Tag: Writing

The Work Before the Work

Everyone loves the big idea. The bold plan. A strong vision of what can be.

It’s easy to get excited about an amazing result.  A finished project, a better version of ourselves, a breakthrough moment. But big plans mean nothing without the tools and materials to carry them out.

Goals and aspirations get a lot of attention.  Preparation, usually not so much. 

Preparation isn’t glamorous. No one sees the early mornings, the quiet practice, the reading, the repetitions, the small decisions and adjustments that come from thinking deeply about how to be better. But that’s where everything starts. That’s the real work.

You can’t build a tower by imagining the top floor. You start by stacking bricks. And before that, you must gather the bricks. Along with mortar. Along with the tools to lift, cut, measure, and shape. That’s what preparation is.  Gathering what you’ll need to be ready when it’s time to build.

This applies to everything in life.

Want to be a better leader? Prepare by learning how to listen, how to stay calm and think under pressure, how to help your team to be their very best.

Want to level up at work? Prepare by always sharpening your skills, staying curious, looking for problems that need solutions, becoming someone your team can rely on.

Want to be a better friend, spouse, or parent? Prepare by learning to listen, to be present, and to lead with patience and love.

Want to face hard times with strength? Prepare by choosing the hard things before they choose you.

Don’t wait for life to demand something from you before you get ready. Always prepare so you will be ready.

Ask yourself:
-What materials am I gathering?

-What tools am I building?

-What productive habits am I forming when no one’s looking?

Preparation isn’t just a phase. It’s a mindset. A lifestyle. 

You’re either gathering bricks—or you’re preparing to fail.

Because in the end, you won’t rise to the level of your ambition. 

You’ll fall to the level of your preparation.

h/t – my friend Pete Hilger as we were discussing how to get building supplies to a rural Guatemalan city for a medical facility build project.  He tossed out the line, “You can’t build a tower without first gathering a lot of bricks and mortar.”

Photo by Peyman Shojaei on Unsplash

Through His Eyes: A Lifetime of Wisdom Captured on Canvas

There are some paintings that do more than just depict a subject.  They capture an entire story, an entire lifetime, in a single moment. This piece is one of those rare works that demands to be seen. It grips its viewer, pulling them into a world of experience, emotion, and wisdom.

I see far more than just an old man with a pipe. I see the passage of time written across his face.  Lines carved by laughter, sorrow, resilience, and acceptance.

His piercing gaze holds stories of joy, regret, belief, triumph, failure, love, admiration, and appreciation. His expression speaks of a man who has not just existed but has truly lived, embracing all that life has offered, both the good and the bad.

Beyond his gaze, I see a hand that tells a story all its own.  His hands have endured hard work.  They’ve held the people he loves. These hands have fought, and they’ve also comforted. They are worn, yet steady.  A testament to a life of resilience, labor, and tenderness.

His grip on the pipe isn’t just a habit.  It’s a ritual.  A moment of reflection held between calloused fingers that have stood the test of time.

I didn’t know Richard Hatch personally before his recent passing.  But I can see through his painting that he had a remarkable ability to portray humanity on canvas. He wasn’t just painting a face.  He was capturing the soul of this man for each of us to see. 

Every brushstroke tells a story.  Every shade of color conveys emotion, and every detail reflects a life filled with lessons. His is the kind of art that doesn’t just sit on a wall.  It reaches out, starts a conversation, and lingers in your mind long after you’ve looked away.

Our days become years, our years become decades, and before we know it, our decades are a lifetime. This painting reminds me of that stark reality.  Not in a sad way, but in a way that urges me to embrace every moment while I can. To live fully, to love deeply, and to accept this journey for the adventure that it is.

Mr. Hatch’s painting reminds us of the beauty in aging, the dignity in experience, and the wisdom of acceptance.

p/c – Painting by Richard Hatch 

Bringing Home the Moonbeams

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

Six Months Ago…

I wish I had started eating healthier six months ago.


I wish I had started exercising six months ago.


I wish I had talked to my son’s teacher about the trouble he’s having with math six months ago.


I wish I had discussed my future career goals with my boss six months ago.


I wish I had started that podcast I’ve been thinking about six months ago.


I wish I had stopped wasting three hours per day watching YouTube videos six months ago.


I wish I had started adding principal payments to my mortgage payment six months ago.


I wish I had upped my 401k savings percentage six months ago.


I wish I had planted flowers in my garden six months ago.


I wish I had started playing catch with my daughter six months ago.


I wish I had started horseback riding lessons six months ago.

The best time to start anything good, or stop anything that’s not so good, is always six months ago.


What will your list look like six months from today?

More importantly, what will you do today, so you won’t have a list like this six months from now?

p/c – Glenn Carsten, Unsplash.com

Writing the Check – the best piece of advice I’ve ever received

I’ve received (and read) lots of advice in my lifetime.  I’ve even had an opportunity to give advice to others. 

The most valuable piece of advice I’ve received was from my dear friend, Jay Scott, around 1991 or 1992 (paraphrasing):

“Mr. Dailey (we refer to each other formally, of course), everything in life comes down to writing a check.  You want a new car?  Write a check.  You want to learn a new skill?  Write a check.  You want to add something nice to your house?  Write a check.  You’re either going to write the check or not.  All the rest is just detail.” 

When he said it, I didn’t think much of it.  It sounded like a flippant observation that oversimplified life’s choices. 

As I’ve lived my life and encountered tons of situations, opportunities, and decisions, I’ve come to realize the genius in his observation. 

The check may be money…the literal meaning of the word “check.”  Sometimes the check is the decision to invest something of your own personal value into an idea, an object, or a cause.  The check becomes a commitment of your finite time and energy…and maybe your money. 

The idea that all the rest is just detail reinforces the notion that while we may elaborate on our decisions with lengthy justifications or stories, at the core, it’s about that decisive moment of commitment.

I’ve found that most of the time I have my decision made about something within a minute of considering my alternatives (whatever they may be).  Whether I act immediately on that decision (write the check) or wait some undetermined time period (sometimes years) is another matter.

I’ve applied this fundamental knowledge about humans and their check-writing decisions many times.  If my boss says that he supports an idea or strategy, I try to get him to “write the check” about that support as quickly as possible.  It’s easy to support an idea in the abstract or tell your employee that you support him or her.  It’s something entirely different to then act on that support by “writing the check.” 

If the boss (or anyone for that matter) talks about how they believe in something or they support something, if they’re not willing to write the check for it, you know they’re just telling a story.  Only when they commit their check (money, time, reputation, etc.) to something are they truly supporting it.  Another phrase, “having skin in the game” applies here.   No skin in the game, no commitment.

It all comes down to writing the check.  

p/c – Tommy Lisbin – Unsplash Why? This climber has written the check(s) and is fully committed to this task. And, the goal is in sight.

Hourglasses, Egg Cups, and Grandma Anne

We know better. Some moments carry more magic than others.

Hourglass

‘Cause you can’t jump the track,

we’re like cars on a cable,

And life’s like an hourglass, glued to the table.

No one can find the rewind button, girl

So cradle your head in your hands

And breathe… just breathe,

Oh breathe, just breathe.

–Anna Nalick

Grandma Anne had a small hourglass in her kitchen. It was her egg timer, and I’m sure thousands of other kitchens had the same thing. In my Grandma’s kitchen, that timer was the magical key to making Eggs in the Egg Cup. The starring attraction was a perfectly soft-boiled egg. The proper dipping tool was a lady finger (toast cut into strips).

Forty years later, I could soft-boil some eggs. I could slice my toast into strips. I could find proper egg cups for serving. It wouldn’t be the same. I don’t have Grandma’s egg timer, or her loving touch.

Hourglasses don’t care about how time passes. Their job is only to measure its passing. Each grain of sand merely represents a moment in time.

We know better. Some moments carry more magic than others.

When I started this post, it was going to be about time passing through the hourglass and how it symbolizes our lives. We only get one pass through the hourglass (it’s glued to the table). We don’t know how much sand is left. We don’t know if our hourglass will fall off the proverbial table and shatter in an instant.

Nothing new there, but I had a sense there was something else, so I started writing to find out.

The image of Grandma Anne’s egg timer and lady fingers filled my head. I haven’t had Egg in the Egg Cup in forty years.  Grandma Anne passed away more than twenty years ago. Yet I can see the many breakfasts she served when I spent the night at her house. I smell the bacon.  I hear the crunching of the toast.

She taught me Yahtzee, and then Triple Yahtzee. I can hear the dice rolling around in the cup.  She folded a napkin in the bottom of the dice cup to keep the noise down.  She shared a lot of Grandma wisdom on strategic thinking during those Yahtzee games.

One thing is certain as the sand passes through my hourglass.  I get only one pass.  But I get to experience my memories as often as I’d like…even when I least expect it.  How cool is that!

 

Photo Credit:  Nick Valdovinos