You can feel alone. Abandoned. Ignored.

Or you can feel accompanied. Connected. Loved.

Our world is often what we choose to see.

And, of course, the story we tell ourselves.

It’s possible to lose track of who we are. To completely lose our bearings. As though we’ve just woken up in the cockpit and the plane has been on autopilot.

It’s also possible to be fully aware of who we are and where we are. To feel and to know that we are right where we’re supposed to be. Where we want to be.

These two states can happen in a single season.

They can happen in a single day.

Having a gentle, judgement-free conversation about this — with ourselves — can help with the navigation.

Note where you are. Note how it fits. Don’t judge; just be curious.

Judgement bears a burden. Gossip, resentment, annoyance — these things have a cumulative weight. And unfortunately, it can be easy to fall into these modes.

Like a poor diet, the health effects aren’t usually immediate. Rather, they reveal themselves after we’ve developed long-standing patterns.

Then, the corrective work — should we choose to engage with it — takes time and serious commitment.

For other: “I want you to hear this.”

For self: “I need to hear myself say this.”

Even when the topic is not ourselves, what we say so often has to do with our own needs. So much that we don’t always concern ourselves with whether anyone is even listening.

We’ve heard the good advice: choose your battles.

This is helpful in our personal relationships, in our work interactions, and in our general engagement with the world.

And. We should choose our internal battles, too.

Some parts of our interior are not worth resisting; it’s not worth the fight.

(Even as I write this, I can feel myself squirm. Can I really accept what I consider a personal flaw? Can I say, “I’m not going to attend to that?” It’s not a comfortable feeling.)

This is not to say: abandon self-improvement.

Rather, it’s a caution: all battles have a cost. Even internal battles. We can’t fight all of them. We can remain aware of the issues, but we don’t always have to fight.

Remember: the reason we don’t fight every battle is so we can address the battles that are indeed worth fighting — external and internal.

When we ignore minor flaws and shoddy workmanship, things can appear to be finely crafted. Even when they’re not. There’s a clever phrase: “If you squint, it’s mint.”

And at times, there are good reasons for allowing a margin of slop.

But there’s a place, too, for precision and craft.

It’s the opposite of squinting. It’s: the closer you look, the more delighted you are by the exquisite attention to detail.

That kind of care doesn’t come with its own clever phrase.

We’ve recently had a run of storms: thunder, lightning, rain, high winds.

Monday morning, the skies were clear and blue, and the wet grass seemed greener than usual. The spring foliage seemed brighter than usual.

And maybe it was. But mostly, it was in contrast to the recent gray, dreariness.

Even more than the change itself, our own perspective changes how we experience what surrounds us.

* * *

We naturally notice difference. We’re attuned to shifts in patterns. We spot variations.

And this is a good thing. Even in dark times. We’re not gloom-seekers, but we can certainly be grateful for the way shadows make bright moments all the more glorious.

There’s a Spanish idiom that goes like this: “Camarón que se duerme, se lo lleva la corriente.”

The literal translation is: “A shrimp that falls asleep is carried away by the current.”

Many say that it’s the equivalent of “Don’t let opportunity pass you by,” or, “You snooze, you lose.”

But I think it’s more of a cautionary tale. And one we should heed.

If we don’t pay attention, it’s easy to just go with the flow. To follow wherever the culture shifts. To passively agree with whatever the group seems to think. To let the current carry us.

And there are certainly times to allow. To release. To let ourselves relax into the natural movement of things.

But we do so with intention, with timing, and with context.

Not as sleeping shrimp.

Because sometimes, we swim against the tide for good reason.

* * *

H/T Georgia

Every so often, attend a new event: a sport you haven’t watched, a competition you’ve never seen, an unfamiliar spectator event.

These occasions are excellent opportunities to learn, to be curious, and even to ask questions.

They’re also great reminders: we have individual areas of expertise. Some have dedicated years to learning a craft that others don’t even know exists.

We are all human and we’re incredibly diverse. The center of one’s interest may be far outside the scope of another.

So go explore. Be a newcomer. Enjoy the lessons.

We are people who often keep watch — even when there’s little we can do in the meantime.

We watch. We wait.

As though we’re preparing ourselves internally while the eternal elements organize themselves.

What is it you’re waiting for?

Imagine walking toward a bus stop. You’re still a good ways off, and the bus is about to depart. There are a few different thoughts you might have:

• I have to catch this bus.

• If I miss this bus, I’ll just catch the next one.

• This is the last bus, but I don’t mind walking.

• I’m going to miss the bus; I didn’t want to go anyway.

Each of these attitudes will result in different feelings. They each will elicit a different response. Our understanding of the situation, paired with our expectations, sets the level of drive (or panic).

* * *

In our daily work and our seasonal endeavors, we slot into these different modes. Much of it depends on our worldview and what we believe about opportunity.

If we think there’s a constant schedule of buses, we’ll respond differently than if we think there’s only one bus and we’re about to miss it.

We can’t live in constant “this is my one and only chance” mode. Likewise, it’s foolish to think that opportunities are plentiful, regular, and infinite.

Part of our challenge is figuring out the balance between hustle and rest, between impassioned drive and grace-filled release.

Sometimes, we seek something different, compared to what someone is offering. We want different response. A different attitude. A different way of engaging.

Other times, what we actually seek is for someone to be a different kind of person, compared to who they are. We want a different sensibility. A different natural tendency. A different personality.

Said another way, “I want you to act differently,” versus, “I want you to be a different person.”

There’s only room for negotiation in one of these situations.

Yes, we can sometimes convince people to change their mind. It’s not as likely that we will be able to change who they are — and certainly not in the short term.

Plan accordingly and measure your expectations.

The world has changed remarkably in the last 20 years. Locally, globally, personally, professionally. Fashion, technology, politics. In so many ways, we are all different people than we were twenty years ago. Perhaps even just five years ago. We’re the same, and we’re different. But change is constant, and over time, change is dramatic.

Yet some things can remain steadfast over time, if we choose. Our attitudes. Our habits. Our sense of humor. Parts of our personality.

And when we’re lucky, our commitments to each other.

Today, my wife and I celebrate twenty years of marriage. In April 2005, we promised faithfulness and love — in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad. We’ve indeed experienced all of that. Together.

It’s a blessing upon blessings.

This blog post can’t contain all the love I feel.

May the streaks you cherish also endure.

You could be stuck. Or waiting. Or hiding.

Perhaps you need help. Or maybe you’re just taking a rest.

There are many reasons for being still.

Stillness might not be a problem; it might be the goal.

There’s a Welsh phrase that goes: “I’ll be there now in a minute.”

It’s akin to: “I’ll be there soon but I don’t know how soon,” or “I’m on my way but I’m not there yet.”

It plays with time. It leans toward mutual flexibility. It loosens expectations, but just a little.

And it’s delightful.

Part of life is learning to live with our own decisions.

The other part is learning to live with the decisions of others.

Both are necessary. Both can challenge us.

“I was fine up until …”

Isn’t this often the case?

We have skills. Knowledge. Patience. Judgement. Perspective.

All in different capacities and all at various levels.

And we’re good.

Until we’re not.

Because some situations stretch beyond our internal resources.

Perhaps it’s a game and we end up losing.

Or an area of study and we get lost.

Or a challenging interaction and we lose our temper.

Or a new question and we don’t know the answer.

Those “up until” moments are what challenge us the most. They’re the points where we get to exercise our composure and resilience. They’re tests — big and small — that remind us: we have limits.

And yet.

We always get to follow “up until” with our version of “and then …”

Sometimes we feel like we’re helping, but we’re not.

Sometimes we’re helping, but it doesn’t feel like it.

Our feelings, our actions, and the outcomes do not always track together.

Panic has a way of playing midwife to disaster.

When we react in fear, we sometimes accelerate toward the very thing we’re trying to avoid.

Remember: when we hit turbulence, the solution is not to jump out of the plane.

I spoke to an investment advisor who explained part of his role in this way:

“A lot of what I do is to help people manage fear and greed.”

Zero risk also means zero growth. Total risk could result in total loss.

The consideration feels appropriate for many situations.

As with many things, the wise spot is somewhere between the extremes.