My great-aunt once carried a revolution in her hands. At seventeen, she boarded a train in Colón with a secret letter hidden in her umbrella and rode across the isthmus to Panama City while a country hung in the balance. By the time I knew her, she was an old woman yelling at us from a window because we were playing too loud.

Her name was Aminta Meléndez. She was born in Colón in 1886 and, as a teenager, she carried a secret letter by train from Colón to Panama City during the 1903 separation from Colombia, the paper rolled and tucked away inside her umbrella. Her father, my grandfather, Porfirio Meléndez, was a revolutionary leader in Colón and later the first governor of the province, and he sent her because a teenage girl attracted less suspicion than a man in that tense moment.

The letter told the separatist leaders that Colón was ready, that Colombian troops were no longer in full control, and asked them to send General Herbert Jeffries to secure the port with the USS Nashville and deal with the Colombian ship Cartagena, which had some 500 troops that were sent to quash a rebellion.

That decision—handing his daughter a letter and putting her on a train—folded my family straight into the middle of national history. In Panama, Aminta’s story became part of the country’s founding memory, the story of a brave young woman helping midwife a republic. I have no interest in tearing that down. She is taught as a hero and one of the founding mothers, and she was one.i

By the time I arrived in the story, all of that was already legend.

Bohío under water

Before Colón and the canal became the backdrop to my childhood, there was Bohío.

My family owned most of the land in that town, along the Chagres River. When the United States built the dam across the Chagres and created Gatun Lake for the canal, entire communities were displaced as the valley flooded beneath the rising water. Family legend says my grandfather refused to leave his land. As the water kept rising, the Americans had to rescue him from the roof of his house as Gatun Lake rose around him.

I can’t document every detail of that story, and I don’t need to. In my family, it has always been told as truth: Porfirio Meléndez stayed put until the lake took the town from under him. Part of the compensation for the loss of that land—the majority of Bohío—was a large wooden house in Colón.

That house would become the stage for almost everything I remember.

Two houses and three avocado trees

My father later built our house behind that one, out of cinder blocks. It was not a tiny little shack. It was a good-sized house, but it only had 2 bedrooms. The house in front felt like another world entirely—something like ten rooms, with formal downstairs areas like a proper well-to-do house where people could receive guests.

Between the large wooden house in front and our house in the back, there was a wide lot that was basically our kingdom. We had three giant avocado trees. The trees were incredibly tall, so the avocados from way up high would fall and split open on the ground. The dogs would eat them, and they had these ridiculously shiny coats and looked super healthy, like they were in on some secret diet.

There was also a guanábana tree that only produced one fruit per season. That single guanábana carried way more emotional weight than you’d think a piece of fruit could. There was always some conflict and quiet bitterness between my mom and the aunts who lived in the big house over who got the guanábana that year, who got the naranja china, who got the bananas from the trees.

So the backyard wasn’t just a place to play. It was where invisible lines were drawn: kids running under avocado trees, dogs eating the split fruit, adults negotiating and resenting who got which sweetness from which branch, season after season.

My great-aunt Aminta lived in the front house. By then she was old, almost in her nineties, and she would yell at us from the window because we were playing too loud.

That is how I first knew her—not as a heroine from a history lesson, but as the old woman in the front house who could not stand the sound of children laughing.

She had never married. In fact, if anyone called her “Señora,” she would bristle and immediately correct them: “Señorita.” She was very particular about that. She had no children of her own, and maybe that meant nothing. Or maybe it meant something. I’ve sometimes wondered whether the sound of children playing scraped against a life she never had.

I can’t know that for sure. It is only one possibility. But I remember the correction very clearly: not Señora, Señorita.

My father and Aminta

My father wanted nothing to do with her.

When she yelled at us from the window, he would tell me not to pay attention to her. There was a firmness in the way he said it that I understood long before I understood why. Later I learned that she had physically abused him when he was a child. In those days, some of what she did might have been written off as “discipline,” but by any honest standard today it would be seen as straight-up abuse.

That does not erase her place in Panama’s history. It does not cancel the train ride or the letter or the courage it took to do what she did. It just means that public honor and private memory are not always the same thing.

So even though we lived on the same property, in houses only yards apart, there was a distance between them that could not be measured in feet.

The day the president came

In 1979, there was a big to-do because President Arístides Royo came to visit her. Royo was president of Panama from October 1978 until July 1982, and I remember the visit as an official ceremony, with dignitaries, formalities, and some kind of declaration presented to her in recognition of her role in the nation’s history.

I remember that I had to dress up in my fancy clothes because the president was coming.

What I remember most, though, is not the language of the ceremony. It’s the food.

They had good catering. There were little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, arranged neatly like something from another class of life. There were sweets everywhere. To a kid, it felt elegant and important and slightly unreal. The same house where she yelled at us from the window had suddenly become a place of state recognition, polished and ceremonial.

People came to honor the patriot. I was there in dress clothes, eyeing the sandwiches and sweets.

A few months later, she died in Colón on April 29, 1979.

Her last days

Toward the end, she had dementia. My dad referred to her as “goofy” — his word for older people who were starting to show Alzheimer’s symptoms.

In those last months, she would call out to my father constantly.

Not to yell at us kids this time. Just calling for him. Calling his name again and again from somewhere inside the fog of her mind.

My father ignored her completely. He would not answer. He would not go to her. He wanted nothing from her, and he was not going to offer anything back.

I have often thought she may have been trying, in her own way, to ask for forgiveness for whatever had happened between them. But my father would have none of it. Whatever words she may have wanted to say came too late.

There was no dramatic reconciliation. No scene of healing. Just her calling, “goofy” in his private vocabulary, and him staying silent.

Leaving Panama

Soon after that, my mother took us to the United States so we could continue high school there. It was not a leap into a new language for me, because I had already attended Canal Zone schools. What changed was not the language so much as the country, the household, and the life around it.

At the time, I thought the move was mainly about school and opportunity.

About a year later, I found out the real reason was that my mother was leaving my father.

Two truths

There are two truths about Aminta Meléndez, and I have lived with both.

One is the truth Panama tells: the brave young woman on the train, hiding a letter in her umbrella from Colombian authorities, helping change the course of a country. That truth deserves to stand.

The other is the truth of family: the unmarried aunt who insisted on “Señorita,” who never had children, who yelled at us from the window, who hurt my father when he was young, who slid into dementia, and who called for him in her final days only to be met with silence.

I don’t want to shatter the legend. I just know that inside many legends there is a house, and inside the house there is another story.

That is the one I remember: the big wooden house with its formal downstairs rooms, our house behind it, the three avocado trees dropping fruit for the dogs, the quiet arguments over guanábana and naranja china, the lot between the houses full of children’s noise, the day the president came with crustless sandwiches and sweets, the old woman at the window correcting everyone—“Señorita”—and the feeling that the girl who once hid a letter in her umbrella and helped create a country was never just one thing, either to Panama or to us.

Author’s note: I’m a chiropractor and writer, the grandson of Porfirio Meléndez and great-nephew of Aminta Meléndez. Her story is still taught in Panama as part of the country’s independence history, and this essay is my attempt to hold that public legend alongside the private memories my family lived in that house between Bohío, Gatun Lake, and Colón.

It’s Father’s Day, and I’m reflecting and remembering my dad and my own role as a dad to my daughters and now my grandson.

When I tell stories about my dad, they are usually upbeat and positive. The stories about my mother aren’t as positive.

My fiancée pointed out to me that when my brother talks about his relationship with our mom, it’s generally very different from my experience. Everyone has different experiences.

I always considered my father a trooper for staying with my mother as long as he did. Yes, she was a handful. Today she would’ve probably been diagnosed as bipolar, with a host of other mental health issues.

But my dad was far from perfect. I’ve heard all these stories about how he was such a ladies’ man and such.

My dad was married and had two kids from a previous marriage, and then he ended up in Venezuela in the late 50s and 60s until apparently he was run out of the country by some general. Apparently he was with this general’s daughter and got himself into enough trouble that he had to flee the country. (Sound familiar? Read this post about what happened to his father.)

Anyway, according to my cousin Grace, he showed up at her workplace in Panama, skinny and disheveled, asking if he could stay with her. He hopped on a cargo ship from Maracaibo and ended up back in Panama.

That’s as much as I can find out about this portion of his life—he didn’t talk about it, and that was that.

So I don’t really know how things were in those days, but I’m pretty sure my half‑siblings grew up without a dad, since they lived in the US. I don’t know if he fathered any kids in Venezuela—I’m sure he wasn’t around to see those kids (if any) either.

So we are all imperfect—and we pass our traits, good and bad, to our kids. I think it’s more nature than nurture, like we pass it on in our DNA.

I worry that I inherited the inability to form a long term relationship with a partner like my father did, and I fear I passed that along to one of my daughters.

I like to think I got some of his better traits: his ability to keep going, his knack for landing on his feet in strange places, and his capacity to love his kids in his own imperfect way. And on days like today, I hope I’m passing on a kinder version of all that to my daughters and my grandson.

Happy Father’s Day!

Live Long and Prosper

-Dan

My grandfather wasn’t exactly a choirboy. According to family legend, he got into enough trouble in Detroit that the best advice anyone could give him was, “You should probably leave town.” So he did what a certain kind of young man did in 1898—he joined the cavalry, went off to the Spanish–American War, and wound up fighting in Cuba alongside Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. The paper trail backs at least part of that up: later records list him as a U.S. Cavalry soldier in F Troop during the Spanish–American War, which fits the family version almost a little too perfectly.

Apparently he decided he liked Latin women, because after the war he didn’t point his boots back toward Detroit. He drifted south and ended up in Colón, Panama, where he somehow managed to fall in love with Felicidad Meléndez, daughter of Don Porfirio Meléndez—a serious local heavyweight, former governor of Colón Province, and one of the guys wrapped up in the politics around Panama’s independence. So this kid who’d been told to get out of Detroit suddenly found himself courting into a respectable Panamanian family. That’s about when he cleaned up his name, too. Christian I. Ternes became Charles Ternes DeReuter, a version that sounded right in Spanish and didn’t scream “guy who left town in a hurry” if anyone went looking in old Detroit papers.

In Colón, Charles and Felicidad had four kids, and he traded horses and rifles for hoses and helmets. He worked his way up to Mayor Charles Ternes de Reuter, jefe del Cuartel de Bomberos de la provincia de Colón—basically the head of the provincial fire department. For a man who started out as a bit of a rascal, he ended up with a very straight job: running the fire brigade in a wooden Caribbean port city stacked with bad wiring, flammable buildings, and people living on top of each other.

And he didn’t die behind a desk. In April 1917, during a serious fire in Colón, he went into a burning structure on a rescue with his crew. The scene wasn’t romantic—it was smoke, shouting, collapsing wood, and a spiderweb of early electrical lines overhead. In that chaos, a live wire came down and hit him, another firefighter, and the person they were trying to pull out. All three were killed on the spot. When that happened, my dad—born in 1909—was about eight years old. So the version that got handed down to me was never “grandpa the saint.” It was “grandpa the troublemaker who rode with Teddy Roosevelt, married a governor’s daughter, changed his name so his past wouldn’t catch him, and then went back into a burning building and didn’t come out.”

A rascal who happened to die a hero.

There is a monument in Colón honoring the 3 killed that day. They later kept adding names of all firefighters that lost their lives in the line of duty,

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Live Long and Prosper,

-Dan

parade for bomberos. when I was a kid I’d have to attend the ceremony at the park every year..

I’m sitting alone in a corner booth at the Waffle House, savoring one of my favorite quiet rituals: taking myself on a solo “date.”

No rush, no small talk—just me, a plate of scrambled eggs and perfectly crispy hash browns, and the simple joy of watching people live their lives. I’ve lived in the South a long time now.

This place has seen me through business meetings, tough breakups, and plenty of ordinary mornings like this one.

The jukebox plays softly in the background, spinning familiar country tunes that melt into the comforting rhythm of the restaurant.

Waitresses call out orders in their rapid shorthand, plates clink steadily, spatulas scrape the grill with sharp metallic bursts, and the warm aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon wraps everything in a greasy, welcoming hug.

The morning light filters gently through the windows, bathing the whole scene in a calm, unhurried glow.

In the booth by the window, an old regular lingers over his endless cup of coffee, flirting awkwardly with the waitress in that harmless, hopeful way—probably the only female attention he’ll get all day.

Nearby, a large Guatemalan family is cheerfully crammed into one booth, kids spilling slightly into the aisle as they chatter away while their parents keep the joyful chaos in check. Scattered around the counter and tables are truck drivers in faded caps, quietly demolishing their All-Star specials before the next long haul.

Then there’s the guy a couple of tables over with his two kids. He looks like a newly divorced dad doing his best—trying a little too hard to connect, asking questions that land with the heavy silence only preteens can deliver. The scene tugs at something familiar in me. It reminds me of those years when my own daughters were that age, when the last thing they wanted was to talk to their dad. I watch him persist anyway, offering bites of waffle and awkward jokes, hoping for even the smallest spark of connection.

The quiet resilience in his effort feels both tender and heartbreaking.

The whole place hums along in its beautiful, unfiltered way—lonely regulars, boisterous families, solitary truckers, struggling dads, and yes, even the soundtrack that now feels like home to me. A woman suddenly strides in, voice loud enough to cut through the morning chatter:

“OMG, why are they playing this hillbilly music?!”

A few years ago I might have silently agreed with her. But after all this time in the South, her words land like a small betrayal. Instead of nodding along, I feel a quiet spark of protectiveness rise up.

This isn’t just a diner. It’s the Waffle House at its finest-holding space for everyone exactly as they are, messy lives and all. And on mornings like this, when I treat myself to a little solo adventure and simply observe it unfold, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.

Live Long And Prosper🖖 ,

-Dan

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my first post ever on instagram was this one!

Last month, I lost a friend I’d known since high school. Back then, a small group of us would spend hours at the arcade (back when that was still a thing), catch movies, and do all the usual teenage stuff together.

Now one of those old friends wants “to talk,” and I find myself missing his calls and avoiding him. I feel conflicted. He was a good friend, and I’m sure he wants the details—what really happened.

I asked Christi about it, and she said simply, “You’re not ready to talk.” She suggested telling him I’ll talk, but not about our friend. That advice eased something in me; my body relaxed, and I could actually picture myself doing it.

Then a random, almost childish thought popped up: “He doesn’t get to know all the details. Where the hell was he all these years?”

I keep wondering… was that it? Were my feelings just hurt? Maybe they were. I always tried to keep in touch, calling on birthdays, trying to resurrect dying friendships while others let them fade. Maybe I’m angry at this guy who used to be so close and now just wants a casual update on what “really happened.” Or maybe I’m angry at myself for not having a deeper relationship with the friend who just passed.

There was so much left unsaid between us. One of my exes once joked, “You guys probably have a ton of secrets between you!” The truth is, we didn’t. We never really poured our hearts out. We spoke in circles and analogies, skating around facts and anything that would be “emotional.”

Maybe I’m just pissed because, in the end, I don’t know the real story either—and now I never will. That silence feels heavier than I expected. Perhaps this avoidance isn’t only about protecting my peace from the living friend; it’s also about sitting with the unfinished business I have with the one who’s gone.

Grief and regret have a way of showing up together, dressed in the same old anger.

For now, I’m letting myself feel it without forcing a conversation I’m not ready for. Some stories stay half-told, and maybe that’s okay.

Live Long and Prosper ,🖖

-Dan

Today is my birthday. It was also my dad’s birthday—the day I was born on his. I always hoped of keeping that sweet tradition alive: a chain of shared birthdays stretching down the generations. Life had other plans.

My daughters both arrived in September. No overlap. My nephew was due right around our day but came a week and change late. Close, but no. Then, years later, my grandson Forrest was born the day after my birthday. One day off. I’ll take it. It feels like the universe gave me a gentle nod.

I still smile remembering those shared birthday parties. They began with balloons, piñatas, and sugar-high kids running wild. By evening the children were sprawled out, exhausted, while the adults kept going—music, stories, laughter—long into the night. Those nights hold some of my happiest memories.

Twelve years ago I wrote a piece called “Things I Would Tell My Younger Self” and promised an update in ten. I’m two years late. A lot of life happened in those twelve years.

So here, on my birthday, this older version of me has a few quieter, more hard-won words for the younger one:

Cherish every single moment with friends and family. Some of the people you love most deeply will leave sooner than you expect. Don’t let a single day slip by without holding them close.

Set boundaries. They might save you from heartbreak; they might not. But staying too involved can turn a difficult situation into something unbearable.

You’ve already come so far. Please, please stop caring so much what other people think. The things that mortify you today will make you laugh out loud in ten years.

You built high walls around who you let in. Boundaries are healthy, but you stacked so many conditions that almost no one could get through. Ease up a little.

Trust your gut even more fiercely. One day you’ll look back and realize how often it was right—and maybe you’ll even start calling yourself “intuitive” without blushing.

I know you almost gave up on finding the “right person.” Chin up. She’s coming. Someone who will love you completely, exactly as you are—no edits, no pretense.

And one last thing: you used to imagine you’d one day become a wise old man, all gravitas and solemnity. Spoiler—you won’t. You still crack up like a twelve-year-old at fart jokes and TikToks of people wiping out. That part of you isn’t going anywhere. And honestly? I’m okay with that. Maybe more than okay. It keeps the heart young.

Happy birthday, kid. We made it this far together. Here’s to more years, more laughter, and maybe—just maybe—a little more grace.

Live Long and Prosper,

— Danny

(from a blog post from 2014)

I’ve just had a “milestone” birthday, and that’s caused me to reflect back on my life. I don’t regret much…because it’s brought me to this point-a point where I’m generally happy with my life so far.

Things I would tell my kid self:

• I know your brother breaks your stuff and he is able to get away with things you wouldn’t…let it go. One day you will both look back on all that and laugh.

• Stick with something and finish! Whether it’s piano, guitar, or karate. One day you will wish you had leaned one of those skills.

• Oh, and give your mom a break-she is smothering, but she loves you.

What I would tell my teenage self:

• Don’t worry about people liking you. Be yourself. You’re pretty awesome.

• Those girls that you were afraid to talk to? They like you too. They told me.

• For God’s sake, do something about that hair!

What I would tell my 20’s self:

• Figure out what you like to do. Don’t take college classes just for the heck of it. Most of those classes you’re taking and stressing about won’t be of any use to you later.

• Don’t worry about finding the perfect girl you are going to bring home to mom. She’s going to hate her anyway.

• Don’t co-sign a loan for a friend, dummy.

• That job that you stress out about…does it really make you happy? Can you see yourself doing that for the rest of your life?

• Seriously, that hair…do something.

What I would say to my 30’s self:

• Insure your shit.

• Don’t lose your focus.

• Call your dad more.

• By the way, your mother is still going to hate whomever you bring home this time.

• At least you have hair.

What I would say to my 40’s self:

• Hey, you deserve to be happy. Stop trying to please others that don’t appreciate you and what makes you special. You are making yourself miserable.

• Stop being so scared of taking business risks. Do your thing exactly the way you envisioned it. Why wait around?

• It wouldn’t kill you to get on a treadmill every now and then, either.

Im sure that in ten years I’ll have another list for myself. Hopefully telling me that I’m still a pretty awesome sexy guy with great hair and his stuff together.

However, you never know…I could still go off the deep end. Stay Tuned.

I wrote this on the plane as we head to Tokyo. I thought it would be fitting to make it a Haiku for obvious reasons. I found itas I was going through my old social media posts.

My friend Todd Gibson encouraged me to post this kind of raw stuff after reading his material. Give him a look.

Today I lost a friend of 48 years. Javier and I met when we were both 14 years old, attending high school in Miami.

I guess we clicked because we were nerdy in the same way. We were each other’s support through rough spots.

I liked hanging out with him because he was hilarious. I used to encourage us to go on double dates because I knew my date would have a great time.

Sometimes it was exasperating to be his friend; he always had to be pushed to do things. And sometimes he would get on my nerves like a brother would.

When either of us was in crisis, the other would suggest a “drinky-vous.”

Through the years, that was a lot of drinks. We got each other through breakups, divorces, family crises, and more. We would celebrate special occasions with dinners out at different places.

One time, after I had left Miami for chiropractic school, his brother Ary called me and asked if he could send him up to Georgia to see me. He had had a fairly nasty breakup and “needed a change of scenery.”

I said, “Sure, tell him to come up!”

He didn’t have much to do, so he hung out with me and my new friends at Life University and eventually decided he was going to become a chiropractor too.

We had a bunch of adventures together. Some were just wild. Maybe I will share some when I am feeling less numb from the news.

As he aged, he became somewhat of a grump. It was harder to convince him to do anything.

I also realize now that in all those years we probably never complimented each other on anything.

So here goes:

There!

See you on the other side, dude!

I had been wanting to try out a flotation tank. Those tanks where you are in isolation for an hour to an hour and a half. The first time I heard about this was way back in the 80’s with the movie “Altered States”.

Now some 30+ years later, a flotation center opened in my city. A friend of mine decided that she was going to surprise me with a session.

The center was located in a very nice building close to the offices of a hoity-toity plastic surgery center.

The attendant showed us the facility and explained everything. He asked if I was claustrophobic. The big macho guy that lives in me said no way, so the attendant led me to my room.

He instructed me to undress, shower and get in the flotation capsule when I was ready. He made sure I understood the procedure and left.

I got in the tank and found the water was neither warm nor hot, I’m supposing it was perfectly tuned at 98.6 or somewhere in that vicinity.

Flotation in a soundproof capsule with enough salt to make you buoyant. Once you start floating, it’s like you’re in the Dead Sea or the Great Salt Lake. You don’t sink.

I got in the pod and closed the door.

Now I started to relax. I never thought that I was claustrophobic or anything, but I noticed myself getting edgy and nervous about the pod being closed up.

As I floated close to the door of the pod, I felt my breath.

I started wondering “what if this thing is airtight?” “What if there is no oxygen in here and they find a pruned up, salty corpse in here?” Not because I drowned but because I ran out of oxygen and suffocated in this airtight coffin.

I got more and more uncomfortable until I decided I must open the door- I would still lay in the flotation tank, but I would be able to breathe.

Since it was so dark, it was difficult to find somewhere to hold on so I didn’t slip while opening the door. While executing my escape, my wet salty hand touched my eyes and they started stinging from all the salt.

They were stinging bad. “What if the salt they used had something else that was toxic to my eyes?”

Oh no! Now I have to leave the pod to wipe my eyes and face! I don’t want to go blind!”

After several clumsy attempts, I was out I wiped my face and eyes and went back in-WITH THE DOOR OPEN.

I tried relaxing, but realized the room was colder than my pod and I was not as comfortable as I should be in order to be able to relax.

I CLOSED THE DOOR AGAIN.

“Ok.-you can do this! Relax.”

As I started to relax, I noticed one thing….pain.

Pain in my neck, pain in my shoulders. I realized I was holding tension there and I should let go of those places if I wanted the pain to go away.

I kept trying, -a little let go but the pain was getting worse.

This is when I became aware of all the stress and tension I was holding on to.

Around this time I start hearing my body.

I can hear my heart. I can almost hear the blood flowing through me and I notice I can hear my joints moving. It’s a weird feeling, since it feels like my even my muscles make noise as they work.

I realize that there is a low-grade buzzing and determine it is somehow related to my stressed mental state.

I have done meditiations where as you relax, you try to be in a state of feeling intense love and radiating love and so on.

I felt that if I did that, maybe I would relax a bit and hurt a bit less. So I got into my mental state: I radiated love, I accepted love, I was love.

The buzzing changed. I got louder and throatier-like a jet engine before landing.

“was that what the yogis are talking about when they talk about the “om”?

But this sound was nothing like any “om” I’d heard. It was louder and much deeper.

As I played around with these discoveries I finally stopped hurting and was able to relax.

And I really did relax….into a dream. I guess I fell asleep. And I what seemed like 5 minutes, the chime telling me my time was up started playing.

Will I do it again? Definitely.

I think next time I will be more prepared and know what to expect

Live long and prosper

-Dan

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I think about rainy days from my childhood in Panama more than I expect to.They come back without warning.

Not as a story.

More like a feeling that settles in my chest.

The rain there wasn’t dramatic.

It didn’t announce itself.

It just arrived.

Warm.

Heavy.

Steady.

Everyone knew what to do when it started.

Life didn’t stop — it simply slowed down and rearranged itself.

As a kid, rainy days felt different.

The air changed.

The sound filled everything.

Rain on roofs.

Rain on leaves.

Rain in the distance.

There was nowhere to rush to.

Nothing to fix.

Nothing to optimize.

You stayed inside a little longer.

You watched.

You listened.

I don’t remember specific events from those days.

I remember the atmosphere.

The sense that time had loosened its grip.

That the day didn’t need to prove anything.

Even now, rain does that to me.

It pulls me inward.

Not in a sad way.

In a quiet way.

Like the world has turned the volume down just enough for me to hear myself again.

Adult life feels like constant forward motion.

Plans.

Progress.

Next steps.

Rain interrupts that.

It reminds me of a version of myself that wasn’t trying to get anywhere.

A kid who didn’t need a reason for the day beyond being in it.

When those memories surface, they don’t ask for analysis.

They just want space.

So I let them pass through.

Like rain always does.

No lesson.

No conclusion.

Just a moment of remembering

before everything starts moving again.

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One day while sitting around talking to some friends they started talking about this Korean Spa in Atlanta and what a wonderful and strange experience it was. They said I definitely HAD to go and I would enjoy it.

Always looking for new experiences that may be able to help my clients, I made a mental note to visit that place the next time I was in the area.

Soon after, I had continuing education classes in Atlanta and I made a point to leave extra early so I could fit my spa experience into my schedule.

I arrived fairly early...a little after 9 AM. I Walked in, the friendly front desk attendant gave me a locker key, and a little outfit of terrycloth shorts and a T-shirt that could have been mistaken for some sort of a prison uniform.

I was surprised because there were some people sleeping on the floor! Apparently, people come in at all times (open 24-7) and then they can sleep on the heated tile floor.

I walked in got into the outfit and went into the co-ed section: A large open area with several little tile huts...these are the different saunas. Each one has different minerals embedded into the walls, giving them different properties.

the saunas

I went into one of the saunas and it wasn’t really all that hot-but I laid down on one of the mats. All of a sudden, I got really sleepy and probably would have dozed off if it wasn’t for some people coming inside the sauna.

I left that sauna and tried some of the other ones. Milled around the co-ed areas for a while and then I decided I wanted to go into the “wet” areas where they have the hot tubs, and steam saunas.

Now, the spa makes a big deal about how you have to be nude to enter the wet area. The only towel you can take in is one the size of a washcloth...and that’s not going to cover much.

Now, I’ve been in many locker rooms in my life-I don’t think I have a problem with nudity other than the occasional old man that decides to start a conversation in his birthday suit. I suppose the older you are the less you care about modesty. However, it’s hard to carry on a conversation when an old dude’s privates are losing the battle against gravity in your direct field of vision.

Here in the spa you had to be naked! Everyone was naked!

It’s tough to walk around like you don’t mind being naked like that. Trying to look past people...( no eye contact, guys!) After a while the awkwardness seemed to diminish a bit...and I could try to do the different pools of warm, hot and cold.

There were a few Korean guys that were very serious about the different pools. They were very intense, I had no desire to go into the ice cold pool, so I just relaxed in the hot pool while i observed these rituals.

The wet areas

There was a far-infrared area that I wanted to try out, but there were just too many people and after noticing that everyone was sitting on the bare surfaces with their bare surfaces, I decided not to try.

My friends had recommended that I get a massage and a detox scrub, because after doing the numbers, it was the “best deal!” That’s what I told the attendant I wanted. He gave me a blank stare and since I don’t speak Korean, I had to point to a menu of services to order my detox scrub package.

I don’t know why I expected to be taken to a private room, but he motioned for me to lay on a vinyl table behind a small divider. Here I was naked, face down and exposed to virtually everyone.

I don’t know if it was the awkwardness of the situation, but I didn’t enjoy the massage...I was hoping it would end quickly. There was nothing relaxing or therapeutic to it. Fluorescent lights, no music, just the sounds of conversations echoing on tile floor and my skin sticking and unsticking to the vinyl table.

Now it was time for my scrub! This is what I had been looking forward to for a while! He started scrubbing my skin...I couldn’t believe how rough he was doing it, It was....painful. Very painful. So painful that I didn’t have time to feel weird about me lying naked there. I wasn’t sure what he was using but I’m pretty sure it was a Brillo pad.

So this guy is going to town on my skin like he is cleaning a dirty wok. Surely he will be more delicate when he gets to the “sensitive” areas (underarms, inside of thighs) Nope. Not at all. He stops periodically to wash the dead skin off of me- it feels chunky. And he has worked the outer layer down to where plain water stings. A bit too much, I would say.

After he was done, I was dazed and I couldn’t believe what had happened. My skin was still sensitive to a shower I took before getting dressed. I was a little dazed but I had to make myself move because it was getting dangerously close to class time.

I expected to not feel good after all of this-but the truth is, I felt very energized and after a while my mind felt razor-sharp. I touched my skin and it was super soft. My elbows, which are normally smooth as alligator hide felt soft.

I may do the body scrub again, at least it won’t catch me off guard now. Overall, the Spa was a good experience.

Final Score:

Dan=0 Korean Spa=1

I was never “The Christmas Guy”.

Oh sure, when I was a kid and believed in Santa Claus I loved it! Even when I found my mom’s hiding place for our Santa presents in her closet, I was still a big fan. As I crept into adulthood, it seemed more of a chore.

I did however appreciate the fact that everyone was less of an asshole around Christmastime.

When my kids were born, then Christmas took on a different meaning. It was all for them. Their mother was a HUGE FAN of Xmas and did everything to make the girls’ holiday a magical experience.

Kim made sure we weren’t social outcasts. She made plans with friends, acquaintances, and all I basically had to do was show up and make sure I made it through the occasion with a smile on my face.

Then we divorced.

Christmas became a logistical nightmare with dueling Xmas celebrations. I’m pretty sure it was hard on the girls, so we decided to be adults and have a joint celebration.

No matter what was going on, we were going to be grownups and have a merry Christmas, dammit!

That worked relatively well. Even when she remarried, I was still invited to Xmas. I thought the new husband was ok with it (he wasn’t)-but we all pretended everything was ok and celebrated the day.

Then she got sick. Her last Christmas she couldn’t even sit at the dinner table. But we still managed. I don’t think the girls thought that would be her last Christmas. I was probably not as optimistic.

After she passed, the responsibility for keeping the Christmas tradition fell to me by default. So the next few Christmases we celebrated at their grandmas house. (Kim’s mom) and that was our “new normal.”

This year grandma informed us that due to her health, she wasn’t having a celebration and couldn’t participate. She would have presents for the girls, but not to expect much, because she couldn’t.

I assumed that eventually the girls would have their own families and we wouldn’t spend every Christmas together, but not yet.

I called Chloe to see what dates she wanted to come down for Christmas and she seemed a little bit less than enthusiastic. But I got the plane tickets.

Audrey then asked if we were having a Christmas Eve (nochebuena) celebration, or Christmas Day one, because she was going to spend it with a friend.

I didn’t realize all of this hurt my feelings until I was telling my girlfriend about it and felt a wave of disappointment and sadness come over me and ended up in tears.

I realized I DO love Christmas! I love the family aspect of it. I love that people are nicer this time of year, I love the vibe in the air. All of it.

I sincerely wish everyone reading this a Merry Christmas!

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It’s not like I feel a sense of angst or anguish when they aren’t here. They are both adults -one is 21 and the other is 24. I’ve gotten used to them not being around all the time, and honestly I really do enjoy my alone time.

I don’t know if it’s a parent thing or if it’s just a dad thing, it’s a peaceful calm feeling. My little girls are home and all is right with the world

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The other day I was getting a deep-tissue massage and my therapist was digging in to the muscles and there was pain, lots of it. I know that I must relax and allow the therapist to do their work. Lately I’ve had a lot of deep tissue work and know that once the therapist finds some tension, If I just let go there is hardly any pain and we can advance quickly.

I was doing my best, but he was finding the spots too quickly! He wasn’t really giving me time to relax the muscle fully, so there was some pain. That’s when something told me to go higher level than the muscles, to go tell my mind to yield all resistance.

That was it! When I got to the mindset of yielding to all resistance, the therapist was able to get to all the muscles and there was no pain.

So that got me thinking…what if you gave in to ALL resistance? What if resistance is what brings heartache and suffering in life?

What if you really opened up and let God’s will manifest in your life? I’m not trying to be all religious here-(insert your favorite deity in that place-(the Universe, or the Great Spirit, Buddha, the Great Pumpkin or whatever you else you like.

What if your resistance is prolonging your misery? What if it’s all planned out and your stupid ass is delaying progress?

In my life, the important changes were initially never welcomed. The biggest changes came with some sort of a loss-loss of employment, loss of relationship, or even the loss of a person (like a death)

While I never took some losses well, they have shaped me into who I’ve become. Maybe its my resistance that caused all this collateral damage.

Maybe next time I will bend rather than break.

Live Long and Prosper.

-Danny

If you didn’t already know, Ted Lasso is a comedy series on AppleTV+. The premise is that a football coach from the US is hired by a British Premier football league (soccer) team to coach. Despite having no soccer experience he put in charge of AFC Richmond, a mediocre team in London.

1. Be a goldfish

“Do you know what the happiest animal in the world is? It’s a goldfish. You know why? Got a 10-second memory. Be a goldfish, Sam.” - Ted Lasso

One of the most memorable lines from Ted Lasso is when he tells his player Sam to be a goldfish after he makes a mistake on the field. What he means by that is to forget about the past and focus on the present. Don’t dwell on your failures or regrets, but learn from them and move on.

2. Be nice to people.

Be nice to people, even try to get to know what going on with them. Ted made a point to ask the groundskeeper what his name was and Nate said “no one ever asks my name” Turns out Nate had a lot to offer the team, and was promoted to be a coach.

3. Don’t “settle” for someone in a relationship

“You deserve someone who makes you feel like you’ve been struck by f—ing lightning.” - Roy Kent

One of the most romantic moments in Ted Lasso is when Roy Kent tells Rebecca Welton that she deserves someone who makes her feel like she’s been struck by lightning. He says this after she goes on a date with a guy who is just “fine”.

This is a beautiful lesson for all of us, especially in our relationships. We deserve someone who makes us feel alive, who sparks joy in us, who loves us for who we are. We deserve someone who is not just fine, but amazing.

4. Everyone deserves a second chance

I believe in hope. I believe in believe.” - Ted Lasso

One of the core values that Ted Lasso lives by is his belief in hope and believe. He believes that people can change for the better, that mistakes can be corrected, that wounds can be healed, and that bridges can be rebuilt. He believes that everyone deserves a second chance, no matter how bad they’ve messed up.

We’ve seen this belief in action throughout the show, as Ted gives second chances to people who have wronged him or others. He gives a second chance to Rebecca Welton, the owner of AFC Richmond, who hired him with the intention of sabotaging the team and ruining her ex-husband’s legacy. He gives a second chance to Jamie Tartt, the star player who was selfish, arrogant, and disrespectful to his teammates and coaches. He gives a second chance to Rupert Mannion, Rebecca’s ex-husband who cheated on her and tried to ruin her life.

In each case, Ted shows kindness, compassion, and forgiveness to these people, even when they don’t deserve it or expect it. He sees the good in them, even when they don’t see it themselves. He helps them grow as individuals, even when they resist or reject his help. He inspires them to be better versions of themselves, even when they fall short or relapse.

5. Sometimes you have to let go and move on

Like when Ted realized his marriage was over. At some point you have to realize when it’s better to just pack up and move on.

6. Sometimes you will be the only person around that can help.

Sometimes a person may need help and you will be the only person that can connect and reach this person. You should not walk away,

For instance- in season 2, McAdoo was in a slump, Rob Kent took him to his old neighborhood and told him to enjoy the game like Roy did when he was a kid.

Or when Trent Crimm, provided support for Colin when he was struggling to come out as gay.

Your experiences and background will make you the only possible person to help someone at some point, You should always try to help.

What can we learn from Ted Lasso?

Ted Lasso is not a saint or a superhero. He’s a human being who has his own flaws and struggles. He’s not perfect or infallible. He makes mistakes and regrets them. He has doubts and fears. He has pain and trauma.

But what makes Ted Lasso special is his ability to overcome his challenges with grace and optimism. His ability to see the best in people and situations. His ability to spread joy and hope wherever he goes.

Ted Lasso teaches us that everyone deserves a second chance, including ourselves. That we shouldn’t judge people by their worst moments, but by their potential for growth. That we shouldn’t give up on people who have hurt us or disappointed us, but try to understand them and help them.

Ted Lasso teaches us that kindness is not weakness, but strength. That forgiveness is not foolishness, but wisdom. That love is not naive, but powerful.

Ted Lasso teaches us that we can be better people, if we believe in ourselves and each other.

And as Ted Lasso would say, “Have a great day!”

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When I was a kid I was a bit of a bookworm. My parents bought us the World Book Encyclopedia and it came with a set for kids called “Childcraft”

I devoured those books-I pretty much read everything in the Childcraft series and when I was done with that, I would take one volume-Like “A” to my room and read. (this is why I’m good at team trivia)

The children’s books had a lot of color pics and I would love to just read and I would fantasize about visiting strange lands and countries.

There was a particular photo of a giant Buddha statue that I always looked at and I remember thinking “I’m gonna see that in person someday”

Since then, I’ve sort of developed an affinity for Buddha statues and collected them until a wife told me that we couldn’t have those figures in a Christian home.

Fast forward to 2019 when my daughter Audrey and I took a trip to Japan. She had always wanted to go and I had a bunch of SkyMiles burning a hole in my wallet, so we booked a trip.

We had a great time, but we mostly stayed close to Tokyo. As our vacation was winding down- I suggested we check out some nearby towns and maybe go out to the countryside. I think the people at the hotel suggested we go to Kamakura. We made plans and booked the train for the next day.

We took the train, it was a nice trip we had to walk up a hill because there were some temples or something that we should not forget to see.

Walked up the hill and imagine my surprise when I saw the Buddha.

IT WAS THE SAME BUDDHA THAT WAS IN MY BOOK!

I started crying and was just in shock that this happened, while Audrey just looked at me like “what the hell is his problem?”

the grand buddha at kamakura

So I manifested that some forty-something years later. Next time I’m manifesting, It won’t take me as long, promise.

Oh, and I’m slowly building up my Buddha statue collection again.

I don’t mind being alone. I think when I’m by myself I’m pretty good company.

In fact, one of the best trips I’ve taken was a solo trip to Barcelona. I had found a deal and was ready to pull the trigger but everyone was wishy-washy about going, so I said “f-it, I’m going!”

I saw what I wanted to see, ate when I wanted to eat, (and what I wanted to eat), got up when I wanted with no one saying:

”you came all this way out here and now you’re sleeping in?”

I felt like George Costanza (Seinfeld reference) sitting in his apartment in his underwear biting into a hunk of cheese!

I have been married twice and in several long-term relationships, but lived as a single guy for over 10 years. I’ve had my daughters living with me on and off throughout the years. But I relish the level of autonomy I have in my life. I resented being a “fixer upper” in some relationships. I don’t really want to change. I’m perfectly happy with myself the way I am.

I’ve been on the dating apps, been fixed up by friends, all that to lukewarm results.

In fact, at one time a friend of mine and I would compare how many times we had swiped left on the apps and we sat around talking about dating horror stories.

So one Friday night I half-heartedly answered a chat and agreed to meet someone on a date. She told me she was going out with friends and I could just meet her out.

Perfect! This meant that if it was not a good date, I could ditch with not much effort.

We hit it off immediately. There was chemistry-lots of it. (or was it the drinks?)

I didn’t want to seem too eager for our next date, but we enjoyed each other’s company. Pretty soon we were planning a trip together. This was a test to see if we could travel well together.

She passed and apparently so did I.

I’m now in a situation that I don’t feel judged for what I say, what I think, my off-color jokes, my nerdiness, my wanderlust…

It seems strange to me.

So now I’m in a place where I’m accepted for all my eccentricities and weirdnesses and I don’t have to censor or “tone it down”.

My daughters and friends have said that she’s “not my type”-maybe that’s exactly the point.

She’s also on team Danny. I feel she can sense my needs and helps without being asked. (not that I ever ask for help)

She has been able to connect with my daughters, one of them struggles with mental health issues. It has made such a difference for her. She now has someone she can confide in.

Best of all, I’m having a great time! She manages to turn a mundane Wednesday night into an exciting Friday night. We could be out doing something exciting or just sitting around doing nothing at all.

My life was great before, but now it’s…better.

I guess that’s the moral of the story. We were both in good places in our lives and we were kind of hesitant to be in a relationship.

Don’t expect someone to fill a void in your life and MAKE you happy…

Be happy and maybe you’ll find someone who makes your life better.

Hey Babe…I love you!

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One of my favorite quotes is:

“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication” (Leonardo Da Vinci)

To me that means, that for anything to reach the level of art, it has to de distilled into it’s simplest form.

Picasso started painting in classical style, but as he refined his work, he went simpler and simpler.

I know when I’m being lied to by how complicated the excuse is.

Truth is simple.

I’ve been trying to apply this concept into my life:

Relationship complicated? end it.

Don’t want to do something? Don’t.

As long as you don’t try to control other people , (which you can’t do anyway) and have zero expectations, you’ll notice that your life starts changing.

and simplifying.

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When I was a kid, my mom and dad used to fight a lot. Sometimes I could hear them arguing after my bedtime.

I must’ve been 5 or 6 years old. I wake up and I’m not feeling well. Im gonna go tell my parents that Ifeel sick. I can hear them arguing, I don’t really know what they are fighting about this time, but it’s nothing new.

I walk into the living room where they are and tell them “I’m not feeling well”

They stop fighting and they spring into action!

Mom checks my temperature - I have a fever, dad goes to the pharmacy to get stuff for me (probably Bay Rum-i used to get a rubdown with that stuff to bring a fever down)

They act like they are concerned about me.

AND THEY STOPPED FIGHTING.

Shortly after that I developed asthma. I would wheeze and cough and coudn’t breathe.

For Most of my childhood I was the kid that couldn’t exert himself, or I would go into a full-blown asthma attack.

I got all sorts of medications, but mostly a strong cough syrup with codeine. I guess it was pretty strong too, because I developed high blood pressure as a kid.

Being a kid with asthma sucked, when I would exert myself too much, I would start wheezing and couldn’t breathe. After a while, I got kind of used to it. I spent a lot of time reading . I read the entire World Book Encyclopedia for God’s sake!

I tried to be a normal kid- but whenever we played games at school, I was always picked last (or close to it.) I guess I never developed any sort of athletic ability.

That was practically my life for most of grade school.

When I made it to junior high, there was a coach in my school that used to train athletes in the evenings. He asked me if I would be willing to go run at the big track in Colón, but I didn’t want to do it.

Fast forward a few years and I moved to the States. I’m in 9th grade and in PE class.

This new coach says: “Today we are going to run a few times around the school.” Immediately I raise my hand and say “I can’t run because of MY ASTHMA!”

He took me aside and said: “Son, you are going to try. You are going to do your best”

I felt like I didnt have a choice so I tried.

And I did it!

And I did it the next day too!

At fifteen, I was just 135 pounds and was six feet two inches tall. All arms and legs. I realized my long legs made me pretty fast for short distances.

Hmm. Where was my asthma? No matter, I tried out for a few sports and enjoyed playing. This coach actually gave me a trophy for “most improved.”

My self-confidence was improving.

The doctors said I outgrew my asthma or the change in climate helped.

Many years later as I am very interested in personal growth, this therapy session brought this realization to me:

I had created my asthma to prevent my parents from fighting!

Whaaat? That’s crazy! Maybe it is.

My subconscious had tried to fix a situation in the best way a 6 year old subconscious knows how.

It affected my whole life.

Now in practice many years later, I am constantly reminding clients not to use negative self talk, to see themselves as vibrant healthy people.

Our body is a representation of our subconscious.

Have the healthiest subconscious mind you can possibly have.

Peace.

-Dan