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.
If you were to visit me on my mountainside, next to a huge pile of bucked-up logs that I’ve cut and collected over the past year, using my fancy new log splitter, what would you see?
A grandpa dressed in a snow suit and beanie, warding off the low-teens temperature and wind chill, wearing eye and ear protection, splitting one log after another.
I’m stacking the split firewood into an “outdoor fire” bin (the crummy stuff that’s showing some signs of water damage that may or may not burn so great), and an “indoor fire bin” for the good stuff. We have so much that I use IBC totes that I can forklift and move around with my tractor.
What you’d miss is what this guy’s thinking. Of all the campfires these logs will deliver. The warmth, the beauty, and the cheery faces reflected in the golden firelight. The togetherness, the raucous fun, and always the smoke that’ll chase each of us in time.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about words that rhyme with stories, memories, starlight, marshmallows, love, and family. Of a way to express my “why” behind all this work.
My new splitter hums, its rhythm is true, Each log cracks clean, split in two. And with each piece, I see what’s ahead— Fires that warm, where stories are said.
Golden flames dance in their eyes, Joyful voices filling the skies. Kids with marshmallows on sticks they will hold, Turning white fluff to crispy gold.
The stars above will steal their gaze, A quiet pause from the firelight’s haze. But soon enough, they’ll leap to their feet, Cousins chasing cousins, the night complete.
This work is heavy, my labor long, But in each log, I hear a song. A promise of warmth, connection, and love, Of smoke below and stars above.
Each crack of the wood a memory in waiting, Moments of joy we’ll spend creating. I keep splitting, I’ll keep the pace, Knowing the fire will hold its place.
One split, one stack, one stick at a time, Building a future that’s warm and divine. A pile of firewood, yes—but so much more, It’s family, it’s laughter, it’s life to the core.
There’s a line in a Frank Sinatra song that asks if we’d like to, “…carry moonbeams home in a jar.” A crazy idea. Moonbeams can’t be contained or put in a jar, but their magic can be carried home just the same. What if we could carry home the kind of wonder and light that moonbeams represent?
Life throws challenges at us every day. Deadlines. Difficult conversations. The relentless tug-of-war between expectations and reality. Yet, amid the noise, we often stumble upon moments of beauty. Unexpected acts of kindness, moments of connection with strangers, or simply a sunrise or sunset that stops us in our tracks. These are moonbeams.
Have you ever met someone for the first time and felt their kindness so deeply that it stayed with you? Maybe it was a stranger who gave you directions with a smile, a colleague who truly listened, or someone who saw you struggling and extended their hand. These are glimpses of humanity’s greatness. Magic moments where we see the best of who we are reflected in someone else.
What if we made it our mission to carry that magic home with us?
It’s easy to bring home the worries of the day. Our frustrations, our stresses, our nagging self-doubt. But alongside these, we can also bring moonbeams: the small, bright moments of beauty, hope, and love that we encounter every day. We can share the wonder of a chance conversation, the joy of something new we learned, or the inspiration we felt when we saw someone overcoming adversity.
Carrying moonbeams is about being conscious of what we pass on to those we love. It’s about choosing to share curiosity instead of cynicism, gratitude instead of grumbling. It’s about being the explorer who brings back stories of the world’s beauty to share with those at home, inspiring them to see the magic in their own lives, too.
Imagine if we all carried moonbeams in our metaphorical jars. How much brighter would our homes, our communities, and our world become?
What if we could embrace the day with the motivated curiosity of an explorer. Purposely looking for the moonbeams—the fleeting magic of kindness, beauty, and connection.
Imagine carrying them home to share, not in jars, but in our words, our actions, and our presence.
Because moonbeams, once shared, have a way of multiplying.
Photo by me, capturing a “moonbeam” of a sunrise view outside my kitchen window the other day
There’s a saying that often floats around in entrepreneurial circles: “Fail fast, fail often.” While the origins of this phrase are up for debate, its lesson is clear. Failure isn’t just an inevitable part of leadership. It’s one of the most defining. How a leader reacts to failure (their own or their team’s) can reveal their true character and shape the trajectory of their future success.
But here’s the thing: writing about failure and leadership can quickly sound like a series of cliches. We’ve all heard the platitudes about “learning from mistakes” and “rising stronger.” But there’s a deeper message about what truly separates those who lead with integrity and vision from those who crumble when things go wrong.
When failure strikes, leaders face a choice. They can own it, adapt, and come back stronger. Or they can point fingers, wallow in resentment, and stall out. The decision often happens in an instant, but its impact can last a lifetime.
Great leaders take ownership of failure, even when it’s not entirely their fault. Why? Because owning failure builds trust. When a leader says, “This didn’t go as planned, let’s discuss what we’ll do to fix it,” they inspire confidence. They create a culture where the team feels safe to take risks, knowing that mistakes are part of growth, not reasons for punishment.
When leaders blame others, they erode trust. Pointing fingers, whether at the team, external circumstances, or bad luck, signals an unwillingness to reflect and adapt. Over time, this creates a toxic environment where innovation dies and progress stalls.
“Fail fast, fail often” isn’t about being reckless. It’s about embracing experimentation and accepting that not every idea will succeed. Failing quickly means you can pivot sooner, learn faster, and ultimately get to a better solution.
This idea requires two things:
Humility: The willingness to admit when something isn’t working.
Agility: The ability to adapt and try again without becoming paralyzed by setbacks.
Elon Musk is a great example. From continual iterations of experimentation and failure at SpaceX—including multiple RUDs (rapid unscheduled disassembly in rocket speak)—to the challenges Tesla faced in scaling production and support, he’s built companies on the idea of learning through failure. Musk doesn’t see failure as an end point. He sees it as feedback. A necessary step on the path to success.
To handle failure effectively, leaders need more than optimism. They need a process. Here’s a simple approach that works (notice I didn’t say it’s an easy approach):
-Recognize the failure and what it means. Be transparent with your team.
-Reflect on what went wrong without assigning blame. Focus on systems and strategies, not personal shortcomings.
-Identify key takeaways. What worked? What didn’t? What’s worth trying again?
-Adjust your approach based on lessons learned.
-Recommit to the goal with a renewed focus and determination.
Failure doesn’t only teach leaders how to solve problems. It shapes their emotional intelligence (if they allow it). Leaders who’ve faced setbacks tend to have more empathy and patience. They’ve had to overcome multiple failures themselves, so they know how challenging failures can be for their teams.
When leaders normalize failure, they create cultures where people aren’t afraid to take risks or push boundaries. That’s where breakthroughs happen.
The mark of a true leader isn’t perfection. It’s how they handle failure. Whether they embrace it as a teacher or fear it as an enemy. The choice of owning mistakes, adapting, and persevering defines not just their success, but the success of everyone they lead.
The next time failure arises, ask yourself: Will I let this moment shape me for the better? Will I lead my team through it with grace and determination? Will we learn from this failure?
The answers will set the course for everything that follows.
“…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.
Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership 
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