My four-year-old son got a haircut yesterday. He really liked it. Upon waking up today, he touched his hair and smiled with excitement, asking, “Is it still how it is?”

A sweet moment of gratitude through the eyes of a child. To rise thinking, “Is this wonderful dream still happening? Oh I hope so.”

May we all experience such pure moments of thankfulness for simple joys.

“Do you want a cookie or a trophy?”

I don’t recall who introduced me to the phrase … but I remember the context: the sarcastic line was delivered when a young person wanted praise for something he was supposed to do.

For instance: “I threw away my trash.”

“That’s great. Do you want a cookie or a trophy?”

* * *

We all like praise. We like a pat on the back. But let’s not get so caught up on it that we feel slighted when we’re not acknowledged for doing what we’re supposed to do.

Just do the thing. It’s not about a cookie, and it’s not about a trophy. It’s about doing the right thing.

Do we have the audacity to empathize? The nerve to imagine what it’s like to live in someone else’s world?

We’ve heard people say with indignation, “You don’t know what it’s like.”

And so it makes sense that we back down. That we don’t attempt the impossible. Out of deference. Or fear of conflict.

But that’s the paradox. In order for us to act with empathy ... we have to imagine what it’s like. We have to step into that discomfort.

That we can’t truly know ... that’s exactly the problem. But to connect deeply, we have to try to know.

The easy work is always an option. We can live a lifetime of doing the easy work.

Doing the hard work takes effort. Contributing emotional labor takes intention and vulnerability.

The thing is, the hard work feeds you. When you give with generosity and selflessness, it comes back to nourish you.

Spend a day doing the easy work and that night, you’ll feel empty.

Spend just a little time doing the hard work, and soon you’ll feel a swell of energy that endures.

Sometimes, when we tell someone about an ambitious project we’re planning, they’ll respond with a tone of apprehension. “Don’t start too big.” “Don’t get too far ahead of yourself.” “Maybe try something smaller to start?”

Often, this kind of response has more to do with the speaker than our plans.

Those who say, “be careful not to dream too big” ... they are not enrolled in your journey. It might even be that they’re anxious about their own abilities to dream big.

Don’t listen to those who want to limit you. You’ve got big ideas, and there’s no time for the disbelievers.

If you’ve ever watched someone learning to do a handstand, you’ll have seen her put her hands on the ground, and kick her feet into the air ... just a little.

Usually, there’s a long string of split-second hops before anything close to a handstand is achieved.

In order to learn handstanding, your feet have to kick into the air ... and past vertical. You have to feel balance, and then the treacherous tip forward. To even go too far.

And so you’re taught — when you tip over — to tuck your head, and to roll forward, instead of falling hard and flat.

* * *

And there it is: how do we learn to fail in a positive way? In a way that we learn. And recover. To fail in a way that’s not catastrophic. To fail toward progress. How do we do it?

Well, we don’t do it with little hops. No. We can’t achieve our greatest potential until we loft our highest and we learn to push past vertical ... if but a little.

Around the time of the U.S. Civil War, Ann Reeves Jarvis was working to organize positive change. Jarvis’ “Mother’s Day Work Clubs” helped to educate women in West Virginia about caring for children. Later, she organized a Mother’s Friendship Day to encourage post-war reconciliation.

Jarvis died in 1905. Her daughter, Ann Jarvis — intent to create a day to honor motherhood and the sacrifices mothers make for their children — organized a Mother’s Day celebration. Over time, through Jarvis’ efforts and connections, the event spread in popularity. With a massive letter-writing campaign, she petitioned to have the holiday added to the national calendar. In 1914, the second Sunday in May was established as Mother’s Day in the United States.

As the holiday began to be commercialized, Ann Jarvis ultimately denounced Mother's Day. Her concept had been about honoring mothers. Visiting, and spending time together. It wasn’t about Hallmark cards, florists, and jewelers.

So what are we to do? Let’s get back to honoring mothers. Not just on the second Sunday in May, but throughout the year. To show our appreciation. To listen. To visit.

Celebrate these remarkable women. Not just today, but year-round. Act upon the love, respect, and gratitude that flowers can never fully express.

IKEA designers often place hole patterns in such a way that one cannot install a piece backwards.

That is, with pieces that might seem reversible … but which actually require a particular orientation … the holes for the assembly bolts only align when you’ve oriented the pieces correctly. It’s designed to eliminate error. To maximize a successful outcome.

* * *

We can learn from this. In event planning. In designing forms. In wayfinding signs. In writing instructions.

If there are critical steps that must be done one way and not another, let’s design the interfaces and experiences such that they can only be done the proper way. Anticipate the user’s error — and help the user to naturally choose correctly.

Said more plainly: if you want something done a certain way, ensure it by careful design.

Just as I was closing my car door yesterday, a seed floated in and landed on the floor.

That evening, it traveled 8.5 miles to my home, and when I arrived, it once again rose with the breeze and continued on.

Like that little seed, we don’t always know where our ideas will go. We can’t predict their full effect. We don’t know how far they’ll travel.

But one thing is clear: if we don’t share them, our ideas will go nowhere. Without expression, our ideas will die.

So let’s put them into the world. Let’s see what happens when we give life to our ideas, and the wind carries them on.

“I don’t have enough time. I don’t have enough resources. I don’t have enough energy.”

Maybe you’re right.

But if the thing is important, do it nonetheless.

There are a few possibilities why you’re in the meeting room, alone.

One, you’re early. Good for you.

Two, you’re late. You missed it.

Three, you think it’s Thursday and it’s actually Tuesday.

If you fall into the second two categories, take a deep breath ... and then take a few more for good measure.

You’ve got this. You can manage a clock and a calendar. Now, take a moment to manage yourself.

When you’re waiting for someone to come home, you leave a light on.

Leaving the light on is a signal. I’m here. I’m expecting you. I look forward to your arrival.

We do this in our homes. How can we do this as we interact in the world?

How can we leave lights on ... showing that we see others, that we’re available, and that we’re eager to engage?

There’s a difference between moving one’s body, and dancing.

A difference between being in the right positions, and moving in a way that is beautiful and expressive.

* * *

Sitting at a conference table during a meeting, sitting across from someone on a date, standing in front of an audience ...

These might be the right positions, but we know there’s so much more to it.

* * *

Know where to be. Know the positions. But don’t forget: you’re not just moving; you’re dancing.

Consider an untested airbag. A parachute that hasn’t been inspected. A bridge made from steel of unknown strength.

There are times we feel like we’re under a microscope. Times we face significant challenges. Times our psychological strength is tested.

But in a way — in order for us to become fully ourselves — we have to be seen ... have to be challenged … have to be tested.

And instead of seeing these moments as “this is preventing me from being me,” ... perhaps we can see them as closer to what they are: “I’m becoming me.”

Are you the secret ingredient? The one that makes everything remarkably delicious?

Or are you the ingredient whose flavor is just a little off? The one that somehow spoils what might have otherwise been a fine recipe?

Many times, we are in a position to choose one or the other.

Choose to be delicious.

All around the world, we see beautiful architecture. Some of it is as wonderful as it is old. But just because something is historic doesn’t guarantee it’s of meritorious design … or even a quality example of a particular period or style.

Sometimes we get caught up in nostalgia — some kind of deference for the “original” — particularly when it comes to architecture. As though all of the architects, designers, and craftspeople from decades and centuries ago ... were somehow infallible.

While time and historical context may indeed add value, let’s not equate “historic” with excellence in design. Sometimes, it’s just not so.

The concept can be extended further, of course … to laws, policies, educational systems, and political agendas. With these examples, it’s pretty clear: poor design can occur at any point in history, and some of it ends up sticking around for a long time.

Part of your job is acquiring whatever is necessary to do your job.

Your job is not to have a sympathetic story about how your work has been stifled and sullied.

Your job is to figure out how to do your job, and then to do it.

It’s often said, “There’s no such thing as a stupid question.”

Maybe true. Maybe not.

But this is certain: in every situation, there are questions that don’t matter. Questions whose consideration does not help to advance the agenda. Questions that divert from the goal. Questions that distract. Questions that point to unpreparedness, rather than curiosity or useful investigation.

Don’t worry about asking stupid questions. Worry about asking relevant questions. Questions that matter.

You can’t read a book all at once; it’s read section by section, page by page. Not necessarily sequentially, but never all at once.

Similarly, you can’t live life all at once. Life is lived moment to moment, day to day, year after year.

The more time we spend impatiently anticipating those future chapters, the more likely we are to gloss over the chapter we’re presently experiencing.

Today is a beautiful part of your story. Let it unfold. Read it with care.

Put the friendly people up front. Holding the door. At the ticket counter. Answering the phone.

First contact — that initial moment of interaction — should be positive. Kind. Cheery.

There are plenty of other jobs for people who tend to frown, and people who don’t seem to like people.

First contact sets a tone. First contact can color an experience.

Put friendly where it belongs ... right up front.