Look at pictures and specifications of twenty ballpoint pens, and you’ll maybe be able to select one or two top choices.

Write a few lines with each of those twenty pens, and you’ll certainly pick a few favorites. And they might not be the same as your earlier selections.

Photos and text only tell us a story.

We can do all the research, but there’s nothing so true as trying a thing.

For about fifteen years, I’ve brushed my teeth bending over a stepstool placed in front of the bathroom sink.

Yesterday, I asked my youngest child, “Are you tall enough that you’re not using the stool anymore?” He replied, “I don’t use it. We should take it out.”

So we did. And now that the stool has been removed, there’s a strange spaciousness. It’s an odd feeling. An obstruction removed now feels like something is missing. As though my body in space recognizes the sentimentality of the moment.

Small changes can mark time in remarkable ways.

The relief that comes from putting off a task never surpasses the satisfying feeling of having gotten the thing done.

We enjoy leisure, but work is what fills us.

The guitar out of the case and on its stand. The canvas on its easel, paints nearby. The notebook, open and on the table.

Closets and storage units — these are not the places for the tools of our creativity.

Tidy is good. But so tidy that we can’t get to work easily … that’s not a good thing.

Don’t make it a chore to begin your craft; organize your life and your environment so that it’s easy.

Rick Rubin tells us: “Art is far more powerful than our plans for it.”

To cling to our preconceived concepts of what the work is — keeps the work from becoming what it could be.

We don’t need 20/20 forward vision; we just need to participate in creation.

Brené Brown explains that at one time, she had “engineered smallness” in her life.

“For me, the fear of shame — the fear of criticism — was so great in my life, up until that point (I mean, just paralyzing) that I engineered smallness in my life. I did not take chances. I did not put myself out there.”
(From the Netflix Special, “Brené Brown: The Call to Courage”)

The desire for simple, safe praise is real. Careful, measured, achievable goals. Nothing too big. Nothing too bright. Nothing to risk failure or embarrassment.

And so many do just that. One can string together a lifetime of cautious steps that produce mediocre successes, average accomplishments, and only minor wounds.

But there is another path. It’s a courageous path where we dance with fear and allow ourselves to be vulnerable. Where we step into the arena and into the fullness of who we are. Where failure is sure to happen from time to time, but so too will victory.

We can aim for small and safe, but so much more is possible.

I watched a short video of a man demolishing a wall. Half of the wall had already been removed and he was working on the remaining half. As he worked, he swung a long sledge hammer, beating what still stood.

With each blow, the wall moved infinitesimally.

After thirteen swings, another worker entered the scene. He was carrying a long pry bar. He wedged it neatly in the vertical gap between the two adjacent walls. With a nonchalant push, the wall-to-be-removed detached and fell wholly to the floor.

* * *

Our most significant progress comes from understanding leverage and where to push, not from how hard we sweat or how long we bang away at things.

“The cup is already broken.”

The story is told different ways in a few different places.

The idea is this: nothing is permanent. When we acknowledge this — indeed, confront it — every moment is more precious.

Rather than life becoming a lamentation of all that will eventually be lost, it’s a celebration and appreciation of what is now.

We have this moment. This moment. With certainty, things will pass. But for now, here we are. Hold it tenderly while it’s here and let it go as it goes. After all, the cup is already broken.

H/T Allegra

The song you’re singing today need not become an ongoing anthem. Maybe it will. Perhaps it serves you well and you’ll embrace it.

But it could also be a song in a season, resonant today but not forever.

If it’s working in your favor, keep singing. If not, consider changing your tune.

We get to choose.

In her post about two eyes making one in sight — a thought-provoking concept — my friend, Sue Heatherington, writes a line that I’ve been considering for months now.

“And our other senses add to what we perceive without calling attention to their contribution, which is often significant.”

That our senses work in concert … quietly, seamlessly, selflessly.

It’s beauty in design, worthy of reflection.

I sometimes do work in an outdoor shed. It’s not temperature controlled, so in the winter it gets cold and in the summer it gets hot. It used to be that when the temperatures moved toward their upper and lower limits, I’d stay inside the house; work in the shed could wait.

These days, I’ve widened the aperture. I’ve pushed out the guard rails. I’ll work hotter. I’ll work colder.

It’s not always ideal. It’s not always comfortable. But it’s not untenable.

And still in my mind — prior to the work — the conditions will often feel impossible. But when I get to it, it’s never quite that bad.

When we intentionally step outside of what’s comfortable, the extremes can be more tolerable than expected.

There’s something alluring about a perfect streak. About never missing a single time. But don’t let a desire for perfection get in the way of celebrating or acknowledging almost-perfect. Near streaks and split streaks are worthy of attention too.

“Every day but three” or “almost every month” or even “most weeks” — theses routines can be hugely valuable. The asterisk doesn’t make for an unblemished record, but the results can be just as rewarding. Maybe even more so because of your commitment to restart after an occasional miss.

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.