A few years ago in Italy, I had one of the most wonderful meals of my life. What still makes me smile is that it was a dish I eat here at home all the time. Same dish, same name on the menu, and somehow ten times better.

I couldn’t help myself. Half joking, I told our server that I have this all the time back in the States, so why on earth was this one so much better?

She smiled and said, “Signore…, it’s the love.”

I’m sure there were other reasons. There always are. But of everything she could have said, that’s the answer that came home with me, and it has stayed with me ever since.

The longer I’ve carried it, the more I’ve realized she was talking about a lot more than food.

Maybe I’m Just Getting Older

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how things are made, and how things are done.

We live in a remarkable time. Every year we can do more, build faster, reach further. And yet when I slow down long enough to really look around, I find myself thinking less about what we can do and more about how we do it. The care. The energy. The joy a person pours into whatever is in front of them.

I’ll admit that when this thought first came to me, part of me hesitated. I wondered if I had simply arrived at that age where every story starts with I remember when.

Maybe that’s part of it. But the more I thought about it, the harder it became to call it nostalgia alone.

The Things We Used to Hold

Think about the last time you stood inside a truly old house. Maybe it was your grandparents’ home, or a building in some town you visited once and never forgot.

Remember reaching for the door. The weight of the brass in your hand, cool and solid, with little leaves and swirls worked into a thing whose only job was to turn.

Remember the crown molding running along the ceiling, shaped with the kind of patience that makes you stop and look up.

Think about the old cars, all chrome and curves, looking more drawn than built.

And think about the handwritten letter. The birthday card in a grandparent’s careful script. The envelope you kept in a drawer for years because you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away someone’s handwriting.

There was a time when penmanship was practiced like an art, when people learned calligraphy simply so the words would be beautiful on the page.

Every one of those things shares something. Someone took the time. Someone decided an ordinary thing deserved to be done beautifully, and you could feel that decision every time you touched it.

Where Did It Go

I feel the difference most in the small moments.

Walk into a store and wait to be noticed. Call a restaurant and listen to the voice on the other end hurrying you along to the next call. Hold the doorknob on most doors today and notice how light it is in your hand, how little anyone seems to have thought about it.

It all works. It does the job. Somewhere along the way, though, a lot of things started doing only the job.

I know the reasons, and so do you.

We wanted things faster. We wanted them cheaper. We wanted more of them, for more people, and plenty of real good came from that.

But somewhere in all the hurrying, love started to look like a luxury, and the care that once went into everyday things became something we only expect to find in special places.

If I’m honest, I’m part of that story too. I’ve chosen the faster way more times than I can count. I’ve sent the text when I could have written the note. Most of us have.

And along the way, we traded away a little of the love and didn’t even notice.

You Can Feel It

There are few things in this world I enjoy more than watching someone do something they love doing.

You know exactly what I mean. The barber who takes his time. The coach who stays after practice with the one kid who’s struggling. The baker who arranges every pastry like it’s headed somewhere important. The mechanic who wipes his hands and walks you over to show you exactly what he fixed.

You can feel it the moment you’re near it. Something in you settles. Something in you lights up.

People can feel the love. They can feel it in a doorknob, a letter, a voice on the phone. And the beautiful part is that it’s still here.

It lives in kitchens and workshops and classrooms, in people who decided that what they do matters enough to give it their whole heart.

When You See It, Say It

Maybe bringing more of it back is simpler than we think. Maybe it begins with noticing.

The people who pour love into their work rarely hear that anyone noticed. Yet, they keep doing it anyway.

Imagine what it would mean to them to hear that it does.

So this week, when you feel it, say something.

Tell the server you could taste the love in the meal. Thank the person on the phone who actually listened. Write someone a note, by hand if you can, and let them see your handwriting. You may be the only one who tells them all year.

And whatever it is you get up to do each day, bring a little love into it. Into the email, the meal, the conversation, the work nobody will ever thank you for.

Someone will feel it, even if they never find the words.

She was right, you know.

It’s the love.

Leadership at the Dinner Table has been out for just over a month now, and the reviews coming in have meant more to me than I can put into words. One reader wrote:

“What I loved most were the hidden moments of leadership throughout... the everyday elements that make you pause and really take them in, but only if you’re present enough to truly receive them.”

A fitting thought for a week about noticing.

If you’ve read it, thank you. If you haven’t yet, it’s waiting for you on Amazon.

With Absolute Sincerity,

Ed Clementi,

Founder & CEO of Inspired Fire

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