There’s no need to storm anything; when we need ideas, we can invite them.

We’re not raiders so much as welcoming hosts.

And an openness to ideas doesn’t have to be an activity — it can be an ongoing posture.

Q: “How are you?”
A: “I’ve been better.”

Obviously.

In a general sense, it’s highly likely that at any given moment on any given day, you have been better. Zenith, apogee, climax … these are singular moments that recede as soon as they appear.

“I’ve been better” is about as notable as saying, “I’ve been younger.”

True, but not remarkable.

Of course, it all depends on what you’re measuring.

If you’re tracking wisdom, knowledge, and temperance, it very well could be that you’ve never been better.

Maybe in some instances the bar is much lower than we think.

Maybe our hesitation — the one that’s born of fear — is unnecessary.

Maybe the expectation is reasonable. Or even low.

That our normal effort is good enough. Even beyond good enough.

That showing up now — as-is — is what’s important. More important than showing up a little later and a little better.

* * *

Sometimes we need to stop polishing, planning, and procrastinating.

Sometimes we need to go with what we’ve got because now is the time.

Not later.

Now.

A ten-minute evaluation might be all it takes.

“How did we do?”
“What went really well?”
“What do we want to repeat for next time?”
“Where could we improve?”

In some organizations, this is second-nature. Formalized and even mandated.

And maybe this isn’t us.

But just because we don’t have such reviews codified doesn’t mean we can’t informally adopt the practice.

Because our aim is to repeat what’s worth repeating and to improve what’s worth improving. And sometimes an intentional conversation helps us to do that. To think about our process. To acknowledge our wins. To learn about our blind spots.

If we care enough, a brief evaluation could pay dividends.

This is the time of year when — in some parts of the world — the temperatures drop and the days are short. It’s a time of settling in, of cozying up, and of hibernating.

But maybe built into this surrounding quiet is an opportunity. A prompt to step out, to take risks, to experiment. After all, even the quietest voices can be heard when all else is silent.

Perhaps the season is encouraging us to venture down new creative paths.

What’s there to lose?

Sociologist William Bruce Cameron once wrote, “Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.”

It’s an adage familiar to many corporations and organizations.

The data matter. But numbers don’t tell a complete story.

We’re surrounded by data and analytics, but some of our most important work will never be measured.

A picture of a painting is not a painting; it’s a translation.

It looks like the painting, but it lacks the depth, texture, and physical qualities of the painting. Its size is different. Its edges are different. Its scent is different.

The photo is a representation, not the thing.

But we become so used to experiencing the translations — in books, in prints, on devices — that we forget we’re looking at avatars.

Find time for the originals. Seek them out. Be with them.

It’s a wholly different experience and fully worth the effort.

Sometimes, you will say something offhandedly and it will stick. It will change someone’s trajectory in significant and unexpected ways.

Other times, you will proudly relay what you feel is of utmost importance. And no one will hear you. Or it will seem that way.

One moment, we are a stone skimming a placid lake … creating ripples that extend to the shoreline.

And another, we are a stone dropped on the desert sands … a thud of a divot to be erased by the wind.

We never know our full effect in this world. We can’t.

But we can lead with intention. And the ripples — the many, many ripples — are worth it. Even those we never see.

We’re too close and too limited to see the grand picture.

C.S. Lewis writes, “We do not know the play. We do not even know whether we are in Act I or Act V.”

As actors, improvisors, and minor authors, our roles are loosely defined. But this mystery is not a burden; it’s a gift. Each moment, an opportunity to play our roles well. Each day, a scene to play with a full heart.

We expect the world to stay the same, and it doesn’t.
We expect the world to change, and it doesn’t.

We expect ourselves to stay the same, and we don’t.
We expect ourselves to change, and we don’t.

Our journey is one of imperfect guesses and shifting expectations.

It has always been.

But even so, over time, we learn to navigate with ever more skill and grace.

Work grows our desire to play.

Relaxation grows our desire to be industrious.

Movement seeks stillness. Stillness seeks movement.

Chaos seeks order. Order seeks chaos.

We often invoke inverses and converses as a way of finding equilibrium.

When you’re in a setting and you feel the pull of its opposite — it’s not because you’re in the wrong place; it’s because we naturally desire balance.

It’s not enough to identify what brings us joy. We need to go further:

To be curious about what brings us joy.

To trust what brings us joy.

To follow what brings us joy.

* * *

We begin by noticing. But then, then we go further.

Every so often, do something that makes you nervous. Dance at the threshold of safety and uncertainty, of strength and vulnerability, of status quo and change.

The nervousness reminds us that we care. And we owe it to ourselves to not just do things that matter to us, but to engage in activities where we care so deeply that our body gives us clues. A quickened heartrate, a catching of the breath, a jittery leg.

Part of the practice is in sharing, presenting, connecting, and taking action. Even when we’re nervous about doing it. Especially when we’re nervous about doing it.

The bit of fear that comes with caring about the outcome — that’s a sign we’re doing meaningful work.

Some give the advice to “blaze your own path.” Be original, independent, one-of-a-kind.

But there’s possibility, too, in following someone else’s path.

Even stepping in another’s exact footsteps, your footsteps will be your own. Your experience will be specific to you. Your way of navigating that path will be your way.

Don’t stall for want of uniqueness. You are unique. Your DNA: unmatched throughout history. Your perspective: singularly your own.

So forge a path or follow one that’s been trod. There’s no wrong choice … because it’s your choice.

Just keep your feet moving.

What the outsider doesn’t understand is that you are the master of your work. You’re the expert. You’re the gatekeeper.

And what others might see as ready or good enough … is only so when you decide.

So let the works-in-progress be works in progress. Don’t be rushed.

Be as swift or as deliberate as the work demands.

Like a bird knows when to migrate, you know when the work is ready to share.

(Even so, don’t wait forever.)

You could spend months studying diligently — running scenarios, assessing risks, predicting outcomes — such that you will be perfectly prepared for one particular step.

Or you could plan thoughtfully, but spend most of that time developing your resilience, your sense of balance, and your ability to adapt.

In the first instance, you’ll be ready for what you’ve anticipated.

In the second, you’ll be ready for anything.

From the brilliant poet, Amanda Gorman. Beautiful words every creative should take to heart:

“I think if I could go back in time and give myself a message, it would be to reiterate that my value as an artist doesn’t come from how much I create. I think that mind-set is yoked to capitalism. Being an artist is about how and why you touch people’s lives, even if it’s one person. Even if that’s yourself, in the process of art-making.”

Amanda Gorman. “7 Questions, 75 Artists, 1 Very Bad Year”, The New York Times 10 March 2021.

H/T Rob M.

Sometimes, the challenging question isn’t how to do a, b, or c. We have information. We have tools and roadmaps. There are books, schools, videos, and mentors. We can figure out how to do it.

No. Sometimes, the challenging question is: What do you want?

Because when we don’t know what we want, a tension exists between endless possibility and our internal need to have purposeful movement. It can feel burdensome.

Happily, the steps and options are no longer infinite once we begin to make choices.

But first, we have to know what we want.

Too much eagerness for what’s beyond the horizon can blind us to the miracle that is this very moment.

Said another way: Don’t miss the beauty of this season for love of the next.

The next right step on your journey might not look anything like your destination.

Actually, in all likelihood, it won’t.