Pronounced: EN-KUR-UJ.com–short posts you can use every day
Author: Bob Dailey
Bob Dailey. Born and raised in Southern California...now in Oklahoma. Graduated from (and met my future wife at) Cal Poly Pomona, in 1988. Married to Janet 37-plus years. Father of two: Julianne and Jennifer. Grandfather of 9!
Held many leadership positions in small, medium, and large companies (and even owned a company for about 7 years). Tractor operator, competitive stair climber, camper, off-roader, occasional world traveler, sometimes mountain biker, and writer.
“…climbing 10% of the mountain ten times is not as useful as climbing to the top once.” – Adam Mastroianni
This quote reminds me of the old adage about project resourcing: sometimes projects can’t be completed faster merely by adding more people to it. After all, the story goes, nine women can’t make a baby in a month.
Does this climbing quote ignore our preparation? Route scouting, equipment testing, and countless workouts that make the summit climb possible. Not to mention the like-minded team we built to support the climb.
Maybe it’s not about preparation. Maybe it’s about the false-starts, the simulated progress, the big talk and no action that we engage in to make it seem like we’re climbing when we’re not. We think we’re fooling everyone, but we’re only fooling ourselves as we take the comfortable way out and choose not to climb at all.
It’s easy to climb 10% of the mountain or achieve 10% of the goal. It’s easy to get 50%. 60%. Even 75%. But as the challenges compound near the top, we let doubts creep in. The grinding effort becomes exhausting. We lose sight of the summit or forget why we’re climbing in the first place.
We make excuses. We can come back another day and try again. The summit will always be there, and maybe next time…
That’s just it. We’re rarely “ready” for the climbs that matter, whether in business, fitness, or life’s hardships. Waiting for the perfect time often means waiting forever.
You have the power to choose the summit run every time. Committing 100% effort, even when you feel 60% ready. Trusting that you’ll figure out the rest along the way.
Life’s summits rarely wait for us to feel ready. The question is: will you take the first step…and then push beyond 10%, all the way to the top?
Life is a long and winding road. Along the way, music teaches us to let it be, to take it easy, and to carry on. Sometimes, it whispers, “you’ve got a friend,” and other times it shouts, “don’t stop believing!” Through every high and low, music lifts us when we’re down and brings light to our darkest days.
It inspires us to learn to fly, take the long way home, and dream the impossible dream. It tells us to follow the yellow brick road and live like you were dying. When the world gets heavy, we can put our toes in the water, our ass in the sand and live knee deep in the water somewhere. It’s a gentle reminder to hold on loosely or to simply keep the faith.
When we’re all alone, it wraps us in a warm embrace, softly humming, “I’m with you,” and promising, “I’ll stand by you.” It keeps us company when we’re wasting away again in Margaritaville or stranded in the purple rain (whatever that is).
Music sets the tone for life’s moments. It’s the sweet sound of silence in the still of the night, the easy rhythms of cheeseburgers in paradise, and the fiery rush of being thunderstruck. It’s the gentle plea of someone asking, “Have you ever seen the rain?” and the daring call to take a walk on the wild side. It urges us to dance in the dark and reminds us that it’s five o’clock somewhere.
It can challenge us to ask what’s going on, or who are you? It paints visions of wide-open spaces, islands in the sun, and clear mountain mornings. It reminds us that we’re merely candles in the wind and there’s never a wish better than this when you’ve only got one hundred years to live. So, dream until your dreams come true.
Music brings us together to clap our hands, stomp our feet, and feel the beat. It calls us to praise every morning. It’s a bridge over troubled water. It’s an anthem of unity. We’re rockin’ in the free world. There ain’t no stopping us now.
Music is more than sound. It’s a ribbon in the sky, an endless summer, a stairway to heaven, and friends shaking hands. It weaves through our lives, bringing joy to each new day.
Take it to the limit. Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow.
After all, music reminds us what a wonderful world it truly is.
A quick word about copyrights. This post is my attempt to create a cohesive thematic message using as many song lyrics as possible (trust me, there are 100’s more that didn’t fit) from artists I’ve loved over the years. Borrowing their words was a fun writing challenge, and an homage to the original artists.
By my quick count, I’ve referenced lyrics from over 50 songs, placing them like Easter eggs or tile fragments in a mosaic. Most are obvious and easy to find…a few may be obscure and tougher to recognize.
In the end, it’s only rock ‘n roll, but I like it. (couldn’t resist one more).
Maybe it’s all my time spent working in businesses over the past four decades. We often start each year with a set of specific strategic goals. Some are grounded and achievable; others are wish casting—a small dream of what we might accomplish if everything aligns perfectly (spoiler alert: it rarely does).
This year my goals are simple, but not easy:
Serve the quests of others over my own. True fulfillment comes from supporting others in their quest, even if that means setting aside my own ambitions.
Offer insights and advice, not direction. The path others take isn’t mine to choose. My role is to illuminate possibilities, not dictate outcomes.
Push beyond my comfort zone and (hopefully) inspire others to do the same. Growth begins at the edge of what’s familiar. By challenging my own boundaries, I hope to encourage others to stretch theirs as well.
Bring the loaves and fishes—and trust God with the rest. (h/t to Dallas Jenkins for this beautiful idea) It’s a reminder to offer what I can and trust in someone much greater to amplify my impact.
The winds arrive, sharp-edged with frost, Carrying whispers of all we’ve lost. Yet still, we gather where light abides, Tracing joys where memory hides.
The manger waits beneath the sky, Its humble wood holds heaven’s cry. A Child is born, both meek and bold, To mend the hearts that grow cold.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for I have heard your cry.”
Words awaken, dormant long, Noel and tidings weave their song. Through flickering trees and spiced perfumes, Old faces linger in quiet rooms.
Empty chairs hold stories near, A laughter faint, a single tear. Yet love persists where loss has tread, Its echoes call where angels led.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for I am sending my Child.”
O silverware that gleams with fire, O fragile ornaments that inspire. In every sparkle, a truth takes hold: The story that’s not fully told.
For every shadow cast by light, There burns a flame against the night. And every sorrow, every tear, Is met by love that lingers near.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for the Child is here.”
Across the miles, through time and space, The ties of love refuse to break. Each prayer, each carol, each whispered word Carries the weight of the Hope we’ve heard.
The Child has come, and so we sing, For in His hands rest everything. The hollow aches, the brightest cheer— All held in grace, all gathered here.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for I AM with you until the end of time.”
The bells resound with heaven’s cheer, For Christ is born, and love draws near. The angels sing, the nations rise, A holy joy fills earth and skies.
O love that soars, O joy that stays, We join the hymn of endless praise. In manger low, our hearts proclaim: The world redeemed by Jesus’ name.
Here at the manger, shadow and light, Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might. A promise breathes where silence stirs: “Fear not—for the Child Jesus is Born.”
It happens to all of us this time of year. The days get shorter, the winds grow crisper. Something stirs within us that doesn’t quite fit the mold of any other season. There’s joy, sure—joy enough to make us believe in miracles again. But alongside that joy, like the shadows cast by twinkling lights, there’s a touch of sorrow. Like an old friend who shows up every December, pulls up a chair, and says nothing at all.
Words that lie dormant eleven months out of the year come alive at Christmas time. Jingle Bells. Rudolph. Good tidings. Noel. The Manger. Words so beautiful and strange, yet they create beautiful poetry on our hearts. Sugarplums dancing in dreams. Mulling spices on the stove. Decorations we see only in this season but remember more fondly with each passing year—twinkles of joy at their best, empty reminders at their worst. And somehow, merriment and brightness find their way in, even when the years haven’t always been kind.
If you listen closely, you can hear hymns calling us across the cold and lonely nights:
“O come, O come, Emmanuel”
“Silent Night”
“What Child is This?”
There’s a funny thing about Christmas—it’s a season of paradox. A time for rejoicing, and a time for remembering. For celebrating, and for mourning. All in the same breath.
Every year, the world gathers around a single story. A manger in Bethlehem, where our Savior came as a child. It’s a story that whispers hope into the cracks of our broken hearts.
“Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged!” That’s what the prophet Zephaniah said. “The Lord, your God, is in your midst.” And somehow, two thousand years later, we do believe. We light candles and sing songs of joy—because we need to. Because joy matters.
It’s funny how much effort we put into this season. Trees trimmed. Ornaments hung. Villages built. Wishes made. And when the last batch of cookies or Cornish pasties come out of the oven, we sit at tables crowded with food, and laughter, and the people we love. Sometimes we even catch a glimpse of something eternal in it all—the way the lights reflect off the fancy silverware, or how a child’s eyes light up at the first sight of presents.
But there are empty chairs. They’re harder to discuss. Maybe it’s a father, a mother, a grandparent, or a sister. Maybe it’s a friend, a brother, an aunt or an uncle who have gone far too soon. We feel their absence even more at Christmas. We see them in the lights we hang, and the hot chocolates that we make. We hear them in old songs, the ones we used to sing.
And then there are the faces we miss in another way—our family who are still with us but just too far away. The ones across states, oceans, and time zones. We think of them when we pull out the old family recipes and photo albums. We wish they could be here to see the kids open presents, to share in the laughter over the pies that we burned, or took out too soon. But instead, we send texts and pictures, leave voicemails, and whisper a prayer hoping they know how much they’re loved, even from so far away.
Yet even in sorrow, there’s something beautiful. Because love never really leaves us. And maybe that’s the greatest promise of Christmas—the one hidden behind all the ornaments and stockings, and twinkling lights. That the Child who came to a manger promises us something more. He promises that the story isn’t over. That one day, we’ll all sit at a table that never empties, in a place where joy knows no end.
For now, we celebrate as best we can. We bake our pies and pour our cider. We listen for sleigh bells in the distance and leave room in our hearts for joy to enter—just like it always does.
And when the night gets quiet, and the fire burns low, we remember. We remember the ones we’ve loved, the ones we’ve lost, the ones too far away to join us, and the One who came to bring us home.
That’s Christmas. A little light, a little shadow. A little merry, a little sorrow. A season that changes the very words we speak and, if we let it, changes the very hearts we carry.
So if you’re out there tonight, sipping mulled cider by the window, just know this:
You’re not alone. The Savior is here. He’s in the manger. He’s in the laughter. And He’s in the quiet, too.
And maybe—just maybe—He’s singing over you, as one sings at a festival.
The Bible verse that inspired this post when I heard it in Church last Sunday:
Shout for joy, O daughter Zion! Sing joyfully, O Israel! Be glad and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! The LORD has removed the judgment against you he has turned away your enemies; the King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst, you have no further misfortune to fear. On that day, it shall be said to Jerusalem: Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged! The LORD, your God, is in your midst, a mighty savior; he will rejoice over you with gladness, and renew you in his love, he will sing joyfully because of you, as one sings at festivals.
There’s nothing like your own bed, your own pillow, and nice warm blankets when it’s time to sleep. To confirm this truism, try backpacking for a few nights in freezing conditions. Your lightweight sleeping pad and mummy sack might keep you alive, but they’re no match for the comfort of home.
Or spend a couple of weeks living out of a suitcase, hopping from one hotel bed to another. It’s rare for a hotel bed to be anything but “hammock-shaped” with giant pillows that defy logic and offer little comfort.
We all love to be comfortable. Ask most people, and they’ll tell you they’d rather sit at home in their jammies in their favorite chair, watching their favorite movie with their go-to snacks and drink in hand.
Comfort is easy. It requires little effort, and even less thought.
It’s safe, predictable, and free of fear. We know exactly how to achieve it, and we stay there because it feels good.
That’s the problem. Comfort is about staying. It’s about achieving sameness.
Growth doesn’t happen in comfort. The magic begins when we step outside our cozy bubble.
Trying new things, exploring unfamiliar places, or learning new skills rarely feels comfortable at first. It’s awkward and often frustrating. But with time, practice, and patience, we adjust. The uncomfortable becomes comfortable. We expand our boundaries. We redefine what normal feels like.
We grow.
Comfort is incredible. It’s that perfect combination of warmth, ease, and familiarity. It offers a necessary break from life’s challenges. But if we make it our ultimate goal, it lulls us into complacency. It encourages us to settle, to avoid risks, to stop growing.
Celebrate the moments of comfort when they come. Appreciate them for what they are—a place to rest and recharge. But don’t let comfort hold you back.
“You can have everything in life you want, if you will just help enough other people get what they want.” – Zig Ziglar
I remember a friend of mine who was promoted from being a very successful salesman to being the branch manager for a large insurance company. It is amazing to think this was almost 30 years ago.
He told me that he’d finally get to tell people what to do, and he looked forward to that. Plus, he’d get to take long lunches and charge the lunches to his expense account.
I knew that if that was his approach to his new manager role, he’d probably fail miserably…and quickly. I told him as much.
I suggested that he start by meeting with his new team members one-on-one. Just because he’d worked alongside many of them before didn’t mean he knew them well enough as their manager. I encouraged him to take the time to understand each of their roles, how they saw their future, and what they hoped to see change at the company.
I said it would help him get to know them and, even more importantly, show them he valued them and wanted them to succeed. And if he let them know that he needed their help, too, it would go a long way. This wasn’t just his chance to lead, it was a chance to connect directly with each team member.
He thought that was a waste of his time. He had been a very successful salesman, knew how the company operated, and already knew what made the branch tick. He told me that he knew what needed to be fixed and he’d hit the ground running to get those changes implemented.
I saw him again about three or four months later. When I asked him how his new job was going, he just shook his head. “Not good. Nobody is listening to me. I’ve had a couple of people quit already, and I think some others are out looking for new jobs. Our sales are way down. My boss is asking me what I’m going to do about it.”
I didn’t say, “I told you so,” but that’s what I was thinking. A few months later, he was demoted back to sales, but at the lower pay structure in place for new hires. Not long after that, he left the company.
I’ve been blessed with multiple opportunities to take over business operations in fields where I had little or no expertise or experience. Sometimes, from outside looking in, I had some ideas about how things should operate, but I always kept it to myself when I arrived.
Even in situations where I thought I knew all the answers, I purposely and methodically asked as many questions as possible. I took my own advice to meet with as many employees as possible, asking them about their job, how they do it, why they do it, where they hope to be in the future, the problems they are having, the things the company is doing wrong, the things the company is doing right. There are no wrong answers in these types of discussions.
It is truly amazing how much a new manager can learn from the people already in place, especially if that manager genuinely wants those people to be successful. It also helps to be extremely curious and thirsty to learn as many details about an operation as possible.
The most successful managers I’ve known have operated this way. They ask questions and listen carefully to the answers. They work as hard as they can to help each of their team members get what they want (as Zig so eloquently said).
If you’re stepping into a leadership role with the mindset of lording authority over others, expecting everyone to follow your lead just because you’re in charge, you might have short-term success, but it won’t last. Real leadership is about seeking ways to enrich others and the organization before yourself. And in doing so, you build an environment of trust where people thrive and truly enjoy their work.
Helping others succeed isn’t just a management tactic. It’s the only way to real success.
I’ve probably hiked or biked hundreds, maybe thousands of trail miles in my life. Most of the trails had been there for many years…even decades.
Other than clearing some fallen branches from a trail or participating in a trail volunteer day, I never gave much thought to how the trails were built, or who originally built them. They were always there. It didn’t matter if the trails started out as animal paths, or were built by hand, carved through the forest. The trails seemed to belong right where they were.
My perspective shifted when we were fortunate enough to purchase acreage that includes a forested hillside, a mostly dry pond, rocky escarpments, and a meadow thick with trees and scrub brush.
Where others may have seen a tangle of impenetrable forest, I could see trails winding through it, paths crisscrossing up and down the hill, around the pond, and maybe a little campsite down in the meadow under the tall trees.
I had no idea where to start or where exactly the trails would go. I just knew the hillside and meadow were calling for a trail system and a campsite that my family and friends could enjoy exploring for years to come.
When we moved here, I didn’t own a chain saw, a tractor, or any of the fancy attachments that make tractors such useful (and fun) tools. I had the standard set of homeowner hand tools from our lifetime of living in a tract home that didn’t have a yard big enough for a lawn.
The real work began when our new property was hit by a 90 mile per hour derecho that effectively found all the unhealthy trees and snapped them in half or knocked them to the ground. As I worked my way across our property over the next six months, cutting and clearing all of the downed trees (40-50 trees in all), I got a ton of practice with my new chainsaws, my upgraded tractor (the small one we purchased initially didn’t cut it, so I did what every tractor guy worth his salt does when faced with this dilemma…I upsized), the 5-foot brush hog attachment, and the front loader grapple attachment.
As I worked to complete the clearing process, I could see where new trails might go. As I brush-hogged large swaths of overgrown scrub brush and brambles, new openings showed themselves. In the areas where I cleared away the dead and fallen trees, nice new grassy areas greeted the sunlight that finally penetrated to the ground. I could see how trimming up some of the remaining trees would improve the sight lines through the area.
Once the land clearing process was mostly done, the real trailblazing process began. Deciding exactly where to cut the trails, which routes worked best given the lay of the land, the gradient of the hillside, natural features, and tree coverage. Could I veer up and to the right a bit to maintain the trail flow while leaving more trees intact? Will a hiker be able to maintain their footing if I use the existing (slightly) flatter terrain on the hillside? Can I make this trail intersect in an interesting way with the other one that’s 200 yards away?
So far, I’ve been talking about literal trails and the (rewarding) process of carving a trail system by hand into my property. I’ve known my share of trailblazers in life and work, and I’ve even been one myself on occasion. It’s funny how, like the paths I was carving through the woods, new trails—whether they’re businesses, inventions, ideas, or methods—often seem inevitable after the fact.
Once they’re established, they feel as if they’ve always been there. But every one of those trails began with someone willing to face the unknown, to push forward without a clear end in sight, risking failure or embarrassment in the name of carving a new path.
Only the people who actually built these trails know what it took to get there. The obstacles that had to be moved, the dead ends they hit along the way, their moments of doubt. They alone understand the learning curve, the time, and the sheer energy it took to bring the trail to life. And as they move forward, bit by bit, the final route often ends up looking different from what they first imagined.
Our new trail system is amazing. It has straight sections, switchback sections, offshoots, shortcuts, climbs, and descents. Parts of the trail are under a tunnel-like canopy of thick forest and other areas open to the sky, providing amazing hilltop views. Walking along the trails feels like the landscape was made for them…even though there were countless hours of planning, experimenting, cutting, clearing, and adapting along the way.
Sometimes the trailblazer is driven by an obsessive need to see where the trail can go. To see what lies over the next hill, or around the next bend. Others visualize how their trail will be enjoyed for years (decades?) to come.
While their motivations may differ, the result is often the same. A path that seems to have always been, enjoyed by countless people who may never stop to wonder how it got there.
For those who wonder, the trail offers something more than just a route. It’s a reminder that someone, somewhere, once walked an untamed path and decided it was worth carving a trail for those who’d come later.
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.”
– Terry Pratchett, Source: Reaper Man (h/t – James Clear)
Every so often, we’re reminded of our mortality…especially as we get older and face the loss of loved ones, both young and old.
Truly, it’s a matter of time for each of us. Not an if, but a when.
I appreciated seeing this quote today.
It’s a reminder of the enduring mark we leave on others. Far beyond the days we live, we influence the lives we touch, leaving lasting impressions.
A tribute to those we’ve lost and how they continue to be with us. Our memories of them, the lessons they teach us, their legacy of connections. All of it remains and echoes in our conversations, our thoughts, our choices, and even in the way we approach the rest of our life.
We are here only briefly, but we’re each given the opportunity to plant seeds. Seeds that, in time, may bear fruit for others long after we’re gone.
A gentle reminder to make sure that our legacy is a positive one, filled with love, wisdom, and warmth.
So the ripples of our lives continue to inspire and uplift those we leave behind.
Most of my childhood outside of school is a blur of off-road riding and racing (and lots of water skiing, but that’s another story).
We were either preparing to ride, camping in the desert to ride, racing in the desert (although I didn’t race nearly as much as everyone else), or providing pit support for others who were racing.
By the time I was about 10 years old, Uncle Denby (my dad’s younger brother) had become a serious racer in Baja. By the time I was about to enter high school, he was racing for Team Honda in Baja. The Hilltoppers, the motorcycle club my dad and Uncle Denby belonged to (that I’d join a little later) put on annual Grand Prix races in Rosarito Beach.
Between the Baja racing, pre-running trips, adventure riding to Mike’s Sky Ranch and San Felipe, and numerous trips to Rosarito Beach to set up the race each year, we were in Baja a lot. I remember watching the Dallas “who shot JR” episode on a small television in a hotel bar in Rosarito Beach.
All of this meant I got to ride with Uncle Denby regularly. He was always ready. His bike was perfectly tuned. His gear was impeccably organized. He was dialed in. He expected everyone around him to be as dialed in as he was.
For most Baja rides, we had a scheduled time for departure. Maybe at first light, or 7:30am. To Uncle Denby, this meant we’d be putting our bikes in gear and leaving at the scheduled departure time. Not putting gas in our bikes, trying to find our goggles, or figuring out why our backpack wouldn’t fit right. He’d say, “Do all of that on your own time. If you need an hour to get ready, wake up early and get it done.”
Since I rarely knew where we were going, and Uncle Denby was usually leading the way, I quickly learned to be fully ready with my bike idling at departure time. I operate this way today, even though I haven’t ridden a motorcycle in decades.
Whoops are a fact of life in off-road riding. These are undulations in the trail caused by countless vehicles digging a little bit of dirt and relocating it to the top of the whoop behind it as they race by. Certain sections of the California desert where we used to ride are notorious for miles of 2-3 foot (or larger) whoops. Sections of Baja are similarly whooped-out.
I struggled with whoops. I don’t know anyone who likes riding whoops, but some people can fly through them. That wasn’t me. Lucky for me, Uncle Denby happened to come up behind me in a whoop section. He had stopped to help someone else, so I and many others in our group got ahead of him on the trail. Once he was back on his bike, it didn’t take him long to catch me.
This time, he didn’t pass. He stayed behind me for a couple of miles. Then he rolled on the throttle and went right by me, smooth as ever. When we regrouped for gas a while later, he came over and asked me what gear I was in when he came past. I was in third gear, maybe three-quarter throttle.
He said I was riding in too low of a gear. I needed to work on riding the next higher gear if I wanted to find a smooth way through the whoops. He told me he was watching me ride and getting exhausted for me. He could tell that I was working way too hard. Moving to the next higher gear at half-throttle would get me on top of the whoops with more speed and reduce my workload on the bike.
None of this was obvious to me, but second nature to Uncle Denby. Later that day, we came up to another (shorter) section of whoops. I eased into fourth gear and carried a lot more smoothness into the section. The whoops were still challenging, but not nearly as hard as before…and I was moving at a much higher pace. I was conserving energy and riding faster (and safer) by clicking up one gear.
Something else about that next higher gear…traction. Ride in too low of a gear, especially on a two-stroke, and your back tire has a tough time staying stuck to the ground. Forward motion is all about smooth and consistent traction. If your power isn’t making it to the ground, you’re not moving. A spinning rear tire isn’t taking you anywhere. Everything is working hard, but nothing is happening.
We had another riding day, this time out on the Rosarito Beach Grand Prix course. We rode most of the loop together. The course had lots of high-speed sections and fast turns. We were having a great time, riding wheel-to-wheel. Obviously, he could have left me in the dust, but he pushed me at my pace and showed me how to brake before the turns, and then accelerate out to maintain the most speed and control.
Yet another aspect of traction. No traction, no turning. If you’re on the brakes in the turn, you don’t have the same traction and control as you do if you’re accelerating out of the top of the turn. Timing when to get off the gas, when to brake, and when to accelerate made all the difference in the world.
Something else Uncle Denby taught me that day.
I was sad to hear that Uncle Denby passed away last night. He battled a tough disease for quite some time.
I will always treasure the lessons he taught me. He probably thought he was teaching his nephew how to ride a motorcycle faster and smoother.
But he was really teaching me how to dial myself in, how to find the next gear, and how to maintain proper traction in all situations.
Godspeed, Uncle Denby, and thank you for riding with me.
Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership 
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