little things


Toastmaster Speech

Title: Little Things

Delivered on Tuesday, February 6th, 2018 (in Bowmanville, Ontario)


We all want big things.

Big houses. Big bank accounts. Big beautiful cars.

The bigger, the better.

But what if we’re missing something.

What if the meaning of our lives hides itself in the little things? In the ordinary? In the every day?

A cup of coffee. An open door. A good morning. A hug. An unexpected visit from a friend.

When I was a younger and in teacher’s college, I was placed in a grade 3 classroom in Scarborough. I did very well, but a little girl taught me more, that all courses at the University ever could.

She taught me about the little things.

Back then, it was my responsibility as a student teacher, to plan and deliver the art lesson.

Simple really.

Each child would get their canvas. A simple, white piece of paper. Multiple sheets of colourful recycled paper to cut out shapes and figures. Some glue and a pair of scissors.

The children were instructed to use their imagination, obey their inner muse, and cut out symbols and shapes that would explore their dreams.  

It was a spectacular lesson.

My lesson plan hit all the right notes.

It covered the necessary curriculum. It kept all the kids busy for an hour and I was certainly scoring some brownie points with my host teacher, who would be evaluating me in a few days.

A youngest in the corner, was cutting out a Stanley Cup. Another one was creating a fire truck. A young lady close by was making a microscope, and another one was cutting out a dress to fit her princess.

Suddenly, I felt a tug on my pant leg, and heard a young girl ask me if I could get her black piece of paper.

This was strange and very unexpected.

Silly even.

A small request, but truly weird.

She was very specific too and very persistent.

She wanted a ‘black’ piece of paper.


I found her request odd and I was busy, so I wanted the problem to go away, as quickly as humanly possible. In the nicest way possible.

This little girl was clearly after something, but I wasn’t seeing it. She was listening to her muse, no matter how misguided or drunk she I thought she was, but I couldn’t see it, nor was I interested in taking the time to find out.

I was preoccupied with more pressing matters.

The big ideas.

Executing my big lesson.

I don’t remember what I told her, but it was something that definitely let her down gently.

I clearly didn’t have a black piece of paper. I mean, who keeps a black piece of paper around? What’s the point? Everyone knows that a piece of paper should be white. This is universally sound logic. It makes sense. Black is ridiculous. How are you supposed to draw anything? 

I told her that she should probably work with what she had. I also told her that this distraction cost her some time and she should really get to work.

She said thank you and kindly went back to her table of friends, to resume her art.

I gave this no more thought, and she didn’t come back to see me again.

At the end of the day, the classroom teacher collected all the children’s art, and she handed them to me in an art case. I went home, and a few days later began to evaluate them, one by one.

The children’s art was great. Not very complex, but I marvelled at their imagination and effort.

It was truly amazing to see their hopes and dreams, in all its glory, expressed on their white sheets of paper.

Until I saw a black one.

I had to look again.

It was a white piece of paper, just like every-one else’s. But it was completely black, because it was covered with tiny, black pieces of paper, that were ever so carefully glued together in perfect harmony. This took her a lot of time and effort. That’s for sure.

She must have worked very hard and very fast.

For the first time, I could see what she was after.

I could see what she wanted. Why she came to speak to me.

The paper had to be black because she needed the night sky. Her dreams were as big as the universe, and her page was filled with many tiny silver places to visit.

She created the night sky, with tiny shimmering stars.

This little girl was trying to show me that she wanted to travel to the distant stars. That her dreams were bigger than me and her, and this world, but I wasn’t listening.

It was such a little thing.

Black paper instead of standard white one.

Such a little thing, but yet so big.

Such a simple and obvious request. A request I didn’t take the proper time to listen to.

I didn’t help her. I let her fend for herself.

She helped herself.

I really failed in my purpose as a teacher, and that didn’t sit well with me.

I felt gutted. Foolish. I was really mad at myself.

I imagined my future where young men and women would no longer tug at my pant leg because I had nothing meaningful to say to them. It doesn’t matter if you’re eight or eighteen. Everyone can use a little guidance. Everyone can use a little lift towards their dreams.

This was an important lesson for me.

One that changed everything.

A lesson in little things. Little things that are big with meaning.

I have never forgotten the lesson. I have carried it in my heart ever since. It has now been over twenty years since it happened, and I can still see her smiling face, and her beautiful artwork.

I can see that black piece of paper, and a sky of infinite possibilities.

What a magnificent lesson.

When you have a dream, when you know where you want to go, don’t listen to anyone, or let anyone stand in your way.

Don’t stop.

Don’t get discouraged.

Don’t take no for an answer.

If it has to be black it has to be black. If you need time, take the time. If you have to make mistakes, then make mistakes. Fail miserably for as ever long as it is going to take.

Take your lumps and turn the other cheek.

The small things matter.

They matter a lot.

They are the most important lessons. That’s where life hides her insights and truth and that’s where she will teach you her greatest lessons.

Big things are nice, but they fade fast. They are easily seen. Easily gotten. Easily forgotten.

Small things are subtle, but they stick with you. The gnaw at your soul. They prick your conscience.

They turn your world black.



in the middle of nowhere


There are days like today, where I feel like I’m in the middle of nowhere.

It’s not that I have done something wrong or that I’m not doing something right. It’s just that sometimes, life gets a touch monotonous, without any signs or inclinations, and it’s at those moments that I seem a bit lost and a whole lot of anxious.

It feels like I’m in the middle of nowhere.

Tumble weeds. Corn fields. A wide-open road and nothing in sight for as far as the eye can see.

Nothing seems terribly concerning though and that seems to be part of the problem.

Fighting fires and rushing from one crisis to the next, is far more exhilarating, but finding yourself in the middle of nowhere, offers none of the adrenalin or endorphins a good crisis can generate (made up or otherwise).

Those unassuming, uneventful, one foot in front of the other, can in time become very troubling.

They feel so wrong. Like I should be doing something. Doing anything.

Doing more.

Like I have missed and forgotten something.

Like I should be working harder. Planning more. Wishing more. Moving things from one place to another, even if they don’t need to be moved. That I should be checking things. Double checking things. Cleaning. Purging. Moving some more. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Constantly moving.

Until you get tired. Tired of moving. Hoping to get out of nowhere.

But doing so is counterproductive and harmful.

It helps to know being nowhere is sometimes the best place to be and it releases some of the unpleasant anxiety.

(Some of it).

It still doesn’t feel right, but it feels much better later, when I look back and feel grateful for saving myself from spinning a narrative and creating drama not worth the performance.

I feel grateful that I don’t have to undo or double back and begin anew.

Made up problems will certainly get you out of nowhere, and they are tempting, that’s for sure, but they will only put you on a trajectory course toward somewhere, where you don’t want to be.

When life becomes predictable and monotonous, when it becomes a matter of routine, sometimes the shortest way out, is the long way through.

You will never see a magic exit. There is no secret ladder. No secret path.

The middle of nowhere is not a place to run away from.

It’s just the middle of nowhere.

It’s a place like no other, and it too will pass into the distance.

We love starting and finishing things, it feels so great, but it’s the stuff in the middle that give us the biggest cause for concern.

It’s the stuff in the middle that will make the biggest difference.

Being stuck nowhere is a sign that we’re actually going somewhere.

How you handle yourself in the dark cold days of winter, when everything plays dead, determines with what tenacity you will embrace the coming of spring, when it finally does arrive announced.

When spring and summer comes, will you be exhausted and tired from all that worrying and waiting? Or will you be ready to welcome them with open arms?

How you respond to life in those quiet moments, when she is determined to show you what is going to happen next.

She loves a cheerful giver. A patient teacher.

She watches your every move, when you’re alone.


In the middle of nowhere.


your best work


Most of us flinch and hesitate.

We habitually waver, especially when it comes to making our best work. The insistent noise coming from the outside world is never warm and fuzzy. The keyboard warriors are always looking to spill some blood, but that only accounts for a small part of the truth. What is more telling is the fact that we are our own saboteurs. We are responsible for some pretty nasty maneuvering. We go to great lengths to hide away from the world. We are our worst critic.

We constantly compare our ourselves to others. We needlessly match our gifts against those of others. We overthink things and micro analyze our motivation, including the technical execution of the work we do. We always try to sniff out if it’s any good.

This leads us to a whole bunch of nothing. Nothing, because we rarely share anything meaningful we’ve created with strangers. We only offer a little sneak peak, to friends and family, and nothing more.

We keep perpetually revising and reediting. Hiding. Destroying. Hiding some more. Starting again, from the beginning.

We are never done.

Yet our best work, is our finished work.

This is so important.

A half-baked apple pie is not a pie. A bunch of disconnected chapters of a book, does not a novel make. A sweater with only one arm, is somewhat under warming.

As a society, we have become somewhat accustomed to always being in the middle of something. Not quite there but too far in to go back. Afraid of the consequences. Afraid of what people will think. Afraid that we’ll be discovered for the fraud that we think that we are.

But its our finished work that matters.

Our finished work is our best work.

It is our best work, but that doesn’t mean it’s perfect. It doesn’t mean we will receive praise and a purchase order, it only means that its fit for human consumption, or for wearing out in public. The praise and the accolades are bound to come later.

Our finished work is our best work because in it lies our courage to let people see what we’ve made and who we are. We dared to contribute to the mosaic of human conversation.

It takes great courage to share your work with the world.

And only in sharing can you hope to receive meaningful feedback.

Perhaps not right away.

Yes, the keyboard warriors will most certainly be first to sling some mud and vile words in your direction. It’s not personal. Without the mud or the slinging, they might actually have to do something constructive with their lives. They might have to create something, and this scares them to no end. They find false comfort in the war of words, by imagining the world needs to be protected from itself.  

In time, meaningful feedback will come.

Your best work, if you dare to finish it, will receive some meaningful criticism. Criticism that will help you make your next work better. You’ll have time and the experience to bake a better pie. Or to add a sleeve to your sweater. Or to develop a more complete and memorable story.

You have to finish something.

Gather up all your half-baked and forgotten ideas and get to work.

Don’t stop till you’re finished.

Don’t listen to yourself.

And don’t forget to share.


weekend quotable no. 63


If you want to increase your success rate,

double your failure rate.

Thomas J. Watson


Double them.

Double down with a smile on your face when on you’re wrong.

Double and renew your effort to do, what deep inside, you are so uncomfortable to do.

Make mistakes.

The message and advice from those at the top is abundantly clear. Be inspired, work hard, and don’t be afraid to fail.

Seek it out because you can’t get the good stuff, without embracing the stinky stuff.

There are no secret formulas. No short cuts. No predestination.

There is you. There is your idea. There is your best effort. And the result.

Our knowledge of the outcome is often unpredictable. No matter how prepared you are, there is always something you will miss. In the end, your flaws will be embarrassingly exposed, but you will be able to see where it went wrong.

This is where you want to hang out.

This is where most people turtle. This is where they hang their head, curse their effort and turn back. Feeling ashamed. Looking for something else to do. Regretful. Embarrassed. Dejected.

But you’re not them.

You need to double down.

You need to keep digging.

It is time to lead instead of follow because you’re going to double down.

You have more time to learn along the way. To test your ideas. Readjust your course. Take a break if necessary, but it’s truly over if you decide to quit. 

Quit because you’ve made a mistake or experienced a series of failures.

So, do the opposite. Ignore your feelings.

Double your efforts. Double your convictions.

Seek out more dirt and mud to shovel, and you’re sure to behold your diamond.


weekend quotable no. 62


“Lasting change is a series of compromises”.

Jane Goodall


People consider an act of compromise as a sign of defeat. A shameful act of weakness.

They fight it with unrelenting energy and hold fast to their stubborn convictions to the bitter end.

They hate being wrong. They hate that you’re right.

The absolutely hate giving in. Accepting. Changing. Adjusting.

We hate it too.

Compromise is not for the faint of heart.

The act of compromise calls for a rare and abundant act of maturity. It calls for believing in something greater than ourselves. A passionate idea. A beautiful vision.

It calls for the courage to gaze at something greater than you. The embrace of something bigger than you.

And only then.

By taking an uncomfortable, regretful, retrograde step backward. Or perhaps by allowing others to leap ahead of you, will you arrive at lasting, meaningful change.

You can either be right, or you can be happy.

You can be right, or you can be married.

Change is easy. Lasting change requires compromise.

Compromise takes strength. It demands stamina and an openness to look foolish for a period of time. To appear defeated.

Laughed at. Dismissed. Ignored. Abandoned. Forgotten.

And while others spend a great deal of energy and their limited resources holding on to a shattered empire built on sand. Through compromise, you can rebuild the foundation of your own life and be happy.

Compromise give you a chance to retreat and regroup. To refocus and relearn. To understand and see what you missed the first or second time around.

Compromise allows you to help everyone, not just yourself.

Compromise is an act that offers everyone something better in return.

Compromise is the harbinger of lasting change.

The greatest act of kindness.

The only way to be.


lily pads


There is a shadowy force in our life that is always working against us. A power that wages war against our dreams. Trying to slow us down and grind our efforts into dust. Hoping to lure us into taking the easy road, into resigning ourselves to a life of quiet reservation. A comfortable life, where we stir up no more trouble and abandon our foolish desires for things that hang out of reach.

We must battle these forces. We must rise up against them, because otherwise, nothing ever happens. It’s as though life demands to know how serious we are. How focused. How desperate How truly deserving.

Life demands to know what cost we are willing to bear.

The spoils of war go to the last woman standing.

Steven Pressfield calls it the resistance.

Seth Godin calls it the Lizard brain.

A carry over from our evolutionary human history, which means well and aims to keep us safe. Safe from things we no longer need to be protected from. Safe and hidden from opportunities and great personal success.

One of the strategies that this mysterious force (this Lizard brain) employs against us, is very subtle.

It uses the multiplicity of dreams to slow down and destroy our work.

It’s been over a year since I made the commitment to write every day, in the hopes of publishing Quintessential Quotables, along with Diggin’ Ditches, sometime in 2018.

Recently though, my mind has been flooded with passionate desires to write fiction. To abandon what I have been doing and take a new direction toward writing some great detective stories.

I have always been in love with Sherlock Holmes, especially the BBC version with Jeremy Brett, as the great detective.  

I have been thinking and dreaming about how great it would feel to create a new memorable series of quintessential characters. To immerse myself in a fictitious world responding to my every whim and desire. To abandon this madness of non-fiction. To breathe life into something else. Something new. To give birth to a better dream.


How glorious that would feel? How great it would be?


But that is exactly the danger.

This is exactly how I’ve managed to muck things up in the past, by abandoning every endeavour I have ever attempted.

I never finished anything.

Like a young frog, at the precipice of spring time, I kept on jumping from one shiny lily pad to another. Hoping that happiness and success, was only one hop away. That the fulfilment of my dreams was dependent on landing on the right one.

The truth is that we have nothing without finishing what we start.

We need to resist the temptation to begin something new, before we have a chance to finish what seems old.

Only by being done. By being finished. By reaching the end, can we take the next step and know if we made something worthwhile. If our dream will come true. If we are on edge of greatness or defeat.

But without the end, without persistence, we can be falsely seduced to a perpetual life of distraction.

Without honouring our original commitment, we will be left with nothing but frustration and questions of what went wrong.

Regardless of our effort, we need to produce a result. We owe it to ourselves to discover if we’ve made something good, or if it’s a bit funky, and we need to make something else.

Shiny bright lily pads are seductively distracting.

None of them have intrinsic magical powers.

Running from here to there seems like progress, but it’s a trap.

The best way through, is just to stay where you are, and keep doing what you’ve been doing.

I know it doesn’t sound particularly exciting and that’s because it isn’t.

It’s work.

Just gold old fashioned, boring, hidden work.

That’s what you need to embrace the most.

Don’t get seduced by anything else.

Don’t get tired hoping from one lily dream to the next.

Get tired finishing something that you started.


he wants a dad not a coach


I had a chance to take my son to his first Toronto Maple Leafs game last night. It was an unbelievable evening, filled with a lifetime of memories, and a five – nothing shutout, is nothing to sniff at either.

But the day turned out to be more than a lopsided hockey contest.

When I got to Canada in 1985, I remember vividly, playing road hockey with a handful of some neighbourhood kids, just outside of 10 Grenoble Drive, near the Science Centre. I found my tattered stick, in a garbage bin somewhere, and although I didn’t understand much of what they were saying, they somehow convinced me to become a Leafs fan.

Their welcoming spirit had a profound effect on me, and ever since that day, despite facing down countless remarks and spiteful laughter over the years, I have remained a loyal Toronto Maple Leafs fan, ever since.

But last night was more than just hockey.

Last night was a chance for my son and I to realize what we mean to each other.

I cannot tell you his side of the story. Maybe he will be inspired to write about it one day, but for now, mine will have to be enough.

We arrived somewhat early by the Go Train, and so we walked around for a few hours, exploring downtown Toronto, and all its hidden promises.

We saw some homeless men, who were so cold, they didn’t put much effort into begging strangers for their spare change. We encountered a gray-haired man, grasping for breath, collapsed but conscious, just outside a busy designer boutique, inside a busy shopping centre, while most people ignored him and rushed frantically to their next destination.

We found a place to eat and we also ran into several revolving doors and a dozen escalators to amuse ourselves with. Some of us did the amusing. The rest of us did a lot of cautioning and waiting.

We gave a deaf gentleman while waiting in line to get into the arena, two dollars, for a little Maple Leafs button, that now proudly sits atop my son’s backpack.

All in all, we had a tremendous day, despite the weather, but there is one thing that stands out the most.

During the game, because my son is somewhat obsessed about hockey, I took the time, as a learning experience, to point out some of the strategies both teams were employing to try and win the game.

My son looked at me and gently asked if we could just watch the game.

I instinctively said yes but have been thinking about his request ever since.

Can we just watch the game?

At that moment, I realized that my son was enjoying my company, and didn’t want to sit there with his coach. He wanted to remember the day and flood his mind with memories of his dad.

This got me thinking.

How often do we sit with our coaches?

How often do fail to listen to people when it’s our turn?  

We are very efficient playing the role of counselors and dishing out invaluable advice, but our friends are not looking for a psychiatrist or a social worker. They simply desire a friendly, dependable ear, and perhaps a genuine nod or two, once in a little while.

How often do we recognise our own human worth?

How often is that value distorted, mangled, and superficially based on a daily wage, we graciously agreed to, as payment? Is that truly what we do and is that what we are worth?

We sometimes fail to see what provide for others, because we only concern ourselves with the scripts others have written for us.

It wasn’t too difficult to revert back to being a dad, and to ignore the inclination, in a momentary lapse of reason, to become a coach.

There is plenty of time and plenty of people that are willing to do the coaching.

But the landscape is scarce and deficient of good listeners.

The world is starved for genuine companionship.

So, it’s important, to remain and reimagine being a mom and a dad, a son or a daughter, a sister and a brother.


don't give up


Don’t give up.

Don’t give up your dreams and don’t you dare plan a yard sale.

Don’t ever give up on yourself.

No matter what.

There will always be another day. There will always be another moment.

To fix what’s broken. To repair, repurpose, and reconsider.

Time is on your side.

Never forget that.

At times, it may not seem to be, especially when you’re surrounded by raging fires or when you’re in the middle of a vicious thunderstorm. The flames burn hot and the lightning crashes without any concern for your safety.

It feels like nothing matters, and that your persistence doesn’t really make a difference.

You feel so weak and helpless. Tired. Frustrated that your contribution is always immeasurably a touch too short. Too little to count. You feel like it would be much better for everyone involved, if you just stepped aside and let someone else have their turn.

But like the waves that crash upon the sand, life continuously gives you countless opportunities to compose yourself and rise again.

Your feelings are powerful.

No doubt about it.

But they are only an indication of where you are. They do not explain where you have been and are not a reliable to instruct you where you need to go.

Feelings come when they want. They do what they want. They grab a hold of you. Come uninvited. Refuse to leave and sometimes ignore your desperate pleas to stay.

Feelings exhaust your patience and strain your ability to think straight.

But they never last.

They always fade away.

Like raging fires, they eventually burn themselves out. Like powerful thunderstorms, they tire themselves out.

Your life too will get better.

I almost said normal, but I’m not really sure what normal means.

We are all so different. With different stories. Different experiences. Different thresholds to withstand pain and suffering.

What crushes some, motivates others. They rise and lead revolutions.

What is too much for one person, might not be quite enough for another.

We are so amazingly different. So miraculously human.

And it’s important that we allow ourselves to discover what it means to live a meaningful existence, and what contribution we wish to make.  

It’s important that we give ourselves a chance to continue our quest. The impossible dream. Some more time to rage war against the unaccounted windmills of our life.

We need to savour our magical quest because we are so irrefutably interconnected. Each one, interwoven with tiny, little, imperceptible life strings.

Who we are, and what we do, connects us to those we love, and even those, we;ve never had a chance to meet.

You may roll our eyes when someone mentions that we are all part of the human family, but that is exactly what we are.

It is precisely what you need to remember when things aren’t going so well.

We are a dysfunctional, and rather large human family.

So don’t give up.

When you’re down, take comfort that someone else is up.

When you’re tired, take solace that someone else is well rested.

It doesn’t all depend on you.

There is no reason to carry your burden alone.

See your life for what it is.

A spectacular, beautiful, and powerful series of waves, crashing and embracing the sands of life.

Relentlessly. Unapologetically. Unrepeatably.


say thank you


Say thank you.

Say it often.

Say it without the use of clichés and dare to say it in writing.

Don’t just do it instinctively but also methodically and don’t worrying about how you might appear, or what other people might think of your grateful disposition.

Saying thank you is important.

It’s not just nice.

It’s not just some kind of inheritance from our childhood. A place of mimicry and automation. The act of gratitude is an authentically human condition, one that reveals who we are, and how engaged we are in living a meaningful life.

I wish it wasn’t so, but on the surface, and sometimes deep down, people are a sour, miserable lot. They are most comfortable showing off their brokenness in public. They enjoy letting their wounds fester and bleed for all to see. They are always tired, miserable, irritable, unreasonable, and forever waiting for the weekend.

I’m not really sure what the attraction is in being a despondent martyr. Perhaps some people mourn the austerity of their childhood. They miss being safely stowed away in their mother’s arms, secure and warm, hearing soft words of reassurance, at a time in their life where everything seems so simple and blissful.

Maybe they are bitter that they had to grow up. Put on their big boy and big girl pants. Wipe their own bum. Brush their own teeth. Study. Work. Become independent.

All the more reason to say thank you.

All the more reason to be grateful for everything we have.

I don’t think we mean to do it.

I think it’s the industrial hamster wheel. The daily grind that makes us forget how much we have been given, how many people have helped us along the way, and how exciting it is, to think of all the places we will go.

You shouldn’t be satisfied if your gratitude is only an instinct. Something that strikes a chord and elicits an automatic response. 

Gratitude should be a habit.

It should become a state of being. A state of mind. An illustrious tower or a balcony atop a glorious palace, from which, we gaze empathically at the world.

Be grateful.

Be thankful.

Don’t miss a single opportunity to think it, to say it, or to write it.

Learn to be more passionate about disseminating it.

Don’t wait, because it’s kind of important.

You will get what you give. You will harvest what you sow.

You will bake with whatever ingredients you chose to garner.

The bitterness or the sweetness of your cake depends entirely on you.

Thank you for reading.

For that I’m eternally grateful.


do something


You can do something.

Yes you can.

I didn’t say anything and everything.

Trying to do everything or anything is a trap for perfectionists and procrastinators alike. The former works with great intensity, but never gets anywhere, because there is always everything to do. And the latter, gets nothing done, because they are never ready, forever waiting, never feeling good enough, for anything.


Anything is like foolishly grasping for a cow’s teat in the dark, when you know, you’re lactose intolerant.

Everything is simply unrealistic and stupid.

So, go and do something.

Something doesn’t have to be perfect, but you do have to begin.

You have to begin today.

Remember, that you don’t have to be great to begin, but you do have to begin in order to be great. (Zig Ziglar)

So, start right now.

Without excuses.

Find something to do. Something purposeful. Something meaningful. Something that will reimagine your life and give you a second childhood.

How, you say?

It doesn’t matter.

Think back to your early years and begin there. Look for your dreams. Look for any forgotten pinky swears. Look for things you promised you would do. Look for something that you might have forgotten, which made you feel so good inside. So happy. So alive. So divinely human.

On a piece of paper, perhaps in a stream of consciousness, write down anything and everything that comes to mind. Somewhere in the distorted anythings and everythings, you will find your something.

You will discover your something. Your purpose. Your new direction.

I had forgotten how much I loved to write.

For the last eighteen years, I devoted myself to teaching young people how to become better writers and thinkers, but in the process, of making a very comfortable living, I forgot to write myself.

I found my something.

I’m at the beginning steps of writing something. A hesitant beginning towards something great.

I don’t know where I am going, or what I am really doing, but when I look around, I see painters, musicians, and other writers, doing their thing, every day.

Writing is difficult enough, and to be rewarded and blessed by making a living at it, is infinitely more so.

Part of me is scared and uncertain but I have carefully avoided the trap of everything and anything. I have begun. Begun to do something.

This blog is my something. Quintessential Quotables and Diggin’ Ditches is the next thing.

I write every day.

I reach my word count. I ship it, and awkwardly begin the process of telling the world about it.

My steps are unsure, reserved, cautious, but purposeful.

My hope for you, is that you do something too.

It really doesn’t take much, to do something. To do something every day.

To dream. To plan. To learn. To be and do.

Don’t get overwhelmed with everything and settle for anything.

Become something. Dream something. Dig something. Fall in love with something.

Become something you were meant to be.

Be great one day, but begin today.