I Would Like It Noted That I Did Not Choose the Lighthouse
Have you ever found yourself in the particular kind of workplace hell where you are required to enthusiastically support something you think is shit?
It seemed like a good idea, but goodness… the execution got away, then got committee-ed and turned into pulp.
Sure, we need a strategy, maybe the odd framework, but where the hell did the lighthouse come from? Now, apparently we’re on a journey. We are going to make a difference. The journey requires a roadmap. The roadmap is guided by our North Star. Fortunately, someone has also supplied a compass. There’s a bridge to the future. A mountain we’re climbing together. A horizon we’re moving towards. And, for reasons nobody can adequately explain, a rowing boat full of ethnically diverse people all paddling in the same direction.
You stare at it. It stares back. This would have been cutting-edge stuff in 1986. And now you have to stand next to it. Worse, people know what you do for a living. So there is a very real possibility someone will look at the lighthouse, the cliché statements, the compass, the mountain, the bridge, the rowing boat and the inspirational sunrise and think that you did this.
NO. I DID NOT. I WAS IN THE BUILDING. THAT IS THE EXTENT OF MY INVOLVEMENT.
And so begins the delicate corporate art of publicly supporting the work while simultaneously establishing an alibi.
“This is where we landed.”
“There was extensive consultation.”
“This reflects the agreed direction.”
“A number of options were explored.”
“The feedback was incorporated.”
“It was decided.”
Oh, passive voice. You beautiful, cowardly bastard.
Nobody chose the lighthouse. The lighthouse was chosen.
Nobody called it a journey. The journey language emerged.
Nobody decided we needed a North Star and a compass. The visual metaphor evolved.
Nobody put the f**king rowing boat in there. Stakeholder feedback was incorporated.
At this point you’re not communicating. You’re giving evidence at a Royal Commission.
Commissioner: “Were you present when the lighthouse was selected?”
You: “I attended several meetings.”
Commissioner: “Did you support the lighthouse?”
You: “I support where we landed.”
Commissioner: “That wasn’t the question.”
You: “I SUPPORT WHERE WE LANDED.”
Commissioner: “Did you or did you not suggest the phrase ‘make a difference’?”
You: “I have no recollection of those events.”
Commissioner: “Were you aware there was already a roadmap?”
You: “I became aware of the roadmap at approximately 14:35.”
Commissioner: “And yet you allowed the compass to proceed?”
You: “On legal advice, I’m unable to comment.”
Eventually the thing launches. There are posters, screensavers, mouse mats, Teams backgrounds and then you see someone has made a pull-up banner. The lighthouse is now 1.8 metres tall. The journey has milestones. The milestones have icons. One of the icons is a flag. We are apparently now climbing the mountain, crossing the bridge, following the compass, navigating by the North Star, rowing the boat AND planting flags along the way.
This is no longer a strategy/framework. It is an orienteering emergency.
And then someone says: “This looks fantastic. Was this your work?” Time stops. You consider your options. You could be generous. You could be collaborative. You could behave like the mature organisational professional you claim to be.
Or you could grab them firmly by the shoulders, look deeply into their eyes and say:
“I need you to understand something. I did not choose the lighthouse. I didn’t suggest we make a difference. I did not call it a journey. I did not build the bridge. I have never followed a North Star because I live in Australia and we can’t see it from here. And I was categorically opposed to the f**king rowing boat.”
But you don’t. You smile, nod and say: “It was a real team effort.”
And somewhere behind you, the lighthouse keeps shining and guiding us all on our journey.