Fishing Lessons

You drive out of town, away from the neon hum of business and entertainment, and the road begins to twist and climb. Fields roll past, mountains breathe on the horizon—some of the most ancient mountains in the world. A gravel road greets you with horses, donkeys, and late-summer wildflowers: goldenrod and Joe Pye. The climb grows steeper. You can’t see what lies ahead. A small fear stirs—Perhaps I’m lost, perhaps I’ve gone the wrong way. Then a sudden blind turn heightens the anxiety. But soon the ground levels, the trees part, and the horizon unfurls into something vast and alive. If you pause—if you really arrive—you’ll notice nature begins her conversation immediately. The air has a taste, the silence has a sound, the stars themselves seem to gather here at night. The lack of cell service is not a flaw, but a feature. Here, absence becomes presence, and distance dissolves the noise. At first, you may think: This is so far away from everything I need. I thought that too. I couldn’t i...

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...

Life, you see, is much like a walk toward the sun. In the dawn of youth, the light is in front of you, a brilliant, enticing, a promise of warmth and wonder. You stride eagerly toward it, oblivious to the fact that behind you, stretching long and dark, lies your shadow. It is there, whether you choose to see it or not, quietly accompanying you. At this age, the shadow is merely a whisper, an echo of your being. You are too absorbed in chasing the light to notice the darkness that follows. You are busy constructing identities, conjuring futures, and building castles of ambition. The shadow is an idea you’ve heard of, perhaps glimpsed in others, but never acknowledged as your own. Then, inevitably, you reach midday, the symbolic age of 40 the so-called mid-life crisis, but truly, it is a mid-life realization. At noon, the sun is directly above, and there is nowhere for your shadow to hide. There it is, underneath you, intimately connected to your very being. In this moment, you confron...

 There once was a man who loved his dog more deeply than words could express. She had been his angel, his companion, a source of endless joy and love. A symbol of unconditional love. But as she grew older, the burdens of her care began to weigh on him and his family. The dog, once a boundless source of happiness, now required constant attention. She pooped in the house frequently, leading to frustrations and arguments over who would clean up. Joyful family events were cut short, laughter replaced by logistical debates about her care. One night, in the freezing cold at 3 a.m., like every night, the dog needed to go out. The man, sleep-deprived stomped out into the darkness. Anger swirled within him—not just at the dog but at himself for feeling this way. What kind of man, he wondered, could grow to resent the being that had loved him unconditionally her entire life? The guilt gnawed at him, creating a self-propelling storm of negative thoughts that rippled into his family life, stra...

There once was a woman named Clara, a tireless champion for her community. She spent her days volunteering at shelters, organizing fundraisers, and lending an ear to those in need. To all who saw her, she was the epitome of selflessness, a person who seemed to exist solely for the betterment of others. But within the private pages of her journal, Clara's thoughts told a different story. “I give and give,” she wrote one evening, her pen pressing into the paper with frustration, “but why does it feel like no one sees me? They take what I offer, yet I’m left empty.” In these moments, Clara found herself judging those she helped—their choices, their seeming ingratitude, their inability to give back. Her inner voice would reprimand her harshly: Why can't they see how much I've sacrificed? Why do I feel so unappreciated? Clara’s life was consumed by a belief that her happiness lay in the future—some far-off day when the world might finally recognize her contributions, when the lo...

Once upon a time, there was a tech entrepreneur whose groundbreaking app was unexpectedly removed from a major app store. That evening, all of his peers and colleagues reached out to express their sympathy. They said, “We are so sorry to hear your app was removed. This is most unfortunate.” The entrepreneur simply replied, “Maybe.” The next day, a media outlet picked up the story, turning the app’s removal into a viral sensation. Overnight, millions of people heard about the app, and users flocked to the website to download it directly. His colleagues came back and exclaimed, “What incredible luck! Your app is more popular than ever!” The entrepreneur responded, “Maybe.” The following week, one of the servers hosting the app crashed under the unexpected surge in traffic, rendering the service temporarily unavailable. His peers called again, saying, “This is terrible. Your servers went down!” The entrepreneur calmly replied, “Maybe.” A few days later, a prominent investor noticed the ou...

 There was once a little boy who loved art with all his heart. He spent hours reading about the greatest artists in history, imagining their strokes of genius, and daydreaming about the colors and forms that must have filled their works. Yet, he had never seen a real masterpiece—only descriptions in books, secondhand whispers of their glory. One day, his teacher announced an extraordinary field trip: a visit to a museum showcasing the greatest artworks of all time. This was his chance to see the beauty he had only imagined, to experience it firsthand. The boy could hardly contain his excitement. The trip was today. But just as the children lined up to board the bus, the teacher called out: "Permission slips, please." The boy froze. He didn’t have one. Maybe he’d been sick that day? Maybe it was left on his desk, forgotten? He watched as his classmates handed over their slips, each slightly different, but they all granted a seat on the bus. He explained to the teacher, panic r...

Success is not a destination; it is a way of being, a relationship with your higher self that flows through every choice you make. Your higher self speaks to you constantly, not in words but in feelings—those moments of joy, excitement, and deep inner peace. This positive feedback loop is your compass, guiding you toward your truest path. When you follow that inner guidance, you live in heaven. And let me be clear: heaven is not some distant realm; it is right here, on this very Earth where food grows on trees and rivers sing their timeless songs. Heaven is the state of alignment with your higher self, where life unfolds with ease and grace, and everything feels as it should. But for many, decisions are driven not by joy but by fear—fear of failure, fear of judgment, fear of lack. This creates a different kind of world: a self-made hell. And hell, too, is not some far-off place of torment; it is here, on this same Earth, where life feels heavy, choices feel forced, and every step feels...

 Now imagine, that you are deep into the journey of an Ironman triathlon. It is not simply a race of the body, though your legs scream with every step, your arms ache with every stroke, and your breath becomes a labor. No—this is a race of the mind. And, like life itself, it does not yield to those who resist it; it rewards those who dissolve into it.  There comes a point, as the fatigue turns from a whisper to a roar, when you begin to wonder if you can go on at all. You think of the miles ahead—20, maybe more—and suddenly they appear as an impossible chasm, a task too monstrous for your finite strength. The voice in your mind, that old and familiar trickster, begins to whisper: “You can’t do this.” But here’s where the magic begins. Instead of answering that voice, instead of entertaining its protests, you laugh as you let go. You stop trying to defeat the pain, stop trying to fight it. You join it. You become it. You dissolve, like a wave disappearing into the ocean. After ...

A seeker, burdened by their thoughts has a conversation with their higher self during a dream.  Seeker: I am plagued by anxiety. It clutches at my chest, makes my breath shallow. I can hardly face the world without feeling its grip. Higher Self: Anxiety, you say? Well, congratulations—you don’t have a problem with anxiety at all. Seeker: I don’t? Higher Self:  Of course not. You’ve got having anxiety down perfect. You’ve mastered it, refined it, and honed it into an art. Truly impressive. The question is, what are you going to do about it? Seeker: That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to feel this way anymore. Higher Self:  Ah, so you’ve grown tired of your masterpiece? Good. Let’s examine it, then. What is anxiety, truly? Seeker: It feels like fear. A deep, restless fear of what might go wrong, of what others might think of me. Higher Self: And yet, could it not be something else? Could this “fear” not simply be energy, knocking at the doors of your consciousness, ...

When a storm approaches, cows instinctively run away from it, trying to avoid it. However, because they are slower than the storm, the storm eventually catches up to them, and by continuing to run with it, they actually prolong their time in the storm, enduring more suffering. Bulls, on the other hand, do something remarkable. Instead of running away, they charge directly into the storm. By facing it head-on, they pass through it more quickly, spending less time in the chaos and discomfort. What conversations are you putting off to "keep the peace?" What storms are you running from? What dragons are you feeding? To fully digest the lessons behind this story: Recalibrate your thinking. A problem, in life and this ancient tale metaphorically described as a storm, is neither truly a storm nor a problem. There are no such things as problems. What we perceive as problems are actually invitations to experience life in its fullness. Perhaps experiences you selected prior to growin...

Imagine a little girl, no older than seven, who is asked to go to her room to fetch her jacket. As she steps through the doorway, her eyes catch sight of a toy—a bright, colorful object that invites her into the timeless world of play. For a moment, she forgets the jacket and gets lost in her own imagination. When she emerges from her room, jacketless, an adult looks at her and says, “What’s wrong with you? You’re so stupid! You let me down.” Pause for a moment. Imagine how that little girl might feel. Even if she tries to brush it off, something inside her would shrink. A spark of self-worth might dim. Now, imagine that you are the parent of that child, standing in the doorway, witnessing this exchange. You would almost certainly feel a surge of protectiveness, perhaps even anger toward the abuser. You might step in and say, “That’s no way to speak to her!” Yet, how often do we speak to ourselves or those we love in this very same way? Inside each of us lives a version of that little ...

The answers. They were there, written down so neatly, every detail you needed, every truth you sought. But in a moment of carelessness, the paper slipped from your grasp, drifting down into the lake. The water, once calm, was now murky, the words hidden beneath a veil of swirling silt. You couldn’t leave it there. No, you had to find it. This was too important. So, you splashed into the water, searching, churning up more mud with every frantic movement. The lake grew darker. Still, you wouldn’t stop. You believed in action, in progress, in effort. Surely, the harder you worked, the sooner you’d recover what you had lost. But the answers remained hidden. The harder you tried, the farther they seemed. So you devised a plan. You gathered engineers, investors, and thinkers from across the world. Together, you built a machine—an extraordinary contraption to clear the water and retrieve the answers. It was massive, complex, and required constant maintenance. People splashed and worked endles...

You see, there is a strange phenomenon in the way we relate to the world, a kind of “habitual blindness” that settles in with time. It’s as if we are all walking through a garden, marveling at the beauty of the flowers, the vibrancy of the colors, the fragrance of the air — and yet, after a while, we no longer notice it. The petals lose their charm. The scent fades into the background. We simply become accustomed to the beauty, and before long, we expect it, as though it’s something owed to us. Take, for instance, the beautiful place you find yourself living in. When you first arrive, every corner, every street, every sunset seems magical, like a gift from the heavens. But before long, the mountains lose their majesty, the river ceases to flow with wonder, and you pass by the very things that once filled you with awe, without even noticing. Familiarity breeds expectation, and expectation, my friends, breeds ingratitude. I had a small lesson in this recently. Outside the place where I w...

Imagine, if you will, a person. A father. A creator. For three long, grueling years, he poured himself into a vision. Brick by brick, he raised a building for his business—not just a structure of wood and stone, but a monument to his dreams. His sweat seeped into the foundations, his late nights etched into the beams. Along the way, he met good people who lent a hand or a kind word, but the journey was no less hard. His wife, his children—they bore the weight, too, as they watched him labor under the sun, day after day, for a future they all believed in. Then, one evening, just a week after the grand completion of his masterpiece, the family sat down to dinner. Laughter filled the room, the kind that only comes after years of shared toil and triumph. But the warmth of their meal was interrupted by the acrid scent of smoke. They rushed outside, and there it was: the business, the labor of years, engulfed in flames. Fire danced over the timbers as if mocking their effort. The family froz...