About

I was almost named Beige.

My mother, a polymath who earned degrees in math, law, and fine art before I finished elementary school, had other ideas. She raised me in a two-bedroom apartment on the San Francisco Peninsula—every room a different color, wainscoting she added herself, art on every wall, a piano, and the smell of linseed oil drifting up from whatever she was painting.

She taught me that richness has nothing to do with resources. That you can hold a law degree and an MFA and a broken heart and still pass the bar on the first try. That when people tell you "you can't do all this," you skip the class that bores you and keep the one that feeds you.

She died on Christmas Eve 2024. I held a tribute for her with a poetry open mic, nine poets, the Glide Ensemble, and twenty-two of her self-portraits displayed for the first time.

In the twelve months since, I keynoted a leadership conference in Zimbabwe, placed essays in the Chronicle of Philanthropy, NPQ, Mockingbird, and Faith & Leadership, finished one book and started two more. I also started a luxury product company, because adults deserve joy—and grief is not the only thing that makes you make things.

I'm a Christian. I sing with the Glide Memorial Church Ensemble. I've been married for 34 years. I have three adult daughters. I run an organization that helps pastors buy homes. I advise philanthropists. I practice law. I serve on boards. I make things.

The world is more arranged than the rationalist can bear and more ridiculous than the pious can stand.

If you're tired and brilliant and wondering if God meets you in the middle of it: yes. That's the whole thing.