Yes, the artist notices things. She’s always looking, listening, observing. Ruminating.
But then she acts. She engages. She creates.
It’s beyond thinking — it’s doing.
And then (most importantly) it’s showing, sharing, and shipping.
Art is not made for the studio; it’s made to go out into the world.
It’s not just what we put in the ballot box. It’s how we spend our time. How we spend our money. Where we put our effort. Who gets our attention.
We are always voting. Always choosing. Always saying yes to one thing and no to another.
Yard sign or nay, it’s worth considering all the things in life that get our vote.
If you let it out — if you let it come into the world — then you can assess its worth. Then you can decide if the idea first-entered in the form it wants to be.
Let the poem come. Let the photograph be made. Let the drawing take form. Let the words be spoken. Let the melody be heard.
What can happen, though, is that we scrub the idea before it has a chance to live. We prejudge the work as being wanting, and we keep ourselves from even starting.
Thing is, a beautiful screenplay may begin as a clumsy poem. A transformative sculpture might have its start as a hasty watercolor. A new creative endeavor may be born of a simple blog post.
When we allow the ideas to come forth, we have the opportunity to say, “Yes, this is just right,” or “No, this needs to take another form.”
But when we discount ideas before they can breathe — or worse yet, convince ourselves that we are void of good ideas — we forget that creativity is not a product. Creativity is a process. It’s a practice. It’s a way of dancing with possibility. And its first step into the world is never like its last.
We’re always ambassadors.
We’re representing our family. Our group or our tribe. Our school, or people who do what we do, or people who look like us.
Right or wrong, people judge “people like us” based on what they see and what they think.
And while we don’t have control over what people think of us, we do have control of ourselves — how we act and how we treat others.
Recognize it as both a responsibility and a gift.
There was a grammatical error in yesterday’s blog. “There, they’re, their,” you say, “It will all be OK.”
Thank you. I know.
But when these things happen, inevitably, my initial thought is, “OH NO!” And underneath that reaction is the irrational fear, “Everyone has seen this error and they will all think I’m an idiot!”
I share this because it’s easy to fall into this trap — to mentally magnify the consequences of our smallest errors and missteps. It can happen in the work we do, in the things we say, in our daily interactions with others … any number of places. And we’re left with a feeling that we need to apologize to the world.
In these cases, a little self-compassion goes a long way. Laugh. Apologize if needed. Move on. Do better next time.
Reasonable depends on the circumstances.
Is it reasonable to spend $1,000 to ship a 50-cent bolt? If that bolt is the one thing delaying the launch of a rocket where millions of dollars are at risk, then maybe the answer is yes.
We can’t assess what’s reasonable without having perspective.
It also depends on who’s doing the reasoning.
Empathy helps us to recognize that no one wakes up and says, “I’m going to be irrational and unreasonable today.” People tend to think their actions are well-reasoned.
Whatever others do, they have their reasons. But … they might not think what we think, believe what we believe, or want what we want. What’s reasonable to them might not be at all reasonable to us.
We make promises all the time. And we deliver on promises all the time, too.
But we also make second promises: the promise that we will do what we said we’d do … soon.
I was about to send an email about one of these second promises. Basically, “Here’s this, and I’ll send you the other stuff soon.”
I stopped.
Instead of sending that email, I did what was necessary to finish the project. My new email said, “Here’s everything I promised.”
Delivering on a promise feels a lot better than delivering another promise.
I was surprised by the effect, but a fresh coat of paint in the stairwell of my office building made a big difference.
That brief preface to my entry into the workplace — as I approach the threshold — it matters.
I always do a little mental prep before arriving to work. I hadn’t anticipated how a simple improvement in the last stretch of my commute could help me set my intentions for the day.
How can we tend to those last few yards (both physically and mentally) before we enter into our work … to set the stage for positive productivity?
We are simultaneously pilot and passenger.
We navigate, but we do so within the context of larger world where we have less control. Locally, we are pilot. Globally, we are passenger.
In both situations, it’s easy to forget the balance of our responsibilities and limitations.
Try as we might, we can’t pilot a sphere in which we’re a passenger. Influence it? Yes. Control it? No.
And on the other side, if we play a passive role in the parts of our lives where we’re the captain, we’re effectively sleeping at the wheel.
Pilot and passenger. We’re wonderfully both at the same time.
When we are about to take action, and we say, “This might not work,” — literally speaking the phrase — we do a few things.
One, we relieve tension. We accept that there’s some level of risk in what we’re about to try, and that there are no guarantees.
Two, we embrace some level of experimentation. A curious mindset. A posture of, “let’s see what happens.”
Saying, “This might not work,” is a powerful tool, whether said to ourselves or aloud to a group.
But what happens when we think these words? How does it affect our ability to act?
How long can we hold the tension of, “this might not work,” before running back to safety? Are we able to face uncertainty, or do we avoid risk at all costs?
Because what it might cost is something new and remarkable.
Discovery lies on the other side of what might not work. Dare to risk it.
I try not to repeat myself in what I post to this blog.
But in thinking about this today, I also recognize that some things are worth saying more than once.
From your particular vantage point — what you see, what you experience, and what you believe — what’s worthy of repeating?
What must we say again and again … as many times as it takes to know it by heart?
It’s easy to critique. Easy to say, “You’re wrong.”
It’s much harder to be enrolled in finding solutions.
* * *
We don’t need more fault-finders. We need more problem-solvers who are willing to contribute.
There is no path to greatness that is without some portion of failure.
The question is not about how we can avoid failing.
The question is about how we can fail better.
It’s not that we try to fail. We certainly don’t aim for it. But we can think of it more as unpleasant medicine rather than a terminal condition.
Through failure we learn. Without risking it, we haven’t yet come alive.
During a luncheon, a priest once told me he had said a prayer — years earlier — to bless all his future meals so he wouldn’t need to say grace anymore. (He was joking.)
* * *
At times, we take action in a definitive way. We take care of things “once and for all” with lasting effect.
Gratitude doesn’t work this way. Gratitude is ongoing.
It’s not to be “taken care of” like an item on a to-do list. It’s a practice that enriches us the more we embrace it.
The hardest thing I did yesterday was a twenty-minute drawing.
Every mark on the page hurt. I felt like crying. Literally.
But I kept with it. I had committed to twenty minutes of drawing, and I was going to do it.
It was not joy. It was not leisure. It was not the beauty of creativity flowing through me — or at least it didn’t feel that way.
It was struggle. It was resistance. It was the frustration of, “This is not working the way I want it to.” It was self-doubt and self-loathing.
But I continued.
And I made something.
And I’m better for it.
And the part about me being better has very little to do with how the drawing looks.
* * *
The creative thing you resist with such fortitude can be a rewarding struggle for you, too … but you cannot turn away when the going gets tough. You must bear it and see it through.
A grinding, clanging sound let me know it was time to take my pressure washer to a repair shop.
I remarked, “I’m surprised it broke. I only use it for a few hours, two or three times a year.”
The technician replied, “Well, that might be part of the problem.”
While some equipment degrades after each use, other tools work better when they’re put to work regularly. Let them sit idle, and instead of preserving them, they fall into disrepair.
Is this a lesson that relates to body, mind, soul, spirit, and creativity? You bet it is.
Let’s not let ourselves fall into disrepair.
Imagine a therapist who knows you only by what you’ve googled.
All she has is a list of what you’ve entered into the search box. Every search … for the past five or ten years.
What would she learn about you?
How might she advise you?
Write the story you want to read.
Paint the painting you want to see.
Invent the sandwich you’d most like to eat.
Open a business where you’d love to be a customer.
Little by little, build the world you want to inhabit.
If I close my eyes, I can recall flavors from a meal I had nearly twenty years ago.
In the work we do, what flavors and experiences can we create … that will be remembered years from now?
What can we bring to the world — no matter how small — that’s simply too good to be forgotten?
There are lots of reasons to delay making a decision. Maybe we don’t have all the information. Maybe the conditions are fluid. Maybe we don’t feel ready to commit.
But many times, we delay because we’re afraid. We’re worried about a bad outcome. We’re worried that we’ll look stupid. We’re worried that we’ll have regrets.
A better plan is to decide to decide. To not worry about making a smart decision, but to be smart about how we’re making the decision. To be smart about our process, knowing that we can’t fully control outcomes.
If you have all the data* — and the clock is the only thing that will change between now and the moment you make a decision — it’s time to decide.
While you’re at it, trust yourself. Trust your ability to think through things, and your ability to handle whatever happens, good or bad.
*Note: Gathering “all the data” might not even be possible. Almost always, we’re called to make decisions based on incomplete data. And even so, sometimes more information is not helpful.
