Category: Decisions

Eliminate the Thinking

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

One of my goals is to find a way to minimize the amount of thinking I have to do about any particular subject. My brain is really addicted to thinking. It’s one of its favorite things to do.

But there’s a certain amount of useless thinking that happens about things that don’t need as much brain time on them. For example, thinking every single day about when I’m going to exercise and what type of exercise I’m going to do takes away brain space from thinking about other things.

If I wake up in the morning and I avoid a workout, then I’ve just added that to-do into the docket of things for my brain to ruminate about:

I ask myself at 11am: will you workout now? Okay, there’s a class at 12-noon. But wait — you have a call at 1pm. So later? Yeah, maybe 3pm? Oh, but I just ate. So let’s go at 5pm? Oof, yeah, I’m tired. Damnit. I missed today. Maybe tomorrow.

There are things worth spending brain energy on and things not worth spending brain energy on.

Thinking every day (every day!) about when I’m going to work out is not something that I want to dedicate time to.

All it does it take away brain space from thinking about other things. I want—I crave—this time to go deep into writing. To work on the next chapter of my book. To carve away the mental clutter and focus on work that matters.

And if that is what I truly want, then I need to ruthlessly eliminate all of these other, unnecessary, periods of thinking.

So for workouts, as an example, I have a very boring schedule that I stick to (which I’ll write about another time). It’s dreadfully boring for my vata-type, eager-to-think, overworking mind. There’s no excitement in planning and dreaming and scheming about fancy workouts, and this is by design. I need to reel in my analytical mind and give it different puzzles to focus on.

The schedule is what will let me actually succeed.

When I don’t schedule my workouts, I only end up exercising 2-3 times per week.

When I stick to the schedule, I end up going 3-6 times per week. There’s a very clear advantage to the boring routine.

The criteria for the schedule has to be:

  • So easy I don’t have to think about it
  • Incredibly simple to remember
  • Harder to not do than to do
  • Start as small as possible
  • Ideally linked to some behavior or habit I already do.

With exercise, here’s what this looks like as an example:

I drop my kid off at daycare every day. Same time, same place, gotta do it. (Make it linked to an existing behavior).

So I put my sneakers and pants on, and every day after I drop him off, I exercise. (Wednesdays are my break day: I do this weekdays Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday.)

It’s easier to get to the park and exercise when I’m already in my clothes and I’ve already left the house. (Make it so easy I don’t have to think about it.)

I do it every day. (Harder to not do than to do.)

When I first started that schedule, I only did it for 15 minutes each time.(Start as small as possible.)

Don’t think, just do.

When I think about exercising, all I’m doing is thinking about exercising.

When I set up a habit and a routine that’s simple enough to do the same way every time, I spend more time exercising than thinking.

Eliminate the thinking wherever you can.

How might this apply to other areas of your life? Leave a note in the comments below.

Have A Point of View

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

In our fear of being wrong, or looking stupid, or losing out on opportunities — we waffle. We waver. We fail to make decisions.

We try to make decisions that leave all the options open. We’ll try it all, rather than pick a single dish. We’ll date as many people as possible, rather than cultivate deeper relationships. We’ll rack up followers and acquaintances and friends, rather than spend time with one person through the difficult and exciting times.

Action and decision-making requires having an opinion.

When you have an opinion, you say, “I believe THIS about the world,” and “I think that it works better when we do it like THIS.”

This requires you to take a stand, to think about the consequences of a decision, and make a choice even when all the information isn’t present.

Decision making isn’t easy to do, but waffling isn’t necessarily an easier answer. It may feel cozy for a while, until you realize that not making a decision costs you as well:

When you don’t make a decision to date one person, you date nobody.
When you don’t pick what food to eat, you end up without dinner.
When you try to give your customers everything you want, you fail to differentiate yourself as a business. 
When you don’t decide what to focus on, you’re 55 and still don’t know what to do with your life. 

Decision-making seems like it will hurt. But not making a decision doesn’t actually lessen the pain.

What’s your point of view? What do you think is important?

The Creative Self: Why The Habit of Making is Essential

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

We don’t know if what we make will be any good. Whether or not it’s good is not the reason we begin. We begin because we must.

We practice because creativity is a practice. Showing up for yourself is a skill you must practice again and again and again, more than anything else you’ll ever do in your life. We don’t wake up with a new skill bestowed upon us in our dreams; we practice, practice, and practice more and each time, we carve out more ability in our hands, minds, and bodies.

Soul Pancake (the very one that features Kid President) and Unmistakeable Media reached out about turning a podcast I recorded with Srini Rao into an animated short piece. The video went live this week, and it talks about the essential art of practicing your craft.

Enjoy.

The Power of Saying Things Out Loud

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

The power of saying what you want out loud continues to astound me.

It was January 1, this year. I was setting goals. I outlined what I wanted to do this quarter — take singing lessons, finish the first draft of my book, a few more things.

Being in New York has been challenging at times. It’s a new environment, and all my close friends from San Francisco aren’t here. I knew the transition would mean setting up a new community, digging in and getting to know people, but I was up for it.

After a year, however, I confided in my husband that I wanted a little bit more: I wanted a New York bestie. I want a friend friend. You know, someone you confide in, giggle with, laugh with. Someone who can see you being stupid and doesn’t immediately write you off, but thinks, yup, this is all just part of it. Kind of like family. But my family and friends were all back on the West Coast.

I wanted that person here.

So I added it to my January wish list, unabashedly. “Find a New York bestie.”

In my mind, I thought that it might take a while to do. I immediately put up ideas in my mind of how these things happen: we’d have to friend-date for a while, find the right chemistry, weed through a bunch of people, etc. I planned on going to tons of events to meet new people, because, well, higher numbers, higher odds, right? It sounded somewhat exhausting for an introverted writer who likes being home alone. But still, I wrote it down in my notebook:

Find a New York bestie.

A few days later, my good friend comes by my work office just after New Years. We chat about how I’m doing at my new job, and I tell him about my goals list — somehow forgetting that I’d recently written out, “Find a bestie.”

“Goals? Cool! Can I see them?”

“Sure!” I respond. I share my money goals, my learning goals, the fact that I want to write a book…

“Hey, that’s a goal?” He asked, reading over my shoulder, pointing at my friend request.

“Oh! Yes,” I said sheepishly. (Argh, I think. I forgot I wrote THAT down.)

“I’ll be your New York Bestie,” he said instantly.

My eyes lit up. I hadn’t anticipated this.

Like five-year olds on a kindergarten playground at recess, the pact was made. We’d be watching out for each other.

48 hours from start to finish.

Seriously, write down your dreams. Say your dreams out loud.

Using your voice is very powerful.

I’m almost finished with my book, Use Your Voice. To stay notified of early releases and when it’s being published, sign up to stay on my newsletter list below.

Why quitting is perfectly okay.

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

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It’s always the same story for me: I start a project, a class, an idea, or a story. I eagerly rush in, align my pencils, lay out my notebooks, and make delirious plans in my calendar. That first day, ideas and dreams pour out of me.

Then four days pass. I waver, tired. My calendar seems oppressive. The new habit loses its stickiness against the watery pulse of time and circumstance.

I lose another day, a week, and slip behind.

Last Spring, I started Hannah Marcotti’s beautiful Spirits of Joy and did ten days of paper crafting, collage making, glue bending. The drawing ignited in me a new set of doodles; the ripped paper and tacky glue nudged the sleepy muse inside of me.

And I ran from the class to my journals, getting lost inside of my own writing project. The crafts lay quietly on my desk for the next three weeks.

I used to beat myself up for not finishing things. Like the fits that “Crazy Eyes” has in Orange is the New Black, I’d cringe and mentally beat myself up each time I found another project laying around the house, paused or half-done.

It was a pattern so familiar, I started to observe it.

What was happening? Why was I quitting?

Life happened.

Things got hard, they got rough: deadlines built up. Real work pulled me in. The need to take a run and take care of my body surfaced. The competing pulls of attention and focus and deadlines wrapped me in their compelling arms.

But something else was happening, too. Ten days of paper-crafting with a beautiful spirit course led me to building an entirely new online program of my own.

Skimming the lessons in a business-building mastermind opened up a new way of creating sales pages. Reading half of a book propelled me into my next project.

And then it hit me: what if I was getting exactly what I needed?

What if I was getting exactly what I needed? These courses and events served as inspiration for my soul, and my soul nudged me when it was time to begin working.

Like a creative coach blowing the whistle, she stood on the sidelines while I soaked in knowledge until they stepped in and said, “Okay, Sarah, go make that thing. You heard the whisper. Now make.”

What if my ego was the only part of me that really cared about finishing?

You don’t have to do everything to get something out of it.

Twelve half-finished books is still reading six full books. (Many books are inflated lengths anyways and should be shorter). Some things are meant to be finished. And some things don’t need to be finished.

You don’t have to finish your meal. (In fact, not finishing might be better for you). Or your art project. Or the class you signed up for after you get exactly what you need out of it.

We think we know what we need in advance.

The more I plan in advance and then later watch my life take shape completely differently than my plans, the more I realize that planning ahead can be a flimsy wish at best.

It gets our foot in the door. We often underestimate how much time things take, or assume we know all the steps we’ll take before we get started.

You can pause. You can wait. You can enjoy the space.

You can quit.

You are allowed to leave things half-finished and undone. You can walk away.

Writers who join my programs always fall down. This is life, it happens: we get sick, we get tired, we have late nights. Instead of beating yourself up, I remind them to build in “life” days.

Want to blog? Make a plan to do it weekly, with a free pass to skip one week a month for when life gets a bit frenetic.

No one said you have to get 100% done and be perfect to enjoy the fruits of your progress. In fact, if you write two essays, that’s more than zero.

Somewhere in the quest for perfect, we forget to acknowledge that something is better than nothing.

An apple is better than no apple. A walk is better than sitting. Sometimes, some days, I say to myself, just walk around the block. Just write a little story. Just make a couple of lists.

And here’s the secret grace: when you let go, you make space to return.

When I feel the pull again, I get that half-finished notebook of Hannah’s off my shelf. I collect magazines and glue, snippets and scraps, words and graphite. I work into the late evening, wine by my side, lost in messy piles.

My book, a 30-day project, might take me 180 days. I may never finish. What I need is not a 30-day check mark of completion, but the grace to return to crafting whenever my soul calls for it.

And what if, instead of a routine, you let yourself come back in?

I always hear new writers tell me stories about giving up after failing to stick to a routine (the same is true for people beginning a new exercise routine).

But what if, instead of betting yourself against a routine, failing, and then quitting — instead you took a breath on the off days and let yourself come back in?

Like writing morning pages to warm up for writing, the little movements are what bring us back in to our greater works. The biggest dreams are sometimes the hardest to start.

It’s hard to feel progress in the tiniest of moments, but it’s not about the goal. We can’t fathom the experience in its entirety. The peak is a representation of the work, a moment.

By letting go of the deadline, the need for perfection, my ego’s need to complete everything I’ve started, I allow myself the space to come back in.

Because it’s always about making.

Come back in.

Come back in. Whenever you want.

How to practice saying no.

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

I walked into the restaurant and something didn’t feel right. The prices were too high, the waiter a little stuffy and dismissive, the air a little cold.

I can’t tell you exactly what it was, but I do know that my body was decidedly uncomfortable. While none of the particulars was enough to make a fuss—should I complain about the temperature?—I knew the minute after I walked in and sat down that it wasn’t right.

Social norms would cue me not to make a fuss and to stay where I am. Cognitive dissonance—the idea that we do things in accordance with our beliefs and decisions, to support our earlier actions—would have me stay put because I had already chosen to eat here, and leaving would mean changing my mind.

But my intuition, that feeling in my gut, in my body, knew. Intuition isn’t perfect. Sometimes it takes a moment to settle. Mostly, it takes a willingness to listen, and to listen closely. After being seated, I placed the napkin in my lap and looked across at my man’s face. I could tell he felt equally at odds, if not more so. I leaned over and asked him:

“You okay with this place? I’m not feeling it.”

A look of relief immediately washed across his face. “Yes,” he replied, “I don’t want to be here, either.”

We had already placed our drink orders, and it took another ten minutes to get a waiter back to our table. At that point, I looked at our waiter directly in the eye, smiled, and said, “We’re not staying for dinner after all. Here’s my card, please run us for the drinks, and that’s all we’d like tonight.”

We enjoyed a few sips of our beverages and pushed back our chairs. Within a few minutes, we were gone.

The power of saying no — and the need to practice it.

Sometimes you just need to say no.

No is a muscle that needs to be exercised just as often as yes.

No isn’t always a voice that jumps up and shouts its way into your ear. Sometimes “no” is a subtle whisper that’s only heard if you’ll listen for it.

No, it says, I don’t want to be here. I need you to make space. I need you to rest. 

The small times we say no is a practice in listening. When we practice listening, we tap into the power of our own intuition. Stopping to say no in line at the coffee shop and say, “Actually, I don’t want this coffee anymore; can you gift it to someone else?” is you exercising your right to listen—to yourself.

Saying no is a practice of listening.

When we practice the power of saying no, we build an inner strength of tapping into our intuition. There is a listening that comes from our own gut. Our own bodies already know, if we’re in tune. “I don’t want to be here right now,” your belly might be telling you. “This isn’t the right person for me, I know it,” your body might know intuitively. Itchy skin, wiggly fingers, tired eyes, disinterested neurons—they know.

Sometimes “no” shows up in strange ways (and why it’s okay to change your mind).

Saying no—and making any decision—is skill-building exercise. I don’t always know that I want to say no until after I make a decision — and I realize that now I know what I want.

We don’t always know everything in advance. It’s okay to say no in the middle.

Sometimes I say no and realize later that I wanted to say yes after all. Sometimes I say yes and realize that I wished I had said no earlier. We don’t always have all the information—if we knew how life would turn out, living wouldn’t be so extraordinary. Life is a series of experiments. Sometimes you say yes, and you learn that no would have been wonderful.

In those instances, write your experience into your mind and body. Remember to tell yourself, “Ahh yes, Sarah, here’s a moment when you can remember that no is an answer you’re allowed to give.”

You can also change your mind.

Changing your mind—or rather, making up your mind after receiving more information—is something that we can do. You’re allowed to change your mind after you’ve been seated at a restaurant. You can leave a party after you’ve walked in through the door—by hugging the hostess and saying, “I absolutely love that I got to see you, and I love you dearly, and I need you to know that I’m so tired that I need to get off my feet.”

You are allowed to not know. You are allowed to listen. You are allowed to say no. You are allowed to change your mind.

The power of yes can pull us into commitment that feels overwhelming. Alexandra Franzen has an exceptional resource out right now – a wee book full of scripts on saying no, and when and how to say no. My favorite? Scripts for saying no just because you don’t want to, whether it’s a client you don’t feel like working with, a conference you don’t want to keynote at, or a project you’re too tired to give your time to.

She even has a script for — and I love this so much — friends you just don’t want to spend time with at the moment. Beautiful, wonderful, smart friends that it’s okay to say no to.

You are allowed to say no.

No to clients, no to friends, no to freebies, no to time you don’t want to spend that way.

How to practice saying no:

Start small. The smallest, most insignificant things are the places we begin to cultivate our habits. Say no to the creamer you don’t actually like; put down the coffee once you realize you don’t want it after all. Leave an event early if you’re disinclined to go; say no to the television late at night when your body whispers, Hey You, let’s go to sleep.

Iterate. If you don’t know what you want, experiment with a new response. If your typical response is affirmative, test a small no and see how it feels. (Caution: this can become really fun as you unleash a reprise of your inner two-year old.)

Be kind and generous. The word “no” can still be thoughtful, kind, and sweet.“Gosh, love, I love everything about this event of yours, but I’m overbooked at the moment so I need to say no. I know how important RSVP’s are so I wanted to give you mine even though I won’t get to see your face this time.”  The word “no” can be exercised graciously and lovingly.

What can you say no to?

Want to stand out?

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

In a recent conversation with Daniel Epstein (founder of the Unreasonable Institute and more recently Unreasonable Media), we started talking about what people do to stand out. And we agreed–it’s not that complicated:

  • Ask for what you want.
  • Follow up on that ask.
  • And then follow through.

In the following example, all of my numbers are made up. But let’s play with a couple of assumptions.

Let’s say only 10% of people actually put themselves out there and ask for what they want. And of the people that ask for something, again only 10% of them follow up on that ask. And of the people who successfully ask for something, and then follow up, many of them in turn don’t actually follow through with what they’ve asked for or said that they are going to do.

10% of 10% is 1% — you’re one in a hundred if you ask and follow up.

And 10% of 10% of 10% (0.001) is one in a thousand if you ask, follow up, and follow through. 

ASK.

Why don’t people ask? You know that it happens. You want something, but you don’t put it out there. Your psychological blocks and assumptions preclude you from putting your desire out there. You don’t have clarity on what you want—so you need to do some internal work. You let fear get the best of you.

Here are a few things you can ask for: “I want you to give me more money.” In a conversation with a colleague or boss, “I think we need to renegotiate our terms,” or in the universe itself, “I want to learn how to play the Piano–who has a piano I can have?”

FOLLOW UP.

And then, after you ask, you forget to follow up. That email that you were going to send, to say “thank you” that you put off. To write and say, “Hey, we talked about the fundraising that I’m doing and I’d love for you to be a part of it. Can you contribute before the end of the month?”

When you asked someone to interview them and you circle back and say, “Thanks for agreeing to this; let’s put something on the calendar. I just had a new baby, so is it alright if I pencil us in for next summer and I’ll circle back them?”

When you ask someone to do you a favor and they take the time and energy to do it for you, so you write them a short note or card—telling them you appreciate it. [tweetable hashtag=”@sarahkpeck”]This is how you stand out—and unfortunately, most people don’t do it.[/tweetable]

FOLLOW THROUGH.

And then, when the donation comes in, or your partnership is aligned, following through with what you’ve promised: reaching out and saying Thank You. Showing up when you said you’ll show up. Sending them the fiscal reports when you’re successful. Reaching out even if it’s half a year later to say, “It took longer than I expected, but here’s the book I was telling you about.”

It’s simple, although in execution requires an incredible amount of discipline on your part to achieve. But the recipe isn’t that hard.

Want to stand out?

[tweetable hashtag=”@sarahkpeck”]If you want to stand out, follow this three-step formula:[/tweetable] Ask for what you want. Follow up. Follow through.

For an epic post on asking for what you want, check out the art of asking, the second highest read post on this blog to date. Thanks to Daniel Epstein, Amber Rae, and Allie Siarto for conversations on this topic.

Jumping is terrifying. Or, behind the scenes of the last few months: Life. Mind Work. Change. Here. Now. Hello. Breathe…

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

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I wake up in a panic, nerves sending a fear signal up and down my trembling arms. Adrenaline pours into my veins, shooting up my skin like a shock to my system. My brain races, full of questions and doubts and fears. I can’t sleep again, even though it’s dark. The light from the streetlamp outside my window glares at me, accusingly. I get up, I start pacing.

I wonder if what I’ve done is the right thing. If what I’m doing is the right thing. I feel like I’m jumping out of an airplane, a rug pulled out beneath my feet to reveal that I’m far too high up in the sky and gravity’s tugging on me. I don’t know if I have a parachute. I’m not sure what a parachute would even look like. I’ll need to figure it out later, but probably fairly soon.

Sometimes I’m soaring with the incredible high of experimentation, and other times my mind wonders if it knows just exactly what I’ve gotten myself into. I cling to my practices of yoga, journaling and other meditative daily walks, but they don’t fully temper the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing. My mind is a scramble. I can’t understand the illogical things I’ve put it through. It’s probably for the best that I don’t understand.

Trust.

There’s no easy way to jump other than to put both feet out and trust the world around you. Trust that you’ll land, that you might fly, that it’s okay to fall, or that some other iteration you can’t predict will come to fruition. Unlike the time I went zip-lining with my sister, where my jump off the platform was so timid that I smacked my butt against the wooden platform below as I launched, I need to lean, and lean so hard that it feels like falling.

I’m falling. This is falling.

While it’s been quiet around these parts lately, that’s just an illusion–a set of unwritten essays and the silence that is days passing a surface skin for a mind and a life that’s been in flux for much of this summer and this year. I look back at my writings for August, noticing that I’ve only scrawled two posts this month; those posts are just a scant glimpse into life behind the scenes and what I’ve been up to. For those familiar with astrology, the world’s been ablaze with the recent Grand Trine, the idea of a shift so large and a planetary arrangement so powerful that people will feel huge changes, up-endings, and fluxes in their life; that dreams become reality; that things get messy; that things resolve — and I don’t just read this, I feel this, I know this, I am living this.

Hello, world. Shall we dance?

Sometimes I struggle with what to write about on this blog—is it a diary? Is it a travel trope of my own adventures? Is it strictly related to writing and communications? It’s not always clear; I share my personal stories and lessons as a window into how I’ve practiced (and continue to practice) the philosophies and principals that underline most of my work, scratching out and re-writing as I go, editing as I learn. I don’t profess to write about myself because that’s the topic at hand; I do love telling the stories I live as a means for sharing bigger ideas and stories. But when I leave myself out of all of the writing and start to write just about rules or teachings or hollow lists, it starts to feel a bit empty.

Like I’ve forgotten to tell you something. Like I’ve left part of myself out.

The past six months have been a whirlwind, to the point that it feels as though I’ve been hiding something. The past year has been a challenge, and I’m not always comfortable talking about all of it. Some of the hands-down-best-things in my life have happened in recent months, but so have some of the scariest and hardest. It wasn’t shiny and glorious; much of it came in a package that felt like I was being thrown repeatedly against a wall like a rag doll and left in a crumpled heap to stand up and fight a bit more. The great moments came with adrenal fatigue, medical problems, extensive biopsies and visits to the doctor. Moments at conferences after months at home, working all day and late nights, and having to look at someone else and not quite share. Not quite tell. These months and moments have been filled with Doubt. Insecurity. Changes. Lives beginning. Lives ending. Leaving my job, starting a new one. Selling my car (finally). Meeting incredible people. Shifting careers, changing tack.

You, too, are probably noticing something in your own life and in the lives of others around you. As I talk with friends and clients and colleagues, I notice that these big shifts aren’t happening in isolation. We’re all experiencing it, the universe seemingly sending the earth into the spin cycle a few extra times, the players and movers jolted into new realities of their own doing–or as a surprise. The economy has been moving and un-sticking; opportunities are opening while entire industry verticals are left career wastelands; some generations are in huge loss while other people are starting to move around much more in jobs and vocations and practices.

I hear stories of daring and adventure, of incredible romance, of deep pain and loss, of glimmers of beauty within the deepest tragedies. Sometimes the suddenness with which you realize a dream can be incredibly unnerving, pressing you forward into a new sense of self, a new definition, a new story before you felt like you committed to the wanting of your dream. And yet the universe sends you out the door and through three new ones, pressing you to discover your readiness through action, not thinking. And other times it seems unfairly agonizing to wait, years of debt and doubt and pain layered into the pursuit of freedom, a tantalizing notion that seems just out of grasp. Change is rattling. Waiting is painful. I’ve watched people get all that they’ve said they wanted, and fall apart. I’ve watched people try for everything they’ve dreamed of and crumble, stall, wander into places they’d never wish to be. They’re surviving. The universe is doing something.

Change is not easy.

… I’m not sure there are many people who say that it is.

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Welcome to solo-preneurship*, to adventure, to freedom, to creation.

In my world, a big shift happened a few weeks ago. At the end of July, I parted ways with my wonderful and dear company, SWA Group, the place that has been my home for the last five years. Along the way, we created a number of digital and print communications initiatives — sharing the perspective of landscape architecture and describing how the built world works through books, magazines, blogs, and stories. My colleagues are some of the most talented physical and spatial designers I’ve ever met, and they challenged me constantly to learn how to create physical, built spaces within the tricky world of patterns, codes, rules and regulations–learning how to engineer and design places for human enjoyment. Understanding urban patterns and landscape systems is immensely appealing to me, and something I’ve focused on for a long time.

And yet, I leapt.

It’s exciting–and terrifying.

Transitioning from a wonderful job and a space with colleagues who have been extremely supportive of my adventures and experiments was not an easy choice, and it took several weeks and months to iron out the details and to wrap up my final projects and head out. Out into the world of clients and projects and writing and self-employment. Also the asterisk in the title is a note of caution–I’m not headed straight into “solo-preneurship,” because it’s never truly “solo”-preneurship, like Tara Gentile so aptly reminds us. “Business doesn’t happen in a bubble,” she writes; rather, it happens with teams and clients and support and evolution. And markets. And needs. Further, solo-preneurship is not about late nights hustling indefinitely; while hustling is a part of the journey, it doesn’t need to become the entire journey.

And then, I was here.

Shoved out the door and onto the sidewalk, suitcase in hand. I’m taking all the knowledge and chops I’ve got and doing the best I can.

Starting yesterday.

When did this happen? 

“To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest.”– Pema Chödrön

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But Sarah, what are you working on? How will you spend your time?

I’ve been avoiding conversations that pull up that dreaded question, that accusatory, “so, what are you doing?” statement, the question that permeates what seems to be nearly every conversation. The rush to fill time—or worse, to apply a story or a definition to how we will spend time—is a national disease we all have, one that requires us to chase productivity and results over holistic being and space for mental clarity. It’s no wonder Time Magazine features a different cover for Americans than the rest of the world when we’re a market more obsessed with our own job performance (and resultant anxiety) than the civil unrest happening in the Middle East. Prayers to Egypt, Syria, Palestine, Israel, and all of the countries in need of deep healing. Including our own.

“The rush to fill time—or worse, to apply a story or a definition to how we will spend time—is a national disease we all have, one that requires us to chase productivity and results over holistic being and space for mental clarity.”

We ask each other what we do before we ask how we’re doing, a quick question that rolls off the tongue faster than you can truly hug someone and look into their eyes, wondering how they actually are. When you’re in transition (and transition is not a temporary state but perhaps an always-state, as Pema Chödrön has gently reminded me in her book, When Things Fall Apart), it’s much harder to answer that question definitively. I have an answer that sounds good, I have an answer that’s short and sweet, I have the answer that helps my parents worry less about my finances (So… how are you supporting yourself?), and I have a few ways to broach the conversation with friends.

The short answer is that I’m writing. And teaching. And learning. And living. The shift, if you put a definition on it, is that I’m no longer working full time with a single employer; I’m working in freelance mode with several clients and project across the country and around the world. Part journalist, part documentarian, part strategist and mostly writer, I’m building a new set of tools and skills and building a new business plan for myself. It’s liberating. It’s thrilling. It brings up every uncertainty I’ve ever had and puts them flat on the kitchen table and stares me square in the face.

It’s full-on accountability.

“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.” – Jack Kerouac

One of my first projects was a press campaign for a Y-Combinator company in San Francisco dedicated to helping aging seniors live gracefully. I joined Y-Combinator team True Link Financial, a tech start-up tackling the challenge of fraud target aging seniors. Seniors are increasingly vulnerable to misleading marketing and scams; the company’s cofounders Kai Stinchcombe and Claire McDonnell developed a new credit card with a customizable fraud-blocker that helps prevent your parents’ and grandparents’ money from being irreversibly stolen in the time in their life when they need it most.

Aging is an issue that’s fascinated me throughout my studies of cities and people, and with my grandparents aging and later leaving us, I wonder who will take care of them if we all don’t step in and take care of them. A society with no age diversity should alarm you: we need older people to be thriving within our ecosystems, visibly, or we should be concerned for our own future health. It won’t be long until we’re all old (hopefully–that’s the goal, right?). I wonder who will take care of me when I’m 70, 80, or 90.

“The way you do anything is the way you do everything.”

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My second assignment as an independent journalist this summer was joining 1for3.org as a documentarian and writer on a recent trip to Aida Camp, a Palestinian Refugee Camp in Bethlehem. I joined an exceptionally talented team of designers and human rights activists dedicated to making change in a part of the world that needs a lot of love. We traveled to Israel over the summer and spent time in several of the world’s oldest cities, and then focused on the problem of inadequate water access within a camp that serves 6,000 residents. A design and landscape-based challenge, the team built a variety of options to capture stormwater and rainwater, cleanse it, and re-distribute it as potable or recycled water for irrigation and play. While the history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is long and complex (see this history of the conflict in maps), the challenge of capturing rainwater on a single site is something that can be implemented in real time. As a documentarian, I wrote 2,500 to 3,000 words per day, and we’re working on pieces for publication this Fall. Nothing in this paragraph suffices to capture what the trip was–I’m struggling for words. It was. I will write more.

And lastly, this Fall I’ll also be teaching again in the Writer’s Workshop, a private group for people who want to build a practice and a community around writing. Writing unlocks our minds and helps us clarify who we are, how we think, and how we connect with others. Last Spring, I opened up the first writing workshop to a group of twenty-five people from around the world and was blown away by the talent, enthusiasm, and dedication of each of the people in the class. I’ve updated and modified the program to make it into a four-week program that focuses on storytelling, imagination, creativity and persuasion–helping writers and aspiring writers of all fields learn how to add more detail, color, and story to their blog posts, essays, and other daily communications.

Writing well is critical to great living. It’s one of my core beliefs, as I dig into understanding the whys behind what I do: writing helps us clarify who we are, what we believe, and serves as an introspective tool for a journey into your own mind. Good writing also helps us get better at explaining ourselves, our ideas, our projects, our thought processes, and our deepest wants and desires. If you want to get better at any job, relationship, or project–get better at writing. Improving your writing makes nearly everything better. If you’ve been to one of my courses or live events before, come join us. ‘ll be sharing more information on the writing class over the next few weeks, and posting details here: http://dev.sarahkpeck.com/writers-workshop/.

SF-reflections Bay Bridge at night

And in addition to leaving my Day job, I’ve left San Francisco for a while. 

The distance a country puts between your old life and a new, unprepared, different life–a life now navigated within the corridors of unfamiliar yet strangely reassuring streets–makes me see my old self with more contrast, more clarity. Distance gives perspective. Change shows your edges. Challenges reveal where we have more work to do.

I left San Francisco, heading to Brooklyn, New York for the Fall to build my own writing, teaching, and consulting practice. My client roster was overwhelming my ability to stay sane and get sleep while working full time, and so–I jumped. I leaned, and I leaned hard, arms spinning, free-falling in the the glorious disruption that is change. After long conversations with close friends, my own coaches, and my mentors both at my company and in my life, I wrapped up my time with my employer and I’m in a bit of a free space right now. It’s wonderful, it’s open, it’s strange, it’s new–and it’s now. It’s here. I’m in it.

It’s less of a jolt and disruption, in some ways, because I believe that the old employer–employee relationship is antiquated, and the job that’s perfect for you three years ago is not the same job (and nor are you the same person) today. Everything shifts and is in flux, and the jobs (employers, clients, projects) that stick around longest are ones that match you and your evolving human talents and needs the best. This shift, then, at least for me, is one towards more project-based work; a move that I believe is more in alignment with how corporate and employment relationships should work.

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But the truth is, I’m avoiding the heart matter, the real reason I’m changing tracks, the deeper stories woven into this framework of self-employment and time management. It’s easier to talk about jobs and locations and moving, because those are things I can point to. These are the things that feel safer to talk about, for some reason. Yet one of the beautiful, albeit less publicly prominent, stories in my life has has been simply and glossily covered over with the use of words like “life opportunities,” and “strategic choices” and “changes,” and “new directions.” These words mask the beauty of a burgeoning and deepening and marvelous love story I can’t even fully grasp that I’m a part of (me? this is me? how is this happening!?) — and my heart is cracking open with this new adventure. My partner. In life. I can’t wait to write about it, too, whenever the time is right.

In short, I’m stunned by how much my life has changed over the last few years. I bow in deep prayer to the universe and to spirits and to energy flows with thanks and gratitude for the gifts in my life.

We can’t wait until later to work on developing beautiful relationships, to starting new adventures, to leaning, to jumping. It’s always time to practice and to push. It’s an adventure, and you’ve only got a few opportunities to live it.

Breathe. 

But let’s dig a little deeper. Even beneath the shift in my relationships and the work that I’m doing is even deeper heart work. Life work. Body work. The thing is, I’m doing some mind work. I’ve been running at full steam for nearly a decade, and in a grasp towards more consciousness and deliberate creation, I’ve slowed down the project roll and I’m consciously practicing choices that make space in my life for essential philosophies and practices I want to devote more time to. I’m continuing to practice saying no to opportunities that don’t quite fit right; no to clients that aren’t a fabulous fit; and no to things that make me tired, cranky, and uncomfortable–like sitting still all day.

And as this moves forward, I’m creating space–ample space–for projects I’ve long put on the back burner.

My critics–largely internal–tell me this is silly, self indulgent, a waste of time. They sit on my shoulders and grumble, moaning about the work I’d better be doing, about the nonsensical things my brain tries to write, cackling in the backdrop. Occasionally I meet a real critic–someone who voices what I’ve been spinning up in my head–and the conversation usually ends with a decent explanation of why I’m doing what I’m doing, surprising even myself.

It can be easy.

It can be now.

My new apartment has a blank wall on it, in a room we’ve devoted to art and creation and the expansive, contemplative work my partner and I are devoted too, and even though we’re not moving in for another week or so, I’ve already scribbled across multiple sheets of paper with ideas, brainstorms, and plans. I’m pinning them up in the invisible wall in my mind. The marked shift is not one of dreaming that I put movement and writing first in my life, but a life in which I actually do it, and continue to align my life according to my values and principles.

Mind work, body work, spirit work.

We are more than the work we create and the products we produce. We are more than the money we earn and the statuses we post. We are humans, to the core, with moving, living, breathing bodies. We are connected, in communities and networks and relationships, and all of the pieces and parts need to be nurtured and allowed; cultivated and fed.

The next few months–nay, longer, please–are about mind work; about spirit work; about body work. We create a career and chase financial gains for consumer-based tendencies; in an effort to challenge these assumptions, the next few months of my life are deliberately about experimentation. I want to push myself (or yield, or soften) into experiments with mind and body. With doing more movement, and less computer work. With changing routines to learn what suits me best. With spirituality first and mental work first. With practices that develop the mind, body and soul. I’ve opened up space in this new life, this new day, for more writing and more movement. More teaching and more learning. More being.

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This means its messy, it’s different. There are a lot of late nights (or early nights) with tears. I’m not good at this; I’m not good at being composed and balanced at all times. I don’t expect myself to be, either. I get really stressed out and I want to throw things against walls and I make hyperactive sets of lists and then I feel like a complete failure when I’ve only done one or two things on my list. I put the list down. I listen to waves of anxiety roll across my body, and I practice trying to observe it—not critique it. I spend months in places that don’t feel right and only when it really really doesn’t feel good to I finally leave; and I learn that next time, I’ll listen to my intuition a little more closely. I shift, I dance, I fall.

Finding calm in the midst of chaos is not easy. Today is a day just like any other, and there is no arrival. Pema Chödrön’s “When Things Fall Apart,” has been a close reminder that the idea of chasing a completeness or an arrival–that feeling of having arrived is a false premise. We are not arriving, we are always arriving. We are always moving. Life is more often a state of chaos than calm; the fleeting satisfaction of completion erodes, too, as time passes and we seek more challenges, learning, opportunities.

The entire process—this ongoing, transitory adventure, this journey—provides fodder for stories and writing and ongoing exploration and journey. The more I grow and learn, the less I feel as though I have any answers at all. I document to track my brain’s inner workings, to train my mind, to place markers in the ground, to discover myself. I write because it’s such a gift to my soul and a beautiful way to connect with others. I teach writing because I hope to share the journey and discovery with like-minded individuals; I learn as much from the talented people I work with as I hope to share.

Thank you for joining me on this journey, and for listening. I’ve created beautiful friendships from this blog and I am grateful to be able to share with each of you.

To living life, to mind work, to creating space.

XOXO

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Tell me what you’ve been working on: I’d love to hear about it in the comments. How has your life shifted and changed over the past year? What’s become clear to you, and what are you working to prioritize? How do you deal with change and transition? 

Are You Too In Love With A Dream to Make It Real?

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

Where does your mind go when you daydream?

That big dream, that thing in your mind–the really big one. Yes, that one.

What’s your big, scary, hairy, crazy, totally unrealistic dream? The one you wish for fervently and find yourself thinking about on and off while wandering?

Have you thought about making it real? Making it actually, seriously, part of your life?

Taking a dream to reality is risky.

It requires the real risk of failure and discovering whether or not you’re capable of what you believe. Whether or not you can actually accomplish all of the steps towards making it real. Whether or not you’re willing to do the work and go through the (sometimes painful) process of getting it to real.

Attempting to make a dream come true is a reality check. The possibility if a different reality is painful. It is quite possible that along the way towards going after your dream, you find out that you won’t get there. It’s too late. The pieces didn’t work. You don’t make it.

Behind the course of taking a dream to life is a possibility of not getting there.

To protect ourselves, we cling to the dream. We stay behind, saying wistfully to ourselves and others the story of the dream, but we don’t chase the dream itself.

Our words start to sound familiar. We tell stories that sound like were going to so that or we could have done that…

To take steps towards your dream requires uncertainty courage, bravery. You might discover that your dream window has expired. You might discover that you’re no longer in love with the fantasy you created. You might discover that the person you were has changed.

Taking the journey will change you. Taking the journey is unpredictable, uncertain, and scary.

You will emerge a different person. Your solace is that the other side of this today is a new place, and we are creatures that require change to grow.

And what if it does work out? What if your wildest dreams actually could come true?

Would you have the courage to go free them?

Or are you enjoying the dream more?