Gloves, Ink, and the Discipline of Small Habits
Entry No. 27
Dear Faithful Companion,
It is often the grand gestures that capture applause, but it is the quiet, consistent habits—those acts performed without fanfare—that shape the architecture of a life well lived. In this entry, I pause to reflect on the daily rituals that steady my course. These are not habits of convenience, but of character. They are small acts—preparations, refinements, disciplines—that ground me in purpose.
Each evening, without fail, I ready myself for the following day. This is not a task but a ritual: the gym bag packed with uniform and attire, gym clothes laid out on the floor for the early rise, lunch in its place in the fridge, and all necessities—wallet, keys, protein bars, my ID badge, and any mission-critical paperwork—neatly arranged on the kitchen counter. The door is locked, the lights extinguished, and only then do I permit myself to retire. This ritual is a contract with the day ahead. When followed with precision, I meet the dawn with readiness. When it is disrupted, even slightly, the rhythm of the day risks slipping off-beat.
That morning, too, begins with ceremony. I rise—sometimes before Jesse, other times after—and if he still rests, I move quietly about. But always, without exception, the bed is made. Not out of fear of judgment should a guest stop by, though with age perhaps that plays a part, but because Admiral William McRaven was right when he said, “If you want to change the world, start by making your bed.” To accomplish one task with care and completeness at the outset is to declare dominion over the rest. The creases must be clean, the sheet tucked, pillows arranged precisely—like a uniform awaiting inspection. There is no fanfare in it, only discipline. And in that discipline, a sense of earned calm.
Upon arriving at the office, I place my backpack down, power on the lights, and for a few moments, before the business of the day begins, I turn my attention to the bonsai tree that stands quietly near my desk. I check the moisture with its slender meter, mist the moss, and gently prune where necessary. On some days it needs a generous drink; on others, only acknowledgement. The tree never rushes, never demands. But it responds—slowly, deliberately—to care. So too must we. Tending it has become a daily reminder that growth is not always visible, yet still occurring. That discipline, when paired with attention, nurtures more than just order—it nurtures character.
Weekends bring a slower rhythm, but never idleness. They often carry my favourite ritual of refinement: the crafting of correspondence. With custom letterhead set before me and a fountain pen in hand, I draft letters not out of obligation, but out of a desire to preserve a more meaningful pace of connection. These are not hasty notes, but thoughtful offerings—letters of gratitude, respect, or quiet solidarity. The process itself is meditative: the choice of ink, the weight of the paper, the seal or embossing at the close. And always, I feel a small but distinct thrill when affixing the stamp—like placing a standard on a well-built fortification—before dropping it into the post box. These letters are echoes of civility, of a time when words were earned through care. And in them, I find a deep satisfaction that is absent from the swipe of a screen or the tap of a key.
And then there is ink—not merely as a writing instrument, but as a ritual in itself. The act of selecting a pen, uncapping it with care, and placing nib to paper is a gesture of quiet intention. Whether it’s drawn from the box on my desk, the antique one affixed to a watch fob, or the slender fountain pen tucked within my folio, the decision is never accidental. Even the colour of the ink—chosen weekly—serves as a subtle reflection of season, sentiment, or state of mind. These small decisions, seemingly trivial, are acts of alignment. They reinforce pace, clarity, and mindfulness. In a world addicted to speed, ink demands deliberation. Each stroke becomes a reminder that the gentleman does not rush through thought—he honours it. And in doing so, he carves order from the chaos, one line at a time.
And then, the gloves. A simple item, perhaps—but not merely for warmth or show. In the company of tailored attire, gloves are the finishing gesture. Donned before a formal affair, a ceremony, or an evening engagement, they are less accessory than punctuation. Like ink, they require deliberation. Both involve touch—one records, one refines. In the quiet slide of a glove over the hand or the deliberate stroke of a fountain pen across fine paper, I find both readiness and expression—two sides of the same coin. The act of dressing well, of aligning shirt studs and straightening a bowtie, is not for vanity. It is an offering of presence and poise, a demonstration of respect—for the event, for those around you, and above all, for oneself.
I did not arrive at these rituals by design, nor did I adopt them overnight. They accumulated—gathered through observation, through admiration, and through years of serving alongside individuals who carried themselves with quiet precision. I think of those who never made a show of their habits, yet never failed to maintain them: the officer who arrived each morning in a pressed uniform with boots that always bore a subtle shine—even on casual Fridays—and who always looked impeccably sharp and dapper. Or the colleague who would straighten his cuffs and quietly adjust the collar of his overcoat before walking into a room—not for attention, but because dignity was a posture he wore instinctively. I recall one fellow officer who, before every meeting he chaired, would take a moment to clear his desk, align his notes—always written in impeccable penmanship—ensure water was available, and check that the furniture was properly aligned. No matter how rushed the day had been, he did this without fail. Why? Because every encounter and meeting mattered. It was never hurried, never sloppy. These weren’t grand gestures. They were signals—unspoken affirmations that order begins with self-respect. And over time, I began to understand: refinement isn’t built in the spotlight. It’s etched into the margins of daily life, into the way one dresses, prepares, and carries on when no one is watching.
In a world that rarely offers guarantees and often delights in chaos, these rituals become anchors. When outside forces swirl unpredictably, these habits are my constants. They do not shield me from hardship, but they ensure I am not unmoored. Each is a declaration: I have command over this moment.
As Sir Hardy Amies once said, “A man should look as if he had bought his clothes with intelligence, put them on with care and then forgotten all about them.” There is wisdom in that sentiment. Real polish does not draw attention. It simply assures. And when these small disciplines are fully integrated into the rhythm of life, they cease to feel like performance and instead become quiet signatures of the self.
Verbum Ultimum
The habits we uphold in silence often shout the loudest about who we are. Rituals—however small—are reminders that discipline is not a punishment, but a form of respect. Respect for the day. Respect for the people we meet. Respect for ourselves.
And perhaps, as I once observed others with reverence, someone now quietly watches me—learning, not by instruction, but by observation.
So I continue: gloves ready, pen filled, the bonsai tended. Not for show. Not for praise. But because the man I wish to be requires it.
Until the ink dries and the gloves are set once more,
JCB
