When we think of craftsmanship, we typically think of skilled trades that straddle the practical and the artistic– carpenters, tailors, furniture makers, jewelers, metal workers, bakers. While the craftsmen mentality is strongly focused on whatever the craft is, across crafts there is a devotion to becoming particularly skilled through repeated practice, taking pride in high-quality work, and a dedication to the craft. The joy derives from the process, from the making, rather than in the external rewards associated with the craft. There is a focus on improvement, chasing mastery that is always slightly elusive, a feeling both of the possibility of improvement, and a satisfaction that comes from the work itself.
Most importantly, there is a dedication to the craft for the sake of the craft itself. A baker has an abiding interest in making the best bread possible for the sake of making great bread. The consequences of that– money, recognition–are nice, but are secondary. A tailor is interested in how beautiful a suit he can construct, much more than how much he can charge for this beautiful object. It’s not to say pay is unimportant, but master craftsman are more focused on the craft than on the paycheck.
This idea of craftsmanship feels out of sync with the ethos of our time, where the reason for doing something is usually tied to what it brings. One should learn a trade so we have income, and support ourselves. When doing a project, (like writing this post), we have to ask how can it be monetized. The goal of having a skill is so that it can generate income, or fame, or recognition for us. The idea of being dedicated to something for the sake of that thing itself is not so in vogue.
But the idea of viewing most of what we do as a craft that we devote ourselves to, rather than a means to an end, offers a much richer way of living. It also resolves many of the traps we often find ourselves in. The craftsman mentality has highly useful lessons for how we approach our relationships, our health, our work, and our family.
Imagine approaching relationships with the mentality of a craftsman. Suppose our goal was to become excellent husbands, wives, or parents—not as a strategy for harmony or reciprocity, but because there is inherent worth in doing these roles well. Just as there is satisfaction in shaping a fine cabinet or baking excellent bread, there is satisfaction in practicing care, patience, and attentiveness in our closest relationships. Of course, relationships differ from crafts because they involve another person with their own agency and preferences, but the craftsman mindset still applies. We can commit ourselves to practicing the skills of relationship—speaking thoughtfully, listening carefully, noticing what matters, and repairing when we misstep—without making appreciation or immediate results the measure of whether we are doing the work well.
The craft mentality is also helpful when thinking about recovery from substances. Here, there is a real focus on what can be done to promote growth and learning. What are the steps in the process, and how do I stay consistent with them? Sometimes these work well and yield the results we want, sometimes not, but despite problems there is a devotion to the process of recovering. Rather than asking how to stay sober (an outcome), we could focus on how to best participate in the learning and growth inherent in recovery. There is trust that by dedicating ourselves to the process, it will turn out.
This idea can be extended to taking care of our health broadly. Instead of treating health as a means to an outcome—looking better, living longer, avoiding disease—we can approach it as a craft in its own right. A craftsman pays attention to small details repeated over time. In health, this looks less like dramatic overhauls and more like consistent, almost unremarkable practices: how we sleep, how we move, how we eat on an ordinary day. The focus shifts from quick results to the quiet satisfaction of showing up and doing the work well.
There is meaning in the act of care itself. Caring for our bodies can become an expression of values. We eat well not just to avoid disease, but because nourishing ourselves well is something inherently worth doing. We move our bodies not to burn calories, but because movement is inherently worthwhile. Just like a carpenter considers the grain and moisture in wood, we also take care to understand the nuances of our own bodies– rather than the conformation to some external standard. Just as craft is always about learning, what we need to take care of ourselves is also constantly changing, evolving, and something we must learn.
Health, recovery, and relationships are examples of where this way of thinking becomes visible. The larger idea is to prioritize process over outcomes and to find meaning in the work itself, for its own sake– rather than for the uncertain results. When we focus on doing the work well, rather than on what the work produces, many familiar frustrations soften. We are less preoccupied with progress and more grounded in practice. Attention, care, and consistency become enough.
Viewed this way, craftsmanship is not a romantic notion but a practical one. It offers a helpful orientation in life where control is limited and guarantees are rare. More importantly, it shifts our attention to what we are actually doing, rather than what our actions might bring. There is a focus on the present, on the task at hand, on doing well whatever it is that is in front of us.
The final irony, of course, is that craftsmanship often does bring rewards. The best tailors, bakers, and artisans tend not to lack for recognition or material success. But those rewards arise as byproducts, not goals. When we make outcomes the aim, the work itself suffers. When we devote ourselves to the work for its own sake, we not only reclaim meaning—we often end up closer to the external rewards that are attractive to so many people.
Love,
Doc
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