Focus — mindful, present attention — is a gift.

Who and what are worthy of yours?

How are you spending it?

Some thoughts on process, by one and for those who can feel constricted by process:

• There are no points for reinventing the wheel. Processes that are known to work win.
• Simple also wins. A convoluted process (like the new one you might create) is hard to follow and won’t tend to be sticky.
• Small is beautiful. “Find the perfect job” isn’t a process. Sending a few emails a day to the right people could be. It’s possible to get even smaller than that.

Most of all, though, it’s worth getting curious about when and why we might be resistant to learning, following, or trusting processes.

Perhaps it’s more fun to think about outcomes, or all the yellow-brick roads we might follow to reach them. Perhaps it’s fear of being on the hook, or being measured against a method that’s known to work (something that irks the unique and special ego). Perhaps it’s tedium, or the specter of it.

Whatever the resistance or fear, the point is that processes can help get us over or around it and back to doing the work that matters. Any given project might not work, but there’s no good reason to sabotage it from the outset by neglecting proven, simple, and smallest-viable processes.

***

HT Seth Godin for these ideas

Granted, not all that is wrong is illegal.

And not all who break the law are convicted.

But let’s be really, really clear about something: if the facts aren’t in question, and the facts show that wrong was done, then non-conviction is not the same as total vindication.

The question is how to move on from there — especially after the ratchet of polarization and perceived legitimacy has taken another big turn in the wrong direction.

There’s a powerful narrative in our culture that encourages us to ask how we might do just enough and have more.

There’s another narrative that invites us to ask instead how we might have enough and seek always to do more.

The good news is that the choice is available to each of us.

The challenge is that we must make it.

In case it’s helpful to you, here’s a practice that has been enormously helpful to me over the years.

Drawn from the Ignatian spiritual tradition but easily accessible to all, it’s called the mini-Examen, and it’s a quick way to download the experience of a day.

The formula, as I learned it as a student, is simple: Thanks, Oops, Gimme, Wow.

In other words, make a small journal entry at the end of each day that starts with gratitude, acknowledges what is left undone or done wrongly, sets an intention or desire for the coming day(s), and concludes with a sense of wonder.

It need not take more than a page (or a few minutes). There are no points for being verbose, and none deducted for being brief or incomplete.

If you’re even a little bit curious, try it for a week. It’s fun to notice that there’s at least one thanks, oops, gimme, and wow packed into each day.

What’s the mark of a professional?

As I’ve pondered the question and begun to look more deeply for the sign of professionalism, it seems to me that what really sets a true pro apart from the crowd is not only the ability but the willingness to produce and publish work that matters in spite of fear, circumstance, and adversity.

The professional has made a deal: she understands that the long-term price of leaving her talents buried is likely to be far higher than the price of engaging with the market.

(This does not mean that all things — still less all art — must circulate in the money economy. It means that the professional has accepted the emotional cost of showing her finished work to the world: she understands that finished is a long way from perfect, that work that matters doesn’t work for everyone, and that not all the work that matters works on the first or fifth or 10th try.)

It’s a simple standard, but certainly not an easy one. It’s not one I meet all the time. (Like the work itself, the journey of turning pro is never truly done.)

The stepping stones, though, are even simpler: first, to know and claim one’s talents. Second, to determine the marks of professionalism that matter — and why. And, third, to determine, day after day, to strive for them as much as possible.

My favorite line in the film Dunkirk is delivered by Geoffrey Rush’s character, an ordinary Englishman who sails his small private boat across the channel to help with the evacuation.

His boy has stowed away with him, but is overcome during the passage by the terror of what they are sailing toward.

Playing the stoical king-and-country Englishman to a T — and, I’d like to think, serving as an allegory for common sense — Rush calmly intones, “There’s no hiding from this, son.“

In the way of good art, this moment in the film starkly illustrates the moral choice: the facts on the ground are the facts on the ground. The only open question is how we ought to respond.

In case you (or we) are not already there yet, it’s time to get really, really clear about a couple of things:

First, a serious course deviation is one thing. But doubling down on it is another. You get on the bus, only to discover it’s not the usual driver. And then you discover you’re taking an unfamiliar and sometimes frightening route. Sooner or later, the driver stops and asks, “Shall we keep going? It’s up to you?” For one reason or another, the crowd says yes. The next stage of the journey is likely to be crazier still.

Second, we’re all on the bus. To insist that we’re dismayed by the destination, or that there’s nothing to be done about it, or — well, the whole situation, really — and yet shake our heads and say the old stuff about how screwed up the whole transit system is, anyway, is to badly (willfully?) misunderstand and misrepresent the system and our place in it.

There’s a saying in medical education: “see one, do one, teach one.”

That’s a pretty good model for learning how to actually do something — as medical professionals must, and as opposed to simply adding theoretical knowledge.

In general, curiosity sends me to the library, and I’ve found that’s good as far as it goes. But I’ve also found there’s a limit: in most fields of knowledge, theory ultimately begs application.

Surgeons-in-training don’t just read textbooks. (Nor do pilots, nor lawyers, nor bankers, nor ….)

They learn by practice — and above all by teaching the others.

When and where I was growing up, two things were held to be self-evident: from 2000 onward, the Patriots would be in the playoffs every year; and until 2004, the Red Sox simply could not get it done.

The Patriots’ reign continues for now, and the Sox finally reversed the curse.

All this to say:

• Dominance is easy to take for granted, even when resented.
• Ditto incompetence: the Sox wandered in the wilderness for nearly a century.
• But, most of all, neither condition is truly forever. Eventually, things change — leadership, people, strategy, luck, fortune, some combination, or something else.

This is one of the great lessons of sports: sometimes, you have to keep the faith in spite of all disbelief. Other times, you have to hold on, knowing that those currently on top of the heap were not first there and will not be last.