Fifty shades of great

mean-nun_medFor people of a certain age, being disciplined invokes a trip to the headmaster for punishment, while for others something rather more kinky. Or perhaps both.

But I will leave any salacious discussions of corporal punishment or saucy S&M shenanigans for another time. Here I want to try and get to the bottom of the mental discipline we apply, or fail to apply to ourselves.

Self discipline: The ability to control one’s feelings and overcome one’s weaknesses. OED

Self-discipline seems to be fundamental to success. Pretty much any type of challenging endeavour requires it, unless you join the military services and let someone else impose their discipline upon you.

I can see the potential advantages of having such a well-structured life: a clear set of rules and goals, strong motivators and the fellowship of comrades in arms. Not to mention the simplicity of wardrobe choices. But personally I would rather be skinned alive, lightly seasoned and fed to wolves than submit to such an authoritarian way of living.

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Motivation? May the force be with you

YodaWhat is this mysterious force that we hear about so often? No not the one in the Star Wars movies, the one that gets us moving and pushes us forward towards our goals. It is surely almost as mysterious as its movie counterpart, and often seems just as difficult to master.

I can speak from long personal experience of struggling with motivation and, judging by the quantity of books, blogs and speakers on this subject, I’m certainly not alone in this. Most of us have probably encountered the dark side, that voice that says ‘Why bother?’

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Time flies

Clock pictureTime, mysterious and intangible, is always flying. It might have started at a gentle stroll, but as as you get older it’s taking the Bullet Train and the scenery is starting to look blurry. Or maybe I just need to change my glasses prescription.

It seems like only last week I was getting rid of the stabilisers on the bike, whizzing joyfully round the garden as everyone cheered and waved. Actually it was only last week, and perhaps they weren’t so much cheering and waving as shouting ‘Get the f**k out of our garden you arsehole!’ while shaking their fists. My neighbours have no sense of humour, but I gave their kid his bike back and left them to it. Bloody spoilsports. Continue reading