It’s certainly not true in all domains, but sometimes, the paperwork is a luxury. A formality that allows for sorting. A game of who’s-played-the-game and what did they win. A record of a time that has long since passed.

Because you can do a lot of things without permission. A lot of things without formal approval. A lot of things without everyone agreeing that you’re qualified.

You need special training to be a lifeguard; but someone struggling to swim won’t ask for your credentials.

You need a degree to teach art in a high school; but there are no prerequisites for making drawings with your nephew.

You need licensure to practice therapy; but a trusted friend will welcome careful listening and thoughtful advice.

Don’t underestimate yourself just because you might not be fully accredited. There’s much good that you can still do.

Gratitude does not stand alone; it multiples. One realization begets another.

Grateful for this, which is connected to that, which is made possible by this other thing … and it goes on and on.

Startlingly, in dark moments we don’t see any of it.

So we have to be committed: find one thing.

The rest will flow.

Every so often (maybe more often?) put away the red pen. Pause the tendency to find errors, to make judgements, to find corrections, to offer suggestions.

Just accept. Just allow.

Both through the window and in the mirror.

Because there’s a cost to holding the red pen, and we can choose to relieve ourselves of its burden.

I accidentally tipped over a desktop organizer, and its contents evacuated their sections. Pens, pencils, markers, brushes, cutting tools, small dowels, a few lengths of wire — all went sprawling.

I grimaced in surprise.

Then I got to work cleaning up.

As I did, it felt like a gentle reminder. When things fall apart, it’s an opportunity for us to pick up the pieces and reorganize. Maybe even for the better.

A lesson in tools, and a lesson in life.

You can finish strong, even when losing is inevitable.

And it’s possible to win while finishing poorly.

How we choose to play is how we choose to play; it’s separate from whether we ultimately win or lose.

In our time, we see all the things we can do nothing about. High-resolution galleries of problems we have no chance of touching. Exhibits whose lights never dim.

But we can’t resign in despair.

The solution is to bring our focus closer to home. To act locally. To appreciate that our our concern may be global, but that often, our best chances to bring about positive change are within arm’s reach.

When you pause to listen, what do you hear?

… when your attention is directed outward?

… when your attention is directed inward?

What do you hear?

And who are you as you listen? Because each role we play has a different set of ears.

H/T A&K

If you examined every human on the planet, the average number of arms is less than two.

Mathematical averages don’t always convey what’s typical.

And sometimes, knowing the average isn’t even helpful.

Here’s something to do.

Choose something in nature (or from nature) and look at it carefully.

Really carefully.

All of its qualities. All of its details. From every possible angle.

For five minutes. Five full minutes.

Uninterrupted.

Don’t worry. You attend to screens and pages for hours; you won’t miss these five minutes.

But it will feel like a long time.

Because many of us don’t often pause to look — to really look. To establish visual intimacy with an object. To know its physical existence in this world. To appreciate it more fully.

But we could.

Because looking is a skill worthy of continuous development.

One of the principles of juggling is catching what you toss. More strategically, tossing in such a way that you can easily catch what you’ve thrown.

This ends up being a lot like life. We can juggle fluidly, or we can make it challenging.

It’s distinct from now many items we’re juggling at one time. Rather, it’s how we set ourselves up for what we’ll ultimately be resolving.

Said another way: we’re often the architects of our own challenges. Some of our designs are elegant, and others are a mess of our own making.

With any periodic, ongoing activity, we have choices: stop, continue, or adjust.

Habits, streaks, commitments … aside from the most legally binding obligations, we have options. Assuming we’re not incarcerated or otherwise held hostage, we get to choose whether to continue.

This does not have to be a daily debate. For instance, we can begin a daily meditation practice and we don’t have to second-guess the choice each morning. Instead, we can intentionally maintain the habit — even slipping into autopilot regarding its continuation.

But every activity (healthy or otherwise) merits occasional review. The question, “Is this serving me well?” is an excellent starting point. When the answer is anything but yes, it’s a good time to carefully and thoughtfully consider our options.

It’s tempting to put a lot of effort into planning extraordinary experiences.

But so much of the good life is found through ordinary experiences spent with extraordinary people.

How you handle the feedback can have a more lasting effect than the act that earned its response.

“Do you want to go for a walk???”

This phrase — along with me getting my shoes — elevates our dog’s excitement to a near ten. It’s about same effect as using the word, “treat.”

Not that we’re dogs, but certainly, we should organize our lives such that we can have this kind of joyous anticipation. Regularly.

We often work intentionally to see things clearly. Clarity feels virtuous in this way.

It also suggests singularity.

But what happens when we work instead to see things differently? To intentionally unsettle our point of view? Not just to be open, but to have an active curiosity about diverse perspectives. To exercise seeing differently in the same way we’d develop a skill.

It’s not forgetting our initial perspective. Rather, it’s about exploring other angles. Like investigating the underside of a table. Or clearing a room entirely to see it plainly for the first time in years.

* * *

When we change how we see, the world changes indeed.

Like a slow-working marinade, we can begin to take on the characteristics of our surroundings.

But there is another possibility.

We can cultivate from within. We ourselves can be the agent of change.

After a heavy storm, many light branches and sticks littered our yard and street. My wife and I gave our youngest son an opportunity: ten cents per stick. A simple chore, a little lesson in labor and earning.

Turns out, the parents were the ones who were going to be learning.

After collecting what he determined to be $20 worth of sticks, we realized there were some details that should have been clarified from the start:

1. You can’t break sticks in half to double their value.

2. You can’t collect sticks from other people’s yards.

3. You can’t collect sticks from down the street.

4. We’re not considering 2-inch twigs “sticks”. (Though we resolved that five twigs shorter than 6-inches would be valued as one full stick.)

The final payment hasn’t been made; the various parties and representatives are still in negotiations.

Our lesson in employment turned out to be a lesson in contracts, terms, and conditions.

With a ten-year-old.

Details matter.

When ideas are scarce, it’s often not a problem of source; it’s a problem of flow.

That is, we sometimes filter ideas before they even draw breath. We’re so stringent, so quick to judge, so ready to delete — that the air remains void.

Like our generative minds are quieted with each nascent offering.

The practice then, is to relax and release. To allow. To open the conduits.

Some of the better ideas become evident when we allow even the weaker ideas a bit of space.

The introduction to Parker J. Palmer’s 25th anniversary edition of Let your Life Speak includes this salient passage:

“I’ve learned more from my missteps and defeats than from my successes. When I succeed, I do little more than congratulate myself. When I fail, I slow down and think, trying to learn what I can about myself and the world in hope of not making that kind of mistake again.”

It resonated.

Any one of us can work to avoid repeating mistakes. The wise choose to do so through the lens of humility, curiosity, and discovery.

A stumble near the finish can be devastating — not just because the possibility of victory evaporates, but because our perspective shifts. One trip-up and we become failure-focused. Gone from our mind are the early wins, the hard-won triumphs, the whole history of our achievements. A stumble can leave us fully focused on loss and defeat.

Honor the feelings that come from disappointment. But then recall the journey. Celebrate its arc. Remember the highlights.

Don’t dismiss the entire day just because you didn’t get the sunset you wanted.