Here is a story from the time when Nin lived at home, and was a still a prince among rabbits:

Part of Nin’s royal studies was learning the affairs of state. Following this, he was appointed to a municipal planning committee, which had purview over the expansion and redistricting of the warren.

This was hardly a memorable time for Nin, a period of meetings and bureaucracy, of planning and re-planning. The days flowed together but, years later, one memory still persisted:

During a certain council meeting, someone suggested a large change to the current system, almost a complete overhaul. This was met with an immediate outcry: “That’s far too radical, you’re asking for too much,” exclaimed the other committee members, “it’ll never work, it’ll never take.”

And the speaker conceded that indeed their proposal was radical, and they had, in anticipation of this response, prepared a more moderate plan of action.

The committee looked over the moderate plans and soon declared: “It’s an interesting idea, but now is not the time. We have bigger, more important issues at hand.” And they tabled the discussion, suggesting that he raise the issue again in perhaps a few years’ time.

The speaker conceded here, too. Nin knew, however, that this plan had been presented the previous year as well, and had been summarily poo-pooed then, as it had been today. Apparently no time was the right time.

Finally the speaker proposed a small, modest change. It would hardly solve the enormity of the problem in and of itself, but the proposed change was inexpensive, actionable, reversible, provided immediate feedback, and left the door open for further changes.

But once again the committee passed. “It’s such a small change,” they said, “it won’t really fix anything. So there’s no point in doing it.”

And the meeting adjourned with no progress, no changes, and no real solutions to the problems it faced.

Every time Nin recalled this memory he was deeply compelled to make a change—any change.