16. DIALOGUE: THE POWER OF COLLECTIVE THINKING

From time to time, (the) tribe (gathered) in a circle.
They just talked and talked and talked, apparently to no purpose.
They made no decisions. There was no leader. And everybody could
participate. There may have been wise men or wise women who were
listened to a bit more—the older ones—but everybody could talk.
The meeting went on, until it finally seemed to stop for no reason at all and
the group dispersed. Yet after that, everybody seemed to know what to do,
because they understood each other so well. Then they could get together
in smaller groups and do something or decide things.

—David Bohm, On Dialogue

Bohm had shared with me in London an explicit mental model of the way he believed the world works and the way he believed human beings learn and think. To Bohm it was clear that humans have an innate capacity for collective intelligence. They can learn and think together, and this collaborative thought can lead to coordinated action. We are all connected and operate within living fields of thought and perception. The world is not fixed but is in constant flux; accordingly, the future is not fixed, and so can be shaped. Humans possess significant tacit knowledge—we know more than we can say. The question to be resolved is how to remove the blocks and tap into that knowledge in order to create the kind of future we all want.

By 1983, Bohm was devoting much of his time to exploring this issue of collective thinking and communication. Over the next ten years a significant amount of progress would be made toward understanding this entire process, which Bohm simply called “dialogue.”

In May 1984, what was intended as a weekend seminar consisting of lectures and discussions developed into what Bohm called “the awakening of the process of dialogue itself as a free flow of meaning among all the participants.” That weekend marked a sort of watershed in Bohm’s work on this subject and is documented in the book Unfolding Meaning.

Although development of a theory of dialogue was far from complete, by 1994, in part because of the work of the Dialogue Project at the MIT Center for Organizational Learning led by William N. Isaacs, dialogue began to be seen as a breakthrough of major significance in a number of emergent fields of human activity: in organizational learning, in the process of collective inquiry, and, significantly, in the way humans might govern themselves.

As mentioned previously, the word “dialogue,” as used by Bohm, comes from two Greek roots, dia and logos, suggesting “meaning flowing through.” This stands in stark contrast to the word “debate,” which means “to beat down,” or even “discussion,” which has the same root as “percussion” and “concussion”—“to break things up.”

Bohm pointed out that a great deal of what we call discussion is not deeply serious in the sense that there are all sorts of things which are nonnegotiable—the “undiscussables.” No one mentions the undiscussables—they’re just there, lying beneath the surface, blocking deep, honest, heart-to-heart communication. Furthermore, we all bring basic assumptions with us, our own mental maps, about the meaning of life, how the world operates, our own self-interest, our country’s interest, our religious interest, and so forth. Our basic assumptions are developed from our early days, our teachers, our family, what we read. We hold these assumptions so deeply that we become identified with them, and when these assumptions are challenged, we defend them with great emotion. Quite often, we do this unconsciously.

Bohm likened these basic assumptions and deeply held convictions to computer programs in people’s minds. These programs take over against the best of intentions, and they produce their own intentions. This fragmentation of thought is reinforced by a worldview inherited from the sixteenth century, which saw the cosmos as a great machine. Thus, “ordinary thoughts in society are incoherent—they’re going in all sorts of directions, canceling each other out.”

But if people were to think together in a coherent way, it would have tremendous power. If there was an opportunity for sustained dialogue over a period of time, we would have coherent movement of thought, not only at the conscious level we all recognize, but even more importantly at the tacit level, the unspoken level that cannot be described. Dialogue does not require people to agree with each other. Instead, it encourages people to participate in a pool of shared meaning that leads to aligned action. As Isaacs and his research group at MIT confirmed, out of this new shared meaning, people can and will take coordinated and effective action without necessarily agreeing about the reasons for the action.

Bohm compared dialogue to superconductivity. “In superconductivity, electrons cooled to a very low temperature act more like a coherent whole than as separate parts. They flow around obstacles without colliding with one another, creating no resistance and very high energy. At higher temperatures, however, they begin to act like separate parts, scattering into a random movement and losing momentum.” In dialogue, the goal is to create a special environment in which a different kind of relationship among parts can come into play—one that reveals both high energy and high intelligence.

As I look back on the research and development Bohm did on dialogue during the last years of his life, it’s been interesting for me to note how the principles he formulated were consistently playing out during the course of the Forum program: at the fellows’ orientation, where they gathered initially to become acquainted; through the wilderness experience; at the midcourse retreat; during the hard work of the class project; and at the closing ceremonies as well as the postgraduation class retreats. The shared experience and deep trust developed in the wilderness experience allowed the fellows to enter into dialogue in a variety of circumstances, in small groups as well as much larger ones. After a couple of years of these experiences, I could sense the “field” forming as we entered into true dialogue. This distinct and special feeling would fill the space around us, and at these times I knew we were communicating on a different plane. It was unmistakable. Most often during these times I would say or contribute very little; I would be deeply involved in the communication, listening and absorbing what was happening. Each time these were powerful, moving, and extremely special experiences for me and for the others involved.

At times, dialogue was used to resolve complex issues facing the group, such as those revolving around their class projects. Invariably the conversations would be tedious and frustrating, particularly to the kinds of action-oriented, get-it-done-today individuals making up the classes. But often this process would lead to coordinated action that resulted in highly important contributions to the community involved. In other instances, the dialogue would not have a strategic focus, but would yield important results at a later date. Out of the collective listening, important new insights were gleaned. The fellows reported to me time and time again deep personal change flowing from the ongoing dialogue that was sustained over the course of the year.

When a particular dialogue was “completed,” it was not over. Dialogue was not a single circumstance in the program, but turned out to be a way of life with the fellows—a way of life to which they became committed. It had a transformational effect upon many of the people. Repeatedly, fellows would refer to the “mysterious power of the collective” they would experience.

It’s a funny thing about dialogue: there’s a wave/particle–like aspect to it. When it’s present, you know it. You can’t fake dialogue. Yet, when you focus on it too hard and try to capture the process, you change it, and it collapses and vanishes.

There were times that dialogue was used in another special way—to communicate the power of the ALF experience to potential major funders. We would convene a group of the fellows to tell how ALF had touched their lives and the lives of their communities. I stumbled onto this process one evening in Houston when I invited one of the key officers of the Ford Foundation and his deputy to a dinner and meeting with a dozen or so fellows. What ensued after dinner was an uninterrupted three-hour dialogue among the fellows. The people from the Ford Foundation found it to be one of the most moving experiences they’d ever had.

One of the most important times this occurred was in 1988 when we were seeking funding from the Luce Foundation in New York. We had a number of meetings with the Foundation executives at Luce, which resulted in a site visit to Hartford by Henry Luce Jr. We invited a dozen fellows to attend lunch and dialogue with Mr. Luce and his colleagues.

John Filer, Chairman of the Aetna Insurance Company, opened the conversation with a beautiful set of remarks, calling the group assembled “a magnificent coalition of the unalike.” I then suggested that the fellows might want to share with Mr. Luce and the other officials of the Luce Foundation what they could about the Leadership Forum, what it meant to them personally, and what had occurred in the community as a result of the establishment of the chapter. We had not rehearsed or planned ahead for any of this. A long silence ensued and eventually one of the fellows spoke up.

Eddie Perez described a Leadership Forum project in Stow Village, a public housing development with over a thousand people, mostly Latinos and African Americans, living in abject poverty. People there felt hopeless and defeated. Most of the residents were single mothers with several children. The project objective was to take fifty families and construct a program through which these people could attain economic independence through substantial employment. It seemed like a massive undertaking, but this class of fellows wanted to test the momentum, the excitement, and the vitality that had been brought to bear within that group.

Eddie told how the program had begun and how it was progressing on many fronts. He said that it was being hailed as a model that could be replicated throughout the country. Indeed, a separate group was attempting to replicate the program in two other public housing projects in Hartford. Eddie said that one of the keys to the success was the strong linkage between the business community and the public sector. There were several brick walls presented that needed to be torn down, and it was the people with position and power in big business that could make it happen most quickly. He cited the following example: The project had progressed substantially. A number of the women had gone through the job skills program, transportation and child care had been arranged, the women had learned how to dress appropriately for an office environment, and job positions had been secured—not just dead-end jobs, but jobs with a real future for advancement and personal satisfaction. Everything was set to go, and then the brick wall was hit. The new employers’ insurance would cover the worker, but for the first year, the medical insurance would not cover the entire family. It would be too cost-prohibitive, and the policy would not allow it.

These women simply could not afford to go to work and leave their children without medical benefits. The welfare program provided this, but, at least in the initial stage of work, the employers could not. Eddie worked and worked and could find no way around it. Finally, in desperation he picked up the phone and called Jim Grigsby, a fellow from his ALF class. Jim headed a billion-dollar division of CIGNA, one of the largest insurance companies in the world. When Eddie called, Jim’s secretary took the message and politely told Eddie that Jim had been out of town for quite some time, and it would be a very long time before he could get back to him. It was the kind of polite brush-off that secretaries are taught to give.

That afternoon, Jim came to his office and was met with a huge stack of pink telephone slips. He flipped through them and toward the bottom he saw Eddie’s call slip. It said, “Eddie Perez, ALF, needs help. Please call.” That same day, Jim returned Eddie’s call, and the conversation went something like this: “Eddie, Jim here. I’m returning your call. What can I do for you?”

“I need to come see you. We’ve got a crisis of major proportions on the Stow Village Project, and I really need your help.”

“Well, why don’t you just tell me over the telephone, and we will see what we can do.”

Eddie told Jim the story, and Jim said, “Eddie, I’ve got it. I’ve got the picture. Give me a week or ten days to see what my people can do, and I’ll be back to you.”

Within a week, Jim called Eddie back and said, “Eddie, I’ve got the problem solved. Here is what we’ll do.” And he proceeded to tell him how he had found a way for the business to be underwritten. Eddie looked at Mr. Luce and the others, and he said, “Listen, a year ago, if I had placed a call like that to Jim Grigsby at CIGNA, I wouldn’t have gotten past his secretary. There’s no way he would have returned my call, and there’s no way we could have solved that problem. I’m telling you that we are all members of one community here, and we are all out to help Hartford. The right people are connected now. We in the neighborhood community know how things operate, and we know how to get things done, but we can’t get them done without the cooperation of people in the power structure. We need their help, and we need it sometimes very quickly. The American Leadership Forum makes that possible.”

And that’s the way it went around the table. The fellows, each in their own way, told of the transformation that was taking place in the Hartford community. Each told a personal story and each built on the other’s story. When there was a brief silence, another fellow would interject a word, a few sentences, or a story to underscore the point being made. No one talked over the other. Later the fellows observed that they were listening to others saying their own thoughts. The flow of conversation built and built. Each statement, each point, each story dovetailed and reinforced another. It was like the weaving of an intricate, beautiful tapestry—as if they were speaking by design—but of course there was no prior rehearsal. The flow of meaning was incredible. The group was working as a whole, and there was common participation in thinking, as if it were one thought being formed together. And you could feel the whole room fall into this symphony of conversation. As I witnessed this unfold, I thought back to the way Bill Russell described those moments when he was playing for the Celtics.

John Zacharian, the editor of the editorial page of the Hartford Courant, told about his successful campaign to add the first African American member to the advisory editorial board of his paper. Hernan LaFontaine, the superintendent of schools, told of the jobs program that he and fellows from his class had instituted to provide placement for two hundred unemployed youths who were graduating from the Hartford high schools. The program was taken over by a unit of the chamber of commerce and continued to be highly successful. This was only made possible by the joint cooperation among school leaders and neighborhood leaders and top business leaders, who could insure that the right kind of job opportunities were made available.

Bernie Sullivan, the chief of police, and Merilee Milstead, a local labor leader, told of how they had first met when Chief Sullivan had incarcerated her during the course of a strike in Hartford. For years, there had been violence and bloodshed during these strikes. The next time Milstead and Chief Sullivan met, they were fellows in the Forum Class I. By the end of that year, they had agreed to do things differently. When the next strike occurred, Milstead called Chief Sullivan and said, “We are getting ready to strike. Let’s do it the way that we agreed.” Chief Sullivan went to his men and said, “There’s going to be a strike led by Merilee Milstead. I want us to go out there and keep order, but leave your riot gear at home.” They went out. There was an entirely peaceful strike. No bloodshed and not one incarceration. An absolute first in many years. Around the table the stories went, one after another, just like that.

At the end there was a long but comfortable silence. Then Henry Luce stood up and said, “I knew I would be impressed with this program because of what I’d read about it. But I was not prepared for what I encountered here. You will receive our support.” Within two months we received a $450,000 grant from the Luce Foundation, the largest public affairs grant that the Luce Foundation had ever given.

What occurred in Hartford that day with Henry Luce and his colleagues was an exercise in collective leadership. These men and women sitting in dialogue together were exercising a collective form of leadership that simply cannot be provided by a single individual. Over the years I’ve thought more and more about this notion of highly effective leadership. I’ve come to believe that this is at the heart of what is needed in the world today. When people sit in dialogue together, they are exercising leadership as a whole. This is nothing less than the unfolding of the generative process. It’s the way that thought participates in creating, but it can only be done collectively.

This is not something I fully understood during the days I worked with ALF, even though I witnessed this powerful phenomenon time and time again. The way we generally thought about it as we were designing the program was that parts are primary. In a coalition-building model, our tacit assumption is that we’re separate individuals, and we have to build a coalition. We usually do that through various kinds of trade-offs and deals—hopefully “win-win” kinds of arrangements that we can all live with.

But in dialogue, you operate with a very different premise, actually, a completely different frame of reference. In dialogue, you’re not building anything, you’re allowing the whole that exists to become manifest. It’s a deep shift in consciousness away from the notion that parts are primary.

People always say “We have to step back and see the big picture here,” as if we have to go from seeing the parts to constructing a whole. But the whole already exists; it’s just that we’re locked into a frame of reference that keeps us from perceiving it. In dialogue, the whole shows up and is manifested by individuals later as they take action.

“Seeing things whole” amounts to an inner shift in awareness and consciousness. Martin Buber captured this notion beautifully as he was reflecting on what this means between people:

Just as the melody is not made up of notes nor the verse of words nor the statue of lines, but they must be tugged and dragged till their unity has been scattered into these many pieces, so with the man to whom I say Thou. I can take out from him the colour of his hair, or of his speech, or of his goodness. I must continually do this. But each time I do it he ceases to be Thou.