The Power of the Herd (67 page)

Drew was mortified that she had put Rumor and Arianna in danger, and she apologized. But perhaps because she was feeling vulnerable and ashamed, she began to shame Arianna in response when the opportunity arose later in the conversation.

“I expected you to be different,” Drew said as she shared her side of the story. “But I have to say I'm really disappointed in you. You say you're all about a new way of being with horses and running a barn, but to me it's just the same old story. You're like all the other slave-driving bosses I've worked for.”

I had warned Arianna that, when Drew spoke, she wouldn't know how to use the messages behind her emotions in place of possibly inflammatory or shaming statements. Arianna would need to show a certain amount of self-control and thoughtfulness, perhaps even emotional heroism (see Guiding Principle 11, in
chapter 23
) to turn the situation around.

“You know,” Arianna told me, “it's a real trigger for me when someone says she's really disappointed in me. My mother used to say that in a very shaming way, and her mother most certainly used that demeaning tactic as well. But instead of shutting down or getting nasty back, I went to the disappointment section of the Emotional Message Chart and used those questions to problem solve. It was totally disarming. Drew and I had a great conversation after that, and I know she left thinking that I
was
different!”

As a result of this incident, Arianna decided to postpone one of the workshops she was doing for a local business later that month. She also looked for other ways to take the pressure off her staff until the new intern arrived, and Drew had some good ideas for making the operation more efficient. The following spring, Drew completed her internship with glowing reviews from clients and staff alike.

“When I think back on that time,” Arianna later told me, “I could have easily shot myself in the foot, either firing Drew or causing her to quit. As it turned out, she wasn't trying to sabotage me at all. She was dealing with all kinds of crazy stress in her life, and I was adding to it. She was actually one of the best workers I've ever had. And for my birthday, she gave me a little gift with a card saying that I was her best boss ever!”

W
hen my stallion Merlin finally gained enough self-control
to live with my mares Rasa and Comet, he wasn't necessarily the boss. In fact, it was hard to tell who was in charge.

Comet made quite a show at mealtime, rushing up to the first pile of hay, rearing and kicking out at her mate. The stallion would move away, but only a step or two, his sparkling eyes and engaged expression reveling in her fiery display. If he could speak, he probably would have been asking with a whimsical sigh: “Isn't she
cute
when she's dominant?”

Rasa would saunter up a few moments later, sometimes settling on a more isolated flake of alfalfa, sometimes stepping into the fray if she was really cranky or committed. Merlin cared little about eating, choosing to come and go, nibbling next to each mare, sometimes staring languidly off into the distance. Yet if a strange horse got loose and ran toward the fence, he would herd his mares away with no ifs, ands, or buts, then return to more fully assess the newcomer's intentions and, more often than not, attack.

When Rasa came into heat, youthful Comet played referee. Merlin and Rasa couldn't mate without her consent, and if the stallion became excessively passionate in his approach, Rasa would hide behind her herd sister. But if I walked toward the pasture, Rasa would shoo the others away from me, insisting on being first in line for an outing. And though the solid-black mare didn't assert herself as often as the others, they missed her self-assured presence. Merlin and Comet would pace and call out when Rasa left, but when they were led away to be trained, Rasa would graze, unconcerned, knowing they'd return soon
enough. In this way, the older mare engaged in a subtle form of leadership, able to calm and center her more nervous and flamboyant family members. (She also had the same effect on people.)

In this trio, the dominance hierarchy varied
, quite frankly, according to what the human observer defined as important. In reality, however, the horses were trading leadership and dominance roles according to who was calmest, clearest, most committed, or most invested in the outcome.

I noticed similar situational leadership dynamics in the other herds who lived at Apache Springs Ranch. Most of the horses who came to our equine-facilitated learning center were gifted teachers — chosen because of their capacity to challenge people while remaining safe, adapting to the needs of individual students. Some of our equine professors were experts in various riding styles; some excelled at ground work; others had lived on the open range and worked cattle; one had been used as a drug-running horse.

When turned out together, they would capitalize on their varied experiences. Naturally dominant horses who had been mistreated by humans, for instance, could not act as the alpha in all situations. They didn't even try. When people approached the herd, these otherwise feisty animals would hang toward the back, watching how the suspect two-legged creatures were treating their more gregarious companions. If someone knocked the gate down, and the herd ran off at midnight, members would look to the most trail-savvy horse for direction. When unfamiliar horses were introduced to the herd, some members were especially adept at breaking up fights or gently welcoming newcomers.

In these equine communities, what an individual
knew
about, what he
cared
about, what he was
calm or enthusiastic
about determined leadership, as all members had some talent, drive, or experience that the others valued or, at times, simply deferred to. Translated as “sensing together,”
consensual leadership
seemed to be a more appropriate term than
pecking order
or
dominance hierarchy.

Humans seeking an absolute definition of
leadership,
and a concrete technique or job description to go with it, don't like this concept much, but it's really not hard to fathom. And the benefits of putting it into action far outweigh the surface ambiguities. If you propose to create a team of experts or an authentic community where people's true feelings, talents, dreams, and motivations are acknowledged, you have to head in this general direction.

No leader knows everything. To convince your followers otherwise is dishonest, requiring increasing levels of posturing, deception, and finally, intimidation. Yet it takes significant self-esteem and discernment to conceive of others taking the lead now and then without letting them dominate
you.
Basically, you
have to maintain good boundaries without feeling the need to order everyone else around — or to be seen as the expert in all possible situations.

Consensual leadership draws on the wisdom and sentience of the entire herd. It is, to a great extent, improvisational. Though I may be acknowledged as the official leader of Eponaquest, I'm still in business because I've gathered a group of people around me who can both lead and follow, whom I can trust to support me when I'm feeling vulnerable and who admit when they're feeling unsure. When we're uncertain or triggered by whatever is happening, we look to the person who seems the calmest and most centered in that situation. Sometimes when we're undecided about which road to take, we look to the most confident, invested, or enthusiastic person. When there's unresolved conflict, we agree to consult outside experts, and sometimes even then the path is not clear. In these cases, I may have to follow my gut, though I'm still dubious about the exact, right course of action.

Mostly, however, we all have to acknowledge that we do not know the one true right way, that authentic community and shared leadership are challenging, cutting-edge concepts with no clear rules and referees. Some students and employees find this disconcerting, even frightening. But as they develop the emotional- and social-intelligence skills associated with the other eleven guiding principles, they quickly come to see and enjoy the benefits.

Animal behavior scientists are compiling evidence of shared leadership in nature as well. In the article “Consensus Decision Making in Animals,” published in
TRENDS in Ecology and Evolution
in 2005, Larissa Conradt and Timothy J. Roper offer an extensive overview of relevant studies. They write,

Researchers have often assumed
a priori
that
a particular group member (usually the most dominant) leads consensus decisions about travel destinations and group activities. However, more recent studies have reported variable leadership and the absence of a correlation between leadership and dominance status in several bird and mammal species in captivity. Information about decision makers in wild birds and mammals is often based on small data sets or anecdotal reports[,] but in general, decisions seem to be made in a partially shared manner between the adult group members of at least one sex. . . . In small groups, the opportunity exists for all members to vote.

Democracy, it seems, is not a recent human invention. Like mutual aid and competition avoidance, it's one of those long-ignored options nature provides that kings, conquistadors, and predatory business leaders have actively suppressed. Whatever you call it — consensual, shared, or situational leadership
— this concept encourages
mutual empowerment.
Yet because the decisions modern humans make are much more complex, especially when coordinating long-term creative projects that affect millions of people, significant social-intelligence skills are involved.

Optimal consensual leadership requires developing teams that display a high tolerance for vulnerability (Guiding Principle 5, in
chapter 17
). In more challenging pursuits, such as political and social-activism contexts, it's essential for all individuals involved to display emotional heroism (Guiding Principle 11, in
chapter 23
). People capable of sharing leadership in any context, however, must also know how to conserve energy for true emergencies (Guiding Principle 7, in
chapter 19
), manage contagious emotions in groups (Guiding Principle 3, in
chapter 15
), set effective boundaries (Guiding Principle 4, in
chapter 16
), and respectfully address difficult topics (Guiding Principle 9, in
chapter 21
).

And finally, to experiment and take the kinds of constructive risks that lead to innovation, teams must be able to discuss partial successes and outright failures in constructive ways, diffusing evaluation apprehension. (See
chapter 11
for a disturbing view of how human beings often unconsciously, sometimes purposefully, escalate this performance-inhibiting stressor.)

To avoid confusing, shaming, or simply overwhelming team members with unbridled feedback, and to teach all participants to pay attention to what is successful as well as what needs improvement, I highly recommend using the following protocol when evaluating the status of any goal or ongoing project:

1.   What was effective or particularly successful?

2.   What should we refine in the future?

3.   What were the major challenges we overcame?

4.   What are the current blocks to success?

5.   Which challenge, block, or refinement should we work on first? What ideas do various team members have for troubleshooting and modification?

In this way, we build teamwork, enthusiasm, and trust, even when we must honestly look at what still needs improvement!

W
hen I first met Midnight Merlin in 1999,
it took a lot of courage to walk into his corral. Trainers more experienced than I had given up on him, and it wasn't hard to figure out why. The real question was
why did I even try?
I wasn't the only person asking this question. My own riding instructor, Shelley Rosenberg, a woman who had worked with dozens of stallions, showing, breeding, and starting them under saddle, initially told me to
“run,
don't walk, away from this one.” But somehow, through naïveté or stubbornness, probably a bit of both, I convinced her to help me do something even more outrageous than rehabilitate him. I asked her to help me socialize him to live, respectfully, with a pair of my most treasured mares.

The skills I learned while managing this strange project, I later realized, were even more valuable when I began to collaborate with humans who had been victimized, or simply disillusioned, by an aggressive, highly competitive culture just as likely to treat people as tools, as workhorses, as expendable means to some callous, shortsighted end.

But while collaborating with an angry horse was dangerous physically, working with people was more confusing and disheartening. Understanding how to solicit help from experts who knew more than I did — while staying true to a vision that asked teachers and students alike to step outside their comfort zones — was quite an undertaking. Yet for reasons I still can't explain, I was compelled to surmount the sometimes painful, at times shocking, challenges involved. Occasionally I would lose my own balance, fall flat on my face, and endure the sensation of being trampled by a panicking yet powerful herd.

Then, after struggling to stand, I had to deal with another, thoroughly unexpected emotional blow. At times, people were more likely to berate me for my ineptitude than they were to help me up, engaging in the timeworn practice of using my vulnerabilities against me. Intelligent, well-meaning people did this to each other as well, of course. I wasn't sure what felt worse: standing by helplessly observing this behavior or taking the hit myself.

It was hard not to feel betrayed and, even worse, cynical about the future of the entire human race. But this, as it turns out, is a classic visionary leadership dilemma: You don't know exactly where you're going and how to get there, and you can't do it alone. Yet because you don't know what you don't know, much less how to deal with it, some of your associates will use this against you, even as they're inspired to follow you into the unknown.