From texts not written for us, not written in our time, and not written in our language … we can gain great wisdom.

It’s there for us, even if it’s not for us.

Don’t be shy. Don’t wait for a personal invitation.

Wisdom’s record is invitation enough.

To turn away from it is a way of hiding, and we weren’t meant to hide.

If you have eyes to see and ears to hear, then cultivate the seeing and hearing.

Wisdom is not for a privileged few; it’s for all.

It’s easy to identify part of a whole and to ask, “Why isn’t this element better?”

It’s much harder to see the big picture and to consider the many trade-offs that were made in the design phase.

Often, improvement in one area comes at the expense of another — whether it’s time, attention, or resources.

And this can be an intentional act: going to extremes to make one specific piece remarkable. Some of the best products, services, and experiences are built on this very idea.

We’re always making trade-offs. When you notice deficiency in one area, there’s likely a reason. And when you see brilliance in another, there’s likely a reason for that too.

Trade-offs.

Worthy. Skilled. Inventive. Creative. Capable. Ready.

Sometimes we just need to remind ourselves.

Everything we need to move forward from this moment … we already have.

It’s just a question of where we’re pointed, and how big of a step we’ll take.

Last week, I was in search of long ladders, grippy shoes, and nerve. Wisely, I decided to call a professional.

When the roofer arrived, he first evaluated the work from the ground. After some discussion, he said, “Well, I’ll go check it out.”

Pulling a folding ladder from his van, he walked not to the area closest to the second-story leak, but to the front porch. Extending the ladder, he climbed to the porch roof. He turned around, pulled the ladder up, placed it carefully on the porch roof, and climbed to the upper roof.

(Ah. I see.)

My own approach was to seek longer ladders and a run to the top. The professional’s approach was to navigate shorter distances, in sequence, one at a time.

My own approach was to move from point A to point B. The professional got to my “point B” by starting from a place I hadn’t anticipated, and taking steps I hadn’t considered.

We can learn on our own. But we can learn even more by watching professionals at work. Not to abandon our own experimentation, but to let our creativity be informed by the strategies, techniques, and wisdom we find in those who travel the path.

“Watch and learn.” Hackneyed perhaps, but still good advice.

The work may come from curiosity. But it might also come from boredom, or fear, or anxiety, or restlessness, or loyalty, or habit, or joy, or a sense of responsibility, or a feeling of play …

It can vary widely over time.

Whatever the source may be, seek to recognize it. Seek to understand it.

Let the work be better for it.

Opening a box and baking. Tearing a pack and adding water. Venting and microwaving.

These are easy ways. They’re quick. They might even be delicious.

But they don’t compare to following an old-world recipe. Or making a cherished heirloom dish.

Slower. More materials. More steps. More clean-up.

And every bit worth it.

Some things aren’t about speed, efficiency, or convenience. They’re about intentionally choosing a certain way, and embracing its beauty and meaning.

Doing better doesn’t always mean trying harder.

Sometimes, it means trying less.

Or trying differently.

Harder only works in some contexts, and only if you’re headed in the right direction.

“If the weather was like this more often, there’d be a lot less complaining!”

Disagree.

The person who said this (a casual acquaintance) — I’m certain — would find reason to complain about the monotony of beautiful weather. Or the complaining would shift from the weather to some other thing.

When we bias toward complaint, we will always find things that bother us.

If instead we default to gratitude, appreciation, and finding good — we will see a world filled with it.

I was surprised to see a sign taped to the inside of a restroom door. In large letters was the word “bathroom”.

Unless the door had been propped open (and it wasn’t) the sign was only visible from the interior. Of course, if you were already in the bathroom, you wouldn’t need a sign to tell you.

However, it got me thinking about interior and exterior signs. We’re often displaying signs to the world. This is who I am. This is what I believe. This is what I’m like.

But could we benefit, too, from interior signs? Some way of reminding ourselves of who we are and what we believe?

What might your sign say?

Thanks to a torrential storm, my living room has a new water feature. (A roof repair is needed.)

A neighbor happens to be replacing some shingles on his own roof. He generously offered one of his extension ladders.

With much effort, we leaned the ladder against my house. Six feet too short. Perhaps I could try to make it work? No. Too risky.

Luckily, my neighbor has a taller ladder. After returning the first ladder, we brought the second ladder and put it in place. This ladder would allow me to reach a lower roof and then climb to the upper roof.

Testing my shoes on the lower roof, I realized my traction was inadequate; I would need better soles to navigate the higher, steeper roof. I descended the ladder to change.

A few minutes later, I found myself on the upper roof ready to work. However, the area I needed to fix was eight feet away … where the drop-off wasn’t onto a lower roof, but straight to the ground. I tested my footing. Not too bad. But not great either.

My neighbor — from the base of the ladder — offered suggestions. He used words like “shimmy” and “crawl” and phrases like, “shoot over,” and “maybe scoot across.”

I weighed the risks. (I was so close!) Then, two things came to mind. First, statistics about the high number of homeowner injuries due to ladder accidents. Second, the scene from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, where Harrison Ford is desperately reaching for the Holy Grail, precariously close to a bottomless crevasse.

I chose wisely.

Down the ladder I climbed. Safe. Unharmed.

(I'll call a professional roofer to handle the repair.)

A few takeaways:

• When considering risk-reward, don’t let sunk costs skew your understanding of risk.

• The person at the bottom of the ladder doesn’t risk falling. Weigh their advice knowing this.

• Some jobs — particularly when health and safety are involved — are best left to the professionals.

• When you play with the appropriate level of risk, you often get to keep playing.

• Sometimes a win just means that you get to walk away without having hurt yourself.

Thankless jobs are only thankless because of our silence or indifference.

We can make conscious efforts to change this.

And indeed we should.

What does a good day look like? What does a good meeting look like? What does a good outcome look like?

We’re quick to judge these in hindsight; it’s more useful to define these things before they happen.

It’s not just about goal-setting, it’s also about knowing what to look for.

Sometimes we struggle and force …

when we’d do far better to let and allow.

Some problems are best solved with a warm spirit and a gentle touch.

The challenge might not be in the work, so much as our approach.

I don’t own a Rivendell, but I love their style and I read the company’s newsletter regularly. Their email always includes beautiful photographs of bikes, gear, and scenery.

Some text stood out in a recent issue:

“We won’t let you make a dumb choice, we’re happy to suggest things, and it’ll always work out.”

And this:

“Good selection of smart wheels … Whatever you want as long as it makes sense. We don’t offer an iffy wheel option.”

Perfect.

This is a wonderful example of the balance that professionals offer: high flexibility and clear guardrails.

The ability to deliver customer satisfaction is coupled with steering the customer away from poor choices.

It’s not just, “whatever you want.” It’s also, “helping you know what to want.”

We are influenced by location, but we are not defined by location. Sometimes we forget this. Sometimes we tell ourselves the story of where we are instead of the story of who we are.

And story, if not presently, soon can shape the contours of reality.

Whether near or far from what feels like home, pause to remind yourself of who you are.

If it helps, you can do this often.

For those pursuing a life of creativity and purpose, there are many practices to keep in mind. Openness, curiosity, experimentation, awareness, cultivating elevated senses … it can seem like a lot.

But mere glimpses into any one of these areas can generate seasons of inspiration.

Ancient scripture tells us that faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains. Likewise, tiny glimpses of creative clarity can sustain a lifetime of meaningful work.

The voice that speaks loudest is the one inside your head.

Let it be kind. Let it be encouraging. Let it be curious and wise.

At all costs, keep its negativity in check. Temper its anger. Eliminate its bitterness.

It is with you always. Train your inner voice be a friendly guide, not a harsh critic.

Twenty minutes of careful sunscreen application can feel tedious and annoying.

But if you’re spending a day at the beach, that twenty-minute chore could be weighed against a few days of painful sunburn.

Often, it’s the short, minor discomforts on the front end that save us from the long, major discomforts on the tail end.

Choose wisely.

An periodic reset helps to restore balance. It’s a kind of recalibration that returns us to baseline.

Often, this kind of reset means a pause in activity. A pause in consumption. A pause in routine.

So instead of increasing, instead of pushing, instead of striving, instead of “play next” … we stop. We rest. We allow all things to settle.

And perhaps we stay there for some time.

And it may be uncomfortable at first.

But we remain there anyway. Purposefully paused.

In time, we begin again. Restored. Rejuvenated. Refocused. Ready.

Reset.

Re-set.

We often go places to create memories.

And many times — if we let it — the journey itself becomes a memory.

But even the extraordinary can pass unnoticed if we’re not open to its presence.

* * *

What we experience begins with what we notice … and it unfolds with the story we tell.

When our eyes are closed and our stories are dull, so also is our existence.

Let the color in. See it everywhere. There’s wonder in all things, great and small.

A memory, even in this very moment.