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They say that Rome conquered the world thanks to the discipline of its legions. That long hours of training made the calves of the legionnaires become as hard as the steel of their swords, and allowed them to walk the thousands of miles necessary for conquest.
They say that Tibetan monks follow unparalleled disciplined, and that’s the sole reason for the near-total body control they have. And with discipline came detachment that brought happiness, contentment and serenity—even if the meal were a slice of bread, a vegetable, or a cup of Tibetan tea.
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They also say that discipline is the essence of genius. Victor Hugo did not write his poems while playing cards or fooling around. He did not pen his legendary saga, “Les misérables”, while drowsing in the sun, a straw hat over his face. Hugo used to lock himself up for very long hours in his room to be able to finish his work. I have read somewhere that he used to give the key to his butler and tell him not to open the door until a certain specified hour even if he begged to be let out.
They say that the first civilized man, instead of crunching the cranium of his foe with a heavy club, suddenly decided to shout at his enemy.
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They say—probably for fun—that the first sign of civilization was not the taming of fire or the building of huts or the invention of the wheel. They say that the first civilized man, instead of crunching the cranium of his foe with a heavy club, suddenly decided to shout at his enemy. Most probably, and sometime later, both shaggy characters found that this was good and started talking in order to work out their problems. This mental leap came only from a surge in discipline and self-control.
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They say that Michelangelo suffered tremendously when painting the marvelous Sistine Chapel ceiling. He suffered to a point where he had to translate his utmost misery in a poem:
I’ve already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water’s poison).
My stomach’s squashed under my chin, my beard’s
pointing at heaven, my brain’s crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy’s. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!
My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine’s
all knotted from folding over itself.
I’m bent taut as a Syrian bow.
Yet he never abandoned his work, and managed to offer us this inimitable wonder—the Sistine Chapel. How and why? Discipline.
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Discipline is about mental strength. It is about self-control. The brain—not the bicep or tricep—is the muscle that matters. Discipline has transformed us from being mere barbarians, who looted and burned their way to nowhere, into organized nations with flamboyant civilizations.
Discipline is about mental strength. It is about self-control.
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Discipline made boys and girls leave their bikes and dolls and sit behind a desk to learn what life is about. Discipline made them strive for a better life. It made them draw maps, sail the seas, and suffer from scurvy and thirst in rat-infested ships to explore the world. They struggled to build cities in faraway lands—castles and fortresses to protect them, and high-rises to touch the sky. Discipline allowed men to withstand the dangers and the darkness of coal mines to bring heat into their cold homes, while others endured the heat of the sun when harvesting their grain to feed their children. And when drought hit the land in dire times, discipline made fathers and mothers cut their bread in half and give it to their hungry kids so the next generation survives.
If love makes the world go around, discipline makes it last longer.
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Photo: Wikimedia/ Tevaprapas
Can we replace discipline by stamina or resilience?