More to This

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“To die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.”
—Walt Whitman

Lying on my leather sofa. Scrolling through Facebook reels. My mind is quiet. My heart is unguarded. And then—there he is.

Standing alone on the rocks, guitar slung low, sunset pouring behind him like a benediction. Waves slam against stone, but he’s steady. Rooted. A white t-shirt clings to his chest, a pendant rests just above the place where prayer begins. He looks like someone who’s known both ache and awe but hasn’t run from either.

He strums. And sings.

“I’ve been thinking about dying…”

It grabs me. Grabs me deep. Not the lyric alone—but the way he sings it. Calm. Certain. Like someone who knows not only the shoreline but also the undertow.

I listen to the end. I sit still in its wake.

Later, I call my oldest sister. Ninety. Sharp. Aware. Lucid in a way that startles sometimes. I tell her about it. I play it for her.

Silence.

Then softly, she says, “Play it again.”

I do.

And there it is. The line that undoes me.

“My daughter says we live again…”

A child’s faith. A father’s voice. A goodbye that sounds like a hello in disguise.

She doesn’t ask what it means. She doesn’t need to. Some truths live in the body, not the brain. And some goodbyes don’t speak in past tense.

That’s what struck me about the song—about him—this barefoot man with a guitar and the Atlantic licking at his heels. He wasn’t mourning. He was offering. Not an elegy, but a threshold.

Suddenly I began to wonder—not just about dying, but about the shape of leaving itself.
How often the final word is really the first line of something else.

What I hadn’t yet named—what was already working on me under the music—was the song’s quiet insistence.

Over and over, Mark Scibilia returns to the same plea, almost like a whispered vow:

“Don’t you dare
tell me that there ain’t more to this.“

It isn’t argument. It isn’t doctrine. It’s defiance. He’s not trying to prove an afterlife. He’s refusing a small one.

The line keeps coming back like a tide, not to persuade us but to steady us—reminding us that our lives don’t fit neatly inside a closing. What we give our lives to has a way of exceeding the frame.

When he sings it, it sounds less like belief and more like fidelity: a promise to those he loves,
a promise to the life they’ve shared, a promise that whatever waits beyond this moment must somehow be wide enough to hold them all.

That refrain—there’s more to this—isn’t a conclusion. It’s a refusal to conclude.

What moved me wasn’t simply the lyric, or even the tenderness of a daughter’s faith carried in a father’s voice. It was the way the song refused to close in on itself. More to This doesn’t resolve so much as it opens outward. It leaves space. It resists the neatness of an ending.

I noticed my own response before I noticed the pattern in the song. I didn’t want the ending sealed too tightly. I didn’t want it explained away. I wanted to lean forward, not back.

Once I noticed that, I couldn’t unsee it.

I began thinking about how often endings—especially those that arrive at the moment of death—behave this way. Not declaring an end. Not insisting on finality. But gesturing instead. Toward light. Toward motion. Toward wonder. Toward something unfinished and unnamed.

Literature has long understood how difficult it is to stop speaking.

In A Tale of Two Cities, Dickens sends Sydney Carton to his death with a sentence that looks forward rather than back. “It is a far, far better thing that I do…” The line does not tell us what follows. It simply insists that meaning survives the moment.

Fitzgerald closes The Great Gatsby not on death itself, but on motion. “So we beat on, boats against the current…” The sentence ends. The movement does not. Time presses forward, indifferent but alive.

In Beloved, Morrison refuses to let memory die with the body. “This is not a story to pass on,” she writes—an ending that sounds like a warning and a summons at once.

And in Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, the novel concludes not with extinction, but with a completed gesture. Something is finished, yes—but not everything ends.

Different writers. Different centuries. Different convictions.

Yet we witness the same reluctance to close the door too firmly.

Nowhere is this clearer than in Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilyich. Ivan does not receive a doctrine. He does not glimpse a mapped-afterlife. What he receives instead is recognition—a sudden clarity that loosens fear’s grip. Terror gives way not because he knows what comes next, but because something essential falls into place before the end.

Death happens. But it does not cancel significance.

Tolstoy never argues that life continues. He simply writes as if meaning does.

What struck me, once I saw it, was how consistent this posture is. Literary endings at the edge rarely snap shut. They soften. They widen. They behave as if language itself resists abrupt closure.

Then I began noticing the same thing outside of books.

Real life, it turns out, leans too.

Emily Dickinson’s last words—“I must go in, the fog is rising”—do not explain themselves. No reassurance. No declaration of belief. Just movement. Go in. Not away. Not gone. Into something obscured, indistinct, impossible to chart.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe is said to have asked for “More light.” Not an answer. A desire.

Steve Jobs, famously unsentimental about metaphysics, reportedly died repeating: “Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow.” Awe without explanation. Wonder without commentary.

Claude Monet is said to have murmured simply, “It’s beautiful.”

Different lives. Different beliefs. Different temperaments.

Yet, at the edge, language leans in the same direction—not toward negation, but toward attention. Toward light. Toward something still being apprehended.

What interests me isn’t whether these people believed in an afterlife. Some did. Some didn’t. That’s not the point.

The point is posture.

Faced with an ending, we pause. We soften our language. We gesture rather than conclude. We speak as if relation has not been severed—only altered.

That notion brings me back to the song. To Mark Scibilia standing barefoot on the rocks, Atlantic licking at his heels, singing not a goodbye but a threshold.

Long after it ends, the song keeps playing—not audibly, but somewhere just beneath thought. What lingers isn’t melody so much as stance. The way it opens outward. The way it refuses to settle. The way it leaves me listening.

Perhaps that is the common denominator. Not belief. Not certainty. But attention.

We don’t close the door too fast.

We lean forward instead.

Even after the final note fades, something in us remains listening—
sure, somehow, that there is more to this.

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

Remembering
Patrick Allen Duff
March 17, 1960 – January 28, 2021

༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

The Long Way a Voice Comes Home

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“The meaning of the past is never finished.”
Hannah Arendt (1906–1975). From her Between Past and Future (1961), where she argues that history is not closed or complete, but morally alive, awaiting renewed attention, responsibility, and understanding.

Last week, I found my way to a small library tucked behind a hardware store in Deltaville, Virginia. It was the sort of place you might drive past without ever knowing it was there—a quiet, cream-colored building softened by climbing vines and brightened by a mural where hummingbirds hovered and monarchs drifted above a riot of painted flowers. A sailboat logo and a modest white sign announced Middlesex County Public Library — Deltaville Branch, a name that made the place feel both official and intimate at once. Nothing about it was grand, but everything about it felt intentional. Step through the doors, and you are immediately reminded why libraries endure: they do not shout their importance; they simply keep offering it.

I had been invited to speak about Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina, a project that has occupied a surprising amount of my life. But as I stood there, in a room filled with people who had given their afternoon to books, it became clear that what I was really there to talk about was not a colonial essayist at all. It was about the invisible network of librarians, teachers, archivists, and patient institutions that had made that work possible.

Nothing I have written would exist without them. Not the book. Not the essays. Not even the questions that led me to them.

For most of us, research looks solitary. A scholar in a reading room. A book on a desk. A voice speaking from a distant century. But none of that happens without a vast, quiet scaffolding behind it, made up of people who catalog, preserve, teach, fund, and protect the materials that others one day come to use.

Libraries quietly hold information—sometimes for centuries—without knowing who will need it, or when, or why. They preserve voices long after those voices have gone silent, trusting that someday someone will come along prepared to listen carefully.

That afternoon in Deltaville, surrounded by that small but devoted group of Library Friends, I realized I was standing inside the visible tip of something much larger. A chain of care that stretches across generations, linking a colonial newspaper, a Charleston library, a community college system, and a branch library in the heart of the Chesapeake Bay.

My own place in that chain began long before I knew it. When I was a graduate student in the early 1970s, I stumbled across a series of anonymous essays published in the 1750s in The South-Carolina Gazette. A leading scholar, Leo LeMay, had remarked that they were among the finest essays in all of early American literature and had urged that someone edit them, publish them, and identify their author. The challenge sat there for decades, unanswered.

What allowed me to return to it was not individual brilliance, but institutional grace. I spent twenty-five years at the Library of Congress, learning how archives think and how preservation outlasts any single lifetime. Later, the Virginia Community College System gave me something just as precious when I turned fifty: the chance to become an English professor, a dream I had carried since childhood. And then, when I was named Chancellor’s Professor, it gave me a two-year appointment that provided something more precious than funding. It provided time. Time to think. Time to return to unfinished questions. Time to do the kind of slow, careful work that real discovery requires.

That is why educators and educational institutions matter so deeply in this story. They do not just transmit knowledge; at their best, they grant permission. Permission to linger with a problem. Permission to follow a hunch. Permission to trust that careful thinking is worth the investment.

Being in Deltaville also gave me something I had not realized I was missing: the chance to thank Glenn DuBois in person. Glenn was Chancellor during two important turning points of my professional life. He was Chancellor when the Virginia Community College System first welcomed me into the classroom at age fifty, and he was Chancellor again years later when I was named Chancellor’s Professor, the appointment that made this work possible.

We rarely get to look someone in the eye and say, simply and honestly, “You changed my life.” But that afternoon, in a small library behind a hardware store, I did. It was one of those moments when gratitude stops being abstract and becomes something you can actually feel in the room.

The essays I eventually brought back into the light turned out to belong to Alexander Gordon, a Scottish-born scholar and singer who lived in colonial Charleston. But authorship matters because it allows us to place a voice in a life, a mind in a world, and a text in a tradition.

There is a Jewish folk belief that a person dies twice: once when the body stops, and again when their name is spoken for the last time. If that is so, then archives are a kind of moral infrastructure, designed to keep names from slipping into that second death. Every catalog entry, every preserved page, every carefully tended collection is an act of faith in the future.

So is education. When the Virginia Community College System opened its doors to me in midlife, it did not just give me a job. It gave me a second beginning. Without that second chance, the first version of my curiosity would have remained unfinished.

All of this came together for me in that small Deltaville library. A place without marble columns or grand staircases, but full of the same quiet dignity that animates every serious library anywhere. People had gathered not to be dazzled, but to listen. To care. To take part in the long human habit of keeping stories alive.

Today, Gordon’s voice is no longer anonymous. His essays are no longer orphans. A lost body of work has been restored to its author, and a chapter of early American literary history has been set right. That restoration belongs not just to a scholar or a book, but to the institutions that made it possible—to libraries that guard knowledge, to educators who foster discovery, and to communities that believe the past is worth preserving.

All proceeds from my book go to the Virginia Foundation for Community College Education, which feels exactly right. Libraries and community colleges share the same moral instinct: they exist to hold doors open, not to keep people out.

I left Deltaville with a deeper gratitude for the fact that nothing we do alone ever really is. Behind every footnote stands a librarian. Behind every discovery stands a teacher. Behind every second act stands an institution willing to say yes.

And behind every recovered voice stands a chain of quiet, faithful human hands, passing something forward because they believe someone, someday, will need it.

The Journey Is the Gift

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“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”
—Ursula K. Le Guin (1929–2018). American novelist and essayist whose work consistently emphasizes process, patience, and the moral meaning of how lives are lived.

Hopefully, talking about December holidays isn’t limited to December alone, because here it is January—and I’m still talking.

“You and Gary must have had MAHvelous celebrations,” someone, somewhere out there, exclaimed.

Actually, we did. We started early, weaving joy into as long a string as possible. And get this—it’s the week after Epiphany, and we’re not finished.

For real. The trees are still up, their lights burning every evening. Lighted garlands trace the banister and the fireplace mantels in both the living room and the kitchen. Outdoors, lighted deer still prance on the deck, a Snoopy tree shimmers in the lower yard, and shrubs outside the kitchen bid a bright welcome.

Is that wonderful or what? Here we are, still enjoying our holiday decorations—largely Gary’s labor of love—which he began the day after Thanksgiving and created day by day thereafter, with no real rush to get anything or everything done.

Don’t worry. Soon enough we’ll box everything up and unplug the trees. We’ll pack it all away. But we won’t be finished. I’ll still be talking about something simple I learned this holiday.

Come to think of it, that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. I want to tell you why this might have been my best Christmas celebration ever.

I think I know.

Christmases past always felt like a frenzied process leading up to a single day. December 25 arrived. Poof. Done. Over.

Time and time again, I found myself humming “Is That All There Is” made famous by Peggy Lee.

The song opens with a childhood fire—flames consuming a house, a father carrying his daughter to safety, the world burning down while she stands shivering in her pajamas. And when it’s all over, the child asks herself:

“Is that all there is to a fire?“

Later comes the circus—spectacle, color, astonishment—followed by a curious sense of absence. Something missing, though nothing is obviously wrong.

“Is that all there is to a circus?“

Then love. Long walks. Gazing into one another’s eyes. And then loss. The beloved leaves. The heart breaks. But still, life goes on.

Even death, waiting at the end, offers no final revelation—only the same unanswered question.

Again and again, the song circles moments that promise transcendence but refuse to deliver a final explanation.

It’s as if the great events of a life—fire, wonder, love, even death—never quite measure up to the meaning we expect them to deliver.

This year, for the first time I can remember, I didn’t find myself humming that song.

I didn’t hear myself asking that question at all.

This year, I didn’t build toward a payoff.

This year, I didn’t measure the season by a single day.

This year, I realized that Christmas lives in the spirit we practice all year long, not in the triumph of a single day.

This year, I learned to take my cue from a slower rhythm—one built day by day, without hurry.

This year, I found pleasure in the making, not the finishing.

This year, the question never came.

Much of that rhythm was Gary’s, and I was wise enough to follow it and learn from it.

It applies to education—
not just the diploma, but the nights spent puzzling, reading, failing, beginning again.

It applies to work—
not just the promotion or the retirement toast, but the showing up, the learning, the imperfect days that add up to a life.

It applies to friendships—
not just the anniversaries and milestones, but the long conversations, the forgiveness, the staying.

It applies to love—
not just the moment we fall, but the daily choosing, the adjusting, the patience, the tenderness that deepens over time.

It applies to vacations—
not just the photograph-worthy view, but the planning, the anticipation, the getting lost, the laughing along the way.

It applies to accomplishments—
books written one page at a time, great rides pedaled one indoor revolution at a time,
gardens grown one season at a time.

It applies, I think, to almost everything that matters.

What I was given this Christmas was not a better ending, but a better way of moving through things. A way that lets the journey matter. A way that frees us from asking too much of a single moment, and invites us to live more fully in all the moments that lead up to it.

And so the lights will come down. The boxes will go back into their places. January will move on, as it always does.

But I’ll carry this with me: meaning doesn’t arrive—it accumulates. With that gift, I found a better way to live inside my days.

Seeing Clearly Comes with a Price

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“New ideas pass through three periods: it is ridiculed, it is opposed, and it is regarded as self-evident.” — Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860). German philosopher noted for his unsentimental view of progress and human behavior.

Epiphany! Of course! Tomorrow. One day away. But my mind keeps circling back to something that awakened me earlier, at the very start of December.

My fruitcakes, the last of the season, were in the oven. My kitchen was redolent with the aroma of butter and cinnamon and nutmeg and allspice and peach brandy. I was doing the cleanup of a gargantuan undertaking—fruitcakes that each weighed in at seven pounds, mind you—and I had two of them humming away in the oven. I started putting the mixer away, the hand mixer I used to turn the eggs into a proud, towering foam before folding them into the creamed butter and sugar. It was a choreography I had learned by muscle memory: beat, fold, lift, repeat, hope.

I looked at the hand mixer sitting on the countertop and could hardly believe what I saw. This poor old thing has been with me through decades of batter and holiday chaos, but apparently I had never actually looked at it with eyes as sharp as they were that day. Suddenly the vents and seams—those tiny nooks and crannies no one examines unless a guest baker is coming—were showing off little smudges of dried batter and a faint dusting of past Christmases. Nothing alarming, nothing unsanitary—just the honest residue of a well-loved tool that’s worked harder than most small appliances ever consent to. And I stood there wondering how on earth I had missed all that before.

Just as I was about to recover, I cast my eyes on the spoon rests—newer, used daily, and supposedly spotless because I wash them every single night. And yet, was that dust I saw? A faint constellation of tiny specks clinging to the cobalt glaze like stars that refused to set? My ordinary eyes never noticed a thing, but these new lenses seem determined to reveal every whisper of the world I’ve been breezing past. It’s not dirt. It’s not neglect. It’s just life—settling lightly, quietly, invisibly—until suddenly I was noticing more than I had bargained for.

Frankly, nothing in the kitchen escaped the spotlight.

That’s when it finally dawned on me: this wasn’t about cleanliness, or aging eyes, or domestic delusion. It was about wearing something new long enough for it to start teaching me how to look.

That “something new,” I realized, was my new Meta AI glasses. They’re ordinary enough at first glance. Dark frames. Familiar weight on the bridge of my nose. However, embedded in them is a quiet intelligence: a camera that sees what I see, microphones that listen, and a system capable of answering questions, identifying objects, translating text, and retrieving information without my ever reaching for a phone. They don’t replace my vision. They sit beside it, augmenting my attention rather than overpowering it. Impressive? Yes—but not seamless. Not yet.

In that moment, standing in my kitchen, I realized they’d already begun doing their real work—literally and metaphorically. They hadn’t changed the world overnight, but they had changed me: how closely I looked, how much I noticed, how quickly I drew conclusions. And if I’m honest, I wanted them to be everything to me right then and there. I wanted the future to arrive fully formed, yesterday. I wanted instant mastery, seamless magic, no friction at all.

Of course, great advances never work that way. Even these remarkable glasses come with limits, blind spots, and moments of awkward silence. They require setup. Patience. Practice. Updates. They demand that the human wearing them slow down long enough to learn how to use them well. And that’s when it struck me: what I was experiencing wasn’t disappointment. It was a learning curve.

And that, it turns out, is nothing new.

Every major human advance arrives this way. First, we notice it. Then we misunderstand it. We expect too much of it too quickly, and then—inevitably—we bump into its limits. Those limits can feel like failure, but history suggests otherwise. They are simply the cost of learning how to live with something new.

When humans first began cultivating crops and domesticating animals, the breakthrough wasn’t just agricultural—it was psychological. Trusting stillness over movement felt risky. Seeds didn’t always sprout. Weather didn’t always cooperate. Settling in one place meant betting survival on forces no one fully understood. Over time, though, farming reshaped daily life, social structures, and governance itself. The curve was steep, but what followed was surplus, stability, and civilization.

The printing press brought a different shock. Identical words, multiplied endlessly, unsettled centuries of authority built on scarcity and control. People feared heresy, misinformation, and the loss of trusted intermediaries. Literacy spread unevenly. Regulation lagged behind invention. And yet, once the dust settled, knowledge belonged to more people than ever before. Public discourse—messy, noisy, vital—was born.

Industrialization asked humans to relearn work itself. Machines didn’t just replace muscle; they redefined time. Clocks ruled lives. Cities grew faster than systems designed to protect the people who powered them. Fear followed—of accidents, exploitation, obsolescence. But so did labor laws, safety standards, and new ideas about rights and responsibility. The curve bent slowly, but it bent.

Even space exploration followed the same pattern. Leaving Earth wasn’t just a technical achievement. It was an existential one. Seeing our planet from orbit changed how we understood borders, fragility, and shared fate. Early failures were deadly. Political tensions ran high. But from that uncertainty came satellites, navigation systems, and weather forecasting. Today, those quiet technologies are woven so tightly into our daily lives that we forget they were once unimaginable.

The digital age repeated the pattern yet again. Invisible files. Disembodied conversations. A world “online” but nowhere in particular. We worried—rightly—about privacy, fraud, misinformation, and attention itself. Still, we learned. We adapted. We built guardrails, however imperfectly. Entire industries transformed, and daily life reshaped itself around screens and networks.

Seen this way, AI doesn’t stand apart from history. Instead it stands squarely within it. What feels different now is simply proximity. This time, the new tool touches something we assumed was uniquely ours: perception, judgment, cognition. No wonder the learning curve feels personal. No wonder I felt it standing there in my kitchen, staring at a hand mixer I thought I already knew.

The common denominator in every one of these moments isn’t the technology itself. It’s us. It’s our impatience, our hope, our tendency to expect the future to arrive fully baked, and our equally reliable ability to adapt once we slow down long enough to learn how to look again.

In reality, though, seeing clearly has always come with a price. But history suggests it also comes with a gift: the chance to notice what was already there—and to decide, deliberately, what to do next. With AI, that choice feels newly charged. The learning curve may follow a familiar pattern, but the pace does not. Our impatience is sharper. Our expectations louder. We want these systems to do more for us now—think better, decide faster, anticipate more—long before we’ve fully reckoned with what it means to share our cognitive space with machines.

Whether we name it or not, we are entering a moment of profound convergence. Tools no longer merely extend our hands; they begin to extend our judgment, our memory, our voice. This will unfold whether we welcome it or resist it. Choosing not to look will not slow it down. The real risk is not that we move too fast, but that we move forward without paying attention—without asking what is being gained, what is being lost, and who is being asked to adapt first.

And so I found myself back where I’d started—standing in my kitchen, my Meta AI glasses still resting on my nose, fruitcakes humming away in the oven, spice and brandy thick in the air. The mixer was wiped down. The spoon rests rinsed and set straight. Nothing dramatic had changed. The room was the same size. The work was the same work. But I was different, if only by a degree or two. Wearing something that asked me to see differently had taught me to pause before assuming I already knew what I was seeing.

That, I think, is what every learning curve ultimately asks of us. Not mastery on day one. Not perfection. But attention. A willingness to see more than we saw yesterday, and to accept that clarity often arrives before comfort—especially when the future is arriving faster than we expected.

As we enter the first full week of 2026, may we resist the urge to demand that the AI future hurry up and behave. May we recognize the wobble for what it is: not failure, but infancy. And may we remember that while we cannot stop this moment, we can choose how fully we inhabit it—eyes open, hands steady, and minds engaged.

Here’s to clearer sight, steadier hands, and the faith that, given time and care, we’ll learn how to use what AI offers us without surrendering what makes us human.

A Banner Year, Gently Told

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As this year draws to a close, I want to thank you for visiting my blog 32,727 times.

That didn’t happen overnight. And it didn’t happen by accident.

This year, more people found their way here than ever before—slowly, steadily, and often by returning. Compared with last year, readership grew significantly, not because anything went viral, but because the writing kept meeting the right readers at the right moment.

Growth, the quiet way,

These pages have held many things:

● 18th-century satire and present-day kitchens.
● Scholarship and softness.
● Books, biscuits, dogs, devotion, memory, love.

Some posts traveled far. Others found only a handful of readers. But every one was written with care—and read with attention.

I don’t think of these as clicks.

I think of them as moments of shared presence in a distracted world.

You made this a banner year.

If you were one of the 32,725:

● thank you for reading,
● thank you for lingering,
● thank you for making this a place worth returning to.

Here’s to a year shaped by patience, curiosity, and generosity of spirit—and to whatever quiet magic comes next.

Wired with wonder,
Brent

Poor Brentford Cleans the Wax Out of His Ears and Finds Meaning in the Noise and Music of Mistakes

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As 2025 comes to its close, Poor Brentford makes his last appearance of the year, offering a final benedictus and inviting us all to lean in, mishear boldly,
and sing in broken harmony “One Lane Zion.”

This is a true story. A confession, if you will. It’s the kind my mother used to make before coffee, after coffee, or frankly whenever the mood struck her to entertain herself and whoever else happened to be within earshot.

She’d sit at the Formica-topped, chrome-legged kitchen table, coffee cup in hand, her pinky raised just so, and say, perfectly straight-faced:

“When the Primitive Baptists sang ‘On Him I Can Depend,’ I was absolutely certain they were singing ‘On Him I candy pin.’”

Then she’d pause—just long enough to make you look up—and add:

“I always pictured the Lord wearing a peppermint-striped robe, a nice big bow, and candy pinned all over Him. It was a sweet, sweet comfort to my soul.”

That was my mother. She could turn blasphemy into blessing before breakfast.

I guess mishearing runs in the family. Maybe it all started with her. As I grew older and older, I swear on a stack of leather britches that everyone all over our little coal camp was mishearing things but making sense of them anyhow. Somehow.

When I was little, I guess I always thought everyone heard what I heard. I mean when our little congregation would launch into that grand old harvest hymn, I was sure as heck they were “Bringing in the sheep.” What else could they be bringing in? Say what? Sheaves? No way. We had sheep in the hollers of West Virginia. I had seen one or two, and I was certain that someone needed to do something with them especially when the cold Sheep’s Rain started to fall. It made perfect theological sense to me that the faithful would gather their flocks and present them to the Almighty before supper, or some hungry days, maybe even for supper.

But Lord have mercy. Wait ’til I tell you what my oldest sister swore she heard when the church sang “Oh, How I Love that Man of Galilee.” To this very day, she swears she thought they were praising Galileo. That works, too. Love is love, after all. I just hope she didn’t think that Jesus had a telescope and a strong interest in planetary motion. He didn’t, did He?

So there we were—a family of devout mishearers, certain our Creator managed sheep and celestial calculations all before breakfast.

Our unpainted cinderblock church sat in a dirt field without a sign or even a sign of grass right at the bottom of Pool Room Hill and by the time a hymn rhapsodied its way out the solitary window that someone painted-shut, it was anybody’s guess what the congregation was singing. The hymnals were worn thin, the pianist kept on keeping on with that clickety-clackety thing she did on the ivories, and half the folks sang from memory or eyesight blurred by coal dust and exhaustion.

Here’s an example as good as plenty. “I’ll Fly Away.” Poor Brentford’s dad who didn’t darken a church door in those days, swore what he heard it come up from below was loud and clear:

“I’ll Find a Way.”

Wouldn’t that make perfect sense for a coal miner like him to hear lyrics like that, especially in a coal camp where folks never expected wings anywhere except outside in the chicken coop or inside on a dinner plate. All they hoped for was a break in the company line, a way to keep supper on the table, and the roof patched till payday. Finding a way was its own kind of flight. And Lord knows he found a way.

But then came “In the Sweet By and By,” which Poor Brentford swore was “In the Sweet Buy and Buy.” He figured Heaven must have a company store too, just like the one in Ashland, only this one sold mercy by the pound and grace on credit. Maybe the angels might even mark the bill “Paid in Full,” but till then, you’d better keep your script handy.

One Sunday, right after his daddy got a payday and got back home from playing cards, he heard the choir swell into “Where Could I Go but to the Lord?” But land’s sake. What do you think reached that poor child’s ears? “Where Could I Go but to the Store?” It landed with hard conviction. In a camp where the store kept both your debts and your dinner, the line between salvation and supplies was never quite clear. He pictured the Lord behind the counter, apron dusted in flour, handing out hope with provisions and trusting somebody somewhere to settle up.

In places like that, meaning bent itself toward survival. Hymns, promises, even Heaven had to pass through the same filter as supper and credit—what will keep us going.

And then came the hymn that nearly undid him: “Holy, Holy, Holy.” No doubt Poor Brentford heard “Holey, holey, holey.” He saw it all: Heaven’s laundry line stretched across eternity, robes and socks waving in a golden breeze, each one worn clean through at the knees.

“Makes sense,” he thought. “If you’ve spent your life kneeling, you’ll come through the Pearly Gates with a few holes to show for it.”

Another time, the choir raised its voices for “There Is a Balm in Gilead.” The Cold War was heating up in his early ears and the green window shades were being pulled down every night to keep the Commies from seeing the riches inside all the rickety little houses in the coal camp, and Poor Brentford nearly dove under the pew, sure they were shouting a warning:

“There Is a Bomb in Gilead.”

He scanned the room for a coal mine to run to for safety and muttered, “Lord, if this is the rapture, it’s poorly timed.”

One song though, hit him so hard it nearly made him shut up. It was when he heard one of the church sisters in Christ singing a cappella as best she could but way off key, “Farther Along.” He heard it as “Father Alone.” For once, the mistake didn’t make him laugh. He saw in his mind a weary God sitting by Himself on a cloud, wondering why His children kept wandering off—singing the wrong words but meaning every one of them.

That was the first time mishearing didn’t feel like play. It felt like recognition.

Years later, long after the hymnal pages had crumbled and the ivories had browned, Poor Brentford decided that maybe he should go away, somewhere far away, and get the wax out of his ears and maybe get some schoolhouse so that he could understand things better. Sure enough. He did. You’d never guess what he discovered?

One day, without even looking for it, he stumbled onto a word for what they’d been doing all along. A real word.

Mondegreen.

Turns out it came from a Scottish ballad, where a poor lady was said to have “laid him on the green,” but someone heard it as “Lady Mondegreen.” Poof! Just like that, the misheard lady was granted immortality. Proof! Just like that, a wrong word, held long enough, can become its own kind of truth.

When Poor Brentford learned about that word he laughed out loud. He had been inventing Lady Mondegreens since the cradle and had gone on to fill his whole durn life with saints and shepherds who existed only in the wax between his ears.

And isn’t that just like all of us? The whole world hums along out of tune. You want more proof? Just take a gander at some pop songs:

Jimi Hendrix cried, “’Scuse me while I kiss the sky,” but half of America swore he said, “’Scuse me while I kiss this guy.”

Elton John pleaded, “Hold me closer, tiny dancer,” but we still see him clutching Tony Danza.

Creedence Clearwater Revival warned, “There’s a bad moon on the rise,” though to many of us it will forever be, “There’s a bathroom on the right.”

Poor Brentford’s verdict on ’em all?

“These all work fine. Kissin’, bathrooms, Tony Danza—whatever gets you through the verse.”

But here’s what caught him off guard. He realized the same muscle that bends words into comfort bends meaning too. We don’t just mishear lyrics; we reinterpret life until it sings in our key.

A miner hears “I’ll Find a Way.”

A child hears “In the Sweet Buy and Buy.”

A lonely church sister hears “Father Alone.”

Maybe that’s not error at all. Maybe it’s hope doing what hope does best—repairing what’s broken. Maybe that’s the thing about mishearing: sometimes, by pure accident, you stumble into truth. Because really, what’s faith if not a lifelong attempt to make sense of what we can’t quite hear?

We catch snatches. We fill in the blanks. We call it belief.

Of one thing, though, Poor Brentford is certain. The holey Holy doesn’t wholly mind. Maybe Heaven even keeps a special choir—the Mishearing Saints—singing merrily off-script but in tune with the heart.

Even now, I reckon meaning still passes through the same old filter—what helps us hold on, what helps us make it through the night.

So listen up. As 2026 trollops its way in, go on and clean the wax out of your own durn ears.

When you do, Lord knows what you’ll hear. Maybe you’ll find out why folks have been laughin’.

Happy New Ear.

Home Alone, Together

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“We’re all just walking each other home.”
—Ram Dass (1931–2019). American spiritual teacher and author of Be Here Now. His work emphasizes compassion, presence, and our shared human journey.

Early morning. Early breakfast. Just the two of us—three, counting Ruby, who has claimed her customary spot under the kitchen table, waiting for the last crumbs of food or wisdom, whichever falls first. Gary and I are sitting across from one another, easing into our day as we always do.

He’s looking out through the French doors toward the deck, where the lighted reindeer we put up together stand frozen in their stately poses of the first snow. I’m facing the working end of the kitchen: stainless steel appliances catching the last of yesterday’s shine, boxwood wreaths hanging in the window, the whole room trimmed and tucked as though company is coming.

Between us is the long view into the living room—garlands draped over the loft railing, trees (plural—cheerfully, unapologetically plural) gleaming in their corners, lamps warming the walls, decorations perched on every surface that would hold still long enough. It looks, frankly, as though Christmas got carried away and stayed for dessert.

Out of nowhere, I say, “She’ll be alone this weekend.”

Gary turns. “Who?”

“My sister. Arlene.” I take a sip of coffee. “I’ve gotten this ridiculous notion in my head that she’s going to round up all the nearby senior citizens and stage their own version of Home Alone.”

We both chuckle, but the idea has already taken hold of me, and the cameras start rolling.

I can see it clearly. The walkers revved up like getaway cars, hearing aids squealing like high-tech booby traps, and the whole troop plotting slapstick with the seriousness of jewel thieves. It’s claptrap nonsense, of course. They’d never really do it. Would they? I doubt it. But how would I know? I don’t know any of them except my sister.

But in my mind, the first scene is already framed and from there the full movie unfolds.

The massive wooden door closes with that soft, familiar thump, and for a moment I can hear the whole house settling around it, almost the way a person exhales after company leaves. Snow blankets the yard like a quilt pulled up by a generous hand. In reality, there is no snow there in North Carolina, except in the photograph from last winter that I’m looking at, the one insisting that I let the house and yard wear a snowfall, too.

It’s a small town, one state away. But it could just as easily be your town or mine or anyone’s. Places like this multiply across the country, each one familiar enough that you can walk through the front door in your imagination without fumbling for the light switch.

Inside stands my sister. She’s eighty-five and determined, leaning into the walker that has become her steady companion. Mind you, she wasn’t left home alone accidentally to fend for herself like Kevin McCallister in Home Alone. She’s simply stepping into a quiet weekend while her daughter and son-in-law are away. She has love, support, and everything she needs.

It’s a beautiful house to behold and to be alone inside. Christmas trees are scattered through the rooms like warm invitations. The largest stands in the front room, glowing with the kind of soft light that makes winter feel kinder. Miss Kitty, the household’s silent monarch, purrs beneath it as if she has been appointed guardian of the glittering tree skirt. If mischief were to break out, she would be responsible, not my sister. My sister is more likely navigating the kitchen with caution, pouring coffee, warming dinner, and keeping an eye on keeping steady.

Still, my mind keeps drifting toward the movie. The parallels surface whether invited or not. A child unexpectedly alone. A golden-ager temporarily on her own. Two people at opposite ends of life who have to face the same truth: they’re the only human heartbeat in the house. His version of that truth was noisy and slapstick. Hers, quiet and measured. Yet both had to answer the same unnerving question:

“What now?“

And that’s where I started to realize that the nonsense of the movie points toward an important truth, one buried deep down inside each of us. The boy did not simply defend his house. He defended himself against the old, universal fear of being alone. He did it in the only way an eight-year-old could: with a heap of claptrap and a wild imagination. He tied paint cans to bannisters. He smeared tar on the steps. He turned cardboard cutouts into party guests. He rigged a toy train so it looked like Michael Jordan was circling the living room. The entire operation was absurd, but it worked. It gave him something to do with his fear, and in doing so, it transformed the fear itself.

I think we all do something similar, no matter our age. We gather what we have at hand and fashion a small defense against the fear of being alone. Children build their courage with noise and make-believe. Adults use busyness, familiar routines, and the jokes that soften the dark edges of a room. Elders rely on rituals, morning light through the same window, and the quiet companionship of animals who seem to understand more than they let on. Whatever the tools, the intention is the same. We are all trying to steady ourselves against the quiet and find a little joy in the process.

This wasn’t theoretical for my sister. She is capable, yet I imagine she felt afraid. She’d never say so, of course. She’s too strong. But, really, who wouldn’t be? When the door closed, when the house settled, when she realized she was the only heartbeat inside, fear must have visited her the way it visits all of us. Human. Ancient. Asking its familiar question:

“Can I do this? Alone?“

Yet even in her fear, I can imagine her shaping the hours with the practical, stubborn spark that has carried her through a lifetime. If she had been the star of her own senior-citizen remake of Home Alone, she wouldn’t have rigged paint cans or tarred the steps, but I can picture her angling her walker like a modest barricade, checking the locks with practiced determination, setting her ears and senses to “alert mode,” and deputizing Miss Kitty as Head of Household Security. She would have done nothing reckless. She would have done nothing theatrical. She would have done the small, knowing gestures that help an old fear settle down and behave.

It’s right here at this quiet, ordinary threshold that I started to be stirred by an even deeper truth. What my sister faced in that moment isn’t unique to someone alone for a weekend. It is the condition every human being inherits the moment we arrive in this world. Being “home alone” is human. I don’t mean in the cute, holiday-movie sense, but in the older, deeper, existential one. From the beginning, every one of us has lived within the small boundaries of our own minds, our private fears, private hopes, and our private rooms. Aloneness is the quiet fact beneath every era, every culture, every age. An eight-year-old with a slingshot in a Chicago suburb. An eighty-five-year-old with a walker in North Carolina. A shepherd in ancient Israel. A monk in a Himalayan monastery. A woman weaving baskets in West Africa. A man tapping away on his smartphone in the Shenandoah Valley. Put them on the same long timeline and the same truth surfaces: each one faces the same inner room, the same echoing questions, and the same silence that asks to be met.

This is meaning-making, and it begins the moment we face our aloneness, not when we avoid it, not when we panic in it. It begins when we turn toward it and say:

“Well, here I am. Now what? What can I shape from this?”

Philosophers have been wrestling with that same question since the dawn of thought. From the Buddha to Kierkegaard, from Lao Tzu to Camus, from the psalmists to the Stoics, every tradition has circled the same enduring question:

● How does a human being rise inside the solitude of their own existence?

● How do we take the raw material of being alone and coax something illuminated out of it?

World religions, in all their variety and beauty, have offered the same response in their own accents. They do not deny the dark. They answer it with light. Literally, symbolically, ritually. Light as remembrance. Light as resistance. Light as meaning. Light as shared humanity. Advent candles. Hanukkah flames. Diwali lamps. Temple lanterns. The kinara burning through the seven days of Kwanzaa. All of them whisper the same ancient encouragement: keep something bright near you. Keep something burning for the ones who come after. If you must face the dark—and everyone must—then face it with a flame.

As I kept circling back to look at the whole scene, I realized that, at some point, each one of us is “home alone.” But it isn’t a tragedy. And it isn’t a failure. It is simply the place where the human spirit begins to show its strength. When we face the aloneness—not outrun it, not dramatize it, but turn toward it—we start gathering whatever light we can find. A lamp switched on at dusk. A familiar chair pulled close to the tree. A loving voice warming the room. A cat curling into our lap with quiet reassurance. These gestures are anything but small. They are how we turn fear into presence, and presence into possibility.

What astonishes me is not that we are afraid, but that we keep meeting our fear with resourcefulness, humor, memory, and hope. We keep rising. We keep lighting dark corners. We keep finding ways to move through our aloneness with a surprising and stubborn grace.

We don’t pretend aloneness away—we meet it together. That is the miracle.

Day by day, weekend by weekend, life by life, we find enough light to find one another and to walk one another home—alone, together.

When the Book Review Becomes Real

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“The pieces of the puzzle come together seamlessly; better still, Kendrick’s investigation informs and enriches the Humourist essays, illuminating their historical and literary contexts.” —Publishers Weekly

Publisher’s Weekly Cover, December 15-22, 2025

I knew the review was scheduled to appear. I’d marked the date. I’d even ordered copies in advance.

Still, nothing quite prepares you for the moment when the work arrives by weight.

Nineteen pounds, to be exact.

The box from Fry Communications sat innocently enough at the door, but when I lifted it, I laughed—an unguarded, surprised laugh. This wasn’t an email notification or a discreet PDF link. This was paper. Ink. Volume. Evidence that something quiet and patient had crossed a threshold into the world of objects.

Inside were stacks of Publishers Weekly—the December 15-22 issue, fresh from the press. And there it was: the review of Unmasking The Humourist, resting calmly among other books, other arguments, other claims on a reader’s attention. No fanfare. No special lighting. Just…there. As if it had always belonged.

The review in context.

That may sound small. It isn’t.

For writers—especially those of us who work in literary recovery, archival research, and historical attribution—most of the labor happens far from spectacle. It happens in libraries and databases, in footnotes and marginalia, in moments when you are unsure whether the trail you’re following will narrow into clarity or vanish altogether. There are no crowds for this kind of work. No applause when you discover one more corroborating detail, one more pattern that holds.

Unmasking The Humourist grew out of precisely that kind of sustained attention. The essays at its center—satirical, incisive, mischievous pieces published pseudonymously in the South-Carolina Gazette in the early 1750s—had long been admired but never convincingly attributed. Their author hid in plain sight. The work demanded patience: weighing tone against context, tracing bureaucratic fingerprints, listening carefully to what language reveals when you stop rushing it.

And patience is not fashionable. We live in a moment that rewards speed, certainty, and hot takes. Literary recovery is none of those things. It is slow, provisional, and often lonely. You work without knowing whether recognition will ever arrive—or whether it even should. You work because the work matters.

That’s why seeing the review in Publishers Weekly mattered to me—not as a trophy, but as confirmation that the argument held. That it made sense beyond my own desk. That it earned its place in the broader conversation about early American literature and satire.

What struck me most wasn’t pride. It was scale.

The full review.

Here was my book, not elevated or isolated, but contextualized—surrounded by other studies, other voices, other claims. This is where scholarship belongs: not shouted, but situated. Not proclaimed, but tested.

There’s something grounding about that.

I spread the pages out on the table. I read the review again, this time with the odd sensation of distance—as though I were encountering the project for the first time. The reviewer understood what I had tried to do. Better still, they understood why it mattered. That’s the quiet victory every researcher hopes for.

And then there was the sheer physicality of it all. The stacks. The heft. The knowledge that these copies would travel—to libraries, to colleagues, to readers I’ll never meet. Work that had lived for years in notes and drafts now had mass. It could be lifted. Shared. Passed hand to hand.

Research takes time. Recovery takes patience.

But sometimes—blessedly, unexpectedly—the work becomes something you can actually lift.

And when it does, you pause.
You hold it.
You let it be real.

Never in My Lifetime. Why This Moment in the American Presidency Is Different.

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“If you see something that is not right, you have a moral obligation to say something.”
—John Lewis (1940–2020). Civil Rights leader and U.S. Congressman.

Ebenezer Scrooge I am not.

Ask anyone. Ask everyone. I’ll wager you won’t find a soul who has ever called me stingy, sour, or mean-spirited.

Yet, this holiday season, I’ve felt a bit of a Bah, Humbug mood creeping in, not about Christmas or the lights or the joy around me, but about something else entirely. It’s something heavier. It’s something I didn’t expect to feel at seventy-eight.

So make yourself a cup of coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, and pull up a chair beside me. Let me tell you what’s stirring.

It begins, I suppose, with the one clear advantage that comes with age: hindsight.

Last month, I turned seventy-eight. Candidly, I’ve been looking back at the past decades a lot this year, not from a personal angle, but a political one.

I’ve lived through a lot, and I have a vantage point that people younger than I simply don’t.

I grew up in the shadow of McCarthyism (the early 1950s), when suspicion was a national pastime.

I remember the shock of four assassinations—JFK in ’63, Malcolm X in ’65, and both Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy in ’68.

I watched the Civil Rights movement reshape the country through the 1950s and 60s.

I lived through the long, grinding years of Vietnam (1955–1975) and the protests that defined a generation.

I witnessed the unraveling of trust during Watergate (1972–74).

I saw Reagan confront the final act of the Cold War in the 1980s.

I watched America enter Iraq and Afghanistan after 9/11, wars that stretched from 2001 to 2021.

I’ve felt the impact of multiple economic crashes—1973, 1987, 2000, 2008.

And I lived through the Obama years (2009–2016), a hopeful presidency during a time when the country’s political divides were hardening in ways none of us fully saw coming.

Looking back across all the turmoil, the marches, the reckonings, the wars, and the scandals, I’ve realized something I didn’t expect. Our protests have always had a focus: an issue, a cause, a policy, a war. They rose up around ideas that divided us or injustices that demanded attention. Even the most explosive chapters of my lifetime had a center of gravity that wasn’t a single person but the larger forces shaping the country.

But what we’re witnessing now feels different. In fact, it is different. In nearly eight decades of watching this nation rise, fracture, heal, and reinvent itself, I’ve never seen sustained nationwide protests aimed not at a policy or a war, but at a president himself. The center of gravity has shifted. The outrage isn’t about an issue—it’s about the individual. It’s about the president.

Don’t get me wrong: we’re still seeing the familiar issue-driven protests that have always been part of American life. People are marching about immigration policy, climate change, book bans, economic strains, reproductive rights, and a dozen other concerns that flare and fade as the political winds shift. That part hasn’t changed.

What has changed—what stands apart from every era I’ve lived through—is the scale and persistence of the protests aimed not at a policy but at the president himself. The “No Kings” movement isn’t fighting over legislation; it’s rejecting the idea of one man placing himself above the laws that govern the rest of us. And in my lifetime, that is unprecedented.

The protests I’m talking about aren’t the usual disagreements over taxes, foreign policy, or legislation. They’re about the president’s conduct, his rhetoric, his legal troubles, and the fear—spoken openly now—that democratic norms cannot hold under his influence. People are marching about character, about fitness, about the very idea of what the presidency should represent. That’s new. In my lifetime, no president has drawn this kind of personal, sustained, multi-city repudiation simply by virtue of who he is.

It matters because when protests shift from policies to personalities, the stakes change. Policies can be debated, amended, reversed; they live in the realm of argument. But when millions of people focus their alarm on a single leader—on temperament, on truthfulness, on respect for institutions—that signals a deeper fracture. It means the country is no longer arguing about what we should do, but about who we are willing to trust with power. I’ve never seen that question asked so loudly, or by so many, in the streets.

I’ve seen my share of turbulence. I’ve watched this country reinvent itself more than once. But this moment feels distinct, and I find myself wanting to name it before history reframes it for us. Not to alarm, but to observe. Not to predict, but to remember. For all my years watching this country rise and falter, I’ve never seen a presidency provoke this kind of personal outcry. Saying so feels like the least a witness can do.

Maybe that’s the real value of hindsight. It’s the quiet ability to say, “This is new,” without shouting and without shrinking from it. I don’t claim special wisdom, but I do claim a long view. From that view, this moment stands out.

If this moment truly is different—and it is—then it cannot be met with habits borrowed from easier times. Recognizing what is new is not enough. Witness alone does not stabilize a democracy. A moment like this places demands on those who live through it, not as spectators, but as citizens. It asks more than opinion and more than outrage. It asks for conduct.

This moment requires attention that is disciplined rather than entertained. It requires tracking what actually changes—laws altered, norms broken, power consolidated—instead of reacting to spectacle. It requires noticing patterns rather than isolated scandals and refusing to look away simply because we are tired. Exhaustion is not neutral; it benefits whoever gains from our distraction. Paying attention is labor, and right now that labor is necessary.

This moment requires honesty that refuses euphemism. It requires naming corruption as corruption, authoritarian behavior as authoritarian, and cruelty as cruelty, even when doing so makes conversations uncomfortable or costly. It requires resisting the urge to soften language so others can remain disengaged. It also requires self-examination, asking whether silence, politeness, or a desire to avoid conflict has quietly become moral retreat. Democracies do not fail only because of liars; they fail when too many people choose comfort over truth.

This moment requires steadiness that is grounded in self-command rather than denial. It requires rejecting panic, resisting despair, and refusing the addictive churn of outrage that leaves nothing behind but fatigue. It requires consistency—staying informed when the news is grim, voting every time, and continuing to show up after the drama fades and only responsibility remains. Strongmen thrive on chaos. Steady citizens deprive them of that advantage.

This moment requires participation that goes beyond holding opinions. It requires voting in every election and helping others do the same. It requires supporting institutions under pressure—courts, schools, libraries, journalists, and election workers—because they slow the abuse of power and protect the rule of law. It requires showing up locally, where power is quieter but more reachable, and where absence carries consequences. Democracy is not sustained by commentary alone; it is sustained by persistent, ordinary involvement.

This moment requires refusal to normalize what would once have shocked us. It requires refusal to excuse behavior simply because it has become familiar and refusal to accept that “this is just how things are now.” It requires refusing to let fatigue become permission. Refusal is not negativity; it is boundary-setting. Democracies collapse when citizens gradually accept what they should never have agreed to tolerate, and refusal is how those lines are held.

Whatever comes next, I’ll keep trusting the clarity that age has sharpened rather than dulled. Though the season might tempt me to climb the nearest chimney and holler Bah, Humbug into the cold mountain air, I won’t. Scrooge may have needed three ghosts to find his hope again, but I’ve lived long enough to know where mine comes from. It comes from the stubborn resilience of ordinary people. Like you. Like me.

Even now—especially now—I choose to believe in our power to bend this country toward something better. We’ve done it before. Whether we do it again will depend on what we’re willing to notice, to protect, and to refuse.

An Open Letter to a Sudden Surge

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The MtnHouse
December 11, 2025

Dear Sudden Surge,

You took me by surprise again this morning. As always, when I awakened, I checked my Fitbit to see how my heart did overnight. Then I checked WordPress to see how my readers were doing.

And there you were. Another thousand views. A quiet jolt to the chart. Numbers climbing when I wasn’t looking.

You’ve been dancing higher and higher since October, when I passed 15,000 and figured I’d reached my high-water mark. I even wrote a piece of thanks back then, thinking I’d said all there was to say. But now here we are—December 11th—and this little corner of the internet has gathered 25,053 views.

I’ve done nothing different. I have no flashy headlines. I have no trending hashtags. I just keep following the same rhythm: writing essays born from memory in a home filled with love. I just keep foolin’ around with words and ideas.

So why now, after all these years?

That question hangs gently in the room with me. It’s not demanding an answer. It’s simply inviting a reflection. Maybe something shifted in the writing. Maybe it’s more expansive. Maybe it’s more lived-in. Maybe it’s a voice carrying a steadier warmth now. Maybe it’s grief that’s softened into grace. Maybe it’s love that arrived not with fanfare, but with a quiet hand stretched out in invitation. Maybe it’s all of those things. Maybe. And add to all those maybes one more. Maybe it’s readers sharing with readers.

Gary, of course, doesn’t ask to be written about. But his presence is here, between the lines, in the patience of a paragraph, the steadiness of tone, the way I’ve learned to let silence do some of the talking.

Ruby, on the other hand, insists on being written about, whether she’s nosing me away from my smartphone or curling up in solidarity as I revise for the twenty-fifth time. She is, as always, the keeper of the tempo, the mistress of the move.

So this isn’t an open letter to public stats. It’s a letter to something deeper. It’s a letter to what it means to keep writing when no one’s watching, and then to wake up and find that someone was.

My essays aren’t meant to dazzle. And I know: they don’t. They’re just small acts of holding up the light, one weekly reflection at a time. The fact that they’re being read, now more than ever, tells me something I didn’t expect: quiet honesty still finds its way.

Thank you, Sudden Surge, for reminding me that patience has its own reward, that consistency is a kind of faith, and that somewhere out there, readers are still pausing to linger with a slow essay from the mountain.

I don’t know what this upturn means, or where it leads. But I do know I’ll keep showing up with my smartphone in hand and love at my side.

Wired with wonder and gratitude,
Brent

The Shape of a Surge