When a puzzle piece doesn’t fit, we don’t berate the piece. We don’t take it personally. We just move on until we find the pieces that fit together.

Likewise with people. With vendors, customers, providers, mentors, pupils … it won’t always be a good fit.

When there’s flexibility to make a change, don’t dwell on the incompatibilities. Just politely move on; these things happen.

We’re complex beings. Sometimes we align. Sometimes we don’t.

Keep seeking the pieces that fit. They’re out there, and they’re worth finding.

I post one blog every day … but I also write a lot of other drafts.

What I’ve learned is that the hard part is not in writing drafts. There’s some work involved, but it’s not the hard work.

The hard work is in finishing. In completing a thought. In clarifying it. In translating nuanced feelings into sentences. And in evaluating the thought itself: its resonance, its worth, and its appropriateness for this blog.

One challenge for me (and for all of us) is to continue making drafts. Whatever “drafts” are for the work you do — the messy, bold, timid, unfinished, uncertain, behind-the-scenes work — keep creating them. Even if no one ever sees them. In delight that no one might ever see them.

And the related challenge is to be patient with the spirit that inspires the drafts. Don’t dismiss every idea that doesn’t quickly reveal its own path to the finish line. Some drafts — some ideas — need to be coaxed and tended.

Keep coaxing. Keep tending.

There’s nothing quite like a homecoming where you are embraced and your stories are told.

But for a homecoming to happen … it means that you first must venture away from home.

The qualities we seek to develop and imbue in the work we create … are so often the same qualities we seek to develop within ourselves.

* * *

(H/T furniture-maker Peter Korn, and Sue Heatherington for pointing me to Peter’s talk at the 2015 Hay Literary Festival.)

If there’s nothing to say … fine, don’t say anything.

But be careful. “There’s nothing to say,” is also a convenient dodge when creative resistance, self-doubt, and impatience begin to swell.

Don’t let the discomfort of staring at a blank page convince you that you that there’s nothing to say.

I don’t know how to express it.
I don’t know what I’m feeling.
I don’t know if this is any good.
I don’t know if this is worth the time.
I don’t know if this has been done before.
I don’t know how this fits.
I don’t know if this will work.

Hold that tension as long as you need to. Don’t let the uncertainty deter you.

Our best creative work begins with unsure footing.

No one accidentally plays tennis. You don’t all of a sudden wake up and have the realization that you have a racket in your hand and you’re standing at center court.

But we do play other games, sometimes unintentionally: pursuits of money, fame, achievement, or popularity.

These are games we can play knowingly, but they’re also games we can begin to play without a whole lot of thought. And at some point we might even realize: “Oh my goodness. I’m playing that game?”

The thing about games, though, is that we don’t have to play them if we don’t want to.

We might even remind ourselves, “That’s a game others play, but not me.”

Or ask ourselves, “Have I accidentally begun to play a game that I don’t need to play?”

We aren’t always seeking what’s new and novel. Sometimes we seek what’s known and familiar.

It’s why we reread books. Why we’ll watch a movie we’ve already seen. Why we’ll go to the same restaurant with the same friend — even ordering the same thing and telling the same stories.

And it’s not stale. We’re always changing. Like how we don’t step into the same river twice, we can experience newness within the familiar.

Novelty will fade, but our ability to see with fresh eyes is endless.

Sometimes we drag people across a finish line because we know they need to be in a certain position to start the next race. Whether it’s out of love, mentorship, or control … dragging others is not a sustainable practice. At some point, the people we’re tempted to drag need to run on their own.

And besides, they might not be trying to run the race we had hoped.

Better to help them learn self-direction, perseverance, and resilience — rather than how to be grateful for being dragged.

So that he could hop up on the bed with more ease, I built a set of steps for our small dog. We had something he used, but it wasn’t proportioned for the height of the bed: every so often, he would face-plant into the side of the mattress.

The new steps are just the right size. The rise and run were carefully considered. The carpeting matches the main staircase in our home.

Edison, our handsome canine, does not agree. He refuses to use the new steps. Instead, he insists on leaping the full 28 inches onto the bed … with a 90% success rate.

What I now realize is that my “improvement” includes too many steps. Four steps onto the bed is just too tedious for Edison. He would rather make one or two leaps. A single, midway platform would probably be an ideal solution.

* * *

A lot of productivity advice suggests that we break things down into small tasks. Tackle big projects by breaking them into little steps.

Sometimes this is good advice. Sometimes it helps. But other times, what we need to do is to move with confidence. To not get tripped up by tiny steps, but to take a bold leap.

Thanks for the lesson, Eddie.

As I shared the details of a project at the front of my queue, a colleague from another department laughed: “Wow. You worry about different things than I do.”

It’s a true statement. But it’s true in a wider sense, too.

The things that cause us so much stress and worry — can often be of little concern to others.

There’s the oft shared idea that everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.

A cousin to this statement hits a little harder: the things important to us can sometimes be of no personal interest to others.

Don’t take offense. The battles personal to us are sometimes just that: they’re personal.

Whatever battle you’re facing … keep fighting.

Sometimes we ask someone to help us not because we need the assistance, but because we recognize the need for that person to be included.

It’s not always about efficiency. There are times when it’s about mentoring, engaging, and growing community.

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.