The Pregnant Pause

The leaves in my yard are just beginning to turn color.  We know what’s coming.  We don’t know precisely when each tree will shed its seasonal coat, but we know that all but the evergreens will, eventually; and that “eventually” will soon be here.
 

I hate autumn in New England.  There, I’ve said it.  This will come as no news to my friends.  I bitch and moan about it every year.  All you foliage-loving leaf-peepers are more than welcome to come to my house and blow the freakin’ foliage out of my gutters and shrubbery, and off of my driveway and lawn.

What, no takers? 

If it were possible, I would dive in and do it all right now.  All in one shot.  I’d start with what I imagine would be a four foot deep pile, and just git ‘er done.  But of course, that isn’t possible.  Trees don’t shed their leaves overnight.  It’s a long, drawn-out process spanning several weeks.  This ensures the ongoing futility of October and November weekends spent blowing and raking: I no sooner get everything cleaned up, when the next wave hits.  And the next, and the next, and the one after that.  The last holdouts – always the oaks – refuse to drop the last of their loads until the winds of March force the issue.

But now, at this moment, there’s nothing more than the very earliest maple tree beginning to cast its litter on the grass.  We know what’s coming, but it’s not here yet.  All we can do is wince in anticipation.  This is the pregnant pause.

I work for a very large organization.  I manage a team of people whose workplaces are spread across three states.  Recently, our CEO announced a significant restructuring of the company.  This, like the changing seasons, is nothing we haven’t experienced before.  The quest for efficiency is never-ending.  It’s like a force of nature, which is as it should be.  Change or die.  Like a tree, I suppose. 

Nominally, my job as a manager is to keep the dozen or so projects that my team is working on moving forward – business as usual, until we’re instructed otherwise.  But really, my job as a manager is to keep my team members engaged, productive, challenged, informed, on board, and not freaking out.  This is somewhat easier said than done. 

The major themes of the reorganization have been made public, the picture painted in broad strokes; but the full details haven’t yet been released to those below the C-Suite. Human nature being as it is, the rumor mill is buzzing with speculation as to what these details will be.  There will almost certainly be impacts to some in-flight projects, and to staff assignments; but absent specifics, the only prudent course is to keep moving forward, trying as best we can to ignore the noise around us. That’s exactly what we’re doing.

Best efforts to that end notwithstanding, nonetheless, there’s something palpably different about the atmosphere in our office these days.  It’s a harbinger - subtle, elusive, ephemeral.  Defining it is sort of like trying to identify the source of the crispness in the air that signals the start of autumn.  Fighting against it is as futile as trying to make the leaves stay on the trees.  We know what’s coming, but it’s not here yet.  This is the pregnant pause.