According to the U.S. Marine Corps publication Warfighting, war is “inherently disorderly, uncertain, dynamic, and dominated by friction.”

It goes on to explain: “For commanders to try to gain certainty as a basis for actions, maintain positive control of events at all times, or dictate events to fit their plans is to deny the nature of war. We must therefore be prepared to cope — even better, to thrive — in an environment of chaos, uncertainty, constant change, and friction.”

We aren’t on a battlefield, but we do fight battles.

We’re not at war, but the principles still map onto much of life.

If we wait for certainty or total control, we’ll wait forever. Our work is to learn how to move — even thrive — amid the disorder that’s simply part of being alive.

Every so often, Google prompts me with a screen: “Verify it’s you.”

So I smile. I attempt eye contact. I relay a story about something I recently learned. I offer a witty comment that turns into a minor faux pas. I draw a little diagram. I listen attentively.

None of this works; Google still doesn’t recognize me.

So I resort to entering my email and password, and — inevitably — that does the trick.

But we are far more than our usernames and passwords. More than our phone numbers and email addresses. More than our faces and fingerprints.

For those who know and love you — how do they know it’s you?

The goal you set twenty years ago doesn’t have to be your goal today.

It can be — but you can also release it without apology, explanation, or justification.

Today is new. It deserves goals that fit who you’ve become.

“After all this time, I’ve finally reached my goal.”
“After all this time, I’ve chosen a new path.”

We can lean into either story.

Nearly all of our heroics are unsung. In big ways and small, in gestures seen and unseen, we often contribute in heroic measure.

The right word at the right time may not be as dramatic as rushing into a burning building — but it can save a life nonetheless.

Kindness offered in hard moments, patience extended when it costs us something — this is the quiet work of heroism.

Afterwards, you might ask, “Now what do I get?”

But when our practice becomes, “Now what else can I give?” — we lean into a life that expands as we do.

When we move through museums, we don’t stride from one end to the other. We saunter, pause, wonder, wander.

It’s a mode we might adopt more often — in nature and in life.

Less strenuous hiking; more awestruck lingering.

There is a time for trekking. But the world aches for us to meander.

Creative output isn’t always the goal; sometimes it’s a side-effect.

Not the poem, but the connection to spirit.
Not the painting, but the experience of mixing color.
Not the blog, but the practice of seeing metaphor.
Not the sculpture, but the exploration of materials.

The artifact is what remains, but the act is what transforms.

So the question isn’t, “What did you create?” but rather, “What creative acts come to life through you?”

* * *

H/T AK & SV

Don’t let the availability of answers keep you from pondering.

We’re all capable of being 30-second researchers.

But we’re wired to be deep thinkers — to wonder, marvel, and contemplate.

Sit with life’s unanswerable questions.
Visit with them.
Learn to love them.
Learn to live them.

Many of the answers you seek can’t be found in a search result; they live in the quiet spaces of your heart.

Oprah Winfrey’s retelling of Maya Angelou’s advice is perhaps the most resonant version:

“You did what you knew how to do, and when you knew better, you did better.”

In any given moment, we’re doing the best we can with what we have — not necessarily our best ever, but our best right then.

And while the older, wiser version of you can see the missteps and missed signals, that same wiser self can also extend grace to who you once were.

Every so often, a memory transports us. We follow the thread back — revisiting who we once were and what we once loved.

And occasionally we discover that we’re entirely different people … and, at the same time, we’re not all that different at all.

Talent may determine where we begin,
but our commitment to the work shapes where we go.

Our starting point is mostly a lottery.
What happens next depends on how we steward the payout.

All the luck in the world won’t help if we choose to limit ourselves.

Onward.

I have a blue, three-foot spirit level that I used to keep on a shelf with some scrap lumber.

One day, I decided that wasn’t the right place for it, so I put it away with some other tools.

Despite my effort, whenever I needed that level, the first place I looked was still the lumber shelf.

Eventually, I changed course: I put the level back where it had always been.

* * *

We can change many of our habits.

But sometimes, the smoother path is adapting to the grooves we already follow.

My friend Sue Heatherington wrote a poem that deeply resonates with my recent thinking. I’m delighted to share it here. Sue’s writing generously shares wisdom, imagery, and hope from a “little valley in South West Wales.” I’m grateful for her work.

* * *

BEING OPEN

Where I stand
shapes what I see.

Lend me your eyes.

What I listen to
shapes what I hear.

Lend me your ears.

What I notice
shapes my attention.

Lend me your perspective.

And what I value
shapes my heart.

Let’s grow together.

+ Sue Heatherington

The movie playing in our heads isn’t the one everyone else is watching.

It helps when we share some of our narration —
and when we listen for the narration of others.

Sometimes a dish is extraordinary — not because of its sameness, but because of its contrast. Creamy and crunchy. Salty and sweet. Warm and cool. The little bursts of concentrated flavor. The edges that crisped just right.

Not every bite is better than the last. It’s the standouts — the surprising ones — that make the whole dish memorable.

Life is a lot like this. By definition, not everything can be extraordinary.

But — just as we dwell with the best bites — we can savor the sweetest moments.

“Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.” So said Eleanor Roosevelt.

But I imagine — with her quick wit — even The First Lady of the World might have conceded that some of the best stories involve quirky neighbors, childhood mishaps, and the funny moments people create.

Ideas, events, people — they all belong.

We forget to rename ourselves. Outside of formal programs and job titles, there aren’t many mile markers.

It’s easy to know when you’re a beginner. But when have you practiced enough to call yourself a poet? A painter? A magician? A practitioner?

The truth is, we often step into these identities long before the titles feel right — because that’s how we grow into them.

But eventually, there comes a moment when we can let language clothe us in what we’ve quietly become.

Don’t become dysfunctional because of someone else’s dysfunction.

Struggle can be gravitational. Even when we’re careful, we can get pulled into someone else’s problem. At best, it takes our attention. At worst, it hijacks our emotions — and our behavior.

Like watching a storm on the horizon, we need to make sure we’re sheltered and anchored.

Listen to how they say it.

If it’s their name or their company … they’re right.

Even if you don’t agree.

Even if it breaks convention.

When it comes to how people pronounce what is theirs, it’s best to suspend our own judgment.

We don’t learn to sculpt; we learn to think three-dimensionally.
We don’t learn to paint; we learn to think with color and tone.
We don’t learn to write; we learn to think with words.

Often, what we learn to do shapes how we learn to think.