We tend to remember our own mistakes long after others have forgotten them.

And the light we shine on those errors tends to be brighter than the light shined by others.

It’s the shadow-side of our desire to do good. Our heartfelt focus on “right” makes every wrong sting.

But if we remember our mistakes, then we ought to remember not just that we made them, but what we learned, how we grew, and what we now do differently.

If a past mistake comes to mind, then consider it within the long arc of becoming a better human.

We have the Pale Blue Dot photograph thanks to Carl Sagan. That image, and Sagan’s words, remind us to cherish our tiny planet — the dot “on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”

A shift in perspective is a powerful thing.

* * *

Two works you should know, also related to perspective:

Powers of Ten. In 1968, Charles and Ray Eames created this compelling 9-minute short that explores size, scale, and perspective. If you’ve never seen it, it’s worth the time. You can watch it on YouTube.

Also, Zoom. This illustrated book by Istvan Banyai steps the viewer through layers of scale and perspective. Some video versions exist, but it’s best in printed form. Borrow it from your library sometime. It’s wonderful.

The Pale Blue Dot photo. “That’s here. That’s home. That’s us.” Image: NASA / JPL

At our local little league fields, there are press boxes with a public address system and a score board. Parent volunteers handle the announcing and operating the equipment.

Last night, the job was mine. I learned a few things worth sharing.

One: if you’re going to be the announcer, you might as well use your best announcer voice and sound like a professional. (Yes, it was kind of fun.)

Two: you have to pay close attention.

While I usually enjoy baseball as a spectator, last night, I had a job. Two jobs, actually. And I had to keep reminding myself of this. “You’re the announcer. You’re the scorekeeper.”

I said this to myself many times, as a way to remember my role: announce the next batter, watch the pitch count, post the score. These things weren’t going to happen on their own. It was my responsibility.

Are there things you might need to say to yourself, as a way of remembering your role?

“Remember: you’re running the meeting.”

“Remember: you’re the parent.”

“Remember: you are a professional.”

“Remember: your work is important.”

Whatever it is, say it to yourself as often as you need to.

Occasionally, when the path is completely free of obstruction, I’ll walk with my eyes closed.

Ten seconds. Maybe twenty.

It brings about a moment of tension. Even knowing that there’s no potential for collision, the mind still holds a whisper of doubt. Like a picture book version of anxiety.

Walking with that feeling — walking through that feeling — is a small bit of practice for the mind to coach the body. For the mental self to remind the physical self, “All is well. Keep moving. All is well.”

Critique. Specifically, the occasion where student-artists show their work and it’s discussed among peers and professors.

There are many styles of critique, but one approach is quite common: the wounded patient.

Here, the art is discussed through the lens of “what’s wrong with this?” and the artist is evaluated through the lens of “what did she get wrong?”

Another approach to critique — which I find to be more productive — is that of the curious object.

“What is this?” “How does this make me feel?” “What does this remind me of?” “What do I think about when I spend time with this work?”

This approach to evaluating art lives much closer to the beautiful and challenging conversations that art intends to create.

Next time you find yourself judging creative work as though it’s damaged, consider it as a curious object instead. It’s a far more rewarding experience.

“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.