Several weeks ago, a friend was having a hard time following some personal and professional letdowns. She asked a very simple and poignant question: “How come no one fights for us?” I had no answer for her, and a defeatist sentiment permeated my skin and sat heavy on my heart for weeks. The haunting possibility that she was right kept me awake for some nights. I started looking closely at everyone around me to see if any of them could be my “great defender” – a coworker siding vocally with

The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha is Cervantes’ powerful story about an unrealistic idealist. The main character, Quixote, is mostly well-intentioned but often misguided when trying to rescue the world from itself. He is also at times a disturber of the peace who unwittingly (and only occasionally) manages to do some good. One of the ideas behind the book is that morality, tradition, and courage are not universal in their definition. The story also warns those who take up causes in the name of virtue about the damage

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.” – Victor Hugo There is no authority in the universe that truly has the ability to impose upon us what we must feel about anything or anyone. Despite this fact, we grow up with rules and traditions designed to help us navigate through life in ways that have worked for others; sometimes a few others, or sometimes thousands, millions or billions of people. Well-intentioned as they may be, these rules can become stifling restrictions, turning

I came across an obituary written by the individual who passed away. He wrote a brief paragraph where he mentioned his loved ones, gave gratitude to those who made a difference throughout his life, and thanked his fortune for having had the opportunity to live exactly the way he wanted for as long as he lived.   It was the most interesting, real, and moving obituary I’ve ever read. I feel that he intended to leave a note of appreciation and love to the world, and highlight the celebration of

I’ve been thinking “in Rothko” lately.I find myself stuck on Rothko’s “pockets of silence” idea, though less in the context of art and more in terms of the information-abundant and creatively productive world many of us choose to live in.

I am a terrible surfer. Actually, I’m no surfer at all. But I like to pretend that one day, I’ll be able to get the hang of the entire thing, successfully surf a few waves and live to talk about it. It’s not for lack of trying. I have attended classes on beaches in the two hemispheres. In fact, I already have a “pattern”: I do well during the fake surfing part on the beach – that’s when you learn some basic moves and get your positioning adjusted by the

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