(Originally published 3/7/05)

In a Word: Practice.

In a Question: How does practice relate to your performance?

In a Sentence: When one enters the practice phase, one is already committed, and practice reveals the sometimes—oft times—unnerving gap between where you are and the destination desired.

Practice, practice, practice . . . as the saying goes, “practice makes perfect.”

“Practice” emerged as a theme this week. I have two events on my calendar in March that require some preparation: a presentation at a conference this week and a hike into the Grand Canyon toward the end of the month. The actual preparation for each is quite different, though I realized this week that the process is the same.

When trying to remember a sequence of events or activities, I often seek words for each step that begin with the same letter. Kind of like “The Seven Secrets of Whatever” or “The Top Ten Ways To Do Something” but with the added memory assist of having to recall just one letter. It always worked well for me when completing “blue book” essays for final exams and still has its advantages today.

This week, it’s the seven “P”s of Progress. The impetus for this sequence, actually a cycle, is the realization that I’m getting stuck on the fourth “P” (“Practice”) and that this is not the first time.

I generally have little difficulty with the first three “P”s, and most often enjoy them. The first is PICTURE, as in creating a mental picture or vision of what I want to do. This is the forwarding step—identifying something you have not done before and creating the intention to do it.

The second “P” is PLANNING. This is a strong suit for me as well—creating an outline of the steps necessary to make the “picture” become reality. Planning a presentation differs from planning a wilderness hike, but the process of identifying the logical steps and actions that must be taken is very similar. It’s during this phase that anticipation begins to mount as the relationship between vision and reality becomes much clearer.

PREPARATION is the third “P.” This includes all preparations leading to PRACTICE. Most often, there is a need to collect information, equipment, materials, and other resources. My upcoming presentation requires making arrangements for participants to take an assessment, the delivery of binders and ordering of resource books, development and reproduction of handouts, creation of exercises, and crafting of a presentation outline.

Much is required for the Grand Canyon hike, as well—familiarization with hike route and anticipated weather, camping arrangements, travel to and from the Canyon, identification of required equipment, augmentation and replacement of equipment as necessary, physical conditioning, etc. I find this stage—the preparation stage—energizing as well because it begins to flesh out the skeleton and framework created during the planning phase.

Preparation also requires investment, be it of time, energy, money, or all three. At some point in this phase (what I now realize is a significant point) the threshold of “commitment” is crossed.

Perhaps it’s “commitment” that dampens my enthusiasm for practice, though I believe it is more. However, there is no doubt that once I make a commitment it takes a lot for me to turn back or change my mind. A commitment is a promise, be it to others or to myself.  For me not to follow through, I need a very good reason. I know from experience, the price paid for not fulfilling a commitment usually exceeds whatever demands, discomfort, or anxieties lie ahead.

PRACTICE is the fourth step and, as in times past, this is where resistance and avoidance begin to emerge. Intellectually and intuitively I understand just how important practice is. From my many years of track, cross-country and road races, I know that practice is essential to satisfactory performance, and for the most part, the more practice the better the performance. It is no different with my painting, writing, or coaching. In just about every instance, improvement is born of practice. I know this . . . I just don’t like it.

I like things that are real, and the fact is, practice is not as real as the real thing. This is the essence of the “Catch 22.” The real thing will be a much better experience with practice, but I do not enjoy the practice that makes the real thing so much better.

This week it became clear this feeling is not new for me. When I chose the ship I would be assigned to after graduation from the Naval Academy, I selected a replenishing ship rather than a combatant. One conscious consideration in this choice was that in time of peace, most combatants spend their sea time in gunnery practice shooting at barrels and drones, whereas each time a replenishing ship puts to sea, it’s to fulfill its intended mission—the real thing.

When I assumed duties as the Liquid Cargo Officer, there was no time for practice. One day I was the Gunnery Officer, the next I was the Liquid Cargo Officer and the day after that we were refueling other ships. Granted, I was responsible for a minor oil spill my first evening on the job, which may have been prevented with a little practice, but that would be my only unfortunate incident. From my first day, every refueling was the real thing, and thereafter every “real thing” refueling became practice for the next.

As I labored above the snow line at 6,500 feet with 45 pounds on my back this past week, soaking through three layers of shirts and a nylon windbreaker while en route to tearing down my thigh muscles to the point of having to walk like a duck for three days afterward, my resistance to practice became clearer. Unlike the stages of Picture, Plan, and Prepare, Practice surfaces unavoidable truths.

Just as Practice fits squarely in the middle of the seven steps to progress, it also places the practitioner in a similar vice. When one enters the practice phase, one is already committed, and practice reveals the sometimes—oft times—unnerving gap between where you are and the destination desired.

You can live the sentiments of “ignorance is bliss” for the first three steps, but just as the curtain was pulled back on Oz, practice reveals a truth that cannot be denied or ignored. Knowing this to always be the case, I now understand my tendency toward avoidance.

Obviously, the best way out of the vice between commitment and truth is to close the gap, which means more practice. The key to more practice (at least for me) is to make practice more like the real thing.

I also know from experience that I can anticipate some resistance to step five, PERFORMANCE. This is the real thing, and even though I prefer the real thing to practice, if there has been insufficient practice, there is good reason to approach the real thing with caution.

I don’t really like the word “performance” as the descriptor for this stage, but it’s the best I can come up with for a descriptor that begins with “P.” The truth is, the real thing is a performance of one sort or another: it is the culmination of significant investment in picturing, planning, preparing, and practicing.

However, the word “performance” can unnecessarily raise expectations and anxieties, and the combination of raised expectations and decreased practice is not the best approach to increasing performance. Again, the solution here seems straightforward: practice more and shift perspective regarding performance to what it is I am doing for myself.

I’m not suggesting that audiences are not important, such as in my upcoming presentation. It’s just that the more I maintain perspective on my own personal growth, which includes a focus on what I’m offering others, the gentler I’ll be with myself, the better I’ll connect with others, and the easier I’ll manage expectations. After all, I have far less influence over other people’s expectations of me than I do over expectations for myself. I also know that if I truly invest myself in this process of progress, my self-imposed expectations will generally be more than sufficient to satisfy others.

The final two “Ps” complete the cycle. The sixth step is to PLAYBACK—to learn what you can from the experience. Reflect enough to find the lessons worth carrying forward, and take the time to let go of any baggage that will serve no useful purpose in the future.

Finally, create another PICTURE and start again.

This week I entered the practice phase of my presentation. I discovered I had more material than allotted time. Better to know that sooner than later. As a result, my message is now shorter, simpler, and hopefully will be presented with greater clarity.

I hiked 10 miles this week and camped overnight in the mountains. I learned which pieces of equipment work, and thanks to the rain which ones don’t. I determined that the 45-pound pack needs to lose 15 pounds. I experienced some amazing scenery created by the forest fires of a year ago, and I met and hiked with a wonderful young man who renewed my faith in the younger generation and who also passed along a few tips that will be helpful to my Canyon trek.

In all, it was a good week of practice. In fact, it was perfect. I guess that’s the point: practice does not make perfect, it is perfect. If every day is viewed as the real thing, and the real thing is practice for the next real thing, then practice is perfect.

May you have a perfect week.

In a Word: Change.

In a Question: Which roots sprout refreshed, thriving in the new environment in ways the old could not offer?

In a Sentence: It’s advisable and necessary when transplanting and transitioning to plan, prepare, practice, pay attention, be thoughtful, and do your best.

Laurel Park was a Levittown-type development in a fast growing bedroom community outside Hartford, CT. In the mid-1950s, when I was five or six, Laurel Park became my home when my parents agreed to leave Vermont and step firmly into the world of corporate opportunity, enticement, and arm-twisting.

From once open farm fields, rows of homes sprouted in uninteresting yet organized patterns across the landscape. Like variations in crops before, a narrow assortment of cookie-cutter homes grew—just enough variation to satisfy family size or showiness, with substantive distinction more akin to differentiating oatmeal cookies from chocolate chip at long range.

The tallest and most obvious structures in the development—running the full spine of the neighborhood—were the high-tension towers supporting multiple draping cables from one stanchion to another. At the time, they represented progress and national prosperity, not a potential health hazard, eyesore, or drain on real estate values.

While for my father, in particular, Laurel Park lacked the semi-rural feel and spaciousness to which he’d been accustomed as a young man, this became home. No doubt, trees and mature vegetation could add a new dimension to the barren surroundings, but given the unpredictability of corporate relocation demands for someone like my father, who was still early in his career, the span between seedling and shade tree was too great. His solution . . . transplanting.

I don’t recall details. I can’t remember who or how many of his friends were involved. I don’t know where the trees originated, though I suspect they were removed from a nearby public forest. I don’t remember how long it took, if weather cooperated, what travails surfaced, whose vehicles were used, or whether beer provided encouragement before, during, and after. What I do know, is that at the end of the weekend we had trees—some well into adolescence. Hemlocks covered the slope next to our patio, offering privacy and shade. Deciduous trees of impressive size spotted the front and side yards. What might have been 10 years of impatient waiting for growth had been compressed into one weekend.

However, many trees didn’t make it through the season.

Transplanting is tricky business, as I learned then and through several efforts of my own since. It’s important to get all or as much of the root ball as possible: the bigger the tree, the bigger the necessary root ball, the bigger the equipment needed, and the greater risk of failure. The more mature the tree, the greater its resistance to change. Shortcuts generally result in short-lived results. How a tree is uprooted says much about its willingness and capacity to reestablish in a new home.

Equally important is the new home. Even if all roots—balled and bundled in familiar soil from the previous location—make it to the new one, there must be space in the freshly dug hole for roots to reach out and become one with their new surroundings. Soil conditions, climate, water source, drainage, sun, and seasons must assist. The environment need not be identical to the previous, but in its own unique way, it must welcome, embrace, and support life.

Transplanting oneself is little different, whether changing geography, job, career, relationships, life stage, or long held beliefs. The nature of uprooting and re-rooting must be considered … together they must find connection and means for collaboration.

When people are concerned, it’s difficult, perhaps impossible (and maybe inadvisable) to get all roots from one place to another. In the process of transplanting, some are damaged, severed, and left behind. Others make the journey fully intact. Which ones make the trip and in what condition makes a difference.

There are trees in the Amazon so hungry for nutrients and light in such a competitive environment, that roots stretch more than 100 feet in all directions on the surface of the jungle carpet. Shallow tendrils reach into the soil for sustenance while the larger host roots wrap around other vegetation for stability. Bamboo, on the other hand may show no signs of surface growth for years, all the while building a deep and broad root structure to support future growth. Once their root structure is in place, some species will grow as much as four or five feet in a day! Each tree has a different approach driven by very different needs, and if an attempt is made to transplant either, these needs must be understood, respected, and addressed.

It may seem my writing suggests a thoughtful approach to transplanting . . . transition. To some extent I am, though in the end, much of the process is unknown and unpredictable. We only see the part of trees pushing through the earth and judge all by only seeing half. We gather clues from above ground observation, but never witness the process beneath.

Which roots find a vein of nutrients? Which ones struggle to survive on ledge rock? Which roots damaged in the process of transplanting heal? Which ones don’t? Were some severed and abandoned roots needed for survival—was a tap root tapped too soon or too short? Which roots sprout refreshed, thriving in the new environment in ways the old could not offer?

We observe, evaluate, sense, and judge, but much remains a mystery. Leave room for the mystery.

It’s advisable and necessary when transplanting and transitioning to plan, prepare, practice, pay attention, be thoughtful, and do your best. Then leave some room for the half you can’t see . . . leave some room to surrender and trust.