On a crew team, the number four rower doesn’t turn to the number five and say, “I rowed really hard today,” expecting a pat on the back.

Everyone loves kudos. But, “I did my job!” isn’t praise-worthy. (We’re supposed to do our jobs.)

We can anticipate respect and camaraderie from the teammate working by our side, but we don’t get special acknowledgement for doing what we ought.

There is a flip side to this: it’s a great practice to catch other people doing good — and to somehow let them know.

Knowing what to do is only the first step.

What really matters is learning to take action based on what you’ve learned.

* * *

Or another way of thinking about it:

A cookbook doesn’t solve the problem of an empty stomach.

The big challenge is not necessarily in repeating. That is, do good work and then do it again.

The challenge is that the world is constantly changing. Situations change, supply chains change, relationships change, tastes change. People change.

The product that you built last year has components that are no longer available.

Your long-time cycling partner has new health issues.

The platform that carries your message is now defunct.

The joke you used to tell isn’t funny anymore.

We can’t just repeat as though nothing has changed. Things change. All the time.

But there are things that we can repeat. We might not be able to repeat our actions, but we can repeat our posture. We might not be able to follow the same map as before, but we can use the same compass.

While we can’t trust autopilot to guide us the whole way, we can trust our ability to show up with the same creativity, generosity, flexibility, and empathy that’s worked in the past.

Without doubt, that’s worth repeating.

“I will do everything within my power to …”

Stop right there. Unless you mean it. And if you do, then by all means (as you’ve suggested) do everything you can.

But be careful about making promises to “do everything in your power” unless you’re planning to do just that.

Because as we all know: in many ways you are extremely powerful (whether you like to admit it or not).

“Everything in your power” is a huge promise.

But of course, for some things, it’s a promise worth making.

“Call when you get there” used to be a standard part of travel. The quick phone call would let loved ones know you arrived safely.

These days, we don’t anticipate that call the same way. With technology, we can check-in at any time. A call or text. A flight-tracking app. Location services. It’s all at our fingertips. We don’t have to wait.

But let’s not confuse knowing someone’s GPS coordinates with knowing how they’re feeling. Or what they’re thinking. Or where they are on their journey.

Connected as we are through technology, we still have to do the work of staying connected as humans.

Don’t let it be a question of your capability; you’re capable of lots of things.

What do you do? What do you not do? What are the guardrails?

In business. In volunteering. In personal practices. In relationships.

Without guardrails, we’re seen through the lens of our capabilities. And what we’re capable of doing isn’t necessarily what we should be doing, or even what we want to be doing.

The principle is to find the overlay between our capabilities and the journey we intend to travel.

It’s a powerful shift to move from, “I could do all these different things,” to, “Among all the things I’m capable of doing, this is what I’m choosing to do.”

Go ahead. Get close. You’re giving rescue breaths. You need to be right there. It’s high-touch.

But acknowledge that breath needs movement.

For something to live, it needs space.

Know when to back away.

And to let it breathe on its own.

We know what sounds animals make. Ask around. Regionally, you’ll get similar answers.

Animals have made the same sounds long enough that we have them figured out. The stereotypes are formed.

But what about you? What sound have you been making so long that people know what to expect?

Is it the sound of complaint? Of dissent? Of sorrow? Of optimism? Of humor? Of possibility?

Of course we make all sorts of sounds.

But there’s one that’s likely to be heard more often than not.

Let’s make it a good one.

Sometimes we can’t articulate the words of our heart. We carry a feeling but we can’t express it.

Gratefully, we have art. We have song. We have poetry.

These forms can often release what’s locked inside of us.

If we find ourselves at a loss for words, it might be a sign that we need more art.

Or perhaps, as my friend Sue Heatherington says so beautifully, “... sometimes we simply have to sit with the enormity of what we are holding and let it take shape in us. / And wait for the language to catch up.”

Wonderful advice.

You can continue to chase the dangling carrot.

Or you can stop, form a plan, and figure out how to make a long pair of scissors that fit your rabbit paws.

When we’re working toward our goals, we have to be careful to know the difference between making progress, and just hopping around.

The best voice to find is your own.

You can mimic someone else’s voice. Emulate them. Work their style.

But you’ll forever need them as a model. You’ll look to them as a reference.

It’s hard to amplify that.

When you’ve instead discovered your own voice, you can lean into it as hard as you want. You can become more “you” without concern for whether you’re doing it right, or how you’re measuring against the standard.

When it comes to your own voice, you are the standard.

Find your voice. Coax it. Tend to it. Let the world hear it.

Let change happen because of it.

Judge the professional. They’ve signed up for it. It comes with the territory.

But not the amateur.

Love the humble amateur. The enthusiastic hobbyist. The one who dabbles without pretense.

The world is big enough for eager amateurs who are merely enjoying the craft. They’re not professionals and they don’t pretend to be. While they might touch upon professional quality from time to time, there’s no need to hold them to professional standards.

Just appreciate that they have interest.

Professionals, amateurs, hobbyists, and hacks … they each have their own intentions, and it’s okay to let everyone play whichever game they’re playing.

Once you’re inside, don’t forget to look out the window. Or even better, to look back at the doorway.

Who’s still trying to cross the threshold?

Who’s left in the cold? Who still hungers? Who still thirsts?

How can you help?

Whether it’s these actual physical needs, or it’s knowledge, creativity, community, or something else — once we find ourselves on the inside, let’s not forget that there’s enough to serve those who are still on the outside.

In a similar way, before we build structures to hold our surpluses, our job (as good humans) is to help those with empty hands.

This works as a metaphor, but it’s literal too.

Without exception, when I’ve told myself that I cannot do another pushup or pullup within a set, I am right.

“I can do one more,” is never a guarantee but, “I cannot do another,” has the immediate effect of making itself true.

Given this, then speaking possibility, confidence, and faith into ourselves is the only logical thing to do.

Is there daylight between what you believe about yourself and what you know about yourself?

What does it look like when that gap is closed?

Hundreds of dollars’ worth of toys and electronics at the ready. And what brought us together? What sparked laughter? What prompted movement, participation, surprise, and fun?

Keeping the balloon from touching the ground.

Sometimes deep satisfaction is found in simple activities where everyone is involved, there aren’t many rules, and no one keeps score.

When you have knowledge, how do you share it?

Do you drop it upon someone, such that they feel its enormity?

Do you hand it to them so that they must carry it?

Or do you lay it at their feet, that they might explore it, learn from it … and perhaps stand upon it to climb higher?

“God is in the details.”

“The devil is in the details.”

“The truth is in the details.”

“Success is in the details.”

Whatever you see as being in the details, it’s important to know which details matter.

The details upon which we fixate — how we judge them and the story we then tell — help create the foundation of who we are in this world.

Some saw an imperfect slab. A giant, but average-quality block of marble. A project that had been abandoned for a quarter century.

Michelangelo didn’t see it that way. In 1501, the 26-year-old sculptor saw what could be.

* * *

With which people do you choose to spend your time?

The kind who see a block of marble?

Or those who see David?

In many conference calls, I’ve heard a speaker stop to apologize, “Sorry for the background noise.” They usually mention something like children playing, dogs barking, or nearby construction.

In nearly every case, the speaker is the only one aware of the sound; none of it transmits over the call.

Two points here.

One, unless someone says, “We can’t hear you over the racket,” apologizing for noise isn’t necessary. Most of the time, background commotion is out of our control once the call begins.

Two, what we hear in our own environment is often louder than what others hear. Said another way — and more broadly — the noise that fills your head might be loud, but it’s not the same for others. Others have their own ears, their own heads, and their own noise.