The time I think this is not the time I write this.

The time I write this is not the time you read this.

The time you read this is not the time you act on this.

We live in asynchronicity.

Ancient words may choose today to take root in your heart.

And some of today’s words may only make sense years from now.

Be patient. Everything in its time.

In some situations, “low” prompts immediate attention. In others, it’s an early warning. In still others, it’s part of the natural cycle of things, and nothing needs to be done.

In our personal lives, it takes some knowledge to recognize whether a low indicator is normal, or if it’s a problem that needs to be addressed (and how soon).

Listen to your small creative voice.

When you have the impetus to doodle, doodle. When you feel like humming, hum. When a side-project draws your attention, attend to it. When you want to make a little something or other, make a little something or other.

Because our small creative voice is a tender threshold between what is now and what could be. It’s a gentle invitation into a grander conversation. When we honor it, it rewards us with a deeper connection to possibility. Like a window into a new world, the first step is to peer through its frame.

My flight home was delayed by an hour. The woman sitting next to me was unsure if she would make her connection; she was nearly convinced she’d miss her next flight as a result of the delay.

Reviewing the arrival and departure times, it would be close.

After a reasonable amount of fretting and fussing (the passenger’s, not mine) I offered — in a kind, gentle way — some truth:

“You can spend the next three hours worried and stressed, or you can trust that when we land, you’ll be able to figure out what you need to do.”

Her posture changed and she seemed to relax.

Three hours later, she thanked me, then hurried off as the cabin door opened.

Plans will go pear-shaped from time to time. We don’t have to allow our minds to do the same.

On recent business trip, my colleague’s hotel room didn’t have any hot water. My room, however, had the opposite problem: I didn’t have any cold water. (The shower was scalding and nearly impossible to use.)

Similar to the more difficult situations in this world, it’s not a matter of resources, or availability, or even the willingness to cooperate and share. It’s a complex problem of distribution.

At an unfamiliar restaurant with a crowded bar, we had to ask a server, “Excuse me. Where’s the restroom?” (We hadn’t found it on our own.)

“Oh, it’s easy to miss. Go around the corner and you’ll see kind of a secret hallway. It’s there.”

We later learned: the facilities are unmarked and difficult to locate. The servers had even asked the owner, “Can we please install a sign so that people can find the bathroom?”

The answer: “No. This gives customers more opportunities to interact with the staff.”

Understandably, especially on busy nights, neither staff nor customer appreciate the exchange.

* * *

Sometimes what we find to be annoying and frustrating — is actually what someone else had thought would be a good idea.

“By design” is not guaranteed to be a positive outcome for all.

Our interactions with others are rarely pure, as though built on a blank slate.

Instead, we often pick up where someone else left off. That is, we experience the leftovers of that previous interaction.

So the question might not be, “What did I do?” but rather, “What happened right before I arrived?”

Having a sense of this might not fix every difficult encounter (it won’t) but having perspective helps.

I joked with the nursing staff about something clever I might put into the patient response, should the healthcare group send me a survey.

They laughed and said, “Oh, do it! We read survey responses at our weekly staff meetings! That would be amazing!”

I was surprised to hear this, but also encouraged. So many organizations distribute surveys. I often wonder who reads the responses, how they’re processed, and what comes of it.

Surely many surveys are aggregated and put into colorful charts for the C-suites and managers.

But in some places, the comments are read. What a great opportunity to be thoughtful, generous, and intentional in our writing.

Each time I glanced at the clock on the wall, the meeting felt longer.

After 45 minutes (and maybe my third time checking) I realized that the minute hand hadn’t moved at all; the clock had a dead battery.

Time can seem fleeting. Other times, it can drag on.

And sometimes, it’s really just a dead battery that causes our suffering.

The lesson: our emotions can be highly influenced by what time we think it is — regardless of the actual time.

When we sing “happy birthday” we sing it together, as a group.

It’s shared sentiment.

Do we individually have identical thoughts and feelings? No.

But we don’t each take turns singing a solo version. We sing it in unison.

Sometimes it’s not about us in particular; it’s about all of us together.

You could walk at night for a long time without once looking up to see the moon and stars.

You could stare at the moon and stars for a long time without once watching where you’re walking.

You could stare ahead for a long time without once diverting your gaze in any other direction.

* * *

Look down, look up, look ahead, and look around. There’s a time for each; none is exclusively paramount.

Having prepared is not the same as arriving prepared. That is, the long prep is not the same as the short prep.

Standing at the starting line of a 10K in your running shoes is being prepared. It’s not the same as having followed months of a training protocol.

Mustering courage and focus is being prepared. It’s not the same as having rehearsed and fine-tuned the performance.

Sharpening your Number 2 pencil is being prepared. It’s not the same as having studied for the test.

Preparation comes in many forms. Being really good at the short prep rarely compensates for having ignored the long prep.

There’s a lot of ritual, tradition, and protocol involved when the Catholic church selects a new pope. Part of this includes a conclave of electors sequestered in the Sistine Chapel. Before the doors are sealed, one of the prelates announces, “Extra omnes.” (Or sometimes, exeunt omnes.) That is, “Everybody out.” Only the voting cardinals remain.

This concept — everybody [else] out — is useful.

What happens when we (for a time) dismiss those who aren’t involved in the heart of the work? Or when we expel negative thoughts from our mind? Or when we politely distance ourselves from those who don’t believe in our endeavors? Or when we remove distractions? Or when we clear away what’s not useful?

When we oust all but what’s essential — be it physical, mental, or emotional — we create sacred space for the work at hand.

We often round for simplicity.

9.8 is a 10.
7.7 is an 8.
4.2 is a 4.

It’s easier this way.

And it’s tempting to start believing that the partials don’t count.

Four tenths? That’s not even half. It’s lost in rounding. Maybe not worth counting.

But do that 0.4 every day for a month, and it’s a cumulative twelve. And that’s not nothing.

There are always exceptions, but there are many areas were partials are plenty.

Or at least a start.

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.