Hummingbird Whispers

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. ~Edgar Allan Poe

I believe flowers give birth to dreams, that dreams reside deep inside the flower, that the soft, sticky pollen is dream in solid form, that the color of the pollen determines both the intensity of the dream, the pastels, the pale yellows the billowy blues, give dreams as ephemeral as spider silk swaying in a light afternoon breeze while the deep colors, such as the reds and navys, give dreams passionate as a first kiss between lovers, colors tell if the dream will be heartwarming, a memory sent to us by a loved one that has already passed into heaven and is finally free of pain as they walk gilded streets thinking of us, or nightmare causeing us to awake thrashing, soaked with sweat, bones chilled to ice as if death chewed on us in the twilight between sleep time and awakening.

I believe hummingbird is the messenger on who's emerald wings dreams pass from the flowers to our hearts, that twinkling blue hummingbirds hovering before ruby throated flowers gather sweet pollen on thread like tongues. They fly to us under the cover of night, hover next to our heads whispering the dreams borne of pollen into our ears, flick their tongues planting sticky pollen grains deep into our hearts ensuring dreams are never more than a sleep away, ensuring dream is available to us whenever we close our eyes.

I believe, when there are no more flowers to grow dreams, when there are no more hummingbirds to plant those dreams in our ears during the little death of sleep, man will no longer dream, will no longer feel the heartfelt messages of loved ones long past. And without dreams, elixirs inspiring creativity to sprout from deep within the soul of man, without dreams creativity will cease to flow, devoid of creativity inspired by dreams man, himself, will cease being human.

Dreams or Musings?

I doubt that the imagination can be suppressed. If you truly eradicated it in a child, he would grow up to be an eggplant. ~Ursula K. Le Guin

At what point does someone's musing, someone's daydream cross the imaginary line of pondering possibilities become a dream, a fantasy, an unfulfilled longing of the heart which, if unfulfilled, will leave a history of regrets? For as long as I can remember, I have been a dreamer, a creator of fantasy in which I, or a reasonable facsimile of myself, is the primary character, the lead actor in the story, the author of almost possible realities being played out in my mind's eye. I frequently embark upon explorations of my imagination where life as I live it bears little resemblance to the life I imagine I want to live. I discover scenarios in my imagination which, I begin to believe, if not visited will result in a life that is unfulfilled, unrealized, incomplete.

For as long as I can remember, my dreams have been laced with escapism, thoughts of chucking it all away and starting anew, I have been haunted by dreams of picking up and just moving. At one point, I wanted to be an adventure writer then a photographer then both, to take pictures and write the story. Some of my dream destinations were to live a pauper's life in Moab where I could be immersed in a surrealistic landscape, to settle in the Arizona desert and exploring the nothingness of the desert, to hunt and fish in upper Wisconsin the year round in solitude. Today, I am glad none of those dreams became my reality for I am very happy with the life I have lived, the life I am living.

I often wonder about why I have these reoccurring fantasies each wearing it's own mask while beneath they are all the same. Does the same base fantasy repeat because hummingbirds whisper variations of the dream line into my ears while I sleep? I often wonder if ever really want them to come true, if I really want to step into the world created solely in my dreams, if I want to tangiblize that which, in my dreams, is a state of perfection though I know the perfection would be gone the instant it became my reality. Do I really want to realize those musing which I sometimes call dreams? Do I have these dream musings because I am drawn to the fantasy of escapism? Am I drawn to these visions because I want to run away or because my mind likes to imagine new and impossible lives for itself?

When I dream, I birth a new reality, a reality I enjoy growing, growing until I find a doorway which I can pass through and believe the created reality can become my real reality. This, for my mind, is play. My mind likes to play. The very act of the vivid imaginations I create is my mind exercising its ability to amuse itself. They are pushups strengthening my ability to dream more fantastic dreams the next time around. The more I create scenarios in which the dreams could become reality the more I must figure out ways I must adapt. This, for me, is the ultimate playground, a playground for a mind that loves to tussle with what-if scenarios, loves to fantasize, loves to frolic in the fertile soil of my imagination.

Fifteen Years to Perfection II

The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself. ~Anna Quindlen


In my last blog, I discussed an image of that captured what would not be an ideal future for my life. This time, I am going to discuss what a perfect work life would be for me, the type of job that would get me chomping at the bit each and every day.

 In my current role, I have direct reports spanning the range of those who love playing in software and only want to play in software for the remainder of their careers and, at the other end of the spectrum, those that are drawn to the leadership side of the equation. I enjoy working with both types but get really amped up when working with up and coming leaders. When working with leaders, when helping them through a struggle, when helping them discover the answer to an issue they are experiencing,  I enter an amazing state is known as flow. It is a magical place, a paradise where time ceases to have meaning for me, an existence where I feel I am fully engaged with life, an essence that I am fully utilizing all my abilities.

Flow is the mental state of operation in which a person in an activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus, full involvement, and success in the process of the activity. ~Mihály Csíkszentmihályi

After one of these sessions, I am also touched at a deep emotional level, I feel tears of joy welling up behind my eyes. I can't fully explain why the tears are there. The nearest I can come to an explanation is that it's tied to flow, my passion for leadership development, and my passion for people. I believe that during the coaching sessions when I achieve flow the passions align in such a way that they reach a crescendo and I become overwhelmed.

The other favorite part of my job is working with people from other cultures. When my company started offshoring software development to India, I was the project lead. I thoroughly enjoyed learning about the other cultures, learning how to navigate within their cultural context. The travel to other countries grew in me a desire to become culturally immersed in another land, a desire that has driven me, for the past years, to seek a multi-year delegation in another country though it will keep me apart from my family for an extended period of time. Nothing I have experienced since my kids were born has been strong enough for me to consider not being with them for months at a time, nothing until now when I have a burning desire to live in another country.

So, my perfect job 15 years from now would be one  in which I am coaching leaders, helping leaders develop over the long haul while living in a country other than my country of origin. I want to watch leaders learn to crawl, help them take those first leadership foot steps, encourage them with every step during the leadership development marathon. I want to see the leadership saga unfold from a new country every couple of years.

Fifteen Years to Perfection

If the world was perfect, it wouldn't be. ~Yogi Berra

In his book titled Primal Leadership, Daniel Goleman raised the question, If you could define your perfect life 15 years from now, how would it look? Before I was able to ponder the question of the painting on that canvas reflecting my view of perfection, an image immediately came to mind as to how I would not like my life to look 15 years hence. That image was of a me sitting on a beach at the edge of a vast sapphire ocean, waves gently lapping the shore, my toes dug into the cool sand being washed over by the salty water forming little pools in the depressions of the sand formed of my feet, watching the glowing tangerine sun dropping below the horizon and, metaphorically, setting on the waning years of my life.

Don't get me wrong. I love sitting in an easy chair watching the sun take its daily bow particularly when the smell of water is in the air and I am savoring a lovely glass of bold red wine. I have done that and experienced a deep stillness in my soul, felt an incredible calm in the pulsating rhythm of the waves, felt completely at peace as the gentle breeze caressed my body scattering the flitting insects.

There are two glaring problems with that seeming idyllic picture. The first is that it is too sedentary. I am an active person, always have been an active person, can't see me ever being other than an active person. I simply cannot envisage myself experience contentedness, let alone being happy, living a life style devoid of vigorous activity. I am a doer. I ride bicycles. I fish. I referee soccer. I walk in awe at the marvel of God's creation.

The other and more disturbing feature of the image is that there is a chair next to me, an empty chair set in the sand next to mine close enough that I could reach over and caress my partner if she were sitting next to me. It is not a hopeful chair expecting someone to watch the sun set with me. It is a mocking chair, a chair that, by virtue of being empty, is taunting me and my desire to travel the golden years of my life with a loving partner. The empty chair is reminding me that every intimate relationship I have ever had has ended leaving a void in my heart, is reminding me that I have difficulty connecting with people on a deep and meaningful basis over a sustained period of time. I have close friendships for a season but those seasons pass and my foot impressions on the beach are of a person traveling alone for most of life.

I seem to have been alone, if not physically alone, emotionally alone for most of my days. I do enjoy my solitude. I am comfortable with myself, with my thoughts, with introspection. I am comfortable in solitude but not content. I want to have the relationship I saw daily in the lives of my parents, the relationship they enjoyed in their twilight years.

In fifteen years I want a person who is my best friend who, after a day exploring new lands, after a week camping in the wilderness, after a year which found us in a new country every few months, who, at the end of the day, holds my hand as we sit on the beach and watch the sun rise to a glorious new day, a day filled with promise, a day filled with hope, a day filled with adventure, a day that is perfect. Not perfect in that there are no mishaps, no sadness, no struggles, perfect in that each is shared with that one person with whom I share a common heart.

A Thousand Impossible Landscapes

Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened. ~Dr Seuss

I get ideas from blogs from a variety of spaces. Some seem to just pop into my head, supplant the space in my brain that is wandering at random points throughout my day, wandering to destinations planned or unplanned. Some of the topics are expected because my mind is charging through a focused concept and, naturally, a blog idea will grow from the seed. Some topics are complete surprises coming seemingly from a random alignment of energies to which I am blind. Other times, I must set aside time to think about blogging ideas, to find an idea that both captures my imagination and is, at least, mildly entertaining for my audience. I blog every day so the quest for the perfect topic seems to always be close to the surface of my thinking, if not directly at the surface, it is a strong undertow pulling my thoughts far from the shore to a vast ocean of possibilities, or an undertow that creates surface ripples with each ripple momentarily reflecting a glimpse of a thought the way the sun careens off the tips of the waves creating a thousand little suns, a thousand little ideas which, if captured, could be built into something beautiful, built into one of a thousand impossible landscapes. I live for those inspirational moments when my topic is sharp, get excited when the perfect topic drives me to write, love when the creative energy is electric and I can't still my mind until I have a writing device in hand and I enter a state of flow where time stands still, the world around me fades away and the petals of the blog unfold in full bloom.

Did I Sell Out?

Who You Are When No One's Looking? ~Bill Hybels


Whether we articulate them or not, we all have values, those core criteria by which we make daily decisions.  They are most loudly expressed, screamed out to the world for all to observe, in the voice that is our actions, a voice that is never a whisper, in the things we do, especially those things we do when, we believe, no one is watching us, when, we believe, no one is looking over our shoulder to pass judgement on our actions, when, we believe, we are out of sight thus out of mind.

The values I espoused in my youth are not the same values I live by now nor will they necessarily be the values that accompany me into the future. There was a time when my values were hardcore pro nature, save the whales, profess homage to Mother Earth, pray to the Sun god (pray to anything but the deities of organized religion), cure the earth of the cancer known as Homo Sapiens. My loyalty was to the earth and to myself myself, to my own selfish desires. I was radical in my political views believing Nixon should have been executed Nixon for murdering our citizen soldiers when he sent them to Vietnam and for betraying the people's trust during Watergate we he spit on the very laws he pledged to uphold.

My values are no longer on the far side of left. I have mellowed with age. I don't see the events unfolding in life as if the only position on any issue is either the blackest black or the whitest white instead am aware of the shades of gray that accompany most any situation. Does this make me a sellout? Have I betrayed the idealism of the younger David? Have I betrayed myself? I believe my changing values are the reflection of the natural growth of a maturing person. I believe, through experiencing life, particularly experiencing life in other countries I have a broader perspective, I have a better understanding of the human condition, I am have been educated by walking the long journey on the short road of life. I believe, if I hadn't allowed my values to evolve over the decades, I would have betrayed all humanity that has gained wisdom in the life experience, I believe, if I had remained stagnant in the idealism of my younger days, I would be a sellout to myself.

People Person

I think you have to work with people, and when I talk about managing relationships, don’t think the derogatory ‘‘managed relationships’’. It is a question of sharing emotion and feelings. ~Anil Ambani

All through college, I had a goal of working with technology, working with things, creating magic with electronic circuits. My field of study was Electrical Engineering, a field chosen based on fascination with circuits and wires and devices. I felt drawn to work in this area for the attraction of working with inanimate objects as much as I felt pushed away from working with people. I was excited to be entering a field which  I viewed as being people free, a world where one plus one was always two, where event A would always elicit reaction B no matter how many times it was attempted, a world where I could predict outcomes. For me, people were fuzzy, people were messy, people were unpredictable, people were something to avoid.

That was my mindset half my life ago. How I changed from being a person hoping to spend his life creating circuits and avoiding people to a person who  has but a passing interest in technology and finds working with people exhilarating is a mystery to me me. I have pondered this mystery, tried to pinpoint when the transition occurred but can't figure it out, can't fathom in what stage of my life that my priorities changed one hundred and eighty degrees. All I know now is that I love working with people, I love doing things in teams, I love helping people grow, I love helping them achieve things they didn't believe were within their reach, I love meeting and getting to know people from diverse backgrounds from all walks of life on every continent of the world. I have found that I love people and I love being a people person.

Self Absorbed in 1992

A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen. ~Edward de Bono

I grabbed one of my old journals last night, I have at least 17 of them...possibly more than 20, and started reading thoughts I penned almost twenty years ago in the fall of 1992. This was during the most challenging years of my life.  I was 31 at the time, divorced with three kids, and had little understanding about what it takes to make a successful life. I was confused, unfocused, essentially lost in a little hell I made for myself, a little hell that grew out of poor decisions, decisions driven by an almost complete self absorption. I was focused inward, only on myself and that makes for a very little world in which to exist.

The Fins, Arches Nat'l Park

At the time, I felt I needed some space to get my head together so I took a solo trip, my first solo backpacking trip, to my favorite place on earth. I took a trip to the red rock country of Southern Utah a place where I always feel at home, always feel content, am always awestruck at the unparalleled beauty created out of stark, red earth against the backdrop of perfect blue sky. It was a place I knew I could get the silence I needed to dig deep into my heart, the solitude so vital to soul searching.

On my first day, I entered the backcountry via the Devil's Garden Trail, appropriately named because I was smack dab in the middle of my little hell. My first rest was at the fins, massive slabs of rock eroded away in such a way as to appear to be large, red, shark fins. Sitting, admiring the rock structure, I recorded an entry in my journal.

It was good to be on the primitive trail. Almost immediately I heard Raven call & saw him floating in the sky. It was the 2nd I encountered today...at the first outcropping, I stopped for a rest & to enjoy the view of the fins. I became Goat again & hopped up & down the rocks for a view...It's amazing, the silence out here. It's broken by the wind, planes, droning of the rare insect, & now by the call of Ground Squirrel.

This was the point when the cares of the world began to melt away, when the weight I was carrying on my shoulders began to lighten. I was finally unfettered by life's constraints, finally immersed in my spiritual home, finally free to be.

I am not sure what my immersion into solitude revealed to me for that trip as this is the first of two journals filled during that week and the beginning of the first journal at that. I do know that my life changed around that time, changed in such a way that I was becoming more open to life, less self absorbed, more focused on others, open to spiritual leanings. Was this openness to change a result of the trip? I really don't know.

Although I believe the trip was a key event in the course my life embarked upon, I cannot point to any definitive moment, no 'aha' experience, no bright light into my soul, no preacher placing hands on me and shouting, "Heal" with a long drawn out "eeee" and "llll" and I suddenly felt renewed. What I think happened is that a seed was planted, a slow growing stem began to take shape which, many turns of the moon into the future, bloomed into a fragrant flower that is my current life. I am in a much better place that I was in 1992. My life is in order, I am a happy individual, and am daily excited about my lie and my future.

Book: 1968 - The Year That Rocked the World by Mark Kurlansky

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable. ~John F. Kennedy

Did you ever catch something out of the corner of your eye, get just enough of a glimpse to paint a fuzzy picture but not enough of a look that you can add fine details? That's how the 1960s are for me. By virtue of my birth in the Year of the Lord 1961, I am a child of the 60s. However, I was not old enough to appreciate the turbulence of the times, to understand the world wide ramifications caused by the people rebelling against the establishment.

What I do remember is glimpses, like the floaters in the corner of your eye that when you focus upon them they inevitably disappear. There are two floaters that I can recollect with some detail. The first was stopping in a department store in the TV section to watch the first man step on the moon. The other of those floaters was the body counts announced on the news during the Vietnam War. It may be that I don't remember them from the 1960s and it was actually memories from  the early 1970s that come to mind. I don't know. I do know that the Vietnam War was the first event elicited polarizing opinions between my dad and me.  He was a Korean War Vet and bled Red, White, and Blue when it came to believing in our government. I, on the other hand, was an opinionated kid who felt the War was wrong. 

As I read this book, other floaters surface but with much less vividness. I do remember the war movie "The Green Berets" with John Wayne but only one scene from the movie. A soldier was walking ahead of his unit, caught his foot in a rope which slung him into a wall of punji sticks where he was impaled.

From the first chapter, this book has drawn me in. I am intrigued by those events that happened while I was growing up, captivated by the student rebellions, the societal rebellions, the world wide rebellions of people fighting for a cause, of people fighting against the governments to right the wrongs of society. I am only five chapters in and find myself completely captivated as the book opens my eyes to the historical events, provides me with knowledge that glues together events in disparate parts of the world, the way the author weaves the seemingly patchwork of events together to form a many hued quilt of the era. The more I read, the more I wish I had been born a decade earlier, the more I wish I had a 1st persons view of the turbulent era, the more I wish I was old enough to march with Dr. King, to sit in against Dow Chemical at University of Wisconsin at Madison.

Alas, that is not my lot in life. I was only 7 years old in 1968, the same age as my grandson is today, and am too young to remember the vast majority of the events of 1968. Luckily, I have this book and an easy chair to sit comfortably in as I take a journey through the year that rocked the world - and it's rocking my world today.

Book: Drive by Daniel Pink

Ability is what you're capable of doing. Motivation determines what you do. Attitude determines how well you do it. ~Raymond Chandler

My latest leadership reading was the book Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us.

I first heard of Daniel Pink when he spoke last summer at Willow Creek during the 2011 Global Leadership Summit held locally in South Barrington, IL and simulcast by satelitte to many other locations around the country. I was very impressed with his talk about the science of motivation or, as he calls it, Motivation 3.0. I was so impressed I brought back some of his concepts and have been doing what I can to implement them ever since. I have had some good successes and at least one person, so far, I have been able to move into a role where she entered a zone of 'flow', that state where a person is so involved in what they are doing that all consciousness of time is lost, and finds work to be fun. Prior to reading the book, I had also listened to him on TED which was also a very interesting talk.

The book covered the same topics as his talks but with added detail. I was able to find out more about the  underlying science behind his premises which help me better understand his points.

His main idea is that, once our basic needs are met, the way creative individuals are motivated is by the three legged stool consisiting of autonomy, mastery, and purpose. Autonomy is our desire to work in the way we want, mastery is our innate drive to become very good at something we enjoy doing, and purpose is a higher mission for our lives. Do we create software to make money or do we create solutions to improve the quality of life.

If you want to get an overview of the concepts then I recommend watching the TED video. If you are like me, in that you learn better when reading and want the background to the theories, then the book is the way to go. Of course, you could experience both the book and the TED video and get the best of both worlds.

Singing Rainbows

I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven. ~Emily Dickinson

They have mastered every color of the rainbow, wear rainbows on their breast, dress their heads, bodies, tails in rainbows, personalize color in a way unmatched anywhere on earth. Some are single colored, blood red, the yellowest of yellows, blues that would tax the talents of Van Gogh himself to capture on canvas.

Others appear as if rainbows melted, became liquid and the colors dripped from the sky, rained from the heavens, landing on the birds as they flitted from branch to branch, soared above the great green canopies, made the long trek from pole to pole over vast turbulent, turquoise oceans reflecting mini white suns on the tips of the waves, landing on the birds in patterns that our wildest imaginations would be unable to conjure during all the collective dreams of our lifetimes, landing on out stretched wings creating color patterns as surreal as a Dali painting, surreal yet real because they are not confined to a lifeless, two dimensional canvas.

They are living rainbows, winged rainbows cutting slices in the azure sky, twisting and turning as if the joy of the colors incites a flock to dance effortlessly. They are tiny jewels shimmering opalescent at the mouth of the flower extracting nectar on slender tongues. They are lovers expressing love in song to their beloved. They possess some of the most beautiful voices in existence, jointly speak in voices so melodious their songs could move Beethoven to tears at his inability to recreate them in his grandest symphony, to even approximate the song that emanates from these singing rainbows.

Book: Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka

To read is to fly: it is to soar to a point of vantage which gives a view over wide terrains of history, human variety, ideas, shared experience and the fruits of many inquiries. ~A C Grayling,


This is the second book I have read by Julie Otsuka, the other being "When the Emperor was Divine". Julie has a style of writing that is very descriptive, one that paints many, many images in fine detail, allowing one to create a great picture in the mind.

This book is, in a sense, a prequel to When the Emperor was Divine. The emperor follows a single, Japanese family during WWII when they were forced to leave their homes and live in US based prison camps for the remainder of the war. They were forced to spend the time in prison camps because they were perceived as a 'threat to national security', spies for the Japanese government. It was nothing more than prejudice against Japanese Americans  because similar camps for the Germans, who we were also at war with during the same period, never formed. This was definitely a low point for the history of the United States .

Buddha begins in the 1900s, when many Japanese left Japan to seek a better life in the United States, and ends at the point where the Emperor began. The Buddha is not about one family, it is about the collective written from the perspective of the many. It is a unique style that I found to be very easy to read, very informative, and emotionally challenging.

The central character is Japanese women, there is no one individual to follow from beginning to end, rather, we follow the thoughts of many women, all unnamed, as Julie talks about their lives from getting on the steamers in Japan to landing in the United States through their internment. They text is in linked narratives with some being a paragraph and others many pages. The women tell of their expectations at leaving home for America, their experiences upon landing, the disappointment that they were outcasts in the land of mile and honey where, instead of living like princesses they were worked hard as farmers and maids and laundry people and other menial jobs. The most heart wrenching of all the chapters is traitors where we read of how the United States government forced them out of the lives they had created with blood and toil.

I found both of these books to be great reads. I loved the details she includes in her narrations and the way she is able to evoke emotion in those details. I am looking forward to reading any of her future works.

Sunset Euphoria

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky. ~Rabindranath Tagore

For the first time I can recall this year, I drove home from work with my windows open and a mild breeze filtering through the car while the sun still shone, a brilliant tangerine, orange, fire setting sun burning the clouds on the Western horizon. I felt euphoric, infused with euphoria from my toes all the way up to the white hairs at the very crest of my head.

It's the euphoria that rides the wings of spring as it muscles out the bone rattling cold of winter,

the euphoria one feels with the first trembling kiss on the perfect lips of the person you met that is beautiful beyond your wildest fantasies,

the euphoria of falling in love with the person who's very presence sends waves of longing bouncing between your heart and soul increasing in strength with every change of direction building into an energy that threatens to explode like liquid sunshine from your entire being,

the euphoria of knowing that the person of your dreams, the person who you knew was the one from the first time you glanced into silken brown eyes was the only person with whom you wanted to spend eternity, wanted spend eternity with hearts locked in an embrace beating rhythmically told you that you were the one, the one she wanted to dance with into the sunset of your years, dance arm in arm, heart beat in lock step with heart beat with you into eternal sunset euphoria.

Living Alone

A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality. ~John Lennon

I have never lived alone, never had a place all to myself, never resided in a dwelling where day after day I would arrive after work or play and be completely alone. A place where I didn't have to tiptoe around for fear of waking someone early in the morning when getting ready for week, a place where I could play my music such that the sound reached every nook, every corner at any time of the day or night. There have been days when I came home to no one, a week or two has passed when the house was mine and mine alone. The longest I can remember not coming home to someone was three weeks but that was a long time ago in the years before I really knew myself. My daughter and her mother went on a vacation for three weeks, three weeks in a far off land during which I could not accompany them because I was new at my job and had accumulated but a few days vacation at the time they went. Honestly, I don't remember one thing that I did during those three weeks other than take a road trip to Easter Tennessee, to the Smoky Mountains.

I have no problem being alone, being on my own. Many of my travels have been of the solo variety. If there is someplace I want to visit but no one else is interested, I will go solo. I enjoy traveling alone because I can do what I want in my time, I can stare at vista, a tree, a rock, the emptiness, the clouds passing overhead while I lay on a picnic bench, for as long as I want without having to worry whether or not my traveling companion is bored, wants to move on. I like traveling with someone too as that allows the creation shared memories, memories that can be triggered with a phrase, a word, a knowing glance. A recollected memory shared again and again, a memory resurrected and returned to via the vehicle that is the imagination.­

My kids are getting older. They are of an age where they could live on their own, if they so chose. It was this reality that got me to thinking that living alone could be just around the corner. This knowledge got me to wondering what it would be like to live alone for an extended period of time, for months, years, a decade, or more. More than wondering what it would be like, wondering if I could be content living alone, if I have the constitution to live on my own and not be incredibly lonely. When someone is always around, the thought of being alone is enticing. When you feel you never have alone time in your own home, living alone can seem like Nirvana. But is it really Nirvana or is it simply a knee jerk reaction to an isolated instance when I am feeling the need for space?

The truth is, I like living with people. I love having my kids live with me. I enjoy staying with my girlfriend at her home in the city on weekends. The truth is, I would rather live with someone than live alone. Not because I fear living alone. I am gregarious. I like the companionship. I like having someone to talk to. I like seeing the smiling faces of my loved ones every day. I am able to live with people, with lots of people simultaneously because I have learned to be diligent in carving out time to be alone when I need to be alone, when I need to sit and mull over my thoughts without interruption, when I need space away from everyone.

I am wired to be with people, I am most comfortable living with people. This may be because growing up I had a big family that was very close so have a great experience living with others. I really don't know. I do know that, given a choice, I would choose living with someone over living solo.

My Historical Musings

I think this journal will be disadvantageous for me, for I spend my time now like a spider spinning my own entrails. ~Mary Boykin Chesnut


In my garage, beneath the workbench I made with my own hands out of two by fours and plywood, is a stack of ratty old books. They are ratty in the sense that the covers scratched by the years, the pages tattered from the many times I hurriedly scribbled my thoughts in multiple colors of ink.

I looked at them yesterday, looked at them briefly after working out on my stationary bike, picked a few of sawdust covered books up, turned them over in my sweaty hands, smelled the fusion of pencil and ink and paper. I perused the pages, read a few of the thoughts entered almost two decades ago and thought, who was that guy? What was going on in the head of the guy that wrote these pages? Did he finally exercise the demons that dogged him for those tormented years?

The author was at once familiar and forgotten. I guess it's good that I did not recognize all his faces for, if they were as familiar as looking in a mirror, that would mean I was still stuck in a 20 year old rut, still the fool I was in my youth. Life is about change, it's about growing, it's about becoming a better human being. I plan to go back and read some more in the near future, to see where else I have grown and, more importantly, to see the places where I am still stuck and the places I have back slid.

I will open those glimpses of my life and dig into my own history, dig into thoughts I felt were so pressing that I had to record them. It will be interesting to see from whence I came. I am glad I kept those journals, my historical musings.

Three Trips

The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page. ~Saint Augustine

I have three international trips coming up in the next four months. Two of my destinations are familiar while the third is a new country and my first trip to the Mideast.

March will find me back in Switzerland for a week of work. This time I am going with a good size group and will be working with people from India, Italy, and Switzerland. I expect the week to be enjoyable for a am going with a team of people with whom I have a good deal of fun. It is my 2nd most visited country outside the US so I am fairly comfortable getting around despite my inability to speak German.

In May I have an exciting destination. The location was selected by my girlfriend, an avid traveler, that has visited quite a few countries. We will be heading to the Mideast for a visit to Turkey, a land rich with history including the ancient ruins of Ephesus a city mentioned in the Bible. We will walk the same streets as Paul, one of my Biblical heroes so, in some respects, for me, it is a pilgrimage to a holy land. 

The final trip is to Canada. I know what you are all saying. Canada is not really an international trip because Canada borders the US and they speak English pretty much just like we do (except for the French section which want's to be it's own country anyway). Heck, Canada is, really, just USA North.  Well, these days a passport is needed to get back into the US from Canada so it does qualify as a foreign country. I will be there for an entire week with family and friends for the annual fishing trip. A week to relax, laugh, and catching my limit of the voracious Northern Pike and succulent Walleye.

Showing The Door

I can only show you the door. You have to walk through it. ~Morpheus

My Leadership Training Program is getting closer to kicking off which finds me working late hours developing the training content.  I am using all my creative energies to ensure the training will be informative and entertaining in a way that will help the message stick, help the message take seed, help it form strong roots so the students will have a strong foothold as they continue to grow their leadership skills.

Because of this program, I am being watched more closely on the job than I have ever previously been watched. Every step I take and will take is being monitored, scrutinized, evaluated, judged. There are those that expect me to fail. I need to prove them wrong not for myself (though that would be rewarding) but for those that come after me, for those that want to go out on a limb and bring in new ideas to the company, for those that want to innovate. The knowledge that I am being scrutinized and that I have been given young leaders to grow is driving me hard these days.

Not only am I working long days, I spend many of my waking hours pondering the training program. Most of the 'recreational' reading I have chosen because I believe the knowledge I absorb will help to improve my ability to train my students, will help my students become better leaders. I take this responsibility seriously for, if I do a poor job, not only do I fail, which is unfortunate, but 7 others that trusted me, that have invested their time and energy will not get an adequate return on their investment and that is a leadership tragedy.

A good manager is a man who isn't worried about his own career but rather the careers of those who work for him. - Henry S. Burns

I have taught before, taught in the respect that I raised 3 kids, coached youth soccer for 14 years, and mentored more people than I can remember. I understand that each student has their own way of learning, that each needs something unique to get the most out of the learning experience and that it is my responsibility to ensure I meet each of them where they best learn. I also know that I can only show them the door. No matter how hard I try, I can't make them walk through it. My job is to make sure the door is so attractive that they want to walk on through to the other side. But, this I must balance with an understanding that not everyone is destined to be a leader and that for some of them, walking through the door would be a mistake. I cannot create a picture that is too rosy. The picture must show the reality on the other side of the door. They must know that walking through the leadership door is just one step on a long journey, a journey in which, if they want to succeed as leaders, will put them on a life long journey of growth. I must make sure they understand that once they become leaders they have a responsibility to continually grow their leadership skills and abilities. They will have to be dedicated to learning for, if they decide to stop learning, their ability to lead will diminish. This requirement to continually learn is something they must understand and they must do for themselves. I cannot learn for them, I can only show them the door.

Ends Always Justify The Means

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. ~Ernest Hemingway


When I write, I am normally without a clue as to how my creation will unfold, the path it will follow, the paths it will avoid, where it will ultimately end. I take an idea or a vague concept or a passion and begin scribbling the words onto a surface. As I engage in the physical act of writing, I take many blind leaps, step forward in faith that the journey will unfold in a satisfactory way, that the story or essay or poem will begin to reveal itself, that it will take shape with every scratch on the paper. Sometimes the shape is sharp, most times it is blurred. The shape lies hidden in the lines of the paper waiting patiently to be freed. I am completely comfortable not knowing what will be released, content to meander, to probe many paths until one winds it's way to a conclusion, content to reach whatever destination awaits.

At times, I would love to look around the corner and get a glimpse of my final destination but I can't, can't see around the bend, can only see far enough ahead to the next couple of words or, if I am lucky, to the next turn of phrase. I must continue writing right up to that bend, to the fork in the path and, frequently stumble, before I catch a glimpse of the next possible words to scribe. At time the path is more twisted than I expected and I get lost. Normally, though, it is simpler, much simpler because simple truths tend to be more universal in nature, more easily comprehended than the complicated gyrations concocted by the human mind.

Sometimes I have a destination planned. More often than not, the plan I create bears little resemblance to the one on the page at the end of the journey. And I am okay with that. I am okay not knowing where I am going because the final assembly of words and the story they reveal is the one that was supposed to be told, reveals the truth that needed to be heard, is the voice that was waiting to speak. It is only by laboring through the means of the writing process that I understand what is supposed to be recorded, how a piece is supposed to reveal itself and the view at the trails end. In my writing, the end always justifies the means.

Flying Without Wings

Four wheels move the body. Two wheels move the soul. ~Author Unknown


 They are the sexiest thing on two wheels, rockets that fly on pavement evoking the feelings of being a airplane pilot, a jet pilot cruising at mach speeds in an open cockpit being buffeted by winds, pelted by smells as you fly into the coolness of shadows and explode into the heat of the sunshine. Fly on two wheels and you will come to appreciate the smile of a dog as it sticks it's head out of the window.

I love riding motorcycles, enjoy the exhilaration of speed, the feeling of raw power purring inches beneath my body, thrive on the feeling of freedom when riding for hours on open country roads listening to nothing but the whine of an engine, a whine that eventually fades to nothing creating a void and in that void hearing the beat of your own heart mile after blissful mile.

This weekend Chicago hosted the International Motorcycle Show. I attend the past two years to see the latest in two wheeled technology, to marvel at the craftsman ship and the artistry of the custom creations, the bends in the sparkling chrome, the intricate paint jobs some which are fantastical in the blend of images and color while others breathe beauty in delicate tones. I like to take my time at the show, take enough time at each bike to burn the subtleties of the craftsmanship deep into my mind's eye, love to imagine myself seated on the bike flying over the open roads before moving on to the next work of art, my next fantasy. I love them all, the sport bikes exuding speed wind cutting speed while standing still, the cruisers flexing their prodigious muscle, mostly I love the minimalist vintage bikes, the raw steel, raw design, naked beauty.

Last year, I attended with my grandson. I felt it was time this 6 year old boy was introduced to the world of two wheeled wonder. He likes to sit on the motorcycle in my garage, twist the throttle and make engine sounds while he pretends to be riding. He was thrilled at the show, so thrilled he wanted to take in every bike, sit on every bike and pretend but sit on them for only a few moments until the next bike called to him and he rushed to that bike then next and the next and the next. There was a display of custom bikes I wanted to absorb, view from every conceivable angle but he quickly became antsy and wanted to move on because these bikes were not to be sat upon and his goal was to sit on every bike at the show and have me take a picture of  him.

I planned to attend the show this Friday. My calendar was marked for a 2 pm exit from work at which time I would hurry down to the show before the heavy traffic made the trip very difficult. Then a meeting was called, a meeting I had to attend, a meeting at 3:30 pm. I still thought I could make the show despite having to leave later than planned, thought I could make it until the snow started falling at lunch time, started sticking to the streets which would, at minimum, double the travel time. I finally got out of work at 5:00 pm too late to attend the show, to late to walk up and down the displays of two wheeled beauty, too late to run my fingers over the perfectly contoured chrome and steel, too late to sit on the bikes and imagine myself on the twisty open roads of America flying without wings.

The Green Giant

A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. ~John Muir


 The green giant stands tall, arms reaching to the skies, ever reaching, ever stretching but never grasping, longing for the merest touch, the gentlest embrace. It's as if the giant wants to soar to the heavens, wants to break free of it's earthly bonds and commune with the sky, fly with the birds that take refuge in it's outstretched arms day and night, summer when green leaves provide shade against the agonizing heat of the noon day sun, winter when icy winds tear into it's brown flesh. I believe this giant would joyfully roam the world, follow the sun from East to West if it's feet were not buried deep into the ground, anchored into the earth seeking the precious, life giving, water, if it's long reaching roots were not necessary to hold the earth together. The giant lives, grows, dies looking at the same landscape to which it was born, watches the seasons change, counts the decades, senses the tic, tic, tic of time as the centuries pass.

The green giant always gives, gives unselfishly, never asking anything in return. She gives us oxygen to breathe, oxygen that creates a permeable shell around world without which life could not survive. She gives us shade from the elements, feeds us with her fruits and, when she dies, warms our homes as she burns in our fireplaces.

Sometimes, when the wind blows, we can hear her whisper. If we listened closely, intently, tuned our ears to the words of the trees, I am sure she would tell us of the long, long life she lived, would sing to us of the birds that nestled in her hair. I am sure she would tell us the secrets of life for  one who gazed upon the world for as long as she, one as ancient as she would surely have had time to think deeply, to understand the meaning of life. And I think she would need just four words to explain all she has learned. Those words would be, "I Am" and "Just Be".

Dark Tresses

Gentlemen prefer blondes... but gentlemen marry brunettes. ~Anita Loos


I am drawn to dark tresses, long shimmering dark tresses. Like an insect inextricably drawn to flickering light on a hot, windless, summer's night, drawn ultimately to its demise, I am drawn dark hair, to the exotic aura of a damsel adorned with dark locks, drawn with a force from which I find it nearly impossible extricate myself.

Dark is the hair of the orient, the mysterious orient, a place of hidden treasures, knowledge passed down through the ages. Dark hair captures that mystery, embodies that mystery, a mystery at once warning and beguiling, a mystery that implies danger, and I am drawn to danger.

Dark manes evoke images of women gliding unheard, cat walking through the tangle of jungle trees, evoke images of sensuous amazons adorned in animal skins on the prowl, hunting for food, for a man, hunting for either prey to satiate her hunger.

I am drawn to mystery because it engages my imagination, enjoy the tingle that is aroused by a hint of danger, drawn to the cat stalking in the jungle as it seeks out new prey, drawn to dark tresses.

Shadows II

Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. ~John 3:20

There is another face to the shadow. This face is not benevolent, not a playful nymph twirling in complete synchronization with every twitch, every movement of our body, not a joyful sprite eliciting smiles as it dances to the rhythmic movements when we ride a bike along the lake front on a sunny, summer day listening to the waves lapping at the wet sand on the shore.

These shadows are dark, their faces malevolent, their actions sow the seeds of decay into our very souls. These shadows are the realization of our nightmares. Not the fantastical nightmares of vampires or lycans or goblins. No. These shadows are much scarier, these shadows are terrifying because they are borne of our reality. These shadows are the embodiment or our dark side. These shadows stand over us accusing us, never letting us forget the evil that lurks within us. These shadows are the remembrances of things we did in days distant past. The kid we bullied in middle school, the times we betrayed loved ones for selfish pleasures, our addictions, our weaknesses, the rancid thoughts that ooze up from the deep recesses of our mind for us to contemplate, to hold, to turn over and over in our consciousness until we catch ourselves and push them back into the darkness hoping to never see them again. But, deep in that darkness is where they grow, where they gain strength, where they wait to pounce again and again.

Unlike, the benevolent shadows that grow in the long rays of warming light, these malevolent shadows thrive in the darkness where light cannot penetrate, cringe in the sunlight that would expose them to the world. For their strength is in their ability to maintain secrecy, their power comes because they make us believe we would be reviled if anyone saw these shadows walking along side of us, that we would be shunned as demons ourselves if our friends had but a glimpse of our dark shadows.

Light is precisely the weapon we must use to conquer these shadows, exposure is what they fear. Bring light to bear on these shadows and the vermin will scurry away. We may suffer a moment of embarrassment when we bear light to these shadows, we may suffer a season of consequence when the truth comes out but, once these shadows have been exposed, they lose their grip on our souls, lose the power they hold over us, lose the tenacity that kept us powerless. Then we will be free. Free of their damning words, free of their accusatory glances. Free to enjoy life. Free to be.

Shadows

Find beauty not only in the thing itself but in the pattern of the shadows, the light and dark which that thing provides. ~Junichiro Tanizaki


They are ever present, always at our side, always following us, our constant companion, creeping along, silent, mesmerizing, mimicking, mocking, ebbing, flowing, lengthening, shrinking, hiding. They are there in the dark, the half light, the full light, requiring only a sliver of light seeping through the slenderest crack to be birthed. We are routinely unaware of their presence until we catch a glimpse of their fluent grace out of the corner of our eye when our attention is focused elsewhere, when it is focused anywhere but upon them. It is only in the light that they enjoy the freedom of dance. Is it only in the light that they cavort with our every movement, our slightest twitch, when they caress other shadows, when they brush against people hurrying about their business on a hot summer day, when they kiss the child playing hopscotch on crooked boxes scratched hastily into the cracked, concrete sidewalk.

I oft wonder what the shadow is thinking, if shadows smell the flowers bursting with perfume as the petals lean into the tangerine rays of morning light, if the noon day glare causes shadows to cringe in the shimmering heat waves of summer, if the shadow feels the warm rays of an evening sun setting behind the long armed trees, if shadows fear the night because they can no longer feel the person to whom they are attached when light fades and can no longer chase away the enveloping darkness, if shadows feel lonely when we cannot see them, if they feel ignored though they parrot our every move crying look at me and still we fail to acknowledge their existence, if they are jealous at the kaleidoscopic of colors the world displays yet are forced to dress in gray.

I oft wonder if the shadow is content to live on the periphery of our lives, if it longs to be free of our bodies, if it longs to be break the bonds of the sun, if the shadow would be happier unshackled, unfettered allowed to roam to it's heart's content.

Hero Worship

I'm not a role model... Just because I dunk a basketball doesn't mean I should raise your kids. ~Charles Barkley


I don't understand this whole hero worship thing. It makes no sense to me why people go gaga over Lady Gaga, why people fawn at the feet of famous people, why someone would pay good money to have an athlete write his name on your shirt.

Most of what passes for hero's these days are famous people, actors and athletes, people that became famous because they have a particular skill. Most people have a skill yet we don't want to go out of our way to meet them. The difference is that actors and athletes have a skill that earns them good sized paycheck. Is it money that makes us want to drop at their feet and pray? If so, that's shallow on our part. Is it because we see them on TV or the silver screen? That's an equally shallow reason.

Bono is a famous musician. Yes, I would pay my good money to see U2 play because I enjoy their music. No, I would not pay a dime to meet Bono. I have no interest in meeting him despite U2 being one of my favorite bands of all time. He's a musician and musical ability does not make him a hero.

I just don't understand why people will purchase a product because it's endorsed by an actor. What does the typical actor know about an automobile. Choosing a car because it's endorsed by a actor is completely illogical unless that actor happens to be an Engineer with detailed knowledge of the car design.

Because and actor can act (which is essentially lying in a believable way) we ascribe to them many wonderful traits like wisdom and knowledge. Yet, most actors seem incapable of running their own lives as do many of the high priced athletes that grace our TVs. Why anyone would emulate them is beyond me.

Author: Eduardo Galeano

Years have gone by and I've finally learned to accept myself for who I am: a beggar for good soccer. I go about the world, hand outstretched, and in the stadiums I plead: "A pretty move for the love of God." And when good soccer happens, I give thanks for the miracle and I don't give a damn which team or country performs it. ~Eduardo Galeano


Without a doubt, the Uruguayan Eduardo Galeano is my favorite South American author, probably in my top ten authors of all time. With the completion of "Mirrors: Stories of Almost Everyone" while lying in a comfy bed this morning, I have read five of his books with plans to read more.

All five of the books I have had the joy of reading are of the same format, a format that I have not seen in any other literary work. Eduardo wrote them in vignettes, one to two pages in length, succinct stories. Despite the compact size of the vignettes, their impact is formidable. His words are at once poetic and image filled and thought provoking and horrifying.



Mirrors: A History of Almost Everyone


Like all five of the books, Mirrors is historical in nature. However, this is not the history I grew up learning in my US based, middle class, catholic schooling where all historical events are viewed from the US perspective which is, by definition, the 'correct' interpretation. This is history from the a decidedly non US point of view. It's a chronicling of the events that have formed or, in many cases, destroyed the peoples of this world, brings to center stage the harsh realities that most in modern times are either unaware of or, if we were aware, would like to think never existed because, to believe them, to even contemplate their existence would give us frightful insights into the evil perpetuated by man, an evil of which we may even harbor in our hearts. If we acknowledge these historical events we may be forced to acknowledge modern day atrocities. If we are forced to acknowledge the modern day atrocities, such as young children being forced into prostitution in many parts of the world, we may not be able to look at our reflections in the mirror for those reflections would accuse us, would bore a damning hole into our soul until we quit worrying about acquiring the latest gadget and used some of our resources to right the wrongs that our silence enables.

All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing. ~Edmund Burke

Soccer in Sun and Shadow


The first book of Galeano's that I read was "Soccer in Sun and Shadow" a history of the beautiful game. I read this book multiple times and reviewed passages, such as the quote at the beginning of this blog, many more. I would still be reading it had it not been misplaced in one of my changes of residence.

I am a football (soccer) aficionado. In this respect, Eduardo and I are kindred spirits for, his love of the beautiful game permeates the pages of this book. His description of the great players of the game casts them in an almost mystical hue.

He chronicles the history of the game from pre-history through the modern game which, too frequently, is a game of brutality instead of it's roots in finesse, is a game controlled by big money interests without the skill to kick a ball, by big money interests that hide their profits and ill gotten gains in secret Swiss bank accounts.

As he points out, no where was this more evident than when the World Cup was held in Mexico City during the Summer of 1970. One of the overarching phrases in the referee book put out by FIFA, the governing body of world soccer, is that the referee must apply the laws, first and foremost, with the safety of the players in mind.

Mexico is brutally hot in the Summer and to host a game under those climatic conditions was dangerous for the health of the players. The game was held there despite the protestations of the players who are mere pawns in the enterprise that is football. It was held there for political purposes. It was held there with knees bent at the alter of the almighty dollar, peso, franc, etc.

One would think that FIFA would have learned from the experience but such is not the case for the corrupt organization voted their secret ballot to hold the 2022 World Cup in Qatar, a desert country which is even hotter than Mexico. For the good of the game? No. For the financial gain of those that cast their secret ballots.



Memory of Fire (Trilogy)

The trilogy titled "Memoria Del Fuego" (Memory of Fire) is my favorite Eduardo Galeano creation. This is the history of the world form the Latin American point of view, a point of view that gives precedence to describing world history through the eyes of the vanquished instead of the more common eyes of the victor.

I have seen this trilogy denounced as leftist, Marxist, and other ists. As being a one sided distortion of the real facts. So what? What are real facts? Are real facts the ones I choose to believe because they record what I want to hear? Do real, objective facts exist anywhere?

I submit that all historical works are one sided, not only historical works but all written works are one sided. None of the modern historians were there when history played out on the world's stage. All knowledge of history is gained from reading what others wrote, others who may or may not have been witness to the events, and those 'historical' writings are colored by the author's own beliefs. Modern historians then read the colored history and interpret what they read through another set of colored lenses. The modern author may use many sources but, the words they choose to put down on paper along with the words they choose to omit, are tainted by their own biases, by their own prejudices. As a result, there can be no truly objective historical facts.

I think it's healthy to read various interpretations of events. One of my favorite news source is the BBC. In America, I read news from the perspective of people raised in the US, I read news biased toward the the ideology of the news source. And that's ok because I understand that this is the case. With the BBC sources, I also get news biased by the ideology of the source. The thing is, though, that I get the news from an alternate source, a source that is decidedly unAmerican in its bias. I don't stop there. I also read news from other sources that write in English such as Blogs and the Times of India. I only wish I could read other languages so I could feel the thought so other writers.

Each of the sources offers me a view of one facet of truth, of the facts. Having many of these at my disposal, as we do in the age of the internet and seemingly unlimited sources, engages my mind in ways that were impossible in the age of my parents when news was tightly controlled.

Eduardo, in his trilogy, gives me a facet of the truth that I covet, that I covet because it requires me to engage my mind and think critically,  that I covet because it tends to be diametrically opposed to what was pushed down my throat while growing up by the institutions that were supposed to educate me. How can one be truly educated if most of the facts are omitted because they aren't the facts authorized by the power structure of the conquering nation?

If you are person that likes to be challenged, that likes to ingest many facets of truth instead of being fed just one, myopic perspective, then Eduardo is for you. On the other hand, if you like being blissfully ignorant. If you like a world that is comfortable and safe. If you like not being required to think critically about the history blended into mushed for easy ingestion, then Eduardo is not for you. For, love him or hate him, believe his words or find them implausible, one cannot help but having your world view rocked upon reading his trilogy.

Sitting on the Moon

Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts. ~Winston Churchill

Scream by Munch

Arrggghhhhhh!!! There is a breach in the continuum, a gap in the stream that cannot be filled, a hole in time that, sans time travel, I can never stitch together, a void that will forever stand reminding me of negligence, stand accusing me of failure.

My stated goal, a goal recorded in my written word, carved into the permanency of bits and bytes for all the world to see, the current populace and future generations to stumble upon as they browse the web, was to write a blog a day for 365 days. I put this in writing because a dream articulated becomes a vision, a vision shared becomes a goal, a goal shared carries the weight of accountability. I thrive when I have a measure of anxiety, do my best creation under pressure, craft my best work when I put myself on the line and state a lofty goal for all to see.

I thought I had posted a blog that day, thought I had written of my heart's musings and scheduled it for posting. But I didn't. I brain farted and posted it to tomorrow when it should have been available today. I could post two blogs one day to make up for my oversight which would give me 365 blogs in a year but that would be cheating. I could post five blogs a day between now and the year mark but, still, the gap pointing the finger of failure in my direction would still stand as my accuser. Or is it really a failure?

My dream was to start a blog, to have a place where I could record my thoughts, could put to paper those rants, raves ramblings routinely rolling 'round in my conscious and subconscious ruminations. I needed a measurement, a measureable goal that would challenge me because I do not get excited by easy accomplishments, so I decided my success would be a blog a day for an entire year.

The blog a day for a year was for me a lofty goal that would require a complete reorganization of my life's priorities. I was becoming too comfortable, too complacent, too blind to the glory of the created world, too myopic to see the fascinating in what had become mundane, mundane solely because I was looking without seeing, I fell into a mode where I was taking the miraculous for granted.

Since I have been blogging, I look at the world differently. Glances at my surroundings are much less frequent having been replaced by lingering studies of my environment, of an environment that is at once real and imaginary. An old couple walking along the lakefront of the Zugersee is no longer just two people passing by out of mind as soon as they are out of sight. I give them a story as I create scenarios in my mind that gives context to their lives, to the lives I like to imagine they may have lived, are living, will live, see the backdrop of the Zugersee with its waves as a metaphor for a life that is rich with challenges.

Sitting on the Moon

I hear more when listening to ethnic music trying to imagine how the world of the artist influences the choice of images in the lyrics, I read books with a more critical eye as I explore the voice of the author in the words and try to understand why particular words are chosen, drink wine wondering how the taste can be captured in prose, in word images, which helps me ferret out the subtleties of the flavors dancing on my tongue.

I have not failed. I would consider the forgotten blog as failure if I had let the missing entry derail me from my quest, a quest dwarfed by a tiny blip in the continuum. The missing entry was a bump along my journey, one of those deviations that keeps the journey from becoming mundane. My goal of a blog a day for 365 days was a shot at the stars. I missed the stars but still have a great view of life while sitting on the moon.

The Naysayer

Think You Can, Think You Can’t; Either Way, You’ll Be Right! ~Henry Ford


Sometimes the naysayer is overt, telling the world in a loud voice why something is a bad idea, why an idea won't work. Other times, it's a soft whisper, a murmur. Most times the whisper does more damage than the overt commentary because the whisper slowly, almost imperceptibly, crawls into the ears, seeping into the soft parts of the brain where it takes seed it grows into a full-fledged thought that the hearer believe they, themselves, reached the conclusion that an activity is doomed to failure.

If the idea is not sourced from the naysayer, it cannot have merit. "Reasons" are put forth by the naysayer, logical excuses why this process simply can't work, rationales stated as fact explaining that I should not be attempting to raise the quality of the leadership in my company because I am not qualified to grow young leaders.

Negativity is contagious. If we listen to the naysayer, give heed to his words, mull them over just a little instead of discarding them they can infect us, they can grow in us a shadow of doubt where only light existed, the light that gives birth to our confidence, the light that overshadows uncertainty and shows us the beauty of our capabilities, the light that allows our abilities to bloom into successful endeavors.

So, too, positivity is contagious. Positivity enables us to accomplish more than we thought possible, enables groups to overturn social injustice, enables new paradigms to sprinkle starlight onto a world shrouded in the darkness of negativity.

Don't listen to the naysayer for he is a little man with a little man and little dreams who would rather destroy than create. Blot his words out the moment they ooze their poison from his parted lips. Don't allow them to take a foothold in your dreams. Don't allow them to turn you from your goal that, when achieved, will be that new force driving your life forward to ever greener lands of accomplishment. It is you that controls your dreams, it is your mindset that determines the limits you will achieve. When the naysayer spits his poison, speak a loud nay, take away his power by turning your back and walking away from the naysayer.

My Bags Are Packed...

All my bags are packed I'm ready to go. ~John Denver

I purchased the final tickets today, the tickets that take me from Istanbul to Nevsehir to Izmir and back to Istanbul. The tickets to and from Turkey were purchased a couple of weeks ago and the hotels were booked this past weekend. Excitement  for my upcoming  trip to Turkey, to one of the ancient lands ripe with a history that is centuries older than the recorded history of my United States, is palpable. My anticipation of this trip is so high that I am ready to bust out of my skin.

Blue Mosque

My trip will require lots of walking, walking through the streets of Istanbul where I will encounter the magnificence of the Blue Mosque, a Muslim holy place, an architectural and artistic wonder, hiking in the mountains in Capadocia, exploring ancient cities built under the earth in caves. Capadocia is an ancient enclave mentioned as far back as 6 BC when the Persians were a still a formidable empire. I will sleep in a cave hotel, a hotel built into the side of a mountain with rooms that are carved out of solid rock.

From there I go to Izmir on the West Coast of Turkey. This part of the trip will take me to the ruins of Ephesus. I will walk the same streets as the Apostle Paul. When I visit the ruins, I will possibly sit in the same places Paul sat when he lived in this historic, Roman city.

I am, currently, not in shape for all this walking. The winter fat has taken hold and settled in my midsection. So, today, I started my training plan, started riding a stationary bike to help me get conditioned for all the walking and hiking I have planned for the 10 day trip. I plan on exercising 4 to 5 days a week so I have the stamina for the exploratory walks through Istanbul, for the hikes up the mountains and through the caves of cappadocia, for my excursions through the ancient city of  Ephesus.

The only problem with the trip is that it still a few months off. I am oozing excitement, breathing anticipation and I won't be on the jet plane until mid May.