The Corner

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.