I have delivered a few workshops on Belbin Team Roles recently, a system of exploring individual and team strengths that I rate highly and have used many times over the past decade. What I love about it is that it enables people working together to have constructive conversations about difference, and how understanding our preferences helps to improve productivity while managing stress levels.
After one of these sessions I was stacking the dishwasher at home and realised that even how we approach a simple task like this can provide insight into our preferred behaviours, ways of behaving and interacting with others.
Which of these most reflects the role you take in your household?
A Monitor Evaluator will be able to effectively critique everyone's stacking technique
A Plant will experiment with different ways of stacking (with mixed results)
A Specialist will have done the research and bought the dishwasher with the most efficient stacking arrangement in the first place
A Shaper sees it as something that needs to be done as quickly as possible
An Implementer will use their tried and tested approach of grouping items together so it’s easier to unpack later
A Completer Finisher will rinse everything first and double check the washing surface is exposed on all items before starting the wash cycle
A Coordinator will identify who in the house will gain the most from doing this task and encourage them to take it on
A Resource Investigator will probably get distracted by their phone when they’re doing it
A Teamworker will do it to be helpful when they realise nobody else really likes doing it.
If this has piqued your interest, do get in touch to discuss how Belbin might help you and your team.
I recently participated in a meeting of coaches for the peer learning programme She Leads Change. It was a vibrant and rich meeting of a group of impressive women. One of the questions asked was: why do we coach?
As with any good question, it made me think, and then the answers came and revealed some perspectives I hadn't seen before. So, with gratitude for the opportunity to reflect upon my practice in this way, here’s my list:
Because it transformed my life, and I see it transforming other lives
Because the skilled and dedicated attention of another is empowering
... and when we empower others, we are uplifted too
... and the best leaders empower those around them
Because telling someone else you’ll do something means you’re far more likely to get it done
... and celebrating each action you've taken builds confidence and momentum
Because it’s fascinating to hear about other people’s lives and work
... and an honour and privilege to help others navigate them effectively
Because there are some stories that need to be told to someone outside the story
... and when stories have been told they can then be rewritten
Because our wisdom becomes greater when it is cultivated by another
... and our vulnerability becomes our strength when it is honoured by another
Because it is great to have good and inspiring company on our life’s journey
I’ve experienced first-hand the tremendous rate of unsettling change in the NHS. Within one six month period two reorganisations affected my team. The first one, which happened only six weeks after two of them were appointed, led to both their job descriptions changing and one being moved to another department. Then, just five months later, a formal consultation began for a restructure of the wider team which affected our remit and the reporting structure we worked within.
In terms of Tuckman’s theory of team formation (1), it makes it very hard, if not impossible, for a team to move into a stage of high performance with so much in flux.
Given how unpopular constant restructuring is (2), the struggle to retain and recruit staff, and high sickness rates due to stress and anxiety, why does this continue?
As a curious organisational development (OD) practitioner I did some research and came across a blog (3) indicating Penny Camplings’s research proposing that the constant need for change is a way of managing organisational anxiety that comes from holding patient wellbeing – and often lives – in its hands. That makes sense, because when we’re anxious it’s really hard to sit still and do nothing, but often the activity is a way to displace the nervous energy of the emotion, rather than a productive way of dealing with its cause. To sit with the huge pressures the NHS is under, including the constant public scrutiny and increasing funding and staffing pressures, to acknowledge the discomfort and perhaps listen to what it is telling us might be a more productive, if much harder, strategy.
However I think there’s something else afoot, too. Following the King’s Fund report (4) earlier this year, revealing that many Board-level roles last as little as a couple of years, coupled with an established culture of interim appointments and secondments, there is also the pressure to show very quickly in a new role that you can perform as an effective ‘leader’.
I use the quotes intentionally, for I believe that this term is often misunderstood. When you google leadership and management, this kind of summary commonly comes up:
Management is today often conveyed as being conformist, old-fashioned and static. Now that the field of management development is rapidly being renamed leadership development, if we understand leadership only as it is conveyed above (which contradicts the emerging discourses around compassionate, mindful and distributed leadership), it is imperative for short-term appointees, or those in substantive roles who understand they may only last a few years, to make an impact early on, to challenge existing practice and be seen to transform and change things. So sitting with and listening to the underlying anxiety of staff and teams without doing anything about it is quite likely to be seen as a weakness instead of a strength.
And we all endorse this in many ways. When was the last time you asked someone in a job interview: ‘When did you lead a challenging new project or initiative?’ and not: ‘When did you decide to keep things the same?’. If you don’t expect to stay long in a role, you’re going to want to instigate change as quickly as you can, so you can talk about the impact you created in your next job interview – because, for sure, that’s what you’ll be asked about.
In both the examples from my own story, the change was instigated by individuals appointed on six-month contracts who were acting, or advising, at Director level. Asking around staff who have been working in the NHS system for decades, this is not uncommon.
So here is a plea, and a personal commitment, to speak well of the continuing need for good management, and be clear that leadership can mean leading change but also protecting the status quo if and when required. Because only in this way will enough NHS staff maintain the psychological safety to keep themselves well and deliver the patient care we will all, sooner or later, require of them.
If any merit is gained through this practice, may it be dedicated to the benefit of all sentient beings
Lying in my hospital bed last year after 8 hours of surgery, drugged up on morphine and unable to sleep, I remember chanting some mantras. Not wanting to indulge the self-pity or flickers of blame in my mind, unable to drift off into unconsciousness, wanting something to do but without the energy to do anything, mantra filled the gap.
And so I chanted. My throat was too dry to chant out loud, so I simply repeated the sound in my mind. Again and again. Om mani padme hung.
I started doing this practice for me. I started it for the distress I was feeling, to help me find some constructive way of placing my attention at a difficult time. To stop me feeding old patterns that, in my weakened state, were nudging at me to indulge them. It would have been so easy to succumb, except that I know where that leads, having been so many, many times down that old dead end.
So, in the darkness of that long night, the space around the mantra enabled me to tune into the madhouse energy of the hospital, to feel the suffering of those around me, those who were not conscious, perhaps fighting to survive. I realised that, if you took away the anaesthetics and sedatives and painkillers, almost every patient in there would be fighting, screaming or hallucinating. I felt the urgency of the medics and the deep compassion of the night staff tending to discomfort, thirst, blood, pus, bowels and bladders. Although the corner of my ward was relatively quiet, the regular calls for assistance from my 90 year old neighbour, who was unable to move herself in bed unassisted, or go to the toilet, or take a sip of water, showed me her distress was at least as strong as my own. As I chanted the mantra it swirled out of me and into this world of destruction and healing, and my own distress became just a tiny point at the centre of an enormous spiral.
It is so easy to believe that we practice only for ourselves. Meditation is sold to us as a solution for our anxiety, restlessness, poor focus, lethargy… and of course that’s why I started meditating, too - for myself, to alleviate my own distress. And yet the true power of it is when our practice shows us just how tiny our distress and suffering are in the great expanse of all life. When it expands us beyond our perceived limits, when it spontaneously lights up the compassionate connection with others. This is why, in the Buddhist tradition, there is a moral context within which meditation is taught. It is not to tell us what to do and what not to do, not to bring in even more rules for our minds to get tangled up in, even more obligations to take pride in fulfilling or fail at achieving. It is to point towards that interconnectivity with all conscious life, to point towards the seeing that we are all in this together.
At moments of crisis such as the one I had last year, acute distress can itself, if we allow it, cut through our habitual patterns. I am grateful for the teaching.
But it is so easy to forget! I was getting caught up in my old, insular ways of seeing and thinking again last month, and my meditation teacher Lama Lena asked me: Do you dedicate your practice to all beings? I realised that I don’t, consistently, and in her wisdom she was pointing me back to that moment of insight, that through that dedication we are actually doing the greatest thing to alleviate our own suffering, by lifting the ‘me’ label away and allowing our own distress to swirl away into the pooling cycles of life in all its heart-breaking beauty.
If any merit has been gained through this practice, may it be dedicated to the benefit of all sentient beings
'The jnani does not think he is the body. He does not even see the body. He sees only the Self in the body. If the body is not there, but only the Self, the question of its disappearing in any form does not arise.'
Over this past year my body changed quite dramatically. I have had biopsies and bruising, a breast removed, a slice of flesh removed from one inner thigh and moulded into the shape and place of the old breast, this flesh dying three days later, being removed and an implant put in its place. (You can read the back story to this first here)
Perhaps I am unusual in that, mostly due to the practice of yoga, I’ve liked my body for the past fifteen or so years. It is interesting dealing with plastic surgeons, who I associate with beauty and attempts to defy age, when what I am looking and asking for is a body as close as possible to the one I had before.
And also, perhaps unusually and also fortunately, at 45 years old it is not the first time my body has been changed through illness and surgery. Twelve years ago I had a section of my right foot removed, including the little toe, fifth metatarsal and some of the muscles of the foot. This surgery not only reshaped my foot, but it reshaped my life as I was no longer able to continue as a full-time yoga teacher.
The way I can now see it in hindsight, this is all excellent practice. The ancient yogis, and many of the Eastern wisdom traditions I’ve studied, speak of the importance of a good death, and some of this is our physical death but much of it is the intentional death of the ego, of who we think we are. Each crisis we go through in our life is potential preparation for both of these types of death. A crisis always invites some form of letting go. When the body is resculpted and its capacity changes, we cannot avoid looking directly into the question of whether we are the body - or not. Am I any lesser for having three pieces of my physical body removed? Am I any less alive because a few parts of me have died? And what or who, precisely, is in charge of all of this?
When I came out of hospital after having had a total of 13 hours of surgery, a bid disappointment and on top of that a bad reaction to a pain medication, I was completely full of gratitude and love. Some psychologists call this ‘post-traumatic growth’ and mine is far from the only account of it’s impact (see this article for example).
However getting to that point was not easy, and it can go the other way for some. It required a grieving of the part of the body that was lost, a readjustment of the idea of who I was, and a deeper humility as my pride took another knock as it was shown it was far from being in charge of my destiny. It also required a letting go of old patterns – I watched as my mind attempted to move into blame and self-pity, but, from many years of meditation, knowing that those old patterns simply weren’t going to work the only option that remained was to face and be with the pain, disappointment and sadness. It was excruciatingly hard at times.
But ageing and the body changing is a natural process and fighting it is like King Canute commanding the tide not to come in. As a yogi, I know and see that change is inherent in all things, and so things can and do change, often positively if we work in harmony with our nature and energies, but also sometimes in a direction that we do not want. How often do you see a straight line in nature? Most change is far from linear, more cyclic and organic in its movement. And, in my opinion, this creates far more beauty than the right angles beloved of mankind.
So although I have lost some (more) physical capacity I have gained a valuable skill. I have tasted the possibility of opportunities I love shrinking away. This is where most of us will find ourselves if we are lucky enough to live to an old age, as our eyes and ears and memory and strength fail, as we are less able to fulfil society’s preference for ‘productive’ citizens. It is a taste of falling apart, a taste of not getting what you want, and facing this helps us recognise the beauty and value of this very precious life, and to remember that what is important is rarely what our society and others want us to believe.
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