Jenga Metaphors
Not all pieces are equal
Photo by Michał Parzuchowski via Unsplash.
I needed a break.
A short while ago, the cumulative effect of too much of a good thing (work, friends, and family) and too much of the other stuff, too, had reached a point where I knew I needed to change my scenery and my pace.
I headed for the hills, so to speak, and met up with a good friend who was in a similar state.
Mission: downshift, regroup, return to myself and remember what’s important
Projected Outcome: renewed perspective and a much-needed restoration of spirit
Both of us being based in major cities, we knew that wherever we wound up needed to be in nature.
On the second day of our retreat, we walked into the lounge, where a lively scene was in full swing. A group of guests were standing around a table, transfixed. No, the cause was not a virtual game or YouTube video. It was a tall tower of Jenga blocks. Just seeing people plugged into each other and a set of wooden blocks instead of a screen made me feel good.
Their skyscraper had been built, using all the blocks in the set and was well into its waning phase. I watched as the players experimented with tapping pieces, testing the structure’s ability to maintain integrity if a certain piece was removed. The tower was already looking precarious. Each player had their own style and approach to gingerly pushing its limits, and each time the tower survived one more extraction, I was convinced that would surely be its last.
Looking closely at the tower, I began to see parallels to life and life choices.
The top had become heavy, with most players choosing to extract the pieces from the center in order to place them again on the top (which is the point of the game). I looked at the hollowing center and imagined how just a short time ago, it had been built soundly, with rows of three across atop three lengthwise. The metaphor seemed even more fitting when I looked at the bottom of the tower. There was only one piece remaining: the other two on either side of it had been extracted. The entire structure was perched atop a single, centered piece.
As the players continued to take turns (and defy what I thought was possible), more and more of the base and center were removed and the structure became densely top heavy. I began to think about how close we cut it sometimes, robbing our base and our center, to reappropriate resources somewhere else. And how there is always a tipping point - or in this case, a collapsing point.
Then, as if on cue, down it went, with a collective moan from the builders and onlookers.
All buildings need a foundation, a strong base. Try building something without a base, literally or figuratively. It can’t be done. The top of any structure needs a strong center underneath it, and a strong base underneath the center. The taller the structure, the more vulnerable it is, and the more supportive stability is needed. These layers may be smaller, or thinner, or unique in proportion, but in order for the top to have integrity and be sustainable, the base and the center must have enough resources. Thinking about organizations, I saw how the Jenga Principle I’d conceived has proven true, time and again.
What about individuals - specifically those of us who are always striving and reaching in our daily lives? Looking at that table and the wood block chaos strewn across it, I took away the message that no matter how lofty the goal, we cannot endlessly raid our base and our center for the sake of our top. Otherwise, we have a pile of rubble. We must remember our base and reinforce it, as well as our center, in order to keep building ourselves.
I also took away something personal: in order to live joyfully, one must be able to let go of anything one has built.
We cannot guarantee that what we create will stay intact forever, nor can we preserve it without ceasing to grow. Easier said than done, I know. But that’s another story for another time. For now, I’ll thank Jenga for demonstrating how a resilient life can take some savvy engineering and sustainable design.