Reflections on Connection-Centered Leadership - Issue No. 41: What Can Grow When We Create the Right Conditions?
We kept climbing in elevation as we followed the winding roads up the mountain in Costa Rica. The lush green stood in stark contrast to the deep gray, stormy sky as the clouds thickened around us. When we finally arrived at Verdesana, an Imiloa retreat property nestled in 100 acres of regenerated cloud forest, the views were almost as impressive as the hospitality.
That evening, gathered around the fireplace after dinner, we heard a story that made the landscape surrounding us even more remarkable.
It's difficult to imagine that this was once a cow pasture.
We heard the story of the 82-year-old man who has owned this land since the days of the pasture. He had a vision of growing a forest on the acreage to match the surrounding jungle, but he was told that nothing would grow in the soil. He tried planting different seeds without success, yet he continued looking for something that might take root.
Everyone told him nothing would grow. And each year that he planted a different tree, it appeared that "they" were right. Until he finally planted the cypress seeds. They flourished, and more and more grew until the hundred acres were its own forested contribution to the surrounding mountain scene.
What I find especially remarkable is that he began planting with the expectation that he might never live to see the forest mature. Yet at 82, he is here to witness what it has become.
And the forest has become more than a forest.
Today, the property is a retreat center where people gather from different places and backgrounds to learn, reflect, connect, and consider what might be possible in their own lives. The spaces have been thoughtfully designed, with attention given to the details that influence how people experience their surroundings.
Among other things, I'm here co-facilitating workshops on religious trauma, dreaming and values, and helping people discover and develop their voices—maybe even as authors. Each requires a different approach, but they share something fundamental: creating opportunities for people to examine what they've experienced, consider what they believe, and determine how they want to move forward.
Standing in a forest that someone once said couldn't grow seems particularly appropriate.
When the Vision Outlasts the Original Plan
The distinction between the landowner's vision and his methods is particularly interesting to me.
He didn't abandon the forest because the first seeds failed. He adapted the plan for the reality at hand and changed what he planted.
There is a difference between remaining committed to a vision and becoming so attached to the original approach that we refuse to consider another way.
I've encountered that tension in my own life, and I see it regularly in my work with leaders. We establish a goal, develop a strategy, and begin executing. When progress doesn't unfold as expected, we may conclude that the vision was unrealistic, or we double down on the same approach because changing course feels like admitting we were wrong.
Sometimes the problem isn't the vision. Sometimes we haven't yet understood the conditions well enough to know what will grow.
That doesn't mean every idea is viable or that persistence guarantees success. Some goals require reconsideration, and some environments cannot support what we're trying to build without substantial change.
But a failed attempt gives us information. What we do with that information influences what becomes possible next.
The Narratives We Agree With
The landowner was told that nothing would grow in the soil. That was the prevailing assessment of the conditions, but it wasn't the end of his curiosity.
How often do we make agreements with narratives about ourselves or our circumstances before we've adequately examined whether they're true?
Sometimes those narratives come from people whose opinions we value. Other times they emerge from repeated disappointments, difficult relationships, previous failures, or experiences that have taught us to expect certain outcomes. Over time, we can begin organizing our decisions around what we've come to believe is possible.
I've been on the receiving end of predictions about what my body would never do again. Some proved inaccurate. Others required me to acknowledge limitations and find different ways to accomplish what I hoped to do. Both experiences taught me to distinguish between what is true today and what must always remain true.
Awareness gives us an opportunity to examine the stories we've accepted without automatically treating them as permanent.
We can acknowledge the soil's condition without assuming we've discovered everything that could grow there.
What Are We Cultivating?
The forest also raises a question about the environments we create for other people.
We often talk about wanting people to grow, whether we're raising children, leading organizations, developing teams, or supporting someone through a difficult season. We have expectations about what growth should look like and sometimes even establish timelines for when it should happen.
But wanting someone to flourish doesn't automatically create the conditions that support their development.
When we're trying to change, we can become so focused on the behavior we want to see that we fail to examine the conditions influencing the behavior we're getting. We ask ourselves and others to be innovative, collaborative, accountable, or adaptable, but what have we done to cultivate those capacities? What are we rewarding? What are we making unnecessarily difficult? What support have we provided to develop the skills we're expecting ourselves and others to demonstrate?
That's one reason I spend so much time examining informal culture in my leadership work. The values an organization publishes are only part of the story. The expectations, relationships, incentives, and everyday interactions people experience influence how they behave and what they're willing to attempt. When the story an organization tells about itself doesn't match what people experience, even well-intentioned efforts to create change may struggle to take root.
The same question applies personally. We may desire healthier relationships, greater creativity, meaningful change, or a different way of living while maintaining habits and expectations that work against those goals.
Sometimes we need to reconsider what we're planting. Other times, we need to examine the conditions under which we expect it to grow.
The Conditions We Carry With Us
For me, that begins with being anchored to something larger than myself. My faith gives me a foundation that doesn't have to change every time circumstances do. It also invites me to examine whether I'm allowing my own expectations, fears, or preferences to become the center of decisions that affect other people.
There's an inward responsibility, too. Am I willing to acknowledge when something isn't working, even when I've invested considerable time and energy into it? Can I distinguish between remaining committed to what I believe I'm called to build and becoming attached to the particular way I expected to build it?
And then there's the responsibility we have toward others. Whether we're leading an organization, raising children, or navigating relationships, we influence the conditions in which other people are trying to grow. Our expectations, responses, decisions, and willingness to adapt can either support that growth or make it unnecessarily difficult.
This is where awareness, connection, and movement become practical rather than conceptual. We have to recognize what is actually happening, examine the relationships and conditions influencing it, and then be willing to act on what we've learned. Sometimes the next step involves changing our strategy. Other times, it requires patience while something we've already planted has time to develop.
I wonder how often we're asking people to flourish in environments we've never stopped to examine.
What We May Never See
Perhaps the most compelling part of the forest's history is that the man who planted it didn't expect to see what it would eventually become.
He invested in something whose full benefit might belong to people he would never meet.
I think about that when considering the cultures we're building, the children we're raising, the people we're developing, and the work we're creating. We often measure success by what we can see during our own tenure, within our own timelines, or while we're still the ones responsible for the outcome.
But some of what we cultivate will continue developing long after our direct involvement ends. The person we mentor may eventually lead people we'll never know. A child may carry something we taught them into relationships and decisions we'll never witness. An organizational culture may be shaped by choices whose consequences extend well beyond the leaders who made them.
I wonder what it must be like for this 82-year-old man to walk among the trees he planted when he wasn't sure he'd ever see them mature. Now, from his front porch, he watches people arrive on the land he cultivated, perhaps never imagining what his forest would eventually make possible.
He wanted a forest. He got one. Today, people from around the world are gathering beneath those trees to consider what might become possible in their own lives.
He couldn't have known all that would grow from what he planted.
And perhaps neither can we.
What are we cultivating today that could become the environment in which someone else flourishes tomorrow?
Questions I'm Sitting With This Week
1) What narratives about myself or my circumstances have I accepted without adequately examining whether they're true?
2) Where am I holding on to an original strategy when the conditions may call for a different approach?
3) Are the environments I'm creating in my relationships, family, or organization supporting the growth I say I want to see?
4) What am I willing to invest in today, even if I may never see the full outcome?
Comments