Introduction
As adults develop there are different “forms of mind” that they may grow into as an adaptation to the complexity of their environment (Robert Kegan and Jennifer Garvey Berger). Think of these forms of mind as differently-shaped lenses that can only take in information that fits the size of the lens. Anything that’s outside that lens, a person may not have vocabulary for or be able to understand.
Most adults find themselves in the “socialized” form of mind where their sense of identity and definition of success is subject to their roles, experiences, theories, and institutions they are a part of. Someone with this form of mind may have difficulty perceiving how they could make a personal decision that would disappoint or go against one of these external structures. But as the complexity of the environment increases (say someone moves from the role of COO to a CEO), their form of mind may have to grow into “self authoring.” Someone that has a self authoring form of mind uses an internally guided values system to make decisions, define success for themselves, are more self-aware and can take responsibility for their own narrative. These individuals demonstrate more agency in complex environments, and as a result this form of mind is better suited for the job of senior leadership.
That’s the theory that informs the story you’re about to read. And I chose to put these ideas into the form of a story because it’s a better vehicle for showing coaching clients how these pieces all fit together: the arc of a developing form of mind from socialized to self-authoring; and how that growth dynamic happens in the context of a complexity. More so, I was interested in describing what that experience might feel like for someone and then inviting the reader to reflect on how they might relate to Flynce in their own journey.
Flynce lived in the wetlands just north of Northwich for at least part of the year. In the winter, his neighbors would travel from the highlands to the countryside to escape the colder weather. They enjoyed the wetlands here. The water kept the temperature mild and the breeze rushed across the marshy reeds in a pleasant sort of way. And at the very least, there was plenty of food nearby.
He lived with several close neighbors in a mid-sized city of about 200,000, all nestled amidst the wetlands. They were a close-knit bunch. Whether it was for familiarity’s sake or out of fear I don’t know, but when his neighbors would move, he would move — sometimes through some negotiation but he always ended up going along with them, and them him.
Sometimes his entire city would lift into the sky — and he along with it– and dance over the water before falling back down to the earth with a brief flutter.
Flynce was aware of none of this though: he didn’t know he had a name or that he was part of a flying city. All he knew was that he had seven neighbors who were very rarely the same and when they moved, he should move too.
He lived a simple existence: wake up, check on his neighbors, eat whatever he could find with his neighbors, and then maybe he’d find himself lifting into the sky for whatever reason with his neighbors. Then he’d find a place to sleep among the reeds tucked in close to his neighbors, fall asleep, and start the day over again. At times his neighbors might get agitated (usually from hunger), and then he’d find himself getting agitated too even if he had a full belly. For him, the routine and dependencies made no difference. This was how it always had been. For Flynce, as long as he could see that his neighbors were safe and comfortable, he was safe and comfortable.
One early morning before any day had broken, Flynce awoke to quiet. On any other morning, he would have at least heard restlessness in the dried grass as his neighbors adjusted themselves for comfort, but he heard none. He wove through the stalks looking for someone familiar, but he found no one. Thinking some elevation might help him see where his neighbors had moved off too, he perched to get a look around him. He saw nothing but the blue reeds illumined by the cloud-hidden moon.
He began calling, hoping to get some response. He strained his hearing into the horizon, but no call came. All comfort from the familiar rippling chatter was gone. The silence pressed down on him into a panic. Tripping off the cattail he nestled in the tangle of weeds hoping to bring some comfort into himself. Breathing heavily, he laid there paralyzed for what seemed like hours before falling asleep.
Flynce woke from the warming sun. It was midday when he opened his eyes. For a brief moment he felt the familiar closeness of his neighbors before the dread of solitude crept back into his body and along with it a strange yet familiar feeling. He was hungry.
“I better find something to eat,” he thought to himself. He held himself still for a moment, thinking he could hear the far off voices of his neighbors, but he quickly realized the silence was complete. Despite the weight of his solitude, he fluttered to the tip of the nearest cattail and leapt off into flight to search for food.
With the wetlands stretched out beneath him, he felt afraid of how high he was above the ground — something he had never noticed before. He knew he had been here, but usually it was with an entire city’s worth of neighbors, and with all the others surrounding him it was hard to see how high or how far he was. Fear turned into a kind of elation though as the landscape gave up its contours, textures, and patterns to him. And as he flew, the horizon unfolded.
Below he spotted a naked patch of mud and made his way down to the ground. He sifted through the muck for bugs and worms until he had his fill. “I miss my neighbors, but it’s nice having more space to hunt for food,” he thought. He thought he could hear the sounds of his neighbors chattering, but it was only the dry grasses wrestling in the breeze. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw one of his neighbors flicking her wings with water, which Flynce instinctively started mimicking without a thought. Coming to in an instant, he realized that it was just a shadow and a reflex not a real neighbor. He thought it curious how such an illusion could make him move without hesitation.
Since waking, clouds had crawled into the sky and it had begun to snow. Flynce thought it best to find shelter. With a few flutters, he was back into the air searching the skies. He didn’t know where he would go. He knew he’d prefer a hole of some sort, but wasn’t sure where he could find one. He could sense something drawing him forward, something that was both inside and outside of him like he was in a conversation with the landscape. Feeling a newfound expansiveness, he took a deep breath and pushed his lungs out against the wind.
He finally spotted a tendril of smoke dancing upward over a patch of trees. He descended and found a cottage. There wasn’t a hole to be found, so he tucked himself into the corner of a window ledge between the stone wall and the warmth emanating from the cottage window. This was suitable for the moment.
The snow continued to fall lightly and without much accumulation — it was nearing the end of winter so it was the last cough of cold before the ferns started to wake up from the ground below. The landscape was starting to turn blue and cold as the sun set, but Flynce was warm enough tucked against the radiating window. He’d be comfortable here for the night.
In the morning, Flynce woke from a strange intuition — an electric touch inside and outside himself. Inside he was afraid. His awareness stretched outward, but not infinitely so — it was bounded by something. His feathers stood on end, and he turned toward the window to see a man’s face inches from the window corner observing him. Stung by fear, Flynce held still staring forward into the yard of the cottage. He heard two metallic latches and the window slid upward. In the next moment, the man’s hands carefully moved toward Flynce, cupped him, and brought him into the cottage.
The man spoke softly. His voice sounded round and rough like the rocks that made up the cottage. “It seems you’ve lost your flock, yeh,” the man said. Flynce was still stunned by the situation, but he let himself appreciate the newfound warmth. Just from sitting cupped in the man’s hands, Flynce knew the man could snuff out his life in a moment, and yet he didn’t. He was careful. Flynce adjusted his stiffened wings and legs — in part because he felt a bit more at ease and in part to test the giant’s intentions through subtle movements. The man’s hands stayed steady and close.
The man set the starling down on a thick wooden table. It watched him move about the cottage collecting his coverings — a wool hat, coat, scarf and gloves. Walking back over to Flynce, the man scooped him up in his gloves. “Let’s go find your place of belonging . . . mmm Flynce seems like a suitable name for you.”
When the last sounds fell from the man’s mouth, it was as if the word ‘Flynce’ originated from inside the tiny bird. Like he was being reminded of an old memory, but one that stretched out into the horizon. “Flynce…”. Hearing his name sounded comforting to him, like he was home with his flock. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and felt the substance of his tiny body within the space of the cottage. As he mulled on the sound “Flynce” he could see what looked like a wheel made of thoughts turning in his own mind, something he hadn’t ever noticed before.
Out the door they went onto the gravel path outside the cottage. The crunching of the rocks beneath the man’s feet and the tufts of cold smoke billowing rhythmically from his nose gave Flynce comfort. Flynce couldn’t see the entirety of his surroundings but caught glimpses of the passing landscape: through trees, past other cottages, and then blue sky opened up and the breeze rushed through the slats in the man’s fingers.
They stopped. The man let out a sigh with a brief hum. “There we are,” he said. He opened his hands. Flynce was blinded by the daylight. After his eyes adjusted he was overcome by astonishment. In the sky in front of him, Flynce saw a great oscillation of tiny specks. In one moment the flock stretched out into a plane and then scoop upwards towering into the sky, then twist and dance before falling back down. Like it was being shaped and kneaded by invisible hands, the flock pulled and bunched in elegant synchronization. This was his city, only more magnificent than he had ever imagined. He felt simultaneously frail in his tiny body and infinite.
After several minutes, the murmuration fell to rest in the field. Flynce flew off to rejoin his neighbors. He could hear the man’s footsteps crunching away into the distance. When he fluttered to land in a small opening among his neighbors, he noticed the other birds fluttered briefly as they pecked away at the ground looking for food. Flynce held still for a moment, and his seven neighbors became still. In that stillness, Flynce could sense other birds settling beyond the seven. In his mind he held the image of the great murmuration.
An idea began to grow in Flynce like a glowing ember and with it a churning murmuration of fearful thoughts. The ember grew and the swarm of thoughts began moving more like bees than birds. In a single moment of decision, he shot into the sky like a bullet. His thoughts emptied and so did the mindbees. A million swirling, possibilities unfolded in the sky ahead of him like they had been drawn there by an unseen hand. The same feeling of astonishment and freedom came over him as when he had seen the great city from the man’s hand.
When he looked down, he fully expected to see a group of black specks pecking away at ground. Instead he saw the flock begin to heave upward like an ocean wave. The rest of his great city met him in the sky.
Flynce’s senses were awake. When he felt the energy of the murmuration ripple through his body, he’d move in playful synchronization with his neighbors. And in another moment, a pulse would emerge from inside himself and he’d turn. When he did, the seven closests birds changed course, but not in mimicry. He could see the thread of his own creative act moving through the others but each neighbor’s own character transformed it. He continued to play with the rhythms and tempos and timbres and modulations of motion that surrounded him. With some compositions, he’d see ripples subtly reach out into the murmuration. With others, neighbors would wince and move away from him. But he’d adjust his motion, and they’d return. Still others, the neighbors entirely resisted his forays as if they hadn’t noticed him. When he modulated his energy and his fluttering with it, they began to respond again. Interwoven with his tiny experiments, he’d feel the great heaving wave of the city start to change and then his neighbors would change their dance — and Flynce his.
For what seemed like hours approaching dusk, Flynce was in a playful conversation — between his own creative responses conjured from within and the energy of the murmuration flowing back over him like a wave. Through the entire exchange, Flynce could see. He could see the originating forces within himself. He could see their effect in transforming ripples outward. He could see the transmissions from his neighbors and how they changed him. And he could see the great heaving waves moving above and below and beyond him.
When the flock finally came to rest, Flynce felt exhausted but teeming with life. Nestling into the reeds, he closed his eyes and tuned into the sound of his own breath. As his breathing slowed, he could hear the flock settle in like the gentle lapping of waves on a lakeshore. His mind fell silent and he rested.