I was in Wyoming with all my male snowmobile friends. This group ranges from early
twenties to mid fifties. As we climbed the mountain on the well-marked and well-groomed
trails, we came across a vertical climb of several hundred feet off the beaten path. Now,
I am a thrill seeker and wanted to climb it but was a little apprehensive. It was our
first day and I did not want my sled rolling down the mountain and ruining me or my trip.
I also was one of the few riding a flat land sled that was not built to ride in the
mountain's deep powder.
Anyway, I watched as all my friends climbed this area and came
back down. They all smiled and said there was nothing to it, so off I went. The
beginning was easy, without too much maneuvering or need to reposition myself. As I
ascended I could feel the gravity try to pull me back to where this midwestern boy
belonged, flat ground. So by the time I was halfway up this mountain face I was standing
on my sled, leaning over the handlebars trying to keep the skis on the ground. My sled
would lurch and jump as I would lose traction and cross soft spots in the snow. As I
approached the summit I found that there was no where to go but quickly turn and come back
the way I came. I had a little moment to pause as I began my descent. As I looked back
at my friends, some of whom had never been to the mountains before, I could tell they were
laughing even though they all looked like ants. And as I looked across the windshield and
down at my skis, I realized from my perspective that I could not see the bottom of the
mountain. The area I had climbed was at such a vertical rise that I could not see the
entire trail down.
It was at this point that I decided that living on top of a mountain,
although lonely, was not such a bad idea. So, thinking of my wife and daughter whom I
might never see again and the short but great life I had, I released the brake and let
gravity do what it does best. As I brought my machine back under its own power and rode
to where the remainder of my friends were (some had ventured on when they saw I would make
it without injury or accident, isn't that a nice commentary on our society?), they all
asked what I thought. My reply was that going up was easy, but no one told me how hard it
was to come back down.
Anyway, there were many other climbs after that and the adrenaline
rush is undescribable. I draw the analogy to Culture Change. Doing anything for the
first time is scary no matter which direction you are going, but if you let go of your
fears and let the situation and the needs of your residents guide you it will become easy
and exciting. If you can do this, you will see more potential in yourself and others as
well. There is one more parallel I can draw from this story. My sled was not intended
to do what we did on that trip. Every one of the mountain sleds and specialty machines
got stuck at some point. However, I was the only one that did not. I went everywhere
everyone else did and rode all the same terrain as my group. The only difference was
that I paid attention to my surroundings and carefully chose my plan of travel. The
buildings you provide your service in most likely were not built for Culture Change, but
it can be done by listenting to your residents and staff and planning your course
properly.
Brett Dewolf is a leader of culture change at Halcyon House, where he is the
"Maintenance Man" and more informally the philosopher and psychologist of the people. As
a certified Change Agent in Culture Change, Brett, along with others, guides and mentors
the process of empowerment, helping to restructure, educate and realign the organization
into self-led teams devoted to resident-directed care. Halcyon House is a
Wesley Retirement Community,
where a corporate commitment to culture change is rampant.
