Still, it’s important to appreciate the level of emotional heroism it takes to combine “masculine” and “feminine” qualities, especially in challenging situations. In The Power of the Herd, I analyzed George Washington’s impressive career in several chapters and came to the conclusion that in triumph — and, more importantly, in long, drawn-out periods of confusion and despair — he was a far more compassionate and inventive leader than most people realize.
“Let your heart feel for the affliction and distress of everyone,” Washington advised. This was no small feat for a general who shivered with his troops and felt helpless as many of them starved to death at Valley Forge. Yet letters to trusted allies and friends reveal that he dealt with his own heightened sensitivity for years, struggling to maintain composure in the midst of searing empathic responses to the settlers he encountered during the French and Indian War: “I see their situation, know their danger, and participate in their sufferings without having it in my power to give them further relief than uncertain promises,” he wrote to his British superiors in 1756, asking for support. “The supplicating tears of the women and moving petitions from the men melt me into such deadly sorrow that I solemnly declare, if I know my own mind, I could offer myself a willing sacrifice to the butchering enemy, provided it would contribute to the people’s ease.”
Though Washington was able to renew himself in Mount Vernon’s pastoral embrace after the French and Indian War, rest and success did not make him complacent. As Washington repeatedly reentered public life, supporting one desperate cause after another, the turmoil he endured voluntarily is truly staggering. Rather than shield his heart against the disappointment, anguish, and sheer horror he witnessed, Washington remained steady and thoughtful in the midst of feelings that would have short-circuited the average person’s nervous system. His was not the coolness of the sociopath who feels no fear, but the authentic hard-won calmness of a man whose emotional stamina was so great that he was willing to accompany people into the depths of despair, and stay with them, offering hope through sheer presence.
In situations that most leaders would find hopeless, Washington’s unique combination of fierceness, fairness, authority, courage, self-control, and empathy kept people from lapsing into seemingly justified selfish, revenge-seeking, survivalist behavior. His open heart wasn’t hardened by adversity, nor did it keep him from making tough decisions. He refused to coddle deserters or looters, ordering severe floggings of men caught stealing food. On rare occasions, he executed soldiers planning widespread revolt. And yet, he instituted a policy of humanity for prisoners of war, even as the British executed and tortured his own captured troops.
It’s reasonable to say that Washington was one of those rare individuals capable of combining “masculine” and “feminine” forms of leadership, but it’s more accurate to say he was a “Master Herder,” someone capable of performing five crucial leadership roles fluidly, interchangeably, as needed.
In The Power of the Herd, I built a case for the fact that this at-once innovative and ancient approach to leadership stemmed from Washington’s own experience taking care of large herds of powerful animals. He found and trained horses capable of enduring the challenges of war, and he rode and cared for all the others daily in times of peace.
Washington’s ability to use the Five Roles of a Master Herder was developed over decades, though this nature-based wisdom supported his many goals at a subconscious level, like a musician who plays brilliantly without giving technique a second thought. He never wrote about using these skills — though the animals he relied upon would have demanded he hone this balance every day (just as my own herd introduced me to the same set of skills over two hundred years later). Even so, this experiential wisdom helped Washington become an exceptional leader capable of transcending the problems of a dualistic approach, allowing him to move beyond the human preoccupation with “opposites” like male versus female, power versus collaboration, mind versus heart, logic versus feeling, and assertive, goal-oriented behavior versus compassionate, relationship-oriented behavior. This ambitious, socially intelligent perspective is what our current, fast-changing culture increasingly asks both men and women to adopt.
The Five Roles of a Master Herder make sense of previously confusing group dynamics, while helping people to develop a mature, balanced, mutually empowering approach to leadership and social intelligence: at work, school, home, and in larger cultural contexts. This model helps us navigate change, handle conflict, and support innovation that serves the individual as well as the group, and perhaps most importantly, the health and well-being of all species and countless generations to come.
What more could we possibly ask for in this time of unprecedented, potentially dangerous, mind-bending possibility?
Like many people, I’ve long appreciated the peace and renewal that nature offers. But I’ll never forget the day I first glimpsed the benevolence, and highly adaptive intelligence, of the human-animal bond.
In the mid-1990s, I was boarding my horses at a rustic private facility located next to a large desert preserve. While I enjoyed exploring the trails with my experienced cow horse Noche, I also looked forward to quality time with Rasa, who couldn’t be ridden because of a chronic leg injury. Increasingly, the saddle collected dust as I took long walks with my night-haired companion, letting her roam off lead to nibble the dry, nut-flavored grasses as we meandered through a vast, primal landscape. Occasionally, I would also invite my year-old, mixed-breed dog Nala to accompany us, hoping she would soon develop the ability to override her more aggressive instincts and protect, rather than chase, the horses.
Rasa was well suited to assisting me in this task. While other herd members would charge off at a gallop when Nala raced after them, the black mare would trot a few steps and slow down to a walk, shaking her mane in protest, kicking out slightly in warning, but never making contact. Her restraint with Nala seemed intentional: Many times, I had seen Rasa run coyotes out of her pasture, though her actions also had a playful quality to them, as if herding small predators was a hobby she adopted for her own amusement.
One evening just as the sun was slipping below the horizon, the three of us were heading home after a relaxing, uneventful hike. Suddenly, Nala crouched down slightly, narrowed her eyes, and growled. Rasa raised her head and stared in the same direction. Moments later, announced by the sound of rustling leaves and snapping branches, a small yet imposing herd of cattle emerged from a nearby mesquite grove. I wasn’t sure if the animals were merely curious or potentially dangerous, but I couldn’t help focusing on their impressive horns as one of the larger females began to walk toward us with several others falling in formation behind.
At nearly eighty pounds, Nala was not a small dog. Even so, she turned tail, ran straight to me, and huddled against my legs for support, looking up as if to say, “What should we do now?” My only possible herding tool — Rasa’s lead rope — dangled from my shoulder. Just as I was considering whether to stand my ground or carefully walk away, the black horse pinned her ears and lunged toward this rangy bovine contingent. The cows lowered their heads, backed