The Discipline of Not Digging

What growing sweet potatoes taught me about curiosity, evidence, and knowing when to leave a working system alone

There are sweet potatoes growing beneath the soil in my garden.

I know this because I have already seen one.

That should be enough information.

Apparently, it is not enough information for my curiosity.

For weeks, I have watched the vines spread through one of my garden beds. They have climbed, tangled, overlapped, and competed for space with butterfly pea vines that have become so aggressive that “companion planting” no longer seems like an accurate description. At this point, it feels more like a corporate acquisition.

The sweet potato vines are still substantial and green, but some of the older leaves have begun to yellow and die back. Every time I look at them, the same question occurs to me:

What is happening underneath all of this?

I could find out.

I could move the vines aside. I could dig carefully around the soil. I could investigate.

I will not.

Partly because gardening has not yet convinced me that putting my hands into unseen places is a reasonable activity—even with gloves.

But there is another reason.

I don't actually need the answer yet.

And that realization reminded me of something much larger than gardening.

Curiosity does not always justify intervention

We often talk about curiosity as an unquestionably positive quality in business. And it is an important one. Curiosity leads us to ask better questions, challenge assumptions and explore possibilities.

But curiosity can also tempt us to interfere with something simply because we don't have complete visibility into it.

That distinction matters.

In my garden, I have evidence that the system is working. The vines grew. The foliage flourished. I have already discovered that storage roots are developing beneath the soil.

Could I gather more information by digging?

Absolutely.

But what decision would that additional information allow me to make today?

None.

I would be satisfying my curiosity—not solving a problem.

That is a very different reason to intervene.

One signal is not the whole system

The yellowing leaves initially caught my attention.

Something is changing.

But looking at the entire bed tells a more complete story. There is still significant green foliage. There is still active growth. There are still healthy vines.

The yellow leaves are a signal. They are not, by themselves, a conclusion.

That distinction extends far beyond a garden.

In our work, we encounter individual data points constantly: a metric moves, customer behavior changes, a process slows, one campaign underperforms, someone raises a concern.

The temptation is to react to what is most visible.

But good judgment requires context.

What does this signal mean relative to everything else we know?

Is it evidence of a problem?

Is it a normal part of the cycle?

Does it require action now?

Or does it simply require observation?

Sometimes the most visible thing is not the most important thing.

Restraint is also a decision

This may be the lesson my garden has taken the longest to teach me.

I tend to associate progress with action.

Identify something. Assess it. Improve it. Measure it. Iterate.

Those instincts have served me well professionally.

But iteration does not mean constant interference.

There are moments when the evidence tells us to change direction. There are moments when experimentation is necessary. There are moments when a process has clearly stopped producing the intended outcome and intervention is overdue.

And then there are moments when the system is doing exactly what it is supposed to do—and our job is to give it enough time to produce the result.

Choosing not to intervene in those moments isn't passive.

It requires observation.

It requires judgment.

And sometimes it requires considerably more discipline than taking action.

Knowing when to dig

Eventually, I will harvest the sweet potatoes.

To be clear, I will be supervising this particular phase of the operation. My willingness to develop patience has not somehow evolved into a willingness to blindly reach into densely planted soil.

There are limits to professional development.

But when harvest day comes, digging will have a purpose.

The information beneath the soil will finally be information I need.

Until then, the vines can continue doing their work.

And I can continue doing mine: observing the system, paying attention to the signals, resisting the urge to confuse activity with progress, and remembering that sometimes the most strategic action available to us is knowing when not to act.

Sometimes we need to inspect.

Sometimes we need to iterate.

Sometimes we need to intervene.

And sometimes?

We need to stop digging.

This reflection is part of my continuing exploration of the connection between gardening, Agile principles, systems thinking, and professional practice—the thinking behind From Soil to Strategy.