It is my naïve hope that what we are doing here is acknowledging each other as humans.
At some point I realized we were all standing there not checking our phones.
It doesn’t get much more old-fashioned than that. Clear back to the caves.
I knew early I wasn’t cut out to be a farmer, but I loved that farm. You could stand me on any acre and I’d have a story.
If I’m making a big deal out of a little deal, I feel the same when I flip a switch and light pours forth.
We shot the breeze a while, caught up, and then made our way home, hearts lifted as they always are when human interaction leaves you with hop…
Last week I received a mysterious call from a friend.
I write this in a week of uncertainty, as if certainty were ever anything but a blind privilege.
Much of life is built on sunk cost; I’ll count it a blessing to break even.
Today is the first day following winter when finally the air is warm enough that you can just wade in without so much as a windbreaker.
Lately I have been spending a little more time than I’d prefer walking the black dog.
Last week my dad called with good news about his neighbor Royal. Royal is not his real name, but that is the name we will use today. Royal is …
To this day I still prefer to declare a deer has big horns — there is blunt joy in twinning the unadorned words.
If everything went our way all the time we might come to think we somehow deserved it.
In a corner of my office there hangs a framed poster of a young boy walking beside his dog on a sunlit dirt path.
I want to be antifragile. I also never wish to discount the beauty of fragility as it relates to the ephemeral.
In this the winter of more hunkering down than usual, a public service message: nothing ameliorates cabin fever like two cats and a laser pointer.
If the prognosticators have it right, we have another six nights of subzero to go.
If one receives an award without lobbying for it, and it is given purely, it is ungracious to make jokes or self-deprecate to the point of den…
The road to aging gracefully is filled with potholes, and many of those are filled with nostalgia.
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Sometimes after a long, winding slog uphill into the wind for what feels like, oh, four years, you find yourself hurtling down the other side …
How I wish a simple homemade door was enough to protect all precious things.
In drier years there is no pond at all by fall, but this year come the solid winter freeze a sizeable patch of ice remained.
At a certain age and mileage we have accumulated so many experiences it is nearly impossible for just one song to be the song.
It is tempting to cast this as some year-end wrap, print it out and stick it on the fridge like a resolution, but instead I choose simply to s…
It would be tempting to view updates on dry ice emergencies as an overwrought take on the mundane.
I have long said I prefer to run close to the dirt as eventually we all fall, and why not lessen the drop?
