There’s an inverse relationship between internal noise and external listening. When there’s too much going on internally, it can be hard for us to hear others.

To seek connection, our best path is to first practice quieting our own minds.

Creativity can be unpredictable in the way it seeks expression. That is, sometimes we just don’t know.

So the thing to do is to try. To experiment. To dabble. To be a beginner often.

And we might find that playing the guitar does it. Or painting. Or writing poetry. Or knitting. Or taking photographs. Or cooking. Or making buttons. Or throwing pots in one season and writing jokes in another.

What we find satisfying may indeed surprise us.

So let yourself be surprised.

A pebble inside the shoe.

A fleck of dirt in the eye.

A gnat in the ear.

As physically tough as we are, it’s funny how small irritants can cause so much annoyance and discomfort.

But it also gives hope to us tiny humans existing in a vast universe. We — small as we are — can be agents of change, garnering attention and influence despite our relative size.

Our aim, of course, is not to be irritants, but to be creators of beauty. To be people who solve interesting problems. To be makers who make things better.

Within the big picture: tiny but mighty.

Stronger. Bigger. Faster. Smarter. Better. More profitable. More popular.

Instead of focusing on these goals, what if we work at becoming more sturdy? Breakable in some places. But mendable too.

What happens when we deemphasize competition and the desire to get ahead … and give attention to becoming more resilient?

Last night, I was lucky to be accompanied by a youth choir as I sang a song at the piano.

The experience moved me. Their voices were beautiful and full of life. I’m convinced of its universality: that young people singing in harmony creates feelings of hope and peace.

Even with challenging lyrics or songs of sadness — when sung by children — hope can’t help but spring forth.

Here’s to finding more of that, more often.

Most often, it’s how we give that makes the gift special.

It’s why we wrap things carefully. It’s why we ask people to close their eyes. It’s why we embrace. Or hand an object in a ceremonious way.

Many times, how and why we give are far more meaningful than the gift itself.

We don’t know the strength of walls until we begin to push on them.

Constraints, borders, limitations — until we test their ability to hold us, their power is absolute.

If we lack the courage, the moxie, even the desperation to learn what is possible … then we risk being held prisoner by paper tigers.

The suggestion is not to run headlong into a solid wall. But what a shame it would be if we didn’t give the walls a little nudge. Just to see.

If you attend your niece’s band concert, and she plays the bass clarinet, and you’ve never heard a bass clarinet, you won’t know what to listen for. You’ll hear music. You’ll hear many different sounds. But you won’t know which one belongs to your niece.

When we don’t know what something sounds like, we can’t listen for it. We can think about this as it relates to musical instruments, but it’s a useful metaphor too.

What are you listening for? Do you know what it sounds like?

Sometimes we live with the feeling of time-poverty. It’s often paired with a longing — as though by wanting, we could create more minutes in the day.

Yes, our time in this existence is finite. But for now, each of us has the fulness of this moment.

There is no poverty of time, but rather the richness of the present. Our ability to live in that richness is not a function of our productivity. It’s a function of our consciousness and our ability to pay attention.

Knock on more doors. Figuratively. Literally.

We live in the information age. The internet is a potential connection to billions of people. Billions.

But that potential connection doesn’t mean that a single blog post is likely to catch fire. It doesn’t mean that one tweet or one article or one video is going to gain traction.

Standing up and saying, “I’m here,” is not enough.

If we seek any kind of engagement — whether growing a business or growing a community — we still have to do the hard work of connecting with others. We still have to knock on doors.

In some games, at some levels … fast-and-less-accurate will handily beat slow-and-precise.

It’s not always the case, but sometimes, going fast and taking more shots — even if they’re not all good shots — is the way to excel. In those situations, opportunities go to the bold and nimble, and they pass by those who are measured and deliberate.

Perfect form doesn’t help if your competition is running laps around you. Again, depending on the game you’re playing.

The idea that I can put little devices in my ears and tap the screen of another device — and listen to almost any song that exists — it seems like a miracle I too often take for granted.

Technological wonders aside, I was listening to some music as I walked recently.

I soon realized that my footfalls were in perfect sync with the music I was listening to.

For better or worse, we can be surprisingly influenced by the music we hear. And we don’t always realize that we’re dancing with the inputs.

The lesson? Play a good soundtrack. Sync yourself to a good tune.

Centuries ago, prepared writing surfaces were expensive and laborious to produce. Because of this, it was not uncommon for parchment to be scraped down and repurposed. One document scrubbed, another written in its place.

The process wasn’t perfect. Sometimes, traces of the original text remained faintly visible. Scholars call these documents palimpsests (from ancient Greek meaning “to scrape again”).

Our creative work — even our lives — can be a kind of palimpsest. Changing. Regenerating. Layering.

And the old layers don’t lessen the value of the new text. They’re just part of recorded history. Even more, those layers add to an intrigue and beauty that we can embrace.

There are times when shouting is an effective way to prompt action. When there is a fire, for instance, the message is best delivered with adequate volume.

As a standard form of management or parenting, however, shouting will cause many more problems than it will solve.

Shout too often and for less-than-worthy causes, and you’re likely to prompt earplugs more than action.

I cried over the weekend upon hearing that my childhood friend’s grandmother had passed. When I was young, she treated me like one of her own.

The tears caught me by surprise. Even after a life well-loved and well-lived, loss is loss.

In considering all the loss that many of us have experienced recently, it’s some comfort knowing that we’ve loved … and we have been loved. That we feel loss at all means we’ve also known some of life’s greatest joys.

Last night, I passed by a beautiful, large home. The hallway behind its front door was illuminated. In a split-second, I got a feeling about the space. The wall color and the temperature of the fluorescent light made it look like a prison cell. Or perhaps an old locker room.

I’m sure the home is quite lovely. But my experience points to the power of “What does this remind you of?” Everything we see reminds us of something, whether we can pinpoint the source or not. Even beyond sight — everything we sense has the potential to remind us of something we’ve experienced.

All the more reason to ask ourselves the question when we’re building, designing, and creating: What does this remind you of?

It’s a good tool for creative wayfinding.

The title of this post is a serious question. What are you doing?

A friend generously asked me to consider this. I say “generously” because at the time, I was feeling some regret about un-done projects and a few paused creative pursuits.

But in stopping to list the things I’m actually doing, I realized the scope of my creative footprint over the past few months. It’s not lacking. It doesn’t include everything I’d like, but it’s a healthy list.

So I ask you, too. Not about what you haven’t done or what needs tending. But about what you’ve been able to do. Despite all the challenges and all the distractions, what are you doing?

Make a mental list and then pat yourself on the back. I bet you’re doing great.

I witnessed a conversation that moved from normal to tense in a matter of seconds. A few passive-aggressive comments was all it took.

What’s clear, in retrospect, is the underlying lack of trust that allowed the interaction to go downhill so quickly. Trust can act like a safety tether — keeping the conversation on the right track. When it’s missing, it doesn’t take more than a few missteps for things to go sour.

There are occasions where I will literally turn around and go back to do what I know is right. Times when I course-correct after having ignored an opportunity to do good.

To pick up a piece of trash. To help someone who is silently asking. To let someone know there’s a problem they might not see.

We’re faced with these moments all the time. Do I go about my day, or do I pause to help, despite the inconvenience?

I don’t always choose the noble path, but I’ve learned: the full feeling of having acted with integrity — even if we’re not acknowledged or thanked — almost always mutes the thoughts of inconvenience.

The signs on other roads are meant for other travelers. You have your own signs.

Following the signs meant for others is a good way to get yourself lost or hurt.