It’s only 9:35am, and I’ve already made some good decisions.

From the time I woke up until just a few moments ago, my options were:

Sleep in or go for a walk? (I walked).

Go for a walk first, or wash the dishes and wipe down the stove and then walk? (Came back from the walk to a clean kitchen).

Eat breakfast and play my New York Times brain-building games, or move the old chicken pen, wrapped in grapevines and anchored to the ground with quackgrass, filled with scraps of wood and rusty t-posts and sections of corrugated roofing and maybe a snake or two, with three large metal tube gates and a ten-foot section of cattle panel leaning against it? (Emptied and dug out the pen, felt like I’d earned my breakfast).

Eggs sunny-side up, or yogurt with nearly-fermented mangoes? (landed on the side of a bowlful of probiotics and one less container’s contents tossed on the compost pile).

Kinda makes you wonder what the rest of the day will offer, huh? I’m grateful every day for the choices I have. Easy ones, like those above. And tougher ones, the ones that make me squirm under their moral weightiness. Especially those. That’s where the growth is. That’s where the meaning lives.

My friends, we’ve all made—and continue to make—a wide range of decisions lately. Heck, this entire year has been an unsettling amalgamation of gut-wrench and coin-toss, leaving us at times breathless with worry or laughter (depends on the outcome, right?). I’m dedicated to finding that coveted middle ground, that place where extremes dissolve and we’re able to pause the drama button, maybe have a sandwich or get some good REM sleep. It’s that sweet spot in our encounters with one another where we really listen and don’t just shout across whatever banners we’re carrying. Where relationships matter more than opinions and we agree that there’s missing information each of us needs before we can draw that Conclusion that makes everything clear. It’s hard work, made messier by the fact that most choices we make aren’t just between two options but several. If you like buffets (and miss them; they’re mostly gone), you must be in your element right about now.

I’ve recently rediscovered and immersed myself in the “Dream Cast” concert rendition of Les Miserables, unfolded on the stage of the Royal Albert Hall in all it’s musical and lyrical splendor back in 1995 to celebrate the tenth anniversary of its West End production. It’s a rich and indulgent experience on its own, and a soothing soundtrack to accompany the time I spend in my studio creating hand-bound journals. But I put down my glue brush and give myself over to the scene where Enjolras and his fellow students wrestle with the fundamental choice between their positions of privilege and the unrelenting call to leverage it in service to their fellow citizens mired in poverty. One statement presses the question against all they’ve known and demands they make that choice: “It is time for us all to decide who we are.” Eleven well-placed words, and the gap between Hugo’s historic fictional France in 1815 and our own United States in 2020 evaporates.

If we’re paying attention, awake and alert, we face that decision every day. It doesn’t have to be in the context of a global pandemic or an election year.

It’s there in the moment we’re waiting for our pick-up order in the grocery store parking lot, keeping track of who’s wearing a mask and who isn’t, and passing judgment on another’s circumstance or character. It’s when we blurt out what we’re feeling, unfiltered and uncensored in a heated argument with someone we love, and immediately wish we could take those barbed words back. It’s snark versus silence, sacrifice against self-interest, integrity over convenience. I bump into and sometimes trip over these options numerous times in the hours between breakfast and lunch, and wonder, again, what choices the rest of the day will offer me, all in an effort to help sharpen my conscience and keep it agile.

When all that doesn’t matter is stripped away, who am I still? What remains that is worth nurturing, worth stretching, worth polishing and refining? And, dear ones, worth celebrating? I may have shared this with you in a long-ago post, but it’s worth a rerun: my late psychologist father used to say, “Self-revelation is not for the squeamish.” A timeless and timely observation, especially now. What do I really care about? What do I really want in these days of turmoil, with all of us in the grip of such relentless uncertainty? If I’m going to answer that, I need to know who I am. I need to know what I stand for, and what I won’t tolerate, what’s unfinished and what’s beyond my influence. I can’t sugar-coat it this time. It wouldn’t be helpful. At the end most days, I’m humbly aware that I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got right where I am, and that there’s a LOT more work to do. I lean on grace often, and hope the sun comes up another day so that I’ll have another chance to choose what’s right instead of what’s easy. When what’s right is what’s easy, I celebrate with gratitude.

The pandemic will eventually be tamed, and November will present us with fresh challenges, no matter what the outcome. Between now and then, and afterwards, we still need to decide who we are.

I can think of no more important question than that. Believe me, I’ve tried.