In the crescendo that precedes an event, there often comes a moment of stillness. Of holding one’s breath. A collective pause.

Anticipation can prompt a host of activities and emotions. We prepare personally and socially in many ways.

But with heightened anticipation — as we draw near — we experience a kind of quiet.

There’s a pause in conversation. A settling of movement. A silent watchfulness. A focused attention.

And like a symphonic caesura, life then resumes and carries forward. Anticipation, pause, release. Preparation, yield, continuation. Like respiration, it’s the natural way of things.

It’s so important to be thoughtful. To consider — ahead of time — what you’ll say, how you’ll perform, the way you’ll act.

Yet when we do this too intensely in real-time, we miss what’s right in front of us. We’re pulled out of the present, lost in our own thoughts.

To be so sure that we’re responding clearly and from the heart … that we’re not fully listening to the person who’s speaking to us. Or to be so concerned with our own performance that we’re not listening to the other actors. This balance is suboptimal.

Our brains are always thinking, always calculating. The job is to tune our ears and to direct our attention. Our words and actions (from our heartfelt intention) they will serve us well at the right time. Don’t miss too much of the present in consideration of them.

It might not happen with stone and iron, glass and steel, but many are incarcerated.

Information, gossip, entertainment, attention, food, status, distraction, achievement …

Prisons of our own making.

When we can free ourselves, we are free indeed.

It’s curious that the phrase is “trial and error” and not something else. We don’t say, “trial and success” or “error and solution”. It’s just trial and error, which sounds like an endless loop of frustration.

Perhaps it keeps our expectations measured, which is a good thing. Because trial and error is a valuable part of the creative process and fully worth our time. We just have to remember that error is part of the process and not always the end result.

Trial and error is just the opening act. The rest of the play is about learning, growth, and viable solutions.

On the one hand, we value hard work. Industrious and hard-working — these are compliments in our culture. We are people who strive.

We want others to be hard workers, too.

At the same time, we give a lot of credit to people who “make it look easy”. We value confidence, style, and a perceived effortlessness.

It’s a curious dichotomy (hypocrisy?) that can be overlooked.

Work hard, but don’t look like you’re working hard.
Push past your limits, but don’t look wanting.
Put in a lot of effort, but make it look effortless.

These unspoken expectations can weigh heavily.

When we more openly accept that struggling can look like struggling, trying can look like trying, and hard work can look like hard work — the more generously and effectively we can endeavor together.

Exiting a local healthcare facility, you’ll encounter these signs:

The quality of paper, layers of tape, and version history tell a story.

Firstly, exiting through these doors is not intuitive. Secondly, the prescribed way is not guaranteed to work. Thirdly, we haven’t figured out how to make this easy. Maybe we need another sign?

* * *

Good user design is often invisible. It requires no labeling, no signage, no instructions. The design is self-instructive.

A clearly-worded, well-placed sign can solve some headaches. (The PUSH sign affixed above the pull handle, for example.) But even obnoxiously visible signs don’t always override instinct.

It’s a cautionary tale. Arrows and labels are imperfect solutions to flawed design. Wherever possible, begin with thoughtful design.

Leroy Anderson began writing Sleigh Ride — the wintry orchestral standard with the clip-clop horse sounds, the crack of the whip, and the trumpet horse whinny — during a heat wave in July, 1946.

Our surroundings can inspire us — both for what they are and for what they are not. By what we see and by what we long to see.

When something in the universe seeks expression, it can do so independent of seasonal changes.

You might self-identify as someone who is “not good with names”. And maybe you’re right.

But don’t give up; learning names — even if it’s just some names — is worthwhile.

Dale Carnegie’s wisdom endures: “Remember that a person’s name is to that person the sweetest and most important sound in any language.”

If you’re not naturally skilled in this area, keep trying. Where you succeed, you’ll be hugely appreciated.

Someone who’s hungry will eventually win-out over a quick study.

The quick study gets off to an early start but the one who is hungry continues to work beyond the initial lessons.

And hard-won skills develop resilience — which is far more useful than an easily acquired adequacy.

Stay hungry.

Sometimes we take great measures to explain situations, to rationalize our actions, and to justify our feelings — when really, what we need to hear is, “It’s OK to feel how you feel. Totally OK. No need to explain. No need to apologize.”

We don’t hear this often enough.

As the saying goes: feel what you feel.

If you can understand why, all the better. But if not, that’s OK too.

Either way, don’t deny the feeling. Let it be.

“Sorry? I can’t hear you!”
“What? I can’t hear you!”

Two people had this interaction while standing next to a loud piece of machinery. Standing some distance off, I could hear both of them clearly, but they couldn’t hear each other.

Whether the environment is not conducive, or people are passionately shouting, there are many reasons two parties might not be able to hear each other. Meanwhile, those with physical or emotional distance can sometimes hear with clarity.

I added a specific item to my daily task list, prefacing it with the words, in bold: FIRST THING. This was the thing to be done right away.

When I began my workday, I read the note, and promptly decided to do something else.

This was a clear reminder to me: adding an item to the list does not change how we feel about the task. When we’re avoiding a task because it’s boring, tedious, uninteresting, or challenging, it remains such no matter where it’s listed or how it’s highlighted.

Lists are a record. They can even be a plan at times. They do not represent motivation or commitment: that doesn’t come from the list; that comes from within.

Does your headspace pair with your spiritual space? Does your consumption pair with your ambition? Do your joys pair with your habits? Do your words pair with your dreams?

Part of the puzzle we craft is inviting things to fit together. When we struggle to find those meeting places, we struggle indeed. When we find our various pairs to be consonant, we’re naturally integrated.

My phone had an unexpected issue a few weeks ago. An app paused and the screen read: “Temperature: iPhone needs to cool down before you can use it.”

Indeed. I had been sitting in a sunny spot outside and my phone was hot to the touch.

I was mildly annoyed by the interruption, but the message immediately resonated.

We’re navigating a season of frustration, division, and in some cases, open warfare. Globally, but particularly individually, temperatures first need to cool for us to function usefully.

We don’t ever finish watering the plants.

So many facets of our lives call for regular upkeep, tending, and care.

Not projects to be completed, but practices to be maintained.

Keep watering.

Skill-development and learning should always be part of our routine.

But sometimes what’s needed at present isn’t what’s without; it’s what’s already within.

That is, the tools needed for today’s challenges can be tools we already possess. We just need to call them forward.

It’s self-organizing in service of how we need to engage at this moment.

Some skills and traits are set aside, and others are called into action. But what we need … we already have.

Yesterday-you made the commitments. Today-you is left with the follow-through.

This is how it always works. When we’re looking forward, we set lofty and benevolent goals. We picture tasks accomplished and projects complete. When we close our eyes and imagine the future, it’s not a version of ourselves that feels tired, or lacks motivation, or wants to put things off. Future us is always doing great things with sufficient energy.

So that’s how we plan.

But then tomorrow comes, and we’ve got to show up and be that person. Or give it our best shot.

And we do.

Something in us seems to know: we can do good things. We set lofty goals because we’re capable of lofty things.

A harmony can be the more challenging part to sing. By design, it’s not the well-known lead. It’s an intentionally supportive role.

There are times when the spotlight is wide — when equal attention is given to both parts (Indigo Girls and Simon & Garfunkel, at times). But more often, the harmony is secondary.

Yet the richness that harmony adds — it’s a beautiful tool of elevation.

For those who sing the harmony (cue the metaphor) it’s for the love of what’s created, not for the love of the spotlight.

The harmony doesn’t garner the same credit as the melody, but it was never about the credit anyway.

We have an aging vinyl fence in our back yard. Soccer balls or (in this case) an exceptionally strong wind can cause a picket to fall off from time to time. Years ago, when this first started happening, I’d use string or rope to reaffix the pickets until the weather was agreeable for using an adhesive.

At some point, I switched and began making the repairs with long exterior screws. The fix was clean, secure, and not too unsightly.

Needing to make a repair yesterday, I cut a few lengths of string and put on my coat. Then I remembered: I don’t use that method these days. I have another way. A better way.

This kind of thing happens from time to time. We slot into an old habit. We reach for older, inferior tools. We go back to an obsolete strategy — briefly forgetting lessons we’ve learned and new techniques we’ve acquired.

Thankfully, we can catch ourselves and make the necessary adjustments.

“I could never do that.”

When we hear this (or perhaps we’ve said it?) it’s often in response to a beautiful painting, or an exquisite performance, or a masterful bit of culinary finesse, or even a great physical feat.

“I could never do that” can be said casually when we’re impressed.

But what are we really saying? (Even if we just think it?)

I could never practice two hours a day for three months?
I could never train seriously with a mentor?
I could never enroll in an apprenticeship program?
I could never dedicate two years to learning a new skill?

No. When we hear “I could never do that” it’s most often a light-hearted self-rejection in contrast to someone else’s expertise.

But be careful with the I-could-nevers. Because others have. And maybe you could too. It just might take a lot of work to get there.