Things got a little mixed up behind the counter and I had to wait for my order. It wasn’t a long delay, but it was a delay nonetheless.

The proprietor said, “I’m really sorry about that!”

I replied “It’s no problem!”

And the reason it wasn’t a problem is because I made it not a problem. Had I made a different choice, the interaction could have gone very differently.

So many times, reasonable things happen and we turn them into problems. We overreact. We lose our composure. We inject heated emotion where it doesn’t belong.

Ultimately, we have choices. Amplify or ignore. Provoke or pacify. Intensify or de-escalate.

The truth is, some things only become problems because we make them so.

I watched one of my children working on a crossword puzzle, carefully writing using lowercase letters.

“Is that a lowercase ‘L’ or a capital ‘i’?” I asked.

“Errrr. I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you should use uppercase letters?”

“Ugh. But then I’d have to fix all the letters I’ve already written!”

* * *

This happens so often. We see a problem in the system, but in order to correct it, we’d have to correct other things too. We’re ultimately stuck by the sunk cost of our previous efforts.

So the easiest thing to do is to just keep doing things the way we’ve been doing them. Even if it’s problematic. Even if there’s a better way.

The hangup is that while some problems go away over time, others grow and cause more problems. Either way, maintaining the status quo is not an infinitely sustainable strategy.

It might take a mix of humility, grit, and bravery to change our processes for the better. Sometimes, it’s also going to take fixing work we’ve already done.

A new year comes whether we work toward it or not.

And as long as we’re living, we’ll get a birthday within that cycle too. But again, it happens without our contribution. Without our work.

It’s nice to celebrate milestones and round numbers. But better to celebrate the things that might not have happened without our effort.

To celebrate milestones of creativity. Milestones of generosity. Milestones of commitment and of showing up.

If we’re going to count, let’s count what matters most.

During unexpected, unscripted events, we often look for a leader. Someone who knows what’s going on. Someone who seems to know what to do. Someone who’s an example for others.

This job belongs to the informal mayor. This is the self-selected linchpin who takes action. The person who helps us to organize, to find common purpose, to feel more at ease, or to feel a sense of order.

Informal mayors will be present in the airport terminal when all flights are cancelled. They’ll be in the parking lot before the high school basketball game when the doors are mysteriously locked. They’re walking among cars on the interstate when traffic has been stopped for hours. They’re among bystanders stuck in a public building that's on security lock-down.

Informal mayors are not elected. They have no official roles, responsibilities, or authority. They merely take action. They’re not necessarily heroic or larger than life. They’re merely generous connectors who see others and attend to what’s needed.

Meaning ... you can be one anytime you choose, and it can make a difference.

H/T Angie

If my wife and I make a wrong turn while we’re driving, we have separate instincts.

Mine is to figure out where we’re going while the car is still moving. Hers is to find a place to pause, locate where we are on the map, and then to begin again ... headed in the right direction.

Clearly, my wife’s method is the more reasonable approach.

I’m trying to retrain myself, and in a bigger sense too.

When I feel like I’m off track, how often do I stop? Is my life’s journey headed in the right direction? How often do I look at the map? Do I even have a map?

There are times when “keep moving” can make a lot of sense. But not always.

If there’s not a map, find one. Or invent one. And once there’s a map, it’s wise to pause and to plan a route.

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:

1. Writes, “I found this first assignment to be really easy.”

2. 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.