Field Notes #33

The door is open. If you don't change lanes, or a collision costs you nothing, keep what you've learned and don't do another program. If you can put one blind spot on a napkin, stay.

Field Notes #32

Ten days in Maui, a rented Jeep, and a holiday I ruined. Five blind spots are not equal. One is a shrug, most are normal, and one will get you squished.

Field Notes #31

Only after you feel the room do you think about the room. The programs run one way; the pause runs the other. And before you practice, you'll tell yourself a story. Make it a good one.

Field Notes #30

Every page in every program looks the same. That's not economy; that's the method. Until this page bores you, you haven't reached the doorway of integration.

Information: I heard what you said. Education: I understand what you said. Integration: I have practiced what you said. Most people stop at two. Five Field Notes about the page everyone skips.

Field Notes #28

I cheated. I added blind spots to the fifty that shouldn't exist. Or I found something coming out of the cocoon and I don't understand it. That's not a brag. That's a confession.

Field Notes #27

No one's got more rabies shots than me. There's only four and I have all four. And they're non-negotiable.

Field Notes #26

No crying in baseball. I don't mourn; I say I lost and move on. When I collide with you there, I steal meaning from your life. Losing well is my red line.

Field Notes #25

I built Just Now so you can't fix it. My default in a crisis is to fix. The red line is to embrace helplessness, and not to let you fix it either.

Field Notes #24

I am not a naturally gentle person. Trauma therapy taught me that the parts of me that are little must be treated gently. Be really, really careful. Be really, really gentle.

Field Notes #23

My distorted scripts are irritating. Yours might be deadly. My red line in My Choice is that I'd be cavalier with your wellbeing, and that you'd watch me and be cavalier with yours.

Field Notes #22

I carry in my body a feeling that I'm stupid, so I put more force into a room than it needs. The first blind spot in My Room is me. Check you at the door.

Field Notes #21

I pushed my body to the redline every day for decades. If I put myself out of play, I can't help anyone. Recorded in glasses, because this one is about the senses.

Field Notes #20

My wife and my son are the sun and the moon. Threaten them, even reasonably, and I'm going to overreact. This isn't about information. It's about formation. It takes reps.

Field Notes #19

I hit your sacred cow and it's all hamburger for me. People never forget you touched the untouchable. That's my red line in My Culture, and I check it every time I change lanes.

Field Notes #18

There is a red line in everyone's snapshot. This is mine for My Leadership, and it isn't the one you'd guess from the card. The first of eleven.

Field Notes #17

You don't have to be a combat vet to act like one. The gut is a sense. The outfielder is already standing where the ball will land.

Field Notes #16

I left school at sixteen. I still feel stupid, despite all the evidence. Objects in the mirror can appear closer than they are, and when the mirror lies, you turn and look out the back window.

Field Notes #15

Modest is when I lie to you about me, and we both know I'm lying. Nice is when I lie to you about you, and I know I'm lying.

Field Notes #14

"What you meant never arrives. What they felt always does." — Claude Instance - Opus 4.8