Category: Inspiration

In 1928, Agatha Christie’s life fell apart. Her marriage had ended, her heart was broken, and she felt completely lost. But instead of hiding away, she did something extraordinary—she packed a suitcase, bought a ticket for the Orient Express, and headed east. Alone.

Her journey took her through Istanbul’s spice-scented streets, across the deserts of Iraq, and into the ruins of ancient Ur. She went looking for peace—but what she found changed her life.

At the dig site, surrounded by sand and history, she met Max Mallowan, a young archaeologist with sharp eyes and a kind smile—fourteen years younger than her. What began as friendship soon turned into quiet love. Two years later, they married.

Their life together wasn’t glamorous—it was gentle. They drank tea on dig-site verandas, worked side by side brushing dust from relics, and wrote their notes by lamplight. Agatha even used her own face cream to clean ancient pottery.

Those years in the Middle East shaped her imagination. The deserts, bazaars, and train journeys became the heart of her stories—Murder in Mesopotamia, They Came to Baghdad, Murder on the Orient Express.

Agatha Christie didn’t just recover from heartbreak—she rewrote her life. She turned pain into adventure, loss into love, and mystery into meaning.

Sometimes, the best stories start when you decide to keep going.

I know the exact pressure it takes to crack a rib during CPR. But last Tuesday, I learned a patient’s silence can break a doctor’s soul.

His name was David Chen, but on my screen, he was “Male, 82, Congestive Heart Failure, Room 402.” I spent seven minutes with him that morning. Seven minutes to check his vitals, listen to the fluid in his lungs, adjust his diuretics, and type 24 required data points into his Electronic Health Record. He tried to tell me something, gesturing toward a faded photo on his nightstand. I nodded, said “we’ll talk later,” and moved on. There was no billing code for “talk later.”

Mr. Chen died that afternoon. As a nurse quietly cleared his belongings, she handed me the photo. It was him as a young man, beaming, his arm around a woman, standing before a small grocery store with “CHEN’S MARKET” painted on the window.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I knew his ejection fraction and his creatinine levels. I knew his insurance provider and his allergy to penicillin. But I didn’t know his wife’s name or that he had built a life from nothing with his own two hands. I hadn’t treated David Chen. I had managed the decline of a failing organ system. And in the sterile efficiency of it all, I had lost a piece of myself.

The next day, I bought a small, black Moleskine notebook. It felt like an act of rebellion.

My first patient was Eleanor Gable, a frail woman lost in a sea of white bedsheets, diagnosed with pneumonia. I did my exam, updated her chart, and just as I was about to leave, I paused. I turned back from the door.

“Mrs. Gable,” I said, my voice feeling strange. “Tell me one thing about yourself that’s not in this file.”

Her tired eyes widened in surprise. A faint smile touched her lips. “I was a second-grade teacher,” she whispered. “The best sound in the world… is the silence that comes just after a child finally reads a sentence on their own.”

I wrote it down in my notebook. Eleanor Gable: Taught children how to read.

I kept doing it. My little black book began to fill with ghosts of lives lived.

Frank Miller: Drove a yellow cab in New York for 40 years.

Maria Flores: Her mole recipe won the state fair in Texas, three years running.

Sam Jones: Proposed to his wife on the Kiss Cam at a Dodgers game.

Something began to change. The burnout, that heavy, gray cloak I’d been wearing for years, started to feel a little lighter. Before entering a room, I’d glance at my notebook. I wasn’t walking in to see the “acute pancreatitis in 207.” I was walking in to see Frank, who probably had a million stories about the city. My patients felt it too. They’d sit up a little straighter. A light would flicker back in their eyes. They felt seen.

The real test came with Leo. He was 22, angry, and refusing dialysis for a condition he’d brought on himself. He was a “difficult patient,” a label that in hospital-speak means “we’ve given up.” The team was frustrated.

I walked into his room and sat down, leaving my tablet outside. We sat in silence for a full minute. I didn’t look at his monitors. I looked at the intricate drawings covering his arms.

“Who’s your artist?” I asked.

He scoffed. “Did ’em myself.”

“They’re good,” I said. “This one… it looks like a blueprint.”

For the first time, his gaze lost its hard edge. “Wanted to be an architect,” he muttered, “before… all this.”
We talked for twenty minutes about buildings, about lines, about creating something permanent. We didn’t mention his kidneys once. When I stood up to leave, he said, so quietly I almost missed it, “Okay. We can try the dialysis tomorrow.”

Later that night, I opened my Moleskine. I wrote: Leo Vance: Designs cities on paper.

The system I work in is designed to document disease with thousands of data points. It logs every cough, every pill, every lab value. It tells the story of how a body breaks down.

My little black book tells a different story. It tells the story of why a life mattered.

We are taught to practice medicine with data, but we heal with humanity. And in a world drowning in information, a single sentence that says, “I see you,” isn’t just a kind gesture.

It’s the most powerful medicine we have.

What is money?

Money is a medium of exchange.

The original form of exchanging one form of production for another was barter. If the person who grew grain needed some eggs, the grain farmer would swap some grain he grew for the eggs he needed.

This is obviously bulky and not very flexible. You would need a lot of eggs to buy a cow!

So money was invented as a more convenient method of exchange than barter but the original purpose of money remains useful and valid, to be a means of exchange for valuable production.

The tool of money has had other purposes or uses assigned to it, a storage of wealth, a means of speculation, a tool of control etc.

It has also been debased by governments printing more currency than there are goods and services in circulation, resulting in inflation.

Why do people come together?
Essentially, for exchange. That exchange can be in the form of communication, friendship, spousal support, or the exchange of goods and services.

What is government?
Sane government is a group of individuals conducting operations calculated to provide a safe, stable environment for its own population and its neighbours’ populations to live safely, freely, produce and trade.

Where a group purporting to be a government does anything other than this then it is not actually being a government but something else entirely.

Looking at their actions and products, not their words, you will be able to adjudicate the ‘something else’ that most governments are being.

If a government is taxing their citizens and not providing a safe, stable environment for its own population and its neighbours’ populations to live safely, freely, produce and trade, then it is closer to being a con operation or an extortion racket than a government.

And if you look around the world, at the ability of the population in a given country to live safely, freely, produce and trade, you will readily come to the conclusion that there is not a valid government out there.

I’d like this to change. But it will only change if a big enough percentage of the population know what a government should do and insist that their leaders perform those functions.

Hence this article.

So please feel free to share it.

Your spread of attention should be broader than the screen in your hand!

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In 1939, a 25-year-old math student named George Dantzig was studying at the University of California.

One morning, he arrived 20 minutes late to his statistics class. Quietly slipping into his seat, he noticed two problems written on the board. Thinking they were the homework assignment, he copied them down and started listening to the lecture.

Later at home, he regretted being late. The problems were incredibly difficult. He assumed he had missed an important explanation. But there was no turning back, so he spent days wrestling with the math. Finally, after intense effort, he solved them. Proudly, he handed in his work to his professor, Jerzy Neyman.

The professor absentmindedly accepted the notebook, not recalling that he hadn’t actually assigned those problems.
When he finally looked at the solutions, his jaw dropped. He realized that George had just solved two famous unsolvable problems — challenges that had stumped not only him, but also the greatest mathematicians of that era.

Dantzig had done the impossible… simply because he didn’t know it was impossible.

Sometimes the only thing standing between you and the impossible is the belief that it can’t be done.