AaronRose.blog

  Lundi Gras Midnight was approaching without announcement. The French Quarter hummed differently now. The laughter had grown looser. The music sharpened at the edges. Somewhere, someone counted down, though most people didn’t need to. They felt it. Marie walked toward St. Louis Cathedral. She did not rush. She did not hesitate. The sky above Jackson Square was deep blue, nearly black. The cathedral stood pale against it, steady and older than everything happening around it. Candles flickered inside. The doors were still open. It was Lundi Gras. Fat Monday. It was almost Mardi Gras Tuesday. She stepped inside. The air changed immediately—cooler, quieter. The scent of wax and old wood replaced sugar and coffee. The echo of the city softened behind her. She paused in the aisle. Rows of empty pews stretched forward. A few late-night visitors knelt in silence. No one looked at her. The clock struck twelve. Somewhere outside, a cheer rose. Inside, nothing moved. She walked toward the si...

  My Deep Dive into Past-Tense Affirmations Hey fellow travelers on the path of self‑discovery! Lately, I’ve been exploring a twist on traditional affirmations — not the usual “I am” statements, but something that feels like bending time a little: 📌 Writing affirmations in the past tense, as if the outcome has already happened. Instead of “I will get my dream job,” it becomes: “I accepted my dream job offer.” Instead of “My tax refund is coming,” it becomes: “My IRS refund came quickly and easily.” There’s something powerful about phrasing a desire as an accomplished fact. It shifts the emotional center of gravity. It feels less like hoping and more like remembering. My Digital Laboratory I’m a modern‑day explorer, so my tool of choice isn’t pen and paper — it’s my word processor. I type these “already accomplished” statements into a document like a logbook of future successes. And here’s the liberating part:  your mind doesn’t care about the medium. Pen, whisper, keyboard — ...

  King Cake New Orleans. Café du Monde. Even late at night, it never really sleeps. The air carries sugar, coffee, and the low hum of voices drifting through the open square. The iron tables are cool to the touch, the marble tabletops faintly sticky with powdered sugar from earlier in the evening. Marie LeClare. Twenty-six years old. A happy, vivacious brunette with warm brown eyes. French ancestry on both sides of her family. Her family had been in New Orleans since 1860. Born and bred in New Orleans. This cafe wasn’t a destination for her. It was background. It was home. A software developer by profession. The kind who works late and thinks in systems and patterns. The kind who finds comfort in structure—but who still needs nights like this to feel balanced again. Late-night coffee at Café du Monde. Cash only. She folded a few bills onto the saucer without thinking. The ritual mattered. The continuity mattered. Dark French roast coffee steamed in the white cup, bitter and strong,...

  My Ongoing Experiment With Personal Projects Lately I’ve been noticing something I’m already doing, but not really thinking about. I’ve been running a quiet set of self-experiments around self-leadership — not by declaring goals or optimizing routines, but by paying attention to what actually survives day-to-day life. What keeps going when things are busy. What keeps going when things slow down. What doesn’t require motivation, permission, or coordination. That’s where  personal projects  come in. By personal projects, I mean activities over which I have  complete control . They’re: self-directed fun durable sustainable They work when life is hectic. They still work when life opens up a bit. And the interesting part is this: I already have references for this in my life — I just tend to take them for granted. Sleep, for example. The duration changes, but it doesn’t disappear. Eating. Walking around my living area. Brushing my teeth. Feeding the cats. These aren’t p...

  The Hiding Place “Chaim. Over here.” Rivka took his hand and led him to the wall behind the  bimah , the altar. She stopped, studying the stone as if it were a page she had read before. “It’s somewhere here.” She raised her hands and began to feel along the wall. Slowly. Carefully. The wood was old and uneven. Her fingers moved until they found it—a seam, thin but deliberate. “The light fixture,” she said. “On the right.” She pressed it inward. Just like Papa described. The thick wooden wall responded with a low creak. Then it shifted. A narrow opening appeared—a secret door. Beyond it, old stone steps descended into darkness. “Let’s go.” They stepped through. The door swung shut behind them with a heavy sound that echoed longer than it should have. “Rivka… I’m scared.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, Chaim. I’m right here.” They went down slowly, one step at a time, feeling their way in the dark. Far ahead, a light. “What is this place?” Chaim asked. A narrow stone hallw...

As Simple As Possible...But Not Simpler I read this quote from Pavel Tsatsouline, the famous kettlebell teacher, which he attributes to Einstein: Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler. Whether Einstein actually said it that way almost doesn’t matter. The idea itself is everywhere. An old idea. A durable idea. It got me poking at something I keep coming back to in my own work and routines—self-leadership, projects, habits, all of it. Is there a way to make this simpler? Is this already as simple as it can be? Or have I quietly added stuff that doesn’t really need to be here? I’m not talking about dumbing things down. I’m talking about removing the extra knobs and levers that don’t actually move the needle. Because when things start to feel fragile, it’s usually not because they’re too simple. It’s usually because they’ve gotten too clever. Complexity seems attractive at first. It feels sophisticated. It feels like progress. But complexity also opens the door t...

  Find Her "Fraulein Heller is missing." With her brother, Chaim. The SS Kommandant in Prague stood at the tall windows of the former royal palace, now repurposed. Rebranded. An SS headquarters. Behind him, Müller, one of his trusted officers, waited. “Fraulein Heller,” the Kommandant said. A pause. Then, quieter—more dangerous. “Find her.  Jetzt. " Rivka Heller was the key. Or so Berlin believed. The project had stalled. Engineering. Physics. Mathematics. Every available mind in the Reich had tried—and failed. Now it was her turn. She would build the weapon. Or she would be deported to the East. With her brother. The officer cleared his throat. “Her parents?” “Gone,” the Kommandant said. “Three months. Whereabouts unknown.” “Last sighting?” “She slipped away from a roundup at the university. Then the ghetto.” “And now?” The officer hesitated. “ Ich weiß nicht. ” The Kommandant turned slowly. “Her extended family in Berlin?” “Already deported.” A nod. “The Führer wants h...