A courtyard can be a wonderful space, filled with natural light and fresh air.
It can also be a compelling metaphor: protected, but open.
What happens when we allow that open space? Not abandoning our walls completely, but allowing enough openness within?
Three questions to ponder:
What’s the dream?
What’s the GPS telling you?
What’s your next move?
Sit with these questions. Ruminate. Wonder. Then, do what you feel called to do.
Sometimes our most emotionally-driven, negative reactions occur not because of our frustration with others, but because of frustration with ourselves.
For us, it takes wisdom to see this. For others, insight and kindness.
If you want things to change, you will be upsetting a certain group of people.
For some, life is good as-is. They are happy with the way things are. They do not seek change. They cling to the status quo. They will spend vast amounts of time and money to that end.
Meaning, they will fight you. Passively or aggressively, they will resist.
The lesson is this: if we work for change, we cannot keep everyone happy. We have to accept this.
However, if we’re successful in making things better, those who once fought us might acquiesce. They could even become our partners, allies, and advocates.
In proofreading a note, I noticed that I had closed by typing “Live,” instead of “Love.”
I appreciated the thought that it prompted: to love is to live, and to live is to love.
They are often the same.
There are two styles of four-wheeled shopping carts.
With the first kind, there are fixed wheels in the back and swiveling wheels in the front.
With the second kind, all four wheels swivel.
One might think that the second kind is best. It’s the most agile. It has the smallest turn radius. It affords the most freedom of movement.
But that mobility can make the cart tricky to pilot. It’s more challenging to push in a straight line. Harder to turn once it’s going straight.
In the first kind of cart, the rear wheels help to hold a consistent path. Their inability to swivel creates an overall stability for the whole apparatus.
The principle is true in life, too: built-in constraints can work wonders for maintaining an established direction.
It could be that some of your constraints are working in your favor.
You might not be an art maker, but you could be a pedestal maker.
You might not be an actor or a musician, but you could be an impresario.
Whether or not we make beauty ourselves, we can always point to it — so that others might see.
Artist Joseph Cornell advised us, “Look at everything as though you are seeing it for the first time, with eyes of a child, fresh with wonder.”
Consider how drastically our lives might change for the better if we could embrace this.
Not child-ish, but child-like.
Imagine how alive we might be.
You could gather three or four of the most skilled people you know, and say, “Let’s identify a problem worth solving, and then work together to fix it.”
You could.
Of course, it’s a lot easier to bathe yourself in busywork and digital distraction, and hope that other people are focused on solving big problems.
* * *
We don’t coordinate efforts because we’re bored or because we’ve reached the end of the internet. We coordinate efforts because there are complex problems that urgently call for our attention.
If we’re not careful, we begin to judge others based on the game we’re playing.
Which means we’ve forgotten that not everyone is playing our game.
Not everyone is counting what we’re counting or watching what we’re watching.
Not everyone is keeping up with the same Joneses.
We each play our own game with its own rules and its own winners and losers.
It starts with just one day. And then another. And another.
And before you know it, you’re an alcoholic.
Or a runner.
Or a writer.
Or an embezzler.
Or a leader.
Or an artist.
Or a patron.
Or you.
What daily acts are shaping the person you’re becoming?
Admission: every night, I look into the bathroom mirror and think to myself, “I don’t want to floss.”
Then immediately afterwards, I floss my teeth.
It’s amusing to me that the trigger for my habit is my thought of not wanting to do the thing.
Some good habits are formed not by falling in love with the task, or earning a reward, or being otherwise compelled. They’re formed by consistently taking the right step even when you acknowledge that you don’t feel like it.
The street sweeper. The snow plow. The vacuum. The medical staff.
When good work is being done, we move aside. We clear the path. We try to make the job easier.
We make way.
And there are many ways we can do it. It’s not just about physically moving aside. It’s about greasing wheels, making connections, offering encouragement, helping with family, quietly solving problems … maybe even taking a back seat.
When good work is being done, we make way. And often, others make way for us too.
We tend to remember our own mistakes long after others have forgotten them.
And the light we shine on those errors tends to be brighter than the light shined by others.
It’s the shadow-side of our desire to do good. Our heartfelt focus on “right” makes every wrong sting.
But if we remember our mistakes, then we ought to remember not just that we made them, but what we learned, how we grew, and what we now do differently.
If a past mistake comes to mind, then consider it within the long arc of becoming a better human.
We have the Pale Blue Dot photograph thanks to Carl Sagan. That image, and Sagan’s words, remind us to cherish our tiny planet — the dot “on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”
A shift in perspective is a powerful thing.
* * *
Two works you should know, also related to perspective:
Powers of Ten. In 1968, Charles and Ray Eames created this compelling 9-minute short that explores size, scale, and perspective. If you’ve never seen it, it’s worth the time. You can watch it on YouTube.
Also, Zoom. This illustrated book by Istvan Banyai steps the viewer through layers of scale and perspective. Some video versions exist, but it’s best in printed form. Borrow it from your library sometime. It’s wonderful.
The Pale Blue Dot photo. “That’s here. That’s home. That’s us.” Image: NASA / JPL
At our local little league fields, there are press boxes with a public address system and a score board. Parent volunteers handle the announcing and operating the equipment.
Last night, the job was mine. I learned a few things worth sharing.
One: if you’re going to be the announcer, you might as well use your best announcer voice and sound like a professional. (Yes, it was kind of fun.)
Two: you have to pay close attention.
While I usually enjoy baseball as a spectator, last night, I had a job. Two jobs, actually. And I had to keep reminding myself of this. “You’re the announcer. You’re the scorekeeper.”
I said this to myself many times, as a way to remember my role: announce the next batter, watch the pitch count, post the score. These things weren’t going to happen on their own. It was my responsibility.
Are there things you might need to say to yourself, as a way of remembering your role?
“Remember: you’re running the meeting.”
“Remember: you’re the parent.”
“Remember: you are a professional.”
“Remember: your work is important.”
Whatever it is, say it to yourself as often as you need to.
Occasionally, when the path is completely free of obstruction, I’ll walk with my eyes closed.
Ten seconds. Maybe twenty.
It brings about a moment of tension. Even knowing that there’s no potential for collision, the mind still holds a whisper of doubt. Like a picture book version of anxiety.
Walking with that feeling — walking through that feeling — is a small bit of practice for the mind to coach the body. For the mental self to remind the physical self, “All is well. Keep moving. All is well.”
Critique. Specifically, the occasion where student-artists show their work and it’s discussed among peers and professors.
There are many styles of critique, but one approach is quite common: the wounded patient.
Here, the art is discussed through the lens of “what’s wrong with this?” and the artist is evaluated through the lens of “what did she get wrong?”
Another approach to critique — which I find to be more productive — is that of the curious object.
“What is this?” “How does this make me feel?” “What does this remind me of?” “What do I think about when I spend time with this work?”
This approach to evaluating art lives much closer to the beautiful and challenging conversations that art intends to create.
Next time you find yourself judging creative work as though it’s damaged, consider it as a curious object instead. It’s a far more rewarding experience.
“Can we please start over?”
When I think of this phrase, I think of a conversation that’s gone the wrong way. Or an audition that falls apart. Or a group rehearsal.
There are two parts that make a restart possible: vulnerability and generosity.
Vulnerability. Acknowledging error. Admitting a stumble. Wanting a second chance.
Generosity. Agreeing to begin again. Allowing the slate to be wiped clean. Enrolling in the path toward better.
We all can be vulnerable. We all can be generous. And at times, we all can benefit from starting over.
There are times when the kind thing to do is to listen.
Not to say, “I know that,” or “You told me that already,” but to simply listen.
Sometimes people need to tell a story. It’s not so much about relaying information. It’s about telling their story.
Hold that space for them.
Out of kindness, listen.