How Do You Hold Space When the World Shakes?

Photo by Regenia Fondren on Pixy Photo by Gray Matter on Unsplash

This week, I noticed a theme—witnessing. I write this as I read about 82,600 new coronavirus infections griping us across the U.S., the highest daily number since the pandemic started. I see myself shifting in bed, not able to sleep, turning over my phone on the nightstand, the light wrapping me in a bubble, shadows shifting along the edges. I read this headline “People Have Nothing Left — Literally $0 —Because Of The Pandemic.” I process the words about an educated white man looking for a job—broke and with a family. I know it’s even worse for those who started with much less, often of color. But even that thought doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t matter what people look like—someone hurting is someone hurting. I get up, noticing the silence, the calm, the pull—to write. The country sleeps. There’s space to form thoughts, and they feel important.

I reflect back to my virtual facilitator training this week about holding space with some of my old colleagues from the Yale School of Management. While I think that my words will fail to convey what holding space means, my fingers tap against the flimsy, lacquered plastic keys to try anyway.

It’s about observing a group—sometimes you take action, and sometimes not—you don’t know what action you will take ahead of time. You don’t know if it will be effective and you don’t necessarily attach an intention—but then again you can. It’s not necessarily wrong one way or another. You tap into being present and trust—something—not really sure what—but you trust. If you focus too much about being present, you aren’t and your zoom lens shifts to encircle just you. You lost the group—but that’s ok, because now you are present again. Being aware of your focus shift brings you back.

And for some reason, not taking any direct action to hold space—which is also an action—often feels harder than taking direct action. It also usually feels more powerful in blossoming a group. One group member described it as wrapping her body around a globe, protecting it—implying that her body as shield can allow some kind of safety for something worthwhile to transpire within. No one knows what it will be but there’s excitement to watch and an almost sacrificial willingness to protect—but not in a martyr way—and trust that you will not be sacrificed but nurtured by the group through the process.

Even more confusing is that what it means to hold space changes, based on the context of the situation, and the trillion shifting combinations. The same person can shift each moment space is held. Internal processes shaped over the arch of the past flash against what’s being triggered by dynamics happening between people in the group—subgroups—the group as a whole—and even society. What happens out there gets brought in. Then it’s only natural to ask, what does it mean to hold a group when there’s increasingly unveiled racism? A pandemic? A divisive election? Even more important—day-to-day worries about health, bills, security and loved ones?

I see it at work this week, too. I started a new project where I am in a role to hold space for a group of people under high pressure from a client at the top of a federal agency that has high pressure from what’s happening in society. I ante my sacrifice chip, knowing there’s a willingness, but I also know I will take action to protect myself if needed. I am at choice to give some of me to protect a seedling I’m eager to watch grow. I don’t attach to the hope that something will transpire. I witness the team working to make sense of what they are doing over the week—while struggling to get to know each other—testing what is safe. Can a voice express dissent? How do voices spanning multi-generational perspectives speak up? More importantly, how do they get heard?

Towards the end of the week, I see an hour meeting turn into a two- and half-hour meeting as the group unfolds. Clashes happen. Interruptions happen. A pressure to figure it out pushes on our bubble. We are losing time. I still hold the space and allow what is happening to happen—I hope it’s the right choice. I don’t know. Time passes.

The next day, something has shifted. The group is moving. We have a path. There’s momentum and excitement again. Next week we will get feedback from the client on what the group decided. I did my job. Something feels good.

I notice the headiness from the week and zooming so far out. I take refuge to zoom in to my small community where I live. I cherish, begrudgingly, another video call with our volunteer neighbor group running a food drive and planning a “Not So Ugly Sweater Virtual 5K” to gather warm clothes to donate. Around us the pandemic roars, protests spin, and people worry.

...

I did something.