Читать книгу The Power of the Herd - Linda Kohanov - Страница 11
ОглавлениеNearly a century after Antoni Gaudí’s death, his architectural masterpiece Sagrada Familia is barely half finished, yet millions of people travel from around the world to marvel at Barcelona’s controversial cathedral in progress. Several on-site conversions have taken place over the years, fortifying a Vatican-sanctioned movement to grant sainthood to the reclusive artist. Gazing into Sagrada Familia’s parabolic arched doorways, soaring towers, and other gravity-defying effects, Japanese architect Kenji Imai had a religious experience, eventually converting to Christianity as he studied the work in depth. And it’s no wonder: Gaudí’s neomedieval structures and biomorphic forms combine the highest aspirations of humanity with the flowing artistry of nature. Somehow defying logic, convention, and, at times, the laws of physics, this massive stone basilica has a soft, melting appearance, creating the impression that it’s slowly being molded into existence by God’s own everlasting hand.
For Gaudí, Sagrada Familia (Holy Family) was a mission transcending personal concerns. He worked on it for over four decades, eventually taking up residence on-site and devoting his final years to the project with increasing obsession. “My client is not in a hurry,” he once said, responding to the frustration that workers voiced as he made constant changes to the architectural plans.
Gaudí literally lived the concept of cathedral thinking. This term describes an emerging philosophy of sorts, one that explores the mind-set involved in tackling any long-term vision. It contrasts sharply with our modern, quick-fix mentality, but socially conscious leaders recognize that significant, sustainable change requires generational effort. And so, an increasing number of innovative thinkers — in business, art, politics, and science — are interested in the 150-year process that built Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. They’re even more fascinated with Germany’s Cologne Cathedral, which survived numerous wars, recessions, political movements, and religious reforms during the 632 years of construction before the final stone was set in place.
For cathedral thinkers, Sagrada Familia represents the ultimate, real-time case study of how an ambitious vision persists and evolves over time. Construction started in 1882 and continued uninterrupted after Gaudí’s sudden death in 1926 — that is, until communists in the Spanish Civil War set fire to the architect’s study ten years later, destroying his primary drawings. The project resumed in 1952 with dedicated and imaginative devotees piecing together surviving notes and models. Since then a succession of at least a half-dozen talented architects have immersed themselves in the project, with the son of one of them introducing computers into the design process in the 1980s.
The opportunity provided by Sagrada Familia is far more valuable than the details of its construction. Here we have the chance to interview workers about the human concerns involved. Historical accounts rarely reveal the emotional, organizational, and interpersonal challenges; the daily failures and frustrations no one really wants to talk about; and the vulnerabilities no one wants to admit to, let alone recount in nauseating detail — unless, that is, the subjects are still alive and can somehow be convinced that their personal foibles are as important as their triumphs in assisting others with ambitious, perhaps divinely inspired goals. People who build neogothic basilicas are the most likely candidates, as they’re already psychologically predisposed to support the ongoing education and initiation of future generations.
Whether you’re building a church, a business, or a mandate for social change, cathedral thinking presupposes that the vision you initiate must be handed over to others, that everyone involved will be laboring on faith at times, that people will share their most innovative ideas and tools, that the plans will change, that the blueprints may even be lost, and that the most important part of your job will be to inspire, in every neophyte who joins your team, reverence for a project you will never see completed. This mind-set comes with a host of emotional quagmires, some of which are so existential in nature that they question the very foundations of survival-oriented behavior, challenging us to resist flight-or-fight impulses, urging us to evolve beyond our current obsession with safety, comfort, and predictability, let alone personal gain and recognition. At the same time, multigenerational thinking demands that we use our human resources wisely. We must take care of each other to bring out the best in each other.
In this book — for lack of the funding, connections, and Spanish language skills necessary to travel to Barcelona and talk key members of the Sagrada Familia staff into confessing their deepest, darkest cathedral-building secrets — I will, at times, share a few of the more pertinent, sometimes insightful, sometimes embarrassing details of my own efforts to create something of lasting value.
A brief history: In 1997, Epona Equestrian Services, an equine-facilitated learning program and referral agency, was founded by a group of Tucson-based horse trainers, educators, and counselors. The cathedral we were building had no walls or ceiling, but it did combine humanity’s highest aspirations with nature’s flowing wisdom as we partnered with horses to teach cooperative, nonpredatory forms of empowerment, emotional fitness, social intelligence, and authentic community building. We named it after the Celtic horse goddess associated with healing and transformation, Epona, who seemed a fitting symbol for an organization that employed horses in the work of human development.
In 2001, when my first book was published, the organization suddenly attracted international attention through the force of a vision that I hadn’t realized would move so many people to action. Based on growing demand, we started a multiweek apprenticeship program that qualified talented facilitators to incorporate our principles and techniques into their own programs. Along the way, we found it necessary to distinguish our carefully trained instructors from those in organizations in other states and countries that were also named after the goddess Epona. By 2012, nearly two hundred Eponaquest Instructors were operating on five continents, as Epona Equestrian Services became Eponaquest Worldwide.
The momentum had been building for years. In 2005, for instance, an influx of international students inspired us to establish an equestrian-based retreat and conference center at a historic Arizona ranch. There, a group of adventurous, highly individualistic people put our most ambitious theories to the test, and I was thrust into a leadership role that I struggled to understand and live up to. The daily challenges of running a business based on the concepts of collaboration and authentic community were significant. Our equine-facilitated learning program at Apache Springs Ranch became a living laboratory, complicated by the fact that several of us stayed on-site with clients coming and going seven days a week. Many times, I felt more like a giant lab rat than a researcher or teacher, but the power of what we preached was enhanced by the act of living it, continually working out the kinks along the way.
By 2009, the center had reached a high level of functionality, offering daylong seminars and weeklong residential workshops. Our clients included educators, counselors, clergy, trauma survivors, parents, teens, artists, engineers, and entrepreneurs looking for ways to empower themselves while relating more effectively to others. We also helped returning soldiers and their spouses practice the emotional fitness skills necessary to handle posttraumatic stress and other warrior-reintegration challenges. Even so, the business suffered debilitating financial blows when the economic crisis coincided with a crucial growth stage. By summer, our beautiful ranch had been put up for sale, and we were once again operating as an agency (albeit a more sophisticated, well-connected global one), sending clients to multiple venues.
The dynamics of living and working at Apache Springs accentuated our explorations in leadership, power, creativity, intuition, personal healing, and social transformation. All the while, the horses kept urging clients and staff alike to enjoy the ride — to soar to new heights of inspiration and expanded awareness one moment; to feel the depths of fear, vulnerability, frustration, anger, and sadness the next; to access the wisdom behind our blunders; and then to calmly, reverently go back to grazing.
As nomadic, nonpredatory beings, horses radiate immense trust in the universe. Intelligent and highly adaptable, they embody strength, freedom, spirit, gentleness, beauty, authenticity, loyalty, and grace, fully immersing themselves in the moment and always ready to explore new opportunities and ever wider vistas of experience. Equine “philosophy” values relationship over territory. In their honest, sophisticated interactions, these animals easily navigate the paradox of nourishing individual and group consciousness simultaneously. As we continue to build our cathedrals, launch our space stations, refine our governments, and explore our visions of a peaceful global society, can we, as humans, learn to do the same?
Obsession and Depression
It’s no small task to think like God’s architect. That’s what the director of the Museum of the Barcelona Archdiocese called Gaudí after he was hit by a tram in 1926 and died in a pauper’s hospital. Within days people were nominating him for sainthood, and even the most virulently anti-Catholic newspaper had nothing but praise for his artistry and dedication. His alliance with the divine, however, did not exempt him from the complexities and sorrows of earthly existence. One anonymous Internet historian cited Gaudí’s unexpected demise as “a graphic illustration of the almost absurd misfortune that filled the life and work of the enigmatic Spanish architect.” Sketchy reports on his final years suggest the man was severely depressed. As a number of close friends and relatives passed away, he retreated further and further into his work until nothing was left but his beloved Sagrada Familia.
Though no one knows what the seventy-four-year-old artist was thinking in those final, fateful moments, rumor has it that he absentmindedly stepped into the street to gain a wider perspective of the cathedral, only to be slammed into eternity’s embrace by the relentless, impersonal momentum of public transportation. Gaudí’s selfless dedication continued to work against him over the five days it took him to actually expire from his injuries. As a public figure who shunned reporters and photographers, Gaudí had seldom been photographed, so the chances of anyone recognizing him on the street were severely limited. What’s more, the man cared little for appearance. Dressed like a vagabond, complete with empty pockets, he looked like a homeless man, which no doubt influenced several taxi drivers who refused to take him to the hospital. (They were later fined for negligence.) Two days after he went missing, Gaudí’s friends finally found him wasting away in an indigents’ ward, but he refused to be moved, reportedly saying, “I belong here among the poor.”
Being hit by a tram and dying a pauper’s death: that comes close to characterizing how it initially felt to lose my home and my life’s savings when a massive downturn in the economy forced the closing of Apache Springs Ranch — although I think I described it to my veterinarian as being “bitch-slapped by the universe” at the end of one particularly demoralizing day. I had just returned to my newly rented home in exile after the most heart-wrenching task of all, laying off the Epona Center staff, only to find Rasa, my soul mate in equine form, suffering a life-threatening bout of colic. With my husband selling off musical equipment to support the move, I had borrowed funds from a few close friends to save my herd and cover the final ranch expenses, as I was determined that no loyal employee or vendor would be left unpaid. Yet my good intentions seemed to go unnoticed as the powers that be demanded yet another, even more heart-wrenching sacrifice. Alternately feeling supremely sorry for myself and downright resentful at my growing list of losses, I was faced with the decision to sell one of my most talented lesson horses to pay for Rasa’s trip to the hospital — and endure the very real possibility of her death despite investing in her care.
Rasa carried an unusual burden for a horse. She was the original inspiration behind my equine-facilitated learning practice, the subject of my first two books, and the symbol of a growing international movement. Some people treated Rasa like a celebrity, which was a relief for me and a bit of a curse for her, as they often approached this steady, matter-of-fact mare with more reverence, excitement, and expectation than they had for the organization’s human founder. That night, however, I was as guilty as anyone in associating her illness with the ultimate demise of the entire vision. Luckily, I caught myself in the act and began gently, compassionately, separating my flesh-and-blood companion from a calling she had initiated and influenced, one she nonetheless could never be held responsible for completing.
As a horse, Rasa could inspire people. She could shift consciousness, showing us new ways of relating to the world and to each other. But she was incapable of handling the organizational details involved in taking this project to the next level. In fact, the vision had already grown beyond my wildest dreams, taking on a life of its own, and I had to concede that I wasn’t likely to see its completion, either.
At that moment, though I hadn’t yet encountered the term, a strange surge of energy turned my brain inside out and a mind-bending dose of “cathedral thinking” completely changed my perspective.
This sudden shift was not unlike being hit by a tram and blasted into eternity’s embrace, where I floated for a moment, or an hour, in a potent yet peaceful clarity, where everything suddenly made sense in the grand scheme of things. And I knew, deep in my bones, that my experience at Apache Springs was a stepping-stone, an advanced-degree program in the challenges of jump-starting a multigenerational project aimed at balancing the aggressive, needlessly destructive aspects of our culture and offering people the personal and professional tools to create lasting, meaningful change. Like Gaudí, Rasa and I had tapped into a source of inspiration that was not the least bit concerned with human concepts of time. Our client was in no hurry.
My horse survived that day, as did the mission she represented. She lived two more years, doing her best work despite an increasingly debilitating arthritic condition that led to her death at age twenty. With Rasa by my side, I felt energized and inspired, but the human element seemed relentlessly problematic. My horse remained blissfully unaware of the organizational challenges and interpersonal dramas I found so incredibly tedious. Even so, her strong, supportive presence helped me endure the elations and frustrations of blazing a new trail — with groups of people who fully expected me to know the way, no less.
In the beginning, all I had was curiosity, an adventurous spirit, a potent yet incomplete vision, and an ability to write about it. But that was enough to attract others who had an expanded view of human potential. However, while the majority of my students, colleagues, and employees were eager to step into their own power and experiment, some of them wanted me to psychically sense their needs and answer questions they didn’t know how to voice. A few came looking for the perfect parent they never had, expecting me to protect them from the same interpersonal challenges I had initially found so shocking and perplexing. Still others resented my success and couldn’t wait for me to fail. For years, I rode a roller coaster of inspiration, admiration, confusion, disappointment, pain — and ever deepening insight.
Over time, through much trial and error, my colleagues and I developed some leadership and authentic community-building skills to make the ordeal more manageable, and eventually more enjoyable, for everyone involved. Oddly enough, while I employed the valuable services of an executive coach, read every leadership book I could get my hands on — and learned a lot in the process — the most innovative tools came from working with the horses, from translating their highly adaptable, intensely social, nonpredatory perspective on power into a human context. In becoming more horselike, my students too began to thrive, finding the courage to follow their dreams and honing the skills to manifest them.
As newspaperman Walter Winchell observed, “Leadership is the capacity to translate vision into reality.” Working with horses taught me how to move fluidly between practical, earthly existence and that strange, amorphous other-world where the as-yet-unimagined hovers, waiting, always waiting, for someone with the nerve, endurance, ingenuity, and charisma to coax the formless into form. This is how we change the world. By the time Rasa left me in 2011, I had learned to manage the stress, confusion, and significant emotional distress that anyone saddled with a vision is bound to encounter. In fact, if I were to mythologize the trajectory of Rasa’s life, I would have to conclude that she hung around, quietly tutoring me, even carrying me at times, until I gained a more sophisticated view of leadership and could be trusted to walk the path without her. In this sense, I was lucky to have a horse to not just hold me up but cheer me up too.
Artists and innovators invariably suffer for their visions, a cliché we’ve all heard before. But recognition of that classic pattern doesn’t lessen the impact of feeling misunderstood, used, hurt, shamed, blamed, degraded, and betrayed along the way. Knowing the sacrifices and intrigue involved, who would sign up to live the life of Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, or Martin Luther King Jr., regardless of the colossal shifts they set in motion? In long-term projects, inspiration all too easily gives birth to a rowdy set of twins: obsession and depression. The energy of the first can carry you through any havoc wreaked by the second, it’s true. But I know the price this kind of power exacts on a human body. Pushing yourself year after year, stretching the limits of personal health and well-being in service to a demanding vision, is like plugging your living room lamp into a 220-volt industrial socket, day after day, and blaming the lamp for burning out. Without any previous training, innovators must learn to negotiate their own individual human needs within the supercharged agenda of inspiration and calling.
In myriad sanity-saving ways, my horses taught me how to deal with the drama and exhaustion. They exercised the courage, compassion, patience, and equanimity I needed in order to face the next round of challenges. They showed me how a herd could be a source of strength and creativity, not compliance, disempowerment, and suppression. And they exemplified a mind-set capable of navigating change, even tragedy.
Deep Peace
Many people assume that prey animals live in a state of constant fear and hypervigilance. Spend enough time around horses, especially those who haven’t been traumatized by abusive handling, and you realize this isn’t at all the case. Horses don’t stay up all night worrying about lions, and they certainly don’t manufacture trouble in order to control the ensuing drama. Secure, well-adjusted horses collaborate with fate. Instead of fixating on what should or shouldn’t happen, they sense what is happening and what wants to happen. Then they decide whether the developing situation is in their best interest, and they either go with the flow or get out of the way.
Horses don’t try to alter the environment, spending much of their time in a relaxed yet heightened state of awareness, ready for anything. As a result, they’re masters at assessing the evolving nuances of reality, deftly avoiding that human tendency to distort reality by engaging in wishful thinking or focusing on the worst possible outcome. For leaders, adopting this expanded, nonpredatory perspective creates an advanced capacity for risk management: paying attention to the subtle dynamics of a situation gives people a leg up in evaluating what they can control or change — and what they can’t — early enough to grasp an unexpected opportunity or avoid being eaten.
No matter what happens, horses exhibit exceptional emotional agility: They experience each moment openly and authentically, blazing through fear, power, pain, excitement, loss, playfulness, and unmitigated joy. And then they go back to grazing, spending a significant portion of each day milling languidly about in a state of deep peace that arises naturally when you’re not afraid of life.
Sitting quietly with Rasa, breathing in sync with her mindful acceptance of each and every moment, entrained by the beat of her massive heart, I always felt a sense of calm engulf me, no matter what trials I might otherwise be enduring. This in itself was a daily miracle. Her presence, however, was powerful, not passive. Horses, she taught me early on, actively respond to how people show up each day, highlighting our hidden gifts, our wounds, our vulnerabilities, and our worn-out worldly habits. And yet somehow they manage to be discerning without a hint of judgment, communicating that, at the core, we too are beautiful, powerful, and wise, capable of endless renewal.
Looking through the eyes of my horse Rasa, I came to see human dysfunctions as surface scintillations, dramatic and sometimes irritating to be sure, but certainly not set in stone. Whenever I managed, through grace or sheer stubborn will, to let go of an old pattern and embody a fresh perspective, Rasa would mirror the transformation, welcoming me home to an even deeper understanding of who I really was. And without the slightest hint of ambition, she would continually up the ante, stretching, relentlessly, my own limited ideas about my place in the world, my calling, and my untapped potential, helping me become a more effective human, one capable not only of dreaming big dreams but of riding a vision with a destiny of its own — and encouraging it to outlive me.
The view from eternity, after all, is clear: Pleasures and obstacles come and go, but the call to build something of lasting value cannot be denied. If people are “made in the image of their creator,” then human beings are designed to create. And those who accept the challenge of creating something truly remarkable, something imbued with a touch of the divine, aren’t given mortal excuses, reasonable timelines, and voluminous bank accounts. I can’t think of a single visionary who won the lottery to support a brilliant, socially significant idea.
Struggle is a part of innovation, there’s no doubt. It helps to know this up front, especially when the initial high of inspiration gives way to the realities of manifestation. But it’s also important to realize that we can experience peace on earth, deep peace, right here, right now. Horses do it every day. People all too often ignore this crucial, life-sustaining factor, reducing heaven to a deferred reward. Perhaps that’s why Gaudí hid out in a pauper’s ward after regaining consciousness, waiting for the end rather than fighting against it. Floating in the pure white light of a wider perspective, he was honored; he was inspired. And he was tired. Without a dose of horse wisdom to calm his mind, cheer him up, and carry him through the inevitable stress, his was a religion of turmoil, sacrifice, and strife.
He had no choice but to suffer for his art.
Mass Transit
Anyone who applies logic to visionary leadership is sure to blow a major fuse now and then. There are way too many paradoxes involved, countless pairs of opposites you must juggle artfully, sometimes while in your underwear. Gaudí’s skivvies were held together with safety pins. His meals often consisted of lettuce with a bit of milk sprinkled on top. He was a very cranky guy at times. These are the kinds of facts that history books record if you do something significant. And the analysis that follows would be humiliating to a man who refused to have his picture taken. Was Gaudí pious, anorexic, accessing altered states through starvation, or so distracted by the details of creating a massive monument to God that he couldn’t be bothered with thoughts of food, clothing, and social niceties? (I suspect the answer is yes to all four options.)
Selfless dedication to a calling results in behavior that appears alternately selfish and eccentric to family and friends. Part of the inevitable crankiness stems from trying to listen to your muse over the din of skeptics who don’t believe in what you’re doing, while you learn to set appropriate boundaries between yourself and people so enraptured with your vision that you’d never get anything done if you accepted all their dinner invitations. Of course, in Gaudí’s case, a good meal now and then would have helped. It’s hard to function when you’re obsessed, overworked, and starving. But even while dining with wealthy clients, the architect rarely strayed from a daily vegetarian regime so strict that most people would consider it a form of fasting.
The willingness to relinquish personal comfort in service to a goal is so common among trailblazers of all kinds, even in corporate settings, that bestselling authors Richard Boyatzis and Annie McKee have a term for it: the “Sacrifice Syndrome.” In Resonant Leadership, they characterize it as a counterproductive yet hard-to-resist trap that leaders fall into when they “sacrifice too much for too long — and reap too little.” Deeply religious, Gaudí also subscribed to the Catholic concept of “mortification of the flesh” at a time when early-twentieth-century painters and composers were romanticizing the idea of suffering for one’s art. And while we’re at it, let’s add the pressures of the visionary state itself. The muses don’t give a hoot about keeping your mortal body in optimal working order. When inspiration hits, it’s common to forget to eat or sleep for hours, even days, on end. And when inspiration fails, usually near some crucial deadline, a full-blown sleep disorder is on the horizon. With all these factors combined, Gaudí was lucky he lived long enough to meet a tragic end at seventy-four, let alone exhibit the endurance and clarity to continually raise funds for the cathedral while managing its construction and perfecting its revolutionary design.
And here’s perhaps the most unwieldy paradox of all: new perspectives demand sensitivity, creativity, and time spent alone to take form, while the subsequent manifestation of any significant, long-term vision requires motivating large numbers of people to pursue a common goal. A loner wandering around in that pulsating, open-nerve state may be able to mainline inspiration, but can he deal with the conflict, miscommunication, power plays, judgment, and politics of bringing his finest ideas to fruition? At the opposite end of the spectrum, intensely social people who develop a skin thick enough to let them navigate interpersonal and organizational dramas often lose connection to the very sensitivity that breeds inventive, nuanced thinking.
The solution involves a simple division of labor, you might say, but history has proven otherwise. Shrewd, charismatic managers and entrepreneurs have been known to prey upon brilliant yet socially awkward artists and inventors, whose ideas get diluted in the process. This kind of relationship, at its most benign, becomes codependent as the visionary loses touch with worldly concerns while his business partners neglect to further develop their own creative capacities. And both sides of this human equation are susceptible to the Sacrifice Syndrome as ambitious ideas face innumerable hurdles along the way, demanding visionaries and more practical leaders alike to break through the pressures, prejudices, and habits of the status quo on their way to creating lasting, meaningful change.
Finally, there’s the ultimate, arguably supernatural challenge: ensuring that the vision remains healthy after your poor worn-out bones are buried in the ground. Gaudí’s cathedral currently faces a threat more insidious than Catholic-hating communists: public transportation. One proposal involves construction of a subway nearby, which architects fear would damage the basilica over time. Another plan would turn the church into a train station. Apparently, it wasn’t enough to hit Gaudí with a tram. The assault of mass transit continues unabated nearly a century after his death.
These possible compromises to Sagrada Familia’s integrity illuminate one crucial aspect of managing individual and group needs over the long term. Not only do leaders have to convince colleagues, investors, and employees to buy into significant ideas, but at some point these innovators must also inspire a much larger public to support the vision as well. Whether in business, politics, art, or religion, initiating significant change is a lot like trying to overhaul an entire railway system while runaway trains continue to speed through it. No matter how defective the current model, people en masse resist the inconvenience and uncertainties of innovation with the hostility you’d expect them to reserve for immediate threats to their survival. Heated debates over public health care in the United States provide a glaring example. The average working man or woman isn’t trained or even encouraged to engage in cathedral thinking. And really, why should people be willing to sacrifice their own hard-earned comfort without an injection of the same 220-volt shot of inspiration that got the original innovator going? Acting as both lightning rod and transformer is part of the skill and thrill — and inevitable burnout — visionary leaders must learn to manage if they plan to achieve anything consequential.
Sacrifice and Renewal
As Mother Teresa once inscribed on the wall of her children’s home in Calcutta, “If you are successful, you win false friends and true enemies; Succeed anyway. . . . What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; Build anyway.” Pull this off, and you hit the PhD level of leadership development. Or maybe we’re talking sainthood here. Yet even those of us still working on the necessary prerequisites for great leadership — inspiration, innovation, communication, and emotional and social intelligence — need to understand how to navigate what Boyatzis and McKee call “the Cycle of Sacrifice and Renewal” if we plan to align our God-given talents and hard-won knowledge with long-term goals.
In the old pyramid-building days, slave labor ensured that generations would be conditioned through dominance and demoralization to act as drones for an agenda they were forced to support. This system, active in the United States less than two hundred years ago, “evolved” into the assaults on mind, body, and spirit that factory workers endured regardless of the lip service paid to their status as free men and women. Labor laws and unions protecting workers eventually emerged. Yet once you graduate to a significant leadership position, particularly one with entrepreneurial elements, the rules change. There are no government regulations to protect you. You must suddenly learn to advocate for yourself while also organizing, motivating, and inspiring others. To raise the difficulty level, some people will rave enthusiastically about whatever mission you represent while covertly undermining some aspect of the plan, often unconsciously, sometimes for reasons even they don’t understand. As the vision expands and takes on a life of its own, you must constantly modify your original expectations and strategies to align with unforeseeable challenges and opportunities, or you too will compromise the dream. And no one ensures that you receive fair pay for working no more than a reasonable number of hours, either. In the most daring, potentially paradigm-shifting fields, you’re likely to spend years compensating others before yourself. All the while, employees will assume you’re raking in the bucks, a throwback to the old robber-baron days, when the resentment was truly justified. Mass media reinforces this age-old mistrust, offering far more coverage of CEOs flying in private jets to receive government bailout funds than of innovators who sacrifice time and money while supporting a worthy vision. In the public mind, leaders are, quite simply, guilty until proven innocent. This is why, even though people are conditioned to at least feign respect for anyone in a supervisory role, authentic trust and compassion must be won, sometimes slowly over time, sometimes as dramatically as a warrior running a gauntlet of tribal abuse.
In 1999, Mike Judge, of Beavis and Butthead fame, satirized egotistical yet clueless bosses and insipid management practices in the film Office Space. A decade later, after running his own increasingly successful media enterprise, he couldn’t help but take the opposite position in his film Extract. Here Judge explored, with his usual brand of twisted social commentary, what the founder of a company deals with on a daily basis. In a radio interview with Fresh Air’s Terry Gross, he revealed the reasons behind this change in perspective:
I’d worked just dozens and dozens of jobs before I started my animation career. And by that point, I was pushing thirty. So I’d always been the employee. I had never had anybody work for me.. . .And then suddenly, when Beavis and Butthead started, I had anywhere from thirty to as many as ninety people working for me. And so, I just suddenly became sympathetic to my former bosses. You know, I was just, like, God, these people don’t appreciate anything. I’ve got to baby-sit them. They’re always fighting with each other and me.
One eye-opening experience involved hiring someone to color in his line drawings. In a good-natured attempt to share the little bit of wealth he was finally accessing, Judge offered what he felt was a generous, above-minimum-wage rate for a job that didn’t require any significant thought or creativity. At that time, mind you, he was working within a limited budget for an untried series of MTV shorts. Even so, Judge overheard, along with so many unprintable expletives, his employees complaining that he was getting rich at their expense. “I was, like, God, I can’t win,” he told Gross, obviously still surprised by the irony of his position.
This is the dark side of leadership. No one talks about it much, perhaps because most people would refuse to be promoted if they knew what to expect. Even worse, conventional training programs don’t prepare new leaders, let alone visionaries, for the most infuriating challenges involved. Common advice for handling power stress is to “suck it up” and “get over it.” Even the best books on emotional intelligence in the workplace only scratch the surface of the personal and social issues innovators face.
In negotiating the Cycle of Sacrifice and Renewal, for instance, renewal is not as simple as taking a vacation, eating dinner at home several times a week, and spending a couple weekends a month attending your child’s soccer games. The inescapable pressure of unresolved interpersonal difficulties, high expectations and demands, heartless gossip, and the general lack of compassion people display for the leader’s position follow you wherever you go, keeping you up nights, infiltrating your private thoughts and spousal conversations on even the most isolated Hawaiian beaches. In Resonant Leadership, authors Boyatzis and McKee create a strong foundation for interrupting the Sacrifice Syndrome through cultivating mindfulness, hope, and compassion; but real, lasting renewal also requires successfully managing a host of paradoxes simultaneously. Leaders must somehow balance individual and group needs within their companies and the culture at large. They must sacrifice personal comfort and short-term gratification yet avoid burnout, in part by setting effective boundaries with fans, foes, and the relentless energy of inspiration itself. To develop a thick skin, as new managers are so often tempted to do, is to lose the sensitivity necessary for creativity, and the compassion essential for effective leadership. To keep your heart open is to experience a certain amount of pain daily. Learning how to manage the discomfort without simply shutting down is possible. But the personal breakthroughs that are required resemble the transformations most often associated with religious or mystical experience.
Models for great leadership, in fact, read like recipes for sainthood. As Boyatzis and McKee observe, great leaders “deliberately and consciously step out of destructive patterns to renew themselves physically, mentally, and emotionally.” These individuals “are able to manage constant crises and chronic stress without giving into exhaustion, fear, or anger. They do not respond blindly to threats with fearful, defensive acts. They turn situations around, finding opportunities in challenges and creative ways to overcome obstacles. They are able to motivate themselves and others by focusing on possibilities. They are optimistic, yet realistic. They are awake and aware, and they are passionate about their values and their goals. They create powerful, positive relationships that lead to an exciting organizational climate.” And they’re masters at helping colleagues and employees rise to similar levels of creativity, emotional intelligence, and social awareness simply for efficiency’s sake, if not for altruistic reasons.
As I’ve so often asked myself, my colleagues, my mentors, and sometimes anyone within hearing range, where’s the handbook for that?
The Horse I Rode In On
In the early 1990s, an initially frustrating attempt at renewal gave me the insight and later the tools to address some of these age-old dilemmas. I had recently resigned from my position as program director of a Florida public radio station to move to Arizona with my new husband, recording artist Steve Roach. After five years wrangling a group of energetic, highly opinionated, artistically motivated people, not only at the station itself but also during the numerous special events and music festivals I organized along the Gulf Coast, I was ready for a break. Working as a freelance writer, living in the desert with my own private composer creating new works of art in the next room, was a dream come true, fulfilling yet economically unpredictable for both of us. So it wasn’t long before I also accepted a position as morning announcer at the local classical station. No longer dealing with the headaches of managing such an operation, I was expecting to hide out in the studio, enjoying a daily dose of Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms. The problem was, even though the station was technically a part of a major university’s communications department, there was precious little communication going on. And so, after experiencing the employee/employer dynamic from the leader’s viewpoint, I was suddenly thrust back into the labor pool to reevaluate both perspectives from the trenches.
In its public role, the station played sophisticated, soothing sounds. Behind the scenes, however, its administration was unnecessarily secretive and manipulative, playing political games, most often at the expense of female employees, who were rarely, if ever, promoted. As a nationally recognized music critic and former program director myself, I had a reputation that garnered a certain level of respect from the administration. But watching colleagues deal with a capricious, incongruent system tested my patience. Consoling these people inadvertently became part of my job, as several of my most creative work-related friends would burst into the announcing studio in tears, telling me ever more disturbing tales of maltreatment to the tempestuous accompaniment of Rachmaninoff, Wagner, and Ravel. As a lowly announcer myself, I was powerless to initiate organizational change, yet as an individual with a certain amount of leadership presence, I could occasionally turn the tide in my own favor. The ability to teach these skills to my fellow employees eluded me, however, mostly because I was unaware of key nonverbal elements influencing the most frustrating, as well as the most successful, of these pivotal interactions.
At the same time, I was perplexed by the famous musicians I encountered. Most people, radio station managers included, suppress emotion, hiding their true intentions behind bland smiles and passive-aggressive maneuvers, only to blow up at inopportune moments under stress. Yet artists rewarded handsomely for expressing emotion were likewise leading highly dysfunctional lives. It seemed that suppression and expression were two sides of the same dysfunctional coin, and my faith in the sanity of our species was deteriorating — fast.
And so in my midthirties, while my husband was off touring Europe with several other musicians, I impulsively bought a horse. My intention was to ride into the desert, to get as far away as possible from the human race on a regular basis. Yet this beautiful, willful mare refused to comply with my escape plan. Nakia, a striking Thoroughbred ex-racehorse, tested me every step of the way, showing absolutely no respect for my hard-won reputation. It didn’t matter to her that a well-known music magazine flew me to Los Angeles to interview k.d. lang one week, then sent me to Japan a month later to write a cover story on Brian Eno. There was no way I could impress my mount with stories of how another publication was arranging dinners with classical violin virtuosos Isaac Stern and Anne-Sophie Mutter in between meetings with jazz great Wynton Marsalis and rock guitarist Carlos Santana. She didn’t even care that I talked to Johnny Cash an hour before I drove out to the barn one day. Chatting with a country music legend did not make me a passable rider. All those years sitting at a desk, writing, listening to music, and talking into a microphone had cut me off from the fluidity, assertiveness, and balance in motion that even the most generous horse demands, and this mare was hell-bent on showing me exactly how my “prestigious” career made me weak and ineffective.
Yet a strange thing began to happen. As I became more adept at motivating my horse, focusing her attention, and gaining her respect, relationships at home and work improved. People commented on the change, yet no one could pinpoint what had shifted. I also noticed nonverbal dynamics at play in myself and others that were reinforcing dysfunctional patterns on both sides of the employer/employee relationship, though at first I had no idea how to change the situation. It was as if someone had suddenly turned a spotlight on interactions we’d been trying to maneuver through in the shadows, and yet for years I had been unable to even describe these observations to others. Over time, I realized that no matter how eloquently we humans advocated change, how diligently we debated the issues, how zealously we strategized, what we couldn’t talk about was a much more powerful motivator of behavior than anything we could discuss. Working with horses quickly became much more than a diversion. It was the missing link in my education as a writer, musician, wife, friend, employee, and, increasingly, leader.
Psychologists have observed that only 10 percent of human interpersonal communication is verbal. And yet in our culture, we’ve become mesmerized by words as our social and educational systems teach us to dissociate from the body, the environment, and the subtle nuances of nonverbal communication. More and more, our conversations don’t even take place in person, as cell phones, email, and text messages proliferate. Where in the world do we go to master that other 90 percent?
For me, the most rustic of boarding stables proved a worthy setting. In fact, there was no end to the character-building exercises my growing herd saw fit to impose. Through a relentless series of experiential lessons, my four-legged companions transformed me into a more engaged, assertive, intuitive, adaptable, and courageous person, not so much by tutoring as by tuning me, helping me over time to hold a more balanced frequency. I was amazed to find that, like Pegasus, the mythical winged stallion who inspired poets, artists, and musicians, my horses could dispel the worst case of writer’s block through the simplest interactions. Like Zen masters, these exquisitely mindful creatures helped me navigate paradox with increasing facility. They even held the key to effectively dealing with emotion, and it didn’t involve suppression or expression. (For details, see Guiding Principle 1, in chapter 13 of the book.) I could act horselike in all kinds of perplexing human situations and completely change the outcome for the better. The barn took on a mystical patina as my equine friends taught me more in silence than anyone ever had in words.
It’s taken me a good fifteen years to translate horse wisdom into spoken and written language, and yes, I can even inject significant logic into the discussion. Much of the research allowing me to do this didn’t exist when I started this journey in 1993, so it seems I was born at the right time and place to take on such a project. Over the years, through much experimentation, I also developed ways of teaching these same skills to others. Yet while there is much I can now offer in conference rooms and lecture halls, my horses remain the true masters at transforming human behavior, illuminating ineffective habits and hidden strengths, and teaching awareness of, and eventually mastery of, that “other 90 percent” with remarkable ease and efficiency.
In this respect, it’s absolutely no accident that the most effective historical leaders — from Alexander the Great to Katherine the Great, George Washington, Winston Churchill, and Ronald Reagan — were skillful riders, equestrians who had close relationships with spirited, arguably heroic horses. Regardless of policy and agenda, these people exhibited exceptional poise under pressure, clarity of intention, courage, and conviction. Their mounts were not mindless machines. They required — and continued to foster — an almost supernatural level of leadership presence capable of motivating others to face incredible odds and create innovative, highly ambitious empires. That Alexander the Great and George Washington each rode the same horses into battle year after year also demonstrates their ability to cultivate relationship as a source of power: to tap resources without taxing them, even in the most dangerous and desperate circumstances. Their horses returned the favor, saving their lives on more than one occasion.
Business, politics, education, and religion may seem like opposing forces at times, but they all share one significant, potentially fatal flaw: mistrust of the body. Civilization has thus interrupted the optimal flow of human evolution. Your body is the horse that your mind rides around on. It’s a sentient being, not a machine. (See Guiding Principle 2, chapter 14.) Starve that horse, beat it into submission, ignore its vast stores of nonverbal wisdom, and it will fail you when you need it most, throwing you during a crisis, perhaps wandering into traffic at the most inopportune moment. Reawakening corporeal intelligence — learning to form a partnership with instinct, intuition, and emotion — these skills are essential in harnessing the strength, creativity, spirit, compassion, and endurance needed to manifest lasting, meaningful change.
There’s a whole herd of horses in my cathedral, and they remain my greatest teachers. This is the course, the handbook they’ve dictated in so many subtle and powerful gestures.
