I don’t care if Lin-Manuel Miranda knows much about the U.S. tax code.

I don’t care if Kathy Bates can operate a manual transmission.

I don’t care if Mona Hatoum got today’s Wordle. Or if Bukowski knew how to use a sewing machine. Or if FDR knew any baseball stats.

Some things we have to know. Other things we know because we’re interested. And for many things, we simply don’t know and we don’t care.

And that’s totally fine. We don’t need to know everything, nor should we feel like we have to.

Like many things, it’s a balance.

Either way, I don’t like the idea of a world where Lin-Manuel knows the details of Form 1040 Schedule 2 and “Hamilton” was never written.

If your aim is off, you’ll likely miss.

But if you don’t go far enough, even good aim won’t help; the effort won’t have given the goal a fighting chance.

Aim is valuable, but following the journey far enough — that part is even more critical.

“Fast, easy, and cheap. This simple trick (that you can learn for a fee) will give you what you seek.”

And of course, we know that it’s not real.

The more believable promises go something like this:

“It will be difficult. You will face challenges and setbacks. You might even fail. But it will be worthwhile.”

The real work has a marketing problem: it’s not flashy, attractive, or even guaranteed. But we know it’s the path worth taking.

When we’re squeezed, what’s inside … comes out. We know this.

But don’t be misled by the initial stages. Like a bit of separated oil and pigment in a new tube of paint, the first bit of pressure can sometimes produce something ugly.

In time, our substance — our character — will ultimately show up.

Likewise, don’t despair over the dregs. If we’ve been squeezed too long, there comes a time when the remnants are all we have left to give.

Until we replenish ourselves.

I wonder: are you in need of replenishment? How might you attend to that need?

Is the seed ever aware of its fruit? Does it ever fully see the outcome? Or does the soil obscure its vision?

And does the fruit have consciousness of the seed? Does it know of the work that happens beneath the surface?

We are seeds. We are fruits.

We can’t always see the full picture, but we can imagine the infinite web that’s hidden from our understanding.

And we can live knowing of and honoring that connectedness.

“A little window popped up saying my computer needed to reboot for an update. It let me delay the reboot for eight hours. The next time the window popped up, I put it off again. I’ve been doing that for about a week.”

I had this conversation with someone whose computer was in the middle of restarting. Her IT department had wanted to run an update. She had wanted to keep working.

In the end, time ran out and the update was forced.

The situation reminded me of the many times we put off necessary things in favor of other important (or even trivial) activities. Delay, defer, put off … but then we run out of time.

Sometimes it’s a computer reboot. Other times it’s an engine repair. Or a conversation. Or a cancer screening.

“Running out of time” isn’t always a catastrophe. It’s often just an inconvenience. But when we can, it’s best to organize our schedule so that the inconvenience is on our terms at a time we choose.

We might not be able to avoid the inconvenience altogether, but we can at least manage its timing.

I want you to hear.
I want you to know.
I want to say it aloud.
I don’t want to write it.
I don’t think you’ll read it.
I want us all together in the same room.

There are many different (not always related) reasons we gather for presentations. Few of them are because it’s the only way (or the best way) to accomplish what’s necessary.

But sometimes it is. Sometimes gathering is best. And when we do gather, let’s do it with consciousness. Because when we’re intentional about why we’re gathering, then we can organize and plan around reaching those goals.

It catches one’s attention when a blind person begins: “The great thing about being blind …”

He continued:

“The great thing about not having the ability to see with your eyes is — the great opportunity in being able to even better see with your heart.”

— Stevie Wonder remembering the beauty of his friend, singer and pianist Roberta Flack

Framing the walls, laying the flooring, fitting the molding, seeing the rooms take shape — they’re all more satisfying than pouring the foundation.

But without the foundation, everything else is at risk of falling to pieces.

Foundations are where we begin. Principles are where we begin. Not because they’re flashy, but because they allow us to build a cohesive, everything-else.

Some of the best athletes in the world don’t plan for spectacular feats. Rather, they strive to be methodical and reliable. Even boring. They’re spectacular in the moments that matter. But the rest of it is standard protocol. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Excellence doesn’t necessarily come from aiming for spectacular. Instead, it’s often the result of steadfast, everyday work, and a readiness to rise to occasions that call for extra.

In looking forward to an upcoming event, I found myself feeling particularly upbeat. I was a little friendlier than usual. A little more patient than usual. A little more at ease than usual.

It made me wonder: how many people are cranky, impatient, and unkind simply because they’re not looking forward to anything?

And, how can I organize my life such that there’s always something to cheerfully anticipate?

Some problems are too complex and too invasive to correct. They will be with us forever.

Knowing that … accepting that … we still work to make things better. We still seek solutions. We still fight for small wins.

Because giving up is not what we do.

We do our part to fight for what is right — even if we will never see the victories for ourselves.

As the saying goes, we’re planting trees in whose shade we will never sit.

I’m lucky to have access to a lot of nice tools and materials.

But the most creative fun I’ve had over the past couple of days employed leftover cardboard, discounted acrylic paint, and four cheap brushes I found in a cup beside our utility sink.

Joy has much more to do with focus, engagement, and interest — and much less to do with the presumed quality of our tools and materials.

It’s the making that matters to the heart.

Is now, and will be forever.
Are now, and will be forever.

Is not now, but will be.
Am not now, but will be.
Have not been, but will be.

* * *

Like passengers transferring trains on a busy platform, countless details shift between fixed and moving. Between what was, what is, and what will be.

Part of our challenge is to navigate these spaces without losing heart.

The good and the bad — both can fade away, both can spring anew.

In the meantime, we can (if we choose) be hopeful passengers.

The blank page is a beautiful thing. Endless potential. Brimming opportunity.

But. Don’t always feel compelled to fill it. We need space, too.

We can learn from the silence.

Even in the emptiness, there is fullness and completion.

The journey outward often opens interior doors.

Sometimes we have to travel far and not find what we’re seeking — to realize that what we were looking for, we already have.

Put simply, what we seek may already be within.

Whether you’ve just won, or you’ve just lost, tomorrow’s task is the same: begin again.

There’s no joy in a technical victory. In claiming a seat in an uncontested race. In winning by an opponent’s forfeit. In pocketing a lopsided matchup.

Happiness, maybe. But not thrill. Not elation.

The path to real satisfaction always involves risk.

And so the best victories are hard-won. They’re sweetest because they were never guaranteed.

If you’re inclined to protest a certain injustice, you might repost a meme.

Alternatively, you could:

• Paint a mural.

• Take out a full-page ad.

• Found a non-profit enterprise.

• Plan a performance.

• Organize an event.

• Embroider a flag.

• Tell a long story with “full orchestration and five-part harmony” … once it comes around on the guitar.

When there’s inequity, the followers follow, the lawyers litigate, the writers write, the comedians tell jokes, and the artists — the artists make art.

The act of making is itself a protest, regardless of our personal, social, and political leanings. Art stands in contrast to entropy, apathy and the exaltation of utility. It is our contribution.

If you’re a baker who creates exquisite cakes, you might appreciate the story of a special occasion where your product was seen for its beauty, savored for its taste, and remembered for its contribution.

You might not enjoy hearing that your creation became a smash cake or that a clumsy attendant helped your fondant find the dancefloor en masse.

But this is the nature of what we produce.

Once the work leaves our studio, once the job gets shipped, once the words leave our mouths — we relinquish control. The story continues on. To maintain influence after it’s left us is like trying to catch a ripple.

Even with lawyers and contracts, the work outlives our intentions for it.

The beauty is that sometimes, it becomes greater than we had imagined.