Getting organized is a good idea. And it doesn’t suggest that things are all over the place or there’s no sense of order.

Part of getting organized is putting things in their proper place.

It’s totally possible to be well-organized and simultaneously mis-organized. That things are tidy and orderly but in the wrong sequence. That goals and priorities are clear but not aligned. Or itemized but not optimally arranged.

Now is an excellent time to take stock and to arrange the interior furniture properly.

I read the following story years ago. Maybe in a Chicken Soup book. Maybe somewhere else. I can’t locate its source or its attribution.

The message challenged me when I first read it, and even haunted me in a way. Even if it’s folklore, it’s worth some reflection.

* * *

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the famous 19th-century poet and artist, was once approached by an elderly man. The old fellow had some sketches and drawings that he wanted Rossetti to look at and tell him if they were any good, or if they at least showed potential talent.

Rossetti looked them over carefully. After the first few, he knew that they were worthless, showing not the least sign of artistic talent. But Rossetti was a kind man, and he told the elderly man as gently as possible that the pictures were without much value and showed little talent. He was sorry, but he could not lie to the man.

The visitor was disappointed, but seemed to expect Rossetti’s judgment. He then apologized for taking up Rossetti’s time, but would he just look at a few more drawings — these done by a young art student?

Rossetti looked over the second batch of sketches and immediately became enthusiastic over the talent they revealed. “These,” he said, “oh, these are good. This young student has great talent. He should be given every help and encouragement in his career as an artist. He has a great future if he will work hard and stick to it.”

Rossetti could see that the old fellow was deeply moved. “Who is this fine young artist?” he asked. “Your son?”

“No,” said the old man sadly. “It is me — 40 years ago. If only I had heard your praise then! For you see, I got discouraged and gave up — too soon.”

When your work is ready for proofreading, the first two people who should read it are both you.

Read through it. Then read through it again.

You might find something to correct or adjust. Could you miss something? Surely. That’s why having someone else read it is prudent. But to write a piece of text and immediately hand it to someone else for proofreading? That’s just lazy.

Do the first couple read-throughs on your own.

It might seem tedious, but if you’re not interested enough to read your own work, what does that say about the writing?

It takes great force or sharp tools to sever a length of rope.

But given two lengths of rope — and even small, delicate hands can tie them together.

Our natural strength is in connecting and mending.

Play to your strengths.

In the series finale of “Game of Thrones” there’s a wise bit of dialogue:

A: Was it right? What I did?
B: What we did.
A: It doesn’t feel right.
B: Ask me again in ten years.

Some decisions play out immediately. Others, in a few years. Still others, in a generation.

When we’ve done our homework and we’ve chosen carefully, we can’t always judge a decision based on how we feel immediately afterwards. Some results take time to unfold.

I recently lost my voice. After a couple of days, it returned and I was able to speak again. But my singing voice wasn’t in functional shape for more than a week.

Leading up to an event where I was scheduled to sing, I gave my voice a 24-hour rest: no speaking, no whispering, no attempts to vocalize. In a household with family and pets, this was a bit of a challenge, but I made it work.

During that brief stint, I had a worrisome thought: what if I encountered a neighbor? How would I reply if I was greeted? A simple, non-verbal wave? A smile and a gesture toward my throat? Would they understand without further explanation? I didn’t want to seem rude and it’s not like I was wearing a sign or a label.

And that’s just it: for the most part, we don’t wear signs or labels. We just navigate the world with all this stuff going on inside and the outside world has no way of knowing — not unless we explain. And explaining isn’t always simple. Or convenient. Or appropriate.

I’m having a bad day. I’m anxious about a test result. I lost a loved one. I’m preoccupied because of a thing at work. I’m feeling unwell. We all have countless private influences that can pull us below baseline.

The hope is that we’re accepted with kindness. That others tell themselves a story about us that is based on compassion, generosity, and the benefit of the doubt.

It’s an approach that can begin with each of us. It doesn’t even have to involve speaking.

One of my colleagues has adopted a new motto: Be courageous more than ambitious.

What I appreciate about this is its focus on a particular posture rather than an outcome. It’s more about attitude and mindset and less about outwardly visible achievement.

Ambition will take us to various peaks and valleys. Courage will give us the heart to be travelers.

In Rohan’s January 1, 2025 blog post, he mentions a concept: “Show me the incentive and I’ll show you the outcome.” It’s a Charlie Munger quote and it rings true.

But I didn’t quite grasp it the first time I read it. I was about to move on, then I decided: no, I’m going to ponder this one until I have a better understanding of what it really means. I did just that, and I found the exercise meaningful.

Our culture is filled with quips and headlines, posts and articles. They’re endless. We can become like product inspectors standing next to a continuous conveyor belt. We take a brief moment to consider various items and then it’s on to others.

But we can choose to step away from the conveyor.

We can select topics to consider deeply.

We can cogitate, meditate, and reflect.

We can ruminate, internalize, and share.

The world is moving at a clip. It’s easy to forget that we can pull an all-stop when we decide to pay close attention. And paying close attention is worthwhile.

Some choices are obvious. The data, the analytics, the pros and cons — they point to a logical option.

And even with all that evidence, we can still struggle to decide.

Because we’re emotional beings. We have feelings about decisions. And feelings don’t always follow the logic.

The way we think about a choice and how we feel about that choice: they can be miles apart. Sometimes the hard part is bridging the gap.

Choose a plan that you think is a good one.

Stick to that plan.

Be patient with the results.

That’s the long and the short of it, isn’t it?

It’s not to be spectacular. It’s not to get lucky. It’s not to do the unreasonable or the untenable. It’s just to make a serious commitment to a thoughtful, reasonable plan. A plan that we ourselves author.

It’s not too much to ask and it’s not too much to do.

Slurred speech is difficult to follow. One word blends into another into another. It becomes unintelligible noise.

When life gets busy — or exceptionally uneventful — a similar thing can happen. One day flows into the next into the next. It’s Thursday already? What happened to the beginning of the week?

As articulation is to speech, so are simple journals and logs to life. Brief, intentional notes that mark time. Captured memories to honor the bits and bobs of our existence.

Life will course regardless. Daily moments of reflective attention help us to appreciate the journey as it unfolds.

We can learn a lot from Jimmy Carter’s example. His impact in the world — particularly post-presidency — is astounding. This quote says much about how he lived:

“I have one life and one chance to make it count for something. I’m free to choose what that something is, and the something I’ve chosen is my faith. Now, my faith goes beyond theology and religion and requires considerable work and effort. My faith demands — this is not optional — my faith demands that I do whatever I can, wherever I am, whenever I can, for as long as I can with whatever I have to try to make a difference.”

A model of integrity and an inspiration to many.

“One day, spring will come without her.”

This poignant line is from the delightful novel The Thursday Murder Club, written by Richard Osman.

In this phrase, one of the main characters is acknowledging her mortality, prompting her to enjoy the daffodils by the lake while she’s still there to see them.

It’s a gentler version of the old Latin chestnut, memento mori.

May we all live long lives. But still, best to enjoy the beauty of each season as though it’s the last one we’ll witness.

Seek out the daffodils.

I tried a new sport and discovered that I was not a natural. It taxed muscles I don’t often train and required techniques of which I had no knowledge.

Pure strength and intuition did not carry me far.

I looked around: others made things look easy with graceful efficiency.

But I should not have been surprised. I was comparing my zero-hours experience with well-practiced, skilled participants. Not a fair comparison.

Sometimes, even the first few steps can call for domain knowledge and guidance.

And learning new things requires patience and humility.

Be sure to do it regularly.

We could go bowling, or we could go bouldering.
We could play cards, or we could go for a hike.
We could play basketball, or we could play catch.

Depending on the group, sometimes it’s more fun to choose the activity where we don’t end with labels of winners and losers.

Competition can be a lot of fun. But just playing to play can be a lot of fun for everyone, no matter how things turn out.

When we have nothing to say, or when we “can’t think of anything”, or when we’re out of ideas — it’s a reflection of our current mindset. It’s not a reflection of the infinite universe, the availability of ideas, or a lack of inspirational topics — it’s because of a temporary limitation we’ve allowed to take hold in our mind.

We can unlock at will; it’s our choice.

When an audience is smaller than you expect, it’s tempting to feel a little let down.

Get over that feeling quickly.

Lean in. Double down.

Whatever craft you bring, bring it to the fullest. This is an opportunity for you to shine.

For those who are present, let them experience the best you have to offer. Forget about the “lite” version of you. That doesn’t exist.

When you look at the audience, recalibrate: this group is now one hundred percent attendance. Serve them well.

In the crescendo that precedes an event, there often comes a moment of stillness. Of holding one’s breath. A collective pause.

Anticipation can prompt a host of activities and emotions. We prepare personally and socially in many ways.

But with heightened anticipation — as we draw near — we experience a kind of quiet.

There’s a pause in conversation. A settling of movement. A silent watchfulness. A focused attention.

And like a symphonic caesura, life then resumes and carries forward. Anticipation, pause, release. Preparation, yield, continuation. Like respiration, it’s the natural way of things.

It’s so important to be thoughtful. To consider — ahead of time — what you’ll say, how you’ll perform, the way you’ll act.

Yet when we do this too intensely in real-time, we miss what’s right in front of us. We’re pulled out of the present, lost in our own thoughts.

To be so sure that we’re responding clearly and from the heart … that we’re not fully listening to the person who’s speaking to us. Or to be so concerned with our own performance that we’re not listening to the other actors. This balance is suboptimal.

Our brains are always thinking, always calculating. The job is to tune our ears and to direct our attention. Our words and actions (from our heartfelt intention) they will serve us well at the right time. Don’t miss too much of the present in consideration of them.

It might not happen with stone and iron, glass and steel, but many are incarcerated.

Information, gossip, entertainment, attention, food, status, distraction, achievement …

Prisons of our own making.

When we can free ourselves, we are free indeed.