My father was always studying, taking notes, learning. So much so, that my predominant memory is of the back of his head, bent over a book. He spent each evening reading, writing, working on projects he brought home. His office was also our dining room, so we knew to clear the table quickly after dinner, slide the table back into the slot in the wall, and leave my father to his work. He was neither a tyrant nor a pal. He was, in fact, a rocket scientist.
Occasionally, he would become briefly involved in his children's lives. One afternoon, I was destroying a slice of bread, trying to get cold peanut butter on the freshly-baked slice. He surveyed the scene, took in my frustration, and said, "Take care of the edges, the middle will take care of itself." He was right.
The sturdy crust helped the edges hold onto the cold peanut butter, and as I carefully applied it up to the edges, the spread warmed and made it easy to hit the soft middle.
Turns out that this advice works well in the rest of life as well. Fitted sheets attached by the corners, pull the wrinkles out across the middle of the bed. An email that starts "I need your help," instead of "Get this done by noon," is going to encourage more people to help. Starting a feature story at the edges-with research, character development, a plot line, and the middle of the story won't be a problem.
And while we are on the topic of problems, they, too are best solved from the edge in. When we jump in without thinking of the cause, trying to fix the heart of the issue, we allow it to creep out along the edges and into the rest of our lives. We face more work, instead of less. Squelching a rumor with a loud assertion doesn't have nearly the effect as living a credible life.
Who knew that a peanut butter sandwich, observed by a rocket scientist, could echo so well over time?
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