Quote of the week: There is a plausible alternative to your original interpretation.

I have discussed happiness, conflict, and committing to the utilization of practical optimism.

Identify and acknowledge the good and bad in life. Commit to reminders that you are in control of your response to anything that happens.

Consider the NAFA approach when at work, at home, being social, and around people in general. It also works when you are alone.

From an article I wrote in September, 2022, called Notice, Analyze, Focus, Act: NAFA.

1. Notice:

Be Observant. Small details matter.

• Analyze:

Consider your surroundings. Consider your relationship with your surroundings.

• Focus:

Reset your mind. Be present. Use focus as a verb.

• Act:

Action is agile. Action is motion. Action defines our habits. Action shows us what we are capable of doing.

The Crumpled-Up Soccer Ball

The crumpled-up soccer ball is a story about plausible alternatives. I have fallen in and out of love with reading and writing throughout my life. But I have always wanted to write a book. The first question I usually get: what will you write about?

Well, here is part of one of the chapters. It will answer part of the question above but the rest is still unanswered. Enjoy!

My father once taught me how to write. We were in my childhood bedroom, sitting at the big corner desk that I had picked out. The lowered lamp shined gently on my notebook as I listened. It buzzed as I was trying to focus. Structure and tone were important, as I recall. Addressing an audience, how and why to do so, was up to the author. We took turns brainstorming, throwing fleeting thoughts onto each page so that our final draft did not lose a single piece of creativity in the process. It was late, I was tired, and I remember wanting to give up several times. My mind kept going back to the same question: Why did it matter so much? My father continued writing. His pen moved with ease across each page. He had built a successful career as an English and History teacher, writing countless essays and guiding students to do the same. I aspired to have such knowledge and he was doing his best to help me. After some time, I remember it felt like hours, I made it to the bottom of the first page. My shoulders slumped as I retreated to the back of my chair. A sense of accomplishment and relief came over me as my eyes glanced back in my father’s direction. He still looked focused, unphased by a full week of teaching, grading, and parenting to say the least. He handed me a small stack of notes. They looked meticulous, a result of refined, precise practice. The early darkness of another Vermont winter consumed the room. I remember feeling the weight of my eyelids as I tried to complete the outline of my essay and compare it to my father’s. He had written 5 full pages of ideas, a full outline of his version of the assignment. My competitive justification was that his handwriting was much bigger than mine. All of a sudden, he crumpled everything up and threw it on the floor. I suppose the intent was to teach detachment. One set of ideas, one set of practice would not lead to a polished final draft. Organized creativity took time and repetition without consideration for my desire to sleep. When I began my outline, I was lost and uncertain, but now I would know the first step when I tried again the next day. My brother and I ended up using my rough outline as a hockey puck, the written efforts repeatedly whipped into the upper corner of a square taped to the wall. My father had taught me how to write, my brother had taught me how to play.

Today I sat at my desk, a reminder of yesterday. My crumpled thoughts at my feet once again. All those years ago, and I still remember how to write. It is not always the words but the process. Now a father myself, I began to think about what to teach my son and how I would teach it. I discovered more questions than answers. This time the pages kept crumpling. The easy navigation of pen on paper had not found my hand. Again, I retreated to the back of my chair. I heard little thumps echoing down the hallway. Our house has wood floors, tan as sand, that tend to announce everyone’s arrival as they walk from room to room. My son had woken up from his nap. It was a long one today. His smile filled the room as he approached, he blinked repeatedly as his eyes adjusted to bright daylight. What is it about children that draw them to crumpled up pieces of trash? Exploration or touching textures, sure. But, also, something more. My son started to kick pieces of paper left and right. A silly game that he was very proud of. He looked back at me, again smiling, and without a word, I could tell I had received an invitation. I wanted to work through my outline, my creative process. But instead, I did something better. It was again time to tape a square on the wall. I still want to teach my son so many things, but today he taught me how to play.

There is a plausible alternative to your original interpretation. Learn from others, big and small, young and old, and always turn crumpled frustration into an exciting game.

Make it a productive Monday!