Vol IV: #36 The Shack

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The first person to suggest I read The Shack was a roommate’s girlfriend. She turned out to be a lady jerk and so I refused to accept her suggestion. Not long after, I read more praise for the book on Facebook, all by stupid and codependent, Christian women. And their praise served the narrative I created after the lady jerk’s recommendation, The Shack had to be shit book if so many shitty women loved it. How good could it be? (Don’t act like I’m the only one. We all have people in our lives that rub us the wrong way and we do the exact opposite of whatever they tell us to do.)

Fast forward to 2023, and I’m plowing through a book a week, or so. And after twenty straight secular novels, by the likes of Hemingway and Hughes, I was ready for something “Christian.” I chose to read The Shack mainly because I wanted to read a novel, and I was too lazy to look for another title. A copy arrived in the mail in late September, but collected dust until last week.

I’m not sure what I expected from The Shack. Certainly, my expectations were low. And the first two chapters didn‘t help. Sentences like “Soon the sounds of gentle snoring filled the air as the media tube turned its attention to a piece on high school senior in Zimbabwe…” Media tube?! What!? I get trying to be descriptive. Hell, I’m on that train too bro. But, media tube as for TV? That ain’t it.

And trust me. I get it. I’m barely a writer.

Like I said, after the first two chapters, I was ready to set the book down. What kept me going was the premise. The main character, Mack, is bitter and sad over the murder of his six-year old daughter. Naturally, he’s full of the hurt and questions all of us have in one form or another. I kept reading because I wanted to see how the author answered the questions, how he addressed grief. Would he offer the same tired answers I hear in church? I wanted to know. I wanted to hear Mack accuse God of being absent and cruel. But more than anything, I wanted to the answers.

It’s not fair to expect William Young, the author, to have all the answers. Still, I hoped for something new or original. Thankfully, Mack finds answers both old and new in his conversation with God. And I’m ok with that. There are moments of true Glory in The Shack. Somehow, Young cuts through what the world demands from the Lord and offers a totally different perspective instead. And if had to write one sentence about The Shack, a one summary statement, it’s this: Under pile of adjectives and rehashed theology, the Holy Spirit speaks directly to us when we read The Shack. The voice of the Lord is hidden in words and kindly beckons us to trust Him.

I hope my writing reaches that level one day.

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Vol IV: #35 Pain II

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I felt like following up yesterday with a bit of clarification.

I believe pain is good and is more like sonar than a lighthouse. The problem is most of us receive pain like a lighthouse. We stay as far away as possible, believing our ship will crash on the rocks. Using the example of my the pain in my legs when I run, the lighthouse says stop running and the pain will go away. The fuggin’ worst part of the lighthouse response to pain is it is true. If I stop running, the pain will subside. And if I abandon running altogether, I’ll never feel the stain and aches again. Right? Imagine having that conversation with God. Problem solved, sir. Ready to die before my time because I refused to push through the physical pain or embarrassment of running. You could’ve given me super human lungs and massaged my legs while I slept. So really, this is your fault.

Good thing there’s a better way. To understand pain as sonar, as a guide through the depths of life, that is next level. Sonar says, yep, your fat legs are strained, but your oxygen levels are good and the pain isn’t increasing. This is normal for a man of his size and age. Keep pace. We will push through. Of course, most of life’s pain forms within relationships, of held offenses and struggles for control or recognition. And in these moments, lighthouse says run and hide! Hold them in your debt and never forget. Most of us do this. I’ve done this. And I can tell you engaging bitterness and turning to self-preservation is a sure path to becoming an asshole. Again, the sonar response offers hope. She says whoa! That didn’t work. But, it’s ok. Let’s look over here, try something new.

Not sure why I chose these metaphors to explain my thoughts on how I respond to pain. I think it comes down to a fear response or a love response. Fear screams there isn’t enough, you must look out for yourself. But love, even in pain, never give ups. It’s patient and kind and honest. And most of all, Love is committed to us.

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Vol IV: #34 Pain

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My calves and shins started to ache as I turned off the black top onto the rocky trail that runs along the tree line. After I’d begun a short climb, I begged myself to stop or slow down. And just as I began to ease my stride, a singular thought broke through my strain, you’ll only get better if you push through the pain. Immediately my pace resumed and carried me the final mile back to my car.

Since that afternoon in the woods, I’ve thought a lot about pain, it’s role in my life, and how I react to it. I think I’m guilty of allowing pain to dominate my actions- which very often fall short of my ambition. Reminds me of when I was in high school, specifically of lifting weights for football. I started a full six months behind all my teammates leaving me weaker and slower. And I’d love to say I worked hard to catch them, but I can’t. Oh, I dutifully attended my workouts, even saw a little progress, but I never pushed myself. I was too concerned with how weak I looked. Most of my workouts were for show, and I rarely completed all my reps.The sad reality is all progress of an exercise comes in the final reps, when the muscles burn and become heavy with fatigue. And I was the king of avoiding those final reps. I screwed myself be listening to my shame and fears. And I let pain win.

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When I step back and consider what pain is, I see it as a form of communication. And we should be thankful for it. Pain tell us when something is wrong or needs attention and cannot be avoided. Now, I’m trying to listen with fearless ears because I decided the value of pain. And I no longer hear my legs beg me stop, instead I hear their pleas for more bananas and a hearty stretch when I get home.

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Vol IV: #33 Her Name Is Adrienne

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Some mornings, perhaps once or twice every week, I don’t go into the prayer chapel. Instead, I park my car near the eastern facing edge of the parking lot facing Mount Lassen. At first the a line strip of light shines like a halo over the mountain. Then the strip will grow tall and white as it pushes the blackness back. Finally, the sun emerges from beneath the mountain. In between glimpses of the sunrise, I pray and read and journal. It’s a gloriously serene way to start my day.

A week ago, the morning was warm enough to roll my window down as I sat and watched the day begin. And toward the end of my hour, I heard an usual racket coming from the direction of the chapel behind me. I turned to my left and heard more clearly the sounds of an altercation in progress. A homeless woman, who called herself Adrienne, and two security guards stood near her Toyota Rav 4. Apparently, she was asked to leave the premises and did not take kindly to the request. What started with simple shouts of LEAVE ME ALONE, CALL MIKE, and HE KNOWS ME, ended with FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKERS and I AM LEAVING YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! I listened to the entire fracas and I my heart ripped at the result. A younger me would’ve judged the security guards or that lonely woman, but in this moment I just felt compassion for all involved.

The defensive woman I recognized from months before. She’d discovered the restrooms at the prayer chapel and came to (I assume) bathe in them. She always backed her car into the last spot at the far corner of the lot. And when she finished in the restroom Adrienne hustled back to her car. This sequence repeated itself every morning for three weeks. Then she stopped coming, that is until last week.

Given the anger and defensive posture of Adrienne’s words, I assume the darkly dressed guards asked to search her vehicle. The beige Toyota was, as always, backed into the far spot. Adrienne asserted her right to refuse a search at which the taller guard said “those type of rights don’t exist on private property.” He is, of course, correct. A church is not a public place. It’s a home. And what is a home but a private place for a man or woman to be exactly who they want to be, believe whatever they want to believe. If a person or church doesn’t want drugs on the campus, they have the right to enforce that boundary.

Yes. Adrienne’s situation is heart breaking. The woman lives in her car with her cat. In truth, compared to others in Redding’s homeless community, she’s on the upper end. It’s likely she maintains the vehicle and cat through a mix of welfare benefits and tricks. That’s my guess. Thing is, I’m willing to bet she rides up the hill to Bethel because she knows it’s safe and secure. No enclaves of squatters in tents or annoying cops up the hill, only well groomed lawns and gardens, clean bathrooms, and people going about their business. Unfortunately, she doesn’t understand that peace and order exist because Bethel is willing to enforce boundaries and rules. Security didn’t pick on her because she’s homeless. They asked her to leave because they didn’t want her doing drugs on the property.

Still, I can read my words, know Bethel security did the right thing, and yet my heart goes out to Adrienne. What a sad reality. Next, I ask shouldn’t a church be more tolerant of homeless people? Isn’t this embarrassing? Surprisingly, I snap, NO! Shocked by my reply I wonder Where’s my compassion? Then I stew on it and an argument forms. Maybe it’s because I’m tired of stepping over needles and feeling like a I need to carry pepper spray or brass knuckles. Or perhaps I’m tired of dodging crackheads at the grocery store. And to be fair, I’m not judging anybody. But these people, these special children of God, need a love that says No, you can’t bring that shit in here.

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Vol IV: #32 He’s On A Mission

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There was a season in which the prayer chapel was empty most mornings. Six months ago, that changed when my thin friend showed up, and he never misses a day. At first I didn’t like having my unofficial alone time ruined by a visitor. But I knew he had every right to the chapel, and I had no right to harbor any ill will toward the man.

He’s quiet and keeps to himself, though I’ve seen him wave to Mr Yellow Car(another new visitor) who prays in the opposite corner. Each morning he sits two chairs to my right facing the back garden. He’s skinny. And his hair is buzzed to the nub, which leaves a dark sort of halo covering his head. His clothes hang on him like towels on a line, and he removes his blue sandals before he settling in his chair. Once seated, the young Chinese man crosses one leg over the other and places his hands in lap. And then, he prays, earnestly. Sometimes his head is down, eyes closed as he prays. And at other times, his head is tossed back, hands splayed right and left as if waiting for the rain.

My praying companion wears the same clothes almost everyday and I assume he can’t work, at least not legally. And I wonder if he lives in his tiny Nissan hatchback, a increasingly common occurrence in a state with few homes and too many people. Perhaps I’m wrong, and he simply prefers to wears the same shirt and pants seven days in a row. Whatever his financial state, I don’t think he’s living the high life. This man came to Redding and spends his waking hours in the prayer chapel because he’s on a mission.

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Vol IV: #31 Relief And Blessing

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Ever play that game, what would you do with do with a million dollars? I have, thousands of times. Of course, the older I grow, the smaller the starting amount. Recently, I played a rousing game of what would Nik do with twenty thousand dollars. The outcome gave me good chuckle as I realized, half a year’s wages wouldn’t change my life. I’d still wake up and do about 80% of the things I do today. And that was a great relief.

For the first time in my life I can say, be it twenty thousand dollars or one million, I’m doing what I need to be doing. What I should be doing. Most of my angst is related to life expectations, of being 43 and broke and single. But, I no longer wander for purpose or direction. I, Nik, would’ve killed to be able to write that at any point before now. I know this isn’t new territory, but it is a new way of looking at, of seeing the blessing for what it is.

Most of my best friends can’t say what I can. They are good men, honest and hard working. Successful too. But ask them “what do you want to do?” and they fall apart. Sure, they spit out the noble “be a good dad and husband.” But honestly, men want their work to mean something. All the working and mortgage payments can’t fill that void, that empty space labeled “the reason you’re here.” So, they made the trade. Unfulfilling work for good pay. Yet I sit and type, on the other side of the ditch. Laden with purpose and direction and a million projects to come, but no success. No house or lady to keep me warm.

Life is funny like that, eh?

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Vol IV: #30 Gary And Mary Now Up

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Well, I finally f*cking did it. Gary and Mary is now live on the Finished Short Stories page. The time had come to post it and move on. And I’m happy with the effort. Over the last three weeks, I realized a story or novel is lot like a dish. The words and phrases can be tweaked forever, like trying to add the right garnishes in the hopes of pushing the flavors, colors, and textures to new heights. At a point, which I hit today, I called it good and moved on. Good for me.

(On another note, I’m thankful for this space. This blog, my website, has a mystical way of keeping me going when I’m tired and sad and lose hope. The words I write here mean something to me, and I aim to keep my promises. It’s rare for me to keep and care for a thing as I do Fearless Grit dot Com.)

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Vol IV: #29 Cooking And Writing

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The simplest and easiest way to learn any skill is to break the skill a part into repeatable steps, then practice each step. Recipes are one such demonstration of this approach. Usually, they begin with a list of needed tools and equipment followed by needed ingredients. Then it’s step one, step two, and so forth, until BOOM, a cake or tuna noodle casserole or vegan black bean chili with vegan cheese diarrhea. How great is that? We need not be a culinary school graduate to produce edible meals. Thank God.

There is a hole in recipe approach, of course. A recipe can’t teach a cook how to sear chicken, blanche vegetables, or grill a steak. And recipes don’t help us adjust to the variables present in every kitchen including quality of ingredients, availability of ingredients, humidity level, the quarks of the stove or oven in use, the transfer of heat by the pots and pans in use, and always, the sharpness of the knife.

***Sorry to interrupt your regularly scheduled reading, but I have an important announcement!***

If you ever learn one thing from me regarding the cooking process: USE A SHARP KNIFE IN THE KITCHEN. YOUR FOOD WILL COOK MORE EVENLY, TASTE BETTER, AND YOU’LL SAVE TIME. You can’t cut shit with a dull knife. Yes, you’ll cut yourself. So what. Battle scars are sexy.

***Back to our regularly schedule blog post. Thank you.***

As you know or can guess, I was never one for a recipe. I like to feel my way through the process, tasting and adjusting as I cook. And my mentors focused more on cooking theory, the use of acids like lemon juice and apple cider vinegar, the role of salt, and how to present a dish. It’s why I can list the ingredients in my chili but not the measure of each, or the specific steps needed to produce a wonderful pot of perfectly spiced meat and beans. (To ask me for a recipe is a nightmare and I’m sorry.) From my high and lofty perch, recipes get in the way and slow me down. And yet when stumped, even I will scroll through pages of search results, looking for direction- a recipe to help me over the hump or inform my process.

As a writer and author, I feel like I’m in the recipe phase, banging out clunky casseroles and boiled eggs. And I hate it. I hate that nothing I write feels intuitive or comes easy. Which is why it pays to remember I once tried to fry chicken wings in vinegar. Yes. I know. Vinegar is mostly water and the best anyone can do is boil the bird. The fumes were awful.

And then I remember, I’m still new to all this, that books don’t merely fall out of the fingers of well known authors. They started at the same spot I did and kept going. Same with all the best chefs. And so, for the 12th(?) time, I’m writing a blog post about patience and the process. And I’m leaning on my experience and success in other areas of life to keep me going.

I’ll end today’s post with an update.

My work on Gary and Mary is ongoing and taking longer than I hoped. But, it’s good. I’m refining and reworking various sections, and I’m genuinely starting to enjoy that part of the writing recipe. (All artistic endeavors are like it. Start big and ambiguous, then refine the lines and improve the details.) My goal is to have it posted by Friday.

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Short: Coffee Shop Memory

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He sat on the honey colored leather chair and read his book, most likely Hemingway or Hughes. The man had begun to venture out to do his reading, which served a dual purpose. First, he was tired of the dull walls and droning TV of his apartment. And second, the reader wanted to train himself to focus on a task while in public. The distractions of a coffee shop- the patrons, blaring music, and aromas- was a perfect setting to train himself. And so he sat and read and tried to shut out the voices.

Ten pages into the novel, a young man sat on the molasses colored couch opposite the reader. The reader stopped reading but held his book steady in front of his face and began to observe the lad. The light blue flannel shirt looked new, as did his skin tight fade. He appeared nervous as he bounced in his seat and fidgeted with his phone. The reader nodded to himself and waited, book still masking his gaze. And then, an equally young blonde woman charged into the shop and threw her arms around the eager boy.

The pair exchanged smiles and whispers and sat on the couch. And after another moment, an older man- older than the reader- and his wife appeared, not so eager yet wearing smiles. The young couple stood to greet to older and introductions were made. And then all took their seats to commence a polite interrogation.

The reader did not hear the conversation and soon his mind was elsewhere. Staring above the couple at a poorly painted horse, he recalled when he’d last sat on that couch. And he was pulled back into the moment with her. Her, dressed like a child in a yellow raincoat. Her, full of fear and panic, trying to convince him she’d fight for their relationship. And her two days later, who pulled the plug in front of his dull-walled apartment. And then the man looked at the boy and the girl and felt himself sneer from behind his cover.

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Vol IV: #28 What Can I Do?

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When historians review the late 20th century and early 21st, I hope they notice barrage of values and messages thrown at the children. In my life, I’ve been told everything from “we are the world, we are the future” to “we are the problem.” In addition to parents and relatives, I’ve had to navigate the voice, commands, and advice of: friends, teachers, coaches, managers, clergy, internet experts, actual experts, and random assholes. No doubt, so have you.

What clouds and confuses the moment is most of the messaging seems to conflict in one way or another. Can we eat eggs? Or oatmeal? Do I pursue the woman or honor her words? Should I be loyal to my friends or tell them the stark truth about their terrible business? Oh no! Another tragedy in Chicago or LA or the Middle East, how freaked out should I be?! Honestly, I get overwhelmed by the options and the supposed stakes at hand. If I don’t go after that date, I might just be single forever!! Feels like every action and decision is a fucking monster. The hype is too much.

And when I consider the events in Israel, the horrific violence and destruction, I’m not immune to the suffering of the people. The biggest tragedy is what’s happening in the hearts and minds of the Israeli and Palestinian children. They are learning, as their parents and grand parents did, to hate their enemy. Israeli children are watching Hamas destroy their communities, and the Palestinian children experience the same trauma from the other side of the wall, and on a grander scale. For anyone trying to justify blind support for either side, go explain it to a child. Go tell a Palestinian little boy he deserves to be bombed, same with the Israeli kids. Go tell them they deserve violence and death.

Not too long ago, an outbreak of violence and fighting like we’ve seen in Israel would’ve sent me into a crisis. I might randomly cry when alone or spend hours watching videos on the event. Mostly, I’d make such a tragedy about me. Because, I have to do something. I have to declare my stance and work to accomplish “our” goals. I’d email my elected officials, sign petitions, donate money, construct social media posts, and generally wear myself out for the cause. But, at 43, I’ve learned a lot of the voices are wrong. I’m just not that important or powerful.

Of course, I am powerful and important, but my words and actions will have no baring on the outcome in Israel. Not a one. Better said: My current sphere of influence is limited to close friends and family, and as such, I will not worry about what I can’t control or impact. But what about a possible broader war, a world war?! Yeah, I get that. So, what? Worry is a life-sapping bitch. And all of that “stuff” is well above my pay grade. But what if the system collapses? At this question, I laugh. Who is prepared for the destruction of our current way of life? I mean, really? No one. Not me and not you.

I believe in us. Whatever comes, we will rise and overcome.

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Short: Recruiting Brad, West Virginia

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

Then we were back into the bright, warm hallway of the second floor, down the switchback staircase, and out the front doors. I stretched my back and turned away from the school toward the train track and the river. Jonathan and Tom stood talking next to the white Dodge truck while David gave me more details of the roof repair. As we stood there, the gray clouds broke and slivers of sunlight nestled onto the mountain beyond the river. And yellow splotches dotted the ridge and chased each other slowly to the crest. Then Jonathan informed me of our plans for the evening. We’d eat dinner at Tom’s house then head to a high school football game.

Both the dinner and the game were full of heart and by standards of quality, mediocre. Dinner consisted of under cooked frozen pizza, while the evening downpour turned the game into a sloppy mess. Still, like a good guest, I smiled and expressed gratitude to the host when asked if I was “having fun.” Midway through the game and fully soaked, I decided I’d better get back to Charlotte. After saying my goodbyes to Tom and David, Jonathan walked me to my car to discuss next steps.

“When can you come up? The JMU group will be here that Friday night. It would be great if you could be here the Thursday before.”

“I’ll have to get the time off work, but it shouldn’t be an issue. Can I bring an assistant?”

“Who’d you have in mind?”

“Bradley Compton? Do you remember him?”

“Yeah. I remember him. He was in your class, right? What’s he up to?”

“He transferred to Queens,” I stammered before I continued. “Um..he’s not doing too great. I’d like him to get out of Charlotte. Coming up here with me could be good for him. And, I know he’ll work hard.”

“Ok. Yeah. I like him. Bring him up,” answered Jonathan. “He’ll be your responsibility. And he’s pro bono if he comes. I can’t afford to pay him for this trip. But tell him, if it works, I can pay him for December.”

“Solid. I’ll ask him.”

“Alright mate, see you in few weeks?” He asked.

“Yep. I’ll be here.”

And with next steps settled, I started back down Route 52 toward Bluefield and I-77.

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A few days later, I met Brad for coffee near the Queens University campus. The shop on East Blvd was a renovated colonial revival with a wrap around porch. Fashionable for the mid-2000s, it was full of dark leather couches, hardwood floors, and baristas named Fox and Celeste. I ordered a black Americano and relaxed into a couch with a view of the street. Brad arrived five minutes later, his eyes wide in the dim afternoon light. He was dressed in old worn basketball shoes, khakis pants a size too large, a stained white three button pull over, and a Charlotte Hornets starter jacket from the early 90’s. His unshaved face and knotted blonde locks completed the look of a man unconcerned about his appearance. And he reeked of cannabis smoke, no doubt consumed mere minutes before our meeting.

“Hey man. What’s up?” he asked with a smile before giving me a quick bro hug. “Lemme get you a tea. I’m really into chia right now. So good for you. Do you wanna try one?” I declined and nodded to my still steaming mug. “How about a scone? The blueberry scone here is the best.” Again, I declined.

A moment later, Brad came back with his arms full of tea and water and various snacks. He sat down on the couch across from me and and settled into a bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips.

“How’s the semester going?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” was all he said.

His intoxicated state annoyed and kept me silent. And the silence grew between us. Bradley stared down, suddenly aware of the offense. I drew a deep breath.

“Do you remember {Mr Jonathan}?” I finally asked.

Relieved at the question, he quickly answered, “Yep. Loved his class. Why?”

“He called me the other day to see if I wanted to join his new project.”

Brad sat at attention, his eyes now on me.

“What is it?”

“The project? Something between Habit For Humanity and the Red Cross.”

“How so?”

“They provide disaster relief and remodel homes.”

“Oh. That makes sense. Where?”

“West Virginia.”

At this, the THC took over, and Bradley began to giggle and snicker. And he was doubled over on the couch. His laughter diffused my anger and I laughed too.

“Why?” was all he could squeeze out between breaths.

“Because they need love too,” I replied, still laughing at my high friend who was laughing at me.

My soft yet stern reply sobered Bradley and he sat up on his right elbow, looking me in the eye.

Pressing my advantage, I quickly moved toward my ultimate goal, “Do you want to be my assistant? In the kitchen?”

My question drew him to a full sit, shoulders now square to me, his head up.

“Dude. I’d be honored,” he answered as soberly as possible.

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Vol IV: #27 My October Morning

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A short-haired man in acid washed jeans and blue running shoes splayed himself in the middle of the prayer chapel. He’d balled up a red hoodie into a makeshift pillow and rested his face on it, turned toward his left shoulder. The beat up gray suitcase along the wall across from where he lay said “I just got off a plane and came straight here.” And as he prayed, he prayed as though he were talking to someone. And had he not somehow managed to be louder than the music and the bubbling fountain, I’d never noticed. But, I did notice. To the point of anger and distraction.

Rules are rules, are they not? And who was this random intruder? Whatever state he’s in, he doesn’t have the right to ruin my morning with his loud, obnoxious prayer. We get it dude. You’re desperate or self-important. Yes. You’re special. The rules do not apply to you.

After stewing a bit, I moved across the room to be downwind of his voice. My previous seat was in direct line of fire as his mouth was pointed my direction. When I settled a few seats to his right, this stranger had the sack to look in my direction, as if I did something wrong. Sorry loud guy. Yes. You were too fucking loud for me so I moved, rather than cuss you out in the middle of a prayer chapel. And then I felt like an asshole, a modern pharisee. And worse.

I’d walked into the prayer chapel in a certain way-everything felt pointless and empty. And I know from experience, that’s a bad way to be. The annoying intercessor was not my problem, but I focused my anger on him and turned him into a demonic super villain whose sole purpose was to destroy my sense of peace. And when the man kept at it, I stormed out of the room in a passive aggressive rage, cursing the poor bastard. And then I felt like an asshole again. Cursing people under my breath was something I did as a child, to my family and teachers. And it’s made an unwelcome return in 2023.

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In my car, I stared at the pink clouds over Mt Lassen as the sky began to lighten. And out of sheer habit, began my daily Bible reading. Today included Proverbs 12 and Matthew 11:

25Anxiety in a man’s heart weighs it down, But a good word makes it glad.

28 “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. 29 Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.”

I wanted to reject these words. I’m not a victim. My anxieties are my fault and thusly I have to fix them. But, that’s not what the words say. The scripture doesn’t say Come to me, all who are weary- BUT ONLY IF YOU’RE WEARINESS IS EXTERNAL, OTHERWISE FIX THYSELF!!” And so, I will not try to be perfect or torpedo the day. Instead, I’ll work on one task as a time, stacking little wins.

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