Of the potential in small things

An oft-quoted line from the Tao-Te-Ching  reads:

"The giant pine tree grows from a tiny sprout.
 A journey of a thousand miles starts from beneath your feet." 

From this line we derive a simple and similarly common logic: that all large things begin small; all complex things, simple; and all long things with a single unit of measure. From small things come big results, if allowed to accumulate. This is a simple, intuitive idea, yet often forgotten or ignored.

Why do we so often neglect what, on the surface, would seem an eminently useful idea? Do we feel the weariness of each step despite only keeping the next step, rather than the full distance, in mind? I could understand this position, having experienced it during my first marathon. Step no. 1 felt much easier than, say, step no. 28,709. Muscles get tired, and the brain does too at some point, so that the next step feels irrelevant compared to finishing the bloody distance. On the other hand, breaking down the remaining distance into smaller pieces did seem to help. Let's get to the next mile marker I imagined (or perhaps said aloud, I can hardly remember). Then when I got there, I made for the next one. I didn't feel much more energized by the exercise, but it kept me going long enough to reach a point where the finish line was at first figuratively and later literally in sight. So in this case, the idea helped me make modest goals, which once achieved put me in a position to achieve the big goal of "finishing the bloody distance." A marathon can be many things, but the most helpful for me at the time was as a collection of miles and kilometers that one covers a unit at a time.

As another example, two summers ago I wanted to get some regular practice writing, so I started writing approximately one page a day in a notebook on any topic, idea, or feeling which came to mind. Almost two years later, I'm nearly at the end of a third notebook, and look forward to spending a little time each day turning thoughts into words. By keeping each day's entry at approximately a page, I found the habit an easy one to keep, and in time, an enjoyable one too.

Finally, there is my habit of picking up coins from the ground, as the toshers of old used to do in the sewers beneath 19th century London. The idea here is that finding a few cents a day means one has a few dollars by year's end; from small things come bigger results. Average a modest $0.10 per day, and in a year one has $36.50. Over a decade that's $365.00. Invest each year's findings, and now each dollar found generates interest, dividend payments, or some other return. The values here are small, but the point is that every dollar you'll ever earn is composed of 100 cents, and cents piled on cents make dollars, which in turn are resources you can use to live however you like. For me then, picking up coins makes a lot of sense (and cents).

From these examples, I think some notable ideas emerge on whether we appreciate or ignore the power of small things in particular instances. In the marathon example, telling myself each step meant I was closer to finishing proved largely academic. Sure a marathon begins with a single step, but deep into the race, when all I want to do is stop and sit down, this idea has little value. Change the idea slightly, however, and the result may differ. In my case, a mile as well as marathon begin with a single step, so if I could finish one mile, I'd be in a good position to finish the next. Imagining things in this way got me to a point where the finishing the marathon finally seemed like something I could do. As an old man remarked on the post-race train-ride home, "I don't run 26 miles; I run 1 mile 26 times."

In the example on writing, I decided that a little writing is better than none at all, so that if I only wrote a page a day, I'd still get practice. This easily achieved daily mark, rather than some force of will on my part, is perhaps the chief reason I kept with the habit long enough to enjoy it. Set the bar low enough, and one can hardly make an excuse to leave the task undone.

And finally from the coin example, simple accumulation--even of very small parts--eventually grows into something larger. It's easy to ignore such small things when they're small, but as with an acorn each contains all the requisite properties to make a giant of creation, be it an oak tree or an abundant stash of cash.

The passage from the Tao Te Ching which began this post reminds us of both the power and potential  within small things. It's neither a secret nor piece of abstruse philosophy, just an observation that we all see but do not always remember. Yet as the above examples are meant to suggest, using it requires a certain amount of thought to make them more than fine-sounding words. There is potential in small things, but knowing the fact does not make that potential so.