In your circle of friends, if you want to be known as the person who never forgets a birthday, you can be that person.

Or if you want to be the friend who is never too busy for a call, you can be.

Or the one who is reliable, or willing to help anyone, or always up for a laugh …

These qualities don’t have to be happenstance; they can be by design and intention.

It can go the other way, too, if we’re not careful. When we’re habitually late, or regularly inflexible, or never without complaint — we can be known in these ways too.

We are certainly more than our actions … but people come to know us through our actions.

Decide comes from the root, “to cut off”. Even to strike, cut down, or kill.

Its origin is not “wean” or “peel” or “untangle” or “part”. It’s more violent than that.

And sometimes, when we’re making an important decision, we feel the weight of that physical cleaving.

But such is life: we make choices. We cannot travel all paths, nor were we meant to.

Instead, we decide. We travel along, and we decide again.

Our cutting tools, however, need not be dull. (We don’t have to add suffering to our unavoidable task.)

Like knife-work, decision-making is a skill that can be improved.

As you learn, don’t be afraid to keep a sharp blade; despite the risk, it’s the best way.

Voice. Text. Sound. Touch. Song. Paint. Clay. Film. Food. Presence. Witness.

We’re having conversations all the time. Occasionally we use words. More often, the conversation happens through other channels.

In grade school, I visited the Smithsonian Institution’s National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C.

Inside the main entrance, on permanent display, was a silver-gray plane with black lettering on the side: Spirit of St. Louis.

What I saw was an airplane suspended in a museum. Only later in life did I learn about the plane’s history. About Charles Lindbergh, his 1927 flight from New York City to Paris, and his unprecedented worldwide fame.

During that childhood field trip, all I saw was a plane.

Sometimes, we just don’t know what we’re looking at. We look, but we don’t see. We hear, but we don’t understand.

It likely happens all the time. Rich, nuanced stories — in objects and in people — they surround us. And most of the time, we don’t have a full appreciation for what’s right in front of us.

Pause. Ask. Learn.

To be sure, we won’t catch all of it. But we’ll learn some of it, and we’ll be better for the learning.

A recent ad from the Italian organization CoorDown helps bring awareness to the potential of people with Down syndrome.

The ad’s anthem is this: “Assume that I can, so maybe I will.”

What we assume about others can become reality. What we assume about ourselves can become reality. Our assumptions are powerful. They matter. They are the subtle and not-so-subtle variables that craft our world.

You can see the ad here. Note to viewers: the ad includes an un-beeped curse word and it acknowledges the existence of sex.

It’s fine to know the world records; they’re awe-inspiring and praise-worthy.

But for the most part, they’re not useful targets.

The personal record — the PR — is far more valuable.

Because we’re not competing with the world. We’re competing with ourselves.

Even then, keep in mind that setting new PRs is not something that happens every day.

More often, our focus should be: “this is my best for today.” It makes for a terrible acronym, but it’s a far more practical place to set our sights.

The PRs will happen from time to time, but the best for today is where we begin.

One pebble under foot is an annoyance, but a countless number is a sanctuary.

A problem in one context may be a blessing in another.

“I’m uncomfortable.”
Good. Stay with it.

“I don’t understand.”
Good. Stay with it.

“This is difficult.”
“This is unusual.”
“This is confounding.”

Good. Stay with all of it.

It’s far too easy for us to retreat to our places of comfort. But the richness of life isn’t found in familiarity and comfort. It’s found when we approach the edges and we remain there long enough to grow.

You might be able to — this very moment — sing a song you haven’t sung for twenty years.

Or sit at the piano — without any sheet music — and play a song you haven’t played since you were quite young.

Or pick up a pencil and capture what your eye sees … not having done so for a long time.

That’s the thing about our creative spirit: it remains within us. Even when we don’t attend to it, it lives just below the surface, ready to be reactivated. Fully alive.

And the reconnection costs us nothing. There is no feeling of foolishness or regret. It’s like welcoming home an old friend, picking up where the two of you left off.

You both will have changed — you and your creativity — but the magic between the two of you is fresh as ever, regardless of where you’ve journeyed.

Every so often, we audit our wardrobe. We take note of what we never really wear. We learn what no longer fits. We discover things we’d forgotten we had.

This can be a useful practice, too, with our attitudes and beliefs. Taking inventory. Looking into the mirror. Seeing what still fits and what we ought to discard.

As thoughtful as we are, sometimes we forget what’s in there.

People have figured things out.

Ask for help.

You’re unique … but your challenges are not.

Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of wisdom and strength.

And it’s often the best way forward.

“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.