(1) Proper snorkeling&nbsp;begins at dawn.&nbsp;
That&#39;s insane.&nbsp; This is supposed
to be a &quot;vacation.&quot;&nbsp; I wouldn&#39;t
get up at sunrise if our house was on fire and Frank the Fireman stood over my
bed threatening me with his 4&#39; axe.&nbsp; 


&nbsp;


(2) Showering prior is illogical, and any scenario in
which showering is a bad idea is a bad scenario.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(3) To board the boat with 60 strangers, one must remove
his flip-flops.&nbsp; For an OCD germaphobe,
this is a mountainous problem riddled with red flags all across its peak.&nbsp; [Don&#39;t even get me started on the problems associated with
sharing recycled snorkels and masks.&nbsp; It
reminds me of Ms. Hightower&rsquo;s 4th Grade Music Class, after which&nbsp;thirty of us&nbsp;plopped our
plastic piccolos in a small bucket of water for the class following ours.]&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(4) Climbing the stairs up from the teensy galley, I
accidentally strike my skull so hard on the steel crossbeam that I hear four
vertebrae crack.&nbsp; I am now dizzy,
nauseous, and sporting a splitting headache and nice goose egg.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(5) My only breakfast drink choice is a Yoohoo.&nbsp; Chocolate milk should not come in an aluminum
can and contain water in lieu of milk.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(6) My allergies are so bad&nbsp;transitioning from
Texas to here that I down generic Benadryl along with Dramamine, and because
&quot;Captain Martin&quot; has scared the bejezus out of us regarding the fates
of those miserable landlubbers unfortunate enough to become seasick.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(7) Time for sunscreen.&nbsp;
Wow, I hate sunscreen.&nbsp; Applying
it gives me the heebie-jeebies.&nbsp; Slimy,
sticky, cold, and stings.&nbsp; Who makes this
stuff?&nbsp; The Agent Orange Consumer
Products Division?&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(8) After 90 minutes of sputtering across the sea,
battering wave after wave as if this were Pong, we arrive at...an unremarkable&nbsp;big brown
rock.&nbsp; But apparently, one so treasured
that if we touch the coral we shall be put to death, and if we bother the one
lone bird circling the alleged &quot;bird preserve&quot; atop the vegetation-free big
brown rock we shall be put to death a second time.&nbsp; Electrocuted, surely, but sans water like&nbsp;the pitiable&nbsp;Eduard Delacroix in The Green Mile.




&nbsp;


(9) After some lite instruction from two different men,
we are shown opposing ways to put on our snorkel masks, which amounts to this:
&#39;mount&#39; it from the front or rear, just don&#39;t drink the seawater, or you shall
become sick and/or die.&nbsp; By now, I&#39;m
convinced that dying would not be so bad after all.&nbsp; Really, really convinced.&nbsp; Preferred, perhaps.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(10) After awkwardly stripping down with all these
wonderful people, stumbling down the rickety, wet ladder with fins in one hand,
sunglasses in the other [it&#39;s bright, y&#39;all!], slathered in Crisco, and gasping
for air within this contraption-of-death gripping my face, I eventually &#39;fall&#39;
into the gorgeous blue sea, only to think [and perhaps scream like a little
girl], &quot;It&#39;s FREEZING!&quot;&nbsp; This
10th eventuality had not crossed my mind earlier. 


&nbsp;


(11) After peeking
at the admittedly beautiful sea bottom for a few seconds, all bets are off: I&#39;m
guzzling seawater, my mask is choking me, my little yellow floaties are
spinning around this way and that, my sunglasses are&mdash;of course&mdash;useless, and
I&#39;m being kicked by strangers.&nbsp; I
eventually turn in my snorkel and one of my two life vest devices, resorting to
just swim around like a dignified normal person for a few stolen minutes before
snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.&nbsp;
It occurs to me that my &quot;I coulda been a Navy SEAL if only I&#39;d just
chosen to&quot; is a silly and childhood delusion.&nbsp; Had there been a bell, I woulda knocked over
the 72-year-old woman in the neoprene knee brace to ring it first.&nbsp; 



&nbsp;


(12) Unexpectedly carried one additional meter by a
malevolent wave, I gently but surely rack myself on the base of the steel ladder and, for a brief
moment, the drawstring&nbsp;securing my ordinary yet necessary swim-trunks gets tangled in and snagged by
the 3&quot; Cotter pin attaching the bottom rung to the ladder itself.&nbsp; I panic momentarily, but do survive and remain clothed.&nbsp;&nbsp;By this point, admittedly,&nbsp;the prospect of nakedness is not even a Top 5 concern.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(13) I, along with three score of other drippy,
disoriented humans slipping to and fro like Bambi on ice eventually re-board our vessel of hell, but we are SHOCKED
to learn that, no, we are not going home yet, we are moving to &quot;another
spot&quot; for 3.5 more hours.&nbsp; Dear
lord, take me now.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(14) After a comical half-day at a second location no
different from the first [water is water, rock is rock, fish is fish, bird is
bird, sick is sick, headache is headache, sunburn is sunburn], the Captain
announces we are heading home.&nbsp; Praise
Jesus.&nbsp; We eat salad, rice, succulent teriyaki
chicken breast, and a buttery roll under the noonday sun on a white catamaran, jostling
for 15 coveted yet thinly padded seats, leaving 45&nbsp;unfortunate souls&nbsp;to eat sitting cross-legged on their derri&egrave;res, the equivalent of
picnicking on the floor of a hotel shower.&nbsp;
[Had we remained another 2-3 days, I&#39;m convinced I could have formed a
powerful union among the seven or eight people I noticed grimacing alongside
me.&nbsp; &quot;Germaphobes unite!&nbsp; Cleanliness for all!&nbsp; Mutineers Against the Ship Unsanitary!&quot;&nbsp;
I would have listed, &quot;You confiscated our shoes, without notice,
dehumanizing us from the get-go&quot; among our first of many deep-seated grievances.] 




&nbsp;


(15) Captain
Martin lied to me.&nbsp; He promised we were
going home after this second detour to the second dirt clod.&nbsp; We
are not.&nbsp; We are headed for &quot;a
surprise.&quot;&nbsp; Good grief.&nbsp; The LAST thing I need is another
surprise.&nbsp; I&#39;m still coming to terms with
the knot on my skull and the fact that I knowingly PAID for this misery.&nbsp; With money.&nbsp;
The surprise amounts to circling an area where, we are told, magical
green sea turtles live.&nbsp; We see no such
creatures, doubt they were ever there, and I&#39;m now wondering if the next
surprise will be a snipe or unicorn hunt or Bigfoot expedition back at the harbor.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(16) For our final 90 minutes back to shore, we are
subjected to &quot;merch sales.&quot;&nbsp; As
if I&#39;d want to be doing laundry three years from now, come across an overpriced
T-shirt&nbsp;commemorating this fiasco, and think to myself, &quot;Oh, what a lovely day that
was.&nbsp; If only I could relive it all over
again.&quot;&nbsp; Or just die instead.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(17) We are absolutely rocked by roiling, rollicking
waves, chaffed by gale force winds, and blistered by the sun as we tack our way
to and fro into what the captain brags is &quot;the second windiest port in the
world, second only to one in New Zealand.&quot;&nbsp;
[&quot;Yeah, and that&#39;s why no one in his right mind would live here,
you martyr,&quot; I mumble to no one in particular.&nbsp; The Darwin Awards are coming, and I nominate
every last one o&#39; you.]




&nbsp;




Eventually, it is over, and our indignity finally ends
when they allow us to collect our shoes from a steamy, communal rubber bin, but
not before proclaiming, &quot;If you&#39;ve had as wonderful a day as we have, be
sure and tip Eric, Josiah, Mario, and your other hosts.&quot;&nbsp; Yeah, that&#39;ll happen.&nbsp; Just as soon as I find my wallet in this asylum.&nbsp; Stockholm Syndrome notwithstanding, these are
nice guys, but at this point I just wanna be able to stand on land and die with
my flip-flops on.




&nbsp;




The shower back at our hotel takes a good two hours, as
such showers do.




&nbsp;




Gosh, it felt good to be sparkling clean, dry, Gold Bond powdered and to eat
dinner with family and friends in a place with white tablecloths and fine
china.




&nbsp;




On vacation, knowing these are only first world
nuisances, it&#39;s still nice to celebrate the 4th of July and not worry whether
one will survive the day or not.




&nbsp;




Long live land.


&nbsp;


&nbsp;


***

Recollections from the Sea: 17 Reasons Why Snorkeling Is Not for Me

The hotel calls a cab for me, which arrives promptly.&nbsp; Early, in fact.


My host&nbsp;escorts me from the&nbsp;ballroom where I&#39;ve&nbsp;just concluded a talk,&nbsp;through the lobby, and out to the curb where the taxi awaits on a gorgeous Friday afternoon.


My escort and I&nbsp;shake hands,&nbsp;ultimately man-hug, and off he goes as I turn my attention to the&nbsp;cab driver&nbsp;who has popped the trunk.&nbsp; Oddly, though, once the trunk is open, he hops back in the cab.


Hmmm.&nbsp; That&#39;s sorta rude.


Self-service, I guess.&nbsp;&nbsp;


Undeterred, I heave my rolling bag into the trunk with one hand, close it with the other, gather my squirrelly posters under&nbsp;one arm, toss my&nbsp;shoulder bag&nbsp;across the backseat, and slide&nbsp;in.


&quot;Airport?&quot;&nbsp;


&quot;Yep.&quot;


And vroom,&nbsp;off we go.


&nbsp;


Within seconds, he is singing at the top of his lungs.&nbsp; Wailing, really.


He&#39;s a small fella, maybe 5&#39; 5&quot;, with&nbsp;obnoxious Bono sunglasses that hide a&nbsp;third of his face.&nbsp; He has&nbsp;wavy black Elvis hair,&nbsp;black button-up shirt, and blue jeans.&nbsp; He&#39;s probably 40 with deep dimples that remind me of&nbsp;some soap opera actor.


With his left hand out the window, he is conducting an imaginary orchestra.&nbsp; Thumb and index forming an O, palm out, flick, snap, twist.&nbsp; His right hand is struggling to drive, inconvenienced&nbsp;by doing&nbsp;so, what with the feverish tapping, thumb-drumming, snapping and so forth that is required by this apparent anthem.&nbsp; 


The&nbsp;wild, whooshing&nbsp;air is blowing through four open windows, and I&#39;m an afterthought to this possessed, soprano-ing man-banshee en route to hell.


&quot;Oh dear,&quot; I think to myself, &quot;this is going to be one long ride.&quot;


&nbsp;


But then, after a few beats and bars, something miraculous happens: I actually recognize the upbeat riff from 2008&#39;s Slumdog Millionaire.


&quot;Jai Ho,&quot; I whisper to myself.&nbsp; 


He stops mid-scream, bolts upright, whips his head &#39;round so fast I thought it was gonna snap plumb-off his shoulders and shouts, &quot;You know Jai Ho?&quot;&nbsp; (It&#39;s not really a question, though, coming more in the form of a revelation&mdash;and delivered accordingly.)


&quot;Jai Ho.&nbsp; Sure, I know it.&nbsp; Slumdog Millionaire.&quot;


He is beyond jubilant.&nbsp;&nbsp;Words do not suffice.&nbsp; I simply cannot describe his countenance and behavior.&nbsp;&nbsp;He is now euphoric, rapturous, even happier than when singing.


With a smile so&nbsp;wide&nbsp;it tears at his cheeks, he stares at me and says, &quot;No one knows Jai Ho.&nbsp; How you know Jai Ho?&quot;


&quot;I love movies,&quot; I say.&nbsp; The universal language of cinema, I think.


&quot;Latika!&quot; he growls.&nbsp; &quot;You know Latika?&quot;&nbsp;&nbsp;


&quot;Of course,&quot; I reply, recalling the female lead in the film.&nbsp; &quot;She was beautiful.&quot;


&quot;Latika, Latika, Latika,&quot; he announces to the world.&nbsp; Hilarity ensues.&nbsp; He is laughing uproariously, hands waving and dancing about, his head bobbing and bounding as if he&#39;s found water after a week&#39;s thirst.


&nbsp;


&quot;Where are you from?&quot; I ask.


&quot;Mumbai.&nbsp; Then Queens.&quot;


&quot;What brought you here?&quot;


&quot;My Latika,&quot; he says.


Wow, I think.&nbsp; He found his Latika.&nbsp; That&#39;s awesome.&nbsp; 


I mine for more, awaiting his love story, but then he says, &quot;Ex-wife.&quot;


&quot;Ex-wife?&nbsp; I don&#39;t understand.&nbsp; You moved here for your ex-wife?&quot;


&quot;She was not my ex-wife then!&quot; he exclaims, still bobbing and laughing and dancing in his seat.&nbsp; 


We are weaving through traffic like a video game, everyone else seemingly in reverse while we pulse along at forty through downtown snarls.


&quot;We are divorced now.&nbsp; I go home soon.&nbsp; No more games.&quot;


&quot;How did you meet her?&quot;


&quot;Online.&quot;


And so it goes for several minutes.&nbsp; My curiosity and confusion, his broken English, and our slapping meaning together brick by brick, often through arcane movie references, Bollywood and Hollywood converging as one.


&nbsp;


At first, when the unattended, yawning trunk greeted me, I hadn&#39;t liked this fellow very much.


And then, the singing.


But then, Jai Ho, and we were off.&nbsp; Laughing and commiserating about one thing or another like two boys do.


Now, we had ebbed again, in light of what I thought was a rather cavalier way to think about marriage.&nbsp; He made it sound&nbsp;so transactional, disposable, like a lottery ticket expired.&nbsp; He&#39;d found her online, moved to America, it hadn&#39;t worked out, and off he&#39;d go, soon enough, back to India to fish again.&nbsp; 


But he was extraordinarily charming.&nbsp; He had studied Economics, once worked at Compaq, then&mdash;to hear him tell it&mdash;had ditched working &quot;for the man,&quot; as it were, equating full-time employment with &quot;slavery of another kind.&nbsp; Too many games.&quot;


Life, apparently, seemed to have many games, marriage and employment among them.


Oy vey, what to do, what to do.


&nbsp;


But then, another surprise.&nbsp; 


As we were visiting, his cell phone rang.


He was exceedingly polite, kind, tender-hearted with his caller.


&quot;Yes.&nbsp; Yes.&nbsp; Yes.&nbsp; Twenty minutes.&nbsp; I will be there, do not worry.&nbsp; We will make it.&quot;&nbsp; His voice so chirpy and sing-songy I could listen to it all day long.


As he hung up, I inquired.&nbsp; I just had to.&nbsp; Normally I wouldn&#39;t.&nbsp; But he seemed game.&nbsp; &quot;Is everything okay?&nbsp; Do you have a fare you&#39;re late for?&quot;


&quot;No, no,&quot; he says.&nbsp; &quot;No one else will drive him, so I do.&quot;


Pause.


Beat.


What?


&quot;He is in a wheelchair.&nbsp; Other side of city.&nbsp; He has no money.&nbsp; Appointments.&nbsp; I drive him for free 3 to 4 days a week.&quot;


&quot;Wow,&quot; I say, &quot;that&#39;s a really nice thing to do.&quot;


&quot;Sure.&nbsp; Well.&nbsp; I would hope someone would do it for me, no?&nbsp; I take care of him; help him.&nbsp; Maybe someone will pray for me some day.&quot;


&nbsp;


At which point I am stopped in my tracks.


&quot;Pray for you?&quot;


&quot;Sure.&nbsp; He cannot pay me, so maybe he will pray for me.&quot;


&quot;How much is his fare?&quot;


&quot;$38,&quot; he says.


He knows it by heart.


He does it all the time.


&nbsp;


His mind appears to wander for a moment, drifting to another place.&nbsp; Praying perhaps.&nbsp; Or wondering.


And with this proclamation, he is back: &quot;Karma,&quot; he says.


&quot;Excuse me?&quot;


&quot;Karma.&quot;


&quot;What about karma?&quot;&nbsp;&nbsp; 


&quot;I do good, maybe good things happen to me.&quot;&nbsp;&nbsp;


If only it worked that way, I think to myself.&nbsp; And also glad it doesn&#39;t.&nbsp; 


&quot;Well, it&#39;s a really nice thing you&#39;re doing.&nbsp;&nbsp;I think it&#39;s just great.&quot;


&quot;Thirty-eight dollars&nbsp;is not so much. If I do it for him, I&#39;m not poor.&nbsp; If he paid me, I&#39;m not&nbsp;rich.&nbsp; I&#39;m same.&quot;&nbsp;


&quot;I&#39;m same,&quot; I repeat, as if I&#39;m hearing a philosophical mantra&nbsp;for the first time.&nbsp; A chant I can visualize cross-legged monks repeating over and over again in some faraway hilltop monastery.&nbsp; Transcendence by way of perspective.&nbsp; Material neutrality by way of selflessness.&nbsp; The tributaries flow for several seconds....


And like him before, I find that we are now both deep in thought.


The sing-songy way he said, &quot;I&#39;m same&quot; is a lilt in my mind.


He continues, his left hand riding a wave that appears to&nbsp;permeate the windshield.&nbsp; &quot;Flow like water.&nbsp; God will sort it out.&quot;


Huh.&nbsp; A surprisingly seamless juxtaposition and combination of east and west, yin and yang, this and that to create&nbsp;his sweet marmalade.


&nbsp;


Just then,&nbsp;his horrifically annoying squawk box squealed to life as the dispatcher made some sort of terse announcement.&nbsp; 


The cabbie snorts and guffaws.


&quot;See?&nbsp; Karma!&quot; he howls.


&quot;Karma?&quot; I ask.&nbsp; &quot;What happened?&quot;


His sedan is floating on a cushion of air as we coast into the airport and approach the entrance&nbsp;for my departure gate.


&quot;I have co-worker,&quot; he says.&nbsp; He raises both hands in the air and balls them into fists and shakes them.&nbsp; &quot;Bully.&nbsp; A bully.&nbsp; He takes good fares.&nbsp; He had a $200 fare.&nbsp; Would have been mine, but I lost it.&quot;


&quot;Why?&quot;


&quot;Wheelchair.&nbsp; Will be getting man in wheelchair.&quot;


&quot;But...?&quot;


&quot;But dispatch says $200 fare has cancelled.&nbsp; Got a ride with someone else.&quot;


As it turns out, the bully had apparently usurped my driver (poaching his fare while&nbsp;he prepared to perform&nbsp;his Samaritan act of altruism), only to arrive at the pick-up location and depart empty-handed because the impatient customer caught a ride with someone else.&nbsp;&nbsp;Out the two-hundred bucks as a result.


It had apparently become a rather good afternoon after all, and my driver wore the beautiful expression of vindication like the Joker wears lipstick.


The tires squealed us to a stop, he threw it into neutral, bounded to the trunk like Tigger...Gollum&#39;s happy twin...Disney&#39;s Quasimoto...or Frankenstein&#39;s Igor (as played by Marty Feldman)...enthusiastically grabbing my bag and walking me all the way to the door.


&nbsp;


In fifteen minutes we&#39;d covered nearly&nbsp;five miles in heavy traffic.&nbsp; I paid him my fare, a generous tip, and handed him two twenties and said, &quot;For driving the other man.&quot;


He stood before me, a few paper bills in his hand, fanned-out like cards.


With tears in his eyes, he looked up and hugged me.&nbsp; 


&quot;It&#39;s okay,&quot; I whispered.


&quot;I will&nbsp;pray for you,&quot; he says.&nbsp;&nbsp;&quot;What is your name, so I can pray for you?&quot;&nbsp;


&quot;Blake,&quot; I said, and he told me his.


&quot;Poor, rich, same,&quot; I chuckled.


&quot;Karma,&quot; he said, and the maestro turned to walk back to his cab,&nbsp;a surprising carriage filled with hope and overflowing with music, one destined for&nbsp;a very important&nbsp;passenger waiting on the other side.

Karma Cab

Good grief, has it really been five months?
Life is flying by.... That, and the fact that&mdash;as I joked with a client months ago&mdash;"Blogging feels so...long-form." (Anything more than 140 characters seems like such a colossal imposition on folks' finite reading allowances these days.) Alas, I have not written you since August.
But I'm in a "writerly" mood, finding myself eyeballs-deep ghostwriting for a client and needing a twenty-minute brain-break over lunch. So I'll turn to something simpler: my own thoughts.
&nbsp;
Here it is...January 7th, 2014. As a dear friend at a New Year party commented, "2014 can't help but be a better year than one with a thirteen in it." Who knows. 2013 was awesome, but it's always a crapshoot, isn't it?
Or, as the philosophical-Oreo-center&nbsp;might say, "Calendars are just arbitrary, mechanistic, ill-fitting templates&nbsp;designed to make sense of seasonal rhythms in ways that nature never intended, so there's no point resolving that the next twelve whatevers would be any different than the last twelve."
But sure, 2014 certainly sounds more fun than 2013. I'll give her that.
&nbsp;
I sincerely hope that 2013 was a wonderful year for you, and that 2014 will be even better.
I find that as I grow older, my wants and wishes have become simpler.
I still pump and pedal, search and strive, reach and run, but it's fair to say that The Serenity Prayer best captures my heart's desire: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."
Most of the time, I don't pray FOR&nbsp;THINGS so much as for everything. Rather than some animated Aladdin, I instead view Christ as the one with whom I must be aligned. "Lord, may I seek and see and serve your will today." I pray for contentment, peace, and sometimes understanding, but mostly contentment and peace, because I know that understanding is a bit of a stretch, particularly in this broken world where war, starvation, disease, hate and genocide rage.
I cannot explain 99.99% of what occurs, but I can pray that when it happens, it would somehow be well with my soul. Or that when I cannot reconcile a particular splinter with my nail, that I might find tweezers or some other suitable instrument designed to make things healthier for all involved.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Regardless, I&mdash;and we&mdash;likely have one goal or another for 2014.
Sure, I pray that if they are God's will they would come true.
But more importantly, I pray that if or when you get some lemons, you can find an outlet for that juicer.
&nbsp;

A Serene 2014 to You & Yours

2013 marks the 25th anniversary of Baylor grad Robert Fulghum&rsquo;s beloved &ldquo;All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.&rdquo;&nbsp; If you don&rsquo;t already own this, you really, really should.&nbsp; The poem for which he is so well known is but one of many in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0345466179/ref=s9_psimh_gw_p14_d0_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&amp;pf_rd_s=center-2&amp;pf_rd_r=0MA275ABJ0SF456BTJZB&amp;pf_rd_t=101&amp;pf_rd_p=1389517282&amp;pf_rd_i=507846" target="_blank" rel="noopener">this beautiful little book</a>.&nbsp; 
&nbsp;
All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten
by Robert Fulghum
Most of what I really need To know about how to live And what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top Of the graduate school mountain, But there in the sandpile at Sunday school. These are the things I learned: Share everything. Play fair. Don't hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess. Don't take things that aren't yours. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced life&mdash; Learn some and think some And draw and paint and sing and dance And play and work everyday some. Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world, Watch out for traffic, Hold hands and stick together. Be aware of wonder.
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Being my remedial self, it took me 54 lines to approximate as much nearly four years ago.&nbsp; (Additionally, I'll&nbsp;throw in the oft-attributed, &ldquo;If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.&rdquo;)&nbsp; 
&nbsp;
Long after my music has died, accompanying flowers have dried, the food in the fridge has gone bad and&nbsp;bi-fold poetic programs have been tossed in the can, may these remain.&nbsp; I love you, Lauren.
<a href="../../blog/post/some-assembly-required-54-lessons-for-a-life-worth-living" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Some Assembly Required: 54 Lessons for a Life Worth Living</a>
&nbsp;
&nbsp;***&nbsp;
&nbsp;

On this First Day of School, Fulghum's Reminders

&ldquo;Those who defend mediocrity get to keep it.&rdquo;&nbsp; &mdash;Author Unknown
&nbsp;
As a general rule, I resist complaining about things I cannot solve. Or, at least, would not strive to solve. Or, at the very least, believe I cannot dent.
But today, I'll climb the tallest peak and scream into the wind, "We deserve better." Or, if we do not deserve better&mdash;I sure wish we had better.
Perhaps we get and have precisely what we deserve. Maybe that's part of the problem? Maybe too many of the good, worthy people see the growing abomination that is &ldquo;professional politics&rdquo; and elect, wisely, to not stick their hands in the gears and risk mangling everything and everyone near and dear to them.&nbsp;
I don&rsquo;t know.
I&rsquo;d like to say, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know anymore,&rdquo; but I suspect I never knew. I have never understood politics, perhaps because I confuse it with public service, public policy, legislation and law itself. More accurately, I suspect it&rsquo;s because I mistake it for a brew that illogically combines ethics, morality and denying oneself.
I would like to think, perhaps naively, that our founding fathers were wiser. Were better. Were more noble, selfless, sacrificial than today&rsquo;s leaders. But the more I read David McCullough, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Michael Beschloss and their ilk, the more inclined I am to relinquish such pollyanna notions. Forever in awe of all our founding fathers accomplished, but also acutely aware that lightning rarely strikes the same target twice, I&rsquo;m inclined to believe the 18th Century was the perfect libertarian greenhouse&mdash;and one that we shall not soon see again. An alchemic period that combined crisis and opportunity, burden and hope, pragmatism and intellectualism with the will to change or die trying. A flash of transcendent alliances that brought France to the aid of ragged and often disjointed colonists, legislators and entrepreneurs and writers and social philosophers to the cause c&eacute;l&egrave;bre of freedom, and settlements separated by time and space and culture and ideology together at the eleventh hour to achieve something momentous if not altogether unprecedented.
An assembly of flawed human beings, many of whom were slave owners, or womanizers, or self-serving schemers parading as diplomats to curry favor with the wealthy. In spite of these sins, which range from avarice to arrogance (ailments as old as time), a Committee of Five, comprised most notably of Thomas Jefferson, whipped up the most delicious rhetoric this side of the Renaissance that began with the soaring teaser, &ldquo;When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.&rdquo;
Wow.&nbsp;
It&rsquo;s unquestionably one of the most gorgeous, luminescent, ambitious&nbsp;preambles of all time.
Its piers bore deep, to the bedrock of all human expectation. Its slab runs broadly, invoking freedom and joy. Its spire reaches high, as if brushing the hem of God Almighty and tugging at the warm side of His promises.
Thirteen years shy of one century later, this timeless preamble would be as fresh to Abraham Lincoln as if it had been written&nbsp;days prior when he solemnly opened his Gettysburg Address with the words, &ldquo;Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.&rdquo;
America&rsquo;s work&mdash;the great democratic experiment&mdash;continued to blossom 101 years later with the 1964 passage of the Civil Rights Act.
The work continues, and I trust it always will.&nbsp;
But my disappointment, perhaps like yours, will ebb and flow over a lifetime. It recedes when we, as a nation, achieve something unique or spectacular, which we sometimes do. And it surges, as it does now, when I believe we can do better.
On a recent flight, the woman next to me saw that I was engrossed in This Town by Mark Leibovich. She remarked, &ldquo;Is it any good?&rdquo; to which I replied, &ldquo;Yeah, it&rsquo;s great. But disheartening.&rdquo; &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;ve heard,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve thought about getting it, but I think it&rsquo;ll just make me mad. I&rsquo;m so sick of our politicians.&rdquo;&nbsp;
Amen.&nbsp;
And particularly the men.
To be reaching the end of This Town (<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/28/books/review/this-town-by-mark-leibovich.html?pagewanted=all&amp;_r=0" target="_blank" rel="noopener">synopsis</a>) while turning on the news at night only to see Anthony Weiner stagger through the public arena like a man who&rsquo;s been knocked out but doesn&rsquo;t quite realize it yet (or accept it) brings into sharp focus how far we have fallen, how low our expectations have degraded in recent years. Eliot Spitzer, Mark Sanford, Newt Gingrich, John Edwards, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bill Clinton, and a longer, deeper list if one bothers to search.
And should one be willing to cast a broader net, the sort that scoops up professional male athletes, today&rsquo;s baseball is replete with liars, gamblers and shenanigans of all sorts and stripes. As is cycling, football, basketball, seemingly every sport. And I wouldn&rsquo;t let the winner of this past Sunday&rsquo;s WGC-Bridgestone Invitational anywhere near my child, his depravity runs so deep. He so wantonly objectified women through his perverted appetites that, were I the Mayor of Moralia, his photograph would be in a municipal database warning neighbors of his past offenses and current address. The notion that Nike values money over virtue is emblematic of the problem itself: as long as the cash flows, we care very little about the cesspool from which it springs or the stain it leaves behind.&nbsp;
At a recent dinner during which, of all people, Duck Dynasty patriarch Phil Robertson gave the invocation, he spoke passionately about our country, how far afield our leaders have wandered, and the immoral content our children are bombarded with daily via social media like fish in water. &ldquo;God, help us through these times of depravity we find ourselves unwittingly swimming in.&rdquo;
Our founding fathers were far from blemish-free, and perhaps today&rsquo;s are no worse, but I had hoped we would have evolved by now. Martin Luther King optimistically commented, &ldquo;The arc of history is long, but it bends toward justice.&rdquo; I would like to believe this is true, I will choose to believe this is true regardless, though I do seem to become more jaded and skeptical with time. I doubt whether justice is an ore mine-able on earth.
An eternal optimist becoming pessimistic. Say it isn&rsquo;t so.
Writer and philosopher George Santayana famously wrote, &ldquo;Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.&rdquo; But it appears to me that those who do remember the past are simply inclined to see it as a transient news cycle, everyone getting a second, third, fourth act, and yesterday&rsquo;s criminal is tomorrow&rsquo;s gavel wielder, trophy hoister, or bedazzling spokesman.
I am comforted by grace and forgiveness, as we all&mdash;by any measuring stick&mdash;fall so short of our goodness, though I do hope against hope that from among our ranks, in this generation and not the next, an assembly of finer leaders would emerge in this nation. How they might become electable without possessing the pedigree that big money seems to back, yet still represent the common man, I do not know. How they might run the various gauntlets and gates required to win any votes without selling their souls or finding themselves over the proverbial barrel (indebted to this constituency or that while striving to find their own voice and letting the chips fall where they may), I do not know. How we might flush the overwhelming majority of leaders already entrenched within and attached to our nation&rsquo;s capital and every city of consequence like cancer cells, parasites, barnacles or lichens, I do not know. How they might wind their way up from &lsquo;everyday America&rsquo; without first graduating Harvard or creating a multi-billion dollar empire, I do not know. Why anyone capable would, in his or her right mind, willingly enter what Americans now view as the unseemly, seedy world of politics, I do not know.&nbsp;
But what joy it would bring me to see an army of saints overtake Washington. One can pray, and hope, and continue donating time and money to see it happen, but were it to occur, it would defy two out of three laws of motion: (1)First, some substantive force&mdash;stronger than the &ldquo;We Are the 99% Movement&rdquo;&mdash;would have to disrupt the inertia of current political practice, and (2)Second, this force would have to overcome the status quo in perpetuity, tantamount to a knife winning the gunfight, then holding that fort for a generation or two or three.
Highly unlikely, because where there is money, there is temptation. And where there is temptation, there are vices. And where there are vices, there are dealers and dopers and the reverberating echoes of depravity.
In short, Washington would have to become a vacuum, one devoid of money, squatter's rights, and limitless terms in which former legislators 'naturally' mutate into lobbyists and economic hangers-on. Somehow, inconceivably, the poli-sphere writ large would have to be perceived as a sacrificial and service-centric theater of actual contribution, not unlike a tour of duty (accompanied, as it is, by hazards and risks that one cannot endure indefinitely) rather than a mint.
Time, as always, will be the great arbiter.
And He who created time.
Meanwhile, rather than simply waiting for the ocean to boil (which it will, eventually, according to Revelation 19, 20 and 21), may we each commit to doing and being better one-on-one, in our families, in our places of worship, in our communities, in our villages-hamlets-towns-burgs-boroughs-cities-counties-states, and as actors on the national and international stages.
Butterflies flapping our wings and so forth, beachcombers throwing starfish back and all that, should the bedtime&nbsp;stories we heard as children (which&nbsp;reliably documented victorious protagonists and vanquished antagonists) prove true: &ldquo;And they lived happily ever after. The End.&rdquo;
&bull;&bull;&bull;
&nbsp;

An Elegy for Good Men

This is totally random, but I recently saw a fun, quirky little TV interview with Jeff Bridges.&nbsp; It put me in The Big Lebowski state of mind.&nbsp; What a crazy-hilarious movie, and a treasure trove of great quotes:
<ul>
<li>&ldquo;Strikes and gutters, ups and downs, [but] the Dude abides.&rdquo; </li>
<li>&ldquo;Well, sir, it's this rug I had. &nbsp;It really tied the room together.&rdquo; </li>
<li>&ldquo;Look, let me explain something to you. &nbsp;I'm not Mr. Lebowski. &nbsp;You're Mr. Lebowski. &nbsp;I'm the Dude. &nbsp;So that's what you call me. &nbsp;That, or His Dudeness...Duder...or El Duderino if, you know, you're not into the whole brevity thing. </li>
<li>&ldquo;This is a very complicated case, Maude. &nbsp;You know, a lotta ins, lotta outs, lotta what-have-you&rsquo;s. &nbsp;And, uh, lotta strands to keep in my head, man. &nbsp;Lotta strands in old Duder&rsquo;s head. &nbsp;Luckily I'm adhering to a pretty strict, uh, drug regimen to keep my mind limber." &nbsp;</li>
<li>&nbsp;&ldquo;Careful, man, there's a beverage here!&rdquo;&nbsp;</li>
</ul>
&nbsp;
From here, of course, it&rsquo;s only a hop and skip into a Bruce Lee state of mind.&nbsp; I loved his movies.&nbsp; Growing up, my friends and I created and recreated fight scene after fight scene, videotaping and, once, accidentally knocking a huge 2x3' hole in the garage wall&mdash;right through sheetrock to the studs.&nbsp; Years later, one of our sweet, beloved &ldquo;stuntmen&rdquo;&mdash;David Feagins&mdash;died, along with one of his young sons, in an absolutely tragic and gut-wrenching car accident near Red River, NM.&nbsp; He and I had talked about philosophy often, for well over a decade during our formative years, and we just loved the &lsquo;ol Brucester.&nbsp; I can hear Feags&rsquo; laughter and see his bright, mischievous&nbsp;eyes light up just like it was yesterday:
<ul>
<li>&ldquo;Don't get set into one form; adapt it and build your own, and let it grow. &nbsp;Be like water. &nbsp;Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless&mdash;like water. &nbsp;Now you put water in a cup, it becomes the cup; you put water into a bottle, it becomes the bottle; you put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. &nbsp;Now water can flow or it can crash. &nbsp;Be water, my friend.&rdquo; </li>
<li>&ldquo;Why, when I point to the moon, do you stare at my finger?&rdquo;</li>
</ul>
Why stare at the finger, indeed.&nbsp;
Look up.&nbsp; This is life, and it ain&rsquo;t no dress rehearsal, man.
&nbsp;
 * * *&nbsp;
&nbsp;

Lebowski, Lee, and Life

Quite simply, why I love Teddy Roosevelt&#39;s &quot;Man in the Arena&quot; is because the world needs more resilient, scrappy doers and fewer critics.






His comments are presented here, with unique audio (will play on everything but iPhone).&nbsp; Depending on your connection speed, please allow 15-30 seconds for the file to load, then click the green play button beside Teddy&#39;s photo:






<a href="/blogging/file.axd?file=2013%2f1%2fPresidentTeddyRooseveltManInTheArenaInteractiveAudio11-16-2012_LeathGroup.pdf">PresidentTeddyRooseveltManInTheArenaInteractiveAudio11-16-2012_LeathGroup.pdf (4.24 mb)</a>

Teddy Roosevelt's "Man in the Arena" (with audio!)

Oh my gosh, <a href="http://www.radiolab.org/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Radiolab</a>, how did I not know you existed?
You are literally 10 years old and yet I'd never heard your name until YESTERDAY!&nbsp; ARE YOU KIDDING ME?&nbsp; HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE?
Well, we've corrected that problem, PRONTO.&nbsp; STAT.&nbsp; ALREADY.
I have now consumed three podcasts, proselytized them,&nbsp;and the kool-aid effects are well underway and flooding my system like adrenaline.&nbsp; I'm officially an acolyte, a fan, an advocate and will sing your praises&nbsp;as if I were&nbsp;Captain von Trapp&nbsp;serenading&nbsp;the last&nbsp;remaining meadow of&nbsp;edelweiss.
Your <a href="http://www.radiolab.org/2012/dec/17/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">12/17/2012 episode on Bliss</a> made me laugh, cry, ponder...and ultimately left me slack-jawed.&nbsp; 
Your reference to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vC8gJ0_9o4M" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Aleksander Gamme's cheese noodle video</a> made me howl and snort longer than I have in months.
Your story about Charles Bliss (aka Karl Blitz) and In the Land of Invented Languages left me, well, speechless.
Your use of music, storytelling and&nbsp;creative mixing is nothing short of art.&nbsp; And, as far as I'm concerned, high art at that.&nbsp; I finally understand (emotionally) how and why families once huddled around their radios as if they were fireplaces on&nbsp;cold, barren nights.
To prove the point, my wife, daughter and I sat motionlessly enraptured&nbsp;in our car outside&nbsp;a restaurant tonight and listened to your show for thirty minutes.&nbsp; And, on the way home,&nbsp;we eagerly&nbsp;picked up where we left off.&nbsp; Arriving home too quickly (!), we sat again in the garage for another&nbsp;twenty minutes&nbsp;to relish the end without delay.&nbsp; 
When you can successfully captivate the attention of one hungry man, one hungry woman, and one&nbsp;voracious ten-year-old girl, well, that's something.&nbsp; No iPhones, no games, no tablets...just the desire to sit quietly and listen to a radio program...Wow.&nbsp; That's crazy, right?&nbsp; I mean...it's 2013, for cryin' out loud.&nbsp; Who in the world listens to "talk radio" anymore?&nbsp; The far right, the far left,&nbsp;rabid sports fans, and NPR types or chair-rockers tuning into Garrison Keillor's Prairie Home Companion, that's who.&nbsp; And that's about it.&nbsp; 
Well, add me to the converted and faithful.&nbsp; 
But next time, I'll bring my own rocking chair, knife, whetstone, sapling branch, egg salad sandwich and sweet tea&nbsp;and plan on sitting a spell.&nbsp; A nice, long, unrushed spell.&nbsp;
I am indebted to my beloved Charlie Rose for <a href="https://charlierose.com/videos/17886" target="_blank" rel="noopener">bringing you to my attention</a>.&nbsp; 
Gosh, I'm glad I found you&mdash;and look forward to tuning in for years to come.
XOXO

Radiolab—Radiolab—Radiolab!

Intriguingly,
I&rsquo;ve had four separate yet equally intense interactions recently with clients
who have identified themselves&mdash;or been identified by others&mdash;as
&ldquo;workaholics.&rdquo;&nbsp; 




Too
much of anything, be it rest/relaxation, exercise, eating (regardless the meal)
can be a bad thing.&nbsp; After all, it&rsquo;s the opposite of balance and
moderation.




So
when does work broach holism (Greek
for &lsquo;all, whole, entire, total&rsquo;)?&nbsp; At
what point does one&rsquo;s love for work become more destructive than constructive,
more toxic than healthy, more problematic than advantageous?




Well
first, let me share what four clients recently said about work, and explain why I
found it fascinating:

<ul>
	<li>
	<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">
	Client 1: &ldquo;I rise early, stay late and often skip lunch because I&rsquo;M A MAN POSSESSED AND LOVE WHAT I DO!&nbsp; My wife will hound me, &lsquo;What did you eat for lunch today&rsquo; and I have no defense.&nbsp; Lunch never crossed my mind.&nbsp; I sat down at 8:30 and the next time I looked up it was past 2:00.&rdquo;
	</div>
	</li>
	<li>
	<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">
	Client 2: &ldquo;I&rsquo;m the guy who gets pumped on Sunday because TOMORROW&rsquo;S MONDAY!&rdquo; 
	</div>
	</li>
	<li>
	<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">
	Client 3: &ldquo;Is it a problem that I love what I do and would do it every waking hour if no one stopped me?&rdquo; 
	</div>
	</li>
	<li>
	<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">
	Client 4: &ldquo;[Malcolm] Gladwell writes about &lsquo;10,000&rsquo; hours to mastery.&nbsp; Piece &lsquo;o cake; blew by that a long time ago!&rdquo;
	</div>
	</li>
</ul>

&nbsp;&nbsp;


Here
we have four people, representative of others, to be sure, who obviously love
what they do, become consumed by it, and wonder what all the fuss is about
&lsquo;work&rsquo; and &lsquo;since when&#39; did it became a dirty word?




I&rsquo;m
not sure I&rsquo;m the best person to submit any counter-arguments to their
attestations, because they actually sound a lot like me, but I will say this:
work becomes workaholism when it crowds, clouds and chokes other people and
interests in &lsquo;exclusionary&rsquo; ways.&nbsp; It&rsquo;s
not the work itself that&rsquo;s the problem, it&rsquo;s the consequences and collateral
damage.&nbsp; 




To
say it most efficiently: when work so defines one&rsquo;s personhood that it
prohibits the flourishing of anything else, Houston, we have a problem.




Loving
one&rsquo;s work, one&rsquo;s job is actually not a curse.&nbsp;
Quite the contrary, it is a blessing.&nbsp;
One becomes absorbed, possessed, and time literally flies by.&nbsp; This is a wonderful, zone-y state in which to
perform, excel, love, live.




But
when your spouse, children, or significant others rarely see you&mdash;or rarely get
to visit with you because you always have your nose in your phone, your eyes
on the screen or your butt in the office, well, that simply won&rsquo;t do.




Not
for long.




There&rsquo;s
certainly burnout, though more likely for workaholics is to experience the
inevitability of dropped relationships.&nbsp;
Late arrivals.&nbsp; Missed
appointments.&nbsp; Slipped schedules.&nbsp; Leaky end-times.&nbsp; Broken promises.&nbsp; Eroded reliability and credibility.&nbsp; 




There
are few blessings more deep and rich than to love one&rsquo;s work.&nbsp; In fact, as I&rsquo;ve written before and you may
recall, the word &lsquo;vocation&rsquo; derives from the Latin &lsquo;vocare,&rsquo; which means &lsquo;to be
called.&rsquo;&nbsp; And Viktor Frankl, author of Man&rsquo;s Search for Meaning and progenitor
of logotherapy argued decisively about the importance of &lsquo;finding meaning in
one&rsquo;s work and life itself.&rsquo;&nbsp; 




I
find that for those who truly love what they do for a living, work is a career,
not a job.&nbsp; Effort and time simply fly
by.&nbsp; In short, their entire life is
richer because their work-life is rich.




In
such instances, I think of work as &lsquo;vocare-therapy,&rsquo; because one is abundantly
fulfilled by work and derives great joy from it.




But
to love one&rsquo;s work at the price of family, of spirituality, of outside
interests, hobbies or personal pursuits is to&nbsp;ski along the edge of a
razor.&nbsp; Sooner or later, one will lose
his or her balance, slip and pay the inevitably high price.




In
the words of Henry David Thoreau, &ldquo;Know
your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it,
unearth it, and gnaw it still,&rdquo; but don&rsquo;t do so in isolation, at the expense of
relationships that matter, or to the detriment of yourself and all that you
might be&mdash;were you to broaden your horizons.




And for heaven&rsquo;s sake, don&rsquo;t be the fool who
strives to work so tirelessly, valiantly, or sacrificially from the age of 18
to 58 in the hope of collecting seashells for thirty years thereafter.&nbsp; These people often forfeit too much along the
way and, with little to do in their twilight years that &lsquo;gives back&rsquo; or &lsquo;adds
to others,&rsquo; they generally find &lsquo;retirement&rsquo; to be the most onerous season of
all.&nbsp; Especially in light of declining
health and barely-known children who have long since moved on and whose wings eclipsed any shallow roots.




Don&rsquo;t wither and fade in the 4th
quarter of your life; find something to do that is altruistic and contributory, just as Bob
Buford describes so wisely in Halftime.&nbsp; After all, if the first forty years are
about success, you owe it to
yourself&mdash;and others&mdash;to make the final forty about significance.

When is Workaholism...Bad?

Check-check, test-test...is this thing on?
&bull;&bull;&bull;
After 180 days offline, Blake's Blog is&mdash;once again&mdash;cooking with propane!
Sorry about that. Wonderfully consuming projects that keep the lights on and fridge full, a quick summer vacation, a server crash with nefarious tendrils, work trips, concerts, campus visits, covering for a beloved colleague on maternity leave, Homecomings, Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas holiday preparations, Homeland and Downton Abbey midnight marathons with my bride, droll doctor visits, standard errands, year-end altruism, ruminations (and procrastinations) about website re-designs...such things, evidently, trip a man up and slow things down.
Heck, we never even got around to writing (much less publishing) our autumn or winter LEATHLET newsletters. Again, our collective and my personal apologies.
But here we are again, and ringing in a New Year. The Hobbit is released, Django is enthusiastically unchained, the Trip is Guilty of hilarity, Jack has successfully Reached, Les Mis is jubilant, Life of Pi is infinitely inscrutable and only rarely computes, Lincoln was a phenomenal tele-play, the Guardians Rose (but did anyone see or hear them?), Skyfall rocketed, This is 40 is right, the controversial Promised Land is coming and, most excitingly, The Impossible and Zero Dark Thirty and Beautiful Creatures are calling our names. I love the guilty pleasures of pop culture. They (along with dinner rolls slathered in cinnamon butter) are such pleasant reprieves, however small and insignificant.&nbsp;
One of my 2013 personal aims is to read several works by Charles Dickens. Born 200 years ago this year, Dickens carols my name each and every Christmas, but I'm most eager to read American Notes for General Circulation and see how he walloped America upside its head like Billy Jack.&nbsp;
&bull;&bull;&bull;
I hope 2012 was your best year yet, and that 2013 will top it.
Momentarily, I'm off to read the transcript of a dear friend's forthcoming book, The Good Will Leader. (More about that next year.)
Then, just a few more holiday excursions, a couple remaining parties, evasive movies, gift returns, automobile repairs, financial closings, and then it'll be time to yank the starter-rope once again and rev-up the engine for another leg of the journey.
&nbsp;
Hugs to everyone in your life. Enjoy your moments, relish health, and count your blessings. They are typically more bountiful than meets the cursory eye.

...and We're Back!

Sorry; I&#39;ve just tweeted about Hank Haney&#39;s The Big Miss, but 140 characters is too small a tapestry to capture all that I want to get off my chest.&nbsp; But still, I&#39;ll keep it relatively short.










I just wanted to add that, sadly, Tiger&#39;s career (and professional and personal life) appears to be a staggering display of self-absorption.&nbsp; It is the pinnacle of narcissism.&nbsp; A modern day Greek tragedy describing a sailor lost at sea.&nbsp; A man with no north star, no sense of perspective, and no acceptance of any meaning, purpose or&nbsp;possibility beyond himself.










In reading it, one is blinded by the array of missed opportunities to build bridges between sports, health, research, education, ages, races, cultures.&nbsp; Tiger could have positively impacted and improved the lives of literally hundreds of thousands of men, women and children through virtuous, altruistic efforts.&nbsp; But he failed to lift a finger to include people in his life, on his board, on his team who had the wherewithal, connections, funds and vision to do so properly because he insisted on maintaining control and focus on that tiny white ball.










I am reminded of the maxim, &quot;He who is wrapped up in himself makes a very small package.&quot;










He proved a faithless husband who chose vitriolic misogyny (sorry, it&#39;s much more than &#39;just&#39; philandering) over marriage and&nbsp;traded his name, reputation, potential and legacy for temporary, vacuous thrills.










Hank&nbsp;reaches deep to explain or&nbsp;excuse Tiger&#39;s behaviors,&nbsp;seduced himself into the abyss of awe.&nbsp; I don&#39;t care&nbsp;one iota about&nbsp;Tiger&#39;s&nbsp;swing, his record, his endorsements, his wealth, his fame, his legend, Stanford, his Navy SEALs training, his friendships with pro athletes and celebrities, his estates, his private planes, his Nike sporting goods, his Learning Centers, his sponsored tournaments, his video games or his popsicles.










What I care about is the fact that this potentially extraordinary human being, blessed with&nbsp;talent more than sufficient to raise the water level for others, did not.










He could have established a&nbsp;sports program in this country that might have reduced childhood obesity or diabetes.










He could have brokered deals to establish sports&nbsp;scholarships in every state.










He could have been an ambassador for character.










He could have been a role model.










He could have been an authentic&nbsp;friend.&nbsp; An encourager.&nbsp; An inspiration and a guide.










What Hank justifies as &quot;The Package&quot; (Tiger&#39;s combustible combination of strengths and weaknesses&nbsp;that define&nbsp;who he is and why he&#39;s good) don&#39;t pass the sniff test.&nbsp; By any textbook, 10 x 0 = 0, so no matter the quality of Tiger&#39;s swing or golf game, he has proven, to date, to simply be an &#39;athlete,&#39; and a distracted one at best.










Athleticism and Wins&nbsp;are zero substitute for an honorable&nbsp;life well lived.










I sincerely hope that Tiger experiences a true awakening in his life but, as we know, without a change of heart, the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.










Tiger did not become a better person with the perspective of having lost his beloved father; he did not become a better person when he&nbsp;lost his marriage; he did not become a better person when he completed therapy after being vilified so publicly for sex addiction.&nbsp; But perhaps he still may.&nbsp; He&nbsp;remains young. 










Should the lightbulb go off and everything click, he could very well experience five coming decades of tremendous social and societal contribution.&nbsp; He sits at a very unique nexus, one from which he could do a great deal of good.










Let&#39;s pray that he chooses the right path; the one of selflessness, humility, love, contribution, true excellence&nbsp;and life rather than self-destruction.

The Bigger Miss

A
tale about toothpaste manufacturing&mdash;from which we all can learn a thing or two.
It comes to me by way of a client, who has submitted it to snopes.com, in the
hope of getting to the bottom of it. 




A
toothpaste factory had a problem: they sometimes shipped empty boxes without
the tube inside. This was due to the way the production line was set up, and
people with experience designing production lines will tell you how
difficult it is to have everything&nbsp;occur&nbsp;so precisely that every
single unit coming&nbsp;off the line&nbsp;is perfect 100% of the time. Small variations in
the environment (which can&rsquo;t be controlled in a cost-effective fashion) mean
one must have quality assurance checks smartly distributed&nbsp;throughout the line so
customers all the way down&nbsp;at the supermarket don&rsquo;t get&nbsp;angry and buy
another product instead.




Understanding
how important this is, the CEO of the toothpaste factory got the top people in
the company together and they decided to start a new project in which they
would hire an external engineering company to solve their empty boxes problem,
as the engineering department was already too stretched to take on any extra
effort.




The
project followed the usual process: budget and project sponsor allocated, RFP,
third-parties selected, and six months (and $8 million) later they had a
fantastic solution&mdash;on time, on budget, high quality and everyone&nbsp;involved&nbsp;in the&nbsp;project
had a great time.




They
solved the problem by using high-tech precision scales that would sound a bell
and flash lights whenever a toothpaste box&nbsp;weighed less than it should. The
line would stop, and someone&nbsp;would walk over and yank the defective box off
it, pressing another button when done to re-start the line.




A
while later, the CEO decided to have a look at the ROI of the project: amazing
results!&nbsp; No empty boxes ever shipped out of the factory after the scales were
put in place. Very few customer complaints, and they were gaining market
share. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s some money well spent,&rdquo; he said, before looking closely at the
other statistics in the report.




As it
turned out, the number of defects picked up by the scales was 0 after three
weeks of production use. It should&rsquo;ve been picking up at least a dozen a day,
so maybe there was something wrong with the report? He filed a bug against it
and, after some investigation, the engineers came back&nbsp;and said&nbsp;the report was
actually correct. The scales really weren&#39;t picking up any defects, because all
boxes that got to that point on the conveyor belt were good.




Puzzled,
the CEO traveled down to the factory and walked up to the part of the line where
the precision scales were installed.&nbsp; A few feet before the scale, there was a
$20 desk fan blowing the empty boxes&nbsp;off the belt and into a bin.




&ldquo;Oh,
that,&rdquo; remarked a worker, &ldquo;One of the guys put it there &rsquo;cause he was
tired of walking over every time the bell rang.&quot;




&nbsp;