“You could make a lot of money by turning this into a business.”

And.

“You could turn your beloved hobby into a stressful burden by making it a business.”

Both are possibilities. Not guarantees, but possibilities.

Sometimes transitioning to a business is the right thing to do. Other times, the business of business complicates the joy and freedom of doing a thing.

Be aware.

Our dog recently had surgery to remove bladder stones. At home, during the post-operation recovery phase — as we observed his body and behavior — we had three recurring questions:

“Is this normal?”
“Should we be worried about this?”
“What do we do?”

(We spoke to our veterinarian, who helped us to answer these questions.)

This happens often in life, particularly in domains where we lack expertise. We observe phenomena but we’re not exactly sure what they mean. We see a few data points and we don’t know if we’re watching a concerning trend.

Often, the key is to catch ourselves before we begin to catatrophize what we see, or before we ignore something that needs attention. That’s where informed advice becomes essential.

Some of us have wide and varied interests. This can be exciting. And occasionally, it can be problematic.

When we lose the thread between our various endeavors, it can feel like we’re fragmented.

But when we take the time to locate ourselves — when we recognize that we can be complex and integrated — we turn fragments into facets.

And that subtle shift makes a huge difference.

Before you’re ready …

… a situation will develop.
… a relationship will end.
… someone will die.
… the culture will change.
… the world will shift.

This is the business of life. But the truth is, we are ready. It’s just that we want things to unfold as we feel ready. And if we’re honest, we’ll never feel ready for some things.

But if our concern is our ability to navigate these things — then yes, we are indeed ready. After all, we’ve navigated everything we’ve faced thus far. We can do it again.

For its finale, the high school band performed an invigorating Saint-Saëns’ Bacchanale. It was fantastic.

About a minute and a half into the piece, the bass drum hit with such force I could feel it in my chest. As the song continued, I found myself waiting for that passage to return … to feel the drum once again.

It’s worth considering: what elements might we include in our own work — special and judiciously selective — that will keep others waiting for it to come 'round again?

To be sure, “all bass drum all the time” will not work.

But when we frame a thing just so, when we weave a story that has just peaks, we create a magic that others will gladly (and even patiently) seek out.

There’s you not doing the thing.

And then there’s the story you tell yourself about you not doing the thing.

They’re not the same.

Our actions are one thing. The narrative that we create afterwards is quite another. We’re responsible for our actions … but we’re also responsible for the story in our heads.

And it’s easy to forget that we’re the authors.

Advice: be a kind writer. Write and live a story that serves you and others well.

It doesn’t take long. It’s remarkable, actually.

That a person — the right person, at the right time — can tell a story in a minute or two. And that story can have a profound impact on us. It can change us deeply.

And it really can happen in just a few minutes.

With the right storytelling and the right listening, we change. We pivot. We’re born anew.

So our venerable task is to tell stories.

So our venerable task is to listen.

Don’t try to keep up with the Joneses.

Or the Musks, Edisons, Cubans, or Blakelies.
Or the Asimovs, Dylans, Swifts, or Picassos.
Or even the Teresas, Nightingales, or Gandhis.

Be inspired. Be motivated. Learn.

But run your own race.

Our journey is our own. All the measuring sticks, signposts, and mile-markers — they’re only useful when they track our own journey.

Other benchmarks are on others’ benches for a reason.

Light and dark, perfect timing, alignment — it’s no wonder that a solar eclipse captures so much attention; it’s many of the things we naturally appreciate.

May we learn to savor even the lesser contrasts and synchronicities which quietly present themselves throughout our days.

How many colors can you name? A few dozen? Many hundreds?

Scientists estimate that most humans can see about a million colors. Others estimate ten times as much.

We don’t have a name for all that exists.

Even so, don’t let the poverty of language lull you into seeing too simply.

If you’re serious about keeping a streak alive — about establishing a consistent habit — strip away the parenthetical coda, “if I feel like it.”

Because there will be many, many times that you don’t feel like it.

Instead, decide ahead of time: I’m going to do this thing whether I feel like it or not.

That decision will give you the little extra push that’s needed when you’re tired, unmotivated, uninterested, and uninspired.

Because we know some streaks are too important to compete with the naturally wide spectrum of our emotions.

When facing difficult times …

Those who don’t know better might say, “I wish I didn’t have any problems.”

Those who do know better might say, “I wish I had a different set of problems.”

And those who are wise might do less wishing — and more working to make change happen.

Often, the faster way to learn is to first go painstakingly slow.

Our impatience and our egos tempt us to take things at a quicker pace — with focus, intention, and repetition. (We’re too passionate to go any slower than this.) However, the end of this path is often passable but mediocre results.

Conversely, the serious student isn’t afraid to begin at an unimpressively novice speed. To learn the subject intimately. To know the house at its foundation.

And this deep, patient learning will indeed pay dividends.

I recently spent some time observing a red-tailed hawk. It was windy and the hawk’s feathers were being blown out of place.

The phrase “ruffling a few feathers” naturally came to mind.

While this usually indicates someone getting upset, I watched as the hawk sat calmly in place. After a few minutes, she turned to face the prevailing winds. As she adjusted her position, I caught a glimpse: four eggs.

* * *

In caring for others, how often do we find the strength to endure the harsh winds? How often do we find ourselves able to stand in the face of adversity? How often do we willingly sacrifice our own comfort?

Our cares, our passions, our vocations — they bring out our most resilient qualities.

As the story goes, Jeff Bezos once said to Warren Buffett, “Your investment thesis is so simple, and yet so brilliant. Why doesn’t everyone just copy you?”

To which Buffett replied, “Because nobody wants to get rich slow.”

Whether or not this interaction really happened (it’s nearly impossible to verify quotes like these) it’s a useful reminder.

Our natural leaning is toward quick solutions. The things that will feed us today. The schemes that will produce immediate returns. The short game.

But we know — and we can verify this by looking at our own history — the long games are are the games worth playing. Drip by drip. Slow and steady. Little and often.

This is the way a life is formed. This is the way we build things of value. Not overnight, but day by day, moment by moment.

Before you say, “I never would have thought of that!” consider: how often do you allow yourself to think?

Occasionally, clever ideas fall into our laps. But more often, good ideas are the result of generating many ideas — good, bad, and everywhere in between.

If you’re searching for better ideas, create time and space to think, and to think deeply. When this becomes a familiar and frequent practice, creation seeks to partner with us.

In music, rubato is the temporary suspension of strict tempo in order to allow for expression. It’s a brief slowing or quickening that doesn’t change the overall pace.

It’s a good thing.

We don’t seek a formulaic march. We’re not drawn to an unyielding metronome.

There’s certainly a time and place for an exact beat. But there’s beauty to be found in the subtle inexactitude that accompanies expression, emotion, and the human condition.

Anomalies, irregularities, imperfections, asymmetry — these surprising shifts and pattern breaks are where we come alive.

Don’t let the screens fool you. Yes, they’re a good and necessary substitute, but they’re not the same as the real thing.

A picture of a painting is not the painting. A video of a performance is not the performance. Being in a Zoom room with your friend is not being in a room with your friend.

Technology helps fill the gaps. But the prevalence of digitized versions (they’re everywhere) can lull us into forgetting the power of the real thing.

Translations and reproductions have their place. They serve a valuable purpose. But even at their best, they’re a muted form.

When you’re able, seek the original.

What might happen if you could just forgive yourself and get on with it? If you could make a decision — now — to let go of guilt, to let go of regret, and to let the past be what it is?

Because maybe you can.

Whether it’s a slight bit of drag or an immobilizing anchor, its release may be as simple as you choosing to let it go. To move forward without friction by just allowing yourself.

Imagine what could be.

Say an artist creates a sculpture that invites the viewer to feel a sense of love and warmth.

Fine.

But wouldn’t it be more effective to smile warmly and to give the viewer a hug?

The thing is, part of the magic of art is in using specific materials to capture human experience. It’s about creating a compelling translation. Here is the story of imaginative space told with paint. Here is the embodiment of fear captured with wood and twine. Here is tension presented as melody.

It’s not about being direct and efficient.

It’s about exploring truth in a way that seems to become more real than reality. It’s about embracing a specific set of constraints in order to widen the scope of where we might go.