Learning from indecisiveness.

Indecisiveness is a murderer of good intentions. I've seen many sound plans get crushed under indecisiveness -- an unwillingness to commit because something better might be looming over the horizon. 

I try to live by the Gen. George S. Patton maxim that "a good plan, violently executed now, is better than a perfect plan next week." Perfect is often the enemy of good. Perfect is often another weapon of Resistance.

Time shouldn't be wasted waiting for perfect. Not when things are good, right here and right now.

The most cost-effective way to change your life.

On a recent episode of Tim Ferriss' podcast, author Seth Godin said -- among  many thought-provoking things -- that a book is the ultimate bargain. Few $30 purchases have the power to change your life. One book that's changed mine is The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. For about $10, this book might be the ultimate bargain for anyone looking to create anything, or be more effective.

I've been revisiting WOA when I have a few minutes. Pressfield, a Marine, gives the enemy of creativity a name: Resistance. His book is a manual to knowing that enemy. I refer to WOA in times of self-doubt, or when I need a double shot of motivation. My often-stalled attempt at a novel is the most frequent casualty of Resistance. But there are other casualties -- casualties I'm only beginning to notice.

I ended up in a newsroom management by happenstance at young age and with comparatively minimal experience. One of the most difficult aspects of leading, one that I still struggle with, is communicating expectations, especially communicating when expectations aren't met. That works both ways on the chain of command. Subordinates need to be able to communicate their expectations, questions and concerns.

Why do I suck at it? Resistance. Pressfield points out that you can use Resistance as a compass: the more Resistance you feel when contemplating whether or not to act, the more important it is that you act. Resistance can be a compass for communication in this way. The more difficult the conversation, the more Resistance I feel, and the more important it is that the conversation be had immediately.

In all instances, I strive to prioritize what is difficult, what exudes the most Resistance. I say strive, because I often fail. But everyday, I'm working to improve. And the lessons I encounter along the way might be useful to you, too.

That said, I've been thinking a lot about improving the format of this blog. Inspired by Godin's appearance on Ferriss' show, I'm tweaking things. You can expect short posts daily, with a few longer posts thrown in during the week, all filled with observations intended to be useful to you. Ammo for the fight against Resistance.

Cold exposure: 'Convincing yourself that you're not going to die.'

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Jumping into frigid lakes. In April. The water couldn't have been warmer than 50 degrees.

I have a habit of making things more difficult than they have to be. Taking a shower is a good example. It's easy to do with hot water. Too easy, apparently. 

I've been experimenting with cold exposure lately. My interest in the health benefits of cold exposure was sparked by Wim Hoff and Dr. Rhonda Patrick. Patrick has presented a litany of research on the health benefits. She's an authoritative voice, so I have no doubt that her findings, and the findings of others that she presents, are sound. But even if none of the research holds up, I'll continue with cold exposure.

As my friend, also a practitioner, says: "The hardest part is convincing yourself that you're not going to die." It's an exercise in mental strength every morning when I spin that shower dial as far as it will go to the right. And the mood boost that comes afterward -- whether it's neuro-chemical or just satisfaction from another small victory -- is inconsequential.

On Saturday, we got our first taste of the balmy weather to come, with temperatures hovering in the low 60s. The weekend prior, we'd received a dusting of snow. At the end of a hike, I dove into an icy lake and stayed in for a few minutes. After the initial shock, numbness set in and I was aware of, if not indifferent to, the cold. I was present with it. I knew I wasn't going to die. Not if I got out and dried off in the near future.

The shower no longer feels so cold to me. And other difficulties, regardless of scale, seem smaller.

Why we need to be uncomfortable.

We have conflated happiness and comfort. And in my thoroughly unscientific opinion, we have lost the connection to the reptilian brain that got us here as a species. We're all neocortex now, a jumble of stress and worry. So we reach for various pacifiers: sugar, sex, drugs, alcohol, social media, consumerism. I believe it's growth through discomfort that produces happiness, and by seeking comfort instead, the circuit gets broken.

I think of the most rewarding pursuits of my life, and I wanted to quit all of them in the beginning. I walked onto a football field not knowing what a down was, and proceeded to get body slammed by another, much larger boy. I learned the offensive line and the defensive backfield, mastering my small portion of the game, learning to push past physical pain inflicted by bigger opponents -- which was pretty much everybody. It became a joy to play.

Learning Latin was a lesson in constant failure that churned up a maelstrom of self-pity and doubt. My brain was tearing itself apart trying to stretch and wrap itself around the language. Only after I surrendered did it make sense, did its athleticism and poetry make itself understood. It became a joy to learn. 

And finally, there was Jiu Jitsu. There's meme of a drowning white belt making it's way around BJJ social media. He's trying to keep his head above water, clawing at the surface for survival. This -- the drowning of Jiu Jitsu -- was the hardest part to accept. It's difficult for a grown man to make himself so vulnerable, to admit to himself and to others that he couldn't save his own life from a somewhat skilled or a stronger opponent. You fail quickly and often in BJJ. There are two mental approaches you can take in the face of such failure: 1) Rationalize it away, saying to yourself that we live in a world where such a skill isn't necessary; 2) Push yourself harder than any opponent, real or imagined, can. I chose to push myself.

One day, I got my first submission. I don't remember the move. I don't remember the training partner. And I don't remember because those facts are inconsequential. I learned to take more joy in the hundreds of times I've tapped out, or been submitted, ever since. That is where the growth comes from, as well as the grin I can't wipe off my face. It became a joy to train.

This is growth. This is discomfort. This, my friends, is happiness. 

Heroin addiction, and the holes it leaves behind.

I'm afraid to write about heroin and opioid addiction. I live in a place where the disease has touched the lives of hundreds, if not thousands of people, and I'm afraid that writing about the problem won't do them or the issue justice. Over the past six years as a newspaper editor, I've been involved with several heroin-related projects, and all the while I hoped the stories were being told as succinctly and clearly as possible. The stakes are too high to leave room for ambiguity.

For two years now, the first thing I do when I get to the office is scan the North Jersey police blotters and the obituaries for familiar names. More often than not, I find one--a former classmate, a teammate, a friend of a friend. 

The narrative of how things got to be this dire is familiar. I don't need to revisit it. But what bears mentioning is that I didn't fathom the depth of the heartbreak, the sense of loss and destruction that the disease has caused until I sat at the back of a funeral home and saw it written on human faces. I saw the holes addiction had bored through them all. And writing this now, I can see dozens of those holes torn through my hometown--thousands through hometowns from here to Maine.

I will never forget that. I hope we can see the situation for what it is: a disease that has reached epidemic status. This is a public-health crisis, and it's going to take public action to fix it.