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17 May 2025

In the Company of Belonging: Finding Home in Aloneness, Loneliness, and Solitude

by Maurice | posted in: letters to self, reflections, transitions | 0

Ashe' Cultural Arts Center, New Orleans, LA — Ashe’ Cultural Arts Center, New Orleans, LA

Can you believe it’s been a full year since I moved to Thailand?

In that time, I’ve been navigating the shifting terrain of a new life—balancing spiritual practice, creativity, friendship, and solitude. A second ten-day silent meditation retreat, batches of soap made by hand, some meaningful connections, and many long video calls back to ‘Merikkkah have shaped this year. Daily walks and bike rides, cooking with ingredients from the open-air markets—all of it has become part of a larger rhythm of self-care.

But in the quiet of this new life, three words keep surfacing like mantras: aloneness, loneliness, and solitude. They’ve become more than feelings. They’re questions. Invitations. Echoes of a deeper inquiry into what it means to belong—not to others, but to myself.

Aloneness: The Belonging to Self

The fear of aloneness isn’t about being physically alone. It’s waking up in a room by myself and meeting the version of me that no longer hides behind the masks I once wore. The government job. The family scapegoat. The person quietly believing they didn’t belong

Now, there’s no audience. No applause. Just me asking—sometimes gently, sometimes sharply—Do I belong to myself?

This stage of life has asked for a new kind of presence. Not to prove anything, but to simply be with who I am now.

In the words of John O’Donohue:
“You are most deeply yourself in the space where no one is watching.”

That space is where my writing lives—not as performance, but as reflection. Aloneness isn’t emptiness. It’s a place where my own voice can rise, and where belonging begins not with others, but within.

Loneliness: Aching for Connection and Home

Loneliness is different. It’s the ache for connection—for someone to look me in the eyes and say, “You are seen. You are not too much.” It’s not just the absence of people. It’s being in a room full of others and still feeling invisible.

This kind of loneliness holds grief—not just for company, but for places, roles, or versions of myself that I no longer inhabit.

And yet, inside that ache, something else stirs: movement. A strange dance of tension and possibility. As much as I want to retreat from it, I try to stay. To let it stretch me. To believe it might be preparing me for a new way of being.

Morrie Schwartz once said: “The pain of loneliness is real. Don’t deny it. Feel it, then use it to reach out.”

His words remind me to not harden around the ache, but to stay open. To recognize that loneliness, too, is a bridge—to others, to my inner life, to what still matters.

Even in loneliness, a whisper persists: You still belong—right here, right now.

Solitude: The Deepening of Belonging

Solitude isn’t about isolation. It’s about integration. It’s the spaciousness that allows me to remember I was never separate to begin with—only distracted, disoriented, or trying too hard.

This is the hardest lesson for me. That belonging doesn’t require performance. That I don’t need to earn a seat at the table. In solitude, I start to hear the difference between noise and truth. Between ego and essence.

This writing is part of that process. Not to create something “useful,” but to reunite the fragments of myself. To name what’s hard and still choose presence. To become someone who can return to others—not from need, but from wholeness.

Solitude becomes a kind of sanctuary. A warm shelter, as John O’Donohue might say, from the wild weather of the world.

Belonging: Beneath It All

Belonging isn’t always something I find in others. Sometimes, it shows up quietly, beneath the louder gremlins of self-doubt, rejection, and abandonment. It’s the voice that says: Even here, even now, I am worthy of love.

It’s the act of reclaiming myself—without waiting for permission. Of recognizing that even in the darkest moments, something in me endures: dignity, resilience, and self-respect.

But I also know the shadow of belonging. The sting of being cast out or overlooked. The deep ache of being told—explicitly or silently—that there is no place for someone like me.

Still, even in the midst of all this transition, the ember doesn’t go out. It flickers when I choose to stay with myself through heartbreak. When I return, again and again, to my own center and remember: No amount of rejection can undo my fundamental worth.

I’ve learned that belonging lives in the place where:
• Aloneness becomes presence,
• Loneliness becomes a quiet hope,
• And solitude becomes a homecoming.

Belonging isn’t about being accepted everywhere. It’s about being able to move through the world without shrinking, hiding, or abandoning yourself.

It’s the inner reminder that rises like a whisper:
You were never lost. Only searching.

May I find, in aloneness, a sense of home. In loneliness, a prayer. In solitude, a return to the fullness of who I am.
And may you, too, find within yourself a quiet, brave belonging that holds you—especially when no one else does.

13 May 2025

The Paradox of “Saving Face”

by Maurice | posted in: Adventure | 1

Verb
save face
– third-person singular simple present – saves face
– present participle – saving face
– simple past and past participle – saved face

1. (idiomatic, intransitive) To take an action or make a gesture intended to preserve one’s reputation or honor; retain respect; avoid humiliation
He tried to make reparations to those he had injured, partly to save face.

This concept called “saving face” is deeply rooted in many cultures—especially in East and Southeast Asia—but you’ll find versions of it all over the world. At its core, it’s about the actions taken to avoid public embarrassment, preserving one’s dignity/reputation, honor, and upholding social harmony—for ourselves and for others. It’s particularly important when someone may be perceived as having lost respect, self-esteem, prestige or social standing. Like most social constructs, it has two sides: one that uplifts, and one that restricts.

“Saving face” is delicate—and often full of contradictions. It walks a thin line between grace and suppression, kindness and avoidance, compassion and control. Lately, I’ve been living in the middle of that paradox.

I’ll admit, I’ve felt cynical about it. I tend to see the shadow side more easily, probably because I crave truth, emotional honesty, and relationships where dignity doesn’t need to hide behind a mask. Still, I’m learning to recognize the other side—the part that’s built on care. Especially now, because Thailand is guided a lot by this pronciple.

When “Saving Face” Is an Act of Kindness

On its good days, saving face is about kindness. It helps avoid unnecessary conflict or public embarrassment. When someone messes up and you choose not to call them out in front of others, you’re preserving their dignity. You’re saying: “Your worth is intact.”

That kind of subtlety can be an art form. Instead of bluntness, there’s nuance. Instead of shaming, there’s gentleness. It’s about knowing how to soften a truth without erasing it—choosing tact over triumph. And in a world where everyone’s vulnerable to shame, that approach can build trust.

There’s also a sense of emotional discipline in it. Holding back anger, not lashing out in public, learning to manage reactions—those are signs of maturity. That kind of restraint can create a space where people feel safe and respected.

When “Saving Face” Becomes a Mask

But here’s the flip side. When saving face becomes more important than honesty, problems start to grow in the dark.

It can lead to denial, cover-ups, and avoiding responsibility. Instead of acknowledging harm, people might focus on protecting their image. It can be used to shield authority figures from accountability—or to keep the peace at the expense of the truth.

In these situations, vulnerability becomes taboo. Admitting you’re struggling—emotionally, financially, or personally—starts to feel like a risk you can’t afford to reveal. And when that happens, people become isolated, burned out, or even dishonest.

Sometimes, the need to avoid conflict pushes people into more passive-aggressive territory: gossip, sarcasm, backhanded compliments. On the surface, everything seems calm. Underneath, there’s resentment and tension that never really gets addressed.

To Speak or Not to Speak?

So here’s the tension I keep sitting with: when is it better to stay quiet for the sake of harmony, and when is silence just another form of harm?

It’s not easy to know. It takes emotional intelligence, cultural awareness, and a lot of trial and error practice.

“Honoring others’ dignity shouldn’t come at the cost of silencing your own.” True grace isn’t about shrinking yourself for harmony—it’s about making space for both your truth and theirs.

Emotional intelligence and saving face can be at odds here, especially when face-saving is rigid or fear-based. Emotional intelligence requires self-awareness, vulnerability, and the ability to express and manage feelings. Saving face, especially in traditional or hierarchical systems, often means concealing emotion—particularly “messy” ones like anger, sadness, or shame—to avoid embarrassment or social disruption.

It’s about making space for feeling within a culture of dignity, and, honestly, I’m still figuring it out.

I think a lot about communication and how to do it well. What makes someone a good listener? How do I speak honestly without making someone feel attacked? Will I lose my integrity if I raise my voice or get emotional? How will my words land?

Over time, I’ve learned (and am still learning) when to speak up and when to stay silent. If staying quiet means allowing harm, lies, or injustice to continue—then it’s time to speak. Silence, in those cases, doesn’t reflect who I am. But the question remains: is the person I’m speaking to even ready to hear it?

It’s tempting to offer advice or truth when no one asked for it. But if I’m speaking just to be right or prove a point, I’m not coming from a wise heart-centered place. Sometimes truth needs time and space. Sometimes timing is everything. And sometimes, even the truth can do more harm than good if it’s not offered with care.

Compassionate Protocol for Truth-Telling

Speak the truth, but not to destroy.
Don’t hide the truth to protect illusions that are already falling apart.

At its best, saving face is a graceful act. It gives people a way to preserve their dignity without shame.

At its worst, it becomes a mask—used to protect ego, suppress honesty, or avoid discomfort.

But when done with integrity, saving face isn’t about appearances. It’s about preserving connection—even when there’s conflict, error, or shame in the room.

So maybe we can create something new. Not a rejection of emotional restraint or social respect, but a way to let truth rise to the surface without burying it under politeness. A culture where people are allowed to stumble, speak, and grow—without losing face.

(Video) Saving Face, Understanding Thai Culture & Language

5 May 2025

Letting Go to Begin Again

by Maurice | posted in: grief, life transition, Retirement, simple living, Thailand | 1

It’s been anything but quiet, and not by accident.

A lot has changed. Some of it was planned—some of it arrived like a wave I couldn’t stop. And didn’t want to stop. I quit my job after 25 years. Sometimes I call it retirement, but at 56, I feel too young for that. I sold and gave away nearly everything, left the United States, and moved to Thailand. And most profoundly: I lost my dad—along with, once again, becoming estranged from my immediate family. That family part still echoes through me in ways I can’t fully articulate.

It’s a kind of storm where everything shifts—yet somehow, it still feels like I’m standing in the eye of it.

I’m writing this from a place I never expected to be, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. It’s been a mix of grief, discovery, and overwhelming change. The noise—the rush, the striving, the constant urgency of daily American life—is gone. But the questions, the loss, and the adjustments? They’re loud. And yet, in this new place with its slower rhythm, I’ve come to find that quiet and a slow life mean something different than I thought.

I’m learning to embrace something softer. Simple living. Slow rhythms. Letting time unfold on its own—rather than chasing it, watching my life race past.

Thailand doesn’t demand hustle. It doesn’t force you into endless motion. Life here moves slower, but my mind, my heart, haven’t quite caught up. There’s still a lot to reckon with—lessons to process, emotions to feel. I won’t pretend it’s easy. The grief of losing my dad and the betrayals within my family are still fresh. They follow me into this new chapter. But even so, I’m finding moments of clarity—brief, yes, but real—that remind me of the value of simplicity, and of space.

Life here feels less violent. More human. And I’m allowing myself more space—to breathe, to grieve, to reflect. I’m not chasing anything right now. I’m sitting with what is, and with what’s left in my life that I still want to experience. And it turns out, that’s more than enough.

This move wasn’t about escape. It was about returning—to myself, to life. It’s about clarity. Stripping away the unnecessary and returning to what truly matters. To stillness. To the feeling of being alive in my own skin, without needing to prove anything. Not to anyone.

I miss my family deeply. Or maybe it’s just that I miss the idea or concept of family that I never had. But this absence has made room for something unexpected: a kind of clarity. I can hear myself more clearly now. I want less drama, more connection. And I feel more.

This next chapter isn’t about reinvention. It’s about concentration—on what’s most essential. It’s about stripping away the excess, whether physical clutter, relational drama, emotional baggage, or old patterns of thought, until only the purest, most meaningful parts remain. Like a refinement of my own essence.

So if you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, or what I’ve been up to—that’s it. I’ve been learning to live with less. Less stuff. Less noise. Less pressure to be productive. And a whole lot more feeling. It’s messy. It’s complicated. But it’s real. And it’s revealing a smaller, slower, more honest life for myself.

I’m still figuring it out. Still learning. And I’m grateful for every moment.

If you’ve made it this far—thank you for walking with me.

1 May 2025

Uncertainty & Desire

by Maurice | posted in: Death and Mortality, Embrace Change, Lines and Circles, Negative Self Talk, Openness, Personal Growth, The Human Condition | 0

I approach the one-year mark of retiring from a 25-year academic career and moving to Thailand. Life has brought me great experiences, some attempts at reprogramming of ‘merikkkhan life propaganda and integrating cultural differences. I can see some real beauty in Thai culture and society. As well as some of the dark side of life.

I have a lived a life full of purpose while following my dreams/goals. Many questions frequent my mind… Who am I now at this stage in life? What is a peaceful, simple and slow life? The idea of safety and security remains elusive.

There is a frustration I experience with the uncertainty of not knowing what to do with myself and the desire for wanting a peaceful simple life. I find myself getting caught between the longing for control and being present with the normal chaos of existence. The frustration comes from the clash of these two forces: I want something definite in a world that is inexplicable.

Uncertainty

Uncertainty is unsettling because it threatens the illusion of what we might consider “mastery”. After 56 years one would think we should have developed some mastery regarding how to live a good life. Sometimes I want to know what’s coming, to plot a path, and to prepare myself for any potential difficulty or pain.

But life doesn’t yield to my well thought out and well-made plans so easily. The future is foggy at best, and knowledge will always be incomplete. This breeds anxiety. The mind starts to churn: What if I am not safe? Will I fail? What if I choose wrong? Am I not good enough? The inability to pin down desired outcomes becomes maddening.

The Fire of Desire

The human nature for “desiring” intensifies the frustration. Desire is a fire that wants fuel—whether it’s for love, success, pleasure, security, or meaning. But what we desire is often elusive or fleeting. Even when fulfilled, desires shift, evolve, or reveal themselves to be less satisfying than hoped. This creates a loop of craving and disillusionment: If only I had this, I’d be at peace. But peace doesn’t arrive. Desire feels like a mirage, out of reach, while uncertainty keeps reshuffling the terrain.

Human desire is hard to satisfy. We crave pleasure so much that no matter how much we get, it never seems to be enough. We keep pushing our senses—eating more, watching more, scrolling more—until the things that once felt good barely affect us anymore. So, we chase even stronger pleasures, even louder distractions.

But our bodies can’t keep up. Eventually, they start to break down from the constant pressure. Still, the mind pushes forward. It’s always looking ahead, imagining happiness as something we’ll finally reach if we can just pack enough good experiences into our lives.

If Not Now, When?

The problem is, deep down, we know we don’t have forever. Trying to squeeze a lifetime of joy—maybe even eternity—into just a few short decades. And in doing so, we exhaust ourselves chasing a kind of happiness that may never come.

Yet, we chase the future and the happiness we all want life to bring. Chasing happiness is like chasing a shadow—the faster you run after it, the faster it slips away. That’s why so much of modern life feels rushed. People rarely slow down to enjoy what they already have. Instead, they’re always looking for more—more success, more money, more excitement.

In this way, happiness stops being something real and present. Instead, it becomes something distant and vague, made up of promises, dreams, and the hope that things will get better someday. We end up living for what might come, rather than appreciating what we have and what is.

The Myth of Safety

I never really understood the idea for the need of a “safe space”. Because of life’s uncertainty, there can be no safety or security. The dinosaurs were made extinct by an unpredictable asteroid. Millions of people were killed by the Spanish Flu. To willingly stand, face and even walk into the insecurities of the world, i.e. death, is the brave hero’s path. I would like to think, it’s the only way. But I still go around and around in the mind thinking I know something and understand, when mostly I do not. Maybe the circle is part of life?

One of the worst vicious circles is of a person with an addiction. Which I believe we all are in one way or another. Some addictions are to substances, food, drugs, while others are to ways of behaving and thinking. To stand bravely and willingly face the horrors of the world becomes a difficult thing to do. It’s much easier to keep the patterns and habits that soothe our thoughts of impermanence and lack of continuity regarding our perspectives on life.

The human species are creatures built to endure storms, yet we will crawl back to the warmth of habit and repetition even when we know it’s not something we want to do. The truth is: facing the raw chaos of life — all the never to be answered questions, the existential void, the constant tide of change — requires a discipline and courage many of us have never been taught to cultivate for ourselves.

Instead, we cuddle up to the habits and rituals that dull the sharp edges of life. Habits that take us out of the present moment to smooth over the jagged “now”. We drink, we scroll, we excessively consume, we pray, we buy, we pretend. Attempting to find pleasure, but out of fear. Because the unknown is terrifying, and addiction — whatever its form — is a lullaby. It sings, “You don’t have to feel this. You don’t have to change.”

It is easier to soothe the ache than to be present to the pains and listen to them. Easier to numb than to be present. But the cost of avoidance is a shallow life — divided, untested, untouched, unlived.

Comfort/Happiness is Impermanent

No amount of comfort or joy or happiness is permanent. No habit, no drug, no belief system, no amount of distraction can keep uncertainty and death from creeping in through the cracks of life. We live in a world where everything we love is impermanent, including our own identity — the “I” we clutch to so tightly — is no more solid than the fog.

There’s an old Chinese story of a man who came to a great sage and said, “I have no peace of mind. Please pacify my mind.”
The sage answered, “Bring out your mind before me, and I will pacify it.”
The man replied, “These many years I have sought my mind, but I cannot find it.”
“Then there,” said the sage, “it is pacified.”

This is the crux of it: we are terrified of what we cannot define, of what we cannot hold. Death, uncertainty, personal identity — these aren’t problems to be solved, but illusions to be seen through. When we stop trying to “find” our mind, stop trying to control the vast and unknowable river of life, something shifts. The need to numb recedes. The compulsion to soothe at all costs begins to loosen its grip.

Facing The Truth

Facing life unarmored means to wake up each day unsure and uncertain. To be exposed to (and welcome) all the perceived negative thoughts about ourselves and all the emotions of sadness, grief, and failure While at the same time being in awe of the life we are living. It means holding space for the unknown, the mystery of life and being ok with not having any of the answers. That is a terrifying, and at the same time, a sacred thing.

The real question is: is there enough bravery to pause the addictive lullabies, and sit in the silence that follows? Because only there, in the vulnerable quiet, does true freedom begin — not the kind we buy, inject, or chant into existence, but the kind that comes when we stop running, and simply let ourselves be present with what is.

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