Greed Over Excellence: How Profit Became America’s Downfall

The American chase for more

America seems to be chasing the concept of more — more profit, more growth, more quarterly beats. For many corporations, the metric that matters most is a single line on a spreadsheet: profit. Targets are set not to sustain a business or serve a community, but to exceed the last margin, month after month, year after year. When growth stalls, the reflex is immediate: cut costs, reduce headcount, squeeze suppliers, or pursue short-term financial maneuvers to keep the numbers moving upward.

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When growth becomes the goal instead of the means

That relentless pursuit turns growth from a means into an end. Instead of asking whether a company is delivering value, creating stable jobs, or stewarding resources responsibly, the conversation narrows to whether earnings per share rose. Long-term investments — worker training, safer workplaces, environmental stewardship, community partnerships — get deprioritized because they don’t deliver the instant lift investors demand. The result is a cycle where human and social capital are expendable whenever they conflict with the quarterly narrative.

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Corporate personhood without a moral leash

Corporations enjoy legal status as persons under the law, which gives them rights and protections similar to individuals. But unlike people, most corporations are structured with a single, overriding mandate: maximize shareholder value. When the only thing that drives an entity is profit, there is no built-in ethical leash or moral compass to temper behavior. The corporation, as a legal individual, can become anti-social in practice — pursuing whatever strategies it can get away with to fulfill its mandate of more, even when those strategies harm workers, communities, or the environment.

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The social cost of an amoral actor

When a powerful actor operates without ethical constraints, the consequences ripple outward. Workers face instability and diminished bargaining power. Local economies lose the steadying influence of long-term employers. Public goods like clean air and safe infrastructure are treated as externalities to be minimized rather than responsibilities to be managed. The legal fiction of corporate personhood amplifies these harms because it shields decisions behind boards, bylaws, and fiduciary duties that prioritize returns over responsibility.

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Reclaiming the idea of enough

This isn’t an argument against growth. It’s an argument for smarter growth — growth that recognizes limits, values people, and accounts for externalities. When the legal fiction of corporate personhood is paired with a single-minded profit mandate, the result is predictable: an actor that will do whatever it can get away with to achieve more. If we want corporations to be constructive members of society, we must change the incentives that define their behavior and reclaim the idea of enough as a legitimate measure of success.

The Fence and the Circle: Gossip, Fear, and What We Choose

Part I: The Tragedy

“The Fence That Wasn’t for the Dog”  

“It wasn’t the dog they feared. It was the story they were afraid to contradict.”

On a quiet street of cracked sidewalks and small gardens lived Mabel, a woman whose laugh came slow and soft, and Hank, her toothless old rescue dog. Though Hank still carried a deep bark, he moved like a memory—slow, deliberate, tail wagging as if he’d long forgotten what he was supposed to guard. He had no teeth, a sagging jowl, and a habit of leaning his head against Mabel’s knee like the world was a story he wanted to hear again.

Hank had become a neighborhood fixture—gentle, slow, and harmless. People were glad he’d found a home with Mabel after a hard life. Children adored him. He was part of the rhythm of the street.

Then Jonah moved in.

He brought with him a polished résumé, a calm voice, and a fear he had never outgrown. Years ago, a dog had bitten him. When he heard Hank’s bark and saw the old hound ambling across Mabel’s yard, something in him recoiled—not because of what Hank did, but because of what he remembered.

Jonah didn’t shout. He didn’t accuse. He simply expressed concern. But his concern came with the weight of his title, his credentials, his role in the community. People listened. They nodded. They wanted to be supportive. They wanted to be seen as kind.

Something shifted.

Mabel noticed it first: the way people paused before waving. The way conversations ended when she approached. The way Hank, once greeted with warmth, was now avoided. Even the children, sensing the unease in the adults, began to keep their distance—no more spontaneous hugs around Hank’s neck, no more giggles on Mabel’s porch. Then came the suggestions—soft, reasonable, insistent:  

“Maybe Hank should stay inside.”  

“Maybe a fence.”  

“Maybe a chain.”  

Just until Jonah feels safe.

Mabel protested gently. “He’s never hurt anyone. He’s too old and beaten to even try. Look at how the children love him.”

But the room was quiet. Her friends looked away. No one wanted to upset Jonah. No one wanted to be next.

So Hank stayed indoors. Mabel stopped hosting. The silence grew.

Jonah’s story became the truth by repetition. Those who knew better said nothing. Those who didn’t know Hank believed what they heard. And those who once stood beside Mabel now stood behind closed doors.

Part II: The Rewrite – What Could Have Been

“The Circle That Held”  

“Fear is real. But so is truth. And truth needs friends brave enough to speak it.”

When Jonah shared his fear, the neighbors listened. Mabel listened too. She didn’t dismiss it. She said, “I’m sorry that happened to you. That must have been terrifying.” Then she added, “Please remember, Hank is not that dog. He’s kind. He’s safe.”

This time, her friends didn’t stay silent. One by one, they spoke:

“I’ve known Hank for years. He’s never been aggressive.”  

“We can support Jonah without punishing Mabel.”  

“Let’s find a way to help Jonah feel safe and keep Hank free.”

They offered Jonah support: a therapist who specialized in trauma. A walking buddy. A plan to avoid triggering situations. They made space for his fear—but not at the cost of someone else’s dignity.

Jonah, surprised but not shamed, agreed to try. Over time, his fear softened. He saw Hank for who he was.

The neighborhood grew stronger—not because they avoided conflict, but because they faced it with honesty and care.

Closing Reflection

Fear, when paired with authority, can become coercion. And silence, even well-meaning, can become complicity. But truth—spoken with courage and care—can protect the vulnerable and invite healing.

Two Ways to Respond to a Broken World

I had a realization today: in troubled times, we tend to walk one of two paths—we either protest what’s wrong or support what’s right.

Both are valid. Both can even come from the same person. But most people seem to lean toward one or the other as their primary way of engaging with the world’s pain. Sometimes the difference is just a matter of tone or emphasis. Other times, it leads to entirely different choices.

Lately, I’ve been thinking that the greater part of our energy—maybe 80%—is better spent supporting what’s good than fighting what’s bad. Not because protest isn’t important (it absolutely is), but because what we focus on shapes how we see the world. And over time, it shapes who we become.

Protest is often reactive, sparked by outrage or urgency. It’s a flare in the dark—bright, necessary, but short-lived. Support, on the other hand, is a steady flame. It’s the long work of tending to what we love.

Take this example: two people decide to shop at a local bookstore instead of a big chain. One does it to uplift a neighbor, to invest in their community, to say yes to something they love. The other does it as a protest—out of frustration with corporate greed or the loss of independent culture.

Same action, different energy. And often, different outcomes.

The protest-driven shopper might return to the big-box store once their anger cools or the headlines fade. But the one motivated by support is more likely to keep showing up, again and again, because their choice is rooted in something enduring: a vision of what they want to grow.

That’s the thing about support—it tends to be sustainable. It builds. It nourishes. Protest can spark change, but support sustains it.

I’m not saying one is wrong. We need both. But I’ve noticed that when I act from a place of support—when I move toward what I believe in, rather than just away from what I oppose—I feel more grounded. More generous. More whole.

Because whatever we focus on, we feed. And what we feed, grows.

The Party Problem No One Is Talking About

Snapshot of where things stand

The polling picture is mixed and messy. Gallup’s Q2 2025 numbers show the country leaning Blue at 46% to 43% Red, while a July 2025 Pew poll flips that, showing 46% Red and 45% Blue. Polls are useful but incomplete; not everyone is polled, and timing, question wording, and sample composition change the headline numbers.

Voter registration adds another angle. Where party registration exists, the numbers look roughly like this: about 44 million registered Democrats (38%), 37 million registered Republicans (32%), and roughly 34 million unaffiliated voters (30%). That large unaffiliated bloc is where elections are decided, and recent patterns suggest those voters are currently leaning toward Republican candidates.

What this means for Democrats

- Polls and registration numbers together explain why Democrats might be worried about losing seats. The national mood, combined with a big unaffiliated cohort that’s leaning away from them, naturally makes seat losses plausible.

- Winning back seats isn’t a matter of entitlement or “restoring balance” by fiat. It requires deliberate, credible work to earn support from unaffiliated voters and to persuade soft partisans.

- Party labels don’t automatically translate to votes. A registered Republican can vote Democratic and vice versa, especially when candidates or issues resonate.

A growing exodus

In recent months a noticeable number of longtime Democrats have publicly abandoned the party, citing disgust at conduct by some who claim to represent it. Those departures have swollen the unaffiliated ranks and aren’t just a statistical footnote; they’re a political and moral rebuke that illustrates how party behavior—real or perceived—can erode loyalty faster than any single election cycle.

The real problem: allegiance versus accountability

- Parties often prioritize internal loyalty, fundraising, and coalition maintenance. That system can drift from the basic responsibility of elected officials: accountability to constituents.

- When politicians act primarily for their party or funders, voters feel unheard. That gap is a primary driver of the unaffiliated surge and voter volatility.

- For any party to win and hold seats, it must become more accountable, locally responsive, and willing to adapt policies that meet everyday concerns.

What winning would actually require

- Rebuild trust with unaffiliated voters by focusing on tangible local outcomes: jobs, safety, health, education, and transparent governance.

- Give voters clear reasons to vote Democratic: coherent policy priorities, credible candidates, and consistent demonstration of constituent-first decision-making.

- Stop treating elections like scorekeeping. Work to earn votes through listening, policy clarity, and accountability rather than entitlement or theatrical appeals.

Final Question 

Why do we need political parties at all? Parties can organize ideas, scale policy solutions, and help voters choose. But when party loyalty overshadows accountability, the system fails voters. If parties want more seats, they must do the harder work: reform themselves, center constituent accountability, and earn every vote.

What would it look like if accountability, not party, were the organizing principle of political life?

The Shape of What We Say: When Opposition Undermines Itself

In moments of civic unrest or spiritual uncertainty, we often reach for language that feels prophetic—declaring what will happen, what must happen, or what has already happened. But when we frame injustice as inevitable, we risk surrendering the very agency we’re called to steward. Our words shape not only perception but possibility.

Framing these possibilities as already inevitable—or as if they’ve already occurred—can unintentionally amplify fear and despair. When we act from a place of certainty that injustice will prevail, we risk weakening our own resolve and undermining the very cause we seek to uphold.

🔥 Scripture repeatedly calls us to speak with faith—not denial, but divine defiance of despair. Consider:

- 2 Timothy 1:7: “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.”

- Doctrine & Covenants 68:6: “Be of good cheer, and do not fear, for I the Lord am with you, and will stand by you.”

These verses don’t ask us to ignore injustice. They ask us to resist the temptation to narrate it as destiny.

🗣️ Elder Quentin L. Cook’s address, Live by Faith and Not by Fear, offers a clarifying lens:

“When we choose to follow Christ in faith rather than choosing another path out of fear, we are blessed with a consequence that is consistent with our choice."

This suggests that our framing—our spiritual posture—shapes outcomes. If we speak as though corruption is unstoppable, we may unwittingly reinforce its power. But if we speak with clarity, courage, and conviction, we invite others to believe in the possibility of change.

🧭 The Ethical Cost of Fatalism

When fear masquerades as realism, it erodes public trust. People begin to disengage, believing their efforts are futile. This is especially dangerous in civic discourse, where despair can become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Opposition rooted in clarity and courage is essential. But fear framed as inevitability can erode public trust and make harmful outcomes more likely, not less.

🕊️ A Call to Speak with Hope

To speak something into being is not merely to predict—it is to participate. Let us speak not as resigned observers but as faithful stewards of possibility. Let our words reflect not just what is, but what could be—grounded in truth, but animated by hope.

🪶 Allegory: The Weaver and the Cloak

In a village stitched with stories, a Weaver named Solenne crafted a cloak unlike any other. She called it “The Cloak of Commons”—woven from threads of shared labor, mutual care, and fierce justice. She wore it with pride, and spoke of its meaning to those who asked.

Soon, the villagers began to refer to her by the name she had given the cloak.

“She’s the one with the Commons cloak,” they said.  

“She walks with the red thread.”

Solenne grew uneasy. “I named the cloak,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean you know me.”

“But you gave it the name,” said a villager. “We’re just echoing your words.”

“You’re echoing,” she replied, “but you’re not listening.”

An elder stepped forward, carrying a spindle of quiet thread.

“Even a name freely given can feel heavy when worn by another’s voice.  

We must ask not only what a name means—but what it carries, and how it’s spoken.”

From that day on, the villagers learned to ask not just what a cloak was called, but how its wearer wished to be seen.

Oppose Governor Newsom’s November 4 Power Grab - No on 50!

Governor Gavin Newsom’s decision to call a November 4, 2025 special election—designed to override California’s independent redistricting commission—is a rushed, costly, and undemocratic maneuver. It violates legislative procedure, undermines our state constitution, and disregards the will of California voters.

This is not reform. It’s a power grab.

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Legal and Factual Foundations for Opposition

- 🕒 Violation of Legislative Procedure  

  California law requires every bill to be in print for 30 calendar days before any committee hearing or floor vote. Only a three-fourths vote of the chamber can waive this rule. SB 280 was introduced, printed, and passed in under four days—without any documented 75% waiver—directly violating this requirement.

- 📜 Constitutional Overreach  

  Article XXI of the California Constitution entrusts redistricting to an independent Citizens Redistricting Commission through a transparent, public process. Any major change to that system must come through a constitutional amendment approved by voters—not through a fast-tracked legislative package crafted behind closed doors.

- 🚨 No Time for Public Review  

  The three-bill package—ACA 8, AB 604, and SB 280—was introduced on August 18 and signed into law by August 21, 2025. This left no time for public testimony, stakeholder review, or meaningful scrutiny of the proposed maps and funding mechanisms.

- 💸 Unfunded Local Burden  

  County election officials estimate this off-year special election will cost tens of millions statewide. San Joaquin County projects $3–$4 million; Sacramento County $6.8 million; Placer County roughly $2 million. These costs will be absorbed by local governments—diverting funds from essential services. This comes just months after Newsom claimed California couldn’t afford a $1 million appropriation for a voter-approved bill.

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A Closing Note

I’m tired of watching Governor Newsom sidestep the people he was elected to serve. This isn’t leadership—it’s manipulation. Californians deserve transparent governance, not backroom deals disguised as urgency. We deserve constitutional integrity, not partisan advantage. And we deserve the right to shape our future through fair process—not rushed elections engineered for political gain.

Let’s call this what it is—and vote accordingly.

learning from Charlie Kirk

Today there is a pressing need—for all sides—to move forward with curiosity, humility, and a willingness to understand perspectives beyond our own.

The climate has grown so charged. In watching recent footage, I noticed how Kirk mirrored the energy of those who approached him—gentle when met with gentleness, sharp when met with hostility. It’s a reminder that we have a choice: to escalate or to soften. Perhaps the deeper invitation is to transmute the energy we receive, rather than simply reflect it. To meet anger not with more anger, but with something that interrupts the cycle.

Free Speech

The podium stands empty. The flag bows low.  

But the call remains.

If you’ve ever felt silenced, overlooked, or afraid to speak—  

now is the time to step forward.

Not with rage, but with resolve.  

Not to dominate, but to dignify.  

Not to echo noise, but to offer clarity.

Let your voice be the one that steadies others.  

Let your presence remind us that truth still walks among us.  

Let your words be a balm, a boundary, a beginning.

The space is open.  

The moment is waiting.  

Will you rise?

The Tortoise in Her Garden

There once was a woman who tended a garden with great care. She watered it daily, pulled weeds, and shielded it from harsh winds. In the garden lived a tortoise—slow-moving, often weary, and in need of warmth and shelter. The woman loved the tortoise. She built him shaded paths and made sure the sun didn’t scorch his shell. She even adjusted the garden’s layout so he could move more easily through it.

But over time, the garden began to lose its color. The flowers drooped. The woman realized she had stopped planting what she loved—roses, lavender, wild thyme—because she was always thinking about what the tortoise needed. She no longer sat in the sun herself, because she was afraid it might be too bright for him. She tiptoed through her own garden, careful not to disturb his rest.

One day, she sat down beside the tortoise and said, “I’ve made this garden a haven for you, but I miss the parts of it that were mine. I miss the joy of planting what sings to my soul. I miss walking freely without fear of stepping wrong. I want to keep caring for you—but I need space to bloom too.”

The tortoise blinked slowly. He hadn’t realized how much she had sacrificed. He looked around the garden—suddenly noticing the faded petals, the empty patches where her favorite flowers used to grow. He didn’t speak, but he lingered beside her longer than usual. The woman didn’t expect an apology or a sudden change. She simply sat there, letting the silence stretch between them like a path not yet walked. Somewhere in that quiet, a seed was planted—not in the soil, but in the space between them. Time and care would determine whether it would grow—and what might bloom.

Loyal to Party or People?

We’ve mistaken party loyalty for public service.  

Elected officials aren’t team captains in a partisan game—they’re stewards of the people in their district. When we frame politics as ‘us vs. them,’ we forget who’s supposed to be at the center: teachers, nurses, children, neighbors.  

The tug-of-war between red and blue doesn’t just fray the rope—it lets real lives fall through.  

Representation isn’t about winning for your side. It’s about showing up for everyone you serve.

🌪️ The Village and the Storm

There was once a village nestled between hills and forest, where the wind began to howl again—loud, brash, and familiar. It had swept through before, stirring leaves and rattling shutters, and now it returned with even more noise, claiming it would reshape the land.

The village council—those from the East and those from the West—sounded the alarm. They pointed to the wind with grave expressions, declaring it a threat to every home, every law, every sacred stone. Their towers echoed with proclamations and warnings, magnifying the storm’s voice until it seemed to shake the very ground.

One neighbor, stirred by their urgency, stood in the square. Eyes fixed on the storm, he built barricades and raised his voice, warning that this wind would tear down every home, rewrite the laws of nature, and crown itself ruler of the skies. Others gathered around him, echoing his alarm, convinced that the wind alone was the greatest threat.

But another neighbor—quiet, steady, and watchful—looked not just at the wind, but at the ground beneath their feet. She saw that the soil had long been eroding, not from this gust alone, but from years of neglect and manipulation by the village council—those from the East and those from the West. Each had taken turns reinforcing their own towers while letting the commons crack and crumble.

She spoke softly: 
“The wind is loud, yes. But it is not new. It blusters and boasts, but it is not the root of our collapse. 
It is the weakened beams, the untended soil, the hollowed-out trust that let the wind do harm. 
Had we cared for the foundations, this storm would pass with noise—but not destruction.”

But her words were lost in the roar.  She knew the wind would pass. But the soil—if left untended—would not hold.  So she began to plant around her home: quiet seeds of clarity, roots of accountability; offering seeds to neighbors who would receive them to plant, inviting them to tend the earth rather than chase the gusts.

🏛️ When Power Mimics the Threat: A Dialogue from the Polis of Solara

Thales and Dion sat beneath the olive trees, debating the soul of their republic.

Dion:  

The neighboring realm redraws its lines to silence dissent. If we don’t act, we may be overrun.

Thales:  

So you would break our compass to correct another’s crooked path? Our constitution is a lantern in the dark—not a weapon to wield, but a wisdom to uphold.

Dion:  

This is a safeguard. A temporary measure.

Thales:  

Power seized in haste is rarely returned in peace. You speak of fighting tyranny, yet your method mirrors its form. Shall we poison our well to purify another’s?

Dion:  

But the people must be protected.

Thales:  

And that is why we built a system free of partisan hands—a garden tended by impartial stewards. You would uproot it to plant a fortress. But what grows in fear rarely bears the fruit of freedom.

Dion:  

Then let the people decide.

Thales:  

Let them—but let them see clearly. Not through the fog of fear, but in the light of reason. Let them ask:  

Are we preserving what is good, or sacrificing it to win a battle that was never ours to fight?

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🔍 Integrity is most tested when it’s least convenient. May we resist the temptation to mimic the very forces we oppose.

which evil to eliminate first?

You're angry at the rich because they buy politicians. I'm angry with the politicians because they can be bought.

The rot starts with those who made themselves purchasable.  

If power weren’t for sale, wealth wouldn’t be a weapon.  

But let’s not pretend—this isn’t just corruption. It’s collusion.