March 18th: Death of a Clown

after my Valentine’s performance. By the time I was in seventh grade at Stanley Junior High, I realized my humor would be what stood out most about me. While being involved in sports was still a huge part of my identity, being at a school that was fed by students from several elementary schools made being noticed more of a challenge. Looking back, I was a smart ass who was more ass than smart. Still, I figured out which teachers I could make look forward to retiring and which ones to rein in my humor.

One thing I did not enjoy about the move up to seventh grade was meeting students from other schools and making new friends. It was, and still is, something I dread. I observed my new peers closely. I had no desire to be part of the “in” crowd of students and waited for others to approach me first. I could make class laugh with a joke, but hated small group interactions. The easiest class for me to fit in with right away was Physical Education. Those of us who played in the local LMYA sports leagues soon recognized one another from the teams we competed against.

From there, I made friends who I played flag football with after school. Within a month of being in seventh grade, I was no longer anxious about my new environment, but I was also not so keen about the more rigorous expectations of homework. I lacked confidence in my academic skills so rather than reinforcing what I thought was me being stupid by turning in wrong answers, I simply did not do my homework. Somehow, I figured out how to do just enough to pull C’s in academic classes and A’s in PE and my elective which was enough to keep my dad off my back. However, I also kept running into teachers who loved reminding me what outstanding students my older siblings were.

When Mrs. Yamagucci announced to my Social Studies class that she once taught my oldest brother and that he was the best student she had ever had, she made the mistake of following it up with, “And I am sure you will be just as good.”

I turned around to a friend and told him I was going to be the worst nightmare she’d ever teach. Sure enough, I was. It’s why my favorite teachers were those who either never taught one of my siblings or at least never outwardly compared me to them. They just let me be myself.

If there was one gripe I had about junior high, it was that it only lasted two years before we all got thrown into a new fish bowl where freshmen were goldfish trying not to be eaten by the sharks at Acalanes High School. In the end, junior high was enjoyable. I kept plenty busy with sports, went steady for the first time, got dumped two weeks later, and my parents were not too concerned about me. They had others in the family to suck up their energy and as long as I kept up my C’s, I slipped under their radar.

The first time in high school that I was sent to Mr. Dobbins’ office, I was a freshman. He was a straight shooter who cut kids slack but had a way of providing guys like me with practical warnings. “Mr. Moore, you might think what you do is funny but I promise you if you keep it up, you are going to find out some of the upperclassmen think differently than you. And when they do, they are going to pick you up and place you face down into a trash can and I won’t be there to bail you out. Do we understand each other?”

The only problem with his message was it ran completely counter to the rush of chemicals my brain released every time I received plenty of laughs and comments from my peers over my antics. However, if you remember your high school years, you remember the many forms peer pressure plays out. For me it was not the pressure to drink, smoke, or joy ride. My pressure usually greeted me as I walked the halls to my locker first thing in the morning and classmates wanted to know if I had anything funny planned for them that day. The only time girls ever approached me was because they wanted me to make them laugh, all because they were having a bad day.

A tug-of-war with my brain began unfolding. Too many days began with a dark cloud in my head greeting me as I got out of bed. I did not want to be around others and I did not want to be funny. If I sat quietly in class tuning out everyone while in a depressed state, someone would plead, “Say something funny. Class is so boring.”

If I was not involved in a sport, when school let out I just wanted to disappear. By my sophomore year, my brother Chuck was off to college so I now enjoyed the comfort of my own bedroom. Ah, life alone. The following year, I was the oldest sibling at home and with my sister Betsy kicked out of the house by dad, his aim for his own life’s frustration turned toward me.

I began working after school in the warehouse underneath Bill’s Pharmacy and jumped at any opportunity to work weekends. Still, I was a form of entertainment to my peers during the school day while battling with what would be considered both persistent and situational depression.

This is not to say I was constantly miserable as there were countless escapades I took part in that brought me great joy. Besides talking about girls and sports, my friends and I enjoyed sharing our thoughts about comedians from all genres. We took part in school events that gave us a chance to show off our comedic skills. I even ran for senior class president just for the opportunity to stand before the student body and deliver five minutes of my own material. Performing was a rush as the instant feedback let me know what people thought of what I just did. I began seeing myself as someone who might thrive in the world of comedy, either writing or performing for others.

That all changed on the morning of January 30, 1977. One of my comedic heroes, Freddie Prinze, was the lead story on the front pages everywhere. Freddie committed suicide at the age of 22 despite seeming to have the world’s adoration with a hit TV show, fill in role for Johnny Carson, and guest appearances that showed off his stand-up skills. As I read more about his life, his struggles with depression, the dark connection behind humor and mental illness, and what life as a comedian was really like, I realized maybe my future should follow a different path.

After his death, my antics at school changed from general zaniness to more extreme attempts aimed at larger groups. At the same time, I disappeared with friends between fourth period and through lunch and fifth period to lounge around swimming pools where families were gone on vacations. We concocted a drink made of multiple types of alcohol with fruit juice and mixed in a blender with ice and named it a Freddie Prinze. The running joke was drinking too many of them would make you want to blow out your brains.

I would return to school for my final class of the day before disappearing for the afternoon. My friend Phil, who was often part of the nonsense I was involved with, also was weary of high school life. We were able to share with each other how sick and tired we were of high school life in Lafayette and we both couldn’t wait for it to end. His plan was to get the hell out of the area and move to Las Vegas. Mine was simply to just immerse myself into the world of a community college where virtually no one knew who I was.

The final stunt I pulled off was thanks to a dare from Phil. Nothing summed up our disdain for all things high school than to have to sit through a school-wide assembly while the outgoing cheerleaders announced the new group of girls who won cheer tryouts for the following school year. One-by-one, girls were announced and they instantly sprung up excited, much like you would see when Miss America was announced. They stepped down the bleachers and walked across the basketball court and up the steps to the school stage where they were anointed.

At some point, truly disgusted by our forced imprisonment and being tortured by the same process over and over, Phil casually turned to me and offered me a dollar if I pretended I was the next name announced. What followed was a total mockery of the event and viewed in one of two ways. You either saw it as total hilarity or the destruction of a single person’s moment of joy. High school kids being who they are roared with laughter as I leaped up, screamed with joy, hugged Phil and others around me, stepped down to the basketball court and headed to the stage. Once on the stage, I announced to everyone that Phil owed me a dollar. At the stage steps, waiting for me, stood Mr. Dobbins.

It was only by luck that inside Mr. Dobbins’ office he confided to me how much he hated the assembly and cheerleaders in general. He allowed me to donate my hard earned money to a school fund and made me wait inside with him for ten minutes before I left. He swore me to silence and instructed me to make others think I was severely punished. He didn’t even seem bothered that I ruined a girl’s moment or that he might have to deal with her angry parents. He was as done with me as I was done with being the class clown. A couple of weeks later, I was a high school graduate.

Yesterday, after my TMS session, I received Botox injections aimed at knocking out my chronic headaches. Like TMS, it will be on me to maintain a Botox regimen if I want to avoid the light and sound sensitivity, nausea, and dizziness they bring about. I can see this as more work and more money spent, which might be true, or as a long term investment into my well-being, also true. It’s my choice how I frame this.

Like high school, life is a constant tug-of-war. Moments of great strength can flip instantly and turn into weakness where we struggle with our biggest challenges. Mine have always been between the ears, but thanks to that bicycle accident in 2007, they now are also physical. But through Buddhism, I am learning the power my brain will influence how I react to any challenges I face, old or new. I can keep my feelings and fears bottled up internally like I did in high school, or I can recognize what I am feeling, make peace with it, and then send it on its way while choosing to remain grateful for all I have.

March 19th: The Rise of Sisyphus

When you teach middle school PE, one of the annual tasks you have is getting sixth graders to understand they are no longer in elementary school. In most cases, this meant teaching them they are to report to their roll call number and sit down on it when they leave the locker room. Some master this simple task in about twelve seconds, others take about twelve weeks. Many sixth grade students still think it is acceptable to chase one another like chickens with their heads cut off, completely oblivious to the 90% of the class patiently sitting and waiting for me to come out of the locker room.

I’d holler at the first kid I saw running and sternly tell him to park his bohonkous on his number only to hear him cry, “It’s not my fault. __________ is chasing me.” Whenever I explained how it is impossible for any student to chase someone if he remains seated on his number, the lightbulb would turn on inside his head. He was amazed there was such a simple solution to such a seemingly complex problem.

Americans are experts at coming up with complex solutions to problems. It’s one reason why so many solutions fail and another reason why we have more problems than ever.

I am not sure when it happened, but at some point in my life, I began relating to Sisyphus, the Greek leader sentenced to a hellish eternity by Hades and left to push a huge boulder up the side of a mountain. The more Sisyphus pushed, the worse his hell became. He figured his hell would end if he pushed the boulder to the top of the mountain and could celebrate by watching it roll down the other side and into his past. He never got to find out.

As Sisyphus’ struggle continued, he lost further sight of a simple solution to his problem. Rather than continue trying and failing to push the boulder to the top, all Sisyphus had to do was walk around it and start climbing without it. He may have been sentenced to an eternal hell by Hades, but it was mostly his own doing that kept him there.

The boulder I was pushing came in the form of my brain and the depression that grew more difficult to hide and deal with over time. The harder I pushed against it, the deeper into Hell I fell. I was caught up in a cycle I could not see because I was determined to figure out the most complicated solution to a problem that grew worse with every push. This has always been an issue with me. Walking away, or just sitting on my number, means I am letting go of the stress that comes with refusing to admit defeat. You’re never beaten when you are able to walk away from stress.

Had my father been the greatest parent in the history of mankind, I still would have ended up with depression because some of mine is hardwired into my brain. There is no thinking your way out of the type of depression that comes from a portion of your brain that underperforms a task most others never think about. There just isn’t any unwiring of a brain, so the more I pushed back and held my struggle inside, the more I complicated my depression.

My anxieties grew as well and I developed situational forms of depression. As the decades have passed, I have chased many cures to what keeps growing more complex primarily because I never learned to let things go. I was unable, for whatever reason, to learn to accept myself, my shortcomings, my talents, or my uniqueness. What I do know now is that admitting I have a problem I am not able to solve on my own started me down a path toward seeking treatment.

It also resulted in me asking my favorite question, “Why?” Like my college history professors used to tell me when assigned a research paper, I will know when I am finished when I am no longer able to answer why. But this also means I have to understand, like the nun who pointed out to me when I was in the hospital after my accident, we do not always receive answers to all of our questions. Sometimes in life, we do not get to know why.

Rather than living my life looking for answers to questions I asked decades ago, I am better off using my energy looking for my true self today. Only then, can I embrace that person and all he has to be thankful for, freeing me up to be more appreciative of all I am in the present moment. The chain reaction of doing this results in less anxiety about what might lie ahead. If it is a battle, I will embrace it. If it is more joyful, I will also embrace it. I will remain on my number and be free.

Giac Nguyen said, “People are often less wise in happiness but gain much wisdom through pain. It is pain that jolts us awake, making us more steadfast and stronger in life experiences and self-learning. Wisdom grows through pain.”

It’s easy to become complacent when all is well. It’s a major reason why I have repeated a cycle throughout life between depressed and happiness. With each downward stretch, besides the depression, came all the extra expenditure in energy put into maintaining the appearance all was well.

As I would come out of my depressive episodes, I felt “normal” again which was a lie. Eventually, I realized the lie and simply told myself to enjoy life while it felt good. I felt it was my duty to solve what was my problem. My depression was no different than when I continued to train on stress fractures. Eventually, it would get the best of me and I would have to seek help. Sometime around the year 2000, I was introduced to my first antidepressant. No one but my wife knew about it and I was determined it would be a temporary fix.

It was temporary, but nowhere close to a fix. It turned me into a flat line on the feeling chart. I was not happy, nor was I sad. I was simply indifferent about pretty much everything. Worse, I got no high from my workouts and my sex drive disappeared. I decided to do exactly what I was not supposed to and quit cold turkey, no tapering, after being on the drug for two or three years.

In time, my bouts of depression returned and with each round, they grew worse. I felt darker and darker inside, grew angrier with each episode, and was miserable to be around. In other words, I was becoming my old man. My second antidepressant did absolutely nothing. It was as if I never took it. That led to a third one which turned me into a zombie before finding the one I have been on since 2014.

To be told I have basically run the gamut of antidepressant categories meant either tapering off what I currently take or keep increasing the dose. Since I was taking the maximum level, I had the choice to cycle off it and try another drug, and maybe several others, or consider TMS. I chose TMS in 2020 and repeated the seven weeks in 2021 and 2022. Since that last round in 2022, I have also added Ketamine therapy.

I have done the research on treatment protocols after TMS and all I can say is I am not interested in playing the part Jack Nicholson played in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest (Randle McMurphy). Moving forward, my plan is to continue with monthly Ketamine sessions as long as they resume giving me a boost and then each new year do another seven weeks of TMS.

However, this time around, I must incorporate more methods to self-regulate and find inner peace. Ketamine alone can run me over four grand a year and I am given a discount because I am a frequent flyer. Guided meditation, yoga, sound therapy, acupuncture, and massage are all great treatments and each comes with their own additional costs. I have no desire to see my retirement funds spent on these things so it is imperative I find something I can do on my own to find peace.

I would much prefer to spend money on plants for my front and back yards and working in the garden, but then my spine tells me to knock it off. Feeling sorry for myself doesn’t accomplish anything, neither does getting angry or depressed. So for now, I look for comfort in the wise words of eastern philosophers, and pretty much anyone who offers up a pearl or two of wisdom for me to remind myself how fortunate I am. Otherwise, I become Sisyphus and resume pushing my boulder up a hill of which I will never see the top.

I’ve stopped making plans or maintaining a bucket list. In their place, I make choices based on what each day offers up. This allows me to look at myself in the mirror and know who the person is to thank for the decisions I made. This does not mean I am being selfish, I am just centered on being. I refuse to be pulled in any direction. Instead, I follow what I feel inside and hopefully each day those feelings include kindness, peace, love and compassion.

It all sounds so simple, but it isn’t. It is my new focus, but it is not work because this is what I choose to do rather than pushing a boulder. I have made the choice to walk around it and start seeing where life takes me with a much lighter load.

I still catch myself wearing blinders now and then. Yesterday, I was so singularly focused on placing my gum in a trash can that I walked smack into a large outdoor light fixture attached to the building where I get my TMS. There was a time I would have beat the shit out of that fixture and then given someone at the reception desk an earful. Instead, I busted up laughing. What made it extra funny for me was when it happened, I was singing a Traveling Wilburys song, The End of the Line, to myself.

Maybe I am ready to live by their words, “Well it’s alright, remember to live and let live. Well it’s alright, the best you can do is forgive.” It’s time I forgive myself before I reach the end of my line.

March 20th: Learning to be Patient

My morning began much like my day ended yesterday, painfully. If there is a light to lean into it is that my Botox has helped block my pain from slamming my head. Otherwise. The rest of me is back to feeling like I am confined to some medieval stretching rack and every hour someone increases the tension a tad more. My shoulders feel like they are being torn away from the neck, my arms from the shoulders, and fingers from the hands. My central spine burns and the backside of my rib cages also feels like they are being ripped apart. It’s a day where I could, and probably should, begin by taking some pain medication. However, as usual, my first drug of choice is movement.

Last night I called it an early nigh, even by my standards and slept well despite feeling like crap. Bug must have sensed something as he slept up by my aching shoulders and neck instead of carving out his own place at the foot of the bed. He remained there all night.

What I don’t have today is a sense that life feels overwhelming because of my pain. I know I have treatment options and the most powerful one is my outlook. There is a wonderful sense of clarity and realize everyone in life has their own challenges and they come in an infinite number of forms. I am used to mine, so I welcome what I have knowing others deal with their own challenges.

The first day of spring is fast approaching but winter continues hanging on. Before long, the air will be hot, filled with pollen, and the mosquitoes will be out in droves. Again, I could dread this thought, but today I remind myself each of those serve as reminders that the winter blues are gone and there is more opportunity for me to enjoy life outdoors. Life is filled with ebbs and flows, or the yin and yang, and I am better off seeing what the possibilities are rather than any potential hindrances. I can be my best friend or worst enemy; it’s my choice.

Shanryu Suzuki said, “Leave your front door and back door open. Allow your thoughts to come and go. Just don’t serve them tea.”  My thoughts, good or negative, are welcome to pop in, but only on their way to somewhere else. I refuse to let them keep me from my true focus which is remaining present and mindful of each moment.

Suzuki also said, “Each one of us must make his own true way, and when we do, that way will express the universal way.” There is no singular path to follow. There is no singular religion or dogma suited for mankind. We are as individual as every star in the universe, blade of grass, or tree that grows. It is vital each individual finds what works for him or her, a path to inner peace that allows kindness to spread over all else.

We are both fortunate and cursed in our nation because we have so many opportunities to freely follow our path and yet we seem to continually push ours onto others. We lack a respect for individual expression because we fear it might crush our journey. In the process, we create discord and focus more on dogma than respect and admiration for the path others find best for themselves. We live in an era where increasingly individual expression is called dangerous and the use of force to crush it is acceptable. No one seems to want to heed the words of John Lennon and give peace a chance.

This morning I was able to test drive my foot and hamstring again. There is a huge difference in being able to get outside for a run compared to exercising indoors, even if it was just for ten minutes. Last summer, I was able to move most of my workout gear outside and enjoy working out in the fresh air. I think I will be setting up another area in the next month or two.

My patience dealing with my injuries has begun paying off and I wonder if the real reason I ended up back in Chico was to master one of my weakest characteristics, patience. I’ve had to wait, in some cases months, much more than I had to down south for medical treatments. Finding specialists, waiting weeks because their schedules are so full, and then feeling comfortable with who my new doctors are has required a great deal of patience on my part. It has also been needed on my part just to adjust to life in Chico which flows in a much different manner than in Ventura County. I’ve had to learn to slow down when I drive to TMS because rarely does anyone drive over 70 mph on the near empty freeway.

In contrast, driving 70 on a packed 101 freeway down south is a great way to encounter road rage from others who think nothing of driving 85 mph. Maybe I never came back to Chico as much as Chico returned to me because it was what I needed. As Leo Tolstoy said, “Everything comes in time to him who knows how to wait.”

Being anxious is a chore. Wanting to know what and when something is going to happen is exhausting. However, it’s just as exhausting when you already know and still must wait for it. Feeling both ways makes shutting off the noise in your head damn near impossible. There is never any relief unless you find a method that allows you to get a break.

Unfortunately, many turn to drinking or drugs to shut out the world and quiet their mind. For me, being able to move about allows me to blow off steam, shut off the noise, and calm myself by physically pushing my body.

Now that I am retired, I understand all those old people encountered earlier in life who insisted on doing hard work I was willing to do for them. Like me, they were designed to keep moving to find an inner calmness and joy that comes from a physically challenging task. They had no desire to explore other parts of the planet. They, like me, just needed decent weather, a few tools, and a project to work on to feel whole. Others need to travel or socialize to feel whole. Some lose themselves in books while others enjoy crafts or looking after their grandkids. Like with religion, there is no single path to wholeness. What works for one does not work for all which is why it’s important to know yourself. You may lose some people in your life along the way, but you will be better off when you find the only person you truly need — yourself.

The other day at TMS, Vicki mentioned to me there was only one beer she liked. It’s made by a brewery on the coast. When she mentioned the name, a light bulb turned on in my head. I would try to find some and gift wrap it as a thank you when TMS ends. Then yesterday, she mentioned to me she was going to bring in a bottle of it for me to take home and try.

Today, when I arrived for my session, Vicki had a nice cold beer waiting for me to take home. Am I reading more into this than I should? What do I find for her now that she has beaten me to the punch? This is all so new for me. It’s also something unexpected to come out of my TMS treatment. I have a week to figure things out and hope between now and then that I do not end up overthinking things.

I’ve never been one who has known how to approach females or read the signals they send. As my second wife used to remind me, “You have no game.” It’s true. I have never felt comfortable putting myself out there. I prefer to let matters with the opposite sex unfold in a more natural manner which is why when I joined a few dating apps after my second marriage, I quickly became the king of the one and done meet and greet dates.

I’ve been able to use the time in TMS to chat with Vicki and get to know more about her without the pressure of it being a date. Through friendly conversation, I have been able to learn enough to know I would enjoy getting to know her better. I’ve also been dumped enough in the past to know even if she says no, I am not going to be crushed. It’s just a matter of going past my comfort zone.

Recently I came across this unnamed quote, “Always trust your gut. Your brain can be fooled and your heart is an idiot, but your gut doesn’t know how to lie.” My gut is telling me I am ready to begin putting myself out there. I know this because if I was listening to my heart, I probably would have already asked Vicki out. My past history with women is over and I must let it go and remain focused on life in front of me. The gift is not her saying yes to a date nearly as much as learning to be patient and trust my gut.

March 21st: To Be Continued

“If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people.” Reading these words from Thich Nhat Hanh got me thinking about my past and future with a focus on who I am at this very moment. That person is not the same as the person I will be when you read this.

For years, I used to beat myself up whenever the worst of my father come out of me. I have often allowed it to block myself from remembering the best of who he was and to forgive him for the trauma he inflicted. It kept me from appreciating the many struggles and challenges he had to overcome in life, the pressures placed on him, and the standards to which he was expected to live up to. For the most part, he allowed me to become who I chose to be and because he did, I only have myself to blame for any unhappiness or regret I carry. He did the best he could with the tools he had, just as I hope I have and continue doing.

It’s easy comparing our mothers to our fathers, but it’s more important we understand the roles each took on, the past they overcame, and the lessons they taught us. I can’t imagine growing up during the Great Depression, serving in WWII, or raising a family during the era they did. They did not choose to be born into the world they inherited any more than I chose to be born into what was passed down to me.

Plus, I will never fully understand why I survived an accident I had no business surviving. All I know is I did and was left to navigate the challenges surviving presented me. Most of us live in a nation where we endure a slow march toward death. We have the opportunity to see our loved ones one final time, pass on any love and wisdom we have left, and to process each of the phases of dying. In my case, I did not have that chance. Nearly as fast as my accident happened, I experienced each of life’s final phases and arrived at its final one, acceptance. I was finally at peace, weightless, and without burden.

Today, I understand how lucky I am to have gone through that. Life is meant to be peaceful, weightless, and without burden but we constantly complicate it with systems of rule, economics, dogmas, and even parental pressures. Our pursuit to meet, or exceed, each of these expectations results in tremendous inner conflict and a continuous state of restlessness takes over while we lose sight of our true selves.

It never ends until we are given a death sentence and reflect on how much our lives could have, and perhaps even should have, been different. As our outer shell’s light fades to black, our inner self’s light brightens only for us to pass from this world to whatever awaits us.

Living with situational depression is not easy because it has programmed me to constantly see the failings, or my perceptions of them, of a world that could be much better. Too often, it has kept me from appreciating how things are compared to how they once were. It’s grown worse since my accident because I stopped having the tolerance for individuals or organizations who wasted my time. My gloves came off and my world became a bare knuckle fight with enemies I created all because I was not at peace internally.

Now, the more I am the best version of myself, and not the angriest, or funniest, or fittest, or any other label placed on me, the more good I do for others. I become the person who was raised by parents to be kind to others, hold doors open, offer to help those in need, and be tolerant of people who, like me, just want to live their lives in peace. It’s never the loudest dog that gains the greatest respect, it is the one that is kind, grateful, and unconditionally loving we appreciate the most.

We are all dealt circumstances in our lives. What we often fail to grasp is that while those circumstances might destroy our well thought out plans, they also offer us an entire new set of choices. Pointing fingers and claiming to be a victim is choosing to be the loudest dog, and we are eventually tuned out by others.

To be appreciated requires we see ourselves in all people. It means understanding we get to choose how we live on inside everyone we encounter by how we choose to respond to each of our circumstances. It means on any given day, our circumstances constantly change with each passing moment. This requires constant awareness of our individual ability to impact others in the best way possible. This allows us to remain in the hearts of more than just our immediate family, but also our world family, long after we are gone.

I met with my therapist before heading off to TMS. She mentioned how she noticed a big improvement since meeting with me last month. We talked about the importance of putting in the work in order to heal and not go after quick fixes. I With every day that passes that I put in the work, it will not be long before it just becomes my new norm. This will include studying deeper about Buddhism and other non-western philosophies while incorporating new ways of perceiving life as it unfolds.

For the past six weeks, I have stopped following the major events of the day, something I have always done since I was in elementary school. I am refusing to be guided or influenced by the day’s headlines and taking more interest in what is going on in my more immediate world. Politics is like all of life in that there are ebbs and flows with storms that arrive. I can’t prevent them, but I can choose to let the storms beat me up or avoid allowing them to take over my frame of mind.

I have not turned my back on what is unfolding nationally or internationally nearly as much as decided not to add fuel to infernos. Instead, I want to smother them with an inner resolve centered on remaining kind and peaceful while encouraging others to do the same. As Confucius said, “A seed grows with no sound but a tree falls with huge noise. Destruction has noise, but creation is quiet. This is the power of silence… grow silently.”

My goal is to add to the creation of a more peaceful and quiet world.