Campus, Community, and a Career That Stuck

Thank you. I’m deeply honored to receive this award, though I must admit, it feels a bit surreal. When I began my Advancement career at the University of California, Irvine, I never imagined standing here today.

At UCI, I found myself immersed in the nascent field of advancement research. Back then, our roles were still being defined, and resources were scarce. Recognizing the need for a collaborative platform, I created PRSPCT-L, one of the first listservs dedicated to the advancement profession. My vision was to create a community-driven resource—a space where peers could share insights, ask questions, and support one another. This initiative was never about personal recognition; it was about fostering collective growth.

The first SoCARA board circa 1993 (left to right)
front row: Marsha Kraus, Laura Raymond, Cathy Terrones
back row: me, Napoleon Hendrix, Patty Tolliver

I owe immense gratitude to mentors and colleagues like Napoleon Hendrix, Cathy Terrones, Marsha Kraus, Laura Raymond, and Patty Tolliver. Their encouragement and collaboration were instrumental in bringing PRSPCT-L to life. Additionally, individuals like Karen Greene, Alan Hejnal, Michael Seymour, Shirley Gottschalk, Peter Wasemiller, and many others contributed significantly to my professional development and our community's growth.

Beyond PRSPCT-L, I was privileged to be a founding board member of the Southern California Advancement Research Association (SoCARA), the precursor to CARA. Our early meetings, often accompanied by modest refreshments and spirited discussions, laid the foundation for the robust organization we celebrate today.

But I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk about my first network—my family.

My father, for years, would ask me: “Have you gotten a real job yet?” He wasn’t being dismissive—he just couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea that I never really left the university. From his perspective, I graduated and just kept hanging around the campus. I think he suspected I was running some sort of elaborate scam that involved free parking and campus discounts. The truth is, I didn’t expect this to become a career either. It started as just a job—a way to pay the bills while I looked for the job that I really wanted to do. But somewhere between the spreadsheets, the research rabbit holes, and the incredible people I met, it stopped being just a job. It stuck. Campus became community, and community became a calling. And before I knew it, I was in the middle of a career I never planned—but wouldn’t trade for anything.

But during his retirement ceremony, he relayed a sentiment that has stayed with me. He said that careers aren’t just about balancing work and family, but about understanding how those things interact and overlap. At the time, I nodded politely, like a good son does. I was too early in my own career to have that kind of foresight. But now, looking back, I realize how right he was.

Parenting, partnering, and working aren’t separate lanes—they blur together. I’ve brought work stress home, and I’ve brought home perspective into the office. I’ve missed meetings because of school plays, and I’ve written prospect memos at the kitchen table while dinner simmered or backpacks were packed for the next day. And let me be honest—my kids have paid a price for my ambition. There were phone calls taken in parking lots instead of playing catch, donor visits scheduled over weekend soccer games, and the occasional grumble of “Are you working again?” when I pulled out my laptop on vacation.

To my children: thank you. Thank you for your patience, your rolled eyes, your hugs at the end of long days, and for being far more understanding than I often deserved. You’ve been unwitting co-authors in my career, and I hope, through it all, you’ve seen that building something meaningful—something lasting—takes love, sacrifice, and a little bit of humor. Just like raising a family.

I’ve also learned that our colleagues become a kind of second family. We celebrate milestones, we share inside jokes, we vent in the break room, and we build things together—like PRSPCT-L, like CARA, like careers we’re proud of. And no one—no one—receives an award like this without the strong support of both families: the one that shares your name and the one that shares your office, your values, and your mission.

So to my mentors, my colleagues, my family—both official and honorary—thank you. Thank you for making this work feel not only worthwhile but deeply human. Thank you for every brainstorm, every pep talk, every laugh, and every shared spreadsheet.

And to my dad—don’t worry. I finally got a real job. And it’s been a good one.

Cleats and Chaos: Finding Meaning Beyond the Scoreboard

The Best and Worst of Little League

Volunteering as a Little League coach, umpire, board member, and eventually president was one of the most meaningful—and most chaotic—experiences of my life. At its best, it was pure joy: being on the field, working directly with my children and their teammates, teaching the game, and watching them grow in confidence and character. At its worst, it was a front-row seat to adult egos run amok, with the scoreboard too often overshadowing the scoreboard of life lessons that really matter.

The heart of Little League is, and should always be, the kids. Coaching them was a privilege. Whether it was watching a timid player finally connect for their first hit, seeing teammates encourage one another after a tough inning, or simply enjoying the chaos and laughter of practice—those moments were the reason I signed up. There’s a unique magic in youth sports that exists far beyond wins and losses. It’s about learning, developing resilience, discovering joy in effort, and being part of something bigger than yourself.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a perfect coach by any stretch of the imagination. There was the time my son was pitching, and he had given up a home run and a couple of walks. I called time to pay a mound visit when my son tried to wave (or shoo) me back to the dugout, I told him to "Get your head out of your @##." We were both frustrated before I got to the mound, so my words weren't helpful (and not my best parenting or coaching moment either). In another pitching "incident," I allowed a young player to come in as a relief pitcher. He had begged me at every practice and game for weeks to allow him to pitch. I knew he wasn't ready... I sent him out to the pitching mound anyway, hoping for the best. After he walked 6 batters in a row (without throwing a strike), I went to the mound and relegated him to right field... In hindsight, I wish I had worked with him more so that he was better prepared (and that I hadn't caved to his request).

Looking back, I know I wasn’t immune to poor judgment or pressure. But those moments, embarrassing as they were, taught me that humility and growth are far more important than winning any game. But all too often, that lesson gets drowned out by the noise from the sidelines.

As president of our league, I faced the unfortunate reality that some adults put their own egos ahead of the kids. I dealt with parents trying to relive their own athletic glory through their children—pushing too hard, criticizing too loudly, and forgetting that this game was supposed to be fun. I witnessed others attempting to bend or break the rules just to gain an edge on the scoreboard, as if youth baseball was a stepping stone to some professional dream, rather than a stage for growth and camaraderie.

Some used their roles as volunteers or administrators to seek advantages for their child’s team—subtle manipulations that eroded trust and undermined the spirit of fair play. That was the most disheartening part of leading the league: managing the politics and misplaced priorities of adults who had forgotten that youth sports are not about them.

Our "competitive Tee Ball" division was one of those areas where there were already problems. What was intended to be a lighthearted, developmental experience for five-, six-, and seven-year-olds had became a proving ground for adults who had lost sight of the purpose of youth sports. Parents shouted at umpires over calls that didn't matter. Coaches argued with each other, lobbied to stack teams with older, stronger players, and instructed their players to make fundamentally unsound plays to take advantage of Byzantine rule loopholes. The joy and discovery that should define tee ball were often replaced by pressure, frustration, and confusion for the children on the field.

Rather than addressing the root causes of the dysfunction—unchecked competitiveness and misplaced priorities—league administrators leaned into the problem. They formalized standings, hosted all-star games, and implemented a playoff bracket for six-year-olds. These rules weren’t built to foster teamwork, teach fundamentals, or help kids fall in love with the game. They were crafted to validate adult egos. The result was a structure that encouraged adults to treat a child's first exposure to baseball as if it were the Little League World Series. In trying to legitimize their own competitiveness, the adults inadvertently undermined the very growth and joy the league was meant to nurture.

And as any adult who has participated in youth sports knows, these problems don't just go away as the kids progress. The kids get older and they move up levels... and their parents come with them, with all the bad habits and animosities they learned at the previous levels.

I was lucky that we moved into this league after my son was too old for Tee Ball. He played in a developmental league when he was five years old, Tee Ball in the first half of the season, and "coach pitch" in the second. When he moved up a level at seven years old, it was coach pitch the first half of the season and "kid pitch" the second.  By the time he was eight- and nine-years-old, he was ready to compete with kids his own age, and we were doubly lucky that he mainly played on teams with good coaches and managers (me notwithstanding).

So, when I became president of the league, once my son started middle school, I truly wasn't ready for the craziness to come. I thought stepping into a leadership role would mean organizing schedules, ordering uniforms, and maybe handing out trophies at the end of the season. Instead, I often found myself less like a league president and more like a crisis manager for adults. Week after week, I mediated shouting matches between coaches, issued warnings to parents berating umpires, and fielded emergency calls over sideline confrontations that escalated far beyond what any Saturday youth game should entail.

When I moved from the dugout to the boardroom, the stakes changed. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a coach trying to help a group of kids—I was the one responsible for keeping the league itself from unraveling.

Some of the biggest challenges came from coaches who embodied a “win at all costs” mentality. These weren’t just competitive people—they were adults who treated every youth game like Game 7 of the World Series. They ran up scores, manipulated lineups, and bent rules not for the kids, but for the scoreboard. And while I’ll be the first to admit I love winning and hate losing, that mindset robs the kids of something essential. 

The most surreal part was dealing with parents of 10-year-olds convinced that their child’s future athletic scholarship was on the line because they only played three innings instead of four. These weren't one-off concerns—they came bundled in long emails, accusations of favoritism, and ultimatums about pulling kids from the league. And the coaches? Some couldn’t even pretend to get along, letting old grudges play out through passive-aggressive lineup decisions or loud confrontations in front of the kids. It stopped being about teaching the game and started to feel like a proxy war for adult egos. What should have been a community effort to build confidence and camaraderie in children too often became a theater of insecurity and misplaced ambition.

CVLL President Joseph Boeke, presenting the 2011 Grace Chase Sportsmanship Award to Jason Crosthwaite.

Still, for all the drama, there were moments that reminded me why I stayed. Opening Day was always a favorite: kids in fresh uniforms buzzing with excitement, running the bases in skills competitions, their parents actually cheering (instead of complaining), and everyone enjoying the simple thrill of baseball. I loved the closing ceremonies too—awards, all-star announcements, and the sense that, despite everything, we’d created something meaningful.

And I kept coaching. I kept showing up for practices and games, especially when my daughter was on the field. Every time I laced up my cleats and walked onto the diamond, the noise of the adult world faded just a little. There was something grounding in helping a kid make their first catch or watching a team cheer each other on after a tough inning.

I remember sitting near the dugout during one of my daughter’s games, listening to the girls shout their chants and rhymes while their team was up to bat. That dugout energy was pure magic—supportive, silly, loud, and full of joy. One of their cheers stuck with me:

Do it again, we liked it, we liked it. 

Do it again, We liked it, We liked it.

Faith playing softball for her Kiwanis Club team in 2011.

It was a reminder that these kids understood something many adults seemed to forget: the value of simply showing up for each other. The girls had the most fun when they stopped making it about themselves and focused on their teammates, win or lose.

Youth sports are supposed to be where kids learn teamwork, resilience, and sportsmanship—not where they become pawns in an adult’s quest for validation. When the focus shifts from development to domination, the kids lose more than a game—they lose a chance to discover joy, teamwork, and the quiet confidence that comes from simply being allowed to grow.

Don’t get me wrong—I value many of the adult friendships I made during my time in the league, even the complicated ones. By the time my son reached his freshman year of high school baseball, I had only managed to see him play two or three times. Running the league had slowly replaced watching my own son play the game we both loved. Mediating adult conflicts became work. Watching kids play was joy. So I stepped away—not from baseball, but from the chaos—and returned to my favorite title: Dad. Not a dad trying to outcoach or outmaneuver other dads. Just a dad in the stands, cheering his kids on.

In the end, what Little League gave me wasn't just a front-row seat to my children's growth—it gave me a deeper understanding of my own. It reminded me that youth sports aren't about crafting champions; they’re about building character. They're not about polishing résumés for future scholarships; they're about teaching kids how to fail, try again, and love the game anyway. And maybe, if we’re lucky, they teach us grown-ups a little something too—about humility, patience, and the importance of knowing when to step back and let the kids lead the way. What mattered most wasn’t the final scores or standings. It was watching my kids—and so many others—learn how to stand tall after a strikeout, celebrate a teammate’s success, and fall in love with a game that gives far more than it ever takes. That’s the meaning I found beyond the scoreboard. And that’s what I’ll carry with me long after the chaos has faded.

365 Thank Yous (REVIEW)

365 Thank Yous: The Year a Simple Act of Daily Gratitude Changed My Life
by John Kralik

My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

I first looked at this book in a college bookstore. It was on a shelf filled with books for graduates and students entering college. At first, I thought that perhaps it was a little out of place, immediately thinking it was a typical self-help book. I didn't buy the book then, but when I ran across it again at my local bookstore, I decided to pick it up based on the cover recommendation by The Last Lecture co-author Jeffrey Zaslow (whose NY Times column I frequently read).

Kralik's book is an accessible and easy read, and I was happy to find that it isn't really a self-help book at all; rather it is a personal memoir of a particular year or so in his life. It isn't great literature, nor is it a "step-by-step" guide to picking yourself up by the bootstraps—a Wayne Dyer-esque type book. 365 Thank Yous isn't really pop psychology, nor is it preachy... The crux of the book is Kralik's desire to try and look at his life through a different lens. Rather than continuing to be bitter and angst-ridden over all the problems in his life, Kralik sought to try and find things to be thankful for and to do so every day for a year.

As he goes through his thank you letter exercise, not only is Kralik able to gain a new (and better) perspective on his own life, he starts to equate the turn-around in his fortunes, as evidenced by some of the good things happening in his life, to his thank you letter writing campaign. Which not only reinforced his mission but recalled his earliest experience writing a thank you note to his grandfather:

He promised that if I wrote him a letter thanking him for this silver dollar, he would send another one. That was the way thank-you letters work, he told me.

I think that one of the reasons this book struck a chord with me is that I can recall being "chained" (figuratively, not literally) to my desk after my high school graduation, writing thank-you notes to all the people who sent me gifts. At the time, it was the last thing I wanted to do, but I remember my mother explaining that not only was it the right thing to do, but that good things would follow as a result...

As I read through the book, I found myself drawn closer and closer to Kralik's narrative. Initially, this had as much to do with our lives seeming eerily parallel. To begin with, we worked in the same part of town (at the same time he was going through his letter-writing campaign), and I've been to almost every place that he mentions in the book (in fact, we could have easily bumped into each other at any one of several local places). Our careers briefly intertwined when we worked for the same company in the early 1990s...

But most importantly, I can relate to how Kralik perceived himself in 2008. Like him, I had been through the divorce ringer; I wasn't happy with how my career was progressing and wasn't fulfilled by my work. On top of that, my personal relationships were at an all-time nadir.

Kralik's solution to these "problems" was to look for things to be thankful for (and to write his thank you notes). This is certainly a "therapy 101" solution to these kinds of challenges and isn't (or at least shouldn't be) an earth-shattering epiphany for most people. But for me, at least, reading Kralik's memoir has allowed me to look at my own life and consider all of the things in my life for which I am grateful, and if I choose to write a few more thank you notes as a result... then all the better.

View all my reviews

Memorial Day

In a 2008 blog post, I wrote that it has become passé to remember Thomas Jefferson's admonition that "Liberty needs to be watered regularly with the blood of tyrants and patriots." Almost three years on from that scribble, our collective memory seems to be fading more markedly than I first thought.

Today the immortal words of Winston Churchill ring more true than ever: "never was so much owed by so many to so few". The rights and freedoms that we enjoy are hard earned privileges, not entitlements. As Jon Meacham of WNET points out in this PBS Need to Know essay, the separation between most American citizens and those who serve (and pay) to protect our nation has widened almost to the point of non-recognition:

This Memorial Day takes place not even a month removed from the killing of the "most wanted man in the world", the face of the "global war on terrorism", Osama bin Laden. Yet Americans are decidedly removed from a sense of urgency in our current conflicts in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya, let alone remembering the sacrifices of years gone by. Collectively, we seem to have forgotten the simple act of remembering the cost, in human lives, that has been paid to ensure that we have the freedom to enjoy three-day weekends, to eat hamburgers and hot dogs, and share the company of our friends and loved ones on this holiday weekend.

In his General Order #11, marking the first Memorial Day on May 30, 1868, General John A. Logan wrote:

Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time, testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten, as a people, the cost of free and undivided republic.

If other eyes grow dull and other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain in us.

Logan's words are prescient. At the sesquicentennial of the Civil War, there are no longer living veterans who remember the sacrifices of their comrades. America's last World War I veteran passed away in February 2011, and World War II veterans are passing at a rate of 1,000 vets per day. Remembering—not just on the last Monday in May, but in the quiet, ordinary moments. I’ll remember when I see someone else stepping up to serve, or when I pass by a memorial that too many people don’t notice anymore, I'll remember when I speak my mind and disagree openly and without fear. It doesn’t have to be some grand gesture. Sometimes it’s just taking a beat to acknowledge that what we have didn’t come easy—and that someone else paid a price so we wouldn’t have to.

Memorial Day 2011, a photo by thrunance'seyes.

Without those who saw these sacrifices first-hand, it is up to each of us to put into practice General Logan's words.

Today, I choose to remember the sacrifices of the men and women, some of them my friends, who gave themselves for something we are allowed to take for granted. That feels like the least I can do. 

Hustle Ball

Back when I was a kid, baseball practice was boring (for the most part). Two hours of waiting for a turn to do something. We'd start by warming up our arms, but that was pretty much it. Then we'd take positions assigned by the coach, and he'd hit balls to us to simulate situations—runners at first and third, etc. After 45 minutes to an hour of this, we’d start some kind of batting practice. One or two players would come in off the field: one to hit, one to wait. Then rotate outfield to dugout, and so on.

I can still, three decades later, remember waiting all practice just for the opportunity to hit. The rest of practice was just waiting—punctuated by the occasional field or throw. Even when I played catcher and touched the ball more often, it remained a rather dull experience. And for the rest of the team, 8 or so kids were doing almost nothing for two hours. A wasted opportunity to build skills.

So, when I coach, I take a more methodical approach with rotating skill stations. But stations require supervision—not just for safety, but to ensure proper instruction. Repetition only helps if the technique is right. The problem is: many youth coaches lack the help they need to make this happen, despite having solid practice plans (which I highly recommend writing out in advance).

For those coaches with limited help, here’s a suggestion: most youth teams have 12 players—divide them into three squads of four. Then enlist three parent volunteers to help supervise. This breakdown makes practices more efficient and keeps kids engaged. With small groups, you can provide quick instruction, then let the kids work with one another or a volunteer to run the drill, allowing you to circulate and give guidance.

Uneven groups aren’t ideal but manageable. Just aim to reduce downtime.

Squads also foster competition—players strive to set or beat records. Most kids love to compete, and it helps you assess their progress quickly.

To wrap practice, we play a fast-paced game called Hustle Ball. The key is hustle (not just speed). Once learned, we can run a six-inning game in 30 minutes or less.

Equipment

• 4 Ball Buckets
• 1 L-Screen
• 1 Stopwatch
• 2 Coaches

Setup is pretty easy, empty 3 ball buckets into one, then place an empty ball bucket in foul territory behind first base; another behind second base; and one next to the catcher.

Place the full bucket of baseballs behind the L-Screen for a coach to throw. One coach will be the pitcher for both teams and one will keep time on the stopwatch.

Rules

• Standard baseball rules apply, with these adjustments:
• Start with generous time between pitches and innings (work toward 10 sec/pitch, 30 sec/inning).
• Hitters start with a 2-1 count.
• Catcher places balls in the bucket beside him, not thrown back.
• After a play, defense has 10 seconds to bucket the ball; offense has 10 to send in the next hitter.
• Countdown begins at 5 seconds: “5-4-3-2-1,” then pitch is thrown.
• Fielders bucket balls after plays—no returns to the pitcher.
• After the third out, 2B/SS bring their bucket to the mound and refill the coach’s bucket.
• Incoming fielders reverse the process. Failing this = automatic out.

Teams have 30 seconds between innings. If the first batter isn’t ready—helmet on, in the box—when time’s up, a pitch is thrown and counts as a strike. Same for unready defense: the pitch is live.

To emphasize hustle, call outs if bats or helmets are left near the field, or players walk instead of sprinting on/off the field. My players keep helmets on when fielding to simplify transitions.

Try this approach. After 60–90 minutes of drills, players enjoy actually playing. And they’ll be excited for the next practice.

Creating a star filter effect in Photoshop CS4

I found it interesting, that after posting my Christmas blog in December, I received several e-mail comments -- not about the writing, but rather about the photo of our Christmas tree.  Not exactly the response I was expecting, but flattering (I guess) none-the-less...

Most of the comments read something to the effect of: "I really like the [Christmas tree] picture.  How did you get the starbursts?" Well in the "old days" I would have used a cross screen filter on my trusty SLR's 35-70mm zoom lens, as I was taking the picture. These filters are easily available for digital SLR lenses, but I didn't happen to have a filter when I took this digital photo (and to be honest it was taken in the wee hours of Christmas morning, and I was too tired/exhausted to even think of putting a filter on at the time anyway).  So I manipulated the picture in Photoshop to get the effect (which has to be one of the chief advantages of digital photography over the "old days").

The Photoshop technique I used isn't as straight forward as applying a ready-coded starburst filter (mostly because I just don't like the results from the filters I have seen).  But this process has a finite number of steps, so that most casual Photoshop users can create the effect with a little bit of effort and, if I dare say so myself, produce some very nice images.  So here is a tutorial detailing this technique for those who expressed some interest.

DISCLAIMER: This tutorial assumes that you have some previous experience with Photoshop and understand simple concepts like selecting tools/procedures from the menus, using the magic wand, pencil and lasso tools, cutting and pasting, etc... Also, please note that clicking on the images will bring up larger, more detailed, versions.

image 1: original photo w/background isolated

To begin with, the original picture I started with needed some work. As you can see, there is a hideous shadow (the result of using the camera's flash in an unlit room), also the background is cluttered and detracts from the main focus, which is the tree.  So, my first step was to isolate the background.  This ends up being the most tedious step in the process (using a combination of Photoshop's magic wand and lasso tools).

After isolating the background, choose Select -> Inverse from the menu bar and then the copy/paste commands to create a layer that includes only the tree and presents (the foreground) then change the exposure on the background layer via the Image -> Adjustments -> Exposure menu until you get the desired effect.

image 2: after adjusting the background exposure.

As you can see in image 2, the result is a much improved photo which still retains some hint of the depth behind the tree (that depth would disappear if the foreground was simply placed on a black background).

Now that the photo is prepared, select Layer -> Merge Down from the menu bar (or type ⌘E) to create the new background layer. Then duplicate the background layer by selecting the Layer -> Duplicate Layer option from the menu.  Be sure to choose the "new" Layer 1, from the layers tray, then choose the Threshold option from the Image menu (Image -> Adjustments -> Threshold). The Threshold option converts your layer to black and white (not grey-scale, but actually black and white pixels). This will result in your workspace looking like this:

image 3: applying Threshold command to Layer 1.

As you can see, the lightest areas on the original image are now white and the remainder is black.  The goal, for a good starburst filter is to isolate the areas of white, so that they correspond to where you want the effect to show up in your photo.  I adjust the Threshold level in the dialog box to remove most of the black/white balance until the lights were the primary points of white:

image 4: adjust the Threshold Level to isolate areas where the star effect will be added to the photo.

After this step is complete, you will notice that there are still many white spots that do not correspond to the light spots where you wnt to apply the effect.  Switch to the Pencil on the Photoshop tool pallet (I used a 13px sized pencil) and blacken in any of these white spots.  To make your life slightly easier, you can zoom in and toggle the black and white layer on and off, to determine which areas to blacken out as follows:

image 5

image 6

After you have cleaned up all of the white spots on layer 1, to your satisfaction, duplicate the layer again, by selecting Layers -> Duplicate Layer from the menu.  Your layers tray should now look something like this:

image 7

Most of the set-up work is now complete, so you can get into the meat of creating the star filter effect.  To begin, select the copy of your first layer (the one that you just created) in the Layers tray.

On this layer, you will want to apply one of Photohop's pre-set filters called the motion blur.  Select the motion blur from the filters menu (Filters -> Blur -> Motion Blur).  If you have ever used motion blur before, the filter will have the last settings that you used pre-populated in its dialog box.  In all likelihood, these will need to be modified.

First, change the angle of the blur.  In this example I used a simple cross hatch where the rays of light emanate out perpendicular to each other (i.e, at 90° angles respectively).  You can choose to make your stars have more than two axes or non-perpendicular ones as well.

In this example, I chose to start by setting the blur axis to 45°.  After establishing the angle of the first axis, then you can adjust its length by changing the value in the distance box (I chose 850px).

image 8: adding the first motion blur

Now, as you can see from the accompanying scree shot, the layer appears to be solid black.  This means that the blur filter has done its job, blendeding the white spots into the black background.  However, do not fret, your streaks of white are there we just need to use the levels command to bring them back out.

Select Image -> Adjustments -> Levels to open the Levels dialog box which will look like this:

image 9: open the Levels dialog box.

Click on the white slider in the input levels chart and slide it to the left, as you do so, you will see the streaks of white lighten up as you move your mouse to the left:

image 10: bringing out the blurred streaks of light.

Now that you have "illuminated" the streaks, take a moment and jot down the values below the Input Levels graph.  You will want to use these values when you go to create the perpendicular (cross-hatched) layer. You will also notice that these streaks are fairly uniform in size and that they end rather abruptly (based on what you chose for the length in the blur step). The starburts formed on a real cross hatch filter taper off at the ends. To accomplish this, simply re-apply the motion blur filter. Since this was the last filter you used, it will be at the top of the Filter drop-down menu so select Filters -> Motion Blur (or type ⌘F):

image 11: 2nd motion blur pass.

The result of the second blur pass should give you a series of nice long, tapered, streaks:

image 12: first light streak layer complete.

Now you are going to switch from this layer back to layer 1 (the layer originally manipulated with the Threshhold level adjustment.  On this layer, you will repeat the steps above, to create another layer of streaks.  However, the blur on this layer should be perpendicular to the blur created initially.  Since I used a simple 45° blur on the initial layer, I'm just going to reverse that by changing the angle to -45° (the distance will remain the same):

image 13: creating a new layer with a perpendicular blur.

Once again, select Image -> Adjustments -> Levels from the menu, and this time type in the values you wrote down from the initial streak layer, then re-apply the secondary motion blur:

image 14: adjust the levels using the same values as the first time.

Now you'll need to blend the two "streak" layers together to create the cross-hatch effect.  I do this by using the screen option from the pull-down menu on the layers tray:

image 15: blend layers using the screen option.

The screen option works particularly well because the background on the image layers is black. The result of blending the two layers shows the classic cross-hatching that we are looking for:

image 16: after blending the "streak" layers.

Be sure you have the top most layer selected and select Layer -> Merge Down (⌘E) again, combing the two top layers:

image 17: merge the two streak layers to create the cross-hatch.

The last steps are to take the cross-hatch layer and blend it into the background image, then make any adjustments to the cross-hatch layer to "punch up" or "tone down" the starbursts, and finally to flatten the final image for the web...

Blending the starburst streaks into the background can be done using several different blend mode techniques.  As was done to create the cross-hatch layer itself, you can use the screen option to blend the layers together.  This may work for some kinds of images, but on images with rich colors the result of the screen blend maybe "too white" (it is for my tastes).  So for this example, I chose the color dodge blending option:

image 18: Blend the cross-hatch using the color dodge mode.

After applying the blending mode, use the Image -> Adjustments -> Levels menu to change the input levels on the cross-hatch layer to achieve your desired starburst effect:

image 19: adjust the levels on the cross-hatch layer before merging the layers and saving the image.

Merge the top layer down again (⌘E), and save the image in your favorite file format (JPEG or PNG for web) for the finished star filtered image.

QED