“This might be good. Or maybe not. No, actually, I think it’s pretty good. Maybe it’s too simple. Or too complex? I wonder if it could be misinterpreted. Have I already done one like this? No. I think we’re fine. This is a solid effort. I’ll give it one more look and then it has to ship.”

Not always, but sometimes the creative process is like this. Or something similar. An internal back and forth. A shifting between confidence and question, between action and hesitation.

Part of the practice is in ushering yourself through. In trusting yourself. In moving beyond — or just beyond enough — to where the work gets out into the world.

It’s rarely full-confidence, full-throttle. More often, it’s a mix of uncertainty carefully wrapped in moxie.

There’s a name for chance discoveries during medical exams: incidentalomas. For example, an asymptomatic adrenal tumor might be found during a CT scan performed for abdominal discomfort. Or gallstones are found during an MRI for back pain.

In creative practices, incidental discoveries aren’t cause for concern. Indeed, they’re welcome. They’re surprises. Happy accidents. Epiphanies.

We’re designing a chair and we learn something about light. We’re writing lyrics and we discover something about our personal convictions. We’re making a photograph and we observe an unexpected mode of human interaction.

It’s a kind of creative peripheral vision. Working here, discovering there. Focused on the stage, welcoming surprises from the wings.

We don’t know where and when we will find incidentalomas — we just know that every creative practice is brimming with potential revelation. So we stay open to discovery.

Yes, we water the plants.

But we need to water the seeds, too.

Tending to what’s below the surface waiting to bloom — that is part of our calling.

The flowers get the attention, but without the interior work, no flowers will there be.

You can treat today like an opponent — attacking, blocking, dodging … skillfully fighting until the day is conquered and defeated.

Or you can treat today like a dance partner — responding to its energy, moving with its movement … with a give and take choreography that creates a thing of beauty.

Both approaches are effective. Both modes are available. It just depends on the kind of experience you want to have.

Sometimes those we seek to mentor can offer us the best advice.

Because our wisdom is often muted in our own ears.

And when we find that for too long we haven’t leapt like we’ve taught others to leap, and we haven’t sung like we’ve taught others to sing … those we’ve taught will call us forth with generous encouragement: join us.

H/T AHW

We don’t have the energy to move because we don’t begin moving.

We don’t have the calm to be still because we don’t stop to be still.

We don’t have the creativity to work because we don’t create.

Sometimes things are only elusive because we invent conditions and prerequisites … when really the thing holding us back is our own internal resistance.

More plainly: just doing the thing helps us to do more of the thing.

The artist who insists on a full day in the studio sets a steep price for entry.

The artist who goes into the studio as often as time permits — whether for five minutes or five hours — produces a lot of work.

The regular practice of “little and often” is always a better bet than relying on perfectly scheduled, extended blocks.

Don’t scoff at small windows of time; they’re not inadequate. Indeed, they’re sufficient. When we engage with those short sessions over time, we build the arc of a creative life.

H/T: JZ

What might make today meaningful? What could you do that would make today a meaningful day?

Pause. Consider it thoughtfully.

Now go. Go do that thing. Don’t let this remain an academic exercise. Go make today meaningful.

Next to the middle school front office, there’s a bin labeled: Student Drop-Off.

(It’s not where students are placed.) It’s where parents can deliver items that students have forgotten to bring with them to school that day: a library book, an instrument, a packed lunch …

As I placed an item in the bin, the office administrator explained to me with a laugh, “It’s not a big deal. It happens, all, day, long.”

One might think, “Enablers! Teach these kids a lesson!”

And there are plenty of lessons to be taught. Indeed, comeuppance is so plentiful, everyone — kids and grown ups alike — will get a fair dose from time to time.

But there are also times when we need mercy. When we need kindness. When a little help is better than a little lesson.

Sometimes the lesson we teach others is not that they’re alone and solely responsible for their success and failure. Sometimes the lesson we teach is that we’re loved and part of a supportive team.

“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?