In Four Thousand Weeks, Oliver Burkeman questions the idea that freedom means having complete control over our time.
He points out that many of the things that make life worthwhile require us to share our time with other people and coordinate our lives with theirs.
That suggests true freedom isn’t having an empty calendar. It’s choosing who we’re willing to give our time to.
Think of a friend we can always count on, a volunteer who keeps showing up for others, or a leader who accepts responsibility for other people. These commitments limit their freedom in one sense, but also create depth, trust, and belonging.
Choosing who we’ll give our time to is only the beginning. The attention we give them is what makes that time meaningful.
Being present. Making time. Listening well. Giving someone our full attention. These are the ways we turn a commitment into something lived rather than merely chosen.
Commitment gives others a claim on our freedom. Attention is how we honor it.
Years ago, I led a company with a large team in India.
Our conference calls included some exceptionally smart technologists and business leaders.
But most of them rarely spoke.
Usually, the most senior person on their side did the talking. Everyone else listened.
I’d stop and ask.
“What do you think?”
“Are we missing something?”
“Does anyone see this differently?”
Silence.
Then I got to know them.
I visited them in person. We spent time together outside the formal meetings.
They had strong opinions.
They saw risks we hadn’t discussed. They questioned decisions we’d made. Sometimes they were frustrated with the direction we’d chosen.
They just hadn’t said so when we were making the decisions.
I assumed some of this was cultural. Age, seniority, and respect for authority.
But I’ve seen the same pattern plenty of times in American organizations too. Smart people with something to say staying quiet for all kinds of reasons.
I eventually realized I had something to learn.
Telling people they’re free to speak isn’t the same as creating a setting where they will.
Consider the question, “Does anyone disagree?”
To answer yes, someone has to challenge the idea already sitting on the table. And depending on who put it there, they may feel like they’re challenging that person too.
Try another question.
What would make this fail?
Now disagreement is part of the assignment.
Find the weakness. Challenge an assumption. Spot the risk.
We aren’t deciding who’s right. We’re trying to make the plan better.
That’s a different conversation.
The next time I was on a call with that same team, I didn’t ask if they disagreed. I asked what would make the plan fail.
Someone I’d rarely heard speak chimed in.
Then someone else did.
A small shift in the question opened the conversation to ideas and perspectives we hadn’t heard before.
Leaders should design for agency.
Ask what would make the plan fail six months from now.
Ask for the strongest argument against your own idea.
Then listen, especially when the answers are uncomfortable.
People learn quickly if you really value their input.
The goal is better thinking and a stronger plan. That requires the leader to make disagreement part of the work.
Don’t just give people permission to think independently.
“There is no Frigate like a Book / To take us Lands away.”
Emily Dickinson wrote these words in her quiet room, understanding something I didn’t grasp for decades. The greatest journeys begin within.
I know her poem only because of my 11th grade AP English teacher, Mr. Cox. As a rambunctious and cocky 11th grader, would I have taken any of my “super valuable” time to read poems, sonnets, short stories, even books? No way.
But because of his work (and the work of countless other teachers along the way), I did read. A lot. I learned tons of material and information that didn’t matter to me at the time…but matter a lot today.
My focus back then was simple. Be the best student, get the highest test scores, pass as many AP tests as possible, and earn varsity letters in multiple sports. Mostly, I wanted to beat everyone else, pure and simple. It helped that I was blessed with an almost photographic memory and could recall facts and formulas with ease (sadly, not so much nowadays).
I carried that mindset into college. I loved being the student who defined the grading curve for the class. I was annoyed if I didn’t get every single point on an assignment, midterm, or final. I had an almost uncontrollable drive to outshine everyone…as if that was all that mattered.
I was completely wrong.
On the bright side, that drive and motivation made me a successful student and propelled me into my early career.
On the other hand, seeing everyone as my competition, and less as people, meant I probably missed out on a lot of fun. And lots of friendships that never happened. I was so focused on the destination that I forgot to notice who was traveling with me.
That realization connects me back to Dickinson’s frigate in ways I never expected. She saw the book as a vessel capable of carrying anyone, anywhere, without cost or permission. But what I’ve learned over nearly fifty years since high school is that I was asking the wrong question. It was never “How far can I go?” It was “Who am I becoming, and who’s helping me understand?”
My journey from that hyper-competitive teenager to what I hope is a much more caring, thoughtful, empathetic, nuanced, and life-giving person has been propelled by those same teachers I mentioned earlier, and a longer line of guides who keep showing up at the right time in my life.
I didn’t realize it then, but those books, poems, and teachers were all part of my fleet of frigates. Each one quietly helped me close the distance between knowledge and understanding, between my ambition and wisdom.
My mentors, family, and friends have all been vessels that carried me through changing seas. Some taught me to sail straight into the wind. Others reminded me that drifting for a while can be part of my journey as well. Each lesson mattered, even the ones that didn’t make sense at the time…especially those.
Over time, life has a way of sanding down our sharper edges, revealing something deeper underneath. My focus slowly shifted from being the best at something to becoming the best version of myself.
Now, when I think about Emily Dickinson’s frigate, I picture something far greater than a book. I picture a lifetime of learning, carried by the people who invested their time, wisdom, and patience in me. Mr. Cox, and others who gave freely of their time and wisdom, helped me see that the destination isn’t solely becoming the top of the class. It’s finding a profound depth of understanding, the expansion of empathy, and the ability to see beauty and meaning in small, unexpected places.
If I could go back and talk to that 16-year-old version of myself, I’d tell him the real tests aren’t scored on paper. They’re graded every day in how we treat people, how we listen, and how we show grace.
I’d tell him that the frigate he thinks he’s steering alone has always been guided by grace. The true measure of his voyage will be how much space he makes for others to come aboard.
We’re all learning to sail, carried by the steady hand of God.
Automation makes the machine run smoother. Innovation changes where the machine is going.
Automation hunts for efficiency. It tries to do what we did yesterday, but faster and cheaper. It targets the transactional and trims overhead. It removes steps and reduces friction. When done well, it buys back time.
Automation is valuable work and the price of admission for any organization.
But efficiency alone won’t differentiate.
Innovation asks different questions. Harder questions. Where are we trying to take our customers next? What experience would make them rethink what’s possible with us?
Innovation seeks to create new value.
Innovation needs space, a space that promotes bold and creative thinking.
It might mean dedicating 20% of a team’s work to exploring customer problems without predetermined solutions.
Or creating quarterly “innovation days” where normal metrics don’t apply.
Or creating time in leadership meetings for “what if” conversations instead of only “what’s broken” discussions.
Leaders set the tone. They can focus solely on efficiency, or they can ask questions that point their organization toward innovation.
If your new system creates fewer clicks, fewer steps, and lower costs, you automated.
If you created a new customer journey or opened a new market category, you innovated.
Do both well and you reshape the game.
Automation keeps us strong today. Innovation makes us irreplaceable tomorrow.
It’s like having a guy working the door at a nightclub, deciding who or what gets in.
We assume we already know everything, so we stop listening. We nod politely. But inwardly we’ve already dismissed the person speaking. Or the article. Or the correction.
There’s often good reason for our defensiveness. Being wrong about something important can have real consequences. Our ego is trying to protect us from the genuine discomfort and potential costs of being mistaken.
The paradox is that the very thing protecting us from being wrong in the moment often prevents us from being more right in the future.
What if instead of having a bouncer who turns everyone away, we hired a smarter gatekeeper? One who doesn’t just protect us from being wrong, but actually helps us get better at being right?
What if we treat new information, even the stuff that contradicts what we think we know, as an invitation?
An opportunity to level up. To upgrade our understanding. To sharpen our thinking.
What happens when we level up? Our predictions start getting more accurate. Our explanations become clearer and more useful to others. We catch our own mistakes faster…sometimes before they even leave our mouth. We become more curious about the very areas we feel most certain.
The next time someone disagrees with you or presents information that challenges what you believe, pause before your ego’s bouncer slams the door.
Ask yourself, “What if they’re right? Can I learn something new?”
This doesn’t mean accepting everything that comes your way. But you can listen. Examine the ideas. Question them. Test them against what you know.
That’s true intellectual courage.
And it’s the only way to keep growing in a world that never stops changing.
“It is impossible for a man to learn what he thinks he already knows.” – Epictetus
“Nothing in the world is as soft and yielding as water. Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible, nothing can surpass it.” – Tao Te Ching, Chapter 78
Water moves around, through, or beneath whatever resists it. It adapts. And in doing so, it shapes mountains, smooths stone and carves out entire landscapes. Its quiet and steady strength endures, and transforms.
Some of history’s greatest leaders have embodied this same soft strength…few more clearly than Saint Teresa of Calcutta.
She was small in stature and quiet when she spoke. She lived a life defined by simplicity and humility. But her leadership moved nations.
Heads of state sought her advice. Governments stepped aside to let her mission continue. And her Missionaries of Charity, formed with only a handful of sisters, grew into an international force of compassion serving the poorest of the poor.
When the Indian government initially refused her permission to work in Calcutta’s slums, she didn’t protest or make demands. She simply thanked them, smiled, and began serving the dying on the streets anyway.
Her quiet, consistent actions spoke louder than any argument. Within months, officials were granting her permission and offering resources and support.
Like water finding its way through the smallest cracks in stone, she found the path through quiet, faithful persistence.
“Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.” – Saint Teresa of Calcutta
In leadership, force can create motion, but usually at the expense of trust, creativity, and ownership from the people you’re leading. When leaders rely on authority, titles, or pressure to drive results, they may achieve short-term compliance, but they rarely inspire long-term commitment or innovation.
Instead, they create environments where people focus on rules more than results, and on compliance rather than creative contribution.
Gentle, listening-based leadership works differently.
It adapts without losing direction. It invites people to bring the best version of themselves and creates space for their growth. Like water, it finds ways around obstacles, sometimes slowly and sometimes all at once…but always with clarity and purpose.
Water teaches us that soft can be strong. Let it shape how you lead.
Soft, persistent power moves mountains, changes hearts, and builds trust.
“When I’m in writing mode for a novel, I get up at four a.m. and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run for ten kilometers or swim for fifteen hundred meters (or do both), then I read a bit and listen to some music. I go to bed at nine p.m. I keep to this routine every day without variation. The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it’s a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind.” — Haruki Murakami
Haruki Murakami has written some of the most widely read novels and screenplays — Norwegian Wood, Kafka on the Shore, 1Q84, and others. His stories are wide and varied. But his process? Based on this quote, it’s as simple as it gets (on first glance).
He wakes early. He works. He exercises. He reads. He rests. Then he does it all again. Every day. Without variation.
What makes that interesting isn’t just the discipline. It’s what that discipline creates. He calls it mesmerism.
He’s not trying to force creativity. He’s building a space, mentally and physically, where creativity knows it’s welcome. And he shows up to that space every day, without fail.
This kind of repetition, over time, can shift your state of mind. It can take you to a quieter, more focused place. It can help you bypass distraction and access something deeper.
He doesn’t wait for inspiration to strike. He prepares for it. He builds a rhythm and shows up to it daily. Over time, his mind knows—it’s time to create. And that, he says, is when the real writing happens.
It’s easy to think of habits as something utilitarian. A way to squeeze productivity out of our day. But what if repetition isn’t just a tool for efficiency? What if it’s a path into something more meaningful?
What if the act of doing the same thing, at the same time, in the same way, becomes a form of permission to go deeper?
Murakami’s routine isn’t about optimization. It’s about entry. It’s a way of reaching the part of himself that doesn’t respond well to noise, pressure, or force. And the only way in is repetition.
This idea of mesmerism applies to more than writing novels or screenplays.
Maybe your “deep work” is building a business, raising a family, managing a new venture, or simply trying to stay anchored when life is anything but steady.
The specific rhythm doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s yours. That it becomes familiar enough, trusted enough, to lower your resistance and invite your mind to settle.
A short walk each morning before the day begins.
A time and place for reading, thinking, or praying without interruption.
A quiet moment after dinner, before sleep.
These aren’t productivity hacks. They’re entry points. Invitations to go below the surface of reaction and noise. To meet yourself in a more focused, honest way.
Reflecting on this quote, I see it as less about writing and more about living on purpose.
There’s no perfect rhythm. No universal method. But there is something powerful in choosing to show up each day, in the same way, with the same posture of readiness…even if it feels small.
Because over time, that rhythm changes us. It makes us less reliant on inspiration and more connected to our purpose.
Less reactive, more rooted. Less scattered, steadier.
Show up. Repeat. Let the repetition carry you deeper.
That’s where the real work—and the real exploration—can begin.
h/t – once again, Tim Ferris’s 5 Bullet Friday newsletter. He recently highlighted this Murakami quote. When I first read it, it didn’t make much of an impression. Who uses mesmerism in a sentence? Then I decided to re-read it, even though it’s a long one.
On my second reading, the quote sunk in and got me thinking about how his process of mesmerizing through repetition can be applied to anything we’re trying to accomplish (it even showed me how to use the word mesmerizing in a sentence). It takes us past brute discipline and into a rhythm-based approach that prepares our mind to do the work we want it to do; in the space that repetition provides.
A friend called recently. He’s been running his own business successfully for over a decade. Things are going well, really well. That’s why he reached out.
He wanted to talk through some ideas. Usually when I get these calls, it’s because a business owner is thinking about making a major change. Maybe selling, maybe acquiring another business, maybe just trying to get unstuck from a rut. But this wasn’t that kind of conversation.
He explained that his team is doing great work. His own role had evolved into mostly business development and handling occasional fire drills. Lately, there haven’t been many fires. The business is running so smoothly that, for the first time in years, he has time on his hands. Unexpected free time.
That’s usually a good thing, right?
He thought so too at first. He ramped up his business development efforts (always wise to add growth fuel to a business), and then he did something else. He stepped back and watched. Observed. Assessed.
For the first time in a while, he was able to look at the processes and tools his company uses with a fresh set of eyes. The eyes of an outsider.
That’s when he saw the gaps.
Not because things were falling apart. But because, with a little perspective, he realized how much better things could be. He saw inefficiencies, opportunities for automation, outdated systems, and new tools that could transform how they operate.
His brain lit up. Ideas started flowing. He made lists. And more lists. He started thinking through what needed to change, planning what to build, what to retire, and how to bring the team into the improvement process.
That’s when he called me. Not for help solving the problems, but because he suddenly had too many ideas and plans.
He’d become overwhelmed by the possibilities.
So, I asked him: What would it take to give yourself permission to conclude the brainstorming, the planning…and begin?
He paused.
As the boss, no one else was going to tell him to stop generating ideas and to start work on executing them. There’s no urgent deadline forcing a decision. No one asking for a status update. The machine is humming along, profitably. But he can see how much more potential is just sitting there waiting to be tapped.
We didn’t talk about his ideas or operations at all. We talked about how to decide. How to identify the vital few initiatives that would make the biggest difference. How to involve his team. How to get moving.
We talked about starting, and how starting builds momentum.
Our brains love ideation. There are no limits, no constraints. It’s energizing to imagine improvements, design new systems, and sketch out possibilities. We feel smart. We feel alive.
But our minds? They get restless. We lie awake at night, spinning. We second-guess ourselves. We get caught in the loop of “what if” and “maybe later.”
That’s where permission to conclude enters the picture.
It’s the quiet decision that says: “I’ve thought enough. I’ve explored enough. I may not have a perfect plan, but I have enough to begin.”
It’s the green light we must give ourselves. To start, to build, to test, to course-correct.
It’s a commitment. Not to perfection, but to movement.
To gain clarity through execution. To action that reveals what thinking alone cannot.
If you find yourself spinning with ideas, take a deep breath.
Give yourself permission to conclude.
And start.
Photo by Isaac Mugwe on Unsplash – the rider has no idea what lies ahead…only guesses, maybe some visualization of what could be lurking around that dark corner. The only way to find out is to start and figure it out along the way.
h/t – I learned about the concept of the “vital few” over 20 years ago from MAP Consulting. A simple yet powerful realization that we can only work on a few things at any one time. Choose the vital few, work on them, then move to the next set of vital few items after that.
Ask someone how their day went, and odds are, they’ll say, “Busy.”
Dig a little deeper, and you’ll hear about the fires they had to put out, the urgent requests from their boss, or the upset customers they had to talk in off the ledge. Everyone’s racing from task to task, reacting to whatever pops up next.
What you don’t hear—at least not often—is someone saying, “Today I worked on our 30-day goals,” or, “I spent the afternoon exploring how AI might streamline our operations,” or, “I studied what our competitors are doing better than we are.”
Most people are caught in an infinite response loop. The big questions get pushed to tomorrow, especially if the boss isn’t asking about them anyway. And often, he’s just as busy reacting to his own list of urgent problems.
Response mode is easy. You don’t have to choose what matters most. Just deal with what’s in front of you. There’s no time for stepping back, rethinking the process, or preventing tomorrow’s fires today. You stay busy. That way, you can tell yourself you’re still needed.
And when the day ends, you can point to everything you handled and feel like you earned your paycheck.
But the real questions are: Did you move any of your monthly, quarterly, or annual goals forward? Do you even know what they are?
For many, the answers are no and definitely no.
Working in the business is the default. It’s safe and familiar. It keeps your hands full.
Working on the business is different. It takes time, thought, and courage. It means facing questions without clear answers. It means exploring new tools, unlearning old habits, and imagining better ways to serve your customers.
No fires today? Is your boss on vacation? Sounds like an easy day.
But if no one thinks about what’s next, if no one is asking what should change or improve, and if no one is steering the ship, that ship will eventually drift. Maybe into a storm. Maybe into the rocks.
And no one will notice until it’s too late.
So, ask yourself: Are you steering, or just responding?
Side note: These questions apply outside of work. If we’re not actively steering in our personal lives, we can just as easily find ourselves in a storm we could have avoided, running aground on some rocks, or drifting aimlessly out to sea.
I sit uncomfortably and motionless in the back of the plane. Two hours into our flight. The Credence channel beckons. I nestle into the channel’s first song, and I’m visited by a memory like a warm blanket on a frosty morning.
Someone told me long ago There’s a calm before the storm I know; it’s been comin’ for some time
It was the summer of ’78, or close to it. My dad was proud as he could be of our 19-foot jet ski boat. He couldn’t wait to hit the glassy sunrise waters of Lake Havasu and watch his sons ski. One, then the other.
When it’s over, so they say It’ll rain a sunny day I know; shinin’ down like water
Putting on a single ski binding requires a blend of finesse and strength. At least as much strength as a seventh grader can muster. The secret is to let the ski vest do the heavy lifting and just relax.
I wanna know Have you ever seen the rain?
Moments later, the rope pulls taut, my ski is aligned just right. I’m ready and yell, “Hit it!”
I wanna know Have you ever seen the rain Comin’ down on a sunny day?
All 455 cubic inches of the inboard Oldsmobile engine roar to life. In seconds, the boat and the kid behind it launch out of the water.
There’s a moment, right as you break free of the lake, when all the pulling eases off at once. Water skims effortlessly under the ski.
Thoughts of speed and daring take over. I lean into my first glassy turn. My ski hums a high note as my grip tightens against the pull of the rope.
Yesterday and days before Sun is cold and rain is hard I know; been that way for all my time
It’s a blur of jumps and splashes. Long pulls to the side. Deep, slow turns in the opposite direction. Always a glance back to admire the rooster tail…especially when the sun catches it just right, holding the spray in the air like magic.
No time to admire it too long. Time to hammer the oncoming wake, trying to clear the other side, then do it all again. Pull wide. Pause. Dig in. Turn hard. Admire the rooster tail.
‘Til forever, on it goes Through the circle, fast and slow I know; it can’t stop, I wonder
The song ends, and I’m back where I started. My neighbor taps my shoulder. He needs to get to the bathroom.
We’re on our way to live new stories and make new memories. Life’s adventure continues.
I wanna know Have you ever seen the rain?
But it sure is nice to visit with a cherished memory. Like that friend who we see less than we should…but always pick up our conversation right where we left off.
I wanna know Have you ever seen the rain Comin’ down on a sunny day?
Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership 
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