Wednesday, there were two groups of people at the office. One group wore boots. The other group did not.

At eleven o’clock, the first few flakes began to fall. By mid-afternoon, a blanket of snow was six inches deep and growing.

What does footwear tell us about our colleagues?

Not a whole lot, actually. At the end of the day, some people went home with cold, wet feet. Others did not.

It’s tempting to draw a circle around that detail and to make assumptions about who prepares, who’s responsible, and who generally knows what’s going on (and the converse).

But really, it only points to that moment, that day, in that situation.

Sometimes we want to tell a full story based on one, small observation.

Good to remind ourselves that in a different moment on a different day … we’d be telling ourselves a different story.

Solos are different than duets.

Solos can take a left turn without warning. Solos can change without notice. Solos don’t need permission or enrollment.

Duets are different. They require a level of cooperation. It doesn’t matter so much who’s right and who’s wrong. What matters in a duet is togetherness. The quality of performance depends largely on the players’ cohesion and their ability to work as a group.

In life, most of what we do is not solo. Most of what we do has some level of duet.

That should tell us how important it is that we learn to play together.

Consider the networks and communities you treasure. It’s tempting to think that these groups breathe a rare air. That it’s the stuff of providence, magic, and alchemy.

But what if that’s not quite true? What if beautiful connections are more common than we think? Or rather, more available?

What if meaningful connection is not far away, but only on the other side of a shared, intentional posture? That the magic is in choosing to be generous, empathetic and yes, vulnerable?

Perhaps community is only as rare as people’s willingness to enter into it.

“Three easy steps to changing your life for the better.”

That sounds like a pretty good deal. But it’s also unreasonable.

The problem is, there aren’t many publications that paint a realistic picture. Like: three oversimplified concepts that will change your life for the better, but they’ll also take a lifetime to learn.

Or: one thousand worthwhile steps to take — some easy, some challenging, some redundant — whose results will vary by user.

Finding a handful of “easy steps” is a delusion. We have to stop seeking overnight hacks to a better life.

The path toward better is a process. It’s a practice. It’s an ongoing experiment best conducted with small, intentional, repeatable actions … done patiently, without expecting immediate results.

“Gravitating to the edge” is something we often hear, but it’s also rather curious. Gravity pulls toward an object’s center — not toward an edge.

When we say that we’re gravitating to an edge, what we really mean is that we’re pulled away from one center and toward another.

While it’s useful to know that we’re on the edges of one thing, it’s even more useful to identify the other center that draws us.

We often begin by learning how. How to speak, how to write, how to play.

These are skills that can be developed.

At some point — maybe sooner, maybe later — we shift our focus away from how and toward what.

Now that we know how to speak, what will we say?

Now that we know how to write, what will we compose?

Now that we know how to play, what songs does the world need to hear?

If we don’t move beyond “how” then we remain as pupils.

And while we’re lifelong learners, the goal is not to merely collect skills. The goal is to use those skills to do meaningful work.

During a moment when I feared that I had made a mistake — one that would have unintentionally slighted a hero of mine — a friend offered me kind, timely advice.

“Breathe. It’s probably much worse in your imagination. Go easy on yourself.”

And importantly: “Give yourself grace.”

I typed that last part into my personal notes. But my fingers duped me, typing “grade” instead of grace.

It prompted me to think of how often we judge ourselves — and harshly too — giving ourselves average or failing grades rather than viewing ourselves with love and self-compassion.

Don’t begin with grades.

Begin with grace.

Present-day Lascaux, France. Some 19,000 years ago, maybe longer — What must it have felt like to make marks on the cave walls for the first time?

Had anyone done this before? What was it for? Who was it for? Would it even work?

Given millennia of perspective, can we be so bold? Are we willing to chart new paths? To try new things? To make our own marks?

We have countless opportunities to create beauty and connection in the work we do.

The walls of our own caves await.

When we make mistakes, most of the time it’s not because we’re operating blindly.

I rarely make mistakes when I’m sleeping (save for the time I dozed off on the subway and woke up at Coney Island).

No, it’s not because our eyes are closed.

Rather, our eyes are open but focused elsewhere. We’re watching what’s in front of us but we should be paying attention to what’s beside us. Or the other way around. Or our head is down in the details when it should be looking at the big picture. Or the other way around.

The problem isn’t that we’re people who don’t pay attention. The problem is that at times, we’re just paying attention to the wrong things.

I drive a two-mile circuit to get my children to their respective schools. On a typical morning, I’ll exchange smiles and waves with about eight people — a mix of other parents driving cars, school employees, and pedestrians.

Most of these people I know by name — and they know me — but some I only know because we regularly wave in passing.

I’m grateful for these small, friendly interactions. They cost nothing and require minimal effort — yet I’m convinced they have a positive impact … even if just for a short while.

But secretly, I think they have a greater, lasting effect.

We create the culture, little by little, by what we do each day.

“Technically, we treated you fairly.”

It’s no wonder this phrase doesn’t feel very good.

If you’re going to treat someone fairly, it’s best to do it from the start — woven together with solid communication and aligned expectations.

We can quantify fairness in numbers, but a big part of it has to do with perception. It’s a feeling. It’s a story people tell themselves.

If you have to show someone the data to convince them they’ve been treated fairly, you’re already behind the ball.

If you’ve prepared the land and planted a young orchard, what’s its value?

You have a plan. You have a vision for growth. A dream in the making.

But the world will often judge you only by the fruit it sees.

Those seeking short-term gains and immediate results will have little patience for your field whose first harvest is years away.

Don’t be deterred. The world sees today. You see tomorrow.

Time is always the same. Never faster. Never slower.

We know this, and yet … we still attempt to manage it.

Sooner or later we learn that we cannot manage time. We can only manage ourselves.

The squeaky wheel gets the grease. But some of our wheels don’t squeak, regardless of what they need.

Some areas in our life are silently desperate for attention. No squeak to give, yet still in need.

Whether it’s physical, financial, mental, relational, vocational, spiritual … we’re better when we attend to those areas before they sound the alarm. In many cases, their subtle signals for help are lost in the everyday noise.

It’s up to us to listen better.

Don’t believe everything you think.

Our minds are loosely controlled message boards. Thoughts are entering and leaving all the time.

Just because a thought is there doesn’t mean it’s necessarily useful, healthy, or even true.

These are tough times. But the world has never been free of tough times.

New challenges for us, perhaps, but just another blink of the world’s eye.

* * *

History tells grim tales which begin, “We have resorted to …”

If we ourselves are “resorting”, it may be time for us to begin re-framing.

When we resort, we fall back on well-known, undesirable measures.

When we re-frame, we expand the map. We draw new boundaries. We play a new game. We embrace possibility. We discover better ways.

“You can’t just let nature run wild.” — Former Alaska Governor Walter J. Hickel

* * *

What does it mean for you to run wild? Not to be reckless and out of control. Rather, what does it mean for you to be free? Unconstrained?

We can give that gift to ourselves. In our daily practices. In the work we do. In moments we create.

Nature wants to run wild, and for nature, it’s what’s best.

At times, and in certain ways, it can be good for us too.

If you say, “I’m not creative,” it’s time to stop.

“I’m not creative” is something someone taught you to say.

They were wrong.

If you have ideas, you’re creative. (You do have ideas.)

Creativity doesn’t have to do with your ability to draw, compose music, design logos, or make the furniture look nice. Those are all skills and they can be learned. Yes, there are some people who seem to have creative intuition, but most of us have been taught along the way.

Your creative tools might not be paint or clay. They might be data. They might be spreadsheets. They might be ideas. They might be questions.

All this is to say: you are creative. Invite that knowledge into your heart as the truth that it is.

You. Are. Creative.

We don’t get a second draft.

We can’t go back and edit.

Moment to moment, life is happening now.

This isn’t the practice run. This is it. The real deal.

Stop clearing your throat. Stop stalling. We need you to make your mark now, and you’re the only one who can make it.

Leftovers eventually spoil. At that point, they can only be discarded.

But at the start — when the leftovers go into the refrigerator — they have a lot of promise. A delicious dish is somewhere in the future.

Sometimes that comes to pass. And sometimes we forget about the stored food, missing our window of opportunity.

In life, we have leftovers, too. Abandoned projects. Shelved endeavors. Hobbies that — if we’re honest with ourselves — we will never revisit.

Some of those things have a beautifully long shelf life. But others … they’re just taking up space. Physical space. Mental space. Emotional space.

It’s OK to move on. They’re not failures. They’re not things to regret. They’re just leftovers that we never got back to eating.

When it makes sense, give yourself a little grace and let go of what needs to be let go.