What possible connection could there be between blood and the iconic story of the three bears?

Thanks for asking.

As everyone probably already knows, in the tale of the three bears (according to Goldilocks), one bowl of porridge was too hot, one too cold, and the third “just right.” By analogy, that is like what I’m currently dealing with in my life. Just substitute the word “blood” for “porridge”.

Fewer than two months ago I had a TIA — that’s quick speak for a minor stroke, caused by a blood clot. If you want the full scientific name, a TIA is a Transient Ischemic Attack – a stroke that resolves on its own without any lasting damage. But it serves as an early warning for a more serious stroke, and preventative measures should be taken.

So, both immediately and long-term:

If my blood is too thick — another, possibly more serious, stroke.

If my blood is too thin — lots of nose or other bleeds.

So, like Goldilocks, I need the porridge of my blood to be “just right” every single day for the rest of my (long) life.

To achieve that result, my attentive doctors have prescribed two different blood thinners. Why take chances? I’m told that each medication works differently. Sometimes, I wish I were a doctor myself. My parents pushed for that, often, and I declined just as often. I told them — repeatedly — that I faint at the sight of blood. Especially my own.

But I’m older now, so I probably won’t faint, provided my veins and arteries are coursing with sufficient blood.

Fortunately, today when I have a medical question I can call one of my sons, or his wife, who are both doctors. Although their usual advice is to “check with my own doctor.” (When I say that I would like a second opinion. They respond, “And you’re handsome too.”)

I’m not complaining, just stating the facts.

There must be wisdom hidden in the above. I’ll try to sum it up.

1. Don’t get old. It’s a mistake.
2. I’m still glad I’m not a doctor. They deal with other people’s blood.
3. The life of a bear is much simpler than that of an 86-year-old man who is plans to remain active for many, many years.

Growl.

Alan

I’m sitting on a comfortable sofa in the lobby of the Wexner building at Harvard University, waiting for the 2026 Behavioral Science and Policy Association to begin their annual conference. My younger son is one of the co-founders of the BSPA and its conference.

The last time I graced these hallowed halls was more than 30 years ago when my older son (now in his 60’s) was enrolled as a student. I sat in on one of his physics classes and while I understood the professor’s greeting, “Good morning, gentlemen,” I didn’t understand a word of the lecture that followed.

I remember back then feeling impressed by its reputation as an elite institution of higher learning. I believed a Harvard degree was a sure bellwether of success. But as I’m sitting on this couch, I also think about an episode of the TV show “Shark Tank,” in which a graduate from Havard seeking to fund his genius idea was so entirely obnoxious that the Sharks didn’t bite. They didn’t even nibble.

I guess that even a degree from Harvard is not a license to be unpleasant to the hands that might potentially fund you.

On the ride over to the conference from the Marriott Hotel in Cambridge, my son mentioned that in organizing the event, the university had been both difficult and expensive to deal with. I told him what Daveen might have said. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy both of your experiences dealing with Harvard — your first, and your last.”

Actually, I’m writing this blog as a favor to Harvard, with the genuine hope that they listen, and perhaps consider that reputations, even theirs, can wax and wane. And theirs is waning. (On a similar subject, I highly recommend the book I’m reading, “How to Rule the World” by Theo Baker. It’s a great expose written by an undergraduate at Stanford University.)

I should mention that when I graduated from high school, I seriously considered applying to Harvard. I ultimately didn’t, but only because I wanted to stay close to my high school sweetheart, and so I made the decision to attend USC. Later we married, and our three terrific children thanked us.

All of this is by way of saying, sometimes we do the right thing for the wrong reason. Or maybe, in my case, it was the right thing for the right reason.

Homage to Shakespeare’s Puck —

“Ah, what fools these mortals be.”

Foolishly yours,

Alan

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