Transitioning

    Mastering a skill requires a transition.
    For example, a girl at the Boston Common learned how to skate while clinging to a plastic seal. I never saw her skate unassisted. That’s okay. She needed more time to transition from a raw beginner to someone with a basic skill.
    Adults are no different. Education is required to learn a trade or profession. Going to school is a time consuming transition.
    My goal is to become a novelist. That means transitioning from photography to writing. I’ve spent thousands of hours learning how to write. I’m still unpublished. I’m still transitioning. I’m okay with that.
    Some people skip transitions. For example, anyone without writing experience can pen a novel. Anyone can upload such a novel to a book retailing website. But would the book find commercial success? Probably not. The writing would be subpar. The author wouldn’t have learned the craft of writing. Time wasn’t allocated for a transition.
    Ten years from now, that girl in the photo might compete at the Winter Olympics. One never knows. She might even win a gold medal. If so, her success would have begun with a plastic seal and a transition.

Managing Stimuli

    On the subway, a man covered his ears and closed his eyes. He was tired. It was evening rush hour last Friday. The city was Boston.
    Before zoning out, the man had stared into a smartphone. His mind grew weary from a day’s worth of stimuli.
   While traveling, I minimize exposure to the internet. The same applies to music and the radio. Fewer distractions keeps my mind sharp. Fewer diversions enables me to better observe the nuances of people and settings. Creative ideas are more apt to sprout. Less consumption of media helps me as a writer and as a photographer.
    Once I drove from Worcester, Massachusetts to Cleveland, Ohio. Twelve hours. Not once did I listen to the radio or play music. Just me, the road, and my thoughts.
    That trip was boring.
    There’s a lot of cool and creative stuff online. But at some point it all becomes too much. When we over-expose ourselves to creativity, we become less creative.

Degrees of Friendliness

    While hiking on the Camino de Santiago, I encountered a married couple. They were pilgrims walking across Spain. Attached to the woman’s outfit was a flag of Brittany, a region of France where they lived.
    The Camino attracts pilgrims from all over the world. It’s like hiking in a melting pot. On one occasion, I engaged in a heartfelt conversation with a man from Hungary. On other occasions, I hiked beside people from Japan, Switzerland, and Netherlands, to name just a few.
    Most of the time, however, I hung out with fellow Americans. I found them to be among the most affable. The same friendliness was exhibited by pilgrims from South Africa, Ireland, and Australia.
    By contrast, many French pilgrims were rude and argumentative. People from Quebec, a province of Canada, also seemed aggressive. Englishmen came across as cynical. There were exceptions. That couple from Brittany couldn’t have been nicer.
    My journey across Spain reinforced a notion I’ve formed during other trips. The friendliest travelers in the world hail from South Africa, Ireland, Australia, and the United States.

Berry Cold

    Once every winter, robins appear in my yard. Hunger leads them there. They devour the berries on a holly tree, and move on.
    These birds show up when the weather gets harsh. Often that means January. But not this winter. They arrived yesterday, following back-to-back snow storms and during a cold snap.
   From what I’ve learned, robins don’t care for the flavor of holly berries. They’re eaten out of necessity. Other food sources are tapping out. And perhaps the birds’ metabolisms need a boost to generate warmth.
   When robins eat holly berries, it indicates that we’re in the guts of the winter.

Not Just a Bug

    A bug cast a shadow on the other side of a window shade. It’s rare for an insect to appear indoors during winter.
    I’ve dealt efficiently—and harshly—with bugs that infiltrate my home. Flies get swatted. Larger intruders get squashed between my fingers and tissue paper.
    But not this bug.
    First I opened a window. Next, I coaxed the bug to a piece of paper. I carried this paper to an open window. There, I released the bug to the outdoors.
    In past months, I’ve spared rather than squashed bugs (except for flies and mosquitoes). Whenever possible, I’ve captured and released them.
    Why the softening attitude? I’ll venture a guess. The reason I’m showing compassion to bugs is silence. That’s right, silence.
    My home office is located up in the attic. Other family members rarely go there. Distractions are few.
    When a bug shows up in the attic, I notice it right away. Because the room is silent, my mood is relaxed. I’m less inclined to crush a bug. The bug is not longer just a bug. It is a physical being sharing the room. Me and it. Us. Nobody else.
    Silence encourages compassion.