There are a lot of bad drawings in the world. A lot.

Unskilled, uninformed, uninspiring, unsophisticated, primitive, and naïve.

A lot of bad drawings.

But good drawings exist too; they exist because someone chose to work through the bad drawings. No one starts with inherent skill. It’s learned. And it’s learned by diving in. That is, by first making bad drawings. Lots of them.

And then, over time, the work gets better.

So many creative pursuits are this way. They involve a period — sometimes a long, awkward period — where the work is less-than. Where the maker struggles. Where the chasm between where we are and where we want to be is vast.

But those who stay the course make progress. Those who remain students become masters. Little by little, a portfolio of learning becomes a collection worth sharing.

It often begins by making bad drawings.

Spend more time with people who remind you of who you are … and less time with people who remind you of who you’re not.

And regardless of whether you seek reminders of who you used to be, be sure to surround yourself with people who support you in who you hope to be.

We spend a lot of time and resources seeking comfort and tranquility.

But we know, too, that unrest — even disturbance — has a purpose.

We can learn from oysters and washing machines: a little agitation can be a good thing.

It’s what we do when we’re unsettled that makes all the difference.

What’s a mother like? Or a father? Or a teacher, an artist, a friend, a neighbor, a colleague?

We can point to examples. But for certain people, we ourselves are the example.

So let us be for others what we wish these roles to be.

We’ll keep your attention over here so you don’t notice what’s going on over there.

That’s one way magic tricks work.

It’s also how pickpockets work.

And in a way, it’s how many parts of our culture can work.

Not that there’s necessarily a magician or thief orchestrating how we consume the culture. But distraction and diversions do exist. And there is a cost.

Ask the literary classics. Ask the art studio. Ask the local hiking trail.

We cannot attend to everything. So attention in one area comes at the expense of attention in another.

It’s OK to be selective with our attention. Indeed, we ought to be.

Even when we know better, part of us hopes that insights and solutions will be regularly delivered to us, neatly packaged — if only we calmly wait.

But more often, that’s not how it goes.

More often, breakthroughs are born of diligence, experimentation, and effort.

When faced with a problem, we can choose to wait on it or we can choose to work on it.

The better path forward involves not patiently waiting, but patiently working.

Posselt’s Textile Journal from 1909 (you don’t have to pull out your own copy) defines fine-draw this way: “To sew or close up faults in a fabric by inserting missing threads etc., by hand with a needle.”

Merriam-Webster is more poetic: “to mend torn edges by drawing together with invisible stitches.”

Either way, the term is a rich metaphor.

How can we make beautiful repairs? How do we bring together ragged edges in such a careful way that the two become one? What care and precision is at play? What does it say about us that we’re willing to take the time and workmanship necessary for such stitching together?

And how does this relate to our personal relationships? Or the way our cultures intersect?

How can we ourselves become fine-drawers?

Creatives know: some problems can only be solved with paint. Or clay, or poetry, or melody, or play …

Others will seek solutions through conventional means like money, power, and influence.

But some of the best and rewarding problems to solve are those solved using the tools of creativity.

The culture hasn’t gotten shallow. It’s just the part of the culture that’s shouting, vying for attention, and nearly everywhere — that’s the part that can be rather shallow.

Wisdom still exists. Profound questions still exist. Ancient meditations still exist.

But for the most part, we have to seek these things.

It’s hard to shout insight. And headlines are too short to capture what we can learn from thinking deeply.

So don’t lose heart. The good stuff is still all around us. It’s just quieter than the rest.

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.