At least once a month, I have a two-hour Zoom call with my colleague and friend, Dr. Laree Kiely. We call it our “church.”
Laree is in Northern California. I’m in Buffalo, NY.
Laree and I met more than 30 years ago when we were both teaching at a leadership conference at Stanford University. One evening over dinner, we started talking and quickly discovered we had a lot in common.
Laree and I grew up about 15 miles apart in Northern Colorado. She grew up in Loveland and I grew up in Greeley. I was trained as a classical guitarist. Laree married a guitarist—who happens to be Dan Crary, the world-renowned flatpicking guitarist.
Back in the 1970s, I played in rock bands throughout Colorado. There was one legendary band called Timberline. Along with many other guitarists, I idolized that band. The lead singer for Timberline?
Wait for it…
It was Laree Kiely.
While I pursued a career in creativity and innovation, Laree built an impressive career in neuroscience, crisis management, organization behavior, and leadership. She served on the faculty of the University of Southern California’s Marshall School of Business and consulted with organizations ranging from the Los Angeles Times and JPL—the Jet Propulsion Laboratory—to the Duke Corporate Education Program, the Los Angeles Philharmonic, and hundreds of international corporations.
Both of us have spent our professional lives working in high-pressure environments, helping organizations solve difficult and important problems. Laree even worked in many crisis situations where everyone was wearing guns.
Now, at this stage of life, we are both considered “retired.”
During one of our recent church meetings, we noticed something interesting. We found ourselves bothered, frustrated, and even angered by situations that, earlier in our lives, we probably would have brushed aside without a second thought.
Laree was exasperated by an “out-of-control narcissist” who served on the same board of directors as she. I was frustrated by the behavior of a conference planner who, in my view, was “jerking me around.”
As we talked, a question emerged: Why were these relatively minor irritations taking up so much space in our minds?
The Answer Surprised Both of Us
For most of our professional lives, we were focused on bigger things. Careers. Families. Deadlines. Clients. Teaching. Speaking. Writing. Traveling. Solving complex and perilous problems.
When you’re dealing with challenges of that magnitude, an annoying board member or an inconsiderate conference planner barely registers on the radar screen.
But things change.
As we get older, many of the big pressures begin to fade. The children are grown. Careers slow down. Some responsibilities disappear. The pace of life changes.
And when the large problems leave, the smaller ones can suddenly seem much larger.
Then Laree said something that stopped me.
“Roger! We are jousting with ghosts.”
Exactly.
The board member wasn’t sitting at Laree’s kitchen table. The conference planner wasn’t standing in my living room. Yet both of us were replaying conversations, imagining responses, rehearsing arguments, and reliving frustrations.
The people themselves were absent. What remained were ghosts.
Ghosts of conversations. Ghosts of slights. Ghosts of unfairness. Ghosts of things we wished others had done differently.
And there we were, climbing onto our imaginary horses, lowering our imaginary lances, and charging into battle.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The strange thing about jousting with ghosts is that you can never win.
You can’t defeat a conversation that happened three weeks ago. You can’t change something someone said. You can’t force another person to become more thoughtful, more aware, or more reasonable.
Yet we spend enormous amounts of energy trying.
As an innovation consultant, I’ve spent nearly fifty years helping people focus their attention on opportunities and possibilities. Yet here I was, giving valuable mental energy to a conference planner who probably hadn’t thought about me once since our interaction.
Laree recognized the same pattern in herself.
We had both become expert ghost jousters.
The good news is that awareness creates choice.
Once you recognize a ghost for what it is, you no longer have to climb onto the horse.
You can simply let it pass.
That doesn’t mean ignoring genuine problems. Sometimes action is required. Sometimes difficult conversations need to happen. Sometimes boundaries need to be set.
But after you’ve done what can be done, continuing to replay the situation serves no purpose.
The ghost wins only when it occupies space rent-free in your mind.
By the end of our church meeting, neither the board member nor the conference planner had changed.
But we had.
We had gained perspective.
Perhaps that’s one of the gifts that comes with age.
When we’re younger, wisdom often seems to be about learning more.
As we grow older, wisdom may be more about carrying less.
Less resentment.
Less replaying.
Less imaginary combat.
Less having to fix everything.
Fewer ghosts.
Laree and I will meet again next month for church. We’ll talk about life, family, music, work, ideas, and whatever else wanders into the conversation.
And no doubt a few ghosts will show up as well.
The difference is that now we’ll recognize them.
And instead of picking up a lance and charging into battle, we’ll tip our hats, wish them well, and let them ride on by.
What ghosts are you jousting with?
