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The Threads of Connection

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—I CORINTHIANS 13

OUR EXPLORATION OF SOUL began through the window of reflection on experience—of our own experience. There, we began the journey of ownership, opening to what our experience has taught us, appreciating how it has shaped us, and folding it into our life story. “Experience always knows its way,” O’Donohue writes. Much of this book has been about learning to trust our own experience—learning to see beyond the rational and concrete, and using the mind and physical images to translate for us what our souls already know.194

The journey of soul takes us beyond our own internal experience, however, into the realm of action and participation with others. If we don’t attend to matters in the world, we’ll be lost in the labyrinth of our own soul, where a certain kind of analysis becomes empty and fruitless. Reflection, if it doesn’t lead back to actions, becomes merely self-referential, self-absorbed. We may, as O’Donohue suggests, look back upon experience and see the path that has offered itself. But more than that, we learn to value our experience and use it to discern the path that is in front of us—a path of action and participation, connecting us with the souls of others.

When we talk about matters of the soul, therefore, we’re talking about the permeable boundary between the inside and outside worlds. To traverse the boundary and make the links, we must be practiced in holding opposites in tension. Learning to sit with the unresolved, without judgment but with com-passion, we “suffer with” the conflicting forces in the hope that something more creative will emerge. Thus bearing all things, believing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things—the practice of holding opposites in tension—opens the gateway to love in our lives and work lives.

Learning to hold things in tension is like building muscle strength. We may exercise a muscle group three times a week, each time working it until it fails. Yet we know it’s okay, that there’s no damage; on the contrary, the muscle recovers itself and becomes stronger. Learning to hold things in tension is an exercise of our lives: In living fully and risking, we inevitably lose and then recover pieces of ourselves, and we become more who we are. There are no techniques or exercises that can solve the riddle of our lives. But learning to hold things in tension strengthens our capacity to endure our experiences, in such a way that we can hold together more of the pieces of ourselves. 195

Additionally, as we learn to hold opposites in tension, we come to appreciate different ways of seeing, different ways of interacting, different ways of being. Too often in the workplace, emphasis on new ways of thinking tends to be prescriptive—absent of individual creativity, disconnected from what we know to be real. “Focus on the customer.” “Empowerment.” “Live the values.” These injunctions sound promising, but they’re abstractions unless they become integrated with the gritty realities of the work setting. In the final pages of this book, we offer no prescriptions, no formulas, no foolproof techniques. The threads we offer are for your own weaving—the threads of awareness and discernment, of listening deeply, of allowing love. We are confident that, as readers, you will find your way back and forth across the boundary between your inner wilderness and your work lives.

Cultivating Awareness and Discernment

Often in groups, we operate in a conscious world in which most of us agree to exist, never knowing or seeking that other world that lies in the unconscious elements of individuals and groups. Yet it is this second realm in which much of the unifying rhythms of life lie. For those who seek it out, there can be a painful sense of separation, for parts of the journey must be taken alone. Yet what we find there can be extraordinary, as if veils have been lifted revealing an order and pattern and even beauty that we had not known existed.

Our first experience with finding this other world can be challenging, as if we were being asked to see something that just doesn’t seem to be there. This experience was vividly illustrated by Edward T. Hall, an anthropologist and a business consultant on cross-cultural communication. Hall filmed a series of encounters at an Indian market in New Mexico. In one particular scene, he describes an encounter between a Caucasian woman and a Pueblo Indian woman selling her pottery:196

Hall asked himself if the unspoken feelings, body language, and the significance of the extended time the finger was pointed at close range would be obvious to an untrained observer. Could other people see these things? To explore his question, he hired a college student, with no background in anthropology, to examine frame by frame the footage he had shot. The student, of course, wanted to know what she should look for. Hall told her he had no idea what she would see but that he wanted her to keep looking at the film until she saw things that were not obvious at first. His one condition was that she keep looking, no matter how boring the exercise. Two days went by and the student returned perplexed. “Dr. Hall, I don’t see anything; just a bunch of white people wandering and talking to those Indians.” “You haven’t been looking long enough,” Hall responded. For three weeks, the student pondered the film with no new insights, when suddenly a breakthrough came. With mounting excitement, she brought Hall into the screening room with the frame frozen on the interaction between the two women. “Look at that woman! She’s using her finger like a sword as though she is going to push it right through that Indian woman’s face. Just look at that finger—the way she uses it. Did you ever see anything like it? Did you see the way that Indian woman turned her face away as though she had just seen something unpleasant?”³ 197

Every day from then on, the student reported more and more nuances of interactions between the two cultures. At first it was difficult for her to accept that what she was seeing had been there all along. She had changed, not the film. Hall repeated the experiment multiple times, and each time, often after irritation, puzzlement, and boredom, the student experienced the veil being lifted. “Did you see that?”

With practice over time, awareness of different patterns helps us to see others and our work in new ways, pointing us toward actions that make a difference. Our contribution is more likely to speak to the relevant issues that our work group is struggling with or that go unseen by others. It’s the patterns unchecked that often leave us stuck. When a group is silent, for example, what does it mean? acquiescence? agreement? deep thought? resignation? rage?

When we become aware of a pattern, we need to examine it in relation to the group’s attention to its task. That’s not a straightforward issue, however, and requires patience and discernment. We have to allow room to think about what moves us toward task and what takes us away, in different contexts. Inquiring about an individual’s mood, for example, and taking time for the response, may move a group in three ways: The group may move into a personal discussion and completely away from what needs to be done; the discussion may reveal issues in the group that help move the work forward; or the discussion may be personal and off task, but necessary for going forward. The discovery and surprise go both ways. We may think the group is way off track, only to be surprised with how quickly it recovers and how much it gets done; or the group may seem to be cranking out a lot of work, until we discover later that it was totally off base or that important considerations were ignored.

In discerning a group’s patterns, we practice working with the question, “Is this in service of the task? And if not, what might it represent?” And we wait to see what else emerges in our awareness. We look beyond the rational. We learn to see with different eyes. We bring all of our experience—our feelings of vulnerability and our understanding of ourselves and of role and groups and patterns. Discernment brings these different dimensions together, appealing to a knowing that is from a deeper layer down than our analysis—the intuitive. It requires stepping back, taking a softer view, with a somewhat hazy focus, as if our eyes are half-closed and we’re resting, settling.198

When we practice discernment, we learn to trust our own instincts. We recognize that we have our experience and need to trust that within the experience are certain signals. If I’m feeling anxious, or nervous, or have a headache, these are signals that something is going on. It may be that I haven’t eaten, or it may be that I’m disturbed by where the conversation is going. By attending to our experience, we learn to discern when something is amiss. We may not always see accurately, and we may become irritated or puzzled or bored trying. Like the students in Hall’s experiment, it is only with time and practice that the veil is lifted. “Did you see that?”

The Language of Connectedness

In the 1960s, political philosopher Arthur Koestler coined the term holon to express the idea that everything is both a whole and part of a whole. In the journey of soul, this has a simple but profound significance—that we are connected. Sometimes couples attest to this connection, which is not about merging so much as linking, joining—that the other becomes a part of them, a part of their internal psyche, occupying a space that is essentially present regardless of their partner’s physical presence or absence. In the context of romantic love, this notion is appealing. In the context of work life, it is less appealing yet no less true.

Imagine the difference it could make in approaching Tom, an annoying and troubled colleague, if I consider that his wholeness is tied to mine. Not that I should become responsible for his wholeness, but that I might be mindful of it—that my approach toward him would be one of respect for his experience of a situation, of tolerance for the bag that drags behind him, of curiosity about what gold might be hidden, of openness toward the parts of him that are difficult as well as the parts that are likable. If Tom’s wholeness is tied to mine, I might try approaching Tom in a way similar to how I’ve learned to approach my own inner wilderness—with compassion, vulnerability, sensitivity to shadow, and a willingness to own “my own stuff.”199

Often we think of being authentic as going around telling the truth—”being straight,” “telling it like it is.” While honesty is not to be dismissed, authenticity includes the darker and more complex aspects of being in relationship. To spout off at Tom “honestly” would likely mean a judgmental, one-sided reaction toward his darker side. Being authentic, however, would suggest an acknowledgment of Tom’s shadow side, as well as my own, and a willingness to suspend judgment while I hold in tension my own internal conflict about interacting with Tom. Being authentic with Tom implies a deeper layer of relating—recognizing his uniqueness as a human being, that he is more than just an annoying colleague. He is a sojourner, perhaps at a different place on the path than I, but nevertheless a sojourner who struggles with how to bring himself fully, a sojourner whose soul is connected to mine.

How is it that we connect with others across what often seems a chasm? How might we listen to others, so that even in the act of listening we begin to bridge the gulf that separates us? There is a certain form of listening, which is deeper than ordinary conversation, that allows a hidden wholeness to be revealed. In deep listening, we practice being fully present—two beings united by the thread both are following.

Deep listening is a skill that begins with the practice of personal reflection, in which we explore feelings, associations, and images present within us at any given time. In deep listening, we extend this practice outward toward another. We listen to the other without interruption. No easy task. We only listen, careful to not form a response in our head while the person is still talking. This can leave us feeling vulnerable. We respect the silence after someone finishes speaking, not rushing to fill the empty space. This can create anxiety. Yet, while it may be challenging, a healing process is taking place. How many people today feel that they can finish a thought or reflect out loud without being interrupted or caught in a debate? We have lost the art of thinking together, and wholeness eludes us because when analysis and debate dominate, we are speaking in a language of fragmentation.200

Through deep listening, we allow the words of another to echo in our mind. As with the practice of personal reflection, we find ourselves associating to feelings, images, stories. And these then become our response. Deep listening nurtures conversation, as love nurtures a friendship. There is no hurry to get anywhere, because you are already in the presence of the one you wish to be with. When two or more people engage in deep listening, there is no straight path or singular outcome, because whatever bubbles up in consciousness is where you’re supposed to go.

Deep listening is not practical in many situations, but it is a discipline that can be cultivated as a practical way to reveal the hidden wholeness that lies between us. There is delight at what springs up from the human well of imagination. Images come in and feelings flow, and that’s where the richness is. We sense more than is actually said, and we move beyond reaction to discernment. And we learn that the gift of being heard and truly hearing another can be transformative.

Letting Love Flow Through Us

The word love can sound awkward in the business setting, where even the mention of feelings can send eyes rolling. It’s one of the great absences in our work lives, that we don’t acknowledge our need for love and the possibility it can bring to our work. Perhaps a word like love is just too threatening, getting at issues too close to who we are and how we operate. Perhaps all defenses would be down, all vulnerabilities exposed. In this book, however, readers have been invited into a personal journey, a journey that requires both vulnerability and discernment about lowering our defenses—a journey for which love just might have some relevance.201

Similar to how we view words like soul and shadow, as authors we suggest that the mystery surrounding the word love is useful. The difficulty in defining the word enables each person to project into it a meaning appropriate to his or her own experience. We invite you, as readers, to draw on your own understanding of love to bring life to these final thoughts. What would it mean to you, if love were allowed to flow through you and into your work setting?

Love expands our capacity. It connects us with what is good and meaningful about our work, fueling our values and passions with energy. It frees us to bring more of our inner truth to bear on what we do, allows us to have greater compassion toward others, and gives us strength to hold in tension the contradictions inherent in the workplace. By creating space for love, we develop appreciation for the path that has led us to where we are, as well as patience to discern the path ahead. We learn new ways of giving that serve others as well as ourselves. It is love that allows us to set aside our personal reactions and open to questions of contribution: What is the need here? What is possible? What qualities of leadership does this group value? How can I show support for others and give them the space they need to be effective? What tends to move this group forward, and what can I do in service of that? These questions connect us with the transcendent. And to take up such questions is to invite love to flow through us and into our work.

We cannot escape the wear and tear of work life. Enduring loss and betrayal, as well as love, we are weathered by these experiences and by how we hold them. If we can honor our experience for what it is and see how it has brought us to where we are, we can begin to see the difficulties of work in a new light. What we have endured is written in our faces, our bodies, our eyes; but what we really do with each experience has to do with how we’ve grown our soul—how we nurture all that is on the inside, that no one can really see.

The consequence of how we learn to honor our experience, therefore, has everything to do with how we retain dignity, fortitude, and solidity. What we face at work becomes part of how we’re weathered and honed, how we’re made strong or frail, how we enter the next part of our lives. Still, no matter how we attend to it, all that is on the inside will remain something of a mystery. And still, no matter how we open to it, the world we participate in will remain a greater mystery. Such is the nature of soul.202