Hello Reader,
There are moments when a line lands in your mind with the weight of something you didn’t realize you’d been carrying. A sentence, a phrase, an image that turns out to be a pressure valve — releasing something that’s been quietly building.
That happened to me this past Sunday morning.
I was in the middle of a working session, the kind that starts slow and honest before the rest of the day wakes up. And out of nowhere, a poem arrived. Not in a perfect way; poems never really do. But in that sudden, insistent way that tells you some part of you has something to say — and it’s tired of waiting for permission.
The heart of it was a single tension I keep finding myself circling:
we say the world is open, but it rarely feels that way.
We talk about opportunity, choice, abundance, agency. But so often, what we encounter instead is compression. Expectations disguised as options. Noise disguised as freedom. The sense that you’re moving through life in lock-step with some larger machine — one that doesn’t care about cadence, or calling, or the texture of a moment.
And it struck me that the real weight of that tension isn’t the limits themselves. It’s the masquerade. The way something can look like freedom but feel like pressure. Or appear neutral when, underneath, it’s quietly shaping us.
That’s where one of the lines in the poem came from — a line that hit harder the more I sat with it:
“Median masquerading as the mean.”
A mathematical metaphor, sure. But also a cultural one. We’re constantly handed versions of “average,” “normal,” “expected,” or “typical” that flatten the truth rather than reveal it. We mistake the middle for the whole. We accept the polished version without questioning what it’s hiding.
And when that happens long enough, the world feels tighter than it should. Less open. Less spacious. Less ours.
But here’s the thing: I realized, while finishing the poem, that wishing for a more open world is just the prologue. The real work starts much closer in. Openness isn’t granted. It’s practiced. It’s reclaimed, moment by moment, decision by decision, breath by breath.
Which is probably why the poem ends where it does — not with the world, but with me. With the one place I actually have the ability (and responsibility) to begin.
Sometimes the rawest lines are the truest ones.
Look
I’ve been watching this video from Sara Dietschy, where she shares the productivity app she built for herself — but what really stood out wasn’t the app, it was her blend of openness and intentional constraint. She’s curious enough to explore new ideas, but grounded enough to know when to close the door for now, and watching her work through that gave me a few sparks of my own. Watch it here.
Listen
Jon Kabat-Zinn talks about mindfulness as the art of opening to our lives — not in some lofty or mystical way, but in the simple act of paying attention to what’s here instead of rushing past it. He reminds us that awareness creates spaciousness, that presence slows time, and that most of what we call stress comes from resisting change rather than meeting it. It’s a beautiful companion to this week’s theme of openness — not as a passive posture, but as a practiced, moment-to-moment way of being. Listen to it here.
Learn
If you want to read the poem itself — Open — you can read it here or on my blog. It poured out of me in one continuous stream, and I’ve left it just as it arrived.
The Final Flicker
Openness isn’t something the world hands us; it’s something we keep choosing, even on the days it feels like everything is closing in. A line of a poem, a video about an app, a conversation about mindfulness — none of these change the world on their own. But they can change how we move through it.
If all you do this week is notice one moment you’d usually rush past and actually let yourself be in it, that’s a crack in the wall. And cracks are where the light gets in.
See you later,
Mike
P.S. If you’d like a little help opening up more space in your days as the year winds down, I’ve put together The 12 Days of TimeCrafting — twelve simple, practical gifts to help you work with your time instead of against it. It’s just $12 until December 26th, and you can grab it here.
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Thanks for reading.
Your time is valuable, and I don’t take it for granted. In a world pulling us in all directions, thanks for choosing The Lantern.
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