Nothing aimless

Look at the week as one shape. A minute in the morning to aim the day. A minute at night to check it. A line kept ready so you never have to start cold. The same two minutes carried off the clock, into the meals and the bedtimes and the people at home. None of it is grand. All of it is a rudder.

Seneca named the failure the rudder prevents: the point, he wrote, is "neither to desire what we are not able to obtain, nor yet, having obtained our desire too late, and after much toil to discover the folly of our wishes" (Of Peace of Mind XII, Stewart). Two ways a day goes to waste — chasing what was never yours to get, or winning something you didn't really want and only learning it after the toil. The morning aim guards the first. The evening check catches the second early, while there's still time to steer.

A mechanic, a teacher, a driver, a parent: the busy life doesn't lack effort. It lacks aim. The two minutes supply it.

Next week turns to a harder test than a bad day — a good one. Staying level when it all goes right. You'll want the rudder for that too.