The Lens and the Glacier

A safari, a sh***y first draft, and one eye behind the camera.

I began writing this newsletter to explore an idea: what does it mean to live one life well lived? It’s a mantra, a reminder, and sometimes a challenge. What does it mean to live fully? To say yes, to show up, and—maybe hardest of all—to be present?

My adventurous side typically says, “Go for it,” whatever it might be. Recently, I signed up for a safari guide course in Botswana—one month of bush living in the wilds of the Mashatu Game Reserve. I’m thoroughly excited by the prospect, and though I don’t leave for several months, I’ve already begun preparing. I got to yes pretty quickly with this one—even if I’m highly unlikely to ever lead a safari.

I have a romantic notion of bush camp life, though I know that living on the veld and learning alongside strangers from around the world will be both exciting and a little intimidating. Maybe bush camp life will be like writing—hard to begin, easy to romanticize, but surprisingly rewarding in the middle and end.

I’m naturally extroverted, so introductions won’t be a problem. But openness isn’t one of the Big Five personality traits I’m naturally inclined toward. To grow, I’ve had to develop a habit of openness—a habit I must continually cultivate and protect. It’s easy to revert to my default mode, and countering that can be exhausting.

Which leads me to my particular vice: saying yes to life… but then occasionally failing to show up—or showing up late, half-dressed, and mentally somewhere else entirely.

This disparity comes from a real desire to be involved—just without the energy to fully embrace the thing when the day actually arrives. As the date approaches, I find myself more concerned with the logistics than the experience.

Don’t get me wrong—I love being there, wherever “there” is. But mustering the energy to get dressed appropriately, leave the house, and brave traffic can be the biggest hurdle. Anyone who’s ever driven Interstate 70 through the mountains west of Denver on a Friday afternoon—or worse, a Sunday evening—knows exactly what I mean.

And even when we do show up, how often are we really there?

Years ago, I flew helicopter tours to the Norris Glacier in Alaska, through some of the most beautiful terrain in the world. I was always struck by how many people sat in the front seat with one eye closed and the other pressed behind the lens of a video camera, recording the whole experience to watch later on TV. So focused on preserving the moment, they barely lived it. Being present—fully, openly, without filtering it all through a lens—is its own kind of yes.

I find it akin to writing. That quote—“I don’t like to write, but I like having written”—has been attributed to no fewer than nine different writers, including Dorothy Parker and George R. R. Martin. I have no doubt that many writers would agree.

And yet, the joy of writing often shows up mid-process—when the words are flowing, the brain is firing, and you catch yourself thinking, “Hey, this isn’t half bad.” The reward isn’t just in the final product—it’s in transforming that “shitty first draft,” as Anne Lamott puts it in Bird by Bird, into something halfway decent.

Whether others think your final version is only a polished turd is out of your hands—but it begins with yes, and how it ends depends on what you do after you show up. Even if you’re dancing badly at the reception, at least you’re on the floor.

Each of us has our own version of “well lived,” and sometimes we fall short. That’s human. My hope is to keep striving toward that goal—and that the pursuit dies the same minute I do, never sitting on the bench, never running out the clock.

That’s my window on the world. Thanks for looking in.