Words. What are they, these little packets of meaning, these small bits of sound we use to label and share all that we encounter in life?

Yes, that’s a “chair”.

Yes, “love” is a fine thing indeed to call what we’re feeling. That is what we’re feeling, right?

We send words out. We get words back.

We speak them, pushing air up from our lungs and molding that air with our lips and tongues and vocal chords. We receive them from others via tiny tunnels in our head that lead, quite strangely, to a whisper thin membrane and a fragile set of bones.

We write them down, using symbols to represent and preserve the thoughts in our head. Because we have such symbols, we can also access the thoughts of others who are far from us or who came long before us.

The words that we use evolve. They change, adapt, and collaborate. They connect to, feed off of, and even mate with one another.

Funny, but I really can’t find the words to describe how fascinating words are.

Perhaps its best to let them speak for themselves as they do in the stunning video below. It’s a flowing stream of word play created by Will Hoffman and Daniel Mercadante for WNYC’s Radiolab. Watch, let the words wash over you, and enjoy.

Words by Will Hoffman and Daniel Mercadante

Are you getting all the Quiet Inspiration you need? Subscribe to Quiet Inspiration, the Mildly Creative Newsletter. You can also subscribe to these blog posts via RSS feed or by Email.

Now that the smoke has cleared, my thoughts, to some extent, have cleared up too. I’m no longer having visions of blogicide. Mildly Creative lives to see another day.

As a result, my new blog will be different than what I first imagined, and that’s all I want to say about it.

I’d rather just do whatever I’m going to do and avoid making promises I might not keep. The pre-smokefree me would have done the opposite.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m blaming all my half-baked plans and promises of the past on the nicotine. I wonder what I’ll blame for the ones in the future?

We humans have a tendency to build cocoons – physical, emotional, and especially intellectual – because we usually like our lives to be safe, warm, and somewhat familiar. We like to know where we are, what we’re doing, and what we’re supposed to be thinking and feeling, so we look for things to tightly wrap ourselves inside of.

insulation from confrontation

We might find a place to stay, then stay there . . . forever . . . always . . . all the time.

We might learn a way to do things and repeatedly do things that way, swearing it’s the only one.

Or we might swear our allegiance to a religion, political party, or school of thought, one we can cling to, believe in, and never doubt because it’s easier, we discover, to leave the heavy thinking to someone else.

Then we can spend our time reading books that tell us what we think we already know. We can eat the same foods, hum the same tunes, visit the same places, and take the same routes we always have.

And we can make sure to surround ourselves with people who happen to, oddly enough, look, think, and act very much like we do. Did we select them or just assimilate? Hmm. Who cares? It’s all the same.

The main thing is that we avoid confrontation. The main thing is that we never force ourselves to adapt.

Author’s Note: I’m doing a little post swapping. How naughty.

All is not well. Everything will not be okay. This is not going to be easy.

Such things are hard to say and even harder to accept, especially when you’ve been inundated with messages to the contrary.

The Pressure of Positive Thinking

Keep your chin up. Think positive. Press onward. Never let them see you sweat. Over and over we’re told these things.

But we do sweat and sometimes people see us do it. We can’t always find the strength to press on. Our thoughts turn negative and our chins get heavy and when they do we feel guilty because we think we’ve somehow betrayed ourselves and those who depend on us.

This is too bad. It’s hard enough being human without also being ashamed of it.

Recently, without any announcement, I stopped everything in order to stop one thing in particular: smoking. Today, I blog before you as a full-fledged member of the League of Ex-Smokers.

To join that group, I had to do something I’d never really done before: give quitting my full attention. I couldn’t snap my fingers and presto, change-o, make everything coolio.

Instead, I had to go through the temporary but, to me, frightening withdrawal phase when it’s almost impossible to concentrate.

I had to come up with better ways to handle stressful moments than sucking on the filtered end of a tiny pile of burning leaves.

I had to get real and stop looking for something else to blame for my lack of energy and shortness of breath while slavishly clutching my favorite brand to my chest.

To do this, I had to accept, once and for all, that nothing was more important than my health. Not any blog I hope to build, not any book I hope to write, not any craft I wish to master.

If I wanted to live life to the fullest, I first had to opt for survival.

That sounds like common sense, but nicotine addiction makes you crazy.

It makes you do crazy things like stand outside a restaurant in the freezing rain just to get your fix.

It makes you believe crazy things like the notion that suffocating yourself ten to twenty times a day is an effective way to keep your cool.

It can even lead you to think about doing something crazy like getting rid of a blog you love because you’re distraught for reasons you either don’t know or won’t admit you know.

I knew and I’d always known, but it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I was completely willing to admit it and do something about it.

And to do something about it, I had to stop, at least for a time, doing almost everything else. I’m glad I did.

Smoking? Been there, done that, and I’m never going to do it again. Now, maybe I can finally set my sights on doing all the things I’ve been dreaming of.

Are you getting all the Quiet Inspiration you need? Subscribe to Quiet Inspiration, the Mildly Creative Newsletter. You can also subscribe to these blog posts via RSS feed or by Email.

I have inner wisdom and so do you. This, I’m sad to say, is a relatively new insight for me.

On the Outside Never Looking In

In the past, when I felt out of sorts, I looked outside myself for answers. I never looked within. It was such a mess in there. All that chaos and confusion, a swirling sea of emotions, waves of wild ideas, and the debris of broken wishes.

I didn’t realize there was something underneath. Something quiet. Something calm. Something I could reach for and grab onto and steady myself with.

Things Get Quiet

When I began this blog, I did so, in part, because I’d discovered for myself the benefits of calming down in order to create something. I thought others might benefit as well.

The premise is pretty simple. It’s easier to be creative when you’re not freaking yourself out. Two-hundred-and-seventy posts can attest to that fact.

Before I calmed down, I wrote very little. I thought about it, talked about it, and sometimes cried about it, but I seldom ever did anything about it.

Lucky for me, I began to change. I started slowing down. I started breathing in and breathing out. I started calming down, and sitting down, and writing.

Derailing and Getting Back on Track

But every now and then, I’d jump back up. I’d pace, I’d stew, I’d tug at my hair. I’d go through spells of doing things the old way, which meant not doing them at all.

Then I’d remember, and I’d calm back down again. I’ve done this many times and I think I’m getting better at it.

Now here’s where the wisdom thing comes in.

An Unexpected Visitor

You see, initially I was only calming down in order to write and create, but it’s gradually became much more than that. I’d never been that quiet before. I’d simply never allowed it.

I think that’s why I kept jumping up from time to time. In the midst of all that quiet, I was starting to hear myself and I wasn’t used to listening. I guess it made me nervous.

But I kept coming back because I wanted to write, and each time I came back I got a little quieter, stayed a little longer, heard a little more. Eventually, I started listening.

And there it was: my wisdom. In fact, it’s here right now and I know it will be here tomorrow when I wake up. It’s been here all along, just waiting, wondering if I’d ever notice. It will be here until I breathe my last breath. It will never abandon me, and, now that I know that, I must remember to never abandon it.

Someone’s Waiting for You to Listen

You have wisdom, too. I know this because I know I’m simply human. I haven’t been granted a special power that no one else has access to. I haven’t received a revelation. I’ve been granted no divine authority.

I’m just a guy who got quiet because he wanted to write and somewhere in the midst of the silence discovered he had something more than words: a friend, a guide, a companion – his wisdom.

Please do yourself a favor. At some point in the midst of all the hustle and bustle, pause for one curious moment and ask yourself, “What’s waiting for me in the silence?” Then go there and find out.

Are you getting all the Quiet Inspiration you need? Subscribe to Quiet Inspiration, the Mildly Creative Newsletter. You can also subscribe to these blog posts via RSS feed or by Email.

Fear is. The sooner we learn that, the better.

Sometimes it looms and sometimes it lurks, but it’s always around, and that’s really not such a bad thing.

Fear, after all, keeps us from blindly driving off the cliff, running into the fire, and diving headfirst into the pool of crocodiles. It’s there for a reason.

The only trouble with fear is that it’s not always reasonable. It can’t distinguish a good risk from a bad one. Its only cry is danger. It knows nothing of rewards.

That’s why it sometimes tries to protect us from the things we most desire. It stands guard at the door to our dreams, telling us how foolish we would be to enter.

“You’re not ready for this,” it warns us, “You’re in over your head.”

And so it keeps us from trying. “You’re just going to get hurt.” it tells us.

It keeps us from participating. “You won’t be welcome there. They’ll eat you alive.”

It keeps us from expanding. “Stick to what you know. Stay within your niche. Don’t stray out. It’s so much safer here.”

If we listen, do what fear tells us to do, and avoid what it tells us not to, then, for a time, we do feel safe. We avoid danger.

But we also avoid challenge and we miss out on growth and we get stuck in the mire of what could have been and feel as if we’re half the person we want to be.

Fear once told me to give up on writing. “It’s a pipe dream,” it told me, “You’ll write and you’ll write and no one will care. No one will read it, and you’ll never earn a dime.”

But my fear didn’t know what desire suspected, namely that writing could be a way to help me clarify my interests, discover what I felt, find out what I thought, and make a little sense of the world.

Desire was right, and fear, as it turns out, has only been one for three thus far. There are people who do care and people who do read what I write and I even have reason to believe that one day I will earn that dime.

To find all that out, I had to move fearward.

Ignoring it didn’t work. It only grew louder.

Running away didn’t work. It chased after me.

I had to acknowledge it, approach it, feel it, and move past it.

And approaching it is not the same as charging it. It did me no good to pull back my shoulders, puff out my chest, and draw my sword. Fear can be a tenacious fighter.

Instead, I had to act like an adult, something I haven’t always been good at, something I’m still learning to do even at the age of 43.

I had to stay calm but remain resolute. “Sorry, fear,” I had to say, “I appreciate your concern, but this is something I’m going to do.” And then I had to do it.

When you behave like that, fear has no option but to get out of your way and let you through the door.

There is, however, one thing you must know. Fear is always one door down. “I let you slip through that one,” it seems to be fond of saying, “but I’ll be damned if you’re getting through this one.”

Your job and my job is to keep moving towards it, forward, fearword, and, when it’s prudent, to go ahead and let it be damned.

Are you getting all the Quiet Inspiration you need? Subscribe to Quiet Inspiration, the Mildly Creative Newsletter. You can also subscribe to these blog posts via RSS feed or by Email.

It’s late, and I just had a long talk with my daughter, but not the kind of long talk I used to have with her, the kind in which I tried to impart some chunk of wisdom or correct some errant deed.

This was a two-way talk, a conversation, an enjoyable, free exchange between two adults and it didn’t seem to matter that I was the parent and she was the child, because the truth is she’s not a child anymore. I’m still her father, she’s still my daughter, but so much else has changed.

She’s not the girl I raised and I’m not the man who raised her, and that, I’ve learned, is a good thing. If we were still those things, our relationship would be a frozen one. But it’s not that. Instead, it’s flowing, and I’m learning to go with the current.

Some time ago, I did what all healthy parents must eventually do. I let go. I released my grip on her hand in my heart, but kept my arms wide open.

It was scary, but it’s been rewarding. One day I let go of a child, and another day an adult came back to visit me.

Tonight, we talked openly about beliefs and wishes and questions we have, things I don’t always feel free to discuss with some people. I’m glad I can do so with her and doubly glad she feels free to do so with me.

Looking back, I think I did a lot of things wrong. But tonight, I get the sense I did a few things right, and I hope to do more in the future.

Every day, you attempt to fight the resistance, to show up, do the work, and overcome. But what are you trying to overcome? Have you defined it? Do you know what you’re up against?

If you knew, you might be surprised to discover that you really don’t want to fight it and that you really don’t have to. Giving in could be just what you need to get on with things.

For instance, you may think you have a resistance to writing, a fairly serious problem if you have a desire to write. But a closer look could reveal something far less problematic.

Instead of resisting writing, you might find you’re resisting writing in a certain location, at a certain time of day, or for an undefined amount of time.

If you knew this, you could do something about it. You could change your location, adapt your schedule, or get very clear about how long you intend to write. In other words, you could give in.

Resistance isn’t always a sign of some character defect. Sometimes it’s a cry to be heard.

It’s as if your soul is saying, “Hey! I have a stake in this matter. There are things that I like, things that I don’t, and both these things deserve consideration.”

You’re not a machine, though you may be “wired” a certain way. You can’t simply flip the switch and power down your values, desires, and predilections.

You’re made of flesh and blood. You have thoughts and emotions. You have a set of preferences.

Your attempts to ignore this could be the source of your resistance. You’re a human being and an individual. If you’re trying to deny this either consciously or unconsciously, no wonder you’re meeting resistance.

Your resistance could be an instinct and a darned good one, willing to fight the good fight, even if the enemy is you.

Are you getting all the Quiet Inspiration you need? Subscribe to Quiet Inspiration, the Mildly Creative Newsletter. You can also subscribe to these blog posts via RSS feed or by Email.

Tell me if this sounds a little crazy.

Day after day, you dream of leaving your desk job behind. Someday, you tell yourself, you’re going to tear down the walls, crush the cubicle, and smash a few of those eerie fluorescent lights on your way out the door.

Planning Your Escape

No more, you imagine, will you be governed by a clock with a slot, watched over by a doofus in a necktie, or chained to a desk that you swear must have been purchased from a former Soviet Union surplus store.

You, after all, are making your way towards something more creative, less inhibiting, and completely self expressive.

Reconstructing Your Prison

And what’s the first thing you do? You head over to the local Office Box. You know the one. It’s the one with the wide selection of aluminum desks, black-pleather office chairs, and eerie fluorescent lamps.

There, you set about recreating the thing you’ve been longing to escape so you can install it in your home.

If this in anyway sounds both crazy and exactly like you, don’t feel bad. You’re not the only one.

Restless Rump Syndrome

For a long time, I tried to get myself to sit in a chair and work at a desk that I lugged home one day while recreating my very own version of the thing I’d been working to escape. No wonder my wandering rump would never comply.

I tried and I cried but away my butt would slide. After each failed attempt, the clouds burst and I found myself in a torrential downpour of guilt.

“No discipline!” shouted the the smarmy, little schoolmarm I keep inside my brain.

“Writer!” bellowed the drill sergeant I also sometimes find there, “What – is – your – ma – jor – mal – func – tion?”

“Off with his head!” screamed the Queen of Hearts. I have no idea how she got there.

So, needless to say, I would feel pretty crummy.

Where You Find Your Chair is Neither Here Nor There.

Then one day I realized something. It doesn’t matter where my chair is. The point isn’t to show up and sit in a particular chair at a particular desk beneath any particular sort of lighting. The point, for me, is to show up on a page.

I think it’s the same for you. It doesn’t necessarily matter where there is. It only matters that you show up some where, or, to paraphrase the late, great Dr. Seuss, you could show up here or there, you could show up anywhere.

The Work is Where It’s At (Wherever That May Be)

My job is to put ink on paper. Your job may be to put paint on canvas, capture images on film, or pour yourself into a monologue. Whatever our work may be, there’s absolutely nothing dictating where we do it.

Sometimes I write and draw in a chair at my desk, but now I’m just as likely to do so in a lawn chair on my deck, in a recliner in my living room, on a bench at the park, or on my belly on the floor.

The only thing that matters is that I write and that I draw. That’s it.

It’s great to have a workspace (perhaps even a sacred one) that you can come to again and again. But there’s no reason to think you always have to go there to do your work. It’s only the work, after all, that matters.

So, though you should certainly commit to showing up, you’re free to show up anywhere. No matter where you go, the work is where it’s at.

Are you getting all the Quiet Inspiration you need? Subscribe to Quiet Inspiration, the Mildly Creative Newsletter. You can also subscribe to these blog posts via RSS feed or by Email.