Certain types of healing require isolation and solitude.

Other types of healing call for community and togetherness.

“I need to be separate.”
“I need to be among others.”

Depending on where we begin, both can be paths toward health and wholeness.

Surely, cross a street with purpose. Move with intention and focus. Even use a crosswalk.

But don’t move through the world this way. At least, not all the time.

Be sure to find occasions to wander. To stroll and observe. To pause and gaze. To soak in. To be curious.

The world is more playground than waiting room. More gallery than corridor.

And the good, creative life includes far more meandering paths than straight-shot highways.

The problem with fuzzy goals is that our self-criticism is often, by contrast, crystal clear. And when we allow that critique — the general sense that we’re insufficient — it has a weight to it.

And it may be unfair.

I’m not bringing in enough business. Have you defined how much is enough?

I don’t have enough people in my network. How many do you really need?

We don’t have enough money. What does the budget require, exactly?

Our general self-assessment may be spot-on. But without clear goals, it’s difficult to take measured steps. And measured steps are are the way forward.

Every successful endeavor has a story.
But so does every failure.

Heroes have origin stories.
But villains have histories too.

There are always outliers. But most of the time, when we know an outcome and we reflect on the journey … all the parts seem to fit together.

The more we know of the story, the slower we are to judge, and the more we lean toward curiosity and empathy.

Sometimes we try a thing and we think it’s terrible. But it’s possible that the thing we tried — is just a bad version of that thing.

It’s worth trying the good kind. The high-quality. The best version of it. And who knows — we might even love it.

Sometimes we want to taste something delicious.

Other times we want the sensation of feeling full.

In the best of situations, we can achieve both at once.

But there are occasions when we confuse the two — expecting to be filled by something that was never meant to be filling, or expecting to be delighted by something that was never intended to be optimally flavorful.

The metaphor extends well beyond food.

The time you had scullery duty.
Or the time we lost electricity.
Or that time where the turkey was still frozen.
Or when we all met at that one place. Do you remember it?

Our most memorable holidays are unusual. Quite literally, not the usual.

And they’re unusually good, or unusually bad.

But memorable indeed.

Sometimes you get so wrapped up in a creative project that you forget to eat. And you skip an otherwise invariable routine. You might even notice some joint stiffness because you’ve been in a certain posture for who knows how long. You’re not sure what others have been doing while you’ve been working. Focus or flow … whatever you might call it, time has skipped ahead.

And the concessions and sacrifices you’ve made in the meantime — they’re worth it. You were being called, and you answered.

I was researching some recipe ingredients using the model, “best x for y”. In doing so, I found a few posts that used a slight modification of my search: “preferred x for y”.

Preferred. Yes, a much more sensible word.

“Best” denies the existence of variation in taste. It suggests that there’s one right answer. And so often, what’s right for one is not right for another.

“I prefer” sounds a little snooty, but it comes from a more open-minded framework. That is, I prefer this but you may prefer something else. It’s the best, but the best by my own judgment and taste.

When we embrace the idea of preferences, there’s room at the table for everyone.

I appreciate a journey. Streaks and patterns are satisfying endeavors. Some of them are even just for fun.

Last year, on a you-should-do-this-dad suggestion from my daughter, I started growing out my hair. I had never sported long hair, so this would be new territory. It turned out to be an entertaining, long-term project.

After about sixteen months — with a few minor trims along the way and having achieved my goal — I decided to have my hair cut shorter again.

I noticed two particular questions from friends, family, and colleagues. The first curious question surfaced a year ago: “What are you doing?” (That is, “How long are you going to let it grow?”)

The second curious question was prompted by my recent haircut: “What did you do?” (That is, “Why did you get it cut?”)

People like to know what’s happening. Generally, they expect things to stay just about the same. And when gradual change begins to happen, they take note. Hmm. What’s happening here? And when drastic change happens, they take note as well. OMG. What just happened?

There are so many areas where we cling to the status quo. But often, we delight in seeing change and trying to figure out what’s going on.

Details can seem tedious, but they’re what give structure to our dreams.

And without structure, our dreams have little chance of finding their way to reality.

Curiously, we can be motivated by the model as much as we can be motivated by its contrast.

For those of us seeking to learn, every input can serve as teachable moment.

Some folks aren’t disorganized and lacking focus, they’re misorganized and focusing in places that aren’t helpful.

It’s not the absence of one’s capability, it’s the result.

When I come home from an evening run, our dog eagerly sniffs my shoes and the bottom of my pants — nearly every square inch. He does so with an eagerness that begs, “Where have you been??? What have you seen? I want to know every detail.”

It’s one of my favorite conversations.

Enthusiastic curiosity — where you encounter it, there is abundant life.

You can figure out the magic. You can deconstruct a trick. All the illusions can be stripped away. And for sure, it can be fun to figure things out.

But there’s a richness to life when we unfetter our imagination. When we buy in. When we allow ourselves to wander and to dream.

In one seat, a person attends to the seams, the strings, the puppeteers, and the stage hands. In another seat, a person is transported through lighting, storytelling, and their own imagination.

Who’s better off? The skeptic? Or the one who embraces the magic?

The spotlight is deceiving. From the audience’s perspective, everything is illuminated. The limelight offers supreme clarity.

But when you’re the one in the spotlight, the brighter it is, the less you can see. The light has a blinding effect while the the audience (with their clear view) is obscured in darkness.

Or consider playing catch. When the sun is directly behind one person, they have clear sight of the target. But the person trying to catch will have trouble because of the glare. A dropped pass, ironically, is visible to everyone except the one who needs to catch it.

We don’t always see what others see — even when we’re looking in the same direction, but especially when we’re looking at each other. Spotlights (real or figurative) make it even more complex.

In sports, it’s the final score that counts. Brilliant shots during the game aren’t fully satisfying unless you end up winning.

But life is different. Focusing on the final score — whatever that might mean — is a fool’s errand.

The brilliant shots are themselves the win. When we choose wisely, when we act kindly, when we create and experience beauty … these constitute a good life. It’s not some total measured against the median. It’s each moment well-lived.

Love is not always convenient.

But love doesn’t mind inconvenience.

Actually, love has a way of making inconvenience seem like nothing at all.

Because love naturally reorganizes our priorities.

When we act in service of what we love — and who we love — convenience is not part of the calculus.

In doing some online research, I noticed my own impatience. Finding relevant websites, I gravitated to the more concise content. And of course, concise is not necessarily complete.

How often do we take this stance? I want to understand this concept … but only if it can be explained in about thirty seconds. I want to learn about this issue … but only if it’s presented in a bulleted list. I want to see how this works … but only if there’s a short video to watch.

What happens when we learn patiently? What happens when we give a subject time? Hours? Days? Weeks? To consume and digest slowly. To sit with the complexity. To stay until understanding becomes a partner.

Quick searches and quick answers are everywhere. But there’s a lot more to learn when we dig deep.

At best, we are short-sighted stones; we see only the first few ripples.

Much of our effect will be well beyond our sight.

We can only act and observe, trust and allow.

The ripples were never ours to control anyway.