We’re so consumed by getting through each day that we don’t talk about what we’re really doing here in this mind-blowingly vast universe. We’re living, we’re breathing, but we’re also suffering.
We’re so consumed by getting through each day that we don’t talk about what we’re really doing here in this mind-blowingly vast universe. We’re living, we’re breathing, but we’re also suffering.
I’m at the point where I’m ready to share my writing with more of the world out there. I want to actively connect with more writers and readers too. So this month I’m going to start publishing my “best of” blog posts on Medium.
Helping our kids understand and honor their feelings is one of the most important things parents can do, and there’s perhaps nothing in this world that confuses human beings more than the subject of “the talk.”
And so it goes with the meaning of all things. It’s relative. It’s based on your perspective. There’s no center to it. What something means and how meaningful it is to you depends on what your relationship to it is, and these relationships are always in flux.
This Thanksgiving season I’m more thankful than I’ve ever been. I see all the love and beauty in my life. It seems endless and overflowing.
I feel like I can always make my life better. I have yet to encounter a situation I couldn’t survive. And I’ve learned something from everything, even the most difficult moments, even when the only lesson to be learned is that life is unfair.
When I was a kid, Disney World was a land of complete and utter happiness where I felt stimulated and my mind expanded. But more than anything it was the optimism and positivity of the place that got me.
Des and I set up my old 2-man tent in the backyard just before the 4th of July, almost two months ago. We were planning to camp outside for a few days, which we often do during the summer.
When I started middle school we had a medium-brown Toyota Corolla, which we affectionately called “the crapmobile.” I now see the crapmobile as a character in an important chapter of my family’s American dream story.
What if tomorrow morning I woke up and tried as hard as I possibly could all day long to be the person I most want to be? What if I did the same thing the next day, and the day after that?
This is my 46th post. It blows my mind how much I’ve been able to learn about myself and the world around me in the 45 I’ve already written.
Some stories don’t come together until the very end, with a single moment that connects the dots and somehow makes some sense out of a situation that until then made no sense at all. That’s how it was with one of my favorite stories about my mother.
Dancing makes me happy, pure and simple. It’s so reliable in that way, like my kids, or freshly grilled hot dogs on a summer day. But for all of my love and passion for dancing, I still get this weird feeling inside when I talk about it.
It’s so important to have vision because that’s how you know which way to go. But realism is essential too, because it illuminates the twisted path to get there.
It was thirty five degrees out, chilly for sure, but we were bundled up and we all felt lucky to be outside all things considered. What a year 2021 had been. To be sitting around a fire with my wife and son and great friend was just what I needed.
There are always more meals and snacks to savor, but there’s only so much room in stomach. My capacity to talk about food is limitless though.
People say it’s good to have thick skin. It absorbs rejection and anger and negativity. It acts as a barrier between the harsh outside world and your emotional heart. The problem for me is I don’t have particularly thick skin and I don’t think I ever will.
I had all sorts of music dreams. I had rock and roll dreams of playing on big stages in front of massive crowds. I dreamed of dancing like Michael Jackson. I dreamed of strumming and singing like Bob Dylan.