Category: Achievements and failures

Skills worth having, part two

In my last blog post I wrote about Skills worth having and listed six: touch typing, spelling, writing an essay or report, giving a short talk, basic DIY skills, learning from mistakes. (You can find it post here: https://occasionallywise.com/2024/02/23/skills-worth-having/)

While writing that post, I realised I’d made notes on more ‘skills worth having’. So, here goes with another three.

Being a good driver/rider

I was near the end of my advanced motorcycle test. It was an ‘advanced’ test because this was a test to a standard beyond the normal government requirement. I wanted to be the best motorcyclist I could be, so I read up on advanced motorcycling and applied to the body who administered the advanced test.

Keith was appointed as my examiner. He was a brilliant motorcyclist, a police Class A rider who escorted royalty and trained new police motorcyclists. He explained the route we’d follow, and that he’d ride close behind to watch my use of brakes, clutch, mirrors, line through bends and, of course, my speed.

All went well, and we were on the final stretch. Ahead I saw traffic lights. They were green, so I accelerated. Then green changed to amber (yellow), about to show red. The Highway Code said amber meant stop, providing you could do so safely. My near instantaneous thoughts were: ‘I should stop’ then ‘I’m on a test, I have to stop!’ So I did. Except Keith couldn’t.

He’d assumed I would keep going, and was still accelerating when I braked. His bike hit mine just inches from my ankle. Both of us crashed to the ground, bikes on their sides spinning beside us. Slowly, not sure if I was hurt, I stood up. Keith did the same, asking “Are you okay?”  Still checking my body for injuries, I answered that I seemed to be all right. Keith said, “That was my fault – I’ll just pass you for the test”. Instantly the accident was forgotten. My bike was buckled and broken, but I’d passed the test! And, oddly, Keith and I became great friends, and went on to set up an organisation to train others in advanced motorcycling skills. Well over 100 bikers joined because they realised they needed better skills than they had already.

Needing better skills sums up why I took that advanced motorcycling test. Motorbike riding has become more dangerous because modern-day traffic is not friendly to bikers. On a five mile ride to my office, on average I was forced to take avoiding action at least once every day, almost always because a car driver did not recognise my existence as a road user. Surviving on today’s roads needed all the skills I could get. Others were experiencing the same. A typical story from those who joined our advanced motorcycling group was: “I rode bikes in my late teens and early twenties, but then moved to cars. Now I’m in my 50s I’ve bought a motorbike again for fun. But the bikes are much more powerful now, and the roads much more risky. I need help to ride safely.”

A few years earlier I’d realised it was not only motorcycling skills that I needed to improve. I caused a minor car accident which motivated me to do advanced driver training. Here’s how I described that in an earlier blog post:

I became an Advanced Driver and later an Advanced Motorcyclist, in each case passing a police-observed test of driving skills well beyond those needed for the government-run test. What motivated me to train and do those tests? It began with a stupid accident. My car was behind another car waiting to turn right. As traffic cleared the one in front moved off. I followed, accelerating through the junction. But the car just ahead of me braked sharply when a pedestrian stepped into the road. I was accelerating from behind, and I crashed into the rear of the car. My speed was still low – no-one was hurt – and the damage was only what my American friends would call a ‘fender bender’. But the accident was clearly my fault. I should have been paying more attention to what was ahead, and keeping further back from the vehicle in front. I was so annoyed with myself I signed up for training as an advanced driver, passed the test, and I’ve never had an accident since. I really wanted to become the best driver I could be.

‘To be the best or the very best?’ https://occasionallywise.com/2021/08/15/to-be-the-best-or-the-very-best/

Driving a car or riding a motorbike can be dangerous, and can also be thrilling. For both those reasons, it became important to me to become skilled at driving and riding – to be the best I could be. (Advanced Driver and Rider tests are administered in the UK by IAM RoadSmart – https://www.iamroadsmart.com/)

Swimming

I grew up in a small town where the nearest to swimming facilities was either the toddlers’ paddling pool in the park, or the broad and deep river that flowed past our home. Neither offered realistic chances to learn to swim. But I wouldn’t let those challenges stop me.

During my youngest years, my aunt Milla lived in Aberdeen, a city on the north east coast of Scotland. That meant budget holidays for our family. Her flat, two floors up in a tenement, was very modest. It consisted only of a kitchen/living room, bedroom, and a toilet, enough for a single person but overcrowded with my parents, brother and me. But we squeezed in, and made sure we went out every day, no matter the weather. And every day included trips to the beach or one of Aberdeen’s two swimming pools. The sun did little to warm up the sea, nor did the swimming pool beside the shore heat its water. Swimming in either was a bracing experience. But the sea and the pool were ideal places to learn to swim because both had salt water. Since salt water is more buoyant than fresh water, I didn’t drown despite my feeble early attempts at swimming.

In any case, my Dad made sure I would not sink. He couldn’t swim, but was determined that his two sons would be good swimmers. He’d say: “Let’s try the breast stroke today, and you won’t drown because I’ll always have one hand underneath you”. When my uncoordinated stroke failed, there was his hand underneath to support. Eventually my thrashing around turned into a useful breast stroke, back stroke, and front crawl, none of which needed his help. I’d learned to swim.

My older brother Alan and I kept swimming as we moved through our teens. Our home town of Cupar, Fife, had no swimming pool, but we’d catch the Saturday morning train to Dundee for no reason other than to swim in the pool there. Neither of us became super-competent, but we could swim length after length without difficulty. We were good enough to be able to save our lives if we ever fell into water.

Safety is one of the reasons Alison and I agreed that swimming was a skill we wanted each of our four children to have. Therefore, for many years they belonged to swimming clubs and became much more skilled than we ever were.

Swimming can save your life, or make it possible for you to save someone else’s life. It’s been a life skill I’ve always been glad to have.

Playing a musical instrument

Swimming was the most important skill we wanted all our children to have, but understanding music and being able to play music mattered too. Over time they all learned an instrument, resulting in a quartet of keyboard, flute, trumpet and violin. Outside the home they never gave concert performances, but they learned to appreciate music, and that lifelong skill and pleasure was worth all the effort.

When I was growing up, there was a piano in our home which my mother could play, but hardly ever did. For no reason I can recall, when I was aged about 9 I begged my parents to allow me to take violin lessons. What may have helped was that lessons took place in a basement gymnasium of the school, an area rumoured to have been dungeons during the building’s ancient history as a castle. There was certainly a strange atmosphere about the place. That atmosphere didn’t inspire great music from me, but I did okay and played in annual concerts in Cupar and nearby villages. For me, the hardest part of violin playing was the rapid fingering movements needed when playing Scottish jigs. I simply could not get my fingers to move as fast as the conductor’s baton. But, I got better by the time I attended my senior school. I joined the high school orchestra and played in concerts before fairly large audiences. Those were important learning experiences which may have helped me later in life when speaking before sizeable crowds.

One of the odd lessons I learned from being in orchestras was how to focus on two things at once. I had to concentrate hard on reading the music and yet also see how the conductor was directing us with his baton. I’m not sure that qualifies as multi-tasking, but it encouraged me that I could read music, play the fiddle, and keep an eye on the conductor, all at the same time.

The skill of playing a musical instrument has several benefits in addition to those already mentioned. It can be a life-long activity; there is friendship with fellow players; public performances develop nerve and provide affirmation; and it is always an impressive entry to include on a résumé or CV!

My life has been enriched by each of the skills described here. I’ve enjoyed driving well. I’ve felt safe because I can swim strongly. And, though my violin has long-since been passed down the generations of my family, I’ve never lost my appreciation of music.

Next time, the final collection of skills worth having…

Skills worth having

Over a period of about eight months, I learned a skill which has been a great asset ever since. I was just 17 and studying journalism, which included a course on shorthand and typing. For those two subjects, I was added to a class of about 20 young ladies, each destined to become medical secretaries. I never learned much about those young ladies (I didn’t date or marry any of them). But I did learn how to touch type. I’ll explain touch typing in a moment, because that skill has made everything about my work and studies more efficient and enjoyable ever since I was 17.

This blog post is about skills which are well worth having. Some will seem important; others perhaps more trivial. But, as I see it, any skill that significantly improves the quality and usefulness of our lives is worth having. You may want to master the skills I’ve learned, or become expert in other things. Learning any skill is a good thing (well, not pickpocketing!). All skills require work, but effort now reaps huge dividends later.

Here we go.

Touch typing  The young ladies learning shorthand and typing alongside me would later become medical secretaries. Their work would include making notes in a hospital or surgery meeting, or taking down details from a doctor about a patient. Then the secretary would transcribe her notes into a formal minute, letter or report by typing them out. That second stage is when touch typing skills mattered. An untrained secretary might place her notepad alongside the typewriter, then swivel her head from notes to keyboard, back to the notes and then to the typewriter, over and over again. For two reasons that would be unwise: a) she might get a strained neck; b) the back and forth method is an easy way to miss words, or even restart from the wrong line. Thankfully any of the medical secretaries I studied with would do something different. She’d still lay her notes beside the typewriter, but then look only at her notes while simultaneously typing what she was reading. There would be no head swivelling, and no looking at the typewriter keyboard, just reading the notes while typing perfectly. That’s touch typing. It’s what I learned to do too.

Here’s how touch typing works. First you put your index fingers on the home keys. What are they? If you look at your keyboard, it’s 99 per cent certain you’ll find a raised dot or line on the f and j keys. Those are the home keys, and the tiny marks are to guide your index fingers to them. Your other fingers fall into place on adjacent keys. From there, your fingers can stretch out to every key on the keyboard, even the numbers.

These days there are online exercises and games to train you to touch type, but I would encourage you to concentrate on drills. It’s mundane but it works. So, back when I was 17, I’d look at my tutorial book, and type the letters printed there. Lesson one began with just fjfjfjfjfj… over and over again. Lesson 2 moved me to fjkfjkfjkfjk… and then dfjkdfjkdfjk…. And so it went on through the chapters until I’d covered every key and risen to typing real words, all without looking at my fingers. That’s not exciting, but it is efficient, and over time I learned how to hit every key correctly and type quickly.

Why has this mattered? For me the main gain has been the ease of making notes from books. I did that for years, and still do it now. I’ll lay the book to the left of my laptop, and type what I need without lifting my eyes from the book. That way I never lose my place, or jump a line. Touch typing has been useful too with my professional work. Using information from several sources, I could flip from one to another with near-continuous typing. These days laptops are in use during lectures and business meetings, so a touch typist can keep their focus on the speaker while making notes on their laptop. And there’s a bonus: touch typing impresses everyone around you.

Touch typing is also the fastest way to type since you never have to look for the right key. I watched fellow-journalists, who’d never been taught typing, plonk away with two fingers. Their method was awkward, inaccurate, and very slow compared to a touch typist. The world record typing speed is 225 words per minute (wpm), but that was done in 2005 on a simplified keyboard. Normal speeds are much less, mostly not much above 40 wpm. But I’ve watched a friend touch type at about twice that speed, and it was awesome. Typing exams, I should add, take account of errors, and not many of those are allowed.

There is just one way you can go spectacularly wrong while touch typing: fail to place your index fingers on the home keys. Suppose I want to write about touch typing that “it’s really useful” but accidentally put my fingers one place to the right of where they should be. Then, instead of “it’s really useful” I’ll have typed “oy#d trs;;u idrgi;”. No spell-checker can fix that. Fortunately, even a moderately good touch typist senses quickly if they’re pressing the wrong keys, so drastic errors are rare.

Learn to touch type. It’s so worth the effort.[1]

Spelling  One of my former colleagues was a graduate of great ability with a sparkling personality, but I had to ban her from making PowerPoint presentations unless others had proofread her work. Her spelling wasn’t just bad; it was awful. Her mistakes diminished what people thought of her and how they viewed our organisation. I suspect she’d never been taught spelling. It was very different for me. Almost every day through my early school years my class learned the right way to spell words. Later in life, I developed the habit of checking any word when I was uncertain about its spelling.[2] Therefore I’ve never been embarrassed by writing wierd instead of weird, or biassed instead of biased, or independant instead of independent, or useage instead of usage.[3] Don’t rely on a spell-checker. Learn to spell!

Writing an essay, exam answer, or report (or any other short paper)  One of the questions in my final high school English exam was: Write an essay on the advantages or disadvantages of being a ‘lone wolf’. I had never thought about that subject, but, quite quickly, I decided I could write something sensible on the ‘advantages’ side. I started by describing the pluses of being free to make your own choices, and then idea after idea flowed. For those final English exams I got an A. Writing has simply never been a problem for me.

I recognise that’s not true for everyone, and for some who have struggled – barely able to put down even a few sentences – I’ve encouraged them to question their subject using Who? What? Why? Where? When? and How?  So, with my ‘lone wolf’ essay question, I could have asked myself: What kind of person has advantages? When is being on your own helpful? Where am I when I find it useful? How does being alone leave me feeling? Responding to those questions would have given me my essay. At any time of life, we may find we’re expected to write a short paper or report – it could be a complaint to the council about its services. You could use the 5 Ws and an H to structure your letter. Or you may prefer another technique. Whatever your method, develop the skill of writing something sensible. It’s a great help.

Giving a short talk  I spent almost all my working life delivering sermons, lectures, talks and presentations to audiences ranging from half a dozen to hundreds, and occasionally to thousands. I don’t find making speeches difficult. But many do. My Dad hated it. If he had to say a prayer in church, or give a short address to a group of golfers, Dad went through deep pain trying to get the words together. He’d write draft after draft, and then spend hours trying to learn every word. He could have benefitted from using the 5 Ws and an H method, or just noting down three or four key headings, and adding a few sentences under each heading. That would have given him a ten minute talk. That’s usually enough because, if there’s one golden rule for public speaking, it’s this: when you’ve said everything that needs saying, stop. Hardly anyone complains about a short talk!

Basic DIY skills  The first flat I owned was tiny. It had just two rooms, and was two floors up in an Edinburgh tenement. It was very cheap to buy, mainly because it had been built in Victorian times and the only improvement ever made was installing electricity. But to speak of ‘installing electricity’ is to flatter someone’s dangerous work of attaching a slack electric cable about three feet high along the walls. As well as hanging loose, that cable ran across the edge of a sink and over the front of a cast-iron range.[4] It was a fire hazard and a deathtrap. I hired professionals to deal with the electrics, because one vital skill about DIY is knowing when something is not a do-it-yourself job.

But I did learn how to do lots of small jobs around that flat. In the main room I stripped off all the wallpaper – not one layer, or two layers, or five layers, but at least seven layers plus another two layers of the original Victorian brown varnished wallpaper. Those last layers were impervious to water, so there was no way to soften and then peel off the paper. Over several months I chipped away at that varnished wallpaper inch by inch. Eventually I uncovered the wall underneath. It had innumerable dents and holes, especially where the old plaster had come loose. They were bad enough that fresh paint or wallpaper could never hide the imperfections. I had to fill them. By experimentation I learned how to remove loose plaster, mix filler to the right consistency, fill the hole, let it set, and sand it down. Then repeat the final stages several times, until the wall was so smooth I could shut my eyes and run my fingers over the area without feeling that there had ever been a hole there.

Having mastered filling holes in the walls, I graduated to making holes in the walls so I could hang pictures, bathroom cabinets, towel holders, toilet roll holders, shelves, kitchen utensil racks, coat hooks. I had bought a simple drill, and worked out how to make the right sized hole for a wall plug and screw. At first, that didn’t always go well. Sometimes I made the hole too large; sometimes the fragile wall-plaster crumbled. Either of those necessitated filler, and a more careful second attempt. Over time I learned how to succeed. And have done so many, many times since. In our family home, we’ve had all manner of things fixed to walls, and in garden sheds I’ve hung spades, forks, hoes, rakes, shears and the like. These days I have a much better drill, which, when not in use sits in its box up high on a shelf I fixed to the wall. Of course it does.

Learning from mistakes  Maybe this is the most important skill of all. There’s a truism that those who don’t learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them. Which also means they never become skilled.

In our small flat, I was a novice with home decorating, but a novice with big ambition. I decided to paint every bit of woodwork in that small flat. I had initial success painting the front door, but then two disasters. One was using dark purple paint on the entrance hall roof. Purple was an odd and very bad choice. But I’d read that using dark colours made a high roof seem lower. Maybe it did, but unfortunately purple also made that hall look garish, perhaps more like the entrance to an establishment where the rooms are rented by the hour. (Not that I would know about such establishments.) We hated that dreadful purple. It goes against my Scottish instincts to dispose of a paint tin still half full, but I made an exception with that purple paint.

That was not my only decorating disaster. Using white gloss, I painted all the woodwork in the bedroom. Even though I say so myself, I did a fine job. But, when I stepped back to admire my painting prowess, I noticed the floor was very dusty. I picked up my broom and swept everywhere. That was a bad – very bad – mistake. Dust flew up in the air, and every speck and every fleck stuck to the wet paint. I nearly wept. My beautiful painted woodwork was either spotty or hairy, neither of those a good look for the bedroom or, indeed, for anywhere. All I could do was wait 24 hours for the paint to dry, sand the woodwork smooth, and paint it all a second time. I never repeated my sweeping-the-floor-after-painting mistake. There’s a saying, ‘you live and learn’, but that is not guaranteed. Some never learn. Thankfully I did. It’s an important skill to recognise your mistakes and learn from them.

So, I suggest it’s very worthwhile to learn touch typing, spelling, essay or report writing, giving a talk, basic DIY, and, as far as possible, never to repeat your mistakes. That’s not even half of my valuable skills list, so I’ll continue with other important skills next time. Meanwhile, start learning to touch type – use eight fingers for the keys, and your right thumb for the space bar, making sure your index fingers start from the f and j home keys – and you’re off!

[1] The book I used when learning touch typing has gone through several editions. As far as I know it’s no longer in print, but several of its editions can be found via Amazon or used book suppliers like Abe Books or World of Books. Search for Gregg Typing First Course.

[2] In writing this paragraph, I checked which was right: proof reader; proof-reader; proofreader. None are wrong, but the most modern usage is to use just the one word, proofreader, which I have done.

[3] You can find a helpful list of common spelling errors (British English spellings) here: https://global.oup.com/booksites/content/0199296251/essentials/commonspellingerrors/

[4] If you have no idea what a Victorian range was, there’s a couple of good images here: https://mrvictorian.co.uk/2021/02/16/cast-iron-range/

An overwhelming longing

I burst into my house. Breathless – for I’d run all the way home from school – I asked: “Has it come yet?”

“Sorry, nothing has come.” My Mum looked so sorry for me. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

Upset, disappointed, hurt, sad. Another frustrating day. I’d entered a national competition, knew I’d won the prize of a great camera, and I so wanted it to arrive. Today’s conversation as I ran into the kitchen was exactly the same as it had been for two months, ever since the competition finished.

The hard truth, though, was that I didn’t know that I’d won. As much as a ten-year-old boy could be, I was sure that my entry was the best, and, the more I told myself that, the more I was certain I’d won the prize.

After another two weeks of her boy running home only to be disappointed, my mother cracked. She wrote to the company who’d run the competition, saying her son was waiting anxiously to know if he’d won. The reply came just a day or two later. They were grateful for my entry but, no, I hadn’t won the top prize. In fact, I hadn’t won any prize. I was devastated. I had so longed for that camera.

Since that time, I don’t think I’ve ever been consumed about any prize or product. But I have known numerous people with overwhelming longings of many kinds.

I’ll describe some of those I’ve known who so longed for something it was almost crushing.

Top equal in my list are those who couldn’t imagine life without being married. Most were women, but men too. I felt for all of them. I’m married, so I knew to be careful with anything I said to those who were unwillingly single. Once – just once – I was bolder with a young lady who told me almost any man would do, because she just wanted a husband. That was so unwise, I said gently that it was better not to be married than married to a bad person. She didn’t agree. “If I was married, I’d at least be able to change him.” She was wrong, but I didn’t tell her. She wouldn’t have believed me, and there was nothing to gain.

Just as passionate were those who longed for children. Some were never in a lasting relationship, married or not, but wanted children. Others were married but remained childless. Since I had four children, I never claimed to know how they felt. But I was certainly aware of their overwhelming desire to have children. For example, in my church tradition, we don’t baptise children but do have a thanksgiving/dedication ceremony for little ones. One lady asked me to stop referring to those babies as ‘gifts from God’ because God wasn’t giving that gift to her. Another requested that we gave advance notice of child dedication events “so I can avoid coming to church that Sunday”. Another young woman had more of a longing for children than for a husband – if she hadn’t got married before she was 30, she told me, she wouldn’t wait any longer but find a man willing to impregnate her. I didn’t scold her. She needed a listening ear and only a few gentle words, not a judging voice.

The passion for some is to reach the top in their career. A lawyer, by then in his early thirties, told me he was utterly bored with contract law. It was a safe and profitable line of legal work, but neither exciting nor satisfying for him. “Why stick with it?” I asked, for he could retrain for other legal areas or even change careers completely. “Because, if I keep devising lucrative contracts I’ll soon be a partner, eventually a senior partner, and could get right to the top by the time I’m 50.” Was career tedium a price worth paying for that goal? An oil company executive realised when he was 45 he’d never achieve the top job. “If you aren’t on the second highest rung by your mid-40s” he said, “you know you’ll never be chief executive”. In his case he was right, but had to keep working knowing he’d fallen short of his ultimate ambition.

There have been many more with deep longings. I’ve spoken with athletes who, despite years of sacrifice and iron discipline with diet and exercise, know they’ll never get to the Olympics or win a world record. Other people have always wanted to own a luxury car like a Porsche or Ferrari, but have never had nearly enough wealth. Some simply long to be famous, but have no idea what they’d be famous for. Others want to tour the world but – though possible – they never get round to saving the money or reserving the time for such a venture.

Ambition is good. So is the passion necessary to fulfil ambition. But when a longing becomes overwhelming there are dangers. At one level that’s disappointment; at a deeper level it can mean damage to our inner self.

So, some care is needed. Here’s why.

First, being realistic, not all goals can be attained by everyone. Everyone can’t win the prize, or hold the world record, or get the top job. That’s just simple logic. And, sadly, not everyone will find a life partner or be able to conceive children. “Why am I the unlucky one?” is the obvious question. Sadly the only answer may be “Why anyone?”. Some things are not about deserving. Other things are not about achieving no matter how hard we try. In a whole variety of ways, this is a tough world.

Second, not all goals are worthy of extreme passion. My desire as a ten-year-old to win that camera had got blown out of all proportion. There was nothing wrong with my hope to get the prize, but that hope had become a longing that was affecting everything else I did. Whenever any longing consumes us, we’d be wise to stop and consider what’s happening. The deeper the longing, the harder that is to do. Ideally, we’d all have a good friend whose wisdom we’d listen to.

The deeper the desire, the harder it is to cope with disappointment. That sentence is not an argument against sincerely longing for something good. It’s only a caution that the greater our desire to achieve a goal, the more difficult it is if we don’t achieve it. For some, that failure can overwhelm the rest of their lives. When, as a late teenager, I started a career in journalism, my ambition was to reach the very top in the newspaper or broadcasting worlds. With the brashness of youth, I had no doubt I could achieve that. But I was able to let that ambition go because an even greater goal came along, one central to my growing faith. But what if that other goal had never happened? What if I’d got stuck in a routine journalism career? How would I have coped? I’ll never know, but I did see journalists weary with their work, never progressing, never fulfilling the ambitions they’d had as teenagers. They were not happy people.

We need caution about what drives our lives. How realistic is that ambition for us? Are we passionate about something truly worthwhile? Can we cope if our dreams are never more than dreams? An overwhelming longing can be a great asset. It can also become an unbearable burden. Be careful.

The tyranny of the perfect

My golf match reaches the final hole with scores tied. Whoever wins that hole wins the match. My pitch to the green leaves the ball just six feet from the hole. If I sink the putt I win. I read the line, determine the speed, place my putter behind the ball, and stroke the putt toward the hole. It rolls straight and true. Until just six inches out, when the ball curves left and misses.

We played an extra hole and I lost. Afterwards I felt so stupid to have missed that putt on the 18th green. It was only six feet. I could and should have holed it. But I didn’t.

But the odd truth – which I discovered later – is that many of the very best golfers in the world might well have missed it too. The American PGA Tour publishes statistics for all their top golfers on putts holed from various distances, including from six feet. Some players are remarkably good, like Brian Harman (who won the 2023 Open Championship) who holes 91.53% of six foot putts. But others, including the biggest names in golf, are nothing like so good. For example, Jon Rahm (winner of the 2023 Masters Tournament) holes only 58.57% of times from six feet. Almost half of the top 184 sink less than 7 out of 10 of their six foot putts.[1]

If highly skilled golfers often miss relatively short putts, why did I beat myself up because I missed a six foot putt?

The answer lies in what I call the tyranny of the perfect. I don’t compare myself to my fellow amateurs, not even to highly rated pro golfers. I think I should be the perfect putter. I should always hole a six foot putt.

The truth is that no-one always does that, but, foolishly, I think I should.

That’s the tyranny of the perfect. It persecutes me in all sorts of ways – imagining I should always be patient, always be generous, always work hard, always excel in every task, always appreciate what others do, always want to wash the dishes, always be happy to walk the dogs in torrential rain. Of course I’m not always any of these things, so I feel bad.

Unquestionably I should always aim to be the best, to think, speak, and act correctly. But I have to come to terms with the reality that I won’t always be that good.

I’ll set down a few ways to think about this:

  • three negatives about perfectionism
  • two examples of when nothing less than perfect will do
  • finally a brief theological point

Perfectionism creates anxiety

Years ago I began work on a PhD with the University of Edinburgh. I’d already graduated in theology there, so I was on good terms with the faculty. One senior professor took me aside early on in my research work. “Alistair,” he said, “don’t be afraid to submit a chapter when you’ve done the work. There will always be more you could do, but you need to move on.” I owe that professor a lot. He was so right. I made steady progress through that degree, always knowing there were more books or journal articles I could have read, but accepting they wouldn’t have changed the direction of my research. But a perfectionist couldn’t have done that. The perfectionist would worry in case one more article might yield an important insight. And then there would be another article, and another, and another. Always anxious in case something was being missed.

Perfectionism causes inefficiency

My wife, Alison, remembers a near neighbour she once had. He was a keen gardener, so keen he worked endlessly on removing stones from his land. But his task was indeed endless – there were so many stones he never got round to planting his flowers and vegetables. Perfectionism made him inefficient.

The same was true for my friend Gordon who researched his doctoral thesis for five years without submitting a single chapter. His problem? He couldn’t let go of his work because he never saw it as finished. After six years he was warned about his pace of progress. The same happened after seven years, and eight years and nine years. He had drafted chapters, all excellent, but he kept refining each one. After twelve years Gordon got a final ultimatum from his university – ‘submit your thesis within the next academic year, or you get no degree’ – and after thirteen years he handed in his work. It was far better than acceptable; quite brilliant really. He got his doctorate. But he’d have been awarded his degree in a third of the time if only he hadn’t been a perfectionist.

Perfectionism forces people to become absorbed in detail to the detriment of getting work done efficiently.

Perfectionism limits performance

A figure skater practises and practises, and at last masters a quadruple Lutz. She focused on the quad Lutz because it’s extremely difficult and therefore one of the highest scoring elements. (The base value of a single Lutz is 0.60. The base value of a quadruple Lutz is 11.50.) Our skater worked up from the single Lutz to double Lutz to triple Lutz, and finally – after years of trying and failing – she succeeded with the quadruple. Surely our skater must now win every competition? But she doesn’t. Yes, she can pull off one of figure skating’s hardest jumps. But she has so concentrated on her quadruple Lutz, she’s neglected the Axel, the Loop, the Flip, the Euler, and the Salchow, important other elements in a figure skating routine. With those she’s just average. And being brilliant in one element but only average in the rest doesn’t win. Her perfectionism with the quadruple Lutz has limited her potential.

Likewise, cricket teams have specialist players, mostly bowlers and batters. But cricket teams don’t consist only of specialists. Other players are all-rounders, people reasonably good with ball and bat, but also excellent at catching, throwing, and running. Teams need players with many skills, not just one.

In life generally, most of us have to be all-rounders because focusing only on one thing neglects everything else. Perfectionism can limit performance.

However, having listed three negatives, I can offer two positives about perfectionism.

Perfectionism is sometimes essential

  • If I was ever to make a parachute jump – which will be never – I’d want my parachute packer to be an out and out perfectionist. Someone who thinks a ‘nearly right job’ is good enough might kill me.
  • If I needed brain surgery, my neurosurgeon had better have dedicated everything to be utterly brilliant. I don’t care if they can’t make a cup of tea, tie their shoe laces, or stack a dishwasher, as long as they’re an exceptional surgeon.
  • If I was trapped beside a ticking bomb, I’d need to know that the technician working to diffuse the bomb is the best bomb disposal operator ever.
  • If I was strapped in for a space flight, and the countdown has reached 5-4-3-2-1, I’m praying the aerospace engineers who constructed the rocket are the most detailed and careful people on earth.

You get my point. There are situations where it’s exactly right for someone to pour their attention and skill into just one area of work. In certain circumstances precision is an absolute requirement. – perfectionism not just desirable but essential.

Perfectionism is the inevitable instinct for some

I attended a Scottish Open golf tournament in Glasgow in the early 1980s. All day I walked the course, admiring the players’ skill. Finally, with the light fading, I headed back to my car. Right beside the car park was the practice range. There was only one player there – Nick Faldo. He was young but already well known. He’d played in several Ryder Cup matches and topped the European Order of Merit. He was already a successful golfer. But, while others had left the course or were propping up the bar, there Faldo was on the range. The sun was setting, but he was still practising. A great golfer, dedicated to becoming an even greater golfer. Which he achieved. He went on to win dozens of tournaments, including six ‘majors’ – the Open Championship in 1987, 1990, 1992, and the Masters Tournament in 1989, 1990, 1996. That’s more ‘major’ victories than any other European player has achieved since World War I. In the 1990s he was first in world rankings for a total of 97 weeks. When he finally retired from tournament play he began a significant career commentating on golf, and took up many other enterprises related to golf course design and developing young golfers. In 1998 he was awarded an MBE (Member of the Order of the British Empire), and then made a Knight in 2009, both awards ‘for services to golf’. Therefore he is now Sir Nick Faldo.

But his single minded devotion to golf came at a price. During matches he was so intense he hardly spoke to opponents or playing partners. He’s been described as having an insular focus that peers found less than endearing. That focus didn’t help his marriages either. The first lasted less than five years, the second for nine years, and the third for five. Faldo married his fourth wife in 2020.

Faldo’s great success as a golfer owes much to his perfectionism. It has cost him, but Faldo probably never considered any other attitude to golf. Utter dedication to his sport was how he had to live.

Similar commitments exist in other areas of life, such as:

  • the person building a corporate empire that spans the world
  • the academic whose whole existence is dedicated to study and book writing
  • people who dedicate themselves to finding rare species of moths, or trek the world as ‘twitchers’ (bird watchers)
  • those who commit all their attention to their families to the exclusion of any other activity.

Such people don’t have ‘interests’. Their goals are far more intense. Their focus is narrow. They could never be all-rounders. And their dedication to being perfect makes them very good in a single sphere.

Finally, then, a brief theological point.

Jesus said: ‘Be perfect… as your heavenly Father is perfect.’[2] That’s the standard. We shouldn’t aim for anything less. But, realistically, our lives will be less than perfect. Thankfully, the Bible also says: ‘If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves… If we confess our sins, [God] is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins.’[3]

So, when we don’t get things right, there can be forgiveness. For which I am profoundly grateful.

But sometimes the biggest difficulty is forgiving ourselves. That was my problem after missing my six foot putt. ‘I should have holed it’, I kept telling myself. I measured my performance against a perfect performance, and fell short. That’s the tyranny of the perfect. Yes, let’s always aim for the best. But let’s accept we’ll often fail. That’s realistic. It happens even to people far more proficient than we are. Sometimes we need to seek forgiveness from God or from others. And often we need to forgive ourselves. If we don’t, the perfect will keep on tyrannising us.

[1] Season 2022-23 statistics from https://www.pgatour.com/stats/detail/344 There are many other similar statistics on other pages on the PGA tour site.

[2] Matthew 5:48 (NIV)

[3] 1 John 1:8-9 (NIV)

Inner peace

I’ve known many restless people. They’re sad, disappointed. Often they believe they’ve been dealt a bad hand. The great work they do is never recognised. The best opportunities never come their way. They’re dissatisfied, rarely thankful, and constantly striving but never arriving.

However, I also know people who are deeply content, happy with their lot, fulfilled, pleased with what they’ve done, what they have, and relaxed about what the future holds. They have inner peace.

What characterises that second group, those who are at peace, who feel content and fulfilled? The answers aren’t the same for everyone, but there are distinct features in the lives of content people.

Contentment is a decision they make

Much of the time we attach satisfaction, sufficiency, fulfilment to achievement. We think, ‘I’ll be content if I get this promotion, or buy that house, or have everything I want’. Bill took pride in his photography. Rightly so, for he was good, occasionally paid to do a photo shoot. “Of course,” he told me, “to do exceptional work I’d need the very best lenses”. But Bill couldn’t afford them. Each lens would cost thousands of dollars, money he did not have. So Bill was restless. I’m fairly clued up on photography, and I knew the lenses he used already were excellent. But they were not the very best. And Bill could not be content with that. His problem? His inner feelings depended on achieving external things, such as the ‘best lenses’. Even if he’d had the money to buy them, he’d soon be discontent again. Why? Because in a year or two there would certainly be ‘better still’ lenses. Similarly, those who think they’ll be satisfied if only they get a promotion or live in a dream house, they’d soon long for an even higher promotion, or an even more dreamy house. Such folk are endlessly restless because they imagine the route to contentment involves getting all they want.

Those with inner peace don’t connect their satisfaction to achievement. They choose to be content with what they have. That doesn’t mean they never strive for something better, but even if everything stays just as it is, they’re okay. Contentment for them is a choice, not something that exists only if everything falls into place. While he was a prisoner in jail, the Apostle Paul wrote: ‘I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances’ (Philippians 4:11). Those are wise words.

 Being at peace with our Maker

Just once, I rashly attempted to do pottery. Even more rashly, I had a go at wheel throwing a bowl. That involved shaping the clay into a bowl while the clay was spinning on a wheel. I was spectacularly unsuccessful. I didn’t use the right amount of water and didn’t place my hands correctly to shape the clay. But my fundamental problem was that I didn’t get my clay centred. The wheel turned but the clay was off-centre, so it wobbled around and then collapsed. If the wheel had been spinning any faster, my clay might have ended up on the far side of the room. Trust me, you could get everything else right but failure to centre the clay will doom your pottery to disaster.

My perspective, as a Christian, is that our lives need to find their centre in God. Perhaps the most famous statement of that truth was written more than 1620 years ago by Augustine of Hippo[1]: ‘you have made us and drawn us to yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you’ (St Augustine, Confessions[2]). Augustine’s restlessness about how he was living was resolved only when he made peace with God.

I’ve talked with many restless people. Some could not let go of past sins. Some could not forgive those who had wronged them. Some could not shake off their parents’ disappointment in them. Some couldn’t come to terms with their own failed ambitions. Some felt they’d missed life-changing opportunities. Some couldn’t cure unhealthy or unacceptable habits.

With those restless people, I never suggested that a quick prayer could sort out their struggles. But I did talk with them about who made them and what their lives were for. Some found a new centre for their lives in knowing God, finding forgiveness for themselves and others, and a new sense of purpose for the future. Others coped with their off-centred lives, but were not at peace.

Contentment isn’t about getting more but being satisfied with what we have

In October 2022, I wrote this in a blog post:
Many years ago, when the Glasgow area called the Gorbals had the worst of tenement slums, I visited a young Christian worker who lived in the most troubled area of the Gorbals. Not only were these tenements in dangerously poor condition, gangs and drugs dominated the streets. That young man’s small flat was over-run with local kids, who ate his food, watched his TV, lounged on his sofa, and sometimes stole his property. No matter how tough his life was, that Christian didn’t leave. He kept right on befriending youth, helping them and forgiving them. (https://occasionallywise.com/2022/10/05/a-good-tree-bears-good-fruit/)

I talked for some time with that Christian worker in his tenement flat. He had very little, partly because his more valuable things had been stolen. “God knows where they are,” he told me with a wry smile, “so they’re not really lost, are they?”. He was at peace. He didn’t long for what he didn’t have; he didn’t wish to live anywhere safer or more pleasant; he didn’t long for any other kind of work. He was in the right place doing the right thing, and therefore at peace.

I admit there have been times when I’ve thought ‘If only I had this or that, then life would be good’. But now, thankfully, I’m usually content with what I have. Recently my laptop died. It wouldn’t boot up. I got expert advice, but the final verdict was ‘Buy a new laptop’. Thankfully all my essential files were backed up to the ‘cloud’, so letting go of the old laptop was no more than saying goodbye to a faithful friend. Here’s my point: I had used that laptop for ten years (which is probably why it suddenly expired!). Why not change it after three years, or five? My answer: because it kept on doing everything I needed. There was nothing of significance that a shiny, new laptop would have given me. Until it passed away, that old laptop was quite sufficient.

Recognising the sufficiency of almost everything we have, and not longing for more, brings contentment.

Change what you can, accept what you can’t

One of the world’s most famous prayers is commonly called the ‘Serenity Prayer’:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.[3]

All three parts of the prayer are difficult to do:

  • Accepting calmly what we can’t change
  • Acting boldly to bring about changes which are possible
  • Knowing whether acceptance or action is the right choice

Faced with an impossible situation, most of us survive through gritted teeth, hating the experience. Or, knowing something must change, we struggle to find the drive or determination to take on the challenge. Or, through indecision, we do nothing and feel miserable about our inactivity.

Inner peace belongs to those who overcome these challenges, whether that means living with an unpleasant truth or risking all to make things better for ourselves or others.

Recently I talked with a man who was diagnosed with cancer three years ago. It began in his vital organs but then spread to his brain. He went through major medical interventions. That was a hard experience, but those treatments have made a huge difference and his cancer has stopped spreading. But he knows it could restart. He is scanned every three months in case there are new growths. What impressed me is his attitude: “You learn to live with things as they are, while always still fighting the enemy you fear.” He has his dark days, but mostly he’s at peace. Brave man.

That’s a tranquillity not everyone finds. I feel for them. But the truth remains, that inner peace comes from changing what you can and accepting what you can’t.

I have four more principles for inner peace. I will describe them briefly.

Be right with the important people in your life
For many years my professional life took me all over the world. Sometimes I was in isolated locations, such as rural Bangladesh, the Congo jungle, or North Korea, places where I was out of touch with the rest of the world. But, in less-remote places, I’d buy postcards, sit up late at night writing them, and next day find somewhere to buy stamps and post them to each of my four children. Postcards don’t have space for significant news sharing, but at least my children knew I was thinking about them. I still do. And we continue to have a great relationship, for which I’m deeply grateful. They are a source of great peace and joy for me. Be right with those you love.

Accept your limits
One of my boyhood heroes was David Rollo, a Fife farmer. He had attended my school and later I watched him play international rugby for Scotland. The legendary radio and TV rugby commentator Bill McLaren remembered Rollo’s international debut in a match against England:

“That 1959 match, at which I shared the radio commentary was quite distinctive for the courage shown by the Fife farmer, David Rollo who was gaining his first cap out of the Howe of Fife club. Soon after the start David suffered a broken nose, but after a brief absence for repairs, he returned to play prop with undiminished fire. After that debut it hardly was surprising that David went on to gain 40 caps.“[4]

I wanted to play rugby for Scotland like Dave Rollo did. In the school team I played front row prop in the scrum, just like Rollo did. I tried to tackle like he did, pass the ball like he did, do everything on the rugby field like he did. Except I couldn’t. I didn’t have Rollo’s skill or fitness, and before I’d reached the ripe old age of 14 I realised I’d never be like Dave Rollo and never play rugby for Scotland. And I accepted that. I might do other significant things, but they wouldn’t be related to rugby.

Being at peace means recognising and accepting your limits.

Invest your life in things that matter

In an earlier blog post I described an experience during a two week stay in hospital.[5] The man in the next bed to mine had his own TV, and watched television soap operas all day. I couldn’t see his TV but I heard every word of those annoying dramas since my neighbour didn’t have earphones. When his wife visited each evening, their whole time was spent watching an evening soap episode together. This was clearly normal life for them. ‘Do they have nothing better to do with their lives?’ I wondered.

On the whole, inner peace is related to doing things that matter. Our lives have significance, so should be used in some way, perhaps only a small way, to make the world around us a better place. We won’t all be doctors, or aid workers, or civil rights activists, or campaigners for the poor. We don’t need to be. Margaret was well-educated and could have had a great career, but she poured her life into bringing up her four boys. It was the role she believed was uniquely hers. “People criticised me for that choice,” she said, “but I knew what I did for my boys would be important.” She was right. Two of her sons had world-wide influence through their leadership, speaking, and writing. The other two were never prominent people, but quietly did a great deal of good in their communities, helping and healing lives, as well as bringing up their own families to be good people.

Having peace flows from knowing your life has significance.

Be kind

I’m not sure if having inner peace causes people to act kindly, or if acting kindly creates inner peace. Probably both are true, and there’s a virtuous circle: being at peace leads to kindness which, in turn, generates an even greater sense of inner peace.

For about 15 months I worked in a local government office, and often dealt directly with the public. Many people were polite and reasonable. But not everyone. Right from their opening sentence, some were angry and hostile. The nasty customers often had weak arguments, and tried to compensate for that with shouts or threats. It seemed to me that’s how they were wired, their approach to everything, and I often thought, ‘I wonder what it’s like to be married to him or her?’ Not a happy experience, I concluded. These people were not at all at peace in their inner selves.

But I’ve also known folk who were wired with kindness, thoughtfulness, and graciousness. They wanted to help, to please, to make my life better. There was no drama, no seeking advantage, just a quiet desire to bless others. Out of a good heart, love flowed.

Jesus said: “every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit” (Matthew 7:17). In other words, what’s true about our inner lives is shown in our outer lives. Let kindness, peace and joy reign.

To finish, one final thought. Inner peace can’t be had instantaneously. It’s not as if people who have been troubled and angry for decades go to bed, and wake up next morning magically transformed into people who feel calm and peaceful about life.

Rather, I see it this way. There’s a road we travel through life. Along that road lies positive events and experiences which help us feel good. But along that road are also problems, conflicts, disappointments, and frustrations. More than anything else, what determines a troubled or peaceful inner self is how we respond to the challenges, the hard things strewn in our path. I urge you, whether your way is easy or hard, make the choices which bring you inner peace. You will never regret it.

[1] Hippo is now the modern city of Annaba, on the coast of Algeria, North Africa.

[2] The full reference to Augustine’s words: Lib 1,1-2,2.5,5: CSEL 33, 1-5. The Confessions were written around 400 AD.

[3] The prayer first appeared in print in the 1930s. Scholars debate its authorship. It has appeared in various forms, though always with the same main ideas.

[4] From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Rollo_(rugby_union) At the time of writing this blog post, Dave Rollo is 88.

[5] See: https://occasionallywise.com/2021/10/16/if-only-everyone-thought-like-me-things-would-be-much-better-no-they-wouldnt/