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Shift the Narrative: A Blind Man's Vision for Rewriting the Stories that Limit Us
Shift the Narrative: A Blind Man's Vision for Rewriting the Stories that Limit Us
Shift the Narrative: A Blind Man's Vision for Rewriting the Stories that Limit Us
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Shift the Narrative: A Blind Man's Vision for Rewriting the Stories that Limit Us

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Shift is a blind man’s vision of how he changed his life narrative from the impossible to the economically probable and in the process, moved from welfare to wealth. Blind from the age of 16, Russell Redenbaugh's achievement as a successful investor and economist, a Commissioner on the US Civil Rights Commission serving under three US Presidents and a black belt, three time gold medal jiu-jitsu world champion fighting sighted opponents, prove that if he can, anyone can. Most people think that their circumstances produce their narratives, but Russell shows it is their narratives that produce their circumstances. If you change your story, you change your future. Through a set of actions and behaviors, Russell demonstrates how anyone can "Shift Your Narrative" to produce more of what they care about in their personal life, career and money matters, starting today.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 28, 2018
ISBN9781630477387
Shift the Narrative: A Blind Man's Vision for Rewriting the Stories that Limit Us

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    Book preview

    Shift the Narrative - Russell Redenbaugh

    SECTION I

    FLYING BLIND

    The Myth of the Super Survivor

    There is a literature of people who started as mere mortals and then, after surviving some enormous adversity, turned that adversity into a benefit and became very accomplished in one way or another. This is an effective way to think about your life. Because most people don’t think about their life until it’s too late. Then, they think only about their regrets.

    —Russell Redenbaugh

    CHAPTER 1

    PURGATORY

    During the early 1960s, Americans were very concerned about Communism. The Cold War, and what Ronald Reagan would call The Evil Empire. The Soviet Union was ahead of us, particularly in weapons and space programs. They were first in space with the first satellite and early again with a human in orbit. Losing the Space Race wasn’t OK with most of us, especially as they seemed related. The Space Race was not a friendly competition to reach the moon first. The race to the moon was a matter of national security.

    President Kennedy declared that We will put a man on the moon and bring him back alive in this decade. His declaration lit a fire under the country. There was a lot of nationalism mixed with concern that our enemies were taking over the world. That concern spread even to kids in high school, including me. The president’s challenge was inspiring. I became enthusiastic about all things that flew.

    One Saturday morning in Salt Lake City, where I was born, I anticipated summer break from the school I hated. I didn’t have any work to do, so I decided to feed my passion for flight. It was a warm spring day, and I was working shirtless in our small garage. Outside in the sunlight, other kids played ball in the street. Women worked in their gardens, and men tinkered with Chevys and Fords in their driveways. In 1962, weekends weren’t designed for anything more serious.

    I was making a solid-state rocket. An aluminum tube served as the body. I made the fuel of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate. I designed the fuel to slow burn rather than explode like gunpowder. I’d obtained the sulfur from the local pharmacy. Regular grade barbeque charcoal was easy to come by. Getting my hands on potassium nitrate was a trickier affair. I pretended to be a delivery boy for Federated Milk Producers. I went to the Braun Connect and Hymen Chemical Supply Company to pick up our one-pound order. They bought my story, and I got the third ingredient for my homemade gunpowder.

    My fingertips were growing black with gunpowder. Beads of sweat formed on the back of my neck in the warm, confined space. I was testing different mixtures of charcoal and sulfur. I needed to test to get the right burn rate. Sitting and sweating on a bench in a small work area in the garage, I got ready to clamp the rocket in a vise. A silver flash of light through the window blinded me as some neighborhood kids bicycled by. They were laughing and squealing, the bright spring sun reflecting off their bikes. I blinked hard to clear away the white spots and then returned to the task at hand, concentrating hard. After I clamped the rocket, the plan was to ignite it with an electric spark from my motorcycle’s magneto. But I never got that far. While assembling it, something went wrong. The rocket exploded.

    I felt the warm wet blood flowing over my skin, on my arms, my head, my chest, and my legs. Unable to see, I ran my hand down my leg and felt a heavy puddle of blood soaking through my jeans near my thigh. The bleeding was near a major artery I knew from Biology. If nobody came to my rescue soon, I would pass out and die. Thankfully, it took only seconds for most people from the neighborhood to arrive at the garage.

    Our next-door neighbor, Ruth Johnson, was an Army surgical nurse. Luckily for me, it was 1962, and washer-dryers were not common. Ruth was gathering in her laundry that had been hanging out to dry. She rushed into the garage and used her sheets and blankets as bandages and tourniquets. I was floating in and out of consciousness, bleeding heavily, burned all over, and still unable to

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