“I’ve done this before. I can do it again.”

If you’re in the middle of writing your second book, or running your second marathon, or delivering your second keynote … then your personal history can be encouraging.

If we’ve done something in the past, there’s a good chance we can do it again.

But our past isn’t always laudable.

We make mistakes. We have vices. We make poor choices.

Those can be repeated too.

So when we say, “I’ve done this before. I can do it again,” we have to be judicious.

Our past — recent and distant — contains the best and the worst of us. What we carry forward is a matter of choice.

Since your travelling bags can’t carry everything, make sure they’re filled with the stories and intentions that will serve you best.

If we don’t do effortful work, we don’t change. Without challenge there’s no adaptation.

And in the meantime, not all things stay the same; some things atrophy.

So in those cases, we need to challenge ourselves just to stay as we are.

Whether maintaining or growing, a healthy level of exertion doesn’t tire us — rather, it rewards us with more vitality.

There’s birdsong. Eddies in the river. The rush of wind.

And there’s also traffic. Pundits and critics. The noise of culture. The electric grid.

It’s not just that sound enters our ears — it’s that we place ourselves in the context of sound.

And the soundscape does not self-regulate on our behalf. It doesn’t decide that we’ve heard too much of one thing and not enough of another. Each sound will play for us as long as we’re willing to listen.

The curation is up to us.

Listen thoughtfully.

Little by little. One bite at a time. Bird by bird.

These phrases (not usually used together, of course) are offered as kind words of encouragement. They’re calm reminders that we can only ever do the very next thing. That big projects have little steps and we do them in sequence.

But when time runs short, morale is low, and there are miles to go before we sleep, those helpful aphorisms don’t sing sweetly. We might even have to remind ourselves of their truth through mental gritted teeth.

The concept of incremental progress can keep us on track. But sometimes, we also have to accept that the road will be difficult. “Step by step” isn’t something we worry about during the gentle downhill. It’s the reminder we need when the climb ahead looks endless.

So remind ourselves, we will.

Onwards.

Balance can be achieved by addition, subtraction, or a shift in posture.

When you feel unbalanced, do you default to one of these?

Or perhaps you try to wait it out.

The thing about equilibrium is that it’s relentless. It never loses.

Whether you choose to rebalance yourself or you let nature handle it for you … will depend on whether you find balance standing tall or having fallen flat.

It’s a gentle game we play — being still, centered, leaning, stretching, sprinting, dancing. Quite remarkable that any of us stay on our feet.

But we do.

And often, balance is intuitive. We carry it with us, and when we’re wise, we mind its cues.

There’s an inverse relationship between your ability to sustain periods of discomfort and the satisfying nature of your rest.

Said another way: when you labor to climb the mountain, you appreciate a view you’d never have seen from the foothills.

“I don’t want to.”

It sounds like a child’s protest. And yet this mindset can be found in mature patients, clients, and organizations just as often as it can be found in the nursery.

“I want things to change, but I don’t want to participate.”

It’s illogical.

We know that when things go sideways, it’s because the system is no longer responding to doing what we’ve always done. Or perhaps it’s the result of what we’ve always done, and we haven’t been doing the right things.

We like to think we’re observers of change, but more often, we’re participants — either through our action or through our stillness.

Of course, if we want a reliable strategy for making change happen, we don’t look to others; we begin with ourselves.

Try as we might, we just can’t see everything on our own.

Auditors, colleagues, partners, critics, editors … we need these eyes too.

“What do you see that I’m not seeing?”

It feels risky. Because we could hear something we might not want to hear.

But outside eyes can also see good that we haven’t yet recognized.

When it comes to outside perspective: we don’t have to agree with everything we hear, but it can be helpful to listen.

When you type, you choose from a known set of marks.

When you paint, the mark-making is yours to define.

How do you like to operate? How much freedom do you seek? Will you work from a library, or will you lean more heavily on your judgement and dexterity?

Creative effort can take many modes. Which one feels right today?

What if our bias toward action is centered not on starting, but on finishing?

Often, things will get started on their own. But they won’t get finished on their own — not without dedicated focus.

It’s possible to mindlessly start multiple tasks. We don’t typically mindlessly finish them.

Attend to the finishing.

One at a time, project by project. When we can do that, over time, we don’t have a messy battlefield but a tidy portfolio.

What a shame that so many books of art and wisdom have such clean, crisp pages.

These collections best feed and inspire us not from their shelves, but within our hands.

Visit with them often — like beloved friends.

Solve a small problem so thoroughly that you can stand a little taller.

And every so often, stand next to something so immense that you remember you are small.

“That’s going to cost more.” How much more?
“That’s going to take more time.” How much more time?
“That’s going to be harder.” How much harder?
“That’s going to be more complicated.” How much more complicated?

It doesn’t take a whole lot of thought to raise concerns or to point out challenges.

The hard work is in quantifying and qualifying those statements.

“Modifying those architectural plans will add two weeks to the project timeline.”
“Increasing the venue size by ten percent will require five more staffers.”
“Adding that feature will raise production costs by $10 per unit.”

These are statements of caution, too, but with meat on their bones.

In assessing risk, the best yellow flags have details attached.

If not through study, and analysis, and toil, and relentlessness …

Then perhaps the answer will be found through play.

Because working harder will not solve every problem.

Sometimes it’s the lighter touch that prompts breakthrough.

“Better” means different things to different people.

But just because we don’t agree on what better looks like doesn’t mean we’re off the hook.

Find the others.

Seek those who see what you see.

Every great movement begins with a small number and a shared vision.

It’s tempting to think that new ways of making art have made the old ways obsolete.

Why paint a portrait if I can take a photograph?
Why draw a landscape if DALL·E 2 can generate one for me?
Why write a poem if ChatGPT can write one instead?
Why animate using stop motion if I can use software tools and simulators?

Well, what’s new doesn’t necessarily supplant what’s old. As new methods gain popularity, older forms don’t become irrelevant. Rather, they take on new meaning and context.

As artists, we choose the medium that fits the message.

We don’t make art because “this is the only way it can be done.” We make art to bring to the world a specific voice in a specific way.

And for artists and makers, the output is only one part of a bigger story. One that involves curiosity, rigor, process, and discovery.

The methods indeed matter.

As creators, we get to choose, and we often make our choices with intention.

There are infinite possibilities. But “select all” is not one of our options. It never has been.

It’s the anything/everything concept. You can do anything, but you can’t do everything. You can have anything, but you can’t have everything.

And yet, we have greater awareness of “everything” than ever before. Between technology, travel, and the movement of goods, all the world is on display — often with little reminder of our finite time to experience it.

So we might be tempted to go for broke … to see how much we can pack into one day, one year, one lifetime. But even at pace, that approach will never feel like enough.

Consider: we don’t sprint through the Met and we don’t skim a Mary Oliver poem.

No.

We savor.

Moment by moment.

We won’t experience all of it, but we’ll definitely experience some of it.

And that will be enough.

We’ve heard the ancient wisdom and accepted its truth: “This, too, shall pass.”

And yet, in moments of struggle or in moments of blissful unawareness, we can slip into believing that things will never change.

The status quo has an alluring way of convincing us of its permanence.

We do know better. But sometimes we need to recall what we know.

Wise words from Seth Godin:

“The most important book you will ever read is the one you write.”

Beautiful encouragement. Thanks, Seth.

• One: I know the answer and I’ll tell you.

• Two: I know the answer and I can show you how to get there.

• Three: I don’t know the answer and I’m unsure of the steps, but I have some ideas and I’m willing to work alongside you.

Observations: some people (young math students, for example) are much more interested in the first two versions of help.

Said another way: when we just want the answer, we don’t have the patience for mentors. And when we seek a mentor, a partner doesn’t usually suffice.

As we mature in our craft, however, we learn the value of partnership in exploration and discovery. Because our most challenging problems are solved not in isolation, but by working alongside others to discover not-yet-known answers by way of not-yet-known steps.