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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.

19 Mar 2025

Remembering Jay – First Yahrzeit

by Maurice | posted in: Adventure, Death and Mortality, Family, Hospice, Loving Well | 0

I sit here and write this at “The Much Room Cafe” in Chiang Mai, Thailand. I like to come here because it has wide open space outdoors with big trees and a waterfall. But today something is different. I am listening to the sound of singing cicadas. A circadian rhythm, if you will. Long periods of silences, and then a sudden emergence and buzzing of life. Similar to grief, just when you think its quiet, grief rises again filling the air with an inescapable presence.

My Experience of Grief

One might think that after so many years working as a hospice volunteer, I would have more of my sh!t together. With the ability to manage my emotions, and my life’s responsibilities when it comes to loss, death and grief. But grief is messy and works on its own terms. And I know, and sometimes need a reminder, that no one truly has their “shit together” when dealing with deep loss such as the loss of a parent.

Even though my father died almost a year ago, the experience of grief over his death has not ended. I have learned over this time to live with the pain of his loss. Even in his absence, my relationship with him has continued to be a significant one. This first yahrzeit for my father will not mark the end of my grief, but will help contribute to a new relationship I have with my memories of him.

The Grief in Family Estrangements

I ask myself a lot… are my family estrangements normal? In both sides of my family, they seem to be more common than I want to admit. Maybe because nobody wants to talk about them openly. Or make the effort to resolve some of the differences.

Estrangement is a painful and sometimes even a necessary choice. Especially when the relationships are harmful, betraying or abusive. Maybe the fundamental differences of personal values have people growing/grown apart from each other.

Unlike the grief from the loss of my father, this grief is different. It is grief without closure. People are still alive, but the relationship is gone. Sometimes I feel shame and want to keep this a secret. Because people and societies deep and rich in family values pressure me to “fix it”.

Regardless how I may want to think this through. I do experience some relief. But I cannot deny there is also loneliness and hurt. Mourning the idea of family and the loss of my father.

Reconnect To Life

No one is prepared for the loss and the death of a parent. I remember the joys celebrating my father’s birthday and his encouragements for me to follow my dreams. Having encountered his death, I am different. In mourning over the last year and the feelings of loss and the grief, the process changed me. But, how?

One day, I called him and told him I was moving out of the country and to Thailand. A few days later he died unexpectedly. When I moved to Thailand, the tropics, I see a lot of butterflies. Something in my mind made me think of him when I saw one. And it continues to this day.

By seeing the butterfly and thinking of my father I wonder what is the message I need to hear… or want to hear? His quiet presence says he is still with me. Maybe I need to pay closer attention to life’s signs and sensations and be more present to the things that stir something deep inside of me. Transformation and change are part of life, including painful ones. That even though he is gone, beauty still finds its way to me.

Understanding all this and trying to have all the answers, is the “booby prize”, one of my teachers said. Maybe the butterfly isn’t about solving something but just feeling something. A reconnection to life. A fullness of presence. A reminder that he mattered, that he still does, that he still moves through my world in ways I can’t always explain.

The Stories of Remembering

First, I want to bring back a memory of my father that I want to remember and share. For years after I was divorced, I went through a period of time searching, learning and healing. This process brought me to workshops, seminars, retreat centers, and ashrams. My family became concerned about the quantity of time I was spending at a “retreat center”. They all communicated to me they felt I had joined a cult and was becoming brainwashed. Of course, I had to laugh and at the same time felt their concern.

My parents were separated or divorced at this time. I was visiting my father in Colorado and sitting with him at the table. We were talking about his concern about me and the cult I may have joined. I expressed genuine gratitude for his concern and wanted to explain some things to ease his mind.

As we sat there with me talking (you know I like to talk, right?), my father began to drift off to sleep at the table. My first reaction was to get upset. But I learned enough over this time… the “first thought wrong” concept works well here. I interrupted this first thought program and attempted to install another perspective.

My father, not much of a deep philosophical thinker or in touch with his inner emotions was trying very hard to be present and listen to me. Although this particular brain or emotional muscle of his was not exercised a lot in his life. During this conversation, what I was telling him was asking him to think and feel a little differently. Exercising the muscle he did not have a lot of experience with.

I could feel his willingness to be present and learn about me. Even with his limited capacity. My frustration in the situation changed dramatically. I began to see him differently. He was trying very hard to stay with me, but didn’t have the life experience to relate to me. So, he began to drift off. During his drifting in and out, he did say something to me that I remember… “I am so proud of you, Maury”. I learned that being in relationship (with him) is more important than any negative thoughts or feelings I could possibly experience about someone.

A Small Request from My Heart

In Jewish tradition, the first yahrzeit marks the one-year anniversary of a loved one’s passing—a time to reflect, light a candle in their honor, and share memories to keep their essence alive. Remembering and speaking of those we’ve lost helps keep their presence alive in our hearts.

As I navigate life without my father, Jay Leavitt, I find comfort in keeping his spirit alive through the memories we all hold of him. If you knew him, if he touched your life in any way, I would love to hear your stories.

If you feel moved to share, please take a moment to write a memory—whether in the comments, on a blog, in an email, through a call, or even a video chat. However feels right for you. Your words, no matter how small, will mean the world to me.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for helping me honor my father’s memory and keep his spirit with us, even for just a moment. 💙