When good habits fall apart

All it took was a few weeks of business travel for me to throw my good habits out the window. I ate and drank too much. I slept less. It felt like there was no time for exercise or meditation or writing in my journal.

I came home a few pounds heavier, and even weeks after my return, it seemed I had abandoned the good practices I had taken so long to develop.

Oops.

Although this was upsetting, it was also fascinating. One element of what I do for a living is to help people develop new habits and a new mindset. I see how difficult it is for people to establish and maintain almost any habit. So experiencing my own relapse provided me with an opportunity to experience how to fix it.

Falling off the wagon

Crash Of The Radio Flyer by Gene Ritchhart

The habit checklist

As I was studying habit change, I found that much of the research tends to point to the same findings. One book, Coach Yourself, compiled the advice into a simple list that I first wrote about on January, 2014.

“This short list summarizes the basic approach towards changing anything in your life.

  1. Take small steps towards your goals
  2. Set some realistic, achievable goals
  3. Structure your life to help you attain your goals
  4. Allow yourself to fail sometimes without turning it into a catastrophe
  5. Look at the areas where you’re successful
  6. Reward yourself for your successes
  7. Focus on your achievements
  8. Enlist the support of friends
  9. Chart your progress
  10. Picture the way you’d like life to be

Where my previous attempts at change failed, it was because I attempted too big a change too quickly, overreacted to my failures, lacked peer support, or missed some other element on this simple list.”

The road to recovery

So as my good habits were falling apart, I simply consulted the habit checklist. Here are the things that helped me get back on track.

First off, number 4: “Allow yourself to fail sometimes without turning it into a catastrophe.” Seeing how common it is to relapse to old ways, I didn’t make a big deal of it. Rather than waste energy berating myself for something quite normal, I focused on taking steps to fix it.

Then on to number 3: “Structure your life to help you attain your goals.” If I wanted to drink less, then I should keep less wine in the house. If I wanted to exercise more, I should schedule when and where I would do it. Shaping my environment in simple ways made future decisions much easier.

I still needed to act, though, and that’s where my favorite, number 1, came in. “Take small steps towards your goals.” I first wrote about “touching the treadmill” in 2013, when I realized that the most powerful principle in developing a new habit is the progress principle. A small step towards your goal gives you a sense of your control, leads to increased motivation, and empowers you to keep going. So rather than setting a goal of  “doing everything I used to do,” I simply aimed to do things once as a way to get started.

Having taken a few steps, it was checklist item number 9 that helped me be mindful of my habits each day: “Chart your progress.” Ben Franklin talked about his “resolutions chart” in his famous autobiography, and I wrote about “How this one simple chart made me happier in 6 weeks” a few years ago.

“What happened is I became mindful of my happiness. Put together, all the resolutions on my chart made for a powerful shift in what I did and how I thought. Instead of thinking of happiness as something I would find, it has become a state I am actively trying to create. In a few minutes each day, the chart reminds me of what I need to do to maintain balance in my life and, when I’m out of balance, what adjustments I might make the following day. I gradually became happier after a few weeks.”

I also wrote that “I might maintain a resolutions chart for the rest of my life, just like Ben Franklin,” and indeed I’ve maintained a chart each week since then.

What’s right for me may be wildly different than what’s right for you. The path you take will also be different. But for most of us the secrets of developing and maintaining the habits that make us happy can be found in a simple checklist.

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p.s. Speaking of habits, I’ll be taking time off from writing this Saturday blog and focus more on writing the second edition of Working Out Loud. My next post here will be on September 10th.

Will my weekly writing habit “fall apart” as a result? It’s possible but unlikely. Writing is now like being a vegetarian, more deeply wired into who I am and what I do. While I was on the business trip that undid my other practices, I was able to write and stay meatless without much thinking at all.

See you in September. 🙂

Growing up racist

The contradictions are what confused me, seeing how people could be nice and hateful at the same time. It started with my own father.

I was born in The Bronx, in an all-Italian section between Pelham Bay and Throggs Neck. That’s my house in the photo, where I spent hours in the 1970s playing stoop ball in the summer.

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When I was six years old, we were doing a class project about Martin Luther King. This was before there was a national holiday for him in the US. I had to cut out pictures from the paper, and I showed one to my father. He looked at it, cursed, and tore it up. Confused and upset, I went to my mother. “He’s angry,” she said. It seems he was remembering his brother, who died in an accident in the army and was forgotten. The attention on Martin Luther King’s sacrifice seemed unjust to him.

Growing up, I was surrounded most by older kids. I remember playing basketball at the local park, when one of them spotted a black teenager walking on the street outside. They screamed at him and chased him, telling him to get out and never come back. They were celebrating when they returned, and talked directly to us about “cleaning up the neighborhood.” “We keep the older ones out,” they said. “It’s your job to chase the younger ones.”

I learned just how serious people were about keeping our neighborhood “clean” when we awoke to sirens one summer. The house two doors down was on fire. People were talking about it the next day, trying to find out what happened, and heard the fire was set on purpose. “They were going to sell the house to black people.”

One particular memory haunts me. I was walking with a small group on Tremont Avenue to get pizza. We noticed a young black kid about my age, maybe twelve years old, riding his bike. One of the older kids took a chain that he carried with him and threw it at the bike, where it caught in the back wheel. The kid fell in the middle of the street. Our group yelled at him, and he scrambled to pick up his bike and race off.

I remember thinking that his bike was just like mine, that he was a kid, just like me. I felt ashamed and afraid, but I didn’t say or do anything.

These memories are surfacing now as I see the same contradictions in people forty years later. I’m not suggesting I’m better than my father, or better than the people I grew up with. It’s just that racism has been part of my experience and has shaped me. Somehow, we all took solace in finding an enemy.

One important thing I learned, something that gives me hope, is that the enemy we picked had to be people we didn’t know. Growing up, we were taught to hate Puerto Ricans, too, until a lovely Puerto Rican family moved in and we became close friends. Fairly quickly, we no longer thought of them as Puerto Rican, but as individuals. I still remember their names. 

We were also outraged at people who didn’t speak English, yet we honored my grandmother, who had come from Salerno on a boat in the early 1900s, and spoke only Italian for the rest of her long life. What was seen as a disrespectful lack of assimilation by an enemy was viewed as respecting tradition when done by people we knew. Women, too, could be the enemy. It was almost a game to mistreat women, yet men would go to extreme lengths to protect the purity and honor of their sister or girlfriend. It was common to have the word “Mother” as a tattoo on your arm. My father had one.

Identifying racism in other people is easy, but am I doing anything to change it? If the incident with the little boy on a bike happened today, would I stand up to the aggressors, or just shake my head in silent disapproval?

I’m sure I have conjured up my own enemies in my head, whether it’s people of a certain race or a certain political party. Them and the people who support them. There is no shortage of potential enemies. Railing against them may provide some comfort or validation, but it also makes me angry and afraid. It’s a trap. 

Just last night, I came across this passage in a book that talks about exactly this. It’s aptly titled, No Time to Lose

“We’re so preoccupied with our own comfort and security that we don’t give much thought to what others might be going through. While justifying our own prejudice and anger, we fear and denounce those qualities in others. We don’t want ourselves or those we care about to suffer, yet we condone revenge on our foes.”

That same book offers a way out of the trap. It’s the unending practice of empathy and compassion. To stop the cycle of hate and fear, we need to get to know them better, till they become us. It’s difficult and uncomfortable, but the alternatives are much, much worse. 

Discovering “Pathways to Possibility”

Have you ever read a book that you loved so much you read it several times? A book that made such a positive impact you bought copies for friends and recommended it many times?

For me, The Art of Possibility by Rosamund Stone Zander and Ben Zander is such a book. I included it in a list of suggested reading in my own book, and wrote how it “freed me to be more joyful and more open to the wonders in other people”

When I learned Rosamund Stone Zander had just written Pathways to Possibility, I couldn’t wait to read it. I also couldn’t help but wonder, “How could she top that?”

Pathways to Possibility

Soulful

This post isn’t meant as a book review or analysis. I’m moved to write it because, as with The Art of Possibility, I want to share the book, to have other people experience what I experienced having read it.

It’s not a sequel or more of the same, but rather it stands on its own. She weaves together threads of psychoanalysis, Buddhism, mysticism, and even organizational consulting into a beautiful, soulful book. Reading it, I realized the promise of the subtitle: “Transforming our relationship with ourselves, each other, and the world.”

Three levels

A simple summary isn’t appropriate. The book is too rich and the stories are too well-crafted. I can only recommend you read the book yourself, slowly and with an open mind. I’m looking forward to giving copies to friends.

But I can highlight a few things that made me think differently. The three levels in the subtitle form the basic outline of the book, and each section gave me a different “pathway to possibility.”

Our relationship with ourselves

The first section, full of personal accounts and those of clients, helped me frame some of my behavior as a set of recurring stories I tell myself, and offered me tools to rewrite them.

“I ask you to take your critical mind off-line for a moment and accept the following claim…you are living in a story made up by a child. I ask you to imagine that stories made up by the children in us, or handed down to us by the children in others, have quite different qualities and are based on fundamentally different assumptions from stories created by our integrated adult selves…”

The ‘adult’ is aware that appearances are not fixed, but subject to the story she is telling. When things go wrong for her, the place she turns to look is not out there, but inside herself, to the assumptions that are governing the way reality appears to her. She accepts that the source of change and transformation is in her narrative, not in the world at large.”

The way she writes about self-compassion reminds me of Thich Nhat Hanh and Pema Chödrön. It makes change seems less like an indictment and more like a gentle invitation, and I started to be more curious about why I do what I do.

Relating to each other

The section on relating to others made me think of my own work with organizations.

“When speaking of an organization: is it the type that is characterized by a culture where people are afraid to express themselves and engage in hidden and polarizing liaisons; or is it the kind that promotes generous, responsible, flexible, and authentic adult points of view?”

So many of her stories of change start with a single person, people who began to see things differently for themselves and so were able to attract others to do the same.“Keep in mind that creating freedom around your own patterns is key to others’ liberation from theirs.” You don’t change organizations, you help individuals change and that attracts others to do the same.

You and the world around you

The final section of the book talks about our interconnectedness, and how what we think and do affects others which in turns affects us. It brings together the many ideas in the book in a way that’s hopeful and also actionable.

“Stories truly are fields. They deal in probabilities or odds; they don’t operate in the certainty of cause and effect. They accomplish what they do by energetic interactions across space and time…The story we call possibility, in particular, creates a radiant, loving field of energy that facilitates an alignment between people and their circumstances.”

With this in mind, I decided to try one of the “open-ended games” she described towards the end of the book. You pick a quality and commit to making decisions in line with that quality over one to three days. I wrote about my “Three days of lightness.”

I’m still struck by how simply picking a word affected my thinking and behavior, which in turn changed how my children behaved, which led to new interactions and possibilities with people around us.

Like all good books on change, there is no judgment or failure, only openness and learning. Reading the book, you may well have a different experience than me, and that would be fine. I hope you enjoy it. As she writes in the final section:

“May you travel far, if only deep into your own backyard.”

Three days of lightness 

When I first read about the exercise, I knew I wanted to try it.

All you do is to pick a word that embodies something you want more of in your life, like courage or confidence, joy or lightness. Then, for three days, you keep that word in your mind. (The exercise recommends writing it on your hand or attaching it to your clothing.)

I chose “lightness.” If there’s something I want more of, it’s to be more relaxed, to treat the little things as little things, and to surf uncertainty with a smile instead of intense determination.

I was going to an amusement park with three of my children, so that seemed liked a good time to practice. I wanted it to be fun, and yet I could sense I was tense just getting out the door. So, throughout each day, I just kept asking myself, “What would it mean to be light in this situation?”

When there was traffic that made a three-hour drive much longer, I thought of lightness, looked at the beautiful surroundings, and talked with the kids.

When my plans to be at a certain place at a certain time fell through, I reminded myself that such things happen all the time. Instead of getting upset, I just made new plans.

When my youngest was complaining about something that seemed trivial to me but important to him, we came up with ways to make things better.

On the second day, I put my phone in a locker, and didn’t think about checking it.

We rode all the rides, with the kids taking turns choosing the next one. When it was a water ride and I didn’t particularly want to get wet, or a roller coaster I wasn’t fond of, I thought What would it mean to be light in this situation? Then I smiled and got on the ride. It felt liberating.

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On the last night, we stayed until the park closed. My pedometer said we walked for 12 miles, which must have been forty thousand steps for my little boy. We got ice cream afterwards to celebrate.

Of course, there were times when I forgot about lightness, and my habits took over. When it happened, I shook my head and committed to doing better next time.

I first discovered the exercise in a lovely, helpful book titled Pathways to Possibility and learned how apt the title was. Just keeping a word in my mind changed my perspective. Lightness was a choice, and it was a choice I made much more often throughout the three days.

I hope I remember that word. I hope you try the exercise too.

A stranger in a strange land

The story, written in 1959, takes place in an Ibo village Nigeria. I read it while traveling in Germany, where I’m working with new clients. I finished it today on a train to Köln.

My experiences on my trip and the experiences in the book could not be more different. Yet I was surprised that some of my reactions were similar.

A portal to another time and place

Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe, follows the life of Okonkwo and his clan. It’s a world completely foreign to me. Besides the words and names I couldn’t pronounce, everything was unfamiliar to me, from the food and customs to how they related to each other and their view of the world.

Each time I came across something new, I found my instinct was to judge it, to take comfort in labels. Their gods were “ridiculous.” Their food “disgusting.” Their ideas and customs “primitive.” It was a riveting story, and yet I felt the need to rationalize the differences.

Things Fall Apart

A modern business trip

My reactions were extreme because the differences were extreme. Yet on my trip I noticed the same need to label and value things. Good or bad. I like it or don’t like it.

Traveling in Western countries, the contrasts are more muted, and so are my reactions – to the language, the different foods, even to the prevalence of soccer and smoking. I had minor opinions on everything from the architecture to how people drive to how the trains and taxis work.

I have enjoyed meeting so many lovely people here, and had some wonderful experiences. But reading the book made me mindful that I still had a need to deal with the small differences somehow. Though I liked to think of myself as an open person, it was as if putting things in neatly labeled boxes was a strategy for making sense of the world.

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Something to practice

Towards the end of Things Fall Apart, a missionary arrives, trying to change what people believe and how they behave. He’s challenged by a group desperate to maintain the ways of the clan and fighting to keep their distance.

“He does not understand our customs, just as we do not understand his. We say he is foolish because he does not know our ways, and perhaps he says we are foolish because we do not know his. Let him go away.”

When I read that paragraph, I put the book down and thought about my own ways and habits. What if, instead of judging things that weren’t familiar, I just accepted things for what they are? Instead of labeling the differences and keeping a safe distance, what if I got closer and asked more questions?

Being more open and curious seems like a better way to live, and something I’m committed to practicing.