Humus is the thin dark layer, a few centimeters at most, that sits at the surface of the earth and sustains virtually all life on it. It takes roughly a century to form a single centimeter. It can be destroyed in an afternoon.
Most people walk over it without a second thought.
Organizations have their own humus. It doesn’t have a name on the org chart and it doesn’t appear in the annual report. It’s the accumulated living layer that makes everything else possible: trust, institutional memory, the relationships through which decisions get made and exceptions get authorized outside formal channels. Like humus, it forms slowly and invisibly, through thousands of small interactions over years. And like humus, it can be destroyed in an afternoon.
A restructuring. A betrayal. A leadership change that signals, loudly or quietly, that the old rules no longer apply. The layer doesn’t announce its departure. You notice it the way you notice soil erosion: invisibly for months, then unmistakably, when something that used to grow no longer does.
The reason organizations chronically underinvest in these things isn’t negligence. It’s visibility.
Humus doesn’t have a line item. Neither does trust. Neither does the knowledge that quietly exits when the wrong people leave. We fund what we can see and measure, which means we systematically defund the layer everything grows from.
The accounting logic is impeccable. The biological logic is catastrophic.
And the humus has a face. It’s Bob. It’s Martha. The ones who’ve been there for decades, who know where everything is and why it works the way it does, who remember what was tried before and what happened.
But here is something we don’t say: some of them chose this.
They saw, early or late, what the organization could and couldn’t see, and they settled permanently into the space between what the organization measured and what it needed. The invisible layer isn’t only where the unrecognized end up. It’s also where certain people go deliberately, because it’s the only place in the organization where the work is judged by whether it functions rather than by whether it’s visible, and the exposure to organizational politics is low enough to ignore. They knew they were invisible. Some of them preferred it that way.
Which means the organization’s failure to see them was not always unilateral. There was an arrangement. Informal and unspoken. It held. The organization got the benefit of the layer without having to account for it. Bob and Martha got to do the work they cared about without having to perform for systems that wouldn’t have known how to evaluate them anyway. It suited everyone. It cost everyone something.
We see them. We appreciate them in a vague, fond way. We call them lifers. We call them grinders. And when they retire we give them a plaque and a room full of warm applause, and six months later things start not working and nobody can explain why.
Meanwhile we celebrate the stars. The ones who rose. We built a recognition system that rewards only what our existing categories can name — ascent — rewarding the people who rise and ignoring the people who hold the ground. Then we’re surprised when the ground erodes.
The question isn’t whether your organization has this layer.
The question is whether anyone is tending it. And tending requires visibility. Which means the first problem isn’t resources or intention. It’s that some of the people who live in this layer may not want to be found. The arrangement protected them too. Making the invisible visible isn’t neutral. It changes what the layer is.
You can’t tend something you can’t see. But seeing it changes it.
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photo by Matúš Kovačovský
