books to the discard pile I felt increasingly buoyant and encouraged. These books were weighing me down; they were taking space -- a physical representation of how my prior professional self remained too present in my life.
I held on to one shelf for each of my previous areas of focus --nationalism; international relations; Eastern Europe; Jewish; holocaust/World War II; Russian and Soviet Literature. The one topic I couldn't reduce to one shelf was Soviet politics and foreign policy --my original grad school focus. Maybe it is because I had such a good collection of these books; no need to ask why.
The operative question was: which of these can you leave behind, and which do you want to ship ahead, in case you might need them some day? This question is iterative, I think; I may revisit in a few years, and toss some more. But for now I have made space for the professional self I now am.
I keep looking at the space I cleared on the shelf, pleasantly empty now, but waiting to be filled with new topics, new curiosities and new artifacts. My long transition from my past life feels more complete.
If you are in a transition, try this as an exercise:
What is most essential on your shelf?
What is expendable?
What can you leave behind, and what do you want to ship ahead?
Improvising Life
I'm back to this blog after a long hiatus. And probably because my improvisation muscle was weak. I became too planful in this space, and lost my ability to build on the unexpected, the core capacity of improv. Improvising may be the central skill we need in this period of unimaginable change.
Last night I went to an improv class at Quick Thinking Improv
..I've meant to do this for years, but finally located the class and went because I wanted to check it out for a client. As is so often the case, what I'm working on with a client is a growth opportunity for myself.
Walking into the space, in a fourth floor studio on west 18th street, among mostly younger actors, was itself a stretch. It was one of those discoveries you make above the ground floor in New York. We were a motley assortment of people -- I stuck out no more than did the two twenty something and timid Brits on vacation, who the instructor began to refer to as "the girls," or the computer geek by day turned actor by night.
The instructor took us through a series of games and exercises, each one elevating the extemporaneous skill you needed. As he introduced each one my sense was --"I can't." But then you're up there, paired with another fumbling improviser, working on a scene like the following:
One person walks onto the stage from the side and says, "hi George (say--you make up a name), I've got to tell you something." The other player replies "Hi Dr. Jones,(you make up a title, like doctor, or president) what is it?" And then the scene unfolds -- I became a doctor speaking in hushed tones about a cure for cancer; my partner, a stranger until then, was my inquisitive student, and I told him conspiratorially "the cure was all in the mind." The scene went on for a minute or two more. The instructor didn't rate us that highly, but that wasn't the point, of course. (There I go, even as I write this, away from the improvisational mindset, which at its core is about "yes, and.")
You are trained to build on, rather than refute, whatever comes your way. That's how scenes emerge out of nothing; that's how you collaborate with a complete stranger; that's how you access your creativity.
Another core rule is that you don't ask questions. They call this "giving the gift." You hand an idea to your partner, trusting them to take the next step with it. But you have to put something into the mix, even if it is a total flop (I ended up telling a story about monkeys eating peanuts in the zoo, but realized I wasn't sure if monkeys actually eat peanuts!)
The other thing I realized, though this was a re-realization, is how games unleash creativity for me. It is the rules that allow me to get out of the box --they give me permission to be creative. They allow me to say yes and leap into the unknown.
What allows you to improvise?
What gives you permission to step into the unknown?
How many times today can you say "yes and" rather than "yes, but"?
Try an improv class -- you won't be sorry.
Last night I went to an improv class at Quick Thinking Improv
..I've meant to do this for years, but finally located the class and went because I wanted to check it out for a client. As is so often the case, what I'm working on with a client is a growth opportunity for myself.
Walking into the space, in a fourth floor studio on west 18th street, among mostly younger actors, was itself a stretch. It was one of those discoveries you make above the ground floor in New York. We were a motley assortment of people -- I stuck out no more than did the two twenty something and timid Brits on vacation, who the instructor began to refer to as "the girls," or the computer geek by day turned actor by night.
The instructor took us through a series of games and exercises, each one elevating the extemporaneous skill you needed. As he introduced each one my sense was --"I can't." But then you're up there, paired with another fumbling improviser, working on a scene like the following:
One person walks onto the stage from the side and says, "hi George (say--you make up a name), I've got to tell you something." The other player replies "Hi Dr. Jones,(you make up a title, like doctor, or president) what is it?" And then the scene unfolds -- I became a doctor speaking in hushed tones about a cure for cancer; my partner, a stranger until then, was my inquisitive student, and I told him conspiratorially "the cure was all in the mind." The scene went on for a minute or two more. The instructor didn't rate us that highly, but that wasn't the point, of course. (There I go, even as I write this, away from the improvisational mindset, which at its core is about "yes, and.")
You are trained to build on, rather than refute, whatever comes your way. That's how scenes emerge out of nothing; that's how you collaborate with a complete stranger; that's how you access your creativity.
Another core rule is that you don't ask questions. They call this "giving the gift." You hand an idea to your partner, trusting them to take the next step with it. But you have to put something into the mix, even if it is a total flop (I ended up telling a story about monkeys eating peanuts in the zoo, but realized I wasn't sure if monkeys actually eat peanuts!)
The other thing I realized, though this was a re-realization, is how games unleash creativity for me. It is the rules that allow me to get out of the box --they give me permission to be creative. They allow me to say yes and leap into the unknown.
What allows you to improvise?
What gives you permission to step into the unknown?
How many times today can you say "yes and" rather than "yes, but"?
Try an improv class -- you won't be sorry.
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