One thing you notice as you go through Letters of the Dragon, a compilation of Bruce Lee’s mail correspondence, is the sheer amount of travel the man took upon himself.

Lee went from Hong Kong to Seattle, to Oakland, Los Angeles, and back again. He even moved between all of them several times. By the time I was halfway through the book, I’d already lost count of his many trips—all of which happened in the 1960s and 70s, no less.

Air travel was only just becoming a more common occurrence. It wasn’t as safe as it is today, and definitely not as cheap. Lee wasn’t rich for most of his life either. It was probably only in his last three to four years that he could book most flights without batting an eye, so he must have scraped together his dollars for a long distance ticket more than once.

I don’t know whether Bruce ultimately believed travel was the best or the worst, but, in one letter, he does write: “I’m sick of traveling around.” Yet, he kept doing it anyway. Why? Because Bruce Lee had to go where Bruce Lee was needed.

As an actor, he had to jump on whatever opportunity came his way. Sometimes, that was a new movie in Hong Kong. At other times, doors opened in LA. He would be invited to teach kung fu somewhere for three days and pocket $750, roughly $7,000 today. Maybe he’d meet other famous actors. Any next connection might have been the one giving him his big break, so of course he would say yes.

We’re lucky. Nowadays, most of us can stay at home yet still show up anywhere in the world. It won’t always be enough, but most of the time, a video call does just fine. And though the location might not require us to take a plane, there’s honor in going where you’re needed.

Show up where people value you, and the cost of going there will take care of itself.

Even if I don’t do anything in particular to get smudges on them, at least every other day or so, I have to wipe my glasses. Dust particles, small hairs, tiny pieces of skin dropping from my face—whatever it is, there’s always something to clear away, and I always see better once I’ve done so.

Life can be the same. Every now and then, it simply asks us to clean our glasses. An illness reminds you of how wonderful it is to be healthy. A cluttered home can be a prompt to find peace in organization. And a weekend after a week that went anything but well offers an opportunity to start anew.

It’s a process, cleaning our glasses. We can’t do it preemptively all the time. We simply wear them, look through them, and once we notice our vision getting blurry, we check them. Don’t lament the process. Have faith that life will send you the right reminders at the right time—and when you realize your glasses are smudgy, you wipe them and get back to living.

I don’t know what species they are, but every year, several trees in our compound light up with white blossoms. It always reminds me of sakura season in Japan. The trees are just gorgeous, and so all it takes to make me smile is to leave the house and walk past them.

The only catch? The whole event lasts but a week, maybe two. After that, the blossoms turn brown, the trees grow their leaves, and the cycle starts anew. That’s 50 weeks of waiting for a few days of the ultimate spring experience. It’s strange, imbalanced, and almost makes the whole thing regrettable—almost. Because actually, its ephemerality is also part of its charm.

There’s a tragic urgency to looking at the trees when they’re blooming. You know every time could be the last. “Wow, what beauty! Too bad it can’t last a little longer.” Nostalgia and joy, inextricably baked together.

There’s plenty of nature to gaze upon year round—but when you get white trees for a week, cherish them while you can.

When I got back into collecting Pokémon cards in late 2023, I made a spreadsheet. I scoured the landscape of available cards and products, and, by and large, I decided right then and there: This is everything I ever want to collect. Then, I wrote it all down and started tracking.

That list hasn’t changed much since then. I’m very cautious about adding. But I have been pretty dogged in checking a few boxes every month. Once I have my eyes set on a goal, I can be rather stubborn. Plus, in Pokémon, most items increase in value over time, given you take care of them—and leave them sealed, if they still are. So commonly, the best price you’ll get is today’s. It’s a market with urgency, especially if you collect older items.

Sometimes, I wonder why I’m so relentless. “Why don’t you just let this go? You’ll still find it next month.” Every now and then, I do. But, often, I don’t. And you know what? I think when you have a bone you’re chasing, it’s okay to chase. Especially if the bone is one you can realistically fetch.

Allow yourself to be dogged. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m a man on a mission, and I have a spreadsheet to finish.

Most forest fires don’t have arsonists behind them. Nature simply decided it was time for this area to start anew—and without ashes, where would the phoenix rise from?

Yesterday night, my throat started burning the same way it does a few days before I get sick. I thought, “Okay, here it comes. Let’s see what happens next.” But then I realized: “Hey, maybe, even if it gets worse before it gets better, this burning is already part of the healing.”

Perhaps my throat is like a forest—sometimes, an area needs to be reset. I can almost hear my immune system: “Raze the bacteria to the ground guys, let’s level this place and start over!” Even if it’s no more than a placebo, it’s the attitude that counts.

An archive set aflame, a forest fire, or the itchy feeling in your throat: Maybe it’s burning because it’s healing—and just because it’s painful doesn’t mean your train is off track.

After schlepping his unsuspecting protégé Gaal Dornick across an empty desert planet for hours in service of the Foundation, Dr. Hari Seldon finally announces their arrival at their target location. Having ventured not just across sand and rock but also into the depths of a cold, dark cave, his matter-of-fact tone already grinds Gaal’s gears: “Our destination must be on the other side of this door.”

There is, however, one tiny problem, and it’s even more annoying than Seldon’s nonchalance: “Traditionally, doors have hinges and maybe a knob,” Gaal notes. “This…is a wall.” She’s right, of course. Instead of fresh air inviting them through the large archway carved into the rock, there is nothing but cold steel, carved with strange symbols.

But, as usual, Seldon is one step ahead. Almost rolling his eyes, he says: “Open a wall, it becomes a door.” And just like that, as much to her dismay as to her astonishment, Gaal must concede Seldon’s genius once more. She looks, she feels, she presses and—clunk!—the multi-ton metal obstacles slides away as if it weighed no more than a feather.

There are all kinds of walls in our lives. Walls made of feelings. Walls made of dust. Even invisible ones. But no matter what material may block our path, from rock to concrete to a man with crossed arms, every wall turns into a door once we manage to first open it. Is this one to woo or break through? One to pierce or scale? The answer will differ in each instance, but for the rest of our lives, I’m afraid Hari Seldon will stay in the right: Open a wall, and it becomes a door—now let’s get cracking.

On some days, we say we must “just power through.” We think it’s the powering that gets us through, but, usually, it’s the other way around. Strength follows from accepting our tough reality, and whether we feel powerful or not, remembering we’ll see the end of the day actually helps us get there.

Sometimes, you can spend a long time looking for something inside that may or may not exist, or you can simply look ahead, and the path will appear. After all, it is not strength that overcomes darkness—but light.

That’s the assumption in many companies, isn’t it? If you’re not dropping some, you must be juggling too few balls! Whoever manages to stay on top of everything is suspicious. “Does she have enough work?” God forbid we send someone home at the end of the day with 5% left in the tank.

The good news is it’s not a big deal. If no one can cover all their projects, delays are as common as coffee breaks. It’s only when managers expect miracles that the situation becomes problematic. Luckily, most of them don’t. After all, they, too, are frequently behind.

Still, it seems a better way is so close we could all easily grasp it. Why not say no once you’re booked out? Or even a little bit before? We can always pause less important work if a bigger opportunity comes along. And it simply feels a lot better to end your day with all boxes checked than with worry about everything you’ll still have to tackle tomorrow.

Work is like the ocean: Don’t let the sheer volume of water get into your head. We’re all just swimming as far as we can each day—and that must be enough.

George Lee was the master maker behind much of Bruce Lee’s unique training equipment. Nunchakus, a three-section staff, a gripping machine—even shoes: Whatever Bruce needed, George made it.

Sometime in 1966, George received the following letter:

George,
I heard from James that you didn’t feel good. I hope you are much better by now.
Take care my friend,
Bruce

Lucky is he who has a friend like this, and honorable he who continues to deserve it. Let’s be both—and check in on our friends just the same.

Despite around 10,000 people visiting my blog every month, only around 50 or so sign up for my newsletter. That’s far less than the supposed industry average of around 2% of your visitors converting to an email list, but at least I know why: I don’t push people very hard to do so.

There aren’t any popups or constant calls to action. Only a casual signup form at the end of each post and a dedicated signup page. I might add more incentives to join again at some point, but in general, I believe this low-friction approach is the right thing to do. Blogs are for reading. What good are they if they constantly distract you from the very thing you’re there to do? It makes my email list growth a struggle, but the sacrifice is worth it.

There is, however, a silver lining: Everyone who does sign up actually wants to get my emails. They really choose to be there.

Since cross-posting my daily blog to Substack for the last nine months, I’ve gained 900 subscribers there. Most of them, however, come from so-called “recommendations.” When you sign up to a newsletter, that person may recommend you join up to three other newsletters. It’s a feature designed to be sneaky. You can opt out, but everyone counts on you glossing over it, and voilà, you’ve now joined four newsletters at the same time! More green for everyone’s dashboard, but what will you actually end up reading? Most likely none of the emails in the barrage that is about to follow—including the one you originally wanted to get.

What’s more, Substack is a platform, and on the platform they’d like to keep you. You can browse and read publications in the app, and the line between subscribing and merely following blurs more by the day. When a new subscriber joins your email list, you can see how many publications they are subscribed to. Often, the number is 99, where it tops out. Does anyone actually read 99 newsletters on a regular basis? If so, I have yet to meet that person.

In other words, Substack may be a decent place to “get” subscribers, but are you capturing any of their actual attention with their signup? On my blog, meanwhile, the numbers are much smaller, but if each of those folks subscribes deliberately, with full intent, that’s worth more in the end.

How much stronger is the connection between me and someone like that vs. someone who just accidentally forgot to opt out while trying to join another writer’s list? 10x? 100x? In any case, I’ll take the former over the latter any day of the week.

The quality of attention isn’t as easy to measure as clicks and numbers, but it’s still the correct thing to focus on. Don’t let its nebulous nature pull you away from working towards the right end.