I wrote years ago about ‘Bird by Bird’ by Anne Lamott, one of my favourite books.
The short story is always worth a read:
“Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said, ‘Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.’”
Today was a bird by bird kind of day.
All the little things piled up.
But I was ready. I’ve conditioned myself to recognise these kinds of days.
They’re ones where you aren’t going to hit a home run, but you swing anyway and do your best to make some—or any—forward progress.
On these days, the inches matter.