March 1, 2015
Among the most important ideas that have guided me in making important choices and decisions is one expressed by the former Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr:
I wouldn’t give a fig for the simplicity on this side of complexity, but I would give my life for the simplicity on the other side of complexity.
Holmes identifies two kinds of simplicities, one on this side of complexity, which is basically worthless; and one on the other side, which is immeasurably valuable. When translated into our daily lives this means that when we come face-to-face with difficult questions and troublesome problems, waiting for us will be a number of attractive simplistic, and essentially worthless solutions. We will be tempted to choose them since they come with the enticing promise to immediately solve our problems and free us from our concerns. When we come to important questions and difficult problems, however, choosing to stay on “this side of complexity” is a serious mistake. Until we understand the difficult complexities of the situations that trouble us and then struggle to get through them, there is no way to know what we can do that will help. If we choose only the “simplicity on this side” to guide us, we will “simply” make things worse.
The simplicity we seek, and which can add values to all of our endeavors, lies on the other side of complexity. We need to resist the Siren Song that promises “easy, quick and simple” and instead make the effort to drill down into the complexity that always underlies the surface of situations and issues so we can make sense of what is going on and then find our way through and to the other side. If we are prepared to do this we’ll have a real chance to gain a deeper understanding of what the situation actually is and what we can do in order to make a difference.
Sometimes it is life itself that pushes us away from the simple, down into the complex, and offers us a chance to get through it. Here is an ancient Japanese folk tale that illuminates the way to the “simplicity on the other side”
A new flute was invented in China. A Japanese master musician discovered the subtle beauties of its tone and brought it back home, where he gave concerts all around the country. One evening, he played with a community of musicians and music lovers who lived in a small village. At the end of the concert, his name was called. He took out the new flute and played a simple melody. When he was finished, for a long moment there was silence in the room. The voice of the oldest man was heard from the back of the room: “Like a god!”
The next day, as this master was packing to leave, the musicians approached him and asked how long it would take a skilled player to learn the new flute. “Years,” he said. They asked if he would take a pupil, and he agreed. After he left, they decided among themselves to send a young man, a brilliantly talented flutist, sensitive to beauty, diligent and trustworthy. They gave him money for his living expenses and for the master’s tuition, and sent him on his way to the capital, where the master lived.
The student arrived and was accepted by the master, who assigned him the simple tune that he had played at the concert. At first he received systematic instruction, but he easily mastered all of the technical problems. Now, when he arrived for his daily lesson, sat down and played his tune, all the master would say was, “Something lacking.” The student exerted himself in every possible way; he practiced for endless hours; yet day after day, week after week, all the master said was, “Something lacking.” He begged the master to change the tune, but the master said no. The daily playing, the daily “something lacking” continued for months on end. The student’s hope of success and fear of failure became ever magnified, and he swung from agitation to despondency.
Finally the frustration became too much for him. One night he packed his bag and crept away. He continued to live in the capital until his money ran dry. He began drinking. Finally, desperate, impoverished, and despondent, he drifted back to his own village. Ashamed to show his face to his former colleagues, he found a hut far out in the countryside. He still possessed his flutes, still played, but found no new inspiration in music. Years passed, and still he lived alone in his hut. He remembered his early days as the most promising musician in his town and the years spent studying with the master with a mixture of regret and despair. Slowly, his understanding of why he could not satisfy the master deepened. He began to sense what it was that was “lacking.”
One morning there was a knock at his door. It was his first teacher, the oldest musician from his village who years ago had sent him to the city to study with the master, along with the youngest student. They told him that that evening they were going to have a concert, and they had all decided that it would not take place without him. With some effort he overcame his feelings of fear and shame, and almost in a trance he picked up a flute and went with them. The concert began. As he waited behind the stage, no one intruded on his inner silence. Finally, at the end of the concert, his name was called. He stepped out onto the stage in his rags. He looked down at his hands, and realized that he had chosen the new flute.
Now he realized that he had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. He no longer worried that he must play to satisfy the master, only to express the truths that he had learned over the long years he suffered alone. He sat down and played the same tune he had played for the master so many times in the past. When he finished, for a long moment there was silence. Then the voice of the oldest man was heard, speaking softly from the back of the room: “Like a god!” At last, nothing was lacking.
Learning to play music must not be too difficult since so many of us have done it. Over the years, millions of children, urged on by their parents and teachers, have taken music lessons on the piano, flute, violin and trumpet. But only a very few ever go beyond the simplicity of playing the notes as they are written and learn to play Music. Few of us have ever paid enough to the piper so we can get beyond the notes and discover the beauty that can only be found when the notes are enhanced by the creative imagination. When it comes to making music – and many other aspects of our lives as well – most of go only part way, remaining on “this side of simplicity.”
“…The best way out is through”
“Sometimes the only way out is through,” writes the poet Robert Frost. Author James Champy, in Reengineering Management, adapts Frost’s insight to the present times: “Always the only way out is through,” Champy writes, but then insists that the “going through” experience is never a one-time event: “There is only going through it, and through it, and through it,” over and over again.
If one is interested in playing music “like a god,” – or in taking on any important dilemma or problem – there is no staying on this side of complexity: No quick fix, no easy out, no simple solution. Getting into it, whatever it is, then getting through it to the other side is the only way that real progress is possible.
What is soon to follow is a series of essays that explore not only the difficulties and the complications of getting to the “simplicity on the other side of complexity,” but also identify some of the rewards that can be found there. Our task will be to name and describe the knowledge, attitudes, skills and values that are required in order to get to the other side.