I sent someone a book and I received this note of appreciation: “Thank you very much for your kindness and for the opportunity to practice receiving.”

It’s a curious phrase that has stuck with me. We often talk of generosity and of gratitude. But this specific concept — to practice receiving — is a natural element within a culture of giving. As much as we like to be generous, we can be clumsy when it comes to accepting generosity.

Here’s to giving selflessly and to receiving graciously. Practice both.

Radio programs know that listeners don’t always tune in right at the top or bottom of the hour. It’s not uncommon for a host to say, “If you’re just joining us, you’re listening to _______.” It’s informative, yes. But it’s also welcoming.

When it comes to formal meetings, I’m a proponent of starting on time. But outside of that context — just generally — I love the idea of welcoming the latecomers.

The message is not, “We’ve been here longer; you’ll need to work to fit in.” Rather, it’s, “Welcome! We’re so glad you’re here. Please, come join us.”

Moveable bridges often employ a bridge tender. As a job, it’s interesting. As a metaphor, it’s beautiful.

Are you building bridges? Clearing the way? Assisting with passage?

Connect. Facilitate. Help.

Be a bridge tender.

If we ever want to enjoy the fullness of what’s complex, we must have the patience for what’s simple.

We begin with foundations and building blocks. They’re not the things of highlight reels and coffee table books, but they’re where we begin.

It can be a little unsettling when you get somewhere first. That is, no one is there. No guide. No precedent. No one to copy.

Whether it’s a physical space or an area of study — the uncertainty of arriving first is balanced by the beauty of possibility. You’re there. You become the guide. You set the precedent. And as others arrive (if they do) you might be the one that’s copied.

What might you do with that opportunity?

I asked my son, “What do you want for dessert?”

His reply: “What did he have?” (“He” being his brother.)

As soon as we’re old enough to recognize “mine” and “yours” we begin to compare what we have to what others have. This becomes a problem when we think about our own happiness based on this comparison.

Unsurprisingly, we pick and choose what we compare. I’ll have his portion of dessert, but not his portion of homework. Her bedtime, but not her chores. His freedom, but not his responsibility.

When it’s a seven-year-old choosing dessert, these comparisons are amusing. But we can easily catch ourselves playing this game. “Where did she go on vacation?” or “How much does he make?” or “What are they doing this weekend?”

But.

It’s useful to remind ourselves that we won’t always find other people’s desserts tasty.

The phrase, “I don’t like it,” can mean many things.

“I don’t understand it.”
“I don’t value this kind.”
“I don’t like change.”
“This is not what I expected.”
“This doesn’t work.”

At times, “I don’t like it,” can even mean, “I don’t like you.”

Understanding what someone means when they say, “I don’t like it,” is an important step in making any kind of progress.

Often, a useful follow-up is, “Thanks for letting me know. Can you explain what you don’t like about it?”

That might not solve the problem, but it opens a conversation.

Some students (and I pity them) are instructed to include a word-count at the end of an essay or term paper.

What a dreadful measure.

Consider any text of value or statement of worth. Solemn vows. A Mary Oliver poem. A prayer of gratitude. A peace treaty. A manifesto.

“Yes, but how many words?”

No one cares! Rather, no one should care. If you’ve communicated what’s necessary, if you’ve found clarity in your message, if you’ve achieved your purpose, if the work has done what it wants to do … then it doesn’t matter if it’s five words or five thousand words.

Word count — unless it’s used as an upper constraint to challenge the verbose — is an ineffective, lazy proxy for measuring value.

(125 words)

Every day, somewhere, beautiful sunsets are ignored.

Just because we don’t witness them or notice them … doesn’t make them any less beautiful.

Some days, you won’t be acknowledged for your work.

Don’t let that be the measure of its worth.

The best kind of positive feedback comes in two ways.

One way is with detail. Not just, “You did great!” but, “You did great! I loved the energy you brought to the roundtable discussion.” Or, “That was amazing. Your performance made me feel young again.” Or, “Your photograph is so compelling. It really invites me to see this subject in a new way.” Details. Specifics.

Another way feedback resonates is when it’s from someone who knows. An insider. An expert. A wise colleague. When compliments and affirmation come from those who know the business — who have eyes and ears tuned for certain qualities — the feedback lands with more weight.

* * *

If you have a positive review, consider delivering it with detail. And if you have domain knowledge — if you have some expertise — know that you have the added ability to speak with a certain authority.

It’s not talent, but technique that creates the widest gap between amateurs and professionals.

Any number of things can be generally copied or roughly mimicked. The professional, however, has honed her skills and learned technique. With these hard-earned tools, the details of her work stand up to scrutiny.

Some things can be faked. Technique is not one of them.

Sometimes we look around and think that no one will help. That others will stand idle in our time of need. Or that we’re completely invisible.

But don’t judge a face by its indifference or its frown. Some candles appear cold and charred until we seek light from their wick.

If you look at the shadows around you — those cast on the walls or the ground — you’ll notice that some have a crisp, well-defined edge. Others have a softness that makes it difficult to see exactly where the light ends and where the shadow begins.

Most of life is like the softer shadows. A little fuzzy. Edges that aren’t always clearly defined. Lots of gray areas.

Yes, there are places where it’s clearly light or clearly dark. But much of it … much of it is somehow in between.

When a cowboy gets bucked off a bull, he has to let go of the rope. To hang on would be to his peril.

There are times when our strength — and our ability to maintain a tight grip — can work against us. Times when it would be better (in the long run) to accept temporary defeat.

Pausing to regroup, or to reset, or to focus on self-care … that’s not the mark of failure; it’s the sign of wisdom and resilience.

Singing a song is by no means the most efficient way to communicate.

But efficiency isn’t always our goal.

Keep singing.

And if you find yourself asking, “Should I sing?” the answer is, “Yes. Yes you should.”

“We have 100 years of combined experience.”

Excellent. And is it four professionals who have been at this thing for 25 years?

Or 2,600 noobs who have been on the job for two weeks?

The combination matters.

We might need to zoom in. Way in.

Or maybe we need to step back and zoom out.

It could be that we need to adjust the way we’re looking at what’s right in front of us.

* * *

We can gain clarity in many ways. The important part is that we endeavor to do it.

Starting well doesn’t guarantee finishing well.

Starting poorly doesn’t guarantee finishing poorly.

We don’t have guarantees. What we do have is this moment — right now — our best judgement, and our ability to influence what happens next.

Being on the right path doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re moving in the right direction. It doesn’t even mean that you’re moving at all.

Watch for the signs. Look for fellow travelers. Take note of what’s changing and what’s staying the same.

Put together, those pieces will start to tell you the direction you’re headed.

Our world is filled with beauty and art. But even with our best efforts, we will only be able to experience a fraction of it.

And to think. With that immeasurable backlog — we should regularly pause and hold space for stillness and silence?

Exactly right.