Tag: balance

The Allotment of Time

I have all the time I the world.

This thought crossed my mind as I headed to the airport for a business trip.

The late-afternoon flight had essentially curtailed my workday. But I had time to make up the difference.

After all, my flight would take about two hours. I’d likely be at the gate for an hour more before boarding the plane. And once I landed ad my destination and made it to the hotel, I’d have an hour to tie up some last-minute work tasks. Easy peasy.

At least that’s what I thought.

But the flight was delayed. Then delayed again. Then moved to a different terminal. By the time I’d made it to my new gate, I had little time to boot up my computer and get anything substantive done. And the delay caused me to arrive at the hotel near midnight. No work nightcaps for me.

Add it all up — plus the time I had to stow my laptop for takeoff and landing — and four hours of asynchronous work time had been condensed into only one. Much of what I’d hoped to accomplish would have to wait for another day.

Time had gotten away from me.

My travel dilemma was not unique.

Indeed, there have been many other instances where I’ve misjudged how much time I’d have at my disposal.

This is not a failure of arithmetic. I have an MBA and spent three years producing evening television newscasts. I know my way around a math problem.

No, something deeper is at play here. My inability to probably allocate time is a failure of context.

You see, I consistently view time as finite. I see it as a set of 24 hourlong blocks that can be divvied up to meet the needs of the moment.

What I fail to consider are all the little complications that might eat away at that time. The moments spent walking from place to place, taking a bathroom break, or fielding an unexpected phone call.

These instances seem insignificant. And on their own, they might be.

But in aggregate, they can eat away at those blocks of time. They can wreck the most carefully laid plans.

They’ve laid waste to mine, time and again. But recently, I’ve tried to take control.

I’ve averaged out all those interruptions and run experiments from those findings. And all this work has led me to what I call the Rule of Three.

The Rule of Three dictates that I should split an open block of time into three parts. Two of those three parts should be dedicated to an inevitable slew of interruptions; I shouldn’t expect them to lead to productivity. But the third part can be devoted to completing substantive work.

This heuristic didn’t hold true when I got caught in travel limbo. I lost three quarters of my allotted time that day, not two-thirds.

But in general, it does hold water. And such knowledge has helped me navigate my day, set accurate deadlines, and even write my Words of the West articles.

Yes, the Rule of Three has been a game changer. But it doesn’t leave me feeling fulfilled.

For instead of thinking of what I accomplish during my productivity spurts, I’m left to consider the two-thirds that got away.

It’s my cross to bear.

This game I play — it’s hardly reasonable.

The clock might tick to a steady beat. The sun might rise and set at specific times each day. But few other elements of everyday life adhere to such precision.

Expecting perfection out of any aspect of life is a fool’s errand. I know this as well as anyone.

Yet, here I am, ruing any little blip that sets me off schedule. What gives?

Part of this is surely my own neurosis. My disdain for any semblance of laziness in my life causes me to account for every second of my day.

But a bigger part of this mindset is cultural. In fact, it’s a hallmark of our society.

Ever since the dawn of the industrial era, we’ve been encouraged to account for every minute. The transcontinental railroad gave us time zones and standardized clocks. Henry Ford gave us the assembly line and interchangeable parts. And the public education system gave us regimented schedules.

With each development, the message was clear. Time was not to be wasted.

Such ideals did have benefits. They helped America make the leap from a frontier nation to a superpower, and they created the playbook for a developed nation.

But the drawbacks have been just as stark. Skyrocketing instances of burnout, declines in quality control and the crushing weight of insecurity have all carried a heavy toll.

This system of extreme accountability asks more of us than we can reasonably expect to deliver on. It expects us to be machines, and to adhere to perfection. And that is something we can’t reasonably hold up to, either mentally or physiologically.

And so, we are destined to make a mess of time allotment. And we are bound to feel bad about it when it happens.

Our society wouldn’t have it any other way.

When I was a teenager, I’d often head to bed late. And in our family home, that meant one thing – I was responsible for turning off all the lights.

As I’d go through this process, I’d often find my father in his study, working under a solitary lamp.

My father – a schoolteacher – has always been a notorious procrastinator. He tends to start a dayslong project – such as grading papers or writing lesson plans – the night before it’s due.

I had no desire to follow the same path, so I played a little Jedi mind trick on myself. I would convince myself an assignment was due the day before it actually was, and then procrastinate leading up to my fake deadline.

This trick worked like a charm. I’d get my assignments in on time, every time. And my work would generally score high marks.

But now, I no longer have the same confidence in my technique. When pressed for a firm deadline on a project, I waffle.

Adulthood is complicated, with surprises at every turn. Calculating the Rule of Three on the fly is even tougher. Put both factors together, and I’m so overwhelmed that I’m tempted to shut down.

But I’m not a quitter. So, I try to overdeliver. I aim to get as much done in as little time as possible, knowing the odds are against me. And all too often, this process leaves me bitter and disappointed.

There’s a better way for me, and for all of us. So, it’s time for call it like it is.

We are human, and rigid time allocation processes are inhumane. We must give ourselves some slack to account for the variability of life. There is no other viable way forward.

So, from now on, I’m going to approach things differently. Instead of forecasting how much time I have at my disposal, I will simply strive to do my best and settle for what I accomplish.

This approach might not be sexy. But it should bring a balance of effectiveness and peace of mind.

And ultimately, that’s what matters.

Juggling to Achieve Balance

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a juggler.

OK, not the juggler you probably are thinking of.

I haven’t tossed balls in the air, let alone swords. And I’ve never breathed any fire.

The type of juggling I’ve mastered hasn’t helped me bustle on the street corners. It hasn’t made me the life of the party.

But it has helped me navigate the complexities of life.

What have I juggled? Responsibilities and priorities. Confidence and doubt. And solitude and community.

Managing this elaborate juggling act hasn’t been easy. But the struggle has made me stronger.

To understand why, it’s important to look at the mechanics of juggling.

While we are often mesmerized by the shiny optics of juggling — the objects pirouetting through the air, the hands deftly negotiating the process of catching an object and tossing it back in the air — it is something that which we cannot readily see that drives the action.

Time.

Time is both stubborn and relentless. It moves at the same rate, never expanding or reducing itself to our needs. In a world full of uncertainty, it’s the one constant we refer back to.

These characteristics make time both finite and universal. And it leaves us with a choice. We must either use time to our advantage, or watch it become our detriment.

Juggling requires us to look these brutal facts square in the face, and not back down. For if we fail to master time, we are toast.

In the case of the street juggler, this means the objects come crashing to the ground. The show is over. The opportunity to win hearts and minds (and dollars) vanishes into thin air.

In a more general sense, failing to use time to our advantage means racking up opportunity costs. It means wondering What if?

In either case, time demands a rhythm. We cannot add a 25th hour to the day, just as the street juggler can’t make the objects they’re tossing freeze in midair.

We must do what we can to make the most of the limited time we have — whether for spectacle or for survival.

I had to come to terms with this reality when I started business school.

My life was already busy at the time I enrolled. I was balancing a demanding full-time job, a tri-weekly exercise regimen and my weekly Words of the West articles. I was also heavily involved in my alma mater’s local alumni chapter, and I tended to cook dinner from scratch. If I had any time left over, I’d spend it with friends.

Suddenly, I had a new set of obligations — classes, homework, group projects — to fit into my existing day-to-day. And time wasn’t about to stand still.

So, I made some tough decisions. I cut out most homecooked meals — a prudent decision, as I was in class several evenings a week anyway. I dedicated specific nights for writing Words of the West articles, instead of waiting for inspiration to strike me. And I moved my workouts from late afternoon to the crack of dawn.

But even with my meticulous planning, I found myself in a rut. For I had failed to recognize a key fact — daily life is far from uniform.

Some weeks were more challenging than others at work. Some weeks had more assignments or exams than other at school. And some mornings my workouts took longer than others, because I was too exhausted to go any faster.

These sound like simple concepts, but I had not planned for them. How could I? After all, there was no slack in my schedule when things were going well.

Still, I needed to get everything done. No matter how crazy a particular week got, work and school were non-negotiable. And I needed those workouts to stay in shape physically and stay sane mentally. Cutting any of these items out of my routine was out of the question.

So, I started juggling. I got up earlier, stayed up later and immersed myself in whatever task was at hand. I renewed my commitment to efficiency, scrapping any spare moments where I might daydream or otherwise catch my breath.

This was challenging. It was stressful. But in the end, it was worth it.

For as my juggling act became routine, something unexpected happened. I started to find balance.

The three pillars of my life started to settle into an even foundation, each taking up an equivalent portion of my time and energy.

None of those pillars could take undue influence, since I had no more resources available to give. And strangely, that fact gave me peace of mind.

A situation that not long before had felt like scaling a cliff face transformed into a run up a steep hill — still strenuous, but overtly manageable.

Simply put, my commitment to juggling my priorities helped me find the balance I needed to thrive.

Now, I realize this is an extreme example. Not everyone will put themselves into the scenario I did. And if they do find themselves in that spot, they might make the hard choice I didn’t — by cutting out exercise or only giving 70% effort at school.

But even when the margins aren’t quite so thin, event when the heat is off, juggling our priorities can be useful.

For it can boost our discipline. It can invigorate our focus. And, in doing so, it can help us find the balance in our lives that would otherwise elude us.

So, regardless which priorities take up your attention, consider applying the rules of juggling to them.

It might seem like a thankless task. But you’ll be grateful for it in the end.

The Big Shift

The afternoon was cold and raw.

Rain was cascading nonstop from the gray October sky.

It was the perfect weather to stay inside and read a book, or watch television. But I was doing neither.

I was out on wooded dirt trail in the 38-degree chill.

Outfitted in a T-shirt, shorts and a pair of running shoes, I sprinted for a quarter mile up a steep hill. Rain drenched my face and stuck to my clothes with every striding step.

My reward when I got to the top? To jog back down to the bottom of the hill and do it all over again.

Jog, not walk. After all, the number one rule of Cross Country practice: No Walking Allowed.

By the fourth jaunt up the hill, I was dragging. My quad muscles were so full of lactic acid that I felt like I’d been stabbed. My arms were raw from the elements. My teeth were chattering.

I made it to the top, and our coach mercifully called it a day.

By the time we got back to the locker room — a full mile from Hell’s Hill — I could barely move. I sat on a bench for what felt like eternity.

Never again, I told myself.

Never again will I subject myself to this.

 

If you had told me how this scene would play out two months earlier, I flat out would not have believed you.

I was preparing to start high school, and to experience all the changes that would bring.

One of my main goals for my freshman year was to make the Junior Varsity baseball team. So, when the baseball coach encouraged me to join the Cross Country team — which he also coached — I didn’t think twice.

How hard can this be? I thought. I’ve run before.

I quickly learned just how wrong I was.

For my first practice, my task was to run a mile-long loop on the backcountry trails near school. I didn’t run up Hell’s Hill that day, but I did weave my way through some remote and hilly trails.

All the while, the coach paced me on his bicycle. There was no chance to slow down, even after I began to suck wind a half mile into the run.

Still, discouraged as I was, I decided to keep going. It was important for me to show the coach how resilient I was. It would pay dividends in the spring. And staying in shape couldn’t be a bad thing — although I was a string bean back then anyways.

Over the following months, I learned to shift my habits. I swapped out fries and Coca-Cola for Subway and Gatorade. I committed to stretching properly. And I learned to conserve my energy on race day.

I found that by sprinting that final quarter mile of the race, instead of the first one, I could pass dozens of fatigued runners and bolster my final position. That tactic became my secret weapon.

It seemed as if everything was working out. That I could learn to love this brutal sport after all.

Then, that fateful afternoon in the rain came to pass.

No more, I told myself. This would be my first and last season on the team.

I finished the year with a medal in the Freshman State Championships. Then, I walked away.

There was no going back. Not to Cross Country. Not to running regularly.

I was done.

Or was I?

I’m doing it again.

The thought crossed my mind as I scaled a 100-foot hill, with the day’s first light ahead of me.

The origins of what was sure to be another triple-digit summer day were taking its toll on me. As I cut through the muggy predawn air, my shirt and face were drenched in sweat. My quads felt the familiar resistance of that cold afternoon from half my life ago.

Yet, I powered through. I continued to push the pace.

Yes, a lot had changed since I walked away from running. I grew up, fell out of shape and had a shift in perspective.

Somewhere along the line, I decided that running could help me get back on track. So, I started spending 10 minutes on the treadmill twice a week.

But even with that workout in tow, I felt something was missing. I missed the thunder of my shoes hitting the pavement, the freshness of the air in my lungs, the excitement of every stride taking me somewhere new.

So, I started running a mile in my neighborhood. That mile run quickly became a two-mile loop. Then, I added a third run to my weekly routine, so that I was hitting the pavement roughly every other day.

I could feel the difference. My running regimen made me healthier, happier and more balanced. What was once a nuisance activity was now an essential part of my life.

So, I made sure to get my scheduled running in each week, no matter the weather. I ran in everything from 1-degree wind chills to 107-degree heat indices, blazing sunshine to pouring rain.

Then, I moved.

I had to find a new running route. And my search led me to the 100-foot hill.

At first, I didn’t want to mess with it. Too steep of a grade. Too tall a task.

But eventually, curiosity got the better of me.

And now, here I was. Scaling the hill. Dealing with déjà vu all over again.

Only this time there was a twist.

I wasn’t taking on this grueling workout because I had to. I was taking on “The Death Run” because I wanted to.

The steady hands of time and fate had gradually guided my back to one of the most miserable moments of my youth. And somehow, they led me to find joy in it.

The irony was palpable. It lingered long after my workout ended.

There must be a lesson in this, I told myself. It can’t be pure circumstance.

Still, I had trouble finding the connection, until I put pen to paper.

I realize now how well this experience showed life’s circuity. That over time, we can learn to love the things we once despised. We can embrace experiences we once abhorred.

Better yet, we can thrive off of these changes. We can use them to push our boundaries, gain fulfillment and become more well-rounded.

We’re all better served by embracing the power that big shifts can have in our life. By adopting a growth mindset. By replacing the word never with perhaps someday.

For we don’t know what surprises the future might hold. We don’t know if the mountain standing in our way now might provide the key to self-fulfillment later.

Endless possibilities await. An open mind is the key.

Don’t throw it away.

The Context of Focus

A few months ago, a received a compliment that totally floored me.

I was told I had a great ability to focus.

I was caught off guard by this comment, because this was a trait I didn’t quite see in myself.

I’m notoriously self-critical, and don’t like to dwell on my strengths. But I do know what they are.

Or, at least I thought I knew what they were.

Now, I’m reconsidering.

You see, I’ve long bemoaned my lack of focus, more than anything. I’ve considered my struggles reading books or maintaining attention when watching TV at home. And I’ve dwelled on the trouble I’ve had conversing with others with a lot of noise and movement around me.

This regret has eaten away at me, like a powerful acid.

After all, focus is my goal. A laser-targeted focus could help me achieve my objectives more efficiently and effectively.

I’ve likened this idyllic focus to being early-career Tiger Woods on the golf course.

Tiger had an uncanny ability to tune out all the noise around him and hone in on the task at hand. It helped him dominate a field of the world’s best golfers and tame the toughest courses — even in the harshest of conditions.

I’ve actually experienced this sensation of hyper focus before — although not on Sunday at The Masters, with the whole world watching. And not for as prolonged a period.

No, this sensation has come when I was in what some psychologists call a flow state. That’s a period where all distractions and time melt away. A period where one can truly hone on what needs to be done, and then execute upon it.

As a control enthusiast and intensely task-motivated person, I consider flow states to be pure gold. They are the essence of my greatest productivity.

But they’re also highly elusive. I can’t just snap into one on command.

And that constraint has darkened my entire outlook on the subject of focus.

It’s led to consternation when I’ve struggled to get more than a chapter into a book. It’s caused queasiness every time I’ve found myself paying more attention to the conversations around me than the task at hand. And it evoked dismay and disappointment when the writing of this very article spilled into a second day.

In short, it’s what’s led me to consider focus a personal liability for many years.

But now I wonder, do I have it all wrong?

Perhaps the young lady who lauded my ability to focus was right. For, in certain scenarios, I clearly can stay locked in. I certainly can execute on my objectives with ruthless efficiency in those moments.

I’ve demonstrated this many times throughout my life. And I most assuredly wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t.

But truth be told, I’m not the only one with these abilities. Surely, we each have our moments of focused brilliance, just as Tiger Woods once did on the links.

The key word here is moments. For focus is context-specific.

None of us can stay hyper-focused all the time. If we did, we wouldn’t be human.

So instead, we operate in waves. Of productivity and aloofness. Of efficiency and inefficiency. Of good days and bad ones.

This is the natural balance of our lives. And the sooner we get accustomed to it, the better.

There’s no point in trying to own every moment. It sets the bar far above what’s realistically achievable and only sets us up for disappointment. I know this as much as anyone.

Better to own the moments that mean the most.

Focus matters. But context matters more.

The Right Amount of Different

Be Different. But Not Too Different.

These six words are a microcosm of our society.

We inhabit a world that values individuality — to an extent. Some originality is considered noteworthy. Too much is considered rebellious.

This paradox arises from our dueling desires to explore and maintain. We want to test the waters and get outside of our comfort zone. But we won’t dare lose sight of the boat that brought us — or else the current might sweep us away for good.

Why keep one foot on solid ground, instead of diving right in? Because we strive for balance. We simply cannot function properly without it.

This leads to a world of incremental changes. We try and take the monotonous, familiar world we know and gradually put a fresh spin on it. It’s like an adapted recipe, with life as we know it as the base ingredient.

Making your mark can prove challenging in this paradigm. No one is there to tell you where the goalposts are. So, the quest to find the right amount of different can be quite elusive. Play it too safe, and you’ll come off as bland and quiet. Change too much up and you’ll come off as loud and obnoxious.

What can you do to find the sweet spot?

  • Scour the landscape. Take a close look at how things look now. What’s considered normal? Why are things the way they are within an industry or a social group? Don’t hesitate to self-educate. The more you know about the world around you, the more effective you can be at changing it.
  • Consider a derivative. No intensive calculus needed here — just a math mindset. What’s one thing you could change about the world you know in order to make it one degree more efficient and one degree more outstanding? Throwing the status quo out the window and starting over is not an option. Think in terms of small, yet noticeable tweaks.
  • Chart a plan of action. Think about how you will implement the changes you derive. Think of what you will do to communicate these changes in a way that doesn’t upset the apple cart Are you prepared for all outcomes when you let the cat out of the bag?
  • Execute.

Now, you might think this looks a lot like a business plan. You’d be right — and wrong.

You see, business is a microcosm of our societal constructs. Of our need for balance and continual improvement. Of our need to be different, but not too different.

In other words, business mirrors life. Take these steps to find the right amount of different, and you’ll likely see success in both areas.

You’ll improve the world in a culturally acceptable manner. And in the process, you’ll be viewed as remarkable.

These are goals we strive for, whether we admit it or not. The right amount of different makes them possible.

So, what are you waiting for? The process starts now.

Our Double Standard

Few concepts are as taboo as that of the double standard.

Hypocrites in our society might as well wear a scarlet letter. They’ve broken the cardinal rule.

After all, there’s a reason why phrases like Say what you mean, mean what you say or Talk the talk, walk the walk are gospel. We strive to be treated with honesty and respect, and we don’t like having our time wasted with lies and deception.

In an inherently unfair world, these unwritten rules are the closest thing to a pact we’ve got.

So, we might as well continue our credo, right? We might as well eradicate any semblance of double standards that remain?

Not exactly.

I’m actually a proponent of double standards, when it comes to the bar we set for ourselves. That’s the level of excellence we strive to meet as a person, an intellectual and a member of society.

I believe we should set that bar higher for ourselves than our friends, family and loved ones. That we should always demand a higher level of excellence of ourselves while not being too demanding on others.

It creates a chasm of hypocrisy, sure. But a worthwhile one at that.

You see, if we were to raise the bar of expectations for everyone in our circle, we would run the risk of pushing them away. We’d likely come off as cold and demanding — two terms that are not exactly conducive for social interaction.

We don’t make friends, associate with family members or fall in love with our soulmate in order to demand more out of them. No, we interact with these people so that we can just be. We strive to soak up life’s moments with them, rather than asking more of them at all times.

We might not agree with everything those in our circle say or do. But for the most part, we understand that they’re fine the way they are; that’s what drew us to associate with them in the first place.

When it comes to ourselves though, change is always needed. We can always do more to fix our flaws, expand our knowledge base and improve our relationship with those we care about. Taking the view that we’re fine the way we are is dangerous, as it short circuits this mission.

So, we’re obligated to set the bar higher for ourselves. And when we reach that bar, we’re obligated to set it even higher — or else we risk getting stuck in the mud.

This all sets up a new kind of double standard — on built on honesty and truth. We’re staying true to ourselves by demanding continually increasing excellence, and staying true to the members our circle by not forgetting what it is that brought them into the fold.

There’s a balance in this setup, one between changing and maintaining. A balance worth standing behind.

So, let’s pursue this double standard in lieu of the others. It’s a win-win.

Leisure vs. Obligation

“I don’t have time for that.”

I’ve heard this time and again.

It’s cop out, an excuse — and a bold-faced lie.

Truth be told, we generally do indeed have time to satisfy more requests, to add obligations. But we’d rather not, so we make ourselves believe we don’t.

Why do we play this Jedi Mind Trick on ourselves? It all circles back to a misguided perception — one stating that mixing in leisure time with our daily obligations is important for maintaining good health.

Newsflash: It’s not.

***

If we put our minds to it, we could all be more productive. We could do more to expand our knowledge, serve our community, maintain our fitness and build our career. After all, there are 168 hours in a week — and 72 of those remain after you deduct 7 full nights’ sleep and 5 full days of work.

But filling those hours with productive activities is tedious. It’s mundane. It’s not fun.

So we fill much of that time with leisure instead — we watch TV shows, go out to dinner or drop a pretty penny at the mall.

At first, this might not seem so bad. But leisure is like a gateway drug — it sucks you in and clouds your perception of reality. Over time, we find ourselves devoting more and more of our time and money to leisure — and then rationalizing our increasingly reckless behavior by saying it’s necessary for our own well-being.

It’s not how the world works. It’s how we want it to work.

***

The sad reality is that our enthrallment with leisure is actually detrimental to our well-being. Leisure serves both as a mindless distraction and an enabler. It dulls our mental acuity and laughs in the face of responsibility. Worst of all, leisure creates a culture where we’re allowed to spin the narrative without reproach by generating endless excuses in its defense.

Ultimately, leisure serves as a tantalizing roadblock — one that prevents us from reaching our full potential. Its presence also robs the community around us — as it limits the amount of energy we can expend on making the world a better place.

Such a debilitating cycle, all starting with “a little fun.”

***

It’s time to stop the madness.

Let’s claim back our lives, and prevent leisure from running amok. We can do this by treating our leisure time like an obligation — planning for it and fitting it into a finite window — and by continually asking ourselves the tough question: “Is this activity going to make me more productive?”

The way we spend our time matters. It’s high time we regain control over it.