Shaken, Not Stirred: The Art Form of Creating Community

Bringing people together is relatively easy. Creating the conditions in which relationships can develop, connection can deepen, and belonging can emerge is something else entirely. There may be science behind what works, but creating community is an art form that turns the traditional idea of networks on its head.

You know the line.

“Shaken, not stirred.”

Even if you have never seen a James Bond film, chances are you recognize it. It is one of those phrases that long ago escaped the movie screen and became part of our cultural vocabulary.

And yes, it tells us how James Bond wants his martini, but, more importantly, it was a nod to ignoring stuffy rules and seeing beyond tradition. Recently, I’ve been thinking about what else is contained in those three little words.

Because a beautifully crafted cocktail is about much more than simply having the right ingredients. The quality of those ingredients matters, as do their proportions and temperature, the glass you choose, the garnish, and even the order in which everything is combined. Each choice influences what you ultimately experience, but perhaps most important is the care and skill with which all those elements are brought together.

Shaken. Not stirred.

There is science behind a great cocktail. There are principles and techniques we can learn, and recipes can give us an excellent place to begin. But watch someone who has truly mastered the craft, and you will see something else happening. They are tasting, noticing, adjusting. Sometimes the tiniest change transforms the experience. At some point, following a recipe becomes practicing an art form.

I think creating community is a lot like that.

We May Be Connected, But Are We in Community?

We live in a time when we have seemingly endless opportunities to connect. We network, join professional groups, attend conferences, participate in online communities, and follow, friend, like, comment, share, and subscribe. By almost every measure, we are more connected than ever, and yet I find myself wondering whether all of that connection is actually helping us feel connected.

I began thinking more deeply about that distinction after two very different experiences.

Several years ago, I joined a group called the Fractional Executive Brain Trust. It was made up of smart, accomplished fractional C-suite executives, and I genuinely wanted to be part of it. I also really like the person who created it.

The group was organized and thoughtfully structured, but much of the interaction was transactional. Conversations centered on what someone did, what someone else needed, and whether there was an opportunity for the two to do business together. And there is nothing wrong with that. Networking has a purpose, and the group may have been doing exactly what it was designed to do. I just believe it could have been doing that and a whole lot more.

But when I participated in that community, I noticed something about myself. I felt nervous and uncomfortable, and despite wanting to, I never really felt that I belonged. And so, I never really participated fully. I continued to attend their gatherings for four or five months. Each month, I hoped something might change. It never did. I even wondered whether the problem was me.

Later, I began to understand that perhaps nothing was “wrong” at all. What I was longing for simply wasn’t connection to more people. I wanted to feel connected with people.

Creating the Container

Not long after, I encountered something entirely different when I attended my first Blue Mind Summit at Asilomar, in Pacific Grove, California. Those of us who attended came from all kinds of backgrounds and disciplines. We were drawn together by a shared love of the ocean and a fascination with what being near, in, on, and under water does to us—cognitively, physically, psychologically, and physiologically. Everyone seemed to bring a different piece.

The interesting thing is that we didn’t spend all of our time talking about what we knew or what we did. Instead, we ate together, listened to music, went on hikes, talked, and laughed. We spent time together. And I felt completely different than I had when I attended the Brain Trust gatherings. This time, I felt connected—to myself and to the others.

Looking back, I don’t think the difference was simply the people in those two groups. I think the difference was in the containers we entered when we came together. Over the years, that distinction has become increasingly interesting to me. Bringing good people together isn’t enough to create community, and neither is having a shared purpose. Those may be some of our ingredients, but then we have to ask:

What else goes into the glass?

I believe curiosity is an ingredient, and safety certainly is. So are shared experiences, generosity, and time. Opportunities to contribute and to be known also round out the mix. Simply creating space to be curious about someone, without immediately wondering what they can do for us, can have a profound impact. Each ingredient changes what becomes possible inside the container.

Beyond the Recipe

There is science behind this, too. Human connection is influenced by a fascinating interplay of neurochemicals, including oxytocin, often called the “cuddle hormone”; dopamine, our reward chemical; endorphins, the body’s natural painkillers; serotonin, a mood stabilizer; and vasopressin, an attachment peptide.

We continue to learn more about how these and other systems influence the ways human beings connect, what helps us feel safe, and what contributes to a sense of belonging. I want to understand that science. I want to understand the why and how behind what works. That knowledge gives us a foundation, much like a recipe does, but I don’t believe there is one single recipe for community.

Think again about an experienced chef or bartender. Their knowledge of the fundamentals hasn’t become irrelevant; it has become embodied. They taste, notice, and make tiny adjustments based on what is actually in front of them. A little more of this, a little less of that, more time, less heat, or a different flavor balance. Knowledge is joined by attentiveness, intuition, experience, and responsiveness. The craft becomes an art form.

Creating meaningful community asks something similar of us. We can understand the science, choose an inviting venue, and begin with a thoughtful structure, but we still have to pay attention to the human beings actually inside the container. What does this group need? What is emerging between these people? Does someone need an invitation into the conversation? Do we need to adjust something, or simply give more time to what is already beginning to happen?

No recipe can answer those questions for us.

Paying Attention to What Is Alive

Perhaps that is because communities themselves are alive. They change as people change and evolve as relationships deepen, circumstances shift, new people enter, and others move on. Something that works beautifully at one moment may need to be adjusted at another.

For me, this is part of what makes creating community so fascinating. We are not guarding a formula; we are practicing an art form. We bring knowledge and experience to that practice, but also curiosity, attentiveness, and a willingness to respond to what is actually happening rather than what we expect to happen.

That feels particularly important today. We are practicing this art form during a remarkably dynamic time, when the ways we live, work, communicate, learn, and relate to one another are changing rapidly. Perhaps our willingness to remain curious—to notice what is happening, learn from what we experience, and respond to what we discover—is one of the most important ingredients of all.

Creating What Comes Next

As I’ve been exploring these ideas, I find myself thinking more intentionally about the communities in my own life—the places where I work, gather, learn, play, create, or simply spend time with other people. Some give me connections, while others allow me to genuinely feel connected. I’m curious about the difference between the two. What are the ingredients in those environments? What is it about the container that allows us to relax a little, become curious about one another, contribute something of ourselves, and begin to feel that we belong?

Perhaps the question I find most interesting is this: What kind of community helps us become more fully ourselves?

I suspect there is a great deal for all of us to discover in that question. In fact, it is one of the questions that help shape the JMM Academy, which is launching now. The Academy is designed to bring thoughtful, curious people together to learn, explore, and grow—not only through the ideas we engage with, but through the relationships that develop along the way.

Right now, I am having conversations within the JMM Community to identify our first Founding Dreamers, the people who will be among the first to step into the Academy and experience what we have created. In many ways, this is where the art form we’ve been exploring becomes practice.

The Academy has been created with intention, drawing on what I have learned about connection, belonging, learning, growth, and community. Now we get to pay attention to what happens when particular people come together.

We will listen and learn, noticing what is working and where tiny adjustments might allow the community to evolve while remaining grounded in what it is created to be. The goal is not to manufacture relationships or prescribe what should emerge between people. It is to create the conditions in which people can experience a felt sense of connection and belonging, while leaving enough room for something to emerge that none of us could have created alone.

That is the part I am especially excited about.

For now, consider this an invitation to pull up a chair.

We’re ready to start shaking.

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Jeneen Masih writes about the human foundations of meaningful lives, offering accessible insights for sophisticated thinkers.