Working With What Remains: A Letter to Leaders in Unsettled Times

On grief, truth, teams, and staying human in complex organizations

I don’t often mention poetry in business contexts, but I think it belongs here.

In a 2004 interview, the poet Robert Bly closed with a short poem by Antonio Machado. In it, the wind asks a man for the fragrance of roses. The man replies that his roses are gone—his garden is dead. The wind says, “That’s fine. I’ll take what remains.” And the man weeps, asking himself: What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

I’ve been thinking about that poem a lot lately.

I’ve also been thinking about how many people I know—across companies, nonprofits, public agencies, and small businesses—seem tired in a way that rest doesn’t quite fix. Not burned out exactly. More unsettled. More disappointed. A bit heartsick.

We’ve watched institutions fail people. We’ve seen leaders misuse power. We’ve lived through decisions that caused real harm and then were explained away with language that felt thin or evasive.

After a while, that does something to a person.

It can leave you feeling angry—becoming quieter, more cautious, and less willing to say what you really think.

I don’t believe that’s a personal flaw. I think it’s a form of grief.

When systems we believed in cause harm, something inside us gets injured. Not just frustrated—injured. That injury often shows up as fatigue, cynicism, disengagement, or what gets labeled “burnout.” But underneath it is often moral sorrow: the pain of caring in environments that don’t always seem to value care.

At the same time, we’re operating in a culture saturated with distortion—spin, exaggeration, selective truth, and strategic silence. Over time, this doesn’t just confuse people. It weakens language itself. It makes speaking plainly feel risky. It makes sincerity feel naïve. It trains us to hedge, soften, and retreat.

When language weakens, trust weakens. And when trust weakens, everything becomes harder.

Paying Attention to Moral Fatigue

So, the first thing I want to say—especially to people trying to lead responsibly right now—is this:

If you feel tired, discouraged, or disoriented, that may not be a failure of resilience. It may be evidence that your moral compass is still working.

If you feel tired, discouraged, or disoriented, that may not be a failure of resilience. It may be evidence that your moral compass is still working.

The second thing is this:

Grief doesn’t disappear because we’re busy.

Unacknowledged loss doesn’t vanish. It turns into withdrawal. It turns into short-term thinking. It turns into “just get through the quarter” leadership. It turns into talented people quietly checking out long before they leave.

Healthy leadership today requires making room to acknowledge what’s been lost: trust, clarity, safety, and shared meaning. Not dramatically. Not endlessly. Just honestly. In conversation. In reflection. In moments where we don’t rush to fix or reframe.

Not to wallow. To stay human.

In most organizations, this doesn’t just live at the top. It shows up in teams—in how people speak or don’t, in meetings where important things go unsaid, in feedback that gets softened until it’s meaningless, in conflicts that get managed around instead of worked through. When leaders don’t make space for honesty and grief, teams learn to protect themselves by withholding energy and insight.

When leaders don’t make space for honesty and grief, teams learn to protect themselves by withholding energy and insight.

Over time, that erodes trust far more than any single bad decision.

The Two Voices Inside Leadership

There’s another tension I keep noticing—inside individuals and inside organizations.

One part of us wants control, certainty, recognition, and safety. Another part wants service, courage, truth, and connection.

Bly called these the “greedy soul” and the “generous soul.”

You don’t eliminate the first. You learn to notice it. And you learn not to let it quietly take over.

Most institutional failures do not begin with bad intentions. They begin when fear, appetite, or image management start driving decisions—and no one names it.

To be clear, this isn’t about assigning blame. It’s about noticing what’s real—and choosing how we respond.

Leadership, over time, is choosing—again and again—which voice you’re going to follow.

Which brings me back to Machado’s poem.

Some parts of our shared garden are damaged. Some assumptions won’t return. Some trust has been lost. And pretending otherwise doesn’t help.

Still, the wind says: I will work with what remains.

The withered petals, the yellow leaves, and the water from the fountain.

Life does not wait for perfect conditions. It works with what is offered.

Life does not wait for perfect conditions. It works with what is offered.

So perhaps the most important leadership question of this moment is not, “How do we get back to the way things were?”

It is: What will we do with what is now in our care?

With our people, our words, our authority, our resources, our attention, and our courage.

We don’t need perfect leaders. We need honest ones.

We don’t need flawless systems. We need humane ones.

We don’t need louder certainty. We need steadier integrity.

If you are trying to lead with clarity in confusing times, with compassion in demanding systems, with truth in distorted environments—please know that your effort matters, even when it isn’t rewarded, protected, or publicly recognized.

The wind is still moving.

It is still willing to work with what remains.

The question—quietly, steadily, insistently—is this:

What are we going to offer it?

Warmly,

Russ

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The Wind, One Brilliant Day — Antonio Machado

The wind, one brilliant day, called

to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

And the wind said, “In return for the odor of my jasmine,

I would like the odor of your roses.”

I said, “I have no roses. All the flowers in my garden have died.”

The wind said, “Well, then, I will take your withered petals

and your yellowed leaves and the waters from your fountains.”

And the wind left.

And I wept.

I said to myself, “What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?”

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If you’re curious about the original interview: “The Wind Isn’t Depressed: Robert Bly Talks with Michael Ventura”, The Sun Magazine, May 2004

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If This Resonates

If this piece resonates, you might consider where you’re noticing moral fatigue, muted language, or quiet grief in your own leadership context. What conversations have you been avoiding? What truths feel harder to name than they used to? Where might your team be holding back energy or honesty?

These are exactly the kinds of questions we work with in Leadership and the Middle Path, my foundational workshop for leaders. Drawing on the work of OD and leadership-development expert Chris Holmberg, this workshop is for new and emerging managers who want to build greater clarity, accountability, and humane performance in complex systems. Learn more here.

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