The spirit that opens the door is not always the same spirit that carries us across the threshold.

The spirit that sees opportunity is not always the same spirit that takes action.

The spirit that listens is not always the same spirit that hears.

The spirit that begins is not always the same spirit that continues, and not always the same spirit that finishes.

Overheard recently: “How long is the CPR class? Ugh. I hope it’s short.”

* * *

Should one of us ever need CPR, I hope we’re helped by someone who didn’t mind taking the full, in-depth course.

Sometimes, knowing the material matters a lot more than having the certificate.

As an artist, there can be tension between my love of creativity, and my desire to keep a tidy house — along with raising uninjured, generally non-chaotic kids.

These words are gentle reminders to myself.

From Lady Allen of Hurtwood — advocate of adventure playgrounds for children:

“Better a broken bone than a broken spirit.”

And from astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson, who implores us to embrace children’s curiosity. That their curiosity (provided it does not kill them) is worth the extra work, cleanup, and mending.

“Kids are sources of chaos and disorder. … They are experimenting with their environment. Everything is new to them.”

“You don’t have kids with the intent of retaining a clean house.”

I’m still learning to embrace the disorder.

That mud puddle? [cringe]

Go. Go jump in it.

How often do we pause to consider whether “something is there” that merits deeper reflection or investigation?

Why do I act this way?

Why does this certain thing annoy me so much?

Why do I keep coming back to this particular thought?

Why am I putting off doing that thing?

Is there something there? Is something under the surface that needs some attention, some understanding, some healing, or some closer looking?

Step one is to notice.

Step two is to look closer to see if there’s something there.

A friend of mine asks the question: “Is it in the circle?”

What she means by this is, “What’s non-negotiable?” Which tasks, habits, and responsibilities are you going to prioritize, no matter what?

For instance: even on a rainy day, when the schedule has gone pear-shaped and you’re in a bad mood — if you have a child waiting to be picked up after school … you collect the child. It’s non-negotiable. It’s within the circle.

• Tending to animals

• Exercise

• Hygiene

• Meditation

• Prayer

• Creative practices

• Homework

• …

Maybe in the circle, maybe not. What’s non-negotiable in your life? What will you do, even when you’re sick, or tired, or you just don’t feel like it?

Knowing what’s in the circle (and what’s not) helps clarify what’s important to us. And it helps us to be easy on ourselves, too. It didn’t get done? Understandable: it’s not in the circle.

However, if there are things we truly want to be doing — that we aren’t actually doing — we’d be wise to place them in the non-negotiable category.

If it matters, make it matter. Bring it into the circle.

H/T: Allegra

You’re flying the plane and each of your commitments gets a seat.

When you’re oversold (you’ve said “yes” to too many things) it’s not likely that your extra passengers will be standing in the aisles.

It’s more likely that they’ll be vying for seats that are already occupied.

Meaning: everyone on board will suffer.

There are many worthy causes, but the plane you’re flying has a limited number of seats. When you’re booked solid, saying “no” to new requests is out of respect for the ticketed passengers.

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.