The Better Blueprint

Which Handle Will You Hold?

Some things arrive in our lives as they are—uninvited, unkind, unpredictable. But what we do with them... that’s still ours.

There’s an old teaching from the Stoics I often come back to:
Every situation has two handles—one you can hold, and one that slips from your grip.

But this isn’t really about philosophy. It’s about mornings when a loved one speaks harshly. It’s about emails that unsettle us, memories that return unasked, the tone in someone’s voice that feels colder than expected.

We can reach for the sharp handle—the one that says they should know better, they always do this, why me again?
Or we can pause. Take a breath.
And reach for the other one.

The one that says:
We’ve shared laughter, too.
They are tired, perhaps.
I’ve been that way before.
Let me not harden because of this.

It’s not always easy. The wrong handle is often shinier. It demands to be held. But the right one—the quieter one—tends to carry better. It leaves fewer splinters. It reminds us that love is still present, even when patience wears thin.

This isn’t about pretending all is well. It’s about choosing not to be defined by what hurt us.

So, today, in the little frictions of life—when plans change, when people disappoint, when silence feels heavy—ask yourself:
Which handle am I holding?
And is there one that lets me walk a little lighter?

Sometimes, the path ahead doesn’t need fixing.
Just softer hands, and wiser holding.

A Great Quote

“May you awaken to the mystery of being here and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.
May you have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.
May you receive great encouragement when new frontiers beckon.
May you respond to the call of your gift and find the courage to follow its path.
May the flame of anger free you from falsity.
May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame and may anxiety never linger about you.
May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of soul.
Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.
Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.
May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder.”
— John O’Donohue

Book Review: “The Solace of Open Spaces by Gretel Ehrlich

Grief has a strange way of asking you to move. Sometimes not inward—but outward. Into open land. Into physical work. Into silence.

That’s where this book begins—not with resolution, but with motion. Gretel Ehrlich arrives in Wyoming after the death of someone she loved. There is no epiphany. No tidy narrative. Just space. A lot of it.

What unfolds is a collection of essays written not from a desk in comfort, but from inside the weather—on horseback, under wide skies, in mud and blizzards and dust. The Solace of Open Spaces isn’t a memoir. It’s more like a long breath taken while standing alone in the middle of nowhere.

What stays with you:

• The land is real. Not spiritualized. Not metaphor. Ehrlich doesn’t try to turn Wyoming into a symbol. She lets it be what it is—brutal, quiet, expansive. And in that, it begins to shape her. And us.

• Labor is the language. Grief isn’t spoken about directly here. It’s moved through—by mending fences, branding cattle, and waking up early. There’s something dignified in the way she doesn’t explain herself. She just shows up to work.

• The writing doesn’t reach for beauty—it finds it. Ehrlich’s sentences aren’t polished for performance. They feel lived in. At times, she writes with the weight of someone who's seen the world fall apart and has chosen, slowly, to stitch it back together.

What might not work for everyone:

• You have to meet it halfway. This isn’t a plot-driven book. It won’t guide you from page to page with suspense. You have to walk beside it, like through an open field, with no promise of a final destination.

• Emotion is implied, not spelled out. There’s no diary-like unpacking of sorrow. If you're looking for confession or catharsis, this book may feel distant. But if you’ve carried a quiet grief of your own, you’ll recognize the spaces between her words.

One sentence I won’t forget:

That one line stopped me. Not because it answered anything. But because it told the truth.

Should you read it?

Only if you're willing to slow down.

This book doesn’t offer comfort in the usual way. It doesn’t try to fix grief or decorate it. It just sits with it, in weathered boots, looking out across the horizon.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

P.S.: If this newsletter brought you calm, pass it on to someone who’d enjoy the silence too.

About : Welcome to our fortnightly journey—a space for reflection, growth, and quiet discovery. Each edition brings two deep dives into personal transformation, a handpicked quote to stir the soul and a review of a book that reshapes perspectives.