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.

Some days I wake up plain dog-tired.
I lack the customary zest and zeal that characterizes most mornings, for no apparent cause or reason.
If I had my druthers, I’d like nothing better than to roll back over and cozy up to my favorite pillow.

Instead, I drag the ol’ carcass into the kitchen to hunt up some comfort food, to see if I can incite a change of mood.
Nothing like a cholesterol-laden plate of eggs buttressed by two slabs of butter-smothered toast to lighten the spirit—and contribute to my general malaise.
Now, with a plump, full belly, I can add sluggish to my general state.
Talk about a winning combination!

Unfortunately, as for most of us, life doesn’t grant me the luxury of lounging at will.
Duty calls, as they say—the job, the kids, the deadline—whatever form that duty takes.
I have to find some way of banishing that glorious image of a sloth clinging wistfully to a log into the recesses of my imagination and get a move on.
Yuck!

Over the years, I’ve figured out a magic formula.
Trick number one to shifting our brain out of neutral and into gear is actually quite simple:
Just show up.

Find a way to drag your body to your station and man it.
Once in place, take one tiny, reluctant step at a time and embark.
In the absence of inspiration, nothing beats inertia faster than motion.

Much like the sun melts the daybreak dew, motion has a way of lifting the fog socked around the brain.
Mental gears begin to engage, creative sockets begrudgingly open, we start to fire on more than one cylinder.
As the fog turns to mist and evaporates, clarity takes hold.
“Hey, I do have a purpose, today. Time to move in that direction.”

Not every day can be a championship day.
More often than not, most of us take solace at even being on the playing field.
Beware of berating yourself.
Overachievers tend to ignore their humanity and underachievers crack the whip on their backs.

Give yourself a break.
Let yourself be human.
If it feels like a Krispy Kreme morning, have an extra cup of coffee to counteract the sugar.

When you pull out of your driveway, play your favorite song and play it really loud.
Sing along.
See if you can’t extract a hint of a smile from that scowl.
When you get into motion the world moves with you.

Funny how some of my best days start out in a thick haze.
The transition from “can’t get myself out of bed” to “okay, fine—one more day at the mill” to “wow, I think I’m liking what’s flowing” doesn’t always happen easily or painlessly.
Some days it doesn’t happen at all.

I know that I give myself the best possible chance when I take that one fundamental requirement:
I show up.

That’s A View From The Ridge…

She glanced into the kitchen to see her husband buttering the toast they would eat on the road.
“C’mon guys,” she pleaded. “I need you dressed and out the door, right now. We’re late.”
The two small children marched down the hallway in various stages of undress.

“Honey, can you pick up little Sarah?” the woman asked. “I have a committee meeting at 3 P.M.”
“Sorry,” he answered. “I have wall to wall clients all afternoon until 6 P.M.” He handed her the jelly sandwiches and pecked her cheek.
“Can your Mom do it?” he continued. “I can take charge of dinner. Don’t you have a PTA shindig tonight?”
“Oh, gosh,” she replied, exasperated. “I’d forgotten about it.”

“I have to re-schedule date night,” the man said apologetically. “It was the only space that worked for a board meeting. How does Thursday look?”
The woman shook her head.
“No can do,” she sighed. “That’s Sally’s surprise party and I’m in charge of refreshments. You need to be there, by the way.”

“What about Friday?”
The woman shook her head again. “No help available. I already tried because we discussed attending the music center opening.”
“I guess we can take the kids to a movie and have a family date,” the man said, forcing a smile.
“Let’s talk about it later,” she replied. “Gotta’ go.”

Sound familiar?
We rush from activity to activity, maxing out our calendar, with everything from charitable events, to social functions, to children’s sports, to any number of extra-curricular and volunteer responsibilities.
Unfortunately, we pay a price—sometimes a big price.

Over-filled day planners keep us so busy that the passage of time happens undetected.
We wake up periodically to the realization that another month, another quarter, another year has slipped by almost unnoticed.
Kids grow, work has its ups and downs, we try our best to contribute to the community—what else can we do, right?

Wrong.
We can learn to say “NO.”
We can take that iPhone, Android or Day-At-A-Glance and strike large Xs, at least two or three each week and weekend, and train ourselves to honor them.

When asked to attend yet another whatever, just say “NO.”

Don’t overcomplicate this.
Like anything, we need to build the muscle.

At the end of the day, we can have reasons or we can have results.
We can have reasons why our children suddenly turned into teenagers—we had to run a busy-ness.
We can have reasons why we lost that intimate connection with spouse, sibling, life-long buddy, fill in the blank.
We can justify, explain, and reason away a decade.

Or we can choose results.
Real results.
Happy kids, wonderful relationships, great friends.

You don’t have to sit on every panel, join every local campaign, or earn a reputation as the perpetual go-to gal or guy.
No one is that important—except maybe your children and your partner at home.
Just say “NO.”

That’s A View From The Ridge…