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

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