I typically enjoy breakfast at my kitchen table, with a pleasant view of my back yard. Recently, I was reminded of the poet Mary Oliver’s wise advice that our work is to pay attention. Our first job, as poets, and people, is to notice things. But as individuals, we all have our own unique perspective. So, what happens when we change our viewpoint?

Today, I’ve shared two photos. Take a look at the first one. How many “spikes” do you see on the cactus plant?  I see exactly one.

This is why I was surprised a few days ago when I was sitting on my sofa about twenty feet away from my kitchen table and happened to look out at my backyard. There was the same cactus I had observed from my kitchen, only now, how many “spikes” did I see?  Take a look at the second photo. That’s right — I saw two.

Now, I don’t know much about cactus etiquette, but apparently, they’re capable of a little deception.

So how many “spikes” are there?  Obviously two. But from my first vantage point there was only one, because the second grew directly behind the first, and was “hidden” by the first.

Had you asked me last week “how many spikes on the cactus plant”, I would have replied, with total certainty, “one”.  And I would have been wrong.

Same facts.  Different viewpoints.  Entirely different conclusions.

I’m a pragmatist. So, my mind immediately says to me, “How can this observation be helpful to me in a tangible way?”

Here’s the tangible takeaway: when I feel certain, I should change seats. Because sometimes noticing isn’t enough. To assess the facts in a potentially deceptive world you have to vary your perspective.

Not literally every time (though it wouldn’t hurt my posture), but mentally. When my conclusion feels “obvious,” that’s the moment to ask: might I look at this from a different vantage point? Maybe there is something behind the only spike I can see from this viewpoint?

In business, this means I don’t trust a single source—especially my own intuition. I ask a tenant, then the manager, then the maintenance person who saw the problem first hand. Same facts, different angles, different realities. In investing, it means I look for the hidden downside that’s hidden behind the upside. In relationships, it means I assume the other person might have another side to them that I can’t see from my chair.

Practically, I’m adopting a useful habit: before I act on a strong opinion, I force myself to generate at least two alternative explanations and then I seek out one person whose viewpoint is likely to disagree with mine. It’s a low-cost test for hidden spikes.

The world doesn’t change when I move twenty feet. What changes is what I’m able to notice. And noticing, it turns out, is only the first half of wisdom.

Alan

Both of my parents were professional musicians, so in our house learning to play a musical instrument was assumed, not optional. I was expected to study piano and French horn.  At my parents’ urging, I also studied musical composition.

I was a good composition student in the narrowest sense. I showed up. I listened. I did the assignments.  But I never felt compelled to write my own sonatas.   If there had been a prize for Pleasantly Cooperative Mediocrity, I might have won first place.

But I was there simply because I was supposed to be. (My youthful cooperation did have limits. Unfortunately, I successfully resisted the idea of brushing my teeth, and my winning smile today is based upon two dental implants and veneer throughout.)

My composition instructor was Joseph Oroop, who taught out of his studio in the hills above Barham Boulevard in Los Angeles, not too far from where I live today.  After I had been studying with him for more than three months, Mr. Oroop said he was puzzled. Most of his students either loved composition and started bringing in their own work, or they quit. I did neither, and he wondered why.

It was a fair question.

I thought about it for several weeks. And then I quit. I simply did not have a passion for music and realized I was not destined to be a music composer.  Not a tragedy. Just the truth.

My instructor, however, did teach me one important lesson.

We are often told that persistence is virtue and quitting is failure.  Not necessarily.

Yes, persistence is admirable — but not when you’re stubbornly spending time, effort and resources in pursuing a futile struggle.

To this day, whenever I pass Barham Boulevard on the 101, I still gaze into the hills and remember Joseph Oroop. Not because he turned me into a composer, but because he helped me understand the difference between discipline and desire. He saved me from years of pursuing the wrong vocation.

And now, Mr. Oroop, I have become a composer after all, but my field is words. I’m in love with the beauty, subtlety, and exceptional variety of the English language and I‘m passionate about composing — sentences and paragraphs.

I love one word in particular, and I use it to sign off on every email. Somehow, it always fits.

Thanks.

Alan

The above saying was coined by the humorist Jean Shepherd and served as the title of his best-selling collection of short stories. One of those stories was made into the classic movie “A Christmas Story.” I also understand that the saying has been used as a sign and posted in bars and other business establishments.  With good reason.

 Note that this applies to “human” relationships. That does not include our relationship with Artificial Intelligence, which can be decidedly untrustworthy, because AI often has a mind of its own. Just now, AI, (or perhaps it was my right index finger), conspired with my iPhone to turn the word “trust” into “tryst,” which would give this blog a decidedly different meaning. Tryst me on that one. Tryst is the word with a “try” in it. Repeated “trying” does not engender trust. Trust. That’s the word with an “us” in it and is a concept essential for human survival.

When I leave my house, I trust hundreds of drivers every day. This trust, over 86 years, has been betrayed just three times — by drivers turning left in front of me at an intersection, without the courtesy of a turn signal. My body shops thank them. My body itself thanks seat belts. My auto insurance agents thank everyone.

I reserve my personal trust for people, not institutions or things (note the AI story above). When I drew wills for clients it seemed to me that institutional trustees often did not merit the first five letters of their title. (I know, word play is work but also fun, and, hopefully, rewarding.) (Oh, uh, the machines are at again — just now AI tried to turn rewarding it into rewording — which I suppose is its own kind of wordplay. But AI should take note: I am fully capable of creating my own mistakes.)

Without trust, there can be no real love. With trust we have accomplished a moon landing.

To me trust is knowing that another human being will look out for my interests above their own, even if temporarily.  That’s why I did not expect my law firm — my former law firm, that is — (they shall remain deservedly nameless) — to add a paragraph appointing themselves as a trustee should Daveen ever have the audacity to remarry after my death.

That used to be called malpractice. Today, apparently, it’s merely law practice.

I rarely write about politics. But I do read editorials. The column from which this blog emerged concerned a proposed resolution of the current Iran conflict.

Is the proposal perfect?

No.

Does it require trust?

Yes.

Are both sides completely trustable?

That’s a rhetorical question.

Alan