In my work experience, I've come to the conclusion there are two types of entrepreneurs:

  • those who focus on money, hiring cheap labor to just do what they say
  • those who invest in great ideas, surrounding themselves with smarter people who share the same goals & values

The average American spends $15 a day eating out. $450 a month. $600-$750 including drinks. In 2 months you can buy a ticket to travel anywhere in the world. You can afford to travel, you're just too lazy to cook.

The Four Agreements

1. Be Impeccable with Your Word

  • Speak with integrity.
  • Say only what you mean.
  • Avoid using the Word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others.
  • Use the power of your Word in the direction of truth and love.

2. Don't Take Anything Personally

  • Nothing others do is because of you.
  • What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dreams.
  • When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won't be the victim of needless suffering.

3. Don't Make Assumptions

  • Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want.
  • Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness, and drama.
  • With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.

4. Always Do Your Best

  • Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick.
  • Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgement, self-abuse, and regret.

Maybe the journey isn't so much about becoming anything. Maybe it's about unbecoming everything that isn't really you, so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.

—Unknown

We all have slow days, off days, days we feel tired or uninspired, but they are nothing to concern yourself with. Like an ocean the stillness is just another of our natural states. Soon, the winds will pick up, the waves will rise, and your imagination will flow again.

—Beau Taplin, Creative Block

Two things define you: your patience when you have nothing, and your attitude when you have everything.

—Unknown

It's about the follow-through, not the idea →

Julie Zhou:

We are a culture that glorifies ideas. In tech circles, everyone wants to discuss the latest tech trends (live-streaming! Drones!) In the movie or publishing industry, thousands of e-mails are exchanged about which genres are hot (fantasy!) and which are not (vampires!) Do a Google search for “The Next Big Idea” and you’ll get 300 million results, many of them blog posts purporting to contain the secret to success. In interviews, candidates are often assessed on the strength of their ideas. At dinner parties, we all love sitting next to the “Idea Person”.

And yet, the people who are most likely to be called “Idea People” from the outside know exactly how little an idea in of itself is worth. [...]

Ideas are like candy—colorful, fun, easy to indulge in.

The hard part—the part that really matters—is the follow-through.

Why don’t we glorify that instead?

What is a Follow-Through Person?

Someone who knows that good execution is 90% of what makes anything succeed.

Someone who values getting shit done.

Someone who honors the craft of getting shit done well.

Someone who recognizes that in order to make the idea live, she must inspire others to also want to make the idea live, through a combination of planning, research, critical thinking, and effort.

Someone who fights the devil in the details every single day.

Someone who does not pat herself on the back when the idea is good, but only when the incarnation of the idea is good.

Someone who does not flinch at the possibility that her idea may not be good enough.

Someone who soldiers on through the hard, the repetitive, the frustrating, the boring, all for the sake of making something real.

Let’s celebrate that person.

Let’s fantasize about being that person.

The Last Taxi Ride

by Kent Nerburn

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window.

Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.

"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice.

I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."

I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.

It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers."

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware – beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

We see the world, not as it is, but as we are—or, as we are conditioned to see it. When we open our mouths to describe what we see, we in effect describe ourselves, our perceptions, our paradigms.

—Talmudic Proverb