My father was a proponent of moderation. He loathed extremism and he dreaded mindless habitual activity. He used to tell me that it was sensible to form good habits, like the custom of turning off lights as you leave a room or leaving your keys in the same place all the time. But he repeatedly warned me about the danger of surrendering my judgment to history and habit, or spending my time thoughtlessly engaged in repetitive activity that once but no longer makes sense.

It was more than that. He seemed to fear falling into habits. As articulate as he was, he never told me what in his history made him so vigilant on the subject.

I’m sure he was correct. In my lifetime researchers have learned that it takes about six weeks to form a new habit, but that the process creates or modifies the neural pathways in the brain. You get etched. You want to be careful what avenues you blaze.

Dad was also always physically active. As far back as I can remember, long before he joined Physis or talked Mom into working out too, he was doing morning calisthenics. He collected Air Force and other exercise pamphlets. He stretched and did pushups and (straight-leg) situps and all sorts of old-fashioned non-yoga movements.

He was a model and an inspiration, and sometimes he cracked me up. My father was so concerned about falling into a habitual rut, that he conscientiously altered his morning routine, every six weeks, like clockwork and by calendar, like a habit, lest he form a habit.