Laryngitis

When I was small I lost my voice. 

Even back then I was an optimistic little thing and I was pleased that it was my voice and not my eyesight, because I loved to read. (Perhaps it was reading too much Pollyanna that led to such a positive outlook on life). Even in the doctor’s waiting room I began to make plans about how I would communicate everything in writing and learn sign language. 

All this activity because nobody had explained that my laryngitis was only temporary. Nobody thought to tell me because all the grown ups already knew.

How often do we do this to clients? 

It’s not just a question of jargon. How often do we do it with our own team? Do you, like me, drop an idea on them and then race on ahead with the implementation without allowing them to digest things first? 

How often do we leap ahead of their understanding when we have conversations with our partners?

Conversations should be two way which means allowing time for people to question. Or keep an eye out for signs that they’re not keeping up so you can step back a little and continue the journey together.

The Inquisitive Mind of a Child

An anonymous poem for Remembrance Day

Why are they selling poppies, Mummy?
Selling poppies in town today.
The poppies, child, are flowers of love.
For the men who marched away.

But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy?

Why not a beautiful rose?
Because my child, men fought and died
In the fields where the poppies grow.

But why are the poppies so red, Mummy?
Why are the poppies so red?
Red is the colour of blood, my child.
The blood that our soldiers shed.

The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy.
Why does it have to be black?
Black, my child, is the symbol of grief.
For the men who never came back.

But why, Mummy are you crying so?
Your tears are giving you pain.
My tears are my fears for you my child.
For the world is forgetting again
.