Max Amarria - Personal Wisdom For A Modern World
Book 4: How to Be With Others
This image contains ‘the other’. Lives who are independant, but moreover, we are all interdependent. You may not know the Other, but even if you never see them, meet them, or know them, we are all shipmates on starship Earth, and so it is important to teach, and learn… how to be with others.
Chapter 1: The Bonds of Kinship
By Charles White
You were never meant to do this alone.
From the beginning of our species, survival has been collective. We gathered in groups not just for protection from the cold or predators—but to belong. To be held in conversation. To be known.
In Max Amarria, we do not confuse proximity with family, nor obligation with love. Kinship, like gravity, acts invisibly—pulling us toward those who matter. And in the quiet revolutions of a life well-lived, we come to understand: family is not a matter of blood, but of binding.
Your family may be biological, or it may be chosen.
What matters is that they are yours—people who see you, support you, and reflect your becoming.
In my own life, I was blessed with peace. My mother and father were not perfect, but wow, they were good. And that, in a world so often churned by generational storms, is no small miracle. I have nothing to forgive them for; nothing that lingers like a shadow. What remains instead is gratitude—for the warmth they gave, the stability they maintained, and the deep quiet love that never demanded to be named.
I was born into the last wave of an elder family—my brother thirteen years ahead, my sister ten. At twelve years old, I stood alone in the house, while they were already out forging adult paths. Temporally, I was an only child. Emotionally, I was a final echo in a household that had already raised its voice twice before.
But family didn’t end there. Life gave me new orbits—new stars to tether to. Jackie was not born of me, nor of marriage. She arrived by hardship, by fracture—through her mother, a relationship I left for good reason. Yet Jackie stayed with me. She stayed because I was, to her, a fixed point—a signal light that didn’t flicker in the storm. She chose me, and I stayed chosen. She is my daughter to this very day, bearing me grandchildren that know no other difference as their Opa.
Justin came later. My wife Susan brought him into my life, and over the years, we built something deeper than shared name or ceremony. One day, unprompted, he told me I had been more of a father than his biological one ever was. That sentence rang out like cathedral bells—solemn, resonant, final.
Around this first circle stood a second—those I called Aunt and Uncle not because someone’s DNA chart told me so, but because my heart insisted it. Aaunt Heddy and Eddy (yes, that was their names) lived in a modest small apartment near Los Angeles. Heddy always had a wrinkled dollar for me, tucked inside a hug. They didn’t have much—but they had joy, and they had me.
When she lay in the rest home, I was there, holding her hand. That’s what kinship does. It shows up, even when nothing can be fixed. Even when the only thing left to give is presence.
And then came a deeper teaching. One day, in a crowded gathering, I introduced Robertjohn Knapp—respected elder, spiritual guide, friend—as my adopted uncle. It was meant as a gesture of affection, of honor. But Robertjohn turned sharply away from the crowd, faced me directly, and said, “You don’t believe in adoption.”
I stammered, confused—shocked…
“Adoption isn’t a state of being—it’s a transition, a passage. I’m either your uncle, or I’m not. You don’t stay in adoption. You pass through it.”
It was one of those moments that burns a lesson into the tree bark of your memory—one learned in full view, humbling and permanent amplified by the crowd that bore witness, which maybe they too needed to see and hear. He was right. I never said it that way again.
In Max Amarria, we honor kinship not by claiming it, but by living it. Family is not performed. It is practiced. And sometimes, the deepest family is not born, but revealed—across the years, through small acts, in shared stories, in hands held at the end.
Let us remember: kinship is not a possession. It is a becoming.
And if we are lucky, we become it together.
This chapter explores the vital importance of kinship—the chosen, cultivated, and evolving relationships that root us to the world.
Kinship does not mean constant agreement. It does not mean frequency of contact. It means resonance. The kind of friendship or bond that reminds you who you are when you’ve forgotten. The kind that doesn’t tally favors or perform connection—it just shows up.
And like anything sacred, these bonds must be nurtured.
Friendship is not transactional. It is rhythmic.
It requires maintenance—not as burden, but as presence.
To reach out. To listen fully. To remember the date that matters. To ask again how someone’s doing, even if they said “fine.”
In my own life—across laboratories, desert gatherings, digital worlds, and global travel—I’ve found kinship in unexpected places. Sometimes in colleagues who became brothers. Sometimes in gamers who became confidants. Sometimes in people I met under strange stars, who simply got it—no translation needed.
Some for decades, others for a magic moment.
These people were not assigned. They were found.
And often, they were earned—not through grand gestures, but through the small acts of showing up, again and again, when it counted.
That is the work of kinship.
It is not about quantity. It is about depth.
You don’t need everyone. You need someone. Or a few someones.
People who will speak truth into your silence.
People who will hold the line when you falter.
People who will say your name in rooms where it matters.
People who will challenge your ideas rather than agree with everything you say.
Sometimes you really need that person to keep you in check.
You also must be this person to others. Read that again.
It is not enough to receive the gift. You must offer it.
Not only when it is convenient, but when it is needed.
Let’s continue this chapter with ways to live with others.
Actions for Chapter 1 – The Bonds of Kinship
To Contemplate:
Who are the people in your life who have shown up for you—not out of obligation, but out of devotion? How do you define family when biology is not the only binding thread?
To Practice:
Reach out today to someone who has stood by you—a call, a message, a memory shared. Let them know they matter. And in return, show up for someone else without being asked. Kinship is built in these small, sacred actions.
The Commandment
“Thou shalt nurture the bonds of kinship—not as duty, but as devotion, for in connection thy humanity is most fully revealed.”
Isolation may seem easier.
But it shrinks the spirit.
And in crisis, no philosophy will carry you further than the hands that hold you.
So build your circle.
Keep it tended.
Let it grow, change, deepen.
Because we are not made of stone.
We are made of story—and we are written together.
Chapter 2: The Language of Empathy
By Charles White
Empathy is not emotion.
It is not charity.
It is not politeness dressed in moral robes.
Empathy is the moment the illusion of separation wavers.
It is when the “I” pauses—and the “you” is felt as real, and inside.
To empathize is not to agree.
It is not to pity.
It is to merge. Briefly. Deeply. With precision and pain.
In Max Amarria, empathy is treated not as a virtue, but as a skill of perception—an ability to open the doors of one’s inner world wide enough for another’s truth to enter. Empathy is not performed. It is not decoration. It is a form of knowing.
It says:
“I will feel what this moment means to you.”
Even if I would never choose it.
Even if it scorches.
Even if it unravels the stories I tell about the world.
Empathy requires courage.
Because when you feel the other, truly feel them, you cannot remain unchanged.
You cannot turn away from a grieving parent without carrying a portion of that grief.
You cannot hear the trembling voice of someone silenced and not ache for them days later.
You cannot feel the sorrow of a dying forest and return to convenience without shame.
Empathy is not sustainable at all times. No one can live in constant open exposure. But it must be revisited. Again and again. Or the heart calcifies.
And in today’s world—where algorithms tailor us into tribes, where feeds teach us to perform rather than feel, where speed replaces stillness—we must relearn the ancient act of soul contact.
Empathy is not simply imagining what the other feels.
It is letting that feeling enter you.
As if joined by a Vulcan mind meld.
As if the boundaries of skin and memory and bias dissolve just long enough to say:
“I do not know exactly. But I know enough to weep with you.”
That is not weakness. That is power.
That is sacred science.
That is the root system of all peace.
Empathy is the technology of inner connection.
And if we are to survive—not merely as individuals, but as a species—we must return to its practice with rigor, reverence, and awe.
Without it, civilization is little more than organized isolation.
But something is slipping.
In the glow of our screens and the buzz of our timelines, we are forgetting how to see each other. The kind of seeing that requires silence. That requires stillness. That requires putting your own needs aside long enough to recognize someone else’s truth.
There was a time—not long ago in the grand unfolding of time—when we lived barefoot around the fire, under stars that watched without blinking. In those circles, we saw the faces of the old and young alike. We shared food, shared stories, shared grief. And in that sharing, empathy was not a virtue—it was a condition of survival.
Now by mass market and product advertising we are told to want. To desire. To consume. Not for the other, but for the self. My personal feed. My preferences. My feelings. My rewards. Every algorithm whispering, “This world is for you.” And in that whisper, we forget the we.
Have it your way, says Burger King
Obey your thirst, says Sprite
Treat yourself, says Target
It’s all about you, says Delta Airlines
Because you’re worth it, says L'Oréal
You may have heard of these slogans. These slogans feed the ego—not in an evil way, but in a way that subtly, constantly reinforces “me first” as the default mode of living.
We forget the stranger on the roadside. The tired eyes of a store clerk. The loneliness of an elder. We forget the trees, the stones, the waters that once sang to us—now stripped of voice, cut and drained and buried beneath our convenience. We no longer grieve for them, because we no longer feel them. Empathy fades, not in a scream, but in a slow ultraviolet wash, bleaching the soul under the constant light of digital comfort.
Our systems do not teach us to feel for the other. They teach us to optimize the self. To become more—wealthier, stronger, more visible, more followed. But in that race, we abandon the trail of footprints that once circled the fire. We forget that the only way forward is together.
To feel for another—human or otherwise—is not weakness. It is not inefficiency. It is not naïve. It is the oldest technology of survival.
Empathy is not gone. It is only buried. And if we are to reclaim it, we must dig—not through code or theory, but through the softened layers of our own guarded hearts.
Words build bridges.
They also build walls.
The difference is not in vocabulary—but in empathy.
Empathy doesn’t always come easily. Especially when emotions run hot. Especially when history weighs heavily. Especially when we believe we’re right. But if communication is reduced to winning or losing, then all we build are battlegrounds.
The language of empathy is more than what we say.
It is how we say it.
It is in tone. In timing. In silence.
It is the open posture. The genuine question. The moment we say, “I don’t understand yet—can you tell me more?”
In my own career—whether managing engineering teams at JPL, comforting families in disaster zones, or negotiating social dynamics in virtual alliances—I’ve learned that clarity without empathy is brittle. And empathy without clarity is noise. You need both.
To speak well in this world is not to speak loudly. It is to speak from the still center of someone who has listened well first.
Actions for Chapter 2 – The Language of Empathy
To Contemplate:
When was the last time you truly felt what another was feeling—without fixing it, without comparing it to your own story? What barriers have you built to protect yourself from empathy, and are they still needed?
To Practice:
In your next conversation, pause. Really listen. Repeat back what the other person said—not to mimic, but to confirm you understand. Let your body language say, “I’m with you.” And where words fail, let silence hold space.
The Commandment
“Thou shalt speak with empathy and listen with purpose, for language is not noise—it is the bridge between two souls seeking resonance.”
Do not use words to prove your intelligence.
Use them to reflect your intention.
To make others feel understood, even when they are not agreed with.
This is how you avoid echo chambers.
This is how you keep the thread of humanity unbroken.
This is how we talk to each other—even across time, distance, pain, or difference.
Let your words be water when needed.
Let them be light when possible.
And when silence speaks louder—let it stand.
Chapter 3: The Fabric of Society
By Charles White
You do not live in isolation.
Even if you live alone.
Even if you wander far.
Every road you walk, every fire engine that screams past, every system that brings clean water to your home or books to your school—exists because people you do not know made it so.
Just wait until I tell you about the interconnection of us all, even if you don’t own a cat.
That’s society.
Not as a theory, not as a flag—but as a collaborative effort we’re all born into.
In Max Amarria, civic responsibility is not about blind obedience. It is about awakened stewardship.
We are all threads in the fabric—and if enough threads unravel, the whole cloth fails.
But that fabric can be torn not just by apathy—but by manipulation.
Beware the Con-man
History is full of them.
The polished voice, the simple slogans, the fist held high—but not in service, in domination.
He does not speak to your highest self. He whispers to your fears.
He does not lead with truth. He sells a story of enemies—foreign, domestic, imaginary—and profits when you believe him.
Beware the cult of hate.
Hatred is cheap fuel.
It burns bright. It feels powerful. It unites in the ugliest way possible: by creating an “other.”
Beware “hatertainment”—the new media empires that monetize your anger, feeding you outrage instead of insight. They reinforce your existing resentments, and before long, you find yourself cheering for cruelty—not because it’s just, but because the victim reminds you of your fears.
This is not strength. This is surrender.
It is surrendering your civic power to someone who will never share it back.
And when you forgive atrocities because the con hates who you hate—you have already been conquered.
So hold fast to your conscience.
Hold fast to your civic clarity.
We Are The Fabric
Now, return to what’s real:
Society is built—not by slogans—but by people. Quiet people. Consistent people.
When I worked at JPL, the room was full of PhDs, yes—but also machinists, electricians, IT techs, badge checkers, cafeteria staff, and the janitor. The one who polished the floors that led to the clean rooms that protected the science. He mattered. I mattered.
So did the secretary who scheduled the critical meetings that kept engineering teams aligned.
The technician who caught a flaw before it became a mission failure.
The driver who delivered the final part, on time, without applause.
These are not “just a secretary” or “just a janitor.”
They are the fabric itself.
If you ever feel small or not important, remember this:
You are like the threads under a blanket. People see only the colorful threads on top, but it's the threads underneath, the ones you don't see, that hold everything together. Without them, the whole blanket falls apart. You matter more than you know.
Actions for Chapter 3 – The Fabric of Society
To Contemplate:
What unseen labor supports your daily life? The water you drink, the road you drive on, the internet you use? Whose efforts go unnoticed but essential?
To Practice:
Thank someone in the fabric. A janitor. A grocery clerk. A teacher. A bus driver. Look them in the eye and acknowledge their presence. Let them know they are seen. Because without them, the system would unravel.
The Commandment
“Thou shalt uphold the fabric of society not through pride, but through presence—for thy choices reinforce or unravel the world we share.”
Do not give your voice to those who trade in division.
Do not follow those who promise power through cruelty.
Hold fast to your better self—because society is not saved by rage, but by care.
Care that shows up on time.
Care that casts a ballot.
Care that says, “I will do my part, even if no one sees it.”
Because the world isn’t held up by heroes.
It’s held up by millions of good, ordinary people doing their jobs, with integrity, in the face of noise.
You are one of them.
And without you—nothing stands.
Chapter 4: The Challenge of Disagreement
By Charles White
Disagreement is not failure.
It is the tension that sharpens truth.
In a healthy society, disagreement is not just tolerated—it is required.
Without it, systems grow brittle. People grow silent. Mistakes grow fatal.
In Max Amarria, disagreement is treated as a sacred civic and intellectual function.
It is the pressure valve in every honest conversation, every functional team, every living democracy.
And yet, disagreement has become dangerous in many circles—especially when disagreement is mistaken for disloyalty.
Let me be clear: You can love a group, a nation, a mission, or a person—and still disagree with them.
In fact, the more you care, the more important it becomes to speak when something feels wrong.
I learned this deeply at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory.
There, disagreement wasn’t just allowed—it was engineered into the process.
We built dissent directly into the way spacecraft were designed.
If you saw something questionable in a system, and remained silent, you risked more than failure—you risked lives, millions of dollars, and decades of science.
At JPL, when a design decision moved forward, but a single engineer dissented and documented that dissent, their voice would be preserved. It went into the record.
Even if the project proceeded, that dissent was respected, logged, and traceable.
That’s how real integrity works.
Not through silence—but through structured courage.
This practice didn’t weaken us. It made us stronger. It made us smarter. It made us safer.
Because sometimes, the voice that stops disaster is the lone one at the edge of the table saying, “I disagree.”
Now apply this to life.
Disagreement does not mean disrespect.
It means engagement.
It means you are still invested enough to care.
It’s not taking sides. My side, your side. That only creates division.
But there’s a way to disagree that builds, and a way that destroys.
Constructive disagreement asks questions. It offers alternatives. It shows its math.
Destructive disagreement dismisses, attacks, or reduces the other person to a caricature. It personifies the evil, it creates the ever famous… THEY.
If someone cannot handle disagreement, they are not leading—they are ruling.
And if we cannot handle disagreement within our families, our organizations, or our friendships, then we are building castles on sand.
In a time when echo chambers surround us, and algorithms feed us only what we already believe, disagreement is more important than ever. You must learn how to listen without flinching. And you must learn how to speak without cruelty. And you must learn to back down, especially if you are wrong.
It’s ok to disagree… but it’s not ok to be disagreeable.
Actions for Chapter 4 – The Challenge of Disagreement
To Contemplate:
Can you recall a time when someone’s disagreement helped you grow—even if it hurt in the moment? Have you learned to distinguish between personal rejection and honest critique?
To Practice:
Invite a trusted person to disagree with you—about something meaningful. Listen without interrupting. Reflect on what they said, and if their view holds truth, say so. Show them, and yourself, that disagreement is not a threat—it’s a tool.
The Commandment
“Thou shalt not fear disagreement, but record it with clarity, speak it with grace, and hold it as the lifeline of truth.”
Your voice matters most when it feels risky to use it.
So dissent when needed.
Stand when others sit.
Ask the question no one else will.
But do it well.
Do it fairly.
Do it with the dignity you wish to receive in return.
Because disagreement, at its best, is not the beginning of division.
It is the beginning of wisdom.
Chapter 5: The Strength in Unity
By Charles White
No one builds a rocket alone.
No one plants a forest alone.
No one repairs the world alone.
In Max Amarria, unity is not about uniformity. It is about collaboration—the shared commitment to work alongside others, even when they think differently, speak differently, or come from different stars.
This chapter is about collective action.
Because real power—enduring power—emerges when people choose to work together for a purpose greater than themselves.
We are taught from a young age to value independence, and rightly so. But we must not mistake independence for isolation. Your greatest contributions often come not from what you do alone, but from what you build with others.
That’s not weakness. That’s scale.
Whether it’s a protest, a mission control team, a kitchen feeding evacuees, or a volunteer crew digging latrines in the desert—unity is how vision becomes action.
The strength of unity is not just in numbers. It is in diverse contribution.
The artist who makes the cause visible.
The engineer who makes the plan work.
The calm presence who keeps the meeting on track.
The one who brings water.
The one who makes space for grief.
Everyone has a role.
Unity is what happens when those roles are seen and honored.
I’ve witnessed this firsthand on teams that sent spacecraft to Mars, and again in the dust of Burning Man, where 70,000 strangers become a city for a week—not because one person commands it, but because everyone contributes.
Unity does not mean agreeing on everything.
It means agreeing on what matters most right now, and setting aside ego to serve it.
If disagreement is the grit that sharpens, unity is the glue that binds.
Not with coercion, but with shared intent.
But unity can be fragile. It must be maintained—not by forcing consensus, but by nourishing trust. By practicing accountability. By communicating needs and honoring effort.
And when unity breaks—because it sometimes will—it must be rebuilt honestly. Not with guilt. Not with shame. But with recognition that human work requires human repair.
Actions for Chapter 5 – The Strength in Unity
To Contemplate:
What’s one cause or mission you believe in—but haven’t joined? What holds you back: ego, time, mistrust, or the illusion that others will do it for you?
To Practice:
Find one group effort this month and contribute. Not as a leader, but as a builder. Lend your hands, your skills, or even just your attention. Because unity is not measured by banners waved—but by burdens shared.
The Commandment
“Thou shalt seek unity not through conquest of thought, but through shared purpose—for the greatest works are never built alone.”
So build with others.
Ask what you can offer.
Step into the work, whether you’re leading or lifting.
Because one person can start the change—
But only many hands can finish it.
Chapter 6: The Expanding Circle
By Charles White
Your neighborhood is bigger than you think.
It stretches beyond your postal code, beyond your country, beyond your culture.
It stretches across oceans and borders, up to satellites, and outward to spacefaring probes that carry our story into the stars.
This is the expanding circle—the growing recognition that your life is connected to billions of others, many of whom you will never meet, but whose futures are shaped by the decisions you help make today. Even if you don’t own a cat, there are many, many millions of people in service to making cat food for the feline rulers of this planet, you maybe one and not even know it. I’ll talk more about that much later.
In Max Amarria, global citizenship is not a metaphor. It is a mindset.
It is the understanding that justice, peace, and survival are not local concerns—they are planetary.
No one understood this better than those of us who worked in space exploration.
At JPL, I watched NASA missions cross national, cultural, and political boundaries to reach shared goals.
When the Hubble Space Telescope needed repair, it was not just for America—it was for the world’s vision.
When Cassini orbited Saturn, it carried instruments from the European Space Agency, the Italian Space Agency, and others.
When we explored Mars, we did so not with prideful isolation—but with the eyes and minds of international collaborators.
Why?
Because space doesn’t care about borders. And neither does climate change. Neither does a pandemic. Neither do the challenges most urgent to humanity.
The reality is: we need each other.
Even if we don’t see them next door.
Global citizenship doesn’t mean abandoning your identity or your roots.
It means extending your care—to refugees, to the rainforest, to oceans you’ll never swim in, and people whose language you don’t speak but whose children deserve the same chance as yours.
It also means recognizing your impact—what you consume, what you vote for, what you amplify, and what you ignore.
An expanding circle of concern leads to wiser decisions.
It builds coalitions that solve problems instead of deferring blame.
The old world asked, “What’s in it for me?”
The new world must ask, “What’s at risk for us?”
This shift in thinking is not utopian—it’s necessary.
And as the Space Pope, let me tell you this:
If we are to earn the right to be more than a fleeting flicker on this planet—if we are to become something enduring and noble in the universe—it begins with acting like Earth is our shared ship.
Because it is.
Actions for Chapter 6 – The Expanding Circle
To Contemplate:
How far does your circle of concern extend? Do you grieve only what touches your own life—or do you feel the tremors of distant suffering, even when the tsunami doesn’t reach your doorstep?
To Practice:
Pick one global issue—deforestation, famine, war, forced labor, climate refugees. Learn about it. Give to it. Speak of it. Let it inform your choices. Your empathy is a vote. Your silence is, too.
The Commandment
“Thou shalt widen thy circle of care, until no fellow being is invisible, and no harm is acceptable just because it happens far from thee.”
You are not merely a citizen of a state.
You are a node in the human network.
Your signal matters.
So reach.
Learn.
Support.
Vote with a conscience that sees beyond your own backyard.
Lift others as you climb.
And when you look up at the stars—know that your light, too, contributes to the constellation.
Closing of Book 4: How to Be With Others
You’ve now walked through kinship, communication, community, dissent, cooperation, and global empathy.
This is the realm of connection—not only to one another, but to the full, living system we call civilization.
The future won’t be built by individuals acting alone.
It will be built by connected humans acting wisely—together.
Let that be your signal.
Let that be your frequency.
And let that be the harmony you carry into the next book.
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Disclaimer and Copyright
All books of Max Amarria were written and created by Charles White,
also known as The Space Pope, Max Singularity.
It is offered freely and should never be sold, resold, or used for profit.
This work was made as a gift of thought, reflection, and shared knowledge—
not as a product.
It may be shared, quoted, copied, printed, or distributed only in full or with proper attribution to the author, and never for commercial purposes.
No one is authorized to charge for it in any format.
It is copyrighted by Charles White, and all intellectual property rights are retained.
If you found value in these words, share them freely—just as they were offered freely.
Knowledge is for lifting, and for sharing. Not for locking away.
© 2025 Charles White. All rights reserved.
Charlie’s writing here reminds me of this song:
https://youtu.be/HsffxGyY4ck