As we make, we too, are being made.

As we create, we play part in our own creation.

As we act upon others, indeed, we act upon ourselves.

While assembling a flatpack cabinet, I was ready to retrieve some bar clamps to help coax two stubborn pieces into place. That’s when I realized a single dowel wasn’t aligned to its hole. With a minor adjustment, all the pieces slid together effortlessly.

How often do we choose force when the situation calls for alignment? Or short-term command and control instead of the slower work of gaining enrollment?

There are plenty of times when clamps, ratchet straps, and hammers are exactly what’s needed. But often, thoughtful investigation will reveal a smoother, more effective path forward.

What if the next interaction you had was recorded, reviewed, and evaluated as part of your job interview?

Whether it’s a conversation with a colleague, a proprietor, a neighbor, or a child … what if that single interaction was analyzed? What if it mattered?

We’re not typically judged based solely on that kind of thin slice. But at times, we are.

Sometimes a single interaction is consequential.

This seems stressful. We can’t navigate every social interaction at peak performance.

But we can work to adjust our default. We can practice being thoughtful, courteous, curious, and poised.

And over time, random samples of how we interact — they’re likely to pass muster.

My son recently put together a lamp that was part of an engineering kit designed for children. After he was finished, I noticed a few extra parts in the box. I asked him about them.

“Yeah. Those were kind of tricky to install, so I skipped them.”

I laughed. It’s a totally natural thing to do: find a way to work around the tricky parts.

And this can be a good survival skill — a strategy for keeping forward motion.

But in the long run, it pays to figure out the tricky parts. In many endeavors, the tricky parts are what stand between good-enough and remarkable.

Planning and doing are separate activities. Both have a time and place. Sometimes they overlap. Sometimes they’re independent. And sometimes, they’re blind to one another.

The industrious, optimistic version of you — the one that creates the to-do list — is not necessarily the same version of you that executes the tasks.

Likewise, sometimes you can jump into action without having prioritized, mapped, and itemized.

What to do?

Nothing drastic. Just be aware. Recognize your various modes of operation. And mostly, give yourself some grace.

What can I get for you?
What can I buy for you?
What can I do for you?
What can I be for you?

These questions can all be born out of love, but none are quite the same.

Sometimes we feel a thing so greatly that we have to sing it — not necessarily with our voices, but with our hearts.

What has your heart been feeling lately? Have you let it sing?

Maybe it’s time.

How many wizard stories were written before J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone? And how many musicals had been written before Lin-Manuel Miranda created Hamilton? Or recordings of “America the Beautiful” before Ray Charles’ version in 1972?

There’s no guarantee that our own ideas and voices will catch fire. But time and again, we learn that the canon can be expanded. That there’s room for new great work. And if someone is to make an addition, why not us?

Of course, to enrich the world in any way, we have to tend to our craft. Our contribution begins with our creation.

There’s no need to storm anything; when we need ideas, we can invite them.

We’re not raiders so much as welcoming hosts.

And an openness to ideas doesn’t have to be an activity — it can be an ongoing posture.

Q: “How are you?”
A: “I’ve been better.”

Obviously.

In a general sense, it’s highly likely that at any given moment on any given day, you have been better. Zenith, apogee, climax … these are singular moments that recede as soon as they appear.

“I’ve been better” is about as notable as saying, “I’ve been younger.”

True, but not remarkable.

Of course, it all depends on what you’re measuring.

If you’re tracking wisdom, knowledge, and temperance, it very well could be that you’ve never been better.

Maybe in some instances the bar is much lower than we think.

Maybe our hesitation — the one that’s born of fear — is unnecessary.

Maybe the expectation is reasonable. Or even low.

That our normal effort is good enough. Even beyond good enough.

That showing up now — as-is — is what’s important. More important than showing up a little later and a little better.

* * *

Sometimes we need to stop polishing, planning, and procrastinating.

Sometimes we need to go with what we’ve got because now is the time.

Not later.

Now.

A ten-minute evaluation might be all it takes.

“How did we do?”
“What went really well?”
“What do we want to repeat for next time?”
“Where could we improve?”

In some organizations, this is second-nature. Formalized and even mandated.

And maybe this isn’t us.

But just because we don’t have such reviews codified doesn’t mean we can’t informally adopt the practice.

Because our aim is to repeat what’s worth repeating and to improve what’s worth improving. And sometimes an intentional conversation helps us to do that. To think about our process. To acknowledge our wins. To learn about our blind spots.

If we care enough, a brief evaluation could pay dividends.

This is the time of year when — in some parts of the world — the temperatures drop and the days are short. It’s a time of settling in, of cozying up, and of hibernating.

But maybe built into this surrounding quiet is an opportunity. A prompt to step out, to take risks, to experiment. After all, even the quietest voices can be heard when all else is silent.

Perhaps the season is encouraging us to venture down new creative paths.

What’s there to lose?

Sociologist William Bruce Cameron once wrote, “Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.”

It’s an adage familiar to many corporations and organizations.

The data matter. But numbers don’t tell a complete story.

We’re surrounded by data and analytics, but some of our most important work will never be measured.

A picture of a painting is not a painting; it’s a translation.

It looks like the painting, but it lacks the depth, texture, and physical qualities of the painting. Its size is different. Its edges are different. Its scent is different.

The photo is a representation, not the thing.

But we become so used to experiencing the translations — in books, in prints, on devices — that we forget we’re looking at avatars.

Find time for the originals. Seek them out. Be with them.

It’s a wholly different experience and fully worth the effort.

Sometimes, you will say something offhandedly and it will stick. It will change someone’s trajectory in significant and unexpected ways.

Other times, you will proudly relay what you feel is of utmost importance. And no one will hear you. Or it will seem that way.

One moment, we are a stone skimming a placid lake … creating ripples that extend to the shoreline.

And another, we are a stone dropped on the desert sands … a thud of a divot to be erased by the wind.

We never know our full effect in this world. We can’t.

But we can lead with intention. And the ripples — the many, many ripples — are worth it. Even those we never see.

We’re too close and too limited to see the grand picture.

C.S. Lewis writes, “We do not know the play. We do not even know whether we are in Act I or Act V.”

As actors, improvisors, and minor authors, our roles are loosely defined. But this mystery is not a burden; it’s a gift. Each moment, an opportunity to play our roles well. Each day, a scene to play with a full heart.

We expect the world to stay the same, and it doesn’t.
We expect the world to change, and it doesn’t.

We expect ourselves to stay the same, and we don’t.
We expect ourselves to change, and we don’t.

Our journey is one of imperfect guesses and shifting expectations.

It has always been.

But even so, over time, we learn to navigate with ever more skill and grace.

Work grows our desire to play.

Relaxation grows our desire to be industrious.

Movement seeks stillness. Stillness seeks movement.

Chaos seeks order. Order seeks chaos.

We often invoke inverses and converses as a way of finding equilibrium.

When you’re in a setting and you feel the pull of its opposite — it’s not because you’re in the wrong place; it’s because we naturally desire balance.

It’s not enough to identify what brings us joy. We need to go further:

To be curious about what brings us joy.

To trust what brings us joy.

To follow what brings us joy.

* * *

We begin by noticing. But then, then we go further.