It takes Sherlock Holmes a long time to warm up to Dr. Watson as more than an accessory, but eventually, the two form a deep friendship.

Initially, Holmes barely uses Watson as a sounding board, for there is nothing the latter could tell him that he doesn’t already know. Eventually, however, he realizes Watson has traits to offer that go beyond mere perception and assembling a chain of undeniable logic. Watson is loyal to a fault, never refuses help when it is needed, and will, if need be, go beyond the law to ensure true justice is served.

It is heartwarming to see a cold, calculated Sherlock turn into a human being over the course of the BBC show, and it is of course at the very end of it that it culminates in Holmes throwing many of his principles overboard to be there for and do right by his friend.

In one of the show’s final moments, a new police officer spots Holmes standing across the street. He asks inspector Lestrade, who has witnessed Holmes’ transformation from beginning to end, whether he really is looking at the famous detective.

Lestrade asks the officer if he’s a fan, and the officer says, “Well, he’s a great man, sir!” Lestrade looks at Holmes and says, “No, he’s better than that. He’s a good one.”

Many an empire has fallen because good people lost themselves in trying to be great. Greatness inspires delusion, greed, fear, arrogance, neglect, and a whole host of other problems.

In Holmes’ case (pun intended), it is his incessant need to show off his skills, his restless mind requiring drugs if there is no case to solve, and his complete lack of empathy in handling the human consequences of what may be a perfectly logical crime.

For Holmes, letting go of these behaviors to help, and in some cases save, his friend is not an easy feat – and that is the point: A good person will make sacrifices for others where a “great” person won’t, because the “great” person is so obsessed with the grandeur of their vision that the only acceptable sacrifices are the ones furthering the cause, not human life in general.

When you have a choice – and we almost always have a choice – choose good instead of great. Great might last a century or two, or even a millennium, but the spirit and impact of goodness, like a person choosing to not abandon their friends, will ripple through the ages forever.

Your entire life, death is with you. You know it’s coming. It knows it’s coming. It’s just a matter of when.

Death is your neighbor, and one day, he’ll come over. The funny thing is when he does, you’ll be the least affected.

“Interesting expression, ‘taking your own life,'” Sherlock Holmes once remarked. “Taking it from who? Once it’s over, it’s not you who’ll miss it. Your own death is something that happens to everybody else.”

We tend to think death is the worst thing that can happen to us, but actually, it is the worst thing that can happen to the people we love. Our death, that is.

When we live in fear of death, we often try to take ridiculous precautions, like working hard to build “a legacy,” whatever that means, or amassing a fortune we’ll never get to spend. Ironically, we might neglect the very people who’ll bear the brunt of our departure in the process.

Death is what gives life meaning. If our time wasn’t limited, it wouldn’t have any value. And yet, if we spend our entire lives preparing for our death, we’ll be the only ones prepared when, in fact, we’re the ones who least need to be. How will everybody else feel about our death? Will they be ready?

We can’t guarantee how other people will handle our passing, and it’s not our job to manage other people’s minds and feelings. Still, it’s worth considering how you split your time between things you want to do for yourself before you die vs things you want to do with and for others.

After you die, you’ll no longer be around to regret the things you haven’t done. The people who love you, however, will miss every minute they didn’t get to spend with you.

Your death is not yours. Your life is the part that matters. Make it count.

I’m taking a break from coffee. Despite years of consumption, it seems my caffeine tolerance is so low that, even at just two cups a day, it messes with my sleep. There is only one problem: I love coffee. Love, love, love it. Not for the effect but for the taste.

Naturally, I have been racking my brain about what else I could drink, and so far, no satisfying answers have emerged. Hot chocolate? Too sweet. Tea? Different flavor. Caffeine-free? Well, it’s never really caffeine-free.

This morning, however, I had an idea: What if there was a cocoa-based drink that tastes mostly like coffee? Cocoa beans are bitter. The sugar is what makes it sweet. I’ve had not-super-sweet hot chocolate before. Couldn’t you make a thick ganache, then use that as a base for a coffee-style drink? You could even make “cocoaccino.” The whole lot of milk-based coffee variations, basically.

As I was already thinking about how you might have to roast the beans, what kind of mixtures you might have to try, and whether it was possible to get the bitterness-to-sweetness ratio just right to match coffee’s taste, I realized: This is someone else’s journey. It’s a fun idea, but not my path to walk on.

Done right, this could be a big business. There must be plenty of people who’d like to keep coffee’s taste minus the caffeine, and I mean zero caffeine, not the pseudo-decaf we have today. Done right, however, this would also take years to do. It would probably require a good amount of money, too. Now, I love coffee, but I don’t love it that much. I can cope with water and peppermint tea. I’ll be just fine.

It is hard sometimes, letting go of the journey’s that are not meant for you – but the sooner you can do it, the better.

It’s okay. Someone else will take care of it. And if they don’t, the world will still keep turning. You stick to your path. You already know what you came here to do.

Don’t go on someone else’s journey. Set your ideas free so they can make someone else’s day.

I have this theory that our inner experience, our thought process or stream of consciousness, if you will, is actually three entities fighting for the spotlight. Well, two of them fight. The third one just watches.

There’s the Talker, your loud ego calling most of the shots, the Listener, trying to act authentically but often failing and thus just following the Talker, and the Observer, the quiet third party seeing everything without judging any of it as good or bad.

Most of us spend most of our time wearing the masks of either the Talker or the Listener, when the Observer hat is the one that would bring us the most joy and equanimity. There is, however, a fourth self, and it lives beyond the realm of any of the other three.

We could call this fourth self the “Be-er.” The Be-er just exists. It is not even observing, because it is so fully engaged in life, 100% synced, that there is no inner dialogue – peaceful or disturbing – at all.

The Be-er is the surfer fully experiencing the magic of catching and riding the perfect wave. It is the archer completely engrossed in drawing the bow while taking aim. The Be-er is the person exhaling while looking at a sunset, and with their breath their thoughts leave the brain altogether, if only for a few seconds.

The Be-er is the version of you you might glimpse through meditation or in moments of complete silence. There is no thought, but there is consciousness. You are fully integrated into life. You are no longer a separate entity moving through the world. You are the world and all of its inhabitants. All of its wonders, inanimate or alive. You are life itself.

I know this must sound wishy-washy if you’ve never felt it, but if you’ve ever had a flow experience, most likely in sports or while practicing some art form, like painting, writing, or playing the piano, or even newer creative skills, like video editing or graphic design, you’ll know at least roughly what I’m talking about.

The reason this fourth self is not worth focusing on, in my opinion, is that it is not ours to control. The Be-er will show up when it wants. Flow is the result of the perfect conditions coming together, and they are not conditions we can manipulate, let alone sustain forever.

While some people might have experienced extended periods of being the Be-er, those cases are extremely rare, and anyone telling you they walk around in flow all day most likely doesn’t know what they are talking about – if only for the fact that walking around does not constitute enough of a challenge nor enough stillness to bring about flow in the first place. Can you feel happy while strolling through the city? Joyful? Even blissful? Absolutely. But I doubt you can keep the Talker and the Listener silent for a long amount of time.

Therefore, it still stands that the Observer is the most practical self to “wear” as you go about your everyday life. It is calm, unburdened, rational, and peaceful. It is a great state to be in and makes the business of living about as joyous as it gets. You won’t fret about your problems. You won’t spend hours ruminating on the past or worrying about the future. You’ll simply stay in the now, take each next action as it arises, be it by necessity or by opportunity, and enjoy every moment as much as you can by savoring it rather than rushing to get to the next one.

Whenever the Be-er shows up, enjoy it. It is quite the feeling, this “existing as one’s true self,” maybe the only self there is, the one we all share. But don’t be sad if it doesn’t last for more than a few seconds. You have three other selves to take care of, and life is still a miracle even if you don’t become the Buddha.

Being human is an insane experience based on sensory input alone. Every day, trillions of data points rain upon us, and our brains somehow find a way through the chaos. Are they flawed? Certainly. Do they steer us into mistakes? For sure. Yet, it is nothing short of a miracle that our minds manage to navigate us the way they do.

The real kicker, however, is not how we deal with the outside world. It is what’s going on inside that serves as ultimate proof that humanity is truly a species surviving against all odds.

We all know what it’s like to “talk to ourselves.” There’s some inner back and forth, usually leading up to a decision. But when you are talking to yourself, who is doing the talking, and who is doing the listening? There must be at least two parties!

Let’s say you’re debating whether to order a pizza. You’ve already had more than enough food for the day, but you just love it, so you’re considering munching on a few slices for dinner. How might that conversation go?

“I should order a pizza! I love pizza. Pizza is great! It will be delicious.” Enter, the Talker. The Talker is the loud, instructive, demanding voice that starts – and steers – most of our inner conversations. The Talker is the leader in any internal dialogue. It is your ego, the self-oriented, instant-gratification-seeking, ancient survival machine.

The Talker would do well in 10,000 BC. “Danger! Run!” “Food! Eat it all!” “Safe environment! Sleep!” But today? Not so much. In our modern, basic-survival-mostly-guaranteed world, the Talker only gets in the way of higher human aspirations. Okay, but what’s the response to the Talker’s pizza plan?

“Mmmm… pizza. I like pizza! Pizza is great! But I’m kinda full. I don’t think I want pizza now. Are you sure? I don’t really know what I want, honestly. I don’t think I want anything. I just wanna play for a bit, then decide later.”

Enter, the Listener. The Listener is the quiet, submissive, contemplative voice that ponders your ego’s blaring declarations. It is the follower in most internal conversations. The Listener is your inner child. It may not be your true self, but it is a version of yourself that’s much more in tune with the modern world, because the Listener is drawn to the now, the present. It is in a state of constant wonder about the world, and it wants to adapt as best as it can. Unfortunately, the Talker often gets in the way.

Since the Talker is so loud and abrasive, the Listener doesn’t want to cause any trouble. Therefore, the Listener will often falter and go along with the Talker’s ludicrous plans. Have you ever felt yourself shaking your head or nodding along internally to one of the Talker’s scathing rants? That’s your Listener saying, “Hey! I’m here too! Don’t ignore me!” Sadly, being a yes-man is, most of the time, all the Listener gets to do.

“No! I said pizza, so we’ll have pizza! I’m ordering. I bet you’ll love it when it’s here. You know what? You’re ordering. Now shut up and dial!”

Aaaand that’s how you end up with a thousand extra calories for the day.

Now, if you’ve read this far and agree with me that this inner back and forth, or, often, inner steamrolling, takes place in some form, something fascinating follows: There must be a third party! After all, how else could you and I possibly observe the Talker arguing with the Listener? Enter, the Observer.

The Observer is the silent, higher form of awareness that merely witnesses both the Talker and the Listener as they keep unspooling your inner dialogue. It is a bystander to your internal conversations. The Observer is, figuratively speaking, the most human version of yourself, because the Observer does not differ in any of us. Its behavior is always the same. It sits, watches, and observes. The Talker and the Listener can take a million forms, but the Observer only has one job: objectively perceive what’s going on, without judging any of it in the process.

The funny thing is that when the Talker or the Listener can feel the Observer watching, their inner bickering immediately stops. It is a bit like the quantum Zeno effect, a principle in physics, which roughly states that while you observe particles, their state will not change. Think of a person sending a distinct look to another person in a crowd. When the looked-at person realizes they are being looked at, if only for a second, they will stop in their tracks. That’s what the Observer does as you’re talking to yourself.

Why does this happen? We might carry three selves around in our minds, but we can only ever slip into one role at any given time, so naturally, to become the Observer, we first have to drop the role of Talker or Listener.

The beauty of being the Observer is that “it” is not fussed about what you’re doing. It doesn’t matter whether you’ll have the pizza or not, whether you have to work late, whether you’re stuck in traffic, or whether someone is giving you some bad news. After all, you’re just observing! You’re not here to judge.

The Observer can most easily enjoy “the process,” as Thomas Sterner calls it in The Practicing Mind, whatever particular process you might be going through at any given time. Slipping into the Observer role takes practice. Meditation helps. Self-awareness helps. So do slowing down, simplifying, and making your tasks short and small. The book is a great place to start.

The point is that, as you go about your life every day, you are carrying around not one, not two, but three selves inside your head, selves so different from one another, they might as well be different people. That’s a lot to manage, and when you combine it with the external barrage of sensory inputs flooding your brain every waking second, it is no wonder that, sometimes, it can all feel like it’s a little much to bear.

Being alive is the miracle of miracles. There is no experience so unique as the privilege of being human, but it does come with a lot of responsibilities. Don’t feel bad when you fall down. It is one hell of a job. Let one of your three selves pick you back up, and together, you’ll manage whatever might come your way.

It’s not hate. We’ve all seen this movie: Two friends constantly bicker. They agitate one another in escalating ways. Eventually, they have a huge fight, then go their separate ways – only to end up as a couple by the time the credits roll.

“There’s a thin line between love and hate,” we say. Well, if they’re so tightly paired that we constantly mistake them for one another, they can’t really be opposite ends on a big spectrum, can they? They must be rather closely related. How else could we jump from one to the other within a single conversation?

In 1921, Austrian psychologist Wilhelm Stekel postulated that “The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference.” Why? Because there can be no love without the potential to hate – and vice versa. “The opposite of feeling can only be the absence of feeling,” Stekel wrote.

What do love and hate have in common? In order to show either of them, you first have to care. When we care a great deal about someone, we give them power: the power to make us feel ecstatic and the power to drive us insane. That’s the crux, isn’t it? Your wife can put you on cloud nine with her reaction to her birthday present, but she can also annoy the hell out of you by leaving her makeup all over the place.

Indifference breeds no such potential. If you were indifferent to your partner, you’d just shrug no matter what they do, and they probably wouldn’t be your partner for very long. Like a bullshitter disrespecting the truth by ignoring it altogether, someone displaying pure apathy where they were once so involved is the worst punishment for anyone who still cares. Ergo, the opposite of love is not hate. It is indifference.

Elie Wiesel was a holocaust survivor and author. After WWII, he continued speaking up for the Jewish and other minority communities, both in his books and on stage. In 1986, he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. In an interview following the award, he said that…

Indifference, to me, is the epitome of evil.
The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.

When you care so much that your emotions become nearly unbearable, don’t step into apathy. Try stepping back instead. Take a break. Go on vacation. Give yourself the gifts of time and space.

Make room to process your feelings, and let the heaviest clouds shed their rain. Sooner or later, the sun will return, and you can get back to the business caring – and all the love and hate that might come with it.

The next time you want to send a scathing email to customer support, try this: Before you start typing, take a second and say to yourself, “Okay, I will take as long as I need to write this email.” Make a mental note to allow yourself time. To think through each sentence.

When you start writing without the burning desire of hitting send as quickly as possible, a funny thing happens: Your yelling turns into talking. Accusations turn into suggestions, and statements turn into questions. Anger sat down at the keyboard, but compassion is what comes out.

That’s because anger is always fast. It can’t sustain itself once you get time to think. Anger doesn’t want you to think. It wants to throw the first stone it can find.

Compassion just wants to imagine what it’s like to be on the other side, and that image takes a moment to form. Not long, but long enough that anger sometimes gets the better of us.

The lesson here is that you don’t need to let go of your anger. You just have to slow down, and the anger will make way, at least enough for you to keep the peace. There’ll still be feelings to process, resentment to dissect, and difficult conversations to have, but at least you won’t have set the building on fire prematurely.

It’s easy to imagine an angry runner, huffing and puffing as their muscles strain in agony. A slow runner, however? What would that even look like? Are they walking? How will they win any race?

Most of the time, life is about people, not trophies. When the only true prize is what company we get to keep, we might want to walk slowly enough that we have time to slip into another pair of shoes along the way.

In 2014, Russ had been sitting in his mom’s basement for three years, cranking out music non-stop. Unfortunately, he still only made around $200/month. Then, two record labels approached him. Both wanted to sign Russ. He passed. His gut told him the deals weren’t right.

Let’s pause here for a second. Can you imagine how insane that must feel? Especially if you’re Russ’ mom, making pasta for your son every day because he can’t even afford to go to McDonald’s. Can you feel the tension in Russ’ stomach? He knew what he put his parents through. He knew the meager existence he’d have to continue to endure. And yet, he said no anyway.

“I had faith something better was coming,” Russ says. “The offer was an acknowledgment from the universe that my work was not going unnoticed. [But] that is just the universe saying to you, ‘Keep going.’ It isn’t saying, ‘This is it.'” Wow. The nerves on this guy. Where does he find them?

When it comes to being decisive and sticking with your gut in challenging situations, Russ holds a simple philosophy: “The ‘what if’ will torment you. The ‘oh well’ will free you.”

Pick the path you want to pick. Make the choice you want to make. Worst case, it’ll make for an “oh well” and a good story. And if you get a reward for overriding your gut? Well, those never feel all that good, do they?

2014 came and went. So did 2015. But in 2016, Russ made more than $100,000 in a single month from his music.

Don’t ask “What if?” Make the hard choice, then rest easy. And if it goes wrong, and you have to try again, you can always say, “Oh well.”

I am a writer. Writing is what I do. What I shall keep doing, right here on this hill.

This blog is my hill, and I will defend it until the day I die. That’s the plan, anyway.

This is my hill. It is not the best hill, or the highest hill, or the hill of the month right now. But it is my hill, and if you like the goods I produce, this hill is the only place where you can find them.

This is my hill. On this hill, we value calmness, patience, and restraint. We value freedom, creativity, and self-expression. We value love, hope, and acceptance. I say “we” because if you value these same things, you will always find shelter on this hill. You will feel right at home. Take a seat, grab a cup, and let me pour you some tea.

This is my hill, and it is not for sale. I could charge for this blog. I know I could. But charging is not what life’s about. It’s about writing, at least for me. So let me write, and the charging part will work itself out. Art can only be felt. You can sell the painting but not the feeling. Money changing hands is not the part that matters. If you come to my hill, I want you to feel something. That’s why it’s not for sale.

This is my hill. It is the hill of a craftsman, and all crafts must be practiced. Therefore, you will see me practice on this hill. Few posts will be perfect. Some will be good. Most will, by definition, be average. But every post, long or short, good or bad, inspiring or dull, will be the best post I could have written that day. Every day, I will show up to practice and put forth my finest effort. I will do the best I can and ship the best attempt I can ship. That is a promise I make to you, standing right here on this hill.

This is my hill, and no one can tell me how to decorate it. If you don’t like the hut, or the fireplace, or the training grounds, by all means, go and occupy your own hill. That’s what hills are for! Somewhere out there, there is one just waiting for you. Do not waste time telling others how to run their hills. It’s okay. These hills are not for you. You can always find another or squat on your own.

This is my hill. I want it to be a place of generosity and kindness. Why? Because whatever emanates from the spring will flow down the hill. If I pull anger, outrage, and blame from the well, that’s what’ll spread. If I fill the bucket with kindness, hope, and hospitality, that too will be on its way. Everyone will grab the bucket, fill their cup, and pass it along. I’ll make sure the right stuff is in the bucket. If you could share it, that would be kind and generous.

This is my hill, and on this hill you will always find me. Once I am gone, only artifacts will remain – but they, too, shall always stay on this hill.

This is my hill, and yet, this story is not about my hill at all. It is about yours. Where is it? Can you feel it calling out to you? If you were waiting for a sign, this is it. It may not yet point in the right direction, but it’s a sign that prompts you to go instead of stop. Look around! You’re in the middle of a valley. The grass is green, the wheat is gold, and there are hills all around. What about that one? Or that one? Or that one? Pick a hill, and start climbing! Man your station. Declare your hill-dependence.

This is my hill, but we really need you on yours. It’s nice of you to visit. I shall do the same when I sit idle. But never forget tending to your own hill. Don’t neglect it. It’s important business, this hill-keeping. Only if all hills are manned will the kingdom remain safe. Without creativity, the world cannot prosper. Fight for your hill. Protect it. We depend on you standing your ground.

He looked like a seasoned-enough traveler, with his professional attire, business suitcase, and Range Rover parked right in front of the hotel. At the front desk, however, you might have thought it’s his first trip.

“Why do you need a credit card?”

“We block a certain amount in case you take anything from the minibar, etc.”

“But my company is paying for all of this anyway!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s how we have to do it.”

Apparently, he was a specimen of the “I’m too important to know how anything works” variety. You know, the kind that expects everyone to roll out the red carpet wherever they happen to tread.

“Do I really have to fill in all this stuff?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so, sir. It’s standard procedure.”

“I can’t believe I have to do this after six hours of driving.”

It was the kind of interaction where, for every next sentence, you have a sassy response in your head.

“Have you never been in a hotel before? They always ask for a credit card.”

“Yeah, like everyone else on this planet, you’ll have to fill in the form.”

“Yes John, even after six hours of driving.”

The situation was simple: A stressed businessman was taking out his frustrations on a poor hotel clerk. He might have been overworked, but he deserved a damper for behaving like an arrogant… Well, you fill in the blank.

There was just one problem: I was the only witness, and I am not sassy. Not with strangers, anyway. I cannot pull off administering said damper and have everyone still leave the room with their heads intact.

In moments like this, I wish I was sassy. But I am not, likely never will be, and that’s perfectly okay.

Not everyone can be sassy. Not everyone can be beautiful by society’s standards. Not everyone can be funny, tall, or frighteningly good at math.

We all have our strengths, and we have our weaknesses. It is much better to accept them than to start a saloon brawl you can’t win.