Tag: mindfulness

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Interstate 280 San Francisco/California San Jose

The Scenic Route Home

“In a world optimized for speed and engagement, 280 is a reminder that infrastructure can be art.”

It is a strange paradox that in the heart of Silicon Valley—a place defined by the ephemeral, the digital, and the instantaneous—a cherished shared experience is a physical ribbon of highway that hasn’t changed much in fifty years.

My post from last April, “The World’s Most Beautiful Freeway,” has recently found a new wave of readers. I’ve been asking myself: Why? Why does a blog post about Interstate 280, written by a retiree exploring local history, resonate so deeply right now?

Perhaps it’s because I-280 is more than just a commute. As I noted in the original piece, even Sunset Magazine in 1967 recognized it as “a modern and scenic boulevard.” It was a bold claim for a freeway, yet it stuck. While its sibling, US 101, is a clogged artery of billboard-choked utility, 280 feels like a deep breath. It is the “scenic route” we are lucky enough to take right in our own backyard.

There is a powerful nostalgia in that drive. We all remember the sign that used to sit in the median near Cupertino—the one that literally proclaimed it “The World’s Most Beautiful Freeway”—before it vanished. We remember the way the fog rolls over the Santa Cruz Mountains, spilling into the crystal bowl of the reservoir.

But I think the recent interest goes deeper than pretty scenery. We are living in an era of rapid, often disorienting change. I used ChatGPT to help research the history of that road, a small testament to how AI is weaving into our daily inquiries. Yet, the road itself remains a constant. It was designed by engineers like Othmar Ammann and planners who chose the harder, more expensive route through the foothills rather than paving over El Camino Real. They chose beauty over pure efficiency.

That choice resonates today. In a world optimized for speed and engagement, 280 is a reminder that infrastructure can be art. It connects the headquarters of the companies building our future (Apple, Google, Meta) with the wild, golden hills of California’s past. It is a physical timeline of the Peninsula.

Maybe we are revisiting this post because we are craving that balance. We want to know that even as we rush toward the future at freeway speeds, we can still look out the window and see something timeless, something beautiful, something that reminds us where we are.

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Living Productivity

The Ghost in the Calendar

We have become architects of our own incarceration, building prisons out of thirty-minute blocks and color-coded labels. We operate under a modern delusion: that a gap in the schedule is a leak in the ship. If we aren’t “doing,” we must be failing.

We treat our minds like high-performance engines that must never idle, forgetting that an engine constantly redlining eventually catches fire. Morgan Housel captures this paradox perfectly in Same as Ever:

“The most efficient calendar in the world—one where every minute is packed with productivity—comes at the expense of curious wandering and uninterrupted thinking, which eventually become the biggest contributors to success.”

The tragedy of the “most efficient calendar” is that it optimizes for the visible while starving the invisible. Productivity, in its most common definition, is about throughput—how many emails were sent, how many tickets were closed, how many boxes were checked. But these are administrative victories, not intellectual ones.

When we eliminate “curious wandering,” we eliminate the serendipity required for breakthrough. A breakthrough is rarely the result of a scheduled task; it is the byproduct of a mind allowed to roam until it trips over a connection it wasn’t looking for. By packing every minute, we ensure we are always busy, but we also ensure we are never surprised.

Uninterrupted thinking requires a certain level of inefficiency. It looks like staring out a window, taking a walk without a podcast, or sitting with a problem long after the “allocated” time has expired. In the eyes of a traditional manager—or our own internal critic—this looks like waste. Yet, this “waste” is the soil in which high-leverage ideas grow.

If we lose the ability to wander, we lose our edge. We become mere processors of information rather than creators of value. Real success isn’t found in the frantic filling of space, but in the courage to leave space empty, trusting that the silence will eventually speak.

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Living Writing

The Loop and the Pixel

There is a distinct muscle memory associated with the 1950s classroom. It smells of chalk dust and floor wax, but mostly, it feels like the cramping of a small hand wrapped around a pencil. We didn’t just learn to write; we were initiated into the discipline of the loop. The Palmer Method or Zaner-Bloser weren’t suggestions—they were rigorous architectures of communication. We made endless rows of O’s and l’s, tilting the paper just so, learning that language required flow, connectivity, and a certain deliberate grace.

Then, the world sped up.

By the 1990s, the loops began to unravel. As keyboards clattered their way into dominance, the efficiency of the printed letter—and eventually the typed pixel—took precedence over the artistry of the connected script. By 2010, the erasure was formalized; cursive was dropped from federal education standards (Common Core) to make room for “electronic literacy.” We traded the unique signature for the standardized font. We gained speed, certainly, but I often wonder what we lost in the translation.

“New Jersey this week joined a list of more than 20 states slanting in favor of bringing cursive instruction back to classrooms. Lessons on the looping letters were dropped from federal education standards in 2010, part of a shift toward focusing on electronic literacy.” — The New York Times

It seems the pendulum is swinging back. Proponents argue for its utility—the ability to read historical texts or a grandmother’s birthday card—but I believe the resurgence touches on something deeper.

In an increasingly digital world, cursive is an act of resistance. Typing is percussion; it is staccato and disconnected. Cursive is string; it is continuous and fluid. When we write in cursive, we are physically connecting thoughts, linking one letter to the next without lifting the pen. It forces the brain to slow down and the hand to dance.

As we stare into screens that demand our instant reaction, perhaps we are realizing that we crave the friction of pen on paper. We are bringing the loops back not because they are faster, but because they are human.

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Family Friends Living

The Texture of Tuesday

There is a terrifying calmness to the math of mortality. Especially when you’re in your 70’s approaching 80!

Sahil Bloom shared a realization that acts as a quiet sledgehammer to the soul: “You’re going to see your parents 15 more times before they die.” When you live away from them, visiting a few times a year, the calculus is brutal.

But there is a second, more subtle layer to this reality that we often miss. It isn’t just about the number of times we visit; it is about the nature of the time we share together.

When we live away from the people we love, we fall into the “Trap of the Big.” Because the investment to visit is high—a six-hour flight or a three-hour drive—we feel the need to justify that investment with an Event. We visit mostly for milestones, for holidays, and for planned long weekends. Maybe we schedule time to go on vacations together. We curate our presence around those highlights.

The problem is that life does not happen in the highlights. Real intimacy is not built on Thanksgiving dinner; it is built on the mundane friction together of a Tuesday afternoon. Or a Sunday morning.

Sahil wrote about a moment that shifted his entire perspective. It wasn’t a grand celebration, but a quiet spring evening in the backyard. Dinner was over. He was drinking a glass of wine. His son was chasing his parents around the grass.

“In that moment, I had a realization: This was it. It wasn’t big or glamorous. It was a little thing that meant everything.”

This brings to mind Kurt Vonnegut’s suggestion: “Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you’ll look back and realize they were the big things.”

There is a specific texture to life that only exists in the small moments. It is the texture of going for a walk to ask your dad for advice on a random problem. Or the texture of watching a a young mother playing dinosaurs with her 2 year old daughter on a Wednesday morning. It is that ability to be present not just for the celebration of life, but for the living of it.

If we are lucky, we get those big moments. But if we are intentional, we can also get the little ones. And in the end, the little ones are the only ones that actually fill our jar.

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Goals Living

Arriving

There is a specific, quiet kind of melancholy that sets in the day after a massive victory. You spend months, perhaps years, pushing a boulder up a hill. You tell yourself stories about the view from the top. You convince yourself that the air is sweeter there, that the light is golden, and that once you crest that peak, you will finally exhale.

But then you arrive. You stand at the summit. You look around. The view is nice, certainly. But you are still you. The wind is cold. And, terrifyingly, you see a higher peak in the distance that you hadn’t noticed from the valley floor.

Sahil Bloom captures this phenomenon precisely in his framework on wealth:

“The arrival fallacy is the false assumption that reaching some achievement or goal will create durable feelings of satisfaction and contentment in our lives.”

We are culturally wired for the “if/then” logic of happiness. If I get the promotion, then I will feel secure. If I sell the company, then I will feel successful. If I hit the number, then I will be enough. We treat happiness as a location—a coordinate on a map that we are navigating toward.

The tragedy of the arrival fallacy isn’t that we have goals; goals are necessary for direction. The tragedy is that we mortgage our present contentment for a future payoff that bounces check after check. We treat the present moment as a waiting room, a sterile place to endure until our “real life” begins at the finish line.

But durability—that lasting sense of peace we crave—is never found in the outcome. Outcomes are fleeting. They are singular points in time that instantly become the past. Durability is found in the texture of the process. It is found in the struggle, the problem-solving, the quiet Tuesday mornings, and the friction of growth.

If we cannot find a way to fall in love with the climb, the summit will always feel hollow. The goal shouldn’t be the source of our happiness; it should just be the thing that organizes our energy while we find happiness in the work itself.

We never truly “arrive.” We just keep becoming. The journey is indeed the reward.

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Curiosity

The Neutral Ground of Curiosity

We live in a time that demands certainty. We are constantly pressured to have a stance, to pick a team, to decide—right now—whether something is good or bad, right or wrong. It is exhausting. It feels like standing in a courtroom where you are forced to be both the lawyer and the judge.

But there is a quieter, more fertile ground we can stand on. Rick Rubin, writing in The Creative Act, describes it like this:

“The heart of open-mindedness is curiosity. Curiosity doesn’t take sides or insist on a single way of doing things. It explores all perspectives. Always open to new ways, always seeking to arrive at original insights.”

I love the idea that curiosity “doesn’t take sides.” It implies that curiosity is a neutral party. It isn’t there to win an argument; it is there to understand the argument.

When we approach the world with judgment, our vision narrows. We look for evidence that confirms what we already believe. But when we approach the world with curiosity, the lens widens. We stop asking, “Is this right?” and start asking, “What is this?”

Rubin reminds us that the goal isn’t to be correct; the goal is to be original. And you cannot arrive at an original insight if you are walking the same worn path of binary thinking. You have to be willing to wander off the trail, to listen to the opposing view not to defeat it, but to learn the shape of it.

I remind myself to try to drop the gavel. To stop judging the events of my day and simply witness them. To be the explorer, not the jury. Oh, and along the way, embrace serendipity!

I’m reminded of a couple of friends and colleagues. One seems to listen briefly but rapidly reach a black/white conclusion. Another seems to always want to explore further, asking questions to go deeper. One is much more enjoyable to be around. The other a lot less so! Which one can I be? Which one am I?

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Uncategorized

The Power of the Handwritten Note

In an era dominated by digital communication, the handwritten note stands out as a powerful and increasingly rare form of expression. The simple act of putting pen to paper carries a weight and significance that makes it a potent tool for both personal and professional communication. We can all appreciate their enduring charm and delightfulness.

During my tenure at IBM years ago, one of the most delightful aspects of being a manager was the provision of personal stationery. This wasn’t just any paper; it was a statement of elegance and personal touch. Smaller in size, cream-colored, and boasting a luxurious texture, each sheet bore my name engraved on the letterhead, conspicuously lacking any IBM logo. This stationery was designed for a specific purpose: to maintain the long-held company tradition of writing personal notes to colleagues and associates.

The power of a handwritten note lies in its inherent personal touch. When someone takes the time to write by hand, they invest a part of themselves into the message. The unique curves and strokes of their handwriting, the choice of words, and even the occasional crossed-out phrase all contribute to a sense of authenticity and intimacy that cannot be replicated by typed text. This personal investment communicates to the recipient that they are truly valued and special.

Receiving such a note was always a delight. Many of us kept these notes in special file folders, occasionally taking a few minutes to flip through them, reliving important moments and feeling a renewed sense of appreciation. These tangible and physical mementos have a quality that digital messages simply cannot match.

As the years have passed, the custom of sending personal notes has faded, replaced by the convenience of digital communications. This shift has only served to enhance the impact of handwritten notes. Receiving a handwritten note today feels like discovering a treasure. Such a note stands out precisely because it isn’t instant, digital communication.

The act of writing by hand also benefits the sender. The slower pace of handwriting compared to typing allows for more thoughtful composition. It encourages the writer to choose their words carefully and reflect on their message.

As we’ve been grappling with the impact of AI tools on various aspects of our lives, handwritten notes also serve as a bastion of genuine human expression. The act of writing by hand removes the temptation to rely on AI-generated text for our most personal communications. When we put pen to paper, we directly confront our own thoughts and emotions, as we find our own words to express what we truly feel.

Moreover, handwritten notes also provide a level of privacy and intimacy. Unlike emails or text messages, which can be easily forwarded or shared, a handwritten note is meant for the eyes of the recipient alone. This exclusivity adds to the special and personal nature of the communication.

Whether expressing gratitude, offering condolences, or simply saying “hello”, the act of putting pen to paper creates a moment of pause in our hectic lives for both the sender and and recipient providing a moment to reflect, to connect, and to affect another person’s life in a delightful and meaningful way. Special creations for special people in our lives!

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Journaling Living Memories Photography - Black & White

The Cartographer of Meaning

As I wander through the topography of life, I find myself drawn to the notion that meaning is not a destination, but a traveling companion. The words of Neil King echo in my mind like a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of understanding: “You bring meaning with you when you go looking for meaning, and the more of it you bring, the more you get in return.” It is a reminder that the search for significance is not a passive pursuit, but an active participation in the creation of our own significance.

Like a cartographer charting the unexplored territories of the human experience, we bring our own instruments of meaning-making to the journey. Our experiences, beliefs, and values serve as our compass guiding us through the our personal paths of existence. The more we bring to the table, the more we are able to discern the hidden patterns and connections that weave the tapestry of our lives.

As I meander through the landscape of memory, I realize that the moments of greatest insight and understanding were not chance encounters, but the culmination of a deliberate search. The more I brought to the experience — curiosity, empathy, and a willingness to learn — the more the world revealed its secrets to me. The gentle rustle of leaves in an autumn breeze became a symphony of sound, a reminder of the beauty that lies just beneath the surface of the mundane.

In this sense, meaning is not something we find, but something we forge. It is the alchemy of our experiences, transformed by the crucible of our perception into a golden understanding that illuminates the path ahead. And yet, it is a fleeting thing, a will-o’-the-wisp that beckons us deeper into the mystery.

Perhaps that is the greatest truth of all — that meaning is not a destination, but a journey. It is the process of bringing our whole selves to the experience of life, with all its joys and sorrows, triumphs and failures. The more we bring, the more we receive, and the more we are transformed by the encounter.

As I continue on this winding path, I am reminded of the wisdom of the ancient Greek aphorism: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” But I would add a corollary — the unlived life is not worth examining. It is in the living, the experiencing, and the bringing of our whole selves to the moment that we find the meaning we seek.

As you embark on your own journey of discovery, remember to bring your instruments of meaning-making with you. Often it involves photography or journaling in the moment. The more you bring, the more you will receive, and the more the world will reveal its secrets to you. For in the end, it is not the destination that matters, but the journey itself — the journey of bringing meaning to the world, and finding it reflected back in all its beauty and complexity.

Note: Yesterday Meta released their latest open source AI models: Llama 3. This post based on the quotation from Neil King’s book was written with the help of Llama 3 and lightly edited by me. You can try out Llama 3 yourself at https://meta.ai

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Gratitude Living

Gratitude Snowballs: The Power of Sharing Thankfulness

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Inspiration Living Reflection

Exploring the Seams of Freedom

“All of us have little fissures in our lives that provide us greater than normal moments of freedom. You play the seams when you identify those moments and seize them.”

Neal King (American Ramble)

We often conceive of our lives as following fairly rigid scripts and routines. We wake up, go to work or school, come home, eat dinner, maybe squeeze in some hobbies or time with loved ones, then go to bed and repeat. The cycles feel inescapable, like train tracks laid out before us.

But if we look closer, there are tiny fissures and fault lines running through even the most regimented of daily grinds. Moments where the iron grip of obligation loosens ever so slightly. A traffic jam that makes you late, forcing you to take an alternate route. A cancelled meeting that clears an unexpected hour in your calendar. A power outage that shuts down the office and sends everyone home early. A flat tire that happens at the worst possible time and place – like happened to me yesterday!

These are the seams that Neil King refers to in the quotation. Little rips and tears in the fabric of our routines that create momentary pockets of freedom. Openings where the rules don’t quite apply and we can slip through the cracks of the scheduled order.

The key, as King notes, is to first identify these seams when they occur, and then seize them rather than letting them pass by unnoticed or unremarked upon. It’s about being present enough to your circumstances to recognize when one of these fissures opens up, and then brave enough to diverge from the mapped out path to explore it.

After all, some of life’s greatest adventures and discoveries have happened during these “off script” moments. Yesterday, my conversation with a tow truck driver opened my eyes to the steps he took to fend off a mountain lion attack on a 5 AM run in the dark! I hope I never have to apply his techniques but I did find our conversation about his encounter fascinating!

Of course, these serendipitous detours and unplanned paths are easy to romanticize after the fact, when we know they turned out well. In the moment when the seams first crack open, it can be daunting to jump through them into the unknown. Sometimes we have to but our ingrained instinct is to stick to our set schedule, to get back on course as quickly as possible.

There’s comfort and safety in routines. Seizing those fissures when they present themselves means trading certainty for adventure, the familiarity of a well-worn groove for the risk and exhilaration of going off road into the unknown. It requires being able to quiet that voice of fear inside us that clings to control and embrace one of spontaneity and serendipity in where the detour might lead.

The rewards of following those detours down their winding paths are often worth it. While not every seam we slip through will result in a life-altering event, they allow us to break up the monotony, to experience something different from our repetitive routine, even if just for a little while. Those moments add texture and vibrancy to our days. They’re the asides and ad-libs to the main scripts we follow. Often they provide those special moments we vividly remember and want to share with others.

So keep your eyes peeled for those little fissures and unexpected openings in your routine. Don’t just impatiently wait for life to reset to its default settings once these moments arise. Seize them while you can and see where they lead you. You might just stumble into a beloved new local cafe, or finally muster the courage to start writing, or meet someone who changes your life’s trajectory and opens even more new possibilities.

The seams are there, waiting to be played whenever we’re bold enough to follow their diverging paths. All we have to do is watch for the fissures and be willing to step through into the open spaces of freedom they reveal. Who knows what new experiences and challenges await us on the other side? What new learning might result?