Tag: change

Home Away

The faded light of dawn appeared out of the airplane window, barely illuminating a dark gray wall of mountains.

There were no houses, no lights. Just the mountains, surrounded in early morning solitude.

I had no idea where I was, only where I was headed. And I had no idea what to expect when I got there.

Some time later, the plane touched down in Santiago, Chile. I groggily made my way through passport control and customs, still weary from the overnight flight. I quickly knocked the rust off my Spanish as I attempted to locate the point person for my study abroad program.

I had never met this man. I just had a name and a phone number. Fortunately, I found him a short time later.

After a few more students made their way through customs, we all got into a van and embarked on a 90-minute journey to the Pacific Coast.

All of this was new to me. I had never been to South America before. And I’d never traveled abroad alone.

Still, as we made our way through arid landscapes and coastal mountain passes, something seemed strikingly familiar about where I was heading.

This odd déjà vu continued after I arrived in Viña Del Mar — the seaside city that would my home for the next six weeks. Even after taking a nap and walking around the city, I still felt strangely comfortable.

I had never before felt like this after leaving the United States. When I traveled to Spain, France, and Italy with my family as a teenager, the unfamiliarity overwhelmed me at first.

You might think this was due to the language barrier. But I felt the same way when I traveled to England, or even Canada.

Something just felt off compared to what I was used to. And I had to adjust — quickly.

But Chile was different. It reminded me of California.

Yes, the architecture was different and everyone spoke Spanish. But the landscape and the cuisine had a distinct California vibe.

It rained every day of my first week in Chile. The skies were foreboding and the sidewalks were flooded. This all seemed so un-Californian, and it should have broken my spell. But I ignored the reminders from the heavens.

I still felt calm and reassured. The locals were quiet and reserved, a perfect match for my introverted nature. The food included steak sandwiches, French fries and hot dogs with avocado and mayonnaise — all close enough to what I could get back home. And the streets were broad and easy to navigate, much like a city in the United States.

My mood only changed when I found out about student protests engulfing the area. Students had taken over the campus of a university in nearby Valparaiso, where one of my classes was to be held. Other students were out protesting in the center of the city.

My class in Valparaiso was moved to a different building, and it went on as scheduled. But we were warned not to check out the protests going on nearby.

The Caribineros de Chile  — Chile’s national police force — routinely use tear gas and water cannons to break up protests, we were told. And the study abroad program leaders didn’t want us to risk getting injured.

My roommate ignored this advice at first. As a journalism major, he felt it was his duty to cover what was going on. So, he headed into the fray of a protest.

He returned with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose. He had stayed a couple of blocks away from the action, but tear gas doesn’t discriminate. After he washed his face, he told me he wouldn’t be heading out to check out the protests again.

The entire scenario was unsettling to me.

This was years before the Ferguson protests in Missouri, where police used tear gas and rubber bullets to assert control. Protests in the United States were mostly peaceful back then. Or at least that’s what I believed to be true.

Seeing police using such force against similar types of protests was jarring. While I had heard much about the atrocities of the Augusto Pinochet dictatorship, those days were long gone in Chile. And everything else I had seen on the ground to that point reminded me of American values.

It was my We’re not in Kansas anymore moment. I might have felt at home, but I was very much away.

So many memories come to mind when I think of my time in Chile.

There were the exotic ones: Riding horses over massive sand dunes. Skiing high in the Andes. Seeing the Southern Cross in the night sky of the Elqui Valley. And exploring Santiago — a mountainous city that seemed like a cross between Denver and New York.

And there were the familiar ones: Watching a movie at a Cinemark movie theater. Shopping at the mall. Watching the sun set over the ocean.

The similarities outstrip the differences, in my mind — even today. Even though I knew I was abroad — in a nation where police used brute force to quell unrest — the familiarity of my experience still makes me nostalgic.

Chile seemed to be proof that American-style economics and structural ideals could thrive abroad. Yes, the United States had taken some damaging steps to bring these ideals to the nation, including supporting a coup and the deadly Pinochet dictatorship that followed. But in the post-Cold War — and post-Pinochet — era, Chile appeared to be thriving and harmonious.

That synergy with my home nation is what kept me calm throughout my time south of the equator. It’s what made six weeks on another continent feel more like a day at the beach than a plunge into an icy lake. It’s what makes me yearn to return someday.

But now, I wonder if it all was a mirage.

Recently, there’s been lots of unrest in Chile.

Throughout Santiago, people have taken to the streets to protest the inequities of life there.

It all started with a 30 peso increase to the Santiago Metro fares.

This would be equivalent to a 4 cent fare increase to a public transit system in the United States. Seemingly innocuous.

However, thousands of Chileans saw it differently.

For the cost of living in Chile has gone up in recent years. But wages and employment opportunities have not kept up.

The financial situation has trapped many Chileans in poverty or on the lower end of the middle-class. The stagnation carries across generations — even older Chileans are finding that their pensions and retirement funds are far less valuable than they once expected.

It’s been a fraught situation. But the Metro fare increase was the spark that brought it to the fore.

It’s not about 30 pesos. It’s about 30 years, the protesters have been chanting. And as their anger has risen, the protests have turned ever more violent.

There are reports of protesters breaking store windows, spraying graffiti on buildings, setting fires and defacing much of the Metro system — previously one of the nicest in the world.

Police have responded with the usual display of force — tear gas and water cannons. But this time things feel different.

This time the unrest is widespread. This time the world is watching.

It makes me sad to see all of this. To see the Chile I got to know and love go up in flames.

For Chileans are not normally flamboyant or bombastic. Unlike their neighbors to the east in Argentina, Chileans are generally reserved and respectful.

To see so many of them turning to violence reminds me that they must really be hurting. They must feel as if they are without hope, and out of options for peaceful discourse.

This breaks my heart.

In my mind, Chile is a magical place. A nation with a unique mix of natural beauty, kind people and western ideals.

I’m not alone.

Many others have looked with wonder at Chile’s rise to a capitalist power over the last several decades. They refer to Chile as an economic miracle.

And instead of focusing on the nation’s checkered past, they point to its bright future.

Have we all been hoodwinked? Have we deluded ourselves into thinking that silence equated to success?

I certainly hope not.

For if capitalism has failed Chile, I shudder to think of the alternatives.

All across South America, from Argentina to Venezuela and Bolivia to Brazil, Chile’s neighbors have been roiled by political and economic crises in recent years. I wonder if a move to a different model would yield the same destructive results.

But mostly, I wonder if my memories of Chile were even reliable.

People seemed happy and content. But could they have been coerced into silence by the memories of the dictatorship? Or by the police’s heavy-handed responses to any sign of unrest?

It’s certainly possible.

Either way, I hope Chile can resolve its current issues peacefully. And I hope Chileans can find a future full of prosperity.

My home away from home deserves nothing less.

The Upward Shift

Betting on oneself.

It’s become a cliche.

Whenever we expose ourselves to the uncertainty of change, we roll out that familiar rhetoric like a red carpet..

Sure, it’s a risk. But I’m betting on myself.

It’s as if our self-certainty is our superpower. As if it’s the constant that makes the changes we encounter adapt to us.

By counting on ourselves in the face of change, we feel we can overcome adversity.

Nothing can stop us. We can walk out on the tightrope without a safety net and make it through.

There are good reasons why this narrative has wings. It’s inspirational, dramatic and ultimately satisfying.

But there’s one big problem.

It’s not accurate.

You see, we can’t meet the challenge of new and disruptive change simply by betting on ourselves and plowing forward.

We need to level up.

Charting our way through new challenges requires a new set of skills. Mere survival demands growth and adaptation.

What was working before has no jurisdiction over future success. The landscape is too unfamiliar. The obstacles ahead are too imposing.

There must be an upward shift.

I have seen this time and again through my own experience.

I went from sitting in my college classes under the palm trees of South Florida to running a TV newsroom in the desert of West Texas in a matter of months.

When my news industry days had played themselves out, I moved to Dallas and switched careers. All with only a modest savings, a credit card and an abundance of hope to steer me through.

Several years later, I committed to hitting the books once again — starting business school while still maintaining my full-time job.

These were all significant left turns in my life trajectory. Business as usual no longer applied.

I had to make significant changes to meet the challenges that lay in front of me.

I had to level up.

Now, this process wasn’t always apparent to me when I was going through it. The path ahead was more of a gradual incline than a rugged cliff face.

And besides, I was so focused more on the six inches in front of my nose that I was oblivious to my steady climb. Only when I had a moment to look back did I realize I’d gained elevation.

But regardless of when I came to recognize it, that upward shift had occurred. I’d done was needed to not only survive, but also thrive.

There had been a transformation of perspective. My skillset for navigating life’s experiences had become broader and more multifaceted.

But I hadn’t gotten to this point solely by betting on myself. No, I’d molded myself into a person equal to the task of what lay before me.

I’m far from unique in this experience. Plenty of us have upped our game to meet the heightened stakes in our path.

Yet, for whatever reason, we are loathe to credit the upward shift. Whether due to ego or pride, we indulge our self-importance. We brush aside the twists and turns we endure along the path to something greater.

But those lessons, those adaptations — they’re what make us stronger. They’re what make us smarter. They’re what prime us for success.

We should take the time to recognize the change that lies ahead of us. We should embrace the learning opportunities embedded in our next moment of ambiguity.

For only when we consciously commit to leveling up do we unleash the full potential of our growth. It’s only then that we leverage the true benefit of new experiences.

So, embrace the upward shift. What lies within it make it worthwhile.

The Rock Bottom Paradox

At the start of the year, I gave up drinking.

I was not in crisis, but I had my reasons.

I didn’t like what alcohol did to my body or mind. I wanted to save the money that beer and liquor cost. And I wanted to ensure I was always in a situation where there was someone sober that could get behind the wheel.

It was a necessary move. A calculated one. But I wasn’t prepared for what would come of it.

For while my decision made me feel healthier and more fulfilled, it also opened me up to a constant line of questioning.

Why did you stop drinking?

What’s wrong with having a cold one now and then?

Did something bad happen?

Is there something wrong with booze?

Is everything OK?

I tried to anticipate the question. To have an answer at the ready.

But in truth, I felt like I was in that scene in Forrest Gump when the media bombarded Forrest with questions about why he was running.

As question after question rolled in, he gave one simple answer.

I just felt like running.

I can relate to that. I just felt removing alcohol from my life was the best thing to do. Simple as that.

And getting a barrage of questions about it quickly wore me out.

I understand the source of these questions. I don’t live in Utah, or a dry county in West Texas. Drinking is very much a societal norm. And I’m an outlier.

Yet, I find the line of questioning troublesome.

You see, the first question in the series is innocuous. People want to figure out what keeps me from raising a glass or clinking a beer bottle with them.

But once people find out I didn’t make my choice because of alcoholism or a DUI, they start grilling me with question after question.

They simply can’t grasp that someone would shun drinking all on their own. That no demons would be involved in the decision.

I’m not sure why this perception is so prevalent. But I don’t like it.

Why must we hit rock bottom in order to better ourselves?

I fail to see how that trajectory does anyone any good.

For when we wait until we bottom out to seek change, there’s collateral damage. Traumatic things happen. People get hurt. Or worse.

Sure, it makes for a better story when someone reforms themselves and emerges from the darkness. When an antihero finds redemption, everyone soaks up the narrative.

I know this pattern well. I’m a storyteller and a former news producer.

But are the warm fuzzies of a comeback from despair really worth the price paid to get there? Are they worth the suffering, the ruined lives and the traumatic memories that ensue when we let bad habits spiral into disaster?

Not at all.

I might not have ever hit rock bottom with my drinking habits. I might never have seen firsthand the misfortune and devastation that alcohol can bring.

But I wasn’t willing to take that chance.

I wasn’t willing to cede control of my mind just to live without inhibitions. I wasn’t willing to shed my dignity just to make it onto the dance floor. I wasn’t willing to drag my body through a round of beers — let alone 10 rounds with Jose Cuervo — just to fit in.

No, I drew the line. No demons were going to come out of that bottle. Not for me anyway.

Now this is not to say I think drinking is a bad thing. What’s wrong for me might not be wrong for everyone.

But the Rock Bottom Paradox needs to go.

We need to stop looking to the chasm as our source of redemption. To stop glorifying the canyon floor as the launchpad for the stars.

Far more good comes from righting the ship before it teeters over the edge. From finding salvation through pre-emptive action.

It won’t make for a compelling Hollywood script. It won’t make us memorable or legendary.

No. Instead we will all prosper. No one and nothing will have to be sacrificed for us to see the light.

Isn’t that worth it?

Reflection on Inflection

What is your inflection point?

The point that changed everything.

Mine came about 15 years ago, in a musty community hall in Folcroft, Pennsylvania.

My family had come to town that evening for my grandfather’s retirement party. After 40 years of serving the town’s medical needs, he was leaving the practice he’d built behind.

I knew what my grandfather did for a living. I remember going by his office from time to time, helping set up EKG’s for his patients.

But none of that could have prepared me for what I was about to experience.

The room where the party was held was packed with people I’d never met. I then watched in awe as person after person spoke of how much of an impact my grandfather had on their lives.

I was floored.

Coming into that party, I was an average teenager. I wore a backwards baseball hat, sought a good time at every opportunity and found the idea of growing up to be soul-crushing.

But by the end of the night, my entire life had changed.

I saw the impact my grandfather had on his community and felt inspired.

In that moment, I found my purpose. That purpose was to positively impact the lives of others, just as my grandfather had done.

That purpose has driven all of the major decisions I’ve made in my life and career. The college degrees I’ve pursued, the jobs I’ve worked, the places I’ve lived — all have been within the framework of profoundly impacting the lives of others.

Yet, it’s almost odd that this is the moment I circle as my inflection point. After all, I experienced the horrors of 9/11 firsthand, moved halfway across the country and made a daring career switch — all by the age of 25.

Those events changed the trajectory of my life, no doubt. But they were almost too direct.

There was no getting around the changes those events brought about. Whether by God’s will or my own, the status quo no longer existed. I had to come to terms with my new reality.

I felt small in those moments. And I felt powerless.

On the other hand, my grandfather’s retirement party didn’t have to change my life. I didn’t find myself facing the abyss, the point of no return. I could have gone on living my life as I had before, and no one would have batted an eye.

But that didn’t happen. I saw the the emotions my grandfather’s life’s work evoked in his community and decided to devote my life to helping mine.

I still felt small in this moment. But this time, I felt powerful.

I knew I had the power to live into my newfound purpose. But I had to do my part to make it reality.

There was clear buy-in required. And I was all in.

I believe this buy-in is key when it comes to our inflection points. After all, the most impactful moments in our life are not those that change us. They’re the ones that inspire us to change ourselves for the better.

So, when searching for your infection point, don’t focus on the changes you’ve endured. Search instead for your earliest moments of inspiration.

The smallest moments might be more impactful than you think.

On Disruption

On a recent ride in a New York City taxi, I asked the driver how he was doing.

“Not great,” he admitted. “Business has been slow. Uber is killing us.”

He then detailed all the ways the rideshare giant has made his job more difficult, his taxi medallion less valuable.

The troubles stretch far beyond Uber’s cut-rate prices, he explained. The allure of easy fares has flooded the streets with competing drivers — many of whom have a poor grip on New York geography and get lost constantly as a result.

Some of these confused Uber drivers ferry people around as a side hustle; others drive after getting fired from their day jobs. Either way, the result is the same. More traffic congestion, more accidents and more headaches for those who have decades of experience driving the street in the familiar yellow sedans.

When I mentioned that city leaders could take action against this new wave of rideshare drivers, the cab driver told me they already tried to.

“Uber won the court case,” he said. “They’re here to stay.”

My mind took me back home to Dallas for a moment. I thought about the new logo I’ve seen plastered on the back of most taxis there recently.

The logo is for the Curb app, which allows customers to hail a cab from their smartphone. It’s a neat innovation, but in the Ridesharing Era, it’s a day late and a dollar short. A solution that doesn’t fully account for the problem.

You see, Uber didn’t take off by perfecting the taxi experience. By making it cheaper or more efficient.

No, it took off because it reinvented the entire way we approach travel. Just like Airbnb reinvented the entire way we approach hospitality, or Apple reinvented the way we use our mobile phones.

This is what disruption is all about. It’s why it works time and again.

The Curb app shows just how blind disrupted industries are to the siege outside their windows. It underscores why we actively seek out the next disruption. Why we antagonize The Way It Is in favor of The Way It Could Be.

Yet, we must be careful with this approach. Because much gets sacrificed in the crossfire.

No one is shedding a tear for the demise of payphones or CDs. These items were bulky and inconvenient. Using them required an annoying amount of planning and effort. Their disruptor — smartphones with streaming capabilities — proved to be far superior.

Yet, we should be more cautious when evaluating the impact of the Rideshare Era. Yes, catching an Uber can be more enjoyable or affordable than taking a cab. But by riding the wave of disruption, we leave many cab drivers in the dust.

These drivers have worked tirelessly to make a living for themselves, and made huge sacrifices just to get that opportunity. They’ve proven their worth — only to see the rug pulled out from under them by an upstart who will accept nearly anyone as a driver.

There are no fairy tale endings in this story. For as we rush to dismantle the structures of old, good people get sucked into the maelstrom. And there’s no life preserver to rescue them.

This is the cost of disruption. It’s real and it’s raw. And we are directly responsible for causing it, through complicity alone.

This is a discomforting reality to face. But face it, we must.

So, what can we do to fill this void? To reconcile our participation in the modern-day Torch and Pitchfork Mobs?

We can start by being more conscientious. By looking wholeheartedly at the toll our seemingly altruistic ambitions bring. And by doing what we can to ease the burden placed upon those we displace, such as venerable cab drivers.

This approach will get us out of our comfort zone. But it will also ensure that no one is left behind.

And that’s the type of disruption that can truly change the world for the better.

What’s Next?

Where do we go from here?

It’s a question we often consider. But not with the proper priority.

We tend to only think about our next move in the context of our last one. It’s a pattern that brings us stability and consistency. But it’s also one that can hold us back.

For while we learn the value of retrospection very early on in life, we fail to recognize that peering into the rearview mirror takes our eye off of the road ahead. And focusing too heavily on how we got to the point we’re at invites all types of white noise — Analysis Paralysis, Monday Morning Quarterbacking and The Blame Game.

None of these are productive or advantageous. And all of them shift our focus away from the more crucial task of determining what comes next.

Let’s take a look at a recent example of this disconnect. As Hurricane Harvey ravaged the Texas Gulf Coast — inundating Houston with unfathomable flooding — the major oil refineries in the region shut down. Within days, some gas stations in Dallas were covering their pumps with plastic bags; the holding tanks were dry, and no oil tankers were heading up Interstate 45 to save the day.

A full-fledged gas panic quickly took hold across the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex. Drivers rushed to the nearest open gas station, causing long lines and exhausting fuel supplies even further. (Having waited in one of these lines myself, I can only imagine what the Oil Crisis of 1973 must have been like in America.)

And this wasn’t just a Dallas event. Similar scenes could be found across the Lone Star State — in Austin, San Antonio, and even Lubbock.

As the panic hit a fever pitch, oil and gas industry experts took to the airwaves to assure Texans that there was no fuel shortage after all. A chorus of angry voices soon followed, with many of those voices blaming drivers for causing the entire situation by gassing up in droves.

They may have been right. But that’s beside the point.

You see, who we decide to collar with the blame — anxious drivers, price-sensitive gas station owners or the storm itself — is irrelevant. Regardless of the cause, the panic happened. So, it’s too late to go back and prevent it.

In other words, the train has already left the station.

So, what can we do? We can focus on what comes next.

In the case of the Texas Gas Panic, this might mean driving conscientiously, planning out short-term travel in terms of fuel demand and being willing to drive further and pay more in order to refuel. These actions can lessen the burden on the fuel industry while gas stations work to get supply levels back to normal.

In other situations, such as workplace setbacks, detailing what comes next could take a different form — trying a new strategy, being more amenable to change, or getting better at collaborating with others more.

The possibilities are endless. But one thing remains the same.

What happens next provides the biggest impact.

What comes next can change the world for the better. It can help cement our legacy. And it provides us the opportunity to innovate, learn and grow.

So, stop quibbling over how we got here. Where we’re going is far more important.

The Right Amount of Different

Be Different. But Not Too Different.

These six words are a microcosm of our society.

We inhabit a world that values individuality — to an extent. Some originality is considered noteworthy. Too much is considered rebellious.

This paradox arises from our dueling desires to explore and maintain. We want to test the waters and get outside of our comfort zone. But we won’t dare lose sight of the boat that brought us — or else the current might sweep us away for good.

Why keep one foot on solid ground, instead of diving right in? Because we strive for balance. We simply cannot function properly without it.

This leads to a world of incremental changes. We try and take the monotonous, familiar world we know and gradually put a fresh spin on it. It’s like an adapted recipe, with life as we know it as the base ingredient.

Making your mark can prove challenging in this paradigm. No one is there to tell you where the goalposts are. So, the quest to find the right amount of different can be quite elusive. Play it too safe, and you’ll come off as bland and quiet. Change too much up and you’ll come off as loud and obnoxious.

What can you do to find the sweet spot?

  • Scour the landscape. Take a close look at how things look now. What’s considered normal? Why are things the way they are within an industry or a social group? Don’t hesitate to self-educate. The more you know about the world around you, the more effective you can be at changing it.
  • Consider a derivative. No intensive calculus needed here — just a math mindset. What’s one thing you could change about the world you know in order to make it one degree more efficient and one degree more outstanding? Throwing the status quo out the window and starting over is not an option. Think in terms of small, yet noticeable tweaks.
  • Chart a plan of action. Think about how you will implement the changes you derive. Think of what you will do to communicate these changes in a way that doesn’t upset the apple cart Are you prepared for all outcomes when you let the cat out of the bag?
  • Execute.

Now, you might think this looks a lot like a business plan. You’d be right — and wrong.

You see, business is a microcosm of our societal constructs. Of our need for balance and continual improvement. Of our need to be different, but not too different.

In other words, business mirrors life. Take these steps to find the right amount of different, and you’ll likely see success in both areas.

You’ll improve the world in a culturally acceptable manner. And in the process, you’ll be viewed as remarkable.

These are goals we strive for, whether we admit it or not. The right amount of different makes them possible.

So, what are you waiting for? The process starts now.

Our Culinary Conundrum

What’s the universal language?

Some would say love. Or numbers. And they wouldn’t be wrong.

Both have brought us together and torn us apart. They’ve allowed us to sustain and grow over the millennia.

And they’re consistent around the globe. But that might be a problem.

You see, language is defined as much by its variations as by its meaning. By the differences between a Boston accent and a Minnesota one. By the chasm between French and French-Canadian.

The concept of love doesn’t quite have these distinct variations. And the world of numbers is standardized by definition. Due to these concrete realities, I feel that neither of them qualifies as the universal form of expression.

So, what do I consider the universal language?

Food.

Much like love and basic arithmetic, we need food to survive. But the way we go about satisfying that need varies greatly by palette, dietary restrictions and region.

Yes, much like traditional language, food certainly has its intricacies. A sandwich filled with sliced steak might be known as a Philly Cheesesteak, a French Dip, or an Italian Beef — depending on how and where it’s prepared. Although these dishes have a similar base, they’re actually quite distinct.

Our palette for these variations has spurred its own word — cuisine. And if we happen to live in a major metropolitan area, there’s a pretty good chance that we can explore much of what the world of cuisine has to offer without hitting the road or hopping on a jet.

Yet, this appears to be changing.

***

I’ve lived in North Texas for the past several years. While there are many things to love about Dallas, the wide variety of food options is certainly high on the list. In fact, I’ve had everything from Cuban sandwiches to Cajun delicacies, Nashville-style Hot Chicken to Texas barbecue in or around Dallas.

Lately, however, I’ve seen those options dwindling. New restaurants in resurgent parts of town have abruptly closed up shop, and regional chains have shuttered many of their locations. Abandoned restaurant properties now line the highways and major intersections like an eyesore.

The bursting of the restaurant bubble has left me in a bit of a bind. I now have to drive further to get something other than fast food, Chili’s or quick-service Mexican fare. And if I have a hankering for something like the aforementioned Italian Beef, I might be out of luck entirely. (Despite the large influx of Chicago transplants in Dallas, Illinois-style eateries have struggled to find traction.)

At the same time that restaurant selection is dwindling, so are my options at the supermarket. In the past year, my grocer has pulled several varieties of cold cuts from the deli and stopped supplying basic items such as sausage buns, skirt steak and coarse ground beef. This has forced me to either improvise or drive to a competing grocer for supplies when making such basic dishes as fajitas, chili or bratwurst.

I understand the financial realities that have led to these cutbacks. Commercial rents in are rising — both in North Texas and across the United States — but people are still unwilling to help cover that increase by paying more for their meals or groceries. It’s an equation that doesn’t add up, so culinary variety inevitably ends up on the chopping block.

Still, I’m discouraged by these cutbacks. On one hand, it limits my options and makes cooking more challenging. On the other, it shows that our society doesn’t varied meal options.

Consider the implications of this shift:

  • Food is being constrained into two classes: Widely accessible junk and highly restricted healthy options. If you don’t want fatty burgers, greasy pizza or gooey mac and cheese, you’ll most likely have to spend extra time, fuel and money to get something better for you — or even something different.
  • Dietary issues are ignored. Despite the best efforts of the gluten-free Millennial revolution, cutbacks on food options mean those of us with actual sensitivities to wheat, dairy, sodium or processed fats often find ourselves struggling to find a suitable meal option.
  • We’re lowering the bar. While we must adapt to dwindling food options, we can at least remember that there was once a greater amount culinary variety lining both the streets and the store shelves. But if the current trend holds, the next generation won’t have this perspective — which means it will be less likely to be reversed.

None of this is ideal. But while we’ve been complicit in our culinary demise, we’re not at the point of no return.

***

If we can see the value in our universal language and recommit to exploring it en masse, we can turn the tide.

That means swallowing our pride a bit, and getting out of our comfort zone. It means putting an end to our crusade to pinch pennies when filling our mouths — a losing proposition anyway, given the expensive health issues junk food leads to down the line.

It means committing to try new things and support the establishments that provide them to us. If restaurants see the cash register ringing, they’re more likely to thrive. And if items are flying off supermarket shelves, they’re less likely to end up in closeout.

Ultimately, it means using our collective voice to serve notice that we demand more options, more variety and more accessibility. The Internet age has given us the tools to do this, but we must do it together.

Don’t let our universal language suffer the fate that the Comanche, Welsh and Latin languages did. Our culinary future is at stake, and we have the booming voice needed to make a stand. Let’s use it.

The Space We Create

All around me, things are changing.

The Dallas-Fort Worth area is expanding rapidly, and the sights and sounds a mile or so up the road from me bear witness to that transformation.

Heavy equipment is clearing the land, leveling the dirt and setting up roads and street lights. Soon, the frameworks of dozens of homes will go up. And before you know it, what was once a field where wildflowers bloomed and cattle grazed will be a shiny, new neighborhood.

I’ve become a bit immune to all of this. Four years ago, I could take a short drive up the highway and see plenty of these pastures. Now, those spaces are filled with strip malls, megastores, restaurants, entertainment venues and homes.

Heck, my supermarket was once a field covered in mesquite brush. I think about that every time I pull into the parking lot to load up on groceries.

It’s as if we flipped a switch. What was once God’s green earth has become a place essential to our lives, a place where memories are made.

Those new neighborhoods? Families will make their lives there, and children will grow up there. That area will mean everything to those who call it home.

Those new stores and strip malls? They’ll become woven into our routines, the way that supermarket has become part of mine.

Those entertainment centers and restaurants? They’re where good times will be had, romances will be grown and new chapters among friends and families will be written.

Yes, a simple construction boom can result in a multitude of stories — many happy ones, some sad ones and even a few tragic ones. All in a setting that appeared out of thin air.

This is a testament to societal growth. But though these changes serve to benefit us, it’s best that we don’t forget what came before.

For while we identify with the structures that frame our memories — our childhood home, our favorite restaurant — we must remember that all of it is an illusion.

At one point, the land we now inhabit was nothing more than that. The structures we’ve created came from the dirt — the same dirt we will return to when our time is done.

Now, it’s true that much of the space we’ve created predates our existence. But in the moments where it doesn’t, we owe it to ourselves to recognize all that is lost in the transformation between the natural order and the human order.

We must recognize our impact, both for better and for worse. And we must keep our achievements in proper context.

For the space create may help us shape our own stories. But the ground we build upon tells an eternal story all its own — one far greater than the scope of anything we’ve created.

We’d be fools not to give nature proper due. So, let’s look beyond the lens of our own ingenuity and appreciate the presence of something far greater.

The ground we live on is sacred. Respect it.

The Great Contradiction

Nothing is ever as it seems.

This statement serves as gospel at a magic show, in the CIA or during a poker tournament. The illusion is part of the game. A necessary element to achieve the objective.

But while we accept shades of gray in these isolated environments, we fail to consider the greater impact of this phenomenon. Life is full of contradictions that we must not only navigate, but also learn from.

None of us are immune to contradiction. Heck, my advice is full of it.

Consider this: I’ve shared messages of selfless improvements in this space, and then gone and spouted off about the benefits of exercise. Messages like these run against the grain, as exercise is one of the more selfish improvements out there.

Or is it?

You see, no one else besides you directly benefits from exercise. Your body stands to get stronger. Your health and stamina stand to improve. Your chances of living a longer life increase.

But that added time and improved outlook, those open the door to indirect benefits. To more opportunities to connect with others and make an impact.

When you look at it this way, exercise can be classified as a selfish activity that sets a foundation for selfless results.

And this concept of contradiction runs even deeper in our daily lives. Our trust, our love, our attention all have limits — limits directly tied to reciprocity. What’s in it for us is a real concern as we navigate how to assist others, and how to leave the world better than we found it.

Now, I realize that unpeeling this particular onion can be unsettling. It’s not in our DNA to question human nature, and an inward focus has been key to our survival for millennia. After all, there’s a reason why Look Out for Number One has been a rallying cry that’s stood the test of time.

That said, it’s crucial that we get comfortable with this setup in order to build off it. For in a sharing economy, contradictions are opportunities to iterate. They’re opportunities to take an inward-focused concept and apply them in a way the does greater good.

So, we must look beyond black and white. We must consider the silver linings our choices provide in this strange, contradictory world.

When there are none, we should move on. But otherwise, we should feel obligated to act.

For sometimes, what seems like a worthless choice can actually do a world of good.