The first speech I gave about the Sahara Desert caught me by surprise. I was hired to address the meeting of an association of asphalt-road builders who were notorious for being a difficult audience. I had no idea what to talk about. Then I remembered the paved road that crosses part of the Sahara. At a certain point the road ends. You aren’t really anywhere—it just stops. Life is like that, too. Sometimes the paved road you’ve been speeding along quite comfortably suddenly ends and you’re in a desert. I was surprised by how much the road builders liked the story and the slides. I decided to focus on presentations about crossing the Sahara, and my speaking career took off.
My next surprise about the power of the desert metaphor came from an unlikely source: a mountain climber. He was a motivational speaker who sat next to me on an airplane, and his claim to fame was climbing Mount Everest. On more than one occasion a prospective client had hired him instead of me. He charged twice as much as I did and was three times as busy. I had a bad case of professional jealousy. But he seemed friendly enough, and after a couple of drinks I began to relax. Then he told me that he planned to cross the Arabian Desert, write a book about the adventure, and start giving speeches about crossing deserts. I ordered another drink.
Alcohol combined with the lack of oxygen in an airplane triggers air rage in some passengers. Others react to the mix of booze and altitude with a more common side effect: air blabber. Suddenly your mouth has a mind of its own. The person next to you becomes a combination of therapist, long-lost friend, and spiritual advisor. Fortunately we were both afflicted with air blabber. We began conversing in earnest. He asked me practical questions about crossing deserts. I asked him a question he’d probably heard a thousand times.
“How big is the top of Mount Everest?”
“About the size of a small kitchen table,” he responded.
“That’s amazing,” I said. “You know, when you cross the Sahara Desert, there is no way of knowing where the desert ends. There’s no peak, no border, no sign that says, ‘You Are Now Leaving the Sahara Desert—Have a Nice Day!’”
He laughed and shook his head. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough that mountains and deserts are much different from one another.”
When the plane landed, it was very late. We mumbled some farewells and promised to stay in touch. Waiting for my luggage to appear, I couldn’t stop thinking of mountains and deserts. They are two of the most powerful symbols we have. Throughout history, most cultures and most of the world’s major religions have used these symbols to illustrate values and teachings. My speaking colleague was right—they are literally not the same. And they are also metaphorically quite different.
Was it possible that we struggle in times of change because the ever-shifting quality of life defies the goal-setting, strategic-planning approach of the mountain-climbing metaphor? The divorce I was struggling with at that time was certainly not going according to plan. Many of the people I spoke to in large corporations undergoing mergers and reorganizations seemed to suffer all the more from setting goals that couldn’t be reached or making plans that kept changing. I wondered if life and its inevitable transitions could be less upsetting and even more fulfilling if we stopped thinking about everything as a goal to achieve that simply required the right map to get us to the summit.
Several years and a few metaphorical deserts later, I am just as surprised to have written a book about my wonderings and my wanderings. I hope my ideas and experiences help you cross your own deserts of change.
