Author Archives: Brent L. Kendrick

The Strength of Deprivation

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“The more we are deprived of something, the more we realize its value.”

–Plato (c. 427–347 BCE; Greek philosopher and a student of Socrates. He founded the Academy in Athens and profoundly influenced Western philosophy, especially through his works like The Republic, which explore justice, reality, and knowledge.)

Smackdab in the middle of my deck is a wrought-iron rectangular table, topped with a slab of rough-hewn sandstone. Its focal point is a larger-than-I-can-lift Celadon flowerpot, home to a treasured Bougainvillea, a tropical plant that enjoys deck side only in summer and early fall. Its magenta petals are like delicate crepe paper, bursting forth against the sunlit sky. Their blossoms cascade like a vibrant waterfall, painting my mountain world with exuberant hues. They dance in the wind, whispering secrets of their distant homelands, their beauty both fierce and fragile, a testament to the resilience of life.

But such splendor does not come easily. To bloom so magnificently, bougainvillea must endure deprivation, a withholding of water that seems almost cruel. In their struggle, they learn to thrive in harshness, sending their roots deeper, seeking sustenance in the barren soil. It is in this crucible of thirst that their true beauty is forged, their blossoms erupting as if in defiance of hardship.

I have other plants that flourish under similar deprivation. My lavender and rosemary, with their fragrant blooms, thrive in dry, sandy soils, where a lack of water encourages them to produce more potent aromas. My cacti and succulents, accustomed to arid environments, often bloom when faced with the drought of my neglect, their flowers a testament to survival in the harshest conditions. One of my favorites, Russian sage, is most vivid when experiencing the challenge of dry soil, while my sedum and portulaca, known for their drought tolerance, turn stress into a profusion of flowers. Even my prized jade plant, a hardy succulent, responds to dry spells by offering delicate blossoms. These and other plants remind me that sometimes, in the face of scarcity, nature gives birth to her most stunning displays of beauty.

As I witness this seeming contradiction–strength in deprivation–in my plant world, I am reminded of how that same natural truth looms large in my literary world, too, especially in Emily Dickinson’s poetry. In fact, I often think of her as the poet of deprivation. Time and time again, her work reveals that strength born of hardship allows both the flower and the soul to bloom most fully.

I’m thinking right now of a poem that’s familiar to many because it’s anthologized the most:

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of victory

As he defeated – dying –
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!

What an incredible celebration of deprivation! Those who experience the most deprivation—specifically, those who strive to succeed but do not achieve the victory—are the ones who truly understand and appreciate success. Deprivation of triumph can heighten our ability to recognize and value success when it is out of reach.

I’m thinking, too, of a lesser-known Dickinson poem that’s even more akin to what I see in some of my plants that flourish when they are deprived: “I Had Been Hungry, All the Years”

I had been hungry, all the Years—
My Noon had Come—to dine—
I trembling drew the Table near—
And touched the Curious Wine—

‘Twas this on Tables I had seen—
When turning, hungry, Home
I looked in Windows, for the Wealth
I could not hope—for Mine—

I did not know the ample Bread—
‘Twas so unlike the Crumb
The Birds and I, had often shared
In Nature’s—Dining Room—

The Plenty hurt me—’twas so new—
Myself felt ill—and odd—
As Berry—of a Mountain Bush—
Transplanted—to a Road—

Nor was I hungry—so I found
That Hunger—was a way
Of Persons outside Windows—
The Entering—takes away—

How amazing! Dickinson captures the intensity of deprivation by reflecting on how the memory of hunger magnifies the value of being fed. What a wonderful acknowledgment that the experience of lack—physical, emotional, or spiritual—sharpens the appreciation of fulfillment when it finally arrives.

It seems to me that this principle extends beyond poetry and nature into our own lives, where a degree of deprivation–let me emphasize, a degree of deprivation–can lead to greater appreciation, personal growth, and overall well-being.

For example, I’ve been practicing 16:8 intermittent fasting for a while now, an approach that’s believed to promote better health, improve metabolic function, and increase longevity. So far, it seems to be working. More importantly, it’s made me more mindful of what I eat and has given me a deeper appreciation for my meals. Instead of mindlessly grazing, I savor what I’m eating—turning each meal into something I look forward to and genuinely enjoy.

When it comes to my material possessions, it’s a challenge for me to embrace minimalism, but I am discovering that living with fewer possessions is helping me focus more on what truly matters to me, it’s reducing my stress, and it’s increasing my overall satisfaction. In essence, deprivation from constant consumption is giving me true gratitude for the plenty that I already have.

When it comes to taking breaks from technology and media, I agree that doing so can improve mental health, enhance sleep quality, boost productivity, and lead to more meaningful personal interactions. So here’s what I’ve done. I’ve given up entirely on television, and I don’t miss it at all. However, there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I’m cutting back on my Smartphone usage. After all, that technology provides you with my blog post every Monday, just like clockwork!

So let me move on quickly to another area where some deprivation does me some good. I’m thinking about the discomfort that comes through physical exercise. I’ve biked indoors and outdoors for decades, and for the first thirty minutes or so, it’s as painful now as ever, but I know that through the pain, I am growing stronger.

And, believe it or not, I even like stepping away from luxury and convenience from time to time. For example, I still take military showers just as I did in my graduate school days to cut back on my water consumption. Guess what else? Sometimes, it’s a cold shower. It’s a way to reset my expectations and make my everyday comforts more enjoyable.

There are, of course, other areas of life where a little deprivation can go a long way. Take social interaction, for example. I really like being with people, but now that I’m reinventing myself, I’m not with as many people as I used to be. However, I’m finding that my periods of solitude and reduced social interactions give me space to think, to reflect, and to tap into creativity that I might overlook in the bustle of daily life. The truth is, when I do spend time with others after a spell of solitude, those interactions feel richer and more meaningful. It’s as if the time apart makes connection all the sweeter.

And what about our leisure time? Yes, even fun has its limits. Limiting our leisure time can actually make us more productive and help us value those moments of rest more deeply. It’s all about balance, right? Even sensory deprivation can heighten awareness. I don’t have a float tank, but through meditation, I’ve found that stepping away from the chatter–external and internal–opens up a space for deeper relaxation and, more importantly, inner peace.

When it comes to desires and wants, holding back just a little, whether it’s with food, entertainment, or indulgent pleasures, sharpens my self-control and satisfaction. Deprivation, in this sense, helps me better understand what truly brings happiness.

It’s all about small degrees of deprivation. The challenge is to find the sweet spot that allows us to strike the right balance and rediscover the beauty in what we often overlook. Just as the bougainvillea’s vibrant blooms spring from the stress of scarcity, so too can our lives blossom when we lean into the strength that comes from having less. It’s in those moments of restraint that we gain clarity, grow stronger, and truly flourish.

Unsubscribe: The Power of Pausing Before Acting

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“The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.”

–Attributed to Mark Twain (1835-1910; one of America’s most celebrated writers and humorists; often referred to as the “father of American literature.”)

By now, My Dear Readers, you know more about me than you should, including the titillating fact that I keep everything. I mean everything. I do. If you doubt me or if you have forgotten my-way-too-personal disclosures, check out “My Taxing Review: A Reality Post” or “OHIO on My Mind,” but not until you finish reading this post. Until then, you’re mine, all mine. I want to keep you to myself. Stay put and relax while I tell you about something I’ve held on to without even knowing that I was holding on to it.

I realized just the other day that I was getting an outlandish number of emails from companies, foundations, and organizations, just because I gave them my email address eons ago, simply to get that 15% discount or simply to get a freebie by donating to a good cause. Over time, “DELETE” became my morning email mantra simply because it never occurred to me that I could stop getting those no-longer-wanted and no-longer-valued emails simply by clicking on UNSUBSCRIBE.

UNSUBSCRIBE. Can you imagine. Is that a brilliant solution or what? Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy, right? Wrong. More like stressed, depressed lemon zest.

Sometimes, though not too often, unsubscribing is easy. The option appears prominently right at the top of the email.

More often than not, however, I have to work really hard at unsubscribing. More often than not, the option appears hidden amongst all kinds of other options at the very end of the screed that I didn’t want to read anyway. Even then, the option to unsubscribe is in a smaller font requiring a magnifying glass, or it’s in an entirely different color font, almost always so light that it’s impossible to read. And get this. Sometimes, I don’t have a clear unsubscribe option at all. Sometimes, I blaze my way to unsubscribe by clicking on the preferences option.

Unsubscribing, as a rule, is anything but straightforward. Even after finding my way there, I have to confirm that I really do want to sever the tie that I had been holding on to. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice.

I cannot help but wonder what other areas in our lives we might want to think twice about before taking action.

What about things we often say things to friends in moments of emotion or impulsiveness, forgetting that words can have lasting impacts.

● “I’m too busy right now.”

● “I don’t really care what you do.”

● “I don’t know why I’m even friends with you.”

Perhaps if we paused and considered the weight of our words, we could strengthen our friendships rather than strain them.

Or consider the dynamics of family relationships, where familiarity sometimes leads us to make careless remarks.

● “I’ll call you later.” (But never do.)

● “Why can’t you be more like …?”

● “You’ve always been a disappointment to me.”

Perhaps we need to pause for a moment to remember that our words can either heal or hurt, especially with those closest to us.

Let’s not forget our professional environments where words can carry significant consequences, especially with our boss.

● “I’ll get to it when I can.”

● “That’s not my job.”

● “I think you’re making a big mistake.”

Perhaps we need to pause and remember the powerful importance of tact and diplomacy when communicating with authority figures.

Also, I wonder about our constant self-talk, especially when we become our own harshest critics.

● “I can’t believe I messed that up.”

● “I’m not good enough for this.”

● “I’m not lovable.”

Perhaps we need to think twice before engaging in negative self-talk and instead replace it with a kinder, more supportive internal dialogue that sends us a strong, empowering message.

Finally, what about thinking twice before questioning or challenging our higher spiritual and philosophical beliefs?

● “I don’t know if you’re really there.”

● “Why is this happening to me?”

● “I’ve lost all faith.”

Perhaps we need to pause and approach our beliefs with respect and thoughtfulness in a way that fosters a sense of reconciliation and growth.

Oh. There’s one more thing that I’ve noticed. More often than not, the last thing that happens when unsubscribing is a pop-up window, sighing:

“Sorry to see you go, but if you change your mind …”

It seems to me that if foundations, organizations, and companies are willing to have us back after we unsubscribe from their mailing lists, then surely our friends, our family, our boss, and our Higher Being, will welcome us back into the fold as well. And with any luck, we’ll even come to understand that we are worthy and welcome unto our very selves.

One thing’s for sure. The next time I consider unsubscribing—from an email or a relationship—I’ll remember the power of pausing before acting. And if I act in a way that I later regret, I’ll remind myself that our relationships, like our subscriptions, can often be mended with effort and humility.

A Slice of Genius: How I Accidentally Invented “The Perfect Edge”

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“The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of the human race than the discovery of a star.”

–Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755–1826; a French lawyer and epicure, best known for his The Physiology of Taste [1825], which remains a classic in culinary literature.)

Imagine sinking your fork into layers of luscious key lime indulgence—each bite, a symphony of tartness and sweetness that dances on your palate. This is no ordinary pie; it’s a triple-decker tower of tartness and decadence that will linger in your dreams long after the last crumb has vanished. A cinnamon-infused graham cracker crust cradles a silky baked key lime custard, perfectly set and bursting with citrus. Next comes a chilled, creamy layer that melts in your mouth, topped with a cloud of key lime whipped cream that’s just the right amount of airy. With nearly two cups of key lime juice infused into every inch, this pie is the ultimate in citrus luxury. This dessert is pure food porn—so irresistible, it’s worth every sinful calorie.

I made this Triple Layer Key Lime Pie a week ago for my Linden Correspondent (LC) and her family, who are as special to me as I hoped this pie would be to them. Obviously, I was eager to know whether my recipe measured up to my hype and their expectations. It did, and in succinct news style, my LC messaged me her family’s comments:


● It’s a work of art!
● It’s very tart/limey, which I love!
● The texture is perfect!
● How did he get a perfect 90° angle on the crust?!
● What an experience!
● The crust is divine!

And we all say:

THANK YOU!!
🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗”

I was thrilled, of course, by their reactions and returned a bold “YOU’RE WELCOME” along with my own smiley faces.

To my surprise, my friend messaged me some extra zest later in the day:

“But seriously, how DID you get the perfect angles in the crust?”

I paused, perplexed. I nearly replied with a “Duh?” Surely, it would have been clear to her that I had used a springform pan. Right? Maybe not. So, I took a cautious, mittened approach:

“But for real, what do you mean by ‘perfect angles in the crust’?”

Her reply was as precise as the apparent angles of my crust:

“The inside angle on the bottom, where the side and the bottom meet. Whatever you used to press the corners was a perfectly cornered utensil. Ours never come out like that!”

I told her that I used my fingers, but the egg whites that I added to the graham cracker mixture probably helped more.

“Your fingers? No way! My sister and I don’t believe you.”

Truly, what I told her was the truth, as I recalled it, so I decided to move on with a passing remark about the rain that had passed me by.

Later in the day, while cooking dinner, I had a strange reminder as I used one of my handy-dandy silicone tools to scrape sauce from a kitchen pot. In a flash, I remembered how I had gotten those perfect angles. After pressing the crumbs into place with my fingers, I used the silicone handy-dandy to thin and sharpen the circumference where the sides met the bottom.

I took a selfie of me holding my silicone gadget and sent it to my Linden Correspondent:

“I’m cooking dinner and came across my silicone handy dandy.

“I now remember: after pushing the crust in place with my fingers, I used this around the edges!

“Do NOT share this hack with anyone outside of your family.

“I had totally forgotten. It really helps get the job done! It was a discovery of necessity!

“Oh. No. I feel a blog coming on!”

She wittily reminded me that if I blogged about the tool that gave me those perfect edges, my secret would be out.

And so, My Dear Readers, my secret is out! I don’t mind this reveal, however, because I love you and your crumbs, and I hope that you will remember my silicone hack the next time you make a graham cracker crust. Be aware, however, that by the time you’re reading this, I will have applied for a patent, so my hack will be Patent Pending. I can do that, right? I mean. Even though the silicone handy-dandy is patented, surely I can get a new patent since I’m using it in a new-fangled way, right? (Aside to any Patent Attorneys who might be reading: please PM me and let me know if I’m losing my batter.) Well, if I can’t, I’ll just create an appropriately shaped, hand-held silicone gadget expressly designed for getting the perfect edge. OMG. This is getting even sweeter. I will call my gadget THE PERFECT EDGE. Is that perfectly sweet or what?

And isn’t it amazing that necessity drove me to invent a perfect gadget that will find its way into every kitchen in the world, even kitchens without bakers who don’t need a hack to achieve the perfect edge that they’ll never seek to achieve.

This got me to thinking—how many of our favorite kitchen gadgets and techniques were born out of happy accidents or the sheer necessity of the moment?

I know a good number of things right off the top of my head.

Did you know that Melitta Bentz, a German housewife, invented the coffee filter in 1908 when she became frustrated by the bitter taste of coffee brewed with the traditional percolator, which often left grounds in the cup? She simply took a piece of blotting paper from her son’s school notebook to filter out the grounds. She punctured holes in the bottom of a brass pot and lined it with the paper, then poured the coffee through it. The result was a smooth, grounds-free cup of coffee. She applied for a patent and gave birth to Melitta coffee filters.

It’s funny to think that a simple frustration with coffee grounds led to the creation of something so essential to our morning routines. And even if you didn’t know about coffee filters, surely you know about Teflon. In 1938, Roy Plunkett, a chemist working for DuPont, was experimenting with refrigerants and discovered that one sample had polymerized into a white, waxy solid that was extremely slippery. This substance? Polytetrafluoroethylene (PTFE). We know it as Teflon. Although initially used in military applications, Teflon’s non-stick properties made it an ideal coating for cookware. The first 1950s Teflon-coated pan became a game-changer in every kitchen throughout the world except mine. I’m sticking with my All-Clad. I don’t want any of that PFTE stuff slip-sliding into my culinary delights. While Teflon revolutionized non-stick cooking, I’m more of a stainless-steel purist. There’s something about the weight and durability of All-Clad that speaks to my culinary soul.

And who doesn’t know about Percy Spencer’s 1945 accidental invention of the microwave? While testing a magnetron, a type of vacuum tube used to generate microwaves for radar systems, he noticed that a candy bar in his pocket had melted. So he tried popping some popcorn kernels near the magnetron. Yep. Pop. Puff. Burst. Next? An egg, which exploded in his colleague’s face. (Just as an aside. That is not the origin of the expression, “Egg on his face.”) Spencer and his team saw the potential to cook food quickly. They built the first microwave oven, standing over six feet tall and weighing nearly 750 pounds. “Radarange” was released commercially in 1947. Is that rad or what? Personally, I’m not a huge microwave fan, but I’m awfully glad they’re compact enough and affordable enough to be in any kitchen, including mine.

Let’s throw one more gadget into this mash. The potato peeler. Please tell me that you’re not using a knife to peel your spuds the way folks had to before Alfred Neweczerzal, a Swiss engineer, designed the potato peeler found in kitchens throughout the world. It’s simple. It’s lightweight. It’s effective. And it’s probably the cheapest gadget in my kitchen.

If you think gadgets invented by accident are fun, just wait until you hear about some of the delicious foods that came to be thanks to a stroke of serendipity—or perhaps sheer clumsiness. Let’s dive into the culinary cosmos where mishaps turn into mouthwatering miracles.

I’ll start with sourdough not only because you will remember by post, “Oh, No! Sourdough!” but also because I’m still foolin’ around with sourdough at least once a week, sometimes more. Did you know that sourdough is one of the oldest forms of leavened bread, and its origins can be traced back to ancient Egypt, around 4,000 BC? But here’s the savory backstory. A baker accidentally left out a mixture of flour and water, which naturally attracted wild yeast from the environment. The yeast fermented the dough, causing it to rise and develop a tangy flavor. Today, we call it sourdough fermentation, and it’s the foundation for one of the world’s most beloved breads. Just last week, I made two loaves of triple cheese sourdough: Cheddar, Gruyere, and Parmesan. My kitchen smelled like a bakery for days after I gave the loaves to friends.

And you might not think that bread and beer go hand in hand, but they have grains and grains of connection. The invention of beer is often attributed to a happy accident. The Sumerians around 5,000 BC likely discovered beer when wild yeast fermented stored grains or bread that had gotten wet. The resulting liquid had a pleasant taste and intoxicating effects, leading to the intentional brewing of beer and the unintentional drunkenness and debauchery that sometimes sip along. This process became a cornerstone of many cultures and is one of the earliest known examples of fermentation.

Enough of yeasties. Let’s move on to sweetsies, especially chocolate chip cookies. They came about not by accident but rather by necessity. In 1938, Ruth Wakefield, owner of the Toll House Inn in Massachusetts, was trying to make chocolate cookies. When she ran out of baker’s chocolate, she decided to use chopped-up bits of a Nestlé semi-sweet chocolate bar instead, expecting the chocolate to melt and blend into the dough. To her surprise, the chocolate pieces retained their shape, creating the first chocolate chip cookies. These cookies became so popular that Nestlé struck a deal with Wakefield, allowing them to print her recipe on their chocolate bar packaging, which eventually led to the creation of chocolate chips. Thank God for necessities.

This next culinary delight came about not by necessity, not by accident, but by frustration. Get ready to crunch. Way back in 1853, George Crum, a chef in Saratoga Springs, New York, got frustrated with a customer who repeatedly sent back his fried potatoes, complaining they were too thick and soggy. In an attempt to annoy the customer, Crum sliced the potatoes as thin as possible, fried them to a crisp, and added extra salt. To his surprise, the customer loved them, and thus, the potato chip was born. Without a doubt, the necessity here was to please a picky customer, but the humorous twist is that the invention was born out of frustration.

How about this next twist? What do you get if you put potato chips and chocolate chips together? Potato Chip Cookies! That’s no joke. I found the recipe on the Internet by accident, made the cookies one day out of necessity when I was having a sugar fit, and satisfied my frustration with a fascinating plate of crunchy, sweet, tongue-tip salty cookies and a glass of milk.

But I’m going to take that recipe and spin it like a top! You know what I’m going to do? Well, let me give you a hint. The star ingredients will be Potato Chips, Chocolate Chips, and … SOURDOUGH! Yep! You heard it first right here! Sourdough Potato Chip Cookies! Now, you might be wondering—how do these flavors work together? Here’s the secret: the tangy complexity of the sourdough adds a unique depth to the cookie, balancing out the sweetness of the chocolate chips and the saltiness of the potato chips. It’s a trifecta of flavor that hits all the right notes—crunchy, sweet, salty, and just a little bit sour. The sourdough brings an unexpected twist to the classic cookie, giving it a subtle chewiness and a hint of that signature tang that keeps you reaching for just one more. Once again, sourdough will rise to the occasion, taking me—and your taste buds—to a place we’ve never been before

There you have it, My Dear Readers! Mark your calendars! This is a double red-letter day. In the annals of culinary history, I’ll be memorialized not only for inventing Sourdough Potato Chip Cookies but also for inventing The Perfect Edge, both living proof that kitchens give birth to genius–chip by chip and slice by slice.

Roots and All

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“The deeper the roots, the stronger the tree.”

–Unknown

Down and dirty and pumped. Yep. That’s what I am. And I’ve had one helluva good time getting there. For the last week or so, I’ve been manhandling the garden that I moaned and groaned about in “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”

Remember? I was working in my 70-foot garden, a serene haven that runs along the east side of my home. The garden starts with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into a Koi Pond and ends with a towering granite Pagoda. A flagstone walkway curves between these two focal points, with a bog garden on one side, originally full of Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Cardinal Flower and Pond Sedge, and a specimen garden on the other, showcasing Clumping Bamboo, Hinoki Cypress, Flowering Crabapple, and more.

It was everything I ever wanted in a small garden—until the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo began taking over. Then, it became something that I … never wanted.

At first, I thought cutting back the invasive plants would solve the problem, but they kept returning, seemingly stronger each time. The roots were thriving beneath the surface, undeterred by my efforts. Now, I faced a choice: keep battling the tops or dig up the deep, stubborn roots once and for all.

I made the right choice, the only one for me. I decided to do the hard work now and reclaim my garden.

I knew right away that I needed the big guys to get the job done. The first was my 40-inch, fiber-glass-handle trenching spade. It’s lightweight but has a penchant for heavy-duty roughness. With a backstep that provides increased leverage, it’s perfect for getting beneath the roots and lifting them out.

The second is a handheld, dual-headed, carbon steel big guy. It’s great to use when I’m sitting on the ground, really getting down and dirty, digging up roots that the spade didn’t lift out. One head is a pick that goes deep with every thrust; the other, a fork that yanks out mass roots with every pull.

I’ve been putting both big guys to good use for the last week or so, during which time I’ve learned a lot about roots.

First, roots grow in places that I didn’t even know existed. Imagine it, and I can find roots there. Second, roots can be long, really long. I’ve dug out some that were even 10 feet long. Most have been around 3 or 4 feet. Third, roots love to grow beneath flagstone pavers, beneath rocks, and even in and amongst roots of other plants, making the smell of Theodore Roethke’s “Root Cellar” a reality:

“Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!”

Fourth, roots grow in clay and rubble where nothing else would dare stake out a claim to life on less-than-meager fare.

Even though I’ve learned a lot, it’s been drudgery. By the end of a day’s work–a kind of outdoor dirt prayer–my hands feel arthritic from sustained gripping, and my blue jeans are knee- and butt-dirty from kneeling and sitting. But I do what I do not only to control the roots and but also to give me the fleeting assurance that they don’t control me.

I won’t tell you about other things that happened while digging up roots, like adding scalloped stone edging along the walkway or relocating a granite pagoda lantern to a slightly higher spot or popping in a new evergreen shrub or three here and there to brighten the fresh layer of pine bark mulch.

And if I’m not going to tell you about all of those enhancements, then I’m certainly not going to tell you about how open and expansive my specimen garden feels now, with all the Bamboo and Pond Sedge gone–tops above and roots below. I know. I know. It’s no bigger than it ever was, but it looks twice as big as ever.

But don’t worry. I’ve got some important observations that I’m about to share with you. They’re important to me, and, hopefully, they’ll resonate with you, too.

For starters, I’m delighted that I had the daring-do to tackle root removal of this magnitude. Even though I still have more work to do, I sprawl out on the ground from time to time, celebrating what I’m accomplishing, knowing that in gardening, as in life, superficial fixes won’t solve deep-rooted problems. Just like with my invasive plants, truly eliminating an issue requires getting to the root of it. Whether in health, relationships, career, or broader societal issues, confronting and removing the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives.

But get this. As I sprawl in celebration, I do so modestly. I claim no victory. I know that these roots run deep. I know that these roots run wherever they’re inclined to run. I know that remnants of these roots remain, and that probably by the end of this season, Bamboo and Pond Sedge will sprout up here and there all over again. I know that these roots have a tenacious hold.

Those gardening observations remind me that even though roots–literal and metaphorical–may need to be removed when they cause problems, most of the time, roots are essential anchors that ground us.

I’m thinking, for example, about my love of the outdoors. My connections to nature and the environment serve as a grounding force, offering me peace, perspective, and a sense of renewal. Those roots go back to my childhood and even further back to generations of farmers who make up my heritage. Even during periods of my life when I lived in cities, I always found ways to allow the natural world to dig deep into the fiber of my being.

Or here’s another example. My love of cooking. It runs in my family, including my father and my brothers. We felt as much at home over the kitchen stove as we did anywhere else. Let me add to that our love of ethnic foods. I can trace those roots back to my childhood and my cultural heritage in the coal camps of Southern West Virginia. Our little town was a melting pot of nationalities, and everyone shared recipes with one another. Greek Green Beans. Hungarian Chocolate Potato Cake. Caribbean Souse Meat. Polish Cabbage Rolls. Italian Gnocchi. Jewish Latkes. Those ethnic foods and many others continue to tease my palate and provide a sense of belonging.

Or what about the roots that anchor my simple philosophy of life? I believe in the inherent goodness of life, all life. I believe that life is purposeful. I believe in life’s thrust toward greatness. When I look into my metaphorical mirror, I always say, “Every day in every way, I grow a little better.” Those principles—learned in childhood—have always directed my actions and my choices, and they continue to help me navigate my life.

Even when it comes to my notion of community and social connections, my roots run deep. From childhood, I learned to value and embrace diversity, equity, and inclusion. It’s part of who I am. I like to think that I have always been sensitive to race, ethnicity, gender identity, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, religious beliefs, age, and other unique variations that make us human. Because of those roots, I like to think that regardless of where I might be in the world, I will always enjoy a sense of belonging, and I will always lend a helping hand to those around me.

Also, my work ethic has deep roots. I was born into a working family, and I grew up in a working community. Everyone worked, and, equally important, everyone enjoyed working. Working is what we did. I’ve shared before–and I’ll share it again–the little poem that I cut my teeth on:

“If a job is once begun,
Never leave until it’s done.
Be its labor, great or small,
Do it well or not at all.”

Later on in school, one of my history teachers reminded me and my classmates regularly of the Biblical proverb, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Her voice echoes still. Even today–after a 25-year federal career and a subsequent 23-year teaching career–I’m reinventing myself, working as much now as ever. Work continues to give me stability, purpose, and a sense of accomplishment. I have every expectation that I will work forever and beyond.

My education and learning roots run deep, too. Even though I grew up in the coal fields of West Virginia, I had some of the best educators in the world, formally and informally. Because of them, I came to believe that an education allows anyone to do anything and to go anywhere. I came to believe that an education is the best investment ever, knowing that it will never depreciate and knowing that no one can ever take it away. I came to believe that learning is lifelong, requiring little more than an inquiring mind focusing on the 5 W’s of writing and journalism: Who, What, When, Where, and Why. What a powerful and empowering foundation for growth.

Personal resilience is a root for me as well, always anchoring me during challenging times. I believe in the power to adapt and grow in any circumstance. I practice what my mother taught me, “Bloom where you’re planted.” I’ve spent a lifetime doing just that. My childhood dream of becoming a college professor was deferred until I turned fifty. Nonetheless, I thrived during those intervening years and had a distinguished career at the Library of Congress. Those 25 years paved the way for me to become a college professor and helped make me the educator that I became.

Intertwined with it all, of course, are the roots of my faith and spirituality. Both have always played a role in my life. My mother was a fundamentalist minister and prayer warrior whose influence on my life is immeasurable. I have always felt that my life was governed by an Unseen Hand, even in times when I was unaware that I was being led. It gives me a sense of connection and grounding, in all times but especially in times of uncertainty. Don’t ask me to explain the Unseen Hand. I’m not sure that I could even begin to do so, other than to celebrate my belief that my God is a big God who loves all creation and who embraces all creation.

So, there you have it. Roots. They anchor us, shape us, and sometimes challenge us. Whether in the garden, where I wrestle with the stubborn roots of Pond Sedge and Bamboo, or in life, where I draw strength from the deep roots of my beliefs, family, and experiences, they are always there. They remind me that while we may need to dig deep to address life’s challenges, we also need to nurture the roots that sustain us.

Every day, as I work in the garden or reflect on the day’s events, I’m reminded that roots are both the foundation and the framework of our lives. They’re what give us stability when the winds of change blow, what nourish us in times of need, and what connect us to the larger world around us.

And as I continue to tend to my garden, both literal and metaphorical, I know that I’m not just removing what doesn’t belong—I’m also nurturing what does. In the end, it’s the roots that keep us grounded, it’s the roots that keep us growing, and it’s the roots that remind us of who we are and where we come from.

Every day, in every way, I grow a little better—roots and all.

The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free

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“Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness.”

— Thich Nhat Hanh (1926-2022; a Vietnamese Buddhist monk and peace activist known for his teachings on mindfulness and compassion.)

It all started a week or so ago. I remember with great clarity that it was on a Monday. I woke up feeling a weight around my neck, something I hadn’t noticed before. It was subtle but persistent, almost like wearing a heavy choker. At first, I tried to dismiss it, thinking it was just a minor inconvenience. But as the hours passed, the weight grew more noticeable. I felt uneasy, as if something was slightly off, casting a shadow over my thoughts.

The next day, the weight was unmistakable. It was heavier than I expected, plus it seemed to be tightening. Simple tasks became more cumbersome, and I became acutely aware of something that I could not escape. The burden started to affect my mood, causing frustration to build.

By the third day, the albatross felt like an anchor dragging me down. I was tired and irritable, and my patience was wearing thin. It seemed to point me toward a deeper problem or unresolved issue that I knew I shouldn’t ignore. Despair started to set in as I tried to identify the problem and figure out how to escape the torment.

Finally, on the fourth day, while relaxing on my deck in the early sunrise, the albatross looked at me, and in that fleeting glance, I saw the source of the nearly unbearable weight. Brace yourself. You might not believe what I’m about to reveal. Here goes. The weight was coming from the blog post that I was working on for the next Monday.

The realization stunned me. Actually, it mortified me. Here’s why. I knew exactly where I was going with the post, and I had drafted more than half of it. But get this. I didn’t like the opening paragraphs. I hadn’t liked them from the start, I kept telling myself day after day that those paragraphs would fall into place as I got closer to the post’s ending.

I was wrong. They didn’t fall into place, and I wasn’t willing to let that albatross hang around my neck any longer. I found myself saying out loud to myself as I sat there, sipping coffee:

“Give it up, Kendrick. Just give it up.”

I didn’t mean that I should delete the draft. I just meant that I should put it on the back burner until its time had come. As soon as I gave it up, the albatross that had become unbearable let go of me and flew away. I felt an immediate sense of lightness and relief. The burden that once felt insurmountable was gone, and I was overwhelmed by a wave of elation. I felt a profound sense of freedom. The contrast between the heaviness of the past few days and the newfound lightness made the relief even more exhilarating. I was finally free.

With the albatross gone, my mind was free to soar, and a brand-new idea for a post came to me immediately, filling me with renewed energy. As I continued sipping my coffee, I cobbled together a really rough draft of what I wanted the new post to become. All day long, I kept the post on my mental backburner. That night, in bed with my Smartphone in hand, I completed the post rather effortlessly and published it the following Monday: “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“

Letting go of the writer’s albatross that had been weighing me down for days allowed me to cue my own metaphorical vacay. Now, here I am sharing my specific challenge and my specific solution, hoping that it will speak to other writers out there. Sometimes, you simply have to let go of an idea that has possessed you if it becomes a deadly weight instead of wings that give flight. Letting go does not mean abandoning. It means putting the idea aside until it calls you back and begs you to give it the attention that you need to give it. The two of you–your idea and you as the writer–are the only ones who will know when the time is right.

For me, it took about two weeks. After “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“, I moved on to “Listening to the Unsaid.” The next week, I returned to my albatross post, and I knew immediately what I needed to do with the first few paragraphs. Whitman and Emerson reached out to my spirit, and as soon as I gave them a home in my post, everything else fell into place for “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”

In the end, letting go of the albatross allowed me to discover some new creative wings. By acknowledging the weight and releasing my grip, I freed myself to explore new ideas and approaches.

If you’re a writer, hold on to the truth that I have shared. Sometimes, the best way to make progress is to let go and cue your own vacay–embracing the freedom to create and enjoy the journey.

If you’re not a writer, reflect on this nugget of truth as well. It might help you, too. Just as a writer’s stubbornness can turn a blog post into an albatross, so too can our refusal to release emotional baggage turn relationships into anchors, holding us back from sailing into calmer waters. Or our insistence on controlling every detail turns projects into burdensome backpacks, weighing us down on the journey to success. And what about those stubborn habits we cling to, even when they no longer serve us? Don’t they become the equivalent of a ball and chain, hindering our progress toward a healthier, happier life? In each case, the albatross effect whispers a haunting question: What weight am I shouldering that’s keeping me from soaring? Sometimes, letting go of our personal albatrosses is the only way to find freedom.

Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge. May we all find the courage to release our albatrosses and let them fly away so that we might discover the liberating power of letting go.

Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life

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“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”

–Albert Einstein (1879-1955; KNOWN FOR HIS MONUMENTAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO PHYSICS AND OUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE UNIVERSE WITH HIS THEORY OF RELATIVITY, E=MC².)

Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” a shocking celebration of sensuality and self, is one of my favorite literary works. I especially celebrate the spirit of the poem’s ending:

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”

I can relate. Under your boot-soles is exactly where you’ll find me after my time has come and my ashes are scattered.

Until then–hopefully far, far into the future–if you’re looking for me, you can find me outdoors, more likely than not weed whacking or working in one of my specimen garden beds.

Looking back, it seems to me that since early boyhood, I’ve been a wild child, outdoors communing with nature, usually in the garden, so much so that my family always knew where to find me. Even on the rare occasion when someone bruised my young, fragile feelings, I retreated quietly and without fail to the garden. My youngest sister’s high-pitched taunt still echoes in my ears as I recall stumbling over my lower lip while heading out the door:

“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms.”

At that tender age, I learned that being outdoors comforted and healed. It is one of my most important lessons, ever. Emerson expresses with eloquence the truth that dwelt within my young boy’s soul:

“In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, — he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me” (“Nature,” 1836).

Down through the years, I’ve learned many other life-lessons in the garden, and from time to time, I’ve shared those lessons with you here.

I’m thinking especially of posts like “From Stars to Soil: Embracing My Family’s Gardening Tradition” (celebrating the interconnectedness of all life, a steadfast belief in the power of hope and renewal, and a deep-seated reverence for the sacredness of the natural world); “A War on Weeds: What the Heart of the Garden Said to the Gardener” (reminding us that the love of gardening never dies); and “The Joy of Weeding” (discovering what my late partner Allen experienced when he weeded).

Other posts about gardening can be found, too. If you unearth them, you will see that they all sprang up from the same celebratory soil. As we garden, we cultivate not just plants, but also the very qualities that enrich our lives: resilience, interconnectedness, patience, and mindfulness, reminding us to tend to our own growth and flourish in harmony with the world around us.

On the surface, it seems that I have nothing more to learn from gardening. However, as a lifelong learner, I know better. This spring, for example, I had a new epiphany while gardening. It wasn’t anything monumental upon which cults and sects are built. But it was significant enough that I want to share it with you.

I was working in an east-facing garden bed, running the full length of my home from the kitchen door, past the guest bedroom, the master bath, and the master bedroom.

The garden is 70 feet or so long and 30 feet or so wide. It begins with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into the Koi Pond, and it ends with a towering granite Pagoda. Half-mooning its way between these two focal points is a flagstone walkway. On the narrow upper side is a bog garden, originally showcasing Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Bog Rosemary, Cardinal Flower, and Pond Sedge. On the wider side next to the house is a specimen garden with Clumping Bamboo across from the Koi Pond, a tall Hinoki Cypress, a Flowering Crabapple, a disappearing polished-stone fountain, an Alaskan Cypress, and a columnar White Pine.

It’s all that anyone would ever want a small garden to be.

But here’s the thing. When Allen and I put in the plants, we had no idea that the Pond Sedge, over time, would not only take over the bog garden but would also pop up in the specimen garden on the other side of the walkway. To make matters worse, we had no idea that the Clumping Bamboo would run wild all over the wide part of the garden.

It took many years before these two plants started popping up here, there, and everywhere. In fact, it wasn’t until this year that I had to own up to the harsh reality: the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo had invaded the garden so extensively that they threatened the well-being of the other specimen plants.

I bolted into action by mustering up my resolve to cut back all of the Pond Sedge and all of the Clumping Bamboo that had sprung up everywhere.

“There,“ I thought. “Not so bad after all.”

Wrong! It was worse than bad. Two weeks later, everything that I had cut back had popped up all over again, seemingly even stronger.

“Fine. I’ll cut it back again.”

In my mind, I thought that if I continually cut off the tops of the invasive plants, they would die because they would no longer have the source of their food supply.

Guess what? I was wrong once again. It’s now August, and I’m still cutting away the tops.

I’ve got options, of course, other than spectracides, which I loathe because of environmental impacts. I can put down barrier plastic, top it with mulch, and, eventually, the roots will die. Candidly, I don’t like that choice because I will be mindful that the roots are still there, lurking beneath the surface. That leaves me with one course of action: go ahead and do the back-breaking needful and dig up the roots now.

It’s sad, but it’s very true. I can cut back the tops over and over again, but the roots will still be there, not only spreading and intertwining but also running deeper and deeper.

As I tackled my gardening problem, I had a realization. To get rid of my invasive Clumping Bamboo and my invasive Pond Sedge, I have to get to the source of the problem. I have to find and remove the roots.

I chuckled–perhaps you will too–because I had not actually had a realization at all. I had simply had a gardening reminder of a concept that I learned decades ago.

You’re probably aware of it, too. But in case not, brace yourself. I’m not making this up. It’s a concept called Root Cause Analysis (RCA).

It’s not a new concept, either. Identifying underlying causes–root causes–dates back to ancient Greece, with philosophers like Aristotle who discussed the idea that fixing a problem requires identifying the fundamental causes.

Today, RCA is widely used across industries to find and resolve the underlying causes of problems, errors, and incidents, rather than just treating the symptoms. For instance, in healthcare, it’s used to analyze medical errors and improve patient safety by identifying systemic issues. In manufacturing, it helps pinpoint the causes of defects in production lines to enhance quality control. Similarly, in information technology, it’s employed to troubleshoot recurring system failures, ensuring long-term solutions rather than quick fixes.

If it works in industries, then it seems to me that it can have powerful applications in our personal lives as well. Actually, it seems to me that it can be applied to every area of life. It’s about digging deeper to uncover the true sources of our challenges rather than just addressing superficial symptoms. When we understand the root cause, we can make real, lasting changes.

Take health and well-being, for instance. When we feel run-down or stressed, it’s tempting to just blame it on a busy schedule. But what if there are deeper issues at play? Maybe it’s a lack of balance between work and rest, or perhaps unresolved emotional stress. By identifying the root causes of our health concerns, we can make more informed choices—whether that’s changing our lifestyle or seeking support—and improve our overall well-being.

Or what about our relationships with others? When tensions rise or communication breaks down, it’s often because we’re reacting to surface-level problems without understanding the deeper issues. Maybe there’s an unspoken fear or past hurt that’s influencing our actions. By addressing these underlying issues, we can build stronger, more authentic connections with those we care about.

We can even apply the concept to our professional lives to help understand why we’re not feeling fulfilled or why a project isn’t succeeding. Are we in the wrong role, or is there a lack of support in the workplace? Understanding the root causes of our career challenges allows us to take steps toward greater satisfaction and success.

On a broader scale, what about using the concept to tackle societal and environmental issues. Complex problems like poverty or climate change can’t be solved with quick fixes. They compel us to look at the underlying causes—like systemic inequality or unsustainable practices—and tackle them head-on. It’s only by understanding these root issues that we can create meaningful change.

Even in our spiritual lives, the concept can help us understand why we feel disconnected or adrift in our beliefs. Are there doubts or unresolved questions that need exploration? By examining the root of our spiritual struggles, we can embark on a journey toward deeper understanding and connection with our faith or spiritual practices.

These are just a few ways my gardening lesson of getting to the root of the problem can be a powerful tool for uncovering the truth behind life’s challenges. Whatever you are facing–and, at any given time, I’m confident that each of us is facing something that we want to fix or improve–I urge you to be determined enough and bold enough to go beyond the surface. But be forewarned. When we go beneath the surface into nooks and crannies where we’ve never gone, we find darkness darker than any we’ve ever experienced. But confronting the darkness in life is the only way that we can shine light on solutions that are not only effective but also lasting. Whether it’s our health, relationships, career, societal issues, or spirituality, dealing with the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives. Cheers to the hard work of digging deeper and making changes that truly matter in our lives.

Listening to the Unsaid

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“Not to speak is to speak, not to act is to act.”

—Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906-1945; German theologian, pastor, and anti-Nazi activist; Symbol of moral courage and a powerful voice for justice and human rights.

Years ago, a colleague and close friend told me something that I would never forget:

“Always pay attention to what people say …”

And as he continued his advice, his voice became more measured and emphatic:

“but pay more attention to what they don’t say.”

I knew immediately what he meant. When interacting with others, it’s crucial to notice not only their words but also their silences, whether in face-to-face conversations, emails, or text messages. For example, a friend who shares their day enthusiastically but glosses over a specific event might be experiencing discomfort or distress. At work, a colleague who avoids discussing a particular project might be facing hidden challenges or dissatisfaction. In emails, if someone consistently skips over certain questions or topics, it might be a cue that they’re uncomfortable or unwilling to address those issues. Similarly, in text messages, when someone constantly shifts the subject away from certain topics, it might suggest they’re shielding their true feelings. A total failure to mention something significant, like a major life change or a recent accomplishment, might be just as telling. This omission might reveal underlying issues, such as feelings of inadequacy or a desire to avoid judgment. Equally important is when someone fails to respond to something that you’ve shared. It might indicate disinterest or a reluctance to engage with the topic.

These unspoken cues–what I call the unsaid–often reveal more than words ever could, offering deeper insights into the thoughts and emotions that people might not openly express. For example, I’m thinking of President Biden’s July 21 announcement that he was withdrawing from the 2024 presidential race and his subsequent address to the Nation. My siblings have said nothing to me about it, and most of my friends have said little more. It’s as if the President never made the announcement. It’s as if the President never delivered the address. It’s as if those news items were overshadowed by other national and international news.

Right now, you might be thinking:

“Well, I don’t talk politics either.”

I hear you. I get it. You’re probably doing the wise thing. As a rule, I don’t talk politics either with my family and many of my friends because I know that they don’t want to listen to my views. But not even mentioning the President’s decision is different. Although I would not expect to have a discussion, I would expect to hear a brief mention.

The silence that has surrounded me, by and large, since the President’s announcement has caused me to spend more than a little time reflecting on the power of silence and what the unsaid can reveal.

Why People Remain Silent.

Reflecting on why people choose silence reveals a complex mix of motivations. Fear of conflict and judgment often play significant roles, as many worry that speaking up will lead to disagreements or criticism. A lack of confidence in their communication skills or the validity of their thoughts can also hold people back.

Additionally, some prefer to protect others’ feelings, avoiding potentially hurtful conversations. Cultural and social norms can discourage sharing certain thoughts or emotions. Uncertainty about timing or approach further contributes to silence, as does the desire to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths or difficult situations. Others might simply consider their concerns too trivial to mention.

Aside from exploring possible reasons why people choose silence, what about the consequences of this silence. By understanding the dangers of silence, we can better appreciate the importance of speaking up and listening to the unsaid.

The Dangers of Silence.

As I reflected on the whys and wherefores, the dangers of inherent silences popped up in my mind as well. Those dangers can infiltrate our lives and sneak up on us unawares. We need to be aware of them, lest we fall prey to the unintended consequences of our silence. Acknowledging these risks allows us to create a more open, honest, and empathetic environment in our personal and collective lives.

I’m thinking of a number of areas, and I’ve already mentioned two of them. Political Silence. Not discussing President Biden’s decision, for example, can lead to misinformation, apathy, and a lack of preparedness for future developments. Family and Friend Dynamics. Not exploring political issues within families and amongst friends can lead to misunderstandings, resentment, and long-term damage to relationships, potentially causing irreparable harm and estrangement.

Or what about Social Issues? Remaining silent on social justice issues at home and abroad can perpetuate inequality and hinder progress. Silence on systemic racism, gender inequality, and human rights abuses can allow discriminatory practices to continue unchecked, disproportionately affecting marginalized communities and amplifying their suffering.

Environmental Issues loom large, too. Silence on climate change, pollution, and conservation can accelerate ecological damage and irreparable harm, leading to catastrophic climate events and irreversible ecosystem damage. By not speaking out, we’re creating a planet in peril.

Let’s not forget about Workplace Environment. Silence can enable toxic behavior, low morale, and decreased productivity. It can also stifle innovation, perpetuate systemic issues, and harm employee mental health. By speaking up, we can foster a culture of psychological safety, promote positive change, and create a more inclusive work environment.

In the area of Mental Health, silence can exacerbate mental health struggles, allowing stigma, shame, and suffering to persist. By not speaking out, we prevent others from seeking help and hinder our own healing, but by sharing our experiences, we can reduce stigma and increase support.

Spirituality is another area that we need to consider. Silence can disconnect us from our deepest beliefs and values, leaving us feeling unfulfilled and without purpose. By exploring our spirituality, we can discover new sources of comfort, meaning, and resilience.

Obviously, too, we need to be mindful of Aging and Dying. Silence often surrounds the end of life, leaving us unprepared and unsupported. By not discussing our mortality, we miss chances for closure, healing, and cherished moments with loved ones and fail to make informed decisions about end-of-life care and legacy.

These are just a few examples that illustrate the far-reaching impact of silence across different spheres of our lives. Silence affects other areas of our lives, too, such as Education, Media and Journalism, Personal Relationships, and Community and Social Movements. By acknowledging the impact of silence in these spheres, we can work towards creating a more open, honest, and empathetic society, where our voices are heard and valued.

Transforming the Silence.

It seems to me that, at a minimum, we need to have these conversations–even the hard ones–with ourselves so that we know where we stand and what we stand for. Ideally, we need to have those conversations–even the hard ones–with our families, our friends, our neighbors, our colleagues, and our world at large. If we choose silence, we need to remember its inherent dangers. Equally important, if others choose silence, we need to remember to listen to the unsaid. The silences we hear can offer powerful and empowering insights.

As we navigate the complexities of silence, may we find the courage to speak up, listen deeply, and create a world where every voice is valued and feels safe being heard. Not to speak is to speak, and by finding the courage to speak up, we can break free from the constraints of silence and foster a culture of openness, empathy, and understanding. Breaking the silence is crucial not only for our personal growth and relationships but also for our collective well-being.

Let’s resolve to raise our voices and transform the silence.

When the Heat Is On: Cue the Vacay!

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“You don’t have to be rich to travel well.”

–Eugene Fodor (1905–1991; notable American travel writer and editor best known for founding Fodor’s Travel Publications).

All right, everyone, indulge me for a moment and imagine something a bit out of the ordinary.

Close your eyes and conjure up an image the likes of which I’ll guarantee you’ve never seen before. Picture a man in his 70s, proudly sporting a ponytail that flutters like a whimsical flag in the breeze, perched precariously atop his chimney. Clad in well-worn flip flops and cut-off blue-jean shorts that reveal a pair of weathered but surprisingly spry and some-say-sexy legs, he stands with the kind of balance that suggests he’s either a seasoned acrobat or a silly fool blissfully unaware of danger.

From this lofty perch, he’s gazing out over the Shenandoah Valley below, his eyes twinkling like a mischievous elf’s, while the mountains in the distance seem to be returning their own salubrious salutation. With all the gusto of a wired researcher on a caffeine overdose, he belts out the Hallelujah Chorus at full volume, his voice soaring like a defiant eagle. His performance is a grand spectacle of unbridled joy and unequaled eccentricity, turning the chimney into his personal stage and the sky into his private audience.

In case you’re wondering who this daring rooftop performer is and why he’s carrying on such shenanigans, lean in close, and I’ll tell you. It’s me! I’m celebrating what appears to be the temporary end of an exhausting heat wave and drought by having my own imaginary rooftop concert that would make any diva proud. After enduring what felt like a never-ending barrage of scorching temperatures and parched landscapes, I figured it was high time for a little over-the-top jubilation. And if there’s anything that I love, it’s everything over-the-top.

Cooler temps and rain seem to be headed our way, and I’m embracing the arrival of this much-needed relief with the kind of exuberance that only a seasoned professor of hot weather clichés could cobble together. It’s been so blisteringly hot that I nearly froze to death, but I didn’t. Instead, I’ve become a connoisseur of every sun-scorched saying you can imagine. I’ve spent weeks sweating buckets, trying not to fry like an egg on the hood of my Gladiator, and lamenting the fact that my car seats are doubling as personal saunas. I’ve become a pro at grumbling about the weather, wondering whether my walkway pavers were actually sizzling, and dreaming of anything that wasn’t a mirage.

Guess what else I did during the sweltering days that are temporarily behind us? I put off more tasks than Carter’s got liver pills! Yep. The heat and drought have been an excuse, whether I was avoiding the garden beds that have turned into dust bowls or ignoring other projects that seemed like too much effort in a heatwave. I’ve postponed weedwhacking, repairing the leaky faucet that’s been dripping like a leaky faucet (because, let’s face it, who wants to fix a sink when it feels like you’re living inside an oven?), and even organizing the loft, which has somehow become a haphazard shrine to summer’s oppressive heat.

Guess what else I did? I decided that I needed to take a vacation! Yep. You heard me right. I decided that I needed some good old-fashioned downtime. But dayum! Before I could even plan to take it, I found myself all curled up and relaxed with the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) so that I could find out all about the vacation that the dreaded heat and drought convinced me that I needed to take.

As might be expected, our kith and kin Across the Pond used the word vacation as a noun long before we did, all the way back in 1405:

“Whan he hadde leyser and vacacion ffrom oother worldly ocupacion” (Chaucer, Wife of Bath’s Tale Prologue l. 683).

Isn’t that fascinating? Of course it is. More fascinating, though, is the fact that we Americans used it first as a verb in 1866:

“Whether Winter or summer, … threading the filthy lands of the Ghetto or vacationing among the islands, Mr. Howells found Venice … a theme for constant studies” (Round Table 8 September 90/2).

Now that I’m all squared away on the word vacation, I think I’ll spend just another second or two finding out when the phrase take a vacation was first used. You might have known it. The OED has the scoop:

“Smoke Jordan tried hard to get him to … maybe take a vacation, Florida’s nice. ‘Get yourself wheeled up and down like an icky banker?’” (D. Baker, Young Man with Horn, 1938)

What the OED does not disclose is fascinating as well, and I wouldn’t know it if I had not wanted to find out who “D. Baker” is. As it turns out, Dorothy Baker was an American novelist who loved jazz. In fact, her Young Man with Horn was based on real-life jazz cornet player Bix Beiderbecke. Even better is this hot tidbit: the novel was made into a 1950 movie featuring such hotties as Kirk Douglas, Doris Day, Lauren Bacall, Juano Hernández, and Beiderbecke’s friend and collaborator Hoagy Carmichael.

Well, these word trips are turning out to be as much fun as a vacay! OMG! Did I just use that word? Well, I did, and since my OED is still open (virtually), I just have to see when vacay was first used. I’m betting that it was coined by an American. Those Brits have no problem when they need to stoop to conquer, but they would never think about stooping low enough to truncate a word. Well, I was right. Vacay was first used in 1992:

“He said he was going on vacay and would give me something after he gets back” (Re: More on getting Gigs in rec. music. makers 14 January, Usenet newsgroup., accessed 13 Sept. 2013).

Just a sec, though. I might be wrong to claim the first usage as American. The OED‘s citation is rather shabby, in my opinion, and I can’t determine the authorship with any certainty. Lector: Cave a fidem non probatis.

I shall not, then, trust my initial claim, but I shall trust my subsequent claim that the next usage of the word vacay was American. It appeared in 1995 in the Pittsburg-Post Gazette:

“The convertible … was my Mom’s, we were on vacay” (16 July g8/2).

As for va-cay, vakay, and va-kay–those variant spellings of vacay–the OED has not seen fit to include them at all. I find that rather strange, however, since I am certain that I have seen them in use somewhere or other, perhaps right here in my blog. Ab ridiculo ad sublimem transire.

Hooey phooey is all that I have to say. Leave it to me to turn a vacation into a bunch of malarkey!

However, in case you’re thinking that you might need a vacation, let me help you. If you find yourself nodding along to any of the subsequent scenarios, it’s time to cue the vacay:

● Work: Your boss thinks “work-life balance” means balancing more work on your plate. Your to-do list looks like a never-ending scroll of doom. You start dreaming about spreadsheets. You feel like a juggler on a unicycle, minus the thrill. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Social Media: You’ve scrolled so much that you start liking your own posts. You find yourself in a deep rabbit hole, liking posts from three years ago, and you’re contemplating the philosophical implications of cat memes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Family Gatherings: Your aunt asks (for the 15th time) why you’re still single. You’re dodging advice and daydreaming about automated responses. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dieting: You’re on a diet of kale smoothies and quinoa bowls, and you start dreaming about burgers and ice cream like they’re forbidden treasures from a lost civilization. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Home Improvement Projects: Your “quick” weekend project turns into a month-long renovation of ginormous proportions, complete with a gazillion trips to the hardware store and questionable structural changes. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● News: You’re considering a bunker in the backyard. Dystopian novels of doom and gloom look cheerful compared to your news feed. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Dating Apps: You’re swiping so much that it feels like a full-time job. Your thumb is sore, your eyes are glazed over, and every profile starts to blend into one amor(ph)ous blob. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Exercise Regimens: Your workout routine feels more like a medieval torture session. You’re dreading your workouts more than a trip to the dentist. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Parenting: “Me time” means locking yourself in the bathroom with a chocolate bar. Your rare escape feels like a luxury retreat. Yep. Cue the vacay!

● Blogging: Your efforts to craft engaging content week after week during a record-breaking heat wave and drought feel like an endless marathon. You’re standing on the chimney singing the Hallelujah Chorus. Yep. Cue the vacay!

Dayum! Dayum!! Dayum!!! Here I’ve done gone and paved the way for me to have a perfectly legit blogging vacay this week, and wouldn’t you just know it! I’ve done gone and cranked out today’s blog anyway! Phooey!

Clearly, my brain has been baking in the sun too long. Tuff. I’ll keep right on gazing from my imaginary chimney perch, realizing that, sometimes, the best way for me to break free from the grind and the heat is to let my imagination run wild and embrace the breeze of a little bit of whimsical madness.

I hope that you, Dear Reader, find your own rooftop, whether real or metaphorical, and that you sing your heart out when the world gets a little too hot to handle. Whether it’s a break from work, social media, family, or even blogging, taking a vacay isn’t just about escaping the heat—it’s about rediscovering the joy in life’s little quirks and celebrating them with gusto.

Cheers to your vacay! Wherever it leads you, may it be as epic and freeing as my rooftop concert over the Shenandoah Valley.

“Always Done It This Way.”

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“The most dangerous phrase in the English language is: We’ve always done it this way. It raises the question, ‘Are we doing this because we always have, or because it’s the right thing to do?‘”

–Grace Hopper (1906-1992; Pioneering computer scientist and Navy Rear Admiral who revolutionized programming and inspired generations to embrace change. The quote first appeared in Computer World, January 26, 1976.)

When I converted my weekend cabin into my permanent home by tripling its size, I knew the focal point of my downstairs office would be an expansive, floor-to-ceiling window covering a significant portion of the wall. The view it provided far surpassed my wildest visions, offering varied vistas. Right in front was the patio. Just beyond was the peony garden with evergreens. Beyond, across the valley, were the mountains. I positioned my desk directly in front of the window, with my computer on top, and for twenty years, I sat there day after day, week after week, gazing at my coveted views.

Something happened, though, a month or two after my partner Allen died in early 2021. A day came that Spring when I was sitting at my desk, looking out, and I suddenly realized that my computer monitor was blocking a large part of my view. In fact, it had been obstructing my view for twenty years.

I decided to shift my desk to the window’s end, with the monitor facing the French doorway into the adjoining rooms. This minor adjustment immediately revealed the full, expansive window view. I could see things that I had not seen fully before. The Adirondack chairs inviting me to come sit on the expansive flagstone patio. The massive garden with perhaps 60 stately peonies, a Peeve Minaret Bald Cypress dancing giddily, and three Weeping Norway Spruce standing solemn sentinel, calling me to meander. Beyond, the Shenandoah Valley, and beyond that Big Schloss, peaking at the top of George Washington National Forest, beckoning me to come back and hike once more.

Fast forward, if you will, to this Spring. I decided that one of my major projects would be straightforward: clean and paint the deck that stretches across the front of my home and wraps around to my bedroom on the side. I discovered quickly that this project was anything but straightforward. It required power washing, scraping, wire brushing, sanding, and priming. It was day after day of elbow-grease drudgery, but I didn’t mind. Proper prepping always makes joyful painting.

After the paint had cured for several days, I started putting the Adirondack furniture back in place. Two chairs up close to the house, at an angle to one another, in front of the dining room windows. Table between. On the other end of the deck–the wider section–two chairs, at an angle, in front of the living room windows, but up close to the deck railings. Table between. Then, on the bedroom side, two chairs at an angle, in front of the smaller living room window. Table between.

I could have arranged everything blindfolded because Allen and I had done it that way for years. I was about to do it again when what ifs suddenly popped into my head.

What if I arranged three of the chairs in front of the dining room windows in a semicircle with a table on each side? Perfect for a relaxed, intimate trialogue, looking at one another and, to the West, the majestic Shenandoah Valley.

What if I bought an Adirondack chaise lounge and positioned it on the wider end of the deck, facing not only the three chairs but also the morning sun. Perfect for soaking up those early rays.

What if I reversed the arrangement on the other side of the deck? Chairs at an angle facing outward toward the living room window and the western side of the deck? Perfect for watching the evening sun go down.

What if I grouped all of the usual plants around the chairs and tables in such a way that it gave the impression of three separate areas? Private. Secluded. Surrounded. Musa bananas, elephant ears, Macho ferns, jade plants, Bougainvillea, pineapple sage, Cereus night-blooming cactus, golden barrel cactus, Emerald Giant euphorbia, coral geraniums, and ruffled pink tuberous begonia.

I put those what ifs into action, and I loved the magical results. Candidly, however, aside from “loving it,” I didn’t give the transformation any more thought than I had given my office makeover.

But then last week, something happened that made me see in a nanosecond the significance of what I had done with my office and my deck.

Let me explain.

I was getting ready to enjoy my dinner in the kitchen at the same table where Allen and I had often eaten. Allen always sat on the fireplace side, giving him a view of the dining room and the living room. I always sat on the opposite side, facing him and the fireplace. I have no idea how the two of us ever arrived at that seating arrangement, but we had always sat that way.

I started to sit in my usual spot, but I had put something on the table there, so I decided to move to the other side where Allen had always sat.

And so I did. I had never sat there before. I was amazed. I had no idea how limited my view had been. I was no longer looking at the fireplace. Now I could see into the dining room. Porcelain and brass parrot candlesticks on a cherry Queen Anne dining table, centered on an immense Oriental rug. Long, glass-top side table with Chinese cloisonné vases, marble Laughing Buddha, and a hand-painted Budgies lamp with tan, rectangular silk shade. Cambodian, bejeweled wooden Buddha surveying the room from beneath a Victorian gold metal floor lamp with silk shade and dangling vintage tassels. A quartz crystal singing bowl sitting atop a primitive two-door, Shenandoah Valley chestnut buffet, with blue milk paint fading on the side panels.

Beyond I could see the living room fireplace built by the original owner with rocks dug out of the ground right here on my mountain. I could see the entire expanse of the living room, filled with all the antiques and treasures collected down through the years, flooding me with memories that made me forget all about dinner.

There I sat, realizing I had gained a brand-new perspective on my world by sitting on the other side of the table, by rearranging the deck furniture, and by moving my desk. I was swept away by the simple epiphany: change the point of view and gain a new outlook.

More important than that truth, perhaps, is this. I came to realize that I had fallen into the trap of doing things a certain way simply because I had always done them that way.

Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with doing things the same way if it works well. But reflecting on my habits, I can’t help but wonder:

● What daily routines am I stuck in, and what new possibilities might emerge if I shook things up? Do I hit the virtual snooze button every morning out of habit, or could I start my day with a refreshing walk or meditation? Are there tasks I’m doing out of obligation, rather than purpose?

● What areas of personal growth are waiting to be explored, if only I dared to challenge the status quo? Are there skills that I still might learn that I’ve always wanted to learn, but never made time for? Are there parts of myself I’ve neglected, or dreams I’ve put on hold?

● What relationships in my life are stale, waiting for a fresh perspective to revive them? Conversations I’ve been putting off or assumptions I’ve made about someone without really listening to their side of the story?

● What decisions am I making out of habit, rather than intention or purpose? Am I choosing the same options, the same paths, the same solutions, without considering alternative possibilities?

● What beliefs or assumptions have I held onto for too long without questioning their relevance or truth? Are there opinions I’ve inherited from others rather than forming my own? Are there ways in which I’ve limited myself, simply because I never thought to challenge those beliefs?

I won’t answer those questions here. Instead, I’ll carry them with me, letting them whisper gently, inviting me to explore, question, and shift my perspective. Who knows what new possibilities might emerge if I’m bold enough to change my old familiar ways and wrap my arms around the bright and shiny newness of what might be?

The AI Times They Have Changed

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“Just as electricity transformed almost everything 100 years ago, today I actually have a hard time thinking of an industry that I don’t think AI will transform in the next several years.”

–Andrew Ng (b. 1976; computer scientist and entrepreneur known for his work in artificial intelligence and machine learning; co-founder of Google Brain; Chief Scientist at Baidu; significant contributor to deep learning research and online education through Coursera.)

The other day, I found myself reflecting on some of the major technological advances that I’ve witnessed since the late 1940s when I was born. I’m thrilled by how far we’ve come.

● TVs that brought the rest of the world into our living rooms.
● Major vaccines that protected the public from polio, diphtheria, and smallpox.
● Machine Readable Cataloging (MARC) that led to worldwide automated cataloging.
● Landing on the Moon that showed a modern twist on human ingenuity and the relentless quest for knowledge.
● Personal calculators and digital watches that made everyday tasks a bit easier and added a touch of futuristic flair to our lives.
● CT scans that allowed doctors to see inside the human body with incredible precision.
● The rise of the Internet and personal computers that gave us the ability to interact with the world at any time.
● Smartphones that have enabled us to stay connected, informed, and entertained no matter where we are.
● Recent space advances with missions to Mars and the proliferation of private space travel that continue to push the boundaries.

Okay, let me pause right here, right now. I hear what some of you might be saying.

You might be saying that what I’ve witnessed during the Modern/Contemporary Era doesn’t begin to compare with the Renaissance (c. 1450-1526). Leonardo da Vinci. Michelangelo. Shakespeare. Copernicus. European exploration of the Americas, Africa, and Asia. And let’s not forget, Gutenberg’s printing press.

Or maybe you’re saying that what I’ve witnessed doesn’t compare with the Industrial Revolution (c. 1760-1836). The spinning jenny. The steam engine. The power loom. Transformations in manufacturing, factories, and mass production. Railways and steamships. Rapid urbanization. And new economic theories.

But what I’m talking about goes beyond the Industrial Revolution and even the Renaissance. Here’s why. The kingpin to the technological advances that I’ve witnessed is Artificial Intelligence (AI). AI is what grabbed hold of me and made me start reflecting on the technological advances of my lifetime in the first place. Simply put, I am blown away not only by the speed with which AI is advancing but also the speed with which it is being incorporated into our lives.

Let me explain. I was smitten by AI, specifically generative language platforms like ChatGPT, from the start, so much so that in 2023, I published 10 posts about AI. The first one “Cutting Edge Technologies: Promise or Peril?” (January 24) ended with a caustic warning:

It seems to me that the perils being voiced by AI skeptics aren’t too different from those sounded by other skeptics down through the ages about other cutting-edge technologies. The Printing Press. Online Cataloging. The Internet. Online Learning. Open Education Resources.

But here’s what we have to accept. Whether we like it or not–whether we feel threatened by it or not–AI is here. It has started. It will not stop. It is the future.

Promise or Peril? I have to decide where I stand. You have to decide where you stand. We all have to decide where we stand.

We can’t ignore AI.

Sadly, we can, but only if we want to be among the left behind.

Later in the year, my warning had softened to a plea in my September 24 “What If We Use Artificial Intelligence (AI) to Become Even Better than We Are?” ending with:

In the crucible of this moment, we must choose whether to embrace AI’s potential or turn away from it. The history of civilization is a testament to humanity’s willingness to embrace change and innovation. The road to a better world requires boldness, foresight, and the audacity to dream beyond our limitations. We’re standing on the brink of a future where we can develop and use AI’s extraordinary potential. I have a fervent hope and a deep-down desire that we will remember the lessons of our past and seize the AI opportunities that can propel us forward toward greatness.

Then, a few months later in my November 27 post “I Want a Robot,” I didn’t feel a need for a plea or for a warning. I just wanted to fool around with ChatGPT to see how far we could get with designing my very own robot named Caden, with fully operational arms, legs, and articulate facial features along with human gestures, expressions as well as a sense of sarcasm and humor.

It was a marvelous post exploring a possibility that excited me so much I even threatened to sell my coveted Rubicon Jeep Gladiator in order to have Caden in my home. But ChatGPT cautioned me that I might be getting a little carried away with my idea:

Brent: I hear you. If you had to guess how many years from now Humanoid robots like Caden might be available, what would you guess? Be bold: guess.

ChatGPT: Making predictions about the timeline for the development of humanoid robots like Caden involves a high degree of uncertainty. Technological advancements can be rapid, but predicting specific breakthroughs is challenging. If I were to make a bold guess, I’d say it could potentially be within the next 20 to 30 years, considering the current trajectory of AI and robotics research. However, this is purely speculative, and various factors, including ethical considerations, regulatory hurdles, and technological challenges, could influence the timeline. It’s always exciting to follow developments in these fields and see how they unfold over time.

Brent: We’ll see. Just for the record–yours, mine, my readers, and posterity–I’m going to guess within 10 years. Again, it’s just a guess on my part.

And my prediction was far closer than ChatGPT’s! The speed is astonishing!

The dawn of complex humanoid robots is here, less than a year after ChatGPT and I had our conversation. In fact, when I started this post, I had planned to call it “The AI Times They Are A-Changin’.” But as I tapped away on my Smartphone, I had a realization. The AI times are not changing. They have changed already.

Right now, 22 humanoid prototypes are out there, ready to get to work. They’re already making waves in logistics, manufacturing, healthcare, and hospitality, though their use is still a bit limited due to the high costs of development.

But things are looking up! The market for humanoid robots was worth $1.8 billion in 2023, and get this: in the next five years, it’s expected to skyrocket to over $13 billion! That’s a staggering growth rate of over 600%, which shows just how fast this technology is advancing and how much potential it has to change our lives.

I’ve got my eye on my very own Caden, of course, but I’m fascinated by several others, too. Meet, for example, Aloha, a housekeeping humanoid that can cook and clean! I’ll do the cooking. Aloha can do the cleaning!

Or what about Pepper, a humanoid robot developed by SoftBank Robotics. Known for their friendly demeanor and ability to interact with humans through voice and touch, Pepper “stands out from the crowd.” Designed to assist in various environments, from retail and hospitality to education and healthcare, Pepper showcases advancements in AI and robotics aimed at enhancing human-robot interactions.

Then we also have Sophia, created by Hanson Robotics. Sophia gained fame for their human-like appearance and advanced AI capabilities. They can hold conversations, recognize faces, and express emotions, making them suitable for applications in customer service, education, and research.

And let’s not forget Atlas. Known for their impressive agility and bipedal movement, Atlas is a humanoid robot developed by Boston Dynamics. They’re designed for tasks in environments that are challenging for humans, such as search and rescue missions or construction sites.

What can I say? Dayumn! Shazam!

Aside from these major advances in such a short time, I take heart in something else, too! AI is finding its way fast and faster into the halls of academe and that is exactly where it belongs. Take a look at these headlines. Better still, click on the links and read the articles yourself. Stay informed.

● AI Has Arrived in Higher Education. Now What?

● How AI Is Reshaping Higher Education

● The Impact of Artificial Intelligence on Higher Education

● Teaching and Learning in a Generative AI World…

● How UF Developed a Model for AI Across the Curriculum

It thrills me to see educators involved in AI. Educators play a crucial role in shaping how humanoid robots and other AI technologies are perceived and utilized in society.

● We are responsible for preparing students to navigate a world increasingly influenced by AI and robotics. This includes teaching them about the capabilities, ethical implications, and potential impacts of these technologies.

● We can foster discussions around the ethical and social implications of AI and humanoid robots. We can encourage critical thinking and help students develop a nuanced understanding of the benefits and challenges associated with these technologies.

● We can familiarize students with these technologies from an early age. This hands-on experience can demystify robotics and AI, making them less intimidating and more understandable.

● We can help students develop skills that will be valuable in a future where AI and automation play prominent roles. This includes skills in programming, problem-solving, collaboration, and adaptability.

● We can advocate for policies and practices that ensure AI and humanoid robots are used responsibly and ethically and that, in turn, can influence educational institutions, policymakers, and the broader community.

And if you’re an educator working in a system that has yet to embrace these tools, I urge you to advocate for their inclusion, collaborate with colleagues, and seek out resources and training to effectively incorporate AI education into your teaching.

As educators navigating AI, remember this. AI is not a choice. AI is not an option. It is your responsibility to help students navigate the new AI world.

For students eager to embrace AI education and its potential, there are actionable steps you can take to encourage your educators and school systems. Start by expressing your interest and curiosity about AI technology in classroom discussions and projects. Seek out extracurricular activities or clubs focused on technology and innovation where you can explore AI concepts further. Advocate for AI literacy within your school by organizing student-led initiatives, such as petitions or presentations to school boards and administrators, highlighting the importance of integrating AI education into the curriculum. Engage with teachers and mentors to share resources and ideas on how AI can be effectively taught and learned. By actively demonstrating your enthusiasm and commitment to learning about AI, you can play a pivotal role in shaping a forward-thinking education system that prepares students for the challenges and opportunities of tomorrow’s world.

As students navigating AI, remember this. AI is not a choice. AI is not an option. It is your responsibility to learn everything that you can learn about AI so that you can navigate our brand-new world and make it the world of our most hopeful dreams.

So, here we are, Dear Readers! The AI revolution is no longer a distant forecast, but a reality that’s already transforming our world in ways we never thought possible. In less than one year, my message has changed from warning to plea to invitation. We’re at a crossroads, and it’s up to us to decide how we want to harness the power of AI. Let’s choose to use it to enhance our humanity rather than diminish it. Let’s educate ourselves, our children, and future generations to navigate this brave new world. And let’s create a future where technology and humanity converge in harmony. The AI times have changed, and I invite you to embrace the AI potential and change with the times!