Sometimes a dish is extraordinary — not because of its sameness, but because of its contrast. Creamy and crunchy. Salty and sweet. Warm and cool. The little bursts of concentrated flavor. The edges that crisped just right.
Not every bite is better than the last. It’s the standouts — the surprising ones — that make the whole dish memorable.
Life is a lot like this. By definition, not everything can be extraordinary.
But — just as we dwell with the best bites — we can savor the sweetest moments.
“Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.” So said Eleanor Roosevelt.
But I imagine — with her quick wit — even The First Lady of the World might have conceded that some of the best stories involve quirky neighbors, childhood mishaps, and the funny moments people create.
Ideas, events, people — they all belong.
We forget to rename ourselves. Outside of formal programs and job titles, there aren’t many mile markers.
It’s easy to know when you’re a beginner. But when have you practiced enough to call yourself a poet? A painter? A magician? A practitioner?
The truth is, we often step into these identities long before the titles feel right — because that’s how we grow into them.
But eventually, there comes a moment when we can let language clothe us in what we’ve quietly become.
Don’t become dysfunctional because of someone else’s dysfunction.
Struggle can be gravitational. Even when we’re careful, we can get pulled into someone else’s problem. At best, it takes our attention. At worst, it hijacks our emotions — and our behavior.
Like watching a storm on the horizon, we need to make sure we’re sheltered and anchored.
Listen to how they say it.
If it’s their name or their company … they’re right.
Even if you don’t agree.
Even if it breaks convention.
When it comes to how people pronounce what is theirs, it’s best to suspend our own judgment.
We don’t learn to sculpt; we learn to think three-dimensionally.
We don’t learn to paint; we learn to think with color and tone.
We don’t learn to write; we learn to think with words.
Often, what we learn to do shapes how we learn to think.
Overprovisioning is a practice in computer storage design: beyond the space you can use, there’s a little extra. That extra — the overprovisioning — creates flexibility, improves performance, and makes repairs possible.
At first glance, it can feel like sleight of hand. If the device has 214 units, why does the label say 200?
But it isn’t deception. It’s design, pragmatism — even a bit of generosity.
The hidden extra is what allows the visible portion to thrive.
We’re no different; the margin we preserve is often what keeps everything running.
In a 1963 essay, civil rights activist Fannie Lou Hamer wrote these powerful words:
“Sometimes it seem like to tell the truth today is to run the risk of being killed. But if I fall, I’ll fall five feet four inches forward in the fight for freedom. I’m not backing off.”
Today’s fight for freedom has different contours. But may we all carry that five-foot-four-inch resolve.
Not every half-baked idea deserves tossing.
Some of them just need more time in the oven.
Sometimes, even a good carpet can’t fix an uneven floor.
Sometimes, even good software can’t mask failing hardware.
Sometimes, even good acting can’t rescue weak writing.
Layers tend to work in one direction. And we can easily burn a lot of energy trying to fix the part that isn’t broken.
Nearly two years ago, I hung a painting on my office wall — a print I bought from SFMOMA. Seeking a slight shift in energy, I moved the painting to an adjacent wall.
The next day, two colleagues commented on it. “Is it new?”
Discovery and appreciation are often just a slight turn in a new direction.
I watched two friends making their way across a grassy park. The one with a cane said, “I just can’t hurry.”
She moved carefully, deliberately — and cheerfully. She knew her limits and was content to keep her own pace.
There’s the pace of the world, and there’s our own pace. They meet now and then, but most days, we’re better off knowing which one is ours.
Walking through a market, I caught a glimpse of a former colleague I hadn’t seen in years. I doubled back to say hello.
She said, “I just told my friend, ‘I don’t think he recognizes me.’”
The truth is, I recognized her instantly. But I almost didn’t see her.
* * *
We cannot recognize what we do not see. And even with eyes open, there are entire worlds that we will still miss.
Some people have an easy time forgiving themselves, but they’re reluctant to forgive others.
And others are quick to forgive, except when it involves forgiving themselves.
Do you lean more one way or the other?
Because if we can do either, we can do both.
And together, that could make a remarkable difference.
Whether it’s cloudy, raining, or inky black, the sun is always there.
It may be hidden behind dense cloud cover. It may be on the other side of the planet.
But it still shines.
Whether we recall its presence — that’s our part.
Too often, we think of creative projects like scripted speeches.
A better way is to think of them as conversations.
We don’t always know where they will lead. So instead of reading the next word, we engage and respond. Back and forth, following new streams and runlets … together. Not dictating creation, but collaborating with it.
A friend shared an amusing thought after a playful disagreement with his children about growing old:
“My only regret is that I’ll be dead by the time I’d be able to tell them, ‘I told you so!’”
Silly in one sense, but it does point to a larger truth.
We’re right about many things that others will dispute — and we’re not guaranteed the satisfaction of vindication.
So, knowing that we know will have to suffice.
“I told you so” can feel satisfying, but “I know that I know” has lasting resonance.
As I looked at the alto saxophone’s left pinky key-cluster, I could see something was amiss. (These keys are not supposed to be double-jointed.)
Unable to diagnose the problem through observation and tinkering, I looked to the internet for help. Luckily, I found great advice:
Don’t attempt to fix an instrument that doesn’t belong to you.
Don’t try to fix it if you have to ask, “How do I fix this?” Saxophones are complicated, and learning to fix them isn’t something you do on the internet.
And with that, I put the instrument in its case. It will go to the technician.
* * *
I look to the internet often for repair advice. I can often find generous experts offering step-by-step instructions.
But it’s also a good idea to know when you’re potentially in over your head.
Calling in an expert isn’t giving up. Sometimes, it’s exactly the right move.
There’s the palette knife from Tim. A set of combination wrenches from my dad. Some calipers from Scotty’s grandfather. An oversized screwdriver from Mr. Fisher. A mallet that Jason turned.
Most of the tools in my shop have a story. I can trace their origin. I can reflect on how long they’ve been with me.
Likewise, with our skills and abilities — sometimes we know their source. Lessons and learnings from parents, teachers, mentors, and friends.
Sometimes we know who taught us how to tie a knot. Or who explained color theory. Who modeled careful listening. Who told us about compound interest. Or how to make pecan tassies. Or how to be humble.
We can’t always know. Some of who we are and what we know develops organically and without signature. But when we do know, it can easily be sweetly sentimental.
When you carry a cup upside down, regardless of its availability, you won’t collect much water.
Likewise with us. To receive, to accept, to be filled … it starts by carrying ourselves in a certain way.
