As I got behind the wheel, I was terrified.
I had never driven a car before. And now, I was about to.
I was in as acceptable a setting I one could be for this process — the inside of a Driving School vehicle, with an instructor in the passenger seat. But still, I could only think of what would go wrong.
You see, the only driving experience I’d had before was in those racing games at the arcades. The ones with the loose steering wheel that would send you careening into a wall if you weren’t careful.
Once, I’d gone off the course in one of those games and plowed down an entire Redwood forest. Now, I was horrified about what damage I might inflict in real life.
After spending an eternity adjusting the car mirrors, I set out on the suburban roads. It didn’t go well.
I didn’t crash into any cars or run any stop signs. But there were enough close calls that a fellow student spent the next day telling anyone and everyone about how I’d almost killed her.
Humiliated, I pledged to do better. I ran through the instructions I’d been taught — check your mirrors and your blind spot, use your signal, go light on the gas and start braking early. I thought of how to best apply them when I was in the driver’s seat. And I followed those directives the next time I got into that driving school car.
This approach paid off. A few months after my ill-fated first drive, I passed my driver’s test. And I’ve spent years behind the wheel since then, mostly without incident.
I soaked up those driving lessons. I internalized them. I embodied them.
To me, they were not a set of suggestions. They were lessons to live by.
From our earliest days, we’re in a state of learning.
As infants, we must figure out how to walk, talk, and take care of ourselves. Once we get to school, we are educated on math, science, literature, and social studies. In our spare time, we might learn to fish, ice skate, or hit a curveball.
There are so many lessons headed our way that it’s hard to keep all the information internalized. So, some lessons will fade away over time, while others remain timeless.
I know this as well as anyone. For I am the son of teachers.
To be clear, my parents were far from overbearing. But they weren’t exactly hands-off either.
In my parents’ view, each day was an opportunity to learn something new. And so, they did their best to stimulate that continual improvement in me.
I learned plenty from my parents during my formative years. But three lessons from my father, in particular, have stuck with me.
- Don’t make the same mistake twice.
- Don’t pee in swimming pools.
- Don’t say you don’t like something until you try it.
These three edicts don’t seem to fit together. But they remain snug in my mind.
As I’ve grown up, I’ve remained open to new experiences. I’ve done my best to learn from my mistakes. And I haven’t even considered taking a leak in the pool.
I learned plenty in school as well — from the core tenets of algebra to the principles of democracy. And yet, of all those lessons, three directives from my third grade teacher loom largest.
- Stand up straight.
- Look people in the eye when you talk to them.
- Give a firm handshake.
I’ve forgotten the name of the penultimate Roman Emperor. And I can’t remember the symbol for Iron on the Periodic Table without looking it up. But the principles of good posture, eye contact and a firm handshake? Those have endured.
Lessons to live by always do.
What makes a lesson timeless? What gets it to click just right in our mind?
This is something I’ve long struggled to comprehend.
After all, the lessons we internalize become our charter. They help define the way others see us.
If we cling tightly to edicts of caution, we might avoid taking chances. If we set our memory receptors on math formulas instead, we could become savants in data science without any semblance of social skills.
Of course, it’s rarely that simple.
The lessons we live by are often a cocktail of advice. Some of the tips we take to heart might be practical. Others might give us an edge. Some might just be whimsical.
Each cocktail has its own distinct flavor. And that variation helps explain our divergent personalities.
In my case, the lessons I’ve internalized have kept me conscientious and polite. They’ve also inspired me to keep searching for improvement.
These qualities aren’t inherently good or bad. They’re just part of who I am. They’re key for how I see myself, and how others see me.
I wonder sometimes what my parents and teachers think about all this. Are they satisfied with the lessons I took to heart? Or do they wish some others had stuck instead?
Still, asking such questions misses the point.
The learning process is a set of inputs and outputs.
The material that’s taught to us represents the outputs. That information is foisted on us by others.
The inputs, on the other hand, are firmly within our control. If we have the will to engage with the information, we will do so. And the lesson will become internalized.
It’s futile to mess with this equation. Whether my parents or teachers gave me a piece of advice twice or twenty times was irrelevant. All that mattered was if I turned those outputs into inputs. And that was totally on me.
Similarly, I have dispelled plenty of advice throughout the 300 articles I’ve shared on Words of the West over the years. This advice has landed differently depending on who was viewing it.
I’m sure some articles had a profound effect on my audience, while others were met with a shrug. Perhaps some topics that were a yawner for some were pure gold for others.
The choice is yours, dear reader. You decide what sticks and what fades into oblivion. I’m just here to spur that decision, by giving you something to think about.
Perhaps then, that is the greatest lesson to live by. We can’t mandate what others will internalize. But we can guide them by providing material for consideration.
And in the end, that could prove to be enough.