The ancient Romans had a saying, festīnā lentē, which means “hurry slowly.” Cal Newport’s book Slow Productivity is a modern exploration of this concept.

In the absence of clear standards for high-quality work, people often resort to what Cal Newport calls “pseudo-productivity.” We fill up our time with activities that look like work but don’t really create results.

As research for his book, Slow Productivity, Cal Newport surveyed close to 700 people asking them to define productivity for their particular field. The answers varied wildly, but a common theme emerged.

As I write issue number 200 of The Good Leaven Letter, I find myself thinking about the power of repetition. What we repeatedly do shapes who we become.

We knew that we were going back to the campsite; we just didn’t know how we’d get there. Spending the night in the cold with seven small children was not an option. We had to get back.

Podcasts. Audiobooks. Youtube. At times I feel pressure to make ordinary activities like driving a car, doing the dishes, or rocking a baby to sleep more valuable; lately, however, it’s been fun to ask the question, “Could this be enough?”

One toilet and zero showers. That’s what we were down to for four adults and seven children.

You procrastinate and give yourself just enough time to meet your deadlines—or perhaps you even miss some. You feel like you are pulled along by your deadlines rather than freely working toward them.

Ok, I guess I'll get around to doing the thing that I'm supposed to. If I don't, I'll get in some sort of trouble—my boss will be angry, my spouse will be upset, my children will be sad. So I do the stuff I have to do to avoid trouble.

Have you ever tried to balance the different areas of your life? While finding the right amount of time and effort for the parts of our lives is important, relating to this challenge as a balancing act is limiting.

I’ve been painting. A lot. While priming, painting, repainting walls, doors, baseboards, windows, and trim, I’ve had time to think about the lessons contained in this craft.

About six weeks ago, I started a small garden. My approach wasn’t very sophisticated. I filled some cardboard boxes with soil, and planted a few seeds.

In his book On Writing Well, William Zinsser provocatively states that he does not like writing.

To put on my Chaco sandals properly, I need to slide my feet in, get the strap around my heel, and tighten it. When I’m in a hurry, I can get away with just sliding my feet in and placing the strap under my heel, using the sandal as if it were a slipper. The sandals aren’t as functional when I wear them like this, and after a few minutes, I usually reach down to put them on properly.

Last week, we focused on how to build trust through clear and specific commitments with deadlines. When we keep such commitments we build trust with ourselves and with others. But what happens when we take a swing at building trust and we miss? Is there any way to create value and build trust even from broken commitments?

Have you ever hid behind vague language to avoid putting yourself on the hook? I know I have. But my experience is that vague language produces vague results.

Consultants give answers. Mentors share their experience. Coaches increase agency. These three ways to look at creating value were introduced to me during my training at the Meta Performance Institute, and I’ve been pondering them ever since.

Conversion is often thought of as life-changing on a grand scale—for example, a religious conversion. This larger renewal of the mind, or metanoia, is beautiful but rare in a person’s lifetime. My own conversion to Catholicism was of this sort.

Some words describe things. Other words generate the future.

Your life is a three-act play. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Your past is the first act. Your present is the second, and your future is the third. The future hasn’t happened yet, but for many it is already written.