“I’m going to the store.”
”I’m going for a walk.”
”I’m going to wander around for a while to see what happens.”

The first two modes are common. But the third — the one that is ambiguous, loosely defined, and open to possibility — is the most fertile.

Being open to discovery isn’t just about following your daily routine with more curiosity.

Sometimes it’s about clearing the slate entirely. About removing all the guiderails, signposts, and expectations … and leaning into all that could be.

Every so often, forget being goal-oriented. Be recklessly, creatively, whim-oriented.

We’ve heard Heraclitus’ wisdom: you cannot step into the same river twice. The river changes. We change. Nothing is static.

Too often, however, we merely ponder the river. The river changes, we change, and yet we stay dry.

Seek more opportunities to wade in the water. Not to navel-gaze, but to go out and to get wet.

“Test, test. Check one two. Is this thing on?”

We don’t always use a microphone to check the system, to see if things are working. Sometimes we use a few Instagram reels. Or a hundred blog posts. Or fifty paintings. Or a joke at a dinner party.

Sometimes the creative practice isn’t about revealing truth, taking a stand, or capturing effervescent beauty.

Sometimes, the creative practice is simply a way of saying, “I exist in the world. Do you see me?”

One way to move beyond a creative slump — you may have heard this — is to allow yourself to become extremely bored. Doing so has a way of forming a void that creativity can fill.

The key, however, is protecting that boredom from all the non-creative things that will try to be its remedy. Little bits of entertainment, household routines, and creature comforts seem harmless in these situations, but they’re the very things that will mute the creative voice you’re trying amplify.

Be thoroughly bored. Hold that space and be a ruthless gatekeeper. When you do so, creativity will be your welcome guest.

Today, you will be the vector.
Today, you will be the container.
Today, you will be the catalyst.
Today, you will be the change.

Lean in.

Something remarkable about creating and living a life is that it happens whether we’re intentional or indifferent, active or passive.

We are writing our story, always.

Even when we’re not writing.

An occasional zooming out can be useful. It helps us to see where we’ve been, where we are, the marks we’ve made, and the incidental patterns that have emerged.

Even so — even with all the layers that exist — we always have a choice. We can continue to craft much of the same story … or in the blink of an eye we can introduce a brilliant plot twist. It’s up to us.

Either way, the story will continue.

Sometimes, the problem isn’t your health, or the circumstances, or the task at hand. Sometimes you just need a different song playing in your head.

When necessary, change to a more fitting soundtrack.

This works as a metaphor, but it certainly applies to the physical world too.

The music in your head matters.

“What’s something beautiful that you’ve witnessed? What was that experience like?”

Have this conversation with someone.

What’s remarkable is that the discussion itself quickly becomes its own thing of beauty.

Beauty retold is beauty revived, revealed, and renewed.

I am not a runner. In the summer of 2022, I began running a few times a week to improve my cardiovascular health. But I am not a runner.

Meaning: it’s not a natural skill, it feels effortful, I don’t especially enjoy it, and I don’t think I make it look particularly easy.

However.

The way my schedule works, most of the time, I run early in the morning or late in the evening. It’s usually dark. I wear reflective gear, but I run — in essence — anonymously.

This is an unexpected gift. I have no pretense. I am not self-conscious. I’m only focused on the task of moving at a pace that stretches my current benchmarks.

Over time, I’ve gotten a little better. Nothing spectacular, but a little better. For me.

The principle is this: find ways to improve, incrementally, without the worry of what others think. Like running in the dark. Or writing anonymously. Or reading books on a new subject. Or practicing a musical instrument when no one is around to listen.

A little better, a little at a time. No judgement. No pressure.

Just a steady, self-driven pace.

It works.

When someone asks for help, our mindset matters.

We can adopt the posture of a humble hero or that of a moralizing auditor.

One thought: “What an opportunity. I can save you! You’re in a tough spot and I’m a person who can help.”

A different thought: “Why are you so irresponsible? Why is your problem now my problem?”

We can feel purpose-filled when we’re called into action. Or we can be annoyed.

It’s up to us how we approach it.

Help is rendered through both methods … but they’re entirely different experiences for everyone involved.

It might take practice, but choose the way of the generous helper.

From Krista Tippett: “Poetry is such a wonderful container for questions.”

It’s beautiful observation.

I wonder: What other forms we might explore as containers for questions?

If you have an allotted time for creative activity, stay with it until the end.

While you might produce viable pieces early on, some of your best work could very well come together in the final moments.

This principle applies to an hour in the studio as much as it does an entire lifetime.

Like an aroma that casually drifts away, our thoughts can easily elude us.

But we can capture thoughts!

Fleeting and often loosely formed, we can still hold thoughts long enough to memorialize them on paper or in a digital record.

Of course, the best thoughts will try to reassure us, insisting, “You’ll remember me (I’m that good). No need to put pen to paper.”

But they lie.

Put pen to paper.

Every day, the universe presents us with messages, lessons, and opportunities. The best way to honor this generosity is to humbly collect these gifts. Whether they prompt action or sharing — or nothing in particular — step one is to collect.

Spend some time with people who have the right answers,

more time with people who have the right questions,

and the most time with curious people willing to explore the tension that accompanies not knowing.

It’s not that we don’t have the right words; we have the right words.

It’s that sometimes, we’re crafting prose instead of living poetry. Seeking a set of instructions instead of listening for a melody. Following the march instead of feeling the dance.

* * *

Look beyond the black and white. Embrace the kaleidoscope of color.

Every so often, make a visible personal change. Dress in a new way. Style your hair differently. Try some unusual glasses.

Why? Because small, voluntary adjustments remind us of our ability to grow and change. They’re subtle signals — to others, maybe, but mostly to ourselves — that we can inhabit many varied roles. Outward signs of our skilled inner author, editor, and director.

A young man greeted the pet shop owner saying, “I’m looking for the bunnies my girlfriend and I were looking at three weeks ago.”

The owner pointed and said, “These are the bunnies.”

The man, confused, reiterated: he was looking for the smaller bunnies. From a few weeks ago.

The owner pointed more emphatically: “These are the bunnies.”

* * *

The young man’s puzzlement was amusing.

But we can be just as easily forgetful. Children grow, towns change, cities evolve, the culture shifts, people reinvent themselves. We know this to be true — that change is constant — and yet it can surprise us.

What’s more unusual, really, are the things that stay the same.

H/T Erin

If you’re lucky enough to have successfully traversed a difficult journey, who do you call? An artist or a cartographer?

Do you hire someone to paint your portrait? Or do you hire someone to draw the map?

Is the endeavor about memorializing your accomplishments? Or your ability to help those who might follow in your footsteps?

You get to choose. Will it be a portrait or a map?

The thing is, if you create a valuable enough map, someone’s going to want to tell your story. There might be a portrait in it after all.

Every so often, I survey my tools, my art supplies, and the things I’ve created — and I remind myself: one day, all of this will pass away.

Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps many decades from now.

But to be sure, one day.

It’s not a happy thought and I don’t dwell on it, but neither do I deny it. Instead, I allow it to prompt the simple question: What now?

It is our persistent consideration. We have no right to tomorrow. We cannot hold a reservation. Our future opportunities are not guaranteed.

We have today. Our present creativity. The spark of now.

It’s not to save. It’s not to shelve. It won’t keep.

The moment is now … and we live it not through rumination and worry, but through action. With full hearts, clear intention, and generous action.

Rehearse your script as you will. Mentally write and re-write. Consider what you might say and how it might land.

But the further you extrapolate, the more you try to predict … the greater your margin of error.

Remember: as soon as you speak up — as soon as you take a single step — the landscape changes.

We can plan a conversation, but our voice — once spoken — changes the calculus.