How the world keeps moving

My father just finished his third round of chemo for pancreatic cancer.

I got to sit with him during his appointment last Friday.

The port that delivers the chemo to his body sits on the right side of his chest. A tiny tube runs under his skin, through a vein, up over his collarbone, over to his left side, where medication can be delivered next to his heart and dispersed with the next heartbeat. Because it delivers medication straight to his heart, the port needs to not get infected.

On Friday, my father sat in a big chair and I sat in a smaller one in our corner of the cancer unit, separated from other patients by a curtain. A ponytailed nurse in a white top and blue scrub pants came through the curtain and said hello.

Her first task was to access the port.

She wheeled in a little metal table, topped with supplies, and began her sterile preparation. Watching her work was like witnessing a tiny orchestra.

First, the gloves, folded over at the wrist, so she could put on both without the gloves’ outer surface touching her skin. Then, she unwrapped each tiny piece of equipment, sterilized in plastic packaging. She laid each piece on the tray one at a time and then twisted the attachments and little tubes all together in what seemed a specific and expert combination. Then she stepped to my father’s chair and asked if he was ready.

I had never met this woman before. That morning, she had woken up and gotten dressed and driven to the hospital and I didn’t even know she existed. And years before this moment, she had decided to attend nursing school, trained for however many years were required for her to now carefully access a chemo port.

I had never seen this woman before and may never see her again.

But here she was, caring for my father.

How many nurses in how many hospitals were twisting together sterile tubes that would deliver medication right next to their patients’ hearts? How many people designed those tubes?—tested them, manufactured them, transported them, stocked them in the cabinet before the nurses set them on a metal tray?

The nurse stepped away for a minute and then returned with an IV bag that she hung on a hook above my father. I watched her in awe, this stranger who had so carefully made sure my father’s port did not get infected.

How many people move the world forward?

The nurse pressed buttons on the IV machine that someone had designed. It beeped with electricity that was generated somewhere I didn’t even know. We sat inside a building someone had built. Outside, my dad’s dar was parked in a lot that someone had paved. So many good and useful things in the world, carefully built and maintained by whole troops of strangers.

I sat in my chair, grateful for my father, grateful for all the people whose effort and time and expertise give him a greater chance to heal, grateful for every single person who gets out of bed and does their work that keeps the lights on and the food growing and the stores stocked and the world moving.

And grateful for you, for whatever your part is in keeping this thing going, for whatever you add to this world. Thank God you’re here.

Living a Creative Life While Being a Responsible Adult

Someone emailed me about this tiny blog.

Several people, actually, over the last year—saying thanks for some of the things I’ve posted here. Any time I’ve received a note like that, I’ve glowed for a week.

So I’ve been considering why I just stepped away in April. I didn’t plan to.

Many posts here read like a sort of creative pep talk, both for myself (and hopefully for you).

But since April, my creative time has been full. No pep talk needed. I’ve worked on a book and practiced hand lettering. I’m helping a friend launch her writing course (TODAY!) and a creativity course that I made myself. Instead of writing my way out of creative self-doubt, I’ve just been creating.

What happened in April?

From a creative perspective, nothing. But from a life perspective, so many good things. I sent the final payment on a lingering student loan. I made healthy, significant changes to my eating habits. I made some important decisions and set better boundaries.

Writers, artists, musicians, and other creative types are often portrayed as daydreamers—people who are late, disorganized, chronically drunk, or chained to their art at the expense of all else.

But those stereotypes aren’t sustainable.

More importantly, they’re often untrue.

The the more I care for all the other parts of my life with boring, responsible actions—making my bed, emptying the dishwasher, tidying my desk, going to sleep at a reasonable hour—the more space I give myself to grow creatively.

I think it’s possible (even preferable) to cultivate creativity while still being a responsible adult.

So I’m launching a course I’ve been working on to help you balance both.

The course itself starts in September, after summer calms down. But registration opens today because my friend Ashmae’s writing course starts soon—and we’re offering a discount for getting both. (Even if you’re not a writer, check out her course. She’ll help you tell your story, even if you don’t know what your story is yet.)

See my course: Growing Through Stone

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See Ashmae’s writing course: Mine to Tell


(Get $20 off if you register for both.)

You’re personally invited to join us!

Thank you for being one of the dear, dear readers who has stopped by here or reads my posts in your email. I hope you make your bed, eat some healthy food, and create something beautiful today.

What will our new words be?

Nerd alert: one of my most prized possessions is a 6-inch-thick dictionary. The editors compiled the bulk of it in 1934. And then, when the next edition that I own was printed in 1945, they added new words.

I’ve had this dictionary for several years, but I looked in the “new words” section for the first time last week.

1945. So many new words were related to war: bombardier, electron bomb, fascism, foxhole. And right alongside them, other fabulous words, full of life: bingo, hydroponics, heebie jeebies, jitterbug, the real McCoy.

People made new bombs and new dances and we needed new words to name them. What will we make that’s worth a new word today?

How far can you go in 100 days?

For years, I’ve wanted to learn and practice hand lettering.

But the little critic in my head hands me all sorts of excuses: you’re not very good, you haven’t learned enough yet, you don’t have the time it takes to really improve.

Tomorrow, I’m handing the excuses back and joining The 100 Day Project.

Every day, I plan to draw one letter. Just one. It might turn out mediocre. And I won’t know enough to fix all the flaws. And it can’t take a lot of time. But none of that matters, because each letter is a small step I wouldn’t have taken otherwise.

If you spend four minutes every day for 100 days, heading in a direction you’ve always wanted to go, where will you end up?

You don’t know.

But where will you end up if you don’t? You’ll stay right where you are.

(Want to do your own 100 days? Check out:

Approaching the bandsaw

On my first day of 7th grade shop class, the teacher rolled a TV stand into the room and without any introduction, stuck a video tape into the VCR.

For 40 minutes, my classmates and I watched grisly reenactments of power tool injuries—the very sorts of tools we were supposed to use ourselves that semester. We watched footage of a real surgery to remove shards of metal and glass embedded in a man’s eye because he hadn’t worn his safety goggles.

My stomach turned. I looked out across the cement shop floor at the bandsaw and the drills and all the other tools that could turn my eyeballs into bloody soup.

Our shop teacher turned off the TV, with the injunction to, “Be safe, kids.” He then passed out a paper of 22 possible projects we could work on that semester. To get an A, we needed to successfully complete 15 of them.

I scanned the list.

My answer was simple.

Not every project required power tools. So I would complete only the assignments that did not require sharp, dangerous, eye-gashing machinery.

I did the drafting assignment with paper, pencil, and ruler. I made a flowerpot holder with some flimsy metal and a manual press. I did all the low-risk projects for half the semester, until it became clear that without power tools, I could only earn a C.

So I looked for the least-involved option: making a keychain with the bandsaw.

Four little cuts in a square of acrylic. I could do that.

I put on my safety goggles. I chose the colors for my keychain. I started up the saw, my stomach in knots. I fed the little piece of plastic through the machine…

And I loved it. The cut was slick and straight and the pitch of the bandsaw was so satisfying. I turned my keychain to the other side and made the next cut.

And then I only had half the semester left.

I’d spent terrified weeks avoiding the drills, the jigsaw, anything with a blade. But now, I didn’t have enough time to visit them all, to find out how much utility and delight they contained, right alongside all their possible dangers. Acknowledging those dangers and guarding against them was useful, but avoiding them entirely had been a loss. Every class until the end of the semester, I put on my goggles and then hurried out onto the shop floor to find the next tool that scared me and turn it on.

Finish the books.

My mantra so far this year has been, “Finish the books.”

When I received this advice in January, everything in me said: YES.

I’d left multiple books halfway read, stories partially written, photo albums half assembled. Those unfinished things seemed to call to me. So I carried that phrase with me and I pull it out whenever I have a moment of decision about what to do.

Instead of picking up my phone: “Finish the books.”

Waiting in line: “Finish the books.”

A free minute before bed: “Finish the books.”

I’m now 10 books into the year. I’m writing more. I’m finishing a long-unfinished project that isn’t even technically a book.

The phrase has been useful, but not necessarily because “finish the books” is the best advice (though it is for me right now). The phrase is useful because it points me in a direction. When a free moment comes my way, I already know what I’m going to do with it, how I want to spend it best.

Before the sun is up, I’ve already decided what to put into the nooks and crannies of my day. What comes of those small moments is bigger than I expected.

Somewhere, there’s a panda ant

For her second-grade insect report, my daughter wanted to research an unusual insect.

So we looked until we found the panda ant.

It’s actually a wingless wasp, disguised as an ant. It has a stinger near its mouth. It eats nectar. It doesn’t live in colonies like the typical wasp. It’s found on the west coast of South and Central America. And its pattern of black and white hairs make it look a bit like a panda.

Until last week, I’d never heard of it.

And then, suddenly, I was holding a hot glue gun while my seven year old assembled pipe cleaners and fuzzy pom-poms and black beans into a 3D model of this bug whose scientific name we now both knew.

We can become so accustomed to the world right in front of us–the routines that we follow, the geographical radius we inhabit–that we can start to act as if that’s all there is.

But somewhere on the coast of Chile, there’s a wasp that looks like an ant that looks like a panda.

And somehow, that small fact makes the world I live in feel larger than it used to be.

Be the best damn bagger you can be

Last year, I hit a rough, complainy patch.

I could hear it in my voice when I talked to my husband about my day. My list of complaints: meetings that dragged at work, our baby’s midnight wakings, our daughter’s homework procrastination, frustration and lack of time on every side.

I felt saddled with obligations that I myself had chosen and I couldn’t see a way forward.

As I fell asleep one night, an unbidden image came to mind of a bagger at a grocery store. An honest job, but a repetitive job. A job potentially worthy of complaint.

Giving advice to other people is easy, and I knew just what to tell this person:

Be the best damn bagger you can be.

The usefulness of this advice was obvious to me. A job well done (any job) brings satisfaction. Showing up as your best right now can’t help but move you forward. Being engaged in the moment right in front of you keeps you from wallowing and waiting for some fantastical future you’re never in.

Of course, the advice was for me.

And I repeated it to myself.

When I started to mentally glaze over in a meeting: Be the best damn bagger.
When I felt too tired to read my daughter a story: Be the best bagger.
When I wasn’t sure what to do next: Be the best.

And it helped.

Tasks I had avoided became interesting challenges. I had more influence over issues that had once seemed out of my control. I didn’t have to grump about problems because I was the best at solving them.

Whether you’re a bagger or an executive or a parent or an artist or anything else…

Whatever you are today, just be the best one that you can.

The choices after disappointment

So it didn’t work out the way you expected, hoped for, planned.

You now have choices before you.

One option: You can point to all the reasons it wasn’t your fault, all the factors that were beyond your control. These reasons are true, so you are not lying to yourself. (But do be aware that along this route, you could be snared by resentment or hopelessness.)

Another option: You can point to everything that was in your control, but that you did not execute successfully. This option is harder to swallow, but potentially more encouraging because you can do something about it. (Just make sure the reasons are true. Otherwise, you may turn personal responsibility into self-flagellation.)

And here’s the surprise: You can make both choices at the exact same time.

Identify each correctly and you’ll be wiser and stronger, so that next time, you have greater chances of success.

When things don’t work out, when you don’t get picked for the team, when your plans don’t land, don’t let the disappointment be wasted.

The discomfort is telling you something

A pregnant woman has no checklist that tells her: Today, you made toes.

Or: The lungs are finished now.

Or: Good job on the ears, both are done.

Growing a human is a massive endeavor, but the milestones along the way can’t even be seen.

Cells divide into cells exponentially. But on the surface, most of that growth just registers as discomfort: nausea or fatigue or heartburn, until plain old bigness sets in and mom can’t find a good position to sleep.

Enough people have been through this experience that we know what the discomfort means.

We trust it.

A pregnant lady can be reassured by books or doctors or other women who have given birth that yes, these swollen ankles are normal.


You don’t have that reassurance.

At times, you are slowly, imperceptibly preparing to give life to a new experience or chapter or project. And all your invisible preparation just registers as discomfort.

Something’s not working. Something’s not right. And you don’t know why.

Because personal rebirth has no set schedule, because creative labor has no reliable timeline, and because so few of us recognize our discomfort as the precursor to change, we mislabel it. We thrash against discomfort, try to delete or fix it, when we could just allow it to give us hints of a birth to come.

You have no checklist that tells you: Today, you’re closer to something new.

But if you’re uncomfortable right now, you might growing exponentially under the surface, and you just don’t know it yet.