How to Fail Greatly

In yoga class, I often lose my balance. People around me do, too–this morning, someone next to me splatted on the floor while attempting scissor pose. And last week, a guy whomped into the wall while attempting a forearm stand (he’s a big dude, so it was loud). But it’s all good, because when we “failed” at the poses, it was only because we were trying to do them in the first place, and that’s a good thing.

Here’s what some well-known people have said about failure:

Actress Salma Hayek says, “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. It’s better than to do nothing and learn nothing and not evolve.” 

And let’s not forget former U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt’s classic speech, The Man in the Arena, where he speaks of a person who, if they fail, “at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

“The person who fails the most, wins.”
–Seth Godin

If you’re in business, think you can avoid product failures with “ideal customer avatars” and focus groups? In his blog post, This Might Not Work, Author Steven Pressfield reminds us that they aren’t always predictors of success. “I don’t think the avatar concept works,” he says. “How did Steve Jobs evolve the Macintosh or the iPhone or the iPad? He did them for himself. Because he thought they were cool.” He’s got a good point.

And how about failing over and over, like when you’re searching for a job? Richard Bolles, author of the bestselling career book, What Color is Your Parachute? views success as a string of “Nos” followed by a “Yes.” He says: “After each rejection, take comfort in the fact that you are one “NO” closer to a “YES.”

Seth Godin, in his book What to Do When it’s Your Turn (and it's Always Your Turn), says it’s better to be at ease with the tension of not knowing whether or not something will work than to never take action at all because you’re afraid it won’t. He says, “The person who fails the most, wins.”

When you try something–yoga or anything else–you just might succeed, no matter how much you’re sure you’ll fail. Or maybe you’ll fail the first ten times, but get it right the eleventh. Or the failure may help point you in the right direction. Or it’ll be an unforgettable, epic fail, but at least you’ll know you tried. But when you’re too afraid to try anything at all, you fail the most.

I hope you fail at something this week. And I mean that in the best way.

Knock, Knock!

Earlier this year, I stumbled across this incredible video from The Late Late Show with James Corden. I’ve chosen it for this week’s Wendy Z Wednesday because not only is it fun as hell, there’s much we can learn from it about living your best life. (I’ll admit that before this, I barely knew of James Corden and didn’t know who Harry Styles was at all. I guess I’m not cool. But I like them both a lot now.)

Here’s the premise: James Corden, host of The Late Late Show, was tasked with directing an ad hoc video of Harry Styles’ new song “Daylight” in a random New York apartment. Their time and money budget was three hours and three hundred dollars. Apparently, Styles is a regular on Corden’s show and this is what they do for fun.

After knocking on a few doors in Brooklyn, Corden, Styles and their camera crew found four young adventurous apartment tenants who welcomed them in. The team made creative use of the rooms, roof, and party decorations and props found in closets. The tenants and their friends pitched in as set creators and background talent. The outcome is hilarious, sweet, and memorable.

Some might argue that the whole thing was staged, but let’s assume it’s not. A few things we can learn from their 3-hour adventure:

  • Embrace that figurative or literal knock at your door, because behind it might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity (one of the tenants was a huge Harry Styles fan).

  • With a little ingenuity, you can make something amazing from almost nothing.

  • The more absurd something seems, the more awesome it might actually become.

  • Sometimes it’s best to let things unfold as they will–embrace serendipity!

  • If you look long enough, you’ll find like-minded people who share your sense of adventure and are willing to support and/or join you on your creative journey.

I’m sure you can think of much more. For now, watch this and let it inspire you to do whatever creative things you’re dying to do:

Harry Styles Makes 'Daylight' Music Video for $300 w/ James Corden

Show Up

Johnny Barnes, sharing love from his post.

Johnny Barnes, who lived in the small island country of Bermuda, became one of the island’s most famous residents. He was mentioned in several travelers’ guidebooks and web sites as a “must see,” and he was profiled in two documentary films. What was he known for? Showing up.

Every weekday, rain or shine, from 3:45 to 10 am, he stood at the Foot of the Lane roundabout in Hamilton, Bermuda waving to passing commuter traffic, blowing kisses, and telling everyone who passed, “I love you,” “Good morning,” and “Have a good day.” Due to the unique layout of the island and its roads, nearly all drivers coming from the western and southern areas of the island would pass Barnes at the roundabout on their way to work and the day’s appointments. His presence at the intersection became such an island fixture that local radio stations received frantic calls from listeners on the rare occasions when Barnes wasn’t at his unofficial post.

Why did he do it? He wasn’t paid, and it wasn’t a job–not even a volunteer position. In the short film, “Mr. Happy Man,” Barnes said, “I just want to remind people that life is sweet, life is beautiful. No matter what happens in life, it’s always sweet to be alive. Enjoy the sunshine, the flowers, the birds—they’re happy. The good Lord and I are just trying to make people happy.”

I first learned of Barnes many years ago and I always hoped to visit Bermuda and see him for myself, but he passed away in 2016. A statue of Barnes now stands near his old spot and a new resident has assumed responsibility for spreading love at the roundabout to all who pass.

Not everyone understood Barnes, why he did what he did, or thought he was deserving of a statue. But he showed up every weekday from roughly 1983 to 2015–more than 30 years–for the sole purpose of spreading a message of love and happiness. And he did it until his unofficial “retirement” at the age of 92, six months before he passed at 93.

Though I never got to meet him, Barnes inspires me for many reasons–for his positivity, his smile, his perseverance, and also for creating his own path; he didn’t answer a classified ad for “official island greeter,” or “Goodwill Ambassador of Bermuda.” He just did it.

Watch the 10-minute film, “Mr. Happy Man,” here.

Embrace the Detours

Sometimes your path turns upside down.

One morning several months ago, lightning bolts of pain shot down the backs of my legs when I tried to get out of bed. I reached for the bed, propped myself up with my hands, and gasped for breath until the pain subsided. It was only ten steps across the floor to the bathroom, but it might as well have been a journey of 50 miles because I couldn’t walk. I’d been suffering from increasing pain for a few weeks, but this was horrific–and scary. Had I fractured a vertebra? I wondered.

After a few more painful weeks that included x-rays, visits to multiple doctors, and a session with a bone specialist, it was determined that no, I had not fractured a vertebra, nor had I torn or dislocated anything; I was suffering from arthritis, a severe flare-up of muscle spasms and tightness, and strength imbalances in several areas of my lower back and hips. Twenty-six years of martial arts and five months of triathlon training had aggravated some lower back unhappiness I’d been managing my entire adult life. It had caught up with me.

During a previous, less severe flareup many years ago, my new (and in retrospect, very smart) sports medicine doctor had suggested yoga as a way to keep my back happy. “But not just any yoga,” he’d said. “A certain kind of yoga–hot yoga.” At the time, I’d practically groaned at his suggestion, because yoga–well, that was for middle-aged sissy ladies wearing too-expensive yoga pants, and little shriveled men from India. Yet, circumstance had dragged me repeatedly, practically kicking and screaming, to yoga again and again before then–like when a former partner had pursued training in Integrative Yoga Therapy and he needed to practice on someone; and when I went through my own training in Kripalu Yoga Dance and I couldn’t escape the yoga requirements. (Up until then, I’d proudly mused that I may have been the only person who’d ever been to Kripalu Yoga Center and never actually set foot in one of their yoga classes.)

Despite my resistance to yoga, after my doctor’s suggestion so many years ago I’d grudgingly started yoga–and stopped. But I returned to it over and over through the years, when I needed more flexibility for martial arts, to de-stress, or to warm my bones during the long, cold New England winters. Though many things about it still annoyed me and I found it difficult to find schools, classes, and instructors I liked, I couldn’t deny the ways it benefitted me. In hot yoga class, I could always find relief waiting patiently for me to return.

The morning I got out of bed and collapsed in pain, I knew something had to change. My doctors suggested physical therapy and a break from running and martial arts. It helped, but not enough. Instinctively, I knew what I needed–yoga. Hot yoga, and lots of it, and not just during the winter. My choice was clear: do hot yoga or don’t walk.

This morning, at the end of hot yoga class, I wiped off the sweat puddles from my mat like I have once or twice weekly since February. It’s the first year I’ve continued hot yoga all through the summer, and I feel fabulous. I still manage almost-daily pain, but hey, I can also walk.

“Great job,” the guy in front of me said, turning to me with a high-five. “You make it look easy.”

“Thanks,” I replied, chuckling to myself at how I could barely walk earlier this year, and now I’m inspiring others with my extended side crow and flying pigeon yoga poses. Apparently, The Universe loves irony.

On my road to health, only severe pain could have forced me away from my beloved Land of Martial Arts. I’ll return there soon, but right now I’m really enjoying Yoga World for the first time ever. Sometimes when detours pop up on our intended path, we have to slow down and enjoy the scenery. Maybe we’re there for a reason.

She Was in the “Wrong” Place—and That’s Exactly Why it Was Right.

Lillian Colón. From www.lilliancolon.com.

In 2019, dancer and former Radio City Rockette Lillian Colón walked into an audition for the film adaptation of Lin Manuel Miranda’s “In the Heights” musical. Once there, Colón, 66, wondered if she was in the wrong place, because there was no one else her age in the room. In fact, all of the other dancers appeared to be half her age. Her husband had discouraged her from going, and several friends didn’t audition with her because they had doubted themselves. Colón felt intimidated but decided to “go for it” anyway.

Guess what? She was cast in the movie. She appears in several dance scenes, and despite her age, she had the stamina to shoot those scenes in 90-degree New York City summer weather on concrete sidewalks. Each scene took two or three days to shoot, and each shooting day was 14 hours long. The film’s director says Colón inspired the younger dancers with her presence and stamina. One of the film’s casting agents says she was instantly impressed with Colón’s abilities and star quality. The other dancers said they aspired to be like Colón “when they grew up.” Apparently, Colón’s age became a superpower, not a limitation.

Every story I’ve read about the film mentions Colón, though she’s not even a speaking character. As it turns out, she wasn’t just the only dancer over 50 who performed in the movie, she was the only dancer over 50 who dared to audition. This Saturday is National Dance Day in the U.S., so it’s only fitting that we should do a happy dance for Colón and all we can learn from her about pursuing our passions, no matter what.

Ian’s Internet Age

Ian Rae performing “Beyond the Clouds”

Ian Rae is a freelance jazz and wedding pianist living in London. He’s also a social media star with four hundred seventy-seven thousand followers on TikTok. He performs live several times daily on TikTok and has written and released several popular tunes and albums you can find on Spotify, Apple, Amazon, Deezer, Shazam and YouTube.

You’d expect a social media star with a crazy-busy performing schedule and a firm grasp on the Internet music scene to be a young, hip 20-something, right? Nope, not Rae. He’s 75.

Born in Glasgow, Scotland in 1947, Rae studied classics and music, graduating with an M.A. in 1968. Rae then worked in computing for 30 years while he continued to pursue his musical passions on the side. Now retired, he composes music and songs for video, television, radio and theater.

I was introduced to Rae by a longtime reflexology client, himself a senior and avid TikTok follower. After a reflexology session, he said, “Ian Rae is live now on TikTok! Do you know who he is?” When I sheepishly smiled and shook my head, he pulled out his phone, logged into TikTok, and showed me Ian Rae.

Rae was seated at home at his piano, sporting a casual sweatshirt and tousled white hair. His fingers danced smoothly and effortlessly over the ivory keys as he played. His dog slept, comically oblivious, on a sofa in the background. An endless stream of fan comments and song requests scrolled on-screen. His fingers never missing a note, Rae scanned the comments as he played, laughing with a radiant smile and sometimes replying in his charming brogue. His sweetness and unassuming appeal was captivating.

Thanks to the Internet–something that didn’t exist until Rae was about 45–he’s now a musical sensation with fans worldwide, including American rapper Doja Cat and, well, me. Rae is a reminder that you’re never too old–to pursue your passions, live your best life, inspire others, or even become an unexpected superstar.

Ba-Dunk-a-Dunk-Dunk

Since this is a blog where I write (mostly) about creativity, this week I’m sharing one of the many ways I embody self-expression (besides writing).

I worked as a video production assistant in college while I was also studying communications, media, TV production and journalism. The software and tech stuff has since changed, but not the basic principles of video editing and storytelling with words.

Sometimes you’ve just got to have FUN. Enjoy!

Ch-Ch-Changes!

The other day, I saw these bright orange leaves on my neighbor’s tree. It surprised the hell out of me, since I’m still firmly in “summer” mode, but obviously Mother Nature is making other plans.

The orange leaves on the otherwise green tree were a heads-up: “Fall is coming, but it’s not quite here yet,” they told me. “We still have a few weeks of summer, so make sure you enjoy the rest of it!”

I’ve always been energized by change, but not everyone is. I remember a fellow classmate crying on the last day of a college course. “I hate change,” she said. Me? I’d been itching for it to end, looking forward to the next classes I’d take, the new things I’d study, and the fresh groups of students each new class would bring together.

I will hate to see summer end, but I choose to feel optimistic about a new season. The reminder of time’s passing can be a nice, motivational kick in the ass–a reminder to do things we meant to do but haven’t, a time to reevaluate our goals, and a time to redirect our focus, if necessary.

Summer–like lots of things–will end. I could cry about it or make the most of it. How about you?

When Did Everything “Click?”

There are some moments when the planets seem to align: we sing our song perfectly in karaoke and everyone cheers; we close a deal with an impossible client; or maybe all our appointments or tasks in a day just smoothly flow from one to the next–no delays, no red lights, no interruptions.

Today I’d like to share with you one of my favorite “click” moments (manifested as one of my favorite modes of expression, dance) from the documentary Mad Hot Ballroom. Released in 2005, the film follows New York City public school fifth graders as they take a 10-week course in ballroom dancing. A total of 60 schools participate and, at the end of the course, all schools may choose to compete in the semi-finals, finals, and ultimately the grand finals, where one team takes home the first-place prize trophy. The filmmakers follow participants from three of these schools as the students train and prepare for the big competition.

In this clip from the semi-finals, two young dancers hold each other’s eye contact, respect each others’ space, and add their own little flourishes. They have the focus and confidence of adults. They’re present in the moment and everything clicks, much to the delight of all in the room. There’s no mistaking it–they are the best, they are in the flow, and they are fully expressing their souls. Simply put, they’re killin’ it.

I re-watch this clip anytime I need a little lift. Let it inspire you to reflect on a time (or three, or five!) in your life when the clouds seemed to part, angels sang, planets aligned, and everything just clicked. I’d love to hear about it.

 

If you like this clip, I highly recommend watching the entire movie; it’s available numerous places online.

When You Can't Beat the Heat

Here is the U.S., we’re knee-deep in summer. It’s been a particularly hot, dry season, too, with many parts of the country experiencing record drought conditions. This is the first year most lawns (not just mine, for a change) are brown and dead, which is just as well because on most days, it’s too hot to mow the grass anyway.

This is also the first year I’ve continued attending hot yoga classes throughout the season; usually, I take a summer hiatus because, well, hot yoga on a 90-something-degree day is insanity. But my back muscles like it.

In a recent yoga class, our instructor acknowledged the heat, and the importance of acceptance; after all, it’s summer, right? And summer is hot, like winter is cold. Every season has its character and personality, and the best thing we can do, she said, is to be still and practice acceptance.

As we closed out the class with savasana in the darkened room, I was reminded of other darkened classrooms–my grammar school classrooms in early June in New York City, just before the school year had ended. There was no air conditioning (come on, it was public school!) and my fellow students and I would be whining, complaining, and fanning ourselves with sad paper accordion fans made from lined notebook pages.

On really hot afternoons, our school teachers would often say something similar to what my yoga instructor said: “Relax. Get still. Accept it. Fighting it only makes it worse.” They would turn off the overhead fluorescent lights, tell us to put the fans away (the movement made you hotter, they said), and to put our heads down on our desks. Then we’d have 10 minutes of quiet time. Maybe our teachers just wanted a few minutes of peace, but the 10-minute timeout always seemed to work; when we all calmed down, the heat seemed more tolerable.

I don’t know if the “Lights Out, Chill Out” technique is something all New York City public school teachers learn in Teachering 101, but it’s a great thing to practice any time you can’t change something. Relax. Slow down. Chill. Get still. (Paper fan optional).

Photo by Ryan Cheng on Unsplash

The One Time You SHOULD Listen to What People Say

The culture at many of my corporate jobs was quite toxic. However, there was a practice at one of my workplaces that was so healthy I’ve continued it in my post-corporate life.

At this work site, public praise for a job well done was encouraged. For a time, words of praise were handwritten on special notepads, and the pages hung on a bulletin board for everyone to see. The company later switched to an electronic system with praise points that you could accrue and trade in for gift cards and such (which was a really cool perk) but the best part, for me, was still the praise itself. It meant a lot that someone took the time to put into words what you did, how it made them feel, and the positive effects your actions had on others and their projects.

We also had quarterly evaluations, where we were expected to self-report our progress and goals, and I always found it difficult—I mean, it’s hard to toot your own horn, right? That’s when I drew on those words of praise from the previous months. I started keeping them in a special folder, and at evaluation time, I’d let others’ praise do the talking; it was much more meaningful coming from them. At those times, I got my evaluation done more quickly, because part of it had already been written for me, but I also got a personal boost in the middle of a (usually) monotonous workday; I would re-read those praise memos and I’d think, “Hey, I’m not doing too badly here! I’ve done some cool stuff!”

I still save words of praise, even though I no longer have to write up quarterly evaluations. Above are two texts I’ve received within the last few years. I took screen shots, printed them, and keep them on my office door. I keep others in a computer file. Whenever I need a little lift, motivation, or encouragement, I pull out my “Praise” files.

We’re often told, “Don’t listen to what people say!” But when they’re giving us praise, we should. Start a “Praise” file if you don’t have one, and let others’ kind words lift you up. There’s no limit to the number of times you can enjoy them.

Now, That’s a Positive Sign

When I moved to my new home, I liked many things about my new neighborhood–my neighbors, my quiet street, and its location. One small thing that bothered me in a big way, though, was a particular stop sign at a corner where I usually had to make a turn. Someone had spray-painted the sign with graffiti and it looked awful.

Someone had to do something, so one day, I did; I bought some graffiti remover spray, walked to the sign, and started cleaning it up. I had to wait a few minutes for the spray to dissolve the paint before I wiped it off, so a few cars slowed down and stopped, the drivers gawking at me. Had any of them asked what I was doing, I would have said I’d just moved there, was proud of my new neighborhood, and wanted it to look beautiful. The spray cleaner worked and the sign stayed clean. Until recently.

A few weeks ago, I made my usual turn at the sign and chuckled; someone had added their artistic flair to it again, but this time it was a lovely reminder, not ugly graffiti. If that corner was a community garden, I had figuratively pulled a weed, but someone else went a step further and planted a flower. Now, that sign tells me to stop my car, but it also tells me that there’s always someone else out there who cares.

Thank you, whoever you are.

The Five-Month Moment

At this time last year, I reached one of my life goals of completing a triathlon (Yay, me!). Though the picture that captures my finish line moment (above) was snapped in a second, it represents five months of hard work leading up to it.

When we have a goal we’re working toward, we often picture that moment of completion as the last, most important step of the journey. Working toward a college degree? We imagine the moment when we cross the stage and receive our diploma. Building a house? We imagine the first night we’ll sleep in it. Sewing a dress? We imagine the first time we’ll wear it. Getting married? We imagine saying, “I do.”

While the “final moment” is certainly worth celebrating, there are often a million smaller–but no less important–moments along the way. When I was training for my sprint triathlon, those moments included:

  • Learning more about wetsuits than I thought I’d ever need to know: how to size them, buy them, put them on, take them off, and actually swim in one

  • Becoming friendly with a group of senior “regulars” and young lifeguards at the local YMCA where I did my indoor training swims

  • Some of those senior guys trying to hit on me, and one of those senior ladies yelling at me for swimming in “her” lane (don’t mess with older people!)

  • Learning how to use the YMCA’s swimsuit water extractor (quite a nifty invention)

  • The endless support of my boyfriend, who completed every outdoor cycling training session with me

  • Way-more-than-I-care-to-remember “brick” trainings (swim, then cycle; or cycle, then run, to acclimate my body to triathlon transitions)

My finish line moment was certainly a proud one, but I also have to acknowledge the importance of all the things that happened along the way–a wealth of experiences I hadn’t expected. The afternoon I signed up for my race, I didn’t realize it, but I was also signing up for five months of learning, challenges and mini-victories whose lessons I’ll always carry.

Whether your “race” is a literal or figurative one, enjoy your finish line moment, but also recognize the lessons and triumphs leading up to the finish line; you deserve a medal for those, too.

What Words Will You Sing in the Uni-Verse?

Screen shot from “Everybody Dies, But Not Everybody Lives.”

Yesterday, we saw the first images from NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope, the world’s largest and most powerful telescope. These beautiful full-color images and spectroscopic data only hint at the full capabilities of this device and what we might yet discover in the coming years about our universe, and our place in it.

But there’s another Universe closer to home–one you can explore right now without a Webb Space Telescope. Just as our Milky Way galaxy makes up a tiny part of the seemingly endless expanse of Space, each of us has a part to sing in the Uni-Verse, or “One Song” of humanity. Spoken Word Artist Richard Williams, better known as Prince Ea, describes it better than I can in his video, “Everybody Dies, But Not Everybody Lives.” Watch it now, and I dare you not to cry.

I’m excited to see more pictures from the Webb; it's great to look up at the skies and wonder what small role the Earth plays in Space. But let’s not forget to look inside and sing our part in the Uni-Verse here on Earth.

Painting by the Numbers

In sixth grade, an artist visited our classroom to teach us a lesson about mixing paint colors. I’ve mixed paint before, I thought. You just throw equal parts together and they mix–like blue and yellow makes green. But in the next five minutes, she proved me wrong.

“When you want a lighter tint of a dark color,” she said, “You have to add a little of the darker color to white.” She then poured out a half-dollar-sized puddle of white paint on a palette, opened a jar of red, and dipped a tiny paintbrush in the red. I watched doubtfully, thinking, There’s not nearly enough red. But when she dipped the brush in the white and swirled it around, <poof,> there it was–pink. In that moment, I realized why, in the previous week’s art class, I’d failed to mix pink myself; I’d kept adding more and more white to a puddle of red and it wasn’t doing much. “You have to add the darker to the lighter,” she said, “Or else you’ll be adding white paint all your life.” Well, then–that explained it.

Sometimes, the order in which we do something really counts. Like when you want a lighter tint of paint and you really should start with white and add the dark. Or when you’re making a big pot of soup and you have to brown the onions in the bottom of the pot before you add the broth. Or when you’re making plaster, and you really should start with the water, then add the plaster (ask me how I know).

Sometimes, creativity is a fun, happy mishmash of “Let’s throw some shit together and see what happens.” But other times, there really is a sequence that’s best to follow. I’m sure you can think of a few times in your life when you did things (with paint, people, or whatever) that, in retrospect, might have been better done differently. People aren’t always so forgiving, but at least paint is; you can always just learn the lesson, wash off the palette, and start again.

You See a Tomato. I See a Tomahto.

There’s a little paperback I remember from a bookshelf in my childhood house. Somehow, it traveled with me through six relocations, where it has sat on another bookshelf in my present home since I moved here. A few days ago, I picked it up and actually read its yellowed pages for the first time.

The Light in the Forest by Conrad Richter is a classic novel first published in 1953, and I believe many American students in the sixties or seventies read it in high school. It’s historical fiction–the story of a white fifteen-year-old boy who was abducted and raised by Native Americans in the 1700s, and the events that unfolded when he and others like him were returned to their white birth families. It's a tragic story of a boy caught between two cultures–in his heart and mind, the boy is True Son, a Native American, but in his DNA, he is John Butler, with a white family who has anxiously awaited his return for 11 years.

Through the story’s characters, we learn how people from the two clashing cultures view each other. To the whites, the Native Americans are murderous savages who pillage white homes for horses, supplies, and people. To the Native Americans, the whites are pious murderers who are raping and stealing the land, oblivious to the fact that Mother Earth owns everything, not them. The only thing they agree upon is that “the other” is wrong.

One section of the book is especially poignant. True Son and Del Hardy, an American soldier tasked with returning him to his white family, journey for many days from Native American tribal lands to the white settlements. True Son and Hardy each view the settlements through the eyes of their respective cultures. To True Son, the area appears brown and desolate. The hard ground feels unforgiving under his moccasins, unlike the mossy earth he’s used to. He sees where whites had fenced in timid cattle and built pale structures to shore up their ostentatious riches. “How could human beings live in such confinement?” he thinks. Del Hardy, in contrast, feels relief and pride when they arrive. To him, the cleared land, open fields, barns and sheds have an air of purpose and industry. The firm ground under his feet lifts him up and the fenced cattle stand “quiet and decent.” Here, Hardy thinks, “Neither man nor beast had to be afraid of his shadow.” Same scene, very different views–masterfully told by Richter, the author.

It’s a timeless tale, and that’s sad; swap out the characters, the names, the settings, the details, and you have Every Conflict Ever between groups of people. I’ve lived long enough to have witnessed countless conflicts at school, at work, and in the world. Though it was the first time I read the book, I already knew the story.

Just Add Water

The sprout party, day three.

I have so much admiration for gardeners, especially those who grow some or all of their own food. To me, it’s nothing short of miraculous that these people can actually grow things out of the ground–things that can feed, fuel, and sustain other living things, like people.

Sadly, my own (many) attempts at growing food in my yard or on my deck in containers haven’t gone well. My feeble efforts last summer resulted in a few sad, small, tasteless leaves of something resembling purplish lettuce. Even Nelson, my house bunny, wouldn’t eat it.

This year, determined to find some way to grow something I could actually eat, I started growing sprouts in a jar. Since it requires a minimum of time and effort, it’s something even I cannot mess up. It couldn’t be easier–you put seeds in a mason jar, rinse them with water at least twice a day, and leave them in a sunny window. Five days later, the seeds have transformed themselves into yummy, delicious, nutritious sprouts you can put on a salad, in a sandwich, or just eat straight out of the jar. Nelson likes them, too.

I love that I’ve found something I can grow and eat–even if it’s just sprouts–but what I love even more is the creative science I witness in that little jar every time I start a sprout-growing cycle. When I take some dry, dormant sprout seeds, put them in the jar and swish them with water, I imagine that they wake up and do a little happy dance of life, because within 24 hours, each one has sprung a little green tail.

Then, for the next five days, my tiny sprouts probably perform a hundred complex cellular processes as they take in water and sunlight, transform them into energy, and grow themselves. It’s like a five-day biological party going on quietly and modestly in that little mason jar. Hell, the sprouts might all be talking to each other, for all I know. I just add water and the seeds do the rest. Nature is an incredible creator.

Tiny Sparks Start Big Fires

Last week I got my first royalty check for Jump in the Holes (my portion of Amazon sales for the first two weeks it was available, minus their cut for printing, shipping, and profit). Now, while “royalty check” sounds big and super-important, the amount wasn’t big at all. But that’s okay, because it’s still a thrill to know that I actually received money for ideas that I crafted into words.

Energy takes many forms, and one of them is currency. The way I see it, even a small check is tangible evidence that the energy I funneled into my book–the writing, editing, and hand-wringing–is morphing into exciting new forms. The most humble spark, under the right conditions, still contains enough energy to start a roaring blaze. If Jump in the Holes is a spark that motivates and inspires others to live their best lives, and its messages spread like wildfire, that would be the most satisfying payout of all.

Pick Yourself

Three-ish years ago, I was talking to a life coach and I expressed frustration at being a “writer who wasn’t writing what I wanted to write.” She asked what kinds of things I most wanted to write, and why. I described the stories that had been circling in my head all through my ad copywriting years, and how I just wanted others to “read them and be inspired to live their best lives.”

“How could you get those stories out to reach the most people in the quickest way?” she asked. We then brainstormed this idea into a concrete goal: I’d write one of those stories and publish it as a blog post every week for a year, in my 50th year.

I didn’t realize it then, but blogging my stories was precisely what entrepreneur, best-selling author and speaker Seth Godin calls “picking yourself.” In other words, with today’s Internet and other technology, you don’t have to wait for a gatekeeper to approve whatever it is you create, you just do it. Get it out there, and if it’s any good, your audience will find you. So apparently, I picked myself. And I did I again this year when I published the best of those blog stories as Jump in the Holes.

Here’s an awesome clip of Godin describing how to pick yourself (skip ahead to 1:00). The world today is scary in many ways, but it’s also exciting because each of us now has this power. Got something creative to share? Someone out there wants it. Pick yourself.

Sixteen Years, Four Years, 60 Minutes, One Shirt

Left: two shirts and a lizard cutout. Right: new, Frankenstein-ed shirt.

This is the story of a shirt that took sixteen years to make. It’s also a story of how we get in our own way.

Sixteen years ago, I bought a green tank top to wear on my wedding/honeymoon trip to St. John, USVI. I liked the unusual straps. That same trip, I bought a black tank from Morgan’s Mango restaurant on that island, mainly because I love lizards and the shirt featured a funky iguana.

Fast-forward to 2018–four years ago–when I landed in my present home that has a dedicated sewing room. Those shirts had stuck with me through multiple homes, my divorce, and several clothing donations. I’d hung onto them because I sew, and I knew I could combine my favorite pieces of the shirts into something that was better than the sum of their parts. It took four years to finally get around to it, but this week I created my “Frankenstein” shirt, made from parts of this, that, and the other–the green shirt’s straps, the body of a black camisole I no longer wore, and the iguana, appliqued to the front.

I knew exactly how I’d do it because, in the last four years, I’d mentally gone through the process a thousand times; I just never physically did it. So when I finally decided this was the day, it took just under a near-effortless hour to get it pinned, sewn, cut, and done. I love it and can’t wait to make new, post-marriage memories in it all summer. I just can’t believe it took me four years to find 60 minutes to do this.

Moral of the story: decide that this is the day, and get it done, whatever it is. Do it! I’d love to hear about it.