Should I?

I’ve been beating myself up lately because it feels like I’m not doing enough. Can you relate? I bet you can.

There are a lot of shoulds.

I should work on my Instagram. I should grow my followers. I should start a TikTok and restart my YouTube page. I should network more. I should take a design class. And a drawing class (based on a recent game of Pictionary over Thanksgiving, this one feels urgent). I should write a new blog post and optimize my website. I should send out a newsletter.

I should. I should. I should.

The shoulds are never-ending. And this doesn’t even account for the ones in your personal life.

As the shoulds pile up and compete for your attention—often waking you up at 3 a.m. to plead their case—it’s almost impossible to escape that feeling of not doing enough, that vague sense you’re letting someone down.

Sometimes we seek out these shoulds as a way to convince ourselves we’re making progress, even if they don’t move the needle where it really matters.

And sometimes, the shoulds are a sneaky way to avoid the work that’s right in front of us. For example, I might be working on a wall and catch myself thinking, I really should make a new Reel—right now. It’s easy to convince myself that creating content or tackling some other task, any other task, is more important than focusing fully on the work I’m already doing.

None of these shoulds are bad in and of themselves. They’re often helpful. And many do need to get done at some point. But they aren’t the main thing. Too often, we sacrifice the main thing for the secondary things.

Right now, my main thing is the stone project I’m working on. It deserves my full attention. Instead of fretting about not doing the things I think I should to secure the next project, I need to focus on this one.

Good luck with this. I should go start that drawing class now.

Enough

I went for a walk along the Farmington River in Connecticut, trying in vain to undo the Thanksgiving eating fiasco from the day before.

It was one of those walking and biking trails that used to be railroad tracks. I wish we had one like it where I live in Maine.

At one point along the trail, there was an informative sign about an artist from the late 1800s. I’m guessing he used to paint there. To be honest, I skimmed the details.

My first reaction was judgmental. Why would someone paint here, of all places? I mean, it was nice, but there was nothing dramatic about it. It wasn’t the kind of scene that stops you in your tracks. Nobody was stopping to take selfies.

But then I noticed the flowing river, the rocks, the trees—sycamores and oaks—with sunlight filtering through their branches. It was quiet. Peaceful. Lovely, even.

What made me think he should have been somewhere else, painting something bigger, bolder, more awe-inspiring? What made me think a more impressive landscape would have made him a more impressive artist?

I’d fallen into a familiar, all too common trap.

I suspect many of us often feel like we should be somewhere else, doing something else, being someone else. Why is the here and now never enough?

What makes us think something better is always waiting around the next bend in the river? Not this moment, but the next one. Not here, but there. Not this project, the one after it.

That artist painted what was in front of him. Can we learn to do the same?

Rt 27

I’m working in my hometown. The place I grew up. The place that, in some ways, I’ve never fully left – even though I don’t live here anymore. I still read the local paper every week, scanning the police blotter and obituaries for familiar names and catching up on the drama in the letters to the editor. My parents live here. I still measure time and distance by how far a place is from town. Boston? About three hours. Brunswick? Forty-five minutes.

Driving down the Rt 27 peninsula this morning, the sun coming out after some needed rain, misty sunlight on the wet trees, passing places and faces I’ve known my whole life, I feel like a kid again. And not in a particularly good way. There are more happy memories here than I can count. But it’s not a warm and fuzzy nostalgia I’m feeling this morning. It feels like I’m crawling back into a cracked cocoon.

It feels like I haven’t grown up. Like I’m not an adult. It feels like I have to raise my hand to ask permission to speak. Like I’m waiting for a teacher or a coach to tell me what to do next. 

I don’t feel this way anywhere else. Thankfully, I don’t feel it here very often. 

Steve

After the client asked us to move things a little to the left, Steve and I had to figure out how to implement that change. We had different ideas about how to proceed, which is one of the reasons I love working with Steve.

Steve is a fellow stoneworker who runs his own business, like I do. From time to time, we team up to tackle bigger projects. This kind of collaboration is common in stonework these days. Many of us prefer staying small because managing large teams or building big companies would pull us away from the hands-on work we love. At the same time, stonework is labor-intensive, and sometimes you need extra hands to get the job done.

But working with Steve isn’t just about having an extra set of hands. It’s about having another sharp mind on the project. He’s laid more stones on this wall than I have and built its most prominent features. That alone makes his contribution invaluable. But it’s more than that:

I trust his opinions. I want to hear his ideas.

When I work on other people’s projects, I aim to be the kind of collaborator I’d want on my job site. I show up and do the work. But, if I’m honest, I don’t feel as fully engaged when I’m not on the hook for the outcome. The responsibility of solving creative problems and owning the vision is what makes me feel truly invested.

I want Steve to feel that kind of ownership too, at least as much as possible when it’s not his own project. It makes the work better. And selfishly, I hope it makes him more likely to join me on the next project.

One way to encourage that, other than bribing him with donuts and breakfast sandwiches, is by creating a space where he feels comfortable voicing his ideas. That doesn’t mean every idea will make the cut, but every idea deserves to be heard.

Steve and I had differing ideas about how to implement the client’s change to the layout of this unique wall. We talked it through. As I had done with the client, I listened fully to Steve’s idea. I visualized it in my mind. I thought about how it would ripple through the rest of the project. I held it up against my own idea. And then I trusted my gut.

My gut said to go with Steve’s idea.

This sounds simple, but collaboration rarely is. It’s natural to want your idea to win or to hold back when you’re competing with more confident voices. And then there’s the power dynamic. It’s my project. I designed it. I’m writing the checks. The final result, good or bad, rests on my shoulders.

Collaboration requires navigating egos, power dynamics, and the courage to trust other voices—or stand firm when necessary. I’m still learning how to do this.

How do you approach collaboration on your projects? Does it always go smoothly?

A Little to the Left

When a client asks you to change something, how do you react? Do you get a knot in your stomach just thinking about it? A little ball of anxiety? Do you get a little butt-hurt?

I designed our current project over a year ago. It was still t-shirt weather when we started construction in September. Last week, I spent my time cleaning up the first phase and getting ready for the next: excavating for footings, installing a crushed stone base, moving and organizing the multiple tons of stone we’ll use, and setting up the batter frames and string lines to guide the shape and size of the arched stone wall we’re building.

Before laying the first stone, I asked the client for his opinion. He suggested a change.

When I asked what he thought, it wasn’t a trick question. I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, hoping he’d tell me everything is perfect and I’m a genius. We’ve all asked for an opinion when what we really want is validation. I genuinely wanted his input, knowing full well the can of worms I might be opening.

I listened to his idea. Really listened. I pictured the change in my head, visualizing how it would interact with the work we’d already done and the work still to come.

It was a good idea. It was the right call.

This was such a quick, seemingly simple interaction, but it could have gone wrong in so many ways.

• I could have ignored his idea with a "how dare he question me" attitude and not given it my full attention.

• Afraid to offend “the artist,” he might have stayed silent and regretted it every time he walked past the wall for the next twenty years (it’s a unique design directly in front of his new house).

• I could have dismissed his suggestion out of pride or resisted it out of laziness because it meant redoing some of the prep work I’d already done.

• I could have agreed to the change but resented it because it wasn’t “my” idea.

• I could have hated the idea but, afraid to stand my ground, gone along with it anyway, letting my vision for the project get diluted.

• He could have micromanaged the implementation of the change, eroding the trust between us.

But instead, we both did what needed to be done. He spoke up. I listened. We moved forward with the idea that best served the project—and that’s the point.

How do you handle it when a client asks you to move something a little to the left?

Unemployable

A friend at a stone supplier I work with was venting about their struggles finding help. Jokingly, he asked if I wanted to fill out an application. I laughed and told him I’m unemployable.

He laughed too—maybe a little too readily. “Yeah,” he said, “after working solo for so long, you definitely are.”

I detected a hint of disdain in his laugh, but I took it as a badge of honor. The last thing I want is to be employed.

I don’t even like the term self-employed. I don’t want to work for anybody—especially me.

Saying you’re self-employed feels too much like having a job. A job where the office and the boss are both in your own head, nagging you to punch the clock and keep up with quotas. Worse, in this nightmare scenario, my boss and I are stuck in the same meat-suit 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

I don’t want a job. I want to work. I want to create, to contribute, to make money. But a job? No, thank you.

Self-directed? Absolutely.

Self-starter? On my good days.

Self-indulgent? Occasionally guilty.

Self-obsessed? I hope not.

But self-employed? There’s gotta be a better name for it.

SSW

I kept getting lost. I had to create a compass.

Not lost in the woods. I didn’t drive a stick into the ground and study its moving shadow to decipher north from south. I’m no Boy Scout.

I kept saying yes to the wrong projects.

I knew the kind of work I wanted to be doing, and that clarity is the first step. But knowing and doing are two different things. At some point, you can’t just talk about your thing; you have to do it. So, how do you start?

For me, it’s meant saying yes to the right projects and no to everything else.

It sounds simple, especially when I see the words here on the page. And it would be if we were all Spock-like, unencumbered by our humanity. 

My partner, Eliza, is also self-employed. We’re both good at walking each other through decisions. From that slightly detached position, the way forward is often clear. But when it’s your own project, your own dilemma, things get murky. Rationality gets overridden by fears, hopes, dreams, exhaustion, hangriness, miscommunications, irrational judgments, hormones, burnout, even a sugar high.

It’s easy to give someone else advice; it’s harder to follow your own.

I can’t run to Eliza every time I need to make a decision. So, I created a compass for myself:

The 3 P’s

People, Project, Profit.

Here’s how it works. Let’s say I get a new project inquiry, something intriguing. I get a little dopamine rush. Someone reached out to me, they want my work. My fingers are halfway to typing “yes” before I’ve even finished reading the email. But that’s when I stop myself and run it through my filter.

• People: Will I enjoy working with these people? Will we be a good fit? Are there collaborators? Other stoneworkers? Design professionals? Because no project, at any dollar amount, is worth it if the people aren’t a good match.

• Project: What’s the project itself? Is this the kind of work I’m excited to be doing? I’ve already spent time defining the work that matters to me, so this question should be straightforward. Does it fit my criteria? If not, say no. Say it now.

• Profit: Not every project needs to be a goldmine, but to do your best work it needs to be profitable.  That’s how business works. That’s the only way I can keep doing the work I love. Does the budget allow for quality work?

In an ideal world, all three boxes get checked. It sounds simple, right? And it is, until your schedule has a bit too much white space that you’re anxious to fill, or a project you’re not thrilled about comes along and you tell yourself, “maybe they’ll hire me for the work I really want to do down the road.” They won’t, by the way. They never do. Clients don’t think about our hopes and dreams. That’s on us. We have to be the ones to choose the projects that align our vision for our work with our service to our clients.  Anyway, all kinds of scenarios can arise to talk you into saying yes to a project when you should say no.

So there it is, my compass. Give it a try next time a project comes your way. Answer these questions honestly, and then see if you have the courage to say no when things don’t line up. Let me know how it goes.

Ralph

Yesterday morning, before work, I read from a book of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson. It’s writing I’ve returned to again and again over the years, finding something new each time. At twenty, Emerson’s ideas felt like a promise; now, in my forties, they feel like a reminder. Yesterday, those words lifted my spirits near the end of a long week. On the drive to work, I felt a little more alive, a little more “self-reliant.”

At least, for the first part of the drive. As my third coffee of the morning waned and I got closer to the job site, I could feel that energy shifting. Enthusiasm was morphing into anxiety, tightening into a tension in the back of my neck. Maybe it was the daunting task of translating Emerson’s lofty words into real-life actions. What was I thinking reading something so uplifting before work? Or maybe it was just too much coffee.

But when I got out of the truck and saw the wall we’ve been working on for weeks, that tension shifted into a familiar barrage of self-doubt. I saw each uneven stone, each imperfect line, and suddenly, the task ahead felt impossible.

I know by now this is just part of the deal when undertaking any creative project: feelings change not just day to day but often hour by hour, sometimes minute by minute. What starts as hope or inspiration can turn into frustration or doubt without warning.

I wish I could work only when I feel perfectly ready, when I’m fully energized, when everything’s flowing, when I feel like my best self. But that’s a fantasy. I couldn’t live off the handful of hours a year I feel that way.

Sometimes stonework is a slog.

I’m forty-six. There are days my body doesn’t want to pick up rocks for eight hours. There are days when, after a rough night’s sleep, my mind struggles to keep up with the thousands of micro-decisions that go into building a stone wall. There are days it feels like my body and mind unionize and go on strike.

I’m getting better at showing up and doing the work anyway. It’s the only way the work gets done. And maybe that’s the real lesson in self-reliance—not in waiting for the perfect moment, but in building one stone at a time, doubts and all.

What’s Your Numba?

How much are you charging for your work? Whatever it is, it’s probably not enough.

It may feel like there’s a limit to how much you can charge, some number fixed in six yards of concrete. But that limit isn’t real. It’s a construct of your mind.

Years ago, I worked as a mason’s tender, mixing mortar and lugging bricks, blocks, and stone. I made thirteen dollars an hour. I had no idea at the time, but that number would act as a pricing anchor for much of my career.

A few years later, when I took on my first solo project for a family friend, he asked me my rate. A fair question. But somehow, I hadn’t thought about it. I didn’t really think it was up to me. Nervously, I said $18 an hour. He shook his head, said it made for difficult math, and we settled on $20.

I thought I was rich. Compared to my previous rate, I was.

But this created a problem: I didn’t know what my time was worth, so I let someone else decide for me. Rather than stating what I wanted, it was easier to accept someone else’s idea of what I deserved. That single decision laid the groundwork for a mindset that would be hard to shake, leading me to underprice my work for years.

Of course, I didn’t realize any of this at the time. Don, that family friend, was just trying to help me out. And twenty dollars an hour felt immense, until it didn’t. Eventually, I found the courage to charge a new client five dollars more an hour. To my surprise, the world didn’t stop. They didn’t even blink. Why would they? They didn’t know I used to charge twenty. They didn’t know I used to make thirteen. I didn’t realize it then, but they were still getting a hell of a deal. And I felt like I was rich again.

This cycle has continued for years. The new, impossibly high rate I fretted about charging soon begins to feel like not enough. And slowly but surely, I find the gall to raise it again.

There are better, more strategic ways to approach pricing. You can research market rates, consider value-based pricing, or understand the full worth of your skillset. But this has been my path: a series of gradual adjustments, each one challenging the boundary of what I thought I could charge.

Sure, market forces play their role. Our rates need some grounding in reality. But the true limit has always been internal. The rate I charge today would have been unfathomable to my younger self. And yet, I’m already starting to feel that familiar sense that this rate too isn’t enough.

Maybe deep down no rate will ever feel like enough. We’re assigning a monetary value to something priceless: our time. Even though I love what I do, my rate represents an hour of my life I’m trading for money. I’d better make sure each hour is worthwhile.

So, what’s really holding you back from raising your rates today? Trust me, you’re probably not charging enough.

Nitro

As kids, when we needed a break from basketball and razzing each other, we’d walk from the Y down to the Meadow Market to load up on sugar and restart the razzing in a new location. They had an arcade game called Off Road, the kind of video game you put quarters into and had to stand up to play. It was in the corner next to the lone booth by the big window and adjacent to a rack of candy that had ten-cent options like Airheads and Lemonheads and that one, what was it called? that was basically a stick made of sugar that you dipped into a pouch filled with sugar and after you’d finished the pouch you ate the chalky stick. Across from that rack was the slush puppy machine. In the back they had pizza by the slice and a refrigerated wall of soda. Mellow Yellow and Mountain Dew were the favorites. 

I’m sure they sold stuff for adults too. They must have. There must have been loaves of bread and coffee filters and cans of dog food, but I can’t picture any of it. I don’t even remember ever seeing adults in there. Charley Brown got it right. We were at the age when the world felt like it was made for us kids. The important things were basketball, a sugar fix, and that arcade game.

It was a truck racing game. If you earned enough points during the race, you could activate the nitro button. You could hit it and get a big burst of speed, jetting you ahead of the competition if timed right. I was never good at video games, but wow, wasn’t it fun to feverishly tap that nitro button with your left hand, crank the steering wheel with your right, and watch that little truck on the screen tear around a corner while your friends both cheered you on and mocked your performance.

So, what does this trip down memory lane have to do with stonework? Bear with me, there is a point here.

A lot of the younger people I’ve had the pleasure of working with in stonework are hitting the nitro button and accelerating their careers.

Clarity is proving to be the boost.

There’s a myth that just because someone has been doing something for a long time, they should be better than someone who is new to a craft. But that’s not really how it works. You don’t need years and years of experience to be good. You need concentrated experience focused on the right things. That’s the nitro. It’s the quality of your focus. These young folks are getting really good, really fast because they’re so focused on dry-laid stonework.

Just because you have time in a field doesn’t mean you’ve used it well.

Have you been focused on your thing, or did your time and energy get diluted?

It’s okay if it did.

Find that clarity now. Hit the nitro button.

WHYoming

A forest fire thirty miles away choked the air with so much smoke it felt like a foggy morning back in Maine. On clear days, Wyoming’s blue sky reveals the towering Grand Tetons above Jenny Lake. On this day, you could only feel their presence, hidden behind a veil of smoke. Nine of us gathered by the lake, mulling around its rocky edges on an October afternoon. The lake temp was in the forties. I didn’t want to, but I knew I was going to get in that water.

A few weeks ago I left home to finish the final phase of a project in Jackson Hole, one we’d been working on for three years. I resisted that, too. I didn’t want to come back for one last push. I knew what lay in store.

Most of the ten-hour days were purely physical—breaking down rough slabs of limestone into usable chunks. We flipped them, rolled them, dragged them into position, and smashed them with sledgehammers. I ate like a hog every night and still lost five pounds in eight days.

But the hardest part wasn’t the work. It was leaving—leaving Eliza, leaving home, leaving the ongoing projects I’m excited about. Why leave all that when there’s nothing I’m running from?

The people.

I want to wrestle rocks and talk strategy with Bryce from Massachusetts. I want to catch up with Matt and Jabez from Connecticut and hear about their projects. Has James from Kentucky found any new arrowheads? Is Jessea from New Zealand still chasing an endless summer? How are things with Nels in Nevada City? And how did Ursa, half my age, already get so good?

I’ve been lucky to work with these folks and others from all over the country. There’s nothing like shared hard labor under the pressure of a deadline to form deep bonds. These are my people. This is how we connect. That’s why I go to Wyoming.

Near the end of the trip, we gathered at Jenny Lake. The smoke was thick, the water freezing. I’m not one for cold plunges, but I knew I had to go in. It hurt like hell. My breath caught in my chest from the shock, but I eventually composed myself. By the time I got out I was calm, grounded, and oddly euphoric.

No More Questions

[This is part 4 of 4 in a series about a questionnaire I recently answered.]

I still haven’t implemented the changes Shelley recommended for my website. Despite my procrastination, I’m getting a lot of mileage out of our work together.

Shelley is a marketing professional I hired to improve my website. She didn’t just want to send a stronger signal into the depths of the web for anyone to find. She wanted to target my website to a very distinct group of people: my ideal clients.

My work isn’t for everyone. Neither is yours. Nor should it be. Trying to be everything to everyone is a road to nowhere—I’ve been down that road. When I first got into this business, I said yes to every project and every person that came my way. For some reason, I thought that’s what I had to do. But as I’ve grown, I’ve found more clarity in the work I want to be doing and the people I want to be doing it with.

That clarity has allowed me to focus on three distinct types of clients—each drawn to stonework in different ways, but all sharing a deep connection with stone. Even though I haven’t followed through with Shelley’s suggestions yet, question four of her questionnaire gave me a chance to reconnect with my thoughts on my ideal clients. Who are they? Where are they? How can I serve them?

WHO IS THE TARGET AUDIENCE/CLIENT FOR YOUR WEBSITE?

My website should be targeted to three distinct groups of people, bound by a love for stone: homeowners, landscape architects, and public or private institutions.

Homeowners

My ideal clients aren’t just looking for stonework—they’re seeking a deeper connection with their property through stone. They want more than a beautiful result; they want to be involved in the process and feel a bond with the person creating it. For them, it’s important to work with someone who shares their vision and brings creativity to the project.

For example, one of my current clients is building a new home with a general contractor, but they chose to collaborate directly with me for the stonework. This way, they could be more hands-on with design decisions and be part of the creative process. We’ve walked the site together, discussed the placement of key stones, and made sure the stonework reflects their vision for the property.

They see stone not just as a material, but as a medium for transforming their property. They value unique, creative stonework—dry-laid walls, mossy boulders, and stone art that feels alive in the landscape. For them, stonework isn’t just a functional or decorative element; it’s an art form that brings a sense of place and identity to their home. They view stonework as an investment, both financially and emotionally.

Landscape Architects

Design professionals who understand how natural stone can elevate a project. For them, stonework is not an afterthought but a central design element. They value working with someone who shares their obsession with craftsmanship and creativity. Together, we can inspire their clients to invest in stonework, knowing it will transform their landscape and become a worthy, lasting investment.

Institutions

I’ve loved working on projects at the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens, where creativity and collaboration come together, and thousands of visitors get to experience the stonework every year. It’s deeply satisfying knowing the work we create becomes part of a place enjoyed by so many

I’d love to collaborate with more institutions like public gardens, parks, and wellness centers—places that value stone as a medium for creativity and art, providing the public with access to beautiful, meaningful spaces.

___________

As I’ve refined my vision for Norton Stoneworks, I’ve realized that not every project is the right fit. I can’t work with everyone who wants stonework. That’s too broad. My focus is on clients who share a connection to stone and see it as more than just a material; it’s art that shapes their space.

Have you identified your ideal clients? Who truly aligns with your work and vision? Who can you best serve?

Corey

When we were boys, my friend Corey knew exactly what he wanted to be when we grew up. While I was still daydreaming about being the next Michael Jordan, Corey wanted to be like Clyde, his lobsterman grandfather. On Saturday mornings I’d be in my parent’s driveway pretending to take the winning shot in the final seconds of the NBA Finals—narrated in my best broadcaster voice—and Corey would be hauling traps with Clyde. By the time I was looking at colleges and trying to decide what to do with my life, Corey was deciding what size lobster boat to buy and looking at houses.

I thought he was crazy at the time. But now I appreciate the clarity Corey had at such a young age. He knew what he wanted to do, and he did it. I don’t know if he ever had a dark night of the soul, wondering what the hell to do with his life. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t think of Corey as a lobsterman. He still is, all these years later.

It’s been a longer path to clarity for me. A path I’m enjoying. A path I’m still on.

Yes or No

Introducing the Three P's: How I Decide When to Say Yes or No to a Project

In the past twelve months, I’ve only worked for five clients.

I don’t need a high volume of clients to stay busy, so I need to be selective. That means saying no to 80 or 90 percent of the potential projects that come my way.

Saying no hasn’t always been easy for me. In fact, it used to be one of the hardest parts of running my business. But over time, I developed a system that helps me make these decisions more clearly and confidently. I call it the Three P’s: Project, People, and Profit.

This system acts as a filter. Before committing to a new project, I ask myself three key questions:

Project: Does this project fit within the vision I have for my business? Is it the kind of work I want to be doing? Am I excited about spending weeks or even months working on this?

People: What’s it going to be like working with these people? Are they a good fit for me? Am I for them? Will we enjoy working together and collaborate effectively?

Profit: Does the budget allow me to do my best work? Each project, no matter its size, has to be profitable. Otherwise, I can’t put my full energy into it.

In an ideal situation, a project would check all three of these boxes. When it does, saying yes is easy. But even if one or two areas aren’t perfect, having this framework helps me make clearer decisions about whether or not to move forward.

I’ve struggled over the years with choosing the right projects, but the Three P’s have become an essential guide for me. This is the beginning of a larger conversation I want to have about how to choose the work that aligns with your vision, values, and goals.

House Warming

Small talk has never come easily to me. Unless it’s about dogs or rocks, I never know what to say at parties. 

At a housewarming this weekend, I made a point to avoid talking shop. These design professionals are colleagues, and I didn’t want anyone feeling like they were still at the office.

There’s often a wall between designers and builders. We’re in the same industry, working on the same projects, but it’s like we’re distant cousins at a wedding—related but unsure what to talk about. 

Some draw rocks on paper, some break them with sledgehammers.

On Saturday I didn’t feel any separation from working on opposite sides of a blueprint. I felt like I was with my peers. 

Maybe that’s because I no longer see myself as just a tradesman. I do work in the trades, but it doesn’t define me the way it used to.

Not that long ago, I would have felt anxious at a housewarming like this. I wouldn’t have been able to ignore the fact that these designers could possibly send some great projects my way. I would have been trying too hard to say the right thing and make the right impression. I would have been so focused on that, I might have missed the afternoon light on the meadow behind the barn, the kids taking turns dragging each other across the lawn on a sled, the three large dogs chasing and being chased.

On Saturday, I wasn’t trying to get anything from anyone. I wasn’t trying to appear professional or make a certain impression. Maybe I’ll work with some of them in the future. Maybe not. I was just enjoying a housewarming on a beautiful October afternoon.

There’s a certain freedom in that shift—a relaxed indifference. 

Settling In

I was only in Wyoming for ten days.

I returned home yesterday to find Maine transformed. The landscape is ablaze with fall colors. The forests are engulfed in a slow-motion fire, the green leaves of summer burning into gold and crimson before fading to brown.

I changed in that short time, too. Yes, just ten days. Not in some grand, autumnal hymn kind of way. I’m not trading in my hammers for a cowboy hat. It’s more subtle.

When I returned home last night, I found my usual routine disrupted. We all have routines, whether we’re conscious of them or not. They guide us through our days. Who has the stamina to decide anew each morning when to get up, what to eat for breakfast, when to leave for work, where to stop for gas, who’s cooking dinner?

This morning, home from Wyoming but not forced to fully re-enter my life in Maine just yet, I woke with no alarm telling me to get up, no calendar dictating where I need to go today, no clock deciding it’s time for breakfast and a shower. Free from the constructs that keep society moving, I feel a little out of sorts, a little unsettled—and I have to admit, I like it.

Our routines give us comfort. I love my normal morning routine: waking early, sipping coffee under a low light in a quiet room, without many thoughts or burdens on my mind. In the evening, I love reconnecting with Eliza on that same couch, sinking into the comfort of sharing the ups and downs of the day.

But other routines can feel stale. Travel creates just enough space to pause and shake off the dust. It gives us the chance to step back and reevaluate the routines—and the lives—we’ve created.

Right now, tired and dazed from the travel and time changes, I feel strangely fresh. Open to possibility. I could be anyone. Do anything. Right now, I’m not a slave to the routines I’ve built. This in-between time, when I’ve returned but don’t yet feel fully home, is like a little pocket of possibility. I’ve shaken off some of the dust.

I know I’ll settle back into routine. I’m looking forward to it. But right now, I’m not quite ready to leave this transitional space. Not yet.

Third and Goal

[This is part 3 of 4 in a series about a questionnaire I recently answered.]

There is a sea of advice available about goals—how to set them, how to follow through with them, how to avoid them entirely. But I'm not going to wade into those waters today, even though that’s the subject of the third question from Shelley’s questionnaire about Norton Stoneworks:

What are your short, mid, and long-term goals?

To be honest, I'm not an expert on goals. Maybe it’s setting them. Maybe it’s more about the follow-through. Maybe they’re inseparable. Either way, I’ve been trying to lose the same ten pounds for the last twelve years, so...

More than goals, I seek clarity. I have directions I want to move in, work I want to do. I don't have a target dollar amount I need to hit each year, but I do know this: I want to do the best work I can, with the best people, and earn the most I can in the process.

I’m clear on the type of work I want to do. And that clarity guides me far better than any fixed milestone. Answering Shelley’s questionnaire gave me a chance to reconnect with and strengthen that vision.

So here's where I’m headed:

Short Term

• Continue taking on projects with clients who value creativity and natural beauty.

• Further refine my design skills, bringing more of my own vision into client work.

• Find a way to bring my creativity to every project

• Develop deeper clarity around the exact type of work I want to be doing.

Mid Term

• Design and build stone art installations in public spaces.

• Develop multiple revenue streams.

Long Term

• Be recognized as a sought-after stone artist.

• Take on a limited number of high-impact projects each year.

I’m more interested in directions rather than destinations. It gives me room to explore, to grow, and to redefine what success looks like. It’s about the journey, and my aim is to make that journey as creative, fulfilling, and impactful as possible—one stone at a time.

What’s your relationship with goals? Are you all about setting them, avoiding them, or maybe finding your own way forward?

Yes on 2

[This is part 2 of 4 in a series about a questionnaire I recently answered.]

Not that long ago, if you’d asked me what I wanted out of life, I probably would have answered, “I don’t know,” silently hoping you’d quit it with the questions. If you’d kept pressing, I might have offered, “I just go with the flow.” I may have included a “man” at the end of that sentence.

Just go with the flow.

It sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? Easy. Like you’re in harmony with the world—letting life guide you where it may. It almost feels like ancient wisdom, a nod to Lao Tzu’s sage advice to be like water, or Marcus Aurelius’ counsel to not focus on things out of our control.

I do strive for peace and harmony. Calmness. But often, this mellow-sounding mantra masks something else: the fear of making a choice. It’s a defense against having to say, This is what I want. It can be an excuse to avoid taking accountability for our lives, and, in this case, for our work.

That’s why the second question of Shelley’s questionnaire hit me harder than I expected:

What is your vision for your company?

There’s no sidestepping this one. It’s not about what you think you should do, or what other people think you should do, or even what you think other people think you should do. It’s direct: What’s your vision? What do you want?

I’ve got a big dream. It’s scary to say it out loud. It’s hard enough to admit what you want to yourself—harder still to put it out into the world.

Who am I to dream so big? What if I fall short?

One way to avoid these questions is to just go with the flow, man.

Don’t make a choice. Don’t take accountability. Don’t put yourself on the hook.

I think I’m done with that. I hope so. Here’s my answer to Question 2:

What is your vision for your company’s future?

My vision is to create awe-inspiring, timeless works of stone that blend art and nature, transforming landscapes into living, breathing works of art. While I still enjoy building dry-laid stone walls and other residential projects, my dream is to create site-specific installations that resonate with both the environment and the people who experience them. I want to be recognized as an artist, not just a tradesman.

So, what about you?

What's your vision? For your business, project, hobby—for your life?

More Weight

Winter is coming. Sure, this stretch of fall weather has been beautiful, but things are changing. My morning walks were bright and sunny for a while, but now they’re mostly dark. My wardrobe has evolved from shorts and a t-shirt to shorts and a long sleeve, to pants and a hoodie. Winter is coming, and I feel the weight of snow and frozen ground pressing down upon my schedule.

I’m not sure why, but I remember studying the Salem Witch Trials in middle school. One gruesome detail stands out to me.

To force a plea from Giles Corey, an elderly farmer, they subjected him to a brutal practice called pressing—pinning him to the ground and piling heavy stones on his chest for days. He never relented. His last words before the stones crushed him to death were, famously, ‘more weight.’

That's how I feel every fall as winter approaches.

It's not the cold that feels heavy. And it’s not just that doing stonework in winter is miserable. It’s the stress of unfinished projects, the ones I planned to start before the ground freezes. How will I get it all done?

I do this to myself every year. It’s an annual cycle of overcommitting. Full of spring optimism, I always say yes to one project too many. With the long, warm days of summer ahead, I convince myself I'll find a way to get it all done. Reality hits with the first autumn chill and I realize I've overbooked myself again.

Do you ever overbook yourself?

Why do we keep asking for more weight?"

Island Time

[This is part 1 of 4 in a series about a questionnaire I recently answered.]

On Monday, Eliza and I took my mom to Vinalhaven, an island about fifteen miles off the Maine coast.

Sitting in the car that morning, drinking coffee and waiting for our turn to drive onto the ferry, I found myself caught between conflicting stories. Both of them equally true.

I could say to myself: With the amount of work on my plate, I never should have taken a Monday off to play tourist. That’s what rich people do.

I could also say: How lucky we are to have the freedom to spend a beautiful day with my mom as she approaches her 80th birthday. I’ll remember this long after the work is forgotten.

Both stories are accurate descriptions of the same event. But each creates a different reality. One makes me feel guilty. The other fills me with gratitude. As the ferry rocked gently on a calm sea and the granite shores of Vinalhaven came into view, I found myself rocking back and forth between these two conflicting narratives.

Questionnaire

The stories we tell ourselves shape our lives. They shape the evolution of our work as well.

This tension between conflicting stories was on my mind when I answered the first question in Shelley’s questionnaire: What’s the history of Norton Stoneworks, and where are you now?

Before Shelley could help me grow my business, she had to understand where I’ve been and how I’ve gotten here. And before I answered that question, I had to make a choice. What narrative do I choose? Norton Stoneworks isn’t just a business—it’s a story I’ve been telling myself.

Brief Company History of Norton Stoneworks

I started working for myself nearly twenty years ago, originally under the name Norton Stone and Tile. I told myself a simple story: I’ll do stonework when it’s warm, tile when it’s cold, and say yes to any job that comes my way.

For a while, this story made sense. It kept me busy and my bills mostly paid. But eventually, a quieter voice inside me started whispering another story. Every time I said yes to a tile job, I felt like I was missing out on what I truly loved—creative, artistic stonework. I don’t know why I kept telling myself I had to keep doing tile work. I came up with all kinds of ‘reasons’ why I couldn’t make the change to stonework full-time. Flimsy excuses like: I’ll go broke if I stop doing tile work. I’ll starve in the winter. I’ll upset my clients and no one will ever hire me again.

Looking back, I can see those were just fears—the kind that come up when you’re standing on the edge of something new. Eventually, I listened to that quieter voice and took the leap. I rebranded as Norton Stoneworks. Hearing myself say it now, it sounds like such a simple decision, but at the time, it felt monumental. It was like rewriting the story of who I was and what I wanted to be known for.

Since then, I’ve continued to refine that story. Instead of saying yes to every stone job that comes my way, I focus more and more on projects that inspire me: dry-laid stone walls, sculptural installations, and artistic projects that push my boundaries. It’s an ever-evolving story—one that challenges me to find more clarity, to be honest with myself about what I really want.

Back on the Mainland

After a day exploring Vinalhaven’s winding roads and abandoned granite quarries, I had to choose which story to tell myself: guilt over taking time off work, or gratitude for the chance to spend time with the people I love. As we made the ferry ride back to the mainland, it was an easy choice.

The stories we tell ourselves define our lives. And they define our work, too. So, what stories are you telling yourself? Are they working?