Consider the overall size of a bicycle. Now consider its stopping mechanism: brake pads that are a fraction of the overall size.
It’s a two-sided metaphor. In one sense, a little bit of pressure in the right place brings everything to halt. But also, relieving that little bit of pressure allows things to move freely once again.
In our lives, when we know where to push and where to release, we can influence the entire system.
I have a few friends who live in Asheville, North Carolina. They’ve been top of mind and close to heart for the past week.
Frank, a painter, has begun what will be a long journey in resurrecting Marshall High Studios — a historic brick schoolhouse that houses twenty-six artists’ studios. The building was hit hard by flood waters.
Frank’s mantra of late: “This is a little better.”
Bailing water, shoveling mud from hallways, removing debris — all of it together seems insurmountable. But making a small bit of progress here and there starts to make a significant impact.
Consistently working for “a little better” is how we move toward a lot better.
If the system is working slowly, it’s often a good idea to close the programs you’re no longer using. You can try restarting various processes too.
When those things don’t help, try a soft reset. Shut it down completely, then restart after a short time.
It might be a good idea to check for viruses, too, but try the simpler steps first.
Of course, this is advice about your body and your mind, but it can also be applied effectively to various computers and devices too.
Begin with the inside work. Begin with the content.
It’s far too easy to get caught up in choosing pretty wrappers.
But how important is the car color if the engine doesn’t run properly? Or the font choice if the study has flawed logic? Or the wardrobe if the presentation lacks substance?
Polish is a necessary step, but it’s not where we begin.
People who don’t complain are not without complaint — they just handle struggle and disappointment in a different way.
How we process what happens in the world around us and how we choose to respond … it’s always our choice.
The question isn’t: “What can you do on a good day when everything is going your way?”
The question is: “What can you do when everything falls apart?”
Our peak might be possible in fair weather, but our depth is defined by adversity.
More often than I should, I blindly trust GPS directions. That is, I don’t preview the route in full detail before setting off.
I recently found myself on a winding mountain road. As I drove, I wondered if the trip would’ve been easier had I chosen the slightly longer (but much straighter) highway route instead. Even as I thought this, I caught myself. I wasn’t appreciating the changing leaves and the mountainous landscape; I was musing about what it would have been like to be on another road.
It seems like an appropriate metaphor. There’s so much beauty and wonder that surrounds us. To spend time imagining paths we didn’t take is to ignore the gifts of the path we’ve chosen.
When you can pause and calm yourself, you’ve changed everything. And yet the world hasn’t changed at all; it’s the same as it was when you were distressed.
But through equanimity — by finding and cultivating peace within your own mind — the world has changed indeed.
Here’s to seeking such peace more regularly.
When the fear of making a mistake keeps you from taking action — that in itself can be a mistake.
Remember: you’ve weathered every mistake you’ve ever made.
The world doesn’t need your perfection … it needs your participation.
Sometimes adulthood is about age.
But more often, it’s about how we act. How we put aside childish things. How we attend to what matters.
And even as adults — doing our adulting things — we can be child-like in our joy, creativity, and zest for life.
(Some of my favorite people are still just kids in adult bodies.)
* * *
HBd, Evie!
Coach: “Did you do your homework? Have you been doing the drills?”
Student: [quietly] “No.”
Coach: [aside] “Ahhh … they never like to admit it loudly.”
* * *
We’re naturally subdued when conceding that we haven’t done what we ought. There’s some shame in it.
Perhaps the thing to do is to organize our lives in such a way that we’re more often pleased to share what we’ve done, and less often sheepish to admit what we haven’t.
Journey to the West, a 16th Century Chinese novel attributed to Wu Cheng'en, includes this passage:
Do good a thousand days,
But the good is still insufficient;
Do evil for one day,
And that evil is already excessive.
A simple, guiding truth with the resonance of five hundred years. It’s worth taking to heart.
Keep doing good.
* * *
Hat tip to my father, who recently shared this quote with me. Thanks, Dad.
We learn much more when we lose than when we win.
It would be fun if we could always win and learn at the same time.
But it doesn’t work that way.
This is why it’s so important to reframe our failures.
Losing is learning, and learning leads to more opportunities to win.
There’s an idea in golf: professionals underreact, amateurs overreact.
We can imagine what this looks like. Recovering from errant shots. Sticking with the game plan. Responding with level-headed strategy rather than unbridled emotion.
This, compared to making bad things worse. To spiraling out of control. To losing perspective. To acting irrationally.
Underreaction: it's an approach that could serve us well in so many areas of life.
“We had a lot of money, and we spent it.”
Real estate eyesores. Corporate waste. Gaudy décor.
The problem with having a lot of resources is that you can be a little reckless. You can make foolish choices and still play again tomorrow.
But when budgets are tight and margins are thin, good decision-making is key to survival.
The goal is to make good decisions regardless of whether there are assets and safety nets. To choose wisely when rich and to choose wisely when poor.
Just because you can weather mistakes doesn’t mean you need to make them.
A sidewalk in town had some chalk messages. The “One Way” arrow caught my eye. Pointing in the opposite direction was a second arrow labeled “Another Way”.
Turns out, this pairing is not too uncommon for stock photos and t-shirts. But I do like the thoughts it prompts.
Too often — outside of driving — we look for one-way signs. The one right way to do things. The exemplar.
But mostly, what we see is just one way. Not the one way … that is, the only way. Just a way.
So our invitation is to honor that way, and then — if we want — to seek out other ways. To explore what has yet to be charted, and to find our own way.
You can be right and still be friendly.
You can ask difficult questions and still be warm.
You can give instructions and still be gracious.
Ego and condescension don’t need to be the outerwear of expertise and authority.
Choose kind over clinical. It makes a difference.
“Oh! Look at how beautiful!” the woman said to her husband. “My goodness,” he replied, “It’s just lovely.”
They were noting the shape of the mountainous skyline — a backdrop to the valley.
A casual observer might have thought these were tourists, but no. These were locals of forty, maybe fifty years. They’d have seen this particular part of the skyline hundreds, if not thousands of times.
* * *
Part of a well-lived life is not just recognizing beauty — but continuing to be moved by it long after it’s become familiar.
Sometimes our dog doesn’t just like to lay down near you — he likes to lay down next to you, so that he’s leaning on you. Even if there’s plenty of room elsewhere on the couch. Even if his plush, comfortable dog bed is completely unoccupied.
It makes me think: the ones who love us sometimes push on us — literally and figuratively. Sometimes it’s out of love. Sometimes it’s a message: “I’m here.” And sometimes it’s just out of a desire for closeness.
In 2013, composer John Williams said this about scoring films:
“Sometimes, it takes weeks of changing things and moving them around, and a few simple notes, to eventually guide it into a state of inevitability, where the ear doesn’t have any argument any longer about the path we’ve taken melodically.”
His words are about writing music, but they’re analogous to many creative processes. We find our way and find our way and massage the work into a state of inevitability — to a place where there’s a kind of agreement about the journey.
Life can even be this way too, where it takes time testing, shifting, and moving things around until they’re just right and we’re at peace with the path.
