What and where is the edge for you?

Last Sunday we held a sensemaking session following our global Art of Hosting inquiry in February. We were taking a look at the harvest from our conversation around the question:

What does hosting conversations that matter mean in times like these?

Many practice communities out there are hosting conversations that are iterations of this same question.  I attended a call with Adam Kahane with the question "How do we stay together when everything is falling apart?" and I felt like it was my question too. 

As we tried to tease out patterns from the harvest, our conversation was rich and deep and -- as always -- enhanced by perspectives from people in different parts of the world. Two things stood out for me.

The first concerns edges. 

What do you think of when you hear: "Standing at the edge?"

I realised that I my mind pictured someone standing on a precipice, ready to fall, as in falling over the edge or falling into the abyss. There is no way back from this edge. And perhaps it is interesting that we use this same verb around love...

Our conversation took me to other edges, however. 

One of the biggest edges on the planet is the shoreline. That place between the land and sea is an edge that is constantly changing and transforming. What I loved most about living next to the sea is that it changes every day.

Change can come from the water, but also from the land. The shoreline is dynamic because of multiple interconnected forces. There is a tidal nature to the edge between sea and sand, and creatures uniquely adapted to both.

Another perspective to consider is how permaculture treats curves as edges. They are the place where water, debris and soil collect. They might become the next forest if the right seeds land there.

What can we salvage? What is my edge?

When we feel all around us is slowly crumbling, thinking about edges in a new way is helpful for me. What do we take with us out of the ruins? The other facet to muse on is 

Where do we have the edge?

I've thought many times recently that the skills and practice I've focused on for years are incredibly useful for just this moment. Have you thought the same about your work?

During our sensemaking call, Claudia Gross coined the phrase "The Ark of Hosting."

And that is indeed a compelling thought -- an ark was originally a term for chest that held valuables. What valuables -- or what of value -- are we holding as practitioners on behalf of humanity for the future?

What do we want to salvage in this time of breakdown?

Some of those treasures are what we might call "the mother practices" -- circle, storytelling, listening; ways of working collaboratively and with self organisation; a dedication to balancing ME and WE.

I am determined to see where these gifts and this question someone asked in a circle recently will take me: "Where are the places and spaces people are longing for, but appear to be absent?"

How do we create and host such spaces in these times? How can we host in the ruins?