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The UR and BBC Clubs January 28, 2012

Posted by Liz Mead in : Into the new space , add a comment

I’m a life-time member of two clubs.

Both clubs were formed over a bottle or two of bubbly  a year apart. Both clubs have membership based on fledgling friendships and shared desires. And both clubs provide a support system to encourage change, striving and seeking by each of its members for the term of its natural life.

Members of the first club -  BBC Club - strive to live in Canada – with big brown bears, lots of hair-raising adventures and new frontiers. The U R (Up-Rooting) Club strives to establish immediate change in order to establish right foundations. There is, however no specific geographic location for the UR Club, other than China, for one of the members.

Both clubs have provided an ideal environment to develop these new friendships. Simply because the members share a secret and as a result a sacred trust.

 The club idea (resurrected from childhood)  reminds me of when I was the lone member of my pirate/bucaneering club. Or the time I founded the lost boys club (non-gender specific) in the playground at school. I was, of course, a just-in-time member of my neighbour’s cowboy club. I was also one of the three core members and linguistics experts of my sisters’ club (whose membership excluded our younger brother by way of a special language).

Those club activities were  conducted amidst sworn secrecy over enormous and fearless dreams.  And although these new adult club meetings are primarily social events that provide a good reason to have a drink they also have a veil of secrecy over them. As if we don’t want people to know of our plans, our wishes, our dreams.

Although we have “honorary members” we limit the membership lest the reason for their establishment gets watered down. And instead of mentoring or coaching each other to meet our private aims and ambitions, they turn into a social event comprising reasonably OK people who wouldn’t laugh at the idea of being in a club.

I’m about to re-ignite my membershp of the BBC club. Since we parted I’m happy to say all four members have changed their lives in some significant way. Are any of us closer to our dream destination as a result of those changes? Who can say? We’ve certainly moved off the bar stools (aka starting blocks) simply because we encouraged each other to do so.

Gold on the water seers aplenty November 24, 2010

Posted by Liz Mead in : Sunrises , add a comment

There’s gold on the river outside my home.

Sometimes its yellow gold sometimes white.

It hits the water at about 5.45 am when the rising sun hits the metal and glass on the houses at the river’s edge.

It’s a visual feast that sustains me and sets the tone for the day. The continually moving vision begins as a dense tablet or block of gold poking up from the  glassy surfaces of the water. Then as the water regains its breath, as if some mighty hammer broke it, the gold begins to break up into shards and fragments, like smashed glass or mosaic. It’s as if a thousand  fragments form as the River Cat shakes up the water. Then as if a master craftsperson was at work – each tiny jewel becomes a knotted thread forming the pattern of  a magic carpet floating on the water.  Then the crafted hand of light slowly slides beneath the carpet and unrolls it to display its beauty for traders in an ancient bazaar.

Then a  minute later  it’s gone. Just dull brass, then brown, then nothing, just the green blue water again. And all the time this golden feast of the eyes lasts about 15 minutes. I notice it in late spring, something perhaps to do with when the sun rises and the temperature or  atmosphere and how it affects the morning light. 

On the weekend my girlfriend Linda showed me slides of their Syrian trip and the city of Palmyra

 The city is called the bride of the desert, shimmering in gold it welcomed caravans into the bazaar and souks, trading gold, jewels, carpets, spices and power, seducing them with sweetness. Once a splendid centre of trade and power, the city temples, pillars, roads and houses are now pinkish white stone tablets in the desert, echoes of stories and footprints thousands of years old.

Like all good bloggers, trying to tie a knot in the thread of my story, I googled Palmyra and gold,  sure that Linda had called it the golden city.

Instead I came up with a reference to Palmyra New York outside of which Joseph Smith Jr, Prophet and the founder of the Mormon church uncovered golden tablets – inscribed with the teachings  for his new church. Smith’s  followers believe he was a seer.

Well that wasn’t expected!

All I can tell you  is that a couple of years ago, my own favourite  seer and psychic asked me who was going to the Middle East because she saw a golden City in the desert. At the time, I thought it was my own journey to Dubai but clearly now I stand corrected and humbled  in the presence and prescience of seers, gold and a vision splendid.

Whether on water or on sand – take time to watch the sunrise and celebrate the art of story.

Week 7 – Windswept and Unknown June 24, 2010

Posted by Liz Mead in : TESOL , 1 comment so far

Captains Log: It does us all good to be out on the open seas finally! The salt spray, the white-capped waves, the sails unfurled, the wind in our favour. We’re making good progress.  With a belly full of rum, the crew are in fine voice - I believe able-seaman J sang loudest of all ! I can’t say the same for our passenger Ms Longrange, who refuses to leave her cabin. It seems the pitching and rolling doesn’t suit everyone.

Hit the wall this week.

An $84 parking ticket from last night’s scramble to get a spot. Annoying, because I just didn’t read the sign properly.

This TESOL journey has certainly pitched me out of my normal routine. I’m developing my own brand of sea-legs. No flippers or fins yet, but this rocking and rolling certainly’aint from the sixties- it’s a whole new dance routine.

I can’t see clearly anymore. I don’t know where it will lead me and if it will lead anywhere.

I don’t expect to see the future as the present is where we’re at. But it’s a balancing act to maintain equilibrium and to keep my normal (increasinly busy) job balanced with these additional demands.

I have a foot in each camp and I feel an increasing chasm open beneath me. The chasm, aka “unknown” is my only certainty:

Wouldn’t mind a compass though.

Beauty and the cloths May 6, 2008

Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , add a comment

Once upon a time a simple little family lived deep in the woods of a land far away.

The husband was an old wise man. He had 2 children who were simple of heart and mind, called rooney and trooney. His much younger 2nd wife he named Beauty. He died in tragic circumstances and around the same time his simple children disappeared never to be seen again. So Beauty was left alone in the world.

She decided to pack up her possessions and leave the wooded house she’d known for the last 13 years. Her only possessions of worth were the cloths she had woven since being a little girl. She came from a long line of weavers and each generation added something unique to the craft. Beauty’s talent was an ability to weave almost intangible cloth, as light as wind, as soft as water and as bright as the sun.

Beauty could also embroider the cloth in such a way that it came to life and anyone who looked on it felt a deep longing and was immediately transported into the scene itself. Why it was even said, beauty could embroider feelings, such was her skill.

Most of beauty’s work had been sold at market. But she packed up what was left of her work into a parcel which she carried on her head. And she set off on the northern road. She walked most of the day, through all sorts of landscapes until she saw some farming lands in the distance. Coming closer to the verdant fields, she noticed a single cowherd and some dairy cows. He was herding the cattle into the barn.

Beauty asked the cowherd if she could spend the night in the barn along with the cows. He simply nodded. Beauty was touched by his gentle nature, and felt sorry for the cowherd who only wore the flimsiest of cloth. She reached into her pack and handed the cowherd a fine blue cloth the colour of midnight. Embroidered with the sun, the moon and a thousand tiny stars, the cloth was large enough to envelope the young cowherd, so that he disappeared into the night.

Beauty settled on the warm hay in the barn and was so tired she fell deeply asleep the moment her head touched the ground. The last thing she heard were the murmurs of the night and a single voice singing softly to the moon.

The following day there was no sign of the cows or the cowherd – for they had set off at first light to graze on other fields. She ate some cheese and bread from her pack and walked further on the northern road.

The road turned and twisted into a deeper darker wood. The ancient trees reached towards the sky, forming a cathedral like canopy above. She looked upwards marvelling at their grandeur and missed her footing, tripping on an exposed root. Down she tumbled – flat on her face in the mud.

Oh dear oh dear, said a voice to her left, what a mess you’ve made.

Beauty looked around for the voice and saw an orange dog and blue lynx.

Blinking twice at these strange figures, she heard the lynx chortle,

What a fine mess you’re in – you should have looked where you were going.

Beauty scrambled to her feet laughing, you’re right of course lynx – but if you could show me the way out of the woods I can dry off in the sun, and it will brush off – you’ll see. Perhaps, if you could also show me a river, I could wash my face and hands as well.

The lynx laughed, and pushed past her so quickly Beauty almost lost her footing again. But she chased after lynx until they emerged in the sunlight.  Before she could thank her guide, lynx disappeared.

Beauty looked at this new vista – a field of wild and splendid poppies, as red and bold as the eye could see. Overwhelmed by the sight and the warmth of the day, she surrendered to the impulse and lay flat on her back gazing up in wonder at the sun above her. She was soon asleep – dreaming of embroidery the colour of crimson blood and rubies. When she awoke the sun was low in the sky and she knew she needed to quickly find another place before night fell.

She walked down to the river that ran through the poppy field and saw her reflection. Beauty laughed so hard at the messy sight she saw, she lost her footing and fell headlong, pack and all, into the fast flowing river. Beauty grabbed at overhanging branches but was unable to grab hold of anything for any longer than a minute – for the river current was too strong.

Just surrender, the water murmured, just go with the flow.

Beauty could do nothing else but give in. The river raced past fields of lavender, of sage or rosemary of thyme of sunflowers and finally a field of cotton, with their puff ball flowers she knew so well.

The river finally slowed and the water became golden and shallow. Beauty was able to stop and stand up on some rocks.

Thank you river, for I would never have made it this far without you. But the river was silent and she started to think she imagined hearing that voice earlier.

With the sun almost set, Beauty made her way to a nearby Cotton Mill. The door was open and inside the millers wife was setting the table for dinner. Beauty asked if she could dry off by the fire.

Well you’d better, laughed the miller, for you are drenched through and you’ll catch your death if you stay like that.

Beauty sat by the warm fire and unpacked her fine cloths – spreading them around her to dry as well. The miller’s wife watched all of this with greedy eyes – for she could see how valuable the cloth was. Beauty turned to thank her for her hospitality and the miller’s wife quickly set her features into a smile, hiding the greed and envy behind a warm and generous grin.

She fed Beauty a fine dish and poured goblet after goblet of wine, drugging the last goblet with a sleeping draught. Beauty was so hungry she ate it all and swallowed all the wine, marvelling at how wonderful it made her feel. She forgot all her sadness and fear of the future. Before long, she was sound asleep snoring as loudly as the pigs outside.

When she awoke she was on the side of the road with a very sore head and no parcel of cloths. Realising the miller’s wife had stolen them, Beauty started to wail and cry for all that she had lost and for her own stupidity.

So loud was her wailing that a passing tailor heard the din and stopped to scold her. Now the tailor was a wily fellow with a ready smile, a quick wit and big heart. But he had a twisted leg and walked with a limp. It certainly didn’t slow him down for he was born like that.

Now stop it right now, he scolded Beauty. Not given to self-pity himself, he said, why you have your health, you seem young and healthy, what could be so bad? You can come with me and I’ll put you to work in my shop.

Beauty was so startled by the tailor’s abruptness, she agreed and followed him to the next town where his shop was already set up and well established.

And so they worked together for many years. She embroidering and weaving cloth finer than ever before, with images of poppies, and cows and fields of sunflowers.

The tailor grew to love her and she him. Eventually they married. And people came from far and wide to see their fine work and buy as much as they could make.

One day many years later they heard that a miller’s wife had been robbed and murdered.

And of the cloths she stole from Beauty? Why some say one cloth forms the sail on a pirate ship, another forms the tent of a gypsy fortune teller, and another hangs in the queen’s own chamber. As fine as ever before.

Working with sparkle March 19, 2008

Posted by Liz Mead in : Matters Blue , add a comment

The quickest way to make a connection is definitely not by using an ADSL broadband connection courtesy of one of the countless internet providers,  but rather by using the  right hand side of the brainsmaller-working-with-sparkle.jpg, and a bit of sparkle.

My fabulous friend James has patiently spent three separate sessions sorting out my ADSL broadband connection. Taking that long, because he had to systematically diagnose which bits of which puzzle didn’t work with which bits of which other puzzle.

The process was exhausting but rewarding. Whilst I kept him plied with gin, all I could do was marvel at his resilience and systematic discipline.

And the best part is that I am now on the net! Or as my friend Sparkles would call it, the interweb.

James and I have another blog called Working with Sparkle.  The postings are about communication processes, systems, tricks of the trade, provocative ideas and war stories.  We do it by blogging, simply because it’s the way we both think well. We think with a tale. Not a fairy tale. Nor a dog-wagging tail. Just a tale.

The idea of running a concurrent blog came about whilst James was conducting his diagnostic process to connect me to the net. As I listened to him tell the annoyingly calm trouble shooter from Internode, that yes he had tried all the things he was now being asked to do again,  I had an epiphany. A blinding moment of insight. A bright blue moment of connecting thoughts, slap dang in the middle of our removing one ethernet cable to replace it with another wired router cable in some other portal of blah blah blah.

At that stage, Sparkles just wanted a hammer.

Who is Sparkles? And what’s he got to do with connections?

Sparkles  made an appearance on the flight from Armidale to Sydney. James and I work together and we were returning from an excruciatingly long working weekend. The weekend had been full of repeatable – how many times do I have to tell you -messaging; impossible sales pitches and endless doubt on the part of what was starting to resemble an entire army of website users.  Mind you this is typical for the sort of marketing we’ve been forced to do.

So there we were, on the plane. Exhausted. We watched a perfectly lovely steward demonstrate the bells and whistles attached to his yellow life-saving vest. You’ll recall that mind-numbing moment (for them) when they put on that yellow vest for the 50,000th time, and pull on one tag, whilst blowing on one other whistle, whilst juggling one further rope.

And in a flash of creativity, James envisioned a congo line of 30 such stewards, given bells, whistles, perhaps a feather or two, a sparkle and tiny touch of bling, to ensure they had no trouble getting attention. He quietly whispered just one word to me – Sparkle. Where the vision came from, we’re not sure, but it was an insane moment which made us both explode with laughter – and gave us a fabulous metaphor for our communication work. If you want to get attention – work with sparkle.

My own communication tenet has always been about engaging others to make the outcomes stick and last. Often my work is a bit left of field, shaking them up, making grownups paint with colour to make the unlikely connection between their company’s goals and the encroaching environments of change. I’m a firm believer that it is no good me being a hero or a legend, if it all falls apart the moment I’ve gone.

My partner in crime, James follows an equally empassioned truth – the art of diagnosis. His is a more incisive, more challenging art, because it pares back the situation in order to make the correct and systematic reading of a problem. When done correctly, this makes the solution all the easier to find and match and the subsquent roll-out more factual and enduring.

So working with sparkle is just that: a bit of dash to get us started, a few bells and whistles to get attention, but in the end an adjustment to systems, metaphoric routers and cables, and above all blissful sustainable connection to the whole wide world of possibilities.  

Thank you James – this blog is for you.