I paused for a moment and stood at the entrance of the corner cubical office. I had been in this office many times before, but this time I felt the weight of its importance.

It was my boss’ office, and she had retired a few months before. I had worked for and with her for five years and considered her to be one of my best mentors. While I have been fortunate to have several fantastic mentors during my career, this was the first time I would succeed one.

As I entered the office and came around her desk to sit behind it, I wondered what final piece of guidance she had left me. Surely she would want her protégé to start things on the right foot, to know where she had left off on projects, and where I should start.

In the pen and pencil holder of this middle drawer was one small item; I had never seen anything like it before. It was well worn, and on one end, it looked like a wooden pencil (minus the eraser). The other end looked like an old-fashioned cigarette holder. I could not understand why this seemingly useless and unrecognizable relic was the only thing my mentor left for me.

A week or so later, my mentor came to the office for a visit. When I asked about the mysterious item in the middle drawer of the desk, she explained that it was a pencil extender. Her predecessor, among other things, managed the allocation of pencils. He would give each employee a single pencil to do their work; over time, as the pencil was repeatedly sharpened, it would become smaller and eventually too short to reasonably use. When employees asked him for a new pencil, he would provide them with a pencil extender to essentially extend the life of the pencil. My mentor explained that it was only after the pencil, in combination with the extender, was unusable that an employee could have a new pencil.

I then asked her, “Why in the world did you leave this for me?” In her typical wise way, she said, “I have kept this all these years, as it is just as important to know what not to do as it is to know what to do.” And with that, I understood the significance of the pencil extender not for what it was factually but rather for what it represented in the context of being successful in this new role. In short, my mentor's gift was a reminder that spending time on small things—like the life of a pencil—means you don’t spend as much time on the important, big-picture things.

That conversation seems like it was only yesterday, when in fact it happened more than 25 years ago. And while occasionally I have spent more time on the small things than I like to admit, I see three overriding yet simple messages that naturally follow from my mentor's gift.

First, especially for a water utility's director of finance—which was the role in which I was succeeding my mentor and she her predecessor—managing resources and assets is important to financial strategy. But in today's reality, “managing pencils” (literally and figuratively) is not strategic.

Second, a leader's focus and actions often communicate more to their employees than the leader realizes. I accept the idea that organizational culture changes over time; back then, it might have been reasonable for my mentor's predecessor to dole out the pencils. But today, just imagine how such a controlling action would be interpreted—not well, I would think.

Finally, given the inevitability of organizational turnover, leaving a “gift” for your successor can help immensely with continuity. It does not have to be quite as subtle and veiled a message as what my mentor left me. Simply pointing your successor in the right direction by leaving a few things in the desk drawers (or in today's technological reality, in the file-share site) is probably enough. Although not immediately apparent, at least for me, my mentor's approach made the message stick.

我停顿了一下，站在角落小办公室的入口处。我以前来过这个办公室很多次，但这一次我感受到了它的重要性。

那是我老板的办公室，她几个月前就退休了。我已经为她工作了五年，并认为她是我最好的导师之一。虽然我很幸运在我的职业生涯中遇到了几位出色的导师，但这是我第一次获得成功。

当我走进办公室，绕过她的办公桌坐在后面时，我想知道她留给我的最后一条指导是什么。她当然希望她的门生能以正确的方式开始做事，知道她在项目上停止了什么，以及我应该从哪里开始。

中间抽屉的笔筒和铅笔架里有一件小东西；我以前从未见过这样的东西。它已经磨损得很厉害了，一端看起来像一支木铅笔（没有橡皮擦）。另一端看起来像一个老式烟嘴。我不明白为什么这个看似无用且无法辨认的遗物是我的恩师留给我的唯一东西。

大约一周后，我的导师来到办公室拜访。当我询问桌子中间抽屉里的神秘物品时，她解释说这是一个铅笔延长器。她的前任负责管理铅笔的分配。他会给每个员工一支铅笔来完成他们的工作；随着时间的推移，铅笔被反复削尖，它会变得越来越小，最终变得太短而无法合理使用。当员工向他要一支新铅笔时，他会给他们提供一个铅笔延长器，以从根本上延长铅笔的使用寿命。我的导师解释说，只有在铅笔与延长器无法使用后，员工才能拥有一支新铅笔。

然后我问她：“你到底为什么要把这个留给我？”她以她典型的明智方式说：“这些年来我一直保留着这一点，因为知道不做什么和知道做什么同样重要。”至此，我理解了铅笔延长器的重要性，不是因为它实际上是什么，而是因为它在成功担任这个新角色的背景下所代表的意义。简而言之，我导师的礼物提醒我们，花时间在小事情上——比如铅笔的寿命——意味着你不会花太多时间在重要的大事情上。

那次谈话似乎就发生在昨天，但实际上已经发生了 25 年多了。虽然有时我在小事情上花费的时间比我愿意承认的要多，但我看到三个压倒一切但简单的信息，这些信息自然是从我的导师的天赋中得出的。

首先，特别是对于自来水公司的财务总监（我接替我的导师和她的前任）而言，管理资源和资产对于财务战略非常重要。但在当今的现实中，“管理铅笔”（无论是字面意思还是象征意义）都不是战略性的。

其次，领导者的关注点和行动往往比领导者意识到的更多地传达给员工。我接受组织文化随着时间而变化的观点；那时，我导师的前任分发铅笔可能是合理的。但今天，想象一下这样的控制行为将如何解释——我认为不太好。

最后，鉴于组织流动不可避免，为继任者留下一份“礼物”可以极大地帮助保持连续性。它不必像我的导师留给我的信息那样微妙和隐蔽。只需在办公桌抽屉中（或在当今的技术现实中，在文件共享网站中）留下一些东西，为您的继任者指明正确的方向可能就足够了。虽然不是很明显，但至少对我来说，我导师的方法让这个信息变得深入人心。