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    #Trust30 Day 10 - Message from a soapbox

    [Today we have arrived at 1/3 of the way through the challenge! It's been fun so far, but exhausting too. To find out why I am writing all these #Trust30 posts, click here]

    Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s quote:

    To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, that is genius. 

    Mr. Eric Handler’s prompt:

    What is burning deep inside of you? If you could spread your personal message RIGHT NOW to 1 million people, what would you say?

    [Let’s see…a million people….I would tell everyone to click on my ads….Wait, just kidding. . . Dear Google, I was only trying to be funny. . . It was a joke! Don’t banish me! Aaaaagggghhhh!]

    The real message: Just because someone tells you it’s true, doesn’t mean it is. Be skeptical when you talk to people who are completely convinced, without any doubts, that they have the right answers—even if you agree with them. There is a lot more gray in this world than many are willing to admit.

    Never lose your ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. You might find that your adversary has a good point, if you are willing to actually listen to what he or she is saying.

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    Everything I Ever Wanted to Know about Jail

    You never know who you're going to meet when you're traveling. A couple days ago, I mentioned that I was getting ready to take the bus back to Portland, hoping to find a good story. Here’s what happened.

    The first leg of the trip, from Walla Walla to Pasco, was uneventful. We stopped in a couple small towns along the way—sometimes picking people up, sometimes not. That’s the biggest drawback to riding the bus—it can be pretty inefficient because you stop so often.

    At Pasco, I had a layover of about 45 minutes. I wanted to get something to eat, but unfortunately, the Pasco station is not close to any restaurants.  With a backpack, a guitar and a heavy duffle bag, walking the mile back to the taco stands we had passed on the way to the station did not sound like fun, so I opted to just sit down on a bench to wait for my next bus to leave.

    About five minutes later, a young guy came and sat down on the opposite end of the bench. He was in his early twenties and wore a black t-shirt, baggy jeans and a pair of well-worn black Air Jordan basketball shoes. He was about average height and had a medium build. It looked like at some point in his life he had lifted weights, but had not done so for quite a while. He wore his hair cropped very short and had not shaved in three or four days. He had someone’s name tattooed on his right wrist, and on the inside of his left forearm, a large raptor spread its wings. When he sat down, I got the sense that he wanted to talk. I made eye contact with him, which was all the encouragement he needed.

    “Where you going?” he asked me.

    “Portland. How about you?”

    “I’m going to Spokane,” he replied. “I just got out of jail, and I’m getting the hell out of here!”

    I knew right then that I had found my story.

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