What we learn today sheds new light on what we thought we knew yesterday.

Said another way: Every step forward has the potential to change the way we think about our previous steps.

With each moment, history gains new context.

It’s easier to consume than it is to produce.

Easier to be entertained than to think deeply.

Easier to be distracted than to dig deep.

Easier to watch than to engage.

In striking a healthy balance, make sure you’re choosing to do the harder things often enough.

How long are you a visitor before you’re a regular?

How long are you an outsider before you’re an insider?

How long are you a noob before you’re an expert?

We often become regulars, insiders, and experts before others know us to be regulars, insiders, and experts.

How long it takes for that shift to happen has a lot to do with how willing we are to trust ourselves.

If we imagine our emotions as actors and our presence in the world as a stage, we might think life is a string of solo performances. Different scenes, different emotions, each taking a turn at center stage.

But it’s more complicated than that.

At times, we find ourselves directing a scene where a dozen emotions have taken the stage — some of them unexpectedly — and we struggle to put on a coherent show.

“What are all of you doing here? And why do you seem to be fighting each other?”

In these moments, as best we can, it’s wise to take an intermission in the form of a breath, a step back, or a centering thought.

The goal is not to kick actors off stage, but to acknowledge their presence. To accept that — for a reason — each of them has entered the scene. And to remember that not everyone on stage needs a speaking role.

As I collected my son from baseball practice, he said, “I feel good!”

Like any reasonable person would do, I paused to play James Brown’s most celebrated song.

But then I asked why he felt this way.

“I dunno. I just know I worked as hard as I could at practice.”

No mention of hitting well. No mention of winning a scrimmage. No mention of a spectacular play.

Just that he worked as hard as he could. One hundred percent effort.

* * *

We can’t control outcomes, but we can decide how much effort we put in.

And putting in everything we’ve got feels pretty good.

The most direct journey home — to safety, belonging, and truth — can often take us along unknown and unfamiliar pathways.

It’s never perfect. There’s always a hiccup. Or a scratch. Or an error.

So the question is never, “What do you do with perfect?”

The question is always, “What do you do with the imperfections?”

We can ignore them, we can try to fix them, or we can learn to embrace them.

There’s always a choice.

Advice for creative progress:

Pick a creative act you can reliably and consistently repeat. “The Smallest Creative Act.”

Every day, write one thoughtful sentence.
Or draw one interesting contour.
Or compose one musical phrase.
Or take one compelling photograph.
Or cut out one new shape.
Or _______.

What’s the one, smallest creative act you can do each day, day after day?

It’s not about outcomes. It’s not about production. It’s about process. It’s about stretching a muscle. It’s about starting a creative streak and keeping it alive.

Set the bar low enough that there’s no barrier. Make it easy. Make it doable. Make it repeatable.

Then, after a hundred days — or a thousand — see what’s come of it. See how you’ve changed. See what new pathways have revealed themselves to you. And keep going.

It keeps us from our dreams. It makes us forget what’s important. It pacifies us. Renders us ineffective. It can keep us from our greatest potential — as a culture and as individuals.

What is this dangerous threat?

Distraction.

And it’s all around us. Within us, too. 24/7.

To conquer any challenge, we must first conquer distraction.

Polishing your instrument and putting it together might feel like important work.

And it is important.

But it doesn’t stop there. All that buffing and assembly is in anticipation of the work that matters.

The music begins only when we’ve moved beyond all the preparation.

It was the third day of a tradeshow when my colleague looked down at his pants and said with shock, “Wait! These are the wrong pants!”

He had inadvertently been wearing the pants from one suit and the jacket from another. For three days. Slightly different patterns. Slightly different colors.

Sometimes we just get dressed without thinking. We go about our business and we’re unaware of what doesn’t match.

This works as a metaphor, too. We put on generosity with a little hint of resentment. Or relaxation with some unchecked stress. Or we put on empathy without removing enough judgement.

Mismatches.

But sometimes we’re able to notice this about ourselves. We might even feel the surprise, as though we’ve just realized we’re wearing the wrong pants.

In speaking to a group of people for whom I have great respect, I found that I had placed my hand on my heart. I hadn’t done this intentionally. I hadn’t done this knowingly. I merely noticed it as I was speaking. There it was. Hand on my heart.

As I continued to speak, I let the gesture remain — like a welcome guest.

The experience was a good reminder that the body can tell us a lot about what’s going on inside the head.

I sometimes think this, almost as a prayer:

Teach me resilience … but do it gently.

We want to learn from the world, but we also seek a gentle teacher.

And yet we know: there are times when significant progress is made only through significant struggle.

We’ve all heard the advice, “pick your battles.”

And it’s good advice; we have to let some things go.

But the phrase falls short of an important consideration: timing.

The best time to pick your battles is not when you’re being provoked. Yes, it’s possible to walk away, to take a deep breath, to not say what’s on the tip of your tongue.

But the better time to pick your battles is before you get to the battlefield. And that happens in the quiet moments when we consider what’s important to us and what’s worth our attention in the long run.

How does your presence change the meeting?

Does it merely increase the attendance by a count of one?

Or does it also increase the thoughtfulness? Or the engagement? Or the focus? Or the level of ease? Or the feeling of possibility?

We’re here for a reason, and it’s not just to increase the headcount.

During a three-minute conversation with a stranger (we were both waiting for carryout at a restaurant) a man guessed something personal about me … and he was right.

When I confirmed it, he grinned saying, “It bears witness.”

I wonder: what about you is evident?

Not by way of a t-shirt, a badge, a flag, or a bumper sticker — but in the language you use, the posture you hold, and the way you interact with others?

“People like us do things like this.”

Who are you, what do you do, and what do you believe?

Does it somehow bear witness?

There are awkward in-between stages when you’re letting your hair grow (or slowly losing it).

Or when you’re changing careers.

Or when you’re developing a new skill.

Or when a body transforms during adolescence.

There are always awkward in-between stages.

The awkwardness is merely a sign that we’re growing and changing.

And to grow and change is to live.

“Why do you have to hold my hand?” asked my son as we played in the breakers — waves crashing on our knees and hips.

“Because you can’t swim,” I replied.

And quickly correcting myself, “Because you’re still learning how to swim.”

The more efficient adjustment would have been to say, “Because you can’t swim … yet.”

When we talk about situations as permanent or changeable, it makes a difference.

While installing a spare tire on my vehicle, I paused.

Both sides of this wheel look similar. Which side should face outward?

Turns out, the design made it so that the wheel fit one way and not the other. That helped to make the choice clear. Given a choice that works and one that doesn’t, choose what works.

But as I replaced the lug nuts, I noticed something: the valve stem.

This valve — used for filling the tire with air — was on the outside of the vehicle (rather than facing underneath). This let me know with certainty that I was doing things the proper way.

Sometimes it takes stepping back and thinking simply and practically — and the right path reveals itself.

Sometimes things happen all together.

Sometimes one at a time.

Sometimes we’re caught off guard — because it can be good to be unguarded.

And in the midst of all the surprise, we sometimes surprise ourselves.