Blog Full - Maurice Leavitt | Personal Essays, Travel Writing & Reflections

26 Jul 2025

The Heart of Moral Life Is Relational

by Maurice | posted in: Compassion, Conflict Resolution, Heart Opening, Psychology, Relationship | 1

I have immersed myself in David Brooks books. I’d recommend his books. Both “The Second Mountain: The Quest for a Moral Life” and “How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen” which this writing is inspired from.

Brooks offers a radical invitation: slow down, pay attention, and learn to really get to know the people around you. Not as categories, diagnoses or content. But as perfectly imperfect human beings

We are currently living in a world that rewards being right over valuing relationships, self-promotion over self-awareness, and judgment over curiosity. Brooks invites us to resist all of that. He teaches the lost art of presence — how to bring forward the kindness and compassion already within us, and how to make others feel safe, heard, and accepted just as they are.

The work of truly knowing and seeing others may appear gentle or feel subtle on the surface, but it’s demanding, courageous, and quietly powerful. It’s the invisible labor of creating connection… the emotional architecture of intimacy. And in many ways, it’s much harder than debating ideas.

In an age of increasing isolation, polarization, and emotional starvation, seeing someone as a whole human — especially when we’re tempted to focus on their flaws — is no small thing. It’s an act of resistance. And it’s how we begin to stitch a broken world back together.

And yet… we fall short of it all the time.

The Crisis of Connection

holdinghands — Illustration by Maya Adams www.mayaadamsart.com

I’ve experienced communities and bureaucracies whose mission states they are in service to the greater good … and yet, within those environments there is often deep division and a breakdown fueled by political animosities.

I’ve also experienced real belonging … friendships held together by webs of trust inside genuine community. And I’ve come to realize we don’t live in such a society that truly cultivates that kind of trust and belonging between people.

We have lost the ability to see and understand one another… and its produced a culture that is polarized, brutal and isolating. This kind of disconnection breeds loneliness. And that loneliness makes us suspicious, shut down and quick to take offence where none is intended. We become afraid of the very thing we crave the most: connection and love.

Loneliness hardens into meanness – towards ourselves and each other. As the saying goes… pain that is not transformed gets transmitted. And this kind of pain, this emotional breakdown is showing up as a crisis of distrust.

If we can’t count on anyone else, we are told to count only can on ourselves. Because others are just out to get us. Leaving us continually disappointed in others. They are going to cause us pain.

As within, so without…

This isolation and division we feel inside ourselves has manifested outwardly. Into the wider social and political fractures we now live with every day. We recognize people for their beauty, wealth, success, education levels … while the rest of us are left feeling unrecognized, invisible and left out.

This crisis in our personal lives has also bled into the heart of politics. Today almost everything has become politicized… religion, education, sports, food selection, and even late night comedy, But that’s not what politics was meant to be. Historically, politics was about the distribution of resources, how we all can peacefully live together, share space, care for each other and shape our collective lives together as a productive society.

Now, we are seeing politics being shaped by resentment. Where one side is emotionally validated, while the other side is shamed.

The work of governing has been replaced by messaging battles — who can appear most righteous, most aggrieved, or most morally superior. Politics today is less about solving problems and more about validating identities to gain status, power, and self-admiration.

Taking care of each other has fallen even further down the list of importance.

This is the social and relational crisis of connection we are living through now.

Moral Development: How Did We Fail?

We haven’t done a good job teaching our children how to be kind, generous, and respectful—or even helping them want to be. Instead, we’ve encouraged selfishness and competition, rather than teaching self-restraint and guiding hearts to care about how their actions affect others.

The education system has become more focused on retention and graduation rates than on helping people discover a sense of purpose—something that brings stability, direction, and meaning to their lives.

Most important of all, we’ve failed to teach the basic social and emotional skills needed to be kind and considerate to those around us.

There are countries, like Thailand, where schools still focus on moral formation. There used to be more of that in America too … a desire to raise people who would be honest, gentle and respectful. But over time, that focus fell away. THe priority shifted to test scores and giving our children the best chances to get into the elite colleges.

Career and economic success became the goal. And we stopped worrying about how to teach our children to be considerate human beings. We gave them resumes, but we forgot to give them moral compasses.

I wasn’t taught the skills needed to truly see, understand and respect other people in all their depth and dignity. Not by my family, nor through the educational system. Instead, I learned that cruelty wasn’t just tolerated … it was often permitted.

The failure to treat one another well in the small, everyday moments has contributed to the larger societal breakdown we’re witnessing all around us.

This is a massive civilizational failure. We need to rediscover how to teach and embody basic moral and social skills.

Honoring Both the Illuminator & Diminisher

“The antidote to fear is affection”

I worked in a government college for 25 years, where the only affection the administration allowed toward employees came in the form of formal recognition. Based solely on years of service.Once a year, there was an official employee ceremony where people received keychains and coasters. That was it.

Any recognition or affection offered outside that formal structure could cause problems. If someone got acknowledged when others didn’t, it was seen as playing favorites. So rarely did anyone receive affection or recognition simply for doing a good job.

As a result, many people walked around in a quiet fear … starved for something as basic as acknowledgement.

Character development doesn’t happen in isolation, just like morality is a social practice. It depends on how we treat one another in real time.

It’s about affection. About being generous of heart. Especially towards the person who is expressing anger or being critical… even when it’s directed at us. Staying present with someone who is hurting or being defensive. Empathizing with their pain. Listening without collapsing inward. Not fighting back, or taking it personally. Not getting defensive.

It’s about staying with someone who is moving through their depression. Sitting with someone trying to untangle the pain of childhood. That’s where character is built. In the emotional mess of relationship. As we become more experienced at these kinds of communications, we grow.

We all carry the potential to be either a Diminisher or an Illuminator. These aren’t fixed identities — they’re postures. Habits of presence. Ways of being that show up in a thousand subtle interactions.

The Illuminator

Being an illuminator conveys messages to the other person,

I want to get to know you—and let you know me.
I see you as a whole and complete person.
I care about you.
You matter to me.

When I am talking to someone I can notice when they’re actually truly present. Not on their phone. Not listening to respond. Just quietly … with me.

When I share something challenging in my life, they don’t try to fix me becasue they know nothing needs to be fixed. I stumble through finding words in a thought — and they stay with me while I search my mind. They are patient with my silence, unafraid of my sadness

When I light up about something good in my life, they smile because they know it matters to me.

I walk away from the conversation feeling a little more safe.
A little more seen.
A little more myself.

These messages don’t just come through words, they show up in body language— in tone, eye contact, stillness and the willingness to stay.

Being an illuminator also means recognizing that everyone has their own unique self, and that the person across from you possesses different qualities that surpass your own.

When I can approach someone with this kind of respect, I don’t see them as broken or needing to be fixed. I do my best to suspend judgment—and let them simply be who they are.

The illuminator embodies a relational model of humility, tenderness and warmth. They aren’t just witnesses to your suffering … they see your strengths. Celebrating your joy and life’s successes. They notice your unique gifts and remind you of who you are.

That’s an Illuminator.

Illuminator: In Everyday Life

Illuminators offer their full presence because they understand it’s a gift. They’re not multitasking, checked out or hoping you will finish talking soon. They stay. Not rushing.

With full eye contact and a softened body. their body language says…

“You are the most important thing right now, I am not going anywhere”.

They practice of active listening and show a genuine curiosity. Not just with surface questions but, with one’s that draw more of you out. Sometimes they invite you to consider things you hadn’t before. They reminds you of what you may have forgotten about yourself.

The illuminator offers acceptance and lets the communication be what it is. You can be messy, ambivalent, awkward, emotional… and they stay present. They don’t flinch. They don’t try to smooth your rough edges or reshape you into something more socially acceptable.

"You can be who you are, I will stay."

They name strengths we tend to overlook, forget or avoid seeing in ourselves. Not to flatter or inflate our ego’s, but to speak truth … seen clearly. They give affection freely and generously. Because you are already enough. Never having to prove anything.

Illuminators also tend to the emotional space. They notice the long pauses, the shifts, the shaky laughter and the quiet retreat. And when something tender begins to surface, they don’t back away.

They lean further into the conversation, with a presence that says,

“You don’t have to explain, I’m with you.”

They create a climate where trust can live and breathe.

The Diminisher

I’m telling someone about a hard moment I struggle with in my life. A decision I feel ambivalent about making, a lingering emotion I have not been able to come to terms with. I’m not looking for advice, just space to be heard.

But before I even finished communicating my thoughts, the other person jumps right in:

You know what you should have done?
When I went through that, what I did was…
Have you tried yoga / journaling / gratitude practice?
I think you need to see a therapist.

And just like that, the moment is gone.
The unsolicited advice – freely given, never asked for.

Inside I get angry.
Then I shrink … retreating into a smaller version of myself before my anger gets the best of me. I feel flattened. I wasn’t actually heard — my feelings weren’t honored. They were trying to be managed by someone else.

It took me a long time to recognize when someone was a Diminisher, including myself. Because it doesn’t always look cruel. It doesn’t always look obvious. Most of the time, diminishers are well-meaning.

But the result is the same: I walk away feeling less seen, less whole, less of a human being.

A Diminisher is someone whose presence leaves others feeling reduced — emotionally, psychologically, or energetically. Not because they’re bad people, but because they haven’t cultivated the skill or the willingness to truly see another person.

Diminisher: In Everyday Life

Diminishers don’t usually mean to harm. They’re just caught up in their own insecurity and smallness. Confidence feels threatening. Sadness feels overwhelming. Other people’s joy stirs their jealousy.

Instead of curiosity, they offer critique.
Instead of celebration, they stay silent or change the topic.
Instead of listening to understand, they wait to speak.
They are listening to respond – not to receive.

Or worse, they interrupt mid-thought. I begin to share something vulnerable, and suddenly the conversation shifts back to them. I vanish … right there in front of them.

Sometimes the diminishment doesn’t come from what’s being said, but from what’s not being said.

Not making eye contact.
Phone in hand.
No follow up.
No reflection or mirroring.

They are “there”, but not really with you. It’s like pouring your heart into an empty room when someone is physically present.

Over time, validation becomes conditional. You’re praised when you impress. Tolerated when you don’t.
Affection, attention, and praise become rewards for performance – not reflections of your inherent worth.

This is emotional gatekeeping.

And it teaches people to shrink, to shape-shift, or perform in order to stay in someone’s good graces.

It happens in families, in workplaces, even in intimate partnerships — places where love and safety should be unconditional.

Moving Toward Repair

We are living through a profound failure of moral development — not because we lack intelligence or access to information, but because we’ve neglected the one thing moral growth depends on: relationship.

To become ethical, compassionate, more emotionally mature humans, we need to be known. We need to be reflected back to ourselves with dignity. We need to be guided … not by fear or shame … but by people who see us fully and invite us to do the same for others.

And that’s where the Diminisher and the Illuminator return — not as labels, but as mirrors.

They remind us that the most powerful influence we have on others is how we make them feel in our presence.

We are all shaped by both.

We have been diminished — dismissed, ignored, corrected, reduced.
And we have also been illuminated — listened to, drawn out, affirmed, softened by someone’s tenderness.

If we’re honest, we’ve played both roles ourselves.
We’ve failed to listen. We’ve made someone feel small.
We’ve also stayed with someone in their pain. We’ve chosen presence over performance.

This is not about perfection — it’s about responsibility.
And remembering that moral development doesn’t happen in isolation.
It happens in relationship.

So where do we begin?

Not with grand gestures or flawless wisdom….
but with simple, repeated acts of relational care.

Pause before you speak. Ask yourself: Am I trying to fix, correct, or connect?
Practice curiosity over certainty. Ask questions that open, not close.
Name what you appreciate.
Reflect back what you notice in others — not just what they do, but who they are.
Hold space for complexity. People don’t need to be tidy to be worthy of care.
Let your presence be felt. Not through performance, but by simply staying. Looking up. Listening fully.

The crisis of moral development is real.
But so is the opportunity to heal it — one connection, one relationship at a time.

If we want a more connected, ethical, compassionate world, we won’t get there by argument or policy alone.

We’ll get there through practice — in kitchens and classrooms, on sidewalks and video call screens.
In the way we treat each other when no one else is watching.

We begin by seeing each other …
Not as categories, content, or flaws,
but as human beings.

Perfectly imperfect.
Worthy of care.
Capable of change.

To see someone deeply — and be deeply seen — may be the most human thing we do.

13 Jul 2025

Local Markets – What They Show Us About Ourselves

by Maurice | posted in: Adventure, Retirement, The Human Condition, Travel, Truth | 1

The Unresolved Witness

I’ve wandered through markets all over the world and I still don’t know how to talk about all of them. Because they are so different depending on what part of the world you are in.

What I do know, is that I love them. I know I prefer them to shopping malls and supermarkets. I know they support local people more directly and make me feel like a participant in a local living breathing alive economy rather than a consumer in the capitalist global machine. But I’ve also seen things in markets that left me disturbed, angry, shaken.

In Cairo, I saw dog fights, and animals suffering in cages, species the West would call endangered. In Mexico, I saw children working beside their mothers, not yet ten years old when they should be in school. In South Africa, I saw the people recovering from the apartheid regime, recovering their traditions by selling their crafts. And still — I go back. Again and again.

Because local markets are more than just a place to buy “stuff”. They’re where the heartbeat of a community can still be felt. Places where people gather. They show you what a culture values — and what it neglects. What it wants to protect — and the shadows of what it exploits.

This is not going to be a clean piece of writing.

It’s been knocking around in my head for a while now. My thoughts on the subject are still fragmented and it won’t land with any conclusions. But I will try to hold the full picture of what I’ve seen, what I’ve felt, and what I still believe about markets. Even when I am thrilled by what I find and broken by what I see.

I’ve also started paying attention to what happens when I’m not in a market — when I’m behind a screen, adding something to an online shopping cart, clicking “Buy Now.” The more I think about what I’ve seen in markets, the more I realize the hidden acts every purchase carry, even when it is so completely invisible.

An “Unspoken Trade”?

Every time we buy something, we’re doing more than making a transaction for material goods. We’re reinforcing a system. Casting a vote by our actions — for Amazon, Lazada, Alibaba, Tesco, Flipcart, Taobao, Rakuten, MercadoLibre, Hepsiburada. A vote for ease, speed, safety, status, warranty, trust, relationship, business… whatever matters to us the most in that moment.

That vote most often goes to the biggest, most polished players: supermarket chains, malls, and online giants. But there are other options still alive in many parts of the world — though often overlooked: the local market.

Every act of buying also carries a weight…

A weight of labor we didn’t see. Of the hands we’ll never shake. Of earth’s resources pulled from somewhere on the planet we’ll never visit — maybe gently and honoring the “mother”, maybe violently and putting other humans’ health at risk. A weight of carbon emissions, of transport, of packaging, of storage. This is a wakeup call to the realization of our own personal values — of what we choose to support, and what we choose to ignore.

Most of the time, that weight is hidden. The system is designed that way. Modern commerce runs on distance — between buyer and maker, factory and farm, the click to “buy now” and consequences that follow.

That distance isn’t just physical — it’s emotional.

We buy things made halfway around the world, shipped in from places we’ll never see, from economies we don’t understand. We’ve grown used to it. And that distance has a cost to the earth, to our neighbors, to our own sense of what we believe is enough.

The further away the source, the harder it becomes to ask hard questions. Or worse, the easier it becomes not to ask anything at all. Forgetting the people, the land, the labor behind the product.

Distance doesn’t just obscure the truth — it gives us permission to stay in our ignorance.

And sometimes, the most honest choice is to do without — simply because the materials came from too far away, or the making harmed something too close to the heart that we can’t in good faith choose to support. But we click “Buy Now” anyway to fill the moment of emptiness, to feel in control, to bypass the values between our values and our desires. No eye contact. No conversation. No story. Just immersion in our own attachment to have more. Enforcing the illusion that more is better.

But there are still other options. Ones that pull us closer together as a connected community.

This writing is about what gets lost when we replace people with packaging, and presence with convenience. When buying becomes a transaction, without a moment of relationship… with only an escape from it.

What’s Changed — Vanishing in the U.S., Surviving Elsewhere

In ‘merikkkah, these kinds of markets are just about extinct. What used to be common — flea markets, corner produce stands, sidewalk sellers — have been zoned out, paved over, priced out by supermarkets, strip malls and “lifestyle centers.”

The few that survive have become curated farmer’s market weekend attractions: with $7 kombucha, $8-per-kg green beans, boutique pickles, and designer dog treats. These aren’t bad things — but they’re no longer essential spaces like they used to be. They’re events, not social and living ecosystems. More recreational, not relational. The soul of the market — as a place to trade, talk, gather, and survive — has been flattened under asphalt and Whole Foods parking lots.

In much of the developing world, the market still holds its ground. Not because it’s preserved for tourists or curated for aesthetics — but because it’s necessary. In cities like Istanbul, Bangkok, Lima, and Cairo, markets are woven into daily life. People still rely on them for food, work, repairs, conversation and making a living for their families. The economy is more immediate, more human-scale, built on local needs, not corporate margins or global trade.

One reason these markets survive is that the forces that erased them in the U.S. haven’t yet completely succeeded elsewhere. In many westernized countries, the machinery of capitalism — real estate developers, corporate lobbyists, and bought politicians — systematically pushed out anything that didn’t fit into their scheme for personal wealth, power, and profit. There’s no place for small, irregular, messy spaces in a culture obsessed with order, profit, and surveillance. The local market was a threat to that system — too hard to control, tax, predict, or franchise.

The global push for “profit above people” hasn’t fully steamrolled these economies… yet… and there is still some resistance. Markets survive not just out of tradition, but because the people who rely on them haven’t fully let them go — and in some cases, the powers that be haven’t yet found a way to erase them — or haven’t needed to, because they somehow benefit from their existence.

Why They’ve Been Pushed Aside — Fear, Control, and Branding

One-stop shopping didn’t just replace the local market — it did so through fear. We were taught to distrust anything unregulated, unpackaged, or unsanitized. Hygiene. Food safety. Counterfeit concerns. All valid in some contexts, but also powerful tools of control.

Governments stepped in with codes, licenses, and patents. Supermarkets replaced farmers selling their freshly harvested abundance. Packaging and marketing replaced personal relationship. And we were made to believe it was all for our protection.

Then came the branding, trying to make things more personal. Prada, Nike, Louis Vuitton — their logos became shorthand for status, belonging, aspiration and imagined identity. They told us stories about who we are, or who we wanted to be. And the more we bought into those stories, the further we drifted into those false identities of ourselves — and the further away from the relationships with the real people who actually made our goods.

The more our worship of brands grew, the more we became consumed by how we appeared… our own status, prestige and power. The less we cared about engaging with the source — whether our stuff was made by child labor or in the most Bangladesh(y) conditions.

Regardless of the branding, a shadow economy was rising. Not just being built on imitation, but on our desire to appear a certain way.

We began to care more about the illusionary of our own identity, our outward presentation, our commodified selves — the display of wealth and status became the priority. Our value measured by the symbols of wealth and curated images of ourselves: Fake shoes. Fake bags. Fake Botox. Fake hair. Fake implants. It became less about how we are living, and more about the stuff that pretended to show we’re living well. This illusion only masking the real hunger for belonging.

But it’s not all illusion.

Brands earned their power by delivering something real: Performance, reliability, warranty. You buy a Bose speaker because it is some of the best sound. A Toyota vehicle because it lasts. These are reputations built on quality, not just image. In a marketplace full of knock-offs and quick fixes, the brand becomes a shortcut to certainty — a signal you can trust when you don’t have time to test everything yourself.

In the old markets, no one cared about whether your clothing label was real or a replica. They cared if your jackfruit was ripe, if your shoes would last, if your kids were fed and cared for. Trust was built within the community of people. That’s how commerce began — and in many places, it still survives that way.

Discernment in the Age of Branding

In a world saturated with marketing, advertising, logos and lifestyle branding, trust is outsourced. We’ve lost the care to know who made our shoes, whether it was a child, or someone earning next to nothing in unsafe conditions. We rarely ask where the materials came from or about the conditions in which they were extracted. The logo, the advertising, the branding… it’s all part of the message (or the illusion) that tells us everything we think we need to know: quality. prestige. Social acceptance. even identity.

But in the market — the real market — there are no shortcuts. No glossy labels. No QR codes. No curated reviews. You have to pay attention. You use your senses. You ask questions. You do your best to learn…
Who’s honest. Who cuts corners. Who lies.
Whose jackfruit was grown without chemicals.
Whose sandals fall apart after a week.

These open markets require discernment. And somewhere along the way, many of us lost that. Myself included.

We became lazy, didn’t want to do our homework anymore, and traded the trust of our own instincts for the convenience of reputation. We bought trust in the form of advertising, marketing, and packaging. We began to believe that if something wasn’t labeled, licensed, or certified, it wasn’t worth much.
Yet another great illusion.

But brands aren’t always honest. They don’t always guarantee quality — and even when they do, they’ve become symbols of our capitalist culture built on aspiration and appearance. Sometimes they are false promises. Symbols we chase, sometimes desperately. Wouldn’t I look so much more confident and successful if I were behind the wheel of a Mercedes Benz?

Isn’t this why fakes flourish? Not just because they’re cheaper, but because appearance is what matters. You don’t need a real Louis Vuitton bag. Just one that looks close enough. It’s not about quality. It’s about recognition. The costume still works that way.

And sometimes, the fakes are good enough. Sometimes they’re junk. That’s the strange truth. In markets, you can find fakes right next to the most beautifully handmade goods. Machine-stitched knockoffs beside hand-stitched leather. Mass-produced, made in China trinkets beside a families craft passed down generation to generation.

It’s not always easy to tell the difference. But isn’t that’s the point? In a world without packaging to do the thinking for you, you have to look closer. You have to do your homework. You have to decide what’s good. What’s real. What’s good enough. Or when it’s better to do without.

Discernment becomes its own kind of currency.

This is something I teach my students, too: before you buy something, investigate who made it. Don’t stop at the brand or the marketing — look underneath it. Is the business ethical and kind to the land? To its workers? To the animals? Are the materials truly local or imported and “greenwashed” (a new word for me) for consumer appeal? What’s the real cost behind the price tag?

Because marketing has become the language we use to make decisions. A sleek design, a catchy slogan, psychologically tested for consumer manipulation, delivered through a curated Instagram feed. But behind the story is something else entirely.

And often, it’s not nearly as beautiful.

Markets as Social Fabric — Not Just Commerce

Markets were never just where you bought your clothing, vegetables or homemade crafts. They were where people got caught up on life with each other. A community of small-time farmers, artists, cooks, beginner entrepreneurs. A place where the busyness of life stalls a little bit.

You get to run into your neighbor, ask what they are cooking, hear how their sick grandmother was doing. It’s place to ask, to offer, to gossip, to be seen.

Local markets aren’t just economic. They are a social infrastructure. You don’t necessarily go for the lowest price. You go for the feeling of being part of something.

The stallholders know your name, what you like, and how you like it prepared. They notice when you didn’t show up. They ask how you’ve been. They ask you to try something new to get your opinion.

You buy from someone who has a story, and over time, we become part of each other’s story.

Malls can’t ever give you that.
Neither will clicking ‘Add to Cart.’

Conclusion — Still Showing Up

I still don’t have a clean answer for any of this.

Markets aren’t perfect. They can be chaotic, cruel, stunning, human. Sometimes I leave with something I love. Sometimes I leave shaken.

Cairo was like that.

The Souk al-Gomaa got under my skin. Not because it was charming, but because it wasn’t. It was messy, loud, unfiltered. I saw species in cages I didn’t expect to see. I witnessed animal suffering I wish I hadn’t. And yet, alongside that: color, barter, laughter, survival. People hustling to live. People showing up. It wasn’t curated. It was real.

Souk al-Gomaa has stayed with me — because it refused to pretend. And maybe that’s what markets do best. They reflect the truth of who we are, not just who we want to pretend to be. They hold the contradictions: care and exploitation, tradition and invention, nourishment and neglect.

Still, I go back.
I still believe in them — not because they’re innocent, but because they’re honest. They remind me what it feels like to belong to something with a heartbeat.
An economy made of hands and stories, of faces and food, of messiness and meaning.

Not everything needs to be wrapped in plastic, tracked with a barcode, or promised with a warranty.

Sometimes trust in each other is enough.
Sometimes presence is enough.
Being part of something imperfect and alive MUST be more than enough.

So I keep showing up.

And I hope we don’t lose these places.
Because I think they teach things to us,
and know more about us than we realize.

Baby Ducks

Below YouTube video is the market in Cairo I am talking about… make the choice to watch because some images are difficult to see.

8 Jul 2025

From ‘Merikkkah to Sabai Sabai – One Year Later…

by Maurice | posted in: Compassion, Family, Retirement, Speaking Your Truth, The Human Condition, Truth, Vulnerability | 0

The Year That Was… (Context & Milestones)

It’s been a year… and what a year it was.

I left behind a 25-year teaching career in government education, retired with full benefits. Goal accomplished, just like I planned since I was a little kid. The rat-race finished.

I let go of my real estate business, liquidated nearly everything I owned. Nothing in storage. No safety net. No plan B. Just what fit into a couple of suitcases… my heart and soul … and the life I hoped to carry forward.

A year since my father died. The kind of loss that wasn’t only filled with family drama but also rearranged my inner world into unexpected corners of my daily life. Carrying a quiet and persistent voice that shows itself at unexpected times.

A year since I landed in Thailand— trading the treadmill of American striving for the narrow and winding sois of Thailand. Not as a tourist this time, but as someone beginning again. A whole new life, stitched together in a country I only passed through a few times before.

A year since I stepped off the fast track and asked myself. Now what?

Why Thailand? / The Sabai Sabai Ethos

I chose Thailand for a reason.

I come from ‘merikkkah, where your worth is measured by how busy you are and how high you climb and how much stuff you gathered. Success is loud… Fast…Branded. The culture rewards the busyness of the grind. I played that game well. But somewhere deep down—even while I was winning—I always knew something wasn’t right about this ethos. I only knew I would eventually want out.

Thailand offering is something else. Here, there’s a phrase—sabai sabai. It’s hard to translate, carrys many interpretations. So click on the link. Basically, it carries the feeling of “it’s all good,” “no worries,” “take it easy.” A softening of the grip on life.

People let each other be. They don’t interfere, don’t shame, don’t push. There’s space to live how you want, without the constant pressure to explain or defend it.

That doesn’t mean it’s utopia. There are things I still struggle to make sense of—like the older foreign men with very young Thai wives. I try not to judge, but I notice. I wonder. I’ve heard whispers of customs and laws, especially in other countries, that make me uneasy. But I try to stay grounded in what I see, what I know.

The truth is, every culture has its shadows. There is darkness and corruption everywhere in this capitalist world. In Thailand, corruption is local and visible—you can slip a few baht to a police officer and avoid a ticket. In ‘merikkkah, it’s hidden in boardrooms, corporatism and political donations. Same game, different players.

Daily Life & Choices / A New Home

The rhythms of daily life here are slower, and are not free from their own complications.

Last October, Chiang Mai saw its worst flood in recorded history. The river spilled into places that were flood free forever, and I was displaced from my home. My landlord—dealing with worse damage at their own place—offered no help, despite what the lease spelled out.

That shook something in me. Not just the water damage, or the memory of wading through septic waters to get out of the floodwaters. But the reminder that even in a perceived peaceful place, things can fall apart. And do fall apart. I realized I needed to move—not just to avoid future flooding, but to find a setting that felt more stable, more aligned with the kind of life I came here to live.

I found a new home. It’s farther out from the city than I originally planned, and I’m still not sure how far is too far. Time will tell. But it offers the views of the mountains and the rice fields that I dreamed of. Quieter, more space, more tranquility, more possibility. More peace for my daily life… walking, cycling, swimming, writing, cooking and the occasional around the world travel.

I’m looking for peace. For simplicity in the slowness of life. For days that don’t feel like I need to accomplish the to-do lists, or a life I feel I need to survive or outrun.

And yet—simplicity isn’t always so simple. I still want my Bose speakers and Nike orthotic walking shoes. I want my Revo polarized sunglasses. I want rice fields, mango trees and fiber internet. I want clean water and the freshest produce. These aren’t luxuries to me—they’re the things that helps me live a good life.

I’m not trying to go off-grid. I’m just trying to get closer to what feels real to me.

Visa, Belonging, and the Bureaucracy of Aging Abroad

Thailand makes it surprisingly easy to stay—at least on paper. For those of us over 50, there’s a retirement visa option: keep a minimum balance in a Thai bank account, fill out the right forms, and you’re in.

But that’s just the surface.

Every ninety days, I must check in with immigration to confirm I haven’t disappeared. I do have a multiple entry visa that allows me to come and go as I please. Every time I return to Thailand, it resets the 90-day ritual. It’s a small bureaucratic inconvenience, but one that quietly reminds me: I’m still a guest here. My life is my own, but it’s also subject to stamps, signatures, and systems I didn’t grow up with.

So, I hired an agent. For around $300 a year, he handles it all—the visa renewals, the paperwork, the multiple-entry stamps, the 90-day checkins. I don’t have to wait in line or navigate the immigration office or a language I’m still learning. That peace of mind is worth every baht.

Still, I’m thinking about shifting the dates. If I can time it right, maybe I won’t have to be back in Thailand during monsoon season just to renew my visa. I’d rather be traveling when the skies open up and flood the streets again. Will see what happens as I investigate this.

There’s a strange kind of privilege in being able to play the game the system, ever so diligently and gently—move dates around, pay someone to help. But I don’t take it for granted. I’m not here to pretend I belong or entitled to certain rights in the same way as someone who was born here. But I’m not just passing through, either.

Somewhere in between guest and immigrant, I’m carving out a structure, a daily routine, a rhythm of life. A way of being here without pretending to be from here. Adapting to this culture and way of life is critical.

Food, Land, and What Nourishes Me

I’ve been a chef most of my life. Not just professionally, but in how I see the world—through ingredients, through seasonality, through the quiet alchemy of blending flavor and taste. With appreciation for the abundance that comes from the land and for those who work the land in loving ways.

Northern Thailand feeds me in more ways than one. The land here is generous. Rich river valleys and mountain air create microclimates where tropical fruits and temperate crops grow side by side.

At the local markets, I can find strawberries and peaches, fresh-picked from the highlands. Mangoes so ripe the juice drip down your chin. Greens I’ve never seen anywhere else and am still learning about—bitter, tangy, medicinal, and wild.

And the food. Yes, of course, there’s spice from those “birds eye” Thai chilis. There’s amazing salt flavor diversity coming from fermenting fish and soy beans. But there’s also variety, subtlety, and balance when you want it. You don’t have to burn another hole in your a__, I mean, tongue to eat well here.

More than the ingredients, it’s the approach to food that I find nourishing. It’s not dressed up. It’s not precious. It’s just…available. Honest. Made for the people who live here, delivered in plastic bags. It’s the people who dress it up for Instagram.

I’ve wandered markets all over the world—from Cairo to Cusco, from Istanbul to Kerala — and still, the fresh markets in Thailand feel like home. They remind me of what food is supposed to be: a relationship with land, with the people, with the historic traditions, with what’s in season, abundant and close to hand.

In this stage of life I find myself in, nourishment means more than taste. It’s being in sync, in rhythm, with the flow of life. Simplicity. Connection. With the earth. With the people. With myself.

Flowing… with the agriculture seasonality, a ripe mango from my mango tree, fresh strawberries just came down from the mountain, eaten standing barefoot in my (soon to be) garden.

Simplicity… drinking my locally grown and roasted coffee, with no urgency to get anything done.

Knowing… that I won’t break the bank and I don’t have to hustle to eat well.

This is what is feeding my soul now.

What It Means to Live a Good Life Now

This, I think, is the real question. What does it mean—now—to live a good life? To feel like a complete human. Unbroken. A life I don’t need a vacation from. I wrote about this before.

I used to say I wanted simplicity… and I still do. I imagined it as a kind of stillness, minimalism, a clearing where there is nothing that pulls at me. But I’ve come to see that simplicity isn’t passive at all. It’s an active choice and discipline.

Because I come from ‘merikkkah. Where everything says you should consume and want more. Where more is better. To increase the country’s gross national product… when it should be to help increase the gross national happiness. Slowing down feels like going against gravitational pull.

I don’t have to work anymore. That’s a gift many people never get. But the absence of a job doesn’t mean the presence of peace. What I choose to do with my time now—how I care for my body, how I tend to my mind, the thoughts I cultivate, who I allow into my inner world—that is my current personal work.

So I ask myself:

What does a flourishing life look like when I’m not chasing anything?
How do I stay awake to my life, not just fill it with busyness or pass the time unconsciously?
What do I still have to give back to the betterment of humanity and the planet — authentically, meaningfully—without slipping back into performance or feeling I have to prove something?

And perhaps most importantly:

Who do I want to walk with in this next chapter? Who sees me not for what I produce, but for who I am—when I’m not striving to produce anything?

That’s what’s in front of me.

It’s not a plan. Because I have no blueprint.
Just a path that unfolds with each honest and genuine step I take every day.
And my hope… that walking with open eyes, open hands, and an open heart… will always be enough.

4 Jul 2025

Listening: Connection Before Correction

by Maurice | posted in: Compassionate Conversation, Family, Heart Opening, No Shame or Blame, Openness | 1

When we speak, we are not asking to be advised, fixed, or given solutions. We are asking to be seen. To be understood. To be heard. And yet, people so often hear someone’s pain or confusion as a cry for help—something broken that needs repair. We rush in with suggestions, solutions, opinions and interpretations, convincing outselves we’re helping. We've been taught that love looks like solving problems and that care means offering the quickest escape from discomfort.

But love—real love—is slower than that. Love listens first. It holds space. It sees the other through their pain, not as their pain. It acknowledges their experiences as complete, not flawed. It allows someone to be whole, even when they may feel broken. True listening asks for stillness and presence without an agenda. It requires that we set aside the urge to fix, to judge, or to correct. It invites us to meet someone exactly where they are—not where we wish they were, and not where it would be easier for us to love them.

The rarest kind of love may not be based on usefulness, improvement, or potential. It is simply the grace of being loved for who we are, as we are.

What It’s Like to Receive (& Make Mistakes)

I’ve had moments where someone simply let me speak—and stayed with me. No interruption. No analysis. No direction. Just presence. It’s as if they opened a quiet room inside themselves and invited me in. In that space, I could be messy, uncertain, and unclear—and I was still welcome. When someone listens like that, something inside begins to untangle. I hear myself more clearly. I don’t need their advice because I start to discover my own clarity.

For 18 years, I participated in—and later facilitated—men’s support circles rooted in this kind of compassionate presence. Listening wasn’t just a skill; it was a lifeline. There was a man in our group who came every week, repeating the same story about how stuck he felt in his life. Week after week, for years, I sat and listened. I didn’t push him, didn’t offer solutions, didn’t ask for change. I was just present.

But one week, something in me shifted. He started in again, and I found myself losing patience. I snapped. I told him I was tired of hearing the same complaints without action. The room went silent. I knew immediately I had crossed a boundary. I felt my tail between my legs. That moment wasn’t just a lapse—it was a realization. Even with years of practice, I had limits. Even seasoned listeners get overwhelmed.

That experience taught me that listening is not about perfection. It’s not about never losing patience. It’s about noticing when we hit our limits, returning to presence, and honoring the relationship with honesty and humility. Listening means showing up with both compassion and self-awareness—respecting both the one who is speaking and the one who is listening.

The Contrast with What’s Modeled: In the Family

Most of us aren’t taught how to listen. In families, caring and love often looks like fixing. There's a rush to comfort, to offer advice, to smooth over someone’s pain. The intention may be care, but the impact is more often disconnection. We're taught to respond, not to stay. We’re rewarded for offering solutions, not for creating space where someone can be seen and heard without interference.

We become fluent in easing or erasing discomfort, instead of becoming fluent in holding it. Many of us grew up in households where the pattern of love was transactional: emotional struggles were met with instructions; feelings were corrected instead of welcomed. The result is a kind of love that’s efficient but not intimate. It can’t bear the silence of another’s pain without trying to cover it up. Listening, in these environments, becomes reactive rather than receptive.

The Contrast with What’s Modeled: In the Workplace

That same reflex appears in professional settings, though it wears a different mask. In workplaces, listening often becomes a tool for extraction—a way to gather information, manage perception, or streamline productivity. I remember a time at the college where I worked when the president attempted to balance the budget by laying off half the full-time instructors in the culinary department. The environment became tense and uncertain. I did my best to hold space, to listen to my colleagues as fear took hold.

Then the administration decided to combine two leadership roles into one impossible job. Everyone recognized how overwhelming it would be. Not even the vice president agreed with the newly created position. When the hiring process began, I spoke up and urged them to expand the candidate pool, to look for someone qualified who understood the scale of the job. But they dismissed my suggestions and hired someone with no culinary experience to lead the culinary arts department. I was told to “give it a chance.”

That moment crystallized the way institutions often pretend to listen without actually doing so. The decision was already made. Feedback was tolerated but not absorbed. It reinforced something I’ve come to understand more deeply over time: in many professional spaces, listening is not an act of recognition—it’s a tactic. The reward system prioritizes action and outcome. Presence, care, and trust don’t generate profit. The value of being seen is dismissed because it cannot be measured.

Where Trust Begins: The Space Rarely Given

The most transformative listening doesn’t come with advice, strategies, or timelines for healing. It comes with space. A space where we’re not interrupted, redirected, or evaluated. A space that doesn’t demand improvement unless we want it for ourselves.

Most of us were never taught to give that kind of space to others—or even to ourselves. It takes real patience to sit beside someone else’s pain without reaching for an exit ramp. It takes strength to stay emotionally present while setting aside the urge to fix. But true listening is a kind of quiet rebellion within ourselves; to quiet the urges to respond and offer unsolicited advice. True listening creates the conditions where people feel safe enough to be who they are. It tells us that our feelings don’t need justification, our stories don’t need polishing, and our wholeness isn’t dependent on being understood.

The truth is that life’s answers usually surface when we’re heard—not when we’re told what to do. This kind of space is rare. Most of us didn’t grow up with it. It’s not the default in families. It’s not built into the structures of work. And sometimes, even in therapy, we are interpreted before we are fully seen.

Real listening asks us to stay a little while longer, to soften a little bit more. To witness someone’s truth, someone’s pain, not through the lens of who they should be, but through the courage of who they already are. Maybe that’s the rarest kind of love: not the love that seeks to improve us, but the love that finds us most worthy when we are most real. Because relationships move at the speed of trust. And trust moves at the speed of being seen.

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