Some engines have a button. You push it, it starts.

Others have a cord that needs to be pulled. Sometimes once. Sometimes many times.

Still other engines have a key. Some of these start right away. Others need to crank many times before they catch.

Likewise with each of us. We all have our own version of the starting sequence. Some are quick and easy. Others take a good deal of coaxing. It’s different for everyone.

It’s possible, too, for this to change over time. Or even with the seasons.

While we might make adjustments, it’s not useful to lament the process. The process is the process. What’s important is that we do it.

Yes, it might take a little work to get the engine going, but it’s worth it. We have important work to do.

Sometimes the truth we seek is found in the silence.

Not in the search results, or the peer-reviewed articles, or the generated responses …

But in the silence.

And if we’re willing to go there — to be humble, still, and quiet — we may find it.

Early in my adult life, I thought about retirement goals: no work, no obligations, and plenty of free time.

These days, I have a different perspective.

Commitments, involvement, obligations — they’re connected to purpose and meaning. And we need purpose and meaning.

The machine isn’t designed to operate full tilt forever. But neither is it designed to come to a complete halt.

To slow is to rest. To stop is to rust.

Through different seasons in life, we can adjust the throttle. Slowing perhaps, but not stopping. And if we need to cycle off, that we cycle on again.

While retirement is still a long way off for me, I now think of it not in its conventional definition (to cease work) or in its etymology (to draw back) but as a new chapter of reinvention — a moment to redraw the map.

At the reception counter in the veterinarian’s office, there’s a large roll of paper towels, a spray bottle of disinfectant, and some hand sanitizer. It’s all right there on the counter.

And when these supplies are needed, anyone can use them; the staff members are completely unbothered.

Pets — especially when they’re nervous or sick - can have accidents. It does not come by surprise. It’s not remarkable. It’s just an unpleasant chore to clean up the mess.

* * *

How can we anticipate needs? How can we streamline operations? How can we minimize embarrassment? And how can we manage accidents with grace?

We can learn a lot from the vet.

During the two days it took to film the iconic Singin’ in the Rain number from the 1952 musical film of the same name, Gene Kelly had a fever of 103°F (39°C).

When you’re the actor, director, and choreographer, to call in sick is to shut down production. For Gene, this wasn’t an option.

Had the story of his illness never been told, no one would have known; the performance is impeccable. Fully soaked, he sings and dances as if in perfect health.

Self-sacrifice isn’t a sustainable creative practice, but it’s an occasional need. And the world is filled with important art that only exists because of artists who have pushed through adversity for the sake of the work.

I often appreciate photographs with limited focus (a shallow depth of field with a blurred background, for example).

By contrast, when I struggle to focus mentally — only able to concentrate a little bit at a time — I consider it problematic.

But perhaps this is not quite so.

Perhaps even the smallest bit of focus is enough to carry us forward. There might even be beauty in it.

The world is filled with despair and struggle. But it’s also filled with goodness and hope.

There are countless examples of tragedy and pain. But also of triumph and joy.

No matter our present circumstances, the choice is ours: to dwell on the problems or to lean into the promise.

Whether pessimist or optimist, you’ll get what you choose to see.

It might take a little bravery at times, but like what you like.

That is, don’t be so easily swayed by others who don’t have the same taste as you.

If something delights you, let it delight you.

If you’re drawn to a thing, allow yourself to be drawn.

If you’re interested in a particular subject, study it.

The world is wide. You’ll find people who align with you and others who don’t. Naturally.

But when we get caught up in wondering whether others approve of our affinities, we diminish our ability to like what we like and love what we love.

Ignore the naysayers; they’re few in number anyway.

Follow your heart. It knows.

Remember: many things are not a binary. Lose, win. Off, on.

Much of life is gradual. A process. Slow-developing.

At what point does someone shift from beginner to proficient?

Where’s the tipping point between unhealthy and healthy?

What marks the point of being well-read?

It’s a gradual movement. A subtle crescendo. And one day, we pause to look — and we realize how far we’ve traveled.

I’ve been eating a certain protein bar lately: 16 grams. Not too bad.

I saw the same brand with another version. It had 32 grams of protein. Twice as much sounded great to me. I wondered how they did it.

Well, it’s twice as big and costs twice as much.

Sometimes we look for magic when the answers are strikingly simple.

Some things just take a lot longer than we’d like.

While we don’t like to fail, it feels good to say, “I tried and it didn’t work.”

Because there’s pride in being able to say we tried; it feels like we’ve done our part. (We don’t often feel good about saying, “I didn’t even try at all.”)

But when we say, “I tried,” we typically mean, “I tried once or twice.”

It’s not common to hear someone say regretfully, “I didn’t even try fifty times.”

But we know: many worthwhile endeavors take dozens or even hundreds of attempts. Sometimes many more.

When it matters, try again.

“Sleep moves the needle on almost every aspect of brain and body health. I think it’s very clear at this stage that there is no single tissue or major physiological system in your body and no operation of your mind that isn’t wonderfully enhanced by sleep when you get it — or demonstrably impaired when you don’t get enough.”

— Dr. Matt Walker via the Huberman Lab Podcast

These words are a powerful reminder: sleep is the bedrock of health. In our efforts to be productive, we can fight it, we can cheat it, and we can try to do without it. But we’d do much better to recognize its importance and consistently prioritize sleeping sufficiently and well.

Frida Kahlo. Bob Dylan. Vincent van Gogh. Yoko Ono. Louise Bourgeois. Do you like their work?

Maybe yes. Maybe no. Either way, they never cared.

These are selfish artists. They never aimed to please the market. They were (and are) undeterred by public opinion.

They only pursued their own creative interests. True to the art.

But it’s not selfish, really. Seeking to fulfill what the art wants is a generous thing to do. It brings something pure to the world. It co-creates with the universe. It finds art’s truest form.

Following the taste of the masses isn’t serving the masses. Following a creative journey where it wants to take us — that serves the maker, but it serves everyone else too.

Sit alone looking out.
Sit alone looking in.
Sit together looking out.
Sit together looking in.
Sit together looking to each other.

All the modes are valuable. All the modes are necessary. All the modes give us life in some way.

Without sufficient nourishment and exercise, muscles will atrophy.

Likewise with our skills — creativity included.

Choose a routine. Choose a practice. Stick with it.

It doesn’t take much and it’s worth the effort.

Possessing the skill and doing something with the skill — these are two separate things.

To learn the former is not yet to learn the latter.

The friction between knowledge and action is often our biggest challenge.

While luck can always play a part in wins and losses, the more reliable predictor is whether people show up and do their jobs.

It’s less about spectacle and unprecedented performance and more about consistently playing our roles.

The path forward doesn’t require unusual heroics; it mostly asks for routine, steady contribution.

If you were traveling from Oakland to San Fran, you might take 80. Not to 280 (it doesn’t connect). But don’t take 8A, which goes to 880. And if you see 8B on 80, you’re going the wrong way.

All this is to say: enunciation matters. The more clearly we can speak, the more likely we are to find our way.

Creative currency: we all have it. Some people build more wealth than others, but we all have some level of creative currency. And we have individual daily budgets too.

A kind of discomfort can arise when one, we are unaware of the budget. And two, when we discover that we’re low on funds, but still seeking to spend. Said another way, sometimes we spend it all early and we have nothing left for later.

For instance, you might organize a beautiful corporate calendar, and later not have the energy to compose music. Or you might find a clever way to manage conflict resolution in the morning, but have little energy to paint in the evening. Or after developing a new product feature by day, you’re stagnant when it comes to planning the dinner menu.

This is not to say that we can’t maintain a steady level of creativity. Certainly we can. But for many, the funds ebb and flow. And at times, we’ve blown the creative budget.

In those cases, our desire is to restore that currency. While there are many ways to replenish the creative spirit … practically, a good night’s sleep is often the first step.

I reminded my son, “Don’t forget to take care of [that chore].”

“I know.”

“I know you know. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to remember.”

* * *

This happens not just with our responsibilities, but more broadly in life too. We know things. We even know things deep down.

But we don’t always remember.

Things like who we are. What’s important to us. What’s irrelevant. What we’re capable of doing. Who loves us.

We know these things. Still, sometimes we need the reminders.

Knowing and remembering: they’re not the same.