The Tennis Mindset: Express, Forget, and Refocus

Of all the sports I’ve ever played, tennis demands the most mental toughness.

In tennis, maintaining a positive and aggressive state of mind is crucial throughout the match. If you’re not positive enough, your muscles tighten, leading to overthinking and missed shots. Conversely, if you’re not aggressive enough, you won’t take the necessary risks to win points.

The key to staying in this optimal mindset is learning to forget points quickly. Each point in tennis carries emotional weight, whether it’s a win or a loss. However, carrying these emotions from point to point disrupts the flow state essential for a tennis player. Therefore, it's vital to let go of previous points, regardless of whether they were good or bad.

The moments between points in tennis are crucial for resetting your mindset. This brief pause is the only opportunity to unload emotions and regain focus. To move on effectively, a tennis player must express all their emotions—whether positive or critical—between points, ensuring no lingering feelings disrupt their game.

The essential lesson here is to express, forget, and refocus on the point ahead.

This lesson from my time as a boy who grew up playing sports has profoundly impacted my adult life: the necessity to express myself every day, even if it's just in my journal. This need to express is a significant reason I’m committed to writing on this blog weekly.

Expressing myself allows me to calm down and gain the mindset required to truly listen and pay attention to those around me—whether it’s my family or my team at work. This ability to express and unload my thoughts is critical because if I can’t listen, I can’t love. If I can’t listen, I can’t solve problems. If I can’t listen, I can’t support others.

Even a five-minute free-write or singing songs from my karaoke favorites playlist on the way to work helps me to express, forget, and refocus.

I am so grateful for the chance to play and watch tennis because this lesson has been so impactful in my life. To anyone whose interest was piqued by this post, my advice is simple: express yourself every day. Whether it’s writing in a journal, talking to an old friend, or taking a few minutes to draw, do something daily that allows you to embrace the tennis mindset of express, forget, and refocus.

This simple lesson from one of the world’s great sports - to express, forget, and refocus - is the key to truly listening. By listening, we create the space to solve problems and form loving relationships with those around us.

Adding a 'Thank You' to Gratitude Journaling

Almost a decade ago, my wife Robyn introduced me to the practice of keeping a gratitude journal. Over the years, I experimented with different methods, including a four-part gratitude exercise. However, I've found that the simpler version—writing down three things I'm grateful for each day—resonates most with me. Recently, I made a small yet profound modification to this practice.

At the end of each gratitude, I add a simple “Thank you” to acknowledge the forces and people making my life better. This small change has significantly impacted my daily gratitude practice, and I recommend trying it if you keep a gratitude journal.

First, it’s humbling. Giving “credit” for the good things in my life makes me realize the generosity and care others are capable of. I am often in awe of their talents, grace, and how they share both with me.

Second, I feel loved—the opposite of alone. Every time I write the name of someone who has done something—knowingly or unknowingly—for me, it’s as if I feel that person giving me a hug or a smile. With a stroke of a pen, writing the name of another person in gratitude builds a feeling of love in my heart and reminds me that no matter what I think or what is happening around me, I am not alone.

Interestingly, I can’t always articulate something specific to acknowledge in my daily gratitude. Sometimes, all I can think to thank is the universe, the culture, God, or the Earth. It’s a reminder of how expansive human life can be and breaks me out of the minutiae of the daily grind. It helps me reach a headspace where small things remain small and the traces of bigger things emerge.

This emergence of these bigger forces is motivating. It makes me want to forget about the narrow and childish things that can often consume too much of my energy. When I remember that there are forces out there conspiring to make my life joyous, it makes me want to add a dollop of untraceable love and support out into the universe for others.

Ultimately, this is the broadest lesson from adding a “thank you” to my daily gratitude: by thanking the people behind my blessings, it helps me to think of and make sacrifices for others myself. If we are trying to be good people in the toughest moments, this is exactly the motivation we need to cultivate.

Comfort Reveals Character: Like Adversity, Ease Defines Us

How we react to adversity is a true reflection of our character, revealing our true selves when challenges arise—this is a familiar adage that holds much truth.

However, the times of ease and abundance in our lives—moments when we are most comfortable—also define us, yet these periods receive far less scrutiny. This week, I've come to realize that our actions during these comfortable times are equally telling. When the pressure is off, and we are left to our own devices with resources at hand, who do we choose to be? This question, I believe, is as crucial as how we face adversity, for it sheds light on the values we hold dear even when no one is compelling us to uphold them.

The Challenge of Super Comfort

I might become super comfortable for various reasons. Perhaps I’ve fallen into some money, achieved sustainable wealth, gained mastery in my job, or it’s simply sunny and I’m on vacation. Maybe I’ve just gotten a promotion or been recognized for some sort of award. Maybe one of my posts has gone viral, and I’m currently "the it guy" because of it. How do I act then?

Do I lose my hunger to be a better man? Do I let my standards slide? Do I forget about the injustices others face because this mojito I’m palming is just that hypnotizing? Do I take the day off from my duties because I feel like I’m above doing the work in the trenches now that I’ve "made it"? Do I stop diving for the metaphorical loose ball? Will my tastes get more expensive simply because they can, or will I remain the same guy from the schoolyard who went out and worked for it every day and put the team ahead of himself?

When things are rolling my way and I’m super comfortable, who am I going to be? When I feel like I’ve made it, will the game be about "me" or will I walk the walk on it being about "we"?

How We Can Manage Super Comfort

Dealing with super comfort is a real issue, not confined to stratospheric levels of wealth or social status. Owning a house, maintaining a retirement account, having a respected job, and enjoying paid vacation days—these are signs of 'super comfort' accessible to many, not just the super-rich. And here's the crux: I don’t want comfort to corrupt my character.

I've always cared about more than my own comfort, tracing back to when I joined the Brooklands Elementary student council at nine years old. I still aspire to be that hopeful, gregarious lad who believed that serving others was time well spent. Honestly, I don’t want to fade into a life of super comfort and become a self-indulgent navel-gazer. When I enjoy a lazy, restorative moment, I want it to be just that—a moment. Once it passes, I aim to return to something bigger than comfort.

So, if we care about our character and the impact we have on others and our corner of the world, this question is vital: How do we not let super comfort corrupt who we are?

It starts with a strong sense of who we are and what we care about unconditionally. We must literally post our deep convictions on our wall so we can't ignore them once we've 'made it.' Moreover, we must be wary of gated communities. The term 'gated community' often brings to mind exclusive residential areas that are physically gated off from the surrounding world, but it also applies to social circles and activities that are metaphorically gated through economic, cultural, or educational barriers.

True inclusive spaces are those accessible to everyone. To prevent our comfort from corrupting us, we must actively engage with these places. It's not just about avoiding country clubs or luxury suites at stadiums; it's about ensuring our daily environments—coffee shops, churches, date nights—are not so elite and self-selecting that we go weeks without having our comfort zones challenged. It's about choosing to leave the bubbles of our grad school networks and being open to interactions with diverse groups of people at the grocery store or our kids’ soccer games. The only real inclusive spaces are those that everyone can access, and to prevent corruption through comfort, we must show up in those places.

Super comfort becomes normal when we detach from public life and limit our social interactions to these private, exclusive spaces. It’s easy to indulge in comfort and rationalize elitist behaviors when we only inhabit specific slices of our world.

This is a bit of a rant, and that’s because this idea of corruption through comfort is new to me. How we act when we face adversity defines us, obviously. But how we act when we are faced with super comfort matters just as much. Maybe even more so, because in the throes of being comfortable is when we are most likely to make an exception to the standards of character we have set for ourselves.

Maybe it’s not novel for you, but it is novel for me: I have to fight the effects of super comfort, and that starts by even acknowledging this idea that how we act when we are super comfortable requires introspection and scrutiny.

Just as our character is defined by how we act in moments of adversity, it’s also defined by how we act in the moments where adversity is furthest away.

I’ve fallen in love, again and again.

The years in my mid-twenties, when Robyn and I fell in love, were some of the best of my life. Looking back, that whole time felt like a smile.

Eight years ago this week, Robyn and I were wed at an old Jesuit church in downtown Detroit. This was the Gospel reading we chose, Matthew 7:24-25:

"Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock."

We chose this reading deliberately. Fresh off the sudden passing of my father three months before our wedding day, we had already been through the gales and floods of a big storm. The notion of “in good times and bad” wasn’t just an abstract concept to us—our young relationship had already lived through both.

We had at least some notion of the good and bad days ahead. We knew that there would be more death and grief ahead. We didn’t know exactly what parenting would be like, but we did have some idea of the intense joy and struggle it would entail.

We knew that jobs would come and go with varying levels of stress and accomplishment. We knew that we’d have fun passing time around Detroit with friends and neighbors. And, perhaps most importantly, we knew that “family first” would be a guiding principle for our life together, and with that commitment would come love and sacrifice.

We chose that passage for our wedding Gospel reading because we wanted to anchor our marriage into the “rock” of God and love so we could celebrate the good days and weather the bad days we knew would come.

We didn’t know exactly what was coming or when, but we knew it would.

All that said, something happened over the last 8 years that I never predicted, and honestly, it completely blindsided me.

I never imagined, after that first season of falling in love, that I’d fall in love with Robyn again. That I’d feel that rush of romance after we had long passed the days of being love birds and our honeymoon phase.

But I have. As we’ve lived through each new season of our life together, I’ve fallen in love with Robyn again and again.

And I’m so grateful.

The reason why this happened is simple: we’ve each changed, a lot. Of course, our core principles remain intact. But holy cow, so much has happened these past 8 years. The entire context in which our lives are set has changed, how could we not be different people?

All this change has made things novel and fresh. It has given us an opportunity to fall in love again and again, in every new season. That’s a choice: we’re choosing to grow together instead of apart, and that has perhaps made falling in love the second, third, and fourth times even more exciting and beautiful than the first.

And what a silver lining that is.

Because I know I’m getting older. I see it and feel it regularly. Like when with each new haircut I notice a few more grey hairs. Or in how my hangovers are less frequent, but last much longer.

All these are mile markers that remind me that every day I’m a day closer to the end of this beautiful life.

But damn. It makes aging so much more bearable to know that as we grow old we are growing older together. And that as our seasons change we will get to fall in love several more times throughout our life.

If we must trade our youth for age, it is a blessing to realize that we get this gift to fall in love, again and again.

Maybe I Should Just Shut Up

My conclusion after a slump of parenting was this: Maybe I should just shut up.

Maybe my meddling between two sons, who have infinitely more experience in what it’s like to have a brother, isn’t helping. Unless they’re drawing blood, breaking bones, or veering into legitimate cruelty, maybe I should keep doing the dishes and let the hollering in our basement work itself out.

Maybe I’ve taken what Dr. Becky taught me a little too far. I should help narrate and put some scaffolding on their big feelings, sure. But maybe I can let him freak out for at least 20 seconds before I interfere and force his heart rate to lower through me and my adult voice. Maybe I can just sit here with him and just breathe for a minute, before I say something that he’s trying to express and feel himself.

Maybe if my reaction to whatever just happened carries the tone that I’m older, smarter, and more arrogant—believing my son is being ridiculous—I should take my own advice and shut up if I don’t have anything nice to say or if I can’t say it kindly right now.

Maybe when they’re excited about something—like a goal they scored, a word they learned to read, or a bug they saw on the playground—I can just smile eagerly. I don’t have to rattle off details like Wikipedia, make their moment mine, or turn it into something teachable. Maybe I can just look at them, give them my attention with my whole body, and smile eagerly.

It turns out, for an external processor of feelings and thoughts like me, learning to keep my mouth shut long enough to let a pause pass was really hard. But it turns out, it freaking works.

I always worry about letting them struggle to the point of developing depression, anxiety, or God forbid, a hopelessness dangerous enough to invite self-harm.

Yes, I need to not cross that line.

But damn, it turns out I could have avoided many of the worst moments, where I’ve been the worst version of myself, by shutting my mouth, opening my ears, and letting things linger a little before I shift into “dad mode.”

They’re smart, good, and capable young men—already. As difficult as it is to let them grow forward, something they might need from me is to stay nearby, with love waiting, but also quietly.

Sometimes, the greatest act of love for them today, and for our future selves where we’re all grown men, is to just shut up.

Legacy Beyond Life: Introducing the Centennial Obituary Exercise

Warren Buffett and others use a technique called the 'reverse obituary.' You write the obituary you want and then work backwards to make it happen. It's a simple yet impactful way to explore our inner world, and I recommend everyone tries it. Have you ever engaged in a reflection exercise like this? What did you discover about yourself?

Introducing the Centennial Obituary

I've been experimenting with a twist on this idea, called the 'Centennial Obituary.' Here's the concept. Even if you’re not a theist, humor me.

Picture this: It's 100-150 years after your death, and you're in God's office. He tells you:

'Neil, it's been over a century since you left Earth and your physical body. All those you loved, and who loved you, have since joined us here. You've listened to the stories of their lives. During your lifetime, you had aspirations to contribute to the world and hoped your actions would create a lasting impact, long after your passing.

[God gestures towards a screen on the wall, which reveals itself].

On this screen, you can see the long-term impact of your life. But there's a catch: You can only see results in three areas. Which three do you pick?'

In the next section, I’ll share my three areas to illustrate how the exercise works. But before I do, give this a think: which three areas would you pick?

Personal Reflections on the Exercise

This exercise is fascinating because it encourages us to think about something bigger than our immediate lives. The way the question is framed forces us to consider what truly matters to us—those things we deem significant enough to influence, even well beyond our own lifetimes and immediate personal connections.

If asked, I would probably respond to God with something like this:

'First, I always hoped that by focusing on reflection and figuring out how to help others explore their inner world, the world would become more thoughtful, compassionate, and courageous. If I was good enough at this, I figured the people I influence might also influence and teach others, fostering a ripple effect of understanding and acceptance. Did my choices help this ripple effect to happen?

Second, I was deeply invested in helping those around me to fully realize their talents and potential. I believed that by leading in organizations in innovative ways, and sharing new approaches to run organizations, these leadership behaviors and systems would proliferate. Consequently, more people would find themselves in environments where they could truly thrive, unlocking their full potential. Did my efforts contribute to this change?

Lastly, I wanted America, particularly Detroit and the State of Michigan, to be places characterized by increased trust. The data which showed declining social trust and faith in government were always devastating to me. I aimed to improve how government served citizens in the hope that it would restore people's trust in institutions and, ultimately, in each other. This, I believed, was crucial for Americans to experience true freedom. Did my actions contribute to this goal?'

Conclusion: A Broader Perspective on Life's Impact

In conclusion, the key distinction between the reverse obituary and the Centennial Obituary lies in the time horizon. The reverse obituary concludes at our death—it's ultimately a measure of our lives. The Centennial Obituary, on the other hand, propels our thinking well beyond our death and the lifetimes of those we hold dearest. This shift in perspective liberates us to envision a broader impact. At the same time, being limited to three domains compels us to become highly specific.

Both the reverse obituary and the Centennial Obituary have their unique places in our toolkit for reflection. The reverse obituary is best for contemplating our lives and the influence we have on those closest to us. The Centennial Obituary, conversely, is ideal for determining the subtle yet intentional ripples we wish to create, hopeful that their effects will resonate long after we're gone.

Both methods differ, and both are valuable exercises in their own right. I encourage you to spend some time today thinking about your own Centennial Obituary - this exercise was very illuminating for me. What three areas of long-term impact would you choose to see? Please do share your thoughts in the comments. I would love to hear about the ripples you hope to make.

2023: The Year of ‘Not Helpless’

My biggest regret this year was not attending a memorial service for someone I knew who died unexpectedly.

Despite our distant connection, my grief was real, but fear held me back. I worried about navigating the unfamiliar customs of their faith and feared saying the wrong thing to their family, whom I had never met before. Additionally, I was concerned about how others would perceive my attendance, given our weak ties.

Upon reflection, none of these fears justify my absence, and this regret has been a poignant lesson for me. It seems so obvious now, but I actually have some control over how I react to fear. Nothing but myself was stopping me from making a different choice.

I am glad that even though I feel regret, I have learned something from it: My ignorance is my responsibility and under my control. My irrational fears are my responsibility and under my control. My boundaries and response to social anxiety is my responsibility and under my control. These are all hard, to be sure, but I am not helpless.

—

I’ve now proven to myself that I can do better. This is my greatest accomplishment of the year.

On vacation, where work stress dissolves into the Gulf of Mexico's salt, I find myself more patient with my sons. In the last two months, gratitude journaling helped me realize that I was unfairly expecting my sons to manage my frustrations. This insight has made me a better listener, helping me see them as they need to be seen - closer to how God sees them.

On vacation, when the stress of work dissolves into the Gulf of Mexico’s salt, I am more patient with my sons. In the last 2 months of the year, when some gratitude journaling I did finally made it click that I’m expecting my sons to help me manage my own frustrations, I am better. I am a better listener and I finally see them in the way they need me to - closer to how God sees them.

Now, I know, I can do better - I just have to do it when the world around me feels chaotic and when we’re out of our little paradise and back into our beautiful, but very real, life. This will be extremely difficult, but I know I can do it, because I’ve already done it.

Once I am better - as a listener, as a father, and as a husband when Robyn and I work through this together - I start to talk to them different. I’m curious. I’m asking questions. I’m taking pauses. I’m no longer trying to control and react, I am the powerful wave of the rising tide that is firm but gentle, enveloping them and their sandy toes until they are anchored again.

I change how I talk. Instead of saying - “stop it, now!” I start to say, with a full, palpable, sense of love and confidence in them - “you are not helpless.”

—

Over the years, Robyn and I have taken exactly one walk on the beach together during our Christmas vacation.

We saunter away for 30 minutes at nap time, letting the masks we so reluctantly maintain as parents and professionals fully drop. It's just us, speaking to no one except three young girls who earnestly and eagerly approach us, asking, “Excuse us, but would you like a beautiful sea shell?“

Some years, one of us is weeping as our grief and frustration finally is allowed to boil over. This year though, we are incisive and contemplative. I am honestly curious. We struggled so much this year, how is it that we aren’t more frustrated with each other?

By the end of our walk and our conversation, I see her differently. She is more beautiful, but that’s how I feel everyday. Today, I also feel the depth of her soul and resolve more strongly. Her gravity pulls me in closer.

We have fought hard to get here. All the hard conversations we’ve had and all the conflict resolution techniques we’ve studied and applied have made a big difference. Yes, we have put in the work.

But at the root of it, is something much deeper and strategic. We have seeds of resilience that we have planted consistently with every season of our marriage that passes. We plant and reap, over and over, not a fruit but a mindset. We have vowed to be in union. We are dialed into a single vision that is bigger than both of us. We are committed to make it it there and we have jettisoned our escape pods, figuratively speaking, we have left ourselves no choice but to figure it out.

And with every crisis, we feel more and more that we can figure it out. With each year that passes, the difficulty of our problems increases, but so does our capacity to manage them. More than ever, as the clock strikes the bottom of the hour and we end our saunter, I remember - we are not helpless.

This year was hard. But the silver lining was that I finally internalized something so simple, but so important.

When the going gets tough - whether it’s because of death, our children growing up, or external factors adding stress to our marriage - nobody is coming to save us. We are on our own. But that’s okay, because we are not helpless.

Who should help us measure our lives?

Who should help me measure my life?

By that I mean, whose eyes should I look through to understand my contribution to the world and the type of person I am? Who should I lean on to confirm whether my life has meaning or is wasted? Who can help me evaluate the parts of myself I can’t see?

To me the answer is simple: the people who know the full extent of who I am. The people who should help us measure our lives are the people that know us intimately. The people who see us in the trenches and up close. The people we cannnot hide our true character from, even if we tried. The people who should help us measure our lives are the people who can see our intent, our thinking, our emotions, our habits, our behaviors, and all the other invisible things we are that are.

Who should help us measure our lives? The people who actually have a 360-degree view of the relevant data about who we are.

By this definition, those are people like our spouses, our families, and our closest friends. Maybe it could also be our colleagues or neighbors who we trust enough to let down our masks and armor. Hopefully we know ourselves in this way, too.

And maybe, it could also be looser ties, who are with us in our most joyous and trying moments - like moments of grief, struggle, sacrifice, or hardship, like doctors, pastors, social workers, or public servants who help us in crises. If we’re lucky, we might also find those people from a team we were on that was trying to accomplish something difficult or of great import - whether that’s our high school theatre group, a soccer team, or a team from our professional life, working on a difficult and meaningful achievement.

What this implies, is that the vast majority of people we’ve ever met aren’t well equipped to help us measure our lives. The people who usually only interact with us based on what they see on LinkedIn or Instagram? Not qualified. Our colleagues? Mostly not qualified, unless we have a generous and transparent relationship with them. Our contemporaries from high school or college? Mostly not qualified, unless they were the people we stayed up all night bonding with, who know us at our best, worst, and most honest.

***

After many years, my inner voice was finally able to bring words to my angst about life and career.

“I am so much more and greater than what my accomplishments suggest. All these people who look at my LinkedIn profile, my job title, and even what I post on facebook don’t know the full story of what I am.”

To be sure, this sentiment causes me and has caused me a deep turmoil and angst. I just get so frustrated because I feel so capable but I don’t have as much to show for it as others. My peers from school (at every level, but especially college and grad school) are objectively a lot more successful and probably more wealthy than me. My peer group has people, too, who have made substantial contributions to the world. Even at work, within my own company, I feel like I have so much untapped potential and ability to create results than the title, rank, and level of respect I currently have.

This, honestly, causes me this deep, churning, in-my-gut kind of angst. I feel sometimes that I’m wasting my talent. On my worst days, I feel like I’m wasting my life.

What I finally realized this week, is that it’s illogical to expect these people to see the full picture of who I am. It’s unreasonable to expect the vast majority of people to help me measure my life, especially because I haven’t let down my guard or had enough time with the vast majority of people for them to see who I am, fully.

There’s no reason for angst about this, because the people that I’m seeking validation from and wanting to help me measure my life, can’t possibly give it.

***

I wish that I could measure my life on my own. Honestly, it would be much simpler if I could see myself clearly enough to make my own adjustments. I want to measure my life, in some way at least, so that I can live a life of integrity and some amount of contribution and meaning. If I evaluate myself, I can make adjustments to be better

The problem is, I can’t adequately self-evaluated because I’m biased. I am a mortal man who has ego. I am not fully enlightened. I need help to see myself as I am. I need the feedback of the people who really know me, deep down, to help me make adjustments so I can be a good guy in a stressed out world. I live enmeshed in a social world, and a community of others - how could I not need help to measure my life if my life impacts the lives of others?

For others to help me measure my life, then, I need to exhibit full-scale honesty: honesty with my self and honesty with others. If I want help measuring my life I have to let people in, and I have to have at least some confidants with who I don’t hid the full gamut of good, bad, and ugly.

This is one of the things I find so compelling about a belief in God: God is someone who there’s no reason to lie to. Because if you believe in God, you believe they know you intimately and fully - there’s no incentive to hide the truth, because God already knows. Similarly, this is why I love journaling - the journal is a safe place to tell the full, completely naked truth. There’s no reason to lie in our journal, if it’s private. If we don’t have people we trust enough to be ourselves, can at least be honest with God and the journal.

What does this all mean? I’m still grappling with this as it’s an entirely new idea for me. What I think this means is two things.

First, I have to be fully honest with myself and with at least some others. And two, I can let go the pressure I feel to be like my more successful peers, because those means of evaluation - social media, my work performance review, or my social standing - is an incomplete picture anyway. I can lean on the people who know me fully to help me measure my life and help me evaluate whether I’m the sort of person I seek to be.

We all can.

Breaking Free of the Daily Grind (It’s hard)

Imagine with me.

Imagine that we have achieved individual success, measured by status and extrinsic rewards. We have reached the pinnacle of our careers, prospered, and provided for our families, as well as our immediate circle of acquaintances and charitable organizations. We have established ourselves in our community. Just picture it; we've "crushed" it.

Also, envision these triumphs extending to our community as a whole. Visualize our community thriving, adorned with fine restaurants and a vibrant cultural scene. Imagine that we enjoy a wealth of amenities and a high quality of life in our surroundings.

From an outsider's perspective, we've achieved what the American dream is often portrayed as: individual and communal comfort and affluence. The mere thought of it fills me with a sense of contentment.

—

Recently, I've been pondering this question: What could potentially tarnish the allure of this comfort and affluence? What circumstances, if true, would make me feel as though I hadn't truly lived it the right way? What are the underlying indicators that need to hold true for me to believe our affluence isn't tainted in some manner?

To me, these questions serve as a means to comprehend: "What do I care about that’s bigger than me? Than us?"

Here are my five responses. Success and affluence will only truly feel worthwhile if...

1. Murders are rare. Murders epitomize the degree of connection and harmony within our society. If murder persists, it implies the existence of conflict, suffering, pain, and anger. For me, genuine success hinges on the rarity of murders.

2. Suicides are rare. Suicides reflect how connected and in harmony we are with ourselves. When suicides occur, it signifies loneliness, despair, hopelessness, and profound sadness. Authentic success, to me, necessitates the rarity of suicides.

3. Everyone is literate. The ability to read and write holds transformative power. Literacy is indispensable for personal growth, connecting with others, securing a decent livelihood, and realizing one's personal aspirations. High illiteracy rates indicate that there are individuals who may never develop sufficiently to thrive. True success, in my view, requires universal literacy.

4. We can play outside. The great outdoors, in all its forms, holds a special place in my heart. Whether it's a soccer field, a serene lake, a city's greenway, or a majestic national park, I find joy in simply being there and breathing in the fresh air. I firmly believe that both children and adults need the joy of outdoor play in their lives. True success, for me, means the ability to play outside.

5. I've done right by others. Have I genuinely achieved success if I've done it at the expense of others? If I've been a toxic colleague or an absent father, a neglectful husband or a selfish neighbor? If I've taken advantage of people I had influence over or been dishonest merely to get ahead? Real success, in my eyes, necessitates doing right by others.

—

There are moments when I find myself excessively preoccupied with my own comfort and affluence. If you're still reading, you might have experienced this too. I sometimes dwell too much on things like career advancements, our next home improvement project, or ways to simplify our daily routine. Reflecting on such matters isn't inherently wrong; comfort and affluence, in my book, aren't immoral. But at times, it becomes excessive, and I become too self-absorbed.

In these moments, I inevitably arrive at this fundamental question: "Why am I here?"

These five aspects – murder, suicide, literacy, outdoor recreation, and ethical treatment of others – happen to be the indicators that connect to what I value beyond my individual life. What you hold dear, something bigger than yourself, is likely to differ, and it should.

I find it crucial, yet challenging, to shift my perspective away from being consumed by thoughts of my own life, particularly given how much energy we expend just to navigate each week. Lately, the prompt, "All this success and affluence will feel worth it if...," has helped me refocus on something larger than myself. If you, too, aim to anchor yourself to a purpose greater than personal gain, I hope this thought exercise proves beneficial to you.

Photo by Zachary Keimig on Unsplash

When shit isn’t working: Mountains vs. Plateaus

Sometimes, shit just isn’t working. We’ve all had slumps where we feel like this.

It could be on a project at work, as a parent, in marriage, when solving a social problem, or when working on a creative project.

The first lesson that most of us learn is what they say about insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is insanity. So most of us learn not to be insane.

When shit just isn’t working, step one is to do something different. Most of us generally know this, even if we don’t act upon it right away.

But there’s a subtlety that matters, when shit just isn’t working. What we have to assess is whether we’re fundamentally on a mountain or a plateau, because how you conquer a mountain and a plateau is fundamentally different.

Mountains vs. Plateaus

The problem with mountains is that they are big and steep. But what’s great about mountains is that there’s no way to go but up. Mountain problems are an incremental challenge.

So to get over a mountain, what you do differently is just lean in harder. You spend more time, spend more money, or throw people at the problem. Basically, if shit isn’t working and you’re on a mountain - we just have to put one foot in front of the other, and just climb harder and climb higher. Eventually, you know you’re going to get to the top, you just have to add effort and survive the climb.

Cleaning a dirty house before a party is a mountain problem - you just hunker down, and ask a friend to help you if it needs to happen faster.

The problem with plateaus is that they are flat. Which means running harder doesn’t get you anywhere - you’re stuck on the plateau at the same flat elevation with nowhere else to go, no matter how fast or hard you run.

The even bigger problem with plateaus is that the only way off is to jump off of it.

If the situation you’re in is being stuck on a plateau, you have to rock the boat and do something radical. Plateau problems require a phase shift to get unstuck.

Reducing my mile splits and body fat % in advance of a half marathon has been a plateau problem.

After a few weeks of training, running longer distances once a week wasn’t getting me in better shape. I wasn’t getting strong enough to be durable for long distances nor were my splits getting any faster.

Instead, I had to jump off a cliff and try an entirely new training method: interval speed runs.

Interval speed runs are where you run at a faster pace for a short burst, and then have a short rest. A speed run might end up being the same time and distance as a regular training run, but running short intervals fast, is fundamentally different on the body than a distance run at a moderate pace.

Once I jumped, and tried something entirely new (interval speed runs) - my half marathon training started popping. My legs got noticeably more durable, and my muscle mass started rising while my mile splits started falling. It was nuts how big of a difference it made.

We need to assess where we are

When shit isn’t working, the right answer isn’t always turnkey. Before acting, we have to determine whether we’re on a mountain requiring more of the same, or, if we’re on a plateau that requires a radical phase shift.

As people who take responsibility for making things better, it’s critical to pause. If we don’t get a lay of the land, we might not ever get things working again.

So, the next time you find yourself stuck, take a step back and ask: Is this a mountain to climb or a plateau to leap from? Your answer might just be the breakthrough you need.

Photo Credit: Morgan Alicia on Unsplash

Braving new worlds: the astronaut in all of us

There are four versions of the world. They exist for everyone and we all move between them.

The first world is my world. The world inside my head, my inner world of thoughts and fears. What I’ve learned about this world is that I can make it a peaceful and verdant place. It doesn’t have to be a MadMax sort of rugged and dystopian Outback. I can make my inner world a pleasant and nurturing place instead of a scary place if I turn my inner critic into a coach.

The second world is the world of others. I have to inhabit someone else’s world to love and understand them. And I have to inhabit their world for someone to feel loved and feel understood. What makes this hard is that everyone else’s world is different, which makes getting there hard. It’s truly like being on a different planet. I feel this acutely with my children, in their worlds of cooking tomato pancakes or caning on pirate ships in our family room.

What I’ve learned about this world is that I will never ever spend too much time here. I will always spend less time than I need to in the worlds of others. If something feels tense, heated, or frustrating, there’s one obvious strategy every single time: walk around with them, in their world. Just be there for a little while before trying anything else. Doing this is never a waste of time.

The third world is the real world. The three dimensions in front of our face where our entire lives happen. Every hug and kiss, every swing of a tennis racket, every birthday cake, every wedding vow. Every misunderstanding and every karaoke night happens here. Every family dinner and scientific discovery - it all happens here. Whether or not we’re mentally there, our life, shared with everyone else, happens in the real world.

I’ve learned two things about this real world. One, things like meditation, prayer, and yoga - that help us to focus in the moment - are so important that it is difficult to overrate them. Anything we can do so help us stay in the moment is priceless.

Two, I’ve learned that it’s important to be honest instead of delusional. We can choose to accept the world as it is, or we can lie to about what’s real. We can see what we want to see, but then our reality is distorted. Distortion, I’ve found, is like drinking: the longer you let it ride, the worse the hangover.

We all travel from world to strange, new, world, and it honestly feels as significant as the spacefarers in movies like Star Trek or Star Wars. We are all astronauts in this way. It’s hard and scary.

And as I’ve penned this post, it just makes me remember how important it is to have grace. Grace for others as they trip up and fumble their way from their world into ours, and grace for ourselves as we try, feebly, to do the same. There’s nothing trivial about this travel from world to world. To be an astronaut in this life is significant and heroic.

But alas, there is still the fourth and final world. It is the world of our dreams - the sacred place. The world of dreams is the hardest to reach, requiring hope, vision, and optimism to find. The portal to the world of dreams is like the 9-and-three-quarters platform - only the indoctrinated can see it and it feels like something from a magical world. Because to dream is to imagine and to imagine is to contemplate something that has never been. To dream about the world that ought to be is to be an explorer in everyday life: dreaming is the act of charting something in our mind’s eye, that no other astronaut has ever seen.

I learned my most important lesson about dreaming from Chief Craig and the leaders I worked for at the Detroit Police Department: we have to talk about our dreams.

For the dream to come true, what I see in my minds eye, you have to see in yours. Without doing this we cannot work toward the same dream.

To be sure, this is uncommonly hard. In our stressed out world, finding the wherewithal to dream on our own is hard. Guiding someone else to meet you there, in that holy plane, is even harder.

So if the universe or our creator blessed us enough to get to the plane of dreams, why would we do anything but dream the biggest, simplest dream we could? To dream big and simple is the most rational choice one can make.

All this inspires me. That we all traverse and inhabit these different worlds inspires. That we all have something in us that allows us to think beyond our own world inspires me. That we are all astronauts, inspires me.

We just have to find the astronaut within, and explore the have the courage to explore these new worlds.

“Dawg, I can’t afford this anymore.”

These problems matter a lot to me:

• How do I be a good guy in a stressful world?

• How do I do my part to build a marriage of mutual respect, even though I have selfish tendencies?

• How do I show unconditional love and patience as a father, even though my kids need a LOT from me?

• How do I bend society to be a more trusting place - even though I’m just one person?

• How do I make the organizations and communities I’m a part of places where there’s a virtuous cycle of growth and development - even though I’m just one person?

• How do I bend society to have fewer people die by homicide or suicide - even though I’m just one person?

This problem has caused me the most agony in my adult life:

• How do I get powerful, influential people to tell me I’m awesome?

Honestly, I was ashamed of being vain and narcissistic enough to need others to tell me I’m awesome. For a long time, I deluded myself into believing that my ambition was wholly for the benefit of my family’s standard of living or the advancement of society.

Honestly, it wasn’t.

I know I shouldn’t be too hard on myself for being vain and narcissistic - I am human. But damn, over the course of my life, this problem has been so expensive. I was probably spending 20-30% of my emotion budget worrying about whether powerful people thought I was awesome.

That’s so expensive. That’s so much of my energy and emotion budget stolen away from more important problems. I just can’t afford that.

I’ve been struggling with this for at least a decade. Then, over the course of a few hours, I listened to a book during a long car ride that presented the question properly. Then, a decade’s worth of change happened in an afternoon.

The book I listened to was The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, and if you burn energy on unaffordable problems, I’d highly recommend it.

We can choose which problems in our life we give a lot of effort to. Once we have an honest catalog of what we’re spending our emotion budget on, it becomes much easier to say, “dawg, I can’t afford this anymore.”

Deregulating Parenting

Our parish’s pastor, Father Snow, is about my height. Which means that he’s far shorter than an NBA prospect, though some students at his former parish - Creighton University - were indeed NBA prospects.

Today at mass, our Father Snow gave a homily on Matthew 11: 21-25 which was today’s Gospel reading. To start, he shared an anecdote from his experience at Creighton.

An angry parishioner was lecturing Father Snow about an annulment that she thought the Church shouldn't have given. She was fuming over this application of rules. So much so that one of his giant basketball-playing parishioners stepped in. Putting his elbow on Father Snow’s shoulder, he facetiously asked, “Want me to take her down, Father?”

Father Snow could tell the story better than me, but his point was that too much focus on rules and compliance can be overwhelming. When we fixate on rules they place a heavy burden upon us, chaining us to a slew of anger and stress.

Today’s Gospel reminds us, he said, that Jesus really only had two rules, the first and second greatest commandments: Love God and Love thy neighbor. That’s it. Just two.

In contrast to the 600+ laws imposed upon the Jewish people by the Pharisees, following just two laws is a significantly lighter burden. While this lesson and Gospel reading hold theological and spiritual implications, my immediate takeaway was secular: I impose too many laws on my children.

I have so many rules that underly my parenting. I say “no” all the time, for every little thing it seems, some days at least. If I put myself into the shoes of our sons, I would feel heavy, suffocated even by the grind of the complex, nagging structure of laws I’m imposing.

Surely, a house needs rules about things like not eating ice cream three times a day or not running around naked. But if I’m saying no a hundred times a day, which I think I do sometimes, probably means I’ve gone over the top.

My secular reflection exercise from this biblical lesson - to lighten the burden of rules and laws - was to see if I could simplify my regime of parental law. I wondered, could I get my parenting principles down to two or even just three?

These three are what I came up with. These three principles - be honest, be kind, and learn from your mistakes - can govern every standard I set as a parent.

I’m not trying to advocate for these three rules to become yours if you’re a parent or caregiver, though they fit terrifically for me as a parent. If you like them, steal them.

The more important point I’d advocate is for you to try the exercise. If you’re a parent, caregiver, or even a manager to a team at work, what are the 2-3 principles that you expect others to follow that will govern every standard you set?

It’s not as important what the principles are, as long as they're thoughtful and intentional. What matters the most is that we simplify the burden of our household law to a few principles rather than hundreds.

Even just today, reducing my laws to these three principles has been liberating for me. Instead of trying to regulate every of our sons’ behaviors, I could focus on honesty, kindness, and learning from mistakes.

For example, instead of saying, “stop calling your brother stupid dummy,” I could let this question hang in the air: “It’s important to be kind. Is that language kind?” Instead of having mistakes feel like failure, I could reinforce something they learned. Today it was about how to be kind when sharing food. Tomorrow it can be something else.

I understand that changing my parenting approach will be challenging. After relying on processes and rules for 5 years to establish standards, transforming my behavior will not happen overnight. While every parent is different, I’m confident I’m not the only one who struggles with this.

We can focus on essential principles and free ourselves and our children from a long list of rules by de-regulating parenting. I know I should.

If you try to get your parenting down to a few principles, I’d love to compare notes with you. Please leave a comment or contact me if you give it a go.

—

For those interested, here’s some context for the three principles I’ve been playing with. Again, the point is not to copy the principles exactly, the point is to think about what our, unique, individual ones will be. I wanted to share for two reasons: putting my thoughts into writing helps me, and, I always find it helpful to see an example so I assume others may also find it helpful.

Boys, I have been meditating on it and I don’t want to be a parent that’s obsessed with rules and policing your behavior. One, it won’t work. Two, policing your behavior will not allow you to learn to think for yourself. Three, the level of stress, anger, arguing, and effort required - for me and for you all - having a highly regulated house will be a heavy burden.

I think I’ve come up with three principles that encapsulate the standard of what I expect from myself as a member of this family and community. These are the guiding principles I will use to raise and mentor you. I hope that by centering on three principles that get to the core, we can avoid having dozens upon dozens of rules in our house. Here is what they are.

Be honest.

Honesty is the greatest gift you can give yourself. Because if you are honest, you can have trust and confidence in your own beliefs. And that confidence that your own beliefs and observations about reality are true prevents your soul from questioning itself on what is real. There are no small lies - the uncertainty and pain that lies cause is predictable and omnipresent. One principle between me and you all is to be honest.

Be kind.

Kindness is the greatest gift, perhaps, that you can give to the world. Because if you are kind, you can have trusting relationships with other people. If you are kind, your actions are a ripple effect, making it safer for other people to be kind - and a kind world is a much more pleasant one to live in. Finally, by being kind to others, you can also learn to be kind to yourself. One principle between me and you all is to be kind.

Learn from your mistakes.

Mistakes are part of the plan. They aren’t bad. Quite the opposite - if you’re not making mistakes doing things that are hard enough to learn from or that make an impactful contribution to the world. Mistakes are a feature, not a bug. If we have this posture, it’s essential to learn from your mistakes. Because if you make mistakes and never learn from them, you’ll hurt yourself and others. If you don’t learn from smaller mistakes, you’ll eventually make catastrophic, irreversible mistakes. One principle between me and you all is to learn from your mistakes.

These three principles: be honest, be kind, and learn from your mistakes are our compact. I promise to put in tremendous effort and emotional labor to live by these words that I expect of you. I will hold you to these principles as a standard, but I also promise to help you grow, learn, and develop into them over the course of your life.

Our word is our bond, and these words, my words, are a bond between us.

The dance between expression and empathy

The game escalated real quick.

I was in the backyard gardening and weeding. Suddenly, Myles was zooming around as Gecko and deputized me as Catboy, which are both characters in PJ Masks, one of his favorite television shows.

Within minutes, we were both zooming around, in character, from end to end across the backyard. Myles quickly made the Fisher Price table the Gecko-mobile and Robyn's minivan our headquarters. For nearly 20 minutes, Myles, with a full-toothed smile, would proclaim, “to the Gecko-mobile!”, giggling every time.

About 10 minutes into the game, I realized Myles wasn’t pretending. The table was actually the Gecko-mobile and Robyn’s whip was actually our Headquarters. The world inside his head had become real. Myles had fully expressed his inner world and made it his and my outer world.

—

When disappointed, Myles lets out a sound that we call "the shriek," which resembles the yelp of a pterodactyl.

Recently, this happened when we were scrambling to get to Tortola for a family vacation that was two years in the making. The airline canceled our 6:00 AM flight at 6:00 PM the night before. So we rushed, mobilizing within 90 minutes, to rent a car so we could go to Cleveland to make a flight the next morning. But after waiting in line at Avis for an hour, we discovered that the airline only rebooked half our party. At 11pm, after hours of scrambling, we told the kids we may not be going to the beach.

The news took a minute to sink in. And then, as we started to all head back to the airport parking lot, we heard it - the shriek reverberated and echoed off the surrounding concrete. Honestly, all eleven of us wanted to shriek a little.

The shriek moment was the inverse of our afternoon playing PJ Masks in the backyard. This time, Myles internalized the realities of the outer world and his inner world transformed because of it.

—

We all face this predicament. Our inner and outer worlds are constantly in tension.. Sometimes, we want to take our inner world and impose it on our outer world - this is what we call expression.

Other times, we take the realities of the outer world and allow them to shape our inner world - this is what we call empathy.

Our day-to-day lives are a constant negotiation to bring our inner and outer worlds into balance. It’s a dance between the two worlds we all occupy.

Failing to dance and balance our inner and outer worlds has dire consequences.

If we express too much of our inner world onto the outer world, it oppresses those around us. If we don’t express enough of our inner world, we end up subduing and subjugating our own souls.

Excessive empathy and external influences can overwhelm and crush us. But if we empathize too little, we must sacrifice intimacy and human connection.

We have a choice. We can either snap from the tension between our inner and outer worlds, or we can learn to dance the dance which brings our worlds into balance.

I suppose there’s a third choice, but I think it’s the worst option of the three: suppress and numb. When the tension between our two worlds gets too strong, we can just rub some dirt on it. We can distract ourselves with substances or thrilling pleasures. We can pretend our troubles don’t exist.

Maybe suppressing and numbing is okay for a time. I do believe that nothing in the world can take the place of persistence and that sometimes we need to keep calm and carry on. But I have never met a sane person who can live like that indefinitely. Eventually we all snap - it’s just a matter of when.

In retrospect, this is exactly what happened in my early twenties: I suppressed, then numbed, and then eventually I snapped. Only after that snap did I learn to dance.

This is one of our greatest responsibilities we have as parents. Our children need us to help them learn to dance. Otherwise, the only way they will deal with the tension between their inner and outer worlds will be to suppress and numb, or snap. Luckily, as millennial parents, we have the data and research to know and do better.

I aspire to do better for my three sons, so they can navigate the balance between self-expression and empathy, without having to suppress, numb, and eventually snap. Instead, I must help them learn to dance.

The parenting cheat code(s)

In retrospect, it seems so obvious that sleep and paying attention are crucial. If parenting were a video game, these would be the two cheat codes.

First, there’s plenty of data out there now that affirms how important sleep is. But as parents, we already know this, intimately, from lived experience. It’s obvious. When I don’t sleep enough, I am cranky and short-tempered. When the kids don’t sleep enough they are cranky and short-tempered. When we sleep, it’s a night and day difference—our household functions so much better when we sleep.

And then there’s paying attention. Again, there’s lots of data that emphasizes the importance of intimate relationships and being deeply connected to others. As parents, we also know this so well from lived experience. How many times a day have you heard, “Watch this, Papa”, “Papa, look at me in my pirate ship”, or worst of all, “Can you stop looking at your phone, Papa?”

When kids aren’t paid attention to, they literally scream for it. They fight to be loved and paid attention to, as they should—cheat code.

And as I’ve reflected on it over the years, these seem to be cheat codes for much more than parenting. It’s as if sleep and paying attention in the moment are cheat codes for a healthy, happy, and meaningful life.

In marriage, we are better partners and more in love when we sleep and pay attention. At work - sleep and paying attention boost performance and build high-performing teams. In friendships, the cheat codes still apply. In spiritual life, it’s the same thing. Sleep and paying attention are cheat codes.

And still, I almost blew it. I messed up for the first few years of Bo’s life. I didn’t get enough sleep. And I was too obsessed with work to pay attention him, fully, when I was home. I often missed stories and tuck-ins. My mind was itching to scratch off items on my to-do list and obsessing over the man I wanted to become in the eyes of others.

And the worst part, the one that makes me want to just…retreat, and trade a limb if I could, is that I remember so little of him as a newborn. I don’t remember how he laughed and giggled at 9 months old, barely at all. I don’t remember more than a handful of games we played together, maybe just peek-a-boo and “foot phone”. Damn, I am so sad, and weeping, as I pen this. I was there, but I still missed out.

I want so badly, for the man I am now to be baby Bo’s papa. Because at some point in the past two years, with a lot of help, I figured this out. I figured out the cheat codes—but, my tears cannot take me back. I have no time machine, no flux capacitor. What’s done is done. Damn.

The only consolation I have is that it didn’t take me longer. If I had lived my whole life not sleeping or paying attention—to Robyn, to our sons, to friends and family, or even just walking in the neighborhood and appreciating the trees—I’d probably pass from this world a miserable man with irreconcilable regret and guilt.

Right now, Bo, Myles, and Emmett, you are 5, 3, and 1 years old respectively. Maybe one day you’ll come across this post. Maybe I’ll be alive when you do—I hope so. Or maybe I’ll have gone ahead already, I don’t know.

But if you’re reading this one day, I am so deeply sorry that I messed up, and it took me years to figure this out—to start using these cheat codes I guess you could say. I apologize about this, especially to you Robert. I wasn’t fully there for you in your first 2-3 years.

I hope you all can forgive me. I am not perfect, but I’ve gotten better, and I’m still trying. I hope that by sharing this with you, you can avoid the same mistakes I made.

Photo by Lucas Ortiz on Unsplash

Reverse-Engineering Life's Meaning

It's difficult to directly answer questions like "why am I here," "what is the meaning of my life," or "what's my purpose." It may even be impossible.

However, I believe we can attempt to reverse-engineer our sense of meaning or perhaps trick ourselves into revealing what we find meaningful. Here's how I've been approaching it lately.

Meaning, it seems, is an exercise in making sense of the world around us and, by extension, our place in it.

Instead of tackling the big question head-on (i.e., what's the meaning of my life), we can examine what we find salient and relevant about the world around us and work backward to determine what the "meaning" might be.

Here's what I mean. The italicized text below represents my inner monologue when contemplating the question, "What is the world out there outside of my mind and body? What is the world out there?"

The world out there is full of people, first and foremost. It teems with friends I haven't made yet, individuals with stories and unique contributions. Everyone has a talent and something special about them, I just know it. The world out there is full of untapped potential.

The world out there also contains uncharted territory. There is natural beauty everywhere on this planet. It is so varied and colorful, with countless plants, animals, rocks, mountains, rivers, and landscapes. The world out there is wild. Beyond that, we don't even know the mysteries of our own oceans and planet, let alone our solar system or the rest of the universe. The world out there is a vast galaxy filled with natural beauty and wonder.

But the world out there has its share of senseless human suffering, often due to our own mistakes and the systems we strive to perfect. There is rampant gun violence, hunger, homelessness, anger, and disease—all preventable. The world out there is a mess, but the silver lining is that not all of that senseless suffering is outside our control. We can make it better if we do better.

The world out there also has an abundance of goodness. Many people strive to be part of something greater than themselves. They help their neighbors, practice kindness, teach children to play the piano, visit the homebound, tell the truth, do the right thing, seek to understand other cultures, learn new languages, and strive to be respectful and inclusive. The world out there is full of parks, festivals, parties, and places where people play, eat, and share together. The world out there is generous.

The world out there is also close. My world is people like Robyn, Riley, Robert, Myles, and Emmett, as well as our parents, siblings, family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, and kind strangers. The world out there is our neighborhood, our backyard, our church, our school, and our local pub. It's the people on our Christmas card list and those we encounter around town for friendly conversations. The world out there includes the individuals I pray for during one or two rounds of a rosary. It doesn't have to be big and grand; it's the people I can hug, kiss, cook a meal for, or call just to say "hey."

So, the exercise is simple:

1. Find a place to write (pen, paper, computer, etc.).

2. Set a 15-minute timer.

3. Start with the phrase "The world out there is..." and keep writing. If you get stuck, begin a new paragraph with "The world out there is..." and continue.

After completing this exercise and taking stock of my own answers, I begin to see patterns in my responses that resonate with my day-to-day life. Meaning, for me, involves helping unleash the untapped potential in others, exploring the natural world, dreaming about the universe, fostering goodness and virtue, and being a person of good character. Meaning, for me, also entails honoring and cherishing my closest relationships, both the ones that are close in proximity and deep in their intimacy.

It seems that meaning is not generated in what we think of as our "brain." Our brain manages our body's energy budget, makes decisions, predicts the future, and solves problems. That’s our brain’s work.

Meaning, I believe, is created in our mind. When I think of the mind, I envision it as the function we perform when we absorb the seemingly infinite information about the external world through all five senses and attempt to make sense of it.

Meaning, it appears, is not an abstract thing we have to create. We don't "make" meaning. Instead, we discern meaning from what we find relevant and salient in the world around us. Out of the countless details about the external world, we hone in on certain aspects. The meaning is what bubbles to the top of our minds. We don't have to make meaning; we can just notice it.

This exercise has shown me that we can reverse-engineer our way into discovering meaning. If we can bring to the surface what we believe about the external world, it becomes clear what holds significance for us.

For example, if you find that "the world is full of cities and people, which leads to innovations in business, art, and culture," it's an easy leap to conclude that part of your meaning or purpose likely involves experiencing or improving cities and their cultural engines. If you discover that "the world is full of teachings about God and has a history of religious worship," it's a straightforward leap to deduce that part of your meaning or purpose likely relates to your faith and religious practice.

Being mindful of what we notice about the world is our back door into these abstract and challenging questions about "meaning" or "purpose."

What's difficult about this, I think, is the sheer volume of noise out there. Also, if we accept this perspective on meaning, we must acknowledge that meaning is not static and enduring—if it's discerned by our worldview, then changes in our perspective may also change or even manipulate our notions of meaning.

Many people try to tell us about the world outside of us. This includes companies through their commercials, authors, politicians, artists, philosophers, scientists, and priests—anyone who shares an opinion. Even I do this—if you're reading this, I am also guilty of adding to the noise that shapes your perspective of the external world.

Making sense of our lives is crucial for feeling sane and alive. It would be easy to average out what others around us say about the world out there, but if meaning truly is a discernment of what we notice about the external world, just listening to everyone else would effectively outsource the meaning in our lives to other people.

I don't think we should do that. After all, we live in a country where we have the freedom to speak, think, and make sense of the world for ourselves—what a terrible freedom to waste. Instead, we should be selective about who we pay attention to and listen to our own minds, noticing what they're trying to tell us. We shouldn't outsource meaning; we should notice it for ourselves.

Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash

The Waiting Place

It’s not the lung stuff that has knocked me out ill as an adult, it’s the stomach bugs. And this one was a gut punch like I haven’t had in half a decade.

I had lost water in both directions, still unable to eat or drink more than a little without twitching and convulsing sleeplessly with abdominal pain. Even with full blankets, socks, pajamas, and hours of adorning a second comforter I just couldn’t get warm.

“This one’s a nasty one,” I thought.

The kids were going about their “home day” downstairs, and Robyn was bridging both worlds to check on my condition. I was upstairs, just laying there. I was drifting in and out of semi-conscious daydreams and actual dreams. And damn, I was probably thinking too much about work, too.

But more than anything, I was alone. It was just me, with the bedroom door closed, laying witness to the bug battle being waged in my upper abdomen.

This is the first time I’ve been home sick with the kids around, that I can remember, at least. The other times, must’ve been while they were at daycare, I guess.

It wasn’t different than a typical day, their comings and goings seeming like what I would expect. There were bumps and kicks. The clinking of dishes in the sink, accumulating because I wasn’t doing them. The half-hearted tears of sibling friction. Riley, of course, barked as the mail carrier made their daily rounds. A neighbor in his seventies or eighties stopped by with children’s books, in hopes that they’d find new life with our sons. I heard celebrations, I think, after a victor emerged after a game of Uno.

In our home, these sounds are businesses as usual. Except, today, I wasn’t downstairs in the thick of it. I was at a distance, hearing muddled and softened versions of it all. It was as if all the scenes were familiar, photographically familiar, but somehow fuzzy and uncharacteristically muddled.

And as I lay there, I wanted to rise. I wanted to get up, shuffle downstairs and just be there with them, even if I was relegated to the couch. I wanted to hold them, to kiss them on the crown of their heads. My fingers longed to be interlaced with Robyn’s.

All of a sudden I missed them all, desperately and with panic, like I was in the desert and being present for their afternoon snack was the oasis I needed to even just survive. I was only a floor above them, but all of a sudden, without any warning I felt like I was a whole world away.

And I wondered, in my half lucid mind, what if this is what it was like. What if this is what it was like when we moved from this world into the next world away?

Could it be that the next stage our soul goes to after we die is the equivalent of “being a floor away”? To a place where we can catch glimpses of the life happening without us? Where we hear the yelps of victory and the melody dishes clanking? Where we hear, but never see, muffled and fuzzy glimpses of home?

If the first stage of the afterlife is being the equivalent of a floor, but really a world, away, it would be a place of love and gratefulness, but also of the deepest sadness. If that were the afterlife, I thought, I would wait there. I’d wait, on the floor, back and ear to the door all day, hoping to hear just a little bit more, for a little bit longer.

I would hope to hear laughter and pray that someone could wipe the tears I could not wipe myself. I would eat when they ate. I would sleep when they’d slept. I would wait up for them, meditating and thinking, while they were out of the house, scratching a couple verses if there was a notebook at hand.

If waiting is all I could do, I thought, I would wait.

But if this place, this room of waiting, were the first stage of the afterlife, I thought further, how long would I wait?

Because surely, if whatever God there was created this waiting place, this good but anxious waiting place, he would create something more and better for us too. Surely, no God benevolent enough to create this purgatory of waiting would be so cruel to make it without a heaven that follows.

That’s where that heaven would be, right on the other side of the waiting room door. If this waiting place were purgatory, unity with God would be right on the other side of the door…

But no, if this were purgatory and I had made it here, surely Robyn would follow. I would wait here, I would wait here for her. Like Yudhisthira refused Indra, I would not cross the threshold without her.

One day, I would wake up, and she would be here in this waiting room with me. We’d take a few days or weeks, to see to it that our sons were on their way to being settled. And then we’d open the door, and we’d cross the threshold together.

As I thought about this possibility of a waiting place, frenetically, and with feverish mind, I started to weep - losing a few drops more of saline that I could scarcely afford to lose. I missed my family, even after just a few hours, and I wept.

I thought of them, a world away downstairs, and tried to feel the halo of their love in the air. And then I went to sleep.

When I woke, my toes, surprisingly, were warm again. From my core to my knees, I was warm again. The pain in my stomach had subsided. I tested out a few crackers and a few larger gulps of the electrolyte mix Robyn had brought me hours earlier. Sure enough, I was able to stomach both.

And then, I remembered that this was just a minor stomach bug, from which I would recover. This room, our bedroom, was not a purgatory of waiting. I was not in a waiting place.

I was here, right now. I was alive, right now. My wife, and my children, and our pup - my family - they were here right now.

I long to be with them, for the business as usual days the most, maybe. I want to be with them for the daily grind, with all its struggles, joys, illnesses, and small mercies. Being with them is a form of heaven for me, and it’s right here, right now. A heaven, I thought, is just on the other side of that door.

Photo by runnyrem on Unsplash

Artists Must Wander

There are, roughly speaking, three types of bands. Any of the three is a legitimate way to make a living as a musician, but they’re different and require different skills and mindsets.

To be successful at any, we must choose and know what we’re signing up for. The biggest mistake we can make and the surest way to be average is to not choose.

The job of a tribute band is to be as close to the original as possible. At a tribute band’s show, the audience very explicitly doesn’t want anything new. The whole craft of being a tribute band is mimicking, with intense fidelity, what has come before. To be good at this, we have to listen, with unrelenting meticulousness, the artist we are paying tribute to. The key question for a tribute band is, “does it sound like the original?”

The job of a cover band is to play hit after hit, across artists and genres. Cover bands take the songs people like and play the hell out of ‘em. To do this requires great musicianship and an ability to find the balance between preserving the original and putting just enough of a twist on it to make it feel new and exciting. Cover bands have to be good at listening not to the original artists, but to the audience in front of them. Their key question for a cover band is, “does it sound like something the audience wants to hear?”

And then there are those bands who want to be artists. The job of this last group is to be new, to be original, and to bring a new point of view - catching lighting in a bottle, if you will. To be an artist, an original artist, is an entirely different proposition than being a tribute band or a cover band.

To be an original artists requires wandering around lost, often for significant periods of time. An original artist has to find the songs that only they can write and only they can sing. Original artists cannot listen, too much, to what’s come before them. Instead, an original artist needs to listen to their own voice and to the rhythms and melodies out in the world that nobody else is hearing yet. The key question for an original artist is, “What does my voice sound like?”

I think we underestimate, still, how much our culture indoctrinates us to avoid wandering. We have curriculum and an education system. We have college majors with specific requirements. We have board exams and certification tests. We have career plans and linear project plans. In the corporate world, we have competitive benchmarking and the application of “best practices.” We’re told, ‘Don’t recreate the wheel.”

All these things, in aggregate, seem to just scream sometimes, ‘Wandering is bad! Bad boys wander! Those who wander are lost!”

To be original artists, we have to unlearn this indoctrination and replace it with a new belief, “Not all those who wander are lost. On the contrary, if being an original artist is what we choose to be - wandering, to where it is quiet enough to hear our own voice for the first time, is the surest way forward.”

Photo Credit: Unsplash @yvettedewit

Creating Unexpected Joy

As 2022 began, I set out on an experiment to create an intentional reflection practice to build courage.

The most important thing I learned was a simple, data-backed conclusion: I only predict what the hardest moment of my day will be about 5% of the time. This is astounding to me. I am far worse at predicting how my own day will turn out than meteorologists are at predicting the weather.

Part of that is because by envisioning the day ahead I am prepared to deal with one situation and find it less hard than it would otherwise have been. But still, almost every day I logged an entry this year, something unpredictable happened.

Any last hope I was clinging to about how much certainty I had in my own life has vanished in a flurry of nervous laughter. But as I struggled this week to understand what this jarring finding meant, I realized that the inverse is also true: just as I cannot predict the hardest part of my day, I cannot predict what good things will happen in the day ahead, either. Just as I am faced with unexpected suffering, I also stumble into unexpected joy.

The real important question then boils down to this: how do I minimize unexpected suffering and increase unexpected joy?

Again, I looked back at the data from my notebook. What were some of the patterns behind what I thought I should do differently during the hardest moments of my days?

Some of the basics were so simple they were almost boring. During the year, the ways I identified to better handle the hardest parts of the day boiled down to these: get enough rest, eat nutritious feed, create time to plan and think, create boundaries (especially with work), resolve conflict with other people calmly and immediately, and perhaps most importantly - assuming positive intent by meeting the person in front of me where they are and remember that we’re both the same human beings.

Doing these basics works to minimize suffering because they lead to better decisions - both in resolving the suffering at hand and in creating fewer problems for our future selves.

Eating well, for example, makes me less groggy in dealing with a difficult child right now and makes me less likely to hear bad news from a cholesterol test I need to take 6 months from now. Creating time to think makes me get my most important chores done faster today and it helps us plan out routine maintenance on our house so we don’t end up with a furnace that fails “suddenly.”

Similarly, these basic practices help to create joy because they create the conditions for intense connection with others - whether other people, ideas, nature, or spiritual truths.

Creating boundaries, for example, helps me prevent conflict with colleagues on a new project and builds momentum for a meaningful working relationship. Resolving conflict with Robyn calmly and immediately builds trust between us and can become a catalyst to deepen our relationship rather than undermine it. And perhaps most powerfully, I’ve found this year that assuming positive intent creates a halo of safe space, and leads to the sort of deep talk and open-hearted compassion that builds deep bonds.

This was even the case with strangers - like the Michigan alum behind us in line at the Phoenix Airport rental car desk last Monday. After he awkwardly passed comment on Robyn nursing while standing in line, we assumed positive intent instead of malice. Turns out he was friendly and caring, and he ended up telling us a great story about catching a Yankees game at Fenway Park with his brothers after taking a trip to Boston on a whim. It was an unexpected delight on an otherwise terrible travel day with long waits, uncomfortable seats, and several bouts of nausea.

Moments of deep connection can happen at almost any time, with almost any person if the right conditions are present. So how do we do these basics, and create the conditions for unexpected joy to emerge?

All of these basics, it seems, start with a calm and peaceful mind.

It’s just not possible to meet someone where they are without a calm and peaceful mind. It’s just not possible to think and plan without a calm and peaceful mind. It’s just not possible to resolve conflict effectively without a calm and peaceful mind. It’s not even possible to eat or sleep properly - among the most basic human functions - without a calm and peaceful mind.

It seems as if all roads to unexpected joy run through having a calm and peaceful mind. Cultivating a calm and peaceful mind through meditation, deep breathing, gratitude, and prayer, therefore, is the practice I resolve to build this year.

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Items needed: A quiet place, about 15 minutes, Mala (Rosary)

Photo Credit: Unsplash @towfiqu999999

Morning practice: Choose one word or short phrase that represents the day’s intention, this is the day’s mantra. Close eyes and enter a comfortable seated position. Take a deep inhale. Upon exhale think or repeat the mantra. Advance one bead in the rosary and repeat until one cycle of the rosary is complete.

Evening Practice: Complete day’s reflection activities. Close eyes and enter a comfortable seated position. Start with articulating gratitudes, advance one bead in the rosary for each gratitude expressed. Try to repeat for half the rosary.

Finish with prayer or some other expression of care and concern for others. Advance one bead for each prayer / thought for others expressed. Attempt to complete rosary with combined expressions of gratitudes and prayers - if beads remain, do one deep breath for each that remains until rosary complete.

Becoming giving beings

Children are selfish. By design. That’s what they’re supposed to do and their survival depends on it. From the moment they are born, they demand that we feed them, clothe them, protect them, love them, and bathe them.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @adroman

And so did I. Like every other person that has ever lived, I was a selfish child. Far into adolescence, I was selfish, even if it was slightly less so than the day I was born.

As we age, it seems as if life extracts the selfishness, little by little, from our bodies and minds. First through marriage, then through children. For those of us who believe, through faith also. Through the intensities of grief and joy the selfishness is stolen sneakily, by the experience of life itself - if we let it.

If I am lucky enough to live a full life, without sudden death, I don’t know, exactly, what it will be like to die. I know it’s coming someday, but say I am dying at 95 from the ailment of a having a body that has long since depreciated past its useful life - what will it be like? I meditate on what it might be so that I can be prepared.

If I am so lucky to not die a sudden death, I think it may actually be like the movies. That’s what I hope for, anyway.

When I meditate on what I will be thinking and feeling on my deathbed, I imagine being close to Robyn and our children. I think I will want to just sit with them, drinking water and eating rice with lentils. Simple food, that does not distract from the company.

As I visualize myself slowly chewing the tasteless rice, my deathbed meditation progress to its very last moments.

I am there. Robyn is there. Our sons are there, and even in my foggy mental state, and despite the excruciating pain of inhabiting a dying body, I can tell our sons are grown because the hair on their temples has started to grey - that is the mark of a grown man in our line.

And then, at the very end, I gaze at Robyn. I am there, trying to muster some last words before I go ahead. In that last moment I do not ask for more painkillers. I do not cry. I do not beg God for more time. I do not say to her, “tell me you love me.” In those last moments, I am determined not to take.

With the last breaths of oxygen I breathe, and the last beats of my heart, before my thoughts go dark, I will try to say, “I love you.”

I will try to give love, to her, until the literal end of my life. Until God takes me from her embrace. In that moment, when I am as vulnerable as the day I was born, I dream of giving whatever love remains. Just like that. Just like the movies.

In life, and death, there can be so much suffering. That’s part of the deal. But what a beautiful thing to be part of. It is wonderful to know that if we must suffer the fate of death that there’s at least a fighting chance that life will have transformed us from something selfish into something more gracious.

It is utterly remarkable to me that we can go from being newborns, designed to be selfish, into giving beings. What a beautiful and curious thing it is, that after the immense suffering of our lives, at the moment of imminent death, our singular focus, above even our own survival, can become, “I love you.”

Being that, a giving being, is what I hope to become.