This morning is a good one. It’s going to be another beautiful summer day in Alpena, Michigan. Clear sky, probably high 70s. Little to no wind. Except for cars passing down 2nd Avenue every so often and crows cawing and heckling a few blocks over, all is quiet in the neighborhood. Julian gassed up with … More church doughnuts
July 23, 2017 7:21 am Just like the good old days. Start by marking the date and time. Call attention to what it is I’m doing—writing, thinking, creating, channeling, venting, seeing, hearing, hoping, believing, convincing—add the visions of the day—my kids sleeping, wife smiling, flower blooming through the sidewalk, ants eating a live, squirming … More Ceiling Fans
~ There’s never been a problem as big as it first seems. But there is a great trick to finding reason in waves of emotion. That’s why so many of us drown and are defeated. Our bodies taken deep to the fish or washed up bloated on the shore. The only way to get through … More no more rules
I know night when there is no time tick, tick, tocking and all of our efforts are fading. So sometimes I listen to music in the dark. Bon Iver’s Blood Bank or Manchester Orchestra’s April Fool. Maybe even Eddie Vedder driftin’, driftin’ away. But it only makes me remember that I have a secret I … More watch me
(smiling robin art by Brooke Stevens) Left my family for a bit—probably just a day. Drive from Alpena, Michigan to Columbus, OH for a meeting. Along the way, a big mud turtle is saved as it scrapes across M33. It isn’t thankful at all as it is placed in the swampy ditch. Just sits there … More away from home
He’s lost it a little. That something that pushed and pushed and pushed him. It was light. But there was deep darkness too. Days did not end or begin. They only moved seamlessly one into another. And now that he is full and filling out—heavier, slower, more patient with the world—he has so much of … More and tonight, there is this
He comes to me. Big, brown eyes. Smiling. “Daddy, let’s pick night crawlers.” “What for?” He does a little jump. Claps his hands. “For fishing!” My boy. Five years old. Tickled with the notion of traipsing through puddles, picking slimy worms. “But we can’t go fishing today,” I say. “Mom will be here soon.” Undefeated. … More after the rain
