When someone says, “Don’t take this the wrong way,” my body tenses.

Sure, I appreciate the warning, but my mind says, “You’re not going to like what you’re about to hear.” Something personal is about to be said or a blind spot is about to be revealed.

* * *

If we’re the speaker — the one delivering the critique — this is an opportunity to pause (before giving the “wrong way” prelude).

How might the context be given? How might the advice be offered in such a way that the listener understands its motivation? How can the delivery be such that its generosity is evident?

And if it’s not thoughtful and generous, perhaps “not taking it the wrong way” is a tall order.

The cashier said to me, “Huh! You certainly have a look about you.”

I must have appeared puzzled, as if waiting for an explanation. She obliged.

“Well, you’ve got a very young-looking face, but you also have a lot of gray hair.”

I laughed.

(It seems that I also look like the kind of person who doesn’t mind a candid discussion about his physical appearance.)

It was an amusing interaction, but it also got me thinking about the idea of having “a look” about one’s self.

Do we look friendly? Kind? Eager to help? Confident?

Looks aren’t everything, but the way we carry ourselves is something. Our expression is something. Our demeanor is something.

It’s worth some self-reflection: what kind of look do I have about me?

A dynamo is a device that turns mechanical energy into electrical current. You’ll often see these on touring bicycles where the spinning of the front wheel is used to power a light.

But we know that “dynamo” is also a word that describes a person with a lot of energy.

A consideration: how can we be like a dynamo? Not someone who’s merely energetic, but someone who gives energy to others? Someone who inspires others?

That a connection to us is not stress, negativity, or anxiety … but anticipation, liveliness, and possibility?

The other version of you is not behind schedule.

The other version of you is feeling organized.

The other version of you gave voice to conviction.

The other version of you acted with confidence.

The other version of you didn’t waste any time.

* * *

Of course, we are that version if we choose to be.

Instead of looking upon that other version of ourselves with longing and regret, we can step into that role. We can live there instead of visiting there.

We can be that better version ... striding forward, un-tethered from the past.

Robert Frost gives us the beautiful lines, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.”

I come back to these words often, as they provide worthwhile, enduring challenges in the creative process.

* * *

How can we pour ourselves into our work? How can we open wide and give of ourselves, such that the reader is moved?

And how can we maintain life within our creative practice? How can we embrace discovery and play such that the reader is also surprised and inspired?

(Note that the “reader” is also the viewer, the listener, the consumer, the user, and the audience. It’s beyond medium. Beyond genre.)

If we approach our work with boredom, apathy, and dispassion, that’s likely to be what we will cultivate in those we seek to serve.

It’s a shame, really. When children are invited to “rise and shine” they’re half asleep.

The concept of rising is such a significant change that they’re inclined to forget the second half of the invitation.

* * *

Perhaps we struggle with this, too — rising and shining.

But if we can’t do the two things together, how can we do them apart?

How can we rise ... and then shine?

The invitation is there for all of us. So how will we shine today?

And how can we help others to do the same?

It doesn’t take much. A splinter. A burn. A cut. A toothache.

Sometimes, a small area of injury can create an out-sized measure of inconvenience, discomfort, or pain. A perfectly healthy body, but for that one thing, which receives all of our focus.

And of course, this isn’t limited to the physical world.

A small emotional wound, for instance, can cast a shadow much darker and much wider than it deserves.

It has that kind of power … but only if we let it.

And we don’t have to do that. We can choose to focus our attention elsewhere, and we can choose to tell ourselves a different story. One that serves us. One that takes us beyond the injury.

We’re not born as leaders. We’re born as babies.

Leadership is a skill, and it’s one that we can learn.

But we don’t have to wait until we cultivate all the desirable skills. We can start as we are.

* * *

We grow into being good leaders. We don’t start there.

We start by deciding to lead.

Speaking about our destination is important. Dreaming it. Seeing it. Making the map that leads us to it.

But we can’t “do” our destination.

What we can do is take the next step in the right direction.

Yes, envision the long-term goal. Then, focus on that next step …

... and take it.

“I will not let this happen,” is a powerful statement of conviction.

“We will not let this happen,“ is a statement that has the power to shift the culture.

Why does this matter?

The biggest problems in our world are not solved by a personal conviction; they’re solved by a change in the culture.

It’s what we do together that matters the most.

Light doesn’t shine around the darkness. It doesn’t get over the darkness. It doesn’t move past the darkness.

Light shines through the darkness.

And so can we.

Compared to what you were expecting?

Compared to what you were hoping?

Compared to what others have?

Compared to how it could have been?

Compared to your best?

Compared to someone else’s best?

Compared to yesterday?

* * *

When we make an assessment of good or bad, better or worse, we’re often (perhaps always) making a comparison.

The question is: compared to what?

And importantly: how does that particular point of comparison serve us?

Some people will not be ready to hear your great idea. They will be uninspired. Uninterested. Unconcerned.

And that’s normal.

Whether it’s a child, a student, a family member, a colleague, a stranger, or a friend ... there are times our ideas will not resonate.

We have three options.

• One: feel frustrated. Try to force the idea; it’s a good one after all.

• Two: seek a more receptive audience. Find the people who will love your idea.

• Three: come up with better ideas. Maybe there’s a reason the first idea didn’t resonate.

Option number one — the one where we spend all our energy trying to convince the one person in the room who doesn’t get the joke — that’s a long, frustrating, and usually unsatisfying road to travel.

With ambition comes determination and grit. And sometimes, the anxiety of stopping. The fear that, “If I stop, I’ll lose all momentum and I’ll be stuck.”

Maybe so.

However, re-starting is not always as difficult as we think. Many times, all that’s necessary is a small step. And that small step results in forward motion and renewed momentum.

That first small step might not even be the biggest challenge. The biggest challenge might be overcoming the fear of taking that first small step.

So often, mothers set aside their own interests to selflessly focus on the needs of others.

Perhaps to honor the mothers in our lives, we can help them to step away and to pause. Ask them to call to mind their own wants, needs, and desires … and to do what we can to serve those needs, and to help those dreams come to be.

And maybe this isn’t just a task for today. Maybe it’s a posture we fully commit to maintaining.

Just prior to a video conference with a colleague, I realized I didn’t have a link to his Zoom room where we had planned to meet.

We sorted it out quickly enough, but his revelation stuck with me: “I created the invitation. I just forgot to send it out.”

It prompted some deeper thinking for me. How often are we open to an experience, or willing to assist, or ready to act ... yet we don’t send out the invite?

A generous mindset is part of the equation. Taking action is critical too.

But our presence of mind to communicate — to share a clear message of, “I’m ready. How can I help?” — that’s often the key part that puts things in motion.

Create a beautiful, generous invitation ... just don’t forget to send it out.

The challenge with preventative measures is that they’re a mix of boring, tedious, and inconvenient.

And when they work, nothing happens. That’s the whole point.

Alternatively, emergency response and triage are lively. Stop the bleeding. Set the bone. Intubate.

* * *

The problem is that we like to see things working. We like tangible evidence.

That’s why it’s hard to stick with a plan when we don’t see immediate results.

Diets have this problem. So do daily vitamins. And meditation. And exercise. Social distancing, too.

The input is near-term and evident. The output is long-term and beyond the horizon.

But if today’s inconveniences are an investment in tomorrow, they’re a wise investment.

If you had to pay for what you were about to say, would it be worth it?

If personal assets were debited every time you spoke, what would you choose to say and what would you keep to yourself?

Maybe that would help us to think more carefully about what we’re saying and why.

But even if we pay nothing, being purposeful in what we say ... that’s an effort worth making.

If your goal is to reach a certain number, and you’ve reached it, congratulations! Maybe you’re done now.

But if your goal is to maintain a certain posture — to keep a streak going — then the numbers don’t matter quite as much. What matters is “the next one.”

Congratulations for passing a milestone. That can be fun, and cause for celebration.

Now ... on to the next one.

There’s no shortage of people who will — upon seeing someone else take action — say, “I was going to do that.”

Some of them might even be telling the truth.

Wouldn’t we rather be the people who actually do things, and not the observers who muse about what might have been?