There was a man I knew; let’s call him Craig, although his name was something less memorable, like Todd or Phil, who had an astonishing ability to say absolutely everything and do absolutely nothing.
He had opinions on politics, parenting, proper back posture, and the geopolitical implications of oat milk. He wore scarves in spring and used the word “should” the way some people use hot sauce: liberally and with no concern for the consequences.
Craig was the sort of man who read half a book and then told you everything that was wrong with it. He believed firmly in the power of conversation to change the world, as long as the conversation happened over cocktails and didn’t require him to get up from his chair.
He’d once told me, with great conviction, that he was writing a memoir about the emotional trauma of not finishing his memoir.
He was, in short, a man of words. And not just regular words. Grand, sweeping ones. Words like “manifest” and “intention”. Words that floated gently out of his mouth like helium balloons, bright and round and destined to end up tangled in a power line.
To hear him speak, you would think he was moments away from changing his life entirely. He was going to start a garden. Learn Japanese. Become more present. Compost. Take up woodworking. Spend less time on his phone. Write handwritten letters to old friends. Attend city council meetings. Maybe even run for city council.
The man had plans. Or at least he had sentences that implied the vague outline of plans, which he delivered with the gravitas of someone announcing a space launch.
And yet.
His garden was a parking lot. His compost bin was a wine fridge. And the only wood he had worked was the bamboo cutlery from that one time he tried to go zero-waste for a week, before remembering he didn’t like washing things.
I don’t mean to judge. I, too, have announced ambitious projects after two glasses of wine and a poorly timed YouTube video about building your own pizza oven. But there is a difference between the occasional bout of aspirational nonsense and the full-time occupation of being a philosopher of effort without ever actually applying it.
It’s an oddly respected role, the armchair visionary. Society makes room for these people, perhaps because they are so harmless. They speak in ideas but never burden the world with outcomes. You can nod along as they explain how we could solve homelessness or redesign the education system or end capitalism with a better website, knowing full well that they are never going to get past the Google Doc stage.
And somewhere along the line, we started confusing talk for truth.
We tweet, post, share, like, react, comment, gesture vaguely in the direction of virtue. But very few of us actually do anything. We outsource action to the same place we send the old socks we swear we’ll repurpose into puppets someday.
When I was younger, I remember hearing an interesting rhyme: A man of words and not of deeds is like a garden full of weeds. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, probably because I was too busy trying to rhyme “weed” and “need” in a deeply uninspired idea of a different kind. But now I see this principle everywhere.
A garden full of weeds looks like something happened there. Green things are growing. There’s motion, chaos, energy. But none of it was chosen. None of it was cultivated. It is what sprouts when no one does the work.
Craig once told me he was considering becoming a minimalist. He said this while standing in his living room, which had no fewer than twenty-three decorative pillows and a framed quote that read, “Live Your Truth,” as if truth were a scented candle you could pick up at Target.
I asked him how the minimalism was going and he said, “It’s a journey.” Which, as far as I can tell, is what people say when they’ve done absolutely nothing but are thinking about doing something eventually.
But here’s the truth, or at least my version of it: You don’t have to be a hero. You don’t have to save the whales or start a commune or make your own toothpaste from baking soda and shame. But if you say you’re going to do something, even something small, you should try to do it. Pick one weed. Plant one seed. Call your aunt. Learn the name of the guy who empties the office trash can.
Because in the end, it’s not the grand intentions that matter. It’s the small deeds. The quiet kindnesses. The actual verbs.
Craig, last I heard, was starting a podcast about follow-through. It’s been three years and the trailer’s almost done.
Bless his heart.
So, let’s be people not just of words, but of deeds. Let’s speak of change in shorter sentences and make change is grander gestures. Let’s get out there, pull some weeds, plant some seeds, and participate.
Join us in making the world a better place. You’ll be glad that you did.
Cheers friends.