What if doing nothing is actually doing something?

I remember a paper I wrote for my high school American History class. I was comparing two US Presidents, ultimately deciding that the one who had "done something" was superior to the one who had "done nothing." My teacher, Mr. O’Hern, looked at my work with his characteristic gentle wisdom and simply commented: "Sometimes doing nothing is doing something." At the time, I didn't fully grasp his point, but the idea lodged itself in my mind.

The thing is, it’s true, isn’t it?

There is a specific alchemy between agency and action. To me, they create a sense of momentum where one constantly feeds the other, pulling us forward into territory we once thought unreachable.

Many years ago, in a different lifetime, I found myself taking a walk near the home where I grew up. I had a lot on my mind, and I figured I needed to get some fresh air and get myself moving. As I began to walk on the nature trail—think Southern California suburbia—houses on one side, but a cliffside view of the Back Bay on the other—I was probably more in my head than actually on the trail. I don’t remember exactly what I was thinking about; I was just lost in thought as I walked.

A few days ago, I wrote about the idea of "glucose spikes" actually applying to life—what if life has its own version of these spikes, things that trigger us and cause a sudden surge of intensity? And what if there are things we can do, like "putting clothes on our carbs," to help mitigate that intensity? But today it occurred to me that there is more to it than just our own internal regulation.

What if the animals weren’t an accident?

Most stories of St. Francis include something of his relationship with the animals. He preached to birds. He tamed the wolf of Gubbio. He was followed by a lamb—who followed him everywhere, even into church. He viewed all creatures as part of God’s family. These stories are often relegated to children’s sermons or saved for "Blessing of the Animals" services on October 4th. Father Richard Rohr refers to this as "birdbath spirituality"—sentimentalizing the "sweet" and "cute" story of St. Francis. As though it’s just for kids. As though it were simply sweet. As though it didn’t have more to offer.

A while back, a friend told me about a lifestyle shift that was transforming her energy levels. She pointed me toward the "Glucose Goddess"—an author and biochemist who uses science-backed "hacks" to manage blood sugar. As a sucker for the intersection of science, self-help, and wellbeing, I was immediately hooked.

Yesterday, while driving, I found myself listening to an audiobook by Michael Singer on the topic of mindfulness at work. Although I haven't held a "job" in the traditional sense for a long time, the dynamics of "work" remain a central fascination for me. As I listened, I realized that my understanding of work is still deeply entangled with a shadow side.

I’m not sure quite how to begin this, so I will simply begin.

This morning, while conducting my investing research—a pursuit that surprises many, though I have loved the distinct way of thinking, calculating, and understanding it has provided me over the last five years—I found myself in a conversation with an AI about market strategies. As part of its explanation, it used two characters:

坐等

Is this enlightenment? I thought it would be different, somehow.

In the past month, two different people have listened to me share what is moving through me and casually suggested: “It sounds like enlightenment.”

My immediate internal response was: What? Enlightenment is a "big" word. It’s for grown-ups—not for me. It’s for saints, gurus, and masters; for those vibrating on another plane entirely. It isn't for ordinary people.

But what if enlightenment is actually for everyone? What if it isn’t some unattainable peak, but something within reach? And if it were, would we even want it? Or do we gain something by believing it’s not for us—by keeping it reserved for the "serious," the "spiritual," or the "wise"?

Lately, I have been moving through a strange sensation. I don't know how else to phrase it: it feels as though I am finally coming home to myself.

It seems odd to say. Shouldn’t one already "be at home" within their own skin? You would think so. But it is as if a part of me has been on an arduous, decades-long journey and has only just walked through the front door.

For years, a part of me has lived like a "Scout"—always one step ahead, planning for the next moment, living in the unfolding future. It wasn't running from the present; it was just constantly striving toward the next thing. Always seeking. Never sitting. Never being.

There is a subtle, exhausting phenomenon that happens when we find ourselves in environments—be they professional, creative, or personal—that feel unpredictable or misaligned. We become "temperature takers." We learn to walk into a room and immediately scan the atmosphere: Is it safe? Is it tense? Who is angry? How much space can I take up today without causing a ripple?

It was the strangest thing. It seemed to come out of nowhere. I’m not sure how to describe it other than to say, it felt like what had been hollow had somehow been filled in.

Let me try to explain it another way. A few years ago, I was in San Francisco for work. As I was in the Uber on my way back to the airport after a very quick trip, I looked over to the lane beside us and saw the strangest thing. It looked like a toy car, but it was a real, full-sized vehicle. Today, Waymos are becoming universal, but back then, I had no idea what this strange car was with its swirling antennae and the cameras at each corner. I glimpsed the logo and was able to Google it so as not to have to admit I was a bit of a "country bumpkin" to my Uber driver.

Today the story is about a dog, not a horse. The dog is named Coco, a five-year-old Belgian Malinois. We have four Malinois at the ranch—Coco, Princesa, Mia, and Tuya. Their territory is "the garden," an area fenced off from the horse corral. The garden is beautiful; there is green grass, fruit trees, and deep shade. It is where the party is if someone wants to use the ranch for a festive occasion. The four dogs have all of that space, and the hillside above, to run, roll, relax, and enjoy.

But Coco spends most of his life standing at the gate.

In my family, we have a long history of… I’m not sure what to call it, actually. Superstition? Emotional insurance?

For instance, growing up, if we wanted to go to the beach on the weekend, we would always make sure to say that we were "going to the snow"—just in case the "weather" might hear us. As if that doesn’t sound crazy enough on its own, the logic was that if the weather heard us express a desire for the beach, it would respond by bringing rain, cold, or clouds.

Sure, it was always said in good fun—never in complete seriousness. But it was never entirely a joke, either. There was always that lingering sense of "better safe than sorry." I took it for granted most of my life, the way you do with things that seem "normal" until you look at them through an outsider’s eyes.

I love epiphanies. Don’t you?

That sudden insight—the moment when disparate threads finally weave together into something cohesive, something that takes on its own shape and form.

There is another "ten-dollar word" I love, one that doesn’t often get much play in day-to-day culture: sacrament. A definition has stayed with me since my seminary days: a visible sign of an invisible reality.

Sacrament. Epiphany.

I don’t mind public speaking. I know it’s supposed to be a universal fear, but I actually thrive on it. I have the "stage presence"—honed over thousands of hours as a corporate computer trainer and years as a "preacher" delivering sermons. Recently, while officiating a bilingual wedding, I felt that familiar spark. I told a friend afterward, "I was born to do this."

But here is the secret: I am not afraid of the speaking. But I am terrified of the speech.

About two decades ago, while training for my first marathon, I discovered something surprising—and a bit disturbing—about how I viewed my own life. I have always aimed to be someone who appreciates nuance, who values the gray between the black and white, and who is willing to see things from every possible angle. In my mind, "nuance" was the ultimate good, and its opposite was "fundamentalism"—a word I used to describe anything rigid, unyielding, or fixed.

But as the miles added up, I realized I had misdiagnosed myself. I wasn't a fundamentalist; I was someone beginning to understand the value of an engaged rein.

It was a wonderful Christmas—perhaps the best in a long time. The reason was simple: Connection. I felt capable of truly connecting with the people around me, rather than just being physically present in the same space. It was the transition from simply "surviving" a holiday to actually "inhabiting" it. I was actually there.

Yesterday, Christmas Eve, I ran a few early errands to avoid the holiday crowds. My last stop was Trader Joe’s. As I pushed my cart toward the car in the pouring rain, I looked up and saw a family—mom, dad, and two children in raincoats, huddled under an umbrella. They were standing at the exit, holding a sign: “Merry Christmas. Please help.”

I took Fortuna out for another ride yesterday.

It was meant to be a relaxed, “clear my head before Christmas” kind of ride. But as we turned onto the dirt road to head home, the peace began to unravel.