I watched an hour-long sunrise a few weeks ago. As with every sunrise, it was beautiful.

Some of the things I observed that morning feel useful as metaphors.

Things get brighter fast enough to notice a change, but too slowly to grasp it all at once.

The tips of the mountains behind you will catch the sunlight before the sunlight catches you.

We often see ourselves in shadow while things around us are slowly illuminated.

The sun cresting the mountain above and the cars rushing by on the street below — what we observe is our choice.

If you haven’t already, memorize a poem.

Know it well. Love it. Be able to share it.

Why? Because our culture is better when we value the beauty of poetry enough to commit it to memory.

* * *

Actor John Lithgow can recite The Deacon’s Masterpiece, or The Wonderful One-hoss Shay, a colorful, riveting poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes. Lithgow was introduced to the piece by his grandmother, who could also tell it by heart.

Are there words that are dear to you? Enough to commit them to memory?

Once they’re with you, they’ll be with you forever.

Perhaps there are a few lines worthy of that effort.

In his book on leadership, Michael Lopp offers this great bit of wisdom:

“... the part of your brain that wants to scream is exceptional at demonstrating tremendously poor judgement.”

When your brain is yelling, it’s not listening, and it’s not rational.

Use caution when taking action on behalf of the part of your brain that yells.

By engaging your rational brain, the odds of a positive outcome are much better.

Whether it’s through journaling, advising, therapy, coaching, art-making, or some other means …

There’s much to be gained by taking what’s inside our head and pulling it out — so that we can see it, consider it, and learn from it.

As I approached an intersection, the car in front of me slowed and stopped.

The light was green.

The path was clear.

What was the problem?

I waited.

In a few moments, I saw a family emerge from the other side of the vehicle. They had been walking through the intersection, out of my line of sight.

We don’t always see the obstacles slowing someone else’s progress. We’re quick to see that they’re stalled, but sometimes too impatient to understand why.

There’s usually a good reason — even if we don't see it.

Airports can be chaotic.

But eventually, cabin doors close and planes depart.

During peak hours, airports are complicated and loud. There can be confusion, disorder, and unexpected change. One look at an overcrowded security checkpoint and one begins to think, “How will any of us ever depart on time?”

And yet — at some point, there is order. At some point, each hatch closes, each plane moves into position, and each plane takes off.

From chaos, order.

* * *

Life can feel a lot like a bustling airport.

But the bustle isn’t endless. At times, things do fall into place, and order is found … even if fleeting.

Don’t lose hope. Just like an airport, there will be seasons of chaos and seasons of calm.

We bought one of our sons a new bicycle. The person helping us explained, “If you have any issues or need any adjustments in the next 30 days, we’ll be happy to take care of it free of charge.”

He clarified: “That’s 30 riding days, not 30 calendar days.”

A great offer from an honest bike shop … and a good example of the spirit of a law rather than its letter.

Often, there are people who remind us of who we are.

But when those voices are silent, we’re still left with the voice inside our head — reinforcing the story of who we are.

The problem is when people — including us — have gotten the story wrong.

The problem is when we cling to a story that doesn’t serve us.

The problem is when we forget that we can tell a new story from a new perspective … and chart a new future.

If that’s what we want.

Action is intrinsically related to solving a problem.

When we say, “I’ve found a solution,” we don’t even have to mention taking action; it’s understood that it will happen.

Yet when it comes to advice, we often find ourselves more interested in hearing good advice than acting upon it.

We’re eager to nod our heads and say, “Yes! That makes a lot of sense. I should do that.”

We’re less eager to hold ourselves accountable.

* * *

When you recognize good advice, find a way to keep yourself on the hook.

Anyone can listen to good advice. Not everyone figures out how to act on it.

Two ways to deal with an undefined space.

One: plan. Imagine what you could do with it. List your options. Think about how each one might look and feel. Research. Consider. Then, pick one option and go with it.

Two: thrash. Quickly test. Choose a certain number of viable options and pursue each of them. Try this, see if it works, but don’t get locked in. Try something else, see if it works better. Again, not getting locked in. Then another. Finally, settle in on the best choice and recommit to it. Go all in.

Both of these ways are viable. Even a mix of the two could work. The key with either one is to go about the plan with intention and awareness.

Whether or not we experience life in superlatives, we are free to perceive our experiences as superlatives.

Best, worst, hardest, most delicious, most fun, most difficult, most beautiful … our mind is often what makes it so.

For five dollars and in five minutes, I fixed a pair of utility pants.

This was satisfying on a number of levels.

One, something was broken and I fixed it.

Two, I learned a new skill.

And three, I felt like I was doing something responsible — that is, making a simple repair instead of adding to a landfill.

A bonus: the repair kit came in a set of six. I can make five more repairs. (Broken snap, anyone?)

Making things better. Learning new skills. Acting with consideration for the environment. Positioning myself to help others.

It was all worth much more than five dollars and five minutes.

When things are difficult, we take one step at a time.

But sometimes, even one step seems like too much.

So we lean forward and do our best to catch ourselves.

And when even that is too much, we rest. We rest until we can begin anew, one step at a time. Or at least until we can lean forward once again.

On a crew team, the number four rower doesn’t turn to the number five and say, “I rowed really hard today,” expecting a pat on the back.

Everyone loves kudos. But, “I did my job!” isn’t praise-worthy. (We’re supposed to do our jobs.)

We can anticipate respect and camaraderie from the teammate working by our side, but we don’t get special acknowledgement for doing what we ought.

There is a flip side to this: it’s a great practice to catch other people doing good — and to somehow let them know.

Knowing what to do is only the first step.

What really matters is learning to take action based on what you’ve learned.

* * *

Or another way of thinking about it:

A cookbook doesn’t solve the problem of an empty stomach.

The big challenge is not necessarily in repeating. That is, do good work and then do it again.

The challenge is that the world is constantly changing. Situations change, supply chains change, relationships change, tastes change. People change.

The product that you built last year has components that are no longer available.

Your long-time cycling partner has new health issues.

The platform that carries your message is now defunct.

The joke you used to tell isn’t funny anymore.

We can’t just repeat as though nothing has changed. Things change. All the time.

But there are things that we can repeat. We might not be able to repeat our actions, but we can repeat our posture. We might not be able to follow the same map as before, but we can use the same compass.

While we can’t trust autopilot to guide us the whole way, we can trust our ability to show up with the same creativity, generosity, flexibility, and empathy that’s worked in the past.

Without doubt, that’s worth repeating.

“I will do everything within my power to …”

Stop right there. Unless you mean it. And if you do, then by all means (as you’ve suggested) do everything you can.

But be careful about making promises to “do everything in your power” unless you’re planning to do just that.

Because as we all know: in many ways you are extremely powerful (whether you like to admit it or not).

“Everything in your power” is a huge promise.

But of course, for some things, it’s a promise worth making.

“Call when you get there” used to be a standard part of travel. The quick phone call would let loved ones know you arrived safely.

These days, we don’t anticipate that call the same way. With technology, we can check-in at any time. A call or text. A flight-tracking app. Location services. It’s all at our fingertips. We don’t have to wait.

But let’s not confuse knowing someone’s GPS coordinates with knowing how they’re feeling. Or what they’re thinking. Or where they are on their journey.

Connected as we are through technology, we still have to do the work of staying connected as humans.

Don’t let it be a question of your capability; you’re capable of lots of things.

What do you do? What do you not do? What are the guardrails?

In business. In volunteering. In personal practices. In relationships.

Without guardrails, we’re seen through the lens of our capabilities. And what we’re capable of doing isn’t necessarily what we should be doing, or even what we want to be doing.

The principle is to find the overlay between our capabilities and the journey we intend to travel.

It’s a powerful shift to move from, “I could do all these different things,” to, “Among all the things I’m capable of doing, this is what I’m choosing to do.”

Go ahead. Get close. You’re giving rescue breaths. You need to be right there. It’s high-touch.

But acknowledge that breath needs movement.

For something to live, it needs space.

Know when to back away.

And to let it breathe on its own.