Every so often, I’ll get an email from LinkedIn that says something like this:

“Stephen, you’re getting noticed. Your profile is looking great! Your work and accomplishments are being recognized. [Click here to] see who’s looking.”

Garbage.

Malarkey.

Hooey.

I’m not knocking LinkedIn as a professional networking tool. But messages like this are no better than click-bait.

And automated flattery is as gross as it is disingenuous.

There’s power in placebo … and in the kind of praise that puts us in the mindset to be our best.

But this is not that.

Keep a watchful eye for false positives. Someone snooping a social platform is not the same as being recognized for your good work, and “views” and “likes” — for better or worse — do not necessarily show the reach of your impact.

If you don’t know what brings you joy, satisfaction, and fulfilment … you’ll end up chasing what other people are chasing.

If you fail at this endeavor, you’ll be in the company of others who have failed — sharing in their disappointment.

But if you succeed like others, there’s no guarantee you’ll share in their happiness — after all, it was someone else’s dream you were chasing.

* * *

The most worthy race to run is your own.

When you’re facing a risk/reward situation, you have to know your miss.

That is, if things go awry, how bad might it be?

Knowing your miss helps you to judge whether the risk is worthwhile. When we take a step back, we may find that we’re too worried — that we should just go for it. Other times, we may discover that we’re being reckless in what we’re planning to do.

But knowing our miss — our tendencies and our typical errors — helps in the calculation.

* * *

If you’re like me, and you’ve recently tried to impress your kindergartener by kicking a soccer ball over a barn (and you didn’t consider that an errant kick would go thorough a split-rail fence, down a steep, snow-covered field, over a drop off, and toward a stream) then you’ve had twenty minutes of snow-trudging to consider risk/reward, and how one might learn from such experiences.

In the fire you’re fighting, do you need more water, or do you need more firefighters?

And are you sure you’re dealing with a wildfire … not a controlled burn?

(Not every fire needs fighting.)

The critics are out there, ready to rain on your parade.

You can spend a lot of time inside, hiding from the rain, ensuring that you stay dry.

Or you can layer up so that you’re waterproof.

But the more useful thing to do is to get comfortable with being wet. Then, you always get to play … rain or shine.

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.