Tag Archives: small stories

Postcard stories, the sound of silence

What a cracker of a Guardian Weekend this weekend. Two themes whose ghosts hover behind everything we do.

First, small stories, most especially those that fit on a postcard. For years, Sparknow has been playing with postcards as a way of carrying the stories at the edges of organisations back to their heart or telling tales that move from place to place. We’ve even written a paper on postcards as a way of folding organisational time and place to create new adjacencies and hold onto the spirit of the personal. Yesterday’s Guardian had an article about Michael Kimball’s life story postcards which delighted me. In it, the journalist wrote:

I can testify to what Kimball calls “the unexpected intimacy” of the Postcard Life Stories project, which includes a blog of the biographies. Recently he wrote my life story. It felt like being exposed, but also strangely satisfying; the postcard doesn’t sum up my life, but what got me to where I am now. It’s a snapshot of a moment. There’s a strong sense of hope and joy in it that, while I don’t identify with it every day, makes me feel happy when I read it.

We’ve felt that satisfaction too. Flash fiction has some of the same qualities. I’ve noticed too that posting a photo to facebook with a note on it has something of a sloppy postcard quality to it. I was ‘ere. Wish you were here. Reminiscencee work has a nice technique where you imagine a picture or a snapshot of a moment that lives with you and you seek to describe the picture to someone in such a way that they could be there too. That’s nice. No onus to tell a story. The marriage of story, with it’s plots and twists and turns and surprisings and unexpecteds with the wry smile or banality or breath taking scenery of a postcard with a meaningless message on it is an interesting thing to play with. For us it’s always been about the umbilical chord that holds the experience and ties it, however, lightly, back to the teller, while the teller invites you into a world that they’re experiencing. I’m rambling. It’s late, but I didn’t want to pass it by. Kimball doesn’t pass up anyone’s request, which I think is also a lesson in a organisational context:

I don’t want anybody to feel as if their life story isn’t interesting enough. I have found that everybody’s life story is interesting if you ask the right questions.

I think his blog will be worth a good look later this week.

In the same magazine, Sara Maitland writes of her addiction to silence.

Chosen silence can be creative and generate self-knowledge, integration and profound joy; being silenced can drive people mad.

My assumption had been that silence was monotone; that it would be very pure, very beautiful but somehow flat, undifferentiated. But the more silences I encountered, the more silent places I inhabited, the more I became aware that there were dense, interwoven strands of different silences. Silence can be calm or frightening, lonely or joyful, deep or thin. There is religious silence; a self-emptying silence, and romantic silence – what Wordsworth called the “bliss of solitude”.

The qualities she hears in silence are of course Cagean

Being silenced does drive people mad.

We come across a lot of silenced people in an organisational context. And not much silence in the thrumming of the organisational timetable and the need to be heard (even while silenced) or be disappeared from the political structures. We’ve tried to weave more a more small silences into the work that we do, or encourage silences within the telling of, and listening to, stories. Non-interruption. Room to draw breath. Moments when nothing happens. I’ve always thought that you know when you are learning a language not when you can hear the words but when you can hear where one word ends and the next begins.

That is to say, you can hear pause.

At the next Golden Fleece in Washington in April 2009, I think there’ll be some work around the silence in which story takes place, but meanwhile I’m remembering a bit of a book that Jeannine Brutschin sent me last year The Way of Council which has a lot of merit. It tells of one council meeting where the son could detect nothing going on but somehow a decision was arrived at. The father, when asked, told the son that the decision had been shaped in the unspoken stories present in the council.

We imagine that the narratives of work can be seen and heard at our peril. They must be sensed and there needs to be room for that sensing.

There needs to be silence

Advertisements

‘Yes we can’

Not many of my words today, mostly Barack Obama

This is a fabulous example of using history to spring the future in leadership storytelling. It runs from 15:20 – 17:40 on the CNN Youtube. I don’t know how to extract the clip, but here also is the transcript. Just look at/listen to what he does in those 2:20 seconds. Through the eyes of one witness, a true witness, he gives us the sweep of history and of change over a century which puts the change of the next century into it’s right place. The past as a lens for the future. You can smell and touch and feel the past and the future in this speech. And look at his gorgeous Ciceronian rhetoric, simple repetition and reinforcement to grow the space of understanding, which any fule kno works every time. (I should add that it’s 345 words. 2 minute 20 seconds out of 29 minutes or so, so a bit under 10% I think, 345 words, something to bear in mind when planning your own Presidential acceptance speech, or just the story you are going to tell to your team tomorrow.)

This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that’s on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She’s a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing – Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn’t vote for two reasons – because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she’s seen throughout her century in America – the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can’t, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women’s voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that “We Shall Overcome.” Yes we can.

A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.