On The Fly

With Mother’s Day here and the world bustling with cards, brunches, and busy schedules, I find myself reflecting on something a bit simpler: taking a moment to remember the person who helped shape my earliest sense of home. Mauricette Elaine (Bontemps) Ball. My Mom. We arrived in Cuba after leaving La Rochelle, France, in 1959—a transition whose enormity I only fully appreciate now. My mother, barely in her mid-twenties, stepped into Midwestern life with remarkable courage. Her smile could warm the coldest Illinois morning, and her hugs lingered long after she let go—quiet reminders that you were deeply loved. Born February 16, 1934, the third of four children, she grew up in Nazi-occupied La Rochelle. As kids, we listened wide-eyed to stories of soldiers patrolling her streets and fear shadowing everyday life. Yet she carried none of that darkness forward. What endured was resilience and an unwavering devotion to family—qualities she carried across the Atlantic and planted firmly in C...

In this episode, The Gleam Within We grow up steeped in fairy tales and grand mythologies. From a young age, we are taught to scan the horizon for the hero—the knight, the savior, the titan who will arrive to make sense of the world. We marvel at the mountains' beauty and nature's majesty, yet, as the old wisdom goes, "we pass over the mystery of ourselves without a single thought." I remember being the little guy from a small town in rural Illinois, looking up at the world and seeing only Giants. I would listen to Earl Nightingale’s Our Changing World broadcasts, mesmerized by the towering figures of success and intellect he described. When you feel small, you naturally seek out those Giants for a glimpse of their light—hoping some of it might rub off on you, preferably without having to do whatever it was they did to earn it. In 1985, while I was earning my G.G. credential, I met Richard T. Liddicoat, the Patriarch of GIA. To everyone in the industry, he was the Fat...

In this episode, Is Your Attitude Worth Catching? In the quiet of the house, where stillness runs deep, With no cars on the street, not a honk or a peep. A soft breeze was drifting, just outside my door, While the wind chimes were singing their song as before. I picked up a book, Ryan Holiday's Key, And sitting right there, it occurred to me: In this pocket of calm, as I started to read, This stillness was something I desperately need. If I’m completely honest, I’ve been wrestling with the noise lately. Some of that, I’ll admit, is self-inflicted—too much exposure to the 24-hour churn of headlines. But some of it has been closer to home. A few weeks ago, I fell off my bike. Nothing major for the news, but it slowed me down, caused pain, and reminded me that recovery reduces your defenses. When your body’s off, patience follows. And that’s when the noise gets louder. We are surrounded by extreme polarization and a kind of cultural exhaustion that seems to hum in the background of ev...

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, more 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. Som...

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 ...