In music, rubato is the temporary suspension of strict tempo in order to allow for expression. It’s a brief slowing or quickening that doesn’t change the overall pace.

It’s a good thing.

We don’t seek a formulaic march. We’re not drawn to an unyielding metronome.

There’s certainly a time and place for an exact beat. But there’s beauty to be found in the subtle inexactitude that accompanies expression, emotion, and the human condition.

Anomalies, irregularities, imperfections, asymmetry — these surprising shifts and pattern breaks are where we come alive.

Don’t let the screens fool you. Yes, they’re a good and necessary substitute, but they’re not the same as the real thing.

A picture of a painting is not the painting. A video of a performance is not the performance. Being in a Zoom room with your friend is not being in a room with your friend.

Technology helps fill the gaps. But the prevalence of digitized versions (they’re everywhere) can lull us into forgetting the power of the real thing.

Translations and reproductions have their place. They serve a valuable purpose. But even at their best, they’re a muted form.

When you’re able, seek the original.

What might happen if you could just forgive yourself and get on with it? If you could make a decision — now — to let go of guilt, to let go of regret, and to let the past be what it is?

Because maybe you can.

Whether it’s a slight bit of drag or an immobilizing anchor, its release may be as simple as you choosing to let it go. To move forward without friction by just allowing yourself.

Imagine what could be.

Say an artist creates a sculpture that invites the viewer to feel a sense of love and warmth.

Fine.

But wouldn’t it be more effective to smile warmly and to give the viewer a hug?

The thing is, part of the magic of art is in using specific materials to capture human experience. It’s about creating a compelling translation. Here is the story of imaginative space told with paint. Here is the embodiment of fear captured with wood and twine. Here is tension presented as melody.

It’s not about being direct and efficient.

It’s about exploring truth in a way that seems to become more real than reality. It’s about embracing a specific set of constraints in order to widen the scope of where we might go.

In your circle of friends, if you want to be known as the person who never forgets a birthday, you can be that person.

Or if you want to be the friend who is never too busy for a call, you can be.

Or the one who is reliable, or willing to help anyone, or always up for a laugh …

These qualities don’t have to be happenstance; they can be by design and intention.

It can go the other way, too, if we’re not careful. When we’re habitually late, or regularly inflexible, or never without complaint — we can be known in these ways too.

We are certainly more than our actions … but people come to know us through our actions.

Decide comes from the root, “to cut off”. Even to strike, cut down, or kill.

Its origin is not “wean” or “peel” or “untangle” or “part”. It’s more violent than that.

And sometimes, when we’re making an important decision, we feel the weight of that physical cleaving.

But such is life: we make choices. We cannot travel all paths, nor were we meant to.

Instead, we decide. We travel along, and we decide again.

Our cutting tools, however, need not be dull. (We don’t have to add suffering to our unavoidable task.)

Like knife-work, decision-making is a skill that can be improved.

As you learn, don’t be afraid to keep a sharp blade; despite the risk, it’s the best way.

Voice. Text. Sound. Touch. Song. Paint. Clay. Film. Food. Presence. Witness.

We’re having conversations all the time. Occasionally we use words. More often, the conversation happens through other channels.

In grade school, I visited the Smithsonian Institution’s National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C.

Inside the main entrance, on permanent display, was a silver-gray plane with black lettering on the side: Spirit of St. Louis.

What I saw was an airplane suspended in a museum. Only later in life did I learn about the plane’s history. About Charles Lindbergh, his 1927 flight from New York City to Paris, and his unprecedented worldwide fame.

During that childhood field trip, all I saw was a plane.

Sometimes, we just don’t know what we’re looking at. We look, but we don’t see. We hear, but we don’t understand.

It likely happens all the time. Rich, nuanced stories — in objects and in people — they surround us. And most of the time, we don’t have a full appreciation for what’s right in front of us.

Pause. Ask. Learn.

To be sure, we won’t catch all of it. But we’ll learn some of it, and we’ll be better for the learning.

A recent ad from the Italian organization CoorDown helps bring awareness to the potential of people with Down syndrome.

The ad’s anthem is this: “Assume that I can, so maybe I will.”

What we assume about others can become reality. What we assume about ourselves can become reality. Our assumptions are powerful. They matter. They are the subtle and not-so-subtle variables that craft our world.

You can see the ad here. Note to viewers: the ad includes an un-beeped curse word and it acknowledges the existence of sex.

It’s fine to know the world records; they’re awe-inspiring and praise-worthy.

But for the most part, they’re not useful targets.

The personal record — the PR — is far more valuable.

Because we’re not competing with the world. We’re competing with ourselves.

Even then, keep in mind that setting new PRs is not something that happens every day.

More often, our focus should be: “this is my best for today.” It makes for a terrible acronym, but it’s a far more practical place to set our sights.

The PRs will happen from time to time, but the best for today is where we begin.

One pebble under foot is an annoyance, but a countless number is a sanctuary.

A problem in one context may be a blessing in another.

“I’m uncomfortable.”
Good. Stay with it.

“I don’t understand.”
Good. Stay with it.

“This is difficult.”
“This is unusual.”
“This is confounding.”

Good. Stay with all of it.

It’s far too easy for us to retreat to our places of comfort. But the richness of life isn’t found in familiarity and comfort. It’s found when we approach the edges and we remain there long enough to grow.

You might be able to — this very moment — sing a song you haven’t sung for twenty years.

Or sit at the piano — without any sheet music — and play a song you haven’t played since you were quite young.

Or pick up a pencil and capture what your eye sees … not having done so for a long time.

That’s the thing about our creative spirit: it remains within us. Even when we don’t attend to it, it lives just below the surface, ready to be reactivated. Fully alive.

And the reconnection costs us nothing. There is no feeling of foolishness or regret. It’s like welcoming home an old friend, picking up where the two of you left off.

You both will have changed — you and your creativity — but the magic between the two of you is fresh as ever, regardless of where you’ve journeyed.

Every so often, we audit our wardrobe. We take note of what we never really wear. We learn what no longer fits. We discover things we’d forgotten we had.

This can be a useful practice, too, with our attitudes and beliefs. Taking inventory. Looking into the mirror. Seeing what still fits and what we ought to discard.

As thoughtful as we are, sometimes we forget what’s in there.

People have figured things out.

Ask for help.

You’re unique … but your challenges are not.

Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of wisdom and strength.

And it’s often the best way forward.

“This might be good. Or maybe not. No, actually, I think it’s pretty good. Maybe it’s too simple. Or too complex? I wonder if it could be misinterpreted. Have I already done one like this? No. I think we’re fine. This is a solid effort. I’ll give it one more look and then it has to ship.”

Not always, but sometimes the creative process is like this. Or something similar. An internal back and forth. A shifting between confidence and question, between action and hesitation.

Part of the practice is in ushering yourself through. In trusting yourself. In moving beyond — or just beyond enough — to where the work gets out into the world.

It’s rarely full-confidence, full-throttle. More often, it’s a mix of uncertainty carefully wrapped in moxie.

There’s a name for chance discoveries during medical exams: incidentalomas. For example, an asymptomatic adrenal tumor might be found during a CT scan performed for abdominal discomfort. Or gallstones are found during an MRI for back pain.

In creative practices, incidental discoveries aren’t cause for concern. Indeed, they’re welcome. They’re surprises. Happy accidents. Epiphanies.

We’re designing a chair and we learn something about light. We’re writing lyrics and we discover something about our personal convictions. We’re making a photograph and we observe an unexpected mode of human interaction.

It’s a kind of creative peripheral vision. Working here, discovering there. Focused on the stage, welcoming surprises from the wings.

We don’t know where and when we will find incidentalomas — we just know that every creative practice is brimming with potential revelation. So we stay open to discovery.

Yes, we water the plants.

But we need to water the seeds, too.

Tending to what’s below the surface waiting to bloom — that is part of our calling.

The flowers get the attention, but without the interior work, no flowers will there be.

You can treat today like an opponent — attacking, blocking, dodging … skillfully fighting until the day is conquered and defeated.

Or you can treat today like a dance partner — responding to its energy, moving with its movement … with a give and take choreography that creates a thing of beauty.

Both approaches are effective. Both modes are available. It just depends on the kind of experience you want to have.

Sometimes those we seek to mentor can offer us the best advice.

Because our wisdom is often muted in our own ears.

And when we find that for too long we haven’t leapt like we’ve taught others to leap, and we haven’t sung like we’ve taught others to sing … those we’ve taught will call us forth with generous encouragement: join us.

H/T AHW