An older and very wise gentleman at a church I go to shared two things with me that changed how I move in and appreciate the world.  Thank you, Carl A.

First, 20 years ago, “These are the golden years, the ones you’ll think about for the rest of your life.”  Carl and his wife stopped to share with my husband and me outside church.  Our young sons were running and screaming through the playground.  Weary years was more like it.  But I could see  in Carl’s eyes, he really wanted us to understand.  “The weight of them on your lap.  The way they look to you.  So much joy, there’s nothing like it.  Pay attention.”

I felt truth’s shivery finger slide up my spine—I knew it.  I’d been keeping journals for my sons and I’d made it a practice to pay attention.  I could see time roaring by.

I’ve always been a noticer, but his words reminded me to be fully present in the glory at hand, this moment, because I was going to be on another side one day, looking back to that day and I better have been there.

I appreciate these days, too, pandemic days with our two grown sons back in our home for awhile—girlfriends, graduated from college, full-time jobs, cars.  Its own glory, laughing around a table with grown men and people they bring along.

A few years ago, Carl gave a personal reflection at church (such a cool tradition of Judson Church!).  Carl shared something his father taught him early: make someone happy today.  And that’s what Carl did.  Isn’t that beautiful?  Wouldn’t the world be different if we all approached a day and each other like that?

I don’t know what Carl’s politics are.  What he thinks about climate change, abortion, guns healthcare ….  I do know he has lived a wise, kind, willing life of great character.  We need more people like him.

Today as I’m doing some revisions on my novel, thinking about love letters and the main character in my book reaching out in the world,  I think I’ll write a love letter to Carl, while we are both still here.

To tell him he was right.  To tell him I listened.  To tell him he made my life grand and I am grateful.

Too much wings, nothing happens but a lot of flying around.  Too much rails, big boring check-off lists and nothing that matters deeply to you.

Here is how I attempt to keep the wings and rails in balance:

1. Set up a system, or way you do things (you don’t have to be a notebook and pen fanatic, like me, but it certainly keeps me motivated). This is where I both catch ideas, and make lists of things I need to do.  The Bullet Journal idea is a great system because it’s all your own doing.
2. Create a template of a perfect day or week. I template a week.  Some days have blocks of time for creative project work, some days I batch a lot of task items that need to get done.  I find that batching things at dependable times, lets me think less about how I need to work and use the time for doing.
3. Use early morning (or late night if you’re of that ilk) dark to let the wings flap and soar.
4. Pull the ideas that come alive in the dark, into a place where they can be actionized later. Review this regularly.  Action is where dreams get done.
5. Journal about it, be grateful, thank the flight awakenings, and then get to work.

You can go back and forth between wings and rails all day.  When you carefully balance you have enough system under your wings to arrive at a remarkable destination—that you imagined and made happen.

A friend of mine who writes and loves notebooks helped me coin this word: scribwist, meaning one who delights and finds reverence in the tools of writing. These tools include (but are not limited to!): pens, ink, fine paper, leather notebooks, paint, an occasional gadget, and the bags that carry them all.

A wistful scribe. She is me.

I always have a book and a beautiful pen in my hand. Life in all its beauty and tragedy catches me daily, and the pen records the experience. As Elizabeth Gilbert wrote in Big Magic, “… that ideas are alive, that ideas do seek the most available human collaborator, that ideas do have a conscious will, that ideas do move from soul to soul, that ideas will always try to seek the swiftest and most efficient conduit to the earth (just as lightening does).”

I believe Gilbert. I’ve felt it. So I carry a book and a pen everywhere I go, so I don’t miss that idea when it arrives.

When you prepare your scribe with tools for the journey ahead, you are accepting the challenge of the mystery.  You come awake, literally and metaphorically, grab the pen and the just right notebook with its smooth waiting blankness for this idea that will not come at any other time.

Tools matter. They help engage and honor the mystery of story and idea.

Look forward to the exploration of the tools. This idea was caught with my Manuscript 1856 pen called Northern lights, belly full of iridescent Iroshizuku Tsuyu-kusa Japanese ink. The pen wrote on Nanami Paper’s B6 slim, Tomoe River grid, café notebook. The notebook was held in Chic Sparrow’s B6 slim, Deluxe Austen Lady Catherine (rich orange). The idea came in the woods with my dog Remy. Beauty and walking awaken all kinds of things.

And wistful? Because I know I will not have nearly enough life for all the ideas.

He’s a smart and naughty dog with a sense of humor.  And when it comes to food, his focus is complete.  Nothing else exists in that moment.

He and I have a ritual. I scoop his food from the bin while he sits on the stairs.  I give him: one, two, three kibbles.  We walk into the kitchen.   He sits silent and still as I chop in deliciousness, his eyes on the bowl, nose slightly twitching back and forth tasting the air.

This day—I dropped a kibble.  I heard his breath change a little.  He saw it fall.  He wants it.  He does not move.  At all.  His eyes stay on me and the preparation of his breakfast.

This dog who ate a dozen chocolate chip cookies in less than 30 seconds, a raw chicken breast while I blinked, a pound of habanero cheese—I won’t talk about the small appliances and socks—and everything else. He does not move or abandon his focus on this meal I am preparing for him.

It’s time.  Our eyes meet.  I feed him the kibble from the floor and put down his bowl. Our ritual is complete.

Focus like his is my goal. Here’s what I think it takes:

1. Know exactly what you are doing and what you are after;
2. Breathe into it for a few seconds, smell its success and promise, imagine it;
3. Put an appropriate amount of time around it (focus like that has its limits);
4. Get everything else out of the way, see only that, and let it come (even if something amazing drops to the floor);
5. Be grateful.

Mo has plenty of other characteristics that I am glad to leave just to him, but I am grateful for this lesson and a shared moment.

The Pomodoro technique, have you tried it? Twenty-five minutes dedicated to the task of your choice, a five minute break, repeat.  All day.

Game changer.

Sounds easy, right? It’s hard! But with time slowed down during a pandemic, I’m practicing and I learned a few things that helped me, and might help you, too.

Pomodoro, means tomato in Italian. Tomato?—doesn’t work for me. I call this process MomoDo, which means to me: doing moments,  which is the action.

Here’s five ways to get good at your moments:

1. Focus on what you intend to accomplish.
2. Bite-size it (as close to a 25 minute bite as you can, you get good at this with time).
3. Take 30 seconds, breathe deeply, and step in with the intention on your mind—feels like a dare!
4. Stay with it until ‘ding’ (I use the premium version of the momentum app with google chrome). Stay with it—no email checking, no phone peek.
5. Enjoy five minutes of recharge (coming soon: idea cards I use for 5 minute breaks).

Turns out that twenty-five minutes is a lot of time!

I’ve enjoyed thinking about the five minute chunks as a little bonus:  get moving, get inspired, laugh, connect.  I created cards that I keep in a beautiful card holder, and I choose the day’s breaks ahead of time. Having a visual reminder of my break keeps me on track.

Memento:  When you make the most of your life’s time, you are building a remarkable lifetime.

right
enough
ready

Shipping it anyway. Now that’s what I call a professional.

right
enough
ready

Shipping it anyway. Now that’s what I call a professional.