Let us be about setting high standards for life, love

Host: The sun hung low over the city skyline, melting gold into glass, casting reflections across the river that flowed quietly beneath an old bridge. The air shimmered with the soft hum of distant traffic, and a faint breeze carried the smell of coffee and rain.

In a small riverside café, Jack sat at a corner table, his sleeves rolled, a sketchbook open before him but untouched. His grey eyes stared through the window, seeing everything and nothing. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her hands around a steaming cup, her dark hair loose, eyes bright but tired, as though she had seen too much and still hoped for more.

The light trembled across their faces — one shadowed, one golden — like two versions of belief in conversation.

Jeeny: “Greg Anderson said, ‘Let us be about setting high standards for life, love, creativity, and wisdom. If our expectations in these areas are low, we are not likely to experience wellness. Setting high standards makes every day and every decade worth looking forward to.’” (smiling softly) “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Jack: (without looking up) “Beautiful words. Impossible advice.”

Jeeny: “Impossible? Why?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Because high standards sound great until you realize they also build walls. People preach them like gospel, but most can’t live up to them. You set your standards too high, you end up disappointed. Or alone.”

Jeeny: (tilting her head) “Maybe. But low standards kill the soul, Jack. You settle for less long enough, and one day you wake up realizing you’ve stopped living and started coping.”

Host: The waiter passed, placing a slice of lemon pie on the table. Steam curled from the cups, blurring their reflections in the window glass. Outside, the river glimmered, carrying light downstream, quiet as memory.

Jack: “You sound like a motivational poster.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “And you sound like gravity.”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Someone has to keep us from floating into delusion.”

Jeeny: “And someone has to remind you that the sky exists.”

Jack: (sighing) “You talk about high standards like they’re salvation. But you forget how cruel they can be. Not everyone’s built for greatness, Jeeny. Some people just want peace.”

Jeeny: “Peace doesn’t mean mediocrity. You can rest and still aim high. Setting standards isn’t about perfection—it’s about direction.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Direction toward what? Disappointment?”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “No. Toward meaning.”

Host: The wind picked up, fluttering the napkins. The sunlight shifted, staining the river orange, like fire slipping through glass. The moment grew denser, their words circling the same truth from opposite ends.

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t need high standards. Sometimes, it’s found in the smallest acts — a warm meal, a quiet night, a single honest word. You raise the bar too high, and you start missing what’s already good.”

Jeeny: “And if we never raise it, we stop growing. Don’t you see? The reason people like Greg Anderson talk about high standards isn’t to make us feel small—it’s to pull us upward. To keep us from stagnation.”

Jack: “And what about failure? What about the people who reach and fall?”

Jeeny: “Falling means you tried. That’s already more living than never reaching.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, slow, measured, like the sound of doubt given rhythm. The light outside dimmed, and the first streetlights blinked awake, their glow flickering across the water.

Jack: “You know, you sound just like those self-help books people buy but never finish.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And you sound like one of the reasons they need them.”

Jack: (smirking) “Touché.”

Jeeny: “Listen, Jack. Think about every great person who’s changed something—artists, thinkers, leaders. They all set standards the world called impossible. Da Vinci, Mandela, Marie Curie—they dreamed higher than comfort allowed. Isn’t that what makes life worth looking forward to?”

Jack: “Maybe for them. But ordinary people? We’re not wired like that. Most folks don’t want to climb Everest—they just want to breathe without breaking.”

Jeeny: “You think breathing and dreaming are enemies?”

Jack: (quietly) “Sometimes, yes.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your tragedy.”

Host: The words landed like raindrops, soft but sharp enough to cut. Jack looked up, meeting her gaze for the first time. The silence between them was alive, electric, charged with the tension of two worldviews clashing — one protective, one reaching.

Jack: “You think high standards bring happiness. I think they breed hunger. Always wanting more, never satisfied. You chase the horizon, Jeeny, and you forget to feel the ground.”

Jeeny: “And you hug the ground so tightly you forget there’s a sky. Tell me, Jack—when was the last time you truly looked forward to something?”

Jack: (hesitates, then quietly) “I don’t know.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. That’s what happens when we stop expecting more from life. We stop expecting anything at all.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, filled with light, while Jack’s expression shifted, a flicker of something old and aching. Outside, the city lights shimmered, reflected in the dark water, breaking and reforming with every ripple — like hope refusing to disappear.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? You wake up every day expecting the world to be extraordinary?”

Jeeny: “No. I wake up determined to make myself extraordinary in it.”

Jack: (laughing faintly) “That’s a heavy burden to carry.”

Jeeny: “No heavier than regret.”

Jack: (sighing, staring into his coffee) “You talk like it’s simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s exhausting. It means failing more often than winning. But it also means living instead of waiting to die comfortably.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft at first, then steady, drumming gently on the roof. The light reflected off the puddles, rippling gold and silver. Inside, the air thickened with warmth, quiet but charged with meaning.

Jack: “You ever think maybe high standards are just a way to avoid contentment? People chase perfection because they’re afraid to stand still.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “Maybe. But I’d rather fear stillness than drown in apathy. When you set high standards, you give your future something to live up to. It’s not about being perfect—it’s about being awake.”

Jack: “Awake hurts.”

Jeeny: “So does growth.”

Jack: (looking up, a trace of pain in his eyes) “And what if I’ve already stopped growing?”

Jeeny: (reaching across the table) “Then start again. That’s the beauty of being alive—you can reset the standard any day you choose.”

Host: The rainlight shimmered across her hand, resting gently on his. Jack didn’t move, but his shoulders softened, his breath slowed. The moment expanded, filled with the quiet dignity of realization.

Jack: “You really believe that raising expectations can heal us?”

Jeeny: “I believe it’s the only thing that can. When you expect greatness from life, you start acting like you deserve it. And that changes everything.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe I’ve been aiming too low. Maybe that’s why everything feels… dull.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then raise your aim, Jack. Even a fraction higher changes the horizon.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving mist drifting through the streetlights. The river glowed, alive again, moving with purpose. Jack leaned back, the corners of his mouth lifting—not a smile, but something close.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe high standards aren’t the enemy. Maybe it’s the fear of not meeting them that ruins us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s where wisdom enters—to remind us that striving and failing is still nobler than settling and surviving.”

Jack: “You always find a way to turn life into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Only because it’s too short to live like prose.”

Host: The camera of the night pulled back, showing the café through the misty glass, two figures surrounded by light and reflection. The city hummed softly, alive and breathing, the rain tapering into silence.

And in that quiet, a truth lingered between them — that to demand more from life is not arrogance, but faith,
and that setting high standards is not about perfection, but the refusal to sleep through existence.

The rain stopped completely, and as the clouds parted, a thin beam of moonlight fell across the table,
illuminating their untouched pie — simple, imperfect, but now somehow, enough.