The culture offers many buoys: brightly colored shiny things, visible, and floating on the surface.

They’re attractive, easy to cling to, and they’re everywhere.

But to go deeper — to think deeply, to ruminate, to meditate — we have to intentionally let go.

Tethered to the buoys, we’ll remain at the surface.

Which is fine.

But there’s much more to life if we’re willing to seek it.

“Learn how to properly merge onto the highway. Afterwards, there will be a multiple choice test.”

Or …

“Learn how to properly merge onto the highway. Afterwards, you’ll get behind the wheel and demonstrate what you’ve learned.”

The two are quite different.

Theory and practice. Paper tests and road tests. Learning to know and learning to do.

When we’re training in anticipation of imminent events, our motivation peaks and our focus sharpens.

In practice: when we really want to learn, it can help to put something on the calendar that gives us an opportunity to test our knowledge.

We can’t stay in the pages of the book; we have to get out onto the road.

Ten years ago, did you have a prediction about what today would be like?

Were you right?

And how about ten years from now? Perhaps you have an idea of how things will be then.

Will you be right?

We never really know.

What we do know is what’s now. We have that.

Today. This moment.

How will you honor it?

Words are powerful, but they can fall short.

Actions — effective as they are — can fall short too.

But that’s what we’ve got: words and actions.

So we try our best with these tools, and we lean on connection and grace to fill in the gaps.

One good question speaks louder than a dozen statements shouted.

There’s a place for assertions, certainty, and truth.

But when we lead with curiosity and the ability to change our mind, life is far less frustrating and far more extraordinary.

Allow yourself to think deeply.

Allow yourself to write poetry.

Allow yourself to create art.

Allow yourself to compose music.

Yes, countless others have trod this path. But there are more blank pages in the book, and your contribution could become one of its highlights.

After all, before the greatest works in history were created — a canon of great works existed. That is, others trusted that their own contributions were worthy of creation.

Might you be so bold, too?

Boredom can be the source of misery, or it can be the source of great creativity.

It all comes down to what we do with the boredom.

Note: distraction and entertainment are not solutions to boredom; they’re temporary escapes, impermanent remedies. And when those bandages become threadbare, boredom will be waiting (it’s infinitely patient).

The solution is not to get busy. The solution is to find the nexus of our curiosity and the edges of our capabilities.

When we visit that space, life returns to full color, and we find our place in it once again.

It’s easy to find complaint. Listen, and you will hear the various ways people have been cheated and mistreated.

The coda that’s less common is, “And so this is what I did.”

It’s the doers, the solvers, the builders, the collaborators … it’s these who deserve our attention.

Anyone can see problems. It takes virtue and character to follow up with meaningful action.

Mistakes are inevitable.

Identifying who’s at fault (particularly when it’s not us) can be a natural part of mistake management. So much so, that blame assignment can feel like the end of the process.

But when finger pointing becomes our only focus, we stunt the learning.

“What can I learn from this?” is a valuable question to ask, regardless of who’s to blame.

And if the lesson is merely, “mistakes are inevitable,” then so be it. After all, that’s a difficult lesson we have to re-learn from time to time. But with practice, we can navigate imperfection with grace.

When we begin something totally new and our skills are lacking … improvement (any improvement) is obvious. Measurable.

Because the path between terrible and adequate is well-defined and lamp-lit. During this phase of learning, developing basic techniques will pay huge dividends.

But as we improve, progress becomes less and less perceptible.

“Nothing to something” is one kind of achievement. “Very good to excellent” or “98 to 99” is quite another.

As a novice, gains are well within our grasp. With proficiency, the gains are harder won.

All the more reason to encourage yourself in both scenarios.

When you’re a beginner, delight in the learning. A banquet awaits and you can fill your plate often.

When you’re further along, don’t lose heart. Progress for you is a different kind of game. You’re fine-tuning your craft. Victories are in the nuance. At times, it might help to remind yourself of how far you’ve come.

Consider hair at a certain length.

In one situation, it’s too long. Ready for a trim.

In another, it’s not yet long enough. It’s being grown.

In yet another, it’s just right.

Same length, all, but different perspectives.

Like many things, it’s where we’re headed that makes the difference.

At times, the creative practice asks us to suspend what we know about location, place, and context. To turn off the GPS. To drive in the dark.

Not forever, but for a time.

To allow ourselves to wander.

It takes a certain type of courage and discipline to operate in this way. To resist selecting from known solutions. To loosen our grip on what’s certain.

But in doing so, we find new pathways. We make new connections. We relocate ourselves on the map or we change the map itself.

In a way, it’s losing ourselves so that we can find ourselves again … enriched, and better for the journey.

When I was a child, the common art-related compliment was, “I like how you filled the page.”

Coloring to the edge, as it were, was both noteworthy and praiseworthy.

But filling the frame isn’t the same as considering the frame.

These days, a more welcome observation might be:

I appreciate your use of empty space.
I’m interested in how you’ve subverted the boundary.
Your omission is just as thoughtful as your inclusion.

Good metaphors, too.

How are you handling the blank spaces? Are you filling the voids? Are you holding space?

How do the spaces work to elevate the non-spaces?

Like tearing stubborn, plastic packaging, sometimes a task seems impenetrable until you have a small break.

And that tiny bit of progress in the right place causes cascading forward motion.

But until that little fracture — the shift that changes the field of play — the world can be a giant wall of frustration.

All the more reason to keep the balance: think big, act small.

Because small repeated acts can cause monumental shifts.

We seek contentedness and satisfaction. But we weren’t built to remain there.

The longing, the desire, the loss, the pain, the struggle … we’re hard-wired to act in response to these. Not to lament them or avoid them, but to live more fully and more radiantly because of them.

We’re resilient by design.

And soon enough, we learn that light isn’t dimmed from shadows. Rather, its brilliance is better seen with the contrast.

The idea of daily writing and journaling isn’t that it’s all your best work. Indeed, it can’t be.

But there will be highlights. Moments of clarity. Moments of beauty. Moments of understanding.

And that is enough.

The practice helps us to process our thoughts. To understand our thoughts. To collect our thoughts. In a way, to think our thoughts.

We don’t write because we already know. We write because it’s a way toward knowing.

I heard about a children’s radio program host who offered a prompt that went something like this:

Think of a word that would make a great baby name — if it wasn’t already a word that meant something else.

The host’s example: Elderly.

That’s a good one. (I’m sure Baby Elderly is adorable and above average.)

A prompt like this challenges us to suspend what we know, and it leaves room for surprise and amusement. And while some answers are better than others, none of them are wrong answers.

I admit: I’ve been having too much fun thinking of responses.

Agony
Alkaline
Debris
Diarrhea
Lattice
Lazy
Piston
Vinegar

Unusual questions can be a salve for our imagination and curiosity — but we have to sit with them, play with them, and let them blossom.

* * *

H/T Mindy Thomas

A sturdy backpack, a padded hip belt, an adjustable suspension system, balanced gear, extra foot-bed and ankle support …

There are many tools and features that allow us to carry heavier loads.

But when is it too much? And what can we do?

Instead of managing by girders and supports, what happens when we intentionally lighten the load?

What might that look like?

How might that help?

How might that feel?

A nineteen-year-old was in discussion with a barber as they both looked in the mirror.

From what I gathered, the young man would be on a first date later that evening. The barber had finished his job and asked if it was acceptable.

“A little there. Now over here, can you fix this? And this one section … can you trim it just a little closer?”

After all the micro-adjustments, the customer paid and left.

When I sat in the chair, the barber said with a smile, “Poor kid. He thinks it will make a difference. It won’t.”

Maybe there was some truth to it. But I hope he had a good date anyhow.

* * *

When we’re nervous, or the stakes are high, we tend to sweat the little things. We worry that the smallest detail — a wrong word or a hair out of place — could turn the tide irrevocably against us.

And sure, it could. But is it likely?

No.

Thing is, when we convince ourselves that insignificant details are critical, they become so.

Better to zoom out and to breathe. Tend to the details, but accept imperfections with grace.

In a way, imperfections are the sign that a thing is real.

The Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) have a sustainability philosophy known as the Seventh Generation Principle.

That today’s decisions should take into consideration their impact on the next seven generations — in the stewardship of natural resources, in relationships, in our words and actions. It’s a deep sensitivity to those who will inherit the earth.

Among the Iroquois teachings is the concept that the world we live in … we’re borrowing it from future generations.

* * *

So much of our culture is steeped in the immediacy of today with an intentional blindness about tomorrow.

Seven generations. Seven.

Can we be so bold? Can we have such vision? Can we cultivate such respect for the world and its future?

Of course we can. The bigger question is: will we?