When We’re Old

It felt like I’d been hit by a ton of bricks.

Muscles ached. Joints creaked. Pain proliferated.

What had I done to endure this? Hike a mountain? Lift heavy boxes? Plunge a shovel into the dirt?

Nothing of the sort. I’d simply slept in my own bed. And now I was waking up wrecked.

This has become my new reality. I’m getting older. And the cracks in my armor are starting to show.

Some days, I might feel sore all over for no apparent reason. Other days, I’ll wear down faster than I used to. Still other days, it’ll take me longer to remember things I once recalled instantly.

And on the worst days, all three outcomes converge upon me.

These disruptions are still relatively mild – more inconveniences than anything. I’m still relatively young, and I remain fiercely independent.

Still, they offer a dire warning. For aging only goes one way, and I’ve still got plenty of runway left for it to do its worst.

It will only get tougher to navigate the obstacles in my path going forward. And the cost of failure is sure to get higher.

When I was young, I spent a lot of time with my grandfather.

I would read children’s books with him. I’d build model train sets with him. And occasionally I’d steal his glasses and scamper off.

I’ve written a bunch about my grandfather – my mother’s father. The child of depression-era Brooklyn turned World War II veteran turned high school math teacher. He often regaled me with stories from his life. And in the process, he sparked my fascination with narrative.

The reason I shared all this time with my grandfather in my early years was that he was already retired. He volunteered at an art museum now and then, but he mostly helped care for me.

Back then, I didn’t quite grasp how unusual all this was. I didn’t understand that few people even had the option to retire in their mid-50s, still able-bodied and sharp as a tack. I didn’t grasp how rare it was for people to be able to bond with their grandchildren as much as they desired, free of professional or financial obligations.

I did notice my grandfather aging as I grew up. He had a triple bypass when I was 5 years old, and he seemed a bit more fragile after that. Recurring back problems made his posture a bit more hunched as the years went on. Occasionally, he would shuffle instead of walk.

I took it all in stride, to the degree a child could. I knew I’d need to be a bit more patient with my grandfather, and that some physical activities were off the table.

But what I hadn’t considered was what things would have been like if he were still working. Would the slow physical decline have gotten in the way of his job responsibilities? Would he have been forced out of his position? And what would he have done if he had been?

I never had to consider these prospects for him. But I surely will for myself.

It’s now harder than ever to retire at an early age. A rising cost of living and shrinking safety blanket make longer career timetables a reality.

And yet, we have little acceptance for the consequences of working into our later years. Particularly the impact of aging.

We cringe when public figures – entertainers, athletes, politicians – stay in their roles too long. And we could hardly be blamed for doing so.

These prominent people can gracefully exit stage left. They’ve accumulated enough trappings of fame to sustain them for decades.

The cards are in their hands. So, when they don’t play them, we’re left wondering why.

But few of us have the same advantages. Our options are few and far between.

So, we’re often stuck hanging onto our professional positions for as long as we can. Even as our body and mind start to fade away. And even as the world tries to cast us off.

It’s terrifying. But it’s true.

Several years ago, I started running competitively.

I was well into adulthood at this point. And years removed from my high school cross-country exploits.

I wasn’t exactly pining for those long-gone days. And I wasn’t masochistic enough to crave the sensation of sore legs, burning lungs, and a sweaty brow.

So, what got me back into racing? The allure of the fountain of youth.

Now, I’m no Ponce de Leon. I realized that there was no backwoods stream in Florida to sustain me forever.

But I believed that leveling up my fitness would help me stave off the debilitations of aging. While my less-active peers would degrade physically over time, my body would operate like an advanced machine.

This theory proved true for a bit. I got into the best shape of my life. And I posted impressive times in distance races over and over.

But then, I broke.

An injury sidelined me. Then a second. And a third.

MRI scans, physical therapy sessions, and doctor’s visits became commonplace. The word surgery went from a frightening concept to reality. Yet, I persevered through it all, determined to get back on track.

Still, I couldn’t shake a feeling. The feeling that something was different.

I was struggling to recover from my workouts, even if they were a shadow of what I once breezed through with ease. I was tweaking muscles as I got up from a chair or stepped out of the shower. And I was waking up sore nearly every day.

Despite my best efforts, it seemed that aging had caught up with me. No amount of exercising would forestall the inevitable.

If anything, my fitness efforts would collide headlong with the rip current of Father Time. I’d need to fight three times as hard just to be a step below where I used to be.

I wouldn’t say I’ve made peace with this outcome as much as I’ve rationalized it. For while running is a passion of mine, it’s not my profession. My mind is what earns me my keep, and it’s shown no signs of decline.

At least not yet.

I know that my cognition will also start to slide someday. That gaps will start to form, that failures will start to mount. I’ll fade into a shell of what I once was by any measurable dimension. I’ll start hearing others referring to me as elderly.

Given the economic realities of this society, there’s a good chance I’ll still be working then. I might desire to ride off into the sunset. But I won’t have the horse to get me there, the way my grandfather did.

I’ll be trapped in a living purgatory. Taking up space in a world that wants me to move along but provides me nowhere to go.

This is the cost of inaction when it comes to aging. Collective denial allows its problems to proliferate. And to crush us all someday.

It’s time to take a different path. To embrace clairvoyance about our future. And to use that perspective to calibrate our present.

This is a big ask. But it’s a critical one.

So, let’s not drop the ball.

We all deserve a soft place to land when we’re old. Let’s make sure we have one.

Art and Science

The two Alka Seltzer tablets fell out of my hand, landing in a glass of water.

A subtle hissing sound rose from the glass. The circular tablets disintegrated into a fine powder as the water transformed into tiny bubbles.

It was like the homemade volcano model I showed off to my parents and teachers back in second grade.

Only I wasn’t 8 years old anymore, looking for an A. I was an adult, looking to ease the burning sensation in my throat.

And that would demand a Part 2 of this experiment. It would require me to ingest the contents of this bubbling glass, so that they could neutralize the acid in my throat.

So, without hesitation, I gulped down the concoction. And within a minute or two, my discomfort dissipated.

This was the power of modern medicine. A vivid testament to the wonders of science.

But it might not have been possible without art.

You see, this whole Alka Seltzer setup is unique. Most other medical remedies come pre-prepared, making them far simpler to consume.

This posed a problem when Alka Seltzer first hit the market. The extra work of dropping tablets into full water glasses threatened to scare away consumers. And without robust sales, the product line would be doomed.

So, the makers of Alka Seltzer turned to advertising. Marketers invented the jingle Plop Plop, Fizz Fizz. Oh, what a relief it is.

There was precious little science behind this rhyme. It was mostly artistic expression. But it worked wonders.

Consumers added Alka Seltzer to their cabinets, followed the instructions from the jingle, and saw the desired results. This pattern continued for decades, until I was the one dropping tablets into a water glass on my kitchen counter.

Art and science had come together. And we all reaped the benefits.

There’s a poignant scene in the film The Dark Knight.

Batman is interrogating The Joker at the Gotham Police Headquarters, and the masked crusader asks why the sociopathic villain wants to kill him.

I don’t want to kill you, The Joker replies. You complete me.

This exchange encapsulates the relationship between art and science. They find themselves in the same venue time and again – and at tension with each other.

Take cooking. Many are drawn to the art of it, and TV shows – from Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives to The Bear – have only furthered that perception.

But there’s a heavy dose of science in cooking as well. Ingredients meld, char, evaporate, or congeal, resulting in palatable textures and flavorings.

The clinical precision of these changes has helped countless chefs notate their recipes and share them with the masses. And the members of those masses have been able to whip up reliable meals as a result.

Yet, this scientific contribution to cooking is all but forgotten by most. It’s constantly overshadowed by the glitz that often comes with meal preparation.

Whether it be Hibachi’s tableside acrobatics, elaborately plated desserts, or surprise menu specials at five-star restaurants, people go wild for the art of cooking.

It’s flashy. It’s notable.

But it’s only part of the picture.

I am putting these words on the page. And you, dear reader, are taking them in.

This is the process of writing. Of sharing testimony through the written word.

What should we make of this process? Is it an art or a science?

Many would lean heavily toward art. The trope of authors crafting novels in secluded cabins remains prevalent. The Michelangelo of the Moleskin moniker still sticks.

Yet, if you were to ask an author about their process, you’d likely get a measured response. One filled with rules, patterns, time management hacks, and much more.

Many writers, as it turns out, don’t sit around waiting for inspiration to strike. They take a scientific approach to their craft, mixing artistic talent in along the way.

I know this, because I am one of them.

As I write this, Ember Trace has been running for close to a decade. For more than 450 weeks, I’ve shared a fresh article with you, dear reader.

This venture has been my passion, and my pleasure. But make no mistake, it’s entailed plenty of work.

Such efforts cannot be chalked up solely to artistic expression. On finding a dose of inspiration and putting it on the page.

No, a great deal of the credit goes to science. On uncovering what works best for topic generation, article length, and literary style. On determining which days and times work best to type away on my computer. And on replicating that successful formula, over and over.

There’s certainly some art involved. But my work is built on a foundation of science.

As such, I bristle a bit when I’m labeled a creative. And I roll my eyes when others say they’re too left-brained to do what I do.

It’s not that they cast me on the wrong side of the divide. It’s that they put me on one side to begin with.

Writing is not art or science. It’s both.

I could keep going. I could bring up more examples of disciplines we consider to be strictly art or science. And I could share how we’re mistaken.

But I’m not going to do that. Your attention is much appreciated, dear reader. And it’s worthy of something far better than an endless ramble.

I will pose a question though. Why are we so hesitant to accept reality?

It seems we can’t wrap our brains around the idea that art and science can co-exist. It’s too nebulous, too uncomfortable.

So, we focus on the inherent tension between them, and we seek to resolve it definitively. Even as such a quest is doomed to futility.

It’s high time we take a different approach. It’s time we look at that tension as an opportunity, rather than a threat.

Indeed, if we can manage the intersection between art and science in cooking, writing, and other disciplines, we can differentiate ourselves. We can get one step closer to mastery of those crafts. And we can stay one step ahead of whatever innovations yearn to commoditize them.

Leveraging the tension can do us a world of good. But only if embrace the mission.

Art and science might be strange neighbors. But they belong together.

Let’s put the wedge away.

Youth and Experience

The ball wasn’t going where I wanted it to.

Sometimes it would slice. Sometimes it would hook. Sometimes it would skid across the grass.

With each swing, my frustration mounted. And a sense of dread started to sink in.

You see, I had come to this driving range near Fort Worth with good intentions.

I was unemployed at the time, residing in an extended-stay hotel, and applying to jobs left and right. But none of it was going well.

No hiring managers were willing to take a chance on a career-changer with no experience in their industry. Few even offered me an interview. And all the while, I was burning through my savings to fund my food and lodging.

I needed to get away from it all. To spend an hour or so outdoors, doing something that could clear my head. And spending $20 to hit a bucket of golf balls seemed like a sensible choice.

But now I was kicking myself.

My hand was chapped from gripping the golf club too tightly. My golf pants and polo were drenched in sweat. And my doubts about my golf game threatened to rival those of my employability.

Was I ever going to be able to earn an honest living again? And if I did, would I even be able to live life to the fullest?

If this day was any indication, the answer was no.

It’s been more than a decade since that afternoon on the driving range.

I’m now gainfully employed, and I’ve advanced in my career. I have a true place to call home and tangible financial stability.

At first glance, I have everything the younger me once craved. But looks can be deceiving.

These days, I could go to the driving range just about any time I desire to. The cost is negligible, and the stakes are low.

And yet, I don’t do that. I haven’t for years.

For the joy in that activity has dwindled for me. Just as it has for so many others.

Some of this change is physical. I don’t have the stamina to do as much as I used to. And when I do wear myself down, my body aches for days.

But the shift is also mental. I’ve lost the capability for unbridled glee. And the sensation of letting myself go now feels foreign to me.

For example, there was a time when I loved roller coasters. I would patiently wait in line for hours at the theme park, boldly lock myself into the safety harness, and cheer with vigor through each dip and turn of the track.

I was having the time of my life.

I still want to love roller coasters in this way. And occasionally I do find myself riding one.

But as my body is defying the laws of gravity, my mind is somewhere else. It’s staring down from a distance as I dip and twist and invert.

I’m just not there anymore. Not completely.

This, I believe, is the encapsulation of experience.

Growing long in the tooth can make a person somewhat jaded. It can leave one detached from the thrills of life. It can estrange one from the reckless abandon of innocence.

With those connections severed, the only way to relive such sensations is through one’s own memories.

And so, from my high perch of career and fiscal stability, I look back longingly at my younger self. The one who would venture out to the driving range to clear his head, even if such a trek was to end in futility.

The older me might have the trappings of a successful life. But not the inclination to get the most out of it.

A few weeks after my ill-fated trip to hit golf balls, I got a call back for a job application I’d submitted.

The hiring manager wanted me to come into the office for an interview. I accepted the invite.

The interview ultimately went well. While I wasn’t one to count chickens, I was relatively confident that I’d be offered the job.

So instead of microwaving a pouch of rice back at the extended stay hotel, I went to a Cajun restaurant for a proper lunch.

Sitting at the bar in my suit and tie with a plate of fried crawfish in front of me, I was hopeful. This was just the start of the pathway to success, I told myself.

I think back on that memory of myself more than I’d like to admit. For that young and scrappy version of me was looking unabashedly at who I am today. And yet, I find myself just as unabashedly staring back.

We’re both staring through the murky portal of time. Each wanting what the other has — and neither knowing it.

Truth be told, we each want to believe that there’s no inherent tradeoff between youth and experience. That gaining one doesn’t necessitate losing the other.

But given the inextricable truth of that tradeoff, we’re each looking to fill a hole in the current version of our life. For one, the substance to sustain the joie du vivre. For the other, the joie du vivre itself.

It’s devastating in a way. Even tragic.

But it’s the reality of my life. And I’m not alone.

Indeed, many of us look longingly at our former glory, just as we once stomped our feet yearning for our future to arrive. If we think hard enough on it, we can each find our own split-screen moment.

But should we? That’s open to debate.

There’s something to be said in leaving the past behind and living in the moment. On recognizing that what’s gone is gone. And on giving it no further mind.

But there’s also value in sustaining those memories. On recognizing the sensations we once had. And on gaining context from those recollections.

Such thinking might not eliminate the tradeoff between youth and experience. But it will provide helpful context in assessing our lives. It will also make us more empathetic and socially aware — which is always a plus.

The key to this, of course, is discernment. We must be able to glance at our youthful past without getting consumed by the memory.

That’s easier said than done. I’m Exhibit A as to how challenging it can be.

But I’m working on it. And I will continue to do so.

I hope I’m not the only one.

On Counterfactuals

My father shuffled the cards and dealt them out.

Face up on the table in front of me were a 6 of Diamonds and an 8 of Spades.

My sister and mother each also had two cards face up in front of them. I took a quick glance at the cards. But then, my father set me straight.

Don’t worry about them, he stated. The goal of this game is to beat the dealer. In this case, me.

I asked him how I might do that.

It’s simple, my father replied. Your cards just need be closer to 21 than mine, without going over 21.

My father went on to explain the rules of Blackjack.

Both my cards were face up, while one of his was face down. I’d have to add my cards together and determine if my hand was better than the dealer’s.

This was a guessing game as much as it was an exercise in arithmetic. But there still was some skill involved.

For each round, the dealer would ask each player if they’d like more cards to help their cause. If any of the players said Hit me, they’d get another card. If they said I’ll stick, they wouldn’t.

This meant that if I didn’t like my chances, I had ample opportunity to improve them. But I’d need to manage that opportunity artfully.

I looked at my cards again. They totaled 14, which was a far cry from 21. I’d surely need more to win.

So, when my father asked what I wanted to do next, I emphatically said Hit Me. He dealt me a 2 of Hearts, bringing my hand up to 16.

This still seemed too far from 21. So, during the next round, the words Hit Me again left my lips.

I got an 8 of Diamonds.

I had a higher card total than the dealer. But I’d also gotten my hand up to 24.

I’d busted. I’d lost.

I didn’t take my failure all that well.

But as I sat there sulking – as 8-year-olds do – my father took a moment to coach me up.

You don’t need to go ‘Hit Me’ on every turn, he said. Sometimes the math makes that too risky.

Sometimes the best way to win is to stick.

This stunned me.

I had never considered how not doing something could be more impactful than springing into action.

How could I have?

My entire life to that point was defined by motion. I bounced from activity to activity, at school, at home, and everywhere else.

Sure, there was plenty of downtime. Regimented bedtimes in the evening, regular naps in the mid-afternoon, and so on. But I had no recollection of the stillness, as I was unconscious throughout those quiet moments.

I’d never really gotten good at mastering the pause. At seizing the non-event. At embracing the absence of action.

All these years later, I still haven’t excelled in those areas. And I’m not alone.

You can’t prove a negative.

This is a common refrain. You hear it often during Monday Morning Quarterback sessions.

The point is straightforward. Time moves in one direction, and only on one track.

We can ponder what would have happened if we didn’t make a certain move, meet a certain person, or pursue a certain dream. We can muse about how much better or worse we’d be for choosing a different path or encountering a different fate.

But these are just pontifications. We can’t know for sure.

There’s plenty of logic behind this theory. After all, we humans have long been proficient in notating things. As we’ve evolved from stone etchings to silicon computing chips, we’ve kept the thread of recording events alive.

Those data points have proven essential to understanding our world. We recount history so that we might replicate successes and avoid repeating disasters. We keep scientific notations to prove hypotheses and spur innovation. And we look at numeric indicators to help prognosticate what’s to come.

Absent these readings, we have nothing. No data to ground our musings in. No substantive proof of how an alternative path would have played out.

And so, the prevailing wisdom has been to ignore the negatives. To avoid spending energy on what could have been. To proclaim Hit me when the dealer offers another round of cards, over and over.

Yes, away from the Blackjack table, the do-nothing option is too unproven to even be an option at all. No wonder we don’t pursue it.

But, at long last, that might finally be changing.

In recent years, a term has garnered some buzz.

Counterfactuals.

This term describes an alternative fact set. Not in the form of lies or half-truths, but more in the prevalence of empirical simulations.

Counterfactuals have existed for quite some time. But their use was traditionally limited to certain situations, such as courtroom testimony. (Think of the question from prosecutors in too many Law and Order episodes: And if that hadn’t happened, what would you have done?)

But now, things are changing. Thanks to advances in data science and artificial intelligence, we can take a fresh look at the past. We can change one input and see what the statistical outcomes were likely to have been.

This new age modeling has changed the game for decision making.

It’s broadened the scope of possibilities beyond the triumphs and failures of record. It’s helped us to preview occurrences without clouds of doubt. It’s allowed us to experiment free of the shadows of collateral damage.

Yet, this potential still comes with a cost. Namely, the cost of our innocence.

No longer can we be willfully blind to the road not taken. No longer can we shun the outcomes we – or our predecessors – had not experienced firsthand.

Those storylines now written in probabilities and code. The do-something- option, the do-something-else option, the do-nothing option – they’re all out in in the open.

It’s our obligation to look at them before choosing a path forward.

This might seem like a daunting task. An uphill climb. A joyless sojurn.

But it doesn’t have to be.

I am a huge fan of Malcolm Gladwell.

Longtime readers are familiar with my Gladwellian obsession. His bestselling books adorn my bookshelf. His acclaimed podcast fills my audio feed.

There’s a certain clarity in Gladwell’s work. A mix of eloquence and boldness in his statements.

But that’s not what draws me to him like a moth to a flame.

Malcolm Gladwell is somewhat of a contrarian. He’s embraced counterfactuals since long before it was cool. Before there was data science and advanced computing to back up his views.

Indeed, in those early days, Gladwell would often dive deep into obscure datasets and historical studies to support his claims. He would connect disparate dots in a manner that wouldn’t become clear until the story was nearly over.

Gladwell’s perspective was maddeningly uncomfortable to me when I first encountered it.

I yearned follow the prevailing winds. I desired to kowtow to custom. I wanted to go Hit Me on every round.

I had no appetite to upset the apple cart. I wasn’t buying what Malcolm Gladwell was selling.

Gradually, though, his well-informed perspectives won me over. I became less consumed by perspectives, and more enamored with getting closer to the truth – as unsightly as it might be.

The prospect of encountering counterfactuals became exciting, not exhausting. And my decision-making chops flourished.

I no longer play Blackjack. But if I did, I’m certain I’d be far more proficient at it these days. For I understand the subtle pull of the do-nothing option in an environment yearning for another card. And I’m willing to give it an audience.

Such power lies within all of us. I am sure of it. We just need to harness it.

And that starts with the right mindset. With embracing counterfactuals, rather than running from them.

Are you ready to take that quest?

Deep in the Heart

It was hard to miss.

As I drove by the pasture on the way to work, an irrigator was hard at work dampening the sod.

An industrial-strength spigot fired blasts of water 10 feet in the air, before gravity and the wind took over. The water would fall to the ground in a thick mist, allowing one pump to bring water to several square feet of land.

Then the fixture would rotate a bit. It would reload, firing a blast of hydration to fall on an adjoining patch of ground.

This pattern continued until the circle was complete. Then the cycle would start again.

The morning sunlight made all this quite a spectacle. The water appeared as a transparent curtain as it fell back to earth. A million tiny bubbles were transfixed in the air.

It was a sight reminiscent of an exotic destination. A waterfall secluded in the jungle, perhaps. Or the craggy cliff face where the frothy sea collided with the land.

And yet, this location was anything but.

No, this water was falling on land as flat as a pancake. Across the pasture, some longhorn steers grazed. And behind the thick mist was the asphalt of a highway and the glass façade of an office tower.

This was Texas personified. And I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else.

Every fall, pictures of massive corsages proliferate through social media.

The floral displays are up to three feet high. And they often adorn the fronts of dresses that high school girls wear to the homecoming dance.

Or so I’m told.

You see, the spectacle of mums at the homecoming dance is a distinctly Texan tradition. It exemplifies the school-age experience in the Lone Star State — an experience I never had.

I was 20 years old when I first set foot in Texas, and 22 when I formally made it my home.

I still had some maturing to do in those days of early adulthood. But there was no doubt that I’d grown up elsewhere.

This dichotomy has dogged me a bit.

Sure, I chose to dig my boots into Lone Star soil at my earliest adult opportunity. But I can never claim to be a Texas Native.

The region I can claim native status in – the Northeastern United States – well, I left it at my earliest opportunity. I was a high school graduate, a teenager who realized that many of his happiest moments were found on vacations far from home.

I yearned to follow the thread of that intuition, to try out somewhere new for size. And college offered the perfect opportunity to do just that.

So, I moved from New York to Miami. And I spent my undergraduate years under the warm South Florida sun.

The experiment had mixed results. I was grateful to be out of the Northeast, harboring no real desire to return for the long haul. And I thrived in school, ultimately graduating with honors.

But as that graduation date approached, I was overcome by a certain feeling. A feeling that Florida could not be my forever home.

I belonged somewhere else. But where?

I was sorting through that question when I got a job offer in West Texas. I accepted without hesitation. And not long after moving west, I recognized that I’d found my answer.

This is where I was meant to be all along.

Growing up in America’s oldest and most populated region meant making several assumptions.

The winters would be cold. The summers would be sticky. And no matter the weather, the traffic would be awful.

From an early age, I recognized that my family’s suburban home had a modest backyard and no garage. But at least we had a yard and a car. I know plenty of people without either.

I never did ask why we all signed up for this. I didn’t have to.

Even as a child, I understood that the Northeast was a vanguard of culture and a beacon of professional opportunity. That’s why most of my family had made their home in the region. And why the families of my friends had done the same.

I respected that tradition, even as I moved to defy it. But the reactions I got for doing so caught me off guard.

Family and friends would lampoon my new home, evoking the most outlandish stereotypes. They’d rail against politics in Texas. Or they’d derisively refer to the state as The Flyover Zone.

I brought this on myself to some degree. On my first trip north after my move, I sported boots, Wrangler jeans, and a belt buckle – in the middle of summer.

But as the years flew by — and it became clear that I wasn’t moving back — the derision continued. It was as if my choice to swap zip codes was a betrayal. A wayward trek that flaunted an invisible boundary.

This rankled me.

The winding road had finally led me home. Yet, I was still the only one to accept it.

The pasture was now in my rearview mirror.

As the shadow of the office tower hovered over me, my mind began to wander.

I saw beauty all around me. In the rustic cattle patch bathed in sunlight. In the curtain of mechanical mist dampening it. And in the modern marvels – the highway and the office building – providing a backdrop.

Maybe that vista wasn’t everyone else’s cup of tea. But it sure was mine.

I suppose this is a prime reason why I’ve remained steadfast in my devotion to the Lone Star State. Perhaps it’s why I’ve grudgingly endured the underhandedness from those who reside far beyond the Pine Curtain.

Texas is deep in the heart of me. I’ve found beauty in both its grandeur and its monotony. I’ve found grace in the kindness of its populace. I’ve found grit through its tradition of resilience.

I’ve found myself through it all.

Others might not see what I see here. And ultimately, they don’t have to.

I just hope that they respect my decision. My right to put a stake in Lone Star ground. And to find peace on the Southern Plains.

Home is where the heart is. Mine resides here.

Folly and Redemption

On a chilly January night, the Jacksonville Jaguars and Los Angeles Chargers took the field in North Florida.

It was a National Football League playoff showdown, featuring two compelling teams led by rising stars.

A great game was in store. Or was it?

The game got off to an inauspicious start. Jacksonville quarterback Trevor Lawrence threw an interception on the second play of the game.

The misfire put Los Angeles in prime position to score. The Chargers put a touchdown on the board less than a minute later.

This was hardly the start Jaguars fans were expecting. But they surely didn’t expect what was still to come.

On Jacksonville’s next possession, Lawrence threw another interception. The Chargers took advantage of the blunder, scoring again.

Lawrence went on to throw a third interception later in the first quarter, and fourth in the second quarter.

By the time halftime arrived, the Chargers led the Jaguars by a score of 27 to 7. Lawrence was directly responsible for 17 points of that 20-point deficit.

It looked like the Jacksonville’s season was about to end with a thud. But another plot twist was in the offing.

The Jaguars came onto the field with renewed purpose in the second half. And slowly but surely, Jacksonville started chipping away at the deficit.

Lawrence stopped turning the ball over, tossing touchdown passes instead on three straight drives. And the Jaguars defense held the Los Angeles offense to three points, bending but never breaking.

With just a few minutes left, Lawrence found the ball in his hands one more time. His team trailed by two points.

Lawrence confidently led the Jacksonville offense down the field, putting them in position to kick a field goal.

The kicker drilled the attempt through the uprights with no time left on the clock. The Jaguars, improbably, won the game by a score of 31 to 30.

Their season was still alive.

In the days after this playoff football game, two narratives percolated through the media.

One claimed that the Los Angeles Chargers had choked. On the precipice of a road playoff win, they got complacent. And in doing so, they fell apart.

It was a compelling argument. Teams rarely waste 20-point halftime advantages in the NFL playoffs. Doing so requires them to squander countless opportunities, to be the architects of their own demise.

The label is sure to stick.

Even so, the more prevalent narrative from this game was that of Trevor Lawrence’s redemption. Pundits marveled at how the Jaguars signal-caller faced down adversity and led his team to a scintillating victory.

It was the stuff of Hollywood legend, it would seem. Except that it wasn’t.

You see, Lawrence hadn’t overcome adversity. He’d simply cleaned up his own mess.

His bone-headed decisions and poor throws had put Jacksonville on the brink of playoff elimination. As the leader of the team, it was his obligation to atone for his poor play.

Lawrence ultimately did that. But his second half performance was hardly the stuff of redemption.

Redemption, you see, has a distinct definition. It’s the process of getting back up when you’ve been knocked down. Of rising to the mountaintop after coming up short.

There’s a certain amount of pain intertwined with this process. There’s the haunting ache from having done your best – of having gotten so close – and finding yourself with nothing to show for it.

That ache serves as fuel to make the previously impossible, possible. That fuel is a key element of redemption. And it demands a baseline of achievement to even find a place in the tank.

What Lawrence did in the first half of that playoff game hardly counts as a baseline of achievement. He’d dug his team a deep hole through impotence, and you could hardly say that he deserved a better outcome than the one emblazoned on the scoreboard.

This was folly epitomized.

And yet, Jacksonville escaped unscathed.

Perhaps Trevor Lawrence wasn’t the only one to exhibit folly.

Yes, from a bird’s eye view, any analysis of his gridiron adventures seems silly.

This was but a game after all. Even with the hundred-million-dollar player salaries and tens of millions of TV viewers, football remains far from existential.

Yet, far from the bright lights of football fields, we’ve taken similar liberties with our pens. We’ve rebranded folly as redemption. And the implications are stark.

For such a reframe kneecaps the principles of accountability and remorse. It dulls our empathy and feeds our ego at the least suitable of times.

Indeed, if we classify our errors as chances for redemption, we fail to recognize their impact. We neglect to consider who our misdeeds hurt, and in what ways.

That collateral damage gets sidelined, deferred, ignored.

We put the humility on the back burner. We decline to make proper amends.

And as we rise from the ashes of our blunders, we recast ourselves as victims. Victims who have overcome strife on the road to achievements.

This is what happens when we tie redemption to folly. And it’s sickening.

I don’t know how we’ve gotten to this depraved reality

Perhaps we’ve internalized too many fairy tales. Perhaps we’ve taken silver linings from too many Steven King novels.

Perhaps it’s something different entirely.

Regardless, we need to open our eyes.

For when we neglect what’s now in favor of what’s next, we exacerbate our missteps. We cause the fissures of our blunders to become faults and fjords. We carry an air of entitlement, rendering ourselves too big to fail.

We lose. And everyone in our orbit suffers.

It would be far better to take our folly at face value. To accept the consequences of our mistakes and marinate in our remorse. To make amends, hat in hand.

Such habits will help foster a sense of compassion within our soul. They’ll steer us away from recklessness. They’ll provide a more sustainable path forward.

And above all that, they’ll keep us from commandeering redemption for our own grandeur. The concept can return to its rightful pedestal until we can raise ourselves up to prove worthy of its mantle.

This is how it should be. And I hope this is the way it will be.

Folly and redemption are oil and water. Let’s stop trying to mix them together.

The Butterfly Effect of Caution

Watch out for the turkey.

I heard this warning one fall as Thanksgiving approached.

I was quite young at the time – maybe 9 or 10. And I was perplexed.

You see, I wasn’t the biggest consumer of turkey back then. I preferred chicken.

But I sure feasted on the Thanksgiving turkey my relatives prepared each year. It was exquisitely roasted, neither too dry in texture nor too gamey in flavor. And it was perfectly carved.

It was everything I wanted at the center of my holiday plate. Why would I need to watch out for it?

My parents explained to me that the caution had nothing to do my relatives’ turkey. It was more about what was contained within all turkeys. Namely, an amino acid called Tryptophan.

Excessive Tryptophan makes you sleepy, they said. It exacerbates the food coma feeling that often overcomes Thanksgiving dinner guests.

These words didn’t quite land with me. After all, I had the metabolism of a hummingbird back then. I’d often watch television or play games with my cousins after the Thanksgiving meal was over. Midnight would approach and my energy would be nowhere near gone.

Turkey couldn’t possibly be the problem. No matter what anyone said.

My youthful innocence is long gone now. And so are my days consuming the Thanksgiving cornerstone.

I swore off turkey entirely in early adulthood. I no longer had any tolerance for its taste, no matter how it was roasted.

But even though I’ve heeded the advice of the naysayers, I don’t quite agree with the principle of it.

Turkey isn’t something we need to be wary of.

Not too long ago, I came across an article about which fruits best improve health.

Now, I’m no flagbearer for the clean eating movement. But the title was intriguing enough that I clicked through. (But not so intriguing that I saved the link. Apologies.)

The article went fruit by fruit, explaining each’s unique benefits. Much of this wasn’t news to me; I understood that berries were high in antioxidants and oranges had plenty of Vitamin C.

But when it came to bananas, something stopped me in my tracks. The article mentioned that the fruits provide a beneficial boost of tryptophan.

No way, I thought. Not because I was skeptical of the science. But more because I couldn’t imagine readers seeing tryptophan as a benefit.

Heck, I sure couldn’t.

The lore of the Thanksgiving Turkey Coma has taken over our society. It’s as much a part of the holiday narrative as family and football. And it’s turned tryptophan into a boogeyman ingredient.

In fact, tryptophan is so reviled that it sits on ingredient blacklists, alongside monosodium glutamate (MSG) and saturated fat. It deters health-obsessed diners, rather than attracting them.

For that reason, I was sure the article’s sales pitch for bananas would fall flat.

But we might be the ones who are bananas.

Yes, further research proved to me that we have tryptophan all wrong.

These amino acids, it turns out, are essential in creating serotonin. That’s the neurotransmitter impacting our moods, our pain tolerance, and yes, our sleep cycles. Without tryptophan in our bloodstream, we’d be a frazzled, unstable mess.

Fortunately, most of us don’t have this issue. For even if we’ve sworn off turkey, plenty of other foods contain tryptophan. Foods like chicken, eggs, fish, peanuts, milk, cheese, and – yes – bananas.

No matter our diet, the purported boogeyman ingredient has come for us. And we’re better for it.

It’s time we got the message.

Up in the mountain valleys of Utah live millions of followers of the LDS Church. Or Mormons, as they’re colloquially known.

Mormons live by a strict honor code. Alcohol, tobacco, coffee, and tea are forbidden by the church. Swearing is not permitted. Chastity is demanded until marriage.

For many of those outside of the LDS movement, these requirements seem a bit mind-boggling. Myself included.

I don’t smoke, and I’ve been sober for years. But I can’t imagine going a week without a cup of coffee or a four-letter word.

Yet, I defy this code of conduct with unease. I occasionally find myself wondering if those following the LDS Honor Code have it all right, and I have it all wrong.

The answer is far from straightforward.

You see, many Mormons live prosperous lives without a caffeine jolt or the chance to cuss someone out. But many non-Mormons live equally prosperous lives with those elements woven in.

The key to prosperity, it seems, is not necessarily bequeathal. Instead, it’s moderation.

It’s possible to thrive while drinking a cup of joe a day, rather than four. It’s possible to be considered classy, even if a swear word passes our lips now and then (but no more often than that).

Moderation is an art, not a science. We can leave our own mark – much the way Picasso and Rembrandt left unique brushstrokes on the canvases they graced.

The problem is that many of us are more Pollack or Rauschenberg than Picasso. Our grasp on moderation is nonexistent. It’s all or nothing.

This is how the lore of the Thanksgiving Turkey Coma can take root. We’d rather cast out the amino acid that causes us to doze off than consider how we can enjoy it more responsibly. We’d rather abstain than restrain.

I call this the Butterfly Effect of Caution. And it’s a serious problem.

For it leads us to blow things out of proportion. To stop in our tracks needlessly. To take a machete to what demands a scalpel.

The truth is there’s often a fair deal of good in what we label as bad. There are benefits in the balance.

But our turn toward sensationalism can keep those treasures beyond our grasp. It can turn lizards into Godzilla, computers into Skynet, and tryptophan into the boogeyman.

Yes, The Butterfly Effect of Caution causes us to lose more than we stand to gain. But we still have the power to choose a new path. A more moderate path.

We can let loose now and then without sabotaging our air of professionalism. We can hit the gym without provoking a world of pain.

And we can take a few bites of turkey, rather than resigning ourselves to imminent slumber.

The choice is ours.

So, let’s set that butterfly free.

Scope of Effect

It was an ordinary candy shop.

A row of ice cream vats sat behind a pane of glass. A bevy of other sweets – saltwater taffy, gummy worms, cotton candy and the like – was arrayed neatly on shelves along the far wall.

Nothing pointed to this place being special. But looks can be deceiving.

For this candy shop was in the middle of a resort town. Day after day, the large sign over its front door beckoned to a new set of tourists.

Many of these tourists were hungry as the sign caught their eye. Others were in the mood for a sweet indulgence.

Either way, this shop was perfectly placed to seize the opportunity. And those tourists were more than willing to open their wallets to make it happen.

It was a symbiotic relationship. The perfect mix of supply and demand.

This was clear to me as I surveyed the ice cream options one day.

But then another thought crossed my mind. A more sinister one.

What if something disrupted the harmony? What would happen then?

This wasn’t an artisan candy shop, you see. That ice cream wasn’t hand-cranked in house. Neither were the shelf-stable confections.

No, suppliers shipped these goods into town every week or two. The manager of the shop took delivery. Then the staff diligently stocked the shelves and filled the vats.

It was a team effort, but also a delicate chain to maneuver. For it would only take one loose link to send the whole thing haywire.

Maybe a storm elsewhere would delay delivery of the ice cream. Or an issue at a confectioner would pause production of the shelf-stable candy. Maybe a contagious illness would keep several staff members from their shifts, forcing the shop to close temporarily.

In a vacuum, these disruptions might seem minor. But for a business such as this, they could prove devastating.

Devastating in a way that few could rightly appreciate.

When I was a teenager, I got into a fender-bender on the way to school one day.

I was trying to change lanes in stop and go traffic on the highway, and I accidentally dinged another car in the process.

No one was hurt, but both vehicles sustained some damage. So, the other driver and I each pulled onto the shoulder and exchanged insurance information. Then we waited for the authorities to arrive.

It was cold that morning, and I was none too pleased about standing on the side of the road for close to an hour. I was also dreading the weeks I’d be without the car while it got repaired.

These were all notable concerns. But at the end of the day, they could be classified as first world problems.

First world problems refer to the trivial inconveniences we often contend with. Things like losing service on our smartphones at an inopportune time, or accidentally placing a lunch order at the wrong location of our favorite quick-serve restaurant.

These issues can make our days more of an ordeal. But they don’t pose an existential threat, as so many third-world concerns do.

We’re not generally at risk of getting devoured by a wild animal, sickened by non-potable water or robbed blind in our sleep. Our ability to maintain security, nourishment, and shelter remains strong as ever.

In many ways, the pure existence of first-world problems represents an indulgence. The fact that we can stress about things that ultimately matter so little shows how fortunate we really are.

Yes, the fender bender was problematic. But at least I had a car to begin with.

And sure, any number of risks could have sunk that candy shop I’d visited. But the death of a resort town business hardly represented the collapse of society.

Still, such thinking carries profound risk.

And that risk is not exactly tolerable.

There are many famous images from the 1930s in America. But perhaps the most poigniant is a photograph by Dorothea Lange.

The image — titled Migrant Mother — features a dark-haired woman staring slightly askance of the camera. A worried look covers her face, while her calloused right hand supports her chin. Faint lines appear on her forehead, framed by the backs of her children’s heads.

Migrant Mother speaks to the strife of the Great Depression, when poverty and despair ran rampant. Many Americans lost their livelihoods and their life savings. They ceded their modest homes for rickety shacks and spartan tents. They waited for hours in line for soup or bread.

The last vestiges of the frontier had been stamped out. America was in no way a third-world country. But it wasn’t thriving either.

The government took aim at this morass. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt worked with Congress to pass the New Deal – a set of reforms that included public works projects and a social safety net.

Not long after this, America soon got involved in World War II. The war effort turbocharged the economic engine, lifting our nation out of poverty once and for all.

And despite a few close calls, that engine hasn’t fully idled in all the decades since.

The journey from Migrant Mother to the present day tells the story of our nation. Of its resilience. Of its resolve. And of its penchant for rationalization.

You see, from the moment pen hit paper on the New Deal, the dominant concern in America gained top billing. The misfortunes of everyday Americans have continued through the years. But instead of being profiled in Dorothea Lange portraits, the afflicted have found their struggles marginalized.

You lost your job? Your house burned down? That’s too bad, but it’s no national tragedy. Pick your head up. There are plenty of opportunities to land on your feet.

So it goes with perceived first-world problems, time and again.

This train of thought is factually accurate. But when it’s presented this way, it can be quite harmful.

For while these misfortunes might be individualized, they still cut deep. Those who lose a job or a home must cauterize the wound while those around them continue to thrive.

The dissonance is real. And a message of pick your head up only furthers this isolation.

It invalidates the pain the afflicted is feeling, and it implores them to suffer in silence. None of which is healthy.

The occasional blowback from this type of behavior tends to make headlines. We’re aghast when an ex-employee opens fire at their old workplace. We’re despondent when someone robs a bank to claw back some of what was taken from them.

These newly minted criminals can do better than to violate the moral code. But so can we.

We can do more to consider the scope of effect that an individualized tragedy can have. We can do more to support the afflicted. To hear them, to see them, and to assure them they’re not alone.

We can be kind. We can be empathetic. We can follow the golden rule.

We can, and we must.

For such behavior makes our nation a better place. It allows our society to keep moving forward without leaving the fallen in the dust. It helps fulfill our promise while forestalling our demise.

And that’s an ideal worth working toward.

So yes, I truly hope that resort town candy shop continues to thrive. But should misfortune befall it – or any of us – I hope that we can help soften the blow.

First-world problems are real-world problems. Let’s treat them accordingly.

The Sensory Connection

My father opened the canister of coffee beans and dumped several into the electric grinder. Then he turned to me.

Big noise coming, he warned. He wasn’t kidding.

With a crescendo of sound, the machine vaporized the beans into coarse grounds. As it did, a savory aroma filled the air.

My father gathered the grounds into a filter. Then he put the whole thing into a coffeemaker and hit Brew.

A dark liquid soon filled the carafe, with steam wafting off the top of it.

My father poured himself a cup and let it cool. The aroma took over the kitchen.

I want a sip, I exclaimed. My father obliged.

With great anticipation, I put the cup to my lips. But what washed over my tongue was not what I expected.

It was sour, bitter even.

I put the cup down in disgust.

Some days later, my family was out and about.

I was started to get hungry when I spotted the glow of the Golden Arches. A McDonalds location was nearby.

I want a burger and some fries, I cried out. Can we stop?

My parents looked at each other and sighed. They know there was but one answer.

Moments later, we were inside the McDonalds. The odor of burger grease filled the air as we placed our order.

It was an unconscionable scent for our noses to endure. But it proved to be just a momentary distraction.

Our burgers and fries soon arrived. And we devoured that food like a pack of wild animals.

Each bite beckoned for another in quick succession. We couldn’t slow down.

Sure, the greasy odor was still there. But the food was savory enough that we didn’t care.

Our taste buds had won out decisively.

As I write this, it’s been years since I had a McDonalds burger. And it’s been hours since I had a cup of coffee.

Yes, my behavior has inverted. Chalk one up to getting older.

But my questions surrounding these delicacies have not.

Indeed, every time I take a sip of my bitter brew, I wonder why I continue to commit myself to such unpleasantries.

And every time I catch a whiff of that greasy McDonalds odor, I wonder why I ever thought it was a good idea to eat there.

The answers, of course, are as sensible as they are nuanced.

Coffee offers me the caffeine boost I need to get going each morning. Since I cut back on sugary drinks years ago, it’s one of the few beverages left that can offer me energy and alertness. Plus, it still does smell amazing.

And McDonalds food always tasted heavenly to me as a child. I didn’t need an olfactory cue to get my Pavlovian responses going. The smell, in fact, was irrelevant.

Yes, one sense has long been sufficient for me to enjoy coffee and – at one point – McDonalds. Smell and taste needn’t be in concert for either.

Still, this is more the exception than the rule.

Smell and taste are often inextricably linked. What seems soothing to our nostrils is often palatable to our tongue – and vice versa.

Some of this has to do with these body parts sharing an airway. But it also just makes intuitive sense. It seems right.

So, when the chain is broken, we’re devastated.

Consider the early days of the COVID pandemic. Some of those unlucky enough to be afflicted with the virus back then lost their sense of smell. Once the shock of this development gave way to despair, many found themselves with a deep sense of longing.

I didn’t experience such hardship, but the accounts I read of those who did were harrowing.

Flowers, cologne, leather – these soothing aromas were all relegated to a fading memory. Some food now tasted strange. And even if it didn’t, the lack of a scent took the joy out of eating them.

Many lived in this version of hell for months before regaining their sense of smell. Others still haven’t recovered it.

Either way, the affliction continues to cast a long shadow. What was one simple is now complex. What was once joyous is now fraught.

Smell and taste might not seem as essential as the other senses. But they’re plenty important.

And they’re generally better together.

If you spend a little too much time on social media these days, you’ll likely see a strange term bandied about. An abbreviation called ASMR.

ASMR describes the tingles you feel down your spine when you’re exposed to a certain trigger. Many of these are sound based, such as the crunch of boots on fresh snow. But visual identification also plays a critical role in the ASMR process.

Seeing what it is you’re hearing can help you place it. Suddenly your memory recalls how that same trigger felt in the past. And that sets the tingles in motion down your spine.

(OK, maybe it’s not exactly this way. I’m not a scientist, after all. But I’d wager this explanation is not all that removed from reality.)

I’m no aficionado of ASMR. I don’t tend to spend my mornings watching videos of wrapping paper getting crumpled.

But as an extreme introvert, I understand its importance.

You see, our senses are our superpowers. But those powers can overrun us.

Sometimes, this can lead us try to something seemingly repulsive – like coffee or a McDonalds burger. Other times, it can cause us to endure prolonged bombardment – such as the loud noise and bright lights of a rock concert.

Regardless, a rogue sense is rarely beneficial without moderation. Concerts, coffee, and McDonalds can each wreck you if enjoyed too frequently.

The key to avoiding this fate – to harnessing our superpowers – is to tap into something radically different. Something that ASMR provides.

That something is the sensory connection.

Yes, when we experience our senses in tandem – one building off another in a subtle way – we can attain a sense of profound bliss.

We connect with our environment rather than recoiling from it. We open ourselves to both novelty and reflection. We give our soul license to roam free.

It’s no wonder that many of the most wholesome things in life – renowned literature, haute cuisine, strolls through nature – evoke the sensory connection. The vehicles for these indulgences might be our eyes, or our tongues, or our feet – but they’re hardly running the show. It’s a team effort.

We best not forget this. Or else we miss a golden opportunity to get the most out of life.

Single sense thrills have their place in our world. But they don’t belong in the center of it.

Let’s open ourselves to something greater Let’s tap into the sensory connection.

Efficiency Mode

I was in line at the car wash when the issues started.

First, the Check Engine light turned on. Then the airbag deployment indicator illuminated.

The electronic display near my center console started flickering on and off. And my power windows stopped working.

It was as if my car was having a seizure.

I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. My alternator was failing, and my car’s electrical system was on its last legs.

My car still worked, but my options were severely limited. If the engine were to idle for a few minutes longer, I’d be done for.

I didn’t have the money for a tow truck. And I didn’t know who to call for assistance.

There was but one option. I had to get this hunk of sheet metal to the mechanic while I still could.

The first task was to peel out of the car wash line. Fortunately, I was far enough from the cashier that I could cut away without incident.

But that only started the adventure.

The mechanic was four miles across town, with a maze of city streets in between. I’d need to find a route that didn’t have too many turns. And I had to go just the right speed to glide through every green light without effort. For if I stopped – or braked and accelerated too much – the car might have died on me.

Fortunately, I knew this part of town like the back of my hand. So, the optimal route came to mind instantly.

There’d be one left turn at the next intersection, followed by a two-mile straightway, a right turn, a one-mile straightaway, two more right turns, and a half-mile jaunt down a highway access road.

So, four turns and two long straightaways. With five traffic lights mixed in for good measure.

It wouldn’t be the easiest sequence for a dying car to traverse. But it was a Sunday afternoon, and the roads were half empty. If I made it through that initial left turn, the rest would be attainable.

I turned out of the car wash entrance and made my way to that first intersection, gradually applying pressure to the gas pedal. The left turn arrow was illuminated ahead of me. But I was still hundreds of yards away.

Seconds felt like hours as the traffic light drew closer. Don’t change yet, I begged silently. Don’t change!

The light stayed green.

I barreled through the turn, pressing the gas pedal one more time as I hit the long straightaway.

The next three traffic lights were now my nemesis. I had to clear them in sequence without maneuvering my car too much.

It turned out I’d built enough speed to make that happen. Two miles rolled by without red lights, and I roared through a right turn onto the shorter straightaway.

I was about halfway through that straightaway when the electrical display went dark. As I cruised through the final green light at 40 miles an hour, I saw the speedometer needle go from 40 to 0 and back to 40, before cutting out entirely.

I was still going 40 miles an hour but in a mostly dead car. I had a mile to go and two turns to manage. And I could only steer and decelerate.

I could have given up then. But I’d come so far. I was determined to make it.

I guided the car to the end of the road, my foot hovering over the brake pedal. With the power steering now failing, I turned the wheel with force, making it through the successive right turns without incident. And I let the car glide down the access road until the mechanic shop came into view.

Then I turned into the parking lot and hit the brakes one last time.

I had made it.

Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.

This bit of wisdom comes from the pugilistic philosopher Mike Tyson.

The boxer infamous for biting his opponent’s ear and for getting a face tattoo might not seem like the best source of life wisdom. But Tyson is right.

We like to think we have a foolproof plan. We thrive under the illusion of control.

But inevitably, our best plans will get waylaid. And our reaction to that unexpected disruption will ultimately define us.

I wasn’t planning on my alternator going out while I waited for a car wash. The power failure hit me like a sucker punch to the jaw.

But I rallied.

I made a contingency plan on the spot. And I executed it nearly flawlessly.

As I reminisce about all this, one question above comes to mind above all others. How was I able to react so smoothly in a flash?

Some of it was experience. I’d just replaced my alternator months earlier, so I knew the warning signs of a power failure.

But much of it was innate. The quick, decisive actions I took were the product of something I like to call Efficiency Mode.

Efficiency Mode exists within all of us. It’s what steers us to the nearest restroom when our stomach starts acting up in public. It’s what shepherds us to safety when the skies darken and thunder booms around us.

Efficiency Mode brings out our best. It narrows our focus narrows and hones our decisiveness. It slows down time and enhances our ability to deliver optimal results.

But there’s a catch.

Efficiency Mode only exists in crisis. It only emerges when our plans have been waylaid. It only thrives when we’ve been punched in the mouth.

This leaves us with a conundrum. How do we handle the non-crisis times?

Do we carry on through life as usual, embracing the mantle of control while capturing only a fraction of our potential?

Or do we long for a rogue wave to knock us down, taking our efficiency into high gear?

The choice is ours.

The TV show Justified features plenty of colorful characters.

But few are as memorable as Bob Sweeney.

Sweeney is the fictional constable of Harlan, Kentucky. An awkward yet pleasant fellow, he’s played by the comedian Patton Oswalt.

Although his job is paperwork-heavy, Sweeney craves the thrill of big-time law enforcement actions. So, he always brings his “go bag” so that he’s “ready to jump” if the action gets heavy.

Many of us who have experienced that rush feel like Bob. We yearn for that next opportunity to use our “Go Bag,” because we know we’ll be bringing our best.

But the times between those times matter just as much.

If we can’t maintain excellence through the monotonous moments — when we can only top out at 80 percent of our potential — our crisis maneuvers will prove irrelevant. We’ll lose more in the balance than we gain in a pinch.

Yes, we need the plan and the ability to deviate from it. We need to throw confident haymakers and to rise from the mat when we take one on the chin.

When we master both, we will truly be in position to make an impact. But it takes a duality of commitment.

I’ve bought in. Will you?