The best task management system I have used so far:
Discard the list at the end of the day. Start again the next morning.
*I usually use a post-it note or my journal. I have experimented with many productivity systems in the last 15 years. They are all too complex. Keep it simple.
If a project feels difficult, break it down into smaller components. Start with the easiest one. Gain momentum. Focus on one thing at a time. For example:
As Henry Ford said, “nothing is particularly hard if you break it down into small jobs.”
*My wife, who wrote a lot in her younger days as an eng. lit. major in college, advised me to separate ideation, drafting and editing more than five years ago. I never listened. I kept trying to perfect each sentence as I wrote. My output was dismal. Somehow I couldn’t figure out why.
In recent months I have come around and agree that she is right after all. Sometimes ideas just take time to sink in, right?
Doesn’t matter what it is, how insignificant it appears, or whether anyone notices.
Take the long way home. Learn a new word. Do the exercises at the end of the chapter. Review old photos. Find a better way to solve the same problem.
If we do that daily, we will have experimented over 360 small ideas a year from now. Many will be duds, but we will find at least a dozen gems in between.
Above all, our mental muscles will grow stronger. Facing the next unknown will become just a bit less scary.
Key to building a new habit: start small. How small exactly? Try one.
Make it absurdly easy. Then do it every day at around the same time*. Resist the temptation to ramp up quickly. Keep it nice and steady instead.
If you miss a day, no worries. Pick it back up where you left off. You will see progress within weeks.
*Tips: Putting an “X” on a calendar every time you do the habit will help visualize progress. It’s also a good idea to focus on only one habit a time.
Inspired by: Atomic Habits and Tiny Habits
I took time off and disconnected from work email over the holidays. On the first day back, I noticed a familiar reaction before opening the inbox: sweaty palms. My mind raced. My stomach tightened.
Anxiety is anticipating failure in advance. “Did something blow up? What went wrong? What did I miss?”
Intellectually, I knew probably nothing happened. And if something did happen, I knew I could face the issue, break it down, and handle it.
Anxiety still arose nonetheless.
I returned to a practice I’ve been working on: observe the emotion, watch it evolve, and get curious. What if I write about it? When revealed, it has nowhere to hide. It loses its grip. It melts away.
We often think about what to add.
What new things are necessary? What is missing in the plan? What other goals should be on the list?
But equally, if not more, important is what to subtract.
What goals must I remove? What stuff has cluttered the space? What bad habits must I shed? What unhelpful assumptions must I leave behind? What resentment must I let go?
When we remove the baggage that no longer serves us, we make room for what’s important.
Most of the plans I made last year did not pan out as expected.
Does that mean that planning is a waste of time? Not at all. Had I not planned, I would have been far more distracted.
I like how President Dwight Eisenhower put it, “Plans are useless but planning is indispensable.”
Throwing the plan out of the window should be part of the plan.
The items most accessible in our environment often determine what we do in a given moment.
If there are potato chips on the counter, I will likely eat them. If the phone is my pocket, I will likely check it. If the TV is on, I will likely watch it.
We can exploit this by making the important things easier to access. For example, put fruits and vegetables in a visible location to eat healthier. Carry the book you want to read. Lay out supplies on the desk to encourage more creative work.
Conversely, we can increase the barrier for the things we want less of. For example, charge electronic devices in another room. Remove an overused app from the homepage. Hide the chocolate chip cookies behind the cabbage.
Changing the environment alone doesn’t determine whether we do something or not, but it has a huge influence.
When we start a new project or develop a new habit, it is tempting to go big right away: read an entire book, run three miles, or play an instrument for five hours.
But by doing too much at the beginning we risk burning ourselves out. I can’t tell you how many times I quit an endeavor within a week.
Another option is to start small. Do a little on the first day. Make it easy. Read one page. Walk half a mile. Practice one chord. Then ramp up slowly.
Never underestimate the power of a small step. Going from zero to one is already an achievement.
Labels, when abused, are licenses to be desensitized. When labels are all we use, we stop understanding. We reduce someone people to a single phrase.
“Mary is an engineer.” What if she quits tomorrow? Does that fundamentally change who Mary is?
“Tony is wealthy.” We see mansions, fancy cars, and lavish parties. How about his hopes, his struggles, and his love?
“Jimmy is Chinese.” What does being “Chinese” represent? Bruce Lee? Kung Pao chicken? Good at math? Eats bats? Can’t write English? I am none of the above*.
If we believe in a label, it becomes a fixed lens we use to filter the world. In many cases, facts no longer matter. Existing assumptions prevail. Disapproving information, even right in front of us, changes nothing.
As Søren Kierkegaard said, “Once you label me you negate me.”
* I do enjoy Panda Express once in a while
Christmas is often associated with comfort: beautiful gifts, candle-lit dinners, and celebrating with loved ones. All of which are wonderful.
One interesting contrast is how the festivities compare to Jesus’ life story:
He was born in a manger. His bed was made of hay. Not even a one-star hotel. Didn’t smell great with donkeys around.
He spent days in solitude in the wild. Cold and hungry. The devil tempted him with food. He said no.
He traveled long distances on foot. He stayed with whoever would receive him. Couch surfing, basically.
He attended to the sick and shared meals with the marginalized. Not much time with friends and family.
He challenged the authority. Those in power hated him. They hung him on a cross.
He understood discomfort is a rite of passage to something greater.
The seasonal Christmas lights remind me of Thomas Edison.
After experimenting with thousands of filaments, he discovered a material that would glow well and last a long time for an electric light bulb. His effort literally lit up the world.
Was he a genius? Certainly. But more importantly, he did a lot of work.
I wonder how many dark moments he endured along the way.
*Note: Contrary to common misconception, Edison did not invent the light bulb. He built on inventions done by many scientists before him. However, Edison did advance light bulb design and contributed to the commercial success of electric lighting.
Bronnie Ware, an Australian nurse who spent more than a decade with the seriously ill, recorded the top 5 regrets from her patients at the end of their lives:
How do you stop doing something that hurts you?
You need all three.
Generally speaking, it’s a good idea to cut out and remove some of the things that are unnecessary. This may apply to the things you have at home, the activities you commit to, the work you do, the code you program, the process you follow, the memo you write. Why do we include more than it needs to be? To fill up the space with fluff? Or make it look like more work has been put into it? It’s like back in the day we used to adjust line spacing and page margin and add some BS paragraphs to make our school papers look like there are more pages. We don’t have to do that s**t anymore. We have graduated.
Two scenarios.
Scenario I: A driver says a trip takes an hour. En route, there are accidents and road constructions. The journey is delayed to two hours. We are angry that time is “wasted.”
Scenario II: A driver says a trip takes three hours. En route, barely any cars are on the road. The journey is shorted to two hours. We are delighted.
Same amount of travel time, but opposite experience. All depends on expectations.
In between his mediocre military career and his presidency, Ulysses S. Grant went through a period of setbacks and financial difficulty.
To support his family at one point, he had to sell firewood—hardly a glamorous venture for a West Point graduate. His ex-army colleague was shocked, and said, “Great god, Grant, what are you doing?”
Grant replied, “I’m solving the problem of poverty.”
No shame in doing whatever it takes to get through a difficult patch in life*.
Reference: Grant by Jean Edward Smith
Pyrrhus of Epirus was an ambitious Greek king and a strong opponent against early Rome. In the Battle of Asculum in 279 BC, he triumphed against the Romans but destroyed most of his own forces.
In Pyrrhus’s own words, it was “a victory that is not worth winning because so much is lost to achieve it…If we are victorious in one more battle with the Romans, we shall be utterly ruined.”
This is now called a pyrrhic victory, where the deep losses outweigh the gain. Winning a battle, but losing the war.
A football match looks like futile effort most of the time.
A team makes a fantastic midfield play with delicate passes, but the ball is stolen last minute. Back to defense.
Here comes a promising free kick opportunity, but the header goes wide. Back to square one.
The striker finds a rare opening during transition, but misses the shot. Still nothing on the scoreboard.
Every game is filled with dozens of failures. Some hurt more than others. Great teams, however, do not dwell on the errors. Instead, they let go immediately. They reset. They focus on the next play.
Nothing seems to get through? Keep trying. Pay attention. Pass better. Communicate more. Change formation. Take some risks. Knock on every door.
Without the 99% of hard work that appears fruitless, the 1% of glory will never come.
In basketball, there’s a position called triple threat.
A player receives a pass, plants his feet firm and wide, and holds the basketball with both hands at waist level.
This position gives the player flexibility to dribble, pass, or shoot the ball depending what the situation calls for.
If you are ever unsure of what to do under any circumstances, remember these three options always available to you:
Sometimes it makes sense to dribble the ball, move around the court, and survey from a new perspective.
Sometimes it is wise to pass the ball to others, generate new opportunities, and let the game flow.
And sometimes you just have to take the shot.
Will Shortz has been creating crossword puzzles at the New York Times for over 50 years. His advice on the game is sound wisdom for life:
• Begin with the answers you’re surest of and build from there.
• Don’t be afraid to guess.
• Don’t be afraid to erase an answer that isn’t working out.
• If you are stuck, put it aside and return later.
• It’s your puzzle. Solve it any way you want.
If you don’t have a pencil, use a pen.
If you don’t have blue, use black.
If you don’t have lime, use lemon.
Use what you have. Don’t get stuck.
Does today feel like a grind—an endless cycle of work, chores and obligations—only to repeat again tomorrow? How can we freshen things up when life feels dull?
One thing to try: be curious.
Spend a few quiet moments and check in: what’s going on? If you don’t feel alive, you must have some idea of how feeling alive looks like. What’s missing? Is it rest, attention, or connection with others? Or is it joy, freedom, or a sense of purpose?
Whatever comes to mind is okay. Give it space. Acknowledge it. There’s no right or wrong answer. That’s simply where things stand.
Then ask: what’s one small thing you can experiment today?
Pick up an old hobby, do a kind thing for a friend, or have that conversation you’ve avoided for months? Read a good book, go for a vigorous run, or sit in a church when no one is there? Seek advice, accept a new challenge, or say no to a commitment because you are simply too exhausted?
This is not an easy question. The path forward requires us to change, to do what our mind resists, and to keep trying.
But as poet Robert Frost said, “The best way out is always through.” To have a breakthrough, you must first choose to be willing to break through.
Even if asking these questions is difficult, it’s worth a try. After all, what’s more important than your happiness?
When a crisis happens—and it does—a sound first step is to be still.
Pause. Breathe. Acknowledge the emotions: fear, shock, dread, sorrow, or anger. Be compassionate with yourself, but don’t let the emotions take over. They are not the priority. Your response is.
When the stakes are high, clarity is critical. If you remain calm, you see more. You can evaluate your options.
There will be an urge to just do something. Anything. When emotions are high, the first idea is unwise. Hasty decisions will make things worse.
Ask instead: what facts don’t I have yet? What are my options? What are the hidden opportunities? Where can I get advice? Who can help?
What does my gut say? How about the mind? Which one makes more sense?
Which path am I called to take?
Always take a few moments. More if you need to. Your decision matters. Take the time.
However, stillness is not paralysis. You can’t freeze and do nothing forever. Uncertainties always remain. All options are imperfect.
When the time comes, choose the best option, respond with courage, and be open to whatever comes next.
You have done your part. The outcome is out of your hands.
There should be no regrets.
Once upon a time, there was a rich man. One year, his land produced a bountiful harvest. The yield was so abundant that he ran out of storage space.
Facing his tremendous success, he concluded: “I shall tear down my barns and build larger ones. There I shall store all my grain and other goods.”
He went on to tell himself: “Now as for you, you have so many good things stored up for many years, rest, eat, drink and be merry!”
But God then said to him, “You fool, this night your life will be demanded of you; and the things you have prepared, to whom will they belong?”(1)
Every day we work hard to build it up. We store material resources: food, shelter, money, and other tangible things. We also accumulate psychological accolades: fulfillment, recognition, a sense of progress in life. More is better than less, we assume. Ultimately, we hope this barn brings us happiness.
As we age, it’s worthwhile to pause and ask: is this barn serving me, or am I serving the barn? Have we, along the way of life, turned the barn-building into an end itself in an attempt to fill the insatiable desire for happiness?
The danger is that our eyes become fully fixated on the barn itself, rather than living. Attachment to things—the desire to hold onto something forever — is guaranteed to bring dissatisfaction and suffering. Everything we gain merely becomes another source of loss. We then attempt to pacify this anxiety with even more, which leads to a vicious cycle: The more we have, the more we lose.
Perhaps this is why Jesus said, “Be on your guard against all kinds of greed. For one’s life does not consist of possession.” Underneath greed is insecurity, a sense that we are not good enough as we are. When we identify our worth through stuff, or the ephemeral pleasure that stuff brings us, it’s a slippery slope to emptiness, especially given our short life.
We come into the world empty-handed, and we will be the same when we depart.
How else can we view our relationship with the barn? One other option is view ourselves as a tenant, and the barn as a toolbox for peace and tranquility.
A new car, a bigger house, more money in the bank—none of these is necessarily a problem. In fact, they can be wonderful. Resources are important for our well-being. Having a barn can free us from emotional disturbances, so we don’t have to constantly worry about where the next meal comes from or whether we can afford the place we live.
When we are healthy and free of emotional burden, we can be physically and emotionally more available to others: our family, friends, and neighbors in need. We can have the mental space to be creative and do our best work with the gifts we have. We can thrive and feel alive by fulfilling our potential in service of others.
The key is to be detached from the barn. Enjoy it while you have access to it, and be okay even when that access goes away. Strive for equanimity — or what the Greek calls apatheia—so you have freedom from the disturbance of worldly things.
Notes:
(1) Story comes from Luke 6:12-20
If we observe closely, we often live anywhere but in the present moment.
Our mind dwells in the past, or projects into the future. We kick ourselves for the mistakes we have made, or salivate over a vision of happiness that never seems to come. When that happens, we miss this very second. We overlook what’s right in front of us — the people we love, the beauty in this world, or the opportunities that quietly presented themselves. We are too busy looking everywhere but here and now.
How can we live this second in a more fruitful way? Three ideas may help.
1. Recognize our ability to choose only lies in this second.
The past is gone, and the future has not yet arrived. Our freedom to choose resides only in this moment.
Think of it this way: every second we are given an opportunity to cast a new vote for who we choose to be. What qualities do I want to cultivate? What version of myself do I long to be? How can I be 1% better this second than the last?
If I care about my mother, I can call and tell her I love her now.
If I want to support my wife, I can listen to her with understanding now.
If I aspire to be a writer, I can grab a journal and get my hands moving now.
What are we called to do now? Pay attention, then choose. Do it. Be it.
2. Remember this second is a gift.
Every day we are unconditionally given brand new twenty-four hours, with the backdrop that our life on this earth will eventually come to an end.
Memento mori — “remember you will die” — is an old philosophical idea. Acknowledging death is not morbid, no more than recognizing gravity is at work. We see it, we know it, but we don’t think about it.
Reframe death this way: If we live forever, there is no point in doing anything today. If there is no death, there is no life. The powerful combo of life and death propels us to act.
Why not use this gift to its fullest, knowing that we are merely tenants in this world? This will give you a proper perspective to ignore the trivial things. Stop worrying about how others view you, or the possessions you have, or the gossip of the day. Is that how we want to use our precious gift?
3. Orient Your Life Around Love
The Catholic theologian and philosopher St. Thomas Aquinas defines love as “the choice to will the good of the other.”
When we truly love someone, we go beyond our own gains and benefits. Our genuine concern becomes others’ well-being.
What does the person in front of you — family, friend, neighbor, colleague or stranger — need? If you want to build a better world, don’t plan for great things in the future. Instead, start with the person right here.
Acting out of love this way may be unglamorous in the worldly sense. Sacrificial love goes beyond the warm and fuzzy feeling. Instead, it calls for patience, understanding, and compassion. As Mother Teresa once put it: “True love is love that causes us pain, that hurts, and yet brings us joy.”
Why would we base our choices on such love? Because it gives our life meaning and purpose. Sacrificial love is a sure way for lasting, life-giving joy.
Recall the love you have received in the past — perhaps from a parent, a mentor, or a dear friend — and how their kindness has transformed your life for the better. This love transcends time: their will for your good continues to live within you today. Isn’t that a beautiful thing?
You can choose to do the same for others.
How do you know which is the path of love? If you are not sure, go for a walk. Then quiet yourself, be still, and listen to your heart. Your heart always knows the path of love. Follow it, do your job, and then everything will fall into place.
Give to everyone who begs from you; if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask them again. Do to other as you would them to do to you.
Luke 6:30-31
Sometimes when I drive towards the highway around where I live, I encounter an ethical question. A red light at the freeway entrance forces me to stop. A person under the highway overpass is waving a sign “Hungry. Anything helps!” Sometimes the person approaches each vehicle to make sure he or she is seen.
What should I do? In my mind, there are three options.
For years, I opted for option 1. I would look ahead and pretend that person doesn’t exist. A few narratives run through my head and justify non-action. If I roll down the window, will that person attack me? Will I catch covid? What if the person spends the money on drugs and alcohol? If the adult is accompanied by a child, is giving going to enable the adult to exploit their child for money? And above all: What’s the point of helping one person, when there are thousands more?
I uncomfortably wished the green light would come sooner to rescue me from dread.
Recently, through, I started to give $5 or $10 if I carry the cash. I don’t know what inspired this change. It might have been to relieve my own guilt. It might have been the starfish story, where the woman chooses to throw a starfish back into the water one at at time even though there are many more. It might have been the quote from the bible: “Give to everyone who begs from you.”
The biggest motivation is perhaps to fight my own mind, and its tendency to create stories and project outcomes. It’s a fight for my freedom and not let the chatter in my mind dominate my choices. The possibility of me getting hurt or sick from interacting with the person is 0.0000001%. If that $10 can fill that person’s belly for the day, or get a drink of water desperately needed, that benefit outweighs the risk. The upside is far greater.
All I can do in this situation is to give that person a small option, let go of the outcome, and wish for the person find a better path forward. Once the money changes hand, it’s up to that person to choose what he does with it.
I would have preferred that option if I were in that person’s situation.
With every breath, the old moment is lost; a new moment arrives.
Lama Surya Das
One thing we haven’t stopped doing since we are born is to breathe. Every moment, our body performs a series of complicated motions to bring in air that gives us life. Unlike most things in our modern world, this gift is unconditional and available to everyone. We don’t need to force anything. Nature is ready to supply the air. All we need is to accept this gift by breathing. Our body knows what to do. Oxygen flows in, and keeps our heart going.
It’s a beautiful reminder that we — humans, animals, plants, and all beings — are interconnected through the same air we breathe. We are not on our own island. We need each other and nature to thrive. Together we are one body: you are the arms, and I am the legs.
Every breath is a reminder of our life and death. We can’t survive for a few moments without breathing. We die with every out-breath. We are born with every in-breath. The past moment is gone. The new one arrives.
Sometimes we get stressed. We forget to breathe. We get caught up by the problems and suffering of everyday life. This happens to all of us. We think about the past and the future. When that happens, pause for a second. Remember: all we have is this moment, this breath. Don’t forget the life in the now.
Peace and joy can only be found in this moment, not in some distant future. The past is nothing but a series of “nows”. You have this moment now. What are you going to choose to do?
“Time is free, but it’s priceless. You can’t own it, but you can use it. You can’t keep it, but you can spend it. Once you’ve lost it. You can never get it back.”
— Harvey Mackay
When we awake every morning, we get twenty four brand new hours. Everyone gets the same until they die. It doesn’t matter whether you are rich or poor, educated or illiterate, ethical or evil. It’s a free, unconditional gift that runs at 60 minutes per hour, regardless of who you are.
But we often forget that time is a gift. We live as though we have an unlimited store of time. We are busy chasing ephemeral things like pleasure, money, power, honor, or recognition by others. Or we are too consumed by what could have happened in the past or what will happen in the future.
No matter where you are, take a deep breath and remind yourself of the present moment. This very second is gift. The millions of decisions you made before this moment don’t matter nearly as much as what you choose to do now.
Each moment is a new opportunity. Even when external circumstances are beyond our control, no one can rob you of this moment. You have freedom to make a choice. No matter how terrible yesterday went, you can reset today.
Since you can’t deposit time into a bank account, you must also choose what to spend it on now.
So, will you be a channel of love, joy, and peace in this beautiful, chaotic world? Will you choose to be a slightly better person this second than the last? Will you say one kind thing to the person you love? Will you give more than you receive? Will you fully embrace this moment regardless of how sweet or bitter it tastes?
What do you do with this gift now?
“To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.” once wrote.
Mary Oliver
Losing someone you love is difficult. There’s no way around it. All your plans, hopes and dreams are now shattered. The deep joy you once experienced has turned into gut-wrenching sorrow you didn’t think was possible.
When that happens, don’t pretend everything is the same. It’s okay to admit that your world has been fundamentally disrupted and rearranged.
Grieve, fully. Let your tears stream down. Keep crying if your body calls for it. When you do, lean in to the feeling of deep sadness. Experience it fully with openness, tenderness, and compassion. The sensation will come and go like waves in the ocean — sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle.
Our grief is nothing but a sign of how much we loved. It is also an invitation to reexamine our priority and how we use our limited time on earth. Are we going to retreat, or are we going to move forward with courage?
The hard fact is: Life never guarantees to turn out as we expect. We want control, but we have little. Anyone’s physical body — including our own — can cease anytime. When the time comes, we must learn to let go. Not only the physical body, but also the “what-if” questions about what could have happened.
As time passes, don’t feel guilty to feel happy again. It’s not cheating on the dead if we laugh too much or become playful. Instead of dying with the dead, we can choose live for them.
Don’t be scared to choose love again.
Be comforted that our spiritual love persists. The people we love never leave us. They will remain in our heart forever.
Our whole life is ahead of us now. And our loved ones will want us to celebrate each moment and choose a full life.
There is an appointed time for everything,
and a time for every affair under the heavens.A time to give birth, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to tear down, and a time to build.A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
Ecclesiastes 3:1-4
a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
Some moments call us to let go. Limiting beliefs that were once useful. Bad habits born out of boredom, sadness, or anxiety. Untamed desires that disturb our peace. Once we see them, we can choose to tear down what no longer serves us. When we loosen our grip, we have a chance to be reborn.
Some moments call us to courage. When we face setbacks. When we wrestle with fear. When the future is unknown. Remember: We can always take a moment, steady ourselves, and return to our breath. We will find peace in God. From there, we can muster the bravery that we thought wasn’t there, and proceed amid uncertainties.
Some moments call us to experience our emotions. Fully lean into the experience without attachment. Rejoice in laughter. Grieve in tears. Dance with your body, mind, and soul. Live the moment with openness. Look at the rise and fall of emotions with curiosity like clouds in the sky. Eventually everything shall pass, and you will have lived.
When we stop fighting the calling of the present moment, we reduce our suffering and move into acceptance. If we listen carefully, our heart always knows the right thing to do. We can choose to respond to what’s asked of us, and find peace and joy in each appointed moment.
There is no such thing as ready. There is only now.
Huge Laurie
Your heart is racing. Your insides have turned into knots. You can’t tell whether you are breathing or not. Even with much preparation, you don’t feel fully confident.
If you’ve ever done any public speaking, you would be familiar with this sense of tightness right before standing up. There is a moment when you must let go of everything, muster all the courage within you, and step into the center stage with a leap of faith.
Every key, meaningful moment in our life works the same way. We are called to embrace the unknown, to venture into unchartered territories, and to risk looking like a fool. Raising your hand at school or work. Saying yes to a new project. Saying no to injustice. Starting a new career. Entering into a relationship. Marrying another person. Starting a family. Restarting a career after 20 years on the previous one.
No one truly knows what they are signing up for.
There’s always the temptation to wait. To do more preparation, to receive more schooling, or to observe what others do first. We may do that out of prudence (yes, sometimes we need that), but the truth is we don’t want to be exposed and hurt. Inaction seems much safer. That’s why we distract ourselves with many things — TV, social media, emails, or whatever feels familiar.
Attributing inaction to not being ready is an easy way out.
Feeling ready is an illusion. There is no such thing as certainty. You can’t possibly anticipate everything that life throws at you. But the cost of staying in the same place is incalculable: everything worthwhile in life requires you to be vulnerable without being ready. If you don’t ever move forward, you also miss out on growth, meaning, and fun in life.
As the actor Huge Laurie once said, “It’s a terrible thing, I think, in life to wait until you’re ready. I have this feeling now that actually no one is ever ready to do anything. There is almost no such thing as ready. There is only now. And you may as well do it now. Generally speaking, now is as good a time as any.”
Being ready is a practice of letting go. If your heart tells you that you must do something, start anyway. Once you move forward without feeling ready, magic happens.
Someone once asked the buddha, “Sir, what do you and your monks practice?” He replied, “We sit, we walk, and we eat.” The questioner continued, “But sir, everyone sits, walks, and eats.” Then the buddha said, “When we sit, we know we are sitting. When we walk, we know we are walking. When we eat, we know we are eating.”
Have you had an experience when you finish a meal, and you ask yourself, “what did I just eat?”
When we eat, we are often not eating. We talk, watch TV, or think about work and life problems. We stuff food down our throat. We are too busy, so eating simply becomes a bodily need to be fulfilled.
If we pay attention to other aspects of our life, we realize we are absent in many waking moments. Our physical body is in a space, but our mind is somewhere else. When a family shares a difficult problem, our mind wanders and thinks about our own issues. When a group of friends meet, we play with our phones instead of engaging with each other. Even on a beach vacation, we salivate over the other people’s images on social media rather than admiring the beauty right in front of us.
No wonder we are stressed. Our body and mind are split between realities, never aligned. We are everywhere but nowhere.
There is a monumental cost living without awareness and mindfulness: We never live. We are either dwelling in the past, or worrying about the future. We say to ourselves: If I have this or that, then I will be okay. Except we won’t. Because we will yet desire something else.
If we don’t know how to engage with the present, we will never able to.
A few thoughts on labels.
First, labels are often wrong and always insufficient in describing what is.
“Mary is an engineer.” What if she quits tomorrow? Does that fundamentally change who Mary is?
“Tony is wealthy.” We see mansions, fancy cars, and lavish parties. How about his hopes, his struggles, and his love?
“Jimmy is Chinese.” What does being “Chinese” represent?
Second, labels are unimaginably powerful.
What do the atrocities in the 20th century like Auschwitz, Cambodian genocide, and Cultural Revolution have in common? Labels.
Jews. Khmers. Rebels. Intellectuals. Counter-revolutionaries.
Labels, when abused, are licenses to be desensitized, to stop understanding, and to reduce someone, including yourself, to a single phrase.
If we believe in a label, it becomes a fixed lens we use to filter the world. In many cases, facts no longer matter. Existing assumptions prevail. Disapproving information, even right in front of us, changes nothing.
As Søren Kierkegaard once said, “Once you label me you negate me.”
Every day the world presents to us three kinds of lights.
The first kind is a flashing light that piques our interest. It comes and goes. Think the small pleasures of life: delicious food, new toys, and a relaxing vacation. This light brings us momentary happiness, but it is fleeting and short-lived. Before long, we go searching for more flashing lights.
The second kind is a dazzling limelight. Think the worldly temptations of money, power, success, status. The allure of control is tempting. We are all drawn by it, and some pursue this light as a life goal. This light is seductive, yet its intensity blinds us. It’s a light that promises the world, but always fades into darkness and leaves us disoriented.
The third kind of light is a steady, gentle light. Think a beam of light from a lighthouse, or twilight in the sky at dusk. This soft light brings you joy and peace. It’s never too bright, so you must quiet yourself to notice it. You may encounter it when you act kindly to others. Or when you pray. Or when you meditate. The more you pay attention, the brighter the light glows. This light enters into your eyes, and illuminates your body, mind, and soul. Then you realize this light is within you as well.
Which light do you choose to follow?
One morning I left my home for my usual walk before work. As I approached the corner of the block, I saw from afar a petite, elderly woman—perhaps in her seventies— in a black wheelchair alone. Her neck was turning left and right as she surveyed the sparse traffic in the neighborhood. I greeted her.
“Good morning, young man.” she said in reply.
I made a left at the interaction and did not think much of our exchange. As my back was about to turn against her, I heard her voice again.
“I wish I could do that… walking continuously.” she said.
She chuckled with a bitter smile on her face, as she rotated the wheelchair towards me. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I nodded, smiled for a second, and walked on.
For the rest of my walk, I watched my own legs swing like pendulums. Left, right. And left, then right again. I have lived 11,000 days thus far, but I can’t think of another time I marveled at my legs’ biodynamics.
This reminds me of how much I often take my life for granted. When was the last time I put my palm on my chest? Do I recognize my own heart beat: its rhythm, its warmth, and its strength? Do I see how the blood moves through an extraordinary circulatory system that makes my life possible, even though I don’t pay remote attention to it every day? My functioning heart is a dream for a patient with heart failure. It may also be my dream at some point in the future.
The woman I met lost the ability to do something she was once able to. She remembers the days when she could explore, wander, and run. Maybe going for a morning jog, getting lost in a new city, or simply climbing into the bathtub on her own.
Someday we will be like her. Our physical abilities—walking, writing, and breathing—will eventually be fade. This limitation sounds poignant, but it can be a beautiful thing. It reminds us to do something with our lives today. If we live forever, there’s no point in doing anything now.
Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.
Pablo Picasso
When we are children, play is an instinct.
Our mother plays peekaboo with us before we can utter a word. Anything stackable—books, coasters, toilet paper rolls—is a building block. A stick is a sword. Or it is a Quidditch broom.
We have no fear. We don’t care about whether we are good at something or not. What matters is that we have fun. When we play, joy overflows.
The world seems infinitely interesting.
As we age, the story changes. No one tells us that there is an invisible line somewhere between childhood and adulthood. Once we cross that line—always unknowingly—play is now officially trivial.
“It’s time to grow up,” say the people who once rejoiced in our pure joy.
“Stop being childish.”
While others judge us, the hardest critic is often ourselves. We go to great lengths to avoid feeling silly or incompetent. We censor what we say and what we do. We stop trying new things.
Bit by bit, we bury the inner child.
It gets worse when we enter into our 20s and 30s. Responsibilities begin to mount: jobs, bills, and family obligations.
But even when we have free time and energy, we rarely choose to play. Instead, we watch Netflix to live vicariously through someone else’s story. We scroll our feeds to observe others safely from a distance without exposing ourselves. We yell at professional players on TV instead of actually playing the sport.
Nothing wrong with these activities. But that’s consumption, not play.
Think back on the moments when you feel most alive in your life.
When you laugh hysterically playing board games with your friends. When you play a piece of music from start to finish. When you explore the beauty of the world in a new place.
When you create your own recipe because you run out of ingredients at home. When you write your first poem. When you come up with that joke that you are so proud of.
When you make a free throw with a basketball. When you drive a golf ball 200 yards. When you fly a kite with your dad, your partner, or your child.
When you paint, embroider, or make a pottery bowl.
Whatever it maybe, it’s no wonder that our best, happiest, and the most vivid memories are often moments of play.
When we play, we open ourselves to possibilities. It calls us to be present, inquisitive, and creative. That’s when we feel flow—a state of complete bliss where we lose track of time —which is essential to happiness.
We broaden our perspectives, challenge old assumptions, and see old things in a new light.
Nothing can fire up the brain more than play.
Studies even show that play improves our health. It reduces our stress. Our blood pressure goes down. We are more creative and innovative. It boosts our quality of life and the quality of our work.
Play isn’t trivial. It is essential. And we play a dear price for not doing it.
“When we play, we are engaged in the purest expression of humanity, the truest expression of our individuality.” says Stuart Brown, a psychology researcher.
It’s literally the thing the makes us human.
So be a child again. Pick up a new hobby. Write a song. Pull out your crayons or paint brush. Bike through a new neighborhood without GPS. Make something.
Don’t worry about making it perfect. Don’t think about selling anything on Etsy. Don’t try to impress anyone. Just do it. Share it with your friends if you want, or keep you creation in a drawer forever.
Give it all you have without expecting anything in return. Do it for no one.
Your inner child is still there.
Now stop reading, find it, and go play.
The mind can go in a thousand directions, but on this beautiful path, I walk in peace. With each step, the wind blows. With each step, a flower blooms.
Thich Nhat Hanh
One morning a peaceful elderly man was walking along the beach. A big storm had just passed. The shore was littered with star fish, as far as the eye could see.
In a distance, the man noticed a woman picking the starfish up and throwing them back into the sea.
He approached her and asked, “Why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?”
The woman replied. “When the sun gets high, unless I throw them into the water, they will die.”
The man scanned the many miles of beach.
“But there must be tens of thousands of starfish. Sending a few into the water can’t possibly make much of a difference.”
The young woman knelt down, picked up another starfish, and threw it into the ocean.
And then she smiled and said, “It made a difference to that one.”
The world can at times look like it is only with filled unsolvable problems.
When we feel helpless, we may develop a tendency to think: If there are so many big problems, what’s the point for me to solve only one small problem?
But when we reach that conclusion, we hurt.
Deep in our heart, we yearn to connect with the world. We want to help. We desire to serve. We want to find meaning in what we do.
Look at the starfish around you. Maybe your dear friend who is stressed with life problems and have trouble resting. Or your family who needs comfort after a hard day at work. Or the lost, confused stranger on the street who can use directions.
Each moment is a unique call to make a simple yet meaningful contribution. When you respond to that call, you show the person who receives your gift that someone in the world cares. That, my friend, can mean the world.
What can be more beautiful than your choice to use your time, effort, and abilities for the sake of serving others?
You are not called to throw all the starfish back into the water. Just one — the one in front of you. Imagine the world when we all do the same.
Do not judge each day by the harvest you reap.
Robert Louis Stevenson
But by the seeds you plant.
When we visit a garden, we tend to judge it based on what’s growing: the shrubs, the trees, the flowers. And most visibly, the fruits. Very rarely do we focus on the soil: how fresh it is, how much water it gets, and what nutrients it receives. We also pay little attention to the seeds: what types of seeds are used, where they come from, and how you plant them.
We often apply the same lens to evaluate ourselves. What “fruits” do I see?
We get fixated on the fruits. We are disappointed when our garden doesn’t look as fruitful as we expected. We want to see fruits right now.
The worst is when we compare to our neighbor’s garden, which always looks splendid and delightful. We may even yell at the tiny little fruit we do have. “Why don’t you grow?” Quite comical if you think about it, isn’t it?
Fruits grow way after you plant good seeds in healthy soil. They are an outcome, which you can’t control. The only thing you can do is to focus on the input: the invisible stuff.
Cultivate the soil when no one is looking. Water it every day. Give it the best nutrients. Sow the seeds that will yield the fruits you want. If you want apples, don’t sow orange seeds. Plant as many good seeds as possible, for you don’t know which one will yield.
It takes patience. It will look like nothing is happening for days, weeks and months. But eventually something will sprout. No matter what, you keep going and repeating the same thing, day after day.
That’s only the way to grow fruits.
Over the last two years, I’ve felt a strong urge to get clarity with my life. What should I do with my limited time on earth? What’s my purpose? How can I find meaning in what I do?
I experimented with projects and hobbies. Along the way, I read, meditated, and tried new things.
Eventually I found my way to writing.
It started off with scribbling thoughts in a notebook when I went through a rough patch. Gradually, I realized I needed to first see what was going on in my life before I could untangle the knots.
Journaling provided that space.
As the journaling habit became more engrained, I felt a natural pull to start writing more every day. Though I met that call with skepticism. I started many blogs, journals, and projects over the last 15 years. None of them lasted more than a few months. Why would this time be different?
I have doubts. What am I supposed to write? Who am I to write? Who cares about what I have to say? English is not even my first language!
Why should I spend energy on this? What’s the reward?
Yet with all the hesitation, my heart yearns to respond to the call. It’s an invitation. It’s time to accept it. How about I go along with it and see happens?
Since the beginning of 2022, I have been writing 20+ minutes a day without breaking the chain. Every day I am learning something new. Writing teaches me to pay attention to my life in new ways. I appreciate other people’s writing in brand new ways. I see the the hard work it takes behind the scene to produce insightful writing.
When I approach writing as play, it can be light, fun, and enjoyable. I don’t have to grip my pen so hard. At the end of the day, I don’t choose the words. They choose me. All I have to do is be mindful when the words come, create space, and let them dwell.
When I write for no one, there is no disappointment.
Why build an expectation that everything I do must be profitable? Can’t I do something for its own sake?
I can just write.
A friend of mine once said, “I will be happy when I pay off this mortgage. I will be happy if I am rich. I will be happy if I retire now.”
“What will you do then?” I asked. She tilted her head and paused for a second. Then she said:
“I haven’t thought about that.”
If we add up the instances that we humans start a sentence with “I will be happy if…” that number will be as much as sand on the beach. I will be happy if I get an A on that test, if I get that promotion, if I can afford that shiny new electric car.
This line of thinking is known as conditional happiness. Underlying this thinking is a sense of lack. You are not whole. You are behind. Something is missing. For many of us, conditional happiness is our de facto operating system. We apply this to all aspects of our lives. If only my friends are more attentive. If only my partners are more considerate. If only I win the lottery.
The entire advertising industry—which spends tens of billions every year — revolves around this single idea. You are not thin, fit, healthy enough. You are not loved, admired or respected. But, relax, your problem goes away when you own this. You will then be happy.
What they don’t tell you is how fleeting that happiness is. It may last a day or two. Many people spend months, years and decades — if not their entire lives — pursuing conditional happiness. Along the way, they endure deep stress, thinking that is the price they must pay to attain happiness.
Even if one day they do become a valedictorian, a high-power CEO, or a billionaire, that happiness remains short-lived and elusive. There will always be more conditional happiness to chase after — it’s a bottomless well.
Is it worth the years of pain?
Conditional happiness is an archenemy to true joy. When we desire what we don’t have, or try to control what’s beyond our control, we suffer from anxiety.
The biggest problem with conditional happiness is that you miss out on the present. You forget about the many blessings you have already received. How about the simple fact that we live? How about the brand new 24 hours of possibilities we get every day? How about the unconditional beauty of the world offers us — the sun, the trees, the clouds? How about the people who are already there to support you?
“When you focus on what you lack, you lose what you have.” Author Greg McKeown once says.
There are two ways of seeing the world. One way is that everything can be a wonder that brings you joy now. Or you can deem nothing in the present moment wonderful, so you must keep running into a distant future.
So next time when you catch yourself dwelling in conditional happiness, you have a choice to make. Do you choose the present moment or some future happy scenario that your mind dreams up?
You can only pick one. The two are incompatible.
Whenever we feel anxious, we are always doing the same thing: to desire what is beyond our control.
When we are in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, we feel anxious. We want a positive assessment. We don’t want to be sick. We desire health.
The week after a job interview, our insides twist into knots. We want validation: that the money we spent on our education and hours we put into our career are worthwhile.
Before we speak to a crowd, we have butterflies in our stomach. We want to impress and earn respect. We fear that others will find us dumb, unworthy of love and respect.
The doctor’s diagnosis. The job offer. The reaction of your audience.
You have no control over any of these outcomes.
In all of these cases, paranoia doesn’t help. On the contrary, the strong emotions leave us exhausted with clouded judgement. That can make things worse.
So when you feel anxious next time, ask yourself: What is that I want that is outside of my control? Why do I want it? Is this anxiety helping me?
Most importantly: What’s actually within my control?
For the majority of my life, I had a fixation: write perfectly in my journal.
The obsession looked like this. I start a brand new notebook with excitement. In the first couple of pages, I write perfectly neat. All the words are orderly and consistently spaced, with no corrections. I slow myself to draw evenly rounded circles. I use a ruler to create sharp corners for a rectangle.
But I’m an impatient person. I also don’t have the most disciplined note-taking skills. By the time I hit the fourth page—perhaps I need to jot something down quickly when another person is speaking—my penmanship starts to get worse. The spacing between text is no longer uniform. More strikethroughs pop up. Some text is upright; some is slanted.
When that happens, a strong sense of disgust arises: it feels like I have ruined perfection.
Frustrated and unmotivated, my calligraphy keeps getting worse. If one page is already bad, what’s the point of being good again?
At the end—when my writing becomes almost illegible on the tenth page— I resort to one of the two coping following strategies: I either rip off the previous pages to start anew (which often results in the disintegration of the notebook itself), or start another journal as if this one has never happened.
I have done both many times. My drawer used to be filled with dozens of journals with only a few completed pages in each.
My journal doesn’t have to be perfect.
It’s okay to be unruly. Who cares?
It took me 30 years to realize how silly it is to hold so tightly onto the assumption that every I produce must be flawless, even with my own personal journal that no one will ever read. Why subject myself to unnecessary angst and unrealistic expectations? What’s the point of being perfect?
I started to ask new questions: what if I simply accept the past pages and chapters as they are? If this page is complete garbage, how about I simply skip and move on to the next page?
More economical yet, how about I draw a line half way through this page and start again underneath?
I’m happy to report that, since that realization, I have completed four journals cover-to-cover. Now I appreciate going through my full annotated notebooks to see how my life has evolved over time. I couldn’t have done that in the first three decades of my life.
Letting go of perfection has been freeing.
And good for the environment, too.
The world shook a little. At least that was how it felt initially at 2am.
“What the heck is it?”
It took me a while to gain consciousness and realize that it wasn’t an earthquake. It was the smoke detector in the living room. The smoke detector wasn’t beeping incessantly. But every 30 seconds, it gave a sharp chirp, loud enough to ensure it’s audible to all corners of the house.
Beep.
It was painful, but not enough for me to wake up in the middle of the night to figure out what was going on. I put on my earplugs and managed to doze off. When my eyes re-opened a few hours later, my sincere hope was that the beeping would have ceased.
Miraculously, no.
Beep.
I wasn’t going to let a malfunctioning device alter my morning routine, so I went on to do my push ups and meditation. But boy was I annoyed during my sit. I closed my eyes and was just about to get into the flow…
Beep.
“Ok, I should return to my breath. Focus on the rising and falling sensation of my torso, diaphragm…”
Beep.
Then I paused. Why am I so worked up by the beeping? Yes, it is annoying, but why? Is it because it affects my sleep? Or that I need to change my plans and actions to accommodate a surprising situation? Or that unless I give it immediate attention, it will continue to rob my sanity?
Am I giving it power to annoy me?
What does that say about all the things that can be happen in life that can be annoying? Many unpleasant problems can arise where there is no clear solution. How will I deal with it then?
Instead of resisting, can I lean into the beeping as it happens? Perhaps imagine it as a bell that rings every 30 seconds to remind me to focus on the task at hand. Perhaps I can think about how this device can save lives if a fire does happen…
Can I give it space now even though it’s annoying? Can I soften my heart?
(p.s. Make no mistake. I am definitely going to fix that freaking alarm after I’m done writing here. In the meantime, I will smile and learn to co-exist with it as if this whole episode is a comedy.)
The more I write, the more I realize it’s not about writing.
When I first started writing earlier this year, I’d choose a topic and develop the main ideas. I’d stick to these ideas and work on an essay for days.
Despite multiple revisions, the writing didn’t flow. It didn’t feel right. After looking at same file over and over again, I was confused: what the heck am I even saying?
I was frustrated. I had worked diligently but still had nothing to show.
What was the problem?
Trying too hard.
Trying too hard to execute on the preconceived ideas. To produce something. To control the outcome. To demonstrate progress. To prove I can do it.
The other day I went on a walk and saw a little girl play catch with her father in the neighborhood. She was immersed in the moment. Was the next throw going to a fast or a curve ball? It didn’t matter. Would she be able to catch the ball? She didn’t seem concerned, either. The joy simply comes from accepting what is next with curiosity.
Then it struck me. If the problem is trying too hard, then isn’t the answer not trying too hard — in other words, play?
So I start to relax. I let go of the idea that I’m the master of my writing. I start to ask my pen to be my travel guide as if I am in a new city.
“I am visiting and don’t know anything. Take me somewhere interesting — and maybe eat something delicious along the way.”
Then the magic happens. Words in new combinations reveal in front of my eyes. As I finish this very sentence, I don’t know what’s coming next. But now I’m okay with it. Because I learned that all I need is to accept the journey that my pen — or my fingers on the keyboard — will take me on. One step at a time.
To play. To discover. To embrace the unknown and the unknowable.
What a tremendous relief to know that the more fun and effortless path is also the better way to go.
You wake. Your eyes open. It’s a new day.
What will you see today?
When you get changed, you see the clothes that bring you comfort and keep you warm. You see how beautiful the colors in your wardrobe are. Maybe it’s time to wear that red shirt today.
When you take a shower, you see how water cleanses your body and awakens your senses. You realize how refreshing it feels to be renewed.
When you have breakfast, you see how wonderful it is to have food in the belly. The cup of a tea is a pleasurable bonus.
When you are stuck in traffic, you see all the drivers on the road. Everyone has dreams, loves ones they want to care for, and demons that they need to deal with.
When you work, you see how you can help solve some problems in the world with your skills, knowledge, and compassion. That gives you a sense of purpose and meaning.
When you create art with your heart, you see the physical world and the imaginary world in your head. You translate your vision into writing, drawings, and paintings. That brings you fulfillment.
When you listen to another person, you see her joy and suffering. You understand where she comes from. You know you presence is more important than any word you can utter with your mouth.
When you hear music, you see the emotions of the musicians, their gifts to the world. It uplifts you.
When you watch a child play, you see the sheer bliss of discovery without an agenda. It gives you hope.
When you meditate, you see how each breath gives you life. You experience the delight to dwell in the present moment. You see even when your eyes are closed.
When you pray, you see God in your life. How you are loved unconditionally even though the rest of the world tells you that you need to be a certain way or buy certain things to fix your brokenness. You don’t need to.
When you share what you have, you see that we are brothers and sisters. That the world is a common home. That we are all connected.
When you love, you see the call to offer yourself. Despite pain and discomfort, you see the joy that only suffering and sacrifice can bring.
What do you choose to see?
Every now and then, you stand at a cross road. You face a consequential choice. You feel the weight on your shoulder. You think this decision matters. You imagine how this turning point may alter your life’s trajectory forever.
Should you continue what you are doing or charter into completely unfamiliar territory? Should you stay in this city or relocate to a new country? Should you keep working or return to school? Should you go further in your current relationship or move on?
These choices always come down to this: Do you choose the pain and certainty that you are familiar with, or do you go with risks and ambiguity that brings a new future with unknown rewards?
The answer is not clear cut. You can assess various aspects of the decision, weigh the pros and cons of various area, or even assign ratings to each. But at the end, decision making is not baed on math alone. Three more pros do not automatically make an option a clear choice.
If you are agonizing over a decision, here are a few questions that may help you gain new perspectives.
The truth is we don’t know what will happen. No one does. The choice you make will likely turn out in ways you didn’t expect. That’s just how life is: it’s an adventure full of unknowns. Ultimately you will make a decision, and that decision is what you choose. Either way, you will turn out okay.
As Easter is celebrated around the world — with chocolate, egg hunts and an annual visit to a local church by many — I wonder what Jesus’s story of death and resurrection means for me this year.
If I am to put it in one line, it’s a call for renewal: We must die in order be born again.
Dying goes beyond physical death. It’s about letting go the old way of living. Perhaps a self-centered life to seek only satisfaction for our own desires. Perhaps a life gripped with anger, fear, and jealousy. Perhaps that deep sense of despair that nothing has meaning, purpose, or hope.
Renewal requires a change of heart. So what are we called to convert to?
Jesus’s life offers some clues.
While many might expect the manifestation of God to be bathed in glory, Jesus was born in a measly manger. He lived a humble life with his father, a carpenter, doing ordinary things. Imagine him like a kid in your neighborhood.
When he began his public ministry at the age of 30, he attended to the sick, the blind, and the deaf. He walked with the marginalized — the tax collector, the prostitute, and the divorced woman — despite the social taboo. He shed tears when people suffered.
Jesus denounced those in power — the high priests, the scribes and the Pharisees — for their hypocrisy, self-righteousness, and wickedness. His challenge of the authority and the status quo eventually led him to his crucifixion. People didn’t like what he had to say.
The story of his suffering — the Passion — was gruesome. As he took up his own cross, he was spat at and mocked by the crowd. He was nailed to a wood beam, stripped almost naked. A soldier “pierced His side with a spear, and immediately there came out blood and water.”
Can you think of a more ghastly and dehumanizing death? All in public?
Yet, Jesus accepted his life and death with courage. He understood his calling of sacrifice, and answered it fully with conviction. Why did he do all of this?
He set an example that we need not be overcome by physical and spiritual death. That life is worth living even though it’s hard. That we must recognize that we are connected as brothers and sisters. That we must love another, even when others do not reciprocate that love. Because we are all called to.
The concept of death and resurrection can feel foreign. But we experience it every day. Every night when we sleep, we die — just a little. None of us has any actual idea what happens when we are asleep. We have no control or consciousness.
Yet in the morning, we are unconditionally gifted with a brand new day without asking for it. It doesn’t matter what happened in the thousands of days before this one. Today is another renewed beginning.
How will I choose to live today? Will I love more than I did yesterday?
Deep in your heart, you yearn for a revolution. This voice never shouts, but you know it’s there.
If you listen closely, a little voice within you is constantly calling you for a change: not to add anything new, but to shed the layers that have been put on you over the years.
What are those layers?
Perhaps a lifestyle that was once fun and thrilling but you realize it does not align with your values. Perhaps a goal that seemed vital to your happiness but it now feels trivial at best. Perhaps old assumptions about the world that you held onto so dearly for survival but now they serve you no longer.
You hear a call to transform, to do what was once unthinkable, and to rediscover who you truly are.
What’s this work you must do? What’s this life you must live?
But before we take even the very first step towards any change, a question from the devil paralyzes us: What will other people think?
All great questions. But how about this one?
What if you do it for no one?
What if you pursue this change simply because you are who you are? What if, for this once, you choose to accept this invitation from above with courage? What if you put aside people’s expectations for one second?
It doesn’t mean you have to go all in on something drastic without discerning what’s right for you. There are smart ways to approach a change. When you take a leap of faith, you can start small. Take a tiny step when no one is looking. Walk another step tomorrow, and then another the day after. Explore. Play. Create. But do something about it.
Leave behind a burden that you don’t need to take on. When you have no expectations, no effort can be a failure. When you free yourself from others’ judgement, disappointment is impossible.
The world doesn’t need another person preoccupied with pleasing others. The world needs you to be you—alive, engaged, and committed.
There are a millions reasons for you to not do something, but you only need one reason to do it.
Do it because you choose to accept the invite. Do it because you are ready to embrace this new path. Do it because you want to see what’s possible.
It’s okay to be scared, but be not afraid. It’s never as bad as you think.
Do it for no one.
An unusual scene emerged at my local church. Stations were set up with jars of water, large bowls, and piles of towels. In the middle of the service, the priest knelt to wash, dry and kiss a woman’s feet. The woman gently did the same for the next person in line. The congregation followed, doing this in pairs.
This symbolic act was clearly awkward at first for most people, but many giggled with anticipation as water was poured onto their feet. Who would have their feet touched by another person on a normal day?
Each ceremony usually began with a moment of uncertainty as both parties tried to figure out what to do, but it always ended with an exchange of appreciation and an expression of joy. Many hugged with a big smile.
On this Thursday before Easter, churches around the world commemorated the washing of the feet, as Jesus did to his disciples 2,000 years ago.
In the Jewish tradition, body parts followed a hierarchy of respect. It was unthinkable at the time for an honored person to use his hands — a venerable part of his body — to touch another person’s feet, a lowly body part (probably dirty as people wore sandals).
But that was exactly what Jesus — a revered teacher — voluntarily did to the twelve apostles. He showed a clear, humble example that whoever leads must be of service to others. “For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” (Lk 14:11)
What a powerful reminder to the world today that can be so caught up in acquiring possessions, status and power over others. In a world where suffering are abound, shouldn’t we be stepping out into the world and be an agent of change, a source of light?
On this same day, the Pope visited a prison in Italy. He celebrated the same ceremony with twelve inmates. It was a moving scene to watch.
“Jesus teaches us this, simply, that you must wash each other’s feet … we serve one another, without expecting a return: how beautiful it would be if it were possible to do this every day and to all people.” the Pope said.
The question for me: How can I be of service to others? Whose feet will I wash? And will I make myself vulnerable and allow others to wash mine?