A Veil to Protect Community

When a veil of ignorance is better for connection

I had an interesting experience at a recent council meeting.

In the run up to the election, some residents were expressing discontent about government transparency. Similarly, there is a community issue now that some residents feel has not been appropriately publicized with enough time or opportunity for the public to affect change. Putting facts aside, both the Mayor and I have discussed improving community communication and transparency in our new terms, and I have no doubt other councilmembers feel the same way.

So, at a recent meeting, our City Administrator shared that she intended to start publishing a report following council meetings that would summarize meeting activities and decisions made. I don’t know if this was her idea, the Mayor’s, or someone else’s, but I thought it sounded great. It felt like a practical way to meet people where they are. Not everyone has the time—or frankly the inclination—to watch a two + hour meeting or dig through packet materials. A short recap is one small way to reduce friction between what happens inside Council Chambers and what community members experience outside it.

She followed that announcement with a question for council: would we be comfortable publishing how each councilmember voted on each item in those reports?

The question itself was reasonable. Our meetings are already open to the public. Community members attend in person, meetings are livestreamed, and recordings are available afterward. Anyone can go back at any time and see how any of us voted on any item. Still, there was something a bit awkward about the moment—not because of the question itself, but because we were being asked, publicly and in real time, to name our comfort level with a particular presentation of transparency.

I felt deeply conflicted.

At a fundamental level, I believe in truth. I believe that we are all entitled to the truth, and that the obfuscation of facts is what so often leads to mistrust and conflict. All of our votes are public record. Anyone can watch the meetings and hear the discussion that led to those votes. So why the inner turmoil?

The Mayor went around the room inviting each councilmember to share their thoughts. One raised a concern about personal safety, noting that attacks on political figures seem to be increasing nationally. Importantly, that councilmember also expressed support for transparency and suggested that we could try publishing names alongside votes and reassess later if it became a problem. Others largely agreed that transparency was good and that sharing names and votes was acceptable.

Then it was my turn.

This is where circumstance mattered — but not quite in the way I first thought. I happened to be attending the meeting remotely. I’d been fighting a bug and didn’t want to risk passing it along. What mattered most wasn’t that I couldn’t fully read the room — it was that I couldn’t feel how others were holding the moment as I prepared to speak.

I couldn’t sense whether other councilmembers tensed up, or relaxed, as the question made its way around the room. I couldn’t see whether anyone felt defensive as they answered, or relieved, or simply thoughtful. And when it came time for me to speak, that disconnection somehow left me more alone. I couldn’t see heads nodding in agreement — or in disbelief. I couldn’t tell whether people were looking at me like I was saying something obvious, something risky, or something strange. I was speaking without knowing whether what I was offering was landing as shared insight or solitary dissent.

That aloneness may have heightened my discomfort — or it may have grounded me more deeply in myself. I’m honestly not sure. Without the usual cues, I had less ability to adjust, soften, or reassure in real time. But I also had less temptation to perform. I couldn’t read the room, so I had to listen more closely inward. And perhaps that made it easier to speak honestly about the tension I was actually holding, rather than the position I thought I was supposed to defend.

I tried to quiet myself and speak from my heart. I wanted to be honest about both what I believe and where I felt conflict. I said, essentially, that I support transparency. I stand behind every vote I cast and am always willing to explain how I arrived at a decision. I would never hide from that.

And at the same time, I wasn’t sure it was wise to print names next to votes in a summary report.

Why?

Because I think there’s a meaningful difference between accessibility of information and presentation of information. In the run up to the election, we saw how quickly debates can become contentious. I worry that a single vote — stripped of context and reduced to a line item — can start to function like a label. I would hate for a vote on one issue to cause people to feel that a councilmember is “on one side or the other,” and therefore not really representing them. I would hate for anyone to feel we are not accessible to them.

There’s also something about how we work as a council. Once we vote, we speak with one voice — the voice of the council. That doesn’t erase differences, and I’m not suggesting it should. But it does mean the action taken is collective. If a report starts to read like a scorecard — names next to votes, week after week — it may unintentionally train people to engage with us as fixed representatives of a camp rather than as neighbors trying to solve complex, evolving problems together.

So I suggested a middle path: publish the numerical outcome of votes, without names. “Council supported this measure unanimously,” or “This was a challenging 4–3 vote.” That information matters. A unanimous vote signals alignment. A narrow vote signals difficulty, deliberation, and real disagreement. The numbers tell a story without immediately personalizing it.

Keeping that thin veil between the numbers and the people might, in some cases, help preserve connection. Publishing names might just as easily deepen division.

This is where I find myself thinking about John Rawls, the American political philosopher who introduced the “veil of ignorance” in A Theory of Justice as a way of designing fair systems without knowing one’s own position within them — not in a strict philosophical sense, but in a way that feels relevant here.

That idea is usually about designing society without knowing where you personally will land in it. That’s not what we were doing. We weren’t designing society; we were deciding how to communicate decisions already made.

Still, the metaphor resonates for me. Sometimes a small, intentional veil can reduce the instinct to personalize and polarize. It can help people stay with the substance of an issue rather than immediately sorting the humans involved into categories. Not a thick veil. Not secrecy. Just enough to keep the focus where it belongs.

Importantly, the information would still be there. Anyone who wants to know how I voted can still find it. Nothing is hidden. The question is whether our summary should foreground individual names next to votes, or whether it should focus on outcomes and point those who want more detail back to the full meeting, where context lives.

Because context matters. A simple “yes” or “no” next to a name can mean very different things depending on the question. A vote against something can just as easily mean “not this version,” “not this timing,” or “I’m worried about unintended consequences.” A procedural vote — whether to advance a draft or bring something back — can get mistaken for a final position. Even in calm times, this happens. In polarized times, it happens faster.

When I finished, the Mayor acknowledged the perspective and emphasized that the meetings remain public and the recordings remain available. Anyone who wants to know how a specific councilmember voted can watch the meeting and see not just the vote, but the discussion that led to it. She then asked the council whether we were comfortable, for now, moving forward with publishing vote outcomes by numbers rather than by name. Council agreed.

It felt strange to voice something that felt slightly contrarian — even contrarian to my own instincts — and then see it accepted as our current approach. And it’s important to say this wasn’t about me persuading anyone. The City Administrator brought forward a good idea for improving communication. The Mayor facilitated the conversation thoughtfully. Other councilmembers raised valid points, including the idea that we could try full attribution and adjust later if needed. This was the council working through something together.

But sitting with it in the days and weeks since, it continues to feel right — at least for now, and at least in the context of a written summary report.

Sometimes hearing someone’s position on something creates division. And that position can be based on misunderstanding — either in your mind or theirs. That doesn’t mean the answer is less truth. It may mean more discernment in how truth is shared.

So it’s possible that this thin little veil — keeping the substance public while softening the personalization — will do more to protect the community than having everything out in everyone’s face at all times. The information remains accessible. Accountability remains intact. But the invitation stays open to see one another as neighbors doing difficult work together, rather than as avatars of a side.

And in a time when political division feels easy — and connection feels harder — maybe that veil is worth keeping.

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Imagining and Welcoming a New Story

Following Session 3: Imagining and Welcoming a New Story

December 10, 2025 – January 12, 2026

Synthesis Statement

This session offered an opportunity to examine how we have come to organize our lives with an overemphasis on the wrong values or qualities of reality, or, perhaps more accurately, a misunderstanding of the hierarchies in which we live. 

Many of us implicitly take the Market Economy as the primary driver in our lives. And in daily experience, it can often feel that way. However, more foundational than the market economy is the Human Economy. It is our human minds that created markets, as well as communities, systems of care, compassion, and expressions of wisdom. And even these are nested within an even greater Natural Economy, where the forces and rhythms of nature govern our very existence. And so, we have it backwards. We should instead ground our strength and understanding of reality first in the natural world, and then allow our modes of existing to align with that. This framing of nested economies is articulated by Vandana Shiva. 

When we fail to see the forest for the trees, our limited vision drives decisions that generate disharmony. That disharmony is now threatening our collective well-being, and even our continued existence within these systems. At the time of writing, we see rising inflation, persistently high levels of economic insecurity, mass incarceration, widening gaps between the haves and the have-nots, and increasingly turbulent weather events occurring with greater frequency and severity.

The path to course correction lies in immersing ourselves in recognition and practice of different foundational qualities: respect for one another, an appreciation of the world as sacred, an openness to larger natural rhythms

Report on Practice

This period was a bit different than the others – not because it was more profound, but because it was messier, slower, and more constrained by life as it actually showed up. I was quite ill for more than half of this period, and it unfolded amid the chaos of the holidays. My wife returned from her extended travels, and we had a readjustment period with another person living in the house. 

One goal this period was to select from a provided list of ‘foundational qualities’ and live into them personally and professionally. While we had reviewed and discussed these qualities as a group, choosing which ones to focus on in my own practice was itself a provocative endeavour. Do I go with what feels familiar and accessible? Or do I push farther outside of my comfort zone and attempt to engage what feels most foreign? What might be the healthiest for me long term? What might be best for the program? What might be healthiest for me in the long term? What might be most generative for the program? What might open my eyes in ways others would not?

I went back and forth for some time. Eventually I quieted down and allowed a few qualities to speak to me. The truth is most of them resonated as true and meaningful. Many were qualities I felt I already felt I lived into in various ways – not perfectly, but not superficially either. Still, there were three in particular that called to me just a bit more loudly during this cycle. 

Non-Hierarchy

This quality posed the greatest challenge for me. The idea was that today’s hierarchies are problematic for a multitude of reasons and that a healthier future will function in a much more non-hierarchical way. I offer this reflection primarily to highlight my own struggle. 

I was not able to discover a non-hierarchical truth here. Perhaps I will one day. I can agree deeply that our current value hierarchies are misaligned with structures that would be more globally beneficial. And yet, hierarchies seem inevitable in nature itself: atoms into molecules, into cells, into tissues, into organs, into systems, into bodies, into families, into cultures, into, into, into. It’s turtles all the way up, and down. 

Bureaucracy, for better or worse, becomes a necessary tool for organizing complexity at scale. Can we do better? Yes. Should we? Absolutely. Does that mean looking deeply at our current structures and potentially disrupting them? Certainly. But does that mean that hierarchies themselves are inherently bad? I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. 

Oneness

Can we include all people as we think through problems? Can we make decisions that treat everyone equitably? We certainly should try. How do we value everyone and everything for what it is – as a foundational orientation – before we begin making decisions? This feels like a noble effort, and one I attempt to embrace in my work as an elected official.

I tried to meditate daily on this idea, and to notice where my openness to oneness breaks down. I thought of professional experiences in which people failed to honor commitments, cheated, lied, or acted out of greed or self-interest. In situations where I experienced myself as the “victim,” it was those individuals with whom I struggled most to feel a sense of oneness. It is easy to feel that “we are all in this together” in the abstract. It is much harder when someone has taken from you, overtly or covertly. 

In a conversation with my program partner, we discussed this struggle, and he reminded me of the value of forgiveness. That immediately clicked. Forgiveness became a doorway to oneness. 

As I reflected further, I realized that not forgiving is a way of holding onto the past. It keeps turbulent emotions alive within me, while the other person may not be thinking about me at all. Much of my pain, I noticed, was actually anger at myself for not seeing warning signs, for not protecting myself, for how I responded in those moments. 

In that sense, forgiveness is largely about forgiving myself. It allows me to move forward without forgetting what happened. I can remember who those people showed themselves to be and choose not to give them what I once did, while also recognizing that they, too, are living in their own limited worlds, shaped by their own interpretations of life and reality. And in that, we are the same. 

I am not fully there yet. I know that certain situations may still bring emotional turbulence. But I am closer to oneness than I was when this practice began, and for that, I am grateful. 

Living in Harmony with Time Rather Than a Strictly Linear View 

Throughout my life, I have had many experiences that have broadened my perspective of time. I have experienced moments of déjà vu where I recall memories (sometimes even recalling the memory of having the memory) only later to find myself living through the event. I have also  experienced moments where intentions or desires manifested not through effort or force, but in their own time, when they were naturally ready to come about. 

A recent and relatively mundane example helped clarify this distinction for me. 

For some time, I had anticipated the need for an additional car. My son is now driving and needs transportation for school, extracurricular activities, and time with friends. We had been sharing cars, but it reached a point where doing so created more conflict our schedules could comfortably support. So, I began shopping for a car and eventually made a purchase in the second week of December. 

Because the car was out of state, it needed to be shipped. I also authorized the dealer to send temporary plates so I could drive the car while awaiting for permanent plates – a fairly standard process. Around this same time, I became quite ill, likely with some form of the flu. Despite this, my project management instincts kicked in. I tracked timelines, followed up with the dealer repeatedly, monitored shipping details, and pushed to resolve outstanding issues such as registration paperwork and infotainment system pairing. 

Despite my efforts, progress was very slow. The dealer was at times unresponsive, and it wasn’t until the second week of January that everything was fully complete: the car was in my driveway, the system was connected, and the temporary plates arrived. 

Looking back from a broader perspective, I can see that during the holidays my family’s schedule was more flexible. While I was sick, I wasn’t driving much anyway. When I actually needed an additional car, there was one available. By the time school resumed and schedules tightened, everything was in place. In other words, we had exactly what we needed, when we needed it. 

I don’t share this to suggest that one should never intervene. In fact, the dealer made an error and failed to process the temporary plates until I followed up. But the larger rhythm of events unfolded differently than the timeline I believed was necessary. The car became legally drivable when I truly needed it, and not before. 

When I widen the lens further, this pattern appears elsewhere in my life. After the stress of nearly losing my wife to cancer (she is thankfully in remission), the loss of my daughter, and deep vocational burnout, I needed the world to slow down. And in many ways, it did. I was given time to step into a meaningful role on the City Council, time to be more present with my son, time to grieve, and time to begin reimagining how I want to live the next chapter of my life. 

That work continues. Daily meditation helps me stay present – feeling what I feel, thinking what I think, evaluating options, reshaping habits, and slowly stepping into a New Story. I still don’t know exactly what that story is, but I am becoming more comfortable with not knowing. 

In our last session, someone shared the idea of emptying ourselves so we can be a vessel for input from Spirit. I am finding increasing comfort in that emptiness. We also heard the words: I don’t need to see. I don’t need to know. I only ask to be of use. That feels like one of the only sane aspirations in a world that so often feels absurd. 

Poem

Finally, this period, we were asked to write a poem that expresses our sense of our collective need for a new story. Here’s mine:

Nurture has dominated Nature.
The masses are exhausted.
I am exhausted.

What do you see, little bird, as you look down upon the world?
Do you see the angst? Do you see the confusion? 
Animals pushed out of developments. 
The “unsophisticated” pushed to the margins. 
Culture pushed out for power. 
It’s cheaper to feed than cage, 
but caging feeds the powerful, 
and the powerful are hungry.

And where is healing? How do we find solace? 
It’s here. 
It’s now. 
It will be present, 
when enough people are too.

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Grief as Learning: A reflection on The Grieving Brain

In the wake of a death—especially an unforeseen one—we search for answers. Why did this happen? How? What could have been different? Often the mind searches even when there are no answers to be found.

I didn't read The Grieving Brain until nearly two years after I lost my daughter. Even so, I found it deeply validating. It helped me make sense of experiences I had already lived through but didn't yet have language for. A friend recommended it after her own profound loss, and she too found it useful in navigating the disorienting territory that grief creates.

Mary-Frances O'Connor is a clinical psychologist, neuroscientist, and professor at the University of Arizona. The book reflects that background—at times academic, but consistently humane. She distinguishes grief from depression, explains why yearning is not pathology, and shows how attachment is not merely emotional but physiological. We quite literally build our lives, and our nervous systems, around the people we love.

At the heart of the book is a deceptively simple idea: the brain is a learning machine. More specifically, it's a predictive machine, constantly anticipating what will happen next based on past experience. This works remarkably well—until it doesn't.

How the Brain Maps Relationships

O'Connor explains that when we form deep attachments, our brains learn that certain people exist here, now, and close. Even when a loved one is not physically present—at work, traveling, living across the country—we still carry a stable internal map of their existence. They are part of the world our brain expects to encounter.

That map does not update instantly when someone dies.

A familiar example helps. If you always place your keys in the same spot when you come home, your hand reaches there automatically. One day, distracted, you put them in your coat pocket and hang the coat in the closet. The next morning, your hand still reaches for the old place. The brain is not broken—it's doing what it has learned to do.

Grief works the same way, only the discrepancy is far more painful.

The brain continues to predict the presence of the person who has died. Each time reality contradicts that prediction, it hurts. Not metaphorically—neurologically. O'Connor frames grief as the repeated correction of a deeply learned expectation. This is why grief can feel so disorienting, even when we consciously know what has happened. Knowledge and learning are not the same thing. Unlike depression, which flattens experience, grief is marked by yearning—the continued pull toward someone who is no longer there.

When my daughter died, I experienced this painfully and clearly. In the months before her death, she had been traveling across the country. We weren't in close proximity, and we communicated only intermittently. After she died, those surface conditions were the same: she wasn't physically with me, and we weren't texting or talking in any given moment. My brain's map had not yet caught up to the deeper truth—that she would never again be here, now, and close in the way it expected.

My conscious mind knew this immediately. My brain did not. Each time the discrepancy surfaced, it hurt.

The most important takeaway from this is simple, but not easy: the brain needs time. Time to unlearn an old map. Time to build a new one. The pain is not a failure of healing—it is the healing process itself.

O'Connor offers an image I found helpful. Imagine walking through your home in the dark, used to brushing past a table in a particular place. If the furniture is suddenly rearranged, you immediately notice the absence. You may even question whether you're in the right room. Eventually, though, you learn the new layout. The room still works. Life still works. But the learning takes time.

For me, part of that learning involved realizing that my relationship with my daughter had to change—not end, but change.

Discovering the Scripts

I knew rationally that she was gone. I knew I would never again exchange looks, jokes, or hugs, or watch her become the person she was so beautifully becoming. But I also knew I would never forget her. Which meant the relationship itself was not disappearing—it was transforming. I just didn't know what that meant yet.

I noticed that most nights, as I was falling asleep, I was running the same internal script: I love you. I miss you. I'm so sorry. Over and over. The words were sincere. They were also static. I realized that if I kept repeating the same script, my brain had no new information with which to learn. I was reinforcing longing without offering a path forward.

So I made a conscious decision to interrupt the script.

Instead of speaking only from sadness, I began to invite different forms of connection. I intentionally recalled memories. I noticed moments in the present that she would have found funny or beautiful. I tried to experience joy with her, rather than only grief for her. This did not erase the loss—but it did allow my brain to begin building a new map, one that was less constantly jarring.

This, I think, is where agency quietly enters the grieving process. Not in forcing ourselves to "move on," but in gently offering the brain new experiences to learn from.

The Role of Mindfulness

The other major lesson I took from the book—one that reinforced practices already present in my life—was the importance of mindfulness. I've meditated on and off for more than twenty years, and I believe this helped me notice the scripts I was running in the first place. Mindfulness didn't make the grief go away. It changed my relationship to it.

One of the most painful patterns in grief is the endless chain of what-ifs. What if I had done this. What if I had said that. What if, what if, what if. These thoughts arise without warning, and early on they can feel inescapable. But they don't lead anywhere except deeper pain.

Mindfulness offers a different option. Not suppression, and not avoidance, but recognition. When a thought arises, we can notice it. Feel it. And then, if we choose, not follow it. Over time, this becomes a capacity. The thoughts still come—but they no longer carry us away from the present moment every time they appear.

The goal is not to stop thinking. The goal is to avoid being endlessly dragged by thought. Meditation, as unglamorous as it may seem, is a kind of medicine. And like most medicine, it works best when practiced before we're desperate for it.

What the Book Offers

There is far more in The Grieving Brain than I've captured here, and I would recommend it to anyone—whether grieving now, supporting someone who is, or simply wanting to understand how deeply human attachment really is. The book does not promise relief. What it offers instead is orientation.

Grief is not a malfunction. It's the brain doing its best to learn a world that has been irrevocably changed. Understanding that doesn't remove the pain—but it can make the pain feel less lonely, less frightening, and less wrong.

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A Long Loving Look at the Real

Following Session 2: A Long Loving Look at the Real

November 12 – December 9, 2025

Synthesis Statement

This session invited us to take a long, loving look at the reality of the meta, or poly-crisis we inhabit, and how we can best orient ourselves in that reality. We acknowledged that our lives have largely unfolded within the ‘Old Story,’ and thus, moving towards a New Story will bring some existential challenges. The call now is to let the heart guide the cultivation of a New Story. While we may exist within Old Story institutions, we no longer have to give them our heart. 

As Stewards, we ground ourselves through practice so that we may see clearly through the turbulence of the present and midwife what is emerging. We engage in meditation, prayer, contemplation, the arts, and action, all to help cultivate our awareness and footing in the New Story. So doing will not only allow us to help others understand what is happening amidst the chaos in their lives, but will also cultivate in us the ability to serve as builders and leaders of what is to come. 

Report on Practice

This cycle, my awareness shifted again. I entered the program somewhat thinking we were going to learn the principles, tactics, and narrative to better lead in the world. Following the first and into the second session, I moved a bit more internal, sensing the work is more interior: how do we align ourselves to deal with the “ungovernable complexity” of the world. Now, entering into the third session, I have a deeper sense of the interplay between the two worlds – the interior and exterior. 

So, what were some of the practices and triggers that helped me land there? 

Scaffolding: 

A term I first came across in a college course on Philosophy of Psychology, scaffolding involves modifying your external environment as a reminder to do something. As per a homework assignment, I put on my office wall the note: No more will I give myself to the Old Story. This both reminded me on a daily basis that my orientation should be toward a New Story, and it also sparked a couple of conversations with others who stopped by my office. It also occurred to me that both cultivating a work of art showing the old and new story, as well as finding music that helps you into the New Story, is a form of scaffolding as well. 

For a long time, I have been looking to move into a New Story, but I often found limitations. I could not crystallize what I was trying to become. I was unsure of where and when to do what. The whole movement felt very amorphous, nebulous. In a conversation with Bill Grace, he affirmed the challenge of thinking your way to an answer and offered that having some more formal structure often leads to greater traction. I am already finding this program to be doing exactly that. Capturing synthesis statements, recording my practice, talking to a program buddy, meeting with the full group, all these things are a structure, scaffolding to help facilitate change. 

More concisely: The structure of the Stewardship program itself—synthesis statements, practice logs, buddy conversations, group sessions—has become its own form of scaffolding. It is already providing the traction that pure introspection never did. The external form is supporting an internal realignment toward the New Story.

Community:

My buddy helped me realize the value of this Stewardship community. I left organized religion at about 13 years old. I studied religion in college, so I did not entirely leave spirituality. I just left the communal practice of worship. Buddhism talks about the Three Jewels: the Buddha (the awakened being), the Dharma (his teachings), and the Sangha (the community). Rooting oneself in these is the foundation for Buddhist practice. I never really appreciated the community pillar. I thought of people who went to church, temple, mosque, and monastery, etc., together and very much loved their communities, but never felt that was something I needed. Similarly, I always felt fine doing yoga on my own, or running, or lifting weights. I did not need, or particularly want, a workout class. 

However, after a conversation with my program buddy, I realized that maybe my not feeling the need for the community was more about my not resonating with the teachings, the vernacular, of those faiths. While our cohort has only had two group sessions so far, it is evident to me that my commitment to my practice is strengthened by the community. My interest in being accountable to myself, my interest in evolving with the group, my interest in exploring my personal growth, and my interest in understanding the experiences of others in the program all serve as fuel (and scaffolding), both igniting and driving deeper practice. What I once believed was a preference for solitary practice now appears, at least in part, more like an absence of resonance with prior communities. In contrast, this Stewardship circle feels aligned in purpose and language, making community not only meaningful, but essential.

Centering:

Recent conversation about the Centering Prayer from The Cloud of Unknowing further reminded and encouraged me to choose a verbal anchor during meditation, a reminder to come back to center, to be fully present. I experimented with different words at different times. Sometimes I found simply my breath to be the best anchor and more serene than any word could be.  

I heard an interview with Ken Wilber. He pointed out that our ego is a self-contraction. We don’t need to destroy it. We don’t need to feed it. We need to recognize it and transcend it. I appreciated this description as it very much reflects the physical sensation I experience when I am getting trapped in myself. My world contracts. I have a hard time seeing the bigger picture. All I see are problems that I somehow have to navigate. But all of that is a contraction, and when I recognize that, I can realize that I need to take steps to shift my perspective so I can transcend my stuckness.  

One day was a particularly challenging day for me. I had had a very stressful week and was contracting ever more into myself. I needed to shift my energy, shift my perspective, change my scenery. I decided to get out into nature. It was a beautiful fall day, complete with a soft rain. I knew with a proper shell, waterproof shoes, and the forest canopy, I’d be fine. When I remember, I like to try to turn my hike into a blend of walking meditation and forest bathing. Be as present as you can. Smell the smells, see the sights, hear the sounds, feel the air around you, and yes, maybe even go hug a tree. In this case, I decided to try a mantra. As I walked, out loud I would say: help me relax into the New Story…help me relax into the new story…help me relax…

I loved this mantra and practice for a few reasons. I allowed myself to repeat the phrase out loud. That helped get out of my head and into the world. After all, my sound was ‘entering the outside’. The phrasing itself was powerful for me. ‘Help me relax’ reminded me that orienting to a New Story was a natural state, the present is a natural state. I could let go of my contraction, of my thoughts, my preconceptions, my concerns. I could simply relax. Further, it reminded me that by relaxing, I was entering a New Story. I was present with a New Story, even if only for a moment. There was nothing separating me from my role, my contribution in this New Story. And finally, it was an exercise in visualization. I know some people have aphantasia, the inability to see images in their head. But that is not me. I do see images. So, every time I said ‘New Story, I caught a glimpse of what that New Story could be. If my mind wandered, when I returned to the mantra – help me relax into the New Story – the image that appeared in my mind of the New Story often related in some way to whatever I was wandering over just moments before. “Help me relax into the New Story” helped me relax; it helped me anchor to the present. Every time I said “New Story,” I was both again present and catching a tiny glimpse of what that New Story was becoming. I was fully present, I was immersing myself into the New Story, and I was catching minute glimpses of that New Story. In that moment, “help me relax into the New Story” became not just a mantra, but a doorway—an embodied reminder that presence itself is New Story consciousness.

One other item I want to include:

Bill Grace said, either at this most recent session or in the first session, “great, these are the conversations I want to be having.” While he, in part, appeared to be saying that somewhat to himself in affirmation of the work we were doing together, to me it highlighted something very important. Just as we all are, he, too, is building a New Story. He is creating something that shapes the future in a way that feels most aligned with his own inner drive and purpose. The humility and humanity in that comment, and the genuine reflection of him as a practitioner as well as a teacher, was a perfect example of what we can all be doing. 

Community & The Gift Economy: 

This period, we were encouraged to participate in (or start) a local Buy Nothing group. I find myself grateful that our small town has an active Buy Nothing group in which I regularly participate. I have acquired new things, passed along things I was no longer using, and even borrowed items for a short time in periods of need. For example, neighbors I did not know allowed me to borrow a stroller and kid carrier backpack when out-of-town visitors with kids stayed with us for a bit. I made sure to take a moment to appreciate this community and how it functions so well in our community, and that we all exchange goods we need as it benefits us all. No transactions, nothing in return but a thank you. You feel good as both giver and receiver. 

With our conversations about the Cloud of Unknowing, I recalled I know some folks that might really enjoy that book. They love Christian literature and often read together. It felt great to allow myself to go online, buy two copies, and then deliver the books during a visit. Somehow, I felt quite liberated to do so, and it was a gift to me to give to someone else. 

Finally, in this Community and Gift Economy category, I have found myself this month beginning to think about how to retool my offerings at Our Olive Branch. I want to shift my revenue model to whatever degree I can away from being transactional and have it be aligned with the value my clients feel I provide. I think this will open the door to deeper, more meaningful conversations that don’t necessarily have to be about a deliverable, but an orientation to working. I have some books I need to read, and am hoping to do a deeper contemplation around things like Universal Basic Income and Social Credit systems when I have some open time. 

I have decided to build a website that might host some of my examinations of these ideas, reflections on books, and reports such as this one. At the moment, I am feeling like this ties many of these threads together for me. It gives me purpose, structure, offers my work as a gift, and it possibly contributes to community and connection. 

These experiments—giving freely, receiving without transaction, letting generosity be its own reward—are quietly rewiring my economic imagination. They are helping me discern how my professional work might also move toward a more relational, trust-based model.

Music and connection: 

One of the assignments this time was to “Recall and listen to a piece of music that supports you in taking a long, loving look at the real and in continuing your disconnection from the Old Story.” This was an interesting journey for me. I have been navigating some vestibular symptoms that have made much additional stimulation for me very hard. I often try listing to music and find it just too difficult to listen to. I try different genres, different volumes, with and without lyrics, and it has been rare that it’s felt ok. This in and of itself has been very sad for me because I love music. It is one of the ways I often destress. 

Over the course of my life, I have spent more hours with Phish than with any other band/composer/artist. Their ability to play pretty much any genre well, and their constant mixing of those genres into cohesive pieces of music is really special. Many people don’t ‘get’ Phish, but there is no doubt to me that 100 years from now, people will still be talking about Phish. 

When I was contemplating what ‘piece of music would help me shift from Old to New Story’, I was going through Phish’s deep catalog to try to decide what would be best. Nothing was jumping out at me in any obvious ways. Certainly, I often found their music to be opening, because of how they do live improvisation throughout most performances. It is active creation based on the energy in the moment. Their shows are an active striving for those moments of ‘flow state’ for the band and audience to all be one, held together by music. Yet, no one song was coming to me. So, I thought to myself, maybe I need to find new music. Something very different from what I typically listen to. A new soundtrack for a shift into a New Story. 

I decided Jacob Collier would be a great place to start. If you don’t know Jacob, you should spend some time. He is young, understands music in ways many people alive today will never, and he is tapped into a well of creativity that many of us only sense. There was a story not terribly long ago about AI. Researchers gave Google’s DeepMind the rules for the Chinese game Go. When playing against a person, DeepMind executed moves that were perfectly legal, yet no human had ever thought of anything like that. It was mindblowing. Jacob is sort of like that. He finds and assembles harmonies and musical cadences that are beautiful and way outside of what we are used to. It may not immediately satisfy your soul like your favorite music does, but there is something really special about it, and people who deeply understand music, music theory are regularly mind-blown by Jacob. So, I decided to spend some time with his music this period. 

With all that said, during this period, the lead composer and guitarist for Phish was playing a fundraiser set of shows. He did something similar 5 years ago and it was beautiful so I decided to watch it. He incorporates classical musicians playing cello and violins, classical piano, with a traditional base guitar, drum kit, lead guitar, a horns section, backup singers, a world percussionist, and a jazz/blues/improv keyboardist. The music was absolutely fantastic. Probably 50%-60% were Phish songs with altered arrangements for this format. 

Side story for background. My daughter hated smoke alarms. She obviously hated the noise, but also the little lights on them. She would put electrical tape over the lights on the smoke alarms in her room so she would not ever notice it in the dark. She once joked that she was going to run for president and her platform would be to banish all smoke alarms. 

Lately, I have been trying to stay open to signs from the universe – little nudges to let you know this or that. Since my daughter died, there have been a few types of signs that it seem she tends to send. Since her death, I am quite confident that she has set off our fire alarms at key moments to let us know she is there. I could expand on some examples but I think that is a bit more than we need here at the moment. I’d also like to add that I am hard of hearing and grew up not really listening to lyrics. To me, the voice really has always been an instrument more than a vehicle for poetry in music. I am wrong about that – the lyrics are meaningful and can carry a song's essence – but it is part of my New Story to understand that. My son is helping me. He sings, solo and in various ensembles, so his music usually has no instrumental accompaniment. That has shifted me to listen more to lyrics when I can hear them clearly. 

So, during the concert I was streaming, I was sitting alone in the room, just quietly enjoying the music. They started playing a song that I am familiar with. It’s a fine song, but was never one of my favorites. It usually has a good improv section, so I am sort of waiting for that part to tune in more. As I am looking at my phone and half listening, the thought again comes to me, that I am meeting with the Stewards again soon and really need to find a song to include in my report on practice. And just as I have that thought, the smoke alarms go of for maybe 2-3 beeps. I stopped, and realized what the lyrics of the current song were and realized my daughter was telling me this is the song I have been looking for. In that instant, the ordinary became luminous. The lyrics I’d always skimmed past suddenly revealed themselves as a teaching: a letting go of the Old Story’s contraction and an anchoring in the present where “everything’s right.”

Everything’s Right, by Phish (edited out repetition in chorus for more efficient reading)

Time to get out, I've paid my dues
I need to shout there's no time to lose
No more to give, the well is dry
The pavements worn, my brain is fried
It's time to get out, I've paid my dues

My shoes have holes, my socks are bare
The mirror's secret is I'm losing my hair
I'm in prison without a crime
The sentence stretches on undefined
It's time to get out, I've paid my dues
I've paid my dues

But everything's right
So just hold tight
Everything's right
So just hold tight (repeats several times)

I'm going downhill with increasing speed
And compassion gives way, if you listen to greed
Focus on the past and that's what will last
Nothing that is real and nothing you can feel
Focus on tomorrow you'll have to borrow
Images and mind and thoughts you've left behind
Focus on today and you'll find a way
Happiness is how
Rooted in the now
'Cause, everything's right
So just hold tight (repeats several times)

Look into the eyes of everyone you meet
Try not to step on your best friend's feet
The line is in the sand, the flag is planted
The rest of your life
Don't take it for granted

'Cause, everything's right
So just hold tight (repeats) 

This world, this world
This crazy world I know
It turns, it turns
And the long night's over and the sun's coming up (stanza repeats several times)

Wrap up:

Across this cycle of practice, what I am noticing most is that the New Story is not a destination but an orientation—a way of seeing, sensing, and responding. Through scaffolding, community, contemplative practice, gift exchange, and even music, I am slowly training my attention toward presence, sufficiency, and connection. These small openings feel like early signs of the larger consciousness shift we are here to bring forth together.

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Longing for a New Story

Following Session 1: Longing for a New Story

October 14 – November 11, 2025

Synthesis Statement

In our first session, we introduced ourselves — not just our names or roles, but the deeper reasons we showed up. I felt genuinely honored to be among people who care deeply, who give large parts of their lives to service, and who seem to be asking similar questions about how to live well during times of uncertainty.

Together we explored the idea that an old way of orienting to the world is loosening, and something new is beginning to take shape. We’re in a liminal space — the space between stories — where the old no longer fits and the new has not yet arrived.

Our work, individually and collectively, is to become conscious of that transition and to learn the part each of us is called to play.

During a brief period of silent meditation, Bill said something as we were coming back: “…the community you are building.” That landed. It reminded me that while the future is unclear, creating community — real community — is already part of the work. It is itself a step into the new story.

It felt like a grounding place to begin.

Report on Practice

Over the past month, I’ve meditated for about twenty minutes a day. I’ve probably missed a couple of days, but overall I’ve been steady. My practice partner and I met weekly, except for the week he was traveling.

This stretch of time has been intense. My wife has been traveling for the past month and will be away for a little while longer. I’ve been single-parenting while continuing my City Council work and running a re-election campaign. And last week marked two years since my daughter’s death.

This is the environment in which I’ve been practicing.

Institutional Change & Creative Destruction

I read recently about this year’s Nobel Prize in Economics, awarded for research into how innovation and “creative destruction” fuel economic growth. This felt relevant as I’ve watched long-standing institutions destabilize in recent years. That destabilization can feel alarming, but somewhere in it I sense the possibility that we may eventually build better, more humane structures. Something new may yet arise from what collapses. And given how entrenched our institutions have become, perhaps this is the only way they shift.

Point of clarification:

“Creative destruction” refers not to destroying something and then building anew, but to how creative innovations inadvertently dismantle old structures. I’m not saying that’s what is happening in our current moment, though you could argue that some efforts or movements are attempts at it. More, I’m observing the opportunities that emerge when the norms and assumptions of institutional life are disrupted.

Disruption is rarely comfortable, but it can expose openings that were previously invisible.

Breath as Boundary and Bridge

I watched an interview with a Shaolin monk who said that breath is the unifying element between our physical body and our more amorphous mind. He described exhaling as “…when breath enters the outside.”

That phrasing lodged itself in me. During meditation, I sometimes try to feel that — not breath leaving my body, but breath entering the outside. It shifts my sense of boundary, subtly softening the line between what I think of as ‘me’ and everything beyond.

A Glimpse of Non-Duality

While meditating, I had a touch of a non-dual experience that clarified something I had previously only understood intellectually.

Spiritual literature often says that “there is no separation between self and other.” Many of us work to achieve some depth of knowing that, but it’s difficult to access with the rational mind. However, when we are actually in a non-dual state, the reason there is no separation becomes clear: neither “self” nor “other” exists independently. As soon as we form the concept of either one, we are no longer in non-duality. Even the idea of “non-separation” creates separation. 

Simply put, language dissolves at the threshold of experience.

All there is… is all there is.

The Metacrisis as Initiation

A quote I came across struck me:

The metacrisis isn’t something to solve — it’s an initiation we must undergo. We’re not facing problems that need fixing but a species-wide transformation that requires us to grow up. This isn’t about finding the right answer but becoming the kind of beings who can navigate ungovernable complexity together. The crisis is the curriculum.

This feels true for the moment we are in — individually, collectively, and through this program. We may or may not identify tactical levers for writing a new story, but what we are doing is creating a liminal space in our lives: a fertile ground where a new paradigm might take shape. The work ahead isn’t technical; it’s transformational.

This is about aligning ourselves — becoming. How do we shift our being in such a way that we can “navigate ungovernable complexity together”? Ultimately this becomes an individual act of consciously working with others for the benefit of yet others — all of us.

This was also aligned with my earlier comment about “creative destruction.”

Liminal Space as Sacred

My practice partner shared something that reframed liminality for me.

He pointed out that liminal space isn’t only “the unknown between two things.” It also refers to moments, places, and experiences that open us to the sacred.

This moment — in our lives and in our shared history — is sacred. All moments are, but when we recognize that a shift is happening and remain present to it, honoring it, we may find the openings that invite our highest contribution. Sacredness blooms when attention meets transition.

The Drawing Assignment

Our homework assignment was to draw a picture of ourselves moving from the “Old Story” to the “New Story.” The prompt initially led me to imagine a figure stepping away from the Old Story. Later, the image evolved into a meditator — perhaps because my practice this month was rooted in meditation, or because the shift we’re undergoing feels interior as much as exterior. 

I kept thinking about emerging structures like co-ops, B Corps, universal basic income, concepts of pluralism, and shifts away from structures like Jim Crow, mass incarceration, and tribalism. These “new” concepts are promising, but they already exist; they’re not the New Story itself. The New Story is still undefined, still forming. It may or may not include these newer concepts. Doing the art project helped me feel this territory — the evolution toward what may come.

Integration Through Reflection

Finally, I want to note that simply taking the time to record these reflections has been meaningful. It’s easy to notice something, or have an idea, and move on. Being accountable — to others and to myself — and the act of writing it down helps crystallize the moment and integrate it more fully into my being.

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Reports on Practice: An Introdcution

In October 2025, I joined a year-long leadership and spiritual development program called the New Story Stewards, led by Bill Grace. The program meets monthly and asks participants to maintain a daily contemplative practice while reflecting on questions about how to live and lead well during times of profound transition and complexity.

I came to this work for reasons that have been building for years. My life exists at several intersections: public service and inner work, organizational consulting and spiritual practice, the demands of showing up for my community and the quiet necessary to stay grounded in myself. For a long time, I've been looking for a structure that could help me integrate these dimensions rather than toggle between them. I've also been seeking a community of people engaged in similar questions—not just intellectually, but as a lived practice.

The program has given me both: a container for sustained contemplation and a group of fellow travelers who take the interior work of leadership seriously.

Why Make This Public?

Each month, participants are asked to write a brief "Report on Practice"—a summary of how our daily spiritual practice has unfolded, what insights have emerged, what we've struggled with. I've found myself writing much longer reflections than required. What started as a program assignment has become something closer to field notes from an ongoing experiment in paying attention.

I've decided to share these reports publicly for a few reasons.

First, accountability. There's something clarifying about writing for an audience beyond myself and the small circle of program participants. It sharpens my attention and makes me more honest about what I'm actually experiencing versus what I think I should be experiencing.

Second, connection. I suspect others are navigating similar territory—trying to show up with integrity in their work and communities while also doing the quieter inner work of becoming more whole. If these reflections resonate with even a few people, that feels worthwhile.

Third, offering. For years I've benefited from others who've been willing to document their own practice and process publicly. This is part of that larger gift economy—making visible some of what usually remains private, in case it's useful to someone else.

And finally, integration. I'm building this site as a place to bring together different threads of my life: reflections on civic leadership, notes from books I'm reading, examinations of ideas I'm working with. These Reports on Practice belong here. They're part of the same orientation—toward learning how to be more present, more useful, more aligned with what matters.

What to Expect

These reports are personal and incomplete. They are written from within the process, not from some position of having arrived. They document what one person is noticing, practicing, and becoming as I try to show up more consciously in my life and work.

You'll find reflections on contemplative practice—meditation, walking in nature, working with mantras and silence. You'll find thoughts about community, about disconnecting from old patterns and orienting toward new ones, about grief and gratitude. You'll find stories from daily life: conversations that shifted something, music that opened a door, small experiments in living differently.

The writing will vary. Sometimes more structured, sometimes more stream-of-consciousness. Sometimes focused on a single insight, sometimes ranging across multiple threads. These are field notes, not polished essays. I'm keeping them that way intentionally—the roughness feels truer to the work itself.

I won't be explaining the program's framework or curriculum in detail. That's not my story to tell, and it's not the point. What I'm offering here is simply my own experience of engaging with questions about how to live well during complex times, how to cultivate an interior life that can sustain outer work, and how to stay grounded and useful when the world feels increasingly ungovernable.

An Invitation

If you find yourself drawn to these questions—how to live with integrity during times of transition, how to balance action with contemplation, how to stay connected to what's real and human amid so much noise—then perhaps these reports will resonate.

You don't need to be in a formal program or have a developed spiritual practice to engage with this material. You just need to be curious about the relationship between your inner life and your outer work, between who you're becoming and what you're able to offer.

I'm sharing these reflections in the spirit of companionship for anyone walking a similar path. We're all figuring this out together, and sometimes it helps to know what someone else is noticing along the way.

New Reports on Practice will be posted monthly as the program unfolds. Shared with the program founder's blessing, to ensure these reflections represent only my personal experience.Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

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