First, some news. A book I’ve worked on is coming out soon.
I’ve been a co-writer, editor, and all around sherpa for Tales of Potential for nearly two years. It’s a book about transforming the stories we tell about ourselves—and the career-and-life-changing magic that transpires when we tell a tale, not of our past, but of what we can do with our future time.
This book teaches you to spell out what I want others to want me for.
And to illustrate the power of telling such a “potential tale,” the book completely reframes Cinderella, one of the most enduring yet misunderstood fairy tales about success.
I had so much fun helping the author, Joanna Bloor, unpack assumptions about ambition, courage, luck, even the point of looking good, in getting to happily ever after.
I don’t want to spoil your fun by telling too much now, but I will say this: when you read this book and see Cinderella through new eyes, you’ll see yourself and your possibilities anew, too.
***
I’ve been reminded that advice almost too simple to be good is usually the wisest, most trustworthy advice. And I should take it.
For example, my teacher Alex Franzen shared advice on how to have a beautiful, fantastic year. At the top of the list was: “Stop looking down at your phone. Look up.”
(I know some of you are reading this on your phone. That’s okay.)
I’m in a season of depression. I’ve felt adrift and a tiny bit seasick. Getting out of bed is a win each day. So I’ve used my phone to read about (or order!) remedies, all helpful to a point.
I was thinking about this situation and thought, should I try looking up? Why not? There wasn’t much to lose.
What I noticed was a box on a high shelf. A box I’ve had for twenty years, which once housed a wedding gift (a teapot, I think?) and is a simple brown thing except for the exquisite artwork affixed to the outside, a field of pale pink poppies my talented designer friend Misha made of fine strips of vellum and lovingly affixed.
Half of the flower petals and stems have fallen away over the years, but there it still is, the box, quietly beaming love and care, outlasting the marriage it commemorated.
Taking in its presence, the way it’s still here despite its delicate nature, felt tonic-like. Cells I didn’t even know were parched began to feel quenched. No other remedies I’ve tried have felt quite like that.
Isn’t it amazing what a change in perspective (in this case quite literally speaking, from adjusting the tilt of the head) can do for the thorniest of problems?
So go on, if you haven’t already. Try looking up. And do tell me what happens.
