It also applies to my annual business review.

It’s easy to spot limitations. And the temptation is to use them as excuses.

As in:

• She can no longer remember what day it is; she’ll never be able to know what day it is or make plans or recall what she’s done.
• My business is entirely based on my own capabilities; I’ll never be able to compete against a larger firm.

The other perspective involves seeing potential in a situation, instead of focusing on the limitations.

As in:

• It’s going to be a great day! It’s going to be the fun! (Her words.)
• I can complement that other firm, and we can both support our mutual client. We’re stronger together.

There will always be limitations — personal and professional. The important thing is how you deal with them.

The image illustrates my point.

Practicing her writing skills (which have diminished), she’s still able to demonstrate a depth of emotion that’s more important than a perfect cursive stroke.

The practice is important, but recognizing the potential is inspiring and humbling.

One occurred while visiting a friend who lives in a remote corner of the city, who happens to have a property that abuts a small lake, fed by three streams. It’s an older house, simple and gracious, and it’s obvious that my friends there spend most of their time outdoors.  He took me on little walk through the property — first down to the lakebed, where I spotted the snapping turtles near the Russian iris in bloom, around little mounded flower bed overflowing and lush, then curving along the stream over to the upper gardens. Rounding the curve, there’s a sudden surprise — delight everywhere you look. From the tidy vegetable garden to the abundant roses and old-fashioned treats (pawpaws, buckeyes, Japanese dogwood, clematis, phlox, giant lilies and dozens more, both native and exotic) it was moment after moment of glorious exploration touching, smelling, joyous appreciation of this otherworldly garden. There were birds everywhere and we were on watch for a snake and other woodland critters, all the more fun. A magical moment.

A second moment that overwhelmed was under vastly different circumstances. We were attending a Bach Aria Soloists concert, held in the ample living room of a neighbor and acquaintance. There were about 60 people in this front room, listening in rapt attention to the beautiful music. Then, a cello solo –  Bach’s Suite No. 4, one of my most favorites. I felt as though the world dissolved for a moment and all that existed was this extraordinary sound, threading and hanging in the air, wafting and dissolving. I closed my eyes and held hands with my beloved and savored the moment, filled with joy.

A third moment was almost a blending of the other two — a combination of a beautiful vast horizon of undulating lush hills all around, and the Kansas City Symphony. I was happy just with the vista, watching the cattle and the wild swallows at dusk, the occasional cowboy riding along in or out of the view. I was enjoying this with some 3000 other people, quietly relaxing on blankets or foldout chairs, on this natural amphitheater-like hillside.

As I relived these moments later, it occurred to me that I was missing something. These were not random moments, but the result of hours and hours of devotion and passion. There was work, heartfelt work, handprints on each, that made the difference. I was the beneficiary of the passion that went into each of those magical moments.

Was it work? Or a slow accumulation of invested dedication and passion? There need not be a difference, I understand, between working and living, between labor and labor of love.

It’s not magic at all.

Kansas City Blues in Aspen 2009

There’s a routine that my husband goes through, painstakingly, whenever he gets to play rugby.

It’s remarkably similar to what all the guys on the team go through. And remarkably similar to how ruggers all over the world prepare.

First, there’s dressing — shorts, socks, boots.

Then the ointment. You can smell Icy Hot and all the other ointments and rubs all over the field on game day.

Next comes the tape. Bind up anything that might come loose or need a little support. Some guys will tape their wrists. Some tape up their boots — around the sole and up over the ankles — so they won’t come off. Some guys will tape their little finger to the next littlest one. After the athletic tape comes the electrical tape, which guys will wind around the head to hold their ears on. (I’m not kidding.)

Then the protective gear, which might include a back or waist brace, shoulder pads, rib padding, knee brace and ankle brace. Some wear a soft helmet, too.

Next, off with the ring and watch, handed over to me for safekeeping.

Then comes the warm up. Some stretch, an elaborate routine; some partner up and start pushing in preparation for the scrum; some jog around, some skip and jump, generally limbering up. After a while, they’re all out, tossing the ball and running drills.

It’s more than a routine, it’s a ritual. It is invested with symbolism and tradition, an act of preparation, both physical and emotional.

A serious preparation, it is a cautious and deliberate process, each step taking the rugger a bit closer to the game: ready for the run, ready for the scrum, ready for the contact.

As with any ritual, there’s meaning invested in each phase. Rituals honor the event; rituals show respect. There is a commitment in investing in the ritual, and in a team ritual like this, there is collaboration and camaraderie. Sure, there’s bravado and swagger, joking and poking fun –masking other emotions or part of the ritual, I can’t say. Maybe both. But the ritual is personal.

Watching a lot of rugby on a recent weekend got me comparing the preparations, and noting the similarities, even between international teams. I started thinking about my own rituals: making coffee in the morning, sitting down to write, preparing for a dinner party.

Not so different. I love the process of making coffee — the aroma of the ground beans, the clear cool fresh water, then the slow gurgle of the drip, the frothy pour and ahhh — the first sip! Anticipation of the outcome is one of the hidden underlying steps of the ritual.

For writing, I have my own set of preparations, both physical and emotional. I turn on the light and the computer, I clear away distractions in email/tweets/posts, etc., and I think about the story. Whoever might read it, what will they feel? What words will be important? Sometimes I need research and I take notes by hand — silly, but I feel as though I can absorb the knowledge better, more intimately, than taking notes on a computer. There are other steps, but then I’m IN the game. It’s on. It’s happening and the ritual has worked its primordial energy again.

There’s a richness to ritual, but rituals are easy to overlook… as routine. Sometimes they become so common as to be boring, just a social rite. But if you dig, there’s still meaning underneath the routine.

I’ve started looking more and I find more to savor the closer I look at the preparations. Rituals give comfort and apply balm to trepidation. Rituals are sweet, a commitment to engagement, a show of respect and an act of love.

I’m paying closer attention to my own routines, and as I do, and I’m finding that the more I prepare, the more engaged and energetic and committed I am. Maybe there’s a business case for rituals…

Her work is modern and non-traditional; her technique is to patiently draw and color tiny shapes in fluid lines until her page is utterly full.

The result is a swirling mass of colors, with an illusion of movement. Often there will be a surprising omission in the pattern, a jarring break in the movement that forces a deeper look at the image.

A bit of her background: She has worked for 25 years at her local public library, and now holds the distinction of being the longest-serving employee there.

You wouldn’t describe her as an athlete, although she competed in gymnastics and swimming with respectable results during her school years.  But is fanatical about the workout routine she follows at Curves, where she is an inspiration to friends and staffers.

She loves to travel and one of her favorite things is dining out and trying new foods.

She loves music of all types. She’s quick to start up a song by herself in the car with family, and she loves live music, especially Irish traditional by Eddie Delahunt.

But her art is her passion.

She starts by laying out her colored pens in an arrangement of her design.  Next she makes a few foundational points on the page — defining if the work will be based on circles, triangles, squares or lines.

The foundational points might be at the corners, or in a cluster somewhere on the page. From there, she fills in the rest with alternating colors in a pattern she can see at the outset.

Her name is Beth Tracewell, and (full disclosure) she is my sister, and in many ways, my teacher.

She does her art because she loves doing it.  It’s that simple.

She reminds me to be open to possibilities, to embrace creativity in any form. Sometimes she astounds me with the things she can see, sometimes making me feel blind.

She doesn’t worry about things she doesn’t understand, but she loves to learn new things and she takes delight in exploring the new.

Being around her is a reminder to refocus.  Somehow, that’s what she accomplishes with her art, too.

I recently read a wonderful book, Playing the Enemy, Nelson Mandela and the Game that Made a Nation, by John Carlin. It’s packaged as a sports book but it’s much more — contemporary history and a study of the  leadership skills of Nelson Mandela.

I’ll admit up front that Mandela has long been a hero of mine. I remember my early awareness of Mandela, when I was just a high school student — it was an early experience of outrage that this man had been behind bars for nearly my entire life. I loved the anthem to him and did my part to avoid doing business with apartheid-supporting business (I remember running out of gas once because I refused to stop at a Shell Oil gas station).

But what I didn’t really understand until I read this book is how Mandela used his personal communication and collaboration skills to knit the country together, one person at a time. And that his power as a communicator was such that each person he engaged also spread the message to an ever-widening circle of people as well. His strategy brought black support to the so-called “white man’s game” to gain the unity of the entire nation.

The book describes the power of rugby, which is practically a religion in South Africa. The game is emotionally charged, though, as South Africa’s team had been notoriously racist — an embodiment of white supremist rule — and  as a result had been banned from international play as a protest against apartheid. In 1995, the ban dropped after Mandela’s election to presidency, South Africa’s Springboks have a shot at the World Cup.

Where others saw a sporting event, Mandela saw the potential to unite a nation.  He collaborates, quietly and effectively, using his legendary charm until he has won over each member of the team. They are humbled by his attention, by his interest in them and he helps them see that they can represent something much greater. The team demonstrates their commitment to Mandela by learning the South African Black resistance anthem and singing it at the games. The black population turns rugby-mad, and soon all political factions drop their former biases and unite in support of the team of young men playing for the championship.

But the team plays for more than just a title — they play for the honor of their country, for its redemption, for courage. I finished the book in tears, and in awe of the leadership lesson.

UPDATE: Clint Eastwood has the rights to the book and the film version has begun, with Morgan Freeman as Mandela and Matt Damon as the captain of Springboks rugby team. More details here.