“I just need you to listen.” Sounds simple, right? Based on the reactions to my last post, it’s not that simple, especially for design professionals who must listen to a variety of stakeholders. Ask Wandile Mthiyane, and you'll learn how he founded the Ubuntu Design Group around this very idea: Listen to Build. 

Who listens when you need to talk? Who do you call? How do you feel after having talked to them? The fact that most of us know exactly who we would call tells us how important and rare it is. Are you the one others call? Do you consider yourself to be a good listener?

Earth day 2021. 5:30am. The appeal of freshly brewed coffee guides me down to the kitchen. My husband is there, big smile, fully awake, and ready to take on the day. The only words I can utter at that time are always the same: Bonjour mon amour. How did you sleep? The answer usually doesn’t register (he knows I am not awake or listening or ready to have a conversation), but this time, his answer stuck with me as I poured my first cup of coffee: I don’t know. I have not looked at the app yet.

If you've ever coached someone, have partaken in therapy of any kind, or have been around kids, then you know firsthand how powerful questions can be. Especially simple ones such as: Why is that? Or Can you tell me more? Questions can also be irritating (to me at least) because, by sheer design, they force us to get closer and closer to the root cause of a problem and shine the light on what we are really solving for.

I can't say we kids always loved it, but growing up in the Normandy countryside, my dad would often wake us up in the middle of the night to observe the stars or a deer eating his vegetable garden. Walks in the nearby forest were an opportunity for him to share his fascination with how plants can heal or poison you, and that - regardless - each plays a critical role. I’m now glad he woke us up. It instilled in me a deep appreciation for nature's power. 

The exhibit “Learning from Nature: The Future of Design” was about to open at the Museum of Design Atlanta (MODA) when the pandemic shut everything down. I never made it to the exhibit, but the underlying idea (relearning from nature) is increasingly featured in both trade and mainstream design publications.

95.84%. That's how much time I've spent indoors today. It is not an outlier. It is typical of a weekday. What about you?

Shortly after I wrote about abandoning cynicism for stubborn optimism, I landed on a book titled “Humankind: A Hopeful History." I clicked, grasping for hope. One of the blurbs printed on the cover, read “In a sea of cynicism, this book is the sturdy, unsinkable lifeboat the world needs.” Another read, “Humankind changes the conversation and lights the path to a brighter future.” Yet, the cynic in me (I know...) quipped, “Good luck with that!”. For one thing, as the author himself points out, “Cynicism is a theory of everything. The cynic is always right.” Try to beat that with stubborn optimism... Let alone try changing the conversation as the second blurb suggests. I could not resist the appeal of an “unsinkable lifeboat” and of “the path to a brighter future.” I bought the book. Now what?

I get triggered - a lot (my husband would say I allow things to trigger me, but I digress). That said, being triggered by the 9-word title of an article in a magazine I love (Fast Company) was a first and a new low. The title of the article was “Interior design is a human right, not a luxury.” These 9 words had triggered something in me (not the good kind, the long sigh combined with expletives kind).

There was nothing I could do. It was liberating.

About a decade ago, after years of testing and probing, doctors could not figure out exactly what was going on. Exploratory surgery was the only option. It did not matter how clinical they tried to make it sound; I knew it meant they would slice me open to see what they could find. I went back to France to spend time with my family, had "what if" conversations with a handful of people, and returned to the US for the scheduled procedure. I had done all I could do. I never felt more at peace with the world.