When we begin something totally new and our skills are lacking … improvement (any improvement) is obvious. Measurable.

Because the path between terrible and adequate is well-defined and lamp-lit. During this phase of learning, developing basic techniques will pay huge dividends.

But as we improve, progress becomes less and less perceptible.

“Nothing to something” is one kind of achievement. “Very good to excellent” or “98 to 99” is quite another.

As a novice, gains are well within our grasp. With proficiency, the gains are harder won.

All the more reason to encourage yourself in both scenarios.

When you’re a beginner, delight in the learning. A banquet awaits and you can fill your plate often.

When you’re further along, don’t lose heart. Progress for you is a different kind of game. You’re fine-tuning your craft. Victories are in the nuance. At times, it might help to remind yourself of how far you’ve come.

Consider hair at a certain length.

In one situation, it’s too long. Ready for a trim.

In another, it’s not yet long enough. It’s being grown.

In yet another, it’s just right.

Same length, all, but different perspectives.

Like many things, it’s where we’re headed that makes the difference.

At times, the creative practice asks us to suspend what we know about location, place, and context. To turn off the GPS. To drive in the dark.

Not forever, but for a time.

To allow ourselves to wander.

It takes a certain type of courage and discipline to operate in this way. To resist selecting from known solutions. To loosen our grip on what’s certain.

But in doing so, we find new pathways. We make new connections. We relocate ourselves on the map or we change the map itself.

In a way, it’s losing ourselves so that we can find ourselves again … enriched, and better for the journey.

When I was a child, the common art-related compliment was, “I like how you filled the page.”

Coloring to the edge, as it were, was both noteworthy and praiseworthy.

But filling the frame isn’t the same as considering the frame.

These days, a more welcome observation might be:

I appreciate your use of empty space.
I’m interested in how you’ve subverted the boundary.
Your omission is just as thoughtful as your inclusion.

Good metaphors, too.

How are you handling the blank spaces? Are you filling the voids? Are you holding space?

How do the spaces work to elevate the non-spaces?

Like tearing stubborn, plastic packaging, sometimes a task seems impenetrable until you have a small break.

And that tiny bit of progress in the right place causes cascading forward motion.

But until that little fracture — the shift that changes the field of play — the world can be a giant wall of frustration.

All the more reason to keep the balance: think big, act small.

Because small repeated acts can cause monumental shifts.

We seek contentedness and satisfaction. But we weren’t built to remain there.

The longing, the desire, the loss, the pain, the struggle … we’re hard-wired to act in response to these. Not to lament them or avoid them, but to live more fully and more radiantly because of them.

We’re resilient by design.

And soon enough, we learn that light isn’t dimmed from shadows. Rather, its brilliance is better seen with the contrast.

The idea of daily writing and journaling isn’t that it’s all your best work. Indeed, it can’t be.

But there will be highlights. Moments of clarity. Moments of beauty. Moments of understanding.

And that is enough.

The practice helps us to process our thoughts. To understand our thoughts. To collect our thoughts. In a way, to think our thoughts.

We don’t write because we already know. We write because it’s a way toward knowing.

I heard about a children’s radio program host who offered a prompt that went something like this:

Think of a word that would make a great baby name — if it wasn’t already a word that meant something else.

The host’s example: Elderly.

That’s a good one. (I’m sure Baby Elderly is adorable and above average.)

A prompt like this challenges us to suspend what we know, and it leaves room for surprise and amusement. And while some answers are better than others, none of them are wrong answers.

I admit: I’ve been having too much fun thinking of responses.

Agony
Alkaline
Debris
Diarrhea
Lattice
Lazy
Piston
Vinegar

Unusual questions can be a salve for our imagination and curiosity — but we have to sit with them, play with them, and let them blossom.

* * *

H/T Mindy Thomas

A sturdy backpack, a padded hip belt, an adjustable suspension system, balanced gear, extra foot-bed and ankle support …

There are many tools and features that allow us to carry heavier loads.

But when is it too much? And what can we do?

Instead of managing by girders and supports, what happens when we intentionally lighten the load?

What might that look like?

How might that help?

How might that feel?

A nineteen-year-old was in discussion with a barber as they both looked in the mirror.

From what I gathered, the young man would be on a first date later that evening. The barber had finished his job and asked if it was acceptable.

“A little there. Now over here, can you fix this? And this one section … can you trim it just a little closer?”

After all the micro-adjustments, the customer paid and left.

When I sat in the chair, the barber said with a smile, “Poor kid. He thinks it will make a difference. It won’t.”

Maybe there was some truth to it. But I hope he had a good date anyhow.

* * *

When we’re nervous, or the stakes are high, we tend to sweat the little things. We worry that the smallest detail — a wrong word or a hair out of place — could turn the tide irrevocably against us.

And sure, it could. But is it likely?

No.

Thing is, when we convince ourselves that insignificant details are critical, they become so.

Better to zoom out and to breathe. Tend to the details, but accept imperfections with grace.

In a way, imperfections are the sign that a thing is real.

The Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) have a sustainability philosophy known as the Seventh Generation Principle.

That today’s decisions should take into consideration their impact on the next seven generations — in the stewardship of natural resources, in relationships, in our words and actions. It’s a deep sensitivity to those who will inherit the earth.

Among the Iroquois teachings is the concept that the world we live in … we’re borrowing it from future generations.

* * *

So much of our culture is steeped in the immediacy of today with an intentional blindness about tomorrow.

Seven generations. Seven.

Can we be so bold? Can we have such vision? Can we cultivate such respect for the world and its future?

Of course we can. The bigger question is: will we?

From texts not written for us, not written in our time, and not written in our language … we can gain great wisdom.

It’s there for us, even if it’s not for us.

Don’t be shy. Don’t wait for a personal invitation.

Wisdom’s record is invitation enough.

To turn away from it is a way of hiding, and we weren’t meant to hide.

If you have eyes to see and ears to hear, then cultivate the seeing and hearing.

Wisdom is not for a privileged few; it’s for all.

It’s easy to identify part of a whole and to ask, “Why isn’t this element better?”

It’s much harder to see the big picture and to consider the many trade-offs that were made in the design phase.

Often, improvement in one area comes at the expense of another — whether it’s time, attention, or resources.

And this can be an intentional act: going to extremes to make one specific piece remarkable. Some of the best products, services, and experiences are built on this very idea.

We’re always making trade-offs. When you notice deficiency in one area, there’s likely a reason. And when you see brilliance in another, there’s likely a reason for that too.

Trade-offs.

Worthy. Skilled. Inventive. Creative. Capable. Ready.

Sometimes we just need to remind ourselves.

Everything we need to move forward from this moment … we already have.

It’s just a question of where we’re pointed, and how big of a step we’ll take.

Last week, I was in search of long ladders, grippy shoes, and nerve. Wisely, I decided to call a professional.

When the roofer arrived, he first evaluated the work from the ground. After some discussion, he said, “Well, I’ll go check it out.”

Pulling a folding ladder from his van, he walked not to the area closest to the second-story leak, but to the front porch. Extending the ladder, he climbed to the porch roof. He turned around, pulled the ladder up, placed it carefully on the porch roof, and climbed to the upper roof.

(Ah. I see.)

My own approach was to seek longer ladders and a run to the top. The professional’s approach was to navigate shorter distances, in sequence, one at a time.

My own approach was to move from point A to point B. The professional got to my “point B” by starting from a place I hadn’t anticipated, and taking steps I hadn’t considered.

We can learn on our own. But we can learn even more by watching professionals at work. Not to abandon our own experimentation, but to let our creativity be informed by the strategies, techniques, and wisdom we find in those who travel the path.

“Watch and learn.” Hackneyed perhaps, but still good advice.

The work may come from curiosity. But it might also come from boredom, or fear, or anxiety, or restlessness, or loyalty, or habit, or joy, or a sense of responsibility, or a feeling of play …

It can vary widely over time.

Whatever the source may be, seek to recognize it. Seek to understand it.

Let the work be better for it.

Opening a box and baking. Tearing a pack and adding water. Venting and microwaving.

These are easy ways. They’re quick. They might even be delicious.

But they don’t compare to following an old-world recipe. Or making a cherished heirloom dish.

Slower. More materials. More steps. More clean-up.

And every bit worth it.

Some things aren’t about speed, efficiency, or convenience. They’re about intentionally choosing a certain way, and embracing its beauty and meaning.

Doing better doesn’t always mean trying harder.

Sometimes, it means trying less.

Or trying differently.

Harder only works in some contexts, and only if you’re headed in the right direction.

“If the weather was like this more often, there’d be a lot less complaining!”

Disagree.

The person who said this (a casual acquaintance) — I’m certain — would find reason to complain about the monotony of beautiful weather. Or the complaining would shift from the weather to some other thing.

When we bias toward complaint, we will always find things that bother us.

If instead we default to gratitude, appreciation, and finding good — we will see a world filled with it.

I was surprised to see a sign taped to the inside of a restroom door. In large letters was the word “bathroom”.

Unless the door had been propped open (and it wasn’t) the sign was only visible from the interior. Of course, if you were already in the bathroom, you wouldn’t need a sign to tell you.

However, it got me thinking about interior and exterior signs. We’re often displaying signs to the world. This is who I am. This is what I believe. This is what I’m like.

But could we benefit, too, from interior signs? Some way of reminding ourselves of who we are and what we believe?

What might your sign say?