Fishing Lessons

Have you ever watched the sun rise at Stonehenge? It doesn’t just rise—it arrives, like an honored guest. And those ancient stones, weathered by millennia, stand not to worship, but to witness. You see, the builders of Stonehenge weren’t trying to control the cosmos. They were aligning with it. They knew something we’ve mostly forgotten—that time is not a straight line, but a spiral. And the solstice? It’s a turning point on that spiral. A breath between the in-breath and out-breath. And as I reflect, it strikes me—this may be the only true holiday. Not one invented by humans, but one the Earth has always kept. A sacred pause in the dance between the Earth and the Sun. Not for gods or governments—but for gravity and light. No moon governs it. No myth defines it. It is a cosmic ceremony written into the fabric of the universe—a moment of pure alignment between two partners in an ancient romance. For what is the sun without the Earth to receive it? A brilliant emptiness. And what ...

One of the greatest gifts my father gave me was the core belief that I was lucky. I believed it—because he believed it. “I’d rather be lucky than good” was a phrase I heard often, especially when things just seemed to fall into place. As someone who struggled to learn in the way school was structured, I began to see luck not just as chance, but as a kind of talent—something I could lean into, trust, and even develop. In a world where I didn’t always feel traditionally capable, believing I was lucky became my superpower. But my father didn’t leave success up to luck alone. When I asked him questions about life or work, he’d often respond in his best imitation of his old Jewish boss: “You vaunt nice things? You have to vork hard.” And he knew no one succeeds alone. He constantly preached the importance of building a “Bud Network”—a trusted group of people you can rely on and grow with. Put those three together—believing you're lucky, working hard, and surrounding yourself with good p...

You see, in this curious game of life, most people spend their energy trying to hide their flaws. Patch them up. Tuck them in. Deny them. But the truly awakened ones—those rare few—broadcast their imperfections with rhythmic precision and razor-sharp wit. I realized this as I watched the rise of Eminem. and one particular song has always given me the chills, so I wanted to dig into the significance. Now, why on Earth would a man air out his deepest insecurities on a public stage? Why would he, in the midst of battle rap—a verbal warzone—hand his opponent the ammunition? Ah… precisely because it disarms them. When Eminem raps, “I am white, I am a f***in’ bum, I do live in a trailer with my mom,” he’s not inviting ridicule. He’s transcending it. He’s pulled the rug out from under the entire illusion of attack. For if I’ve already accepted—and even weaponized—my flaws, what could you possibly say to hurt me? You’re left shadowboxing. Swinging at phantoms. This, you see, is the spiritual a...

There once was a husband and wife who had, from the outside, everything. A garden of abundance, a roof of security, the laughter of children, even the echo of their younger selves still clinging to memories of love. But over time, something crept in—not a monster, not a curse, but the most ordinary of things: familiarity.  And as familiarity took root, so did blindness. Not literal blindness, but the kind that no longer sees. You know, the way you stop hearing the hum of a refrigerator after a while. Or how the flowers you planted lose their magic simply because they’ve bloomed too long in your field of view.  And so, each of them—this husband and this wife—began to feel unseen, unheard, and unheld. He would speak with frustration, not because he was angry, but because he felt invisible. She would reply with sharpness, not because she was cruel, but because she felt unworthy. They had begun to poison their Garden of Eden—not with malice, but with misunderstanding. And here is ...

Before you arrived in this world—before breath, before bone—you agreed to something. Not to a job, or a title, or a bank account. You agreed to a curriculum. A peculiar kind of education not made of facts and figures, but of lessons. Lessons in love, in humility, in letting go. You laid them out like breadcrumbs on the forest floor of time. Some in order. Some scattered, just to keep things interesting. Now, imagine you’re walking through your day and—oh!—a conflict arises. Most people recoil. “What a shame,” they say. “The day was going so well until that happened.” But what if that tension, that friction, wasn’t a mistake, but an invitation? A reminder that one of your hidden lessons has just stepped into the light. When two people disagree, it is as if life has placed two piles of treasure on the table between them. One is pure gold—the lesson you came here to learn. The other is fool’s gold—shiny, self-righteous, and utterly hollow. Now, if you see the disagreement not as an attack...