Thank You For the Non-Zero-Sum and Getting What You Need

•August 2, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Originally posted on LEA KELLEY SAYING THANK YOU FOR...:

Game theory, the mathematical theory which can be applied to behaviors, strategic situations, economics, social sciences, and a lot of other situations that one wouldn’t consider to have anything to do with math, explains the zero-sum game concept. 

Zero sum game can be described as a situation in which one person’s gain is another person’s loss. 

No matter how much of something you start with, it all comes down to zero after you pass it around and distribute it into “Haves” and “Have Nots”.

The premise being there’s only so much to go around and it gets competitively passed back and forth in a win/lose scenario for all participants involved until there’s a zero balance left on the table, in the relationship, in the grain silo, on the cake plate, or the planet, for that matter. 

I don’t like the part about the losers.

Game theory is actually far more…

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Thank You for the Marathon of Life and The Sprint Runner

•July 2, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Originally posted on LEA KELLEY SAYING THANK YOU FOR...:

I look athletic, but I’m not.

It’s just genetics, not endurance or discipline or anything I did on purpose.

But if Life was a metaphoric action sport, I would be all about Track and Field, not a long, steady marathon.

I like the multiple options of pole vaulting over obstacles, sprint running past drama fires, long jumping into creative endeavors, and…  throwing an occasional discus when I have an olympic tantrum about my lack of endurance for tedious marathons when I need a nap.

Life is short and the defined perimeters of one competitive marathon can consume a whole lifetime before we get to the finish line.

And seriously, who wants to get there sooner and steadier?

Marathons are about endurance;

Endurance: noun, the  power of enduring an unpleasant or difficult process or situation without giving way : the capacity of something to last or to withstand wear…

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Thank You for Important Messy People

•July 1, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Originally posted on LEA KELLEY SAYING THANK YOU FOR...:

Some folks believe that cluttered desks and messy spaces are indicative of a spontaneous, over achieving person who accomplishes more when surrounded by chaos.

Einstien had a notoriously messy desk.

But that’s like saying a Zen monestary invites dullards and sloths.

I’m no Einstein.

Too much clutter inhibits my creative faculties.

Nor am I a Monk.

But I can concentrate better when my environment is clutter free.

Some people say “ I don’t have time to clean my house, I have too many other things to do with my time.”

I have seen this in action and believe it to be true.

Often that time is used looking for keys, trying to find a clean cup for their coffee, apologizing to guests for lack of available seating, moving things around to find other things they need, and mumbling I know it’s here somewhere while a friend is being held hostage, waiting…

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Thank You for Non Light Beings, Einstein, and Bob Marley

•June 6, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Originally posted on LEA KELLEY SAYING THANK YOU FOR...:

I am frequently amazed at how things change when they are placed in a different light—including people.

Light travels at 186,000 miles per second.

It’s generated by electromagnetic waves, or vibrations of magnetic and electric fields.

Then, those little guys inside atoms, you know, the protons, the electrons, and the neutrons, pick up the vibrations like they are at a Bob Marley concert.

They get all excited and start dancin’ around until one of ‘em—usually an electron—gets knocked off the dance floor and starts makin’ a scene as they try to find the center again.

Light doesn’t need anything or anybody for it to exist, it just is.

It simply rides the vibes and travels around, bonkin’ us in the retina and makin’ a seen.

Some folks seem like they don’t need anybody else to exist.

They appear to be independent and not effected by the vibrations…

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Thank You for Religious Revelations and the Scientific Minds of Children

•March 16, 2015 • Leave a Comment

When I was in fourth grade I had not been exposed to much religion yet. A little girl on the playground told me “Jesus takes care of little children”. Her name was Carla Phillips and she was evidently practicing to marry a minister, or be one, or was being raised by one. I can’t know. But she told me about praying and how prayers would come true.

Her statement hit me like I had just discovered gold.

I was the oldest of four and I believed that I was the one who had to take care of my little brothers in a very challenging home environment with a sick mother and an absent father. So this news was quite a relief. I was excited to get home and test the theory.

I walked through the door and gathered my three little brothers around (my mother was typically sleeping during most days).

“Hey you guys, guess what? You’re not gonna believe this, but Carla Phillips says there’s a guy named Jesus who will take care of us if we pray, and she showed me how to do it!”

They had some questions that I couldn’t answer, but reluctantly, they followed my instructions about the praying part— just in case.

So we all got down on our knees, just like Carla Phillips had said we should. I lined us up in a row next the radiator that heated our living room.

I kept Mikey next to me so he wouldn’t squirm and scare Jesus away (He was only three).

There we were, four kids ages 3, 6, 7, and 8, with our hands clasped together, faces near the floor, and butts in the air, next to the radiator like it was the holy mecca of magically appearing people we had never heard of.

I prayed out loud so my brothers would know what we were supposed to be praying for.

I had explained beforehand that we had to believe in the guy because this magic had something to do with “faith”.

“Dear Jesus”, I guess I thought praying was like writing a letter to a stranger, “If you are really there, and Carla Phillips is telling the truth, please make a loaf of bread appear on top of the heater when we open our eyes.” I waited for a moment and added, “Thank you if this is true.”

We stayed there, with our butts in the air, and our eyes squeezed shut, for a few more seconds to give the Jesus guy time to sneak the loaf of bread onto the top of the radiator.

Then I opened my eyes, looked on top of the radiator, and nudged the boys into getting off the floor.

“Never mind you guys, Carla Phillips lied”, I said matter of factly, “There ain’t no guy named Jesus, and there ain’t no loaf of bread on the heater.”

I tested the Carla Phillip’s theory a few times later, when my brothers were not present, but always the same result.

Thank you, Carla Phillips, for trying to give me some faith.

I found my own version decades later.

Yesterday, I was helping some friends, Linda and Dave, in the garden. Rye grass seed was being scattered by one of them, and a few of the seeds landed on the deck. I made a joke about them magically sprouting into a loaf of rye bread overnight.

This morning, I was sitting on the patio and the same friend who scattered the rye grass seed, put a loaf of rye bread on the table.

I burst into tears and laughter simultaneously.

Maybe a loaf of bread can appear from seedling prayers. Jesus took a while, and he looked a lot like my friend, Dave, but I  know now, that manifestation of one’s destiny is a journey of faith. And faith can come when you least expect it—with a sense of humor.

Thank you for “The Path”

•December 17, 2014 • 3 Comments

There is a line in the center of your hand that runs from your wrist toward your fingers—it’s called the Path of Destiny (if you adhere to the palmistry sort of thing or happen to know Chiero.)

In my twenties, I frequently pondered my “Path of Destiny”.

I studied all manner of mystic divination, scientific explanations, philosophical perspectives, and folk lore to help me plan a well informed journey down this path.

In my thirties, the path began to narrow. I found myself walking down the center of the path, focused on the end of the road like it was the ultimate goal.

Presently, the path is covered with dried leaves that have fallen from the tree of opportunity and I am shuffling through in a zigzag pattern, making a lot of rustling noises while I look for fertile soil under the mulch.

Some folks choose their path, some inherit it from their parents or their culture, some just  come upon their path via a wrong turn or a right turn.

The great poet, Robert Frost, hung out on some farmer’s path. He is probably still sitting there, watching the woods fill up with snow while his horse gets confused. That’s what happens when you take the road less traveled, you end up in the woods on a snowy evening.

For some of us (the lucky ones) there are a lot of metaphoric paths to choose from in this life.

Some of them are not so much a choice as an inevitability due to our innate temperaments and fated birth environments but none the less, we like to explore them anyway.

GARDEN PATH: For the idealistic sort of person

NEURON PATH: For one who is easily over stimulated

BEATEN PATH: For those who fall from the grace of the garden path

SOCIO PATH:   For wannabe social beings that don’t play well with others

BIKE PATH:     For peddlers of work out videos

MISSILE PATH: For those who are direct and frequently miss the point

PATH OLOGY: For students and obsessive observers of their own path

NATURO PATH: These folks generally end up in Oregon growing cannabis and crazy mushrooms

PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE: Martial artists and couch potatoes prefer this one

Thank You for the Woman With Talking Eyes

•November 26, 2014 • 10 Comments

When I was nine years old, a woman came to our door with a large box of food the day before Thanksgiving.

She was a petite, kind looking woman in a navy blue coat. She had no idea what she was in for when she traipsed through the Michigan snow to knock on our door.

My mother, a paranoid schizophrenic, just happened to be having one of her episodes when this gentle woman came to our door on her mission to contribute to Humanity.

“What the Hell do you want?” My mother was not used to people knocking on our door.

Nor were her four children who stood in the background, peering through the doorway at the woman carrying a much needed box of food that appeared bigger than her.

“Mrs. Kelley, we were told by the school that your family might enjoy this Thanksgiving box and I’d like to leave it for you and your children.” The woman stepped back from the door a couple inches.

My mother yelled at the woman, “Who the Hell told you we needed charity? I don’t want anybody’s Goddamn charity! You can take that back where you got it and go piss up a rope!”

My three younger brothers and I remained quiet in the back ground as we had learned better than to contradict anything my mother said when she was like this. Our hearts sank as we had no food in the house for three days and this beautiful woman was being admonished for being our hero.

I stared at the woman’s face peeking through the space between the door jamb and my mother’s shoulder. She was trying to make eye contact with me.

She looked down at the box of food and then at me as my mother continued her threatening posture and paranoid rant a couple feet away from the woman’s bravery.

“You can all go to Hell! I don’t want anything from any of you! You just want me to kiss your ass! I’m not going to do it! Get the hell outta here!”

I sensed the woman was trying to tell me something as she responded to my mother’s paranoid accusations.

“Okay, Mrs. Kelley, I understand. There was probably a mistake. I’ll just take this to a family who might need it. I am so sorry to have bothered you. This is a lovely porch.”

She looked at me directly in the eyes and again at the food box and then to the porch next to the door.

I got it.

She said good bye. My mother slammed the door and went to her room mumbling about charity.

My younger brothers looked confused when I waited for a few minutes to make sure my mother was going to stay in her room and then went back to the door.

“She’s already gone, Lea. It’s too late.” one of them whispered.

I quietly opened the door and looked at the place on the porch next to it.

The box was there!

I made the best Thanksgiving dinner a nine year old can make out of canned goods and my mother came out to eat with us as though she had no idea how the food got there.

To that lovely woman in Midland, Michigan:

Who ever you are, where ever you are now, I will always remember your talking eyes.

Thank you.



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