Our emotions can be like a body of water.

Stirred-up and agitated, moved and disturbed, it can take time for things to settle — for calm and clarity to return.

It’s important to recognize this within ourselves ... and equally important to remember that others experience it too.

Whether we’re the agitator, the agitated, or a thoughtful passerby, sensitivity to this goes a long way.

You can’t change your history.

You can’t change the pathways that have led you to this very moment.

But you can change the way you understand those paths.

You can change the frame around that history.

You can change the way you tell the story of you.

And you can decide where to go from here.

That next step ... it’s yours to take. Always.

I saw two musical performances recently. Each performance had one song that didn’t receive any applause.

It’s an odd thing. Someone plays to an audience ... and no one claps.

What’s an artist to do? Say, “This is where you clap”?

No. The musician plays the next song. Maybe noting, “That song didn’t work so well,” but not stopping. Just moving on. Maybe it’s a little like stand-up comedy in that way.

And like the musicians and comics, we do the same. When our work doesn’t resonate with those we seek to serve, we create more work. Better work, if we can.

Applause or not ... we play the next song.

A few days ago, I closed an online account for a service I wasn’t using. What I didn’t realize is that this action would unsubscribe me from some daily blogs I read via email.

Yesterday, I figured out what happened, so I was able to catch up on what I had missed and re-subscribe to those lists.

This experience reminded me of a few things.

One: sometimes we cut one string without realizing all of its connections. Only afterwards do we see what has unintentionally unraveled.

Two: when we engage in something of value, we truly miss it when it’s gone. The more we value it, the more we’ll miss it.

Three: as a loyal reader, I feel a kind of commitment to the writers I follow. I’ve come to know these writers — in a sense — through what I’ve read. And that connection has two parts: the writer ... and the reader. I like knowing that I’m a part of that equation, though I’m just a small part.

* * *

In a time when many are lobbying for the right to be “digitally forgotten” and erased from databases — a right that is already legislated in some countries — we may begin to experience this more often. A delete here may mean a delete there, and there, and there.

Our connections, it seems, are sometimes beyond our awareness.

There’s value to being direct.

Hinting and hoping is an approach some people take. Dropping clues. Subtly nudging you to do what they want.

But we’re often busy. Or distracted. Or just not picking up on the right message. Or we have a reason for not complying.

If you want something, sometimes the best thing to do is to ask for it ... clearly.

You might just get what you want. And if you don’t, you can make a new plan. Or potentially have a conversation about why the answer is no.

Hints and clues … they’re often best left for game shows and detective novels.

Sometimes people reserve praise with the precaution, “We don’t want her to get a big head ...”

What’s behind that? Are we really concerned about egos running amok? Do we feel personally responsible for creating conceit in others?

Unfortunately, people who lean toward vanity can usually get there all on their own.

* * *

We practice generosity when we affirm the good work of others. We express, “I see you, and I appreciate you. Keep going.” Wonderful things can stem from that recognition.

Worth noting: it could be that biting our tongue when we witness excellence … that might have more to do with our own pride, and less to do with reigning in the pride of others. Probably good to keep that in check, too.

As you enter the theater that is this world, you get to choose your place.

You can sit in one of the many seats, prepared to be entertained.

Or you can take the stage.

Whether solo, or among a troupe, the stage is available to you.

You have a voice and a perspective.

The lights are up and the mic is hot.

It’s showtime. Are you going to be in a seat ... or downstage?

There’s a big difference between, “I can’t” and “I can’t try”.

The first is often a hypothesis, rather than a conclusion.

And the second might be a conclusion, but it’s a fallacy.

Said another way:

“I can’t” is sometimes true ...

but there’s no truth in “I can’t try”.

* * *

P.S. To all the readers who found me through Rohan’s post ... welcome! Please don’t hesitate to start a conversation (replies to the blog mailing go right to my inbox). I am truly glad you’re here.

Gratefully,

stephen

Having the wind at your back is a good feeling.

Thing is, if you always position yourself so the wind is at your back, you’ll only go wherever the wind blows … and that might not be a very good plan.

Some days, the wind is going to meet us head-on. That resistance, however, might be the very signal that we’re headed in the direction of work that matters.

Via email, I suggested to a colleague that we should take action on an item “sooner than later”.

But before I sent the message, I made an adjustment.

The new text — “today or tomorrow” — established a goal, and it’s the target I intended to suggest.

“Sooner than later” was a doughy, noncommittal signal that the action was unimportant.

* * *

Setting a clear timeline isn’t about being pushy; it’s part of being effective.

Read, file. Read, delete. Read, delete. Delete. Delete.

Email is a part of life, and it’s plentiful. So much so that we have to have strategies to manage it.

I’ve lately considered the problem of processing my email versus the potential alternatives.

How often do I read something and sit with it? Let it soak in? Meditate over it?

I follow a few insightful blogs. Do I read those words and let them marinate, or do I scan and file?

* * *

Every day, we will encounter wisdom. If we’re not paying attention, it might pass us by ... just like the rest of the noise we’ve filed away.

If you’re feeling small and unseen, maybe you need to move a little more.

During a walk the other day, I wouldn’t have noticed a bird except that it swooped across the path. Had it been still, I never would have seen it.

In contrast, superstars can usually be seen just by showing up. They’re big enough. They have a reputation. They’re noticeable standing still. A bull elk — compared to the bird in a tree — is not likely to be missed.

But for most of us, we’re more like the bird. Standing still is akin to invisibility. We need to move to be seen.

Which prompts the question: What’s the movement you’re creating?

At a daycare Halloween event, parents gathered to watch as the children were recognized for their costumes.

Most memorably, a three-year-old girl who was dressed as a ballerina ... upon being called to stand up ... performed an extensive spin. All the parents smiled, ooh-ed, and ahh-ed. It was wonderful.

Was she asked to do it? No.

Did she have to do it? No.

Should she have done it? Absolutely.

Go ahead. Give a twirl, just because you can.

Yes, this is a metaphor ... but you can take it literally too.

One of my sons has partial color blindness.

On a recent rainy day, he was looking for rainbows. There, in the foggy distance, was the makings of one. It remained low on the horizon, not extending far into the otherwise cloudy sky. Nonetheless, there it was. Reds, yellows, violets. A little green.

“Look, buddy! There it is!”

He couldn’t see it.

Hard as he tried, my son couldn’t see the color.

I explained where it was. Pointed to it. Described what I was seeing.

It was something about the daylight and color saturation; my son just couldn’t see what I saw.

We moved on ... looking for beauty in other places. Beauty we could see together.

* * *

And so it is. There will be times when we want to see something, and we desperately try … but to no avail. Even if it’s right there in front of us.

Do we give up looking?

No. Instead, we practice patience. We try to see another way. Or we seek other places, where there are different conditions and the lighting is just right.

Just because we don’t see it right now doesn’t mean we won’t ever see it.

Keep looking. Keep seeking.

We’re the sound engineers sitting at the mixer. We have the sliders and knobs at our fingertips.

It’s up to us to turn up the internal voices and narratives that are helping ... and to mute the channels that are dragging us down.

The negative lines — for the most part — will always be present. We can’t disconnect them completely. But we do have great control over their levels.

What we amplify and what we mute ... is our choice.

We all wear masks to varying degrees, and not just on Halloween. Some masks are to meant to keep us safe. Some are meant to project status.

But if we’re spending a lot of time tending to our masks, couldn’t we spend that time tending to ourselves instead?

If we shore-up our confidence ...

If we cultivate our friendliness ...

If we hone our professionalism ...

We will have less need for those masks, and we can freely interact with the world as ourselves.

How big is the gap between your usual good work, and the very best you can do?

What happens when we intentionally try to narrow that gap ... or eliminate it completely?

While a young girl spoke to the audience, her father was recording video on his phone.

I could see his screen, and I noticed that the camera lens was focused on the podium ... not on his daughter. She was slightly out of focus while the podium was perfectly sharp.

Sometimes we’re in the right place at the right time, and we accidentally focus on the wrong thing. This happens both literally and figuratively.

And so it’s useful to pause from time to time to consider: what’s important here, and where am I focusing my attention?

Instead of being a flaw-finder, what if we tried to be a good-finder?

Instead of seeing shortcomings, what if we just looked for the good?

And what if we did this all week?

Or we decided to make it an ongoing practice?

This isn’t just a rhetorical musing; it’s a proposal.

If you can’t write a good draft, then write a bad draft.

Write a few bad drafts.

The path to strong work often travels through weak iterations.

* * *

We don’t produce good work by pausing production until the work is good.

We produce good work by starting where we are, and shipping … and then doing it again, and again.

If you can’t start strong, then start weak. But you’ve got to start.

You don’t get better by hiding.