light & space.

I woke up in the middle of the night with two words streaming through my head. 

Light and space. 

And the idea that it's that simple. 

I didn't write it down in the middle of the night and fortunately I remembered them this morning. 

What do they mean? Why did I dream about them? (Probably because Lights Like Us - my first event on May 3 -  is already on my mind quite a bit). 

Or maybe they are two great words we can ask ourselves. Are we bringing more light or space with this decision, relationship, purchase, reaction? 

If we are, chances are we're on the right track. 

dear cancer...

I’ll tell you why I hate you.
I believe that everyone has a story.
I believe there are no bad people, only people who sometimes do bad things
and usually because someone did something bad to them. 

So. 

Who hurt you? 

Who didn’t give you enough attention as a kid? 

Who made you think
pain
terror
fear
sadness
even death
were the friends you’re supposed to hang out with? 

Don’t you know
you are the average of the five
people you’re around
the most? 

That’s not a good crew. 

Who made you think violence and destruction
are the way to make your mark? 

Because

If no one did something awful to you
Why the hell are you so fucking mean
to everyone around you? 

That’s why I hate you. 

Not because you’re mean but
because
unlike the man on death row who never had a chance
and was beaten and tortured as a child
and knew nothing better. 

Which means
I can
in some part of my mind
understand why

You’re mean and there is no reason. 
Is that what evil is? 
But, don’t worry. 
I still hold out hope. 
There is some reason. 

Call me naive
or stupid
but it’s my filter of persuasion

Nothing is bad without a reason
Not a reason as in it will result in good
but a reason as in something bad was done to it

I’m sorry for whatever we did to you cancer
because whatever it was
it must have been terrible
for the havoc you feel you have to wreak on this world in return. 

I’m sorry. 

Now will you please stop hurting my friend?

99 problems...

Yep, life is problems. 

When you see him with the perfect hair and the perfect body and the perfect... you can be guaranteed something isn't perfect. 

When you see her with the perfect husband and the perfect car and the perfect... you can be guaranteed something isn't perfect. 

Because everyone has problems. It's not if you do, it's what they are. 

And you have some control over some of them and no control over some of them. 

But, rest assured we're all on this with you: problems. Now, once we're over that, don't you feel like you have some space to breathe? 

wake up.

Anthony DeMello was the first to tell me. Wake up! Wake up! With his perfect Indian accent. 

But here's the thing he didn't say. Or at least I don't remember. It can be tiring to wake up. 

short story. five.

There was no prison. There were no guard towers. There were no fields. There was no fence. There were no dogs. There was no spotlights.

Just a city, like the cities I had always seen as a kid. Like the cities that had always been presented to me as the places I needed to go. 

Skyscrapers. Cars. Houses. Employees. And the promise of more. The promise wasn’t explicit but it was there, because it was always there. The more glowed, attractive, and enchanting compared to the momentarily dull forest. 

I noticed the men and women walking toward the city. If Dixon hadn't grabbed hold of me I would have been taken away like a leaf in a stream back from where I had just come from. 

“Whoa,” he said. “You don’t want to go back there.” His gripped me stronger. “Glad you made it though.” His smile was as wide as my confusion.  

“I’ll be home soon babe,” Someone said next to me. 

“It’ll pay off someday.” Someone else. 

“I’ll eventually be back." Someone else. 

“We’ve got to try.” Someone else. 

“I know it’s hard but that’s where our dreams are.” Another voice. 

“What,” I managed. “Wait. What?” 

I stared again at where I had just come from. Or thought I had. And wondered why it wasn’t there. 

“Where are you going?” I asked. “Wait, that’s not what you think…” 

They ignored me, just as I always had ignored the similar voices. 

“Dixon.” 

“I know man. I know,” he said calmly as more people continued to walk toward the city on all the sides of us. “Well I suppose I don’t know, actually. I only know they’re seeing something different than we are.” 

“But…” 

“I know. I've been sitting here since I left, waiting for you and trying to figure it out." 

“We’ve got to tell them.” 

“There’s no use in that,” he answered. "I've tried." 

“No,” I yelled. “Our friends. The ones celebrating right now. They can do it! It’s not what we thought. It’s easier. I mean.” I stopped and looked around at the woods, the trees, the flowers. The air was warmer and covering me. I had barely noticed. I fell to my knees and began to laugh and cry and wave my hands in the sweet freedom all around me. 

“Would you have listened?” he asked. 

“Well I might have.” 

“Nah,” he let go of me and turned his back. “They need that prison for now. Eventually it’ll get so bad, they’ll leave too. Until then, my friend…” he waited for me to turn around. “Until then, we’ve got things to do. People to see. We’ll be here for the ones that come, just like I was for you. But, until then, well… remember you have a family. And friends. And something to finally do.” 

Years earlier, when the addictions were as young as I was, I had been on vacation with my family to Maui. We were all body surfing and having a good time in the sand, in the foam, in the sun. Until that one wave got me. It was all going according to plan until that thing took my feet and sent them over my head in all the ways that our bodies are not supposed to bend. (Well, unless you've been in yoga for a while.) I'll never forget the sound of my back cracking, amplified by the water and my fear, that my picture was going to be in the newspaper the following day: father, husband, paralyzed on vacation with his family. 

Needless to say I made it. 

short story. four.

It was oddly familiar, as though I was watching the same movie, but I was the main character this time.  They were watching me. I was the one entering into the tunnel, smelling the shit, about to be covered in it and crawling to what I hoped, was freedom. 

The goodbyes were what they always were: quick, sad, to the point, and exciting. Little did I know how exciting, from that vantage point, up to that instant. It already seemed like a success just to experience the freedom of deciding to pursue freedom. 

I dropped into the darkness and stood there for a moment, trying to gain my composure without being able to see anything to help me. The toilet was placed in its spot above me. I heard the bolts attach again. I imagined them all leaving the room, headed back toward their cells. 

Much to my surprise, the smells weren't nearly as bad as I had imagined. Maybe, even, non-existent. The streams of waste that I had imagined weren't there either. The metal felt much smoother, even, as I moved my hands and knees across it as fast as I could, desperate to swim in more liberation.

Freedom is its own drug and one worth taking hits off of. 

The distance went much faster than I had imagined. I could see the light ahead, creeping in around the cinder blocks that someone had removed for us years earlier, at least according to the stories. They fell out with just a slight touch and revealing the open field in front of me. Wide open. Wild. Unconfined. Freedom. Whether it was adrenaline or peace, I don’t know, but I felt eerily calm, and powerful. Fear vanished. I imagined the eyes watching through their cells above me, probably wondering why I was taking too long. Below, though, I wasn't sure that too long existed. But still I was motivated to reward their patience.

The show was on. 

I emerged from the wall, replaced the cinder blocks I had removed - so as to not give away our secret - and started to run. 

Don’t ask me what came over me. I’m not sure I could explain it. I didn’t weave. I didn’t move back and forth. I didn't s-curve. I didn’t even really run as fast as I could. I didn’t need to. Something had changed. 

Actually everything had changed. I was comforted. The field felt small. The towers felt far away. The spotlights felt imagined. The dogs were silent. There was only the cheers of the audience above me, though they were far too away to hear. 

I kept going, with a bounce in my step that I hadn't felt in years. I raised my fists in the air for them, signaling my confidence. I almost turned around but that felt arrogant with snipers on the horizon. I just kept moving toward the wall, although I couldn’t see it either. Only the forest. Only beautiful freedom. 

And then I fell to the ground as Dixon had. Not because I was shot but because I was no longer afraid of being shot. I laughed out loud and did snow angels in the grass, in full view of the guard towers that were not shooting at me. It was bliss and I soaked in as much as I could before eventually getting to my feet and running the last distance into the woods, through a wall that had probably never existed. 

It was then I stopped to look back at where I had come from. When I saw it, my gasp was as audible as the voice of Dixon.  “Yeah, not what I expected either.” 

short story. three.

The fence seemed more like a hurdle for Dixon. He was on it and over it in the blink of an eye, long before the first dog reached the bottom and began jumping at the air with its white teeth. I might have imagined sparks coming out from it but Dixon seemed fine, standing there on the other side. 

What did it feel like? 

Relief. Inspiration. Excitement. Jealousy? Grief. I was in the wave again, this time not being tossed but riding it to shore my hand out in front of me, smiling. My friend had made it. What did that kind of freedom feel like? What was I going to do without him? Could I make it? I imagined he was riding a similar wave, although without the jealousy. He wasn't the kind to gloat but I knew he was feeling damn good. Who wouldn't be? I imagined fist pumps and maybe a middle finger back in our direction. Not at us, but at the system holding us. 

I lusted after the feeling too. 

Cheers filled the space around me, as did, I assumed, all the same emotions as I felt. If Dixon could make it, we could to, right? There was life again. Inspiration. How many more did we need to see get across to know we could? How many more had we heard of, read about over the years? 

But as the days moved on, we convinced ourselves that Dixon was faster than us. He was stronger. He was more convicted. He was more courageous, powerful. He was. Better. Who was I to think I could be like Dixon? Not me. Not the addict. 

No, not that addiction.

The other drugs.  The bed. Sure it was like a brick. But, I had a blanket. The security. Sure the guards liked to take out their own frustration on my back at times, but they also protected me most of the time. The food. Sure it tasted like shit, but I could count on it being put on my plate. Every day. The warmth. The roof over my head when it was raining outside. The known. The known is a powerful force. It doesn’t have to be good - just consistent enough to be addicting.  

And, there was the chance of a bigger bed. Some got it. Maybe even a cell with a television. On Sundays some of us got two helpings. Bonuses. Extras. I could achieve them.  If I was caught trying to escape, and somehow managed to live, I’d never get that cell. Not that meal. Not the television I saw others with. I’d give up so much. But, what did I have anyway? Dixon was gone. Someone had to be next. 

And, one night, on a night that was much like the one Dixon had told me he was leaving, I told my friend. I could see the wave pass over him. I knew exactly what he was feeling and, at that moment, I knew what Dixon had felt. I wasn’t able to contain the smile as well as he had. It crept out of every part of me because I knew I might make it and the taste of that was too much to hold in. 

24 hours later I would find out. 

short story. two.

The bars were cold to the touch, as they usually were but I barely noticed. In fact, I’m not sure I noticed much of anything except the faintly lit field far below us and the towers standing tall on each side of it. And the dark woods beyond. 

Where are you Dixon? 

Though it was rare, we had seen enough of the escapes to know the general timeline. I couldn't put it into minutes but I could feel when the time had passed where we should see whomever it was attempting to make the escape. I expected to see my friend's silhouette earlier than I did. The anxiety was a quickly forming army inside of me, attacking my hopeful resistance to it. 

“Where is he?” someone in a cell muttered next to me, voicing what we were all thinking. 

“Shut-up!” someone else answered, voicing the comfort of ignorance when faced with adversity and anxiety. It was the resistance to giving words to fear. 

Shit. C’mon man! 

“I don’t feel good—“ someone else. 

“Shut-up!” someone else. 

“But—“ 

“Just—“

“He’s going to make it. Just give him a second. He takes his—“ 

“There he is!” 

There he was. Running. That little bastard was running faster than I had ever seen him run. He had said he was a track star in High School but he had never had the chance to prove it - not in the small spaces we were always held. But there he was, flying like a leopard in the darkness toward his prey. 

The spot lights came fast, shining down on the field, reminding me that he was the prey in this scenario. I could hear the first bark of the hounds somewhere in the distance. 

“Shit - the dogs are out!” Someone. 

“No shit.” Someone else. 

“All of you!” I yelled. “Just watch. It’s Dixon. He’s got this.” I wasn’t sure if I believed it, but I hoped he could somehow hear my words or feel my energy from my observation post high above him. He has to have this. For all of us. 

Time slowed to a standstill like it always does when the stakes are high and when life is felt. The spotlights perused the empty spaces for a moment before attaching to his body - illuminating the shit still clinging and dripping off of him. But even from my vantage point I could see his smile. I smiled too. 

It's not that we really care about the characters in the movie. Or the book. Or even the teams in the game. It's that we care about us. And we hope we can win too. In that moment, we were all Dixon. We felt everything we assumed he felt. We rooted for him because we were rooting for ourselves. We hoped for him, because we hoped for ourselves. 

He weaved his way back and forth as a few shots rang out, missing badly, unless they had been aiming for dirt and grass that expressed its discomfort at being shot by jumping into the air. 

“C’mon Dixon!” Someone else. There was hope in all of us. For all of us. 

“He’s going to make it!” Someone else. 

Sometimes it's amazing how quickly we go from despair to hope as human beings and what, or who, helps us get there.  

There was nothing slowing him down. In fact, he was performing like every good running back we had ever talked about: he was getting stronger in the fourth quarter. Faster in the final minutes. Defenders were dropping like flies. The lights were having a  hard time keeping up, even as the dogs appeared on the horizon, their teeth glaring in the moonlight. But, they didn't have a shot. Not at his pace. 

The fence had to be only a few body lengths away. There was a tangible energy and exhilaration that embraced us all and wrapped itself around every part of my being.

He was going to make it. 

And then he fell. Instantly. Crumbling like a mannequin whose strings had been cut from above. If there was a puppeteer up there, he, or she, obviously didn't give a damn about Dixon. That show was over. My soul collapsed as quickly as his body had. My hands, still clinging, somehow held me up, staring at his motionless body even as the dogs drew in on it. 

Silence reigned. Anticipation was suffocating. We knew he was dead but we didn’t know it like we were about to. 

And then he was on his feet again. 

The silence ran away in the face of the cheers that erupted from the cells. 

short story. one.

Dixon and I had been behind bars for seven years the night he told me he was leaving. 

Years earlier, when the addictions were as young as I was, I had been on vacation with my family to Maui. We were all body surfing and having a good time in the sand, in the foam, in the sun. Until that one wave got me. It was all going according to plan until that thing took my feet and sent them over my head in all the ways that our bodies are not supposed to bend. (Well, unless you've been in yoga for a while.) I'll never forget the sound of my back cracking, amplified by the water, and my fear that my photo was going to be in the newspaper the following day: father, husband, paralyzed on vacation with his family. 

Needless to say I made it. 

I wasn't sure I was going to be able to say the same thing that night. I could almost hear my back cracking as the wave of emotion swept me up and almost out of the cell. Unfortunately, the steel bars were there and my head cracked into them, sending another wave of pain through my skull. 

“Damn,” was all I could muster. 

“I can’t take any more,” he answered, feigning sadness but only for me. I knew he was excited. I could see it in the dark eyes, doing the tango even while his mouth was trying to contain the joy. I figured he could taste the air that we all wanted to breathe. I could sometimes too, if I imagined it hard enough. 

I broke the facade - for him - and gave him the huge smile he was holding back. “Damn,” I repeated. “I can’t wait to watch. When are you going?” 

“Tomorrow.” 

“Damn.” One more time, just because there was nothing else to say and sometimes that word expresses it all. 

We had all seen the routine numerous times. The field was wide and long. Intentionally. The guards in the towers - with their rifles - could plainly see whomever risked running across their field. There was a forest about a hundred yards away but even for the world’s best sprinter that was numerous seconds. And the snipers only needed one or two to take their shot and a life with it.  

The field was after the tunnel. We all knew where the tunnel started, it had been dug under a toilet years earlier. We had seen numerous others lift the entire thing up and head into the tube. If you want freedom, they say, you have to go through the shit. That was literal for us. 

Word was that the tunnel was about 50 yards. A lifetime of crawling and puking in the clouds of filth. Hands and knees. Aching. Cutting yourself on old, rusted metal and opening up wounds that bacteria couldn’t wait to jump through and start breeding. If anyone got out, it was with an infection. 

After that hell, and exhaustion, the field started. Despite the lack of energy, you had to find a reserve somewhere. And lots of luck or blessing or whatever you want to call it. You prayed those snipers were distracted or that their guns were jammed, although that was like praying for rain in the midst of a drought. 

If somehow that miracle occurred, there was also the wall. It was twelve feet high, full of electricity and armed with barbed wire on its top. Not to mention the dogs that patrolled on a regular basis and were much faster than most humans. And meaner. And they could jump too. 

You get the point. You might wonder why anyone would ever attempt it. Only because we had all seen it done. It was possible. 

My pulse was all I could feel looking at Dixon that night. I had known him for seven years. We had talked about everything from kids to gods, from college football to cancer taking his best friend. We had talked about joy and pain and everything in between. I knew him maybe better than anyone. I was going to miss the hell out of him whether he made it or, god forbid, he didn’t. 

But, if he made it, maybe there was a chance I could. At least, that’s what we always told each other. He was putting that to the test before me. But, in a sense, we were that night. 

Maybe, I thought, squeezing him tight for the last time, tears streaming as fast as my heart was beating, that I might be able to squeeze him again. 

“I’m going to miss you,” I managed. 

“Not for long,” he smiled. “I’ll see you out there.” 

His courage was contagious. I felt like he might make it. Damn. Could I? 

We had all been through it before. We helped him into the hole beneath the toilet, holding our breath and tears back, and watched him disappear into the unknown. We put the toilet back, so the guards wouldn’t notice, and waited to be locked into our cells for the evening. 

We each had a window facing out toward the field. On first glance, one would assume the nice prison architects put in the windows to be nice, to give us some daylight. But, it only took a few days to realize that wasn't the case. They were there to remind you every day of what was no longer yours. To torture your soul with what “could be”. To tempt us into life, if we weren’t too busy trying to survive in the meantime. 

I never thought I’d see Dixon try to make the run through that window. But, I was about to.

earned.

I recently met someone who gets all of their healthcare for free. Paid by the state. 

Someone else is getting thousands of dollars in disability payments for an accident that he was in, while working for a private company. Paid by the state. 

Someone else is on unemployment and has been for years. She looks here and there for a job but gets a check every month. Paid by the state. 

Someone else teaches dodge ball and basketball at a school. She also gets a paycheck on a regular basis. Paid by the state. 

Someone else repairs airplanes for the government. He also gets a paycheck on a regular basis. Paid by the state. 

Someone else is struggling to find a place to live while taking care of her baby. She gets grocery money on a regular basis. Paid by the state.

Someone else once repaired airplanes, years ago, in Vietnam. He lives on the streets now but does get some help with rent. Paid by the state. 

Someone else works at a fire station. When an emergency comes, he's ready. He also gets a regular paycheck. Paid by the state. 

Someone else is a member of a country club in Los Angeles. He golfs. The club has received millions of dollars over the years of tax exemptions. Paid by the state. (Tax exemptions and sports are an all around interesting topic.) 

Someone else once sold cocaine. She’s serving a life sentence for that crime (only that crime) and everything in her life is covered. Paid by the state.  

Who has "earned" their money and who has not? Who deserves it and who does not? Who should get more and who should get less? Who's receiving a handout and who is receiving a paycheck? Who do we get angry about and who do we not? Who do we think will make us "socialist" and who will not? 

to the next...

Some of you know, some of you don't. I'm a pastor. And yesterday, I announced to the church that I helped plant - and to the church where I've been the only pastor they've ever had - that I was moving on to different - hopefully better - things as of February 1. 

It was, of course, an emotional day in all kinds of ways. But, it was also liberating and empowering. The "job" was no longer the thing I'm called to, driven to, or the thing I wake up early in the morning, not able to sleep, thinking about. There's more out there and I'm not entirely sure what it is. I do have some ideas, beginning with an event at a local venue on May 3rd. 

But, my wife and I both felt we had to jump in order to find out what's next because you can't find out what's next without that jump. So, we jumped, after about a year of deliberation and processing. 

I've read countless stories and accounts of people doing something similar and I've always been inspired by them. It feels good to be creating the next, similar, chapter in our own story now. 

So, here we go. Into the unknown, the adventure, the liberation, the empowerment, probably some pain, probably some joy, and definitely lots of life! Hope you'll stick around. I might need you more than ever. 

Cheers to it all! 

layers of loyalty.

I had a great conversation with someone the other day about loyalty. They consider  themselves to be a more loyal person and so they were struggling with leaving a group of people just because the group had changed. It made them feel disloyal. 

But loyalty is layered. 

Are you loyal to a church? 
To a denomination?
To evangelicals?
To Protestantism?
To Christianity?
To the Divine? 
To Love? 

Are you loyal to an artist? 
To a type of music?
To an era? 
To listening? 

I think many of us spend our time focusing on the surface loyalty - and that will always come back to bite us. What's the deep loyalty, the one that takes all kinds of forms and shapes... that actually matters? And is actually worth being loyal too? 

jealousy does the opposite.

If you've ever been jealous of someone, the last thing you want to do is tell them that you think they might actually have something over you, or that they might succeed at the thing you wish you could, or that you wish you could paint like that. 

And yet, if you're jealous, the only reason you are is because you actually think those things. 

So, the next time someone is jealous of you, and starts spreading the kinds of things that jealous people spread, remember that it's a compliment: they believe you actually might be able to pull it off - and that drives them crazy. 

And, the next time you are jealous - and I've been a professional for many years at being jealous - find your strength. You actually aren't jealous of them. You are simple scared of your own fragility about who you are or what you are doing. Work on that, the jealousy will fade soon after. 

the known and unknown.

I recently read something along the lines of "It's not the fear of the unknown, it's the fear of losing the known."

And I couldn't agree more. 

But, there is another side to it that we can use to our advantage. Instead of losing the known being a sad thing, how about losing the known being an incredibly happy thing? Especially if the known is not working. 

As we look at our lives, it's easy to see things we know. It's almost as easy to find things that we know are not working. 

Not, how about getting rid of those and seeing where it all takes us? 

this bakery...

Another Hawaii story. There was a bakery on the North Shore that looked amazing. The owners also ran a farm and everything was made from local ingredients, from scratch, fresh, tasty, juice, and they had a really cool vibe. Sandwiches, cinnamon rolls, smoothies...

One problem.

They were only open Monday to Thursday from 10-5. 

Every time we went they were closed. 

And yet, we kept going. 

We finally made it and when we did, it was worth the struggle. It was incredible. 

And yet, we didn't get to go back. There was no time. And I wonder how many people never had the chance to go because they weren't there for two weeks at the perfect time? I wonder if the owners care?  

There's a line out there for all of us. It has to be so good people want it. And it has to be accessible enough that they can get it.

The internet has made hundreds of things more accessible than ever.
Are we making them good enough that people want them?

You need both and the internet only solves one of them.    

on or for.

You're right, they aren't waiting on you. As in, they aren't serving you. 

But, maybe, they are waiting for you. 

compact discs...

Did you ever own compact discs (a.k.a. CD's...)? 

Remember when they revolutionized music? 

Remember shopping for them every chance you could and being amazed at the fact that you could skip a track instantly? 

Remember collecting them? Getting a player in your car? 

(If you're too young, just substitute an iPod). 

And then what happened? 

I still have a collection of them in my basement somewhere collecting dust. 

So, if you're like me, what made you make the change and ditch your CD's for something else? Something better? 

worry and hope

Worry is imagining a future where your fear wins.

Hope is imagining a future where your bliss wins. 

Both are possible depending on which you are following today: your fear or your bliss.  

consuming time...

The following is from Sean Parker, president of Facebook. Read it and weep. 

• "When Facebook was getting going, I had these people who would come up to me and they would say, 'I'm not on social media.' And I would say, 'OK. You know, you will be.' And then they would say, 'No, no, no. I value my real-life interactions. I value the moment. I value presence. I value intimacy.' And I would say, ... 'We'll get you eventually.'"
• "I don't know if I really understood the consequences of what I was saying, because [of] the unintended consequences of a network when it grows to a billion or 2 billion people and ... it literally changes your relationship with society, with each other ... It probably interferes with productivity in weird ways. God only knows what it's doing to our children's brains."
• "The thought process that went into building these applications, Facebook being the first of them, ... was all about: 'How do we consume as much of your time and conscious attention as possible?'"
• "And that means that we need to sort of give you a little dopamine hit every once in a while, because someone liked or commented on a photo or a post or whatever. And that's going to get you to contribute more content, and that's going to get you ... more likes and comments."
• "It's a social-validation feedback loop ... exactly the kind of thing that a hacker like myself would come up with, because you're exploiting a vulnerability in human psychology."
• "The inventors, creators — it's me, it's Mark [Zuckerberg], it's Kevin Systrom on Instagram, it's all of these people — understood this consciously. And we did it anyway."

the bad guy.

I'm listening to Taylor Swift's new album (of course) and reminded of the stereotype of the bad guy. The rebel in the leather jacket that the girl can't resist. 

But, it's not the bad in the bad guy that the girl can't resist, it's the confidence. And bad guys have confidence. Sometimes they take it to a sickening and revolting degree (see Weinstein and others) But, on a lesser level, she'll take the leather jacket and greasy hair, in exchange for the confidence. 

That's how much confidence is worth. In a world where we are overloaded with decisions, confidence becomes even more important. Oh, you seem to know. Let's go. 

For the record, men are the same, The bad girl with confidence is jut as attractive because confidence is attractive no matter where it is, including an ad that says 90% of dentists prefer this toothpaste. Confidence. 

And, even when we know this confidence is often fake - that rebel is probably a mess on the inside - we still go with it. Why? We're desperate for leadership. 

The world is so desperate for it, we elect people like Trump. For all of his faults, he does not lack confidence and I think it's the main reason people voted for him - we'll take the bad for that confidence. He'll lead, at least. 

Which leads to us: me and you. 

Don't be that guy. Don't be that girl. Don't be Trump. Confidence isn't just about I know I want you in the back seat of my car. Or, I know I'm the best president ever. There are other kinds: I know there is goodness. I know there is light. I know there is love. I know who I am. 

Be confident. It's irresistible and necessary for any kind of change, innovation, and leadership. And when you have the trust that comes from confidence, use it with humility.