Journal

I’m being a bit goofy with this, but I realized today that I’m currently in my favorite quadrant of The Work 2x2 (TM) that I made up just now. Let’s call this quadrant “Feeling Dumb, Having Fun.”

Along the x-axis it goes—left to right—from “feeling clever” to “feeling dumb,” and along the y-axis—bottom to top—from “lacking fun” to “having fun.” I’m in the top-right quadrant, of course.

In the top-left (Feeling Clever, Having Fun) it might seem nice and easy, but I don’t feel like I’m learning enough and lose interest. In the bottom-right (Feeling Dumb, Lacking Fun), I’m learning… but I don’t know if I want to learn about that. In the bottom-left (Feeling Clever, Lacking Fun), I’m neither learning enough or having any fun.

Whenever there’s way too little fun or I’m not being challenged enough, I need to change things. When I’m learning a bunch and having fun doing it, though? My goodness, yes—let me stay a while.

I’m tired today. I like to write at my desk, but today I’m on the couch with my laptop. I don’t feel much like moving. This might be an unusual post, but I’m just going to note some observations from where I sit and see where it takes me. Might go nowhere? Doesn’t matter.

I’m still wearing my jacket after coming in from walking the dog. It’s a denim jacket I bought as part of an outfit to attend the Stranger Things experience at Secret Cinema in London. It’s getting chilly in the Bay Area, so I’m wearing a cardigan underneath. I feel cozy; it feels nice.

Our dog, Cacio, is curled up next to me on the couch. I always think that she looks like a little cashew nut, which—coincidentally—is what people believe her name is (because why Cacio, if not for her brother Pepe). We walked to meet my wife at the BART station—which we do most nights—as she traveled back from her San Francisco office.

When our dog spots my wife, she can’t contain her excitement. She tap dances and hops around with joy; her tail wags so ferociously it causes her whole body to wiggle. I love it so much. Strangers suddenly start to beam—huge grins replacing their previously-glum expressions.

The drawer to my left is maybe one-third open, and when I raise my eyes a little I notice a kitchen cupboard that’s about one-fifth ajar. Both of these are signs that my wife has opened and almost-closed them. A curiosity that I’ve come to love; I like being reminded of her.

In between those two sights is a large bouquet of flowers that my father bought for us before he left town and headed back to England. It was kind. I love flowers, and so does my wife. A few years ago I ordered my wife flowers for valentines day whilst on a flight to Los Angeles, and accidentally started a monthly subscription. I haven’t cancelled it, because they make her happy, and that makes me happy.

Behind the flowers I can see that the big light is on in my office. I hate the big light, but I must have turned it on for something. My urge to turn it off is going to be the thing that makes me get off my cozy spot on the couch. Now I really hate the big light. I’ll give it a few minutes.

My desk pad is on the coffee table in front of me; a little Midori number glued on two edges. I’m introducing myself at the company all hands in the morning, and I was sent a few questions that I’ll answer.

What did I do before joining Medium? What’s my role at Medium? What’s my favorite publication? Any fun hobbies? Favorite advice I’ve heard? I’ll be posting this on Medium, so I won’t add spoilers. Maybe I’ll write the answers down later. Then again, maybe I won’t.

I like talking, but I’m not sure if I like talking about myself. I like talking about ideas. I like talking about other people. I wonder if I can talk about ideas whilst pretending that I’m talking about myself?

There was something meditative in writing this; grounding. A sort of mundane nothingness. I was almost bored writing it, but the good kind of bored. A quiet contentment, maybe, more-so than boredom. A strange little treat to myself, and a strange little experience for you.

Inspired by this great post on Medium from Paul Ford, I thought I’d start jotting down ideas for stories that are just rattling around in my head.

A story about books, from the perspective of a book (bear with me), based on the form of the book that the reader is experiencing. Sort of inspired by the essay I, Pencil, and motivated by the idea (and my strong belief) that a book can take many forms (which I wrote about).

The life of some protagonist… on some journey (listen, there’s a reason I haven’t written the story) is revealed primarily by how they experience the world through sound. Protagonist is probably deaf, but maybe not (motivated by my own relationship with sound and sense).

Everyone is given their book at birth, and they carry that book with them their entire life. The book doesn’t change, but they change, and so they relate to the book differently (and are further changed). Everyone might have a different book, or you could have the same book as someone else.

I don’t really recall when it started, but for as long as I can remember I’ve written in capitals when writing by hand. I told myself when I was young that my handwriting was horrible and believed it ever since.

That is, until yesterday.

A few days back I started writing my morning pages by hand. For the first few days I wrote how I always write, by printing capital letters one after the other. Yesterday, a couple hundred words in, I started writing in cursive. I couldn’t even tell you why—it just… happened.

For the next few lines, I winced a little as I got used to the unfamiliar (physical) feeling and the despaired in the deeply familiar (mental) feeling—that is, the feeling of hating myself a tiny bit. A few lines later, and I felt almost neutral toward myself. A few more lines and I almost felt… good? I almost liked my handwriting, in fact.

What followed was a strange wave of emotions. Pride. Sadness. Excitement. Disbelief. I’d believed something about myself for years—decades—that might never have been true. I’d told myself that I was deficient in this way, and that I probably always would be.

What other beliefs am I holding onto that might not be true? I have no idea, but I’m determined to find out. I consider myself to be generally optimistic about my capabilities. I tend to think that I can do almost anything that I put my mind to. And yet here I was.

This might seem small—and it is in the grand scheme of things—but it surprised me more than I thought it would. I surprised myself. I’m borderline-embarrassed to even write this post, but it turns out that leaning into discomfort is sometimes a good thing to do.

There’s something about writing a blog post that makes you (me? one?) get a bit preachy, so I’m going to try writing this one as just a statement of the facts, and readers (including me) can take from it what they want.

It was my father’s 60th birthday yesterday. He was visiting from England, so I was able to give him a gift in person. The gift:

1. A fountain pen & ink
2. A Kodak single-use camera
3. Sheets of paper
4. Envelopes

I had been struggling with what the gift should be, and my (thoughtful, creative) wife suggested a writing set—with the real gift, of course, being that we’d write to one another (my father and I). I loved the idea, and wanted to take it one step further: a film camera. If the words we shared were going to be analog, I wanted our photos to be, too.

The pen, paper and envelopes—of course—were for handwritten letters. To get us started without getting lost in analog-camera land, I bought the single-use camera—one for each of us.

My father loved the idea too, but shared a concern: “it will take me forever to use all 27 frames” (and therefore too long to send a letter). The concern came from assuming that the photos should be “good,” but I suggested that the photo need not be some artistic masterpiece. Instead, I offered, it should simply aim to capture a moment.

I also know my father well enough to predict that when I asked him to write me a letter, he would write something, you know, letter-y. It would be written as he’d never actually speak, and end with how proud he was (in far too many words). I know myself well enough to predict that I would eventually stop replying to letters like this.

I offered another suggestion (let’s call it): write as if this was the dominant medium of the century; as if you had to share everything this way, not only the stuff that feels fit for pen and ink. I want to hear about the silly joke you heard, I said; about the annoying thing at work. I want a photo of the weird-shaped tomato that you bought.

We’ve yet to share our first analog letters and photos, but I’m excited to send and receive them. I’m looking forward to reading a letter that has an occasional “lmao” and goofy sketch. I’m extremely prepared to find a photograph of “the best bloody cuppa I’ve ever had.”

I’m increasingly drawn toward analog things. Slow things. Private things. I want indecipherable handwriting, over-exposed portraits, and just a little more time to reflect on and capture life.

I’ve received many messages that I’ll never read.

The number next to the mail app on my phone reads 35,342.

The number next to the messages app reads 623.

Mostly spam? Note sure.

Hidden gems? Unlikely.

But sometimes I wonder what’s in there, and if I could ever read them all. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve missed something wonderful, and if it’s hiding in the wrong place; affixed with the wrong label.

I wonder what the messages with an unsubscribe link might tell me about who I once was, or how the messages in spam might reveal who’s sold my information for profit. I wonder, but I don’t read.

I wonder if there’s an essay to write should I eventually read them all, or an entire book. There’s certainly a blog post in not reading them (hello). Perhaps there’s an essay or a book there, too.

I’m a little worried to look in case there’s nothing there. I’m even more worried when I consider that there could in fact be something—especially something lost; long-since expired.

I love these strange artifacts of modern life. I suspect that people did not used to have 35,342 handwritten letters piled up by their door, all unread. We have so much noise now, so little signal.

The unread is both mystery and mundanity.

This post is a rerun. I post occasional reruns as a kindness to myself and to unearth old posts for new readers. You can read about reruns, too.

Today’s rerun is Walks of Life. When I was scrolling back through posts to figure out which one I’d rerun today, this one caught my eye. I realized I’d forgotten the walk that I do every day: the dog walk.

Sometimes I walk the dog alone, and sometimes my wife and I walk the dog together. Regardless, every walk is sort of the same, and every walk is different (in some way). When you do a walk every day, you start to notice how, and to think about the walk you want to have.

There are the walks that come at the end of a long day, and where all you want to do it put a podcast on and get through it.

There are the walks where you notice things in your neighborhood that you’ve never noticed before and marvel at them.

There are the walks where you seem to lead, where the dog seems to lead, and where you seem to be completely in sync.

I’ve set out on a walk multiple times after a stressful day wishing that I didn’t have to do this darn walk, only to find myself 20 minutes into the walk realizing that it’s the best part of my day: fresh air in my lungs, blood pumping around my body, and a perfect companion at my side.

I’ve worked through problems on our walks, witnessed the sky transform into dream-like hues, connected with folks I might never have met. I’ve shared moments with my wife, and the three of us have shared moments together—fun, silly, loving moments that I cherish.

Dog walks are not the reason that we got a dog, but they turned out to be an unexpected gift. Whilst she’ll never read it (rude), this post it a thank you to our dog, Cacio. I love walking, and some of the best walks are our walks—especially when the whole pack’s together.

Living in a new country can feel lonely. There’s the big stuff, sure (like living thousands of miles from many people that you love), but there’s the small stuff, too (like the lack of Yorkshire pudding).

A medium thing is navigating unfamiliar holidays. One the one hand, they don’t really feel like yours, and on the other you don’t really have anyone to celebrate them with, even if you wanted to. Here: the Fourth of July, Labor Day and (of course) Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is big. It’a big enough that you feel left out if you don’t celebrate it. Big enough that you want to be with people you care about. Big enough that you feel more lonely than ever.

When we lived in New York, we didn’t know anyone, especially for our first Thanksgiving. We celebrated (sort of), but I don’t think that we really knew what we were celebrating. Certainly not the holiday’s history, and it wasn’t an excuse to get family and friends together.

When we moved to California, a couple of things happened: we moved closer to some of my wife’s family, and we started to make real friends. This year was the first where Thanksgiving didn’t feel like some alien concept, and it’s down to the kindness of those folks.

The family had invited us to join them for a small gathering in Petaluma. A gathering to break bread, share stories, and simply spend time together. We were thankful to be there, and they seemed thankful for our presence. A small moment, but a big deal.

Whilst we were getting ready, a new friend sent me a message: if we didn’t have plans, she said, we were welcome to join them. A short message—really, just a few words—but it meant everything to me. My heart felt so full, and I suddenly felt a lot less lonely.

These gestures reveal so much more than it might first appear. They reveal that we’ve surrounded ourselves with kind, loving people who care about us. They reveal that we ourselves, perhaps, might be kind enough people that our presence is at least a little enjoyable.

The gestures might have felt small for the people making them. They’re wonderful enough humans that it likely came naturally to them. To me, though, they’re huge. They make me feel welcome, and loved. They make me feel at home in a way that I didn’t before.

Small gestures can feel enormous. Little big gestures.

Being born in a quiet place. Having a park near our house. Not having video games. Having trees to climb. The caravan holidays. The holiday to London, which probably changed my life. Making friends. School summer holidays. The free AOL trial on CD-ROM. MSN Messenger. Kind teachers. A father who taught me the value of hard work, and of being present. Picnics by the river. My best friend Paris, who beckoned me over on our first day of high school and has been there ever since. Runescape. Our silly “band,” The Chicken Pluckers. Kind friends. Honest friends. My own resilience. The relationships that didn’t work. The relationship that did work. My kind, funny and loving wife, Aneesah. Traveling around the world, together. Moving to London, together. Moving to New York City, together. Moving to California, together. Our shared resilience. Feeling loved. Feeling love. Our perfect puppy, Cacio. The sun. The sea. Nature. New friends. The right to vote. Growing older with the love of my life.

Have you ever looked at something impressive that someone is doing (or has already done) and thought: “I could never do that?” I know I have.

It’s curious, because the evidence is right there in front of us that it’s possible to do; that a human being can do it. I’ll assume that if you’re reading—and comprehending—this that you are a human being also. If a human can do it, and we are human, surely we could do it too.

Now, some things might be more difficult for us to do. I’m not 6’7”, so it will undoubtedly be harder for me to dunk. Unlike Alex Mack, I didn’t get splashed with GC-161 chemical goo and consequently lack the ability to transform into liquid mercury and slip covertly under doors.

People thought a sub-4:00 mile was impossible for years until someone ran a sub-4:00 mile. Afterwards, several other people ran a sub-4:00 mile. Climbing Everest. Powered flight. Space travel. Impossible until they were not, and then an explosion of achievement.

Most of us aren’t even looking to break records when we assume that we’re not capable, we’re trying to do something well-trodden by many. The precedent exists. It’s not extraordinary, but extra ordinary.

If someone can do it—if someone has done it—assume that you can do it also. Just start, try hard, and keep going. Try to surprise yourself with what you can do; don’t worry about trying to surprise others.

Join the ranks of the extra ordinary.