Perfect form doesn’t guarantee perfect results. Outcomes rely on judgement, skill, and the choices we make.

A haiku can have the right number of lines and syllables … and express little insight.

A gymnast can make a flawless tumbling run … and land out of bounds.

A speaker can deliver a stellar keynote … and be speaking to the wrong audience.

Form is only part of what we do. And usually, it’s not the most important thing.

When we perform well, it’s often difficult to articulate exactly what we did. Things sometimes fall into place, or feel natural, or a sense of calm and flow takes over. It’s hard to explain in many words.

When we perform poorly, however, we can list the errors in great detail. All the little missteps shine brightly. I did this, and then this, and then I missed that part, and then …

Strangely, when we happen upon that level of awareness when we’re doing well, it can throw us off. The details can disrupt our natural rhythm.

Part of showing up as the best version of ourselves means amplifying focus, attention, and presence, while turning down the part of our brain that’s wired to obsess over exactitude, technique, and judgement.

It’s a careful balance.

At no point in our lives are we so locked-in that we cannot lose our way.

But with an ongoing practice of reconnecting to our guiding principles, we’ll never be lost for long.

“Certainty is a feeling, not a fact.”

When we don’t have that feeling of certainty, we can begin to question. Maybe even fixating on questions of “What if?” And those questions are the seeds of imagined catastrophe.

However, asking “What if?” can be one of our most valuable creative tools.

Pairing our feelings of uncertainty with pessimism, doubt, apprehension, and worry is a cocktail to be avoided.

But pairing uncertainty with curiosity, discovery, possibility, and play — that’s what it is to make art.

If you need to, stop everything. Go as quickly as you can to a nearby museum. Or go to the botanical gardens. Or the library. Or the corner where there’s usually a busker.

When we’re critically ill, we know to seek immediate medical attention. But when we’re creatively deprived, do we tend to that need? Do we seek a balm? Do we recognize the risks of ignoring that void?

Because it’s no small thing. It can be serious and it can be urgent.

Early in the morning while the house was still dark, I heard urgent footfalls on the steps and the front door opening. Light was barely breaking and it was nine degrees Fahrenheit outside.

What I discovered: my daughter had woken, noticed the orange-pink sunrise, and left the warmth of her bed. She went directly outside to get a proper look.

Sacrificing personal comfort to witness beauty in nature — it’s a sign of a good heart.

Last week, completely unintentionally, I repeated a post. I chalked it up to some mental disorganization. Years ago, this would have caused panic. These days, I’m happy to say I’m quicker to give myself some grace.

Nonetheless, I wrote another blog entry that day (February 12th) and posted it to the site. If you’re an email subscriber and didn’t catch it, it’s copied below.

True to the spirit of the post, it bears repeating.

* * *

February 12, 2025

Repetition

We repeat because others don’t hear the first time. Or they forget. Or they forget they’ve forgotten.

And we repeat because we’re forgetful too. Even of our own words and wisdom.

But with enough repetition, our souls will allow an imprint.

* * *

H/T Erin

The advice for navigating ice is to walk flat-footed with your center of gravity over your front leg, arms slightly out for balance, shuffling like a penguin.

In practice, this looks pretty dumb.

But striding normally, slipping, falling, and breaking a bone is not a better plan — even if it avoids an embarrassing penguin-walk.

Training your hardest and posting the slowest time. Workshopping new stand-up material. Learning to ride a bicycle. Hip mobility exercises.

Looking dumb — if we even call it that — is often a label applied to activities that are actually beneficial in the long run. Sometimes, short-term awkwardness is exactly what leads to long-term improvement.

Sometimes we solve problems that are not ours to solve.

And we solve other problems that aren’t really problems.

With the little time that we have in this world, isn’t it better for us to focus where we ought?

Successful and significant are not the same thing; you can certainly be one without the other.

Of the two, the latter is more worthy of our pursuit.

H/T Terrence

There are two strategies for improving your average.

The quick way is to do something huge and spectacular. A big moonshot will adjust the overall average in a hurry.

The other way is to aim for a little better, and to do this consistently. It will take more time to move the needle. It will involve sustained effort. And it will require patience and commitment.

But this way is the more doable way. It’s a higher percentage win. It doesn’t depend on luck or anything astonishing. It just calls on us to lean in the right direction and to keep doing it again and again.

It’s the better way.

I’m desperate for it to be 70 degrees — lovely weather for things like little league baseball, golf, and after-dinner walks.

The person sitting next to me volunteers with a local ski patrol. He’s delighted when temperatures are below freezing, as they are now.

Here we are. One of us thrilled with what’s now, the other impatient for the next season to arrive. One is perfectly content with how things are, the other is eager for change.

* * *

In work and in life, we often occupy these spaces of mixed contentedness. While one tightly protects the status quo, that status quo is exactly what another seeks to disrupt.

The conditions of this very moment are delightful for some and distressing for others.

Our coexistence hinges on our ability to navigate these spaces with a balance of empathy, flexibility, and integrity.

Together.

“That was garbage.”
vs.
“I’m not familiar with that genre, and I didn’t quite understand it.”

Of course, these positions are not equal. The former is a judgement that presumes some level of subject knowledge. (Though it’s not always the case.)

The latter is a more open-minded response. It recognizes, “I have certain tastes and preferences. What I just experienced is outside the scope of these things.”

Would you know a good saut de basque if you saw one? Could you tell whether a motet was skilled or novice? Can you judge the matar kulcha seasoning? Or assess the quality of an almond ridge stitch?

We don’t always know the genre. We know what we like and what we don’t based on our tastes and tendencies, but that’s not the same as recognizing the quality of a thing in its particular domain.

When we don’t know, curiosity is the best posture.

We repeat because others don’t hear the first time. Or they forget. Or they forget they’ve forgotten.

And we repeat because we’re forgetful too. Even of our own words and wisdom.

But with enough repetition, our souls will allow an imprint.

* * *

H/T Erin

I’m one to keep streaks alive. Not perfectly, but I’m consistent in some areas.

But sometimes, a break is needed. Whether from fatigue, illness, other priorities, or strange logistics … every so often, there’s a necessary pause. Not from forgetfulness. Not from laziness. Rather, a conscious choice.

In these moments, I like to take on an infallible, supreme air with my internal voice. I say to myself, “It is permitted.” Or, “It is acceptable.”

It’s mostly tongue in cheek. But it’s also a genuine self-reminder: I’m in charge of any streaks I keep or break. I’m accountable to myself. I get to choose what to continue, when to pause, when to resume, and what to eliminate. Daily. Even moment to moment.

We all get to choose.

Some recent sleet and freezing rain made a beautiful midnight sound. Lots of tiny pops and clicks as the frozen precipitation landed on roof, street, and garden.

Curiously, the sound was not unlike the crackle of a bonfire. In some ways, it sounded quite the same.

The temperatures opposite ends, yet the phenomena sharing an auditory profile.

Worlds apart, we can find compelling connections when we’re sensitive to their traces.

Finding “just right” is often the challenging part of what we do.

Not too tight, not too loose.
Not too technical, not too general.
Not too formal, not too casual.
Not too bold, not too passive.
Not too brief, not too extensive.

Much of our practice lives on a spectrum. Whether it’s handwriting, or drawing, or cooking, or acting, or dancing — anything that involves our dexterity will also call for our judgement.

And we don’t always find “just right” the first time. Often, we need to test the edges; to move too far one way, then too far the other … until we discern or intuit where the work wants to be.

In golf, there’s a concept: “Don’t follow a bad shot with a stupid shot.”

Meaning, there will be times when you execute poorly. Times when you get an unlucky break. Times when, despite your best efforts, you have a poor outcome.

Don’t take that moment to be hasty. Don’t be rushed and foolish. Don’t chase your losses or attempt a low-probability miracle save.

Instead, stick to your strategy. Reset. Choose wisely. Act wisely.

In life, we’re going to face these kinds of situations. Suboptimal happens. Let’s not take those moments to make things even worse.

The person who woke before the sun rose, drove through inclement weather, unlocked the building, and greeted clients with a smile — this person isn’t being paid extra. She’s not suffering silently. She’s not even acting.

She made a decision long ago (or maybe every day) about what’s worth her energy and attention. About whether whining helps. About whether she deserves special attention for working hard.

Her job is not easy, but her burden is light. Because she doesn’t seek sympathy. She doesn’t fish for accolades. She doesn’t want pity.

She just steps through the muck and does her job with intention and an undeniable, inalienable joy.

And we can do the same.

In replying to a young student’s request for advice on writing, C.S. Lewis began his multi-point list with this: Turn off the Radio.

The advice extends to us, too.

But what is our writing? And what is our radio?

Whatever the answer, the work calls for its own sense of quiet. And yet we live in a world filled with noise.

So turning off the radio is no small task. But we must. We must for the sake of the work that seeks to come through us.