To the left and right canal after canal branched off, each full of pleasure craft, an occasional sailboat and large fishing vessels.
I marveled at the size of some of them, veritable floating condominiums with several floors, indoor and outdoor dining areas, large decks and bridges high above.  “Who lives here?” I asked myself. “Why did they make this choice?”

Without judgment, I pondered the nature of humans to flock to those of like ilk.  We seem to gravitate to those most similar to us, take comfort in the familiar and want to perpetuate it.
We move to the appropriate neighborhood and find ways to look the part, seldom challenging the status quo, content and settled in a man-made order that becomes so natural that we forget it was created.

I wonder how often we try to step back and see a different scene—what would happen if…
Fill in the blank.
How would I feel if my world suddenly became…
Fill in the blank.

Insularity troubles me, though I understand the instinct to protect one’s own and surround ourselves with non- threatening elements.  Still, sometimes it seems so small, so limited, so same ol’, same ol’.

How can we expand if we rush so quickly back to our cocoons?
Are we satisfied with a view of the universe according to CNN?
When do we hop off the couch and go explore it with our own eyes?  What pieces of our inner life might we expose through rubbing elbows or at least eyelids with those of diverse and even contrary perspectives?

If our belief systems are wound together one tiny wire-like strand at a time, might it not be dangerous to allow the supporting cables to form without first examining multiple perspectives?
What if we wait too long, until the cable thickens to an almost unbreakable strength only to discover that our oh-so-fixed point of view may be defensible, but also causes us much suffering?
Then what?

Most of us would balk at any change, reject the notion in favor of established patterns—choose a known unhappiness over stepping into the dark with all its perceived risks—understandable yet no solution to the plight.

I glanced at my friend piloting the craft.
He sat calmly, pointing out the occasional landmark.
He lived here and truly enjoyed it.

Maybe only I endure this questioning dis-ease.
Maybe I need to re-examine my own take.
What if…
Fill in the blank.

That’s A View From The Ridge…

“No pain, no gain,” he cried out to no one in particular as he pounded
down the asphalt at a blistering pace.
She smiled and trailed a few yards behind, quiet, steady.
“I’m feelin’ the pain, so I must be getting’ the gain.” He glanced over
at her.
She kept gliding along the road, content to let him surge ahead.

The verbal sparring reached new heights the night before over dinner
and though she recognized it all in jest, she felt the familiar bile
creep into her stomach, the stirring of that dark place that she both
accepted and embraced yet still brought up shame.
It was what it was.
It was who she was.
She would not lose.

In bed, almost unconsciously, she spent a few minutes visualizing the
contest.
She had never followed the course though she knew the finish line.
She needed nothing else.

“Looks like it might rain,” she said, her first words.
“Do we need to stop?” he queried with a half-smirk.
“No,” she responded softly.
“No rain, no gain.” He laughed at his own joke. “Maybe it’ll help me
grow.”
At the fifteen minute mark, she began to accelerate, lengthened her
stride a half step.
She had only one fear, that he might have a strong kick for the last
stretch and that his longer legs could carry him more quickly at the
very end.
She would wear him out long before then.
There would be no kick, of that she would make sure.

“Shall we do the three and a half or the four and a half loop?” He
asked.
“Whatever you think,” she replied.
“For the four and a half, you hang a right—otherwise, go straight,” he
tacked on.
She turned right.

As the lactic acid squeezed the fibers in her thighs and calves, she
pressed harder, driving past the pain, beyond the burn.
It hurt.
So what?
A lot of things hurt.
The indomitable fury that fueled the drive simmered beneath the
surface.
She knew it had nothing to do with him.
It didn’t matter.
She had no on-off switch nor other measure of control, though personal
work over the years held it in check, hidden under a mostly pleasant
veneer.
The battle belonged to her, with herself, and for the most part, she
managed to keep it private.
As he fell behind, she slowed down, long enough for him to catch up,
then drove again, unconscious of her no-prisoners approach or lack of
mercy.
One more curve, one more street, done.

Down the final third of a mile stretch, for a brief moment she glimpsed
terror, a fleeting notion that maybe he had enough juice for a burst.
Sucking for air, she forced a torrid rate, each foot rushing past the
other beneath her—it could not be.

No, it could not.
She left him in her wake with a widening gap though drew little
satisfaction from it.
It simply had to be that way, that’s all.
Fifty yards from the finish line, she stopped and began to walk.
He caught up and stopped beside her.
They walked the last ten yards and crossed together, no words
exchanged.

None needed.

That’s A View From The Ridge…

Ridgely
__________________________________________________________________

Success Quotes

Be a “get to” not a “got to” person. Each day can be an opportunity, if
you see it (seize it) that way.
Josh Cox

I didn’t think it was possible to love running more than I already do.
Then I discovered running with you.  That said?  In a race I would drop
you like a bad habit.
www.rwdaily.runnersworld.com (sourced by Kathy G.)
__________________________________________________________________

Key Points

I wrote this particular column about the first time that I went running
with my wife, Kathy, long before we tied the knot. I should have called
it Mr. Cocky versus the Gazelle (a nickname of hers unknown to me at the
time.) She selected the above quote from Runner’s World (her favorite
magazine, another fact unknown to me) and did in fact, drop me like a
bad habit in that perhaps fateful race–not once, several times.

When we run together (which we still do), she frequently glides ahead,
only to circle back with her customary “you okay?”, then turn and surge
ahead again. After the first hundred times of mild to severe annoyance
at the question, I have learned to just nod and keep plodding. In my
first and only marathon to date, she beat me by an hour and fifteen
minutes and then accompanied me to the medical tent as I iced my
screaming knees.

The bottom line is that she is a far superior runner and always will be.
And she likes it. She gains huge benefits from her runs and gets grumpy
if cooped inside for too long. I, at least, have the decency to not
enjoy the process and view it more appropriately as a necessary method
of mid-drift management. I trail behind her like a dog with his tail
wagging, sucking air and wishing that fat blocking pills actually
worked.

That said, another lesson springs to mind through this tale of the
trail. If you love something and on top of that, it benefits you–then
get out and do it. How many of us reminisce over the “good ol’ days”
when we spent more time outside than on our iPhones, rode our bikes and
breathed the fresh air, took long walks, went to the ball park as a
player or dove into a pool for a few leisurely laps.

Leaving the physical positives aside, what about the mental clarity,
the stillness from turning off for a while, the feeling of inner
satisfaction that wells up inside after we get out of the house or
office and do something–anything.

When was the last time you chose tennis shoes over texting, your
bicycle over email or a bathing suit over Facebook?

Oh, and did you know that exercise leads to better and more frequent
intimacy?

Maybe you should go find a new pair of running shoes…

I turn my wedding band around so as not to show the diamonds, make sure to
look scruffy enough not to attract attention and scoot through the airport
to the waiting taxis, another student/tourist/visiting non-descript.

If only they could see my red suede shoes tucked in my ratty suit bag, the
bright red kerchief to grace the pocket of my custom-tailored dark blue
pin-stripe, matching tie of course—or do I wear the blue suedes instead?
Quien sabe?

The joys of a traveling showman, the need to make the necessary statement
for the message to be heard, sign the autographs, pose for pictures, then
disappear incognito.

I love the heart of my Latin friends, their easy smiles, playful demeanors,
soulful eyes.  I honor the time they ask of me to bring them hope and
belief, to share philosophies that convey that hidden message: Usted, Si
Puede–Yes, You Can!

“Where are we taking you to dinner, Richeli?”
Ahhh, the obligatory breaking of tortillas, with green sauce—my favorite,
chocolate mole over chicken, chorizo and perhaps, yes, a fine tequila—with a
chance to give a tad more…

Then back to the hotel, my friends the bellmen, my customary taxi-driver
that asks endless questions and back into jeans and a faded shirt. I don’t
need a body guard—just a pure intention, a few gray whiskers and an ol’
bomber jacket: “Hasta la vista, baby!”

By Richeli also known as Ridgely Goldsborough

That’s A View From The Ridge…

Then we usher in summer—the heat, the fire, the passion and the burn, an escalating blaze of sweaty emotions that rise, intensify, crescendo and lead us to the fall—the tumble of all that grew, drifting leaves that blanket us and prepare us for that annual time of reflection when the chill sends us scurrying within.

Winter uncovers spring.
Spring gives way to summer.
Summer melts into fall.
Fall clings desperately to its life lines, like a drunk nursing his last swallow or a child that down to her last bite of ice cream adds water to fill the bowl again, oblivious to the loss of flavor, wanting more where none can be had except in the world of pretend.
Winter sets in regardless, sometimes gently, often with an unleashed fury that shuts us all down without mercy, paralyzes us.
We take cover and hide from its elements.

Still, the seeds lie in sleep, buried below in wait, patient and un-intimidated.
In victory we find the cause for defeat, the fat summer celebration that makes us lazy and lethargic, asleep at the wheel.
In defeat, we taste the bitter dirt that jars us awake, wrestle to get up, find the strength to remember that the only difference between a rut and a grave is its depth.
In defeat we define character, a constant tightrope walk to temper and harden for strength while somehow, some way, clinging to fleeting vestiges of softness, kindness and compassion, elusive companions too often quashed in the fight.
In defeat we discover raw self.

The wise lick their wounds, leave the gashes exposed, observe, re-group, learn, heal and start over.
The foolish grope for the closest band-aid.
Winter doesn’t care.

Wait.
Is that a lone white flake in the air?
Could winter grace us with a few added moments of introspection and preparation, a last gasp of quiet before we reap all that was sown, before the buds reveal themselves and us in this year’s unforgiving tally?
I think so.
We still have time.
Let it snow.

That’s A View From The Ridge…

Abundance everywhere, abundance of beauty, abundance of fortune.
Another day in paradise.

For me, this poses a disturbingly fascinating question.
Why some yes and some no?
Why do the builders of luxury high-rise condos live in dilapidated trailers?

On the other hand, why does material wealth cause such lack in
relationships?

No one can deny our universe’s resilience, its amazing regenerative powers
and continued ability to provide.  Flowers grow, vibrant, colorful,
glorious, mere minutes after the tornado blows through or the flood waters
recede.
We live surrounded by an endless fountain of plenty.
How does it all flow?

Can the person that makes $25,000 a month be ten times smarter than a $2,500
earner, and the financier that brings in $250,000 in the same period
ten-fold wiser yet?

That makes no sense.
How does a crammed household full of hand-me-down furniture and kids piled
upon kids, share joyous meals of Mac and Cheese seasoned with laughter, even
though the rent deadline has long since passed?
The mind boggles and scrambles.

Let’s look at the environment.
The tide ebbs and flows.
Winter turns to spring.
Summer crops become fall plantings.
The moon comes out at night and has since time immemorial.

Let’s look at the money thing.
Some of us have a bunch, some of us don’t.
Some of us make a lot, some of us barely scrape by.

Unless you live on a mountaintop, a quick spin around the neighborhood
reveals varying bank account sizes without much of an impact on the
happiness quotient.
Those who sit in first class more often seem grumpier than the rest of us in
coach.
Go figure.

Without positing a solution, let’s at least state the obvious:
Prosperity, in all its incarnations, comes from the inside.

How it shows up and decorates our world, well, that depends on us.
I believe that we can learn the skill sets to create wealth, though the
discipline must come from inside.
Most of us have the muscles to wear a smile, though the impetus emanates
from inside.
Trappings bring only fleeting glee, while lasting joy grows from the heart,
a living, breathing, active organism that can only survive in one
place—inside.

How much effort do you put into your inner life, seeding, nurturing,
cultivating, harvesting and celebrating your own bounty?
If we judge our tree by the fruit it bears, then only you decide whether
your current harvest matches your expectations.

If not, you know where to turn.

That’s A View From The Ridge

On the one hand, I take no issue with the process.
Insurance providers charge periodic premiums to a large number of policyholders and aggregate significant amounts of capital.
When a policyholder has a problem, the insurance company allocates a portion of those funds to resolving the issue—classic risk management.
From an economic standpoint, absent a major catastrophe through which too many policyholders claim simultaneous losses, the model works.

My challenge lies on the human side.
Why do we continue to cling to this barbaric need to vilify, castigate and put down those who make mistakes, cause them (and ourselves) to feel unworthy, dirty or bad?
“Did you hear that so-and-so did such-and-such?  Oooohhh, big trouble in that house.”

Those who lead full lives will pay the price of a higher number of botches and bungles.
Even the most sheltered existence will include its fair share of lapses and slip-ups.
The inevitability of mistake-making ought to cause us to reconsider our perspective.

How about this?
Step One: Admit the error.
Step Two: Take responsibility for it.
Step Three: Ponder and reflect on the situation. What might we have changed? What could we do differently?
Step Four: Make a determination to avoid the same slight next time.
Step Five: Move on.  Go out and make an imprint on the world, armed with more maturity, more seasoning and an increased ability to contribute.

If we follow a mistake with personal responsibility and a renewed determination to shift the behavior when we face similar circumstances, we convert it into a lesson.
If we choose to dwell in the fault or mentally beat up on ourselves, we stay stuck in the problem instead of focused on solutions—a guaranteed ticket to bitterness, regret and rigidity.

Interesting how study after study tells us that we learn most during the ages of 3 and 7, that our brain expands and grows exponentially during this period.
How coincidental that during these years we make the most mistakes.

Perhaps we should shift our viewpoint a tad, celebrate our humanity, embrace our imperfections, welcome the learning that derives from challenging defects or deficiencies and recognize the value of a good fall.
I don’t know about you, but I seem to mess up on a fairly regular basis, often in a pretty big way and I don’t see that varying much anytime soon.
I guess that means I’m on a high learning gradient.
How fun!

Besides, most of us find perfection very boring.

“The last three months hit me pretty hard,” he began. “And I feel the need
to share a piece of my story—though I’m not sure why.”
His usually confident, even cocky demeanor, shed its bluster.

“About four months ago, one of my colleagues called me about this new
marketing system, an outbound fax blaster that could reach thousands of
potential customers at very little cost.” He paused. “I checked it out, got
excited and signed up.
Long story short—after thousands of faxes, a process server showed up to
deliver some papers.
It seems that what I did was illegal.
One of the companies that received a blast complained to the attorney
general who filed a lawsuit against me—not just for that fax, but with a
dollar punishment for every one sent out.”

The crowd gasped.
“I failed to do proper research, didn’t pay attention to the details and now
face prosecution with enormous potential liability.”

200 people sat riveted to their chairs.
“As some of you know, I recently moved up here from down south.” He ran his
fingers through his hair.
“I stored my stuff in my old office, which we closed down.
When I drove back to pick it all up, I found that everything except my
computer and the clothes I brought with me, was gone.
Every memento, every memory and every possession had been stolen.”

No one budged.
“It gets better. As some of you know, I drive a sports car—black on black
convertible with the works, my pride and joy.
I love that car.”
His voice cracked a little.
“No more,” he added.

A memory flooded his mind.
“As sometimes happens, a guy cut my car off.
Instead of letting it go, my ego kicked in.
Coming up an on ramp I stomped on the accelerator, missed the final turn,
lost control at 85 miles an hour, spun across three lanes, hit the guard
rail and bounced back across two—in the middle of rush hour.
I totaled the car and by some weird fate, walked away without a scratch.”

The room sighed with relief.
“Because I had been on the road, I didn’t open my mail and missed an
insurance payment.  I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Heads shook in dismay.

“In three months, I got sued, lost everything I owned, wrecked my car.”
He gathered himself.
“We all face challenges,” he smiled, “some tougher than others.
I guess I wanted to share mine with you.
Thanks for listening.”
He left to a standing ovation.

Standing in the back of the room, I realized how much respect that young man
earned.
He confronted his fear, publicly admitted his mistakes and never quit,
despite the obstacles.
That day, he won much more than a trophy.

I step into the bathroom and spy a tiny friend.
His eyes perched on the side of his head told me that he or she feels afraid, caught in an unfamiliar element.
Briefly startled, I sense a smile growing—a kindred spirit to the energy behind the spooked eyes.

I freeze, unwilling to let go of the moment.
I watch my mouse friend scurry past my feet out and into the other room where I was to lay my head.
I wait, unwilling to cause any fear, smiling and wondering—where will he go?

Gingerly, I step out.
Now, what?
I peek under the bed.

Nothing.
I glance under the bedside table.
A tiny head behind the leg.
The same friendly, bugged-out eyes.
I lean back.
The tail stretches out an inch or so.
My friend.

What harm could be caused, I ask?
How could he or she possibly crawl onto the bed?
I fuss with my computer.
Turn on, please.  I need you.

As I hit the keys, my friend returns—on the bed.
For a brief moment, I feel a sense of apprehension—a mouse, on my bed—what if I lose him or her? What if she climbs on me in the night?
Quickly, the sense of wonder returns.
What if I lose this moment?

I sit.  In a very still mode, I type.
At this very instant, the mouse creeps down the fleece jacket that I perched at the end of the bed.
Three or four times it crosses the bedspread—like a player on a field running for the touchdown.
At this instant, I lose sight.
Where is my friend?
What do I need to do to liberate him or her?
What do I need to do to liberate myself from the fear of falling asleep?

Over and over, my friend crosses the bedspread.
It seems that climbing onto to the bed might be much easier than climbing down.
Maybe she doesn’t know how?
I wonder.

In this unique space, I love the journey of being an artist—the journey of fascination—the journey of the moment.

Aaahhh, my friend finds the ground again.
I see her or him in my periphery vision—though I don’t move, other than these fingers on the keyboard that she can’t see.
How can I help her out?

Time to go.  I have a job to do.
I have a friend in need of freedom.

I feel the heart beat as I gently place my jacket on my friend.  I feel the fear, the instinct, the trembling.  I feel my own heart jump at the movement, the heat from that tiny body, the unknown.
I feel the joy, as I release my friend into the outdoors and watch her run away into the night.
I will sleep well, this eve, as I hope you will too, my friend…

That’s A View From The Ridge…

“What do I have to do to be a great speaker?” they ask.
I have a standard answer.
“About 500 speeches.”
I say the same thing every time and believe it from the bottom of my heart.
No substitute for standing in front of the room over and over.

I began to ponder this question a little more deeply.
What answer might I provide that could help speakers, both new and old?
What secret formula might we conjure that could serve one and all?
I got it.

Killer openings.
If anything can save a speech and set the audience into the right listening frame, it’s a killer opening—one that grabs them, rivets them to their seats and predisposes them to believe that what they are about to hear will be great.
I abide by the 15 second rule.
I have 15 seconds to make the connection or I’m back-pedaling for the rest of the gig.

That means no greetings, no hellos, no wasted words.
The first 15 seconds equal primetime, show time.

In my personal repertoire, I offer three polished speeches—though frankly one great speech is enough, especially to get started.
The first speech I open with a story about my love of trains, and the day my brother and I decided to put a baby carriage in the middle of the track, to see what would happen when the 4 PM commuter came through.
The second one I open with the tale of leaping off a crane with a bungee chord tied around my ankles.
The third one recounts how I gave birth to my daughter using a cell phone for guidance from the mid-wife who was stuck in traffic on an LA freeway in morning rush hour.

I get `em, every time.
It makes the rest a lot easier.
If anything can set you up right, it’s your opening.

A couple of tips.
First, don’t do jokes unless the joke is on you, as in some funny personal experience—or you are a brilliant, and I mean brilliant, joke teller.
Second, once you have “taken the stage” by pausing, surveying and allowing the audience’s attention to come to you, start right into your best material.
Third, rehearse, rehearse, rehearse.
Lastly, if you want to be a Broadway caliber player, you have to do YOUR stuff—not recount someone else’s story.

It takes me about 100 hours to polish a speech, between writing and rehearsal, before I’ll give it in front of an audience.
I spend a lot of that on the opening (and closing).
Why?
Because that’s what truly works.