Last night, I passed by a beautiful, large home. The hallway behind its front door was illuminated. In a split-second, I got a feeling about the space. The wall color and the temperature of the fluorescent light made it look like a prison cell. Or perhaps an old locker room.

I’m sure the home is quite lovely. But my experience points to the power of “What does this remind you of?” Everything we see reminds us of something, whether we can pinpoint the source or not. Even beyond sight — everything we sense has the potential to remind us of something we’ve experienced.

All the more reason to ask ourselves the question when we’re building, designing, and creating: What does this remind you of?

It’s a good tool for creative wayfinding.

The title of this post is a serious question. What are you doing?

A friend generously asked me to consider this. I say “generously” because at the time, I was feeling some regret about un-done projects and a few paused creative pursuits.

But in stopping to list the things I’m actually doing, I realized the scope of my creative footprint over the past few months. It’s not lacking. It doesn’t include everything I’d like, but it’s a healthy list.

So I ask you, too. Not about what you haven’t done or what needs tending. But about what you’ve been able to do. Despite all the challenges and all the distractions, what are you doing?

Make a mental list and then pat yourself on the back. I bet you’re doing great.

I witnessed a conversation that moved from normal to tense in a matter of seconds. A few passive-aggressive comments was all it took.

What’s clear, in retrospect, is the underlying lack of trust that allowed the interaction to go downhill so quickly. Trust can act like a safety tether — keeping the conversation on the right track. When it’s missing, it doesn’t take more than a few missteps for things to go sour.

There are occasions where I will literally turn around and go back to do what I know is right. Times when I course-correct after having ignored an opportunity to do good.

To pick up a piece of trash. To help someone who is silently asking. To let someone know there’s a problem they might not see.

We’re faced with these moments all the time. Do I go about my day, or do I pause to help, despite the inconvenience?

I don’t always choose the noble path, but I’ve learned: the full feeling of having acted with integrity — even if we’re not acknowledged or thanked — almost always mutes the thoughts of inconvenience.

The signs on other roads are meant for other travelers. You have your own signs.

Following the signs meant for others is a good way to get yourself lost or hurt.

The kind of productivity our culture glamorizes is impossible to achieve. Efficiency attracts further responsibility, tasks beget tasks, and goals continue to expand.

We will never get everything done. So the thing to do, instead, is to come to peace with that reality. Even more, to build slack into the schedule. Not to “find” time for nothingness and leisure, but to create it. To protect it.

The treadmill has no end. If we’re wise, we’ll learn to step off of it regularly.

A few weeks ago, I placed my vaccination card in my daily notebook. In my mind’s eye, I could see it within the pages.

Yet when I went to look for it, it was not there.

I fanned through the pages a dozen times. Nothing. Maybe it was lost?

As a last effort — after two days of looking in many other places — I held the notebook by its spiral binding and gave it a gentle shake.

Like a magic trick, the card fell onto my desk.

Sometimes we need to find new ways of looking in order to find what we seek.

A little plastic part broke. I found the manufacturer’s part number, ordered a replacement, and made the repair with the help of a video I found online.

Between the research and the labor, the whole thing took about fifteen minutes.

But the effect — the satisfaction of having solved a problem and the cheerful feeling of accomplishment — that effect lasted much longer than fifteen minutes. It fed my resolve for the rest of the day’s work.

Sometimes it’s the little wins that help fuel the bigger wins.

Can you stretch this week? Intentionally push your limits? Not necessarily physically. It could be mentally. Or spiritually. Or emotionally.

But can you stretch? Go a little further than you usually would in a particular endeavor?

Sometimes it doesn’t take a whole lot of effort. Sometimes it just takes someone asking, “Can you go a little further?”

And it might be surprisingly rewarding.

For the past four decades, Warren Buffett’s annual salary has been $100,000.

His salary is part of a story we can tell, but it’s not the whole story.

It’s tempting to do it, but we should be careful about making too many assumptions based on a single metric.

Sometimes we have to make a guess.

We won’t have enough information. We won’t have enough confidence. We won’t have enough assurance.

We’ll just have to make our best guess and see what happens.

But over time, we learn, and we get better at guessing.

And over time, we learn, and we get better at responding to the consequences of our guesses.

That second part is what’s most encouraging: that we improve by trying — not by hiding.

The fear of making the first mark on a blank page can keep us from making any marks at all.

If you watch an artist begin a drawing, you’ll often see the tip of her pencil hovering over the surface of the paper. Perhaps tracing a line in the air. Or moving in sweeping circles.

There’s a fluid precision about these preliminary motions.

And then it happens: the first mark is made. After that, the work continues.

The artist doesn’t hover and then walk away from the easel. And she doesn’t hover indefinitely. She hovers momentarily and then makes her first mark.

If you’ve been hovering long enough in your own pursuits, perhaps it’s time for you to make your own first mark — whatever that might be.

After that, the work can continue.

“Something funky happened on your blog today!”

A good friend sent me a text and a screenshot. He had noticed what others had noticed: some odd extraneous text in the Savenwood blog email.

Here’s what happened. Earlier, I had created a draft post to show some colleagues my process. I deleted the draft, but somehow it still found its way into the feed and Mailchimp sent it along with the daily post. Sorry if that caused some head scratching on your end.

It pains me when these things happen, but they do happen. And there are things to learn.

One, if deleting something is important, check the trash can. Shred it. Get rid of it. Be sure you have clear division between what’s good and what’s in the discard pile.

Two, be gentle on yourself. Snafus happen. It’s how we deal with them that matters.

Three, be grateful for good friends (like my friend Ryan). Not everyone will pay close enough attention to notice your errors. And the people that do notice something funky won’t always say something (for good reasons). But it’s a gift when you have an inner circle — like the friend who can quietly pull you aside to say you have something in your teeth.

(Hey. You’ve got something there. No, other side. Yep. Got it.)

Sometimes we have the choice between being humble and getting what we want — and being stubborn.

And for whatever reason, we decide that what we really want is to be stubborn.

In those situations, let’s be conscious that we’ve made the choice.

The snow that had recently blanketed my neighborhood is now gone.

But in my yard, I can still see a small pile — the remnants of a snowman.

That little bit of packed snow made me think: sometimes there’s evidence where we’ve shown love or attention. Their effects tend to linger.

Sometimes we’re lucky.

Sometimes we’re not.

It’s good to acknowledge luck, but that’s about it. It’s not useful to dwell on it.

Better instead to stay focused on the important work at hand — luck or no.

A flat piece of paper is pristine, but it cannot hold many forms.

Crease it and it can maintain a shape.

Crumple it and it has form.

* * *

It’s similar with us. Dents, wrinkles, and imperfections are what give us our dimension.

Jealousy might show up as indifference.

Fear might show up as anger.

Depression might show up as sarcasm.

Insecurity might show up as generosity.

Often, we’ll bristle at the idea of experiencing a particular word. But when we look closer, we find that the word in question can show up in other ways. It’s just first word wearing different clothes.

It’s not that we necessarily feel every emotion. But we certainly feel the cousins and distant relatives of every emotion. Recognizing this can help us to understand ourselves as much as it can help us to understand others.

Or at least to try.

The beauty of a holiday meal with family and friends is not just about eating food.

It’s about cooking together. Sharing recipes. Learning techniques.

It’s about telling stories. Even stories we’ve already heard. Especially stories we’ve already heard.

It’s about laughing with each other and laughing at ourselves.

It’s about tending to the needs of the moment. Refilling a drink. Clearing a table. Washing dishes. Cleaning up a spill.

For meals like these, food is only part of the equation. All the rest happens because of love.

Pause to wonder at the power of gratitude.

When we prioritize it — or simply call it to mind — it’s able to wash away immeasurable negativity.

And gratitude is something that’s always available to us. We don’t need special circumstances or a particular setting. We don’t need a special day or a special moment.

We just need the presence of mind to embrace it.

Begin with gratitude … and everything begins to change for the better.