Seeking Purpose: What An Old Story Can Teach New Leaders

“What do you do?”

That question has plagued our modern experience for as long as we’ve carried with us the burdensome idea of a career. Much like the flu, the question was ever-present at gatherings yet tolerated as we all stood guilty of passing it on at some point or another. Despite its inner insults, we’d been content to suffer through with a smile on our faces for the sake of moving things forward — until everything crashed to a halt.

Now, with over 40M unemployed Americans and weekly rounds of layoffs dominating our LinkedIn feeds, exposure to such a question could fairly induce a full blown crisis of purpose.

What do we do? When our purpose feels lost, where do we go to find it?

Let’s retrace our steps back to the source. Let’s go back to the well.

Lessons From The Old World

Years ago, fresh out of college, I was fortunate to be invited on a trip to Morocco where I learned of an entirely different viewpoint on vocation.

I was in my mid-twenties and made conversation with a man not too far from my own age who was tending to a spice stand with barrels overflowing with exotic old world flavors. We were in the center of Marrakech’s overwhelming Jemaa el-Fnna market, which as the beating heart of this storied ancient city, could be understood as the Times Square of a distant age.

Holding a pungent bag of dried turmeric, I asked him how long he’d been working at this stand. All his life, was the answer. So I asked him how he’d started. It was his father’s, was the answer. So I asked him how his father got started. It was his father’s, was the answer. Before him? His father’s. Before him? Again, his father’s. He smiled.

So I paused for a moment and then asked him how far back this stand went. A shrug, was the answer. I paused again and finally, I asked if he’d ever dreamt of doing anything different. No, was the answer.

I shared with him that I was in the process of trying to figure out what to do with my life — and that sort of questioning was almost a rite of passage for people like me back in America. He laughed and explained that in Morocco — or at least, in his Morocco — what to do with life was never a question. You are born into it and like the root of a tree extending through soil of time, your purpose is to continue its push through the layers of each age. In such a way, the contours may change with each generation’s unique conditions, but the purpose it grows from and the meaning it seeks always remain the same. I smiled.

It would be trite to call that a job or a career. It was something more fundamental; more archetypal. This was not a minimum wage job at a grocery store, this was a man who dealt in flavors. To stand and talk with me was as much a fulfillment of his duties as was the sourcing of his spices, the pricing of them, and the displaying of them.

Days later, on a trip into the Atlas Mountains, I could see this tradition reflected in the landscape itself. Mountain-side villages constructed entirely of clay pulled from the earth, with newly molded dwellings built on top of crumbled out foundations of the same design. They appeared identical to the way they were hundreds, even thousands of years earlier. Same village, same clay, same architecture — different humans.

If I saw anything modern, its presentation was still shaped by the tradition, to which its purpose had to serve. At one point, we were taken over mountains by a driver in an economy van. At another, by a driver on camel back. Same vocation, different tools.

We came upon a roadside mud hut selling clay tagine pots and other trinkets for travelers. The entire hut was painted red with one wall emblazoned with the unmistakable white cursive of the Coca-Cola logo. How funny it was to see. Its contrast against such ancient surroundings was startling. Surprised by seeing an emblem of my world repotted into such a strange landscape, I asked our driver what the purpose of this was.

Its purpose was in the paint.

The acrylic protected the mud walls from the elements, helping the structure to stand longer. It represented an exchange — a deal. Coca-Cola would come and provide the painting for free. The merchants would allow it because they appreciated the weather-proofing. They also understood that the brand communicated to travelers the world over as a sign post for refreshment. Across Africa specifically, Coca-Cola is often the only trusted source of clean drinking water…for many unfortunate reasons.

Perhaps you find the brand disagreeable to the scenery. Or perhaps you find it remarkable. What matters most is that it is involved — and a deal was made to put it there. A whole pattern unfolds if you look close enough at it with soft enough eyes — the brand, the pots, the trinkets, the shop and all of their adjacency to the mountain range behind them. Together they reveal a pattern of meanings purchased through their exchange with each other.

What do you need? Step in and make a deal. It’s clear to see that deals have been happening there on that spot for ages and will continue on for more. This is how the merchant, the marketer, the man of trade appears in the back drop of these old world traditions.

Whenever I’m asked today about how to define brand purpose, my mind always flashes back to this place before I speak. I think of the relationship between adjacency and exchange.

As I continued my walk through this vibrantly colored culture, I encountered more and more living vocation of all types represented in my generational contemporaries. Each of them showed me how purpose is less about the work we do and more about the threads we hold to keep a larger pattern alive. Shepherds who know the secret of the mountains. Farmers who pull treasures from the fields. Inn Keepers who hold spaces. Builders who create them. Guides who weave us through it all.

This is what they “do”.

It wasn’t long until I come across one such tradition that touched my heart in a way I’m only just now coming to understand: The Storyteller.

Storytellers walk through the markets like living encyclopedia’s on two feet, carrying with them age-old tales passed on to inspire and intrigue. In the modernized world, many of these most commonly told stories are captured in what is known as One Thousand And One Arabian Nights, a compendium out of which the story of Aladdin debatably sprung.

In exchange for payment, a Moroccan Storyteller will size up their customer and determine the right story for them to hear at that place, at that time. As a customer, the hope is that your fortune & their talent conspire in your favor.

Why? Because it is said that all of us have a story that winds perfectly around our soul and that we will know it in our hearts when we find it. With this, it is incumbent upon us to find our story. For when we do, we also find our life’s meaning — and through retelling it ourselves as we grow older, we may begin to unfold our purpose.

I offer here for you, one such story that had done exactly that for me:

The Water Of Paradise

Long ago, Harun al-Rashid ruled as the fifth caliph of the Abbasid Dynasty in Iraq. Under Harun’s reign, Baghdad flourished, and his palace was magnificent beyond compare. Those who lived in his court admired their leader’s wisdom, his love of poetry and music, and his power. He was renowned for his diplomacy.

His closest adviser, his vizier, Yahya the Barmakid, carefully guided the caliph’s life and that of the empire. And so people say it was Yahya who first met the Bedouin shepherd outside the palace. He was standing in the courtyard, begging the guards to allow him to enter.

By this time it was late evening, and the poor shepherd had been traveling for many days and nights. He left his flocks in the desert in the care of his brother while he traveled, for he had come to bring an extraordinary gift to the caliph.

Now, as he stood in the courtyard, he could not help but stare at the glittering palace. For a long time he stood in awe, and Yahya looked him up and down. It was most unusual to see such a poor, ragged man in the courtyard.

“What are you doing here?” Yahya demanded.

“I’ve come to see the caliph,” said the shepherd, and Yahya had to hold himself in to keep from laughing. “The caliph is a very busy man,” he said. “He has no time for beggars. Go away, now.”

But the shepherd persisted. “Please, I have discovered something valuable. I must offer this gift to the caliph.” And with those words he held out a filthy old waterskin.

Now Yahya could not help himself, and he laughed. “What could possibly be of value inside such a skin?”

Hurriedly the shepherd explained. He had been crossing the vast southern desert with his flock of sheep when he discovered something amazing. “It was one of my sheep that led the way,” he said. “I looked over and saw that she was licking at the sand, and naturally I ran to see what the trouble was.”

“And you discovered?” Yahya asked the Bedouin.

“A spring!” cried the shepherd. “Water in the middle of the desert! A miracle!”

You see, water was as precious as diamonds in the desert.

Now Yahya narrowed his eyes. “And why should this concern the caliph?” he asked.

“Sir,” the shepherd continued, “I bent down and tasted the water. Never in all my life have I sipped something so delicious. This water is better than anything I ever dreamed of tasting. Naturally I understood it is my duty to bring this as a gift to the great caliph himself.”

“Do you think the caliph has never tasted water?” Yahya asked him.

But the shepherd went on. “Sir, I am a simple man, and until now I have never known any luxury, but my father and his father spoke to me of the water of Paradise, and now that I have found it, I must offer it to the caliph.”

At long last Yahya gave up and led the man to see Harun al-Rashid. When the caliph heard the news, he called for a cup of solid gold covered in rubies and sapphires, and he bade his servant pour a few drops of the liquid from the waterskin into his cup.

The caliph instructed his bodyguard to taste the water. And so the man did.

“It is fine,” the guard said. So the caliph took the cup, held it to his lips, sniffed it, and then sipped. As he drank, everyone leaned in close.

The shepherd held his breath.

Harun was silent, and several minutes passed as he considered this matter.

The shepherd waited patiently. He understood this was an important moment, the day when his ruler, Harun al-Rashid, known to all as Ruler of Day and Night, tasted for the first time the water of Paradise, and all thanks to a mere shepherd.

Harun and Yahya whispered to each other. “Shall we chop off his head?” Yahya asked.

Harun was a wise man, and he had given this much thought. “No, of course not,” he whispered in response.

He sat up straight and said to the shepherd. “My good man, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your gift.”

Then he leaned over to his servants and whispered these instructions:

“Wait until darkness has fallen, and then take him by caravan back to his flock. On your way, do not let him see the mighty Tigris River. Do not let him taste the water we drink and know to be so ordinary. When you have returned him to the desert, present him with a bag of gold, and tell him that he and his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons shall be, forever afterward, the guardians of the water of Paradise.”

When the shepherd was told the words of the great caliph, he felt very proud. And to this day, his family guards this spring of water, secure in the knowledge that it is indeed the water of Paradise. After all, Harun al-Rashid, had said it was so.

(Source for this translation of the story by Amy Friedman and Meredith Johnson)

It’s remarkable that a story so short is so rich with characters. They are subtly threaded together into a narrative tapestry that reveals more lessons each time we scan our eyes through its colorful weaves. That’s the beauty of these stories. Through time, they begin to carry the familiar comfort of an old, trusted blanket.

We have, of course, the Shepherd and the Caliph at the center of the story from whose stories we can pull great meaning — but looking closer, we can see a few more. There is also the Vizier, the Bodyguard, the Servants, the Shepherd’s Brother, and the Sheep. Each of them, for all their modesty in the telling, play huge roles in the story’s unfolding.

Much like all the vocations of Morocco, each of these characters describe their own unique purposes as ancient as they are urgent. Let’s give them each their due examination.

The Shepherd

I have felt like the Shepherd many times in my life.

The urgency and excitement of his reaction to his discovery implies a deep wandering that came beforehand. Perhaps it was aimless. Perhaps it was driven by seeking. Whatever came before, the moment he tasted that water became the moment he found his purpose.

He feels immediately that something must be done about this and so his reaction is twofold: First, to abandon everything that brought him there, passing off his flock to his brother. Second, to bring his discovery straight to the highest authority he knows, enduring the pains of long distance travel to reach the capitol with breathless speed.

What we, as the omniscient beholders of this story, discover in the end is that his excitement is naive. In the grander scheme of the caliph’s empire, there is nothing new or unique about this water at all. In fact, it may very well be very low grade.

Yet, he is made none the wiser. Buffered from shame or indignity, he returns home triumphant with a newfound purpose sanctioned by the highest power in the land that will be carried on for generations after him.

We are left here with a question. Is the Shepherd a fool?

He is no more a fool than all of us. For is there not always a grander scheme that renders even our most impassioned endeavors naive? Perhaps what matters most about our purpose is less the audacity of its meaning and more the audacity of the actions we take to support it.

Perhaps as a start, we should consider that this spirit of seeking, wherever we encounter it, may be worth protecting from the shame that would destroy it.

The Caliph

The story begins with a testament to the wisdom and diplomacy of the Caliph, Harun al-Rashin. With that, we are primed to regard his character as the ineffable moral center of the tale, which he delivers on brilliantly.

What the Caliph gives us is a critical lesson in leadership. Passion borne from purpose must always be handled with care. Trivialize someone’s purpose and you also diminish their passion. Without passion, an empire will fall.

Among the many of difficult duties of leaders is the job of knowing a grander scheme. With that also comes knowing which truths of that grander scheme to communicate to their team and when.

This can become a trap into hubris for any leader. Knowledge doesn’t reveal power, it reveals purpose. To interpret the Caliph’s actions as a pat on the head for a naive underling is to miss an entire side of the wisdom. Even an empire as great as the Caliph’s is but one grander scheme in an infinite chain of even grander schemes.

The highest wisdom, then, is to recognize that there will always be greater hands moving pieces on the board than our own — and that true power doesn’t need to always descend from the heavens above, but can sometimes spring up from the most humble ground below. How we react to it is everything.

Who could know what role any new oasis may play for an empire generations into its future? Like the water of paradise itself, an impassioned sense of purpose must be treasured and protected no matter how remote. Who best to be the steward of an idea than the one who feels driven by it most?

The Vizier

Yahya the Barmakid, vizier to the caliph, stands as a lesser image of power. He is an example of one corrupted by their own sense of purpose, which has festered into self-importance.

Immediately, his response to the Shepherd is dismissive. He is too busy. So too must be the Caliph; at least in his mind. There is little to be found heroic about his character in this story. In fact, as the closest thing to its villain, he stands as a steadfast obstacle to the resolution our hearts desire in its telling at every turn.

We may ourselves want to dismiss him from this tale entirely — but we can’t and we shouldn’t. Therein lies the rub. You may find his presence disagreeable to the scenery, but what what matters most is that he is involved.

Like all the other characters, what we see in the Vizier is only a reflection of ourselves. He, as this story’s shadow, also holds one of the stories many sacred keys. The Vizier challenges us to stay alert, guarded, and always moving forward. On the surface, to be guarded from outside distractions or threats. In greater depths of wisdom, to be guarded from the blinding force of arrogance that hides within ourselves.

With our desire to move things forward — be it in the form of asking each other qualifying questions about careers, or promoting ourselves, marketing brands, guarding doors, or making deals— we must recognize the difference between holding power and being adjacent to it. We must know that one of these invites purpose and the other invites exchange.

The Servants, The Bodyguard, The Brother, The Sheep, (and the Missing Women)

With the lesson of the Vizier fresh in our minds, the purpose of these remaining characters can be drawn into higher relief. They are the most humble of all in this story, yet without any of them the wheels that spin the threads of its tapestry cannot turn.

Who was it that found the water of paradise? It was the Sheep.

Who was it that enabled the Shepherd to take his journey to meet the Caliph? It was the Brother.

Who was it that enabled the Caliph to taste the water? It was the Bodyguard.

Who was it that actually walked the Shepherd into his life of purpose? It was the Servants.

Lastly, who is it that is missing entirely? It is the Women.

Unfortunately, this story makes no mention of the women, but we know they are there. All too often unmentioned and all too often bearing burdens men like me would never know — so long as all we are shown is the empty spaces where their stories belong. Still, those empty spaces serve as a reminder of the importance of the unseen behind any accomplishment. If truth is genuinely our guide, then we must never forget there is always something or someone missing from how our stories get told.

No matter how central of a player we may feel to our own personal myths, we must remember that any purpose, especially the most bold, cannot be fulfilled alone. Whatever our purpose may be and from wherever it comes— be it inherited, discovered, or purchased — it will always be just one thread upheld in a broader tapestry of others, woven together to reveal a higher pattern whose meaning we can only behold with soft enough eyes.

No purpose is ever achieved alone.