Some problems are too complex and too invasive to correct. They will be with us forever.

Knowing that … accepting that … we still work to make things better. We still seek solutions. We still fight for small wins.

Because giving up is not what we do.

We do our part to fight for what is right — even if we will never see the victories for ourselves.

As the saying goes, we’re planting trees in whose shade we will never sit.

I’m lucky to have access to a lot of nice tools and materials.

But the most creative fun I’ve had over the past couple of days employed leftover cardboard, discounted acrylic paint, and four cheap brushes I found in a cup beside our utility sink.

Joy has much more to do with focus, engagement, and interest — and much less to do with the presumed quality of our tools and materials.

It’s the making that matters to the heart.

Is now, and will be forever.
Are now, and will be forever.

Is not now, but will be.
Am not now, but will be.
Have not been, but will be.

* * *

Like passengers transferring trains on a busy platform, countless details shift between fixed and moving. Between what was, what is, and what will be.

Part of our challenge is to navigate these spaces without losing heart.

The good and the bad — both can fade away, both can spring anew.

In the meantime, we can (if we choose) be hopeful passengers.

The blank page is a beautiful thing. Endless potential. Brimming opportunity.

But. Don’t always feel compelled to fill it. We need space, too.

We can learn from the silence.

Even in the emptiness, there is fullness and completion.

The journey outward often opens interior doors.

Sometimes we have to travel far and not find what we’re seeking — to realize that what we were looking for, we already have.

Put simply, what we seek may already be within.

Whether you’ve just won, or you’ve just lost, tomorrow’s task is the same: begin again.

There’s no joy in a technical victory. In claiming a seat in an uncontested race. In winning by an opponent’s forfeit. In pocketing a lopsided matchup.

Happiness, maybe. But not thrill. Not elation.

The path to real satisfaction always involves risk.

And so the best victories are hard-won. They’re sweetest because they were never guaranteed.

If you’re inclined to protest a certain injustice, you might repost a meme.

Alternatively, you could:

• Paint a mural.

• Take out a full-page ad.

• Found a non-profit enterprise.

• Plan a performance.

• Organize an event.

• Embroider a flag.

• Tell a long story with “full orchestration and five-part harmony” … once it comes around on the guitar.

When there’s inequity, the followers follow, the lawyers litigate, the writers write, the comedians tell jokes, and the artists — the artists make art.

The act of making is itself a protest, regardless of our personal, social, and political leanings. Art stands in contrast to entropy, apathy and the exaltation of utility. It is our contribution.

If you’re a baker who creates exquisite cakes, you might appreciate the story of a special occasion where your product was seen for its beauty, savored for its taste, and remembered for its contribution.

You might not enjoy hearing that your creation became a smash cake or that a clumsy attendant helped your fondant find the dancefloor en masse.

But this is the nature of what we produce.

Once the work leaves our studio, once the job gets shipped, once the words leave our mouths — we relinquish control. The story continues on. To maintain influence after it’s left us is like trying to catch a ripple.

Even with lawyers and contracts, the work outlives our intentions for it.

The beauty is that sometimes, it becomes greater than we had imagined.

If there’s too much pressure in the balloon, it will burst.

You might take control of the timing and pop it yourself.

Or you might carefully let some air out.

Then again, you could just let go of the sting.

Even when tensions are at their peak, we always have options.

Perfect form doesn’t guarantee perfect results. Outcomes rely on judgement, skill, and the choices we make.

A haiku can have the right number of lines and syllables … and express little insight.

A gymnast can make a flawless tumbling run … and land out of bounds.

A speaker can deliver a stellar keynote … and be speaking to the wrong audience.

Form is only part of what we do. And usually, it’s not the most important thing.

When we perform well, it’s often difficult to articulate exactly what we did. Things sometimes fall into place, or feel natural, or a sense of calm and flow takes over. It’s hard to explain in many words.

When we perform poorly, however, we can list the errors in great detail. All the little missteps shine brightly. I did this, and then this, and then I missed that part, and then …

Strangely, when we happen upon that level of awareness when we’re doing well, it can throw us off. The details can disrupt our natural rhythm.

Part of showing up as the best version of ourselves means amplifying focus, attention, and presence, while turning down the part of our brain that’s wired to obsess over exactitude, technique, and judgement.

It’s a careful balance.

At no point in our lives are we so locked-in that we cannot lose our way.

But with an ongoing practice of reconnecting to our guiding principles, we’ll never be lost for long.

“Certainty is a feeling, not a fact.”

When we don’t have that feeling of certainty, we can begin to question. Maybe even fixating on questions of “What if?” And those questions are the seeds of imagined catastrophe.

However, asking “What if?” can be one of our most valuable creative tools.

Pairing our feelings of uncertainty with pessimism, doubt, apprehension, and worry is a cocktail to be avoided.

But pairing uncertainty with curiosity, discovery, possibility, and play — that’s what it is to make art.

If you need to, stop everything. Go as quickly as you can to a nearby museum. Or go to the botanical gardens. Or the library. Or the corner where there’s usually a busker.

When we’re critically ill, we know to seek immediate medical attention. But when we’re creatively deprived, do we tend to that need? Do we seek a balm? Do we recognize the risks of ignoring that void?

Because it’s no small thing. It can be serious and it can be urgent.

Early in the morning while the house was still dark, I heard urgent footfalls on the steps and the front door opening. Light was barely breaking and it was nine degrees Fahrenheit outside.

What I discovered: my daughter had woken, noticed the orange-pink sunrise, and left the warmth of her bed. She went directly outside to get a proper look.

Sacrificing personal comfort to witness beauty in nature — it’s a sign of a good heart.

Last week, completely unintentionally, I repeated a post. I chalked it up to some mental disorganization. Years ago, this would have caused panic. These days, I’m happy to say I’m quicker to give myself some grace.

Nonetheless, I wrote another blog entry that day (February 12th) and posted it to the site. If you’re an email subscriber and didn’t catch it, it’s copied below.

True to the spirit of the post, it bears repeating.

* * *

February 12, 2025

Repetition

We repeat because others don’t hear the first time. Or they forget. Or they forget they’ve forgotten.

And we repeat because we’re forgetful too. Even of our own words and wisdom.

But with enough repetition, our souls will allow an imprint.

* * *

H/T Erin

The advice for navigating ice is to walk flat-footed with your center of gravity over your front leg, arms slightly out for balance, shuffling like a penguin.

In practice, this looks pretty dumb.

But striding normally, slipping, falling, and breaking a bone is not a better plan — even if it avoids an embarrassing penguin-walk.

Training your hardest and posting the slowest time. Workshopping new stand-up material. Learning to ride a bicycle. Hip mobility exercises.

Looking dumb — if we even call it that — is often a label applied to activities that are actually beneficial in the long run. Sometimes, short-term awkwardness is exactly what leads to long-term improvement.

Sometimes we solve problems that are not ours to solve.

And we solve other problems that aren’t really problems.

With the little time that we have in this world, isn’t it better for us to focus where we ought?

Successful and significant are not the same thing; you can certainly be one without the other.

Of the two, the latter is more worthy of our pursuit.

H/T Terrence