Captain Michael: Good morning.
Funny what you remember.
I’ve forgotten entire meetings that once seemed terribly important.
I’ve forgo
Good morning.
Funny what you remember.
I’ve forgotten entire meetings that once seemed terribly important.
I’ve forgotten speeches, deadlines, arguments, and probably a fair number of things somebody insisted I absolutely needed to know.
But I remember a sentence spoken to me forty years ago.
I remember somebody taking the time to show me how to do something properly.
I remember being corrected when I needed correcting.
I remember people who expected more from me than I expected from myself.
Most of them probably had no idea they were teaching me something I’d carry for the rest of my life.
That’s the interesting thing about teaching.
We tend to think of it as something formal. A classroom. A book. An instructor standing in front of us.
But some of the most important lessons I’ve learned came over a cup of coffee, leaning against a workbench, standing a watch, sitting in a cockpit, or after I’d screwed something up badly enough that somebody older and wiser decided it was time we had a talk.
The moment passed.
The lesson didn’t.
And somewhere along the way, if we’re fortunate, the roles reverse.
We become the older one.
Someone younger is watching how we handle the problem, how we treat people, whether our word means something, what we do when nobody is looking.
Maybe they’ll forget our name someday.
But they might remember what we taught them.
Some lessons outlive the teacher.
That’s something worth remembering before we go about our day.
Captain Michael: Good morning. Funny what you remember. I’ve forgotten entire meetings that once seemed terribly important. I’ve forgotte
Good morning. Funny what you remember. I’ve forgotten entire meetings that once seemed terribly important. I’ve forgotten speeches, deadlines, arguments, and probably a fair number of things somebody insisted I absolutely needed to know. But I remember a sentence spoken to me forty years ago. I remember somebody taking the time to show me how to do something properly. I remember being corrected when I needed correcting. I remember people who expected more from me than I expected from myself. Most of them probably had no idea they were teaching me something I’d carry for the rest of my life. That’s the interesting thing about teaching. We tend to think of it as something formal. A classroom. A book. An instructor standing in front of us. But some of the most important lessons I’ve learned came over a cup of coffee, leaning against a workbench, standing a watch, sitting in a cockpit, or after I’d screwed something up badly enough that somebody older and wiser decided it was time we had a talk. The moment passed. The lesson didn’t. And somewhere along the way, if we’re fortunate, the roles reverse. We become the older one. Someone younger is watching how we handle the problem, how we treat people, whether our word means something, what we do when nobody is looking. Maybe they’ll forget our name someday. But they might remember what we taught them. Some lessons outlive the teacher. That’s something worth remembering before we go about our day.
Good morning. Funny what you remember. I’ve forgotten entire meetings that once seemed terribly important. I’ve forgotten speeches, deadlines, arguments, and probably a fair number of things somebody insisted I absolutely needed to know. But I remember a sentence spoken to me forty years ago. I remember somebody taking the time to show me how to do something properly. I remember being corrected when I needed correcting. I remember people who expected more from me than I expected from myself. Most of them probably had no idea they were teaching me something I’d carry for the rest of my life. That’s the interesting thing about teaching. We tend to think of it as something formal. A classroom. A book. An instructor standing in front of us. But some of the most important lessons I’ve learned came over a cup of coffee, leaning against a workbench, standing a watch, sitting in a cockpit, or after I’d screwed something up badly enough that somebody older and wiser decided it was time we had a talk. The moment passed. The lesson didn’t. And somewhere along the way, if we’re fortunate, the roles reverse. We become the older one. Someone younger is watching how we handle the problem, how we treat people, whether our word means something, what we do when nobody is looking. Maybe they’ll forget our name someday. But they might remember what we taught them. Some lessons outlive the teacher. That’s something worth remembering before we go about our day.
