There’s a discomfort in not knowing.
And the tension isn’t that we haven’t found the right solution —
it’s that we haven’t found any solution at all.
At times, we’ll accept a wrong answer
because it feels better than an empty space.
What happens when we protect that not knowing —
instead of rushing to fill it?
When you get an oil change and learn your brakes are below a safe minimum.
When you have a doctor check a cough and they find something more serious.
When a home inspector discovers a structural issue.
Our first response might be: I wish I hadn’t asked.
Ignorance is bliss —
but lasting bliss is an illusion.
So the goal isn’t more bliss.
It’s something steadier.
Not delight that disappears at the first disruption,
but a way of being that can hold it all.
Occasionally, the most useful thing about getting what you want
is realizing it’s not a good fit after all.
This, too, is something.
Sometimes, a long-awaited day is just that — anticipated.
Other times — perhaps most of the time — it catches us by surprise.
Not that we lose hope, but we have no sense of the timing.
And then, all of a sudden, a tree bears fruit —
and we’ve forgotten that a seed was planted.
There’s space
after this chapter,
before the next.
A moment.
A breath.
Not always quiet —
often filled with thoughts and feelings.
Because the next chapter is yet to be,
and we just don’t know.
And yet —
we wait.
Poor advice can be beautifully packaged — polished and articulate.
And the truth we need can come from quiet, awkward voices.
The moon isn’t just in our back yard. It’s an entirely different neighborhood.
Last night, NASA’s Artemis II lunar mission launched — the first in more than 50 years.
But we send astronauts into space all the time, right?
Yes.
The International Space Station is in Low Earth Orbit — about 250 miles away.
But the moon? That’s 250 thousand miles.*
For comparison, consider airline travel. A jet might fly 500 miles per hour. At that speed, the distance to the ISS would take about 30 minutes.
And if a jet could travel to the moon? That’s a 20-day nonstop flight.
Farther than we tend to imagine.
* The distance between Earth and the moon varies by phase. Today, they’re about 245,000 miles apart.
People can be so nervy.
They say what they want — not what we want.
They think what they want — not what we want.
They do what they want — not what we want.
The nerve.
Of course, the opposite isn’t much better.
Because we want what we want.
And so do they.
My friend’s dog curls up next to him, rests his head on his chest, breathes deeply, and exhales.
May we all find moments like that.
Within a single flight of steps, building codes require tight uniformity.
One step can’t be noticeably taller or shorter than the others.
When we’re moving, we rely on rhythm.
One that’s uneven can throw us off balance.
We’re not just climbing steps.
We’re finding the rhythm.
What can I get?
What can I give?
How much can I acquire?
How much can I contribute?
Where is our time and attention —
and what kind of life is it shaping?
When you’ve known someone long enough, you start to see glimpses of their harvest.
Their habits, practices, attitudes, tendencies — these become the fields that feed them.
Over time, they begin to shape the whole landscape.
What has generosity given them?
What has resentment given them?
What has exercise given them?
Nutrition, mindfulness, jealousy, creativity, forgiveness, patience, intolerance …
Each one an input.
It can be easy, at times, to see how this gathers in the lives of others.
But we’re tending the same fields in our own lives.
It happens so slowly, we forget we’re the ones planting.
Spring signals its approach,
even when we don’t notice.
Still, be open to looking.
Watching for the signs doesn’t make it happen,
but it shapes how we experience the shift.
Some people have immense resources and produce average work.
Others, with barely enough, produce something remarkable.
It’s easy to get caught up in materials, equipment, and gear — the externals.
But it’s our internal resources that do the work.
Games of chance — when we lose — offer the consolation:
“Sorry. Try again.”
Life does this, too.
Even when we win:
“Congratulations. Try again.”
Win or lose,
it’s still our turn.
When things are good, it’s cloud nine, over the moon, on top of the world …
But when they’re not, we drift under the weather, sink to rock bottom, come crashing down.
We’ve mastered the language of falling,
and made rising feel like effort.
Maybe it’s baked into the language —
but we don’t have to live by its gravity.
Many years ago, I recall seeing my sister-in-law picking up sticks in my parents’ yard. Not large branches — just small twigs and debris.
This wasn’t part of a routine or a chore. Done out of love or boredom, I don’t know. Just an unexpected kindness.
Decades later, I thought of it again while collecting fallen twigs in my own yard.
We can’t know how far our influence reaches.
A small act might echo long after we’ve gone.
You might not like it.
You might not think it’s sincere.
You might not feel vindicated.
But it might be the only apology you get.
Reminisce about the past.
Dream about the future.
But live the season you’re in.
More often than not, this is the call.
Even in boldness. Even in daring.
Go gently.
Because we’re collaborators, not conquerors. Partners, not predators.
And there are tender spaces we don’t always see.
Go gently.
* * *
(I first heard “go gently” from my friend Sue in Wales. She heard it from an Australian friend, Jane. I’m grateful for how the ripple has traveled.)
