Why I Started Reading The New York Times In Print (Yes, Print!) Again.

A photo posted by mynytimes (@mynytimes) on

About a month ago, I did something I hadn’t done in almost a decade: I started reading the print edition of the New York Times every morning.

You read that right: A 28-year-old working in digital media actually re-subscribed to the dead tree edition of the newspaper.

And here’s one more confession: I really, really like it.

I like that the paper helps me follow what’s happening in the world, and thanks to my new habit, I think I’m as curious as ever about all sorts of subjects. I love that I’m sending along more stories to friends (via email, of course — don’t worry, I’m not cutting out and mailing stories to friends), and I love the conversations that are coming out of those shared stories.

But most of all, I love the 20 minutes every morning of absolute quiet. The TV isn’t on. I’m not distracted by email, or a video shared on Facebook, or whatever just showed up on my phone. That 20 minutes in the morning where I’m reading the paper is my chance to read, be quiet, and think.

I’ve turned to various things over the years to find that quiet. When I lived in San Antonio, I practiced yoga. In Missouri, I worked out like it was my job. But right now, it’s the Times.

Everyone should have that time during the day to shut out the rest of the world and find quiet. The rest of our days are so hectic, and so full of everything. It’s wonderful (and maybe even necessary!) to have a tool that lets you find that peace — even if it’s only for a little while. Those are the minutes that help keep you sane.

I never thought that peace would cost $9 a week and show up on my doorstep wrapped in a rubber band every morning, but I’m awfully glad that it does.

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UPDATE: Right after I published this, the Times published a great essay on the importance of time away from our devices. It’s worth reading!

As for that photo at top: That is sadly not my breakfast. It’s from the @mynytimes Instagram account.

Another Chance To Do Better.

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This week marks the end of the Jewish High Holidays. I like the High Holidays for a lot of reasons: You get to see family members that you don’t see every day; you get to feel this connection to an incredible, ancient tradition; and you get to eat a ton of lox. (Mostly, I like the lox.) But the holidays mean something else to me: They’re an opportunity to spend time thinking about the year past — and the year ahead.

When I think back, I first think of the big things I did right: Goals accomplished, projects launched, and little victories that made the past year so special. Then I start thinking of the times where I erred: Failures in communication or execution, or wrongs committed. (There are, sadly, always a lot of these.)

And then I look ahead. And no matter what’s come before, I always remind myself: Next year is a new chance to do a little better. I’ll never be perfect, and I’ll never come close. I will certainly make mistakes. But the goal isn’t perfection: The goal is do a little better than before. If I can do 5 percent better this year, and 5 percent better the next, and 5 percent the year after that…. well, over time, all those 5 percents are going to add up to something pretty impressive.

So here’s another year — 5776 on the Jewish calendar, if you’re keeping score — and another chance to do a little better. Here goes.

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That photo of a sunset comes via Unsplash and photographer Mayur Gala.

Don’t Follow The Leaders.

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Here’s a very smart thing that someone told the New York Times this week:

“So if everybody is essentially doing the same thing, is anybody likely to get ahead?

That quote happens to be about — of all things — the surprisingly high-stakes world of convention center hotel construction. But it could just as easily be about the race to build the biggest car-sharing app (here in New York, I walk past ads for a half-dozen Uber competitors a day) or the biggest social network or the next big whatever. When one company launches a feature, their competitors follow right behind. When someone launches a new app, a thousand spin-offs are sure to come, too.

Everybody is doing the same things. So how do you get in ahead in a world like that?

We live in a world of copycats, but you don’t have to be one of them. Here’s my advice: Don’t follow the leaders.

When others zag, find another path and zig. It’s OK to ignore everyone else — there are thousands of niches out there, and there are opportunities for people who will do stuff that no one else is doing. Let everyone else compete on the same ideas while you compete on yours alone.

I’ve always tried to remind myself: It’s hard to run your own race, but it’s even harder to run someone else’s. So give yourself permission to be different. Your way may work, or it may not — but in the end, at least it’ll be your successes or your failures.

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That photo of birds flying together comes via Unsplash and Rowan Heuvel

For Whatever Lies Ahead.

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Stand in my shoes for a second. You’re standing on a hill above the Pacific, maybe an hour north of San Francisco. You kayaked here from a bay, across unexpectedly choppy water. Your arms are sore. You set up camp on the beach, and then you start hiking up this hill. You’re not sure how far away the Pacific is, but it’s there, you think, somewhere beyond the ridge. The hill rises straight up out of the bay. You go, up and up. At the top of the ridge is a fence, and you climb that. Beyond is what looks like miles and miles of nothing. Clouds, perhaps?

No, your friends tell you. The Pacific.

You walk closer, across the hill. It’s more clear from here. You look south. You’re so high up, the waves don’t seem to move. They’re frozen, rising but never breaking along the beach. The fog is moving in. You can see the path down the coastline, the hills breaking into cliffs, the cliffs diving into the Pacific. There is a narrow stretch of beach that rolls all the way south. The coast does not end; it fades into the fog. You can see a large, black mass in the distance. You cannot tell what it is, or see it clearly through the fog. But you know whatever it is, it’s there.

Imagine following that path, down the cliffs, down the beach, down to whatever lies beyond that fog. From this vantage point, you could look back, sure, and see the journey already traveled, and you can look forward just a little bit — just a few miles down the coast. Beyond that, the fog, and whatever happens next. There is a path, absolutely, but you don’t know where it leads, or how far it leads you.

Imagine yourself on that path: the Pacific on one side, the cliffs on another, the fog, and the road unknown ahead.

Ask yourself: If you were brave enough to go on that path, who would you bring with you?

I know what I would want: Someone to laugh with on the thousands of steps ahead; someone for support when the steps slowed; someone with the joy and the curiosity to push us onward. I’d bring Sally; I cannot imagine the path without her. She’s the best I know.

But who would you bring? Who would you want with you for the next thousand steps, and beyond? Who would you want for when the path gets strange, when the journey demands everything you can give?

Stand in my shoes for a second, and imagine the first of those steps, and the people you’ll need to get to whatever lies beyond the fog — and whatever lies beyond that. Imagine it. This is the path, and for whatever comes next, you’ll need the best people you have to travel it.

OK?

Onward.

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That photo of the Pacific coastline — and whatever lies ahead — comes via Unsplash and photographer Sebastien Gabriel.