Be brave enough to learn about your blind spots. Ask, “What am I not seeing?” Listen to those trusted voices that are willing to show you what you cannot see for yourself.

The thing about blind spots is that we will always have them; there’s no way to eliminate them forever.

But we can be conscious of their existence, and we can know to ask for help in learning about them.

What are you not seeing today? Who can help you to see it?

Twice recently, I’ve made small errors because I didn’t follow my own notes.

“Cut stretcher and glue here.” (I didn’t cut. I didn’t glue.)

“Shopping list item: sixteen #12 x 1/2" sheet metal screws.” (I returned home without the screws.)

These were minor flubs with minimal cost, but it made me think: how many times do we err simply because we don’t follow our own notes?

How often do we have the answers in-hand, but fail to reach for them at the right time?

Even worse: how many of our mistakes are from us not sticking to our own principles?

Taking notes is an important practice, but the bigger part is knowing when to revisit them.

My website is built using Squarespace. I’ve tweaked the code in lots of small ways, but the foundation of the site — and its design — is a Squarespace template.

Here’s what I value: all the default design choices that Squarespace offers are good choices. The platform is built with thoughtful constraints in mind; whether you’re an expert or not, you can put together a website that looks professional.

The experience is akin to, “Here are six different ingredients. Choose one. Any of the six will work well; it’s just a matter of preference.”

This is in contrast to other tools and environments where the user has an infinite number of choices. Those open-ended workspaces are perfect for designers who have good taste — not so good for a layperson who wants to build something but who doesn’t have the skills or judgement to know what will work and what won’t.

* * *

Generous design: creating systems and platforms that afford creativity, but also set high-percentage odds that users will end up with something that works well.

I paused in front of a stained glass window — one that I had passed more than a hundred times.

This time, I paused longer than usual.

I looked. Really looked.

Had you asked me about this window, from memory I’d have said it was pretty. Colorful, too.

I’d have had little recollection about its design, or the condition of the solder, leading, or etchings.

Turns out, this particular window isn’t in the best shape. There are modifications. Some strange repairs.

Many areas are significantly worn.

And yet …

Old, but beautiful.

Worn, but compelling.

Imperfect, but wonderful nonetheless.

It seems to me that there’s a lot I can learn from this.

Pause to ask yourself, “What’s the problem I’m solving?”

Is it personal? Is it self-indulgent?

If we’re not careful, the problems we end up solving (naturally) become increasingly selfish. I’m hungry. I want attention. I need to be entertained. I seek status.

What’s surprising is that the more we work to solve these problems for others, the more they’ll be solved for ourselves.

When we work to serve the needs others, we soon find many of our own needs fulfilled.

One house: same Christmas lights, same lawn decorations … every year.

Another house: always something new. A new design. A new look. A new show.

Our family enjoys both displays. It’s an annual tradition to drive by each house. But our expectations are different.

For the one, we look forward to seeing what’s familiar. For the other, we expect to be surprised with something we haven’t seen.

* * *

In our own creative practices, does our audience look for the same? Or do they delight in the unexpected?

Both are viable paths, but they’re not the same.

As creators and makers, we need to be clear about which path we’ve chosen. Are we making facsimiles of our previous work? Or are we inventing what’s new and untested?

It may change from time to time, but our answer largely depends on the needs and expectations of those we seek to serve.

This has been a year of separation. A struggle of how to separate. Of when to separate. Of research and deliberation and discussion about what’s safe and what’s not — all in the service of keeping as many of us as possible, alive and healthy.

And yet these safety measures take their toll on our hearts.

Our kitchens and living rooms should be filled with the joy, laughter, and smiles of friends, family, and people who will sleep on cots, sofas, and guest beds.

Instead, we express love through phone calls, Zoom rooms, and socially distanced encounters.

A holiday becomes a bittersweet reminder that we haven’t yet gotten the virus under control.

Vaccines are working and spring is coming … but it won’t be like flipping a switch. The exhale of relief will come little by little. The first tight hug in a long time. A gathering without masks. An out-of-state guest. A sniffle without worrying that you’ve become part of a data set.

We’re just not there yet.

We are resilient, but proving our resilience is never easy.

For now, we celebrate separately so that soon we’ll be able to celebrate together.

Soon.

Tell yourself not to worry. Tell yourself that you are strong. That you are well-able. That you can do remarkable things. That you can bring goodness to the world.

This is the main work — the work of coaching yourself.

But there’s something strangely magical about hearing these words from others. The advice sounds different when it comes from a trusted mentor or friend — one who is willing to offer unvarnished truth. Sometimes they ring more true.

As often as I’ve advised and encouraged myself, I’m grateful when the words come from outside my head. And, I’m conscious that I can give this same gift — to speak to others, the truth they already speak within themselves.

If we have a challenging day, we might look back and say, “Aside from this one day, the week was pretty good.”

At the end of a challenging week, we might look at the full month. Seeing a month can soften the edges of a tough seven-day stretch.

But how do we gain perspective on a tough year? Do we look back at a whole decade? That seems like a long period of time to hold in the mind all at once. Maybe that’s why a hard year tends to stick.

It may not come naturally, but a way through this is to pause to consider the past two years. Or three. Perhaps five.

This has been a difficult year in many ways. If we can, let’s widen the lens enough to see this one year as a dip within an overall less turbulent time.

And … maybe we can see that amidst the sorrows and disappointments of this year, it’s looking bright up ahead.

In a lot of situations, you don’t have to choose one side. You don’t have to pick one party.

But to engage with the culture, you do have to take a position.

And maybe your position is not “for” or “against.”

Maybe your position is openness. Or curiosity. Or listening. Or cooperation. Or consensus.

That you find yourself within a spectrum (rather than a simple binary) simply means that you’re a thoughtful human.

Taking a position is less about labels and more about caring enough to understand your own perspective.

The beautiful thing about sledding down a hill with kids is that it doesn’t matter if you do it well.

You can have a stellar run with a fast jump and a soft landing … and everyone enjoys it.

Or you can have an awkward run where you fall off the sled and look foolish … and everyone still enjoys it.

Sledding is about fun and affiliation. It’s a practice in humility. It’s an infinite game where there are no winners. No losers.

Sometimes it’s nice to prioritize activities that don’t involve competition … and just focus on being silly, laughing, and being together.

It can sting when we’re not picked. “Don’t they see my potential? What am I doing wrong?”

Not getting picked can lead to self-doubt. It can make us second-guess our worth.

But all it means is that we weren’t picked. That’s all.

Our options are to obsess about why we weren’t picked, or to “pick ourselves” and move on.

Tom Brady — one of the most successful quarterbacks in the history of American football — was the 199th pick in the 2000 NFL Draft. (He was passed over 198 times.)

Prior to her political career, Margaret Thatcher was an aspiring chemist. The personnel department at one major chemical company rejected her job application, deeming her to be “headstrong, obstinate and dangerously self-opinionated.”

Now a legendary film director and producer, a young Steven Spielberg was rejected from the University of Southern California’s film school. Twice.

And famously, twelve publishing houses rejected J.K. Rowling’s manuscript for the first book in the Harry Potter series.

We don’t stop because we didn’t get picked. We keep going, and we end up better for it.

Wednesday, there were two groups of people at the office. One group wore boots. The other group did not.

At eleven o’clock, the first few flakes began to fall. By mid-afternoon, a blanket of snow was six inches deep and growing.

What does footwear tell us about our colleagues?

Not a whole lot, actually. At the end of the day, some people went home with cold, wet feet. Others did not.

It’s tempting to draw a circle around that detail and to make assumptions about who prepares, who’s responsible, and who generally knows what’s going on (and the converse).

But really, it only points to that moment, that day, in that situation.

Sometimes we want to tell a full story based on one, small observation.

Good to remind ourselves that in a different moment on a different day … we’d be telling ourselves a different story.

Solos are different than duets.

Solos can take a left turn without warning. Solos can change without notice. Solos don’t need permission or enrollment.

Duets are different. They require a level of cooperation. It doesn’t matter so much who’s right and who’s wrong. What matters in a duet is togetherness. The quality of performance depends largely on the players’ cohesion and their ability to work as a group.

In life, most of what we do is not solo. Most of what we do has some level of duet.

That should tell us how important it is that we learn to play together.

Consider the networks and communities you treasure. It’s tempting to think that these groups breathe a rare air. That it’s the stuff of providence, magic, and alchemy.

But what if that’s not quite true? What if beautiful connections are more common than we think? Or rather, more available?

What if meaningful connection is not far away, but only on the other side of a shared, intentional posture? That the magic is in choosing to be generous, empathetic and yes, vulnerable?

Perhaps community is only as rare as people’s willingness to enter into it.

“Three easy steps to changing your life for the better.”

That sounds like a pretty good deal. But it’s also unreasonable.

The problem is, there aren’t many publications that paint a realistic picture. Like: three oversimplified concepts that will change your life for the better, but they’ll also take a lifetime to learn.

Or: one thousand worthwhile steps to take — some easy, some challenging, some redundant — whose results will vary by user.

Finding a handful of “easy steps” is a delusion. We have to stop seeking overnight hacks to a better life.

The path toward better is a process. It’s a practice. It’s an ongoing experiment best conducted with small, intentional, repeatable actions … done patiently, without expecting immediate results.

“Gravitating to the edge” is something we often hear, but it’s also rather curious. Gravity pulls toward an object’s center — not toward an edge.

When we say that we’re gravitating to an edge, what we really mean is that we’re pulled away from one center and toward another.

While it’s useful to know that we’re on the edges of one thing, it’s even more useful to identify the other center that draws us.

We often begin by learning how. How to speak, how to write, how to play.

These are skills that can be developed.

At some point — maybe sooner, maybe later — we shift our focus away from how and toward what.

Now that we know how to speak, what will we say?

Now that we know how to write, what will we compose?

Now that we know how to play, what songs does the world need to hear?

If we don’t move beyond “how” then we remain as pupils.

And while we’re lifelong learners, the goal is not to merely collect skills. The goal is to use those skills to do meaningful work.

During a moment when I feared that I had made a mistake — one that would have unintentionally slighted a hero of mine — a friend offered me kind, timely advice.

“Breathe. It’s probably much worse in your imagination. Go easy on yourself.”

And importantly: “Give yourself grace.”

I typed that last part into my personal notes. But my fingers duped me, typing “grade” instead of grace.

It prompted me to think of how often we judge ourselves — and harshly too — giving ourselves average or failing grades rather than viewing ourselves with love and self-compassion.

Don’t begin with grades.

Begin with grace.

Present-day Lascaux, France. Some 19,000 years ago, maybe longer — What must it have felt like to make marks on the cave walls for the first time?

Had anyone done this before? What was it for? Who was it for? Would it even work?

Given millennia of perspective, can we be so bold? Are we willing to chart new paths? To try new things? To make our own marks?

We have countless opportunities to create beauty and connection in the work we do.

The walls of our own caves await.