HealthyEnergy

06/17/2025

I have kept up with a good friend, Jill - not her real name - over the years, lauging , crying skiing and having lunch. Over lunch today, I sat across from Jill whose stories tumbled out with the same wild energy as her two cats, who’ve apparently taken a liking to chewing holes in her favorite clothes. Between bites of salad and bursts of laughter, we bounced from the absurdity of feline fashion sabotage to the delicate politics of high heels and work attire. Before I knew it, the conversation had taken a sharp turn toward my love life, and suddenly I was the one being dissected—gently, curiously, as only Jill could manage.

One of the most useful things Jill and I have done together to deepen not just our friendship, but also how we relate to others in our intimate circles, is spend time studying Getting to Zero by Jason Gaddis. It’s been a kind of shared compass, helping us navigate emotional tension and miscommunication with more honesty—and fewer apologies for being human.

Today, Jill threw down a challenge: not stay silent in one of my closest relationships—not to shut down, but to truly listen. When I tried to wiggle out of it with my usual arsenal of well-rehearsed justifications, she wasn’t having it. Her silence in response said more than words, and I felt the lesson land.

The topic that really got me thinking today came when we found ourselves circling the question: Does AI in one-on-one communication make us inauthentic? I argued yes—absolutely. To me, there’s something inherently dissonant about outsourcing intimacy, even in the form of convenience.

Jill pushed back, saying AI could actually enhance relationships by freeing us to focus on emotional presence rather than logistics.

I brought up the "AI secretaries" at work—those bots that summarize our Zoom calls with clients. I had read through one recently and felt nothing but detachment. It had neatly packaged an hour-long human exchange into bland bullet points, but stripped of tone, nuance, and human presence, the summary felt hollow. Worse, it felt unbelievable. Like a ghost story told by someone who had never seen a ghost

Let me know what u think or AI, or even an experience you've had.

02/11/2025

02/11/2025

I'm all out of love
I'm so lost without you
I know you were right
Believing for so long

01/06/2025

My dad died on December 7th, a Saturday morning. He'd asked mom to walk him to the bathroom because he was a bit giddy after breakfast. When they arrived , he lurched forward, and died of a massive heart attack. Being a nurse, mom did all she could to bring him back, but couldn't.

Heres my eulogy to him.

Eulogy to dad:

One of my favorite memories with dad was as a child, when we would go on a supply run between the Ukarumpa mission compound and the village, where my parents taught the tribe how to read and write in their own language.

Packing the blue and white Land Cruiser with supplies and cramming myself into the front seat next to him, the two of us would take on the day-long adventure, listening along to Fiddler on the Roof and Day-O on the 8-track player while traversing the challenging rugged trail back to the village. That time with just the two of us was special to me.

In 1995, I returned to the village and was met as one of their own, with rejoicing and open arms.

It had been a while since I had last been there, and it took some time to remember the language well enough to communicate in it again, but nearing the end of my visit, I traveled further up into the highlands to visit the tribe.

While there, I met an old man who claimed he'd known my dad as a young man. We both were transported as we reminisced about those times. At the end, he paused, took a long breath, and asked me, in the language, if my dad was "yal dimani " yet? I was puzzled, as we’d already discussed how many calendar years I'd been gone, but I'd translated wrong.

The first word in the phrase means man, and the second phrase was curious because it was a type of tree. A tree that knew how to ward off mites, termites, and rot. It knew, if you like, fact from fiction. It knew how to grow into truth. In effect , it meant,

“Has your father moved on? Has he become like the tree: strong, wise, and hardy beyond our understanding and capability?”

Dad, as you now travel in that “beyond” place we cannot comprehend, I hope you continue to grow strong in the truth, with a wise and hardy spirit that will never succumb to the termites and rot of untruth.

Martin of the Stream

12/10/2024

Eulogy to dad:

One of my favorite memories with dad was as a child, when we would go on a supply run between the Ukarumpa mission compound and the village, where my parents taught the tribe how to read and write in their own language.

Packing the blue and white Land Cruiser with supplies and cramming myself into the front seat next to him, the two of us would take on the day-long adventure, listening along to Fiddler on the Roof and Day-O on the 8-track player while traversing the challenging rugged trail back to the village. That time with just the two of us was special to me.

In 1995, I returned to the village and was met as one of their own, with rejoicing and open arms.

It had been a while since I had last been there, and it took some time to remember the language well enough to communicate in it again, but nearing the end of my visit, I traveled further up into the highlands to visit the tribe.

While there, I met an old man who claimed he'd known my dad as a young man. We both were transported as we reminisced about those times. At the end, he paused, took a long breath, and asked me, in the language, if my dad was "yal dimani " yet? I was puzzled, as we’d already discussed how many calendar years I'd been gone, but I'd translated wrong.

The first word in the phrase means man, and the second phrase was curious because it was a type of tree. A tree that knew how to ward off mites, termites, and rot. It knew, if you like, fact from fiction. It knew how to grow into truth. In effect , it meant,

“Has your father moved on? Has he become like the tree: strong, wise, and hardy beyond our understanding and capability?”

Dad, as you now travel in that “beyond” place we cannot comprehend, I hope you continue to grow strong in the truth, with a wise and hardy spirit that will never succumb to the termites and rot of untruth.

Martin of the Stream

10/11/2024

I wrote this almost 2 years ago. This year I start my third year as an instructor, where I intend to attend a two day intensive course to gain an international certification in ski instructing. What a wonderful journey i started two years ago. It was as daring as it waa naive , but the learning has been incredibly satisfying. I've learnt so many emotional things, increased my skiing prowes and healed so much of me by daring to do this.

*************
I've just finished four days of intensive “Train the Trainer”training at Deer Valley - a posh ski resort here in Utah.

Throughout the four days, we were asked to do what I could only describe as oxymoronic. We were asked to push our bodies, and our skiing skills while simultaneously being encouraged to stay - or rather get - in touch with our inner child and have fun.

Fun? There were moments of fun, but then there were moments pure joy when I overcame deep fears within myself: feelings of unworthiness, or shame, and low self-esteem. All because deep down I didn’t feel I deserved a job that feels glamorous, and outdoorsy, and fun.

I was able to get in touch with a lot of this as I was challenged each day by my instructor to do better - to strive to be my very best - and when I felt I had, she pushed me some more. Then, as I practiced my practicum in front of her, she encouraged me to be playful, and use imaginative play, because that's how to be the best ski teacher for 3-6 year olds.

So, while I got better as an adult skier, I also got in touch with my inner child. It actually ended up being a truly spiritual four days for me, even if that was not my instructor’s primary intention. (Secretly I feel it was, but she couldn't be overt about it.)