The air was thick as I stepped outside. It wasn’t raining, but it felt like the sky could open up at any moment. It was quiet. The world hadn’t fully awoken to greet the day. On mornings like these – most mornings – I never know which route in my standard rotation of routes I will run. The first decision is to go left or right at the end of my driveway, and the rest just comes naturally based on how I’m feeling. Today I went right.

When I go right, I want hills. The first mile of this route is all uphill. The steady upward incline allows me to take it slow, work into a rhythm and center on my breath. Today I was quickly able to get into a breathing cycle with my cadence. The first step toward a much needed flow state.

I make a point to spend at least one hour outside each day because I need it mentally. It’s my way of getting away from screens, the news, personal and professional commitments, and anything else that vies for my attention. My hour outside is where I go deep into my own mind, rejuvenating it so I can give the rest of the day my all.

Cresting that first hill, I caught a glimpse to my left of two bare feet gently dangling a few feet above wet grass. I followed the feet upward, to a pair of legs that were attached to a young boy sitting in the crux of a tree branch. This sight surprised me because the boy couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8 years old and it was still early. Most of the neighborhood was still sleeping. Except for us.

In the boy’s hand was a phone. His head hung, neck krinked, watching something on the screen.

I thought about this image of this boy in the tree with the phone for the next hour as I finished my run.

Initially, I was overtaken with elder disappointment. “Kids these days,” I thought. “These goddamn phones,” I thought. But the image of this boy in the tree with the phone would not let go of me. Questions began creeping.

Why was he up so early? Why was he outside? Why was he alone? Why climb a tree and not just watch the phone on a couch inside? Did his parents know he was outside? What was he watching in that tree? Does he do this often?

The questions kept coming and as I neared home I had no answers. Maybe the boy in the tree with the phone was outside for the same reason I was. Maybe this was his escape. Maybe he needed this escape the same way I needed mine. That’s the amazing thing about nature and the outdoors. It’s there for us in whatever way we need it. It asks nothing about the way we use it and demands nothing in return.

Today, I needed the hills and breath. He needed the crux of the branch, the feeling of bark on his back and dew on his feet.

We are the same.

I turn 48 today. At this age, birthdays have become just another day. This morning was similar to yesterday and it will be similar to tomorrow. I woke, had a cup of coffee, got outside for a bit, went to work, and spent time with the folx I love.

If you search June 26 on this site, you’ll find a bunch of birthday posts. It’s interesting to see how the voice in those posts has evolved with me over the years. In 2013, I posted about disconnecting to celebrate my 35th year. Back in 2021 I posted about seeing a birthday twister. And last year I posted a list of 47 things I’ve learned in 47 years.

Over the years, I’ve realized that the anticipation and excitement younger me once had for this day has given way to deep reflection and gratitude.

This coming year, I want to lean into mindful reflection and gratitude wherever possible. In order to grow my practice in these areas I am beginning a routine of posting a daily haiku. A temporal snapshot of my gratitude. My first haiku is posted here and, from today onward, each day’s poem will also hit the front page of this site for 24 hours until the next one arrives.

I am appreciative of my family, friends, health and career, and I want this daily practice to reinforce that sentiment. Here’s to another 48 years powered by love, gratitude and positivity.

You’ve likely heard the saying, “When it rains, it pours.” Well, it rained on me yesterday. Poured, actually. Metaphorically. I didn’t have an umbrella or rain jacket, so I got wet. Also metaphorically.

I’ve learned that when this happens in life, it’s valuable to pause, reflect, understand the root cause, and internally commit to addressing the things I can control that factored into my soaking experience. Sometimes those things are difficult to acknowledge because sometimes you make your own weather.

We’ll all get caught in a downpour at one point or another in our lives. The key to getting through these drenching moments is having a framework in place that acts as a rain barrel to collect the water and store it until it can be used to grow a garden.

Metaphorically, of course.

I spent the majority of the weekend working with my hands. It felt good. It felt natural. My mind was clear. I was tired and sore by the end of the day.

When the severe storms blew through last week, we had several trees down. All the limbs missed our house, thankfully, but we were left with a large amount of wood to process. Last weekend was about cutting up the trees and hauling away debris. This weekend was about splitting and storing what the chainsaws diced up last week for our summertime supply of campfire wood.

Before splitting, though, I needed a spot to house the wood so it would stay dry and season appropriately. I could just stack it at the back of the lawn and put a tarp over the pile, but Jilly and I didn’t like the aesthetics of that approach. We wanted something that could dress-up the yard a bit while storing the wood.

Saturday morning I grabbed some pressure-treaded 2x4s and my circular saw and got to work. I am not a carpenter. I’ve done very little construction work, but I decided to just vibe out on the build. Eight feet wide by four feet tall, capped off with a corrugated tin roof. What I ended up with might be laughable to artisan woodworkers, but I enjoyed the creative process of making it with no pre-set plan.

After the firewood rack was complete, it was time to start swinging the axe. Sun’s out, guns out. What a workout. It was warm and I sweat. By the end of the weekend I had blisters on my hands from all the chopping and there’s still more to do.

Throughout the weekend – as I assembled the structure, swung the axe and stacked the wood – I kept returning to the Zen proverb ‘chop wood, carry water.’

Before enlightenment? Chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment? Chop wood, carry water.

The mundane, foundational work of life is important because it reinforces mindfulness, presence, consistency, discipline and humility. This labor did just that. My work this weekend was a meditation through movement and I’m looking forward to splitting the remaining logs, although that will happen after some well-deserved rest.

Pull-ups are an activity I’ve wanted to be good at for a long time, however the truth is I hate them. I’ve tried to work them into my exercise rotation many times but they’ve never stuck. For as long as I can remember I’ve despised doing them, probably because I’ve got a runner’s body with toothpicks for arms.

Well, 2026 is the year I will get better at pull-ups. A few days ago I bought a pull-up bar and hung it from the door frame of my office. I chose this location because it’s unavoidable as I pass through this threshhold numerous times a day. I wanted an undeniable way to establish muscle memory and create a habbit.

For the past few days, each time I enter and leave, I do as many pull-ups as I can. Entering in the morning, pullups. Grabbing a refill of coffee, pullups. Hitting the head, pullups. Leaving for the evening…you get the picture.

It started on Monday when I could not complete just one good-form rep. Today is Thursday and I just completed five pull-ups as I entered the room to sit down and write this, which feels like a small milestone. My goal now is to progress to the point of being able to do ten perfect-form pull-ups.

I’m not sharing this to humble brag, although I am proud of the progress. I’m sharing as an acknowledgement that the human body and mind are amazing things. All I needed was the persistent reminder to keep trying. Repitition and consistency are the enablers of rapid growth and progress. I’ve known this, but it’s interesting to see tactile results so clearly in just a few days.

The ringer was off, but the sudden vibration was jarring. It was the fourth such vibration in as many minutes. The buzzing phone, lying face down on my desk sent tremors through my forearms as those muscles powered keystrokes from my hands.

This particular notification was a mother on Adeline’s soccer team alerting the team chat app that her daughter wouldn’t be at training that evening. The three previous notifications included a retail store marketing an upcoming sale, a mention from Mastodon, and a text message from my health provider requesting feedback from a recent visit.

Four disruptions in four minutes, my phone had become an unforgiving foghorn. These four minutes were not a one-time exception. Never-ceasing notifications had become the rule – my reality – over time. Once deliberate and discerning with the tentacles I allowed to dictate my attention, my guard had eroded and they were slipping through like seepage.

I’m not sure what it was about these four notifications or this particular four minute window, but they created an awareness toward how these FOMO-driven flechettes have been impacting my presence with and focus on the tasks, ideas and people immediately before me. I noticed myself feeling splintered in this moment. Pulled apart. Traction lost.

In this instant of self realization, I opened the settings on my phone, disabled all notifications except for text messages and phone calls from my immediate family, and saved these changes as a custom focus option I now call Mental Hygiene. This has been my default in recent weeks and it’s improved my quality of life greatly.

FOMO – or fear of missing out – is an interesting cultural abstraction. Technology has conditioned us for speed, constant reachability and the need to always be aware of the latest updates, otherwise we’re left behind.

But filtering out unwanted noise is not being left behind. It is prioritizing attention on what matters. It’s protecting a level of focus that becomes rarer with each new notification and version update.

We should not fear of missing out. Instead, let’s normalize a freedom of missing out. A freedom to let the insignificant and immaterial slide into the ether unnoticed. A freedom to be bored or reflective. A freedom that honors stillness and slowness. A freedom that empowers a focused mind, time spent with meaning, and whole presence in any given moment.

We got about four inches of snow overnight and the roads are awful so it’s a snow day – er, “flexible instruction” day – for my youngest. Instead of being outside sledding, building a snow man or working with the neighborhood kids to create an igloo, she will be tethered to her iPad taking Zoom calls with her classmates and teacher for the majority of the day.

Of course we’ll make some time to get outdoors and do a few of those things today, but I’m sad that this generation of kids will never wake up to the unexpected magic of a true snow day. That elation when you open your eyes in the morning and look out the window to see a white blanket covering everything and learning that school is closed. The whole day ahead with anything possible.

Simple joys like this are receding from childhood and I’m not sure the digital equivalent is comparable. As parents, we should work to keep simple joy in the lives of our children.

I’ve only ever owned one belt. It’s an unremarkable belt. Brown leather, about two inches wide with a weighty, minimal brass buckle. I wear it with everything. Brown pants, black pants, blue jeans, whatever. I even have a couple pairs of shorts with belt loops and I wear it with them.

I used to be a bit heavier. When I started running a lot about 10 years ago, the weight poured off and I ran out of holes on the belt. Instead of getting a new one, I just punched a couple more holes into the worn leather and kept on wearing it. I’m not sure why I didn’t go get a new belt. I just didn’t think to.

Getting dressed yesterday it dawned on me that I can’t remember when or where this belt entered my life. I have absolutely no recollection of acquiring it. If I had to guess, it’s probably a belt my mother purchased for me during one of her back-to-school outfitting sessions when I was a teen. So, middle school school probably.

Definitely longer than my kids have been around. Longer than I’ve known my wife.

It’s a versatile belt. My style has evolved over the decades from adolescent punk rocker to middle-aged professional and this belt has ridden my hips the whole way. It serves casual and formal situations alike.

I think about this belt sometimes when I’m standing in a store surrounded by things that are designed to be replaced. There’s something radical about an object that refuses obsolescence by simply continuing to work.

This belt has disappeared into total utility, earning the right to become invisible yet so integrated into my life. I forget it’s there, but can’t imagine a life without it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about attention. My attention, primarily, but also our collective attention and where we direct it in the world.

Like time, attention is a finite resource. But unlike time, we can never run out of attention. There is a never-ending supply until we breathe our last breath. The rub with attention, however, is that even though we have an unending supply, we can only ever fully dedicate it to one thing at one time. This creates a distinctly different scarcity from time. Where time has a scarcity of depletion, attention has a scarcity of distribution.

In every moment, we make attention-allocation decisions. These decisions require active engagement with the world around us. Our reality. You can’t save attention for later. You can’t bank it or invest it or set it aside. You can only practice directing it more intentionally in each moment.

Our world is now designed to make these decisions of direction for us. The notification that pulls us away from conversation. The infinite scrolling that captures twenty minutes we didn’t intend to give. The autoplay that queues up the next video before we’ve processed the current one.

Our world has evolved to be hungry for attention. It’s the capital of our modern times. It wants to train our attention into patterns. It wants to colonize the practice of attention itself, to make fragmentation feel normal.

What if we approached attention differently? Not as a resource to be managed or extracted, but as a practice to be cultivated? What if we chose the here and now over the distant and digital? What would change if our attention was not an opportunity to monetize, but an opportunity to be fully here in this moment?

Being fully present means making intentional choices about where attention goes. Let’s choose to pay attention to the things that help us become fully-present participants in our shared reality.

Things feel heavy right now. The headlines are grim, the discourse is toxic, and each day seems to bring fresh reasons for despair.

I try to stay optimistic underneath it all. It’s hard. But here’s what I’ve come to realize: optimism isn’t some fluffy feeling I can summon by thinking happy thoughts. It’s a decision. A daily choice to notice what’s actually happening around me.

The real world is still functioning and there is good happening within it. People are still fixing bikes, making coffee, helping their neighbors, creating things with their hands. The static of everyday life – messy, imperfect, beautifully human – keeps crackling along.

You want to know where hope lives? It’s in the fact that someone still grows the tomatoes you buy. That baristas remember how regulars take their coffee. That strangers still help push cars out of snow. That construction workers show up every day to build things that last.

I’m paying attention to the small stuff that works. Noticing the crossing guard who waves at kids every morning. The postal worker who knows which packages need careful handling. The mechanic who just fixed my Jeep for a fair price and didn’t try to screw me over.

Most people are decent. Most systems, despite their flaws, still function. Most problems get solved by people showing up and doing the work, quietly, without fanfare.

We can’t ignore the big problems. But we must remember that they exist alongside a million small things that are going exactly right. The world isn’t broken – it’s complicated. And complicated includes both the disasters and the daily miracles.

I begin my 48th trip around the sun today, so here is a non-exhaustive list of 47 things I’ve learned during those 47 orbits.

1. Static made old radio.
2. Be here now. This moment is the only one you can truly inhabit.
3. Put the phone down. The best conversations happen face-to-face.
4. Quality over quantity, always. Fewer, better things make life richer.
5. Your body knows more than any smartwatch can. Listen to it.
6. Progress isn’t always about moving faster or going farther.
7. Sometimes the best way to move forward is to leave things behind.
8. Eat as low to the ground as you can.
9. Pizza and bagels are just better in New York.
10. Never drink so much at night that you ruin the whole next day.
11. People matter more than protocols, and protocols matter more than platforms.
12. Relationships require effort.
13. If the music is too loud, you’re too old.
14. You should not enjoy the music your kids listen to.
15. Seek out conversations with the elderly. Their perspective will educate you.
16. Seek out conversations with children. Their perspective will energize you.
17. Read books. Real ones. Feel the pages. Breathe in the binding.
18. Depth almost always beats breadth.
19. Chaos is constant. Exploit it.
20. Living well is about progression, not perfection.
21. Everything fades.
22. Grief doesn’t last forever. It dulls over time.
23. There is a difference between pain and discomfort. Learn to deal with each uniquely.
24. Pain caves are mental constructs. You can choose to leave them.
25. Small, consistent choices add up to big changes over time.
26. Running can be meditation in motion.
27. It’s OK to be bored. Let your mind wander. It may lead to something creative.
28. Spend at least one hour a day outside.
29. There is no such thing as bad weather.
30. Get sunlight into your eyes as quick as you can in the morning.
31. Avoid productivity as performance.
32. Take notes, but don’t document everything.
33. Take photos, but not selfies.
34. Use the appropriate tool for the job.
35. Outcomes over outputs.
36. Don’t just do a thing. Do the right thing.
37. Technical debates often obscure the more important human questions.
38. Own your content. Put it on your own domain. Leave a digital legacy.
39. A good leader doesn’t create followers. A good leader creates more leaders.
40. Embrace both/and thinking instead of either/or battles.
41. You are not your profession. Work is a means to an end, not an identity.
42. Rise early. Get an edge.
43. Check in on the news once, maybe twice, per day. Any more than that is not helpful.
44. Attention is your most valuable currency.
45. Tip well.
46. Listening is vastly more important than speaking.
47. Learn to be comfortable in silence and solitude.

For some people, attending church on Sunday morning is the spiritual space they need in their lives. I have never been one of those people, but I am someone who needs quiet, reflection and beauty to feel spiritually fulfilled. I find my spiritual space in the nature.

This morning, as the church bells atop North Park rang to signal 8am, I started out on the Green trail. It was foggy and humid, but once I got into the woods, the fog added a layer of mystery to the familiar trail.

As I moved from the Green trail to the Orange trail, I passed a father and young son just starting out on a Father’s Day hike. They were the only two humans I’d see on the trails this morning.

I love solo runs like this. They ground me in a way I presume church or religion does for others. I listen closely to the sound of my breath and the non-rhythms of my footfalls. My mind wanders wherever it wants to wander, much like my body in these trail running moments.

After an hour or so in this zen-like state, I emerged from the woods into the church parking lot refreshed, aware and at ease — a spiritual space those now entering the church will likely have in about an hour.

It’s been several months since I stopped using a smartwatch to track health and exercise metrics, and it’s an understatement to say this simple act has fundamentally altered my mental state in the best possible way. The shift has completely changed my perspective on the purpose of maintaining good health.

Before I made the switch, I could classify my metrics gathering into two buckets:

1. general life metrics like sleep quality, resting heart rate, and daily steps
2. workout metrics like pace, weekly miles, and elevation gain

My assumption going into the experiment was that the general life stuff would be easier to let go of than the workout metrics. But to my surprise, I don’t miss the exercise metrics at all.

In fact, not having pace and miles strapped to my wrist – or the pressure to stack miles week over week – allows me to be more present when I’m out there on a run or ride. Not knowing exactly how fast I’m pacing lets me truly listen to my body for cues about when to go harder or when to back off. I can feel my fatigue in greater fidelity, if that makes sense.

For example, I wasn’t feeling 100% after starting this morning’s run, so I decided to power hike the steep inclines of North Park’s South Ridge. In that moment, I thought to myself, “You would never let yourself hike these hills if you had pace on your wrist.” Hiking would slow down my overall pace too significantly.

It’s liberating to be able to run fast when I want to and throttle it back when I feel like I need to. Similarly, it’s refreshing (and sort of weird) to have no idea exactly how far I’m running.

When I returned home from this morning’s run, Jilly asked how far I ran.

“I’m not quite sure,” I told her. “I ran through the woods for about an hour and fifteen minutes, so that’s maybe six or seven miles, but I don’t know for sure.”

She didn’t quite understand why I would run if I wasn’t paying attention to how far I ran.

I think all of this boils down to the phase of life I’m currently in. I’m getting older and I’m okay with that. I’m not chasing paces anymore. I’m not chasing mileage volume. I’m not putting pressure on myself to progress at all costs. I don’t get upset if life gets busy and I don’t have time for my daily run. There are no ultramarathons on my docket.

Things are different now.

These days I’m chasing experiences – I want a unique one with each outing, and that’s only possible if I am fully present during each outing. These days I’m chasing future experiences and a level of fitness that will keep me on this planet for a bit longer so someday in the not-too-distant future I can be active with my grandkids.

That’s a different kind of ultra, but it’s the one I’m training for these days.

My friend Rob calls it my “no excuses jacket.” Every time I show up for a run when the weather is doing its worst—sleeting, pouring, or threatening something even more unpleasant—I’m wearing the same beat-up, greenish-yellow Marmot Precip jacket that’s been my constant companion for years.

It’s not the most technical piece of gear, and it’s certainly not the most stylish. But it has one quality that matters more than anything else: I trust it completely. Through Christmas Eve runs at -11 degrees, winter solstice adventures on the Rachel Carson trail in 18 inches of snow, and just last week when sheets of summer rain turned my morning neighborhood run into an impromptu swimming session, this jacket has never let me down.

The durability isn’t just about the fabric—it’s about the memories woven into every mile. This jacket has been with me through breakthrough runs and breaking points, through moments of clarity on quiet trails and the grinding determination of longer efforts. It’s become more than gear; it’s become a symbol of showing up.

But here’s what I’ve realized: the real power of the “no excuses jacket” isn’t protection from the elements. It’s protection from my own resistance to discomfort.

Weather is just the most obvious form of resistance we face. The cold whispers that it’s too harsh to go out. The rain suggests that maybe today isn’t the day. The wind argues that conditions aren’t ideal. My jacket doesn’t eliminate these conditions—it just gives me the confidence to move through them anyway.

This same principle has started showing up in other areas of my life, particularly in those moments that require a different kind of courage. Like having uncomfortable conversations with team members about performance issues. Or pushing back on a decision I disagree with in a leadership meeting. Or admitting I was wrong about a product direction we’ve been pursuing for months.

These situations don’t require literal weather protection, but they need the same kind of shield—something that helps me face discomfort rather than avoid it. Sometimes it’s preparation that serves as my jacket: spending extra time thinking through a difficult conversation before having it. Sometimes it’s a mindset: reminding myself that avoiding hard truths doesn’t make them disappear. And sometimes it’s simply the accumulated confidence that comes from having weathered difficult moments before.

This isn’t about toxic productivity or grinding through everything that feels hard. There’s a difference between productive discomfort and destructive suffering. The “No Excuses Jacket” philosophy is about being brave enough to engage with the things that matter, even when they feel uncomfortable. It’s about recognizing that the best runs often happen in the worst weather, and the most important conversations often happen when they feel the hardest to have.

The jacket reminds me that I have more capacity for discomfort than I usually give myself credit for. That the anticipation of harsh conditions is often worse than the conditions themselves. That showing up consistently, regardless of circumstances, builds a different kind of strength than any training plan could provide.

There’s something grounding about having a piece of gear—or a practice, or a mindset—that you trust completely. It becomes an anchor point, a reminder that you’ve faced uncertainty before and made it through. My beat-up Precip has become a tangible representation of the principle that we’re more resilient than we think, and that the best version of ourselves often emerges not in perfect conditions, but in spite of imperfect ones.

Few things in life are actually urgent. True emergencies do happen, but hopefully they are rare. The urgency I’m referring to is fabricated. A modern myth.

Our culture has evolved to value instant gratification, instant response and instant turnaround for most things. The faster your synapses get feedback, the better.

It doesn’t need to be this way. In fact, this faux urgency creates conflict with several of the personal pillars I hold dear: care, craft and quality.

Caring about something requires that you get to know it over time. A relationship is necessary for care to exist, and relationships don’t take shape instantly. They’re built on connection, trust and empathy – all elements difficult to nurture quickly.

Likewise, craft requires practice. And by definition, practice is working toward perfection over time. A craft is not developed overnight, but over years. Sometimes decades.

I think quality is the summation of care and craft. A thing of quality can only be the result of time spent caring about an outcome and crafting a response to that care.

All of this requires that we slow down. Turn off the firehose. Preference the signals that matter. Notice the details. Ask nuanced questions. Make space for diverse perspectives. Take on difficult conversations. Become intentional about our actions. By living this way, we’ll be able to center the care and craft required to deliver the quality the world deserves.

Over the past few years, I’ve developed an essential daily practice I call the Elemental Hour. The idea is simple – I commit at least one hour each day to being outdoors, regardless of weather or circumstance. No phone. No music or podcasts. No technology. Just me and whatever elements nature decides to serve up that day.

Sometimes I run. Sometimes I bike. Often, I simply walk. And some days I might just sit on the grass in my backyard, watching clouds drift or rain fall. The only condition that blocks me from the Elemental Hour is active lightning – a concession to safety that I’ve only had to invoke a handful of times.

This daily hour began as an experiment during a particularly screen-heavy period of work and has become an essential part of my wellbeing. It represents a small grounding, a deliberate step away from a technology-infused world. It creates a space where my attention isn’t fragmented by notifications, where success isn’t measured in metrics, and where presence isn’t mediated through a screen.

I can feel the benefits. Physically, my body moves in ways that feel natural and intuitive. Mentally, my thoughts have room to untangle themselves. And the practice has reconnected me with a direct, unfiltered experience of the world around me.

I think there’s something transformative about feeling rain on my face. About the absolute frozen bones after an hour sitting still in sub-zero windchill. About noticing the subtle transition of seasons. About navigating by landmarks and intuition.

When you’re standing in a downpour or navigating a snowy trail, the present moment demands your full attention. The future (how much longer will this last?) and the past (why didn’t I check the forecast?) become irrelevant. There is only now – this moment of being fully alive in the natural world.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this current and pivotal moment we find ourselves in. You probably are too. The world seems to be unraveling at an unprecedented pace. It’s impossible to ignore. Even if you’re mindful about how and where you spend your time and attention, there’s no escaping the onslaught of negativity swirling around us.

Violence and hate have been normalized. Basic human rights are being taken from marginalized people with each passing day. Isolation and nationalism pit global allies against one another. And it costs us all more to make ends meet for ourselves and our families.

Left unchecked, I can’t see how this all ends well. For anyone.

It’s obvious the goal of this whirlwind is to flood the zone and make us feel helpless. It’s working. I feel extremely helpless at times. Today is one of those days. But for me, the first step toward turning helplessness into something positive – something helpful – is to acknowledge the feeling, understand why I’m feeling this way and sit with that feeling for a moment. This post is essentially me sitting with the feeling of helplessness.

The second step I can take toward helpfulness is to make a commitment to do something – anything – that helps others. None of us individually or alone can end hate or reverse the downward trend of the economy. But we can all do our part and I believe one helpful act from one individual can scale up to many helpful acts across dozens, hundreds, thousands of people.

Here are a few things I’m committing to in order to become more helpful:

Talk openly, honestly and politely with those who disagree. We’re all too dug in and unwilling to interact with opposing views. This needs to change. I will never argue with a Nazi, but short of that, I will make an effort to talk openly about my belief system with others in an honest and approachable way. I will lean into empathy and humor (where appropriate) to deflect and connect with those who hold opposing views. I will do my best to communicate why I believe the things I do. I will remain proud and undeterred.

Support the businesses of my (marginalized) neighbors. I’ve seen a number of locally owned businesses close their doors permanently in recent weeks. Economic turbulence affects everyone, but I think local independent businesses that operate without economies of scale take the brunt. And local businesses owned by people in the cross-hairs of society feel the pain even more. To that end, I will spend my dollars at the establishments owned and operated by my marginalized neighbors wherever possible. From food to clothing to services, and everything in between, I will opt to shop small over corporate options.

Do not fall into the trap of contributing to divisive narratives online. It’s sad, but I feel like factual truth has become obsolete. The echo chambers are real and they’re here to stay. Too much of what I see online is about fact checking things that are blatantly false. In the context of a social network, who does this help? Whose opinion do we hope to change with that post? I believe nothing helpful can come from quote posting or clapping back online. We need more substantive dialogue on issues and social platforms offer none of the substance or depth required for meaningful change.

Volunteer at least once per month at a social service nonprofit that aligns to my worldview. Like you, I have a lot going on in my personal life. A demanding job and family responsibilities consume most of my days and evenings, but I think it’s important to contribute to causes I believe in. I will make a point to find time each month to volunteer in person at local nonprofit organization that assists some of the people and groups currently threatened by systems and policies that have emerged in recent days.

I’m curious if this sentiment resonates with you. If it does, what are some things you do to transcend this helpless feeling? I’d love to hear about some things that are working for you.

In The Ordinary Sacred, Joan Westenberg examines the alternative to a hyper-connected and ultra-performative lifestyle:

We live under systems—economic, cultural, digital—that demand we strive to be impressive. Inspirational. Aspirational. Permanently visible. Permanently performing. Eternally, achingly unsatisfied. We’re trained to ask, before doing anything: Will this make good content? Will this signal something useful? Will this get me closer to who I’m “supposed” to be?

I feel this sentiment in my bones. In my core. It’s a tension I feel pulling at me in surprising moments. Joan’s piece is a longer read, but worthy and relevant one – for me, and I suppose some of you who think similarly about digital culture.

Our world is complex. It’s messy and laced with nuance. In this context, I believe subtlety matters. Thoughtfulness matters. Depth matters. Now more than ever.

Show me a problem that can be solved over a couple hundred hastily typed characters and an angry button tap. Or a cynical, irony-infused dunk. What progress have you seen come out of that? Increasingly, we are bringing megaphones to tasks that require honest, substantive, personal interactions. Inside voices, please.

Bring the whisper.

Soundbite culture doesn’t allow for the holistic understanding we need right now. Nor the empathy required to take ground on the change we’re working toward. With most things, answers don’t lie on the fringes. They can be found somewhere along a spectrum and the key to winning in this endeavor is to slide people along that spectrum toward you. That’s not possible through anger and shouting into a megaphone, which only digs people further into their trenches.

Bring the whisper.

Speaking with nuance and empathy does not mean deferring to or submitting to or normalizing conflicting perspectives. In fact, the opposite. By offering an empathetic ear we can understand why people believe the things they do and offer the alternatives in which we believe. I think this is best done face-to-face. In real life. Where nuance can be addressed.

Bring the whisper.

It’s not easy. These are uncomfortable, difficult conversations. They can be painful and depressing at times, but occasionally you’ll see someone inch toward you. A pondering look. A slow nod in the affirmative. An honest question about your thought process. These are windows into progress.

Bring the whisper.

Some might think I’m naïve in this approach, and that’s OK. I might be. To those who might write this off as a futile tactic I’ll ask, how’s that megaphone working out?

Millions of whispers in unison can be extremely loud. Bring the whisper.

This post is part of the February 2025 Indieweb Carnival, where Joe Crawford invited us to share personal affirmations - the sayings and mantras that help guide our lives.

Be Here Now. Three simple words that have carried me through the darkest valleys and highest peaks, both literally and figuratively. This mantra, popularized by Ram Dass, has been my companion through unthinkable loss, through ultra-distance runs, and increasingly, through our algorithm-infused world.

I first encountered these words during a period of profound grief, when the weight of loss made both past and future unbearable. The past was too painful to revisit, the future too uncertain to contemplate. Be Here Now became my anchor, a reminder that this moment - just this one - was all I needed to handle. It didn’t make the grief disappear, but it made it manageable, one present moment at a time.

Years later, I found myself returning to these words in a different context: ultra-running. When you’re 40 miles into an ultra, your mind becomes your greatest adversary. It wants to complain about every ache, project how much worse they’ll feel in 10 miles, replay every training run you missed, question every life choice that led you here. But none of that serves you. The only thing that matters is this stride, this breath, this moment. Putting one foot in front of the other. Keep moving forward. Be Here Now. The mantra becomes a rhythm, a meditation in motion, carrying you through the pain cave one step at a time.

Lately, I’ve found new meaning in these words as I navigate what the internet has become. The constant pull of notifications, the endless doomscrolling, the quantified metrics of our lives - they all conspire to pull us away from the present moment. They fragment our attention and scatter our consciousness, leaving us somehow both overstimulated and undernourished.

This led me to make significant changes: deleting corporate social media accounts, self-hosting my online presence, removing my fitness tracker after nearly two decades. Each change was a choice to Be Here Now, to experience life directly rather than through the lens of algorithms and analytics.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m sharing these thoughts on a digital platform. But there’s a profound difference between using technology mindfully and letting it use us. The IndieWeb movement itself embodies this distinction - it’s about being present and intentional in our digital lives, rather than passively consuming the algorithmic firehose.

Be Here Now isn’t about rejecting the past or ignoring the future. It’s about recognizing that the present moment is where life actually happens, where we have the power to act, to heal, and to grow. Whether I’m processing grief, pushing through physical or mental limits, or choosing how to engage with technology, these three words remind me to return to the only moment I can truly inhabit.

In a world that increasingly pulls our attention in a thousand directions, being here now is both a challenge and a radical act of self-preservation. It’s an affirmation I return to daily, a compass that always points to this moment, this breath, this now.

In the shifting landscape of our digital commons, the words the leaders of these corporate social platforms use have become shapeshifters, their meanings bending like light through murky water. As we witness the transformation of our shared online spaces, I find myself creating a new dictionary for these times—a translation guide for what remains unsaid.

When they say “free expression,” I want you to hear “the end of community care.”

When they say “algorithmic neutrality,” I want you to hear “the automation of amplified harm.”

When they say “marketplace of ideas,” I want you to hear “a colosseum where truth wrestles with virality.”

When they say “content-neutral platform,” I want you to hear “we’ve chosen profit over protection.”

When they say “open dialogue,” I want you to hear “we’ve removed the guardrails.”

When they say “reduced content moderation,” I want you to hear “we’ve dismissed the digital gardeners.”

When they say “user empowerment,” I want you to hear “you’re on your own now.”

When they say “engagement metrics,” I want you to hear “behavior we can monetize.”

When they say “democratic discourse,” I want you to hear “the loudest voices win.”

When they say “digital town square,” I want you to hear “unmoderated chaos.”

These aren’t just semantic games—they’re the architecture of our new digital reality. Each phrase is another layer between what we’re told and what we experience, between the promise of connection and the practice of division.

I find myself returning to the early dreams of the web, when we imagined digital spaces as gardens to be tended, not markets to be exploited. It’s time to reclaim not just our platforms, but our very language—to speak plainly about what we’re building, what we’re breaking, and what we’re willing to sacrifice in the name of unconstrained growth.

The web I want to inhabit still has gardeners. It still has carpenters and caretakers. It still believes in the power of boundaries to create safety, and the strength of moderation to cultivate community. Most importantly, it still understands that true freedom comes not from the absence of constraints, but from the presence of care.

Each December as the year comes to a close, I find myself reflecting not just on where I’ve been during the past twelve months, but more importantly, on where I want to go during the next twelve. The past few years have brought unprecedented changes to how we live, work, and connect. I’ll be honest, I struggled this past year through a lot of it. I know I’m not alone in this admission.

Through it all, one truth has become increasingly clear to me: the quality of our lives isn’t measured in grand gestures or accomplishments, but in the small, intentional choices we make each day.

For 2025, I’m approaching my intentions with this notion in mind. Instead of a scattered list of resolutions, I’m focusing on a single theme: Living Well. This isn’t about perfection or hitting arbitrary numbers (though I’ve included some specific targets to keep myself honest). It’s about building a framework that feels both purposeful and sustainable.

My framework breaks down into four key areas, each with specific, measurable objectives that support the broader goal of living well:

Get Stronger

First, I’m focusing on getting stronger—both physically and mentally. On the physical side, I’ve set a few concrete goals:

• achieving 100 good-form pushups in one rep
• doing 25 proper pull-ups in one rep
• advancing my bouldering ability from V2 to V4/V5
• bikepacking the GAP & C&O trails from Pittsburgh to DC

These aren’t just about numbers; they’re about building a resilient body that can keep up with my adventures and ambitions.

Mental strength is equally crucial. After noticing how much time I spend mindlessly consuming content, I’m committing to two daily practices:

• dedicated time for reading actual books (not just snippets and headlines)
• actively catching myself when I fall into the doomscrolling trap

It’s about quality of attention rather than quantity of information.

Eat Low to the Ground

The second pillar focuses on nourishment—specifically, eating “low to the ground.” This means prioritizing whole foods and reducing processed ingredients. This isn’t about strict rules or elimination diets, but rather making conscious choices about what I put into my body. The goal is to make whole, minimally-processed foods the default rather than the exception.

Prioritize Quality

Quality is my third focus area, extending beyond just food choices. I’m being more intentional about the media I consume and the things I bring into my life. This means fewer impulse purchases, more thoughtful choices about what I read and watch, and a general shift toward “fewer, better things.” It’s about creating space for what truly matters by being selective about what gets my time and attention.

Actively Cultivate Relationships

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I’m prioritizing relationships. The pandemic showed us all how easily connections can fray without active maintenance. I’m setting up regular check-ins with friends and family—not just through texts and social media, but through actual calls and in-person visits. These won’t be relegated to “when I have time” but will be treated as non-negotiable appointments with the people who matter most.

These objectives aren’t just items to check off a list; they’re guideposts for getting more intentional and aligned with my values. Some days I’ll hit all the marks, others I won’t—and that’s okay. The point isn’t perfection, but progression. And practice. Living well isn’t about dramatic transformations but about small, consistent choices that add up over time.

Thanks so much for reading and supporting this site in 2024. Your readership is important to me.

The eggs must be room temperature. This isn’t negotiable—it’s the foundation everything else builds upon. I learned this the hard way, through countless mornings of broken, rubbery attempts that ended up more scrambled than folded. Cold eggs straight from the refrigerator never cooperate; they resist, they seize up, they refuse to flow.

Each morning now starts the same way: I take two eggs from the fridge and place them in a small bowl on the counter. While they slowly warm, I prep everything else: chopping the veggies, grating a small amount of cheese, setting out and warming my well-seasoned 8-inch pan.

This waiting period to temperature used to frustrate me. Now I understand it’s not just about temperature—it’s about preparation, about giving space for what comes next.

The whisking is gentle but deliberate. Two eggs (never more, never less), a pinch of salt, seven twists of the peppercorn grinder and exactly twelve whisks. Not enough to create foam—that leads to sponginess—but just enough to unite the whites and yolks into a seamless golden liquid. You can feel when it’s ready; the resistance changes, becomes smoother, more cohesive.

The pan must be hot, but not too hot. Medium-low heat, butter just starting to foam but not brown. This is the moment that demands the most attention, the most presence. Too cool and the eggs won’t set properly; too hot and they’ll toughen. You have to read the signs: the way the butter moves, the subtle change in its sound, the first whisper of fragrance.

When the eggs hit the pan, time simultaneously speeds up and slows down. You have maybe two minutes total, but within those minutes are dozens of small decisions. The initial swirl to coat the pan. The gentle lifting of the edges as the eggs set, allowing the liquid to flow underneath. The moment when you stop touching it altogether and just watch, wait, and feel.

The fold itself is both the simplest and most complex part. One smooth motion, confident but not aggressive. Too hesitant and it breaks; too forceful and it tears. The spatula slides underneath at precisely the right angle, and then it’s just physics and faith. The eggs know what to do if you let them.

I’ve made hundreds of omelettes over the past few years. Each one has taught me something, not just about cooking but about the nature of practice. About how mastery isn’t a destination but a series of small adjustments, tiny calibrations, moments of paying attention. About how the same ingredients, the same steps, the same motions can produce wildly different results depending on your state of mind.

Some mornings, everything aligns. The omelette slides onto the plate in one perfect golden crescent, barely containing the melted cheese within. Other mornings, despite following every step exactly the same way, something goes wrong. The fold isn’t quite right, or the cheese breaks through, or the edges are just a touch too brown.

These imperfect ones still taste good—sometimes even better than their more photogenic siblings. They remind me that perfection isn’t always the point. The point is showing up, paying attention, making small adjustments, and being present for whatever emerges from the pan.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll take two eggs from the fridge and place them in a small bowl on the counter. And while I wait for them to warm, I’ll think about what the day might bring, about all the small moments that add up to something larger, about the endless pursuit of that perfect fold.

After two decades of religiously tracking every step, every mile, and every heartbeat, I’ve decided to take off my fitness tracker. My health metrics tracking journey began in the aughts with a Jawbone (remember those?), then evolved to a Fitbit, an early generation Apple Watch, and then most recently to a COROS Apex as I got more serious in my endurance pursuits. The journey has been enlightening, but perhaps not in the way these devices’ makers intended.

For nearly 20 years, I’ve been a dedicated member of the quantified self movement. Most mornings began with checking my sleep quality, each run or ride was meticulously recorded and posted to Strava, and most days ended with a review of my stats. The progression through devices—from the simple step counting of early Fitbits to the comprehensive health suite of the Apple Watch and the endurance-focused metrics of the COROS—reflected my growing appetite for more data, more insights, and more control.

But somewhere along the way, something changed.

I started noticing how the numbers were shaping my behavior, and not always for the better. A relaxed-pace run wasn’t just a chance to enjoy fresh air and sunshine—it was a disappointing pace stat. A rest day wasn’t a conscious choice for recovery—it was an unfortunate break in my activity streak. The quantified self had become my qualified self, where the value of my activities was determined by what my watch thought about them.

The irony wasn’t lost on me: tools that were supposed to help me become more in tune with my body had actually created a layer of digital abstraction between me and my physical experience. I was no longer running to feel good, riding for the freedom and wind in my face or climbing for enjoyment—I was doing these things to feed the algorithms.

This realization led me to question the role of tracking in my life. Was I measuring to help me improve or was I becoming digitally dependent on the metrics? The constant stream of data had overshadowed the simple joy of movement, the natural rhythm of rest and activity, and the intuitive understanding of my body’s needs.

The decision to stop tracking wasn’t easy. My COROS was a loyal companion. It was with me through countless miles, crazy adventures, my first ultra, and with each new bouldering grade. It witnessed my growth as a runner, cyclist and climber, and provided the data that fueled my progress. But sometimes, progress means letting go of the tools that got you here.

Now, when I head out for a run, it’s just me, my breath, and the trail ahead. There’s no GPS track being drawn, no pace alerts buzzing on my wrist, no stats to upload and analyze afterward. It feels both foreign and familiar—like running to a home you’d forgotten you had.

I don’t think this is a total rejection of tracking technology or the quantified self movement. These tools can be incredibly valuable, especially when working toward specific goals or managing health conditions. But perhaps their greatest value lies in teaching us to eventually listen to ourselves again.

As I adjust to this new, untracked existence, I’m rediscovering something that no algorithm could quantify: the simple pleasure of moving through the world, unchanged by sensors and unmediated by screens. It turns out that sometimes the best way to move forward is to leave the numbers behind.

You are an awful developer. In fact, to call yourself a developer is a complete fabrication. You’re not formally trained in code or capable of building anything more sophisticated than a rudimentary website. You’re a self-taught hobbyist whose curiosity has led you far enough to be dangerous.

You are a mediocre designer. In fact, to label yourself a designer would be skewing the truth and devaluing the work of those true artisans who meticulously craft delicate digital artifacts. Those perfectors of the pixel. Those framers of the future.

You are an average writer. You formulate and convey clear thoughts through the written word, however Hemingway you are not.

Your entrepreneurial and business acumen is nothing to write home about. Marketing doesn’t scare you, but you don’t enjoy it. It makes you feel dirty. Many people have made much more money in their profitable ventures. And you don’t seem to mind.

In light of these things you are not, you are able to see past the horizon. You understand how puzzle pieces fit together. You effortlessly connect people with resources and desirable outcomes.

You’re not afraid of hard work or sacrificing to get better. Your drive is a thing of wonder.

Your sense of direction is unprecedented. Some call it strategy. Others, leadership prowess. You leave it undefined, but know deep down it’s this nebulous mass throbbing in your chest that makes you special. It makes you different. It’s a thing of wonder.

You’re not a great coder, designer, writer or entrepreneur, but you might just be a great combination of those skills. Move forward with speed and confidence.

I recently stumbled upon this post from Andy Jones-Wilkins about aging & running, and it prompted me to reflect on my own experience as a 40-something runner.

Needless to say, I’m not as speedy as I once was and my body needs longer & more frequent recovery than it did even just a couple years ago. The repetitive motion and high-impact is starting to wreak havoc on my joints and tendons. It’s taken a long time, lots of soul searching and some avoidable injuries, but it’s a truth I’ve come to accept embrace. The fact that I can’t crush 10 milers seven days a week or jump into a random marathon on a few days notice anymore has opened up a variety of new options for me to stay engaged with my physicality on a daily basis.

The most notable non-running activity I’ve grown to love is bouldering. I find it to be fundamentally different than running, however it requires a similar mindset. Bouldering and running are equally mental and physical challenges. And in my opinion, the mental challenges are always more interesting problems to solve. In running and climbing there will be times when you want to quit or bail, but mental strength will get you through.

Of course, as I get older, cycling also plays a bigger role in my life due to its low-impact cardio benefits. We’re lucky to have a great trail system here in Pittsburgh, upon which I can bike commute when I can’t work from home. I’m not a fan of riding roads due to safety issues, so the trail system is clutch and allows for some epic rides. One of these summers I want to bike pack from Pittsburgh to Washington DC on the Great Allegheny Passage.

I’ve never been into lifting weights or getting swole, but lowering my running mileage has afforded me the opportunity to begin a strength training routine. I mostly stick to bodyweight (pushups, sit-ups and pull-ups) and kettlebell/mace exercises but I’m really feeling the benefits. I feel lighter on my feet. I feel like I have more agency in my movements.

I still think of myself as primarily a runner. I’m out there 4-5 days a week now, with notably lower mileage. And for the first time in a long while, I feel absolutely wonderful when I finish a run. That’s the point of all this, right? Embracing the changes that come with aging requires work, but it’s work I’m excited to take on and continue as a practice.

Beck Tench is a designer and researcher who studies the way technology impacts our lives at Harvard’s Center for Digital Thriving. Her mission is simple: begin to understand what it means for young people to thrive in this increasingly digital and connected world.

I’ve been a fan of Beck’s work since we initially crossed paths more than a decade ago, when we both focused on building compelling digital experiences for museums. I worked primarily with art museums and she worked primarily with science museums. We both brought a healthy sense of skepticism to the task of infusing cultural experiences with technology, and held a high regard of professional respect for each other’s approach to digital mindfulness. In fact, we collaborated twice (1, 2) and each conversation ranks as a personal highlight during my time in the museum sector.

While we haven’t kept in touch, I’ve been following Beck’s professional journey through her newsletter, Making Thriving Visible. And while everything she writes is interesting to me, I found her most recent update to be extremely profound. In it, Beck uses the analogy of a tiger named Mohini – who was conditioned by zookeepers to exist within an uncaged 12’ x 12’ space – to explain the way digitally-enabled grind culture was negatively impacting her mindset and happiness.

Through likening her situation to Mohini’s experience, Beck came to the realization that she was not thriving. She made some impactful changes and now considers the definition of thriving in a whole new light:

I am beginning to see thriving, digitally or otherwise, as a practice. It’s not a destination. It isn’t static. We can be thriving and things can change. We can change. If Mohini had ventured out of her 12x12 self-imposed cage… if she had explored the trees and hills and plants and pond, would she have started to notice the exhibit fence? Would she have wondered what was on the other side?

Thriving as a practice. I can get behind that, and I think to some extent I’m subconsciously working on it. The mindful changes I’ve made in my digital and professional footprint are evidence, but after reading Beck’s piece I am going formalize my thriving practice by creating a reflection and future visioning routine.

If you’re interested in digital mindfulness, I highly recommend Beck’s newsletter. You can subscribe via Substack, or via RSS (like I do) to avoid any surveillance capitalism that may be associated with the delivery platform.

A couple months ago, my GPS watch stopped syncing with Strava. For whatever reason at the time, I was unable to restore the connection. I was also not in a position to spend $$$ on a new GPS watch, so since this disconnect was introduced my activities have no longer been pushing out to the popular social network for endurance athletes. As an active daily user who dished out boku kudos, I was initially quite bummed. And because I wasn’t posting to Strava, I stopped opening the app and reviewing what my friends were doing.

In the days since, I’ve noticed my mindset has been much healthier with respect to my exercise activities. So much of my time spent in Strava was me comparing my stats, paces and distances to others’. This resulted (subconsciously) in feeling pressure to always push harder, faster and further. I was losing the joy associated with getting outside and moving my body through the natural world.

In recent weeks, it’s been refreshing to get out for runs, rides and climbs simply for my own personal enjoyment, rather than feeding the ego associated with throwing down something epic for the kudos. It’s funny how this small technical hiccup has allowed me to recenter on my love for movement outside instead of the dopamine that came from the likes after the fact.

Innovation starts on the fringes. It germinates on the edges and festers in the shadows. It begins below the surface where the dissidents and dissatisfied reside, and it is from these depths that seismic shifts occur.

These shifts rarely happen slowly and incrementally. We may think of them as glacial, but the historical evidence suggests that change of this scale is rapid and transformational. Subterranean ideas take shape and take hold quickly inside the earth’s core, and they begin their rise to the surface through fault lines and volcanos. And then, when enough pressure and momentum has built, the earth gives way to new land formations upon which these new ideas can stand tall.

A question I regularly ask myself and now pose to you: Who’s your core and what’s your fault line?

Let’s shake the world.

Two years ago today, I experienced the saddest day of my life. It was a day I will never forget and a situation I hope no one else ever has to live through. Alternatively, eight years ago tomorrow, I experienced the happiest day of my life. It too was a day I will never forget, but in this case I truly wish everyone has a chance to feel the love that surrounded me on that day back in 2004.

Any time a juxtaposition of extreme emotions is compacted into a turbulent timeframe, it creates a great deal of internal tension for us. For me, these 48 hours embody a great conflict. I consistently find myself questioning the appropriateness of my feelings. How can I be simultaneously happy about this one thing and so very sad about this other thing? Why am I letting this cloud of negativity cast its dark shadow on my brilliant memories of pure joy? In all honesty, I don’t have the answers.

What I do have, though, is a vital macro-view of this 48-hour window — the ability to step back and analyze its essence. Through this window, I see the ebb-and-flow of the universe captured in a sort of time-lapse. This juxtaposition shows me the importance of mindful balance and non-attachment. It shows me that lives can be irreversibly altered in an instant and that nothing in this life is permanent. It wrangles up and presents to me the complete spectrum of all the possible feelings and emotions that exist in this world. It swallows me in an ocean of thought where tides bring and take without judgement.

This juxtaposition has taught that the past and the future do not exist. There is only this moment; there is only now. Nothing more and nothing less. Realizing this, I’ve learned to cherish every waking moment. I drink in my surroundings and live fully and completely in the present. I hold my friends and family close, and make sure they know I love them.

Only by living this way can I weather the most violent of juxtapositions and remain in a place of complete peace.

For three weeks, my family has been living without a kitchen. We are in the middle of a complete remodel that involves taking the walls down to the studs and the floors down to their joists. This project not only impacts our kitchen, but also the adjacent dining room. The heart of our home has been rendered unusable. While progress is being made, it is slow due to the complicated nature of many moving parts.

The kitchen, when complete, will be wonderful. In the interim, though, we are living with a refrigerator in our family room and our dining set — with all associated plates, glasses and kitchen supplies — filling our guest room. Our family routine has been eradicated and we have become very resourceful when it comes to preparing food and sharing family meals.

In a way, I feel like we’ve been camping in our own home. We don’t want to succumb to the unhealthy lure of convenience sold by TV dinners and fast food, so we’ve meticulously been planning our meals to fit our busy schedules. We’ve gotten creative with ingredients and resorted to an outside grill to cook mostly everything.

If it’s raining at dinner time, I cook in the downpour and try to notice each falling drop as it strikes me.

Living without normal modern amenities, however temporary, is a healthy wake-up call. Sometimes I think we become numb to the concept of convenience. Hot? Turn on the A.C. Need a gallon milk? Jump in the car and drive a few miles to the store. Need directions? Google it on the go. These are the times in which we live.

Technology promises progress, and with that comes convenience. But when technology and convenience are removed from the equation, we are left with same problems — problems that can be equally answered using lowest-common-denominator solutions. Sometimes the answer is so simple.

When you’re hungry, make fire.

It’s early and I’m still half-asleep. I’m in the midst of my morning coffee protocol when I suddenly catch movement out of the corner of my eye. A brown blur with a crest of red, she moves in fits and bursts delicately forming a bowl of earth and straw outside my window.

The days have just gotten longer and we are approaching our dodge with the sun. She is preparing; she is making a home.

Days pass and I watch her create this nest. Every now and then, she’ll catch me peeking out the window and stop for a moment. Our eyes lock and then release with an unspoken agreement that neither wishes the other harm. She is meticulous, as many mothers are with matters of the family. She works tirelessly for the future, flying nameless random patterns in search of material to craft her bed.

They’re coming. I can feel it.

I awake the next morning to find some additions to the nest. Three ocean-tinted, speckled, chalky eggs have arrived overnight. The mother is proud, there’s no question. In an instant she’s gone from scavenger of building supplies, to protector of her fragile packages. She settles in and incubates.

For several days, the mother stays with her eggs. A trait of protection, she only leaves for seconds at a time. The weather has also turned cold. She has become the furnace.

Each morning, coffee in hand, I peer out the window to see if our new flock has arrived. And each morning the mother sits in silence. She eyes me with the same look my mother used to have. “Patience,” she conveys. Just when I thought the shells were in penetrable and void of life, I notice new movement in the nest.

The first egg has hatched. With beak inverted toward the sky, the new chick greets the world with an open mouth. She is hungry for her first meal and anxious for her siblings to join her. The mother is absent, but only for a moment until she returns with some nourishment for the babe.

I almost consider taking the day off from work to watch the other two eggs hatch, but several meetings are scheduled so I have to leave. Several times that day, in those very meetings, I catch myself wondering if the triad is complete. When I arrive home that night, I find it to be.

Three perfectly fragile baby chicks. They were all beak and full of cute.

The next couple of days pass and the chicks grow slightly bigger with each sunrise and cup of morning coffee. As they get stronger, their chirping grows louder. They are now fully capable of elevating their heads above the nest. The peek left and right, but ultimately end up back in the all-too-familiar position of beaks in the air, mother providing. When she isn’t feeding, she continues to warm the home.

As the chicks grow, I imagine watching as they emerge from the nest with fresh feathers and take that unpredictable leap into flight. I imagine them soaring with beaky smiles and playing like flying children would.

But that would never be the case.

I’m not sure how many days it was after the chicks arrived that I came home from work to find the nest disheveled and disturbed. No chicks. No mother. There had been an incident. There had been a struggle.

“Hello? Mr. Inscho? There’s been an accident.”

I won’t let myself imagine or consider the circumstances that took the chicks away from this world, just as I can’t dwell on the darkness in areas of my past that are filled with loss and despair.

Sometimes life has plans other than our own intentions. We are only passengers.

What I will do, though, is hold close the way our eyes met during those first few days and the connection we experienced in those quiet morning moments. I’ll cherish the opportunity to be a part of this mother’s dedication to her family and I will forever remember my vision of them flying off into the powder blue sky.

There was a time in my life when I aspired for expertise and the notoriety that came along with it. Early on in my career, I read lots of books about best practices (whatever that term means); I attended professional development workshops led by marketing experts who shared tips, techniques and best practices (there’s that term again); and I worked tirelessly toward developing a knowledge base I hoped one day would lead others to describe me as an expert in my field.

As I look back, these goals were extremely misguided. My efforts payed off, though, and the phone started ringing off the hook with invitations to speak about my work. I traveled far and wide to conferences and universities and meet-ups, waxing technological along my way to becoming a sharer of practices, best or otherwise.

This was all well and good until I realized what really made my work special and why people wanted to hear about it. Quite simply, I was not the expert people thought I was and the projects I created were not templated best-practices. Rather, they were playful experiments that valued humans over technology and meaningful connections over metrics.

In the early days of participatory and/or social media, there were no experts (and I would argue there still aren’t). We were all flying by the seats of our pants in an exciting, reckless and lawless wild west now known as the Internet. I was lucky to be one of a small group of rogue non-profit technologists who formed a kind of professional collective, regularly swapping war stories about projects that worked out well, in addition to projects that ultimately crashed and burned. This neo-collaborative environment fostered a freedom to experiment in a space without limitations. It was extremely conducive to producing uniquely creative work.

We ignored marketing metrics and built initiatives that flew in the face of the newly emerging, self-inflicted gurus. On paper, the projects shouldn’t have been effective, but they were. We were operating in new territory — one that had no textbook, let alone textbook author.

Upon realizing I was no expert and the projects garnering most attention were essentially public experiments, I became extremely conflicted wearing the costume of an expert. Who was I to speak authoritatively about these emerging technologies?

Asking myself hard, inward looking questions caused my professional world-view to change overnight. I stopped accepting offers to speak about my projects, in favor of sharing my experiences with those who have specific questions. To this day, I’ll happily discuss my work with people who are interested or readers who email, but I will never again put myself in a situation that delineates between expert and non-expert. I’m happy to forever consider myself an experimenting amateur.

There is something to be said for approaching one’s work from the perspective of an amateur. They operate with curiosity, openness, and an undeniable aire of possibility. There are no limits to their creativity and ingenuity is engrained within them. Amateurs participate in activities for the simple joy of doing so, not for a paycheck. They ignore rules and are not intimidated by failure.

Just consider the progress that has emerged from ignoring rules and popular conventions. We would be without innovations like Post-It Notes, Corn Flakes, the Pace Maker, Penicillin and countless others were it not for free experimentation and happy accidents. I don’t place my work on the same pedestal that these developments stand upon, but I do feel the best projects are those that force us to adapt to new paradigms and think differently about our environment.

Experts, on the other hand, thrive on stable existence. They live inside convention, measurement, regulations and best practices. With respect to technology, experts believe their methodology is the stuff of authority — a prescription for replicated success — which is rarely the case and often times not.

I think it’s important to differentiate between a lack of expertise and a lack of desire for information. These could not be more different. While amateurs do not possess unparalleled expertise in a subject, their thirst for knowledge about the subject cannot be easily quenched. To an amateur, there is always something more to learn.

In my personal practice, I continue to employ an amateur approach. It’s why I hash out crazy ideas like this here on the site. It’s why I only work with partners who embrace this philosophy. It’s why I admire other people making crazy unique work in the space and invite them to be guests on the podcast each week. I want to know more. I want to grow as an artist. I want to soak it all in. While not an expert at anything, I am hungry for experimentation and greedy for the fantastic.

And that’s enough for me.

Bigger, better, faster, more. These are the benefits technology promises us. They are promises of the future. A commitment toward progress.

Larger hard drives with ever-growing capacity appear in shiny new devices at every turn of the product cycle. Information flows at a rate that makes many feel as if they are wrapping their mouth around the end of a fire hose. We celebrates excess at a level never before experienced in western culture.

Our television screens have more surface area than our dining room tables. We walk around with pocket-sized personal computers that provide unlimited information at our fingertips, yet we no longer remember phone numbers. And thanks to GPS navigation, we have no idea where we’re headed until we’re well on our way.

Bigger, better, faster, more.

We suffer from elephantiasis of advancement. And we continuously crave even more. More friends. More disk space. More followers. More apps. More page views. More “Likes.” More pixels. More channels. More downloads. More data. More features.

More caliber per capita.

Bigger, better, faster, more. Of these four words, only one is truly qualitative.

Many believe we’re better off thanks to technology. I would be foolish to deny the progress made possible through technological advancement. Diseases have been cured, disasters have been reported and dictators have been overthrown, thanks in great part to technology. Those are all amazing things. I’m sure thousands of similar examples exist proving the benefits of advancement.

But what about us? Is technology making us better as human beings? I’m not so sure, but I suppose that depends upon your subjective definition of better.

Experiment: if you live or work in an urban or suburban area, take a look around you the next time you’re walking down the street or at the mall. Take note of the number of people staring at a mobile device. The next time you are in a café, count the number of people with a laptop accompanying their latté. There is now a generation that knows only the connected way of life. The attached life.

And I’m as guilty as the next person.

I have a difficult time believing the attached life is the better life. It is impossible to avoid the digital aspects of modern society, however non-attachment and the practice of living in the present can cooperate alongside digital culture. If we reject technology’s promise of excess; renounce the ideas of bigger, better and more; and focus on our own personal concept of what better is (and should ultimately be), we can live in harmony with technology.

Smaller, slower, less. And better. Those are the ideals to which I am working.

I am a runner. I can say that today with confidence, but it wasn’t always so.

When I started running just over a year ago, it was a struggle. I’ve always considered myself to be in relatively good health, but I wasn’t the most athletic person. I was active, but not an athlete. Plain and simple, in the beginning, each stride was painful. A fifteen minute light jog was nearly unbearable, torture even.

During those early days, when I was fighting hard to finish an exhausting three-mile run, my personal motivators were largely technology-based. I brought my phone along with me on those cold winter wars to fire music into my ears that powered my feet to keep moving, step after step, mile after mile. I tracked my progress with Runkeeper, a GPS-enabled application that measures mileage, pace, calories burned and a slew of additional metrics. Runkeeper’s sultry-voiced narrator would occasionally chirp distance and pace updates into my earbuds, letting me know just how far I had gone, and how much farther I had yet to go.

With consistency came comfort. As the runs became easier, I upped my distance to include one long run per week. This caused my outings to last longer, sometimes longer than 90 minutes. On these longer runs I listened to a regular rotation of technology podcasts from the 5x5 and 70 Decibels networks.

While the music, tech musings and automated metrics kept my mind from focussing on the discomfort my body was feeling, I also discovered that this constant connectivity (even while in the middle of the woods on a trail run) was keeping my mind from appreciating my surroundings in those moments, following an exploratory train-of-thought around professional ideas and concepts, or simply experiencing the silence and patterns in my breath.

The technology had created a barrier. I was distracted, no longer fully aware and I became more interested in outcomes, results and metrics, than process.

Realizing this, I made the decision several weeks ago to eliminate technology during my runs. No music, no podcasts and no Runkeeper updates. I would leave my phone at home and become one with my path and my thoughts.

On my first run without technology, I remember noticing the discomfort was gone. I was several miles into the run and feeling fine. I let my mind wander to any thought that entered it and I explored those thoughts without limits. I was aware of the nature surrounding me and I was in tune with my breathing.

Distance didn’t matter. Pacing didn’t matter. Alternatively, my experience during the journey mattered. Process mattered.

Since embracing the silence during my runs, I’ve had a lot of time to think about Static Made (as a whole) and specific client projects in a setting that’s completely removed from a display screen. Pondering technology in the absence of it is liberating. It’s been refreshing and has allowed me to develop creative ideas in a way not inherently tethered to technology.

The lesson for me here is this: technology should never be a tether, but rather the vehicle through which tethers are cut. Outcomes are definitely important, but the process of exploration should enjoy equal footing. The process is journey to the desired result and space in which you can create without limits.

I was watching Heartland w/ John Kasich the other night and an interesting topic was being discussed. The segment was entitled, “Can a smart person believe in God?”. Author Michael Giullen was the guest expert of the segment, having just penned a book of the same name. The discussion made me ponder the question. Is an intelligent person able to believe in a supreme entity that displays no physical proof of existing in the first place?

I first thought about the question subjectively. I consider myself somewhat intelligent, although some of you might disagree. I also consider myself a spiritual person, albeit not conforming to one specific organized religion. If I must be labeled, I would consider myself Tibetan-Buddhist, only because it falls in line with MY belief system. As to address the question stated above, I feel one would be a fool to not concede that there is some additional force at work in this universe other than that of humans. Be it nature, be it Allah, be it Karma, be it God, be it science. To suggest that a greater force does not exist displays ignorance, narcism and stupidity.

I think that religious people are deemed “not smart” or ignorant because the overwhelming majority condemn beliefs that are not in line with their own. This, in turn, makes them seem less intelligent because they are unwilling to understand a different point of view. I’ve been told many times that I will burn in hell because I do not accept Jesus Christ as my lord and savior. In my opinion, we mislabel religious people as ignorant. They are not ignorant because they believe, but because they are intolerant.

I understand that certain religions are less accepting of others. It shouldn’t be that way. If you look at a cross section of the major religions on this planet, they all teach tolerance, forgiveness and love. All religions are beautiful in their own right. It’s when intolerant fundamentalists hijack a belief system that religion gets a bad name. So to answer the question, I believe that a smart person can believe in a God-like entity, but it is a truly wise person that also realizes there are, often times, more than one answer to a question.