Whether we're ready or not,
Spring is a moment to release winter's fur coat and greet the rays of light,
To take the vitamin D and make something rich.
We can start to pivot from planting to planting.
We can plant seeds,
Holding the potential energy of life.
Kinetic energy gets tons of attention,
But potential energy is still energy,
Still potential.
Like buds on a tree,
Something is waiting to bloom.
What is it?
The need to start,
Or even name what to start,
Carries the weight of choosing something hard,
Yet the weight evaporates when we opt to just start,
Without perfection in mind.
We can lower the bar to starting by taking away any expectation of what the first attempt looks like.
Few seeds are beautiful as we place them on the earth,
And they bear no resemblance to what will grow.
First attempts are often messy,
They're also sometimes golden,
And they're always a step forward from not starting at all.
The inimitable writer on writing Anne Lamott calls this a messy first draft,
Although she uses a different word than messy.
Let the first draft be ugly,
Give yourself permission to make the start rough,
And then keep going.
The first idea doesn't have to be the best idea,
Rather,
What if you're allowed to make it the worst possible first idea?
If you had a blank page,
A napkin,
An imperfect service,
Begging for your worst best idea,
What would be the first stroke?
I have a napkin from Southwest Airlines,
Whose business idea was actually born on a napkin.
It says,
The best ideas are born on napkins,
What's yours?
The vicious cycle of needing to simultaneously name the first idea and the best idea is that the pressure of being the best often prevents us from even trying the first,
The next,
Or simply something,
An idea.
When we insist the first idea be the best idea,
We often end up with no idea at all.
Take your worst version of your idea,
Sketch it out,
And then what?
Well,
Keep going,
This is where,
And what else,
Becomes one of our richest questions.
When we think we've found the answer,
When we're all set and ready to stop,
That feeling is the signal to go deeper.
Sure,
30 seconds of stretching feels nice,
Why stop?
When you've overcome the hesitation to start,
Recognize what I'm onto something feels like,
And don't quit.
As you plant the seed,
Dig around a bit,
Don't put down your pen until the first draft is done.
Once you have your seed sprouting,
Let the ideas mature where vulnerability is safe.
It's just a draft,
Still full of potential.
Keep it close to you,
And let your best worst ideas see the light of day,
But trust only the right people to see them.
Meanwhile,
Water them,
Nurture them,
Grow them from seeds to sprouts and saplings that can stand the test of wind and rain,
And then let them go,
And let them grow.
You beg me,
But what if I'm not ready?
Now,
I'm a big fan of take your time,
But it also lives in tension with rarely defining what ready looks like.
I also know the comfort of,
Oh,
I'll be ready when?
The best opportunity to write a first draft,
To sketch a prototype,
Or to plant a seed is yesterday,
And the second best opportunity is now.
Start where you are.
Start with what you have,
Without what you don't have,
Without what you might need later.
Chances are,
As ready as we are for spring to come,
For permission to start whatever is waiting,
We're also not ready.
We'll never be ready.
What have you been avoiding?
What's the one hard thing that feels simultaneously like what you need to do,
And the last thing you want to do?
What if you get it over with,
And the rest of the day could be a delight?
What if starting is not that bad?
What if it's good?
Start slowly,
Gently,
In your own way,
But start.
