Of course we’re not going to forget what’s important. It’s on our minds. All the time.

After all, it’s important.

But important things aren’t always urgent things. Or shiny things.

And shiny, urgent things like to masquerade as important things that need our attention right now — even if they don’t. Unfortunately, we have limited time and attention.

Those important, non-urgent things can become a backdrop while everything else has its moment on the main stage.

So remind yourself of what’s important. Find ways to address/honor/handle what’s important. Incrementally. Regularly.

After all, it’s important.

Perhaps you already know when you do your best work. If you don’t, consider experimenting.

Our energy and focus vary throughout the day. Some people work best first thing in the morning. Others, mid day. Still others in the middle of the night.

But if you’ve never brought your creative energy to a particular hour of the day, how can you know?

So experiment. Run some informal tests.

What you learn could give you ideas for how to organize your days and weeks.

It’s counterintuitive. One would think that strong, athletic motion is about tense muscles. But really, it’s about looseness, posture, and form. Exertion, yes. But selective exertion. Judicious stress.

Our best efforts do not come from globalized tension. Rather, they come from an overall calm paired with highly localized, intentional strain.

Focused effort atop an overall ease.

“The first pancake is always lumpy.” (Russian proverb)

It’s true.

A good reminder that our first attempts are rarely successful.

The implication, too, is that we don’t just try once. We don’t stop because of imperfect beginnings.

No. We continue … and things get better. Sometimes gradually, sometimes all at once.

Either way, keep cooking.

We do this naturally. We close our eyes so that we can hear more clearly, or we block out sound so we can read with more focus.

It can be a useful exercise too.

Close your eyes at the park. Listen. Explore the soundscape. Discover what you wouldn’t have otherwise heard.

Or watch an interview with the sound muted. Look at body language. Observe a person’s hands, or the way clothing moves.

Our world is one of excess and overload. But our attention — like a muscle — can be trained. We can choose to dampen some senses while diving more fully into others.

What we discover is sure to offer something new.

We express joy differently. And sadness. And frustration. And distress. And approval. And fear. And contentment.

It’s impossible to know, but these things are probably felt differently on the inside too.

We’re all navigating humanness in our own way.

When you’re confused by someone else’s behavior — or even your own — lean toward curiosity and patience … and away from judgement.

Together, we recall the stories … even if you and I share the same memories.

Because there’s something about telling a story that keeps it alive.

There’s a joy in remembering the details. A wonder in recounting the events. An honoring of what has transpired.

And sometimes playful banter.

“It did not happen that way.”
“Oh yes it did!”

Knowing is not enough. Telling — even to those who know — is part of our way.

Fleeing, or running by choice.
Hungry, or fasting by choice.
Cut off, or offline by choice.
Burdened, or carrying by choice.

What we do by choice — even when painful — is far more tolerable than what’s forced upon us.

Even so, there are things we don’t choose ourselves — like a surprise visit, a refreshing breeze, or an unexpected upgrade — that can delight us more than our intended plans.

Whether positive or negative, our ability to choose can have huge impact on our experience.

Check your inventory. What kind of leftovers are you carrying?

Our experiences leave us with lessons learned — some conscious, others quietly internalized.

Like foodstuffs, some keep well, others get better with age, while still others spoil.

So check your inventory.

What’s in there? Are all the bits and pieces you’ve collected over the years serving you well? Are all of them relevant? Are all of them true?

It may be time for a gentle but honest audit.

I have hundreds of blog posts that qualify as not my best work. It’s statistically impossible for everything to be the best.

The concept of best separates just a few from the many.

So aiming for good and excellent is enough; the best will become evident over time.

And the rest will be sufficient.

Even freight trains can operate in reverse.

It’s not always forward motion all the time.

Sometimes backwards is part of the journey.

If you can learn to get wet in style, you won’t have to scramble when everyone else is looking for an umbrella.

An “I don’t mind getting wet” mentality creates flexibility.

What challenge or annoyance might you learn to embrace rather than avoid? And what kind of freedom might it give you?

For regular note-takers, there’s a bright feeling that accompanies a new notebook. Clean pages. A fresh start. Opportunity.

The old notebook is filled and destined for a shelf. Perhaps it’s reviewed one last time. Perhaps not.

Meanwhile, the new notebook holds a sense of promise. What life will unfold within these pages? What lessons will be learned? What problems will be worked out? What feelings will be captured?

* * *

In life, too, there are blank pages ahead. There may be many. But maybe not.

We can expect, however, that there are at least a few.

And those pages are ours to fill.

Ink to paper … what marks will you make?

“I’m going to be late.”
“I accidentally broke this.”
“We’ll miss the project deadline.”

Things happen.

Sometimes, our instinct is to hide. To put off telling the truth to the people it will impact.

This might buy us a little time — perhaps a false sense of peace. But it only delays reality. And it does nothing for others.

Communicate. Err on the side of overcommunicating.

Some people develop the skill of artfully concealing disappointing news. But it’s far more useful to develop the skill of addressing uncomfortable truths.

If the choice is between practicing hiding and practicing sharing uncomfortable truth, choose the latter.

After we’ve failed, we can try again.

After we’ve succeeded, we can try again.

We can try again for improvement, for practice, for good measure, for the same results, for different results, for fun …

There are any number of reasons that we might try again. It might even be because we just don’t know what else to do.

What we do know is that it’s never exactly the same. In part because we’re never exactly the same.

It’s not just for the studio, or the classroom, or the recital hall.

It’s for the spreadsheet, and the factory, and the shop, and the meeting.

Your creativity belongs everywhere. Sometimes in the way you act, and always in the way you think.

Let it be serious and focused. But let it be promiscuous too.

To serve it best, allow your creative spirit go wherever it seeks.

What do you bring to the problem, the project, the interaction, the challenge?

Is it curiosity? Kindness? Humor? Resentment? Anger? Judgement? Patience?

Because the situation does not generate these things. We do.

In the moment, we might not realize it, but we’re the governor of the experience. When we’re frustrated about a thing, the source of the frustration is us, not the thing. When we find joy in an event, the source of the joy is us, not the event.

Our experience of a situation is because of what we bring to it.

It serves us well to be intentional about what we bring.

If you can commit to a streak, things will seem to happen all of a sudden.

Exercise regularly, and all of a sudden, your months of work will result in a healthier body.

Write daily, and all of a sudden, you’ll have enough content for a book.

Meditate frequently, and all of a sudden, you’ll live with more calm and clarity.

It’s because we only exist moment to moment. Our streaks become part of our history. When we look from the tail-end of a long-standing habit, we can be surprised at how far we’ve come. Looking back at a journey traveled feels quite different than taking the first few steps.

And of course these things unfold gradually. But life often moves with such subtlety that we can only observe the changes with time and distance.

Step by step, little by little, day by day. It’s the only way we ever do things.

Never all at once. Always gradually.

Then, all of a sudden …

Years ago, I enjoyed some inner tubing on a lake. A boat pulled me along, and its wake created an arcing, bouncing ride.

Someone on the boat gestured over the noise of the water and the motor. I gave the thumbs up: all good here. The speed was fine and the ride was fun.

Soon after, we were going faster and wilder.

Again a check-in. Yes, I was good. A little rougher than I’d prefer, but still fine.

Upon the third check-in, and another increase in speed, I gave a hands up gesture indicating I was ready for someone else to have a turn.

Back on the boat — slightly battered — my friends laughed with delight. “We couldn’t believe you kept wanting to go faster!”

From my perspective, thumbs up meant, “All good.” From the boat’s perspective, thumbs up meant, “Go faster.”

Sure enough, as I watched a video of myself bouncing along, every time I gave a thumbs up, I heard someone off screen saying, “He says go faster!”

Shared language. With it, we communicate. Without it, we might ask for one thing and receive something quite unexpected.

Sometimes — when we’ve been challenged, critiqued, or baited — the best response is to make eye contact, and to say nothing.

To let whatever has been spoken simply be.

To see what comes next.

To allow further comment.

To be genuinely curious.

Because the words that accompany our initial reaction might not help.

And listening with patience usually does.