Category: Do No Harm


Like millions of other married couples across the globe, Prince Harry and the Duchess of Sussex, Meghan Markle, split. Hit the road. Off to wherever. Canada. Los Angeles, CA. or maybe someplace else.

There was so much gnashing and wailing that I ran to the window to confirm the sun hadn’t ceased to exist. Truth be told, it hadn’t.

Many Royal family watchers claim to know the reason. The ladies I overheard while sipping coffee weren’t unlike many naysayers.

“Who the hell would leave royalty?” queried the first.

“All that money,” replied the second.

“God,” sighed the third. “All that free child care.”

Raucous laughter.

“I hear she’s moody,” interjected the first.

“Yeah. Has to be her (Markle),” said another.

Sure. Of course, we know. It HAS to be Markle, has to. Yeah. Yeah. It’s her. Everything was fine until she showed up.

What idiotic thinking! I wanted to applaud the royal couple’s move. If I was under such pressure, every step analyzed, compared, commented upon, I would leave as well. And truthfully, that’s what I did in 1978. 

I graduated from high school and went a week later to the military. Like Markle, I, too, was never considered good enough. In my world, my brother received first billing. He was the best at everything. His grades were better; his friends were better, his girlfriend was better, his car was better, his physique was better, even his d*** was probably better. 

Of course, had I fell in line, then all the world, i.e., my world, would be well, peachy. 

For much of my life, I was considered an accessory. Like a piece of furniture, I was expected to fit a specific role, blend into a corner, respond when asked, but not offer any objective view different than that which had been espoused by seniors. Like Markle, my needs melted into a burning resentment, and sometimes, anger. 

Prince Harry and Markle will learn what I learned: It’s challenging to sever ‘ties that bind.’ 

When I first started dating my first wife, my mother called and pleaded that my girlfriend would ‘steal me away from the family,’ that I was required to attend holidays, birthdays, and other festivities. And when schisms occurred, I was responsible, regardless. I represented independence, an independence many didn’t adore.

Exhibit self-sovereignty wasn’t allowed. The effort required years to sever. Like Markle, shortly after college graduation, I ditched all of my friends, split from my family, and became the driving force in my own life narrative. 

Of course, I suffered. Mistakes were made. I noted many regrets in this blog, many to which I will have to account upon meeting God. However, they were my mistakes. 

In the early years of my departure, I was ridiculed. I presume Prince Harry and Meghan Markle will experience the same. The royal couple will undoubtedly be pilloried for their decision. Some will claim hypocrisy — others’ greed. A plethora of website commentators will willingly dish out criticism; others may protest, and some will expound vile commentary, both racist and hurtful. 

For all the naysayers I’ve read, I ask one question? Has anyone criticized Jesus for doing something radical, like giving up royalty and coming to earth? How about Siddhartha Gautama? Jesus, of course, is the same Son of God who gave up his royal identity to walk amongst us common folk. Siddhartha Gautama abdicated his privileged life to live in poverty and self-denial. Had either of these holy men walked among today’s masses and Internet trolls, what criticism would we offer? What reinforcement would we provide? Heck, what if Jesus had daycare?

I’m ashamed of the racism Markle received. I cannot relate, but many black citizens can. I’m sure many privileged willingly offered sneers and jeers. Yet, as we embrace the diatribe, many remain unwilling to reach into the pain of a couple, merely trying to establish a family, while simultaneously attempting to provide their son a better life.

For the Shylock’s among us, you’ve had your pound of flesh. Few can relate to the life of a mixed-race woman living life while trying to understand her own identity. And many cannot understand losing a mother who died trying to outrun paparazzi. Prince William claimed walking behind his mother’s coffin ‘one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.’ Imagine doing it knowing tens of millions watching.

If you want to understand the royal couple’s decision, maybe one needs to re-watch The Truman Show, where everything in Truman Burbank’s (Jim Carrey) life was part of a massive TV set. The ‘real’ appeared real but wasn’t. He questioned, doubted, and yearned for freedom. He faced betrayal and even faced death. Awakening from a shipwreck, Truman became free to live the way he wanted.

When I think about it, it seems simple. Maybe we need to offer the royal couple something most of us had: It’s the chance to live the life they want.

I’ll even bet God is rooting for them. I am.

According to CNN, MSNBC and Fox News, U.S. Intelligence officials indicate that Iran may have accidentally shot down Ukraine Flight PS752 while firing missiles during a retaliatory strike.

In total, 176 people were killed, including 82 Iranians and 63 Canadians. Victims also included crew members from Ukraine, four Afghans, three Britons and three Germans.

Trump may be right that, directly, the U.S. was not responsible for crash of flight PS752. However, indirectly, these deaths may have never occurred if the U.S. did not strike down Suleimani.

In the end, it’s always innocent citizens that pay the price for ‘stupid.’

God, the Almighty, has promised to get his revenge,” said the man who will take over for Iran’s Qassim Suleimani. Thus, the increasing cycle of fear and escalating cycle of retaliation is reborn.

Twenty years ago, I visited Northern Ireland. Walking along the haunting image of the wall brought me back to a 60 Minutes report during the early 1970s. In 1974, Morley Safer reported on just how much destruction and devastation Northern Ireland was facing. The conflict was named “The Troubles.”

The Troubles was a violent Ireland sectarian conflict lasting from 1968 to 1998 between Protestant unionists (loyalists), who desired the province to remain part of the United Kingdom, and the Roman Catholic nationalists (republicans), who wanted Northern Ireland to become part of the Republic of Ireland

Safer was able to gather a group of young Catholics and Protestants. One of the most compelling lines I remember today came from a young attendee. The exchange (not verbatim) went something like:

“Why do you want to kill (him/her)?” Shafer asked.

“Because that’s what my father did.”

In 1995, Shafer returned and met the town doctor, Charles Sullivan. Sullivan told Safer that many children suffered a series of psychological side effects as a result of the war — from nightmares to stuttering. The worst of it, he said, was that children were starting to associate all deaths with violence.

Fast forward to Iran.

The killing of Qassem Suleimani, is probably one the most consequential act taken against the regime in Tehran in thirty years—even if we don’t know what those consequences will be. One thing is clear: conflicts between countries could easily spin out of control.

World War I started after heir Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated. A 1325 war between two Italian states, Bologna and Modena, killed 2,000 people. It started because some Modenese soldiers took the bucket from Bologna’s town well. A 1925 fight that saw 20,000 Greeks meet 10,000 Bulgarians on the battlefield. The catalyst was a dog that had gotten away from a Greek soldier. The soldier chased after the dog and Bulgarian border guards, seeing a Greek soldier running through their territory, shot him. At least 50 people died.

Mathematician Peter Turchin’s research suggests America’s cycle of violence repeats every 50 years. The surge of violence begins in the same way as a forest fire: explosively. Only after a period of escalation, followed by sustained violence, citizens start to “yearn for the return of stability and an end to the fighting.” And what is that ‘explosive?’ Stupidity.

The commonality between the Northern Ireland conflict, World War 1, the 1325 Bologna and Modena war, and the Greek Bulgarian war is ‘stupidity.’ When it comes to predicting the future, history reminds us of crucial warning signals – heightened rhetoric or the inability to understand the other side. War’s participants fail to grasp how the other side was thinking and feeling.

In spirituality, our morality is founded upon principles, not rules. In Buddhism, these beliefs are expressed in Precepts and include loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity. In general, most spiritual principles include kindness, gentleness, mercy, and tolerance. The same is true of most religions. Even the most extreme circumstances do not erase those principles or make it “righteous” or “good” to violate them. Yet, we do.

History shows us how wars start. But history also teaches us how rarely they turn out as planned. History also shows us how difficult conflicts are to stop. Much has changed about war, but certain things remain constant: Stupidity and death.

The only thing that wins is death.

A New Hope

On December 30th, a suicide occurred. I am thinking of one in particular, but technically, speaking, neither event, time, or place matters. In suicide’s wake, most are likely to be stunned, even surprised. 

“Never saw it coming,” said one.

Robin Williams August 2014 suicide was devastating to those who knew him best. His suicide came at the end of a long decline. Williams faced unnerving challenges, both professionally and personally. His career had stalled, he harbored guilt about divorce and reeled from a Parkinson’s diagnosis (later revealed to Lewy body dementia, an aggressive and incurable brain disorder).

Most miss the signs. Why? A colleague whose son attempted suicide posed hard questions. 

How did this happen? What warning signs did we miss? How will I ever let him out of my sight again? How will I keep him safe? What do we do next?

Of course, certain tendencies may help determine when to get support. It is essential to note that my experience as a rescue man so many years ago left me one truth: warning signs are unique to each person. And some show very few signs at all.

So, I’ll admit. I have considered suicide myself. Not only during high school (especially after a distant friend’s suicide), but more recently, suicide was my chosen method of departure when life’s physical pain and burden exceeded value. However, I busted through such thoughts.

Attending a Buddhist seminar years ago, an audience participant posed a penetrating question: “What happens to someone after suicide?” A monk replied, “Rebirth, and then who knows?” It’s a skillful answer, but a political one. The response is common among politicians. Leaves you something, leaves you nothing.

When asked of suicide consequence, most regurgitate Buddhism’s first precept: Do no harm. Yeah, we get it. Suicide’s act creates a host of significant implications. Almost every dominant religion view’s one’s birth as incredibly precious. Therefore, they purport, such opportunities are not to be wasted. However, if life itself were significant, why do our leaders openly harm those they’re entrusted to serve?

Is there hope? Yes, even by merely sipping coffee. 

Hope For The Day indicates suicide completion rates have surged to a 30-year high. Like many such organizations, Hope For The Day performed proactive suicide prevention by providing outreach and mental health education. They believe suicide is a preventable mental health crisis, with the primary obstacle to suicide prevention is silence. In 2018, Hope For The Day assisted over 500,000 individuals.

I support Hope For The Day by sipping coffee. Sip of Hope is the world’s first coffee shop where 100% of the proceeds support proactive suicide prevention and mental health education. 

I believe one challenge we all can undertake this New Year is to provide hope . . . to everyone. Clean what keeps us closed to those we love. And forgive. I do believe our goodness survives death. And in God, we can cultivate that goodness in ourselves as well as nurture and celebrate the kindness of others around us. 

Our country must come to terms with the fact that suicide has to be taken out of ‘shame’s corner.’ You can do it by sipping coffee.

Years ago, Ron Srigley taught a class in which many students failed the midterm. Not just failed, but failed miserably. He asked the students what went wrong. After a few moments of silence, one young woman put up her hand and said: “We don’t understand what the books say, sir. We don’t understand the words.” Srigley looked around and saw guileless heads pensively nodding in agreement.

I experienced a similar phenomenon several weeks ago in a restaurant outside Tucson, Arizona, after a beautiful meal, I requested a $100 gift certificate for my parents. New to completing such a task, the manager assisted the young server.

Manager, “Make sure you write ‘For food and non-alcoholic beverages.’”

A pause ensued as I watched the young server.

“Ugh,” she anguished. “How do you spell ‘alcohol?’ I need my cell phone.

Mark Zuckerberg’s reformulated Facebook’s mission statement aims to “give people power to build community and bring the world closer together.” The price for this form of community is the loss of human relationships. All of us stick our faces into our phones when face to face communication is required. Why? Mainly because we don’t know how to communicate.

I wonder if God uses a cell phone? Not sure. In 2017, a blog author outlined 15 must-have apps Christian Apps that will inspire growth. Likewise, there’s a list of 15 Buddhist Apps that will provide daily inspiration and joy. There are at least “7 best prayer apps” guaranteed to grow your faith (as opposed to the 100 or so non-guaranteed). There are apps that will remind you to pray and others that will ask others to pray. (Mind you, I am unclear why the phone’s calendar appointment couldn’t do that function, but nonetheless.) By the way, Google can now point you in the right direction for Mecca, and there’s a host of religious dating apps. Lastly, God now has a television show “God Friended Me,” in which an atheist gets a friend request from ‘God’ via Facebook.

So…does all of this help with our connection to people, and likewise, to God? We’ve become so used to not talking that it scares many to have such serious conversations. Now, any of us risk that one incorrectly used exclamation point will end a friendship. And certainly an inappropriate picture has plummeted careers. It’s a point our current leaders have learned: The lack of face-to-face interaction demeans and depersonalizes. It’s a subset of society and or religion altogether.

For instance—I kid you not—I just received a text message from someone from Denver, Colorado (720) ***-****. I have no clue who the person(s) is/are. It could be anyone. I presume it is a woman, for the person(s) sent an anime of a woman dressed in a Santa outfit riding a dragon. However, I presume the person wishes me ‘Happy Holidays.’ It could be ironic. Just the other day I was praying, and jokingly said to the deceased person I prayed about, “Ah. Send me a text letting me know how you’re doing.” Maybe it’s visible proof that God allows cell phone use. However, the test came from an Android phone. Does that mean God uses only Android? Irregardless, hate to see that one-time text charge from the hereafter.

Looping back to Ron Srigley, Srigley offered his students extra credit if they gave up their phones for nine days and wrote about the experience. Twelve students took the offer. The results were impressive, as many students wrote of being both distracted and morally compromised.

  • Kate: “Having a cell phone has affected my code of morals, and this scares me … I regret to admit that I have texted in class this year, something I swore to myself in high school that I would never do … I am disappointed in myself now that I see how much I have come to depend on technology … I start to wonder if it has affected who I am as a person, and then I remember that it already has.”
  • And James, though he says we must continue to develop our technology, said that “what many people forget is that it is vital for us not to lose our fundamental values along the way.”

Of course, I write all of this with full knowledge that, for all practical purposes, I’m a blogger. Still, I doubt if the (720) area code text was from God or otherwise. And maybe, just maybe, God does follow my blog. Never know, right? I have no clue, but I’ll keep you apprised. My point is simple, put the phone down and meaningful conversations, both personal and spiritual.

God wants personal, not a text. And those you love deserve the same.

Pathway

It’s been a strange week in Washington (D.C.)

It started approximately four days ago. Washington Post columnist Erik Wemple began his column stating that in the early months of the Trump administration, Attorney General Sessions pledged to take a hard line against leaks of classified information.

Why that reference? Who was Wemple opining? Henry Kyle Frese.

On October 9th, Henry Kyle Frese, 30, was arrested on Wednesday at his office at the Defense Intelligence Agency. Mr. Frese allegedly shared information with two reporters: CNBC reporters Amanda Macias, a national security reporter who also appeared to be his girlfriend, and NBC reporter Courtney Kube.

On Thursday, Lev Parnas and Igor Fruman, associates of President Trump’s lawyer Rudy Giuliani, were arrested before flights departing the United States. Parnas and Fruman were part of the pressure campaign on Ukraine to investigate Democrat Joe Biden and Hunter Biden. This criminal case exposes the president’s allies as Mr. Trump tries to discredit ongoing impeachment efforts in Congress.

All of these have one common theme, conflict of interest.

In the CNBC/NBC reporter case, why not have sex with the people they cover?

The answer is painfully obvious: No. Never partner in a business with sources, much less become boyfriend/girlfriend. Such mixing contaminates the end product with the taint of compromise and conflict of interest. Kube should have seen that coming. Yet, she willfully agreed to work on sourced material from Frese and Macias.

In the case of Parnas and Fruman, ethics manuals and rules, either didn’t exist or didn’t deter blending business with criminal probing.

We’ve become accustomed to such intermingling. Hollywood romances such relationships, often adopting this forbidden pairing to power stories, often with female bedding a source. A shortlist of contemporary movies, and TV shows include:

  • Thank You for Smoking;
  • Absence of Malice;
  • Nashville;
  • Scoop;
  • Scandal;
  • Trainwreck;
  • Top Five;
  • How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days;
  • The Fly;
  • Fletch;
  • Mr. Deeds;
  • Three Kings;
  • The West Wing;
  • Crazy Heart; and
  • Iron Man.

After my ethical lapses in business, including one that sacrificed a career ten years ago, I reapplied Spiritual training to my life. I better understand issues of conflicts based on wealth (Trump), sexuality (Catholic sex scandals), and power (Me Too movement). While each member of society is expected to dedicate him or herself to training, avoiding such mistakes, and harmful actions. When such transgressions occur, destructive forces can be released. Thus, such instances must be acknowledged and worked with skillfully through the wisdom of both inner spiritual thought and practical ethical standards.

A Code of Ethics provides a pathway. And I cannot help but think that all the participants referenced in this blog post should have remembered that ‘pathway’ and asked one critical question.

“If I had to justify my actions, how would others view it?”

Had that question been asked, all of this could have been avoided. Yet, here we are. Therein, I query.

“What’s your pathway?”

Plowshares

When asked about my disease, my comparison is root rot. Yeah, true. Webster’s Dictionary will define root rot as a condition in which the roots of a plant begin to decay, but that’s where I’m at. My days are composed of overcoming various problems: stiffness, numb hands, dropping things, sporadic tremors, and so on. The latest issue is extreme neck numbness accompanied by full neck lock.

Several nights ago, while sitting in a comfortable chair watching the Cubs lose, I suddenly became unable to turn my neck. I quickly downed some essential medication. After an hour, little relief was achieved and grabbed my one form of ‘use at last resort’ medicine, a muscle relaxer, and pain blocker. By night’s close, I drifted off to beautiful sleep.

At dawn’s early light, I stumbled from the bed, showered, drank a cup of coffee, downed a batch of morning medications, dressed and reached for my Smith and Wesson 351PD.

Before this weapon, the only gun I ever owned was a Lone Ranger toy gun received from my Uncle at years for Christmas. Of course, I grew into a trained sniper and handled many weapons during my time in the military, yet I hadn’t owned a gun until 2017. Ownership came after being robbed while coming from a department store. And Smith and Wesson became my choice for personal protection. The 351 PD I carried provided me with a sense of security. With it, merely flashing the weapon to another would-be robber was all required to dispel an attack,

From there, I somehow acquired 8.

Strangely, in spite of everything, I could still shoot. My military instructors would be damn proud. I put in countless hours at the range, and in spite of my root rot, I could shoot nearly as good as some competitors.

Still groggy from the previous night’s medication, I flipped the cylinder open to ensure proper loading, spun the cylinder for the hell of it, handle in right-hand, barrel resting in my left, while and carefully checked the trigger.

The trigger slipped — a rookie mistake made by a professional.

Surprisingly, the. 22 caliber bullet provided little recoil. Amazingly, the bullet travel between my index finger and middle finger touched neither. Best I can tell, the shot angled through the drywall, wedging in a wall stud.

The explosion still resonates in my ear today. Suffice to say; it was huge. It was the first time I heard a weapon discharge so close to my ear. My ear still rings. That sound is forever etched in my mind. I’ll never forget it.

For the first time in my life, I understood the fear of gun violence; it’s sound and the fear of being shot. I could have been seriously wounded. Under different circumstances, I could have seriously injured a loved one or bystander.

The hundreds of hours spent in training is futile when one is slightly groggy. At that moment, I became a threat.

I was blinded to the real possibilities of killing someone. The idea to purchase the weapon was to feel safer. In a split second, I realized just how idyllic and self-delusional. I wasn’t warped by NRA, by some fancy salesman, by the notion of the second amendment. I had distorted by a belief that a weapon would make me safer.

I broke my honor, and the Buddhist precept of Ahimsa, do not harm. The real villain in this story is not the man who robbed me years ago. It’s was neither media nor gun rights advocates. The real villain was ignorance — my ignorance. I projected my fear unto a dreamlike state of peace that could never be created. Personal peace via a weapon cannot be attained.

Late afternoon, I gathered my weapons and handed them over for destruction.

I ended the fantasy.

————————

. . . and they shall beat their swords into plowshares . . .

Isaiah 2:4

And the good old days
They say they’re gone.
Only wise men
And some new born fools
Say they know what’s going on.
But I sometimes think the difference is
Just in how I think and see
And the only changes going on
Are going on in me.

~ Changes, 1973, Harry Chapin ~

In my younger days as a consultant, I would charge off into the world, serving as one of the few ‘hired guns’ that would bail clients out of sticky situations, regardless of whether the client was good or bad. As my former boss would say, “Some of our best clients are our worst clients.” I never overthought it. I would show up, work hard. Sometimes, I didn’t know the endgame. Other times, I did.

Life was a constant ever cyclical season of waves. Like a weather-beaten sea captain, I never gave fear center stage. In the still of the night some years ago, I silently confided: I never feared the surface, but I thought long and hard of the devil underneath. Storms would come, toss the boat, bang your insides, and then … calm.

And just as the Buddha predicted, everything changed. From top consultant, no tumor, to patient … Patient ID: H78 . . . blah, blah . . .blah, blah, blah.

In the 90 days since, there are times when I’ve felt very voiceless. Pre-tumor, my weapons of choice, i.e., my medical knowledge and knowledge of the medical proved defenseless against my body. Now, doctors and nurses play high-stakes chess within the confines of my bones as I remain simply a witness.

There are some positives. I’ve had the opportunity to revisit and evaluate several facets of my life. There are all the usual priorities one normally debates: family, careers and other relationships. For me, I was able to look past the disease itself and found transforming truths. First, never take life for granted. Second, love better. Third, I don’t know all the answers. Fourth, there’s significant joy in learning to let go.

I wish to focus on the fourth, letting go, for a moment. It’s hard to believe my blog has lasted over seven years. To date, I’ve listed over 600 blog posts. Throughout my last seven years, I’ve focused on making amends. A May 2012 blog post recorded:

“. . . success of one’s faith might be found in the value of your morals and the willingness to make amends, even when that test may be so brutally honest and painful. I will say this up front; my Atonement List has twenty-six (26) severely painful situations requiring amends, including:

    • The Catholic Church, for all my mortal sins;
    • The only love of my life ~ for whom God called us and I broke your trust;
    • Former boss for violating my position;
    • Financial mistakes; and
    • Mother and Father, for not being the son you could honor.

Twenty-six (26). That’s quite a list–almost one for every year I have roamed the corporate world. I felt an obligation to honor the Atonement List. I researched and contacted all of the people I could. In some cases, the outcome was exceedingly painful. Seven (7) of the twenty-six (26) refused my amends, including the Catholic Church and my love. Eleven (11) forgave me. Four (4) couldn’t be located and four (4) others are a work in progress.

Those numbers haven’t changed in seven years. The only thing that changed, was me.

I told my case manager this past Thursday that I awoke earlier this week and found myself forgiven–the deck was cleared–my sins forgiven. I told her, it was not a ‘faith,’ but rather a ‘knowing.’ I simply knew it. My life is nearing a plateau, maybe its crescendo. And I believe that’s it, some ‘thing’ is coming.

And I feel that something’s coming, and it’s not just in the wind.
It’s more than just tomorrow, it’s more than where we’ve been,
It offers me a promise, it’s telling me “Begin”,
It’s something worth believing in.
~ Remember When the Music, 1980, Harry Chapin ~

‘Begin.’

Three weeks ago, Ms. Kalabash, my 63-year-old neighbor, stopped me before my travel to Sacramento. She noted how the cool early morn temperature floated through her shoulder-length hair, of the crisp morning air, and of the birds jotting from tree to tree.

“Beautiful morning. Just beautiful,” Kalabash exclaimed. Noting my luggage, “Where are you off to this week?”

“Ah. To the desert –Sacramento.”

“Why? What the hell’s there?”

“Ah, someone decided it was a great place to build a company headquarters.”

She raised an eyebrow while simultaneously wrinkling her nose. “Well,” she paused. “Have a great trip.”

It was the last time I saw Kalabash.

Three days ago, a realtor notice posted a for sale sign the community bulletin board. Deep in debt from recurring years of arthritic pain, and no hope blooming over the horizon, she went to bed on June 10th and never awoke. Some speculated she passed from lack of proper medical care. Others claimed she downed a series of pills in sequence and committed suicide.

Meeting her daughter yesterday afternoon, her daughter indicated Kalabash was over $60,000 in medical debt, even with insurance. “My mother couldn’t keep up,” wiping away an errant tear. Kalabash racked up more than several thousand dollars in out-of-pocket medical expenses—doctors, x-rays, surgeons, anesthesiologists, radiologists, and pharmaceuticals, you name it. She had health insurance. However, the policy had a $6,000 deductible.

Herein lay just one debate over the future of the Affordable Care Act—just because a person is insured, doesn’t mean healthcare is affordable. Years and years of deductibles add up. For those with lifetime illnesses, physicians, hospitals, pharmaceuticals, and other medical costs are killers.

And like many others before, Kalabash became invisible. She disappeared into the night.

Kalabash became invisible – to everyone.

Invisible. Strange word.

Like Kalabash, I don’t look sick yet. Like Kalabash, I’ve told nothing of my health to but only a limited few. Clothes hide weight loss; drugs help me walk; smiles and laughter disarm the curious. As a result, I can find myself not wanting to go out, even if I if can, because the importance of willing to be accepted is more critical than the months remaining. How I look doesn’t necessarily reflect how I feel.

Invisibility can bring tragic consequences. Kalabash feared misunderstanding over what it meant to be disabled. Too sick to work and be active also meant she couldn’t go out to a restaurant or experience a night out. She feared her long-term disability payments would be revoked if someone saw them being active in some way, perhaps going to the store.

Kalabash felt the burden was on her to be invisible to others. It turns out; she died that way.

For those living an invisible life, Author Toni Bernhard wrote:

… I remembered something a [Buddhist] teacher had said: ‘If your compassion doesn’t include yourself, it is incomplete.’

Bernhard’s comments will come as a challenge to many, but looking at myself,  maybe I need to stop blaming myself for getting sick. It might help if the world does the same.

‘All In’

According to Reuters, when choosing a flight, U.S. fliers apparently prefer ticket prices over air safety. In fact, recent safety issues of the Boeing 737 Max had had little impact. Only 3 percent said that aircraft or model was important when buying a plane ticket. In contrast, 57 percent said ticket price was critical.

However, Southwest Airlines passengers expressed concerns on social media after confusion over on-board safety cards led passengers to think they were flying on a Boeing 737 Max. In reality, Southwest had already grounded all 737 Max airplane and stated the safety card used can be used for more than one plane model, adding that safety procedures for the 737 Max and 737-800 are identical.

In other words, up to the point of takeoff, people were more concerned about. Unfortunately folks, at that point, it’s too late. You’re ‘all in.’ You’ve succumbed to fate.

In American usage, the phrase “all in” began as a colloquial expression meaning to be in a bad spot—exhausted, worn out, and spent. In the game of poker, it refers to the moment when a player—whether out of bravado, recklessness, or desperation—bets all of his or her chips on a single hand. The all-in moment in poker is a thrilling win-or-lose-everything crisis of dramatic clarity: you’ve wagered all you’ve got, giving your fate over to the cards, and you can’t go back out again.

“Can you drive me to my car? It’s late and I parked in an unsafe area after dark.”

“Why didn’t you park in the parking garage across directly across the street?”

“Well, the garage costs $90.00 a month,” she paused.

“And you didn’t want to pay $90.00 a month?” I interjected, finishing the sentence.

“Correct.”

Knowing the position she has at the firm, I’m fairly confident her annual salary nears $120,000 annually. Roughly speaking, she bet her life on $1,200 savings, a smidgen less than 1% of her salary.

“So, you placed savings above safety?”

“Huh?” she quipped.

“You bet personal safety for less than 1% of your salary?”

“Hey, don’t jinx me,” she snapped. Continuing, “You’ll be responsible if I get hurt.”

“Yes, I will feel bad if you get injured. However, you went ‘all in,’ not me'”

History will tell you that going all in is often a spectacularly bad idea. In life though, it seems all good. In life we hope many of poker’s words and phrases bring forth a sense of romance and drama that break the normal mundane activities of life. in many cases, we simply want to up the ante.

In life, almost everything contains some level of risk; the key to success is to identify an appropriate risk tolerance and then manage the that tolerance. In some instances, this may mean avoidance of any loss is appropriate, but in others moderate losses may be tolerable. In my friend’s case, there’s appears to little reward in gaining less than 1% reward. Sure, should she live that same routine over a decade, the reward would equal nearly $12,000. Then again, a decade of wages would net $1,200,000. The risk reward remains at 1%.

Going ‘all in.’ Wagering everything for the 1% is why Vegas almost always wins.

Pretty stupid.

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