Month: October 2025

The Next Chapter

From 30,000 feet above the ground, I stared out at the Plains.

Through the airplane window, I could see pastures stretching straight to the horizon. The late-day sun cast a golden glow over it all.

I might have been over western Illinois at this moment. Or maybe eastern Missouri. Even after all the times I’d flown this route, I couldn’t quite tell.

But the GPS coordinates were inconsequential. The majesty of the view meant everything.

Many people have looked at this same vista and come to a different conclusion.

They see no mountain peaks. They see no coastline. And they slide their window shade shut.

I get it.

The sight of the Rocky Mountains has taken my breath away before. And I’ve found myself transfixed with wonder as I stared at the Pacific Ocean from the bluffs of La Jolla.

Middle America is not that. It’s a different brand of special.

There’s just something about vast, open land that stretches to the horizon. It’s a blank canvas fit to be painted with a million tales – all distinct, yet somehow familiar.

This glimpse of that canvas in the late-day sun told one story. But a couple of hours later, a traveler peering out of a plane crossing these same coordinates would see something far different. The faded light of dusk would punctuate the vista of those pastures.

The next morning, fliers on the red eye might witness yet another perspective from this spot. The shadow of the sunrise would stretch all the way to the western horizon, marking the landscape with an understated sepia.

Even this late-afternoon moment I was witnessing seemed to lack routine. In the dead of winter, the light of the day would illuminate the plains far differently at this hour. The same would be true during the dog days of summer.

Yes, each of the views from this one spot is familiar. Yet each is also distinct.

It’s in those differences that I find solace.

I remain amazed at how one small shift in perspective can make the ordinary captivating, time and again.

It’s simple. But it’s also special.

A decade ago, I set out on my own journey to fill a blank canvas.

I launched Ember Trace, putting my thoughts and experiences out in the open for all the world to see.

As I prepared to post that first article, I was full of apprehension. I didn’t want that first entry to be a one-off. And I didn’t want to fall into a scattershot publication approach. My readers needed to know what to expect from this publication – and when to expect it.

So, I made a commitment. I would post a fresh article every week. No excuses.

I’ve held to that promise now for a full decade. For 523 straight weeks, to be exact.

The world has changed drastically during that time. My life has as well. But through it all, I’ve kept on writing.

This is quite an accomplishment. One I’m immensely proud of.

And yet, I find myself questioning its power.

You see, if you stare out that airplane window enough times, the majesty of the view starts to fade. Dawn and golden hour morph together. Summer and winter begin to blur. And everything just starts to look gray.

I’m wary of that fate overtaking my work on Ember Trace. I don’t want the quality of what I write to go down, just so the quantity can go up. I don’t want a writing schedule that I set a decade ago to become the headline.

It’s time to try something different.

My first view of the Plains was from ground level.

I was 8 years old, and my family was taking a cross-country train trip. I saw cornfields and cow pastures roll past my window for hours on end.

This was the mid-1990s. There were no tablets or smartphones in the train car to divert my attention. For two days, I was transfixed.

Cross-country flights would soon follow. As my family jetted off to the opposite coast for vacation, I’d stare at those cornfields and cow pastures from above for hours. The view was far different than the one from the train. But I still found it stunning.

As I grew up, I still found myself soaring over the same plains. Both leisure activities and celebrations kept calling me back to the heartland.

Those same vistas awaited me along the journey. But somehow, I still hadn’t grown tired of them.

This sentiment was fresh in my mind when my employer was acquired by a Midwestern-based company. Suddenly, flights across the prairie became a business obligation – a fait accompli every few months. And with all that back and forth, my zeal for the vistas of Middle America faded.

That view out my window stopped feeling so novel. It became ordinary and boring. And I’d had enough.

I started buying the Wi-Fi on those flights, occupying myself with work tasks and streaming entertainment. I stopped gazing beyond the airplane cabin.

I needed a change.

That change came in the form of an economic shift. Costs increased, and opportunities to travel to headquarters decreased for a couple of years.

I all but forgot about the familiar aerial of the Plains during that time. But eventually, the travel restrictions were lifted, and I was reacquainted with that vista.

Like an old friend, that sense of wonder returned. A sense of awe washed over me once again.

And in that moment, something strange happened. I started musing about my writing.

I’d been in a creative rut with Ember Trace. And it dawned on me that a prescribed break might revitalize my work — much in the same way that my travel hiatus had rekindled my zeal for staring out at the Plains.

I didn’t act on that instinct then. But I am doing so now.

What does the next chapter look like?

It’s a question that many an author has struggled with. But in this instance, I have clarity.

Ember Trace is not going away, dear reader. You can still expect my thoughts and reflections to fill this space. Just not quite as frequently.

Going forward, I will share an article once a month, rather than once a week. This will give me more time to find inspiration, sharpen my craft, and share more articles worthy of awe and wonder.

I am sure that this is the right move. And I’m sure that it’s the right time to make it.

But what I don’t know is if my audience will follow me into the next chapter.

I hope so. But hope is not a strategy.

On September 20, 1998, the New York Yankees and Baltimore Orioles faced off for a late-season game at Baltimore’s picturesque Camden Yards.

Three future Baseball Hall of Famers appeared in that game – Derek Jeter, Roberto Alomar, and Mariano Rivera. But a fourth future Hall of Famer remained on the bench for all nine innings.

And that became the story of the evening.

For the first time in more than 16 years, Cal Ripken Jr. sat out a baseball game. His record-setting streak of 2,632 consecutive games played was history.

Baseball’s previous Ironman – the Hall of Famer Lou Gehrig – never played another baseball game after he ended his streak. Roughly two years after taking himself out of the lineup, he died of a cruel disease that now bears his name.

But Ripken’s time on the bench wasn’t to be permanent. The next day, he was back in the lineup, manning third base for the Orioles up in Toronto.

Ripken would play three more seasons for Baltimore. He joined baseball’s vaunted 3,000 hit club and won an All-Star Game Most Valuable Player award during that time. He remained distinguished, even after untethering himself from the streak.

Like Ripken, I still have more in the tank. More stories to tell, and more articles to share with you, dear reader.

The next chapter might look a tad different. But it’s still worth turning the pages.

It would be my honor if you did so.

Give and Take

We lined up in the grass. Alongside us was a thick rope, which had a knot every foot or so.

My classmates and I looked back at our teacher, waiting for her command. When she gave it, we each grabbed the knot closest to us. Then we collectively lifted the rope off the ground.

We were quickly divided into two sections. Classmates closer to near end of the rope were now on one team. Classmates on the far end were their opponents.

With that settled, our teacher laid out the objective of the contest.

When I give the signal, pull the rope towards you as hard as you can. Rely on your teammates and work together.

That signal came a moment later. The battle was on.

My team pulled ferociously on the rope, even as the counterforce from our rivals threatened to lurch us forward.

In the end, our persistence paid off. The other team lost its edge, and the twine lost its tautness. We yanked the rope towards us, dragging our opponents over with it.

My first tug-of-war was a rousing success.

I wasn’t the first kid to take part in a tug-of-war. Nor was I the last.

Indeed, this activity has long been a staple of field days for elementary schools across this nation.

The meaning of this exercise remains a Rorschach test. Some see it as a testament to collaboration. Others view it as a showcase for the biggest and strongest. No opinion is definitive.

Regardless, these tug-of-war battles tend to fade into the rearview as we grow up. There are better things to be doing with our time than pulling on a rope.

Or are there?

We may be done playing tug-of-war by the time we reach adulthood. But the game is never quite done with us.

You see, tug-of-war is a parable for life. A simplistic demonstration of the give and take that dominates our existence.

Think about it.

We come into this world with much given.

Our very existence. Shelter. Clothes. Nourishment. Fresh diapers. Doting adoration. Holiday gifts. It’s all bestowed upon us.

This pattern continues through our scholastic years. Yes, we have homework and we take exams. Some of us even earn money for household chores. But in general, what we get is still what’s given to us.

The pattern starts to shift once adolescence morphs into adulthood. Now, we’re balancing what we give with what we take.

We give our talents to a profession so that we can take home a living wage. We give our heart to our soulmate so that we can take their hand in matrimony. We give the same existence we were once bestowed to a new generation — even as it takes our time, energy, and patience.

This phase continues for years, in a choreographed equilibrium. And then subtly, something sinister happens.

The act of taking becomes more pronounced. And we’re given less and less in return.

Our features are often the first to be taken from us. We look in the mirror to find smooth and vibrant replaced by wrinkled and gray.

Then our abilities are slowly taken away. Those physical benchmarks we once hit become unattainable. Those crystal clear memories become cloudy.

Opportunities are the next layer to be stripped from us. In the blink of an eye, experience goes from an advantage to a perceived liability. We watch helplessly as we’re passed over in favor of the next generation.

And finally, our loved ones are taken from us. Those further down the trail than us find its end, and we’re forced to reckon with their eternal absence.

At this point in the tug-of-war of life, we’ve lost our footing. We’re being dragged across the field, picking up bumps and bruises as we hang onto the rope for dear life.

It’s a process that’s as cruel as it is inevitable.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

I heard that phrase plenty in my youth.

You see, I’d been given a great deal. But I’d also developed distinct tastes.

Maybe I was just picky, or particular. But I could have – I should have –  appeared more grateful for what I received.

So, those around me stayed on my case.

They implored me to stay humble. They encouraged me to practice gratitude. And they commanded me to send thank-you messages whenever possible.

None of this advice was particularly unique, of course. It all came from a societal playbook of manners and ethics.

Similar codes guide us through the early adulthood. They help us to maintain balance between giving and taking, keeping us sane and in the good graces of other.

But no playbook exists for that third phase of the tug-of-war of life, when everything is steadily taken from us.

We have no unified guidance on managing this distressing development – which can lurk over a large chunk of our lifespans. We’re left to deal with it on our own.

Generally, we manage this burden in one of two ways. We either rebel against our crumbling reality, or we paralyze ourselves in grief over it.

Neither does us any favors. Indeed, they only serve to make the situation worse.

It’s time for a third option to emerge from the shadows. And to remain transcendent in the limelight.

Let’s get to it.

The doubt set in shortly after my return to running.

I’d been on the shelf for four months, thanks to ankle surgery. Week after week, I’d hobbled around in a protective boot and endured physical therapy sessions – all to help my ankle heal and regain range of motion.

But now, I was back. I was cleared to run again, and to start building up for race training.

At first, I was confident. It would take a bit to get back in shape, sure. But once I did, I’d be just as I was before the surgery. I’d continue pursuing my goals and chasing medals in distance races.

But a few weeks into the process, reality hit me hard.

I was striding forward with the same effort as countless times before. But my feet weren’t hitting the pavement nearly as quickly.

My body seemed tentative. And yet, I felt just as sore and winded as I did in the old days.

I wasn’t slacking off. I just wasn’t as fast as I had been before.

Something had taken away one of my natural gifts — my speed.

Maybe it was the surgery. Maybe it was the passage of time. Perhaps it was both.

Regardless of the culprit, I was distraught. And I felt lost.

But amid my despair, a revelation hit me.

Maybe I couldn’t blaze across the pavement and stand atop the medal stand anymore. But I could still run at a decent pace.

I could still feel the wind in my face and the ground gliding under my feet. I could remain fulfilled with every stride.

In other words, I might have had something taken from me. But I still had plenty left that was worthy of enjoyment.

I try to use this same framing with other aspects of my life that have been stripped away. I might miss departed loved ones, for instance, but I still have the memories and lessons they’ve imparted on me.

It’s not everything. But it’s something.

This reframing is far more than a parlor trick. It’s a suitable path forward for all of us faced with the take era of our lives. It’s a glass-half-full approach tailor-made for an time of distress.

That’s a rope worth grabbing onto.

Let’s do so.

Healthy Differences

The light turned green, and the SUV in front of me inched into the intersection.

I followed, driving at a reasonable pace but an unreasonably close distance.

What else could I do? Keeping space going to be tricky with this vehicle moving at 2 miles an hour ahead of me. Both my view and my way through were obstructed.

I knew I needed to reach the other side of the intersection before the light turned red. Or else, I’d get t-boned by an oncoming vehicle.

So, once I had an ounce of daylight, I pounced. I cut the wheel and accelerated, heading for a lane to the inside of the SUV. As I did, I craned my neck to stare at the driver of then9tyer vehicle.

A young Asian woman was behind the wheel. She was holding a printed-out pamphlet. And she seemed to be reading intently from it rather than looking at the road.

Reading. A document. While driving!

As I sped away from this unconscionable sight, I had but one thought.

Lord have mercy.

About 200 miles away from this ill-fated intersection, there’s a restaurant with a letterboard sign.

El Arroyo is a known entity in Austin, Texas. A restaurant so famous for its Tex-Mex cuisine that it once was mentioned in a Pat Green song. But that letterboard – and the witty sayings displayed on it – has gained even greater renown.

I’ve shared plenty of those letterboard wisecracks with my friends over the years. But only one has made my simultaneously laugh and wince.

It reads: I’m going to need you to drive with the same energy you pulled in front of me with.

I laugh because of the tone this line implies. I wince because of the experience it illustrates.

You see, Miss Pamplet Reader is far from the only clueless driver I’ve needed to steer around over the years. It seems that a great many people have forgotten their Driver’s Education lessons. Or any kernels of common sense, for that matter.

There are the slow drivers who clog up the passing lane. There are the lost drivers who come to a dead stop in the middle of the road, rather than pulling over. And there are the inconsiderate drivers who turn without signaling or merge without looking.

It’s enough to drive an upstanding citizen to road rage.

Of course, I know better than to go nuclear. So, to spare my sanity, I recite a couple lines from the safety of my vehicle when I encounter these troublemakers.

I drive like I have somewhere to be. You drive like you’re just messing around.

It’s neat and tidy. And it draws a clear lane line between me and the imbeciles I encounter on the road.

If only they stayed out of my lane.

These days, there’s a lot of talk about the dangers of divisiveness.

Perhaps this is a function of modern times.

Misogyny is no longer ignored. Racism is no longer broadly accepted. It seems to be a peaceful, enlightened era.

And yet, polarization is everywhere we turn.

It’s a whirlwind.

The knee jerk responses to our puzzling present are pulls to the extremes. Attempts to stamp out any semblance of dividing lines, or to draw them ever thicker.

Neither option is correct.

You see, differences can be useful in certain circumstances. They can provide needed context and help define model behaviors.

Driver classification is one of those circumstances. If we normalized the foibles of bad drivers, our roadways would become an even bigger mess than they currently are. Calling out poor behaviors is necessary to keep things moving properly.

But differences can be a poison pill in other situations. Dividing on the basis of gender, religion, or ethnicity has never been an optimal decision. Nor has doing so led to equitably productive outcomes.

So yes, nuance is everything when it comes to differences. And when matters more than what.

But how do we know the right moments to lean in – and which moments to pull back?

The answer’s not as hard to find as we might think.

In the early 1960s, the United States Supreme Court faced a difficult case.

The nine justices were asked to determine if obscenity was protected by the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution. But the answer hinged on an even tougher question: What exactly was obscenity?

For all the uproar the term brought, no one could quite define it succinctly.

So, in an opinion for Jacobellis v. Ohio, Justice Potter Stewart introduced a threshold test for obscenity. That test was punctuated by seven words: I know it when I see it.

More than a half century later, few people can recall the details of that case. But they can quote that line ad nauseum.

You see, Stewart’s words were both memorable and resonant. And his phrasing would set a template for other tricky definitions.

Culture is one of them.

It’s easy to identify strong cultural tenets. But have you tried explaining what culture actually is, clearly and succinctly?

If so, I doubt you’ve gotten far.

Fortunately, Seth Godin is up to the task. The marketing guru has defined culture with his own seven-word phrase – one that would make Justice Stewart proud.

People like us do things like this.

Godin and Stewart’s phrases should serve as guideposts for highlighting differences. They can help determine when doing so is healthy and when it’s toxic.

For one phase leans into description, while the other tilts toward action.

I know it when I see it relies solely on our snap judgments. It appeases our own sensibilities but hardly goes deeper.

Such a self-serving approach can lead us to divide based on skin tone, faith, or class – all of which can easily turn toxic.

But People like us do things like this answers a higher calling. It commands us to consider collective values and behaviors. And it inspires us to influence others toward them – generally in mutually beneficial ways.

There are exceptions to this principle of course. History is littered with examples of societies that have exploited groupthink to cause great harm. And plenty of cults are built on the premise of People like us do things like this.

Still, on the balance, action-based differentiation is a signal of a benevolent culture. It helps us to strive for better. To lift each other up, rather than put each other down.

That’s a calling that speaks to me.

So, I will continue to keep my eye on the dividing lines when I’m driving, exercising, working, or otherwise engaged in an activity. I will embrace the variety with a full heart and an open mind.

Spotting differences can be healthy. And I’m here for it.

Are you?

The Insecurity of Power

On August 8, 1974, Richard Nixon addressed the American people.

As White House cameras rolled, Nixon announced that he would be vacating his presidential term the following day.

It was a painfully ironic moment.

Nixon was seemingly at the height of his powers. He had already implemented much of his campaign agenda, and he’d won re-election in a landslide almost two years prior. But now, he was stepping away from it all.

For Nixon had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dogged reporting had uncovered Nixon’s role in a break-in at the Democratic headquarters two years prior. And in the face of a congressional inquiry, Nixon had tried to cover up his involvement in the whole affair.

These revelations were more than an embarrassment. They constituted a crisis.

And so, facing public pressure and the threat of impeachment, Nixon relinquished his post. He gave up the most powerful position on the planet. And he slunk into obscurity for the rest of his life.

It was a sad ending to Nixon’s story. An ending that was all too predictable.

When I was in school, English class wasn’t my jam.

I didn’t geek out on arcane grammatical exercises or enjoy reading about faded romances in the passages of Jane Eyre. I much preferred history class, or Spanish class, or even photography class.

And yet, when my English teacher assigned the class Macbeth, I found myself captivated by it.

William Shakespeare’s play had all the necessary elements to capture an adolescent’s attention. Ambition. Betrayal. Suspense. Murder. Comedy.

Macbeth was a fun read, no doubt. But it would take me years to internalize its underlying message.

Namely, that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

You see, when we first meet the title character, he is an upstanding and loyal member of the Scottish nobility. But once he’s given a prophecy of greatness by three witches, the shine of his character starts to fade.

This obsession leads Macbeth to slay the Scottish king and cover up his involvement in the dirty deed. The ploy vaults him to the throne. But it also sends his paranoia into overdrive.

Macbeth starts killing off his friends and associates to keep them from taking the crown from him. He becomes obsessed with legacy and succession. And he generally becomes insufferable.

These traits eventually lead Macbeth to overconfidence, which portends his downfall. And that downfall transcends Macbeth into a cautionary tale.

Be careful in how you attain power, the conventional wisdom reads. And be even more careful in how you wield it.

If only it were that simple.

In recent years, there’s been plenty of grumbling about powerful figures in our society. Particularly the well-heeled ones.

The excesses of the billionaire class have been thoroughly documented. And their moves to consolidate power have led to vehement protests.

To those with less than 10 columns of numbers on their net worth statements, these billionaires seem unconscionable. They seemingly have it all, and yet they seem to be squeezing society for even more. It’s a practice that seems wholly unnecessary.

Or is it?

You see, if we put ourselves in the ornate shoes of these elites, we might find them in the same dilemma as Macbeth.

No, they likely don’t have a bloody dagger lying about. And they aren’t channeling their inner Nixon to bury the evidence.

But those same sensations of insecurity are omnipresent within them. In fact, they’re inherent.

For these elites had but two paths to their station in life. They either climbed the ladder from obscurity – as such titans as Jeff Bezos did – or they were born into familial wealth – as it the case with the Waltons, Murdochs, and Hunts.

In each situation, the pressure to maintain is immense. Jeff Bezos and his kind don’t want to lose what they’ve worked so hard to accrue. And the scions of silver spoon families don’t want to waste away multi-generational legacies.

This pressure begets insecurity. That insecurity begets paranoia. And that paranoia leads to sequestration.

Elites build barriers to protect their treasure troves. Then they expand those barriers outward, trampling those below them in the process.

It’s cruelty spurred by caution. A toxic cocktail.

Back when I first learned about Nixon’s foibles and Macbeth’s misdeeds, I had but one reaction.

If I were in that position, I’d be better than that.

It was easy for me to say. I was a good kid who stayed out of trouble. Perjury and murder seemed beyond the pale of my capabilities.

But as I grew older, I realized how wrong that statement was.

Truth be told, if I ascended to such power, I would likely act similarly to those disgraced figures – or the modern-day aristocracy. For I would be afflicted with an insecurity-laden dissonance.

This revelation altered my approach to life.

I still strove to enhance my station and to challenge myself at every turn. But I no longer kept the penthouse in my crosshairs.

It wasn’t a distaste for whitewashed mansions or haggis that kept me from the express escalator.

No. It was an urge to maintain my essence that kept me in check. By failing to chase power, I’d instead find maximal peace. I wouldn’t hear the footsteps. I’d maintain my best qualities and personality traits.

To be clear, such an outcome might still have been possible with full power. Jeff Bezos’ ex-wife Mackenzie Scott, for instance, has remained both well-heeled and well-regarded through the years. She’s kept her head – and a semblance of relatability – through a tireless devotion to philanthropy. And she’s earned plaudits from Time and Forbes magazines in the process.

Still, Scott’s path is a narrow one. It’s a tightrope act that few can traverse.

Indeed, the surest way to avoid the fall from grace is to avoid the pull of power. To leave such dark callings to others, and to entrench oneself in the proletariat.

That is what I believe. That is the path I follow.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Engineer’s Paradox

In late October of 2012, something strange happened.

A hurricane that was churning in open waters took a hard left and barreled toward the Northeast coast of America.

By the time the storm made landfall on the Jersey Shore, it was considered post-tropical. But that moniker did nothing to dull Superstorm Sandy’s wrath.

Trees toppled in the wind. Low lying areas flooded. And millions of people lost power.

The devastation was especially pronounced in the New York City area. When I visited months later, there were still debris piles in several places around the city. And if you looked at walls and embankments, you could see where the water had risen to during the storm.

Still, the recovery efforts were mostly complete. With one exception.

New York City’s subway system was snarled by the rushing water. And even after the tunnels had dried out, problems persisted.

Signaling systems faltered, tunnel walls were left unstable, and delays piled up.

The Metropolitan Transportation Authority would ultimately spend the better part of a decade refurbishing the worst-hit areas of the system. This process led to more delays, more grumbling, and potshots from the peanut gallery.

Pundits would point to the age of the tunnels, budget cuts from years gone by, and inadequate maintenance when they lampooned the New York City Subway in those days. They likened it to a dinosaur on life support – a relic from the past that wasn’t worthy of such a costly resuscitation.

It was a convenient argument. But a shortsighted one.

When I was young, I was a hardcore transit nerd.

And I was particularly obsessed with the New York City Subway.

Growing up in the area gave me ample opportunity to ride the city’s 250 miles of subway lines. And I was amazed by the entire operation.

Tunnels wound through the city in a complex maze, with a variety of station designs. Several long, elaborate transfer passages connected the platforms of different subway lines as well.

The New York City Subway seemed like its own subterranean ecosystem. Riders were protected from the rain and the wind, from the summer heat and the winter chill.

Other cities had their mass transit systems too. And each of them had their own unique flair.

Boston boasted underground trolley cars on one line. Washington had long escalators that descended from the street into bunker-like stations. Chicago had miles of elevated train lines punctuated by quaint wooden platforms.

But none of these features were as elaborate or imaginative as the New York City Subway system.

Much of this was by design. Three separate companies laid most of the Big Apple’s tracks back in the early 1900s. The companies had to navigate densely populated areas of town while building around each other’s tunnels and stations. It was quite the operation.

I didn’t think much about these details as a kid. I was just happy to ride the trains and stare out the windows.

Still, as an adult, it’s hard not to marvel at what New York created – and when.

You see, these subway tunnels were built in an era before smart machinery, computers, or Artificial Intelligence. Renderings and surveys were done by hand. Most construction required a human touch.

And yet, despite all those restrictions, the system remained structurally sound for decades. It took a black swan weather event for any cracks to show.

That is a testament to the power of engineering. To following the exacting principles of measurement, mathematics, and physics to a T. To committing to the creation of something that lasts.

That rigidity offers us a sense of security – even beyond the subway turnstiles. Adherence to those principles provides the peace of mind that the structures around us won’t fall apart and put our lives at risk.

It’s a powerful benefit that we all enjoy. But at what cost?

Many of those childhood subway rides led me to the Museum of Modern Art in the heart of New York City.

My grandparents served as volunteers in the museum back then. They answered visitor questions on the weekends. And during breaks in their shifts, they show me around the galleries.

I was often perplexed by how different the artwork looked. Piet Mondrian’s work was full of rigid blocks and lines. Andy Worhol’s artistry tended to convey of Campbell’s soup cans. And Jackson Pollock’s creations were mostly paint splatter.

My grandparents explained that each artist saw the world differently, and they put those perspectives on canvas. Art was a form of expression for them, free of rules and inhibitions.

This concept terrified me. Surely, there had to be a right answer, or some guidelines for the artists to follow. How else would they know if their work was viable, let alone successful?

I was too young to recognize it, but I was thinking like an engineer.

The irony of all this isn’t lost on me. For not only was I a poor prospect for engineering back then – as proved by my horrendous math and science grades – but I was also sharing this opinion half a block from the 5th Avenue/53rd Street station.

This was a split-level station located deep under the street. Once you descended the long escalator, you’d find westbound trains on the upper-level platform and eastbound trains on the platform beneath them.

At first glance, this design made sense. 53rd Street was rather narrow, and it was flanked by tall buildings. Stacking the tunnels deep underground seemed like a necessary engineering decision.

Yet, at the next station to the east – at 53rd Street and Lexington Avenue – both tracks were on the same level, with a central platform between them. The street was just as narrow, and the buildings flanking it were just as tall. But the engineers had gone with a different design.

This all makes me wonder if I’d given the engineers who designed the New York City Subway enough credit. Sure, they’d passed the most critical test – creating something precise enough to withstand the test of time. But they’d also mixed in just enough reasoned creativity to make the system interesting – especially to young transit nerds like me.

Perhaps the choice wasn’t between regulations and rebellion. Perhaps there was room for a shade of gray.

And perhaps that silver lining was a necessity.

I am the son of teachers.

My parents are now retired. But they spent the bulk of their working lives in the classroom, teaching an entire generation of children.

I was in grade school myself for the first half of this endeavor. And I was planting a flag for my own career in the second half. So, I rarely talked shop with my parents.

But little morsels of information still made their way to my ears. And one of those morsels – from my father – has stuck with me.

No two students learn the same way, he recounted. It’s best to be adaptable, and cater your lesson to each student, so that the entire class can take the information in.

I think about this often, particularly in the case of engineering. After all, that discipline seems to fly in the face of adaptability.

How have so many generations of engineers earned their stripes without buckling under the weight of rigidity? It’s a question that seems to defy response.

Or does it?

Yes, the clues to unlock the Engineer’s Paradox lie deep beneath the streets of New York City, where only Superstorm Sandy’s floodwaters can reach.

Down there, it’s possible to have built a mass transit marvel – a century-old masterpiece that stood the test of time – while still maintaining just enough creativity to keep things interesting. Down there, the surety of tradition could mesh with the promise of advancement in the best possible way.

Engineering is precise. Humanity is erratic. But against all odds, that pairing manages to sustain itself year after year. And we all get to reap the benefits.

I’m grateful for that.