“What’s something beautiful that you’ve witnessed? What was that experience like?”

Have this conversation with someone.

What’s remarkable is that the discussion itself quickly becomes its own thing of beauty.

Beauty retold is beauty revived, revealed, and renewed.

I am not a runner. In the summer of 2022, I began running a few times a week to improve my cardiovascular health. But I am not a runner.

Meaning: it’s not a natural skill, it feels effortful, I don’t especially enjoy it, and I don’t think I make it look particularly easy.

However.

The way my schedule works, most of the time, I run early in the morning or late in the evening. It’s usually dark. I wear reflective gear, but I run — in essence — anonymously.

This is an unexpected gift. I have no pretense. I am not self-conscious. I’m only focused on the task of moving at a pace that stretches my current benchmarks.

Over time, I’ve gotten a little better. Nothing spectacular, but a little better. For me.

The principle is this: find ways to improve, incrementally, without the worry of what others think. Like running in the dark. Or writing anonymously. Or reading books on a new subject. Or practicing a musical instrument when no one is around to listen.

A little better, a little at a time. No judgement. No pressure.

Just a steady, self-driven pace.

It works.

When someone asks for help, our mindset matters.

We can adopt the posture of a humble hero or that of a moralizing auditor.

One thought: “What an opportunity. I can save you! You’re in a tough spot and I’m a person who can help.”

A different thought: “Why are you so irresponsible? Why is your problem now my problem?”

We can feel purpose-filled when we’re called into action. Or we can be annoyed.

It’s up to us how we approach it.

Help is rendered through both methods … but they’re entirely different experiences for everyone involved.

It might take practice, but choose the way of the generous helper.

From Krista Tippett: “Poetry is such a wonderful container for questions.”

It’s beautiful observation.

I wonder: What other forms we might explore as containers for questions?

If you have an allotted time for creative activity, stay with it until the end.

While you might produce viable pieces early on, some of your best work could very well come together in the final moments.

This principle applies to an hour in the studio as much as it does an entire lifetime.

Like an aroma that casually drifts away, our thoughts can easily elude us.

But we can capture thoughts!

Fleeting and often loosely formed, we can still hold thoughts long enough to memorialize them on paper or in a digital record.

Of course, the best thoughts will try to reassure us, insisting, “You’ll remember me (I’m that good). No need to put pen to paper.”

But they lie.

Put pen to paper.

Every day, the universe presents us with messages, lessons, and opportunities. The best way to honor this generosity is to humbly collect these gifts. Whether they prompt action or sharing — or nothing in particular — step one is to collect.

Spend some time with people who have the right answers,

more time with people who have the right questions,

and the most time with curious people willing to explore the tension that accompanies not knowing.

It’s not that we don’t have the right words; we have the right words.

It’s that sometimes, we’re crafting prose instead of living poetry. Seeking a set of instructions instead of listening for a melody. Following the march instead of feeling the dance.

* * *

Look beyond the black and white. Embrace the kaleidoscope of color.

Every so often, make a visible personal change. Dress in a new way. Style your hair differently. Try some unusual glasses.

Why? Because small, voluntary adjustments remind us of our ability to grow and change. They’re subtle signals — to others, maybe, but mostly to ourselves — that we can inhabit many varied roles. Outward signs of our skilled inner author, editor, and director.

A young man greeted the pet shop owner saying, “I’m looking for the bunnies my girlfriend and I were looking at three weeks ago.”

The owner pointed and said, “These are the bunnies.”

The man, confused, reiterated: he was looking for the smaller bunnies. From a few weeks ago.

The owner pointed more emphatically: “These are the bunnies.”

* * *

The young man’s puzzlement was amusing.

But we can be just as easily forgetful. Children grow, towns change, cities evolve, the culture shifts, people reinvent themselves. We know this to be true — that change is constant — and yet it can surprise us.

What’s more unusual, really, are the things that stay the same.

H/T Erin

If you’re lucky enough to have successfully traversed a difficult journey, who do you call? An artist or a cartographer?

Do you hire someone to paint your portrait? Or do you hire someone to draw the map?

Is the endeavor about memorializing your accomplishments? Or your ability to help those who might follow in your footsteps?

You get to choose. Will it be a portrait or a map?

The thing is, if you create a valuable enough map, someone’s going to want to tell your story. There might be a portrait in it after all.

Every so often, I survey my tools, my art supplies, and the things I’ve created — and I remind myself: one day, all of this will pass away.

Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps many decades from now.

But to be sure, one day.

It’s not a happy thought and I don’t dwell on it, but neither do I deny it. Instead, I allow it to prompt the simple question: What now?

It is our persistent consideration. We have no right to tomorrow. We cannot hold a reservation. Our future opportunities are not guaranteed.

We have today. Our present creativity. The spark of now.

It’s not to save. It’s not to shelve. It won’t keep.

The moment is now … and we live it not through rumination and worry, but through action. With full hearts, clear intention, and generous action.

Rehearse your script as you will. Mentally write and re-write. Consider what you might say and how it might land.

But the further you extrapolate, the more you try to predict … the greater your margin of error.

Remember: as soon as you speak up — as soon as you take a single step — the landscape changes.

We can plan a conversation, but our voice — once spoken — changes the calculus.

What you had once aimed for might not be attainable today — but maybe it can rhyme with what you once sought to do.

Same posture, different venue.
Same passion, different field.
Same love, different role.
Same spirit, different context.

The landscape may change, but our inner drive can still endure.

The old dream may have passed, but a new dream can rhyme.

When we have a great day, it’s not because everything happens in just the right way; it has more to do with where we’re paying attention.

We can have a bad day in much the same way.

Attending here, ignoring there … our experience is always a result of how we manage these options.

The tools of text and email:

“Unsubscribe”
“Delete and Report Junk”
“Move to Spam”
“Stop”

Unfortunately, our personal interactions don’t offer these simple features. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have our filters tuned.

It’s not always an easy thing to do, but we would do well to disengage from some conversations. To archive some experiences. To swiftly delete some opportunities.

Junk and spam aren’t limited to inboxes. Subtle versions can find us in lots of ways.

Be wary. Sort appropriately when practical.

“I think I understand what you mean. Could you please explain it a little more?”
“What I hear you saying is […]. Is that right?”
“I want to make sure I understand what you’re saying. Can you please say it again?”

This is the posture of empathy. Of curiosity. Of connection.

Not of judgement, arrogance, and manipulation.

Pause. Listen. Listen again. Clarify.

Conversation isn’t you sharing something from behind your wall and me sharing something from behind mine.

It’s us meeting in the courtyard together … speaking plainly about what we bring to that space.

Try something. Try it again. And again.

This can be a method for iterative improvement.

But often, we think of this as being a quick, sequential process (which can certainly work).

However, there’s merit to a delayed repeat. To rediscovering the archives and bringing a new approach to creative problems we solved and have since shelved.

A certain meal. A photoshoot. A composition. A sculpture. A workshop.

Perhaps you completed it long ago. How might you do it today? What new skills and experience can you bring to the problem now … that you couldn’t have brought when you first solved it? What new energy can you bring to old projects?

Delayed repeats. They could be fun to explore.

You can spend a lifetime prioritizing safety and security. But the world comes alive when you consciously and selectively loosen your grip on the two.

In challenging moments, our reactions are often based on what we’re thinking and what we’re feeling.

It’s a good practice to pause and to identify these thoughts and feelings by asking:

“What am I feeling right now?” (and what’s that like?)
“What am I thinking right now?” (and is this true?)

But as soon as we can, it’s helpful to make the transition to a new line of questions:

“What am I learning here?”
“What’s this moment teaching me?”

And our focus naturally shifts from how we’ve been injured to how we’re growing. From how we’ve been unsettled to how we see through the settling silt.