When you take action that yields unintended negative consequences, take heart: next time, you’ll have specific awareness of what you’re attempting to avoid.

Sometimes, the way forward is through one more way that doesn’t work just right.

“Avoid the movements that trigger your symptoms. Reduce the activities that make it worse.”

This was the general advice I found regarding some physical pain I’ve been experiencing. I don’t know what I was expecting. More options, I suppose.

But sometimes, the remedy is indeed this simple. And — admittedly — I’ve offered this same advice to my children.

Complaint: “It hurts when I do this.”
Solution: “Don’t do that.”

Unsurprisingly, it’s easier to deliver pragmatic advice than it is to receive it.

It’s possible to lose track of your body in space. To not know the location of your hands relative to your head. Or how your legs and feet are arranged. Or how you’re positioned.

It can happen upon waking, or through dizziness, or mental cloudiness …

In these situations, locating yourself can help. “The floor is here. My body is pressing this way. Here is where my hands are touching,” and so on. It’s a kind of mindfulness training.

And this can help, too, in a larger context. To locate yourself in a broader sense. “This is who I am. This is what I believe. These are the people who are important to me. These are my values.”

We can lose track of ourselves for many reasons. Finding ourselves can sometimes be as simple as naming where we are.

I recently handled a plumbing repair — the unexpected kind that jumps to the front priority queue.

Part of the repair involved removing a pipe from under a sink. With bucket ready, I slowly loosened the coupling nuts. Water began to drip into the bucket (excellent). Then, much more water began to spray vertically, not into the bucket (not ideal).

What I realized — after it was too late — was that a slow disassembly of the parts resulted in some undesirable conditions. The awkward stage where water was spraying instead of draining … that stage was prolonged by my tentative movements.

Had I been swift and confident with the removal, there’d have been far less water on the floor.

Sometimes, you’ve just got to go all in. Not slow, not tentative, but firm and fleet-footed.

Some of us don’t need to train our starting muscle. We like to begin new things. To jump into projects. To plan new adventures. To get screwdrivers and wrenches and to just start turning.

The problem is in finishing.

So a skill worth developing is the skill of completing. Of buttoning up, bringing things across the finish line, finalizing.

When we get good at finishing things, we give ourselves the gift of completion … and the thrill of starting the next thing, fresh, sans the baggage of things left undone.

But for many, finishing isn’t an inherent skill; it’s a muscle that needs training.

You don’t have to be the author.

Yes, it’s fun to be the creator. And it’s in our DNA to create. But we can also point. We can reference. We can see truth and show it to others.

When you encounter it, be at peace — joy even — that the universe has produced such a thing … free of your own labor.

The early victories on our way to the top are always more satisfying than the later victories that keep us there.

Continued success is not nearly as exciting as the first few wins.

Two thoughts.

One, manage your expectations — particularly if you’ve been on a long winning streak in a certain domain (which has the potential to become boring).

Two, try new things. New fields of study, new activities, new ventures. Soak up the joy of those early, hard-earned wins.

We can’t just snap our fingers and have the world exist as we’d like it.

It takes work.

The world we seek is not just an idea, it’s a job description.

It’s our biggest project. Our infinite game. A continual dance of progress and setback and progress again.

Little by little. All of us doing our part.

Perhaps today you can do a small act that helps cultivate the kind of world you want this to be.

The advice is to step back. To view the big picture.

And it’s helpful to see the entire tapestry … to appreciate its beauty and to see our place in it.

But the entire tapestry can also be a bit much. It can easily overwhelm us.

Every so often, we need the comfort of standing close — really close — and immersing ourselves in the details.

Thankfully, we can still make meaningful contributions … even when we have our nose to the fibers.

It may be your strength, but that doesn’t mean you have an endless supply.

Even our greatest skills can be fatigued if we overuse them.

Like any living thing, strengths need periodic rest.

The pause is not giving up or giving in.

It’s taking time and taking care.

Allow yourself the restoration.

“Heart in the oven, head in the fridge.”

This sports advice for high-pressure situations is applicable off the pitch too.

Get fired up. Be passionate. Fight.

But keep your mental composure.

Fire and ice. It’s a winning balance.

Of course we’re not going to forget what’s important. It’s on our minds. All the time.

After all, it’s important.

But important things aren’t always urgent things. Or shiny things.

And shiny, urgent things like to masquerade as important things that need our attention right now — even if they don’t. Unfortunately, we have limited time and attention.

Those important, non-urgent things can become a backdrop while everything else has its moment on the main stage.

So remind yourself of what’s important. Find ways to address/honor/handle what’s important. Incrementally. Regularly.

After all, it’s important.

Perhaps you already know when you do your best work. If you don’t, consider experimenting.

Our energy and focus vary throughout the day. Some people work best first thing in the morning. Others, mid day. Still others in the middle of the night.

But if you’ve never brought your creative energy to a particular hour of the day, how can you know?

So experiment. Run some informal tests.

What you learn could give you ideas for how to organize your days and weeks.

It’s counterintuitive. One would think that strong, athletic motion is about tense muscles. But really, it’s about looseness, posture, and form. Exertion, yes. But selective exertion. Judicious stress.

Our best efforts do not come from globalized tension. Rather, they come from an overall calm paired with highly localized, intentional strain.

Focused effort atop an overall ease.

“The first pancake is always lumpy.” (Russian proverb)

It’s true.

A good reminder that our first attempts are rarely successful.

The implication, too, is that we don’t just try once. We don’t stop because of imperfect beginnings.

No. We continue … and things get better. Sometimes gradually, sometimes all at once.

Either way, keep cooking.

We do this naturally. We close our eyes so that we can hear more clearly, or we block out sound so we can read with more focus.

It can be a useful exercise too.

Close your eyes at the park. Listen. Explore the soundscape. Discover what you wouldn’t have otherwise heard.

Or watch an interview with the sound muted. Look at body language. Observe a person’s hands, or the way clothing moves.

Our world is one of excess and overload. But our attention — like a muscle — can be trained. We can choose to dampen some senses while diving more fully into others.

What we discover is sure to offer something new.

We express joy differently. And sadness. And frustration. And distress. And approval. And fear. And contentment.

It’s impossible to know, but these things are probably felt differently on the inside too.

We’re all navigating humanness in our own way.

When you’re confused by someone else’s behavior — or even your own — lean toward curiosity and patience … and away from judgement.

Together, we recall the stories … even if you and I share the same memories.

Because there’s something about telling a story that keeps it alive.

There’s a joy in remembering the details. A wonder in recounting the events. An honoring of what has transpired.

And sometimes playful banter.

“It did not happen that way.”
“Oh yes it did!”

Knowing is not enough. Telling — even to those who know — is part of our way.

Fleeing, or running by choice.
Hungry, or fasting by choice.
Cut off, or offline by choice.
Burdened, or carrying by choice.

What we do by choice — even when painful — is far more tolerable than what’s forced upon us.

Even so, there are things we don’t choose ourselves — like a surprise visit, a refreshing breeze, or an unexpected upgrade — that can delight us more than our intended plans.

Whether positive or negative, our ability to choose can have huge impact on our experience.

Check your inventory. What kind of leftovers are you carrying?

Our experiences leave us with lessons learned — some conscious, others quietly internalized.

Like foodstuffs, some keep well, others get better with age, while still others spoil.

So check your inventory.

What’s in there? Are all the bits and pieces you’ve collected over the years serving you well? Are all of them relevant? Are all of them true?

It may be time for a gentle but honest audit.