*Typing*

One day I'm going to write a children's book about a little zebra on a horse ranch who wakes up early in the morning before all the other horses are awake and covers himself in mud in a desperate attempt to hide his stripes. But, for now, what I will say is that every time we attempt to hide one of our imperfections, we reinforce our deep-seated fears that we're imperfect.

For Ohno Taiichi, efficiency was his religion.

It was on obsession he used to develop a manufacturing process for Toyota that is lauded all around the world today for its near perfection.

Ohno was a master at getting to the heart of a problem, which he did through a methodology he called the "Five Whys".

When faced with a problem, Ohno would ask himself "Why?" five times. It was Ohno's belief that by the fifth why, the root cause of a problem would be unveiled.

This is a technique each of us can apply to our own lives and work when we find ourselves struggling up against problems, worries, fears and insecurities that aren't necessarily clear.

Why have I felt restless lately?

Because I haven't been creating.

Why haven't I been creating? 

Because I have felt uninspired.

Why have I felt uninspired?

Because I have felt inadequate.

Why have I felt inadequate?

Because I have been comparing myself to others.

Why have I been comparing myself to others?

Because I spend too much time on Instagram.

In this hypothetical scenario, by asking ourselves "why?" five times, we eventually arrive at the conclusion that our restlessness could be a side-effect of the insecurities Instagram breeds in us.

While on a walk this morning, my father told me a story about a friend of his who was diagnosed with stage IV brain cancer.

Not long after his diagnosis, he was having breakfast with his seven-year-old son. He was completely present with him as they talked about dinosaurs and superpowers and all the topics that interest boys at that age.

Ten minutes into the conversation, his son gave him a bewildered look and asked, "Dad, why do you keep looking at me?"

At first, he was confused by the question––then it dawned on him that his son wasn't used to his full, uninterrupted attention.

He was a very busy and successful entrepreneur and until he was faced with the reality that his life was coming to an end, his mind was always elsewhere; his eyes bouncing between his loved ones and the many demands illuminating from his phone and computer screen. He would later tell my father that his diagnosis was the best thing to ever happen to him.

The greatest, most beautiful gift we can give those we love is our presence.

A creative profession is especially important to treat like manual labor or a physical trade of some kind, that requires you to show up each day, at a specific time you've promised yourself––and get to work.

The moment we start calling ourselves writers, artists, painters and musicians, we risk falling victim to the false assumption that great creative work is a side-effect of inspiration rather than commitment. It's not.

We pen poems, paint canvases and write songs in much the same way that a plumber fixes a broken commode or a carpenter lays down a hardwood floor. We show up. We try like hell to be on time. And, we get to work.

In the poem turned song 'Happens To The Heart', Cohen writes, "I was always working steady but I never called it art."

We can build a creative career on that line.

On the eve of Siddhartha's enlightenment, he sat and meditated beneath a pipal tree.

He soon found himself at war with the demon god, Mara. In hopes to prevent Siddhartha from enlightenment, Mara used every weapon he had in his arsenal: doubt, anger, greed and lust.

With each attack, Siddhartha would look at Mara and say, "I see you, Mara." He would then make a kettle of tea and offer Mara a cup. By morning, Siddhartha had defeated Mara and had become Buddha.

Perhaps the lesson isn't strictly to meet anger with kindness––to offer one's enemy a cup of tea––but to see and accept things for what they are rather than what we wish them to be.