Just because you’re doing good work doesn’t mean you’re never going to make a mess.

Sometimes good work kicks up a bit of dirt. Sometimes it causes a little chaos. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable.

But that’s not a reason to avoid the work.

Sometimes, avoiding making a mess is really just an excuse to hide from the work.

In many worthy endeavors, mess is part of the process. (So tidying is part of it, too.)

Sometimes we get surprising results. We put in a little work and we’re greatly rewarded. Or we put in a lot of work and the return is very little.

But often — maybe even most of the time — the outputs are exactly what we should expect when compared to the inputs.

There’s a lot of truth to the old phrase, “You get out of it what you put into it.”

Friend: “How are you?”
Me: “Good. Well, maybe a little tired.”
Friend: “What are you going to do?”

* * *

Sometimes, all it takes is a simple question to awaken us. Care wrapped in curiosity, calling us to attention.

The question, “What are you going to do?” is a kind invitation to grasp the wheel. A reminder that we can make a plan and course-correct. That we’re not victims of our circumstances; we’re authors of our future.

Is something within you misaligned our out of balance?

If so, what are you going to do?

“I play golf” vs “I’m a golfer.”
“I make art” vs “I’m an artist.”
“I write poems” vs “I’m a poet.”
“I play the piano” vs “I’m a pianist.”

There’s a subtle but important difference in how we tell the story.

Our actions or our identity. What we do or who we are. They can be one and the same. But it’s not necessarily so.

Though, when we say, “This isn’t just what I do, it’s who I am,” we’re expressing a deep and abiding commitment that surpasses mere activity.

What we do and who we are. Pondering the intersections and overlaps could offer valuable, personal insights.

The leftovers are yours.

When you give in to anger, judgement, resentment, and agitation … you leave with the leftovers. The residue of those interactions is sticky.

And when you engage with compassion, patience, kindness, and joy … you likewise depart with the remainder. Their essence accompanies you.

Whatever you choose to serve, you’ll have a portion of your own.

Mind the menu, mind the leftovers.

Sometimes the reason we can’t figure out the answer is because we’ve misunderstood the question.

Or if it’s a question of our own, perhaps we’re somehow asking the wrong one.

And if either of these is true — no amount of hard work or perseverance will help. We’ll end up exhausting ourselves.

Before the seeking the answer, get super clear on the question.

Talking about problems can help bring awareness. But it can also feel like we’re doing important work — that we’re solving something.

And if we need to be heard, or we need to find affiliation, or we need to explore the details of an issue … then the job is done. Talking solves it.

But more than likely, the real problem is not that we need to talk.

* * *

The difficult work is in moving beyond, “This is a problem,” and arriving at, “What can we do about it?”

It’s uncomfortable. It prompts action. It calls for accountability. It invites participation.

But that’s where we’re called to be. Not close to the problems, but close to the possible solutions.

One of the reasons I write every day is because of the thought that if I stop, I might not ever write again. Because we’re people of habits and patterns. Because we’re good at streaks.

And we can keep healthy streaks just as much as we can keep unhealthy streaks.

In choosing our streaks, we choose the kind of life we live — and in a way, the kind of people we are.

Choose wisely. Choose with intention.

Video calls have changed the way we communicate. Seeing. Hearing. It can be nearly as good as being in the same room.

But there’s still a unique intimacy to a simple phone call.

Find a comfortable chair, call a friend, and close your eyes during the conversation.

There’s something magical about a single voice in our ear — when we’ve literally closed our eyes to the rest of the world.

We have dozens of new ways to connect, but sometimes the older methods resonate in ways worth remembering.

Choose reasonable, practical dreams. By aiming low, you’ll dramatically increase your likelihood of success.

But at that point, you might not even bother using the word “dream.”

No. When you dream, dream big. And yes, actually attaining these dreams will require a lot of work and a little luck. But why not try?

We’re not engineered for mediocrity. We have a built-in instinct and desire to find the edges and push on them. We have a natural attraction toward the impractical and improbable.

So find a way.

Be practical in your approach … and wildly impractical in your aspiration.

Go easy with yourself. Be kind. Be gentle.

Even in striving. Even in battle.

Because sometimes we forget, and we need to hear that advice from the outside.

Go easy with yourself.

Consider a simple pendulum: a pivot point, a long rod, and a bob.

Imagine gently holding the pivot point between your thumb and forefinger. The bob swings back and forth on a graceful arc. Its trajectory is smooth and naturally rhythmic.

Now imagine holding the rod instead — rotating it manually to guide the bob along its arc.

The first way works perfectly. The second way, not so much.

When we hold the pendulum at its pivot, we allow the bob to move as it seeks to move. When we try to control the movement ourselves, it’s clumsy and contrived. A lot more effortful, too.

Sometimes we’re in full control. But most of the time, we’re called to be more of a guide, an usher, a steward, or channel. We contribute to the conditions and circumstances, but we yield to the way things seek to move.

We make things happen, but we also know when to loosen our grip … allowing the elements to flow as they wish.

In a 2014 commencement speech, actor, artist, and comedian Jim Carrey said this:

“We are not the avatars we create. We are not the pictures on the film stock. We are the light that shines through. All else is just smoke and mirrors — distracting, but not truly compelling. I’ve often said that I wish people could realize all their dreams and wealth and fame … so that they could see that it’s not where you’re going to find your sense of completion.”

He’s elsewhere been quoted as saying more concisely, “I think everybody should get rich and famous and do everything they ever dreamed of so they can see that it’s not the answer.”

Indeed.

* * *

Wanting tells the lie that having will fill every void.

It does not.

Everyone has a combination of features and flaws, strengths and weaknesses.

Too often, we tend to point to the shortcomings. We talk about the failures.

Of all the things a person is doing well, the mistakes and deficiencies are what become topics of conversation.

Who does this help? What purpose does this serve?

What happens if instead, we speak of the strengths? What happens when we become good-finders?

In doing so, we might not have any time left to dwell on the imperfections.

And that might be just fine.

Warm-cool. Smooth-textured. Light-dark. Sweet-sour.

Alone, together. Empty, full. Busy, resting.

An even stasis can be comfortable, but all the excitement in life is because of the contrasts.

Most of what keeps us physically alive … we never see. The organs and systems beneath our skin — they’re all hidden from sight. They leave traces. There’s evidence. But for the most part, these life-sustaining systems remain hidden.

Our culture places high value on what we can see, what’s visible, what’s on the exterior.

But so much of what truly matters — literally and figuratively — happens beneath the surface.

For so many skills we develop, we start off poorly.

Early skills, for example: walking, talking, reading, writing — none of these begin with proficiency. Rather, they begin clumsily. It takes failure, repeated effort, and a lot of time for us to get better.

But for some reason, as adults, we tend to see inability as a static trait rather than a starting point. As though we’ve forgotten that learning skills takes time. As though we’ve forgotten that mistakes and missteps are part of any learning process.

When we lower our expectations and set our egos aside, the real learning can begin.

An infinitesimal change in bearing will appear to do nothing at present.

But in the long run, it will lead us to entirely new worlds.

Lines. Grids. Dots. Blank.

Journals and notebooks are of countless variety.

For consideration: how does the format of the page influence your thinking? Is it limiting? Is it freeing? Does it help organize? Does it invite experimentation? Is it receptive to your way of operating?

A different mode may be worth trying now and again.

And perhaps the way your life is designed — perhaps that has some lines, grids, or dots. Or maybe an absence of them.

Is the page helping? Is it hindering?

Is a new notebook in order?

Yesterday afternoon, there was a massive storm. As I listened to the rain, I decided to pay closer attention.

I opened the window blinds and turned off the lights.

The drama of the storm instantly amplified.

This wasn’t the same as walking onto a porch to feel the elements, but the effect was still powerful.

Sometimes, we’re surrounded by so much artifice — light, sound, and structure — that nature feels like just another layer.

When we take a moment to strip away the extra, we enjoy a front-row seat to the show already in progress.