In 1727, a 21-year-old working in a Philadelphia print shop invited about a dozen mates to meet on Friday nights.

His name was Benjamin Franklin. The mates were printers, a surveyor, a cabinetmaker, a clerk, people with regular jobs and no particular claim to fame. They met in a tavern first, then in a room in someone’s house. The only real rule was that each of them took a turn bringing a question for the group to chew on. Morals, politics, business, whatever was bothering them that week.

He called it the Junto, a club for mutual improvement. That’s all it was. A dozen blokes who wanted to get a bit better, and agreed to do it in each other’s company.

It turned out to be quite a lot. They pooled their books into a shared library, which grew into the Library Company of Philadelphia. A version of the group eventually grew into the American Philosophical Society, which is still going. It also sent plenty of work Franklin’s way, which he didn’t seem to mind.

None of that was the plan on the first Friday. The first Friday was just mates and a question.

Napoleon Hill, who wrote Think and Grow Rich, had his own name for the same idea. He called it the Master Mind. He said he got it from Andrew Carnegie, and his definition was plain enough: two or more people, working together toward a definite purpose, in a spirit of harmony.

I like that it starts at two, which is a lot less intimidating than a conference or a retreat with name tags.

Oxford in the 1930s had a version of it too. J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, along with a rotating cast of mates, met on Thursday nights in Lewis’s rooms at Magdalen College and on Tuesdays at a pub called the Eagle and Child. They read each other their unfinished work out loud. Tolkien tried chapters of The Lord of the Rings on them before it was a book, and by most accounts their encouragement is a big part of why he finished it. Two blokes, a pub and a set of college rooms. That’s where a lot of Middle Earth got its first audience.

I’d love to say I planned my own version of this. I didn’t. Mine has turned up in pieces over the years, in whatever shape was available.

Elise, my wife, who has been the most constant support I’ve had, and who tells me when my ego’s driving before I’ve noticed, or if I'm being an idoit, or even just a sounding board for when I need it. My brother, who I can ring on the way to work and be deep into the Ship of Theseus by the time I walk into to the chaos of my office. A Monday night card table full of people I’ve known for months and already look forward to. My daughters, who can tell when I’ve drifted off mid-dinner and aren’t shy about saying so. Advisory boards I’ve sat on over the years, rooms full of people who had already made the mistake I was about to make.

Not one of those started as a project. Nobody sent a calendar invite called Finding My People. They just turned into the people I’d go to, one conversation at a time, until I noticed the pattern.

The pattern is the useful bit. I’m a slightly better version of myself around all of them. A bit sharper, a bit kinder, a bit braver. More willing to say the quiet thing out loud. That’s become my test. After an hour with someone, do I walk away a bit sharper or a bit flatter?

Some of them are for a season. Some are for life. I’ve lost a few along the way and I’m still not sure how that happens. But it’s rarely about size or structure. Franklin’s version was a dozen blokes. Hill’s started at two. Mine has been, at various times, one very patient woman and a deck of magic cards.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, for reasons I’ll get into soon enough.

For now, I’ll just say Franklin was onto something at 21, with a tavern and a list of questions. Twelve mates, a pub, and someone willing to ask the next question. Hard to think of a better place to start.

Until next time,​
​Broden Johnson