On The Fly

In this episode, the 2026 Sinkankas Symposium. Let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t arrive in a DeLorean. No flux capacitor, no dramatic lightning strike—just a Saturday parking pass and a name badge. And yet, somewhere between the rotunda doors and the first handshake, it happened anyway. This past Saturday, April 25th, I was transported—effortlessly and completely—back in time at the 20th Annual Sinkankas Symposium on the GIA campus in Carlsbad. Walking into that magnificent main campus rotunda early with my colleagues, Paul Mattlin and Glenn Wargo, felt like wrapping myself in a familiar, gem-encrusted blanket. It was less a building than a family living room where nobody ever really forgets your name. The halls were quiet (a rare and beautiful thing), and the soft echo of our footsteps on the polished floors sounded exactly as I remembered it. For a moment, it wasn’t 2026—it was April 1997, my first time walking onto the beautiful, brand-new GIA campus as Director of Alumni. Some...

In this episode, Finding Peace Beyond the Headlines. This afternoon, I sit by the open window as the house settles into a generous quiet. Beyond the screen, the backyard breathes. A gentle slope rises to a vine-draped fence, as if the earth has drawn a soft green curtain. A breeze stirs the wind chimes—no performance, just a few wandering notes—and birds move in quiet procession to and from the feeder, intent on their small, necessary lives. I haven’t stepped outside, and yet I’m there—folded into the rhythm of it all. Then, inevitably, my gaze shifts. Away from the trees. Toward the world. And the contrast lands. The headlines arrive like a tornado we didn’t ask for—except this weather has producers. Somewhere, I imagine, a meeting is underway: “Gentlemen, what do we have today?” “Well, sir, things are mostly stable.” “…That won’t work. Can anything be on fire?” And just like that, the day is rebranded. Chaos loops. Anger echoes. Division hums beneath everything. If a meteor doesn’t s...

For over 80 years, students of gemology have struggled with spectrums, bewildered by birefringence, and simply plagued by pleochroism. The following sonnet is guaranteed to bring a smile to your face, a glow to your heart, and a simple reminder that students of life and gemology rediscover nature's gifts every day.  Ode to Gemology , by a GIA on-campus student. Dispersion, fire, adventurescence. Orient, sheen, or iridescence. Refractive index, high or low. The luster should indicate that, you know. Polarization, double or single. What to do now, they intermingle. Pleochroic colors you really should see. Was that only two, or actually three? Birefringence should help you a lot. Use your polarizer and watch the spot. Now, did it jump most on low or high? Sure, you can get it if you really try! Your liquids should be an aid, I think. Does it float, suspend, or slowly sink? Just use your imagination now. (He doesn't see me wiping my brow.) Solid inclusions or only bubbles? Huh, th...

In this episode, the Stubborn Choice to Rise There’s that tiny, breathless moment during a bicycle crash when you realize gravity has won, and it’s not going to budge. I recently found myself in that exact situation.  My front tire collided with another cyclist, and momentum took over,  and I flipped like a sack of uninspired potatoes flung into the back of a truck. As the dust settled and I lay there, thrown from the bike,  trembling  . . . I did that quick, quiet check we all do: Am I broken? Will I ever be able to swing a golf club again? And, most importantly, can I rise again? Thankfully, the answers were no, yes, and absolutely. I walked away bruised and battered, but okay. Once I realized that neither my golf clubs, hiking boots, nor my bicycle was going to retire early, I felt a rush of overwhelming gratitude. A physical crash is loud, embarrassing, and leaves a mark. But the truth is, most of us are crashing much more quietly every single day. We crash into ...

In this episode, the interactive obstacle course of the San Marcos bike path. (Sunday, April 12, 2026) It started out as a beautiful day for a ride—our usual 30-mile Sunday trek to Escondido. The weather was moody, with brooding dark clouds threatening rain, but the streets were mostly empty. The traffic was light, and the bike paths were eerily quiet. It gave off the distinct, yet entirely false, illusion of a peaceful sanctuary. We were headed home, and I had settled into a smooth, hypnotic cadence on the path across from Palomar College in San Marcos. I was listening to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field, minding my own business, and dressed to be seen. Between my colorful jersey and my cherry-red vest, I was illuminated like a human traffic cone. You could spot me from low Earth orbit. Apparently, that wasn't visible enough. Up ahead, I spotted another cyclist. He was cruising along in a state of pure, unhelmeted zen—completely unburdened by the earthly concepts of peripheral vision ...

In this episode, from Pedals to Hiking Trails. Normally, today would be a day for the roadway—the gears, the cadence, the 30-mile push of a cyclist. But today I’ve stepped off the bike and descended into a creek-side trail, where the thick brush effectively erases the neighborhood’s roads. In this concealed corridor, I walk with an old neighbor, Henry David Thoreau, and his words resonate through the limpid air like a frequency I’m finally tuned in to hear: “I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely.” — Walden There is a specific kind of magic that reveals itself only when you are below the asphalt. By blocking out the sight of the roadways, I’ve also blocked out the noise of the social grid. Today, I once again realize that wisdom and knowledge aren’t things we collect like toys or miles. Instead, they are part of a universal energy—a living spirit that flows through the la...

Picture this: an email lands in your inbox. A colleague—maybe even a friend—needs a favor, a second set of eyes, a moment of your time. You sigh, stare at the glow of your monitor, and type: “I’d love to help, but I just don’t have the bandwidth right now.” Hit send. Problem solved. Conscience clear. Except it shouldn’t be. Most of us have said or sent that line at least once, hoping it would land gently. On the surface, it’s perfect—efficient, polite, even self-aware. And that’s exactly the problem. It lets you decline without ever quite telling the truth. You didn’t just say no; you softened the discomfort of being human until it barely felt like a feeling at all. Instead of admitting, I’m overwhelmed , or I don’t have the energy , you reach for the sterile vocabulary of a server room. You turn a feeling into a metric. A boundary into a system limitation. Apologies, my data transfer rate is capped. Please submit a ticket to my emotional help desk. It’s a clever little trick—and an un...