The other day I had this shared experience with a room full of people. Maybe two hundred of us started a day-long corporate meeting. You know the drill: we're there to hear from some leaders about our tactics, learn a bit about how we should be working, and to find the camaraderie missing on endless Zooms and Looms. Maybe it was due to global travel's time zone chaos or just the way these things go, but midway through the first morning, the room was lifeless. There was so little energy, even genuine laugh lines weren't really hitting (one panelist rightly accused the others of "blathering on for so long I forgot the question" to only a few chortles). That was our shared experience: a kind of lifeless lack of energy despite a few hundred gathered people. My challenge was that my panel was next.
My panel was, in composition, similar the previous talkers: we were individual contributors with our own work to talk about. It wasn't going to change the room's energy. If you looked at the agenda, you'd think that the best outcome would be maybe a shared anecdote or illustration that might inspire someone else's work. We'd prepped pretty well: we knew the assortment of questions that might be asked and we'd prepared our answers in the style of an encapsulated story. There was a pretty big downside risk: what if you deliver a "fine" panel to a lifeless room and nothing at all changes about it's energy? We needed someone to take a swing, to do something to upset the mood. I decided to play the clown.
I tend to think of the Jungian clown archetype, outfit and all, as a medieval jester. The people who firmly categorize such things tell us that Jung's clown embodies a chaotic, paradoxical figure that flips social order, mocks rigidity, and exposes hidden truths. Clowns do this all through humor and play. Today, you see the clown most often in standup comedy, but you'll also find the clown in some teams at the workplace or in some press conferences with sports figures or some members of Congress. I thought it was called for: obviously, something had to break the rigidness of corporate training day, something had to flip the ice cold energy, (and why is the carpet all wet, Todd?). Playing the clown is a risk, no one might laugh or too many might laugh at you, but someone had to take a risk if anything about our room was to change.
Aside from violating my "don't curse from the stage" resolution, it went great. I said a few things that might've been insightful, but mostly I teased the host, pretended I was on a podcast, and found and stayed in anything silly. I punctuated every answer with a podcast-style plug ("brought to you by tattoo removal: if you need it, you know"). The room's stolidness broke up. They all laughed at me. We were experiencing something together, as people. Am I a hero? It's hard to say. I'm sure the room would've eventually softened. After lunch, we all moved to different tables and did some practical exercises together. But in the moment, someone needed to exercise just a little bit of consciousness, recognize the moment the group was having, and step in to change it. Send in the clown.
Reading
The Tune of Things
Is consciousness God?
or
We live trapped in a mind-versus-world view that separates us from nature and misunderstands consciousness. Reality may be a fluid, interconnected field where mind and matter co-arise, making mystical unity and ordinary things equally real. Poetry and careful perception can reconnect us, even while that unity includes joy, beauty, and deep suffering.