One of the first self-development books I ever read — years before I even dreamed I’d be writing these kinds of books myself — was Psycho-Cybernetics. The author was Maxwell Maltz, MD, a plastic surgeon who had noticed that some of his patients were dissatisfied, even if their surgery took them from deformity to normality, while others were so thrilled to have the tiniest flaw tended to that their appreciation and glee led them to transform their entire lives for the better. This led the good doctor to a study of the human mind and how the attitude we decide to have can alter every aspect of our experience.

Maltz wrote that the way people change and improve operates the way a torpedo does when it’s aimed at a mark. The torpedo doesn’t go straight from Point A to Point B, but rather it makes little errors throughout its trajectory, ever self-correcting as it gets where it’s headed. I see this “torpedo principle” operative in my life every day.

I write self-help books, coach other people, and speak about making life more spiritual and more magical. I would like to think that with that resume I’d be an extremely disciplined person, both in terms of mental attitude and daily practice. I wish that it meant that I applied, immediately and effectively, every good idea that came to me from inside myself or from reading or lectures or mentors. I’d love it if my New Year’s resolutions (I have twelve this year—I figured, what the heck, go for broke…) kicked into gear on January 1 and gained momentum until, just after Christmas, I’d find myself a noticeably more polished, more powerful, and (okay, admit it) more perfect person.

The fact, however, is that, just like that torpedo, my life is a continual process of self-correction. Take lately, for instance: there just isn’t enough time. Now, if one of my coaching clients used a phrase like that, I’d say, “Reframe it. There is plenty of time for what you’re genuinely meant to do.” Ah, there is the rub. What I am genuinely meant to do is not “everything.” That’s just what I want to do. And in recent weeks I’ve labored under the misconception that that isn’t even crazy.

So, on this President’s Day just past noon I’m writing for you (and for me) in a Starbucks on 93rd and Broadway. I met a friend here this morning after she called to remind me that we had a date. I’d forgotten—I figured it was a holiday and I didn’t have to check my daybook. Mea culpa. And man the torpedoes.

Doing everything means doing few, if any, of those things well. So, like the torpedo, I need to shift. It will probably mean that I’ll overbalance on the other side (I’ve been working too hard! I must take time off for museums and long lunches and reflexology. Maybe I should go to the gym twice a day and meditate for two-and-a-half hours and go on a silence fast….) You get the picture: correct, over-correct, re-correct, and on the occasional brief, shining moment: hit it spot-on.

In the corporate world, they call this deft juggling of the myriad aspects of our lives “work-life balance.” I even speak on that sometimes. I get much of my information for those talks from becoming so unbalanced at times that it’s embarrassing, and then starting over, trying again, not going so close to the edge next time. I am sure there are some experts whose expertise comes from always doing things right. Mine comes from often doing things wrong—not in a judgmental “You were bad!” way, just veering off-course like the torpedo. Because it doesn’t feel as good as being on-course, I find a way to right things in some messy and far from flawless fashion that takes longer than it ought to and is harder than I thought it would be.

So, how are you today in the on-course/off-course world of being a human on a path to something great and grand and glorious? I would say that I’m still off, but heading for on like “the little torpedo that could.” I’ll do some work today but remind myself that my job is to do the work, not orchestrate what comes as a result of it. I’ll have some fun today—it is the brightest, bluest winter day here in New York City!—and do something kind for myself. One, single, doable something. Maybe I’ll go to Chinatown to one of the reflexology places on Mott Street where they dig in so hard I really believe they’ve reached my liver and my pancreas. One action, two feet. And that’s enough.

In the end, I think, that if we really understood “enough,” our life torpedo would have to adjust less often and less dramatically. I don’t have to be perfect, just happy. You, too. Happy President’s Day. And happy life.