After the exciting beginning comes the inevitable complication. Isn’t that the way? It’s the hero’s journey. It’s always the hero’s journey.

After you resolve the initial complication comes the really big complication: The collaborative organizational change project where you realize that you’d underestimated just how little your managers know about sharing leadership. Oops. The new car that doesn’t fit in the garage. Oh, no! You don’t have time to do it the way you’d envisioned it. Uh-oh. You fall a little less in love with the whole idea. If the really big complication is really, really big, you reach a decision point: declare it a failure and end it, pretend it’s working and find someone to blame, or figure out how to move forward. This latter option always involves transformation. Of you, the hero.

I’m pretty sure this is the really big complication: When we realize we’re about to be inconvenienced. Mightily.

Many change projects founder here. We start arguing for the problem (”they’ll never…” “we should have realized…”) or decide that something was wrong with the whole idea (”well, THAT was a mistake”).

It’s as though no one has read The Two Towers. Do you remember it? It’s the middle book in JRR Tolkien’s trilogy, The Lord of the Rings. Reading it is like being flayed alive. The fellowship is split, the initial pact spoiled, flaws and hidden agendas revealed. All the fun is gone and all seems lost. The book details - excruciatingly - the separate journeys of the characters. There are long marches through barren landscapes, deprivation, hunger, terror, attacks and remarkable encounters. Everyone undergoes a transformation. Destroying the ring is that big an idea, that compelling a purpose.

Whatever you’re involved in may not be as big as destroying an evil ring. But I bet it’s important. The middle of anything is always like The Two Towers. The mistake we make is thinking that something is wrong because it’s no longer easy or simple. We pull back and then wonder what’s wrong with them. We get tired.

The middle of anything is about recommitting to it. Not to what’s wrong with it, but to the ideal behind it - to the purpose. It’s fine to change the details, or lop off entire sections. It’s fine to scale back. Just don’t equate the discomfort with being wrong or failing. Don’t panic. You’re not failing. This is normal. You just look for the next toehold and lean into it. This is how you find out the true nature of what you’ve committed to. And how committed you are. And to what. Is your commitment to the way you initially decided to do it, and now that that’s not working, you’re outta there? Or is there something bigger that still holds you and enables you to re-vision your involvement. The only way to fail at this point is to quit.

My ukulele was no different. I bought it to have fun, to enjoy its beautiful sound. I was seduced by that sound. I conveniently underplayed the nerve damage in my left hand that’s kept me from playing guitar for the last 16 years, although I’ve tried many times, and been to many physical therapists. I’d been a classical guitar major in college, and I’ve never stopped missing that sound. I thought: The uke only has 4 strings - surely I can play it.

And, for two weeks, I could: I dove right into difficult jazz and classical arrangements because that’s what I loved. It was fun, it was easy, it was…OUCH! My left elbow was on fire. Physical therapy seemed a logical next step, but not for treatment. I needed a decision: Can this left hand be rehabilitated, or do I need to learn to play with my other hand?

Ada Wells, an extraordinary PT, tested the pincer grip in my left hand. I failed miserably and the fire in my elbow intensified. My right hand passed the test easily, with no pain. Now my decision was: What do I want to do?

Took me a couple of days to decide, but I committed to making those sounds I love, and let go of the way I thought I’d get it. I restrung the uke and started learning to play left-handed. I’m quite a bit further from my goal of making sounds I enjoy, but I’m noticing something unexpected. I used to love playing guitar; in college, and later as a music therapist, it became my job and much of the pleasure drained out of it. Now that that I’m a beginner again, I can let go of all that performance pressure. Mostly I sound terrible, but what can you expect?

This entry was posted on Monday, June 9th, 2008 at 10:53 am and is filed under Leadership, compassion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.