“Few could be more poorly suited to this calling.  I cannot remember the color of my own shoes without sneaking a quick peek. I never remember faces. I rarely recall names.” David A. Schmaltz

I always offer one-on-one consulting when I’m teaching a workshop. For some, the real issues they come to work on are unmentionable in public. Others, many others, need a listening ear or a sympathetic forehead to bounce their issues back at them. And I’m more than happy to provide this service.

Sometimes I am sworn to secrecy. I’ve had several who told whispered tales of the brutality that was undiscussable among their work group. I referred one to counseling. Some of the ones who sought my confidential advice left their jobs shortly after our conversation. Some reported later that something changed for them during our talk.

I take no special credit for any changes that occur. I well understand the power in simply talking about the undiscussable. People usually need to hear their own voice telling their own story to discover the opportunities hidden there. I know that if I can attend to their story, most will uncover their own transforming idea. This is one of the least understood skills of a consultant; listener.

Last year I was teaching a workshop and, as usual, my off teaching times were booked up. I expected the usual series of empathic chats, but I was surprised by one of them, instead. A young woman asked me to lunch to “talk.” This can mean anything from discussing some undiscussable to wanting information about becoming a consultant. “It’s her agenda,” I remember thinking as I noted the day and time.

We ordered and began the usual small talk.

“How do you happen to be here?” she asked.

I outlined my career from itinerant musician to high tech consultant, explaining that my present occupation was almost exactly like my song writing career, except that I play a different shaped guitar today.

She was delighted with my story. “So, you’ve always told stories, then?” she continued.

“Yes,” I replied, explaining that I have always been able to use words in unusual ways.

“I noticed that you tell stories more than you tell people what they are supposed to learn,” she replied. “I like that.”

I explained my strong belief that no one can tell adults anything as powerfully as they can tell it to themselves. “I just give them an opportunity and they do the rest,” I explained.

“Well, you’re what my mother called a Witness,” she observed.

“A Witness?” I questioned. “What’s that?”

“Well,” she began, “My mother taught me that there are many roles that people can play in others’ lives. Some are givers and some are takers, some spread joy and others misery. One of the most powerful roles,” she continued, “is the Witness. The Witness’ job is to observe and then to share their observations. I just now realize that this is what you have been doing all week, just observing and sharing what you see.”

I had no clever response. I remember taking this description in deeply, checking its credentials, and savoring this curious possibility. “Could I be a Witness?” I thought to myself.

My memory of the following few minutes is blank. I must have been processing this suggestion so strenuously that I missed whatever was going on in the foreground. Lunch probably arrived, and we might have eaten around this silence. I returned a few minutes later with an appreciation.

“Thank you,” I said with a little wavering in my voice, catching her eye as she looked up from her sandwich. “Thank you.”

You’re very welcome,” she smiled in reply.

We went on to engage in a conversation more typical of my one-on-one meetings. Her work. Her career. Her aspirations. Her interests. I was present and I was listening, but engaging differently than I had before she offered my purpose as this lunch’s appetizer. I was observing, understanding that I was absorbing important information for sharing later. I was a Witness!

Few could be more poorly suited to this calling. I cannot remember the color of my own shoes without sneaking a quick peek. I never remember faces. I rarely recall names. I didn’t know what to call her blouse color when I was looking at it and I have no memory of it now. I absorb impressions. Fuzzy. Diffuse. Meaning-rich and detail poor. I could never tell a detective if the perpetrator wore a wind breaker or a pea coat, sneakers or wing tips. He might have sprouted wings and flown away for all I usually recall. But I can remember the meaning I made of the experience, and I unfailingly remember how that meaning relates to other of my experiences stored somewhere before.

I Witness meanings, not events. I postulate and project, consider and reframe. I make sense of this world. Then I pass my sense on as stories. I Witness.

Being a consultant sometimes means being a Witness. We observe and try to make sense of what we see, passing our meaning on to the others who have different roles to play here. I travel constantly. I read continually. I meet people from many different places, fulfilling many different responsibilities. I am a connector between them. I tell the stories that bridge the illusory space between people, helping them discover again how very similar they are. I reassure, reminding people what they already know, but need some reinforcement to acknowledge. I watch and I tell my stories.
 

I remain enormously grateful to that woman for offering me a name for my role here. I have considered many times the power she passed in her brief observation. I have concluded that she is also fulfilling a role here, and as Witness, I will make sure that she gets this story, for she is a Namer. She has the gift that allows her to name other’s roles. Her job as a Namer is to offer names to others for their consideration. I’m sure not everyone she offers a name to accepts the offer. Not all that I Witness to can hear my stories. The timing must be right. The story must match the situation. All in its own time.

For those who have not yet found their name, keep watch. Pay attention. A Namer is offering something you have not heard. Listen. Consider. Then proceed with passion.