*Typing*

Jerry Lawson was a black engineer that became something of a pioneer in modern gaming.

He headed the gaming division at Fairchild Semiconductor that rolled out The Fairchild Channel F. It was the first of its kind. Not only did Channel F use game cartridges––previously games had to be coded into the actual device prior to manufacturing in order to be played––but it was the first gaming console that allowed users to "pause" their game mid-play.

While this might seem like a small feature, it's inspiring to consider the influence Lawson has had on the hundreds of millions, if not billions, of gamers over the years. Lawson's Pause is a constant reminder that when shit hits the fan, it's okay to stop, take a step back and consider the best path forward.

In an interview with Vintage Computing and Gaming Magazine back in 2009, Lawson shared the following...

You've gotta step away from the crowd and go do your own thing. You find a ground, cover it, it's brand new, you're on your own—you're an explorer. That's about what it's going to be like. Explore new vistas, new avenues, new ways—not relying on everyone else's way to tell you which way to go, and how to go, and what you should be doing.

It seems the "pause" was more than just a feature to Lawson. It was a philosophy.

Shel Silverstein was dyslexic. Johnny Cash sung off-pitch. The Leaning Tower of Pisa was not designed to lean, it was an architectural fuck-up. David's widely celebrated, unorthodox stance was Michelangelo's way of working around a hole an amateur sculptor had bored in the block of marble the statue was birthed from. Emily Dickinson was painfully shy and spent most of her life in her room writing poetry (after she died, her litter sister found 1,800 poems in a trunk in her closet). Imperfections don't take away from the art. They make the art.

In Buddhism, there is a term that sounds like a delicious Mexican dish called Papancha, which translates loosely to "endless mental chatter".

If you were to write down every thought that you had over an 8-hour period and then read the long, meandering mess aloud to yourself, you'd think you had gone as mad as a hatter. That's Papancha. You suffer from Papancha. I suffer from Papancha. We all suffer from Papancha.

I would liken Papancha to a rabbit hole that a single uncomfortable thought or emotion can tug us down.

It might look something like this...

"My head kind of hurts. I wonder if I've drank enough water today? You know what, I haven't had caffeine yet. Wait, I had a cup of coffee earlier this morning. I wonder why my head hurts then? I better take some Advil. I can't take Advil on an empty stomach. I better not eat yet. I'm trying to fast until 2 p.m. I wonder why my head hurts? Now that I think about it, my head has been hurting a lot lately. I better go see the doctor. I'm hungry. I wonder why Terry was so short with me yesterday. He looked so annoyed. Maybe he was in a hurry. No. He just doesn't like me. I've always felt like he doesn't like me. My head hurts. Terry is such an asshole. If I don't cook that chicken for dinner it will spoil. I don't feel like cooking though. My head hurts. I wonder if I should invite Terry out to dinner to make sure he likes me."

There is a Buddhist axiom that warns against Papancha...

"Don't believe everything you think."

To keep from getting completely swept away from all that endless mental chatter, allow yourself to be entertained by it. Think about Papancha as a drunk friend who won't shut up and who isn't making any sense. Sit with him. Laugh with him. Joke with him. Let him have his fun. But, whatever you do, don't try to control him. You can't control a drunk just like you can't control Papancha. You just must be aware when you are Papancha-ing.

Bird lungs are remarkable.

Their respiratory system is designed in such a way that they can actually take in oxygen while both inhaling and exhaling. Because of this, birds are far more sensitive to changes like toxins and poisonous gases in the air.

Before the invention of the carbon monoxide detector, coal miners would take caged canaries with them down into the mines. If the birds started acting sickly––or outright passed out––it would be a warning to the coal miners to get the hell out of dodge.

It's said the coal miners had a special relationship with the canaries and treated them like pets, whistling to them while they worked.

Canaries are an interesting reminder that sometimes our greatest strengths can be our greatest weaknesses. A highly sensitive individuals is capable of marvelous creative feats but this same sensitivity makes them highly vulnerable to outside criticism.

Heraclitus was in line to become the King of Ionia, one of the wealthiest cities in all of the ancient world. He chose to give up the throne––handing the crown down to his brother––to pursue a life of wisdom. He was infatuated with fire and what it represents: Change. The ancient philosopher believed that change was the only constant and to fight against it was futile.

The death of earth is the birth of water, the death of water is the birth of atmosphere, the death of atmosphere is fire, and conversely.

I think of Heraclitus when I catch myself digging my heels into the ground; when I notice that God or the universe is nudging me in a direction I don't want to go but need to.

From time to time, it's worth asking one's self, "What am I scared of changing?"

Pay attention to answer that wells up inside of you.