At some point, someone you don’t like will get a lucky break. Undeserved, unearned fortune will land in their lap.

That’s a good time to remember that envy and resentment will do nothing to help you in your own journey.

Luck happens to everyone. Friends and enemies alike. Even to you, sometimes.

It might be better to stop thinking about luck and its unpredictability, and to instead consider the part of the equation where you don’t like a certain person.

For that, Abraham Lincoln offers us a useful starting point. He famously said, “I do not like that man. I must get to know him better.”

When we say, “Thanks for everything,” let’s really mean it.

Not just, “Thank you for when you’ve been perfect and contributed without error.”

But also, “Thank you for when you’ve made mistakes, because you’re learning and getting better.”

And, “Thank you for when you’ve succeeded, because you’ve shown me what achievement can look like.”

And, “Thank you for when you’ve hurt me, because you’ve helped me to overcome adversity.”

And, “Thank you for your sacrifice, because the world needs more selflessness.”

And, “Thank you for your imperfections, because I’m imperfect too.”

Let our “thank you for everything” truly encompass everything.

One of the friendliest encounters I had last week occurred as I was driving and someone nearly collided with me.

The other driver cut a turn tightly, nearly clipping me as I approached a stop sign.

In that split second, with an apologetic grimace, she waved as though to say, “Woah. I’m really sorry. I didn’t intend to negotiate the turn so dangerously.”

And in that same split second, I smiled and returned the wave as though to say, “No harm done! Glad we’re both OK.”

A small offense followed by a small act of forgiveness … resulted in a lasting cheerfulness.

We can’t expect our days to go by without fault or offense. How we navigate those moments — on both sides — helps determine the tone of the accompanying soundtrack.

When challenges arise, one thought might be, “I don’t need this.”

However …

Does the clay say, “I don’t need this,” when being squeezed by the potter?

Does the wood say, “I don’t need this,” when being sanded by the carpenter?

Does the dough say, “I don’t need this,” when being punched by the baker?

At times, life gives us seemingly unbearable challenges. But those experiences may be seasons of refinement.

Beauty and strength may be on the other side of discomfort and tears.

How does a person change by having an encounter with us?

Are they inspired? Emboldened? Anxious? Diminished? Encouraged? More at ease? More joyful?

Perhaps they’re not changed at all (though that’s unlikely).

Either way, if we’re not conscious of what it’s like to encounter us, we should be.

You can compare yourself to your friend. Or your neighbor. Or someone you follow on social media. Or the rich and famous.

But those paths deal in the currency of status, ego, and envy. And with endless variables — visible and invisible — those comparisons are not fair, or sensible, or even useful.

A better comparison is to you … from yesterday.

Are you keeping up with yourself? Maybe doing fractionally better? Good for you. Keep your focus.

Don’t worry about besting others. Try to best yourself.

Convenient. Easy. Simple. Economical. Available. Popular.

We seek these things all the time.

But when are we strong enough to choose “right” over these things? Sometimes it’s one or the other. Right, but not convenient. Right, but not easy. Right, but not popular.

As consumers and citizens, we we often choose from a long list of options that are cheap, easy, and comfortable. But when those options conflict with what’s right, when do we choose right?

Can we be uncomfortable for the sake of good? Can we be so bold in service of what’s right?

Dream about the life you want to have. Envision it. See it. Imagine its beautiful details.

But don’t forget to shift into gear.

Our dreams don’t burst into reality on their own; they’re drawn forth — little by little — through our intentional acts.

* * *

And if you’re already living your dream, then you don’t need to call upon your imagination, and you don’t need to shift gears. You can just look around with a spirit of gratitude, and soak it all in.

Sometimes we voice the thought — specifically or generally, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

And that may be true. We might not know.

But where we lack certainty in outcomes, we can have confidence in our ability to try.

So we amend the initial thought: “I don’t know if I can do this … but I do know I can try, and I’ll give it my all.”

The narrator that foretells failure is fluent, detailed, and certain. It’s easy to get drawn into the story.

“If I screw up this meeting, I’ll lose my job, and … well … I might never find work again. That will cause my marriage to fall apart and then my friends will abandon me. I’ll never get back on my feet, and I’ll die alone and penniless.”

It puts a lot of pressure on that one meeting. But that’s the only hook the narrator needs to weave together a seamless story of disaster.

Life doesn’t really work like this. When we err, we don’t enter free-fall; it’s more like falling forward as we walk uphill. Maybe we slip. Maybe we look foolish. But we’re still on the hill, and we can still get up and get back to climbing.

So listen to the other narrator. The one that speaks of possibility and purpose. She can be quiet at times, and less likely to be certain of her predictions, but she’s more likely to be right … and she intimately knows our greatest potential.

If you’re backpacking, at some point, you stop to set up camp for the night.

To soldier on without rest — whether out of determination or out of joy for the journey — is not sustainable forever.

Without stopping to prepare for the evening, you’ll eventually find yourself exhausted and asleep on the trail.

Rest — and preparing for rest — is part of a natural, healthy cycle. Don’t fight it. Make it a welcome part of the journey. And just like everything else, try to do it well.

Often, learning the concept within a book is sufficient; getting the general idea is enough.

If you want to grow exponentially, don’t surrender to reading every word of every publication you set out to discover. There’s no prize for reading every word and every footnote.

Soak-in the ideas. Let them resonate. But move on when you need to.

However, for the best books … every word is worth it, no matter how often you revisit the text.

My five-year-old son’s school uniform includes a children’s “clip-on” tie that clasps around his neck.

As I was helping him with the clasp, he noticed that I was wearing a necktie, too. He asked, “How do you hook yours together?”

There are two things I like about this interaction.

One, my son assumes that I wear a clip-on tie.

Two, I’m reminded that honest curiosity — particularly related to other people — is wonderful. That we learn by asking questions and engaging with others.

Here’s to voicing our curiosity more often.

Learn the rules so you can break them. Find an edge and push on it. Plant something off the map; not so far off the map that no one knows where you are, but just outside the boundaries.

In a way, “the rules don’t apply” is a great approach to creativity.

However, “the rules don’t apply to me” is not the same. “The rules don’t apply to me” creates a hierarchy where we’re playing the same game, but I don’t have the same set of constraints as you. And it’s usually not fair.

The way we break rules shows whether we’re acting as artists or elitists.

“It doesn’t look like it, but a lot of work went into it.”

* * *

We see the surface. We see the final product. We see outcomes.

Which is to say that most of the time, there’s an extensive backstory hidden from our view.

Even if “what you see is what you get” … what you see rarely tells the full story of how it came to be.

Practice hardest where you’re worst.

It’s important to keep skills sharp — to stay practiced in the areas where you excel. So keep doing that.

But apply most of your grit to where you’re weakest. Note the places where you struggle and the areas where you typically falter … and apply your focus there.

Rehearsing the easy parts makes for a pretty show, but the hard parts are what need your attention.

You might not feel flexible … but you can bend over backwards to help someone.

You might not feel nimble … but you can get out of your own way.

And you might not feel balanced … but you can stand on the shoulders of giants.

Your best self is sad to see what’s gone unused and is now nearly forgotten.

Is it a book? Special tools? A musical instrument? Exercise equipment? Luggage? Something else?

It’s different for each of us, but some things are not meant to gather dust.

When we renovated our house, we had lots of decisions to make. Which rooms go untouched? Which need work? And how much?

We wanted to upgrade a bathroom, but amidst all the other work we were planning, we were unsure about taking the leap.

One afternoon, I took a sledgehammer to the bathroom wall.

A few moments later, the choice was clear: “Now we’ll have to renovate this room.”

* * *

We don’t always need a sledgehammer to make a choice. Most of the time, we just need to lean enough in the right direction so that we fall off of the fence upon which we’ve been sitting.

Here’s to leaning with firm intention. (Or to sledgehammering, if you prefer.)

When I was a kid, I used to go to the grocery store with my father.

I recall times when we’d encounter other shoppers absentmindedly meandering through the aisles or stopped in the middle, staring at shelves.

We’d politely excuse ourselves to get by or we’d find another way around.

My dad would later advise me, “Pay attention to the world around you.”

At the time, I didn’t realize the profound value of that advice.

It’s a lesson that stuck.

It’s easy to get caught up in our own world. But the real world — the physical one that we share with others — that world changes when we take the time to pay attention to it. And it’s important that we do.