Vision.
It’s perhaps our most vivid sense.
We process the world through pictures. Through color. Through light and through shadows.
Vision facilitates our memories. It keeps snapshots of the faded past crystal clear in our minds.
Vision captivates our dreams. It makes these experiences so lifelike that we mistake them for reality.
Vision even crosses the void. When darkness sets in, our other senses kick into overdrive to compensate for what we now cannot see.
Yes, vision is essential for how we interact with the world. From the days of cave paintings to the modern day, it’s been a central part of our narrative. It’s served as a universal language.
And yet, much still gets lost in translation.
The view from my patio is leafy and green.
Not far from the railing — maybe 10 feet away — there is a large canopy of trees. And as I sit on my deck chair and take in the fresh air, the branches and leaves of the nearest tree extend out toward me, like a set of olive branches.
I love this view. It provides shade during the scorching days of a Texas summer. It provides a screen from the curious gaze of neighbors. And it provides solace from the noise and distractions that otherwise clutter my life.
And yet, this setup has its drawbacks. The trees rob me of the chance to gaze across the vast landscape. To feel the radiant warmth of the late morning sun. To ponder what lies beyond the horizon — or even see the horizon at all.
Fortunately for me, there are areas within walking distance that provide me such opportunities. But even then, there are tradeoffs. I must leave my leafy perch behind and venture out into the world.
I must decide whether to gaze upon the forest or look at the trees.
Details matter.
They might not shine like a marquee light. But they resonate.
Sure, you try and can go without them. You can stumble through life without paying attention to the little things. You might even get away with it, for a time.
But eventually, such brazen disregard for the details carries a hefty price.
So, I don’t risk it.
Yes, I have long obsessed over details. I’ve soaked up information like a sponge. I’ve looked carefully before I’ve leapt.
I’ve dumped my own health data into spreadsheets and crunched the numbers. I’ve read reviews before making a purchase. I’ve called service providers to make sure I understood how the fine print would impact me.
These habits have stemmed from my obsessive-compulsive nature, and my low tolerance for risk. But they’ve also plugged into a larger pattern.
For our society is addicted to detail.
Detail provides us the edge we need to thrive. And it provides the roadmap to live out our fantasies of perfection.
So, we follow its guidance.
We internalize adages like Take care of the little things, and the big things will follow. We make those words our ethos.
But all our efforts ring hollow.
We’re still missing part of the picture.
Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat.
This line is widely attributed to Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese military strategist.
Phrases like these fill book called The Art Of War. That text is ostensibly about military strategy. But it’s found a far wider audience in the modern world.
In the face of fierce competition, business leaders, politicians and enterprising individuals have all flocked to military texts like The Art Of War. They’ve scoured the words of legendary tacticians, searching for translatable takeaways.
And of all the takeaways, these eight words stand our most of all.
For if we fail to consider the bigger picture, the details don’t matter. The minutia become meaningless.
We must get a glimpse at the entire forest to get a true understanding of the trees.
Some years back, I took a gondola ride up the western face of the Sandia Mountains, near Albuquerque. I had read that Sandia Peak had the best view of the city, and this was the best way to get to it.
The ticket was expensive for a gondola ride. As I boarded, I discovered why.
The gondola ride was not billed as transportation. It was meant to be an experience.
Trips were listed as flights. And a tour guide spoke with riders throughout the journey.
As soon as I heard the guide’s boisterous voice on the intercom, I rolled my eyes and tried to tune him out. This was not something I’d signed up for.
And yet, about halfway up the mountain, the tour guide pointed out something I couldn’t ignore.
Do you see that tiny black speck down there? he asked. That’s actually boulder the size of this tram car.
I was floored. It was hard to imagine that something that appeared so tiny was actually larger than me.
The mental calculus hurt my brain. Years later, I still wince while trying to wrap my head around that fact.
That moment on the gondola encapsulates the relationship between the forest and the trees.
The 30,000 foot view provides context, but so does the ground-level perspective.
In moments of strife, we put blinders on.
We narrow our perspective, honing in on what can help us to survive the moment at hand. We consider our next move, in hopes of eradicating the threat — both now and in the future.
We focus solely on the trees.
Such a focus can help us to survive a brief shock. It can provide a lifeline in the wake of a storm, an attack or the loss of a job.
But if the struggle persists, everything breaks down.
Our laser focus makes us rigid. Our lack of perspective prevents us from adapting to our new reality.
And so, we endorse radical solutions. We turn to answers that may help in a pinch, but might have disastrous long-term consequences.
But this pattern cannot sustain itself.
Long-term crises require a dual perspective solution. They require us to focus on the forest and the trees.
We can’t just throw the most radical solutions at distressing disruptions — such as pandemics or recessions. There’s only so much runway for such stunts.
No, we must take a different tact.
We must first consider the overarching vision, the bird’s eye view. Then — and only then — can we descend into the particulars with an actionable plan.
Putting this plan into action requires a lot of it.
It means exploring the gray areas between the extremes. It means promoting sustainable behaviors. And it means thinking three steps ahead — even as the future remains wildly unpredictable.
This is hard work. Uncomfortable work, even.
But with so much at stake, we can’t hide from it.
So, let’s broaden our minds and widen our perspectives. Let’s not choose between the view of the forest and that of the trees.
Each should have its place on our plans.
Let’s make those plans a reality.