MSI Press Blog

  I used to think philosophy required books, debates, and long walks through fog. Turns out, it also requires a cat. My cat didn’t quote Plato. He didn’t argue about free will. He didn’t write essays. But he lived questions. And he made me live them too. Here’s what he taught me: Presence is the first principle. A cat is always fully in the moment — not distracted, not divided. Watching him taught me that being here is harder than it looks. Desire is layered. A cat may want the door open — but not to go through it. He may want affection — but only on his terms. I began to see how human desire is just as contradictory. Freedom includes boundaries. A cat is free, but not reckless. He knows his limits. He respects his own rhythms. I started asking: what does freedom really mean? Language is optional. A single “mwout” can mean ten different things. A slow blink can mean trust. A paw on your arm can mean “I see you.” I learned to listen beyond words. Stillness is not emptiness...

  The award-winning book,  An Afternoon's Dictation  (Greenebaum), is available free from Kindle countdown April 12-17. Book Description:  In 1999 Steven Greenebaum felt he'd hit the wall. Fifty years old, he could not make sense of his life or the world around him. For several months he angrily demanded answers from God, if God were there. One afternoon, an inner voice told him to get a pen and paper and write. Steven then took dictation - three pages, not of commandments but guidance for leading a meaningful life.   An Afternoon's Dictation  grapples with, organizes, and deeply explores the revelations Steven received and then studied for over ten years. His sharing is NOT offered as the only possible way to understand it the dictation. It is offered, rather, as a start. The book's sections include deep explorations into "The Call to Interfaith," "The Call to Love One Another," "The Call to Justice," and "The Call to Community."...

  We talk about failure as if it’s a verdict — a stamp on the forehead, a permanent label, a whispered judgment from the universe. But in truth, failure is rarely a dead end. More often, it’s a doorway. A messy, inconvenient, humbling doorway, yes — but a doorway all the same. The trouble is that we’re conditioned to treat every misstep as a catastrophe. A project that fizzles. A plan that collapses. A relationship that doesn’t hold. A dream that doesn’t materialize on our preferred timeline. We call these things flops, as if they are evidence of personal inadequacy rather than the natural friction of being alive. But here’s the quiet truth: every flop contains information . A failure is simply feedback — sometimes gentle, sometimes blunt — about what needs to shift. It teaches us where our assumptions were off, where our preparation was thin, where our courage was strong, and where our blind spots hid. It shows us what we value enough to try again, and what we’re relieved to relea...