Asking More Beautiful Questions
“I have no special talent. I am only passionately curious.”
— Albert Einstein
I sat in the meeting -- a monthly assembly of operational leaders from across campus -- drawing tiny infinite loops of doodles along the margins of my notebook. Many of our discussions seemed to focus on small issues instead of bigger challenges and questions that might unlock more meaningful changes and improvements to our efforts. Despite my efforts (as well as a few others) to try to push our discussions up a level to pursue more strategic opportunities for improvement and change, our meetings typically settled deeply “into the weeds.” I felt my spirit and energy drain each time we gathered.
But on this day, seemingly out of nowhere, a new voice at the table piped in, challenging us to think bigger, more broadly -- he challenged us to explore beyond our current thinking and to imagine a more creative and dynamic way forward.
I perked up and paused my swirling ink drawing. Who was this person, what group did he work with, and how could I learn more from him? He was new to the table and had the courage to raise the same questions I and others had tried to ask early on, yet in an even more bold way. He brought an inquisitive nature and a willingness to think differently about how things “had always been done.” He did not fear change; he welcomed it. As the meeting ended, I walked across the room to say hello, introduce myself, and invite this new Beacon of light to have more conversations.
That initial meeting led to many more. We collaborated on a partnership for the college that enabled us to massively update the wired and wireless networks for a fraction of the cost by thinking creatively and differently about how we might leverage the power of our school’s brand and the business school’s more nimble role within the ecosystem to work toward a meaningful solution.
The Beacon became someone I seek out as part of my own personal “board of advisors” -- he pushes everyone around him to think differently and to question the “why” before moving forward. We meet over long walks or lunches of Nepalese food and challenge each other about ways we might improve the student experience at the college level as well as the primary one and discuss the benefits of weight-lifting and Crossfit for increasing strength and confidence. The Beacon, in sharing his own stories, helped me find the courage to pursue career opportunities that matched my internal fire.
The Beacon shares many books with me to guide me in my own journey. Designing Your Life and Find Your Why were two early recommendations, as well as Radical Candor. He encouraged me to read A More Beautiful Question months ago, and thanks to the “giant pause” I finally made time to read it. In it, Warren Berger shares many stories and ideas around the power of inquiry and great questions. He talks about the effectiveness of asking questions that begin with “How might we…”, an approach that anyone who has worked with IDEO will immediately recognize. There is magic in starting sentences with those three words instead of, “What should we…” Minds become more open to creative possibilities, and think anew about old problems.
Berger offers a framework for inquiry derived from the many innovation stories he discovered:
Why does X have to be this way?
What if we were to approach X in a new way?
How might we bring this new approach to life?
He connects this inquiry framework to the design thinking approach: Define (Why), Ideate (What if), Prototype (How).
It also reminds me of Simon Sinek’s Golden Circle:
Revisiting the power of inquiry to lead to meaningful change and innovation will help to guide us past this current time of uncertainty -- the best organizations are using this time to ask questions in new ways and from different perspectives to envision productive and powerful futures. My friend Emily described the Covid crisis in this way: “There’s no putting the genie back in the bottle — where we go from here is a whole new world.” There are many things that will be challenging about this new existence, yet some pieces of it will be freeing and will unleash opportunities we would not yet have discovered. I’m thinking about a capstone project for my Peabody Ed.D. degree that enables me to explore these issues in-depth for a forward-thinking higher ed organization. I welcome ideas if you have them to add to my brainstorming!
Some recent podcasts and articles that pique my “inquiry into inquiry” that you might enjoy include IDEO and Extension Engine’s examination of how graduation ceremonies might evolve to meet the needs of students; Northeastern’s deft handling of the crisis as well as their forward-looking approach to defining the future; and SMU Cox’s fast pivot to create a new MBA offering to meet the needs of students with less than two years of work experience to pursue a degree online and while they work full-time. I’d love to hear about what you are thinking about and questioning.
I’ll close by reflecting on another of Berger’s questions. Berger asks readers, “Should mission statements be mission questions?” (My answer is YES! This is so brilliant. What organization is ever truly “done” with what they are building, making, doing?)
As I read this section, I immediately wanted to share and discuss what I had read with my close friend Ed Winchester. He and I worked side-by-side at Tuck for many years in service of sharing and celebrating the story of Tuck with the world, and spent many hours thinking about mission statements, tag lines and other positioning statements in our work together, often over crema-topped Americanos and salted-oat-chocolate-chip cookies from TheBOX.
Ed and I were creative partners and dynamic collaborators. We shared a deep appreciation for the unique culture, community, and human elements of the Tuck experience, and sought creative ways to tell the Tuck story beyond what had been done before. When I assumed the role of Director of Marketing and Communications, a role that placed me above Ed and two others in an existing hierarchy -- he gave me his trust and his loyalty even before I had earned it. In believing in me and trusting me, he unknowingly helped me find my authentic leadership voice, and to be the leader I aspired to be to him and to our team.
I relied on Ed in so many ways -- he was an elegant chameleon in his brilliant writing, expressing thoughts and ideas effortlessly whether he was writing to support Dean Danos, Dean Slaughter, or writing his own stories for our creative outlets. He built on his innate writing gifts to become a talented visual storyteller, leading Tuck to build out a rich collection of videos. He captained our initiative to make the Tuck website an ever-evolving and always improving place to demonstrate the many facets of Tuck -- our “rigorous and relevant” faculty, our caring and engaged staff, and our unparalleled students and alumni. He oversaw the evolution of Tuck Today, the alumni magazine, to truly tell the stories of the people who read the pages and who yearned to be inside it -- the alumni -- identifying the feature stories that uniquely captured the heart, spirit, and leadership that make Tuck alumni special. And most important of all, he was not afraid to push back on me or to question me when ideas or plans seemed unfounded.
When I moved into the Dean’s Office, Ed assumed leadership of the Tuck communications team and did so in his own unique and heart-led way. He brought his optimistic spirit and vision to every meeting he led and attended. He was a former Olympic rower and World Champion, yet Ed did not lead with those accomplishments. Rather, Ed brought a vulnerability and humility to every moment, sharing his appreciation for The Bachelor and Taylor Swift as freely as his enthusiasm for his rowing team’s significant accomplishments at The Head of the Charles.
In the last years of our work together when I worked in the Dean’s office, we tackled many stressful and challenging projects that often necessitated work at all hours. Ed made me laugh on a daily basis, often inducing joyful tears. Ed and I both found solace and peace in our early morning workouts -- he on his erg, me on the roads and trails of Norwich or on my Peloton. We cheered each other on and encouraged each other in all ways, most especially through shared laughter. Most recently, Ed was one of my biggest supporters as I launched my blog. He would send me quick texts to tell me how much he loved reading it and following along -- texts that meant so much coming from someone whose writing I admired so deeply.
A little over two weeks ago, I awoke early with our new puppy to find a snow carpet all around. It was early, and I was drinking an Americano. I had plans to catch up with Ed that night over a socially distant walk or Zoom. I knew he would be awake and that he would find a way to make me laugh about the snow that morning, so I reached out in search of a laugh. Our funny text exchange did the trick, and ended as they often did -- with Ed expressing his excitement and joy about the next time he would see his partner, Karen, who had become the source of great joy and peace for him in the last two years.
Later that day I received word that Ed had died suddenly while working out on his erg, shortly after our text exchange. I was numb and in disbelief, and frankly still can’t believe he is really gone.
Ed and I always admired and envied the Portrait Project by our peers at HBS (I’m looking at you, Brian Kenny…). Every year, students wrote an essay to answer the question posed by Mary Oliver in her poem, The Summer Day:
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
As I reflect on the enormous impact Ed made on me and all of those around him -- I know how I would answer that question on his behalf. Ed lived his life to the fullest -- he put his huge heart, endless determination and grit, and brilliant mind into everything he did. And he brought a joyful and friendly sense of humor to it all. I could not be more grateful for the time I had as his friend and his colleague.
This post is dedicated to the memory of my wonderful friend, Ed Winchester.