Post by david on Jul 12, 2009 20:20:22 GMT -8
The only man who never makes mistakes
is the man who never does anything.
-- Theodore Roosevelt
I wished to live deliberately,
to front only the essential facts of life, and see if
I could not learn what it had to teach;
and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
-- Henry David Thoreau
I was reminded last week of a story about proces-sionary caterpillars.
These insects travel in groups, forming long chains. The head of each caterpillar is imbedded in the tail of its predecessor.
Only the leader must decide which path to take; and the fate of the rest depends on whether that path leads to food or famine.
A diabolical French scientist named Fabré conducted a cruel experiment on one collection of processionaries. He placed them, one by one, on the rim of a clay pot, crowding them along that circle until there were no gaps in the procession.
Since every member of the parade now had its head up the rear of the one before it, there was no leader and the unbroken chain of blind bugs circumnavigated that pot without pausing … for a full week.
Eventually, they began to die, one by one. But by this time the pattern had become ingrained and the survivors continued their circular trek until all were dead.
Ironically – and even more diabolically, Fabré had placed food in the center of the pot. Those caterpillars that fell inside died within a few inches of the sustenance that could have saved them.
I agree with TR. Mistakes are an acceptable byproduct of efforts to grow and to change. Almost every decision we make has the potential for regret. In hindsight, many choices will appear unwise.
Some people seek rational and comprehensive plans. They prefer not to act until all possible scenarios have been examined and all possible options have been explored.
These folks are part of the “measure twice – and then measure two more times before cutting once” crew. They love redundancy: they have a backup for each backup. They wish to have a plan that considers every contingency and includes alternate courses of action for each.
Rational and comprehensive planners tend to forget the poet Robert Burns' warning that “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”
About 30 years ago, I was exposed to a second approach to planning. It came from a social scientist named Robert Lindblom who affectionally titled it, “the art of muddling through.”
This planning technique is also known as “successive limited comparisons” and (this is my favorite), as the “incremental approach.”
Like a sailboat tacking into the wind, Lindblom's method requires almost constant changes in course, with the bow of one's ship seldom pointed exactly toward the final destination. By applying frequent adjustments, the navigator never strays too far from the path and makes nearly continuous progress.
Meanwhile, the skipper of a rational-comprehensive craft stops dead in the water when the wind shifts in directions not anticipated by the plan or when the tide changes or unexpected currents are encountered.
My life, in retrospect, resembles muddling through. I've changed course so often that it became my lifestyle. My rudder has been in constant use.
One drawback inherent in either approach to planning is that goals are likely to change over time and one ends up having to chang course because of shifting destinations. My life has probably included more of this kind of change than most.
But I'm not a bit willing to label any of my life's adventures as “failures.” And I don't feel many regrets – a few, but as the Chairman of the Board said, “too few to mention.”
There are many choices that, in hindsight, proved to be counterproductive. But if I had avoided some of my life's hardships, disappointments and tragedies I might have also missed some of the good stuff that came with the bad.
As my theme song from “Paint your Wagon” says, “Home is made for comin' from, for dreams of goin' to. Which, with any luck, will never come true.”
I believe that thinking and writing about regrets is a poor use of time. I'd much rather make lists of things I don't regret and of things I still want to do.
And one thing I most definitely will not be doing is burying my head in the tail of the caterpillar in front of me and becoming part of a blind and mindless parade to nowhere.
I may not know where I'm going, but I'm in charge. And if that means more muddling through, I'm ready.
is the man who never does anything.
-- Theodore Roosevelt
I wished to live deliberately,
to front only the essential facts of life, and see if
I could not learn what it had to teach;
and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
-- Henry David Thoreau
I was reminded last week of a story about proces-sionary caterpillars.
These insects travel in groups, forming long chains. The head of each caterpillar is imbedded in the tail of its predecessor.
Only the leader must decide which path to take; and the fate of the rest depends on whether that path leads to food or famine.
A diabolical French scientist named Fabré conducted a cruel experiment on one collection of processionaries. He placed them, one by one, on the rim of a clay pot, crowding them along that circle until there were no gaps in the procession.
Since every member of the parade now had its head up the rear of the one before it, there was no leader and the unbroken chain of blind bugs circumnavigated that pot without pausing … for a full week.
Eventually, they began to die, one by one. But by this time the pattern had become ingrained and the survivors continued their circular trek until all were dead.
Ironically – and even more diabolically, Fabré had placed food in the center of the pot. Those caterpillars that fell inside died within a few inches of the sustenance that could have saved them.
I agree with TR. Mistakes are an acceptable byproduct of efforts to grow and to change. Almost every decision we make has the potential for regret. In hindsight, many choices will appear unwise.
Some people seek rational and comprehensive plans. They prefer not to act until all possible scenarios have been examined and all possible options have been explored.
These folks are part of the “measure twice – and then measure two more times before cutting once” crew. They love redundancy: they have a backup for each backup. They wish to have a plan that considers every contingency and includes alternate courses of action for each.
Rational and comprehensive planners tend to forget the poet Robert Burns' warning that “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”
About 30 years ago, I was exposed to a second approach to planning. It came from a social scientist named Robert Lindblom who affectionally titled it, “the art of muddling through.”
This planning technique is also known as “successive limited comparisons” and (this is my favorite), as the “incremental approach.”
Like a sailboat tacking into the wind, Lindblom's method requires almost constant changes in course, with the bow of one's ship seldom pointed exactly toward the final destination. By applying frequent adjustments, the navigator never strays too far from the path and makes nearly continuous progress.
Meanwhile, the skipper of a rational-comprehensive craft stops dead in the water when the wind shifts in directions not anticipated by the plan or when the tide changes or unexpected currents are encountered.
My life, in retrospect, resembles muddling through. I've changed course so often that it became my lifestyle. My rudder has been in constant use.
One drawback inherent in either approach to planning is that goals are likely to change over time and one ends up having to chang course because of shifting destinations. My life has probably included more of this kind of change than most.
But I'm not a bit willing to label any of my life's adventures as “failures.” And I don't feel many regrets – a few, but as the Chairman of the Board said, “too few to mention.”
There are many choices that, in hindsight, proved to be counterproductive. But if I had avoided some of my life's hardships, disappointments and tragedies I might have also missed some of the good stuff that came with the bad.
As my theme song from “Paint your Wagon” says, “Home is made for comin' from, for dreams of goin' to. Which, with any luck, will never come true.”
I believe that thinking and writing about regrets is a poor use of time. I'd much rather make lists of things I don't regret and of things I still want to do.
And one thing I most definitely will not be doing is burying my head in the tail of the caterpillar in front of me and becoming part of a blind and mindless parade to nowhere.
I may not know where I'm going, but I'm in charge. And if that means more muddling through, I'm ready.