Holding On and Letting Go

One of my favorite sights in Palm Desert this time of year is the arrival of the big car carriers. They're hard to miss on Highway 74 as I head up toward the Santa Rosa and San Jacinto Mountains National Monument for my morning exercise. Huge trucks loaded with automobiles, many of them beautiful luxury cars, are bringing their cargo into the desert for another season. I've always enjoyed seeing them. There's something about their arrival that signals a change in the rhythm of life here.

October is a wonderful month in the desert. The mornings are cooler, people are returning, and restaurants that were quiet during the summer are beginning to fill again. I enjoy the anticipation of another season, even though I've experienced this change many times before. Familiar things can still bring pleasure, and perhaps that's one of the things I appreciate more as I get older.

I've been thinking lately about holding on and letting go. Years ago, the National Training Laboratories offered a popular lab by that name, led for many years by Bob Tannenbaum and Bob Hanna. I remember the title, although I can't say I gave much thought then to how it might apply to my own life decades later. It seems to have acquired more meaning with time.

During my career, I've had the good fortune to work with people who influenced how I think about organizations, leadership, and myself. Some were mentors, some were colleagues, and some were people whose confidence in me made a difference at an important moment. I still think about a few of them with great affection, even though we haven't been in touch for years. Occasionally, I wonder what they would make of the work I'm doing today. It's curious how the opinions of people from our past can continue to matter, long after the circumstances that brought us together have changed.

I've also noticed that experience doesn't necessarily make us less uncertain about ourselves. We may become more capable, more accomplished, and more comfortable in our work, but that doesn't mean we stop wondering whether we're doing enough or whether our contributions matter. I used to imagine that those questions would diminish with age and experience. I'm not sure they do. Maybe we simply become more accustomed to living with them.

On a recent morning jog, I was listening to George Harrison's "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." I've heard the song countless times, but this time the line about learning from mistakes caught my attention. I thought about some of the decisions I've made over the years, including those I might make differently today. There are certainly enough of them. But I also thought about how difficult it is to know, in the moment, which decisions will matter most. We do what seems right, sometimes with confidence and sometimes with considerable doubt, and only later begin to see what followed.

There's a familiar observation attributed to Kierkegaard that life can only be understood backward, although it must be lived forward. I've always liked it, although I'm less convinced these days that looking backward necessarily brings understanding. Sometimes it does. Other times, we simply remember things differently. What seemed like a setback at one point may turn out to have opened an unexpected possibility. A decision we once celebrated may look less wise with the benefit of time. And some experiences remain as puzzling as they were when they happened.

I've come to think that holding on and letting go aren't necessarily problems to solve. There are commitments, relationships, and values worth preserving, even when the world around us encourages something different. Knowing the difference isn't always easy, and I suspect it becomes less a matter of following a principle than of paying attention to what is happening in our lives.

I'm still interested in what comes next. There's a book I want to write, people I want to meet, and work I want to do. I enjoy the possibilities as much as I ever have, perhaps more because I'm increasingly aware that time isn't unlimited. I also find myself thinking about earlier chapters of my life with affection. I don't see much contradiction in that. The past is part of who I am, but it doesn't have to occupy all the space available for the future.

The car carriers will continue arriving in Palm Desert over the coming weeks. I'll see them on Highway 74, perhaps while heading up into the mountains on another beautiful desert morning. I imagine I'll still smile when one passes. I like the return of the season, the familiar sights, and the small anticipation of what the coming months might bring.