It’s not likely that you’ll visit every country in the world. Or see every site worth seeing. Or read every book that’s ever captured your interest.
But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t visit some countries. Or see some sites. Or read some books.
Just because you can’t do it all doesn’t mean you should quit the game.
You won’t get to do it all. But bask in what you can. Every bit of it.
I heard someone say, “I’m having a bad day.”
And based on how it was said, I thought, “You’re not having a bad day. You’re embracing it.”
* * *
We can’t avoid challenges, tragedy, and adversity. But we can choose how we frame those lessons. We can choose which parts we embrace. And most importantly, we can choose what to do next.
H/T Scott
It’s possible that you couldn’t get it done. You didn’t have enough skill, enough time, enough emotional capacity, or enough resources.
But it’s equally possible — or even alternatively possible — that you didn’t care enough to get it done. And that’s an important distinction.
When something doesn’t get done, we are the authors and editors of the narratives and explanations.
But as such, we should be clear about understanding when we could have done something ... if we’d have only cared enough to act.
In the sculpture course I teach … each semester, invariably, there’s a student who does these two things in the first week of classes:
Writes, “I found this first assignment to be really easy.”
Fails to follow the directions for the first assignment.
When we’re working to meet spec, fulfilling an assignment, or satisfying a prompt — particularly in professional and academic settings — the feeling of “that was so easy!” should be a signal. A warning. An occasion to check:
Was this too easy? Did I do what was needed?
And you might be right on target with your work. But it’s still a good idea to check.
Spotlights are single-ended: they shine light in one direction.
This means if you’re using one, you’re either shining the light on someone else, or you’ve figured out how to shine it on yourself.
If you’re doing the generous act of bringing attention to someone else, it’s best to leave yourself out of it as much as possible. On those occasions, just shine the light … don’t try to steal its glow.
Yesterday, I took an exit off an interstate, and quickly realized I was headed in the wrong direction. But in order to get back to the right path, I had to travel some unlit, desolate and windy roads.
The experience pointed me toward a broader truth: Sometimes the journey we take to get back on track is much more complicated than the simple off-ramps that lead us astray.
Sometimes we obsess over what to say and how to say it. An important email for example: Is the tone right? Is the context understood? Is the language too formal? Should I word it differently? And what if I don’t get a reply?
The other day, I received a phone call from an industry colleague. He said, “I was writing a lengthy email to you, and ... well ... I stopped writing it and I picked up the phone.”
It was the opening line of a clear and productive conversation.
Many times, picking up the phone is just the right thing to do. A call doesn’t solve every challenge with communication, but it can solve a lot of them.
If you’re telling someone a story, and they only have patience for the synopsis, it’s better that you don’t read them the entire screenplay ... no matter how good it is.
Unless, of course, your goal is to talk, whether or not anyone is listening.
It’s useful to know someone who can catch a typo, correct grammar, and identify formatting errors. Polishing is important, and it takes a certain set of skills.
But someone who can say, “It would resonate with more clarity if you put this part first, and saved that part for later,” or “Based on your audience, I think what you’re really trying to say is this,” ...
That kind of editing advice is much more valuable, and much harder to find.
Most writing epiphanies come from thoughtful rearranging, insightful questions, and empathetic consideration — not from the addition of a period or the removal of a comma.
When you are still and quiet, what do you know to be true?
If you’re uncertain, it may be the right time to find space to be still and quiet ...
... and to listen to the noise in your head, and the truth in your heart.
As best I can recall, I share this story I once heard someone tell about his own family:
My younger sister never had trouble finding love. She seemed to find connection with ease.
But my older sister always had trouble dating. Relationships were infrequent and they just didn’t seem to last.
One day, my grandfather offered his opinion. Speaking to my older sister, he said, “You know what your problem is? It’s the way you say, ‘Really.’”
Stunned, my sister waited for an explanation.
“You see, when someone tells you something, you lean back in your seat, you cross your arms, and you say — with a tone of doubt — ‘Really?’
“Your younger sister, on the other hand, leans forward with curiosity — not naivete, but genuine interest — and with fascination, she says, ‘Really!’
“And that — that makes all the difference.”
* * *
How do we approach what’s new? How do we navigate surprise? And what do we communicate when we say, “Really?”
You don’t find balance by standing completely still; you find it by moving.
Take riding a bike, for example. One doesn’t sit, wait for balance, and then begin pedaling. The first step is to push off. To launch. To go.
The balance comes soon after ... and continues through subtle corrections as you go.
If you’re waiting to be balanced in order to begin, you may be stuck in the same place for a long time.
They’re eating treats and napping in dog heaven now, but if you’d have walked these sweet animals on the sidewalks of my borough, you’d have had a fun challenge.
Rosie, the energetic mixed breed, always wanted to run ahead.
Sammy, the toy poodle, would want to sniff, explore, and mark.
A walk entailed a leash in each hand, arms outstretched, and two dogs with two different goals in mind. To serve them both was to serve neither one fully.
A better situation was when two of us walked the dogs separately. Rosie was happy. Sammy was happy.
It’s worth considering how we meet the needs of those we seek to serve. “One size fits all” may actually be “one size doesn’t really fit anyone all that well.”
Sometimes, two dogs need two walkers.
When you’re sitting on a bench, and you see someone who needs a seat, do you make room?
Or do you subtly spread out, looking a little larger ... a little wider. Silently communicating, “No space here for you.”
Some people like to protect the space they’ve claimed for themselves. Others are happy to scoot in: “Please. Come sit. There’s room.”
This dynamic happens wherever benches are found ... but it also happens in social, academic, and professional circles.
There are some who insist, “We’re full. No room for you.” And others who are more than willing to welcome newcomers.
Whether there’s a bench involved or not, making room for others is not always the comfortable thing to do, but it’s often the right thing to do.
When clay is too cold, it’s not malleable. It can be stiff, or brittle, and unpleasant to handle. In order for it to be workable, it has to warm up.
Likewise, when we’re too cold in our personal interactions, we create an unworkable rigidity.
A little bit of warmth, and we become flexible. Responsive. Open to change.
That warmth — the kind that’s born of empathy, generosity, and sincerity — it opens the door to possibility.
“I can take it.”
This is a healthy approach to handling criticism.
The important question that follows — which we don’t always consider — is this:
Where are you going to put it?
If you hear a dripping sound and you look up to see a wet stain on the ceiling, it’s natural to think there’s a leak in the room above.
Possible, but not a guarantee.
Water travels. Water entering a roof on one side of a building may travel down the interior of the walls and across the spaces between floor and ceiling before dripping into a room. A leak on the east side may turn into a drip on the north side.
Lots of problems are like this; the source isn’t what we immediately see, and it’s not even on the other side of what’s in front of us.
Sometimes problems have distant sources. That’s useful to remember whether we’re considering a water ring on the ceiling ... or a power outage, or a drought in the American west, or a manager in the next office.
To find the source, we sometimes have to look far and deep.
Historical figures — whether heroic or hateful — are often remembered by only a few moments or by a single, defining act.
For the rest of us, we’re remembered by countless moments — big and small, clear and foggy — all woven together in the memories of our loved ones.
Part of our call — as humans — is to witness. To see others.
But it goes beyond seeing, lest it remain observation or entertainment.
No. Beyond seeing it is seeking to connect. To understand. To value.
We are called to share laughter. To share tears. To celebrate and to mourn.
* * *
Words often help us to embrace our connections, but where words fail ... presence does not.
Simply holding space together — gathering — can connect us in joy and in sorrow ... even when the script falls short.
When you’re building a house, do you choose standard lumber to construct the walls, or do you source exotic logs and mill the pieces on your own?
When you’re brewing tea, do you purchase cups for serving or do you throw them yourself on the potter’s wheel?
When you’re starting a company, do you use existing HR software or do you build the tools from scratch?
At every point in a project, we have the choice between standard and special.
We need “special” to build something remarkable. But inevitably, there will be areas where standard inputs will still contribute to beautiful outputs.
Not every project has the scope and the budget of the Palace of Versailles. Even that were so, working without constraints can lead to mediocrity.
How and were we choose between standard and special can often affect the impact of our work and how it’s remembered ... or forgotten.
