A rubble wall is filled with cracks, holes, and irregularities. This is part of its nature. Part of its charm, too.

Just one of those voids, however — on a concrete foundation — could be cause for great concern.

What we expect of a thing, and what’s within the scope of acceptability, can vary widely.

A flaw in one context may be a feature in another. To understand the difference, we first have to know what we’re looking at.

Many times in life, your job will be to fix something someone else has broken.

They may have done this through cruelty, negligence, or inadvertence.

They may be remorseful. They may not.

It’s possible that you won’t know who’s at fault.

Nonetheless, your task is to fix it.

The sooner you can overcome your initial emotional reaction — whether it’s annoyance, anger, frustration, outrage, despair, or aggravation — the sooner you can get to the fixing.

You might even pause to appreciate: you’re the type of person who can fix this sort of thing.

* * *

We live in a world where things break. Those who can mend what’s broken have a special responsibility. When it’s your turn, honor it.

Walk around a contemporary art gallery and you might hear a delighted visitor remarking, “I never would have thought of that!”

A more accurate statement could be: “I never allow myself to think in that way.”

So often, we have overactive filters — creative minds that are muted by social norms and our fears of judgement and rejection.

It’s not that we can’t think of things; it’s that we don’t allow ourselves. We pre-filter and disregard ideas that are risky and unusual. We’re so set on avoiding bad ideas that we don’t allow ideation enough freedom to generate good ideas.

In other words, we’re sometimes dreamers who don’t give ourselves enough time to dream.

The easier thing is to adopt the same tools, equipment, and materials that your heroes use.

The harder thing is to adopt their practices.

The easier thing will make a small difference.

The harder thing will make all the difference in the world.

Behind the counter at the flooring company, a hand-written sign is taped to the desk:

“Can someone else finish the sale without you?”

It’s a great question to help establish the minimum level of documentation for sales associates working with clients.

Working as a team isn’t about creating silos, kingdoms, and proprietary knowledge. It’s about communication, load sharing, and moving forward together.

An open notebook mentality doesn’t just create accountability — it creates an environment with a fluidity of cooperation and collaboration.

If you’re sad about a local business closing, but you never patronized them, then you’ve forgotten something critical: consumers vote with their money.

Our spending habits are evidence of what we value — not just in retail, but in everything.

During a recent run, I reached a point mid-way where I wanted to stop. My heart rate was at its peak, I was out of breath, and I didn’t want to continue.

But I reminded myself: “This is part you want to feel. And it’s temporary. This experience is the point. This is what prompts growth and improvement.”

Just acknowledging that helped me to continue. It didn’t make the running easier, but it made the continuing easier.

When we understand the reason for the pain and discomfort, it helps us to lean in. When we don’t see its purpose, we naturally do what we can to avoid it.

Knowing why we do what we do makes all the difference.

“Please listen to me.”
”Please give me advice.”
”Please solve my problem.”

These three requests are not the same, but it’s easy to blur the lines. And many times, a conversation begins without a specific ask.

That can be confusing.

When we’re eager to help, sometimes — with good intention — we quickly shift into the mode that we feel is most helpful.

Pausing to ask, “How can I help?” might feel clinical, but (since we don’t always know what’s needed) it’s often the best way to begin.

The risk is in equating what we do with who we are. In thinking that significant work is a measure of our significance. And if our work feels insignificant, that we ourselves are perhaps insignificant.

But we are not our titles. We are not our metrics. We are not our résumés.

* * *

We begin by recognizing our own intrinsic value. Our resilience. Our ability to learn and to contribute. Our ability to make change happen.

If we choose to, we can engage with interesting problems and meaningful work.

If we choose to.

But first, we have to pick ourselves. We have to trust ourselves.

We are people of consequence — and the work we do can be of consequence too.

At any given moment, our most valuable skill is being able to differentiate between what’s important and what’s not.

It’s not just finding the signal amidst the noise. It’s having awareness of many signals, and knowing which one matters the most right now.

Before paint was put into tubes and before canvases were portable, most painting (landscape or otherwise) was done in the studio.

Sometime in the 19th century, artists began to experiment with painting on-site. Plein air painting: artists in nature, working from direct observation. Artists still work in this way, and they work in the studio too — painting from their own sketches and photographs.

There is, though, a difference in the experience.

Regardless of the outcome of the painting, the experience of painting from nature is not the same as painting from a photograph you may have found online.

What one feels, smells, and tastes in the studio is not the same as what one experiences with dirt underfoot.

One way is not necessarily better than the other; both methods can produce great works of beauty.

But if you’re painting an alpine meadow and you’ve never stood within one, you might consider putting down the brush and going into nature.

We gravitate toward simple translations. “Tell me what it means.”

And it can be frustrating when there aren’t equivalents.

But some things are difficult to grasp outside of their original forms.

Author Kakuzo Okakura says it this way in The Book of Tea.

“Translation is always a treason, and as a Ming author observes, can at its best be only the reverse side of a brocade — all the threads are there, but not the subtlety of color or design.”

Beautifully put.

11:45 AM and I just watched a bird hopping along the ground with a worm in its beak.

The early bird doesn’t get the worm; the early bird gets a worm.

And all day, there are a lot of worms out there to get.

The bird that sulks in the nest thinking she’s missed her one shot is doing herself no favors.

Early or late, when you decide to step into your fulness, you’ll be right on time.

When someone says, “Put another way, …” pay close attention.

What they are about to say is usually more clear and concise than what’s already been said.

Imagine a brilliant symphony being played. And within that performance, you get to play one note a single time … and nothing more.

In some ways, life is like this. There’s a grand composition. And within it, our contribution is an all-too-brief moment in the long continuum.

Knowing this — that this is our only moment on the big stage — wouldn’t we find the motivation to give our all to that one note?

The final rest is inevitable. For now, the note is yours to play.

Play it well. Play it beautifully.

Author Theodore Sturgeon coined the idea that “ninety percent of everything is crud.”

Quite a perspective! It’s harsh judgement, but it can seen as a gift, too.

By accepting that much of what we encounter will not be crème de la crème, we can manage our expectations. In so doing, we can embrace the ten percent that’s to our liking.

And likewise in the work we do. Knowing that much of our creative output might indeed be inferior, how much more motivated can we be to make a lot of it — such that the favorable ten percent exists in greater volume?

Do the work expecting that a significant percentage will miss the mark. And do the work trusting that some of it will be excellent.

Even with those lopsided numbers, the journey is worthwhile.

“I’ve done this before. I can do it again.”

If you’re in the middle of writing your second book, or running your second marathon, or delivering your second keynote … then your personal history can be encouraging.

If we’ve done something in the past, there’s a good chance we can do it again.

But our past isn’t always laudable.

We make mistakes. We have vices. We make poor choices.

Those can be repeated too.

So when we say, “I’ve done this before. I can do it again,” we have to be judicious.

Our past — recent and distant — contains the best and the worst of us. What we carry forward is a matter of choice.

Since your travelling bags can’t carry everything, make sure they’re filled with the stories and intentions that will serve you best.

If we don’t do effortful work, we don’t change. Without challenge there’s no adaptation.

And in the meantime, not all things stay the same; some things atrophy.

So in those cases, we need to challenge ourselves just to stay as we are.

Whether maintaining or growing, a healthy level of exertion doesn’t tire us — rather, it rewards us with more vitality.

There’s birdsong. Eddies in the river. The rush of wind.

And there’s also traffic. Pundits and critics. The noise of culture. The electric grid.

It’s not just that sound enters our ears — it’s that we place ourselves in the context of sound.

And the soundscape does not self-regulate on our behalf. It doesn’t decide that we’ve heard too much of one thing and not enough of another. Each sound will play for us as long as we’re willing to listen.

The curation is up to us.

Listen thoughtfully.

Little by little. One bite at a time. Bird by bird.

These phrases (not usually used together, of course) are offered as kind words of encouragement. They’re calm reminders that we can only ever do the very next thing. That big projects have little steps and we do them in sequence.

But when time runs short, morale is low, and there are miles to go before we sleep, those helpful aphorisms don’t sing sweetly. We might even have to remind ourselves of their truth through mental gritted teeth.

The concept of incremental progress can keep us on track. But sometimes, we also have to accept that the road will be difficult. “Step by step” isn’t something we worry about during the gentle downhill. It’s the reminder we need when the climb ahead looks endless.

So remind ourselves, we will.

Onwards.