It sounds so horrible, doesn’t it? To strike out?

What a sinking feeling. What a gut punch. As if there will never again be joy in Mudville.

But there are always more at-bats.

And if not, then there are more games.

And if not, then there are more seasons.

And if not, then there are new chapters, new adventures, new interests, and new endeavors.

Striking out is an event, not a permanent condition.

It’s much easier to say, “I don’t have what I need to do what I need to do,” than it is to say, “This is what I need so that I can get to work.”

When we say, “I’m lacking resources,” or “I’m lacking information,” then it’s not our fault. We’re at the mercy of a broken system, or of someone’s indecision, or of bad luck.

But when we specify what we need — and voice it aloud — we risk actually getting those things. And then we’re on the hook. And that can be scary … because then it’s all on us.

So often, we want others to learn their lesson. To face consequences for their actions. To get their comeuppance. Serves them right.

But for ourselves, we want grace, understanding, empathy, compassion, and forgiveness.

What happens when we flip that around? When we seek to learn from our own missteps — even if the lessons are difficult and humbling — and when we are kind to others in their mistakes?

I was working through a complex problem with a colleague.

After two days of planning, we came to a realization: we were overthinking things.

We paused to ask ourselves, “What’s the problem we’re trying to solve? No. What’s really the problem we’re trying to solve?”

Once we took a step back, we found clarity, and the best path forward was apparent.

The funny thing is, we couldn’t have started at the point where things were clear. We had to work our way through the muddy waters until the silt settled.

It used to be, when I heard someone sneeze, I’d say, “God bless you.”

These days, when I hear someone sneeze, I think, “God bless me.”

But what I really mean is, “God bless all of us.”

The path forward is in thinking less about “me” and more about “us”.

Here’s to better times, when we can once again welcome physical connection and shared air.

I was listening to a skilled speaker who, toward the end of his remarks, thanked the audience for their patience: “You’re going, ‘Is he stopping?’ Yes. I’m done. I was done about five minutes ago … but now I’m stopping.”

A clever apology. It was cute.

For the most part, though — unless the speaker is particularly engaging or entertaining — we don’t appreciate the extra five minutes.

It takes a bit of courage to stop when we’re done. To stop when we’ve said enough. To not fear a tidy end to our remarks.

Not, “usually.” Not, “typically.”

You’re always … what?

What are the attributes you’re cultivating — little by little — through a lifetime of interaction with the world?

What’s the reputation you’ve been building?

When people think of you, their minds might say you’re always …

… always what?

In HTML programming, the “closing tag” marks the end of an element.

For instance, a paragraph begins with <p> and ends with </p>.

So </p> means, “end paragraph.”

I like the closing tag as a metaphor. I wonder how many tags we have open, which merit closing.

</overeating>
</indifference>
</racism>
</favoritism>
</complaining>
</anger>
</excuses>
</judging>
</regret>

What’s an element holding you back? Does it need its own closing tag?

A couple times a week, a man — probably in his seventies — stops his car near our house. He pulls over and waits. After a few minutes, he drives off.

The first time I saw this, I thought the driver was lost. The next time, I assumed he was reading something.

But I discovered a pattern: the only time he stops is if it’s before 7:00 AM. Right before the top of the hour, he’s back on the road.

So what’s going on?

He’s being patient.

On these days, the driver is picking up a friend at 7:00 AM. If he gets into town early, he waits.

But he doesn’t wait in the driveway. He doesn’t pull up and sound the horn.

Instead, he waits at a distance — so as not to rush his friend — and he arrives right on time.

Waiting down the street is a little odd, but it’s done out of generosity. It’s not just saying, “no rush.” It’s creating the condition where that tension is absent.

* * *

Where do you wait? Patiently out of site? Or at the door, tapping your foot, looking at the clock?

Next time I’m about to arrive early, I’ll think of the carpool driver, and I’ll practice generous patience.

Copying what others have on the outside — mirroring their possessions and appearances — is a terrible strategy for trying to copy what others have on the inside.

And besides, what we think others have on the inside is likely a story that we’ve invented, and it’s almost certainly inaccurate.

If we want to copy, let’s call to mind our heroes … and copy their habits, their attitudes, their posture, and their way of navigating adversity.

Stop. Reread.

Is it clear?

Can you say it better?

Does every word count?

Find the extra and remove it.

We don’t need more words; we need more clarity.

I have corresponded with amazing humans.

Beautiful, generous people have called me friend.

Accomplished, courageous, well-loved people have genuinely said, “thank you,” in response to something I’ve done.

There are times that I’ve made a valuable contribution.

* * *

We can all say these things. Can we not?

And isn’t that enough? Aren’t these things — to love and to be loved in these simple ways — aren’t they enough to feed a lifetime of gratitude?

Surely, if we call these things to mind often, they are.

Ten campfires. Same location, same people.

None of them will be the same.

The wood will burn differently.

The conversation will vary.

The feeling in the air will change.

It will be familiar, but new.

The point is not to repeat experiences.

The point is to keep creating opportunities for the magic to happen.

What campfires are you cultivating?

Yesterday, an observant neighbor might have noticed a difference in our sidewalk.

The normally crisp edge of snow between the yard and the cleared concrete was replaced by a more impressionistic approach. Rhythmic, systemic tool marks were not to be seen. Instead, there was a mix of boot markings and a confused pattern of snowy remnants.

A small bit of cleanup was necessary, but our children had done a fine job of shoveling the sidewalks.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter that they needed some help in the end. What mattered was that we let them try. They did a fine job, and they learned a bit too.

* * *

Of course we can do things better and of course we have more experience … but when do we do the hand-off? When do we let the junior manager tackle the big project? When do we let the new hire take on more responsibility? When do we let the kids give it a shot?

When we step aside and allow others to take the lead, we help them to grow.

Sometimes, that means watching a messy first attempt.

But it also might mean sipping coffee instead of putting on snow boots.

I recall a story my friend Pat tells, about when his son was very young.

As Pat struggled to adjust an infant car seat in a sub-compact car, his son said, “moon.”

Things didn’t fit just right, and it was a challenge to crane over the seat to latch everything just so.

Again, “moon.”

The parts weren’t clipping together properly. Was the seatbelt twisted or something?

“Moon!”

Pat paused and looked at the night sky. Then at his son, who was pointing upward.

In the busyness of it all, Pat had almost missed this moment of wonder and awe — his son witnessing nature and calling it by name for the first time.

A moment nearly missed.

Do we find ourselves too busy? Do we find ourselves caught in the scramble of the day’s chores?

There are moments of beauty and discovery that we may be missing.

The gift is that they happen all the time, if we open our eyes to see them.

You don’t need to binge before you fast.

You don’t need to get high before checking into rehab.

You don’t need to indulge in behaviors before you change them.

You don’t need to go all-out before you take steps to get out.

Sometimes, you just need to make the quiet, intentional choice to change.

Mindful over monumental.

Thoughtful over theatrical.

Quiet, resolute steps in the new direction you’ve chosen.

We are movers. Shakers. People who make a difference.

So it’s natural that we want to see the change we create.

We see the landscape, we effect change, and we want to witness the result.

But often, what we see is impermanent. Fleeting. Almost as though we weren’t there at all.

Let’s pause to recognize that sometimes we don’t see the extent of our influence. That we’re often the butterfly flapping its wings … with no awareness that we’ve changed the weather patterns.

Or in another way, we’re creating ripples. And when we create ripples, the water doesn’t hold its shape. That’s not the point.

The ripples we create have a beauty, meaning, and story of their own.

When you’re checking email, news feeds, and social media …

(Not the first time, but the second time. Or the third.)

In those moments, what are you looking for?

And what happens when you find it?

And is it worth the extra time spent searching?

It’s hard to explain this to a child, but it’s worth trying.

“Just because a dozen kids your age don’t appreciate your gift doesn’t mean that your gift isn’t valuable.”

It’s tragic to think how many young dreamers and creative spirits are stifled — all because a cohort of adolescents chose judgement over curiosity, teasing over encouragement.

It’s baked into so many parts of our culture: compliance is ideal, fitting in is a priority, popular is valuable, different is weird.

That one person’s genius — which could perhaps serve the world greatly — might be silenced because of the random sample-set of same-age critics that happen to live in the neighborhood or sit in nearby classroom desks?

I shudder to think that some of the the great change-makers of our future might be questioning their own worth — at this very moment — all because of the critical voices of juvenile gatekeepers.

We must work to fix this.

Knowing what to remember helps to propel us forward.

But knowing what to forget keeps us from getting stuck in the first place.