Thunderstorms, an inspired story ---- February 10

There is a peculiar aspect of thunderstorms that is way beyond science that only poets understand. In addition to being a force of nature thunderstorms are organic, in a very special way. Most living things are the offspring of male and female -- -- a thunderstorm is alive and it's one part male and one part female. Not the offspring of male and female but what makes thunderstorms special is they retain distinct male and female characters.

When a thunderstorm is distant there is a lag between the lightning and thunder. You can tell it's approaching when the lag gets smaller -- -- as it leaves the lag grows.

Being organic each thunderstorm has a distinct personality and character  -- even the lag is distinctive. This is the story of one very special thunderstorm.

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As she approached the brilliance of her lightning served a harkening and you could hear the rumbling boom chasing behind.

The darkening of the sky had a haunting holy effect, as if to create a cathedral ceiling over a mystical religious passage.

The brilliance of her lightning led, signaling an ascension connecting earth with heavens. the booming male thunder was closing in awkwardly, trying to catch up with the ceremony.

And then they met as male and female rarely do, crackling combustion, a nuclear fusion of Venus and Mars putting on a lightning show with bright colors and dark dancing clouds, with ringing sheets of rain like symbols in an orchestra, with sonic booms from the male's base drum.

Scientists think thunderstorms are formed by differentials in the atmosphere and Earth's temperature. Poets know much better --- thunderstorms get their energy and full fury at those rare moments when male and female are in harmony. It’s a heavenly celebration and symphony of the joining of the sexes -- -- it's nature's Fourth of July. 

The celebration fills all the senses ---- magnificent female lightning to see, booming thunder of the male Eros to hear, the baptismal massaging rain to feel. The singed air incense to smell.

The celebration also more importantly speaks to the spirit --- it’s to be revered, it is to be feared, it demands witness, it exacts homage. within a cloud Cathedral ceiling to receive our respects.

And then thunderstorms move on -- -- but not in this story of our special thunderstorm. The male thunder lost his ephemeral nerve and planted himself on a farm. And could only watch as his lightening soul mate moved on. 

Poets know this story and get impatient with scientists fascination with this particular thunderstorm that's all lightning with no boom, known as the thunderstorm with a one handed clap. The poets also can explain the haunted farm where the fields speak in a soft lonely boom.

Poets also know the fields in the farm rest with a certain fulfillment and peace. Minutes after the resident boom saw his lightning's last sheflash there appeared a brilliant rainbow with all the spectrum's colors. Mrs. Lightning and Mr. Boom shared a certain synesthesia that encoded the letters of a message in the rings of color of the rainbow ----- which said ' I love you'

Lunch with John Rice and Greg Mort, March 09, Inspired Sleepy Dreams poem

John and Greg,

I really enjoyed our conservation in Chevy Chase. John, I would be happy to mentor some of your budding entreprenuers in the Maryland/DC area and I would condider it on honor to speak to your classes in NYC --- particularily the ones for entrenpreuners.

The banter we had about starting up a business and stepping out of the corporate world was really stimulating. Somewhat rare to have a business tycoon, famous artist, and carzy ass mathematicain share their go solo catharsis. The way we were each captured by a sense of destiny, compulsion, pull was intriguing. --- after some period of weighing, evaluating, calculating it seemed each shifted,  from logic to feeling an inxorable pull to follow our respective path.

I thinik we should do something with this. Below is my fumbling attemp to capture some of it, along with the idnetity issues a startup entreprenuer faces. Since  I volunteered to be firest in the barrel maybe you guys could add, refine, expand ... this beginning.

We should teach this stuff to people starting up, I think it would really help big time. It's beatiful, three rafically different cultures of business, art, science;  we triangulate the dreams/tumult that compel one to his own path. The driven social engineer, the artist who's hands capture the heavens, the mathematician who quantifies the unquantifiable..... each step off the edge. And recount their transformational moment when pulled to fulfill a personal destiny.

Here's a sonnet ' sleepy Dreams to compelling Destiny'. I hope it captures a piece of that magic moment when we each realized we had to follow our dream.

Regards,

Tom

ps- Escher had it right: 'I don't use drugs, my dreams are frightening enough'. 

pps --- one of my favorites Thomas E. Lawrence nailed it: 'All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible'. 

The Lesson and Gift of Cancer ---- August 29, 2003

The Lesson and Gift of Cancer

My recent cancer experience had a profound lesson. Although I think I'm mostly successfully through it, the state of despair it took me to was so poignant that I think it's a big mistake just to let it go, and go on with life's normal routine.

So, therefore this monologue. I want to capture:

The sense of doom the words ' you've got melanoma' brought

How my ‘world lens’ was shattered and how the ‘life or death lens’ became my total focus

The powerful sense of proportion and values the cancer brought

The urgency of time cancer brings

If I have survived the cancer was truly a gift - I don't want to forget it. I want to look at its lessons every hour; and choose to live that hour as if it were my last.

Cancer brought love, proportion, and appreciation. My next hamburger was the best I ever ate.

Cancer finally gave me the focus to attack the real enemy: complacency, boredom, and obsessions with a whole raft of things that mean absolutely nothing.

I know these lessons are so so obvious for the multitude of poor souls stricken with cancer. The lessons sound like hollow echoes for the many of us that take our heath for granted. My humble intent is to share the feeling of the cancer experience, so others and I can begin to appreciate the precious gift of life we have left.

I want to survive the cancer but not the cancer experience. I lived more than ever, and did more work of the soul, while my cancer outcome was in doubt. I pray that this terrible disease has left my body. I pray with equal force that I can live the rest of my life with the spiritual focus that cancer brought.

I. Bad news

The first section deals with the experience of getting the news.

Well, we have a melanoma

The first was a biopsy; what was the answer?

Hope against hope that I wouldn’t have to enter the starship cancer

My own world is comfortable and nice,

I’m scared to death of this big bad cancer price

For a researcher who knows all the self-absorbed trivia to impress,

Couldn’t get myself to find out what happens if the answer is yes

The feeling was numbness, disbelief

Made myself comfortable with the grief

If the gloom suit is mine, well I’ll wear it well

The beginning of letting go  - to oh so many meaningless things, it was farewell

The spiritual spring-cleaning wasn’t complete, of the hang up and obsession attic, that had life defrauded,

But an inexorable cleansing had started, reluctant at first but now applauded

Which created space to do what? --- To live, do you believe it, to live life unconparable

The obsessions, hobbies, hang-ups, were all anesthesia against life’s pain unbearable

After cleaning out the attic, the cancer put a loving light on what had been life’s pain, become karma,

The obsessions, life pain, and induced karma went away --- thank you cancer dharma

And created time and space for life, for heart and life, for laughter and life sublime

Ah, but how much time? 

II.  Three weeks waiting for the gland biopsy

After hearing the words “ Well, we have a melanoma” there was a 3-week hiatus waiting for the biopsy. It wasn’t just waiting; the surgeon cut a wide margin of safety around the melanoma and removed the nearest sentinel lymph node. But the waiting was transforming me; reconciliation was taking place and the possibility of cancer deepened in my psyche.

Life shows up while waiting

Before the cancer, after distractions my mind would return to a self-conscious home

The mind’s home was comfortable, reassuring, confident, a self assured clone

Active serotonin, warm endorphins, could feel healthy neurobiology down to the bone

With cancer the self-conscious home feels like dread and doom, disease and unease, something gone terribly wrong

Which begets the need for yet more distractions, which when needed are all gone,

And then self-consciousness reasserts it's troubled nature --- there's something gone terribly wrong

An uneasy peace settled in, an almost holy mood

Not in a rush to find out, was enjoying even the interlude

If the news were bad, the waiting would be the last days lived free

Can’t stand waiting some relatives said, not me,

An uneasy peace was better than a death sentence, don’t you agree

Not ready for the tortuous chemo fight

Body disfigured, stomach upset, hairless, I prefer flight

Rather have the good memories and go out whole

This shows the soul’s immaturity, to prefer the grave hole

Cause the death sentence would make the remaining days more fine

What irony, the shorter the fermentation, the sweeter the wine

Saw people laughing and loving, that’s what I desire

Realized, for the first time in my life, that’s the goal, there’s nothing higher

Also realized how rare love is and that I had become its foe

Spent most of my life chasing the wrong rainbow

Realized these could be the last days before the trip above

Last trip to SF, last tennis game, last sushi, last love

Sadly realized there had not been enough love, laughter, fun, reaching out

Realized this is to be first on life’ agenda, not last, with no clout

To be OK, to be childlike and play, this is the last chance no doubt

Envious not of youth, money, looks, … but of health, longevity, more time

Of days left, savored like the last sips of a great wine

Like the last days of a child’s summer vacation,

Relishing the present with full appreciation

It hung over me; it hovered closely above my head, a halo casting a dark and ominous chill

Every mental paragraph and even sentence was interrupted with the cancer shrill

Wasn’t like depression – would welcome and applaud the frivolous all day long

Even though it was like a death metronome interrupting life’s song

The dark worries dismissed, triviality was its mother tongue

So depression it was not, but it hung

Even the shame of failure was finally excused, all the success hang-ups completely flung

Finally such clarity, but it hung

The hovering turned from dreaded numbness, to a strange companion, and then a friend

The theme turned to living, form cancer it did transcend

I was laughing, feeling, loving, with complete acceptance, without reservation or expectation

But with total presence, and clarity, and appreciation

The waiting was loved, didn’t want to let it go, relishing the present before we say ciao

At times was actually elated, I had made a new friend, it was a friend called NOW

Made a strange and selfish deal with my dear Lord,

Vowed to really live if life He would afford

Not to go to church, or be more devout

But to laugh, love, cry, and really reach out

Was roughing out plans either way

If only a short time would just do a few great things, but with cache

If OK, really let loose and live baby - this is your only time

The NOW friend was so strong, it demanded my presence, said this is thy prime

Don’t dwell on the plan; the short plan is best, you’re wasting time

And then there’s hope, really afraid to hope, and build expectation

Equally afraid to fear, and dwell on the worse desperation

Best to stay in suspended animation, neutral but present

Fully here in every moment, as if a witness, to let in the feelings without lament

To let the thoughts dance,

No judgments, no projections, no critique advance

No grandeur, ambition, or fame

Just here, open, present, alive without blame,

For the first time, for the very first time, is this what it took?

Thank you cancer, you were not a crook,

For it was while I was waiting for you cancer, that life showed up

III. Good news

It’s probably obvious the news was good, two gland biopsies were negative. I walked into the doctor’s office suspending expectation; it was an incredible relief. It didn’t hit me in the face; it gradually sank in that I had another chance.  If the news had been different I’m sure this piece would have not been written. I apologize to cancer victims, I’m sure they consider this trifle; the depth of their grief and their courage exceeds anything I could express here.

At a variety of seminal events in my life – college graduation, marriage, getting a graduate degree, starting a company – I wrote lists of success goals that I’d had to work hard to achieve. The results are mixed, about as good as a decent baseball batting average.

I also have a list of goals stimulated by this cancer event; not success goals but rather life, laughter, and love goals. My batting average is going to go up.

Our senior team -- -- -- introduction

In 2005 our tennis team made it to the national finals.  The Columbia Maryland based USTA tennis team first won the regional championship then prevailed in the Maryland state championships and then went to the district playoffs.  In the district playoffs the middle Atlantic tennis teams compete -- -- the state champions from Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, and Washington DC play a winner take all tournament.  Our team won the districts and then proceeded to the national playoffs in Palm Springs California where teams from 17 regions of the United States play for the national trophy.  

Turned out we won several rounds and landed up in the semifinals losing to the eventual champion -- -- we finished as the fourth best team in the United States.

What made all of this interesting was the drama leading up to it.  For about six years previous we had all but won at districts but found some magical way to lose -- -- it was as if there was some underlying mantra keeping this from breaking through to the national championship.  

It seemed some unspoken theme played out year after year -- -- and we were totally frustrated with our incomplete seasons.

The poem was written a year before we went to nationals  -- -- I felt the need to express this 'Casey at the bat' mentality in poetic form.  The magnificent team that somehow doesn't make it was becoming our yearly script, playing out over and over. 

 I felt like the ice had to be broken --- I wrote a pithy irreverent poem to unlock the 'magnificent but find a way to lose' programing. 

they had players who hardly knew each other and all came from different tennis clubs.What made this team special is that it was a neighborhood team that had played together for years, more than twenty years.  All of the other teams that went to nationals were recruited -- -- 

 When a team went to nationals it had to be broken up -- -- so as not to dominate its local league the team members all had to be dispersed on to different teams. 

And that was the underlying subconscious plot being played out!  The team members did not want to be broken up so each year we found a magical way to lose.

This issue is hard --- all the technique, practicing, conditioning in the world wouldn't undo this mantra.  A powerful unspoken destiny was in fact gaining strength year-by-year and no tennis technique was going to undo it.  The more we're practice to overcome the hurdle the more we bonded and the unspoken 'togetherness' agenda had a tighter grip.  

Something bigger then tennis was needed  --- a poem that could reorient our mindset -- -- we had to see things in a new way and break free from what was holding us back.

I wrote the poem at the end of the 2004 season, the team captain gave all 14 members of the team a plaque with the poem inscribed.  The poem addressed our unspoken elephant in the room, the ‘togetherness’ spell was undone and the lyrics had the desired effect-- -- the following year we broke the losing mentality and went to the nationals. 

Section II --- Stories

A collection of stories written the last several years about seminal events and life passages.


The Homecoming--- revisiting my alma mater University of Connecticut after forty three years and giving a lecture on entrepreneurship. What was the same, what changed?


Doug Hokenson ---- lost a lifelong friend and wrote of shared memories. Had it printed in a booklet and gave it to Doug's family. Brought back childhood memories that had to be told, couldn't let the shared experience be buried with Doug.


Flying home from Greece ---- how an disruptive flight had me recalibrate my life lens.


My creative process ---- how I work.


Thoughts about Paris ----- written to my 'Artist Connection' group of creative people. Lonely walks on Parisian streets transformed.


Launch Issues ---- gut check for entrepreneurs about to jump.

Riding the Pigs ---- January 12, 2007

 

Preface

The challenge post-career, in the second half of life, is to reclaim the soul.

We each have to put blinders on to make our mark in the first half of life -- to "succeed" in college, careers, marriage. What we study, what we do, our set of interests, who we hang around with are all largely influenced by the cultures we try to excel in -- corporate, military, academic.

 As an entrepreneur and business owner, I am grateful and aware of the benefits of the lifetime focus that success required. There are many benefits of the career focus -- position, money, prestige...but at what cost? What was the price of signing up for the 'success' agenda?

What got left behind was the soul's agenda. The early inner voice got put aside. Our initial sense of inner identity and what we really wanted to do got quickly demoted when faced with the rigor and competition of the corporate world.

So now the job is to reclaim and honor the inner child that got demoted so long ago. It's to rediscover what the soul’s agenda was before it got hitched onto the career agenda. It helps to remember early stories and adventures to recapture that sense of wonderment and innocence of early youth; this gives hints to who we really are. Our early friends say a lot. It helps to remember the early friends; many of whom got left behind because they were not on the ‘success’ track.

My boyhood was mainly focused on sports, little league baseball, and the school competitive teams. Some early friends got left behind when the first sports filtering took place. Some didn't make the first cut and immediately got socially abandoned. Back in the fifties there was an immediate social shift that created stragglers. The 'chosen' didn’t recognize this; their teammates would then form the social ‘in’ class. These early friends, many of whom got left behind, say a lot about who we really are -- and this subject of our real inner identity is the primary topic for our second half of life.

This is a story about such early friends, real people and real events. This was one of my early adventures; writing this made me realize that my career as an entrepreneur was driven mainly by this strong sense of adventure. To me, the adventure, the journey, the intellectual discovery are primal instincts. My road warrior career with a new technology was a double-barreled adventure; playing out a primordial karma formed early in these tender years.

This is the kind of story a career man would never admit to; he'd bury it. But the larger soul is proud of such an adventure, and in fact rejoices in it. This is a story of a early time in life when things didn’t make sense. After a consuming career, the beauty of this post-career age is that now, at last, things don’t have to make sense.

In his poem ‘after the election’ Michael Koch captures the dreamlike experience this story tells.

‘our teeth rattle & our souls.

from the socket of the mask

mice swarm & swans.

the mother’s eye is running.

a small boy spins thru

the furnace of grass,

thru wheat spear & spire

goes running.

deep in the soil deep in the gut

death’s bird-blue calyx is humming’

Riding the pigs

I grew up in Pawtucket Rhode Island in a middle-class neighborhood. Fairlawn’s location on the bus line to downtown Providence gave it an upscale standing—but it was surrounded by some pretty tough places. Woodlawn on the north was an elongated neighborhood running parallel to the railroad tracks; and in Woodland both sides of the tracks were the wrong side. North Providence was the southern boundary and it had gangs that would scare the hell out of you.

Jimmy Smith lived in Woodlawn in a house within one hundred feet of the tracks. It was a flimsy wooden house; you could see the outside through the cracks of missing plaster. I had breakfast with Jimmy and his family and I was the only one noticing the plates rattling when trains went by. Billy Marshall lived on the south border of Fairlawn but was culturally of the North Providence cut. He was a ‘street kid,’ never went home. He’d always be out in the neighborhood with his large springer spaniel. It was ironic, the rest of us got a free mongrel from the dog pound and a street kid who could hardly afford clothes would loiter around with an expensive purebred. 

Jimmy and Billy were not the ‘chosen’ of the day – the system abandoned them to make their own way. They were the drifters, being filtered out at the first gate. Back then sports were everything and these kids didn't make the first cut. I can't imagine what kind of mantra that sets in place. But in any case I was with them, they were my friends.

Right near Jimmy’s house was the local slaughter house. It was a haunting place. At age twelve we had trouble accepting that the cows and pigs were all on death row; we preferred an image of farm animal pets. It was an evocative place, scary. Nobody wanted to get caught by the people that worked there ---the butchers, executioners. The feeling then was how you now feel about a jail house executioner.

  

The story was that we were going to the slaughter house to ride the pigs. Billy Marshall and Jimmy had more experience at this than me. The slaughter house was parallel to the railroad tracks on Smithfield Avenue at the Pawtucket-Providence line. The whole setting was eerie and threatening. The confluence of rickety trains and slaughter animals produced strange noises and smells -- the whole place was dark and surreal. I gave mock protest that the pigs stunk but was overruled –- so off we went. You just knew this was going to end badly, you just knew it. But you had to play it out; you had to find out how it ended. 

The pig pen was on the right front of the slaughter house. It was about forty feet square with a tin roof that kept it mainly in shadows. The dung and the stench assaulted the senses and would have quickly turned a proper boy away. You'd hit the wall with the reek and stink; at first it constricted your breathing. It didn't go away, but like adjusting to extreme heat you'd focus beyond it.

The dung was different, it was uneven. There were pockets of fresh wet ooze like manure the pigs avoided and there were other hard mounded dried dung areas particularly around the perimeter. Each of us without saying so was studying the lay of the land; the trick was to keep the pig on the hard manure and at all costs avoid the loose stuff. This wasn't just the usual animal droppings -- this was aged muck, mud, and mire -- packed layers of it.

These pigs were big animals, they’re more properly called hogs, but this is a pig story. They were easy to slip off. Pig riding requires one to bend way over and hold on by the ears. The ears were no handle bars; they were hairy and felt like sandpaper. They were both foul and delicate; god forbid you're lose balance and pull one off.  I can’t believe people eat these things. The mistaken instinct was to steer with the ears; it was more like a balance beam -- you'd just hold on to keep your weight centered.

There were two gyro forces to simultaneously negotiate -- you had to keep balance and keep the pig from turning his head and taking a bite. That was the real trick, to stay up on the pig without getting bitten. The pigs had a good sporting spirit about all this; they could just roll over into the dung and quickly end the contest -- but none did.  My sense is they knew this was a mystic right of passage and they nobly rose to the occasion. This was no rodeo; the pigs weren't big on running. They panicked and moved in fits and jerks.  Success was to stay mounted through the fits and starts and not let the bucking beast throw you into the dung.

I must admit I thought I was pretty good at it. I was the only one short of the baptism by dung. After all, I was the athlete, knew how to do things, riding high and looking good.

 Enjoying some success, I thought my pig and I had come to an agreement and we had a bit of a strut. I sent a confident wink to my be-shitted friends.  Just when I thought I had the knack of it, two of the pigs started to work together. There were only about six pigs in the pen, the non-riders were huddled in the corner, not amused by the undertakings. You could see two of the mounted pigs -- mine and Billy's -- make eye contact and decide to outfox the local hooligans. They decided to go after Mr. Clean Rider first -- that was me.

My pig suddenly became calmer and steadier; I should have known trouble lurked ahead. He evenly sauntered up to the second pig at just the right angle. He planted my leg right into Billy's pig's biting zone.

So I dove. These were big animals; it was like getting off a bike. You couldn't just jump feet first, you had to dive. Right into the dung, splat. And I slid, like sliding into second base head first, only a whole lot more slippery.

And that was it. We unceremoniously left hardly speaking; we had been defrocked. We approached excited with the pigs panicked; we left panicked with the pigs excited. No one thought it funny; that is, except the pigs.

Our misguided adventure had certain nobility. It served a final homage to these unappreciated magnificent beasts being led to the slaughter. In their last rite they showed spirited sportsmanship and these six outdid the three young locals. This was the pigs’ shining hour, of all the swine thoughtlessly slaughtered in that ghastly place it was these six that had the most ceremonious send off...they’re on the honor role.

It was a long walk home. My mother had repeatedly warned me not to go near the slaughter house. I was resigned that no white lie could mask the horrendous stench of pig dung. I had my mea culpa well rehearsed for when I’d have to face the music with my mother.

I had underestimated the stink; it got home before I did. I hadn't made it halfway up the stairs to our second story home when my mother came running down and told me “you’re not coming in the house smelling like that.”

She took all my clothes off and buried them in a hole she had me dig in the southeast corner of the backyard. In a stern and businesslike manner she told me to hose off with soap in the yard and get in the house.

It was never mentioned again in the house. It was as if my mother knew this was an inevitable adolescent right of passage. She knew she didn't have to tell me not to go to the slaughter house again.

And in a deep hole in the southeast corner of the backyard at 516 Grotto Ave, Pawtucket Rhode Island, is forever buried a boy’s clothing and a story of riding pigs -- until today, the story escaped.

The Homecoming ----- April 09

The Homecoming

I went back to the University of Connecticut on April 21, 2009 to in some way repay a debt. My graduate experience and MS degree from UConn laid the foundation for building a business based on a mathematical idea. I wanted to give something back.

In my graduate days, a visiting professor held up a book saying ‘if you know what’s in this book you can make a huge impact in industry.’ That image changed my DNA. I believed it and making a ‘huge impact’ became my mantra. And it played out -- bigger than I had ever imagined.

Forty three years later, I came back to Uconn to give a talk to the math department. I brought that same math book and my story. My dream was now to change some student’s DNA and sow a seed that would play out in a similar way.

I even retraced the same route I used to take, along Rt. 44 from Ri to Storrs. I wanted to recreate and revisit the whole experience. I wanted to bring it back -- same highway, same scenery, same feelings, hopes and trepidation -- all things that stirred me as a young man. The mission this time to really tell the story with impact and change a student’s DNA so he could recreate the entrepreneurial story.

Thomas Wolfe wrote ‘You Can’t Go Home Again,’ and I had the reservation that I’d be out of touch, that the place would be cold and stiff and aloof. Reservation aside, I kept myself open to the experience, however it would unfold.

Here’s how it went.

The Homecoming Trip

April 21 was a rainy day along Rt. 44. It was a light rain, like I remembered the trip 43 years ago. Back then, I wanted to stop at several scenic lakes and pastures but was in too much of a rush. I remembered the obsessive focus that let the beauty of youth pass by. But not now. I stopped and took it all in, and it was as beautiful as I had imagined as a young man. I appreciated it more now. The beauty passed by in youth was indeed recaptured. And it was magnificent!

Talk about time warp -- my consciousness went back and forth, in and out --- young man, old man. When young and too disciplined, I was seeing with an old man’s eyes. Now an old man was seeing with a young man’s eyes. The Rt. 44 lakes and meadows still held the same allure; this time I took it all in and rejoiced. George Bernard Shaw said that ‘youth was wasted on the young’ --- not on this trip. The retraced trip was my first of several homecomings.

The mathematician’s homecoming.

I had dinner that Tuesday, April 21, with two mathematicians and it was another homecoming, of a different sort. I had spent much of my career with computer scientists whose culture is to use theory; the mathematicians are about creating theory. And so am I, that is my true passion – creating mathematics, creating new theory. So dinner was a homecoming of blood brothers. I felt as if I had been away  much too long and was now at home with people of like mind and spirit, birds of a feather.

The student’s homecoming.

The on-campus Nathan Hale Inn was like any other hotel and it felt that way going to bed that Tuesday night -- until I opened the curtains to see the adjacent dorm with students studying at their desks. Do I ever remember those hours and days, struggling to understand math theory. And the occasional eureka when I got it. At the time, it just seemed like every day student life. It came to be my biggest passion.  I spent my career learning, applying, and creating math. It drove and stabilized me though the tumult of an entrepreneur’s career. I gave about 25 lectures a year over 25 years at conferences, universities, and board rooms, all explaining a mathematical invention. And that’s what carried me – the passion of the mathematical invention. The student’s passion for learning is deep-seated -- thank you Uconn.

The teacher’s homecoming.

The talk was scheduled for 5:30 that Wednesday evening; here’s the announcement:

University of Connecticut Department of Mathematics UConn Math Club Thomas J. McCabe (McCabe Software) A Mathematician's Dream: From Idea to Company - The Adventure of Following Your Dream CLAS 105 - Wednesday, April 22, 2009 at 5:30 pm

As students were filling in, George Raney came up to the podium to reintroduce himself. Dr. Raney taught Abstract Algebra to us graduate students in 1964.  George, now 94, had a childlike enthusiasm for both his subject and his students. He was emphatic, respectful, and had this kind of magic – he made math discovery seem like revelation. When stating a conclusive math theorem, he had a wide-eyed, childlike excitement.

After the introduction, I went through the graph theory proofs establishing the properties of the cyclomatic complexity  --- a way to quantify the tests in a program that I built my business on. When I got to the conclusive theorem I looked at George Raney. He was seated in the lower left, and there it was -- he had that same wide-eyed, childlike wonderment. But this time for my work. Talk about role reversal -- the student became teacher, teacher became student. It was a student’s homecoming -- bringing something back.

To Dream.

Then I talked about the computer science applications of the math. And next talked about building my company, McCabe and Associates. And emphasized that the idea and math drove it; the company followed.

Finally I got to the reason I came, to get the students to dream. About their breakthroughs, their vision, their companies. I held up that same 43-year-old book and said ‘if you know what’s in this book you can have a huge impact.’ I concluded ‘that’s my dream, now build your dream and come back and give this talk.’

I asked George Raney to stand and told the students how much George had helped me; he got a standing ovation. Tears in my eyes.

I came back to Uconn a second time, 43 years later, to repay a debt, give something back. But just like the first time, I left with much more than I gave.

Thomas J McCabe,  May 09