The Voices That Guide Us (Part 2)
lessons from Wendell, the Farmer
This past month the world lost Wendell Berry—a visionary poet, farmer, and Kentuckian who wrote extensively about community, stewardship, good work, and having a more meaningful relationship with the natural world.
In his 1977 book, The Unsettling of America: Culture & Agriculture, he explored the rise of modern agriculture and how its impact was not limited to what happens on the farm; it has implications for all facets of life. One particular story from this book has stuck with me—it's a story about horse manure.
Berry recalled learning about a barn belonging to the University of Kentucky where horse manure was being dumped and discarded as waste. He asked why it was not being used somewhere else on the farm, only to be told: “It would interfere with the College of Agriculture’s experiments.” To Berry, it was absurd that this natural source of the soil’s fertility was being treated as “waste.” The manure had simply become an unessential part of the “machinery” of the farm.
This idea, that a farm could be treated like a “machine,” and not something that is actually alive, deeply concerned Berry. He wondered: if the horse manure that could have fertilized the land was now disposable, what else might the modern farm dispose of?
THE MACHINE METAPHOR
Berry believed that if we treat animals as machines, and plants as machines, and soil as machines, then it’s very likely that we will begin to regard people as machines. He noted:
“If people are regarded as machines, they must be regarded as replaceable by other machines. They are regarded, in other words, as dispensable. Their place on the farm is safe only as long as they are mechanically necessary.”
Berry recognized that “the machine metaphor is allowed to usurp and wipe from consideration not merely some values, but the very issue of value.” In other words, the work of a machine is not to consider what is moral or right; it’s only to consider what is cheapest, most efficient, labor-saving, and produces economic growth. If a human being takes on the role of a machine, then they must be unbothered by what is ethical or good, and only focus on what is most economical.
These ideas force us to grapple with Berry’s questions: Can we “remove cultural value from one part of our lives without destroying it also in the other parts?” “Can we justify secrecy, lying, and burglary…and yet preserve openness, honesty, and devotion to principle”? Put a little differently: if your work nudges you to engage in unethical business practices, can you maintain ethical standards outside of work? Can one engage in work that lacks integrity, while preserving their integrity outside of work?
Machines are designed for infinite industrial growth and infinite energy consumption; human beings are not. Yet, today (nearly 50 years after the publication of Berry’s Unsettling of America), the machine metaphor is present in virtually every corner of the American workplace.
This metaphor has not simply seeped into our collective language; it’s language that has been enthusiastically encouraged by leadership coaches and corporate training organizations. These organizations promise to make your team into a “well-oiled machine” that “fires on all cylinders,” and it seems like one of the highest ways to praise an employee is to say that they are “a machine!”
I want to ask you to pause for a second. You’re reading my writing, but sitting with your thoughts. What do you think about these ideas? Have you used this language before? Do you think the machine metaphor has consequences?
I want to be clear that I am a wholly imperfect practitioner of what I’m exploring here. I’ve used machine metaphors, and sometimes violent metaphors, to describe my work. The truth is: I often love the grind… and it feels amazing to kick ass and take names. But I am not a machine that can produce, uninterrupted, forever—and neither can you.
I know too many people experiencing a deep level of exhaustion that goes beyond “burnout.” As a friend recently shared with me, they felt like they were working themselves to death. This statement may sound hyperbolic, but it’s true. As Wendell Berry put it: “It is more likely that we will have either to live within our limits, within the human definition, or not live at all.”
So what do we do? Take a vacation? It sounds nice—but if you can’t put your work down on vacation, and you return to work feeling even more behind on what you missed, have you changed much?
I think we need better metaphors to think about our leadership and work.
FINDING BETTER METAPHORS
Over the past few years, I have developed a wholly imperfect metaphor to describe how I like engaging in work: I have “Red Bull” mode and “Chamomile Tea” mode.
In Red Bull mode, my energy is high, I feel like I can accomplish anything, and I can simply go and go and go. It’s like I’ve got Red Bull running through my veins. But the problem is this sort of energy does not always feel available to me, so Chamomile Tea mode emerged as an alternative state of energy that I can find myself in. It’s an energetic place where I can slow down, notice more, and (to use a car metaphor) take my foot off the gas.
At first, I thought that the lesson of this metaphor was that Red Bull mode was bad, and that Chamomile Tea was good. But I missed the point. The reality is, I love Red Bull mode, but I can’t be in it all the time. The highest form of my work and leadership is when I can integrate and blend Red Bull and Chamomile Tea. I know, it sounds like the worst mixed drink ever—but I’m on a perpetual quest to figure out the right balance of these ingredients.
So I invite you to consider: What metaphors might allow you to tap into a healthier, more sustainable, and more humane approach to your work?
METAPHORS THAT GUIDE OUR WORKPLACES
If Wendell Berry was concerned about the threats to our cultural (and literal) landscape when we imagine farms as machines—then what might be an alternative metaphor that we can use to imagine our workplaces? I’ll let you consider that question, but I believe, fittingly, that imagining our workplaces as farms has some useful possibilities.
Farms are not wild ecosystems; they are designed spaces, just like our workplaces. They are imperfect and man-made. On a farm, plants, animals, humans, and machines all need to interact and play different roles to produce growth—but it’s accepted that not every harvest will produce the same amount of fruit.
The healthiest farms are also not monocultures; they’re places where a diverse range of life can coexist. But, as Berry warned us, if we don’t want our workplaces to be like the horse farm in his story, we might have to consider: what do we do with the “manure”?
LEADERSHIP COMPOST
I can say with complete certainty that “The Solidago Institute” would not exist as it is had it not been for Wendell Berry. His work challenged the way I process “manure,” or the shitty moments that I’d rather do without.
In the spring of 2025, I had one of the most challenging meetings of my entire professional career. It was late on a Friday afternoon, and I learned that I needed to establish a new brand for the business I had poured so much of my soul into.
We couldn’t own the rights to our original business name. I felt overwhelmed, and I was left fixating on the hundreds of custom folders, journals, tote bags, and pens that all needed to be replaced—not to mention a website and printed materials. It all needed to be changed. I was absolutely gutted. I didn’t want any of this to happen, and if I could have heard my future self talk about it being a “blessing in disguise,” I would have told myself to respectfully “shut the f&#$ up.”
As I processed my feelings, I was able to realize that the folders, tote bags, and pens were really just decorations for my work—the soul of what I was trying to build was intact. Wishing this moment hadn’t happened wouldn’t do me much good—I needed to treat this moment like compost and find the possibilities for growth.
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
In the days that followed, “The Solidago Institute” would emerge as the guiding metaphor and brand that we would use to shape the next chapter of our work (and yes, we own the trademark). We chose the word “Solidago,” which is the scientific genus name for goldenrod, a beautiful wildflower that is currently in full bloom just about everywhere you look.
We chose a flower to represent our work because it has been a tradition of ours to bring fresh flowers and plants into our program spaces. We believe it makes a difference when program spaces are beautiful, and we want our learning environments to be places for growth. The Latin root of solidago is solidare, which means “to make whole.” We found this fitting because I've seen too many professional development spaces that seem to want to break people down to inspire them to be better leaders. We wholly resist this pedagogical approach.
We do work with a positive spirit. Instead of “fixing” people who are broken, we want to create spaces that allow people to tap into the gifts and talents already within them. Considering this, we found it fitting that in folklore, a patch of goldenrod is believed to signify that gold, treasure, or a spring exists right beneath the surface. I find this beautiful, because our work is designed to go beyond surface-level conversation. One more thing: goldenrod is the official state flower of Kentucky, a place that Wendell Berry and I so deeply love.
OUR MISSION
The mission of the Solidago Institute is to “help people lead lives, create workplaces, and build communities grounded in justice and well-being.” While we are a workplace training organization, like Wendell Berry, we believe in the fundamental interconnectedness between our lives… workplaces… and communities.
If we do our work well, its impact will never be confined to the workplace alone. A beautiful program space that allows participants to slow down, think deeply, and be in dialogue with others will equip those same people to do these things in their lives outside of work.
Our programs are designed to help people understand that when “shit” happens, you cannot simply extract it. You have to sift through it and use it as the raw material that makes growth possible. Read that again: it’s the raw material that makes growth possible. When we embrace challenges, we grow. It’s why we chose “Grow Anywhere” as the official motto of the Solidago Institute—and trademarked that, too. Lesson learned.
P.S. If you thought this article was “horse shit,” I’m truly honored! Please don’t discard it. Share it with a friend. Maybe it will serve as some rich material for growth—and if you’re interested in learning more about Solidago Institute programs, drop us a note at contact@solidagoinstitute.org.
