Despite its many wonders, the human body probably wouldn’t earn a five-star review.

For one, there’s not a definitive user manual. That’s a problem.

Plus, reliability is inconsistent.

And there’s no warranty.

There are countless manufacturers and an enigmatic parent company …

And yet the body can heal itself. It can self-moderate. It can accomplish remarkable feats. It can surprise and delight.

* * *

Like many things, the reviews will be mixed; some see problems while others see perfection. Because how we see shapes what we see.

You could spend a lot of time looking through a phone screen — waiting for a spark of inspiration.

And maybe it will come.

But spending just a little time looking through a window screen might be a better bet.

It doesn’t always insist that we pay attention, but when we do, nature delivers.

Don’t exhaust yourself talking about the problem.

(Remember that you have to save some energy for figuring out the solution.)

Child: “Look! I drew a rainbow!”

Parent: “Oh, sweetie. We don’t need it. See? That’s been done before. Besides, just Google it. I’m sure you’ll find just what you want — and even better than you could do it.”

* * *

No one actually says this (hopefully not, anyway).

However, as children grow, the message, “Don’t bother; it’s been done,” certainly begins to creep in.

But remember: sometimes the output isn’t nearly as valuable as having participated in the process of its creation.

One way to begin: read some books, take some notes, draw some pictures.

Go to school, of course.

Then, you might take a job as a secretary. Or as a waitress. Or maybe you could work as an assistant at a film production company.

Your work might then finance a 6,800-mile journey to study exotic animals in their natural habitats — a childhood dream of yours.

And you’d be Jane Goodall.

* * *

No one is born Jane Goodall.

No one follows a logical path that leads to being Jane Goodall.

One becomes Jane Goodall. As she did.

And the early work might seem completely separate.

Except that it’s not.

AI-generated art is everywhere. It’s accessible, immediate, and infinite.

But it’s inherently flat. Soulless.

It has its place, but its place is not everywhere.
It has its use, but its use is not for everything.
It has its value, but its value is not rare.

There are times — many times — when it’s worth insisting on humanness. On embracing methods that take time. On valuing provenance.

We can resist flattening. We can see the beauty in imperfection. We can delight in slow work.

And we might develop a new appreciation for ideas, images, and sounds whose generation doesn’t require signals, servers, or screens.

If you’re stuck (or you have the feeling of being stuck) it’s easy to get caught up in your thoughts. And all that rumination — about what to do, or where to go, or what the future holds — all that can keep you just as stuck as anything else.

But sometimes, direction needs to be secondary. Step one is getting unstuck. Even just a little.

A bit of movement is where we begin. Where we direct ourselves can come after we get moving.

I recall hearing chef Bobby Flay talking about the various sauces he created for his burger restaurants.

The one thing he doesn’t mess with? Ketchup.

For regular tomato ketchup, he serves Heinz. As he explained (I’m paraphrasing), “They do it just right. I can’t improve on that.”

Surely he experimented in his kitchen. But in the end, he decided his own version wasn’t better. (And he didn’t push his in-house product onto customers.)

It takes an innovator to try new things, to expand the boundaries, to subvert the status quo.

It takes a master to know where and when invention is unnecessary.

Sometimes, you won’t be able to win someone over.

It’s unfair. It’s unjust. It doesn’t make sense.

And it’s out of your control.

It doesn’t matter that you’re nice, or that you’re likeable, or that you’ve done nothing wrong.

You’re just fighting a losing battle.

So after you’ve given it a try, and maybe tried again … it’s time to move on.

Because at some point, time trying to make sense of the thorns will come at the expense of spending time with the good soil.

How we truly feel is often revealed in the telling of the story.

Not in thinking. Or in writing. Or in our internal monologue. Or even in speaking aloud when we’re alone.

But rather, in telling our story to others, as they listen and witness.

Conversation becomes the stage on which our emotions are revealed.

Years from now — or maybe even sooner — what seems like a chore today could easily become an impossible dream that you’d long to experience once again.

See the beauty in the everyday. It will not last forever.

I arrived at the office the other day and noticed a former employee pulling into the parking lot. Instead of parking, he made a U-turn, and left.

Turns out, he had been operating on auto-pilot that morning. Five years of working at the same place, and two weeks after leaving, he was still grooved in the old pattern.

It’s a familiar experience.

Whether we change our address, or our mindset, or our habits … old ways have the potential to linger. It can be easy to absentmindedly revert, or relapse, or slip back into previous modes.

Sometimes this is an opportunity to gently coach ourselves. Other times, it’s just a moment to laugh.

Chasing the leader isn’t always a healthy endeavor.

It can help us to stretch, but it maps us to someone else’s position, not to our own capabilities.

On the flip side of things, bottom-calibration isn’t a good plan either. The better-than-the-worst position might keep you from being singled out, but that’s a downward cycle. And you’re better than second-to-last.

Besides, if that weakest link ends up being removed, where does that leave you?

Exercise caution in comparing yourself to others. As ever, the useful comparison is usually to yesterday’s version of you.

I was stopped in a line of cars as a three-truck crew painted lines on a roadway. The last truck was fully stopped; it seemed to have the job of regulating traffic. One impatient driver tried to get around the jam. He drove over some freshly painted lines, and having no space to advance, just stopped.

An operator exited the truck, walked to the back of the vehicle, and, exasperated, pointed to the flashing lights and large signs that read, “WET PAINT. DO NOT PASS.”

Sometimes all the signs are there, right in front of us.

And still, we just can’t seem to take them seriously.

If you have trouble letting others do things, the problem probably isn’t with the quality of others’ work. The problem is more likely with your ability to collaborate, to relinquish control, to mentor, or to manage — or maybe it’s a mix of these.

Rarely is it because everyone else is incompetent.

There’s nothing quite like telling old stories with old friends to remind you of who you are and who you love.

In many ways, such a gathering becomes a homecoming — no matter where you travel to meet.

The world is more or less beautiful.

So the question becomes: is it more beautiful, or less beautiful … because of our contribution?

My guess is that it’s more beautiful.

And — we can act intentionally to make certain.

Last night, while I was walking my dog, a car backfired. It was a long way off and barely audible. But my dog took notice and his anxiety went to work.

Instead of our usual route, he took an immediate hard turn, pulling me straight back to the house. I tried to coax him on, reassuring him it was safe. But he had made up his mind: we were headed back home.

The experience reminded me of how sometimes, just a little hint of fear can turn us toward home where it’s safe — and where we can hide.

A rejected paper. A lukewarm reception. A critical review. A reactionless post.

These can easily short-circuit our confidence.

But sometimes the noise is just the noise.

Sometimes, we need to tell ourselves, “We can keep going. We’re safe. We don’t need to turn back.”

To sign up for creativity is to sign up for messy.

Creation itself — as ordered as it is — is messy.

And of course, we can (and should) create order.

But we need to make room for messes, too.

When we’re able to sink in, it’s a good thing.

When we feel like we’re sinking, it doesn’t feel good at all.

In the former, we have a sense of home. A sense of grounding. We’re comfortably present.

In the latter, we have none of that — only an increasing sense of overwhelm.

Curiously, one of the ways to overcome the feeling of sinking is by sinking into something.