In the 2024 animated film, That Christmas, Santa (voiced by Brian Cox) offers this thoughtful reflection:

“I always think that Christmas is a bit like an emotional magnifying glass. If you feel loved and happy, Christmas will make you feel even happier and more loved. But if you feel alone and unloved, the magnifier gets to work and makes all those bad things bigger and worse.”

Holidays can be beautiful — and challenging.
Joy and sadness often arrive together.

Wherever we are, the emotions tend to amplify.

However it lands for you, listen to your heart.
Go gently.

Learn from the rock — strong and enduring.

Learn from the water — willing to be shaped by its surroundings.

Learn from the seedling — curiously growing toward the light.

Learn from the germ — spreading and developing into networks greater than itself.

Learn from the wind — moving with purpose, not possession.

We don’t become things in nature, but we learn from their qualities. And as we go, nature humbly remains as a steadfast reminder.

Most practice is out of context. The audience is missing. You’re not on a stage. There are no competitors. The points don’t count. You’re not making the one you’ll sell.

That’s not a flaw — it’s the design.

Practice is our quiet internal work. Honing our craft. Tuning the details. Refining our skills.

As my friend Angie Flynn-McIver has written: “The point of practicing is to let go of the irrelevant externals.”

We don’t need everything in place to practice. In fact, most things aren’t.

We don’t wait for the outside to be ready before we prepare the inside. Preparing the inside first is the point.

The first steps toward feeling better can feel worse.

Our paths aren’t linear. They rise, dip, and double back. Sometimes the unhealthy choice feels good — and the healthy one feels awful.

Progress isn’t necessarily a fast friend.

So while we move step by step, our resolve comes from the longer view.

When things are on the horizon, they seem smaller than they really are.

When they’re right in front of us, they can feel oversized.

Fear, hope, hardship — distance distorts all of them.

Sometimes a colleague or relative will chime in with an idea. And when there’s flexibility in the plan, the response might be: “We can do whatever you want.”

In a recent meeting, I heard a small but meaningful variation: “We can do whatever you help us do.”

I love the shift.

We can do a lot of things — but we’ll do them together.

When responsibility is shared, suggestions tend to change.

There are things you love to do.
And there are things you have to do.
For the lucky ones, there’s overlap.

But when there’s daylight between the two, remember this: you can become known for what you love to do — not just for what you have to do.

The accountant isn’t just the accountant, but the early-morning ocean swimmer.
The landscaper isn’t only the landscaper, but the local stand-up comic.
The engineer isn’t just the engineer, but the skilled baker who makes a remarkable sourdough.

Most of us wear multiple hats. How we’re known — and remembered — isn’t always defined by the hat that pays the bills.

As wind instruments warm up, air passes through them more quickly. As a result — as the sound waves travel faster — the pitch gets sharper. Likewise, if an instrument gets colder, the pitch gets flatter.

This is why you sometimes hear musicians re-tuning during a performance.

Conditions change.

It’s a good lesson for any of us. As conditions change, we need to stay in tune — not by shifting with the prevailing temperature, but by continually returning to our true pitch.

H/T Rick Hirsch

Finding ten minutes is easy; it happens 144 times a day.

The harder part is finding ten minutes where your energy and intentions align with your motivation and commitments.

So go easy on yourself. It’s easy for end-of-day you to point an accusatory finger: “You couldn’t find ten minutes to do the thing you said you’d do?”

It happens.
Tomorrow morning, recommit. Make a plan.
That ten-minute window is still there.

We encourage children to practice.
Yet at the same time, we applaud those who seem able — or bold enough — to wing it.

Improvisation is a useful skill.
But it’s easy to let it slide into a casual habit of ad-libbing everything.

Practice. Rehearse. Refine.

Part of our generosity is in our preparation.

With dramatic lighting, thoughtful camera placement, and a fitting musical score, turning points have cinematic weight. With timing and dialog, such scenes become unforgettable.

Of course, that’s on the screen.

In real life, things rarely feel cinematic.

So big decisions, life-changing conversations, and pivotal moments — they might not seem it at the time.

Occasionally, the scenes of our life align with some level of spectacle.

But usually, it’s in quiet reflection — where we can zoom way out — that we recognize the inflection points.

According to the U.S. Marine Corps publication Warfighting, war is “inherently disorderly, uncertain, dynamic, and dominated by friction.”

It goes on to explain: “For commanders to try to gain certainty as a basis for actions, maintain positive control of events at all times, or dictate events to fit their plans is to deny the nature of war. We must therefore be prepared to cope — even better, to thrive — in an environment of chaos, uncertainty, constant change, and friction.”

We aren’t on a battlefield, but we do fight battles.

We’re not at war, but the principles still map onto much of life.

If we wait for certainty or total control, we’ll wait forever. Our work is to learn how to move — even thrive — amid the disorder that’s simply part of being alive.

Every so often, Google prompts me with a screen: “Verify it’s you.”

So I smile. I attempt eye contact. I relay a story about something I recently learned. I offer a witty comment that turns into a minor faux pas. I draw a little diagram. I listen attentively.

None of this works; Google still doesn’t recognize me.

So I resort to entering my email and password, and — inevitably — that does the trick.

But we are far more than our usernames and passwords. More than our phone numbers and email addresses. More than our faces and fingerprints.

For those who know and love you — how do they know it’s you?

The goal you set twenty years ago doesn’t have to be your goal today.

It can be — but you can also release it without apology, explanation, or justification.

Today is new. It deserves goals that fit who you’ve become.

“After all this time, I’ve finally reached my goal.”
“After all this time, I’ve chosen a new path.”

We can lean into either story.

Nearly all of our heroics are unsung. In big ways and small, in gestures seen and unseen, we often contribute in heroic measure.

The right word at the right time may not be as dramatic as rushing into a burning building — but it can save a life nonetheless.

Kindness offered in hard moments, patience extended when it costs us something — this is the quiet work of heroism.

Afterwards, you might ask, “Now what do I get?”

But when our practice becomes, “Now what else can I give?” — we lean into a life that expands as we do.

When we move through museums, we don’t stride from one end to the other. We saunter, pause, wonder, wander.

It’s a mode we might adopt more often — in nature and in life.

Less strenuous hiking; more awestruck lingering.

There is a time for trekking. But the world aches for us to meander.

Creative output isn’t always the goal; sometimes it’s a side-effect.

Not the poem, but the connection to spirit.
Not the painting, but the experience of mixing color.
Not the blog, but the practice of seeing metaphor.
Not the sculpture, but the exploration of materials.

The artifact is what remains, but the act is what transforms.

So the question isn’t, “What did you create?” but rather, “What creative acts come to life through you?”

* * *

H/T AK & SV

Don’t let the availability of answers keep you from pondering.

We’re all capable of being 30-second researchers.

But we’re wired to be deep thinkers — to wonder, marvel, and contemplate.

Sit with life’s unanswerable questions.
Visit with them.
Learn to love them.
Learn to live them.

Many of the answers you seek can’t be found in a search result; they live in the quiet spaces of your heart.

Oprah Winfrey’s retelling of Maya Angelou’s advice is perhaps the most resonant version:

“You did what you knew how to do, and when you knew better, you did better.”

In any given moment, we’re doing the best we can with what we have — not necessarily our best ever, but our best right then.

And while the older, wiser version of you can see the missteps and missed signals, that same wiser self can also extend grace to who you once were.