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Problems get in the way of relaxing.

When I have a problem, I can’t rest easy and let things take their normal course. The normal course isn’t working.

Who likes that?

I don’t. I get frustrated.

At least at first.

But often I can manage to look at things differently. I can ask: “What about the normal course led to the problem or allowed the problem to develop?”

With a question like that, I have a chance to fix the normal course and, with the right insight, make the new normal course even better than the one before.

I can be only infrequently interesting.

Here’s what I mean by “infrequently interesting”:

I can’t reasonably expect that I’m going to interest everyone. People are too diverse, and I’m too unique. I can’t expect to hold everyone’s interest. What I have to say here is going to be for some people, not for all people.

Even among that segment of people whom I might interest, there’s no way I can reasonably expect to hold their interest all the time. They need to eat, to sleep, and to watch things on Netflix.

And for those who do show an interest in me, I strongly suspect that the frequency with which I catch and hold their attention is relatively sporadic when compared with their other interests. I’m competing with food, rest, and binge watching.

This means that I’m not going to be very interesting for much of the time. Sure, I’m interesting, but – in the grand scheme of things – not very often. I’m interesting, but infrequently. I’m infrequently interesting.

This is a liberating insight.

I don’t need to try to be everything to everyone all the time. That’s a relief.

Sometimes I go hiking up some mountains near my house. There’s no reason I need to do this. I’m not paid for it, and there’s no necessary outcome that follows because of it (food to eat, shelter for my family).

So then why do I go hiking up mountains?

I can think of two reasons.

One: there’s something satisfying about the exertion.  Going uphill and navigating novel terrain brings me joy. It’s fun.

Two: there’s something satisfying about the view. It feels good to get up high and see the surrounding city from a height and from a distance (these mountains are in a desert preserve inside Phoenix, so there’s surrounding city to see).

I think this reasoning also applies to reading the books that are called “Great Books.” Strictly speaking, I have no need to read Plato or Jane Austen. Reading the Iliad doesn’t pay the bills.

So why bother? Reading them is an invigorating exercise. Reading them gives me a new view.

Some personal-development books urge you to think about your purpose in life.

When I start thinking about my “purpose,” it’s easy for me to think vaguely and abstractly: my purpose is to love my family, to help people, to do good work, etc. All true, but not very helpful, because they’re so general.

It struck me one day that my purpose would have to be my purpose, with an emphasis on the “my.” I mean: my purpose needs to spring from the peculiar experiences, specific circumstances, and particular relationships that make up my unique life (as opposed to your unique life that you’re living over there).

So I started to think: what’s my real, quirky purpose? Because my life is going to look quirky to anyone not leading it. And so my life’s purpose should be correspondingly quirky.

In fact, I doubt that my purpose is real or genuine if it doesn’t strike you as quirky. If my purpose could be picked up and set in your life, with no adjustments needed, then it very likely lacks reality and the motivating power that even the slightest dose of reality (quirks and all) can bring.

For the new year, I have committed to spending 30 minutes in writing a day. Something that makes this commitment easier to keep is another commitment I’ve made: to keep a list of ideas that I want to write about.

One of the hard parts in writing is sitting down and feeling like I’ve got to come up with something to say. Sitting down to write is a whole lot easier when I’ve already “said something” – i.e., had an idea. Then all I need to do is just get it down on the page and wrap some words around it.

My mind is often “saying” all sorts of interesting stuff: observations, insightful suggestions, stupid jokes. The problem is that there’s a mismatch between when I’m sitting down to write, and when my mind is saying the interesting stuff. My mind gets chatty when I’m driving or putting laundry away. It goes mute when I put it in front of a blank screen and expect it to perform wonders.

The way I deal with that mismatch is to jot down the interesting stuff when it occurs to me and to save it for later. The chipmunk gathers up its acorns in the spring and has them ready when the winter comes. Same thing with me: I store up the insights so I’ll have them when I face the blank, white page.

(If the chipmunk metaphor seems strained or unexpected, I apologize: I watched a documentary about squirrels last month, and it had footage of chipmunks storing up acorns.)