“Can we please start over?”

When I think of this phrase, I think of a conversation that’s gone the wrong way. Or an audition that falls apart. Or a group rehearsal.

There are two parts that make a restart possible: vulnerability and generosity.

Vulnerability. Acknowledging error. Admitting a stumble. Wanting a second chance.

Generosity. Agreeing to begin again. Allowing the slate to be wiped clean. Enrolling in the path toward better.

We all can be vulnerable. We all can be generous. And at times, we all can benefit from starting over.

There are times when the kind thing to do is to listen.

Not to say, “I know that,” or “You told me that already,” but to simply listen.

Sometimes people need to tell a story. It’s not so much about relaying information. It’s about telling their story.

Hold that space for them.

Out of kindness, listen.

A win from the bench is not nearly as sweet as a win from the field.

What we seek — even more than winning — is contributing. Bringing our skills to bear on the situation at hand. Being part of the effort. Playing a consequential role.

Not as an onlooker, but as a participant.

A win feels good. Contributing to a win feels magical.

Stop thinking in terms of destinations and start thinking in terms of thresholds.

Every arrival is another place of departure.

Wherever we land becomes a passageway to something new.

Not destinations. Thresholds.

Fill a drawer with drawings.

Fill a notebook with short stories.

Fill an album with images.

Fill a hard drive with recordings.

Do the work daily and put it away.

Don’t look at it tomorrow. Don’t look at it for weeks or months.

And in the meantime, keep doing work.

Our view from the street is critical, but our view from the rooftops is kind. Wise, too.

Working in this way allows us to suspend judgement. It keeps self-criticism at bay. It allows us to trust our deeper creative wisdom.

Don’t worry about yesterday’s work. Put it in a drawer. Focus on what’s now and what’s next.

Delay in looking back and the distance traveled will make the view worthwhile.

The first few drops are not necessarily the beginning of a downpour.

How quickly you change course based on a few drops says a lot about your commitment to the task at hand.

(And whether downpours are helpful to you or not.)

Sometimes the scoreboard doesn’t show the right score. Or how much time is left. Or the right stats.

How we play and what actually happens — those things aren’t always accurately reflected on the board or even in the record books.

The scorekeepers don’t always get it right.

There are times to contest the scoreboard, but most of the time, we need to focus on playing the game.

This concept is just as useful in athletics as it is in life.

It’s a shame; he had so much promise. Could have made a real impact at the patent office. Had he stuck it out as assistant examiner, he might have even risen through the ranks.

But Albert Einstein had other plans. Different dreams. Another career track.

* * *

Don’t think that where you are now is necessarily where you’re meant to shine.

It could be.

But maybe not.

You might be at the patent office.

Not a million fans; but a few hundred.

Does your mind imagine an empty venue? A stadium barely filled? An amphitheater of mostly vacant seats?

Or do you see those same fans in a small venue, tightly packed? A club with standing room only and overflow onto the streets?

We serve whom we serve — whether by the dozens, the hundreds, the thousands or more.

How we think of that number is all a matter of context.

At the same time we seek independence, we also seek affiliation.

As we run from one thing, we run toward another.

In one place we fight and resist. In another, we agree and surrender.

Internally, externally — there is always this balance.

The most valuable work we do is not related to hours clocked. It’s not based on compliance, protocol, or how well we follow the rules.

Our most important contributions are where we use our judgement. Where the lines are fuzzy and the way forward is not clear. Where the next step is not in the playbook.

When we can be mapmakers in uncharted territory — this is where we shine. This is the work that matters.

No one is born best.

Even the greatest of all time — at one point — wasn’t good enough. Was below average. Was rejected. Was overlooked. Was cut. Was let go.

But that didn’t last forever.

They got better. And better. And better.

We can get better too. It might even be that our best moments are still ahead of us — arising in unlikely situations or surprising, new fields.

When we consider our hopes and dreams, it’s easy to begin thinking that once these things come to be, we’ll be happy. That we’ll feel satisfied. That these dreams-come-true will bring us lasting joy and peace.

But over time, we learn that the joy of major accomplishments is just as fleeting as any other joy.

If instead we focus on seeking joy in small things, we will find joy often.

I watched an hour-long sunrise a few weeks ago. As with every sunrise, it was beautiful.

Some of the things I observed that morning feel useful as metaphors.

Things get brighter fast enough to notice a change, but too slowly to grasp it all at once.

The tips of the mountains behind you will catch the sunlight before the sunlight catches you.

We often see ourselves in shadow while things around us are slowly illuminated.

The sun cresting the mountain above and the cars rushing by on the street below — what we observe is our choice.

If you haven’t already, memorize a poem.

Know it well. Love it. Be able to share it.

Why? Because our culture is better when we value the beauty of poetry enough to commit it to memory.

* * *

Actor John Lithgow can recite The Deacon’s Masterpiece, or The Wonderful One-hoss Shay, a colorful, riveting poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes. Lithgow was introduced to the piece by his grandmother, who could also tell it by heart.

Are there words that are dear to you? Enough to commit them to memory?

Once they’re with you, they’ll be with you forever.

Perhaps there are a few lines worthy of that effort.

In his book on leadership, Michael Lopp offers this great bit of wisdom:

“... the part of your brain that wants to scream is exceptional at demonstrating tremendously poor judgement.”

When your brain is yelling, it’s not listening, and it’s not rational.

Use caution when taking action on behalf of the part of your brain that yells.

By engaging your rational brain, the odds of a positive outcome are much better.

Whether it’s through journaling, advising, therapy, coaching, art-making, or some other means …

There’s much to be gained by taking what’s inside our head and pulling it out — so that we can see it, consider it, and learn from it.

As I approached an intersection, the car in front of me slowed and stopped.

The light was green.

The path was clear.

What was the problem?

I waited.

In a few moments, I saw a family emerge from the other side of the vehicle. They had been walking through the intersection, out of my line of sight.

We don’t always see the obstacles slowing someone else’s progress. We’re quick to see that they’re stalled, but sometimes too impatient to understand why.

There’s usually a good reason — even if we don't see it.

Airports can be chaotic.

But eventually, cabin doors close and planes depart.

During peak hours, airports are complicated and loud. There can be confusion, disorder, and unexpected change. One look at an overcrowded security checkpoint and one begins to think, “How will any of us ever depart on time?”

And yet — at some point, there is order. At some point, each hatch closes, each plane moves into position, and each plane takes off.

From chaos, order.

* * *

Life can feel a lot like a bustling airport.

But the bustle isn’t endless. At times, things do fall into place, and order is found … even if fleeting.

Don’t lose hope. Just like an airport, there will be seasons of chaos and seasons of calm.

We bought one of our sons a new bicycle. The person helping us explained, “If you have any issues or need any adjustments in the next 30 days, we’ll be happy to take care of it free of charge.”

He clarified: “That’s 30 riding days, not 30 calendar days.”

A great offer from an honest bike shop … and a good example of the spirit of a law rather than its letter.