Containers
Containers, energetic holding spaces for possibility, are an essential taproot for any facilitative practice. Without being able to hold ourselves steady in challenging situations, we cannot offer a holding space for others. If we are wanting to work with systems, the capacity to be able to both ground and open up—firm like an early seedpod and delicate like its eventual blossom—will determine the level of complexity we can receive, process, and ultimately support in a room.
To note upfront, this thinking about containers is based on the work of William Isaacs as well as the Circle of Seven, including: Barbara Cecil, Glennifer Gillespie, and Beth Jandernoa. I learned from each of them in the context of deep dialogue and collective intelligence, where what is able to come “through” a group of people depends directly on the strength of their container. And I have applied the notion specifically to scribing, a visual practice that represents ideas while people talk to make sense of possibility.
It Starts Inside
If I’m brutally honest, a not-so-small part of me finds the world a battering place. It’s hard for me to comprehend the level of pain and suffering that exists all over the planet, let alone how to engage with it in a way that is constructive. This includes my own suffering, that of my loved ones, and that of billions of people I don’t personally know.
And, as expressed through my work, another larger part of me sees immense beauty in the world — in nature, in her living creatures, and in humans. I correlate fragility with possibility; every broken heart is an opportunity to love again, every splotch of ink on a wall is a chance to create new meaning out of a new shape, each rainy day offers a walk with bright green moss that comes fully into itself only with the wetness.
I am often challenged to hold myself “in”. Anxieties run rampant in my mind: Will I fit in? Will I seem happy enough for people to want to talk to me? Can I sustain my energy long enough to make it through the end of the day and keep up with my team? I am sensitive, too, and often flood internally with emotion that seems to have nowhere to go.
And, these kinds of concerns fill me too: What can I create that will induce reflection? How can I be a part of positive change? Will we be able to learn as a species and improve our conditions?
Writing this now is a kind of gesture of container expansion. My thinking on the topic has deepened recently, as I’ve struggled to make sense of current conditions. It’s also been a topic included as part of the of the Systems Scribing Lab, which my colleague Jessica Riehl and I have been prototyping over the past year. The work of the lab is to explore the intersection of scribing and systems thinking, and — regarding containers — relates particularly to “systems being”. This is when we start to consider systems not only as cognitive exercises, but as essential matters of the heart, with felt understanding of the interconnectedness of all things. This has possibly never been more needed on the planet than it is now.
Here is a clip I recently put together for the lab, the content of which is also summarized below.
Staying Steady
As visual practitioners, as artists, we aim with care and responsibility to reach people, to expand the boundaries of the assumed known. Any reach requires steadiness, and to ensure a stable core, we rely on support for our essential, creative selves.
Take the example of an apple tree: Weak branches yield little fruit. The
stronger the trunk, the stronger the branch. The stronger the roots, the
stronger the trunk. The richer the soil, the more nourishment for the
roots and the fruit. And so on.
Scribing with an eye toward the orchard and the village beyond — with
an intent to facilitate systems-level seeing — I experience a direct correlation
between the steadiness of one’s being and the range of insight
that visuals can summon.
This works in a reciprocal way, where we are both held in by others to
experience integrity and wholeness, and because of this, we generate
visuals as a holding device for learning within systems.
More attention, stronger tree, healthier orchard. Less attention, the
field goes fallow.
Container Relativity
Our range of attention is ours to define, and the relative properties of
containers give us a choice: stay within the accepted known or expand
to meet a not-yet-named reality.
An old Hindu parable, which I first heard through Peri Chickering, is paraphrased here and further explains the value of perspective in regards to containers:
An aging master grew tired of his apprentice complaining, and
so, one morning, sent him for some salt.
When the apprentice returned, the master instructed the young
man to put a handful of salt in a glass of water and drink it. “How
does it taste?” the master asked. “Bitter!” spit the apprentice.
The master chuckled.
The two walked in silence to a nearby lake, where the master
again asked the young man to put a handful of salt in the water.
“Now drink from the lake. How does it taste?” “Fresh!” remarked
the apprentice. “Do you taste the salt?” asked the master. “No,”
said the young man.
At this, the master sat beside the young man and offered:
“The pain of life is pure salt; no more, no less. The amount of
pain in life remains the same, exactly the same. But the amount
of bitterness we taste depends on the container into which we
put the pain.
So when you are in pain, the only thing you can do is to enlarge
your sense of things… Stop being a glass. Become a lake.”
We are both lake-makers and salt, depending on the context. At times,
we are held in by a person or group, and that enables us to show up more
securely. At other times, we expand to help a group in need meet their
challenge. It works both ways. And we expand or contract depending
on the need of the moment.
The Role of Love
The weakness or strength of a container determines the likelihood for detrimental or successful conversation, for harmful or loving relations, for destructive or productive environments, for ill- or well-being.
In a way, just as ice forms from and melts back into a pond, containers provide energetic ground for life and death, for growth and decay. We serve as containers for others, and they for us. The stronger a container, the stronger the trust, the stronger the safety, the more that can be nourished, tended, grown, realized.
Here’s an example. As my grandmother Margaret Bird was aging, at a point when she could only go outside with a walker and physical assistance, we would occasionally lunch at a local diner in New York City. She would ask me things about my life, about school, about my friends, about my studies, and she would marvel at the complexity of the world in which I lived. (This was 1984, so we can only imagine what she would say about our world today!)
What I recall most poignantly is the way she paid attention, seeming to hang on every word, and the way she made me feel safe and loved — loved no matter what I said, no matter what I had to share. I never felt judged. No matter what she thought about the details of my escapades, she listened closely, looked me in the eye, and continued to pursue an understanding of my life.
She provided a container, a space where I could see myself more clearly and grow as direct result of how she was holding me.
In my work as a scribe, I try to reinforce the container for the group. When a group heats up and fractures, the container needs to strengthen, to better support what wants to come to light. I don’t do this by adding a specific line or word to a page, but by enhancing my quality of listening and building the group’s trust in my very being. I turn around, and see the group, feel it, open my heart to the individuals, try to put myself in their seats, find human-to-human compassion, soften, expand.
Sometimes the container in the room is so strong that the scribe might be enveloped in its power. Our ability to “show up” increases because the room is holding us, in a way, as my grandmother held me so well, years ago. In this case, I notice the strength, thank the heaven and earth for the quality of the group, and draw with pure joy.
When my grandmother, somewhat hard of hearing and surely with many of her own personal concerns, was able to show up for me so completely, I was completely able to show up for her too. I could be more vulnerable because I felt safe. She brought out the purest part of me by how gracefully she held me in her own heart.
Love, as a base note, is the ore, and order, of the container.
