Happy Aloha Thursday!
This week's message comes early, as I head to upstate New York for alumni weekend at Hartwick College tomorrow—my first return in 17 years to the woods, the cabins, and the sustainable homes we built with Sandy Huntington, the professor who quietly, profoundly changed my life. A little over a year ago I shared THIS POST about my time learning from such an amazing human.
This newsletter was born—more truthfully, inspired—by my time in Sandy's classes. His homework was simple in theory; the practice of completing it was altogether something else. Each week, he gave us seemingly disparate reading assignments and asked us to find the connections between them and write a paper about them. When I started this newsletter in 2018 as a way to connect with a new team, I channeled that same energy—pulling together random facts, national days, births, and deaths, current events and searching for the common thread. Because of that, at least once a week, Sandy is with me—in my heart and in my mind.
I think he'd offer me an encouraging B—recognizing the essence of something special, but nudging me toward refinement, even after 290 editions
Sandy passed away a few years ago after a sudden illness. This weekend, we dedicate one of the homes we built together in his honor. Old friends are returning—some I haven't seen in decades. It's not quite The Big Chill, but it carries that same bittersweet pulse: re-connection, reflection, and the quiet joy of gathering in someone's legacy.
When I learned of Sandy's passing, I wrote the following. I am not a big fan of public speaking, but I think I'll attempt reading it aloud at the dedication. It's a memory, a meditation, and a thank-you. I share it here with you as a way of carrying him forward.
I breathed each breath knowing that Sandy was somewhere out there in the world. That he was sitting in a classroom, with his slow delivery, expanding minds and hitting home with his teaching. I remember how when things got loud, Sandy got quiet. You almost had to lean in to hear him—and you wanted to hear him.
Earth and Breath
A restful glance, a squint, and in an instant, I leaned in to hear his words
Simple turn of phrase, the turning of each page, engaged in matters quite absurd
Architecture of life, of death, razor edge of the knife or breath, and through it all I learned
The emptiness of emptiness, that more is more when it is less, the passion with which he served
We took earth, clay slurry, the worry of the day, we held it in our grasp
Picked apart straw bales, inhaled the summer air, exhaled the past
Sun dripped and mud burnt, baptized in Pine Lake at long last
Slipped to our cabins, unraveled by the day's work, dreamt long and vast
Rising early, more slurry, tiptoed through the forest to find the True tree
In the sun's flicker and glow, blessed the forest, palms pressed to prayer, we
Carried the wooden body through pine rows, engrossed in the beauty
A pattern language emerged, silent, invisible surge, urging us to embrace the holy
We meditated with loving kindness, our mind fixed solely on the breath
Watching the birth of our thoughts, hurling across, then coaxing our minds to rest
Back to the breath, counting to ten, thoughts come again, this time in a full court press
But as time passed, the firm grasp, released its clasp, made me feel blessed
May I be well, may I be at peace, his words, his voice, cascade through these trees, aloft in the breeze, I recite them to this day
This weekend isn't just a reunion—it's a return to the source. To the quiet power of a teacher who taught us to build with reverence, to listen with intention, and to live with breath as our guide.
Mahalo Nui, Sandy.
