What these bright-eyed park acrobats teach me about design, focus, and building in public.

I’ll say it plainly: squirrels are my favorite animal. They’re everywhere and nearly invisible until you decide to see them. Once you do, you notice patterns—how they cache, how they rehearse routes, how they debug a leap before they attempt it. I started treating them like tiny mentors in a gray hoodie, and I swear my craft got better.

Why squirrels are my favorite animal (and what that reveals)

It’s not nostalgia; it’s mechanics. Squirrels model a loop I want in my work:

• Scout: scan branches, pick a viable route.
• Stash: cache today’s surplus for tomorrow’s unknowns.
• Sprint: commit to a move without melodrama.
• Scope: stop, reassess, update the map.
• Share: chatter when danger’s near—lightweight team comms.

I use that loop to write chapters, tweak LifeOS, and survive “cracking lost” days. The loop is calm. It’s iterative. It’s enough.

How squirrels are my favorite animal shaped my design brain

Watch a squirrel on a fence line. They favor waypoints—posts, knots, corners—and they keep them close enough that a single miss won’t be fatal. That’s a product roadmap:

• Ship to the next post, not across the entire yard.
• Allow a safe fallback (branching, feature flags).
• Cache as you go: notes, snippets, test data.

In LifeOS, that means thin slices with visible waypoints: a List↔Grid toggle that persists; a metadata row that reads well at narrow widths; a token flow you can reason about on paper.

Where squirrels are my favorite animal leads in writing

Drafts are caches. Scenes are branches. I quit trying to “fly” a whole chapter in one go. I build landing spots: a true line, a beat that clicks, a reveal that earns its jump. If I miss, I can grip the last good sentence and try again. Squirrels don’t apologize for taking two hops.

The squirrel’s rule of play (and why it’s strategic)

They chase each other, pause, spiral a trunk, vanish, return. That’s not wasted motion; it’s skill rehearsal under joy. Builders forget this. If everything is grim, we hold our breath and ship worse. A little play (a fun commit message, a tiny animation, a clean φ-grid poster) keeps the muscle elastic.

Cache small, ship small, rest real

Squirrels stash hundreds of seeds knowing many won’t be found. That’s fine. In creative work, not every note must “pay off.” We overvalue perfect recall and undervalue generous caching. Put the idea where future-you can stumble on it. Let the forest help.

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A tiny field guide for builders

• Branch-test: Before a big leap, test the next branch with a toe (spike branch, throwaway prototype).
• Waypoints: Map three posts in sight. Name them. Build to the nearest.
• Caches: Tag your stashes (seed type = idea class). Future-you says thanks.
• Chatter: Fast, honest status over silence—“hawk north” beats “everything’s fine.”
• Play: Run the trunk once for speed and fun. It pays back later.

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Today’s squirrel-scale plan (ϕ-scaled)

• 5 min — Scout: pick the next waypoint for LifeOS.
• 8 min — Stash: jot three lines for the chapter.
• 13 min — Sprint: ship a micro-fix/UI polish.
• 3 min — Scope: log what changed, what’s next.
• 2 min — Rest: go outside; find a tail.

Circles are promises you can keep with your feet. Squirrels keep them daily. I’m learning.

— Rev. Brian Scott O’keefe (randomblink)

“Notice a small life doing a great job; copy the loop.”

Building in public on hard days, between blood draws, long walks, and a son coming home.

Some days don’t make highlight reels. Today was a cracking lost one: blood draw to start, a long walk to clear the head, and a wall of fatigue that didn’t care about my calendar. My son’s coming home soon—good noise, good interruption—and I’m supposed to work on two things that both matter: the book and LifeOS. Honest ledger entry: I am wiped.

That’s the whole point of building in public on hard days. Not because struggle is spectacular, but because it’s normal. The question isn’t “Did you crush it?” The question is “What still moved, however small?”

The Two Things That Still Matter

I keep two anchors even when I’m tired:

• The Book: one scene, one beat, one paragraph where the voice stays true, even if the word count doesn’t.
• LifeOS: one “thin slice” that a tired brain can still ship—usually a UI polish, a micro-bug, or a test.

Everything else is applause management. These two are the work.

A Micro-Plan for Wiped Days (ϕ-scaled)

I use a tiny, golden-ratio loop when energy is low:

1. 5 minutes — Triage: list three tasks with the best payoff per minute.
2. 8 minutes — Ship a thin thing (LifeOS).
3. 13 minutes — Write a true thing (book).
4. 3 minutes — Log it publicly.
5. 2 minutes — Close the tab and go be a person.

That’s 31 minutes total. It’s not heroic. It’s honest. It’s the smallest repeatable shape I can keep when the day fights back. It keeps me building in public on hard days without burning tomorrow.

Today’s Thin Slice (LifeOS)

• UI Nudge: confirm the List↔Grid toggle states persist after relaunch (UserDefaults double-check).
• Metadata Row: make sure size/modified/MIME align cleanly at small widths.
• Commit Message: “UI: persist List↔Grid; tighten metadata spacing.”

Ship notes like these are boring. Great. Boring is sustainable. Sustainable is how we get new features later.

Today’s True Line (Book)

When I’m exhausted, I don’t chase pages. I chase one line that belongs. If it still rings tomorrow, it stays:

“Circles are promises your feet can keep, even when your head is loud.”

That’s enough. One sentence can hold the door for a scene.

How I Decide What’s “Enough”

• If the line is honest and the commit is visible, the day counts.
• If my son walks through the door and I hug him solid, the day wins.
• If I can say, “I moved the book and LifeOS,” the future is funded.

What I’ll Do After Rest

• Book: expand that line into a short beat (200–300 words), keep the voice steady.
• LifeOS: review the DriveItemRowView at two sizes (narrow/wide), prepare the next token-based call test.
• Public: post the two-line log and invite one sentence from you.

This is building in public on hard days: a small ship, a true line, and a little mercy.

— Rev. Brian Scott O’keefe (randomblink)

“Ship the smallest true thing; rest; repeat.”