The Corner

teachers who show the way

Last night we went to a David Wilcox concert, just around the corner from where we live. I'm sitting there in the audience, just soaking in the music, the lyrics, the whole vibe. And it hits me - I've been listening to this guy for almost three decades now. That's like, most of my adult life.

And as I'm sitting there, letting the nostalgia wash over me, I start to realize something. David Wilcox hasn't just been a soundtrack to my life. He's been a teacher. Not in the traditional sense, of course. He's never stood in front of a classroom or given me a grade. But through his music, through the stories he tells and the insights he shares, he's taught me so much about life, about love, about what it means to be human.

Take his song "Show the Way," for example. Every time I listen to it, I'm struck by the profound wisdom woven through the lyrics. The song speaks to the power of love to guide us through even the darkest of times, to illuminate the path forward when all seems lost. It's a reminder that even when we feel most alone, most surrounded by shadows, there is a force greater than ourselves at work, a love that has written the very story of our lives.

That message, that truth, has been a guiding light for me through some of my own darkest moments. When I've felt lost, afraid, unsure of my next step, I've called upon the wisdom of that song. I've leaned into the idea that love is the great playwright, the great director, the great compass leading me home. And many times, it's shown me the way.

And that got me thinking about all the other unexpected teachers we encounter throughout our lives. Because let's be real - when we think about teachers, we usually picture the traditional setup, right? Classrooms, chalkboards, desks in neat rows. But the truth is, some of the most profound lessons we learn come from sources we might never think to call "teachers."

Take our friends, for example. Think about the friends who've been with you through thick and thin, who've celebrated your victories and comforted you through your losses. They've taught you about loyalty, about empathy, about the power of showing up for the people you love.

Or think about the books you've read that have stayed with you long after you turned the final page. The ones that changed the way you see the world, that introduced you to new ideas and perspectives. Those authors, they're teachers too, guiding us through the complexities of the human experience one chapter at a time.

And then there's the world around us. The natural world, with its endless cycles of growth and decay, its reminders of our own impermanence and interconnectedness. The cities we live in, with their intricate webs of history and culture, their lessons about diversity and resilience. Even the challenges we face, the obstacles we overcome - they're all teachers in their own way, showing us what we're capable of, pushing us to grow and adapt.

The point is, teachers are everywhere, if we're willing to recognize them as such. They're in the music that moves us, the stories that inspire us, the relationships that sustain us. They're in the quiet moments of reflection and the chaotic messiness of everyday life.

And the beautiful thing? We get to keep learning from them, keep being shaped by their wisdom, for as long as we're willing to pay attention. David Wilcox has been teaching me for nearly 30 years now, and I suspect he'll keep teaching me for many more to come. Just like all the other unexpected teachers that have graced my life, leaving their indelible mark on the person I've become and the person I'm still becoming.

So here's to the teachers, in all their many forms. May we never stop seeking them out, never stop letting them guide us through this wild, wonderful, endlessly educational journey we call life.

a grandpa's look at growth

In the last couple of weeks, I've been realizing that becoming a grandfather has started shifting my perspective on just about everything. It's like this seismic event that shakes up all your priorities and makes you reevaluate what really matters. And for me, one of the biggest revelations has been about the idea of growth.

When I first held our granddaughter in my arms, I had this rush of emotion that I wasn't quite prepared for. Sure, I was overjoyed, I was in awe, I was all the things you'd expect a new grandpa to be. But beneath all that, there was this quiet little voice in my head saying, "Okay, so what's next? How do I help this little person grow and succeed and achieve?"

And that's when it hit me: my whole life, I've been thinking about growth all wrong. I've been so focused on the external markers of growth - the "top line", the bank account, the square footage - that I've been missing the deeper, more meaningful kind of growth that really makes a life worth living.

I look at my granddaughter, and I don't care how tall she gets or how much money she makes. What I care about is the person she becomes. I care about her kindness, her curiosity, her resilience. I care about the way she engages with the world around her, the way she treats others, the way she grows not just in size, but in wisdom and compassion.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that's the kind of growth I want for myself in this third act of life, too. I don't need more stuff, more accolades, more digits in my P&L. What I need is to keep evolving, keep deepening, keep arranging the experiences and insights I've gathered over the years into a version of myself that's a little bit better, a little bit kinder, a little bit more attuned to what really matters.

It's a different kind of growth, one that's not about expansion but about enrichment. I am trying to start looking at my life as a work of art, and asking how I can add more depth, more nuance, more beauty to the canvas. It's about being a grandfather not just in title, but in spirit - someone who models the kind of growth that doesn't just chase after more, but that seeks to be enough.

Becoming a grandfather has been a lot of things - joyful, overwhelming, humbling. But more than anything, it's been clarifying. It's stripped away all the noise and reminded me of what growth really means. It's not about becoming a bigger somebody, but about becoming a better somebody. It's about evolving, maturing, becoming the kind of person that a child (or grandchild) can look up to not just for what you've achieved, but for who you are.

 

the hope of young people protesting

When I look at the world around us, it's easy to get discouraged sometimes. There's so much injustice, so much shortsightedness, so much selfishness. But then I see young people - high school and college students - standing up and speaking out, and it gives me hope. Because these kids, they're not just the future. They're the moral compass of our society.

And when I see these young activists taking to the streets, raising their voices, and demanding change, I can't help but think of that powerful song SPEAK OUT by Rising Appalachia and Ani DiFranco:

Step up
Speak out
Show up
Be loud

Protest music has a huge history for young people, pointing out the importance of speaking up, stepping up, and showing up when it matters most. And that's exactly what these students are doing. They're embodying the spirit of that anthem, using their voices and their presence to shake up the status quo and fight for a better world.

As an older person, I know that my generation has a tendency to tell these young activists to settle down, to be more strategic, to respect the complexity and nuance of the issues they're fighting for. We lecture them about being too idealistic, too impatient, too aggressive in their tactics. And in this election year, I hear a lot of my peers telling student protesters, "Don't ruin the election. Don't be too radical. Don't scare away the moderates."

But you know what? That's exactly what older generations have always said to young people who are protesting for change. It's the same script that was used against the civil rights activists in the 60s, the anti-war protesters in the 70s, the LGBTQ+ rights advocates in the 80s and 90s. "Wait your turn," they said. "Don't rock the boat. Don't jeopardize our chances of winning."

But the truth is, those young activists were right. They saw injustice and inequality that their elders were willing to tolerate, and they had the courage to say "enough is enough." They pushed society forward, even when it was uncomfortable and controversial. They made the world a better place, not by being cautious and measured, but by being bold and uncompromising.

So to all the young activists out there who are facing pushback from people like me, I want to say: don't listen to us. Don't let us convince you to tone it down or play it safe. Keep doing what you're doing. Keep speaking truth to power, keep fighting for what you believe in.

Because the world needs your passion, your energy, your moral clarity. It needs you to hold us accountable, to shake us out of our complacency, to remind us of our highest ideals. It needs you to be the conscience of our society, even when - especially when - it makes us uncomfortable.

And to my fellow oldsters, I want to say: let's take a step back and remember our own youth. Remember when we were the ones out there marching and shouting and dreaming of a better world. Remember how frustrated we felt when our elders told us to be patient, to wait our turn, to let the grownups handle it.

Let's have the humility to recognize that maybe, just maybe, these young people know something we don't. Maybe they see the world more clearly than we do, with all our years of experience and all our talk of pragmatism and realpolitik.

So let's listen to them. Let's support them. Let's create space for their voices to be heard. Because in the end, their fight is our fight. Their vision of a more just, more compassionate world is the one we all share.

And if we have the wisdom to follow their lead, to join our voices with theirs, to add our strength to their cause - well, then maybe we'll find that a better future is closer than we ever dared to imagine. Maybe we'll discover that the radical idea of a world where everyone is treated with dignity and respect isn't so radical after all - it's just the right thing to do.

the awe of holding our first grandchild

"Tell me what it's like to live without curiosity, without awe." Those words from Matthew Olzmann's poem keep echoing in my head as I think about the moment I held my first grandchild last Friday. Because let me tell you, if there was ever a moment that demanded curiosity and awe, that was it.

You know those experiences that just completely rewire your brain, that make you feel like you're seeing the world through a whole new lens? Well, that's exactly what happened to me when I cradled this tiny, perfect bundle of life in my arms for the first time.

It was like every other concern just evaporated, and I was fully present, fully immersed in the wonder of that moment. My ego, my sense of self - it all just fell away, and I was left with this overwhelming feeling of being part of something so much bigger and more profound than I could ever imagine.

And then, almost involuntarily, I heard myself whisper, "Whoa." It was like my body couldn't contain the awe, and it just spilled out of me in this primal, universal expression of wonder.

But that was just the beginning. As I sat there, gazing into my grandchild's eyes, I could feel the physical sensations of awe washing over me. Tears started welling up, and I got goosebumps all over my arms. It was like my body was trying to process the enormity of the love and the connection I was feeling, and it was almost too much to handle.

And then, in the midst of all that overwhelming emotion, I felt this warm, glowing sensation in my chest. In the moment, all I knew was that I was feeling a love and a sense of wonder that I had never experienced before.

And you know what? That moment reminded me of just how essential awe is to the human experience. Because in a world that can sometimes feel jaded and cynical, awe is the antidote. It's the thing that cracks us open, that reminds us of the magic and the mystery that's all around us, all the time.

So to anyone who's ever had the privilege of experiencing true awe, whether it's holding a newborn grandchild or standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon - cherish those moments. Let them sink into your bones and change you from the inside out.

amplified love

When you're in the thick of parenting, when you're knee-deep in diapers and tantrums and teenage drama, it's easy to lose sight of the big picture. You're just trying to survive, just hoping and praying that you're not totally screwing up your kids, that somehow, despite all your missteps and shortcomings, they'll turn out to be decent human beings.

But then, something kind of magical happens. Those little rugrats, those moody adolescents, they grow up. They become adults. And if you're really, really lucky, you get to witness something that takes your breath away: you get to see them become loving, compassionate people in their own right.

That's what's happened with our daughters, and trust me, it's the most incredible gift. It's like all those years of worrying and wondering and trying our best, even when our best felt totally inadequate - it's like it was all leading up to this moment, this revelation.

Because here's the thing: our daughters, they're not just loving people. They're the kind of people who radiate warmth and kindness, who make everyone around them feel seen and valued. They're the kind of people who go out of their way to help a friend in need, who volunteer their time and energy to make the world a little bit brighter.

And the craziest part? They've become these amazing, loving adults not because of us, but in spite of us. I mean, don't get me wrong, Lisa and I - we tried our best. We showed up, we loved them fiercely, we did the whole unconditional love thing. But we also made a ton of mistakes. We lost our tempers, we said the wrong things, we got caught up in our own stuff and forgot to really listen.

But somehow, miraculously, our daughters took all of that - the good, the bad, and the ugly - and they alchemized it into something beautiful. They took the love we gave them, even when it was imperfect, and they multiplied it, expanded it, set it free in the world.

Watching them now, as adults, it's like seeing the very best parts of ourselves reflected back at us, but magnified, amplified. It's like catching a glimpse of the people we always hoped we could be, the kind of love we always wanted to put out into the world.

And you know what? It gives me so much hope. Because if our daughters can become these incredible, loving people, not because of us, but in spite of us - then maybe there's hope for the rest of us, too. Maybe we're all capable of so much more love and compassion than we ever dreamed possible.

 

look for the gift behind the gift

When I started out in my publishing career, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I was lucky to find this amazing mentor named John Howard. John was like a walking, talking embodiment of wisdom and kindness. He took me under his wing, showed me the ropes, and always had my back, no matter how badly I screwed up.

But here's the thing: I never really told John how much he meant to me. I mean, sure, I toss out the occasional "thanks" when he helped me out with a project or gave me some killer advice. But I never sat him down, looked him in the eye, and said, "John, I need you to know how insanely grateful I am for everything you've done for me. You've changed my life in ways I can't even begin to wrap my head around."

And then, boom. In the middle of the pandemic, I get the news that John has passed away. And just like that, it's too late. I've missed my chance to really, truly thank him for being such a massive part of my journey.

That whole experience, it got me thinking hard about gratitude, and how absolutely essential it is if you want to live a life that's actually worth living. I started realizing that there's this huge, gaping chasm between just mindlessly saying "thank you" and actually feeling genuine gratitude. It's like what I used to do with my kids when they were little - constantly nagging them to say thank you, without ever really teaching them what it means to be truly grateful.

But how do we make gratitude a real habit, without it just becoming another empty routine? This psychologist named Andrea Hussong, she's got a pretty great idea. She says the key is to look for the gift behind the gift. Instead of just focusing on the physical thing someone gave you or the favor they did for you, try to think about their intention. Reflect on the effort and thoughtfulness that went into it. It's not about the sweater anymore; it's about the connection.

And when it comes to expressing gratitude, it's not just about how we feel - it's about acknowledging the other person. Research suggests people often make a huge mistake when they're trying to express gratitude: they focus on how they feel, instead of focusing on the person who did something nice for them. But the people who actually express gratitude towards the other person, they end up having stronger and more loving relationships than the people who just focus on what they got out of it.

A lot of people like me, we keep their gratitude locked up inside. We feel it, but we don't express it. We assume the other person already knows how much they're appreciated, or we get all twisted up trying to find the perfect words. But you know what Gertrude Stein said? "Silent gratitude isn't very much to anyone." Writing a thank you note or sending a quick email might feel awkward or unnecessary, but trust me, it's so worth it. Every time we don't express our gratitude, we're missing out on a chance to give ourselves and someone else a little boost.

I may have missed my chance to thank John in person, but I'll be damned if I make that mistake again. I'm gonna keep living my life with gratitude, with appreciation, with love. I'm gonna keep telling the people in my life how much they mean to me, every chance I get. Because when you really get down to it, that's what life is all about - the connections we make, the love we share, and the gratitude we express along the way.

what it means to be wise

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it really means to be a wise, intelligent human being in this crazy, mixed-up world of ours. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that maybe, just maybe, we've been getting it all wrong.

I mean, let's start with the basics. What is intelligence, anyway? Is it just about being able to solve problems quickly and come up with clever solutions on the fly? Is it about acing standardized tests and impressing everyone with our big, shiny brains?

Well, sure, that's part of it. But as Arthur C. Brooks points out, there's actually a big difference between what he calls "fluid" and "crystallized" intelligence. Fluid intelligence is what we usually think of when we hear the word "smart" - it's that raw brainpower that allows us to think fast, adapt to new situations, and come up with creative ideas. And it's great, don't get me wrong.

But crystallized intelligence? That's where the real magic happens. Crystallized intelligence is all about the wisdom and knowledge that we accumulate over time through experience and learning. It's the stuff that allows us to see patterns, make connections, and navigate life's trickiest challenges with a sense of perspective and understanding.

And here's the really wild part: while fluid intelligence tends to peak in our 20s and 30s, crystallized intelligence actually keeps growing and deepening as we age. It's like a fine wine, getting better and more complex over time.

So what does all this have to do with being a good, wise human being? Well, everything, really. Because as Paul Graham points out in his essay on the subject, being truly wise isn't just about being smart in the moment. It's about knowing which problems are actually worth solving in the first place, and having the moral clarity and life experience to make tough decisions with compassion and integrity.

We need more of that in the world right now. We need people who aren't just brilliant, but wise. People who can look at the mess we're in and see the potential for beauty and transformation. People who can take the long view and make choices that are good not just for themselves, but for everyone.

But here's the thing: that kind of wisdom doesn't come easy. It's not something you can just pick up from a self-help book or a motivational seminar. It's something that you have to earn through the hard, messy work of living. It's something that comes from making mistakes and learning from them, from opening yourself up to new experiences and perspectives, from being willing to grow and change and evolve.

And that's where Maggie Smith's beautiful poem "Good Bones" comes in. Because if we're going to cultivate that kind of wisdom, we have to start by being honest with ourselves and with each other. We have to acknowledge the fact that life is short and the world is at least half terrible, and that pretending otherwise doesn't do anyone any favors.

But we also have to hold onto the hope and the possibility that things can be different, that we can take this broken-down house of a world and make it beautiful again. We have to be like that realtor in Smith's poem, walking through the shithole and chirping on about the good bones, the potential for transformation.

And we have to be willing to do the work, to put in the time and the effort and the heart to make that transformation happen. We have to surround ourselves with people who challenge us and inspire us and push us to be our best selves. We have to seek out new experiences and ideas and ways of being in the world.

Because in the end, that's what being a wise, intelligent human being is all about. It's not just about having a high IQ or being able to solve clever puzzles. It's about having the moral clarity and the emotional intelligence and the depth of understanding to make the world a little bit better, a little bit more beautiful, every single day.

And it's not always going to be easy. There will be days when we feel like we're stumbling around in the dark, when everything feels hopeless and impossible. But if we can hold onto that vision of the world as it could be, if we can keep believing in the good bones and the possibility of transformation, then I know we can make it happen.

We can be the wise ones, the ones who lead with love and fight for what's right. We can be the ones who take this short, precious, terrible, beautiful life and make it into something extraordinary.

 

the wisdom of waiting

I’ve worked in startups for 30 years and now I am a small business owner, I've learned a thing or two about the value of patience. But the other day, I came across a line in a Mary Oliver poem that really drove that lesson home: "Things take the time they take. Don't worry."

As someone who's spent decades in the fast-paced worlds of tech, sales and marketing, those words stopped me in my tracks. In startups and small businesses, everything is about hustle and speed. It's about pushing yourself to the limit, racing against the clock to beat the competition. And don't get me wrong - that drive and determination is important. It's what keeps us innovating and growing.

But here's the thing: all that rushing and stressing doesn't actually make things happen any faster. Trust me, I've tried. I've burnt the midnight oil and worked myself into the ground, all in the name of making things happen on my timeline. But at the end of the day, some things just require patience. They require us to take a step back and trust the process.

That's where Mary Oliver's words come in. "Things take the time they take." It's a reminder that for all our strategizing and hard work, life unfolds at its own pace. Sure, we can put in the effort and make smart moves, but ultimately, we can't control every variable. We can't force the market to shift or the perfect opportunity to appear on our schedule.

And that's where the "don't worry" part comes in. Because as any entrepreneur knows, worry is a constant companion. We worry about making payroll, about landing the next client, about staying ahead of the curve. But when we get caught up in that worry cycle, we miss out on the magic that's happening right in front of us. We forget to appreciate the small wins and the everyday joys that make the journey worthwhile.

Which brings me to another line from Oliver's poem that struck a chord: "How many roads did Saint Augustine follow before he became Saint Augustine?" It's a reminder that even the greatest journeys are made up of countless smaller paths. That the people we admire for their success and wisdom didn't get there overnight - they took detours, hit dead ends, and kept on searching until they found their way.

As a startup guy and a small business owner, that's a comforting thought. It means that all the twists and turns of my own journey - the failed ventures and the unexpected pivots - are not roadblocks, but necessary steps on the path to becoming who I'm meant to be. It means that I don't have to have it all figured out right now, as long as I keep showing up and putting one foot in front of the other.

So maybe that's the real lesson here: that the wisdom we seek is not something we arrive at all at once, but something we cultivate over time. That the roads we follow, even the ones that seem to lead nowhere, are all part of the journey. And that if we can learn to embrace the process - to find joy in the waiting and trust in the unfolding - we'll look back one day and see that every step was necessary, every detour was sacred.

 

harboring the past, present

You know how sometimes you get a gift that seems small at first, but ends up kind of rocking your world? That's what happened to me this past Christmas, when my daughter and her husband got me one of those Aura digital picture frames. 

At first, I wasn't quite sure what to make of this thing constantly cycling through old photos on our kitchen counter. But as we've added more and more pictures over the past few months, I've started to realize that it's not just a slideshow - it's an invitation to rethink my approach to memory and to my view of myself.

For so much of my time on this earth, I've been like a boat out on the sea, always focused on the next horizon, the next port to reach. I've been so caught up in charting my course forward that I've rarely taken the time to look back at where I've been. But this frame, with its never-ending reminder of the past, has got me wondering: what if instead of always pushing ahead, I tried to become more like a harbor?

A harbor is a place of stillness and reflection, where the tides of time come together. It's a place where boats can rest and recharge, where they can take stock of their journeys and prepare for the adventures ahead. And I'm starting to think that maybe my soul could use a little more of that harbor energy.

All those snapshots cycling by on my Aura frame - the birthdays and weddings, the vacations and everyday joys - they're not just images. They're reminders of the love and laughter and tears that have shaped me, the experiences that have made me who I am.

And the more I let myself dwell in that harbor of memory, the more I feel a sense of connection and continuity. It's like I'm not just a boat bobbing along on the surface of life, but part of something deeper and more enduring. By anchoring myself in the stories of where I've been, I'm finding a new sense of rootedness, a new appreciation for the twists and turns of my own unique journey.

Now, don't get me wrong - I'm not about to retire my boat. There's still a part of me that loves the thrill of setting sail towards new horizons, of chasing dreams and embracing change. But I'm coming to see the value in balancing that forward momentum with moments of pause and reflection. I'm learning that I need both the adventure of the open sea and the stillness of the harbor.

So now, when I catch sight of an old photo on my Aura frame, I try to let myself really sink into the memory. I breathe in the emotions and sensations, the laughter and the tears. I let myself be nourished by the reminder of all the love and joy and resilience that have carried me through the years.

And in those moments, I feel a little less like a restless boat, and a little more like a tranquil harbor. A place where the past and present can mingle and mix, creating something richer and more textured than either one alone. A place where I can rest and remember, even as I keep dreaming and daring and sailing on.

So here's to becoming the harbor, even as we keep exploring the sea. Here's to finding the wisdom in the stillness, even as we chase the wonder of the horizon.

confessions of a church refuge

For most of my life, church was everything to me. And I mean everything. It wasn't just a place I went on Sundays - it was the heartbeat of my entire existence. My friends, my support system, my sense of identity and purpose and belonging... it all flowed from those pews, those potlucks, those small groups and service projects.

I was part of the 70% of Americans in the 1980s who said they belonged to a church, synagogue, or mosque. I volunteered for everything, tithed my income, wore the T-shirts and went to the conferences. The church wasn't just my community - it was my world. And for a long time, that felt like enough. It felt like home.

But then, I started to sense what author Phyllis Tickle called "The Great Emergence" - a massive upheaval in Christianity that happens every 500 years or so. Tickle argued that we're currently in the midst of one of these seismic shifts, a time when the old institutions and dogmas are crumbling, making way for something new to emerge. And for me, that crumbling started to hit home. The solid ground of my faith began to feel shaky, the unquestioned assumptions started to sprout question marks. I found myself in the unsettling space of what Tickle termed "The Great Unraveling," when everything you thought you knew starts to come undone.

Turns out, I wasn't alone. In the 1990s, the ranks of nonbelievers surged. An estimated 40 million people - one in eight Americans - stopped going to church in the past 25 years. It was the "largest concentrated change in church attendance in American history." By 2021, membership in houses of worship fell below a majority for the first time on record.

Leaving was hard, like extracting myself from a marriage, an entire identity. For a while, I felt like I was in some kind of church witness protection program, hiding out from my old life, trying to figure out who I was without that all-encompassing community.

But here's what I'm learning: just because I left the church doesn't mean I left my hunger for community, for meaning, for something bigger than myself. Those needs are still there, as strong as ever. 

So to all the other church refugees out there, I see you. I know the ache of that exodus, the disorientation of that wilderness. I know what it's like to wander in the desert of doubt, to feel like a stranger in the place that once felt like home.

It's a lonely journey at times, this path in the wilderness. It's hard not to feel like a spiritual misfit, a theological outcast. We're the ones who ask too many questions, who can't quite toe the party line anymore. We're the ones who've been burned by the institution, who've seen behind the curtain and can't unsee it.

But here's what I'm learning: there's a strange sort of sacredness in this wilderness, too. There's a holiness in the honesty, in the willingness to sit with the discomfort and the doubt. There's a kind of grace in the grit it takes to start over, to sift through the rubble of what we've lost in search of what we can still claim.

an Interstellar guide to love beyond fear

With Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer cleaning up at the Oscars this year, I decided to go back and rewatch his 2014 mind-bender, Interstellar. I love love love this film - Nolan goes full sentimental with a healthy dose of dad stuff. On the surface, it's this crazy space adventure about humanity's last-ditch effort to find a new home somewhere out there among the stars. But when you really dig into it, the movie is all about the constant tug-of-war between love and fear that defines what it means to be human.

The heart of the story is Cooper, a widowed dad faced with an impossible choice. As one of the last trained pilots left on Earth, he's asked to lead a mission through a wormhole to find a planet humans can actually live on - a journey that will take him away from his young kids, maybe forever. It's the ultimate test of putting others first, giving up everything he loves most for the greater good of humanity.

As he wrestles with the decision, Cooper's father-in-law drops this truth bomb on him: "You have to let him go." It's a line that really captures the gut-punch of the whole film - that sometimes, the greatest act of love is letting go, even when every bone in your body is screaming to hold on.

Cooper's young daughter Murph doesn't get it at first. She feels betrayed, left behind. But as she grows up, she starts to understand the weight of her dad's sacrifice. In one of the most heartbreaking moments, the adult Murph says, "I let my dad leave... without ever telling him I knew why he was leaving."

And that's the thing about Interstellar - it shows us that true generosity, the kind that changes the course of history, is almost never easy or straightforward. It means staring down your worst fears and putting other people's needs before your own, even when it hurts like hell. Like Cooper leaving behind everything he holds dear for a tiny chance to save the human race, it takes a massive leap of faith into the unknown.

The movie kind of hints that love, when it's real and pure, has this power that goes beyond space and time. It's the "one thing that transcends dimensions of time and space," the force that ultimately leads Cooper to the big discovery that helps save humanity. His one act of selflessness spreads out across the universe in ways he never could have imagined.

Watching Interstellar again, it hit me that the war between love and fear that drives the whole story is the same battle we're all fighting every day. We face it in the biggest choices and the smallest moments - the constant push and pull between looking out for ourselves and putting others first, between holding onto what's familiar and taking a chance on something bigger.

In the end, the movie leaves us with this challenge - to keep reaching for the stars, not just with rockets and technology, but with the size of our hearts. To let the best parts of ourselves lead the way, even when the path is dark and scary. To love beyond all reason and logic and fear, and in doing that, become the pioneers we were always meant to be.

we are born the same, return to that place

Lisa and I went to see Jon Batiste in concert this week, and we were blown away. His music always moves me, but hearing him perform live was a transcendent experience. And the song that struck me most deeply was "Worship."

When I heard him start with that opening chant - "We are born the same, return to that place" - ir reminded me how much live music can be an experience of awe, ia recognition of the deep unity and sacredness that binds us all together. Lisa has introduced me to the writings and research of Dacher Keltner, He has found that this is what awe does: it shifts our focus from our individual selves to our connectedness with others and with something greater. It makes us feel part of an integrated whole, in ways that so much of life nowadays does not.

As Batiste's lyrics washed over me - "Oh my father, Oh my mother, Oh my brother, Oh my sister" - I felt that sense of awe,  boundaries between self and other fading away, past and present, human and divine. This, Keltner says, is the transformative power of awe: it can "reshape our sense of self, connect us to humankind and nature, and reorient our life priorities."

And isn't this exactly what the Christian story Easter story calls us to? To remember our fundamental unity, to allow the boundaries that divide us to fall away in the face of a Love that conquers all? If you are you are part of that story, we are invited to die to our small, separate selves and be reborn into a larger story, an eternal dance of death and resurrection.

Keltner's research has found that experiences of awe, whether in nature, in spirituality, or in witnessing profound human courage and kindness, activate the same regions of our brain as psychedelics. They shift us into a more expansive state of consciousness, quiet our default mode network, and connect us to the numinous dimensions of life.

I think this is what Jon Batiste's music does. In "Worship", he invites us to step into that liminal space between the ordinary and the extraordinary, the human and the holy. He calls us to join our voices together, to let our awe weave us into a single fabric of belonging.

In a world that feels fractured and frantic, we need these shared experiences of awe more than ever. We need rituals and practices, songs and stories that continually awaken us to the wonder and mystery at the heart of existence. This is what our religious traditions have always done at their best - provided touchpoints of awe that reorient us toward what matters most.

So maybe "Worship" should be our anthem this Easter Sunday and beyond. A doorway into the awe that is always available to us, if only we have eyes to see and ears to hear. May we hear the call to return to that place where we are all one, all born of the same cosmic breath and boundless love.

game over: holy saturday in an age of AI

Remember those old video games, the ones where you'd be playing along, dodging obstacles and racking up points, and then suddenly - bam! The screen would go black, and those two dreaded words would appear: GAME OVER. It was always a shock, no matter how many times it happened. One minute you're in the zone, and the next, it's all just...done.

In a way, that's kind of what the Christian idea of Holy Saturday feels like. It's that moment when everything seems to screech to a halt, when the story you thought you were living suddenly takes a turn you never saw coming. In the story of Jesus's followers, it must have been like the ultimate game over. The one they thought was invincible, the one they had put all their hope in, was gone. And they were left staring at a blank screen, wondering what comes next.

It's a feeling that hits a little too close to home these days, as we grapple with the rise of artificial intelligence and the looming specter of our own potential extinction. The idea that we might be moving towards our own game over, that everything we've built and dreamed could just...end. This idea is real - a survey of AI researchers found that the majority of respondents believed there is a 10 percent or greater chance that our inability to control AI will cause an existential catastrophe. It's a weight that's hard to shake

But here's the thing: as tempting as it might be to rage against the game, to demand a do-over or a cheat code, that's not how life works. There are no save points, no extra lives. There's just this one wild and precious life, this finite and messy thing we call our existence.

And maybe that's what the idea Holy Saturday is trying to teach us. That sometimes, the only way forward is through the darkness. Through the grief and the fear and the not-knowing. Through the moments when everything feels like it's ending, and we can't see a way out.

Because the truth is, being human means learning to live with the weight of our own mortality. It means staring down the GAME OVER screen and saying, "Okay. What now?" It means letting ourselves feel the full depth of our sorrow and our fear, without trying to fast-forward through the hard parts.

And yeah, it's scary. It's scary to think about our own ending, to imagine a world without us in it. But maybe, in a weird way, that's what makes our lives so precious. The fact that they're not infinite. The fact that we only get so many quarters, so many chances to leave our mark.

So on this Holy Saturday, as we sit in the shadow of the game over, let's not be afraid to feel the weight of it all. Let's not be afraid to grieve what we've lost, and what we know we'll lose. But let's also remember to look for the glimmers of light in the darkness. Let's remember to hold onto the things that matter most.

Because in the end, that's what being human is all about. It's about learning to live in the space between the levels. It's about finding meaning and beauty in the midst of uncertainty. It's about being brave enough to keep playing, even when we know the game might end.

And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, that's the secret to beating the final level in the game. Not by chasing immortality or trying to outsmart death, but by embracing our own extinction. By living each moment like it's the last coin in the slot, the last chance to leave our initials on the high score screen.

So let's take a deep breath, and let's sit with the weight of the GAME OVER. Let's feel it all - the grief, the fear, the love, the hope. And then, let's hit continue and face the next level - not because we know we'll win, but because we're brave enough to keep playing, one life at a time.

the grief of losing faith

I've been carrying around this ache in my chest lately, a sense of loss that I can't quite put into words. It's like mourning the death of someone close to me, but I can't pinpoint exactly who or what I've lost. After a lot of soul-searching, I've realized that what I'm grieving is the faith that once anchored me - a way of understanding the world that used to feel rock-solid, but that now seems to be crumbling beneath my feet.

This kind of grief is hard to talk about because it's a grief for something intangible - a way of making sense of life that once seemed unshakable, but now feels like it's fading away. It's not like losing a person or a place, something you can point to and say, "There. That's what I'm missing." Instead, it's like mourning a part of yourself that you can't quite name or describe.

And it turns out, I'm not the only one feeling this way. A recent Pew Research Center survey found that a staggering 80% of U.S. adults believe religion's role in American life is diminishing - the highest percentage they've ever recorded. Most of those who see religion's influence waning are unhappy about it. Nearly half of Americans say that religion is losing its impact, and that this is a bad thing.

These numbers reflect a profound shift in our spiritual landscape, a collective sense of loss and disorientation. For many of us, this change feels deeply personal, like a kind of unnamed grief. It's a pain that's hard to articulate because it's rooted in something so intangible - a worldview, a set of beliefs and practices that once gave our lives meaning and structure.

But here's the thing about grief: it cracks us open. It exposes our deepest vulnerabilities and forces us to confront the fragility of everything we thought we could rely on. And in that raw, broken-open space, we have a choice. We can try to patch over the cracks, to cling to what's familiar even as it crumbles in our hands. Or we can choose to be present to the breaking, to let it soften and change us.

I'm trying to choose presence, even though it scares me. I'm learning to sit with the discomfort of this unnamed grief, to listen to what it has to teach me. I'm starting to see that this ache in my heart isn't just about what I've lost - it's also about what I'm being called to pay attention to right now.

Because maybe, in the end, grief is a kind of sacred guide. Not because it promises answers or resolution, but because it invites us to be fully present to our own experience. It calls us to honor the questions, the doubts, the longings, without rushing to resolve them. It reminds us that we can love deeply, that we can care profoundly, even about things we can't fully name or hold onto.

So I'll keep sitting with this unnamed grief, keep letting it crack me open. I'll keep listening for the wisdom it offers, not because I'm hoping for a tidy resolution, but because I'm learning to trust a kind of resilience and tenderness I never knew I had.

the bully that is time in search of holiness

I went to a local Episcopal church for a Palm Sunday liturgy today. As Holy Week starts, I find myself really missing the rhythms and patterns of these next 7 days. In our digital world, where our devices are always demanding our attention, I've lost touch with the sacred rhythms that used to give my life a sense of meaning.

Time has become a big bully in my life, pushing me around with its constant demands and never-ending rush. The non-stop buzz of notifications, the flood of emails and messages, the pressure to be "always on" - it all gangs up to make me feel like I'm never doing enough, never catching up.

I remember the Holy Weeks of my childhood, when time seemed to move at a totally different speed. There was a seriousness and a sense of excitement in the air - the way the church looked with purple cloths, the sad sounds of the hymns, the taste of the bread and wine on Maundy Thursday. Each day had its own unique feel, its own emotional heaviness.

But now, as a grown-up in the digital age, those old rhythms feel harder and harder to grab onto. My phone beeps with urgent messages at all hours, and the constant stream of bad news from around the world makes it tough to step away and really be present. The sacred story of Holy Week - the path from Palm Sunday to Easter morning - feels more like a fading memory than something I'm actually living.

And yet, even in the middle of all this noise and confusion, I find myself longing for a different way of experiencing time. I miss the feeling of time being a gift to enjoy rather than a bossy taskmaster always telling me what to do. I miss the way the rituals and practices of Holy Week used to line up my body and soul with something bigger than the day-to-day hassles of the moment.

I miss actually walking through the Stations of the Cross, letting my body act out the story of Jesus' pain and death. I miss the soreness in my knees after an hour of prayer on Maundy Thursday, and the shock of the loud noises on Good Friday when the altar is stripped bare.

Most of all, I miss feeling like I'm part of a story way bigger than myself - a story that includes all of human history and reaches into the farthest corners of forever. In a world that feels more and more broken and crazy, I long for the groundedness that comes from knowing my little life is caught up in the great big drama of God's saving work.

 

why poetry helps so much answering the question "Why are we not better than we are??

Yesterday, March 21st, was World Poetry Day - a day set aside to celebrate the power and beauty of this ancient art form. It’s rare to meet the dad of a poet you love, but while I was in London a few weeks ago, I had coffee with Jonny Baker. I’ve known Jonny for more than two decades, a friendship that started virtually and blossomed when we were in the same place.

Jonny’s son is the poet Harry Baker. Harry's wit, wordplay, and storytelling never fail to make me laugh, think, and feel more deeply. His poems are a perfect example of how this ancient art form still has the power to delight and move us in the 21st century. If you spend any time watching Harry “perform” his poetry, you are reminded that poetry has been a way for humans to express their deepest thoughts and feelings for centuries. Yesterday was a day to remember how much poems can inspire us, challenge us, and change us.

I’ve replaced a lot of my podcast listening with listening to poets read their work. It wasnt something intentional - at first I just switched my feed to Poetry Unbound and I just followed my heart through my ears. A few weeks ago, these words from Frost on the Field, a poem by Eric Trethewey really make me think:

"Why are we not better than we are?, All around me the dead leaves lie."

When I see all the problems in the world, I wonder why it's so hard for us to be good. When life is tough, I often turn to poetry for help.Poetry has a special way of changing how we think. Just one strong phrase can wake us up from our normal way of seeing things. It can show us new possibilities we never imagined. When we take a moment to read a poem, we can question who we are and how we look at life.

Audre Lorde said poetry is like putting on glasses that help us see our lives differently. The right poem at the right time can make us notice things about our lives that we couldn't quite put into words before. Poetry wipes away the dust of daily life that makes us forget how amazing it is to be alive. That sense of wonder is the first step to making any real change.

These days, as I see so much bad news, I find myself holding onto poetry like a life raft. Poems give us a way to express deep hopes, fears, and wishes that everyday words can't capture. A good poet can stretch words to describe things that feel too big or intense to say out loud. The beat of poetry links our own pain to what everyone goes through. We don't feel so alone when times are hard.

So as "the day lets out one last breath and goes still", I find myself breathing out into the quiet of poetry. Waiting and listening for an answer to the big question the poet asks. Hoping that, through poetry's power, we can pick up the broken bits of ourselves and the world "to start over one more time" - always moving together towards being better people.

"The seed of what's not yet, real pauses and gets ready to begin again."

 

maybe I can't say that I'm not a God person

"Maybe I can't say that I'm not a God person." This lyric from Madi Diaz's song "God Person" grabbed me the first time I heard it a few weeks ago. It got me thinking about my own journey with faith and spirituality, and whether I still consider myself a "God person" after all these years.

This isn't a post about some huge sociological shift from churchgoers to Sunday morning New York Times readers. It's a personal reflection on my own relationship with religion. I grew up as a God person. I worked professionally as a God person. I met my wife as a God person. I served in leadership as a God person. But now, as I've turned 60, I find myself questioning whether that label still fits.

Just before the pandemic, we moved out of our house and boxed up about 15 Christian books, somewhat sarcastically labeling them "in case of emergency." But when the emergency hit - a global crisis that shook me to my core - I never opened those boxes. I didn't turn to my identity, my beliefs, or my sense of belonging as a God person for comfort or guidance.

Being a God person, I've come to realize, isn't just about doctrine or specific beliefs. It's about feeling connected to something bigger than yourself, belonging to the idea of a higher power. Most days, I still hope for that sense of meaning and transcendence. I try to hold onto it, even when it feels too slippery to hold.

But if I'm honest, I'm not sure if my DNA is still God-shaped. Madi Diaz's song talks about wonder, mystery, and tragedy as clues pointing to a being greater than ourselves. I used to see the world that way, but now I'm not so certain. The old rituals and practices don't ground me like they once did. 

Maybe this is just another stage in my lifelong spiritual journey, a time of questioning and seeking rather than certainty and declaration. Or maybe, as the song says, I can't definitively say that I'm not a God person. Perhaps there will always be a part of me that yearns for the divine and finds glimpses of sacredness in the world, even as my beliefs evolve.

I may never again feel the unshakable faith of my younger days, but I can still appreciate the mystery and remain open to experiencing meaning and connection wherever they may appear. In the end, perhaps being a God person is less about having all the answers and more about embracing the questions.

 

grateful for dirty hands

After years without getting my hands dirty on creative projects, the last few months have reignited my passion for making things. The spark was an app I started building to help students find fun summer activities. I began slowly, reading instructions, testing sample code, jotting down ideas. But the more I sunk my hands into tinkering, the more pumped I got.

Seeing even simple pieces come together filled me with happiness. Each little step forward pulled me in deeper. Before long, my hands were filthy from building, fixing glitches, adding new features. The thrill of bringing an idea to life after years without hands-on creative work felt amazing.

The app also made me realize how much I missed writing – another dirty-hands activity that fell by the wayside. I used to have a blog ages ago until I started to doubt myself. But working on the app revived my creative spirit. I rediscovered how simply writing made me feel lighter, more centered.

So I dusted off my old blog and began posting again. Getting back into the habit has brought mad satisfaction. Putting thoughts into words keeps my mind sharp.

After years feeling uninspired and blah, this creative comeback has been sweet. It took forcing myself to plunge my hands back into projects to regain momentum. But once I pushed past feeling lazy at first, my natural curiosity and love of creating kicked back in. When we flex our creative muscles even a little, it’s nutty how quickly passion returns. I had forgotten the awesome feeling that comes from imagining, building and sharing something new. I won’t take this feeling for granted again now that I've gotten dirt under my fingernails once more!

in this strange new world, may doubt gently grow wisdom within us

We used to think about whether a person's word was their bond: could their truth be trusted? That question was always important because what's true shapes the world and guides the choices we make. Now, with these  AI programs making pictures, videos, and all kinds of stuff, we're back to that same question. Except now, it's about trusting the machines.

Before, when you saw a picture, you figured it captured a real moment (unless it was crazy weird). AI changed that. Now, unless someone swears it's real, it's safer to assume a picture is a cool invention, not a window into the world. This is kinda scary because truth is more than just facts – it's about what we believe is right or wrong. Made-up stuff can feel real, muddling that up for us. Doubt can feel like it's tearing things down, but it's actually a helper.

Here is a blessing of doubt I've been rolling around in my head for the last few months, something to help as I walk through this dark and confusing path:

May we make peace with questions that shake our certainty. Doubt shows care for truth and filters out lies. Its honest asking draws wisdom near.

Even long ago, doubt helped faith, not just harmed it. Blind faith loses power, but bold inquiry wins it back.

It's okay to feel ready at the edge of what we believe, and patiently lean into the unknown instead of rushing to conclusions. Truths, not facts, can teach. Sometimes, it works better to just hide there.

Now, thinking machines unsettle what is real. Old bonds between images and truth weaken.

We who trust reason's light must gently retrain our senses. We'll learn how to sit with confusion while we wait for clarity. We'll admit to not-knowing, expecting new insights to come.

This is the holy doubt we need today. May it change our beliefs into living quests for answers. In this strange new world, may it gently grow wisdom within us.

 

 

“The young move to the centre, the mum and dad the frame."

I will be a granddad in May, and it's funny how Peter Gabriel captured what I imagine about this life transition in one simple line: “The young move to the centre, the mum and dad the frame.", the emotions that come with your kids having kids. You step aside as they take the spotlight, and you shift to a 100% supporting role, a frame around the beautiful chaos. 

I still remember the first time I heard my oldest daughter's laughter as an infant. That infectious baby giggle that fills your heart to bursting. As she grew into a toddler, the soundtrack of our home was her little feet pattering down the hall, her squeals of delight. I can still see her dancing in our bedroom, me “playing” her like a guitar, pure joy lighting up her face. 

I’ve imagined the new memories ahead, at I’ll help frame the pictures. I suppose you could call it “anticipatory nostalgia." I've watched our friends Laura & Craig be such incredible grandparents to their brood, and I've frankly been awed. Watching them with their grandkids, I can almost miss what has not yet been lost, I can sense the frame that they are and how much their young 'ins are now at the center of everything.

Even though I haven't met my future grandchild yet, I already feel twinges of longing for experiences that have not yet happened. When I walk by the empty guest room these days, I picture toy boxes overflowing with beloved stuffed animals and plastic dinosaurs. I imagine a sleepy little head nodding off to bedtime stories on my lap in a rocking chair.

Don't get me wrong - as I start this next decade of my life, I’m not pining for the sleepless nights and diaper changes of early parenthood. But I catch myself daydreaming about being present for all the firsts again. That first wobbly step, first day of kindergarten, first lost tooth. Getting to bear witness as a whole new generation comes into their own.

And yes, amidst all the anticipation, there are occasional pangs for the years gone by. I know all too well how quickly this season of life will pass. So I’m treasuring my time with our two daughters and their partners, even as I eagerly await playdates with the grands. After all, the gift of being a grandparent is getting to freeze time for just a little while longer, soaking up every giggle, every walk, every magical moment.

So while our house is still quiet, I’ll be practicing my silly grandpa voices, revising dad jokes for a new audience, and brushing up on baby swaddling skills (Iam world class, BTW) . And if you happen to hear bursts of anticipatory laughter coming from my office, don’t worry - it’s just Grandpa getting ready to help frame this wonderful new story.

 

fall in love with someone that enjoys your weirdness, not someone that tries to talk you into being normal

After 40 years of marriage, I'm letting you in on our little secret. Consider it a Valentine’s Day present. It's nothing fancy, no exotic tricks up our sleeves. We simply fell head over heels for each other's weirdness. As Jeffery Lamar Williams, known professionally as Young Thug, says in the classic love song “dermont (see yourself in my eyes)” by fred again:

Fall in love with someone that enjoys your weirdness, Not someone that tries to talk you into being normal

I'm a lot. I'm a lot to handle, a lot to love, and a lot to understand. I know I can be intense—my passions run deep. When something sparks my interest, I dive in headfirst without looking back. My enthusiasm can be infectious, but also exhausting for those around me. I wish I could press a pause button to give others a break.

We’ve all felt the sinking feeling of being yourself around someone new – expressing some obscure obsession, telling some peculiarly personal story – only to be met with a stare, a glance at a watch, a quick change of subject. “Oh God, I’ve said too much,” we think. “I’ve weirded them out.”

But true love means you rarely have to feel that panic. That self-consciousness. The stakes on just how strange your particular strain of weirdness can come out into the sunlight. When it happens, it’s the lightning blot that you’ve found the rare soul who doesn’t want you to sand down your edges. Who thinks your weirdness...well, that weirdness is beautiful. Fascinating. Who wants to rummage around in all your chaos and peculiarities.

Meeting Lisa Marie Bain 46 years ago was a revelation. I could see myself from her eyes. She has never expected me to be normal, never tried to talk me out of this week’s weirdness, the new passion that surrounds me, the rabbit hole I am diving down. Even after all these years, she still seems to enjoy my weirdness, never talks me out of my weirdness.

The author Robert Fulghum has a great quote that captures the essence of this true love we lucked into:

You want my opinion? We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.

See, we all have our quirks. Our wonderfully weird passions that light us up, even if they don't make sense to anyone else. The key is finding someone who embraces and appreciates those quirks and uniqueness, rather than merely tolerating them. Because that mutual openness and acceptance of each other's eccentricities can lead to a far more intimate relationship.

Don't let the world convince you that your weirdness is something to hide or minimize, that normal = human. The right person will fall head over heels for it. I know I did with Lisa. She makes me feel safe in every weird corner of my soul. That our marriage has not only survived but thrived for over four decades is a testament to the power of embracing each other’s weirdness, of seeing each other in our eyes.

Lisa, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. When you laugh, your whole face lights up like sunshine. Even when life gets tough, you meet it with guts and grace. Your passion fills the room when you talk about what matters most. Your kindness wraps around me like a warm blanket when I’m hurting. The song by fred again says,

"And if only you could see yourself in my eyes

You'd see you shine, you shine

Now these songs will hold and hide your name

You'd see you shine, you shine"

So take heart, all you magnificent misfits out there wandering the world today feeling like no one gets you. Your person is out there, going through life just as lonely for want of someone who appreciates their special brand of strange. Don't dim your light to fit in. You weirdo you, shine on bright. The right soulmate will come, dazzled by your weirdness, wanting nothing more than to bask in your beautiful oddness by their side. Together, we weirdos will change the world.

joining my cracks back together

I’ve had my share of cracks. I mean literal, actual cracks. Emotional cracks. Spiritual cracks. Cracks in my self-confidence. Cracks in my relationships. Like a lot of people - like maybe you, or someone you know - I’ve cracked up and broken down. I’ve had to piece myself back together not just once or twice, but a bunch of times.

A few months ago, I stumbled on this video essay from The Nerdwriter about the idea of kintsugi. In Japan, there is a practice where when a ceramic pot gets cracked or broken, instead of just throwing it away like a piece of trash, they actually repair it by joining the pieces back together with this special lacquer that has real gold dust or powder mixed in. So the cracks and breaks end up highlighted and emphasized with this beautiful, sparkly gold filling that makes the pot look even more beautiful than before - like it’s been embellished or decorated - for having gone through the experience of being damaged and then repaired.

I just love that gesture - it’s like the pot is saying “Hey, look at these golden cracks and seams! Check out my battle scars! These fragments and repairs make me more ME!” It’s as if the pot is proud of having survived through hardship and trauma to get put back together, instead of being ashamed or embarrassed by it. 

And I try my best to wear my own cracks and fractures that way, like badges of honor. The stretched when my psychological “pot” crumbled from the water it held and the way it was thrown. The times I really screwed up bad in my marriage because I made stupid mistakes and then had to humble myself and rebuild trust. That long period when it felt like everything in my professional life was falling apart all at once, like a car pileup slowed down and looped for 6 or 7 entries on my LinkedIn profile. I now see those as seams of gold running through my life’s story.

As men, we often hide our wounds. We act like they aren't there or try to make them invisible. I realize now how long I’ve tried to ignore them or cover them up or pretend those experiences didn’t happen. That’s often exactly what a lot of us do because we feel ashamed or afraid of judgment. We downplay our hard times and try present ourselves as perfect. 

But why hide that stuff? Pretend to be flawless when we know damn well we’re not? They map the pain we’ve been through and the growth we’ve found. Those tough times are very much part of the truth of my story, as messy and imperfect as it is. And when I have the courage to reveal some of those golden cracks and repairs to others who are struggling in their lives, it often helps them to open up too. You know, creating a connection where they feel I just might understand because I’ve been through it too. By sharing our damage and scars, our shiny kintsugi cracks can draw us closer together instead of making us feel more alone. 

It took me until now to proudly display my golden repairs. I share my imperfect story with others and hope my cracks can mend their breaks too. There’s a fantastic song from Ruston Kelly’s most recent set of music, a sort of hymn called The Mending Song. This lyric is filled with cracks, but shimmering with the beauty of kintsugi:

I wanna live like I'm only made of air

And I will forgive what was done out of despair

I wish you only happiness and healin'

And I hope that you're findin' it out there

 

Every line of that song says to me, “You too can be broken. And you too can heal.”  

Hemingway, an author who had more than his share of cracks and even cracking up,  said the world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places. In our shared brokenness, we find kinship. In our golden repairs, we find beauty. I am glued together with shimmering gold to prove it.

 

Barbara I. Friedman ~ may her memory be a blessing

This morning a group of family and friends will gather at Temple Emanu-El in Dallas and remember the life of Barbara I. Friedman. For our marriage, it is too little for us to say, "May her memory be a blessing."

Lisa and I had just started going together - we were honestly too young to say "dating". She was a junior at W.T. White High School, and I was the younger, obnoxious sophomore. One of Lisa's friends was taking a debate class, so Lisa took it and I followed suit. Lisa is that person you follow into classrooms or companies, just to be around.

A word of advice: it's a risky proposition to be debate partners with someone you are falling in love with. Risky, as in that girl will become skilled at beating you in argument after argument after argument. We were a helluva team - good enough to win tournaments. In love enough to skip the next tournament so we could "hang out".

In a room of kids who could talk and talk and talk, Mrs. Friedman listened and watched. She could clip your first AC resolution and then encourage you to be more of yourself. She could prep a team to head out to Jesuit to compete, when she must have known full well we'd be annihilated. She could help you get back on your feet after a freight train of a debate team ran you over.

44 years later, I can remember Mrs. Friedman's voice, some of the ways she'd look at us, even the way she walked around the table in that debate "locker room". It's no surprise she once won the DISD's "Teacher of the Year" . Teaching is a noble profession, one that often transforms the lives of kids when people like Mrs. Friedman are in the room.

Death is personal and intimate. Barbara I. Friedman, beloved wife, incredible mother/grandmother, devoted friend, cherished retired DISD teacher, and revered member of the Dallas community, died surrounded by her family. In that room, with that group of people, the fabric of humanity was torn, a physical life ended.

But death has always been not only deeply individual but also public and communal. Mrs. Friedman forged how Lisa and I talk, not just argue, but how we talk and listen to one another. Every year, she saw the better selves of 28 cocky, unruly teenagers - a superhuman feat. Her life mattered, and continues to matter in this world, even now that she is no longer in it.

In that room today, friends and family will gather and remember the life that Mrs. Friedman leaves behind - her good works, good deeds, teachings, her example. A life so well lived that the goodness should continue to flow, the continued blessing,  the future blessing that the whole world will receive, her collected legacy even after death.

From that precocious couple of kids in your debate who grew up in a marriage 40 years into it's life, our voices join those at Temple Emanu-El and say "May her memory be a blessing."

the realities of being next door neighbors to a massage parlor

When we moved back to Austin, visions of sleek, minimalist office spaces danced in my head. Turns out, reality had a different script: the office next door to our current office became a massage parlor in November. Not just any massage parlor, mind you – more like a two-for-one special. It's a massage parlor + a ghost kitchen.

My Wimberley office was a monastic experience. One tiny window, barely enough space for my monitor, and existential dread. Perfect Zoom backdrop for meetings with teenagers and their concerned parents.

But Austin, now that's where the co-working magic happened. We kept an office all through the pandemic. Break room, check. Zoom space, check. Me? Feeling like an office guy in his natural habitat. Pandemic? Psh, I was one of those rebels who'd mask up, glove up, and conquer the office solo.

Fast forward to Austin 2.0. Turns out, visions of urban oases and conference room chic need to take a backseat. Because not one, but two massage parlors now flank our glorious workspace. Thank God the in-person teenager meeting days are over – can you imagine meeting a college counselor in an office that shares a wall with a massage table? Juniors pulling up, all excited, only to be greeted by the sight of, ahem, exiting clientele? Not a vibe.

Now, this particular massage parlor is, well, unique. Thanks to the shared wall, but trust me, it stands out. They're big on, shall we say, fragrant cuisine. Thai one day, Chinese the next, Vietnamese the day after. Emphasis on SMELL. The kind that sends team members fleeing for fresh air. Honestly, even the massage recipients must be questioning their life choices amidst that olfactory assault.

Look, sharing a wall with a massage parlor is, well, less than ideal. My dreams of cool conference rooms and minimalist havens might need to chill. But hey, a man can dream. And the next office we rent? Different story. Massage parlor-free, guaranteed. (Fingers crossed, toes crossed, every extremity crossed.)

I mean, come on, who wants their deep tissue massage serenaded by the aroma of pad thai? Exactly. Let's just say, the universe has a funny way of grounding your office fantasies. But hey, at least it's never dull, right? Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a sudden craving for pho… and a noise-canceling headset.

"Almost everybody else will give you a pass—but the big problems begin when you give yourself a pass."

In the last few months, introspection has become my new hobby. I know, I know – it sounds self-indulgent. Navel-gazing, even. I've done a HUGE amount of self-reflection - honestly, it's the most I've ever done as I move into a new year. I've used tons of tools I've found online. I've written my reflections long-hand, the most handwriting I've done since grade school. I've built goals for 2024 and for the next decade of my life, I've started using a gratitude tool, I've even used AI to help me find trends. Questions like: Who am I? What do I actually want? Am I living up to my values? Just basic human stuff.

Just this week, I ran into a framework that I am really trying to use as a "conversation partner". It's called the "6 Spheres" framework, developed by author and critic Ted Gioia, who has a sensational substack and newsletter called Honest Broker.

The gist of his framework is that there are six key areas in our lives that are connected to a fulfilling existence:

• Vocation: Not just your job, but your overall sense of purpose and direction.
• Community: Relationships with loved ones, friends, and the broader world.
• Family: Partners, children, pets – your chosen support system.
• Mind: Intellectual growth, curiosity, and creative exploration.
• Body: Physical health, well-being, and how you treat your body.
• Spirit: Connection to something larger than yourself, whatever that means for you.

Most of us, Gioia argues, tend to neglect certain spheres, overfocusing on one or two. We might be workaholics neglecting family or social butterflies compromising our health. The issue is that neglected spheres can be brutal on ourselves and on other folks in our lives, leading to a sort of Jenga tower threatening to collapse.

So, how do we avoid disaster? By giving each sphere its due attention. Gioia isn't peddling one-size-fits-all solutions. He emphasizes finding what works for you and consciously nurturing each sphere.

This framework has been a revelation for me over the last week. It's helped me identify neglected areas (hello, spirit sphere) and it's helping as I build a type of roadmap for my life. It's not always easy – dragging myself to the gym after zooming all day isn't exactly thrilling. But knowing it contributes to my overall well-being makes it more manageable.

Yesterday, as I looked at my own notes and Goia's post on this, a line exploded in my mind like a truth bomb:

"Almost everybody else will give you a pass—but the big problems begin when you give yourself a pass."

Have I been holding onto that metaphorical get-out-of-jail-free card tucked in the societal vending machine of "acceptable excuses"? My introspection might be diligent, but I wondered on my bike ride if maybe it's been misguided. Excuses pile high, disguised as busyness, while comparisons fuel apathy. Maybe Gioia's right. Maybe the real trouble starts when we turn that pass inward, excusing ourselves from genuine growth.

This self-reflection is pushing me into a new direction, a shift away from borrowed clothes and towards a patchwork quilt. A messy masterpiece woven from the threads of hard-won experience, stolen wisdom (used responsibly, of course!), and yes, even the occasional misstep. It won't be perfect, but it'll be mine. And maybe, just maybe, it'll finally fit, filling the emptiness with something more substantial than data points and neatly ordered goals. Maybe it'll hold the key to a self that's not just introspective, but truly whole.

Through this process of truth-telling and accountability to myself, I’m starting to integrate those disconnected parts into something real. I can’t say my sense of purpose is fully formed yet – it’s definitely still under construction. But this daily practice of taking a hard look inward...it feels like the beginning of waking up. 

college admissions = Groundhog Day

It's Groundhog Day again, not just a day when Punxsutawney Phil looks out and tries to see a shadow to see if it's winter again. It's Groundhog Day for teenagers across the country and around the world who are applying to college. And sadly, far too many of them do not need to check their shadows to see what this crushing stress of college admissions feels like. It's winter for so many of them, and this madness really needs to stop.

Applying to college is repetitive, just like the masterpiece GROUNDHOG DAY from Harold Ramis.  It's hard for any adult to imagine the hours a teenager can spend filling out multiple forms and writing similar essays. It's an exhausting annual cycle as each new group of students jumps through the same hoops.

Just like the film, where the main character relives the same day over and over, the college admissions process can seem like an endless loop. But many teenagers struggle with anxiety and depression nowadays. Over 30% of teens have anxiety issues. 13% battle depression. College application stress certainly doesn't help. A 2022 study found over half of high schoolers have moderate to severe psychological distress from academic and college admissions anxiety.

This is a crisis. We can't wait another year to rethink things and challenge the idea that going to a "perfect" or "name-brand" school is a teen's only path to success. It's long past time we considered students as individuals - their goals, lives, and mental health. On this Groundhog Day and the whole year through, student well-being should come before college admissions mania.

Full disclosure: Our team and company have the joy and privilege of helping teenagers navigate their journey to college. For thousands of them, this means they use the free resources we share. For a few hundred, it means they are our clients and partners as we work 1:1 with students and families.

 

 

running from fear is starting to get old (like me)

I am scared. I just need to say that out loud. As a white guy my age, that doesn't feel good. I don't like it. And I am getting even more tired of running from it.

In my 40s and 50s, I felt more fear than I ever had in my 20s and 30s. In my 40s, my fear was around how my brain worked and how my father had struggled all his life with severe, almost debilitating mental illness. I feared saying out loud how that DNA translated to me. That fear meant that I ran, ran as hard as I could, ran as fast as I could away and towards. In my 50s, that fear transitioned to my bank account, my physical health, and then to the pandemic, a sense of my own future economically and physically.

Fear takes residence in my thoughts, but pretty soon, it bolts into my body. My mind and body meet up in a fear response that is frankly as much my birthright as my last name, Carlton. The partnership of my mind and my body served my ancestors against predators; now, it activates in the face of the fear I am finally facing. My body and my mind are not experts at assessing the threat level when fear sets in. But all the races I’ve run away from fear have reminded me that while my (now creaky) knees might not be up for running, my body prepares for it anyway. 

My fears about the future, both personally and globally, led me to dig in and hunker down over the last few years. Running around in the bunker I built (both literally & metaphorically) is...um...a trail filled with bruises, potholes, and bumps.  But a gift of the last month has been realizing that running itself has begun to wear me down. I've done a bunch of self-reflection in the past few weeks, dropping the urgency of answers and holding the question -- what if I stepped toward the fear rather than sprinting away? What if I made friends with the very thing that seems so daunting? I want to breathe deeply and keep walking ahead on this path, though my knees creak and feet ache. I want to remember, even in the darkness, that beauty remains if I open my eyes to see it.

To paraphrase one of my favorite authors, Frederick Buechner, the world continues, beautiful and terrible.I feel afraid sometimes - it's human. There are scary things on the road ahead and behind, things that can make me want to run.  But I'm learning not to let fear control my direction or dictate my pace. If I can let it walk beside me, I may find myself in unexpected places meeting extraordinary people. Darkness comes, but there is light too, if I lift my gaze from the ground. I will keep stepping ahead, breathing deep, letting fear loosen its grip to make space for wonder. Beautiful and terrible things will happen, but I can choose, as much as possible, not to be afraid.

 

most of the people I grew up with are racists. including me

It took me until my 50s to finally realize that a lot of the people I grew up with are racist. It was even more disappointing when I had to accept that I'm one of them.

Now, let's be honest: Dallas in the '60s & '70s was no longer filled with people walking around in white sheets, but racism was still one of the things that bound the city together. My hometown has a brutal history of racism. In 1916, Dallas was the first Texas city to impose housing segregation by race. In the '40s and '50s. state and federal highways were built with the public goal of separating black and white neighborhoods. Like so many cities in the South, the further south you drive, the more black people you see, and the fewer white people would even venture.

The West Fork and the Elm Fork of the Trinity River, the longest river in Texas, that river separates South Dallas from North. Drive over it in the '60s and '70s, and you realize "white people are not supposed to be here." Drive around streets like Sun Dial and Deep Valley in the '60s and '70s, the streets that hold my childhood memories, and you realize, "This is the safe place where white kids deserve to grow up."

In the '60s & '70s, there were public schools for us white kids and public schools for those kids who weren't white. More than 50 years ago, a judge ordered that to stop, forcing Dallas into a moment of yellow school buses packed with black and brown kids rolling into "safe" white neighborhoods. I don't have the police records, but I suspect that before that judge ordered them on those buses, there was a much higher likelihood of those kids being in a police car in those neighborhoods than being in the classroom.

It was 20 miles from my public elementary school to the elementary school those black kids were bused from, but it could have been the distance between Selma and Boston. Good parents, caring parents took their kids out of public schools in the "safe" white neighborhoods. It was so severe that the local newspaper had front-page article after front-page article on "white flight". We went to private schools, even more white than the desegrated schools we fled from. Schools with names like Heritage or Good Shepherd or St. Monica, classrooms that felt like safe havens from the yellow buses filled with black kids, hallways that we navigated like those highways meant to separate white folks from black folks. 

We were racist. I'm still a racist. Maybe we are all a little less so, but that is just not enough.

It took me 40 years since I sat in that classroom at Good Shepherd to admit to myself that it's not just my conservative Christian classmates who suffer from the sin of racism. Most people know that racism is wrong. It’s one of the few things almost everyone agrees on. We can easily make our “I hate racism” opinions known, but we are mostly just looking for moral high ground, or for pats on the back, or to win friends and influence people, or to prove we’re not like those people, or maybe we are just saying what we’ve always heard everyone say.

There's a lyric in a song I've been obsessed with for a while, a song by Jon Batiste called Worship. It's more of a chant than a lyric, more of a mantra than an anthem:

We are born the same
Return to that place

It's only you that makes me all I am

We are more alike than we are different - our ontology and our anthropology more alike than different.  It helps me to remember that we're like photocopies of each other, instead of being from different libraries. Same blueprint, same quirks - "we are born the same". It's like when you find out your weird habit of organizing your shirts by color is something your friend does too. You think you're unique, but then - boom - same humanity, same oddity. 

I believe in progress, that we can return to that place. I have to. I believe in the inherent goodness of 98,3% of all human beings. But I am aware that the words of Dr. King are as true or more true nowadays as they were when he said them. For the entirety of the 39 years that Dr. King lived, there wasn’t a single day when the majority of white Americans approved of him. After he was assassinated, 31% of the country felt that he “brought it on himself”.

In a letter he wrote in a jail in Birmingham, Alabama, written in the year I was born, Dr. King wrote:

“I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s greatest stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is… the white moderate who is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice.”

Be careful of a good, white, moderate like me and so many of the folks I live around nowadays. Be careful about the intentions, the verbiage, and the voicing that we have. Be careful of people who won't admit our racism. I won't. I listen to the podcasts. I watch the TV shows. And I still live where I live. I do what I do. I have the friends that I have. 

For the last few months, the lyric "It's only you that makes me all I am" pops into my head in those quiet moments late at night, when the world's asleep and I'm wide awake, trying to crack the code on why we're all here. It's kind of beautiful, in a weird, interconnected sort of way. I'm lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and my brain is running a marathon.  It's like we're all ingredients in some giant, cosmic chili recipe. If you're a vegan, NOT a chili recipe....or maybe even NOT a vegan chili recipe.

It's about how it's only through others that we become who we are, about returning to that place, about rivers and streets and classrooms that stop dividing us into the tiny, ordered numbers instead of the big, messy humans we are. Our first and most important identity is not male or female, MAGA or progressive, American or Russian, black or white, red state or blue state, rich or poor, influential or obscure, but human. We are more alike than we are different. It's kind of simplistic, like one of those filmstrips we watched at Good Shepherd, but it took me way too long to face the fact that it's gut-wrenching when you work to live it out.  

Freedom isn't order; justice has a chance to start every day if I confess that I am still a racist.

We are born the same
Return to that place

It's only you that makes me all I am

little victories: grateful for travelling life with singer songwriters

 

I had a bit of a spiritual experience last night nestled in Darden Smith's cozy home studio, mesmerized once again by his trademark Texas story-spinning, this time alongside the iconic country croon of Kelly Willis. More than 3 decades of listening to these two insanely gifted artists washed over me. I gazed out at the 30 or so true believers packed in - men and women about my age with that wistful look I know I also had plastered across my face.

We were traveling back through over three decades of songwriting mastery in my life as a fan of these two gifted artists  - Kelly's rockabilly-rooted yet vulnerable higher register, Darden's smooth as-honey twang have been a warm and poetic road canvas of wisdom. He is the pride of Brenham, Texas - she is on the soundtrack at HEB! It hit me how long I'd been listening to these two craft masters weave tapestries of meaning from life's complexity and rawness. Decades of their hits had grounded me and helped me, as an angsty teen, sorting out family troubles and personal pain. It helped me, as a restless middle-ager make sense of my career and relationships and the damn self-doubt demon.

The way Darden engaged the room, offering free wine and water "at a charge" and regaling us with song origin stories in that jovial host way of his - you could feel the love and creative juice flowing easy. Got me thinking about the first time in ages this past year I resumed going to shows after the extended pandemic intermission - sometimes massive venues packing in 20,000 fans, sometimes glorious intimate spaces like this with a few dozen kindred spirits. Songs have that effect live - the untamed primal yell paired with the mathematical symmetry of melody and rhythm works its magic, gets in your ears and your soul too.

I can't properly count all the miles traveled and spirits lifted thanks to my lifetime love affair with singer-songwriters. The way their songs colored my teenage landmarks feels almost ordained in retrospect - moments of joys, family fractures and fumbles into adulthood. As an uncertain twenty-something, tune after tune served as road map through career wilderness and romantic ruins. Tracy Chapman’s unflinching social commentary in “Fast Car” and Ani DiFranco’s righteously defiant guitaring gave me courage when I had none of my own. James Taylor’s world-weary optimism in “Fire & Rain” and David Wilcox's's hopeful skepticism - honetly, I've gratefully clung to them all like ragtag wise council.

And now well into middle age but still frequently lost, the singer-songwriter's unfiltered confessional style continues to steady me. That singular spotlight trained on their art - no spectacle or bombast to hide behind - pulls me inward to confront and make peace with my own shadows. Trading their nervous open-mic energy for arena-rocking bravado would belie the gutting vulnerability that resonates in my soul.

following dr. king, living beyond the attacks on diversity, inclusion, and equity

This Martin Luther King Jr. Day rings hollow as some attack the very ideals of diversity, inclusion and equity that Reverend King gave his life to advance.  It saddens me to see opportunists whitewash his nuanced views to undermine his broader vision of equity.

These attacks eerily echo the hostility and criticism Dr. King faced during the Civil Rights Movement era, fighting against segregation and for voting rights. Dr. King was surveilled by the FBI, maligned as a troublemaker and extremist, and ultimately assassinated for daring to envision and demand an equitable society.

Today's self-proclaimed crusaders against affirmative action and diversity initiatives have even co-opted Dr. King's iconic words that people should "not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character." They use this quote to argue Dr. King would have opposed race-conscious policies meant to address systemic discrimination.

As I reflect this MLK Day, I'm sitting with Dr. King's challenge for white Americans like myself to truly reeducate ourselves, to invest substantially in assisting marginalized groups, and to find the courage to integrate fully into an equitable society.

“Whites, it must frankly be said, are not putting in a similar mass effort to reeducate themselves out of their racial ignorance. It is an aspect of their sense of superiority that the white people of America believe they have so little to learn. The reality of substantial investment to assist Negroes into the twentieth century, adjusting to Negro neighbors and genuine school integration, is still a nightmare for all too many white Americans…These are the deepest causes for contemporary abrasions between the races. Loose and easy language about equality, resonant resolutions about brotherhood fall pleasantly on the ear, but for the Negro there is a credibility gap he cannot overlook. He remembers that with each modest advance the white population promptly raises the argument that the Negro has come far enough. Each step forward accents an ever-present tendency to backlash.”

— Where Do We Go From Here: 1967

I'm thinking about his diagnosis of the "deepest causes for contemporary abrasions between the races"—our stubborn ignorance and reluctance to adjust beliefs and behaviors that perpetuate injustice. I confess I have not always fully lived out the personal sacrifices King's vision demands. His words and life example cut sharply through my privilege and sense of racial superiority. I want to honor King's memory by looking inward with humility, by recognizing my credibility gaps, and by making changes—no matter how difficult or nightmarish—to stand up against inequality in spheres of influence small and large. This MLK Day, I recommit to the ongoing work and struggle his dream requires.