(a follow-on to yesterday’s post)

Our expectations establish a posture for how we travel.

So what are you predicting?

And how tightly are you holding it?

Because forecasts sometimes masquerade as facts.

Don’t think you’re so smart.

— So smart that you’ve already decided how the story ends.

That a project will succeed.
Or that it will fail.

That your ideas are brilliant.
Or that they’re lacking.

Because the future remains unknown.

And while we’ll often see what we anticipate, we’ll also encounter what we don’t expect —

for worse,
and for better.

Possibility blossoms when we learn to dance with uncertainty.

Life often presents us with the unexpected,
the unplanned,
and the sub-optimal.

The question is: What do we do next?

Do we press on?
Do we pivot?
Do we give up?

Because so much of life becomes a story of:
“… and so I …”

X happened, and so I —
Y happened, and so I —

What matters isn’t always what happened.

It’s what follows:
“… and so I …”

To cultivate creativity, keep a physical notebook — one you carry with you.

Don’t call it a sketchbook; that builds in too much expectation.

Just a notebook.

One you’ll actually use.

This will take some experimentation.

Over the years, I’ve used different styles: large and small, hardcover, softcover, bound, spiral, stitched, lined, squared, dotted, blank …

What matters is that you carry it and you use it.

Because as artists, makers, and creative thinkers, we’re collectors. Collectors of prompts, ideas, visions, and whims.

Our notebooks are our nets.

I built two brackets to hang some step ladders.

I had an urge to pause and make diagrams and schematics — my normal practice.

But instead, I said to myself: “I’m just going to do this intuitively.”

So I estimated a few cuts and made some design choices.

And I’m quite pleased with the results.

Sometimes, we get so caught up in careful thinking that it gets in the way of careful doing.

In some situations, movement is the teacher.

In our corner of the world yesterday —
there was a cool, overcast morning,
a hot mid-day sun,
a damaging thunderstorm,
and a blue-sky evening.

No single moment characterized the day.

To consider the day is to consider all of it.

In many ways, it feels like a metaphor for life.

A seasoned baseball coach explained to me:

“In this sport, you’ll have high highs and low lows, but you can’t go there. It’s too much of a roller coaster. You have to stay in the middle. You have to stay even.”

That is, you can’t tether your emotions to whatever just happened.

There will be variation — we’re not meant to be a flatline of feelings — but keeping the amplitude in check is what allows us to perform at our best.

As in baseball, so in life.

* * *

H/T: Brad

For the most part, we’re highly aware of our own shortcomings.

So in most situations, we don’t need to tell people about their flaws and mistakes.

They already know.

You won’t always have the confidence of others.

And sometimes, you’ll feel the tug of self-doubt.

But our best personal wins are born of difficulty, uncertainty, and betting on ourselves anyway.

What do I really want?
Why do I want it so badly?
What’s driving this desire?
Is there an underlying reason?
Is there a hole that I think this thing will fill?
If I get what I want, will I be satisfied?
Will that feeling last?

Win or Lose — Pixar’s 2025 animated series — tells the story of a co-ed middle school softball team.

Each episode covers the same week leading up to a championship game, but told from the perspective of a different character.

Part of the beauty of the storytelling is how it reveals the complexity of life.

The same events.
The same moments.
Entirely different experiences.

Because no story is lived from every point of view.

Only our own.

Mondays are great for starting (or re-starting) a habit.

Fresh week.
Fresh energy.
Let’s go.

But if we falter — if the day passes without change — what then?

Do we wait for Monday to come around again?

A habit can begin on a Tuesday. Or in the middle of an afternoon.

Because once a rhythm takes hold, the day it started hardly matters.

It’s the practice that matters, not the start date.

When navigating apps —

Three dots: give me options.
X: get me out of here.

In life, how often are we exploring possibility?
And how often are we looking for the exit?

One of the characteristics of tension is that it quietly accumulates.

And then, what seems like all at once, we’re tight as a drum.

Often, we notice the effects before we notice the tension itself.

Discomfort, pain, strife, impatience — these rarely appear overnight.

With intention (and often some effort), we can return to a more relaxed poise.

But first, we have to notice what we’ve been carrying.

Creative impoverishment is a myth.

Fatigue exists.
So does distraction.
And discouragement.

But our capacity to create remains.

So when we’re alert, focused,
and still without ideas —
look for the filters.

In these moments,
the source is not absent.
It’s only muted.

As the sun rises, it slowly brightens the sky before we ever see its rays.

Sometimes for a few moments, more often for much longer.

Before we feel the warmth — before we see the long morning shadows — we notice signs of the coming shift.

Sometimes change happens not in a distinct moment, but in a slow, ever-shifting wash of color.

The stories we tell shape the lives we live.

But it’s not just that — it’s when we tell the stories.

Do we tell them after a recent failure?
Or after the next success?

After a fresh slight?
Or the praise that follows?

The storylines are complex.
But we are the editors.
What we curate is what we bind.

When darkness comes, we sometimes face a difficult balancing act: honoring our feelings without letting them overwhelm us.

Because some situations are challenging. They’d be difficult to carry even if they were the only thing we had to manage — and they’re not.

So perhaps a different metaphor is useful.

Instead of carrying the burden, we set it down.

We don’t run from it.
We don’t ignore it.

We acknowledge it.

And for a while,
we simply sit beside it.

The Irish philosopher offers this powerful advice:

Invoke the learning
Of every suffering
You have suffered.

Close your eyes.
Gather all the kindling
About your heart
To create one spark.
That is all you need
To nourish the flame
That will cleanse the dark
Of its weight of festered fear.

John O’Donohue, excerpt from “For Courage” in Benedictus: A Book of Blessings

* * *

When we seek the warmth of a flame, it’s easy to dismiss a spark as inadequate.

But the spark is all we need for change to begin.

It only takes a moment of openness to let it catch.

Intention and desire cannot make up for a lack of technique.

Effort without understanding is often wasted.

Which is why “try again” works best when it begins with “learn how.”

Thankfully, for most things, someone already knows the way forward.