Here’s a confession: I’m feeling a little boxed in with this newsletter. It’s starting to take on the air of a syllabus - predictable, preachy, prescriptive - and that doesn’t sit well with me.
First of all, I’m much more interested in asking questions than I am in giving answers. Sharing from a place of “lessons I’ve learned” feels too final, and even a hint of that seems like closing the door on something essential: the sense of play and energy of exploration.
Second, I love writing, but it’s not my true north. While “finding the right words” will always be a game I play, what really lights me up is making things. Before I wrote, I drew, and before I read, I built. I started this as a craftsman - and got lost along the way.
No matter. A mistake calls only for correction. Going forward, I plan to use this newsletter more like a workshop - a place to explore good ideas and the creative projects they lead to. I could keep telling you what that means, but I’d rather just show you…
“Wherever you are, treat it like West Texas.”
That note stayed with me, scribbled during a trip to Marfa a few years ago with my sister. What’s special about small towns isn’t what they have, but what they don’t - or, more generously, what they make room for.
With just a modest network of streets, a few restaurants, and a handful of local shops, small towns shrink your world in a way that expands your sense of self. You feel less scattered, more still, and somehow, bigger.
This spaciousness is lovely, and you don’t need to move to the country to find it. It can be an attitude you tap into - a choice to notice what’s intimate and immediate, rather than chasing after what’s distant and detached.
When I “keep things local”:
I reconnect with parts of myself that I’ve been neglecting - the sides of me that want to learn about design, experiment with photography, and write music again. A fuller expression of who I am feels remarkably close, and I wonder why I haven’t released it.
I’m more willing to meet strangers and get interested in their stories (like Anna, the foreigner who welcomed me into her new hat shop with a plate of olive oil and cheese; or “Gus”, the old-timer who made money in real estate and now turns rusted metals into sculptures).
Time feels slower, because it isn’t so crammed. Without much to do, my body unwinds, my mind stops hurrying forward, and my heart opens. I sense there’s a lot of goodwill in the world, and I realize missing it might be a case of city routine and my being unimaginative.
Together, James Coffman ⇢ James is one of those generous creators who openly shares his process with the audience. The first time I saw his work, I thought, “that feels like Marfa” - and I was eager to learn how to get that pulpy paper and ink-bleed effect on a digital canvas. After watching a few of his Q&A sessions, I’ve started experimenting with my own symbols, trying to bring that small-town energy to visual life.
I’ve been sketching ideas for a print about ambition - specifically, what I want to remember when it stirs in me. Two elements have come into focus:
The first is an outstretched arm paired with a firmly planted foot. Together, they capture the balance I’m pursuing: reaching for what’s ahead while staying grounded in presence and gratitude - a virtuous tension between rootedness and aspiration.
The second is a set of cuffs, with the letters “O” and “F” etched at either end. They serve as a visual shorthand for a thought from Nietzsche I come back to often: “You cannot be helped towards your true happiness so long as you are bound by the chains of Opinion and Fear.”
Note: Composition is slow work! The process has been a constant reminder that “good things take time”… with luck, I hope to have prints ready by spring.
This week I ran a little experiment. Inspired by a lecture from Graham Weaver, I spent all of my walking time (10+ hours) playfully attempting to brainwash myself into optimism.
Instead of music, podcasts and audiobooks, I've been listening to motivational speakers like Zig Ziglar, Jim Rohn, Wayne Dyer, and other leaders from the golden age of American self-help.
Yes, their style is easy to ridicule (with its relentless idealism and outdated idioms), but there’s a surprising richness underneath it. The wisdom is simple and direct - and honestly, it’s working. I’m catching glimpses of something brighter within me, and I thought I’d attempt to explain “why.”
Here’s a tiny thesis:
The Guest List
i
The mind is like a crowded room at a big party, filled with guests you did - and didn’t quite - invite. Some are cheerful conversationalists, others mere background figures, but a few, those grumbling critics in the corner, seem to linger longer than they should.
ii
The voices of self-judgment, resentment, and pointless pessimism rarely announce themselves. They just show up and shift the mood. Mindfulness training, at its heart, is about learning to recognize these guests and, where possible, ask them to leave.
iii
While meditation, therapy and cognitive exercises can soften their presence, there is another way to heal: inviting better guests into the room. The words of kind and uplifting people act as a gentle kind of reprogramming. They replace criticism with compassion, doubt with reassurance, and help you rewrite your inner commentary - one sentence at a time.
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If 20th-century lectures on success aren’t your thing (I get it), try starting with children’s books. When I introduce my future kids to reading, I’ll tell them to think of books as friends…
Whenever you walk into a bookshop, listen for its invitation…
“Please come in and get comfy! What brought you here? What’s on your mind? Let’s talk about it. Maybe we can figure things out as a team. Just for a little while, let’s see where our thoughts and feelings take us.”
It’s a bit strange, I know, but it’s useful. Our relationship with books can be marked by emotion just as much as reason. What we should search for in our reading lives is ideas we can love and voices that help us feel less lonely, sad and confused.
If it’s good enough for Salinger, it’s good enough for me:
The best children’s books I’ve come across are from The School of Life. If you’re a new parent, I recommend all of them. If you’re an adult looking for tender language, I’d go with the “Big Ideas” series. The concepts and illustrations never fail to move something in me, and as soon as I learn a little 3D modeling, I plan to design a whole collection of toys and stuffed philosophers - to bring those ideas into the room, quite literally.
Something like that. What do you think?