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Talking to Randy about this got me thinking about my roots, and in particular the ones I don’t share with just anyone… the ones that go deep enough that they might not be obvious to people who don’t know me, but have shaped and fed my choices and values from my earliest days — and likely always will. Bedtime stories in my childhood often consisted of Laura Ingalls Wilder-style narratives of trying to eke out a modest life in an environment that was often hostile: sheets that froze to the walls of a poorly-insulated house in the winters, beds shared by several siblings, encounters with forest creatures, and profound gratitude and appreciation for the simple pleasures in life. From him, I learned to savour and treasure words, to hold language sacred, to excavate layers of meaning and history beneath these crude but beautiful tools we use to try and grasp a little of this life. A pause, here, to acknowledge that not all parents instill values we share, that lineage may be traced apart from blood and DNA, and that your roots may have required (re)planting in more fertile soil.

It’s part curiosity experiment, part manifesto, part kick-off for a big project I’ve had on the back burner for months, or maybe longer. You know, the grossest, lowest common denominator, makes-your-skin-crawl kind of stuff. It bothers me a lot that while there are lots (and lots and lots) of entrepreneurs doing things differently, the top ten lists for business books and podcasts are mostly unfettered, greed- and scarcity-driven bullshit all the way down. However, there’s a whole industry, and broader cultural forces, working to make you believe that making your business successful is inevitably in tension with, you know, wacky shit like cooperation, respectful relationships, having healthy lives outside of work, shared status and power, and generally leaving the world a better place than you found it.

In December, I spent two nights in a wonderful little hotel that has a vinyl record library and a turntable in every room. Ten minutes later, I was in my room with a stack of vinyl, listening to Lou Canon’s dreamy Suspicious and feeling something ineffable I hadn’t felt in a very long time. that feels, viscerally, the warmth of the sound that emanates from vinyl; that finds comfort in the little pops and crackles of dust; that pulses along with the steady, empty rhythm of the record’s final groove. The Erotic as Power,” from Sister Outsider “A reminder of my capacity for feeling”: that’s what I experienced.

There’s a certain person you know who’s a good listener. You can always turn to them when you’re wrestling with a conundrum; they’re patient, thoughtful, and slow to judge or interrupt your train of thought