Lesson 1: Discipline

 Lesson 1: Discipline

Better people make better anythings.

Specifically, better people make better coaches. Better people make better spouses. Better people make better teachers and administrators (like Steve Whitaker, Ph.D.). Better people make better bus drivers. Better people make better sons, better daughters. Better people make better photographers (like Collin Strachan). Better people make better electricians. Better people make better students. Better people make better athletes. I could go on and on and on.

Better people make better anythings because better people have better character—which then drives performance. Think about it. If someone is hardworking, resilient, creative, unselfish, honest, respectful, focused, trustworthy—and a myriad of other character skills—what will happen to the value they offer? What will happen to their contribution to the team?

I am committed to helping teams think deeply about the practicalities of character skill development. That said, if I am not personally devoted to growing great character myself, I will be a lousy facilitator. To that point, today’s focus is on taking the skill of discipline to a higher level.

When I was younger and running fast and furious (relatively speaking), I was super disciplined, juggling my roles as a wife, mom, and medical professional with a demanding training schedule. After decades of that, however, I am finding an unfortunate inverse relationship between aging and a disciplined way of living.

It’s hard for me to run long when it’s cold and rainy. In fact, sometimes I can’t even force myself out the door for a short run when it’s sunny. I fight with myself—and often lose—to get on the floor to do core work. I know what I should do but I have a hard time following through.

I know I am not as strong physically as I could be. Hence, I started a weight training program last week. I am publicly committing to practice the skill of being disciplined with this new task, understanding the likely carry-over to other hard-to-do things, one day at a time.

How about you? How can you practice discipline this week, even if in a small, incremental way?

Once the dust settles

We live in a house that was built about 135 years ago. Our driveway, a third of a mile in length, is an
unfortunate combination of mud, rocks, and gravel. Excluding the tiny house that our son and his wife built nestled in a stand of cedars, our nearest neighbors are the cows that graze on the far side of the rickety fence. It is country living at it's finest--except for the dust and dirt.

I probably vacuum the rug in front of the kitchen sink at least twice a day. Now understand, I am not a clean freak but once the dirt and debris carried in on shoe bottoms covers a substantial percentage of the surface area, I am compelled to do something about it. But that is not the worst of it.

When the morning sun streams in through the need-to-be-washed windows, a fine layer of dust is revealed. Coffee table. Countertops. Stove top. Everywhere. Even the air itself seems filled with tiny particles that take great pleasure in frolicking about. How does this happen? How can it be? Honestly, I try to keep a tidy house but those dust-laden sunbeams deflate my feelings of domestic competence.

So what to do? On the sun-drenched days I grab a damp sponge and swipe it across the dust-lined surfaces illuminated by the light, almost in disbelief at this new crop of dust generated overnight. I feel a little better once the dust has been captured in my sponge and washed down the drain. Poetic justice. From dust to dust...

But what about the mornings when it is cloudy and overcast, much like today when the cold mist and lingering flurries add to the length of icicles hanging from the tree branches? Is there any less dust compared to a sunny morning? Doubtful. I suspect that the ugly truth is this: The dust has once again settled. I'm just not as bothered by it because the lack of bright sun fails to reveal the mess.

Should I be bothered? Probably, though obsessing about it may be ill-advised. Still, there is likely a life lesson to be learned between the Brownian movement of the ubiquitous particles of dust. 

I tend to pay attention to the obvious and ignore the discreet. Perhaps I would do well to consider the not-so-obvious and address the situation for what it is.