Donald Miller's Blog, page 13

The Profound And Unexpected Gift of Small Talk

I love this line in “What A Wonderful World” that says: “I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’ ‘How do you do?’ / They’re really sayin’ ‘I love you.’”

Whether or not it was the songwriter’s intention, I like the line because it gives weight and meaning to everyday kindnesses we can all participate in. And lately, I have been thinking about just the kind of interaction the song mentions—what we call small talk.

Photo Credit: Leo Hidalgo, Creative Commons

I’m not talking about shallow, guarded communication with people we’re close to, and not about gossip or griping either, but about the kind of pass-the-time conversation you make with people who you stand in line with at the post office, or speak to across the grocery store register, or sit next to on planes.

I’m an extrovert.

Beyond that, I grew up in a small southern city, so my affinity for chatting might not be much more than a product of my personality and my upbringing. And I get why people don’t like small talk—it saps energy, it can feel fake and awkward, it wastes time, or if it’s the only kind of talking we know how to do, it can distract us from more lasting and authentic connections.

But at the moment, as all my screens are filled with voices telling me who all the “thems” are in the world and to what degree I should cross my arms at those people, these friendly conversations feel like an important exercise, even like their own form of vulnerability.

When I stop and say, “that’s my nephew’s name,” or “my brother lives there,” or “it is so nice to have the sun back out” instead of burrowing into my inner to-do list (or, let me join the chorus, into my phone)—

I get to participate in a tiny moment of shared people-ness.

Asking a question or smiling or saying hello is a small thing that helps me realize all the people around me aren’t chiefly people around me, they’re people—real, live individuals. It’s like when you hear the person you’ve been silently sitting next to in an airport terminal call someone to tell them the plane’s finally boarding:

Woah, someone’s waiting to pick them up—that’s a whole person—with a whole life.

Finding a reason or a way to connect, even for two minutes, involves imagination and effort and sometimes uncomfortably honest assessments of ourselves. It takes time and energy and humility, none of which are resources that are easy to be generous with. But it’s something that enables us to see others, the other, even, as a little more real.

When somebody asks, “So is your workday just starting or ending?” they’re really saying:

“I see you. You’re a person. There you are.”

In a time when it’s easy to find out why someone thinks I should be in a different and competing camp from the one my neighbor is in, these interactions are handfuls of soil that I can use to create our common ground. If we can’t practice finding common ground, even small tracts of it, in these everyday ways, I’m not sure we will know how to find it when it really matters—on the big stuff.

I’m worried we’ll forget how to recognize it.

Or that we will give up looking for it.

We have to keep training our eyes to look for the places where we can meet each other. And for me, sometimes this looks like opening myself to conversations that reveal no more or less than that the back and forth temperatures make us both get allergies, or that the rainy day makes it hard to get unsleepy, or that it’s a bummer but not the end of the world to get stuck in the airport.

I was listening to a live performance on the radio the other night, and when one of the hosts was welcoming the crowd she said, “I’m just glad we’re here the same time you’re here.” For me, that seemed like a fitting way to think about small talk:

Hey, you’re here and I’m here—isn’t that something.

The Danger of Bringing Ego Into Politics

It was an ordinary Saturday morning in D.C. I’d had breakfast earlier with friends who worked on the Hill and was cleaning up my apartment. Music was playing on the radio.

Photo Credit: Stefan Fussan, Creative Commons

Though the time I’m talking about was in the 1980s, it seems like it was yesterday.

About 12:30 PM, I got a call on my phone. (This phone was connected to the wall as cell phones had not yet been invented. Neither had computers. Neither had CNN or Fox News. Anderson Cooper was a teenager.)

“Hey Al. It’s Tip,” said the deep voice on the other end.

It was Tip O’Neil. (For those of you who are too young to know, he was a liberal Democrat and Speaker of the House). “Ronnie (Reagan) and I are going down to Dairy Queen for a hot dog and some ice cream. Want to join us?”

“Sure,” I said hesitantly.

I was hesitant because I’d watched them on TV the week before. They were arguing over something. I can’t really remember what the issue was, but the staunch liberal and the conservative Republican were at odds. This wasn’t surprising at all, as they were often at odds.

Their point of view on most subjects could not have been more different.

Each, representing their party lines, outlined their arguments in press conferences, saying what they needed to say. But looking back, I noticed something about their public discussion. They didn’t say anything nasty or demeaning about one another. Ronnie didn’t comment about Tip’s bulbous nose, and Tip didn’t ridicule Ronnie for dying his hair.

Both would have been fair game.

At lunch, they met as old friends.

When they greeted each other at the door, they hugged one another genuinely and warmly. And then, they sat down and started laughing and talking and telling old stories.

Tip got up for his second Blizzard.

It was surreal—like seeing two warring soldiers take a lunch-break from battle, and catch up on old times.

We then moved to a bar across the street. After ordering their drinks, they toasted one another, and began the conversation they knew that had to have.

They talked long and hard.

Their eyes were serious, but they also were infused with compassion, knowing the other’s beliefs were real to them and firmly held. There was honor in their conversation. Something in them knew that this was not their conversation, but it was the conversation of the country, and of the people who put them in office.

Most times, in life and in politics, when egos are in the back seat, good things happen.

After another drink and another hour, they shook hands, having come to a place of compromise. They were better men for it, and though the 240 million Americans were not in the room, that early evening conversation changed our lives.

The alarm on my cell phone awakened me from my dream.

Blurry eyed, I got up, made some coffee, turned on CNN and opened my eyes to the political nightmare before me.

Oh for the days of handshakes, honor, respect, and a vision for leadership that puts the egos where they belong.

Why It Doesn’t Matter How You Feel About Your Friends

My husband and I were talking in the car the other day, and he said something about a friend of ours. He said, “She’s really good at being a friend.”

And in the silence, we were thinking of a couple people we love very much but who, frankly, are not so good at being friends.

They are our friends, certainly.

Which means we share history and care about one another and are always happy to see each other, but when it comes down to it, they don’t DO what good friends DO very often.

And, of course, that led us into a conversation about all the ways we don’t always DO what good friends DO either. Because it doesn’t matter how you feel in your heart about your friends—what matters is showing those feelings through words and actions.

Photo Credit: Vanessa Porter, Creative Commons

Aaron had a college professor who said over and over, “It doesn’t matter how much you love your kids. What matters is communicating that love in a way that they can understand and feel that love.”

And the same is true for friendship.

As it is true for marriages and all relationships.

It’s so easy for me to feel warm, loving thoughts about friends or family members… and then go on about my day, never reaching out, sending a text, or setting a date to connect.

I think about them all the time, pray for them, and watch the details of their lives spool out over Facebook—first day of school photos, last moments of summer photos. I feel connected and warm, full of affection for these lovely people.

But how on earth would they know that?

Anyway, back to that original conversation in the car about the person who’s good at showing love and the one who’s not so good at showing it.

We were on our way to a birthday party for me, and after dinner each person toasted my birthday and said one kind word about me. The not-so-good friend blew my mind, saying something so lovely and sweet and meaningful, something that I had no idea she felt about me.

How often is that happening in our lives? The things we feel about one another so often go unexpressed, because we’re busy or thoughtless, assuming they know, assuming it’s more than clear.

Is it?

Since that day I’ve been noticing all the times that I think loving thoughts about the people in my life… and then produce no corresponding action to show that love.

Since that day, I’ve sent more texts and emails, a couple old-fashioned letters. I’ve scheduled a walk and a coffee and a dinner. I’ve looked people in the eye and said, “I love you. I’m thankful for you.”

Because at the end of the day, Aaron’s professor is exactly right: It doesn’t matter how much you love someone. What matters is that they know it.

So let’s do it: who are you going to show love to today? Text, email, phone call, love letter. What would being good at being a friend look like in your life today?

Three Things You Can Do to Improve Your Willpower

Awhile back, I listened to a book called Willpower by Roy Baumeister and John Tierney and took great interest in their findings about how willpower actually works.

Citing study after study (perhaps too many for an otherwise enjoyable read) Baumeister and Tierney argue willpower actually comes from the muscle of the mind and that it can be strengthened. I thought I’d share some of what I learned.

How do we build up our willpower?
1. We don’t try to tackle too much too soon. If you’re trying to lose weight, get out of debt, get married, build a rocket ship and write a symphony, chances are you’re going to fail. Why? It’s too much for the willpower muscle to lift. The authors argue we’re better off choosing one, simple resolution and going easy on ourselves as we build our muscles.

2. We eat for strength. No kidding, our willpower is directly connected to nutrition. More than one study revealed that when glucose levels are low, people have much less discipline. But before going to drink that milkshake (so you can resist that milkshake) know that high glycemic foods cause a spike and then a decline in glucose levels, making willpower even more difficult.

3. Rest and sleep. Just like any muscle, the brain is strengthened with rest and sleep. After you work your brain, it needs rest in order to grow. Getting enough sleep is key, and taking breaks at regular intervals will help. Ever notice how you have more willpower in the morning than in the evenings, and after a meal as opposed to when you’re hungry?
Pay attention to your habits.

I hope thinking about willpower as being affected by the muscle of the brain rather than some kind of personality issue gives you hope for accomplishing some of those goals you’ve been thinking about. It’s certainly helped me.

Now excuse me, I’ve got to take a little nap so I can fight that Wendy’s Frosty later.

What Sets Brilliant Artists Apart from Those Who Fade

My mom often jokes with me that I wasn’t held enough as a baby.

I was born at the same time as two of my siblings—my brother Casey and sister Mickie. Most people call this triplets. I don’t talk about it much. I actually have friends I’ve known for years who will hear me say I’m a triplet and be absolutely stunned, saying they had no idea.

But back to my mom.

What she jokes about in that little sentence, is that I wasn’t given the attention I needed when I was little, so now I’m continuing to look for it in everything I do. Don’t get me wrong. My parents are amazing and have loved and supported me so well throughout my whole life—attending practically every sporting event and concert they possible could—but hey, it’s hard to hold three babies.

Today, I still find myself plagued with this internal need to be noticed, appreciated, admired.

I look for it in conversation, playing shows, the way I dress, etc. In some ways, this has been a gift driving me to “succeed”, but in other ways its been an unhealthy need I’ve looked for others to meet. It hasn’t been until recently I’ve realized that maybe people can’t fully give to me what I’m looking for.

Maybe I need to give it to myself.

The hard part about looking to get this need met by what you do—regardless if its music, work, relationships, or some other creative endeavor—is that it can lead to forsaking your own heart.

Can you relate?


Have you ever given up what you’ve truly wanted in order to get attention, praise or some other kind of affirmation?

If you have, you know how empty and painful it can be.




I was having a conversation with my friend Thad the other day.

We’re both musicians, so we often talk about things in relation to the music we write. As we talked, he looked at me and said:

Most artists start out making music for themselves. Other artists make music for someone else. The first can often be selfish, but that latter can be presumptuous. What I want to do is to make music for ‘us’.

What a beautiful thing to say.

I think the reason it hit me so hard was that I’m currently recording an album. And I’ve been in this process of deciding which songs to include, how vulnerable to be, what sort of instrumentation to use, and just general overall vision for the record. I often feel my need for praise and affirmation flare up in the creative process.

In that moment, I felt Thad give me a compass for my new album, a north star to check in with to make sure I was headed in the right direction.

Rather than make an album for me (selfish) or make an album to get the attention of others, I could make it for us.

And I don’t think you have to be a musician to understand Thad’s advice.

I think most of us start out creating because we have to.

It’s this thing that bubbles up inside and comes out in the form of drawings, or playing dress up, or humming a tune. When both the pain and beauty of life hits our hearts, we can’t help but find a way to get it out. We all have a need to be understood, and art has a way of giving us that gift.

For most of us though, it’ll probably stop at only a few family and friends being let into the creative process. And that’s ok. But for those of us who are plagued with the need to be seen or noticed, like I sometimes am, the art can turn into a bit of a “curse”.

This is what I think Thad was saying: those who create for the sake of the connection will be the artists who last.

Brené Brown says that there is nothing as essential to happiness as human connection.

In any relationship, if we’re looking to get from someone something we haven’t first given to our self, there will always be a breakdown in that relationship. It’s when two people decide to first care for and nurture their own heart that the deepest connections can develop.

The ‘us’ is about that connection.

It’s about the conversation, the moments we get to share. That’s the true power of music, or any art for that matter. When an artist taps into and expresses the sacredness and commonality of our shared human experience, we all benefit.

After listening to a great song, we say with the artist, “Me too. I’ve felt that.”

In life, it’s impossible not to experience love and loss, to know both pain and beauty.

But the world doesn’t need more selfish art; it needs greater connection. It needs a deep joy to be experienced, a joy that can only be found in truly knowing and being known. I need this kind of joy.

So my question is this: where can you enter into the ‘us’?

You’re a gift to the world. You have something special inside of you that no one else has. You’re a part of ‘us’. In what ways can you make that kind of “music”? I’m dying to hear it. The world is longing to experience it.

Do You Know Your Calling? This Might Help.

Recently I found myself in the emergency room with stomach pains.

They had been gradually getting worse through the week so I decided to head in, just in case it was something serious. After five hours of an IV, blood work, x-ray, ct scan, EKG, pokes and prodding, the Dr. came back in and said:

“We can’t tell you what it is, but we can tell you what it’s not.”

Great.

It wasn’t life threatening, so I was sent home and encouraged to get further tests with my regular doctor.

It was a little frustrating.

I so badly wanted to know that it was something, even if it was bad. I wanted to know that the pain and eventual anxiety I had been experiencing over the past week was validated with some kind of diagnosis.

It wasn’t cancer, it wasn’t a heart problem, it wasn’t a blockage, it wasn’t a hernia or anything else of significance.

They wouldn’t even guess what it could be, probably because they would have had to say it was just gas and didn’t want to embarrass me.

The words, “We can’t tell you what it is, but we can tell you what it is not” brought more confusion and embarrassment than anything else. I wanted my struggle to matter, to have an answer that could bring me to some kind of fix.

I find myself in this situation a lot.

Not the ER, but living in a state of anxiety and sometimes pain, getting so focused on having the answers so I can fix all my problems, especially when it comes to my vocation. I seem to think if I could only know the “right” answer, everything will make sense and I will start feeling better.

But most of the time life doesn’t give us the “right answer”. The best it can do for us is like the doctors did for me that day—a process of elimination. We don’t know the “right” thing, but little by little, we know what’s not right, and that is better than nothing.

Right?

In the seventh grade I was “in love” with Connie Sperling.

She was beautiful, athletic and popular, all things I looked for in a future wife. I was so sure of our eventual partnering that I wrote “J.J. + Connie” all over my Chuck Taylors.

However, there was one little problem: she never spoke to me.

(OK, there were many more bigger problems, but go with me on this.)

I’m not sure she knew who I was until someone told her about the “stalker” with her name on his shoes. Oddly enough, things didn’t work out for us. Turns out that sometimes it takes more than beauty, athleticism and popularity to make a relationship work.

Who knew?

When looking for Mr. or Mrs. Right, some people know exactly what they want and go for it. For the rest of us sometimes it takes trial and error.

When we look for what we are “supposed” to do with our lives, we tend to go through the same kind of process. No doubt some people sense a “call” on their lives from a very young age and never waver from it. For the rest of us, it takes a little longer to discover who we are, what we are good at, and where our gifts lie.

Most of our time is spent on figuring out what our calling is not.

The root word used to get the word vocation is the same word from which we get voice. Maybe finding your vocation is not about finding your call, but about finding your voice.

Sometimes that takes trial and error.

When I look at scripture I don’t see God pushing people into specific careers, I see Him calling people to a new way of living. He doesn’t call people to be doctors or lawyers, He calls them to be a specific kind of doctor or lawyer.

He calls them to be one who acts justly, loves mercy, walks humbly with God; is a peacemaker, merciful, righteous, and in all things, loves.

Finding your vocation is less about finding the “right” vocation than it is about finding a job that will allow you to speak mercy, healing and love into a hurting world with the loudest voice possible.

That may take trial and error.

You may spent a lot more time finding out what the answer is not than what the answer is.

How to Make the Drama Count for Something Big

Think of your favorite novels or movies. There’s no story without drama, right?

Last year I read Andy Weir’s novel, The Martian. The movie was excellent too. The trials and challenges astronaut Mark Watney faces and overcomes kept me on the edge of my seat.

But there’s another critical element: trajectory. If Mark wasn’t working toward his ultimate rescue, the drama would have eventually become tedious and boring. All drama and no direction makes for a lousy story.

Our lives can feel like that sometimes.

But they don’t have to because direction is one thing all of us are capable of bringing to our lives.

So how do we do it?

My friend Daniel Harkavy and I detail a simple method in our new book Living Forward: A Proven Plan to Stop Drifting and Get the Life You Want.

You can do it in four steps:

First, imagine your life is a book or a movie.

Flip the pages or fast forward to the end. What stands out in the narrative arc of your life? What did you accomplish?

How did your accomplishments affect those closest to you?

To really make this exercise sink in, we recommend writing the end as if it were happening today. It’s the final scene and people are speaking at your funeral. How do they remember you? What are they saying?

Get it all down.

Second, ask yourself: Do their words match how you want to be remembered?

If there’s a gap between how you think you’ll be remembered based on your life today and how you want to be remembered in the future, welcome to life.

You’re officially normal.

But don’t get used to it. You can go from normal to extraordinary by closing the gap.

How? Quit thinking of the gap as a discrepancy, and start thinking of it as a trajectory.

Third, think through the major areas of your life.

In Living Forward we call these Life Accounts. To get where we want to end up, we have to invest the appropriate amount of time and energy in each.

We can do that by ranking them.

For instance, how important is your health compared to your work, family, friends, and so on? Rank all your Accounts from most important to least. Once you’ve done that you can begin deciding what actions you need to take in each to get you where you want to go.

Fourth, act on your priorities.

And this where the drama comes in, right? There are three kinds of drama we have to pay attention to:

There’s the drama we create when we act on our priorities. This is the inevitable result of steering your life a new direction and plowing ahead. You’re Mark Watney and you’re trying to get off Mars. There will be drama. Embrace it, knowing that it’s taking you were you want to go.
There’s the drama we experience when external realities interfere with our priorities.These are the setbacks and obstacles we face trying to get to where we’re going. They could be work obligations, family needs, financial difficulties, whatever. They’re also inevitable, and the story gets better the more of these we overcome en route to our destination.
Finally, theres’s drama we either create or experience that doesn’t move us forward. This is the kind of pointless activity that makes us forget where we’re going. We get distracted or disengaged. We all face this kind third kind of drama, but when we have clarity about our trajectory it’s easier to see it as a waste of time and energy.

How can you tell the difference?

Since you know where you want to end up, you can fast forward the movie or flip to the end of the book.

Is this drama contributing to the story?

Is it getting you where you want to end up? If not, hit the delete key.

There’s no story without drama, but we need to create and respond to the right kinds of drama if we want to experience lives of meaning and lasting significance. Knowing where we’re going and ranking our priorities will help us end where we desire most.

Not “Letting Go” Could Be Damaging Your Relationships

I failed at Lent.

The past few years I’ve observed Lent in various ways: going off social media, not judging my husband’s slovenly man cave, and tackling my biggest most besetting sin, the DWR: Driving While Righteous.

It’s easy to get outraged on the LA highways; people drive like there’s no god to judge them. I take up the slack, waving a finger at people who are on their phones, or texting, or trying pass me in the emergency lane.

But each Lent I’ve sensed God waving his finger at me: let it go.

And I have. But three Sundays before Easter, some idiot passed us in a curved tunnel at 80 miles an hour, then cleared the tunnel and swerved from the left lane into a right-lane exit.

Not a minute later, a bozo in the right lane cut everyone off with a left turn.

I’m sure there’s some Francis Schaeffer illustration about how the whole “God Is Dead” thing has finally trickled down from the philosophers to the culture to the drivers. But me? I was driving like the Buddha.

That afternoon, one of my dearest friends came over.

CJ and I have a long history: roommates, best friends, a falling out and a long rapprochement. We repaired our friendship, and I would never want to repeat the same mistakes. She’s far too important to me.

CJ and I ran some errands.

As I got off the freeway a large Mercedes started tailgating me. It attempted to pass me on the turn. Now on the street, the Mercedes sped ahead, cut in front of another car and made a sharp turn right. The same direction we were going.

There was the jerk, idling at a light, and we were headed for the left-hand turn lane.

“Please, let his window be down,” I said out loud.

It was. I rolled down the passenger-seat window and leaned over CJ to look at the driver. It was a young man with two women in the car. A rosary hung from his rearview. I asked him if he drove that way because (insert something Seth Rogen would say in a Jud Apatow movie.)

“Are you having a good day?” he smiled.

Yes, until he pulled that stunt.

“You have a great car and lovely women in it. Don’t jeopardize their lives or mine. Kay?”

“Your light is green,” he replied.

We turned. CJ laughed nervously.

“I’m so sorry, CJ. That was not cool for me to do.”

Her laughter died down. “I’m just afraid you might say something like that to me some day.”

BOOM.

Far worse than breaking my Lent promise or chewing out someone I’ll never see again or ruining my own peace of mind, my righteous indignation hurt someone dear to me—someone whose friendship has been long in the making and repairing.

And now I have to regain her trust.

I went to Good Friday knowing full well what sin I had to leave at the Cross. The Cross absorbed it and I’m forgiven. But it costs someone something.

What’s that pesky sin or character defect you hold onto?

What has it cost you in terms of relationships of peace of mind?

Is it worth it?

Where Is God in the Darkness and Chaos?

The discussion was clearly resonating with the group. Or at least most of it.

It was a Sunday School class I teach, and the age ranges from kids in high school to people in their 80s. We were talking about Jonah—always a great topic regardless of the age group.

And once we got past the similarities between Jonah’s experience and Pinocchio’s getting swallowed by Monstro, we started looking at some symbolism.

But I noticed one of my friends in the class who looked miserable.

In the Jonah story, I explained that I was drawn to the character’s physical descent.

Think about how low he went. In his misery, he walked down to the dock. He stepped down onto the ship. He stepped down in the lower part of the ship to sleep. And finally, he went down to the bottom of the sea.

Lower, and lower and lower.

He was covered in darkness.

Then we spent some time talking about the word “sea.”

In the Hebrew it stands for “chaos.” It’s the same word used when God began to create—out of the darkness, the abyss, the chaos, something was formed.

So Jonah, just when he thought he couldn’t get any lower, was swallowed by a monster that lived in the chaos.

Just like the miserable friend in my class.

His occupation is that he studies the weather.

A few weeks ago his wife filed for divorce. His life has been chaos ever since.

“I’m a meteorologist,” he said. “I’m supposed to be able to predict storms. I never saw this one coming.”

When we find ourselves in these kinds of conditions, where we are at the bottom of the sea, in the very belly of chaos itself, we make some assumptions.

One is that there is no way out.
Another is that we are the worst people ever.
And another is that God is nowhere to be found—that chaos is a sign of the absence of God.

While I don’t have much insight about the first two, I told the class, I can tell you something about that last assumption.

It’s not true.

If we believe Psalm 139, that there is nowhere God is not, then He’s with us even when things fall apart; He’s in the belly of the chaos with us. Regardless of how it feels at the time, we’re not alone, and God is at work.

I know that it doesn’t feel that way right now for my friend, or maybe for you. Things may seem too messy, too chaotic. The sea has swallowed you. Darkness covers your world.

You didn’t see this particular storm coming. Your predictions were off.

It’s probably how the disciples felt when Jesus died.

But as another friend of mine is fond of saying, “When nothing’s happening, something’s happening.” Monstro gets heartburn. The great fish spits Jonah back on the path. The stone is rolled away.

The dead come alive. Creation begins again.

It doesn’t feel that way for my friend in my class. His wife isn’t coming back.

The good news is that the darkness is not the end of the story. It never is. Sometimes it’s just the beginning.

Is Guarding Your Heart Really Protecting You?

Last summer, I went on a mission trip to Peru. I was a “leader” on the trip. One of six other adults helping lead about 30 students. As one of the “adults” I found myself stepping back and watching more than if I had been a student. I kept looking around and taking in aerial views of what I saw.

In all of the sights, experiences and conversations, I noticed a theme: openness. Openness among the Peruvians and openness among our students.

Girls linking arms on a dirt path up a mountain. Card games on the airport floor. Spontaneous dance parties in the dining hall.

We were there for ten days, but by the tears being shed as we left for the airport, you would think we had been there much longer. In the open hearts that I witnessed, I saw the hesitation in my own.

I saw a heart that was not as open as it used to be.

It made me think of summer camp when I was twelve.

On the final night we all stood around and cried and hugged. We had known each other for six whole days. But then, at that age, we weren’t aware of own vulnerability. We weren’t worrying about the future and how difficult it would be to keep in touch. We were not jaded or hardened by broken relationships or dreams.

Peru reminded me that growing up can chip away at us and cause our openness to close, little by little in a way that makes us wary of others, wary of our own selves.

I don’t think this chipping away starts with a moment or a single event. I think it’s more subtle than that.

Each day, we are offered two choices about our posture toward others and opportunities: open or closed.

We are offered this in the tiniest of things.

Will I smile at the person I pass by on the street, or will I keep my eyes on my phone?
Will I invite these people over for dinner, or will I make up an excuse not to?
Will I say yes to this or will I say I don’t have enough time, energy, money, etc?
Will I be open to life, or will I be closed to it?

These small decisions seem meaningless but built up over time, as we choose resistance and safety over openness and risk, it becomes harder and harder to be open, harder and harder to risk.

It reminds me of what C.S. Lewis said about the heart:

If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one…Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.

As life chips away at us, it is tempting to put our hearts in a coffin in order to protect them. And the interesting thing is, we can do this and be ok. We can live life closed off to people and places and things and live a perfectly fine life.

But imagine this:

You can live a perfectly fine life with a posture of resistance. What kind of life could you life with a posture of openness?

I imagine worlds and worlds and worlds would appear before you that you had ignored, shrugged off or pushed aside before.

In Peru, I watched people live with an open posture.

Arms stretched out, palms unclenched. The Peruvians, the students—they were open to each person and experience. They were open to allowing their hearts to change and their minds to be transformed by a single visit.

They were not jaded or afraid. They jumped in the water.

At some point, I forgot how to do this, and maybe you have too.

The good news is, it’s never too late. Your heart remembers the way. You just have to tell your feet where to go.