"Stop this Train" John Mayer

Tonight, I am in an apartment that I imagined I might have one day. Large windows, and shiny floors. Exposed brick and new chrome appliances. A couch that took 6 weeks to customize. I am packing for a business trip I thought I might get a chance to do one day. I've run out of cologne, but may pick some up at the airport. I look at the counter and see photos on rotation: This is me in Vietnam being led on a hike, and that is the Eiffel Tower of course, and this is a beach on the north side of Bali and this is a view of the Mediterranean from Alexandria. What a beautiful city that was. I played tennis this morning with an old friend, had breakfast and didn't look at the price. I earn more money now than what my parents did when I saw their tax returns once when I was in college. They raised six children with this money. My career is great. I have traveled the world. I was reminded last week by a good friend that I am loved. Even when all these things are in line and I see the trend lines inching up nicely, I am scared.

No need to be scared, he said. You've done well this far.

I know, I know, but aren't we moving a bit fast here? I'd like to know where I'm headed before I go.

He put his hand on my shoulder.

I knew when I was in Marakesh, despite the heat of that rooftop broom closet (converted into a bedroom) that I smiled for a reason and said to myself, "You'll think of this in the future, and wish for this simplicity." I had woken up much earlier, and took a walk before the city got up, smelling the cool air, breathing deeply in the silence of the emptied streets. Marakesh doesn't stay cool and silent very long. I was preparing myself for a life--this one--that I might have.

You know, this is the way it goes.

I know, I know things will be fine. Please understand, I trust myself, I know I can and I know it'll turn out fine. I have everything I want.

So what's wrong?

Things are changing so fast, I just want to take a deep breath.

I used to run around my house during the summer, throwing all sorts of jagged objects at my brothers. Then we'd scream until we voted for somebody who'd cook lunch. Spam and rice on most of those days, we'd eat it together watching Reading Rainbow on PBS. And in the afternoon before my parents came home, I'd go outside and just lie on the grass and look at the sky and wonder what might happen to me as a grown up, would I ever eat anything besides Spam and rice and Campbell's chicken noodle soup, would I ever see Paris?

"Harrowdown Hill" Paul Wilkinson

Work continues at a nice pace, and the self-consciousness that defined most of the first few months is slowly dissolving. I realized that effective management isn't about the rigid adherance to policies, nor is it passive aggressive wrist-slapping, or even creating a tide of change. Some of these--in the right doses--are necessary elements, but managing is actually pretty simple: Just make sure your team is good.

Alright, what does that mean?

A good team is one that:

• Uses the right tools and resources
• Believes in the value of their work
• Trusts their leader to act as their advocate

That's it. Focusing on these three things has helped guide my decisions. My decisions should support these and cannot jeopardize or even compromise any one.

"Claire De Lune" Claude Debussy



Years removed from Ms. Stark and 5th grade--the handball courts, the passing of love letters, the math games with numbered tiles--I'd occasionally revisit the school. The immediate sensation was smallness. How small these doors seemed. How could such tiny rooms hold such hyperactive, reckless children. The grounds themselves, which once seemed Saharan in their expansiveness, became a swath of grass and asphalt. I'd tried a few times to use the handball court to accommodate my burgeoning interest in tennis. If jelly balls, hammered as hard as possible, were still kept within the concrete boundaries, a tennis ball surely wouldn't give it any fits. I was wrong. I'd hit the ball and it'd bounce beyond the court, hitting the grate of the drain, or a rough patch of dirt. The ball would spin off in an awkward tangent. It did little to develop consistency in my stroke mechanics and I soon learned I had to go elsewhere if I was going to learn Agassi's forehand; I had outgrown the court.



I am not where I was last year. I am not where I thought I would be. I have made a series of decisions that have drastically changed my landscape and my habits. I went to experience what was once familiar to me this past weekend. And by virtue of contextual contrast, I now see that I have changed.



Perhaps when your surroundings change enough, you change along with it. Perhaps it's a matter of one's survival instincts that implores adaptation. Perhaps circumstances that come upon us, inasmuch as they are the product of design and chaos, also portend our futures.