We only get it once.

And there’s a lot to pack in.

But some days are just like that — and on those days, it’s important to ask, “Just what, exactly, do I have to do today?”

Do that, do it well, and be gentle with yourself.

Tomorrow, after all, is a new day.

***

HT Bob and Jemma

The best technology feels like magic. And, happily, much technology is getting better all the time.

However, as most of us know intuitively, technology isn’t really magic — it’s just a (potentially) really, really powerful tool.

(Once upon a time, industrial machinery must have seemed like magic, too, right?)

The real magic, as Paula helped me see the other day, is the mindset of the people who seek out the new and learn to use it well.

Hanging out with the passive and often unwitting defenders of the status quo is a choice.

You can find a better scene, learn to use better tools, or — best of all — generously market those better tools to people and organizations still rather unimpressed by magic.

We tend to think of time and distance as linear.

The 15th of the month is halfway through. 13.2 miles is half the marathon.

In some senses and cases, that’s a valid and useful way to look at the world.

Most of the time, there’s Heartbreak Hill. Or, as Appalachian Trail thru-hikers know, halfway from Georgia to Maine might be half the mileage, but it’s waaaaaay less than half the climbing. (Most of that happens in Maine, once you’re properly tired out by the mileage.)

Nature abhors a straight line, and the real world is full of power curves, exponential curves, and normal curves. Too many people struggle to draw these, let alone understand them. (Halfway along x under a normal curve may not get you halfway up y; “past the peak” means we’re halfway done, not all the way there.)

Are we there yet? How close we are depends on how you measure — and a linear measurement might turn out to be pretty misleading.

There’s no certainty on offer right now. Not from me, not from anyone else.

Instead, the invitation and opportunity is consistency.

What would you do every day, if you decided to do something every day?

Who would you show it to?

The only certain outcome is that what you don’t attempt won’t succeed.

Attending a session of This Human Moment last week, I was reminded of two favorite ways of approaching the unknown, uncertain, and uncomfortable.

One is the “beautiful question” format of How might I/we … ? To see the power and beauty of this question, consider the difference between these questions: Can we order in from our favorite restaurant tonight? vs. How might we make this evening special? [More here.]

The other is the Can-if … framework: Can we meet up this afternoon? We can if we agree to remain at least six feet apart from one another.

The old frames are breaking … how might we make that a beautiful invitation?

This week’s readings covered quite some ground. Some highlights:

• What I Learned This Week, the newsletter from investor Kiril Sokoloff: a new find via this week’s “Lunch with the FT” column by Rana Foroohar. WILTW is available by paid subscription only, but here’s a free example on de-dollarization.
• The Mighty Currawongs and Other Stories, by Brian Doyle: a short and lovely collection of ditties, in BD’s inimitable voice.
• Inter alia, “Ten Words Per Page” and “Get Your Memo Read,” from Seth Godin’s blog: I’ve had the opportunity to give a lot of tips and nudges on writing in the past week, and these two short reads are some of my go-to resources on writing for the web and writing for change.

I’m not sure there’s a consistent thread here, other than noticing that great writing gets read, and that now’s a great time to read widely and think deeply — on macro trends, mystical fiction about everyday miracles, more effective memo-writing, or anything else.

There’s a saying that the four most dangerous words in investing are, This time is different.

This upswing will go on forever. This crash will take us all the way to zero (and we’ll never recover!). This time, in other words, is somehow different.

The reason this sentence (or idea) causes so much trouble is because each time — each crisis, each downturn, each move, each job, each child — is importantly different from all the others, and in other ways also importantly the same.

The challenge, then, is clear. We have to apply the historical method to each time — to get really, really clear about what’s the same and what’s different about this time, really.

In their great handbook on the lessons of history for policymakers, Thinking in Time, the historians Richard Neustadt and Ernest May suggest making a simple T-chart of “likenesses and differences” between any given situation and the parallels or possible analogues by which we reason. For the idea that most often leads policymakers into temptation and trouble is the idea that this one is just like that one — another Pearl Harbor, Great Crash, 9/11, Spanish flu, and on and on.

[Notice how often sensationalists in politics, business, and media will insist that this time is either completely different from or completely the same as some other time. It’s almost always worth discounting or discarding those extreme positions outright.]

So, what is this time, really? I hope we can all agree by now that nobody really knows. But lots of people have important puzzle pieces — lessons from history, carefully contextualized; or evolving research straight from the cutting edge of now.

We’re living through history, without question. The interesting questions are about which lessons we might lean on, and which we might learn. Viewed from afar, what will this time rhyme with?

I work in a culture that places a strong emphasis on generous feedback.

Mostly, that’s a good thing. Everyone’s thoughts are strengthened by others’. Peers shine light where original authors couldn’t or didn’t see.

This allows us to do some really cool, countercultural stuff — like assigning homework without any grades, and in which the entire point is the second effort, after receiving good feedback.

There’s a twist, though: this might be a great way to craft a memo, but it’s not an easy way to run an organization. If anyone can comment on anything at any time, those nominally in charge are just peppered with bright ideas — especially in such a light and loose structure.

So the way forward — the way to give feedback to an organization so that the organization can actually improve — is first to notice, and then to draft a suggestion and get all the feedback you can, and then to send it along for response from the people in charge.

Feedback collaboratively crafted and delivered with and for purpose: now that’s generous.

After any big ruction or realignment comes the big question: just how permanent are the unfamiliar contours of the new landscape?

There’s no question that the ground has shifted, or that shifted ground doesn’t return precisely to where it was before.

But we can very, very clear about a few things:

• What are the table stakes now? Not the Chicken Little stakes, but the ones that you could reasonably assert from the evidence available? (Yes, these will still be assertions, but there’s a big and meaningful difference between “If a, based on b and c, then d” and “If Z, then the end of the world!”
• What’s the purpose of an election? (There’s a range of answers here, but the important one is to win. Winning allows you to reset the stakes, not the other way round.)
• Who’s persuadable, and how can they be reached and persuaded? (That’s how you win: you reach and persuade the people who can be persuaded — with assertions and a narrative that will persuade them. A deluge of facts hasn’t stopped smoking, hasn’t stopped sugar, and hasn’t stopped carbon … how much do you want to bet today’s table stakes on another mountain of facts?)

This is complex and challenging work on many levels, but it’s the art of the art of the possible.

First the narrative, then the contest, and then the prize: the even tougher challenge of governing everybody after appealing to a lot less than everybody.

A cool practice I heard of the other day:

Try charting your energy over time — a week, a month, a year, a quarantine.

Be as detailed as you like, but the point is to capture the main events and patterns.

What do you notice?

What’s there to be learned?