A blanket of fog has muffled the sound of a distant foghorn here on the edge of the Baltic Sea. Though it’s early here and the sun is just rising in St. Petersburg, Russia, I just heard the clang of an old streetcar, the kind with wires over the street. Right outside my window at the hundred-year-old hotel I’m staying in is a five-story red tower with cream trim around the edges. It looks hundreds of years old, and its bell is clanging rambunctiously as if to shout that everyone should be awake by now.

It’s been spitting drops from the sky since our arrival on Friday night. We rode the high-speed train from Moscow and arrived after dark. Though we should have hunkered down for the night, it was too exciting to be in this historic and amazing place, so we took a walk down streets of ornate buildings with golden domes and impressive Corinthian columns. We stopped for some traditional Russian food (the wild mushrooms are out and were amazing!) and got our first glimpse of the city, including the multi-colored onion-domed church we’ve all seen in the movies. I’m hoping to sneak away to paint it if I can find a hole in our busy agenda.

Moscow was beyond amazing. My first trip, 13 years ago, I was met with a gray, dirty city in much need of restoration and repair, yet this trip finds it a vibrant, high-fashion place, with skyscrapers everywhere and a skyline filled with cranes, an indication of more sky-reaching to come. We arrived in time to help all of Russia celebrate Moscow’s 870th birthday. Streets were filled with hundreds of thousands of visitors from across Russia for this special occasion. Many events took place around Red Square, which the locals call Revolution Square — a reminder that our perceptions of Russia may be a result of our own propaganda. These were joy-filled people having fun, no different from us. Our movies and media don’t tell the full story.

As you probably know, I’m here for our annual Fine Art Trip, and the first half, in Moscow, was filled with museum visits, and studio visits with some of Russia’s finest artists. Our guests are taking home lots of world-class paintings, and they all got to see some incredible art. For those who aren’t aware, Russia has a rich art history, and its artists produce things that had us all salivating. I’ll write more about the trip in Fine Art Connoisseur and put some photos out on Facebook. I’ve not done much because time has been consumed by a very full schedule, and exhaustion at the end of each busy day.

The trip is far from over. We have three more days of art visits, special events, special people we’re meeting, and lots of museums. Then, as everyone else heads home, I’ll be going out to the country to paint with several Russian masters for three days. I’ve only painted once since I’ve been here, from the window of my hotel overlooking the Kremlin. So I’m champing at the bit, but this isn’t a painting trip until the very end.

I’m also going to visit the studio of Ilya Repin on the last day, and I’ll do two sittings to have my portrait painted by Russian master Nikolai Blokhin. Not a bad way to spend the rest of the week.

I’m feeling very grateful.

I’m grateful for the fine people who came along with me to Russia and for our remarkable editor of Fine Art Connoisseur, Peter Trippi. We’ve all become great friends, and of course many guests have been with us on our trips several times before.

I’m grateful for the Russian art system, which has produced some of the finest artists and art the world has ever known. I had a couple of emotional moments viewing paintings by top Russian masters. And I choked up looking at a room filled with paintings by Isaac Levitan, quite possibly the greatest landscape painter who ever lived. I’m humbled by their quality.

I’m also grateful for friendships I’ve made in Russia. My reunion with some of these friends was sweet. And I can hardly believe I’ll get to paint with several top Russian artists. I’m almost giddy and can’t wait to see what I learn.

And I’m feeling grateful for this life I’m living, where I get to travel, paint, spend time with friends, and be immersed in art and the things I love. Though most weeks are pretty mundane, this experience is a wonderful exception. Plus, when I get home, I’ll turn right around and paint with more old and new friends at Fall Color Week, then it’s off to the Figurative Art Convention & Expo in Miami in November, and then one of my radio events in New York. It’s going to be a fun-filled fall.

I’m very grateful for my team members at my company, Streamline, who keep things running smoothly during my absence. And I’m grateful that our Florida team got through the hurricane safely. Even though the office is still without power, they are operating around the kitchen table of one of our people who does have power. As they say, the show must go on. Our thoughts and prayers go out to all those who did not fare as well with the hurricane.

A friend once told me that you should start each day looking for three things you’re grateful for, and end each day with three more things you’re grateful for from that day. When you look for things to be grateful for, it’s hard to have a bad day. Though I don’t do it every day, I try. It seems to make things better.

Another friend told me that we spend most of our time looking at our lives and all that we have not accomplished. He suggested we turn around and look backward to see where we are now compared to where we once were. He said that will help take off the pressure and stress, because looking at what we want to do but have not yet done can be stressful or discouraging, but turning around once in awhile and looking at what we’ve already accomplished is a helpful exercise, one rooted in being grateful.

I’m very grateful for you, and I hope you’ll take a look today at what you’re grateful for, think about what you’ve accomplished, and seek out new things for which to be grateful. Chances are you’ll find a lot.

I’ll try to check in next Sunday if the jet lag and return home haven’t completely messed up my body clock, and if I don’t get stuck in Russia.

You may find this amusing, but I really wanted to get this out to you this week. It’s Sunday morning in Moscow, Russia. I woke up fairly early this morning in my undisclosed* hotel room near Red Square. I didn’t want to wake my wife by sitting on the edge of the bed tapping away at my keyboard, so I’m coming to you from the throne room with the door shut.

There’s an Echo in Here

Normally I describe my view, but it’s one you’re used to seeing. You know. White tile, white porcelain, a drain on the floor, and a bathtub to my side. The water in the sink is running, to help drown out my Morse Code message-tapping on the keyboard. I’m wearing a thin white robe that came with the room. This morning is quiet, designed for catching up from jet lag.

Tonight we will meet our group, many of whom have been on each of the last seven art trips, and I’m also looking forward to meeting some new friends. We’ll have cocktails, get acquainted or start catching up, and then tomorrow our art-specific adventure begins.

Did I Mention I’m Tired?

Our flight on a Russian airliner from New York was nothing out of the ordinary. You know — crammed in a seat, trying to sleep, and some loud couple with their lights on who decided to talk the entire night in Russian. Thank goodness for earplugs and blankets to put over our heads.

Applause broke out when we landed. I’m not sure if it was the thrill of being in Moscow or the thrill of realizing we’re all still alive after that long, long flight.

A Picture Fest

In the ride from the airport I annoyed my friends by rolling down the window of the cab and snapping pictures like a madman. It’s a mixture of old and new — even casinos on the streets, which was totally unexpected.

Hello, Comrades, I’m Here

Once we arrived at the hotel, our room wasn’t ready, but everyone else wanted to stay there until they could catch up on sleep. So I set off with my sketch pad and my camera and got a great feel for the neighborhood nearby. Red Square, the Kremlin, St. Basil’s Cathedral — the onion-domed church that, according to legend, was so beautiful that the czar didn’t want another like it built anywhere, so he had the architect blinded. Ouch. And there is some very high-end shopping nearby, all the big fashion brands. I’ll save my money in hopes of bringing home a painting or two. It’s my obsession.

Not What You Expected

Three times now I’ve visited this amazing place. It gets a bum rap in the movies and television, but frankly, it can be a little intimidating, especially these days. I have to admit that I was totally intimidated on my first trip, expecting what I saw in the movies. But this city is vibrant, colorful, high-fashion, and architecturally stunning.

Instead of seeing little hunched-over old ladies in colorful headscarves and cossacks dancing in the streets, or men in green military uniforms and carrying machine guns, you see well-dressed young people staring at their smartphones, amazing new skyscrapers — and men in green uniforms, carrying machine guns.

A Shout-Out to John Wurdeman

I’m here because more than a decade ago I was invited to travel with John Wurdeman, the owner of Lazare Gallery. He introduced me to Russia, and I fell in love with the people, made some great artist friends I’m looking forward to seeing, and I fell in love with Russian art. We plan to see lots of it. I wanted to publicly acknowledge John, because I would not be here if it were not for his generosity.

Painting with a Master

We’re going to spend five days here in Moscow, then five in St. Petersburg, and then I get to spend three more days painting with some of my Russian artist friends in the countryside, including one who is a Russian Master and an instructor at Moscow’s great Surikov Institute at the Russian Academy of Art. I’m excited.

For now, it’s time to get dressed and begin my official adventure for the day. I hope this got through to you.

Hopefully I can post images on Facebook and Instagram, and even if you can’t friend me because I’ve reached my limit, you can still follow me so you can see some of the pictures. Of course we will do a story of our adventures in an upcoming issue of Fine Art Connoisseur.

My Thoughts Almost Prevented My Trip

I’d like to end with something that changed my life: my willingness to go outside of my comfort zone. As I mentioned, I was intimidated about Russia, and I almost didn’t go that first time because I gave myself excuses about why it was a bad idea, why it wasn’t safe, why I couldn’t afford to go. My head was playing games with me. But I told myself I was going to go for it anyway, and I pushed the negative stuff away and jumped in.

As a result I had one of the richest, most memorable times of my life, including a chance to visit the home of Russia’s greatest living artist at the time, who has since passed on. Had I listened to my internal voices and excuses, I would have missed something truly important in my life. This week I’m taking 50 people who jumped in and took a chance, and I’m excited about sharing my experiences with them.

Where is your head messing with you? What cool adventures are you avoiding because of the excuses in your head, because of your fears about the adventure itself, of the cost, or concern for the people in your life who need you around? Maybe those fears are real, or maybe they are only excuses to make you feel comfortable.

Being uncomfortable can be life-changing. Taking risks can be invigorating. Challenging yourself to try new things will give you confidence and a great feeling because you know you went for it.

I hope you’ll look at your bucket list and start taking action. There is always a way if you want it badly enough.

Have a great Sunday — if you get this — and I’ll hopefully have a moment next Sunday to touch base.

Unless your home is one of those underground bunkers with no Internet or TV, you probably heard about our new soggy climate in Texas this past week. I feel so fortunate this morning to go out to the long, narrow porch on the back of the house to look out over my rough, unmowed backyard, which is out of control after massive amounts of rain and no dry moments to mow. The gnarled oaks and cedars, and the distant view of a purple hill, make up my view, and I am happy not to see a lake where the yard is supposed to be.

High Winds at Home

Our mildly high winds and water issues were nothing in comparison to others in our town who saw severe flooding, and especially our neighbors in Houston, who saw that hovering storm continue to wreak havoc with unprecedented flooding and devastation. I was having an e-mail dialogue with one friend who gave play-by-play water levels as it got closer and closer to their front door. It was frightening, as was the entire storm experience, which was a little too close for comfort.

Back to the Porch

Humidity is high, since the ground and air were soaked for much of our week, but my cozy little writing corner on the back deck is back to normal. It’s just me, the red wicker couch, and a little glass greenhouse that sits on the table in front of me as home to several small cacti. My black-haired squirrel is back to gathering nuts and running under my studio porch when she spots me, and one of the neighbor’s four brown-and-white Longhorn cows is scratching its back on the wire fence between our properties — and it appears to be in my yard. I think it’s better to look at cattle than to have to take care of them, at least for me, though I’ve got friends who do, and live to do it. Get along, little dogies…

Summer is Over for Me

Once the storm passed, I bit the bullet, officially gave up my summer of no travel away from the family, and began my grueling fourth-quarter travel schedule. Somehow I managed to visit two cities on the opposite sides of the country, and three in another country, in four days, which meant being gone on the day my kids normally help me celebrate my birthday.

But it’s better this way, because weekends are more fun for celebrations than school nights, when homework is involved. It could have been “Happy birthday, Dad, gotta get back to my homework,” but instead they honored me with an entire dinner and a cake. These are the best moments in life.

Let There Be Light

Before I left, I managed to install track lights up on the 16-foot ceiling of my art studio. When Laurie found this house, she called me, saying, “You’re gonna love this place, because you can have your own art studio and your own office.” She was right! I’d never had a dedicated studio before. My first studio was in a tiny 10 x 10-foot loft at the top of our tall, skinny house in Florida. Then in two California houses, the studio was in a back bedroom in one and a garage in the other, which wasn’t fun on cold winter days.

When we moved to our first house in Austin, I was in a tiny apartment over a garage, but now I’m in a real studio. It’s a little Texas cabin, brown clapboard, tin roof, string lights hanging around the edge of the roof, and a wonderful porch with a stone fireplace. I think I died and went to art heaven. And it’s big enough for my Wednesday-night figure painting group, the Bee Cave Painters. We’ve had as many as nine plus a model, which was pretty crowded, but it’s pretty comfortable with five of us.

Anyway, I’m experimenting with new lights in my studio, taking an approach I discovered when I visited the new studio of artist Steven Horne in the Adirondacks. He has managed to reproduce the temperature and intensity of north light using some new daylight LEDs and a bank of track lights way up high. I had been using a Home Depot fluorescent fixture over my easel, which was uglier than the Longhorn cattle in the backyard, and was so bright that I kept making my paintings too dark.

A Balancing Act

Berkeley and I tried to reach the 16-foot ceiling to install the lights, but alas, our 8-foot ladder wasn’t enough, and standing on the top two steps made me feel like I was a member of Cirque du Soleil on the high wire. So, since an uncracked head is important for continuing the status quo, the two of us took a quick drive to Lowe’s in the middle of blowing rains and wind gusts up to about 50.

Shopping at Lowe’s was like Christmas Day — we were one of about five customers they had seen all day. I guess people don’t shop during hurricanes. Soaked as we were, we fit most of the ladder into my little hatchback SUV, and we drove down the road with a new 12-footer hanging out of the back of the car while the rain flooded in.

Oops

Rushing to get the job done on Sunday before my flight took off, I got the entire track mounted and the lights up. But when I was all done and I turned the power back on, I realized I couldn’t get to the light switch because my bookshelf was covering it up. Guess I should stick to publishing and hire a professional next time. I think I overheard someone in the house say, “Told you so.”

Feeling Guilty

I don’t know about you, but I felt awfully guilty watching the TV in the comfort of my dry home as others were trying to survive the floods. I felt like I should do something, so after communicating with a few galleries and artists, I decided that I had to do what I could.

Free Advertising For Storm-Impacted Art People

This past week, we sent out an e-mail offering some free advertising to help artists and art businesses that have been impacted by the storm. Our goal is to encourage our readers who buy art to consider buying from these artists and galleries to help them recover. People in Houston are not likely to be thinking about buying art while they are repairing their flood-damaged homes. So if you see this special ad spread we do for them, please buy something if you’re in a position to.

Hurricane Lessons

There are lessons to be learned from the hurricane, most of which have been played to death in the media. But probably the most important one is that just because someone says you’ll be safe doesn’t mean that you will be. Maybe next time a storm is coming, it might be a time to go visit friends in another state for a few days.

It’s also a reminder that we are only in control of part of our lives, and that we are at the mercy of circumstances.

There are many more lessons, and I’d like to hear what this storm helped you learn.

Soften Your Heart

Our neighbors in Houston are going to be dealing with the impact of this storm for years. Keep them in your thoughts and prayers. It’s so easy to see these things in the media and get a little callous about them. In this case, it could have been in my town, so it’s making me take notice a little more than usual, which is a good thing.

Enjoy your Sunday. Next week, I’m not sure if I can manage to get Sunday Coffee out from Russia. Fingers crossed. I’ll be leading the Fine Art Connoisseur Russian Art Trip along with Peter Trippi. We’re taking people behind the scenes, to top museums, artists’ studios, and all kinds of cool things. Hopefully I can get this to you for Sunday.

Back in the 1980s, I thought a lot about my dream house. I had a vision of a Key West-style white clapboard house with a giant porch that wraps all the way around. Because I love the sound of rain and thunder, I dreamed of sitting on that porch during massive rainstorms. The idea of a porch on each side of the house was to get out of the blowing rain so I could sit outside during a storm and stay dry.

“Soggy” might best describe today. But it’s beyond that. Imagine giant industrial-size fans like the ones they use on movie sets. Now imagine a firehose of water gushing out in front of those fans, which are grinding as fast as they possibly can and pointing toward the windows. Today, the rain is blowing sideways and the noise on the metal roof is almost deafening from inside the house.

I never built that dream house, but I do have that big long wraparound porch. I’m sitting here on my little red wicker couch in the corner of the porch. How that couch has not blown away is a mystery. All the other lawn furniture is in the garage because forecasters told us to store any objects that can fly away.

I’m wearing my bright red raincoat, which is making lots of noise in the strong wind, and though I’m dry in this little corner, I’m feeling a light mist from the blowing rain.

During the peak of the storm, which started on Thursday night, the house was shaking like a martini. We wondered if at any moment our metal roof would fly off and we would have rain on the inside.

We left Florida to escape hurricanes. Though Austin is inland and Hurricane Harvey was downgraded, it was a whopper of a storm.

One thing most people don’t know is that the barometric pressure of hurricanes puts many nearly-due pregnant moms into labor. In fact, some friends came up to our house during a storm and ended up going into labor; their daughter was born in a hospital that was using a generator to keep the lights on — and at the same time, in the delivery room next door, Marla Maples was giving birth to Tiffany, the daughter of our President. (Please no e-mails because I used the “p-word.”)

Unrelated to the storm, we’re celebrating three new babies.

Dean Pickering, who edits our art instruction videos, has just informed us of the birth of his new grandson, Ryan.

Allison Affourtit, who puts together the e-mails and e-mail graphics for our marketing lab, has just come back to work after the birth of her daughter, Sloane.

Turner Vinson, who works on our videos and photography and audio at our Plein Air Convention & Expo and Figurative Art Convention & Expo, is due to have his second child at any minute. He is out of the storm zone, but so far I’ve heard nothing. I’ve managed to get this e-mail out, despite power outages — somehow the cell towers are still operational nearby.

It’s fun to see more babies added to the family.

Over the years I’ve watched young people I’ve hired grow up, blossom into fine adults, get married, have kids, raise their kids, put their kids into college, and watch their kids get married and continue the amazing cycle of life.

Though I cannot claim to be the world’s best boss, I do try to keep up on the families, the pictures, and the things family members are experiencing. It’s one of the joys of my business life.

I’m reminded of this quote…

“From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked” — Luke 12:48

When I was younger, I didn’t think much about the responsibility to care for what I’ve been blessed with. Yet today, as the family of co-workers grows, I realize I have accountability to these people. If I mess up, these kids don’t eat.

I think the same thing is true for those of us who are artists…

We have a responsibility to our “art family”… the people who buy our artwork and the people who help us sell it. We are a unified family.

When someone is paying me for my artwork, I feel an obligation to be the very best I can be. Not so that I look good, though that’s nice, but so my galleries are offering the very best of me.

For me that means…

• Don’t be in a hurry.
• Don’t cut corners.
• Don’t settle for just getting it done. Only settle when it’s done well.
• Provide the absolute finest work you can produce.
• Be mindful of the long term, so your painting lives on for generations.
• Be in a constant state of growth by learning from others.
• Be responsible about quality preparation and materials to prevent cracking and to make sure the painting lasts for many, many years.
• Picture the painting in a home as a portal, taking viewers to another place.

I was horrified when an artist friend told me he prepares his canvas with house paint in order to save money. When I told him that house paint peels over time and that his paintings won’t last, he said, “Who cares? I’ll be dead by then.”

Sadly, that’s not providing accountability to your buyer, who has trusted you to give them the very best.

No matter what you do … accountability and trust come with the territory.

I think most of us strive to live up to the expectations of others and understand that there is satisfaction in living up to the responsibilities we’ve been given.

I’d love to hear from you, and hear about the ways that you provide accountability in your daily life, whether it’s family, employees, students, work, or artwork. I’ve come to look forward to spending part of my morning listening to your stories. I hope you’ll take time to share yours with me.

Have a great week, and join me in celebrating new babies in the Streamline family. Oh, and I love seeing your families on Facebook and Instagram. Though I’m told I’ve reached my limit on “friends” on Facebook, you can still follow. That would be cool so I can see what you’re up to.

I never thought of myself as a Texan after we moved from the San Francisco Bay Area to Austin, Texas.

Austin, after all, isn’t completely “Texas.” It’s San Francisco inside of Texas, it’s Silicon Valley inside Texas, and even a little slice of Manhattan. Not a lot of cowboy hats and horses visible in this booming metro area.

Yet this morning on the deck feels very Texas.

Life in Texas

The buzzing sound of cicadas in the sage-colored live oak trees around me is almost deafening this morning as I sit on my long wooden back deck, which runs the entire length of the house. It’s almost as if these singing cicadas are trying to harmonize with the whining of the air conditioner unit, which is barely able to keep up with the heat.

The early morning sun is beating hard on the deck, and I’ve moved to a chair in the one small corner of shade that is allowing me to stay outside and bear the heat. I’m wearing my PleinAir baseball cap, and shades to cope with the glare of the sun blasting down at me.

I just got shivers sitting here in the oppressive heat.

A Frightening Sight

The shivers are not from wishful thinking about cool breezes, but from the sudden shock of looking up from my chair and seeing two mangy coyotes running along the fence in my yard, just a few feet away. I’m just happy they didn’t spot me, and that I didn’t come face-to-face with them by accident. Now I understand why some Texans wear six-shooters on their hip.

Somewhat like the eerie cries of the loons on the lake in the summer, we hear coyotes cry out in song and harmony on nights when the moon is full. A choir of yips is often their celebration of a newfound meal, and a good indicator not to put the dog out.

Disappearing Pigs

Small dogs and guinea pigs tend to disappear around these parts; we know that from personal experience. Though we romanticized that maybe our fuzzball pig just decided to escape her little outdoor pen for a better life elsewhere, or perhaps a college education, she probably was a tasty meal for a raptor or a coyote.

We’ve been home a full week now, but our return was met with a somewhat sad moment when we learned from the pig sitter that our remaining guinea pig, Susan, had graduated to that great pigpen in the sky. She’d lived to about double the predicted age because of good food and a pampered existence. No guinea pig ever had a better life.

Puppy Pressure

Pressure is now upon us for a dog, but with college for triplets looming in just three years, a new puppy isn’t terribly practical. We’ve resisted so far, but my guess is the tug of some big brown eyes will one day soon win our hearts.

Last time around, a box of puppies in a two-minute encounter resulted in almost two decades of puppy love, along with some hard times.

Like puppies … all decisions are emotional.

Emotions drive everything. It’s something I talk about from time to time on my marketing blog. People may rationalize the purchase of a painting with practicalities about how it’s a perfect match to the couch, or explain why that shiny red sports car is more practical because it gets better gas mileage. But the reality is that emotion is running our lives and decisions.

We Owe It All to Emotions

If rational decisions ruled our lives, there would be no art, no paintings, no galleries, no giant overbuilt houses, and no sports cars. Instead we would all live in small brick bunkers with no decorations. Thankfully, most of us prefer something that scratches our emotional itch.

Art may be one of the most emotional of all decisions. Yet its power to trigger emotions is also healing.

Ever look at a painting and take a deep sigh, as if you’d just entered paradise? I have, many times.

The emotion of art transforms us to other places in our minds. Hospitals have discovered this, which is why many have giant art budgets and hundreds of paintings.

Who Needs Star Trek?

The pain of being ill or visiting a loved one in a hospital can be relieved for a brief moment because a painting teleports us to a different place. Who needs Star Trek? Just go to a museum.

Speaking of museums…

If you stop and think about the institutions in our lives, most are based on the healing power of art or the arts.

Big Giant Museums

Some of the world’s biggest, most impressive public buildings are dedicated to the arts … painting, music, dance. The biggest ones house paintings and sculpture: The Louvre. The Hermitage. The Prado. The Met.

If that doesn’t convince you of the lasting power of art, nothing will.

An Artist’s Big Dream

Those of us who make art dream that one day our art will end up on the walls of a museum, which hopefully will secure us a place in history forever.

Artists have a special gift. They see the world differently. And people look at artists and their gift as something they wish they could have. My hope is that you and I can help many of those people find it for themselves, that we can convince them that they too can have that gift.

And imagine how healing it would be if everyone everywhere would stop, study nature or the human figure, and slow down enough to paint it.

Artists are a small part of the overall population, yet their influence is commanding and deeply felt.

The Artist Inside Each of Us

I believe there is an artist inside each of us waiting to be pulled out and put to good use. Some of you are already artists, others discovering it. Still others may need a nudge, or just a little encouragement.

The more of us there are, the more giant museums we’ll need. And that can’t be a bad thing.

Take some time and make some art today. It will make today that much better.

Fog is covering the lake this early Sunday morning. The rays of the sun are working hard to burn it off. The effects of the warm rays against cool light purple and bluish-white colors of fog are illuminating the air with a golden glow that creates a heavenly effect.

The peak of the distant mountain reaches out above the fog, as if signaling “All is well, I’m still here.”

The loons on the lake quietly drift by with their babies on their backs as they call out their looney-tunes, which reflect off the lake’s edges and echo from one side to the other.

As I sit in my bright red Adirondack chair on the dock, my Dunkin Donuts coffee is rapidly losing its warmth in my old green cup because the air is a chilly 58 degrees. But the cup still warms my hands, and as I sip it, the coffee slides like lava through my body.

A scratchy old hunter green-and-red-checked blanket is wrapped around my goosebump-covered legs, tucked underneath so no cold sneaks in. Warmth comes from my old green oversized sweater, which I keep in a drawer at the cabin year round because moths too need food and entertainment. Plus, the best day to wear a “holey” sweater is on Sunday.

In an hour or so I’ll leave the dock, walk over to the cabin, and pick up my father, my wife, and the kids to make the short four-minute drive through the woods, passing beaver dams and fallen trees, over to the the quaint little stone church nestled in the wilderness among giant pines. It was built by the families on our lake 140 years ago this summer.

The Old Chapel in the Wilderness

In the old days before the church was built, the lake residents would put on their finest clothes and row their wooden guideboats out to the halfway point of our lake. The local preacher would speak from Pulpit Rock, which still stands there today. Today, since almost all the old cabins are accessible only by water, the first part of those residents’ journey to church is still by boat.

At this summer wilderness chapel, open only in July and August, we continue the tradition of 140 years in the same uncomfortable old wooden pews built for the chapel’s founders. The stunningly beautiful stained glass windows create a dancing light show of color across the sanctuary as the old pipe organ rattles the wooden rafters with deep bass vibrations that give me chills.

Generations of children have looked forward to dangling from the hard-to-pull rope on the old bell above the church as the bell rings out to toll the start of worship. Lighting the candles is the only time their parents approve of their playing with fire. The choir is made up of a small group whose ancestors sang back in 1877, when the church was dedicated. I love tradition.

Following the service, we share stories of our week on the lake, eating overcooked brownies with crusty edges and gooey centers, like communion wafers (with oversweetened Kool-Aid for the wine). After community time, we often walk through the old cemetery on the church grounds, where markers of previous lives reinforce family traditions.

140-Year Tradition

Somehow, in an odd sort of way, I love being a part of something that I know has been going on for 140 years, knowing I’ve been there for 30 of those, and knowing that it’s my generation’s responsibility to see that returning each year remains interesting and relevant, to carry it forward. It’s not easy to get my kids interested, and it was difficult for my parents to get me interested. It’s probably always been the same, over generations.

I feel the same way about painting. I love being linked to the past through artists who passed their craft from one generation to the next. That’s why I love being a part of the Salmagundi Club and the National Arts Club in New York; their traditions are important to link past generations to the present and pass along the wisdom of ages of painters.

In our fast-paced, screen-saturated lives, there is deep value in being a part of something bigger than ourselves and carrying a vision forward for future generations. It’s what I hope to do with plein air painting and classical realism painting so that future generations of collectors and artists will know them and consider them part of their world.

An Important Realization

One of the most important realizations of my life has been that the long game matters more than the short game, and that short-term gains rarely matter when you’re thinking beyond your own lifetime. It’s why our decades of wisdom should be put to work for something bigger than ourselves.

As I made my way through the grave markers this week, I wondered who all of these people were and what they did with the gift of life. Hopefully their families remember and continue to honor them so many years later.

A few graves stood out, some with descriptions of the lives of the individuals. One was a local trapper who built an empire that made the Adirondacks known, and resulted in the preservation of 100 square miles of beautiful wilderness. Another came up with a treatment for tuberculosis, another wrote a book whose stories inspired conservation in the region, and another was the father of reforestation. I’m sure dozens of others did equally amazing things.

It’s Inside You and Me

I don’t believe these were necessarily special people with special gifts; they were like you and me. Most of these people did not start out to change the world, they just focused on something they thought was important and their passion spread. It was their efforts that make us look back on them as special.

What passion do you possess that will make a difference in the world?

What are you a part of that will live on for generations? What can you create now that will live on?

What role can you play to pass on your wisdom and create value that goes beyond your lifetime?

For me, it’s a lofty goal of teaching 1 million people to paint, because painting changed my life and I think painting will make their lives better.

What about you?

As sunlight kissed my eyelids, my eyes sluggishly fluttered open, only for me to be jolted into a state of awareness. For the past three months I have awakened to a wall of rich green Adirondack pines and woods filled with crafty little creatures. This morning my pines have been replaced by sage-colored cedars, live oaks, and dry grass.

My red Adirondack rocker on the dock by the lake has been hijacked by my brown wicker couch on the long, covered back porch of our Austin home.

The cool mountain breezes have been substituted with heat so intense it blasts you in the face like opening the door of an oven.

Last week I was wrapped in a fuzzy old blanket, today an old T-shirt and shorts are too oppressive and my coffee is begging for ice.

My fellow weary travelers are sleeping in after last night’s long trip home. Monday, the “s-word” (“school”) is about to begin again. This is the final day awakening naturally can occur.

For now, the house is so quiet that the only sound is the flutter of cool air fluffing out of vents, overcoming the warmth.

Birds are chirping morning songs that beg for cooler weather, and the little long-tailed squirrel that lives under my studio deck keeps peeking his head out because no human has intruded on his space for most of the summer.

I’m reminded that the mountains were to get away from the summer heat, which we’ll be putting up with through October. Though our summer cabin time has ended, it’s always good to be home.

While most live their year from January to January, I look at my year as the start of the school year till its end.

For 15 cycles of the seasons, since the triplets were hatched into our care, this heavy traveler takes no trips in the summer months, which are sacred family times to reconnect with one another and family members we see too little of otherwise.

My Grand Experiment

Each summer, the last week at the lake is my vacation time, but this year the need to disconnect drove me to two full weeks off, with a different goal … to relax fully.

You see, vacations for everyone used to be a week or two away from work, until some sage and sadistic person invented e-mail and social media. Now, for most, vacations simply mean working from a different place in between moments of joy. I needed a vacation with no connectivity.

I went off the grid. No screen time whatsoever. No phone, no computer, no iPad, no television, not even a car radio because I wanted to avoid the news.

I disconnected completely: no e-mail, texts, Facebook, or Instagram. Not so much as a weather check on a screen.

The first few days I would reach for my smartphone about every two minutes for a fix, to find out who was e-mailing, texting, or messaging me. But then I’d catch myself and put it back in my pocket, where it stayed unless a Kodak moment arose and I had to take a picture.

Frustratingly, before the urge to look at screens began to go away, the little notifications that intrude on to the screen would pop up with a news story, an e-mail, or a Facebook post. I had to train myself not to even look at them because they instantly caused stress.

In fact, I finally locked my phone because it kept vibrating away while I tried to ignore it. My office knew not to phone me, but someone kept calling, again and again and again. Did someone die? Was it an emergency? I picked up my phone and glanced at it and found it was a very important person who was trying to reach me. Though I stressed about what they wanted for about three hours, I decided that the rule of “no screen time, no work, no texting” applied to everyone, no exceptions. So I never called that person back, never checked for a text or e-mail. It could wait.

It felt great.

But learning to live without screen time was almost impossible. Next time I’ll use a real camera and just lock my phone in a drawer.

In fact, one day I wanted to call to make an appointment at the local chiropractor, and my first impulse was to go find the smartphone, look up the number, and call for an appointment. Instead, I went to the phone book, looked him up, and called on the landline. It was very old school and something I had not done in many years.

A Serious Addiction

My realization was that I have a serious addiction, as do all of my family and probably most of the people reading this.

Though I was off my phone and forced to try to actually talk to people over dinner, I was pretty much ignored by everyone else, who were feeding their addictions on their smartphones. During dinner out, every table in every restaurant was the same. No more talking to one another.

I had never noticed before because every brief moment of boredom was met with an app to play with or an e-mail to check.

My addiction is the need for constant stimulation. No moment of boredom.

Did you know that every time you get a text or e-mail or Facebook message, some dopamine is released in your system?

Being disconnected was almost impossible. When I got bored, I took walks, I did some painting, I went out on my kayak, I spent time with the kids boating and waterskiing, and at night I avoided all screens. I actually found myself reading some antique books and reconnected with paper and ink, and my eyes were not burning from a bright screen in a dark room.

If you were at Disneyland and a character took off his or her mask (or head), the fantasy would be instantly blown. The same holds true for escape time. I found that, during the first couple of days, just about the time I would get relaxed, if I slipped and fed my addiction for even just a minute, my relaxation was over, my mind started racing, and my stress and anxiety levels went up.

Frankly, if you were to ask me a month ago if I had stress in my life, I’d have said no. Yet once I conducted this little experiment, I realized how much stress I carry and how much something as simple as a Facebook post can bring it all back.

My new rule? “Screenfast” whenever possible. I intend to screenfast on my upcoming fine art trip to Russia for two weeks, screenfast during my Fall Color Week painters’ retreat in Maine, and screenfast at every possible holiday and break. I have also decided to screenfast after dinner. No more screen time from dinner till morning.

The world is faster than ever and we can get more done in a day than we used to get done in a week, all because of screen time. But our brains need rest, and screen addiction feeds stress.

To every younger reader, I’m sure I sound like a neanderthal. But I can now appreciate that I have control; my screen does not control me. I think eight or 10 hours a day is enough. So, if you e-mail me at night, you’ll get a response the next day … unless, of course, I’m on screenfast.

I’ll be recommending screenfasting to my team members. Stay off screens at night, on weekends, and completely off 24 hours a day on vacations. Don’t even go to screens for personal use. Avoiding them completely will make your stress melt away and allow you to fully relax.

Avoiding screen time for two weeks resulted in better dreams, stress-free days, more creativity, and more pure relaxation. I’m enjoying reading actual books again and finding things to fill my moments of boredom.

Now, instead of being totally addicted to my screens, I’m addicted to screenfasting and I feel more refreshed than I’ve felt in years.

Will you do a screenfast?

Here’s to a great Sunday and a wonderful week. Thanks for reading this on your screen. Now shut it off and take a day of relaxation for yourself … and more if you can get it.

I got up very early this morning to spend some extra time in solitude on the dock at this Adirondack paradise. It’s my last Sunday here for this summer. It’s a little cloudy this morning, and there is a dimness to the light and a coolness to the air. The distant sound of loons crying out their eerie tune maybe be a reflection of the melancholy feeling I get each year when I leave here.

Though I hate leaving, I love looking forward to coming back. That feeling buys me hope through a school year filled with activities, work responsibilities, and business trips. Knowing I won’t leave the lake during the summer makes everything somehow more worthwhile the rest of the year.

Yesterday in the car, Laurie and I were having a discussion about what the contents should be of a book I want to write. I’ve decided to write another book because I’ve not yet written an art-related book (though I’ve produced many art marketing videos) and because I’ll soon be on a television show about art that will be distributed worldwide. I see all of it as a chance to spread my mission.

“You should write about inspiration,” she said. “People always tell me you’ve inspired them to do something. And your book should be a little something for everyone, since you are not only helping people discover painting, you’re working with experienced painters and beginners, and with art collectors.”

She got me thinking. Since my goal is to teach a million people to paint, and since my life was changed by painting, I wondered what I could do to inspire more people to paint. After all, a show with millions of viewers might help me quickly ramp up my goal of helping a million people to discover painting.

Often when I’m outside painting I’ll encounter people who say things like, “I wish I could do that, but I don’t have any talent. I can’t even draw stick figures.” Of course, I always try to convince them that painting is a process they can learn. And that gets me remembering my own story.

Though I had some exposure to acrylic and watercolor as a child thanks to my artistic mother, it was not till Laurie bought me an art lesson for my 40th that I got interested again.

I had learned of a teacher in my area who studied in the tradition of Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904), a French painter and sculptor. Gérôme had taught Filadelfo Simi (1849-1923), who taught his daughter Nerina (Nera) Simi (1890-1987), who taught my teacher (and many other greats) in Florence. This teacher had also studied with Robert Hale Ives Gammell (1893-1981) and Frank J. Reilly (1906-1967), names I was unaware of at the time. But I was impressed that this guy had good training.

I remember the Saturday morning I visited the Armory Arts Center in West Palm Beach. After parking in the back lot, I walked in the door of this room, looked around at all the work the students were doing, told myself I could never get to that level of painting, and turned around and walked out.

“Yoo-hoo, can I help you?” were the words I heard as I was walking out the door.

“Oh, hi,” I said. “I heard this would be a good class to take, but after seeing what these people are painting, I could never do that, so I decided to leave.”

The man introduced himself as Jack Jackson, the teacher, and told me that if I gave him 18 months, he could have me producing work as good as the work I was seeing. He said, “Come over here,” and without even asking me if I wanted to stay, told me, “Sit here. Take this photo and make a grid like this on top of it.” Then he proceeded to show me how to transfer a drawing from a grid to a canvas.

After we did that, he showed me how to paint a grayscale tonal painting of the black-and-white photo I had just transferred onto the canvas. He was smart. He didn’t let me go, and he instantly got me engaged. I stayed in his classes for five years, until I moved away. He died shortly after and he never saw the fruits of his influence.

Think about this for just a moment. If I had slipped out of that classroom unnoticed and had told myself that I could never do that quality of work, I would have missed the last 22 years of great joy.

Not only did I take up painting, my eyes were opened to a whole new world. Suddenly I had an appreciation for art like never before. In fact, a seminal moment in my life was when I was on vacation and visited the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco and saw The Broken Pitcher by Bouguereau, and I wept. I wept because, after studying and copying the artist’s work, seeing it in person was overwhelming. I now had a small taste of what it took to accomplish such mastery, a mastery I had not begun to touch. I was amazed at the figure’s feet, which were at eye level, and the fine veins on her forearms. No piece of art had ever touched me this way.

I never would have gone to see or appreciated this piece of art with the eyes of an artist had my eyes not been opened for me by Jack Acetus Jackson (1935-2001).

We rarely know the fruits of our influence over others. In my case, Jack exposed me to painting, academic painting, and gave me an appreciation for the academic realism movement that was just beginning at that time.

Because I make my living as a publisher, Jack’s influence led me into the art publishing world, resulting in Fine Art Connoisseur, PleinAir, Artists on Art, Fine Art Today, PleinAir Today, the Plein Air Convention & Expo, the Figurative Art Convention & Expo (which I’m dedicating to Jack), plus all of our training videos.

My life was enriched by this man’s being alert, not letting me out the door, and encouraging me and giving me confidence that I could learn to paint when I felt I had zero talent.

Once in awhile I’ll hear from someone who tells me I had an impact on their life and I didn’t even know it. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes not. One person recently called me on the carpet because I had unknowingly discouraged her a few years ago with something I said. I felt awful. Others have told me of things I didn’t even remember saying that set them off on a new path.

Our words and actions matter. By being alert, by having a spirit of generosity and a desire to help all people, we will, hopefully, find a natural instinct to encourage others.

I had not thought about this story of Jack Jackson pulling me into the class for a long time, but it was that one action that changed my entire life and led me into an art career. I owe him so much. My only regret is his not knowing what happened, and never knowing it was because of him.

This is the very reason I’m driven to teach a million people to paint. My eyes and heart were opened as an artist and I blossomed in new ways because Jack said, “Yoo-hoo, can I help you?” — and because he realized I did not believe in myself and that he could help me.

One of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received from a human was the gift I received from Jack Jackson. He did not do it for personal gain, he did it because he loved art and wanted others to discover it.

What about you this Sunday morning?

What are you doing to encourage and support others?

What gifts do you have that you can share?

There is no greater gift than encouragement and helping people see something in themselves that they could not see before.

Here’s to a week of encouragement for others … starting today.

This morning as I opened my eyes and looked out the window, my sleepy gaze was filled with the abstract shapes and 50 shades of green pine branches and needles.

Our bedroom here in the cabin in the woods, near the lake, is a converted screened porch, all glass, and nestled among the trees. It’s like being in a see-through tent outdoors.

Light is kissing the edges of the branches as the sun streams down upon them, and the red pine needles who have left home fill the floor of the woods, making a soft, squishy, silent carpet for bears, red foxes, and chubby little woodchucks.

Standing guard over the woods is the mammoth trunk of a 60-foot pine, well over 600 years old, riddled with history, its branches reaching out so far they cover the house like the arms of a loving great-grandmother protecting her family.

I’m hearing the high-pitched tweets of hatchlings in their nests in sunrise alarm, training.

A comforting sip of my coffee soothes my soul; its warmth fills my inner self.

My cup, a sap green, somewhat 1960s-modern style, is my favorite, and has been used on every summer morning here in this house since 1987. As odd as it sounds, it’s one of the things that brings me comfort in this Adirondack home in the words. We get attached to objects that bring us comfort, like this cup, like this house, like these woods and this lake, rich with history, like no others on earth.

Each year about this time, when we see signs that our time here will soon be winding down, I begin to experience a tinge of sadness, because this is the only place we consider our generational family home.

It’s the place the kids have played every summer of their lives. It’s filled with memories of grandpa’s prayers at family dinners, the kids taking their first boat rides, rope swings over the lake, the laughter around the table of family members who are no longer with us, the christening of a new family-heirloom boat by my 92-year-old grandmother, first times fishing and catching frogs for my now-grown niece and nephew, building forts in the woods, playing Monopoly on rainy days, and canoe trips across the lake. The kids are 15 now, but it seems just yesterday we were bathing all three in the giant wrought-iron footed bathtub that has served families in this house for well over 100 years.

This place has been the inspiration for countless paintings and photographs, with its color-filled sunsets, historic sailboat races, the grumbling old engines of the wooden boats, lapping water sounds on canoe trips, and the crunch of twigs under our feet on walks through the woods.

I know I talk about this place a lot, and it may be tiring for you, but this place has been my muse for three decades. Hemingway had Havana; for me, it’s the Adirondacks. Dreams of coming here get me through stressful years, knowing that when June comes, we can return to this place that not only grounds us, it slows us down, pulling us together in ways that don’t occur the rest of the year. It gives the kids deep memories of months of time with their grandfather and other family members, and it even draws them, and us, closer together. As I look back on when my father discovered this special place, almost 30 years ago, I realize it slowed us all down, brought all closer, and in some ways saved our family.

I’ll admit a bit of envy of the families on this lake who have somehow managed to hold on to their family homes for 120 years or more in spite of out-of-control taxes and the massive expenses that can come with the brutal winters.There is comfort walking into those drafty old cabins and seeing portraits on the walls, knowing that these are the faces of women and men who spent their vibrant youth, and their entire lives, in this tradition-filled place, from birth to death, like several generations before them.

Their parlors are filled with fading photos of happy moments at these lake places, where families who sometimes don’t see one another all year gather, just like Thanksgiving but for whole summers together. There is something soothing to the soul knowing that relatives from the past, many of whom you never met, experienced the summers of their lives here, and it could go on for another hundred years or more. These are truly homes shared by the generations; those who built them gave their families a great gift and are honored for it — 120, 140 years later, or more. It is a rare gift indeed.

But homes don’t always remain in a family forever. I was sad when my dad moved us out of the little brown ranch house of our childhood on Indiana Avenue in Fort Wayne to his dream house, and sad when I grew up and left that house. I was sad when my grandparents sold the homes where we’d played on their stairs and explored secret treasures in their basements. And I’ll be sad when this place is no longer in our family.

Though change is good, so is tradition. Tradition somehow sews us together with our ancestors and provides us with comfort. It cements family memories. You see, there is value in that 30-year-old coffee cup, and there is comfort in the creaky old stairs and the garage door that sticks, and the sound of the creaky screen door that was slamming shut for a hundred years before us.

When I walk into this time-honored cabin at the start of every summer, it’s like Christmas Day, rediscovering things I hadn’t thought about all year. I look around at the things we’ve collected over the decades … the paint-by-numbers hanging on the wall of our living room, the old lamp we picked up when antiquing, the cluttered bookcase filled with books — including coloring books the kids used as toddlers — the sagging red-and-black-checked couches my wife re-covered when the kids were little because we were stuck here for nap time, the fireplace we installed to warm us during the winter when the world was going to come to an end in Y2K, the old “out of commission” leaky wooden canoe I traded a painting for, then refinished and hung from the ceiling of our living room, the old violin hanging on the wall, dozens of early paintings done by me and other family members. The kids still find their old toys in the closet and play with them like they once did, even though they are teenagers now.

It’s good to have a place to come home to.

Though life isn’t about stuff, it’s about memories, sometimes stuff is the reminder of a memory and special times together, which is why traditions are so important. It’s why I keep all the paintings I’ve painted on location, and why I hang them here to remind me of special moments painting alongside my kids and friends, and the special memories surrounding this place I call home.

I feel blessed that I was born into a family that saw the need to create traditions, and I consider it my responsibility to find ways to bring traditions to my kids and maybe, someday, generations in the future.

Some are fortunate enough to be beneficiaries of the vision of their great-great-great-grandparents, and they are taught to keep these traditions alive for their own great-great-great-grandchildren. Even though they may struggle to do so, they see how important it is. And I consider that one of the most admirable things anyone can do for their family.

Traditions can always be created. Memory-making can be happenstance, but most memories are created, and cherished, because someone worked to make them happen.

I encourage you this beautiful Sunday morning to seek out memories and traditions, and look for ways to cement them. It’s one of the great gifts you can give your family.

There is an odd orb in the sky, shining down on me this warm Sunday morning. We’ve not seen it for most of the summer, other than the week of my Adirondack Publisher’s Invitational. The “summer of rain” has hopefully come to an end, and today, once the kids awaken, I’m looking forward to a lake day with the family, with no agenda.

Yet as I sit here on the dock in a bright red wooden Adirondack chair, the lake is so quiet I can hear the whoosh of the wings when a bald eagle flies overhead in search of fish. The sky today is cloud-free, the blue rich with a slight cast of pink, and the sun is warming me and my coffee.

Last week I took my sons to the Congress of Future Scientists and Technology Leaders. The event is for smart kids who are interested in careers in science and tech, and I highly recommend it.

I sat in on most of the four days of sessions from some of the most amazing science and technology minds in the world, but sneaked out a couple of times for some experiences with my son Brady. We went to Fenway Park for a Red Sox game thanks to some friends who had great seats they could not use, and we returned a day later for the Fenway Park tour.

Visiting a Living Legend

One of the other highlights of my week was a visit with artist John Stobart, who lives south of Boston in the town of Westport, Massachusetts. John is in his mid-80s and known as one of the most brilliant marine painters of our time. He was born and studied in England and came to America as a young man.

This was a time for old friends to reconnect, to talk about the state of the art world, and for me to thumb through stacks of paintings and studies he has done over the years and see some of his classic paintings in person. John even drove me around the area and took me to the places he had done many of his famous paintings. It was a red-letter day. He is such a gracious and giving person.

Advice for Young People

At the Congress, one speaker, a young man of about 25, was telling the kids that discomfort should be embraced. I had never thought in terms of discomfort being a good thing, but as I examined my past, he was right.

My Humiliating Experience

I remember my palms were sweating as I stood behind the stage of the auditorium of Harrison Hill Elementary in my hometown of Fort Wayne, Indiana, waiting to go onstage. Then, when my name was called, I wanted to turn and run and had a sick feeling in my stomach. It was the annual spelling bee competition in front of the rest of the school and most of the parents, and when it came to my moment in the spotlight, I froze.

I don’t recall the word I was given, but I recall standing there, looking out at all those people, and my mind going blank. I also recall the laughter of all the kids when I was unable to spell a simple word I knew. I was quickly out of the competition, and I was humiliated. But in spite of the failure and discomfort, I was able to grow from the experience.

A Bad Moment on the Radio

Years later, when I was 14, it was my moment in the spotlight again. I was at radio station WITB (Indiana Tech’s college radio station), where I had talked my way into a DJ position, though I had zero experience. I was given a first show on a Saturday morning. Once the other DJ put on his final record, I opened the mic, started the next record, and was ready to talk over the intro.

I had rehearsed it time and time again, but when I turned on the record, it did not play. There was dead air. Then the program director of the radio station was banging on the glass and I’m responding to him: “What is it? What’s wrong?” not realizing all of this was going out over the air. Finally, he ran into the studio, flicked a switch for the record to play, and turned my mic off. That was my first moment on the air. Fortunately, he didn’t fire me, and I eventually made everything work. It’s where I cut my teeth, and it resulted in a career in radio that started in 1969 and continues with my radio magazine, Radio Ink, to this day.

I remember being uncomfortable going into the radio station for the first time, and being uncomfortable pitching the program director for the job, and being uncomfortable doing my first show. Yet had I allowed those moments of discomfort to prevent me from doing those things, I probably would never have had a career of 48 years.

Where Would We Be Without Discomfort?

Discomfort, it turns out, has been a theme in my life. And if you stop and think about the great women and men in history, discomfort is often a theme in their lives as well. We may think of Steve Jobs as a great success, but imagine how uncomfortable it was putting his name on the line and starting a company. Imagine how difficult it was for Neil Armstrong to be crammed into a tin can, sitting on top of a controlled explosion, and being shot into space while risking his life, yet he became the first man on the moon. Think about how uncomfortable it was for Ralph Albert Blakelock or Alfred Bierstadt, who documented the West with paintings but endured great hardships to travel there, to live there among the Native Americans.

A Spectacular Painting Subject

A couple of weeks ago, during my Publisher’s Invitational, I learned of an amazing waterfall I hadn’t seen before. So me and some friends hiked a nine-mile round trip with heavy backpacks, hitchhiking part of the way. But the reward for the discomfort was one of the most stunning waterfalls I’ve seen and painted in my life.

When you think about it, whenever you “put yourself out there” where there is a possibility of being judged, being criticized, possibly bombing and feeling like a fool, you’re uncomfortable.

In fact, as I look backward, things that seem easy now started out with severe discomfort. I’ll not bore you with the hundreds of times I stepped out and felt uncomfortable, but I will say that I’ve noticed it’s a trend.

Listen for Ridicule

In the process I’ve discovered something about myself and about others, and that is when I come up with an idea, decide to do something bold, it’s that discomfort that signals me that it must be worth doing. The more uncomfortable I am, the better the idea is. If I’m telling myself all the reasons I should not do something because it’s a risk, it’s unknown territory, and because it’s a giant inconvenience and possibly subject to ridicule, I find it challenges me more.

I’ve also discovered that the most uncomfortable time is when I share an idea with others and they tell me all the reasons it will fail and it will damage my reputation. Almost every time someone tells me all the reasons I should not do something, it challenges me to prove it can be done, especially if I believe it is an idea whose time has come.

Oh, I’ve bombed more times than I’ve succeeded. It’s never easy, it’s always a little embarrassing, and sometimes it can even be humiliating and financially devastating, yet I’d not feel right about myself if I did not try something because I was uncomfortable or it was a risk.

Advice for Youth

Young people need to know that not everything works out and that you need to be willing to take risks, to be uncomfortable, but you also need to be prepared for the reality that you might fail. I personally like to burn bridges behind me so failure is less of an option when things get tough.

We all need to understand that we each create our own world. We are agents of our own thoughts, actions, and feelings. No one can take that away from us. We each shape the world around us, and we’re each making a conscious decision to suffer or not.

Belief Trumps Discomfort

We must not allow fear of ridicule or failure or pain to get in the way of doing what we believe in. We need to step away from our past and not allow past failures to prevent future successes by making us avoid discomfort.

Live in the here and the now. Nothing outside the present moment matters, because the next breath could be our last. I was reminded of this just yesterday, when the life of a young and vibrant friend of a friend was snuffed out instantly in a traffic accident.

We tend to get attached to the things in our pasts, and those records play themselves over and over again. Our brains are trained to protect us, so our automatic negative thoughts kick in to protect us from pain and discomfort.

Life is a miracle, but avoiding discomfort can prevent that miracle from being everything it could be. One bold move could be the big moment of your life that will change the world and maybe become the one thing you’re remembered for. Not doing it because of fear should not be an option.

An Icon Shares Insecurities

Yesterday I spoke with a man I have placed on a pedestal for the past 20 years. He is the most well connected man I know; he can pick up the phone and contact Bill Gates or Elon Musk, yet he shared with me yesterday that he has suffered a life of insecurity and negative thoughts and that he has always had to push them out and not listen to them. I was shocked to hear it, but in a way pleased, because I experience the same battle.

What World-Changers Do

I’ve decided that the people who change the world, the people who build giant organizations, the people who invent amazing products, the people who do works the world will always remember, are people exactly like you and me. The only difference is that they push aside the negative thoughts and push ahead, knowing it’s going to be difficult, uncomfortable, and risky.

Though we may look at them as people with a gift or something special, I’ve seen too many examples of everyday folks who get mad enough or inspired enough to make change happen. The difference between them and us is their willingness to accept pain.

I see these images of six-pack abs and perfect bodies on men my age and realize the only difference between them and me is their willingness to put in the time and the pain.

This morning as you set out on your day, ask yourself three things…

What am I avoiding because I’m uncomfortable?

What ideas do I have that I know I need to do that I’ve not done for fear of pain or discomfort?

What’s the worst that can happen if I do them?

The worst that can happen for any of us is loss of life. Embarrassment, loss of income, loss of friendships don’t compare to loss of life.

Yet which is worse? Spending your life looking back and wishing you had tried, or spending your life knowing you have gone for it? Maybe you succeed, maybe you don’t, but at least you know you did not allow pain or discomfort to get in your way.

You possess something in your heart that no one on this earth has. There is something inside of you that you’re sitting on to avoid pain. If you can stop focusing on discomfort and start focusing on what could be, you too will change the world.