There Will Be Signs

The signs are all there.

I’m debating whether to say yes or no.
I’m putting off setting up a site visit.
If the project started tomorrow, I wouldn’t be excited.
I feel more obligated than eager.
I’m writing a blog post about it.

From a detached perspective, through the 3P framework, it’s obvious. I need to say no.

So why is it so hard?

It’s a friend of a friend.
The money would be good.
It’s in a neighborhood I’d love to work in.
That neighborhood is close to home, and I’m tired of driving an hour and a half both directions every day.

But it’s not the kind of work I want to be doing. From a detached perspective, it should be a simple no.

It’s not so simple.

Easy to Find, Hard to Reach

I spent a good part of yesterday’s snow day working on my other website, nortonstoneworks.com. Yes, I’m forty-six and still have snow days. It is one of the magical parts of childhood I have managed to hold on to all these years. Except yesterday morning, I wasn’t glued to Channel 6 news, watching the ticker-tape of closures scroll across the screen, hoping Boothbay would pay out like a winning lotto number. Now, for better or worse, I’m the grown up that gets to declare a snow day.

Instead of making snow forts and drinking hot cocoa, I drank a glorious amount of coffee and worked on SEO. I am actively trying to improve my website so I can be more easily discovered by potential clients. Sometimes this feels counterintuitive. When those opportunities come rolling in, I am going to say no to most of them.

What a strange game, spending time and money making yourself visible, only to turn most people away. Why not just close the laptop and go make those snow forts?

Because the goal isn’t to be everything to everyone.

You want to be easy to find and hard to reach.

You want to send out a clear signal that leaves no doubt about who you are and what you do so the right people can find you. The more specific the signal, the more opportunities it attracts. Part of the deal is having to say no more often.

It is a filter, not a net.

And if you do it right, the ones who make it through are the ones worth saying yes to.

Make Do

The long, rectangular pieces of granite likely came from the foundation of the old barn. You can tell they were hewn by hand; there are no saw marks, only the telltale signs of feathers and wedges. There is a lot of granite here on this old farm. These old stones were probably quarried right here on the property during the 1800s.

The fieldstone, with its beautiful camouflage of lichen and moss and its odd shapes that fit snugly together when stacked, is all coming from the woods behind the barn. It was likely set aside during the farming era of this property, or maybe later, when access roads were built during its logging days.

I don’t know many details about the history of this property, but there is something deeply satisfying about using materials that come directly from the site. It feels connected to the past, even if that connection is a little hazy.

There’s an enjoyable creative challenge in working with what’s available. Here is a pile of stones, make something happen. It can be frustrating, too. On most projects, if you need more stone, you go to the stone yard, pick what you want from a tidy display, and have it loaded onto your truck while you wait inside and joke with the sales reps. But that frustration is part of the process. Working through it, making do with what you have, is part of what makes the work so enjoyable.

Here, if we need a stone, we go out into the woods and find it. It’s a different process, one that’s closer to the way the barn’s foundation was built a couple hundred years ago. It’s more engaging this way. Constraints often sharpen creativity. Instead of making something from “anything,” you have to make something from “this.”

What Would You Say You Do?

What do you do?”

It’s a simple question. But I still don’t have a good answer.

“Stonework,” I usually say, though that tends to need clarification. “You know, building stone walls and patios, and stuff like that.” If I’m feeling daring , I might add, “I like the creative side of it.” But what does that even mean?

I think we assume people are privy to our private thoughts, our hopes, and our dreams. That when I say I do stonework, it’s obvious that I don’t just mean walls and patios. That I want to create amazing things with stone. That I want to take the techniques of an ancient craft passed down through millennia and push them forward with a creative twist. That I aspire to create pieces that are timeless and awe-inspiring, aiming to transcend from craftsman to artist.

But in reality, no one knows the secret longings in our hearts unless we show them.

That starts with describing what we do.

It’s scary to show the world who you are and what you want, so we wait. Until we’re more established. Until it feels safe. But you don’t have to win an Academy Award to call yourself an actor. You don’t have to have your work hanging at the Met to call yourself an artist. You don’t need permission to be what you already are.

I’m still working on how to describe what I do, my elevator pitch, if you like. I’d love to hear how you describe your own work. Share your ‘elevator pitch’ in the comments below!

How the Sausage is Made

We're pulling stones out of the woods. These woods used to be farms. Treeless. Before that, they were primordial forests. When the trees were cut and the land cleared, the rocks were in the way. So they dug them up and piled them into walls. They've been sitting here for hundreds of years. Quietly. I feel bad harvesting them, like I’m disrupting an old dog from a long nap.

All stones find their way to the wall through violent means. At least here, we're doing our own dirty work.

This is the End

I went to a retirement party last night. It was the real deal: drink tickets, wood-fired pizza, and a good band playing a little too loud for the space. When you're self-employed, you have to throw this kind of party for yourself. There’s no company to gift you an engraved watch and thank you for your time. Amy was the company. Her retirement party was also a wake for Pretty Flowers.

I’m in the same boat. I am Norton Stoneworks. I’m building things with stone, not a company that will live on after me. It’s a deliberate choice, one that I’m okay with. Still, I can’t help but wonder: What will I leave behind?

Legacy is a funny thing to worry about. By definition, we’ll never get to experience our own. But I think, deep down, we all want to live on forever in the hearts and minds of humanity. We want tangible evidence that we lived good lives. We paint our hands on cave walls. We carve our names into trees and the bottoms of desks. We try to leave proof that we were here, that it all mattered.

When Amy gave her speech last night, she didn’t dwell on her favorite clients or projects. Instead, she thanked all the people she’d worked with over the years—the ones she’d laughed and cried with, gotten mad at and been grateful for, and dug in the dirt with. In the end, that’s what matters most. The people.

There’s a lesson here we need to pay attention to.

This is It

Ok, I’ll put my insulated overalls on and go shovel. But first, one more cup of coffee.

It’s winter, and I chose this. I chose to build this wall now. It’s time to go to work. First, I’ll shovel my own driveway. When I get to the job site, I’ll clear a path to the stone pile, dig around the excavator and skid steer, and make space for us to work.

It’s easy to see this as something to get through before the “real” work begins. I often feel that way about a lot of things. But, if I resent the snow, if I rush through shoveling it, impatient to start laying stones, it’s going to be a long, cold winter.

Last week, before I started this job, I spent a day gathering tools and supplies. In my head, I called it “running errands.” I filled the truck with fuel, bought new drill bits and marking crayons, picked up extra feathers and wedges. I loaded everything into the truck, ready for an early start the next morning. The whole time, I was low-key annoyed that I had to do this instead of what I thought of as “real work.”

I think that’s how most of us live most of the time. We hurry through seemingly mundane tasks, anxious to reach some better, more important moment. But that moment never arrives. There’s always one more thing to cross off the list before life really begins.

Somehow, we forget. Gathering supplies is the work. Shoveling snow is the work. Sitting here with a coffee right now is my life.

Limitations

Limitations

My current project started with a blueprint, carefully designed by a team of landscape architects and designers. They’ve created a plan that is both beautiful and functional. The water flows away from the house. The top of the stone stairs aligns perfectly with the pool deck. Every detail, from the height and depth of the walls I’m building to their starting and ending points, has been thought through. Nothing in the plans is arbitrary.

My role, as I see it, is to build within the parameters of these plans while still making the work my own. The constraints of the design are useful limitations. Instead of bristling against them, I can, like a writer working within the confines of a genre, use them to push myself creatively. My job is to bring the designer’s vision to life while leaving my own fingerprints on the project.

This is what collaboration should feel like—a shared effort where creativity flows between people.

Yes, I’m following a plan, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for creativity. It doesn’t mean the final result is predetermined. Far from it. If you gave a hundred wallers the same blueprint and the same pile of stones, you’d get a hundred different walls. Each one would reflect the instincts, quirks, and style of its builder.

My job is to stay true to mine. To bring these blueprints into the world while trusting my intuition and tastes.

Junkie

JUNKIE

I need a fix. A little red heart will do. But the real high comes from the red square with the head-and-shoulders icon: a new follower on Instagram. That’s the good stuff.

As good as it feels, I never really enjoy it. As soon as it hits, I’m thinking about the next one. And the next one. And the next one.

This is the darker side of my love/hate relationship with social media.

I want to make more connections, engage with a larger community, and find new outlets for my work. I don’t want to be constantly checking my phone to see if anybody likes me.

Some people I’ve met through Instagram have turned into real, flesh-and-blood friends. We’ve built things together. We’ve traveled together. We’ve struggled and grown together. These connections have had an incredible impact on my life. This is the best part of social media. But for every positive aspect of social media, there’s a shadow side - this endless cycle of chasing likes and follows.

Some recent posts created an uptick in activity on my account. As the ‘likes’ and ‘follows’ rolled in, I found myself checking my phone constantly, like I was checking the score of a football game I’d gambled the mortgage on. Now that the impact of those posts has died down, and the flow of notifications has slowed to a trickle, it feels like something is missing. What can I post to get that rush back?

I don’t like that feeling.

Is there a way to grow your audience without becoming addicted to that growth?

Does social media feel like a tool for growth or a leash around your neck?

Interlude

Interlude

In my work world, January and February feel like an interlude, a quiet reprieve between busy seasons. Last year’s work season ended with the holidays. The next one won’t truly begin until spring. This in-between time is a kind of pleasant purgatory.

I’m working right now, but it’s ‘winter work.’ It lives and dies in this short window of time, free from the usual urgency of the rest of the year. In spring, there’s a rush to complete projects before summer so clients can enjoy their outdoor spaces. In fall, there’s a scramble to finish work before winter sets in

Right now, the pace is slower. The weather causes delays. The cold makes things take longer. Mornings start later; afternoons end earlier. There’s only so much light, after all. Why resist the natural order of things?

I try to find a balance between enjoying this quieter season and still getting quality work done. It’s not an excuse to be lazy. It’s an invitation to align with the rhythms of this time of year.

The Last Stone

It’s bittersweet when some projects come to an end. You spend weeks making the same long drive to the job site, picking stones from an ever-diminishing pile of rock, eating lunch in the same sunny nook, and sharing the same corny inside jokes. The rhythm of the work consumes your days for months. Sometimes, it feels like you’ll never reach the end.

And then, one day, you do.

Norton Stoneworks

Without any fanfare, you set the last stone in place—a moment that feels both monumental and strangely ordinary. You pack up your tools, take one last look at the work you’ve done, and leave. The drive home feels different. The weight of the job is gone, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of completion, but also a small void where the familiar routine once lived.

This project was no exception. The collaboration with my friend Steve, whose craftsmanship and thoughtfulness elevated this project at every turn, made it all the more rewarding.

The end of a project isn’t just about what’s finished. The work is done, but the echoes of it stay with you.

And then, before long, you’re on to the next one.

I Said No

The 3P’s in Action: Why I Said No to a Great Project

I’m grateful when any new project inquiry comes my way. I still get a tinge of excitement knowing someone chose me. But I can’t say yes to everything. I have to be deliberate with the projects I take on. Most of the time, that means saying no.

The part of me that wants to say yes to everything is always there, but I’ve learned to fight it with my 3P’s.

The 3P’s—People, Project, and Profit—are my filter. They help me focus on the work where I can have the most impact for my clients while staying true to the kind of work I want to do.

Here’s how it works with a recent inquiry.

PEOPLE

• Prestigious, high-end contractor

• Long history of working together

• I know and like the project manager

• Currently collaborating with this company on another project

• Strong potential for future work as these relationships continue to develop

PROJECT

• Multiple fireplaces and stone veneer on a newly built home

• Located in a beautiful place

• Only twenty-five minutes from home (a welcomed change from all the driving I’ve been doing lately)

PROFIT

• This would be a very well-paying project

It checks a lot of boxes. So why was it an easy no?

From the outside, this might seem like a dream project for a stoneworker. And it is a great project. For somebody. But not for me. It only checks two out of three boxes, and that’s why it’s a no.

The people are great. The money is great, too. And this is why saying no can be so hard. Turning down the chance to work with a great company and make good money? That feels nuts.

But the work itself—the project—isn’t for me. I don’t do fireplaces or veneer anymore. If I said yes to this, I’d be doing a disservice to the contractor, the client, and myself. When your heart isn’t in it, the work suffers. The client and contractor deserve to work with someone fully invested in this type of project. That’s who will do the best work, not someone climbing onto the roof wishing they’d said no.

By saying no, I leave room for the projects I’m truly excited about. Saying no creates space for the kind of work I love to do, the work where I can give my best.

Sometimes no is the most positive thing you can say.

This filter helps remind me of that.

Have you ever taken on projects you wished you’d said no to? Does it happen again and again? Are you doing anything about it?

White Space

Every year for Christmas, Eliza’s mom gives her a calendar from Ocean State Job Lot. They’ve started showing up under the tree for me, too. These calendars are perfect for sketching out the work schedule for the upcoming season. It’s become a yearly ritual.

Here we are on January 1st, the first day of 2025. As I spread the calendar across the table and look ahead, I see four months of white space. One-third of the year might sound like a lot, but in stonework time, that’s just one or two projects. Or maybe just a single phase of a big one.

I love that white space. It’s a blank canvas, full of potential. I want to protect it. Fiercely.

I don’t want to rush to fill it. I want to wait for something I can’t say no to.

But waiting isn’t easy. There’s a tangible feeling of stability in seeing a filled-in calendar. The desire for that comfort often leads to saying yes to things that are “okay” or even “good.” But that’s not what I’m after.

That’s why I rely on my 3 P’s: People, Project, and Profit. They help me pause, reflect, and choose work that truly matters.

If you’re listening, Universe, here’s what I’m looking for: a project that’s creative, artistic, and engaging. Something with great collaborators, set in a beautiful location (preferably not too far from home), and pays handsomely.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I’m grateful for every opportunity that comes my way, but that doesn’t mean I have to say yes to all of them. In fact, it’s my responsibility to say no to most of them. With only four open months available, I have to be intentional with every yes.

It’s not just about this year.

At forty-six, I can’t help but wonder how many years of stonework I have left and how many projects will fit into those years. Whatever the number, it’s finite.

Shouldn’t every project I take on be as fulfilling as possible?

Ready

I’m ready to get back to the rocks.

We took an unexpectedly long break over the holidays. I ate. I slept. I wrote. It was glorious, if a bit self-indulgent.

But I’m ready. Ready to move my body. To build something. To finish this project.

I love downtime—especially in the winter. Especially when there’s snow. And especially when I feel I’ve used that time well.

I’m sure the sweatpants-wearing part of me will resist getting up when the alarm goes off tomorrow morning and it’s still pitch dark and cold outside.

But it’s time. Time to go back to work.

As Good As It Gets

We just did a site visit for a project we’ll start in January. This is, without a doubt, the high point of the project.

Of any project.

The design is complete. The estimate has been accepted. The material is on-site. The excavation is done. Right now, I’m just imagining how these ancient stones will come together to form a beautiful wall.

At this moment, everything feels fresh, new, and full of potential. Like waking up on Christmas morning to a world of freshly fallen stone.

But I know better than to think this feeling will last.

Six weeks from now, things will feel different. We’ll be tired of the commute. The stones may not fit together as magically as we’d hoped. The clients will be eager to reclaim their mornings without the buzz of stone saws, the grind of excavators, and the endless ringing of steel hammers and chisels.

And that’s okay. It’s the natural progression of a project. The beginning, middle, and end all feel different, each with its own rhythm and challenges. If your spirits aren’t as high three-quarters of the way through as they were on day one, it doesn’t mean something’s wrong.

It just means you’re human. It means you’re doing creative work.

Beware the Slip

How quickly we fall out of rhythm. Just ten days ago, I was writing blog posts daily. Then I started a new project—a children’s book. I’ve been using the time I’d normally devote to this blog. In less than two weeks, the habit slipped. One moment, I’m in the groove. The next, it’s as if I’d never done it at all.

It’s startling how easily it happens. Does it sneak up on you too?

I might be steady with a workout routine, then catch a cold and miss a few days. Suddenly, a month has passed. Six pounds have crept on, and I can no longer touch my toes. The slip is quiet, almost invisible, like my brain has been lying in wait, ready to bolt at the first chance. Like a prisoner plotting an escape.

How do you keep your best habits from slipping away?

Christmas Presence

Staying present in your work isn’t complicated. At least, not in the ways I've alluded to in previous posts. It doesn’t require a life-changing mindset shift or some intricate productivity system. Most of the time, it’s about doing the simple, practical things we overlook because they seem too obvious.

Like turning off your phone.

Or better yet, leaving it somewhere you can’t reach. The glove box. A drawer in the next room. The other side of town, locked in a safe. The point isn’t where you put it; it’s creating distance between you and the constant buzz of notifications.

Distraction isn’t just annoying—it’s corrosive. How can we stay present in our work when our phones keep dragging us into someone else’s world? A colleague’s latest project. A client’s urgent text. The endless scroll of social media. When we let those distractions in, we’re telling ourselves—whether we mean to or not—that what’s happening out there is more important than what’s in front of us.

It’s not.

Presence starts with choices like these. Simple. Obvious. But hard to follow through on, because we crave distraction. It feels easier, safer, to let our attention wander. It gives us an excuse. It’s procrastination and self-sabotage. I could have done better if I wasn’t so distracted.

We tell ourselves this story because giving your all to the work in front of you means there’s no escape hatch, no one else to blame if it doesn’t go perfectly.

But the truth is, we can’t do our best work without that focus.

For me, staying present also means setting boundaries around my time. Creating blocks of focus, so I can give my full attention to what matters most. I can plan the next project in the morning, before I start working on the current one. Or I can work on the logistics—emails, designs, materials—at the end of the day, after I’ve laid my stones.

What I don’t want to do is bounce back and forth between tasks. Starting the current project. Calling a vendor mid-way through. Checking Instagram for “inspiration.” Writing half an email to a future client while a half-built wall waits patiently for its next stone.

At least, that’s the ideal. I often fall short. Incredibly short. I’m as or more prone to distraction as everyone else. And I’m an all-pro procrastinator. That’s why I’m writing this. That’s why I started this blog—as an instruction manual to myself.

We call it multitasking, but really, it’s just chaos. It’s a way to avoid giving your full focus to anything. And in the process, everything suffers.

The work deserves better than that.

So do we.

A Snake in the Stones

What does it mean to stay present in your work?

Is that just woo-woo gibberish, or is there really something to it?

Some thoughts recently from my journal:

Finished a post yesterday. Tweaked it this morning. Changed the title to Between a Rock and a Vague Place.

It’s about rushing through a project just to get to the next, never fully immersing yourself in the one at hand. It’s a cycle: You want something. You get it, but before you’re done, you’re already thinking about the next thing. You get that, and before you finish it, your mind is onto what’s next again.

It’s a snake eating its own tail.

It’s a kid ripping through presents, hoping there’s a better one underneath.

It’s endless swiping on a dating app without ever going on a date—or swiping while the date you finally connected with is in the bathroom.

Right now, I’m trying to stay present with this project. At the same time, I need to plan for the next one. How do I balance being present with still getting shit done?

This comes more easily with writing. When I’m writing, I’m writing. I’m not thinking about the next thing to write about. There are distractions, but they show up in different ways. Once I sit down to write, I’m in the work.

Can I bring more of that into my stonework?

Cranberries

The deadline for our current project just tightened…what a blessing. Yes, it adds pressure, but it’s the good kind—the kind that quickens your pace and sharpens your thinking.

When I’ve argued for staying present in your work—not rushing to move on to the next project or getting sidetracked by distractions—I wasn’t advocating for ignoring the future. The next project is always coming, and it can serve as a tool, applying just enough pressure to bring the current one to completion.

Staying present doesn’t mean letting things go on indefinitely. Quite the opposite. It means taking decisive action rooted in clear, focused attention. Left unchecked, the procrastinator in me can let a project stretch on forever. But you don’t have to. The next project is a gift that helps you move forward and finish strong. You don’t have to let it linger.

Between a Rock and a Vague Place

Here’s something wild: the work I’m doing now is the work I dreamed about just a few years ago. I caught up to the vision I once had for the future.

In about thirty-five minutes, I’ll slip on my boots and head out the door toward a creative, challenging, engaging project. Exactly what I wanted.

So why doesn’t it feel like enough?

There’s this mindset we’re taught, subtly and persistently, that the next thing is what really matters. The current project, the one right in front of us, is just a stepping stone. A box to check on the way to the next shiny goal.

And it’s not just about work. This mindset creeps into everything, convincing us that someday, somewhere down the line, we’ll finally feel like we’ve made it.

If I can just get through this and get to the next project, we think, then someday I’ll feel complete. Like I’ve arrived. Like I’m finally ready to start living.

But someday never comes.

You can’t ignore the future completely. Businesses don’t work that way. You have to line up the next project, take meetings, and send emails. You have to plan for what’s next. But can you do it without turning the current project into something you just want to get through?

If you keep trading the present for the future, are you ever really living?