We’re rushing. My husband Jeff and I hurriedly grab a seat beside five other participants at the round table labeled “Convo Table 1” under the tent. They’ve already begun.

It’s a hot September day. A fan is blowing air our direction. I settle in as comfortably as I can into my chair for the next hour.

The leader passes us his handout.

I look at the title.

That’s when the first uh-oh hits.

Did we sit at the wrong table?

We Don’t Always Choose the Same

While Jeff and I come to the Wild Goose Festival together—and leave together—we don’t always stay here together. Every hour offers multiple sessions.

And we rarely choose the same ones.

At one hour, you may find me deep in emotional conversations with fellow contemplatives at “Death Cafe,” while at the same hour Jeff is laughing it up with new friends at “Pub Trivia.”

No judgment on either of us. Both tracks are great. No right or wrong.

So when I convince him to join me for the 4:00 session called “Fishbowl Circle Conversations,” I want it to be good. For both of us.

The conversations are to center around this: “One thing we’re not talking about, but we should be talking about is…”
Sounds both fun and enlightening.

I look again at this handout in front of me—with its tiny font and words crowded together on front and back pages. I glance sideways at Jeff also looking at it.

I start feeling sick.

The topic listed is definitely something we’ve not been talking about.
But neither is it something I want to spend the next hour talking about.

I whisper to Jeff, “Maybe this is just a sample conversation starter?”

His eyes answer: What have you gotten me into?

I search frantically for the festival schedule.

We’re sitting at Convo Table 1.
The session I had circled for the fishbowl conversation is at…Convo Table 2.

What do we do now?

The Polite Thing to Do

I was brought up to be polite.

Every good Southern girl is trained that “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” To pull your car to the side of the road when a funeral procession passes by, no matter the hurry you’re in. To offer a “Bless your heart” at the appropriate moment.

So to get up and leave this table midstream just because it’s boring to me?
Unthinkably rude.

But staying here for an hour, knowing I got Jeff into this mess (and he’d be even more bored by this topic than I am!), also seems disrespectful. To him and to me.

I look again at Jeff. I whisper, “Can we just…leave?”

He’s already gathering his things.

I wait for a tiny break in the speaker’s monologue and then announce, “I’m so sorry, but we’re at the wrong table.”

We set our handouts back on the table, stand up, and walk away.

Sometimes, Just Leave

There are many lessons I could have learned that day—including triple-checking the location next time.

But the lesson I’m taking away is that sometimes I am going to end up at the wrong table. (Sometimes it’s even the table I thought I wanted.)

I’ve often stayed too long in places I needed to leave sooner, simply because I didn’t want to appear rude. Or didn’t want to admit I made a mistake. Or I was slow to even realize this table wasn’t for me.

Sometimes that’s been okay. I learned things. Some of them quite valuable things.

But other times, it’s just been wrong. Period. And there was no value in staying.

When those times come, I want to be quicker to admit the error. And leave. Change course. Go a different direction.

I’m happy to report that after leaving Table 1 for Table 2 that Friday, we had amazing fishbowl conversations, experimenting with a format I’ve never used before (and have since used at home!).

But that’s a lesson for another day. . . .

I’m not going to tell you what topic was on the handout at Table 1, lest I offend anyone. What I found terribly boring might be something you could talk about for hours. 😉

Share your thoughts in the comments.

It’s 3:00 on a Monday afternoon. I’m already complaining about how sweaty I am.

My friend Kay and I begin unloading the boxed meals from the back of my car into the shopping cart we use to deliver meals to our friends in the apartment complex.

We don’t cook or box the meals ourselves. Another group of volunteers does that hard work.

We count ourselves lucky to get the best job—handing meals to residents who we now count as friends.

That’s when our long-time friend Mary rolls up in her wheelchair from the nearby street.

We haven’t seen Mary in a while. And actually, I never know when we see her if it will be the last time. She used to live in an apartment here. We’d chat at her door and talk as friends.

Then one day, she was gone.

Her neighbors told us she was evicted after falling behind on her rent. We were all sad about it.

But every now and then, Mary shows up outside the apartment complex around the time we pull up, and we give her a meal.

This is one of those times. I hand her a meal. It’s an especially good one today. The cooks made lasagna—a real treat.

We’re happy to see Mary. She looks healthy enough.

She’s not, though.

One Working Hand

She says she was just released yesterday from the “crazy house.” I ask questions. She explains that someone turned her in for acting strangely, so she spent the night in the psychiatric ward of our local hospital.

She insisted to the staff that she’s not crazy, though. She told them to watch her and they’d see for themselves. After one night, they did release her, and she returned home to Tent City, where she lives.

Tent City is one of the more structured homeless camps in town, also now known as The Slab. After a fire erupted in Tent City in 2024, causing severe damage and making it uninhabitable for the people living there, the city stepped up. Last year they poured 84 12-by-12-foot concrete slabs for 84 10-by-10-foot tents, and set up a few community guidelines for those who stay there.

Mary is one of the people who got a place.

I ask if it’s better than before. She says yes. Her new tent is bigger than her old one. She can turn her wheelchair around in it.

When we first met Mary, she had one functioning leg and one partial leg. She had lost the leg from the knee down after a car accident a few years earlier.

Then last year, she kept having trouble with her remaining foot. So the doctors surgically removed it.

Now she has no feet at all.

And since we last saw her a few months ago, something else has happened.

Mary tells us she has had a stroke.

Her entire left side has stopped working for her. She demonstrates by picking up her limp left arm with her right hand.

Of her four limbs, she now has the use of only one. . .
one hand that still works.

But My Problem

Mary tells us she has a boyfriend. That he’s really good to her. That he helps her move into her wheelchair each morning because she can’t do it on her own.

But this morning, someone turned him in for sleeping beside her in her tent. She says a police officer pulled him out and took him to jail. She doesn’t know when he’ll be released.

I dig another meal out of the car and give it to her. She’s been through a lot.

I check my car for any leftover forks I have from takeout Panda Express. I find an unopened package and hand it to her.

She takes it with her right hand. But she can’t get it open. She hands it back to me, and I unwrap it for her.

She begins eating as we continue talking, balancing the meal on her lap and eating with her one working hand. She spills a little food on her shirt.

I’m torn. My first instinct is to help her eat. My second instinct is: just let her be. 

I know she’s used to doing what she can with one hand. She doesn’t seem bothered that she has food on her shirt.

The discomfort is my problem, not hers. 

She takes another bite of lasagna.

I watch her eat.

Will We See Her Again?

Sweat continues to pour off me. We still need to deliver the rest of the meals, so we awkwardly say goodbye to Mary. We tell her we hope we’ll see her again soon.

And we mean it.

But will we see her again?

I’m aware of the statistics. The average life expectancy for people experiencing homelessness in America hovers around 48 to 50 years.

Mary is 49.

She’s already lost so much. Her home. Her mobility. Three of her four limbs. And today, she’s also lost (at least temporarily) the one person who helps her in and out of her wheelchair.

Yet here she is. Eating lasagna on a hot Monday afternoon. Talking with friends. Making the best of the life—and the body—that she’s in.

With one good hand, she feeds herself.
With one good hand, she waves goodbye.
With one good hand, she rolls away with the freedom she still treasures.

I hope that her one remaining hand remains good to her.

I’ve stopped complaining about the heat.

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Read more true stories:

• He Knows Who the Survivors Will Be
  The world of the homeless camp feels brutally real. Sometimes I’m not sure whose world is the strangest one: theirs or ours.
• When to Say Thank You
  She has so little to give. But when someone wants to repay you, accept it. Grace flows both directions.
• This Is Not Fair
  The homeless boys know the forecast. Cold and stormy. I’ll have to turn up my electric blanket tonight. Life is not fair.

One More Time: What’s Your Name?

We’ve settled in at our table, just me and this young girl from Afghanistan.

I have to ask her name again. I didn’t catch it the first time. Or the second time. Not even when the other adults pronounced it.

And honestly? Even as the girl tells me her name again for the third time—and I do my best to echo it back properly—I still don’t think I’m getting it right.

But she doesn’t correct me.

She just smiles and we go on, doing our best to understand each other.

Learning Each Other’s Language

She’s here at my table because her parents want her exposed to more English before school starts next fall. She already speaks some English, but it’s difficult for her.

I want her to practice reading to me. But the first book we open is too hard for her. She’s 7 years old, but she can’t read the book. Not in English anyway.

We switch to flash cards using the English alphabet. She doesn’t know the sounds of the letters. But she does know the names of each one. That’s something. Plus, she thinks it is fun.

Soon we finish the stack of cards. Now it’s time for reading again.

The Book She Chooses

I pick up a second book. I’ll just read it to her this time, then we can talk about it.

I read the title first. And I recognize this book. Even though the girl had picked it out herself among the other books on the table at the beginning of the hour, she couldn’t have understood the significance of it.

But I immediately get it.

And as I read this book to her now, my heart both warms and aches.

The book? Your Name Is a Song by Jamilah Thompkins-Bigelow.

It’s about a girl whose classmates and teacher can’t pronounce her name.

Saddened by this, the girl in the story walks home, vowing never to return to school again.

But the mother in the book turns it around. She teaches her daughter the beauty of names, including hers. She reminds her that names carry stories, histories, and love. She turns names into the beautiful music they are. The girl returns to school the next day to teach that message to others.

I finish reading this story to my new little Afghan friend, whose name I still can’t pronounce.

I doubt she sees the irony.

So I ask her name one more time. And this time, I also ask if she can write it on a piece of paper for me. She can and does.

I study it carefully and try pronouncing it again.

I still can’t say it exactly right.

But maybe I’m a little closer.

Names Matter

Most of us perk up when we hear our name. We’re pleased when someone remembers our name (and even more so if they pronounce a difficult name correctly). It helps us feel seen. That we are worth their attention.

I don’t get to meet the girl’s mother at the end of our session. I hope she is like the girl’s mother in the book. I hope she teaches her daughter the value of her beautiful name, her unique heritage, and this amazing journey she is on.

I’m grateful that, at least for this day, I get to be a witness to this portion of her journey.

I’ll remember it.

And even if I can’t pronounce her name properly, I’ll remember her. Maybe she’ll remember me as the one that kept trying.

Do people struggle to pronounce your name? How do you feel when someone remembers your name?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

revised from the archives

Choose the Things That Are Fragile

I type in the message I want to leave in the comment box beneath a friend’s blog post.

Then the CAPTCHA appears.

You know how it works. Before I can hit “submit,” I need to prove I am human.

Usually that means identifying things like traffic lights or crosswalks. This time, the challenge throws me.

Choose the things that are fragile.

The screen fills with eight tiny squares.

• Four contain teacups
• Four contain motorcycles

I know what they want me to click, even though I don’t think it’s accurate.

I have a very human response alright. But it isn’t what the spam blocker intends.

It isn’t logic. It is fear.

The Birthday Request

My young grandson had been waiting for his birthday for months. He had requested a dirt bike.

That was no surprise. Since he was tiny, he has always been fascinated by any vehicle with wheels. As he got older, he began riding trikes and bikes and motorized Power Wheels with confidence and coordination beyond his age. He’d been a happy passenger on his dad’s dirt bike every opportunity he could get.

And now he was ready for one of his own.

I knew this birthday was coming.
I knew this bike was coming.
But I dreaded it anyway.

Not because I doubted his abilities to ride a motorized bike. Nor did I doubt his parents’ judgment to choose an age-appropriate one.

My fear arose from knowing how fragile a little boy’s body can be.

I tear up when he skins a knee on the concrete after a bicycle wreck. I wince if he runs into something while playing. Add more speed and a bigger machine, and my imagination supplies even more possibilities of danger.

The Fragile Cargo

The birthday arrived.
The dirt bike was given.
The first ride was taken.

And my grandson loved it. Of course he did. And I was excited for him. Truly.

The bike is designed for beginners and doesn’t go very fast. When he rides, he wears every piece of safety gear imaginable. He rides supervised. He rides carefully.

And he rides with pure joy.

Still, I know he can get hurt. Then again, so can any of us. We can wreck our cars. Miss a step on the stairs. Catch a virus we never saw coming.

Life keeps us aware of all the ways things can break.

That’s why the CAPTCHA stops me.

I know I’m supposed to click only the teacups as the fragile items, not the motorcycles too. But I want to yell back, “ALL these items in the squares are fragile!”

Because a motorcycle is now carrying my fragile boy.

And with it, my fragile heart.

What AI Doesn’t Understand

Maybe I understand CAPTCHA’s question better than it does.

I’ve lived long enough to know that fragility isn’t limited to dainty china teacups.

Bodies are fragile.
Egos are fragile.
Relationships are fragile.

Part of being human means being fragile. AI might mimic our words and our logic and, in its own way, our kindness.

But AI cannot wake up at night and worry about a grandson riding a dirt bike.

It also can’t feel the delight we get watching someone receive a much-wanted birthday present and have it live up to their dreams.

AI does not know what love feels like.

A Human Choice

As a human being, I can breathe and bleed. I can laugh and cry. And I can bend and break. Every meaningful thing in my life carries the possibility of being broken or lost one day.

We live in fragile bodies with fragile hearts. We take risks every day, whether we’re getting behind the wheel of a car, starting a new relationship, trusting someone with our story.

Or climbing onto a dirt bike.

Sometimes we get hurt. And sometimes things break. Sometimes we break.

Yet on every morning that we can, we get up and do it again. Move again. Risk again.

And love again. Maybe that’s the real test of humanity: loving even when we know things can break.

To please CAPTCHA and get my comment approved, I click on the 4 teacups. I leave the motorcycles unchecked.

But between you and me, I know the most fragile things aren’t even the teacups.

They are the people.

Let’s keep choosing them.

What fragile thing do you continue to love despite the risks that come with caring deeply?

Share in the comments.

P.S. My One Word this year is Shift. Somewhere between the teacups and the motorcycles, my attention shifted from what was fragile to who was fragile.

More on AI:

• That “Friend” Is Not Who You Think They Are
  As AI becomes more helpful and polite, it’s easy to confuse it with friendship. Think about why human connection still matters.
• What the Algorithm Does to Our Words—and Why It Matters
  How are algorithms changing language through online slang, euphemisms, and emotional manipulation? And what does it mean for our culture?
• When to Ignore GPS (and Listen to Yourself Instead)
  Sometimes GPS isn’t best. Here’s how one road trip reminded me that the best navigation system is sometimes your own intuition.
• Do You Say Thank You to AI? The Bots Are Listening
  Do you say thank you to AI? Are we trusting AI too much? Stay aware of how computers are shaping us.

Is She the Same Woman?

I’m at the airport in Reno on a Monday morning after a conference weekend at Lake Tahoe.

I think the woman at the next table eating breakfast before her flight is someone I met at the conference.

If it is her, we sat together Sunday morning on the short bus ride from our resort to watch the sunrise over Lake Tahoe with the other women attending.

I remember we had a lovely conversation sharing our circumstances and hopes for the future.

But I can’t remember her name. It had still been dark on the bus. And our conversation had only lasted about ten minutes.

Is this even her?

Maybe, maybe not.

I decide to let it go. I stay quiet. Because even if it is her, I don’t have to speak. We only met once, after all.

I eat a few more bites of my biscuit.

But the feeling keeps gnawing at me.

The Smallest Shift

Finally, I stand up. I walk over. I ask, “Were you at the conference last weekend at Lake Tahoe? I think we chatted together.”

And amazingly, she says yes!

It is the same woman.

She doesn’t remember my name either. (And honestly, I’m not sure she remembered much from our earlier conversation.)

But it doesn’t matter. We’re connecting now.

We spend a few minutes talking about our takeaways from the weekend, and before long, she asks if we can exchange contact information.

She tells me she’ll have very little support when she returns home.

I gladly give her my information and take hers.

This stranger now feels like a new friend.

Brave Doesn’t Always Look Big

I’m so glad I spoke up.

Ten minutes earlier, the decision had felt huge before I acted on it. My overthinking made it complicated. Awkward. Risky.

But it really only required a small shift: from sitting to walking. From silence to a question.

And because of that small shift, a new connection was formed. We’ve since emailed each other and will set up up a video chat soon.

More often than we realize, life offers us moments like these. Tiny invitations to move a little closer instead of pulling away. To risk being vulnerable instead of choosing safety.

Not every brave moment changes your life.

But sometimes it changes your day. And someone else’s too.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes to make a new friend.

My One Word of the Year is Shift. And my focus this month is on shifting relationships.

Who’s the newest friend who’ve made? Have any other relationships shifted lately?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

You see all kinds of people at the beach.

Families hauling coolers and umbrellas and babies. Teenagers tossing footballs. Retirees slowly walking at the edge of the water.

All kinds of humanity. Every age. Every energy level.

But one person I don’t normally see. And now I have.

He’s a man, maybe in his early thirties, strolling along with a guitar.

Not performing. Not singing. Just strumming. Sort of.

I’m not sure he knows how to play. He brushes the strings with confidence for a few moments, but the sounds aren’t quite harmonious.

Then he stops and stares at the water for a minute. Sometimes he steps toward the waves, then back away again, as if he’s negotiating with them.

I saw him again the next day.

Same clothes. Same wandering. Same guitar.

At one point I watched him point toward the ocean, almost like he was daring the waves to come closer. Then he lifted his hand as if to say, “Here and no farther.”

I don’t know his story. I don’t know whether he has people who check on him or wait for him to come home at night or worry when he doesn’t.

But I do know this: at one point, he had a mama.

Someone once carried him, fed him, watched him sleep, wondered who he would become.

And if she’s still alive—whether she’s still in his life or not—I imagine she still wonders sometimes where her boy is and how he’s doing.

Watching him on the beach, I’m wondering too.

And also aching in my heart, not only for him, but also for her.

I hope they’re both okay.

Have you ever seen a stranger and wondered about the people who love them?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Sitting on My Hands

I am in my seat in the beautiful auditorium. I’m listening intently as the poet gives her talk. Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer is speaking amazing truths.

But I’m sitting on my hands.

I’m fighting with myself to not take notes.

Often when I hear a great speaker, I’m clicking on my phone keyboard to write down key points as they say them. The practice has served me well through the years. I have both paper and digital notebooks holding insights I might never have remembered otherwise.

I like capturing wisdom while it’s fresh—then having a record I can return to later to reread and maybe incorporate into my life.

All good things.

But there’s a tradeoff.

While I’m copying down one brilliant sentence, the next one is already being spoken. My attention splits because my brain can’t record one thing and fully listen to another at the same time. Neither task gets my full presence.

Who can truly pay attention to two things at once?

So as I listen to Rosemerry, I try to do just one thing:

Listen.

The Leaves That Don’t Let Go

For the month of March, my singular focus with my One Word Shift has been Nature.

I’m paying closer attention to the subtle shifts happening outside: the yellow daffodils pushing through the soil, the tiny unfurling of new leaves, and the stretching of daylight hours that brings us more life.

But I’m also noticing something else.

The dead leaves.

In early spring, when most trees have stood naked for months, a few are still dressed in last year’s leaves. Brown and brittle, long past their prime, these leaves have been hanging on stubbornly all winter long.

The internet tells me there’s actually a name for this: marcescence.

Certain trees—especially some oaks and beeches—hold onto their dead leaves instead of dropping them in the autumn like most deciduous trees.

Scientists aren’t exactly sure why, but they theorize that the dead leaves stay on the branches to protect new buds, discourage deer and other animals from nibbling tender growth, and provide fresh nutrients in the spring when they do fall.

Nature, it seems, isn’t in any rush to let go. Not until it’s time. Not until the baby leaves arrive and gently push the old ones out of the way.

Our Own Marcescence

As I sit listening to Rosemerry, I wonder about my own connection to holding on and letting go.

I’ve always liked holding onto words the way those marcescent trees hold onto leaves. Notes from talks. Quotes from books. Lines that strike me as important enough to keep, too meaningful to drop.

Sometimes that’s helpful. Last year’s leaves serve a purpose, after all.  So do old words.

But other times I wonder if my intellectual marcescence—clinging to old words even after their season has passed—keeps me from noticing what I’m hearing right now.

The Vase or the Sieve

During her talk, Rosemerry shares a story. She had told a friend about trying to become a bigger vase so she could hold all the emotions she was feeling. (Read the poem here: Pourous)

But her friend gently challenged the premise.

Why be a vase?

Perhaps instead of trying to hold everything, she could be a sieve and let the experiences simply move through her.

Ahh.

I hear the lesson.

I don’t write it down.

One Leaf Worth Keeping

Later, after the talk ends, I pick up my phone. I type the line into my notes:

Be a sieve, not a vase.

That simple nugget of wisdom feels like a leaf worth keeping.

Hopefully the rest of the talk has done its work simply by passing through.

Maybe that’s a shift worth noticing: knowing when to hold tight and when to let go.

Some words need to stay with us a long while, until their message is buried deep in our soul or until something new and improved pushes them out of the way.

Other words can drop away quickly once they’ve completed their seasonal work, like leaves returning to the soil in the autumn months.

And like the trees outside our windows, we don’t have to force either approach.

Just let the shifts happen, each in their best time.

Question for you:

Do you write it down when you hear something meaningful—or do you prefer to just listen? Share in the comments.

Read more about Shift:

• A Small Shift: Learning to Notice Instead of Fix
  This is what a missing glove is teaching me about letting go.
• What If This Moment Is Asking for a Different Pace?
  When plans fall apart, learning to shift your pace can change things.
• Noticing the Shift: What Keeps Blooming When We Pay Attention
  A Share Four Somethings post about discovering what keeps blooming in everyday life.

The Elevator Test

When the elevator door on the right opens, we immediately smell something.

It stinks.

It’s Monday afternoon at the apartment complex where we deliver free meals. Our grocery cart is full of food containers, and we’re ready to start making our rounds.

A woman gets out of the elevator. She warns us, “Watch out for the puddle on the floor,” she says. “Someone peed there.”

Now I smell it even stronger.

We pause to debate what to do next.

Do we get on the elevator anyway? Do we wait for the second elevator on the left, hoping it comes quickly?

I believe this may be too much for me.

I start leaning toward a third option: maybe we should just call it quits, leave the food in the lobby, and go home.

It surprises me how strong my reaction is. I had wanted to be here. And yet just the idea that someone chose to relieve themselves in an elevator fills me with disgust.

A strong enough belief that I’m ready to walk away.

But as we stand there, I notice I’m reacting strongly to something I don’t actually know for sure.

• What if someone had been sick?
• What if it was from a small child?
• What if it was something else entirely?

Would a different answer make a difference in our decision?

While we linger in the discussion, the elevator door closes. Without us.

A Book for Questioning

Lately I’ve been reading—and experimenting with—a new book by Nir Eyal called Beyond Belief.

The premise is simple but powerful: many of the things that limit us may not be based on evidence, but on false beliefs we’ve unconsciously adopted.

These are the definitions that Eyal uses to explain the differences between these three things:

• Fact: An objective truth that can be verified with evidence
• Faith: A conviction without need for objective evidence
• Belief: A firmly held opinion, open to revision based on new evidence

The book is primarily about beliefs—our strongly held opinions. Eyal describes beliefs this way:

“Beliefs aren’t simply thoughts or feelings. They’re tools—working models we use to navigate reality when the truth isn’t fully knowable.”

The problem comes when we allow our opinions to limit our lives.

Examples of these kinds of beliefs include:

• Believing someone doesn’t like you if they had to cancel your lunch date, so you never reschedule
• Believing you’re not smart enough to graduate so you never enroll in college
• Believing you’re too old to learn a new skill so you let yourself fall behind

None of these are facts. These beliefs are simply interpretations.

According to Eyal, the way to challenge limiting beliefs isn’t through argument. It’s through finding evidence.

He suggests asking questions like:

• Does this belief hold up to real-world feedback?
• Am I ignoring evidence that contradicts it?
• Is this belief open to revision?

Beliefs matter because what we believe shapes what we see, and what we see shapes what we do.

The Quiet Power of Belief

Not every thought we have is true.

Some thoughts are.
Some thoughts aren’t.

The same goes for beliefs.

But the way to find out isn’t through overthinking—it’s often through trying something and seeing what happens.

Books like Beyond Belief encourage me to do just that. It lists three powers of belief:

• Attention: the power to see what you believe
• Anticipation: the power to feel what you believe
• Agency: the power to do what you believe

Experiment with beliefs by starting with evidence. Focus where it counts. Shape the stories you tell yourself.

Practicing Small Experiments

Since reading the book, I’ve been trying some of these experiments in my own life.

For example, when lying in bed I sometimes believe I’ll never fall asleep. Yet when I pause and look at the evidence, I know I always eventually fall asleep. Every night. Believing my body will suddenly forget how to sleep is a belief that doesn’t hold up.

Or when I believe my whole day will be ruined if I don’t finish my to-do list. I experiment by intentionally leaving a few things undone and see if I survive. Spoiler alert: I do.

And when I believe I can’t finish my rounds if someone urinated in the elevator, I can question that too. Is it possible I actually can endure a 10-second elevator ride while stepping around whatever is on the floor?

The Elevator, Revisited

The elevator door that opens next is the left one. Whew. We get in and go to the second floor. But after finishing the meal deliveries on the second floor, it’s time to return to the elevator to head up to the third floor.

Two doors. Two choices.

Which one will open first? It’s the one on the right. Ugh.

This time, though, something is different.

There’s no odor. No puddle. Just a leftover paper towel from a cleanup.

We step inside and laugh. Whatever had been there before—urine, spilled liquid, something else entirely—is gone.

And either way, we would have survived it.

I’m grateful I didn’t give in to my earlier belief that the situation was simply too horrible to endure. (Shout-out to my companions who helped me persevere.)

The moment feels small, but it sticks with me.

Sometimes testing an experiment isn’t necessarily to prove yourself right or wrong, but to see what is possible.

Maybe it can be as simple as stepping into an elevator that you were sure you couldn’t tolerate.

As Eyal writes:

“Extraordinary lives aren’t built on grand declarations. They’re built on small efforts—actions that create evidence, evidence that strengthens belief, and belief that fuels more action until possibility itself expands.”

And every life deserves to be extraordinary.

Question for you:

Have you ever believed you couldn’t do something, only to discover later that you were more capable than you thought?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

thanks to NetGalley for the review copy of this book

Long Time, No See

Jeff and I walk into the funeral home in Mississippi. I spot my cousin Mike immediately. He’s four years older than me and has always been much taller than me.

Mike and I haven’t seen each other in years. But I would recognize him anywhere. On this day we’re here together because his dad—my uncle—died a few days earlier.

Mike and I hug. Then we sit on the couch in the lobby to talk.

That’s when Mike says the oddest thing to me:

“You know what always ticked me off about you?”

I have no idea what is coming next.

I respond:

“I have no idea, Mike. Tell me.”

2022

What I Remember About Mike

Looking back, I remember three things about my cousin Mike as a kid:

1. Mike had an incredible memory for historical trivia
2. He made funny, clever jokes
3. He wore the thickest eyeglasses I’d ever seen.

At some age I finally realized why Mike wore such thick glasses.

Mike was born with a sight disorder that caused deteriorating vision.

As much as Mike was treasured by his family members, I somehow understood that the outside world was not as kind to him. Children don’t always respect those who are different.

And Mike was special. I remember that.

1972

But to me, Mike was different in a good way.
He was intelligent.
He was witty.
He was fun.

As an adult, Mike chose a career serving other members of the seeing impaired community through the Alabama Public Library system.

And after 35 years of good service, Mike retired.

This Is What Mike Remembered

Back at the funeral home, I ask Mike what it was he remembered about me.

Mike says, “The thing I remember about you as a kid is you never liked your food to touch. That really ticked me off.”

Whew. I laugh. That’s what Mike remembers.

We chat some more. We attend the beautiful ceremony honoring my uncle. We gather at the cemetery near my grandparents’ country church for the burial. Then we all lunch on a delicious spread provided by the family’s church friends in the fellowship hall.

Mike and I eat at different tables.

Before I take my last few bites, though, I need to do one more thing.

I need to find Mike’s table.

I need to show him my plate. As an adult. Not a kid.

Is what Mike remembered about me still accurate? I let him decide.

On my plate, there is no distinct line between the corn and the peas, but neither are they jumbled up together. The chicken may have rubbed against the potato salad, but not enough to blend together.

My food now touches a little. But still not a lot.

Mike and I both laugh about it.

We can’t always control which facts people will remember about us. But maybe we can influence the sentiment.

What I remember most about Mike is how he made me smile.

And he still does.

What does your family remember about you as a child? Share in the comments.

revised from the archives

Life is like an ever-shifting kaleidoscope—a slight shift and all patterns alter.
– Sharon Salzberg

Just Noticing

I carry my breakfast dishes to the sink and check the outside temperature.
Cold again.

Like most mornings, I then get ready for my morning walk. Jacket. Cap. Sunglasses. And . . . where are my gloves?

These purple gloves (well, technically they’re convertible flip mitts since they’re a combo of gloves and mittens) are my favorites. Yesterday I tucked them into my pocket during my walk once it got warm.

Today, only one glove is here.

I glance around the kitchen. The laundry room. Even the car. Maybe I dropped one in the garage? I check my pockets again. Still just one glove.

Did it fall out yesterday? Maybe somewhere along my walk it slipped out without my noticing.

Suddenly today’s walk shifts to a new meaning: find the glove.

And the only way to find it is to notice.

Making Shift Practical

My One Word for 2026 is Shift. And I want it to be more than philosophical.
I want it to be practical. Tangible.

I want physical reminders of Shift around me—things I can see with my eyes and touch with my hands.

Since I chose a focus word for each month centered around Shift, I’ve also collected a solid object for each one, and placed them together in a glass jar.

January’s focus? Notice.
Practice curiosity (hello again, my word from 2024).

Notice the shifts instead of forcing them.
Watch, not work.
Examine, not explain.

A Small Turn Changes Things

Originally, I wanted my January object to be a kaleidoscope. Because with just a slight twist, the view changes entirely.

That’s how noticing works.

We notice a slight shift in a friend’s expression during a conversation.
We notice how tall our grandchild has suddenly become.
We notice that our steps are a little quicker—or slower—and our walks a little longer—or shorter—than they were last year.

No judging.
No forcing an outcome.
Just noticing.

Just a small turn of the kaleidoscope to offer us a new perspective.

The Snow Globe Stand-In

However, I don’t actually own a kaleidoscope. And I’ve not bought one yet.

So for now, I’ve chosen a close second: a snow globe. (Ah, this itself is a shift; I’m doing it!)

Like a kaleidoscope, everything changes in a snow globe with a small shake. And then eventually settles again.

Just something to notice.

The Purple Glove

I’m nearing the end of my walk through the neighborhood. And still no sign of my glove.

I have one last cul-de-sac to walk down. As I make the left turn, my eyes scanning the road for a flash of purple, I see something ahead.

From a distance, I can tell it’s purple.
Closer now—the shape seems right.
And then my heart lifts.

It’s my glove.

Found without any extra effort or strategy or control on my part.

Just noticing.

Letting It Be Simple

I realize life doesn’t always work this way. Sometimes we have to be more proactive and execute a complicated plan to reach a specific goal.

But sometimes—not.

Sometimes, but not always, life really does unfold this simply. And for that, I’m grateful.

So maybe today, try your own small mental shift.
Maybe everything doesn’t need your full control. Maybe you don’t have to work so hard or explain or manipulate something (or somebody?) quite as much as you think.

Instead, when it’s possible,
just notice.

And see what you find.

Where in your life might noticing—rather than fixing—be enough today? I’d love to hear your thoughts.