A former student of Canadian history George Grant has written a very interesting review of a new book by Byron Williston called Ecological Nation: Toward Peace, Order and Good Government. The subtitle of that book echoes the constitutional purpose of Canada, often quoted in contrast to the United States’ life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
The reviewer, Bruce K. Ward, contrasts Williston’s book against Grant’s classic Lament for a Nation and looks at both of these work in the context of the current resurgence of Canadian nationalism (the kind directed against US hegemony). It’s worth a read especially because he fairly treats Williston ideas that Canada could become a superpower if only we focused on ecological leadership instead of our current Petro-state aspirations. And he alos takes Williston to task on his conclusion that we aren’t actually going to get there without some form of eco-elitism based on a polished moral order amongst those who govern our country.
Order, justice, limits, planetary health: these are the interconnected elements that can give meaning to our sovereignty. But can such an idea bear the weight of reality? In response to this question, Williston ventures to identify the key worry that our political leadership lacks the courage to confront: despite brave talk, Canadians might not really be prepared to make the significant sacrifices that an “elbows up” nationalism requires, especially one with a green agenda. Williston does not shy away from addressing this concern: “Why do we have such a hard time putting citizenship above consumer comfort?” Citizens with the backbone and discipline to make material sacrifices do not simply appear ready-made. They have to be formed.
I wouldn’t mind having a crack at that book. But what I really aspire to in this world is perhaps a counterfactual: a Canada that thrives because we somehow recover enough of the project we are in together to make that pivot from fossil fuels to renewables, without some kind of top-down designed intervention on our souls. It is a project that could engage the entire country, and as I’ve written in these pages before the sooner we move in that way, the less likely it is that we will need coercion to move in that direction. We have enjoyed “freedom” to burn fossil fuels for so long that so we will discover that we have deferred a future of freedom to choose.
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This triad has turned out to be surprisingly helpful. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I posted it a few days ago, because it answers some questions that have been bothering me for a long time. So here’s an attempt to capture where the idea is leading. Think of this as watching it evolve in real time. Read on…
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I continue to think through the ideas of containers in dialogic work. Thanks to some conversations with a couple of colleagues I had a thought today about the three-cornered nature of the container.
Inspired by the idea of a trialectic, we can describe containers as occupying a space between three points, depending on what they are, what work they are doing and the nature of the substrate in which they sit. The thee points are Designed, Built, and Emergent. Each of these three has a particular focus. The Designed container channels intention. The Built container provides retention and the Emergent container arises from, and demands, attention.

In facilitation practice, the language tends towards designed and built containers. We talk about holding space, we talk about the boundaries, the physical space, the beautiful question, the method. The role of the facilitator is often defined as a person that designs and holds containers.
Complexity however bids us to pay attention to what is happening. When humans meet, containers emerge, almost instantly. Our attention is directed and held, not with the help of a facilitator, but because the constraints of the situation shape what happens. Some constraints precede the encounter, like physical space, organizational history, culture, and power relations. Others emerge through interaction itself. Some are brought by the designer into the room. Together they constitute the container.
Every actual container is some combination of design, building and emergence. The space between these points is what matters, Asking where a container sits within the triangle tells us what work is being done by intention, what work has been stabilized in material, legal, or social structures, and what work must remain open to emergence.
Different types of containers need to do different work. A storage locker is a kind of built container whose work is only the retention of a space that can be filled. There is very little intention paid to the design of a storage locker, and once one is built, it doesn’t need to be designed again. Not much emerges within it. That’s a feature.
An emergent container is one that arises, for example, when two friends meet on the street. In the moment of encounter, a boundary begins to form and an attractor holds the attention of the interaction. When two friends are actively engaged in a conversation on the street there is stuff going on that an “outsider” would struggle to understand. What is at the centre of their shared attention might not be shared by others. You can feel how this little social space is carved out of the rest of the environment. A conversation between friends relies on attention to proceed, and both bring attention to the moment. No designer. No robust structure that must be held.
A designed container is something like a meeting method. When I am using Open Space for example, I am bringing a deliberate intention to the group. “We should meet this way. The conversations should flow like this. The outcomes can be harvested here.” This can be both helpful and extremely perilous.
When design makes contact with reality is the critical moment. Design is only the beginning. Once people begin interacting, the container inevitably shifts toward emergence. Good facilitation is less about preserving the design than noticing where the design is making contact with reality. If the design is held too tightly, the designer is privileged in the space and the group loses possibilities for true emergence. If the design proceeds from the use of constraints to shape interactions, that can be extremely helpful. If the work is complex, bringing attention to bear into the work is critical. The facilitator role shifts from being the process host to holding attention to what is emerging. Not to name it, or to synthesize, but to inform the next move of shifting constraints, including by enlisting the group in that work: “Should we take a break? Do we need more time? Is this the right question? What’s happening now?”
Design that contacts reality in a built container is one in which intention informs the retention. This is how architecture works. It’s about the deployment of pattern languages (in the Alexandrian sense) to the built environment. A living built environment begins with intention that translates into retention provided by stable structures in the built environment. It alos provides affordances for the attention of the users of space to learn and shape the space afterwards. Think of a community garden, or over longer scales, the built environments of towns and villages that shift and change over the years. Stuart Brand wrote about this in “How Buildings Learn.”
I’m exploring the idea that dialogic containers are spaces and moments (physical and non-physical) in which humans make meaning. Dialogic containers are not things facilitators create or hold. They are patterns of constraint within which meaning-making becomes possible. Good facilitation lies not in holding the container but in learning when to design with constraints, when to rely on built ones, and when to let emergent constraints lead.
The photo for this post was taken on Whyte Avenue in Edmonton last June when the Edmonton Oilers were in the Stanley Cup Finals. Everything in this photo can be mapped in the triangle above.
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Back in April at the most recent Art of Hosting we convened, someone asked me “does the Art of Hosting make good faith assumptions about people?” I’ve been thinking about that question ever since, and not satisfied by my answer which, came from a more defensive posture.
I think the short answer is, yes…
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The last line from a prose poem by Grace Yee called “Living Among Trees” From the latest issue of Heat:
…I know that when lightning strikes a giant sequoia and burns out its heart, you can step inside the trunk, look up at the sky and hold it.