Author Archives: Brent L. Kendrick

The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road

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“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”

—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900; Irish playwright, poet, and author known for his wit, flamboyant style, and sharp social criticism as well as for his role in the aesthetic movement, which emphasized beauty and art for art’s sake.)

Sometimes, I wonder when a routine in our lives becomes a ritual. They are different, of course. Routines are often performed out of necessity or habit. Rituals carry a sense of purpose, mindfulness, or emotional significance. I suppose a routine can turn into a ritual when its meaning grows beyond its original purpose—when the participants become more conscious of the act itself, savoring it, reflecting on its importance, or incorporating personal values into it.

I’m thinking, for example, of an afternoon drive that my late partner and I used to take daily down a nearby country road meandering along the banks of the Shenandoah River. It started as little more than a way to while away the time between Allen’s arrival home from his 7a.m. to 3p.m. shift at our local hospital until the start of our 5 o’clock cocktail hour and dinner prep.

We always took my Jeep. Allen didn’t like its bumpy ride, but since I was willing to drive, he put up with it. It didn’t take long before we both realized the routine had shifted from its original intent. It became a time when Allen could share the highlights of his day as a surgical technologist, and I could share highlights of mine as an English professor. Then, we savored being with one another, moving along, cocooned in quiet.

Now, heading out for that same drive feels different. I’m alone, but the road is still filled with echoes of those drives with Allen. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, a reminder that I’m traveling at a slower pace—though I still catch myself thinking in we. As I drive down our rutted road, the bumps and jolts are as familiar as ever, almost comforting, as if the past rides along with me into the present. I’m never in too much of a hurry. After all, I know that venturing down means that I’ll have to come back up eventually.

Fall has arrived. The goldenrod along the roadside catches my eye because it often made its way back home into floral arrangements. The landscape changes as I transition from the gravel onto the hard surface of the county road. It meanders along steep banks, the guardrails dented woefully from cars that couldn’t quite manage the turns. The sound of the tires shifts too, now whirring on the pavement as the engine hums along at a modest speed—never more than thirty-five, even though the road stretches out ahead.

Leaving behind the George Washington National Forest, I see the Shenandoah Valley open up into a vast, sweeping view of mountains—beyond them, West Virginia. Mailboxes line the road, clinging to its edge like sentinels. The curves of the road feel like a roller coaster, and I slow down as I near the North Fork of the Shenandoah River. It’s instinct now, my pause to check the depth of the water below, watching as it glides under the bridge.

I pass through Edinburg, a town where unoccupied buildings look as cared for as the rest. I find myself wondering what brought people here in the first place and what keeps them here now. Stony Creek runs by Edinburg Mill, built a decade or so before the Civil War. Just beyond is the cemetery, always a reminder, as if I ever needed one, that a little ways further is where we always used to turn left onto Palmyra Church Road.

I turn there today. This stretch is all too familiar. It’s paved but without markings to show the center of the road, the travel lanes, or the road’s edges. Massanutten Mountain looms straight ahead. I slow down even slower, savoring the ride, stretching out the trip as long as I can. I realize that I have no compelling destination. This trip is about the road itself, the memories, the connection to this place, and the quiet reflection it brings.

The speed limit drops to 25, and the road stretches out ahead. For now, it’s just me and the country road. There’s nothing behind me that I can see and nothing ahead of me but that same winding road.

Soon, I approach a grassy field stretching along the banks of the Shenandoah River. The grass, tall and dry, ready to bow down for a twin-engine plane’s landing. Small cones dot the nearly invisible runway, glowing at night like distant stars, guiding the landing, and then leading to a small, weathered hangar. In times past, we would sometimes glimpse a small plane resting at the far end of the field, its presence quiet and still. We never saw the pilot, if one ever existed. These days, the plane is gone, as if it never was. The field lies empty, waiting.

A little further along, I do a double take to my left as I see Palmyra Church of the Brethren. I’m not sure that Allen and I ever saw it on any of our drives. If we did, neither of us commented. I’m not surprised. It’s a modest church with white wooden siding, a metal roof, and a small steeple that adds a traditional touch. A brick chimney on one side adds to the rural charm. The front entrance is simple, with a door accessed by steps and a metal railing, alongside a wooden ramp. No one is there. The absence of people turns quiet into stark, making the church feel even more secluded if not abandoned.

I pause and cannot help but wonder why a road meandering along the mighty Shenandoah River would bear the name of a church so plain and inconspicuous that it’s easily unseen. Yet, even as I wonder, I know. For the dwindled few, it’s still a house of worship. And then I pause again. Seeing no cemetery. I wonder: where do they bury their dead?

I leave those wonderings behind me as I start looking ahead, hoping to see the small, thin woman that Allen and I used to see as she walked the road, her steps so soft they seemed to barely touch the ground. She was always beneath a large, open black umbrella, shielding her, sometimes from sun or rain or snow, but more often than not, from nothing more than open sky and passersby. Her pace seemed slower than the passage of time itself, as if she were floating rather than walking. Her face leaned down toward a cell phone held delicately in one hand, her eyes locked on its screen. She appeared ethereal, her presence more like a drifting shadow, but there was an undeniable humanity about her—fragile and real.

Allen and I worried about her. We broke our quiet to talk about her. Where was she going? Where had she been? Where was her home? How far away from home was she? Who was waiting there for her return? She seemed so other-worldly that I started calling her The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road. We always wondered whether we would see her on our next drive. We always did, every time, though in a different spot every time, always somewhere further back or somewhere further ahead. Over time, we warmed to her, and we waved softly. It took her longer, but the time came when she warmed back, shyly and slowly, as if to freeze time itself with the lift of her mittened hand.

Something about her presence always felt timeless. Today, she’s not here.

The rumble of tires against the pavement breaks the quiet as I approach a small bridge to my right, spanning this narrow section of the Shenandoah River, connecting to Old Valley Pike. Sometimes, if we were pressed for time, Allen and I would turn here and head back home.

Usually, though, we weren’t in a hurry, and we’d continue down the road where, from this point, it became Red Bank Road. Expansive farmlands open to my right, framed by wooden fences holding on to the Civil War. These fields, too, are dry and dusty.

To my right, I catch glimpses of the Shenandoah River through the sycamore. Rounding the last turn, I’m aware that the speed limit rises to 45 as I approach Mount Jackson. I could easily turn around and retrace the drive as Allen and I used to do as part of our ritual. But I don’t. I know that The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road is no more likely to appear than the plane that’s disappeared from the field. They coexist with the church that has no people and no cemetery–echoes in my memory.

As the landscape shifts and as the signs of the times creep back in, the quiet truth shatters my silence.

This time, I’m driving alone, my right hand resting on the Jeep’s console, no longer holding Allen’s hand in mine.

This time, I realize. Allen is gone.

This time, I realize. The ritual is gone.

This time, I realize. I’m driving home.

This is just another country road.

Sister’s Hands

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“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”

—Mahatma Gandhi (1869–1948; a leader in India’s fight for independence and a global icon of nonviolent resistance, inspiring movements for civil rights and freedom worldwide.)

Every family has its own revered storytellers. For mine, it was my mother. All the way up until her death at 98, she could tell family stories with a full appreciation of place, with a natural understanding of hooking listeners with an inciting incident, and then of building suspense until the story was powerfully brought to its climax and to a resolution that more often than not uplifted and shone a bright light even on the dourest of plots.

Since my mother’s death, my sister Audrey has continued the storytelling tradition. It’s natural that she would. As the oldest daughter in the family, she lived the stories that she tells us about. What’s amazing to me is her incredible ability to recall how things looked, tasted, and smelled. As she tells our family stories, her voice carries me back in time, weaving memories as vivid as the scents and sounds she describes. Like my mother, she has a natural sense for drawing in listeners with something exciting, even if it’s minor, for building suspense masterfully and for guiding her story to a powerful ending. Her resolutions often uplift, always casting a bright light even on the hardest of hard coal mining times in Southern West Virginia where we grew up and where she still lives.

Since Audrey is my oldest sister, in characteristic Southern fashion, we’ve always called her Sister. On the rare occasion when I call her by her given name, just to remind myself of how it sounds and to see how she will react, she’s convinced that I’m upbraiding her about something or other, as if I, the baby brother in the story, would ever fault an older sibling.

Sister was twelve when I was born. She remembers that she and Brother argued about whose turn it was to rock me. (Yes, that’s what we called him since he was the oldest son. We never called him John.) They became rocking rivals:

“It’s my turn to rock Brentford Lee tonight.”

“No, it’s not. You rocked him last night.”

Sister reminds me often that I was rocked a lot.

I’ll have to take Sister’s word for it. I don’t remember.

My earliest vivid memory of Sister was when I was six or so, around 1953. Looking back and recalling a studio portrait of her from around that time, I think she looked just like acclaimed Hollywood star Rita Hayworth—elegant, with soft waves of hair framing a radiant face. She had a quiet beauty, captivating yet unassuming.

Aside from being a looker, Sister was an impeccable dresser. I especially remember her soft cashmere sweaters and her perfume, probably Chanel No. 5 or Arpège by Lanvin or Youth Dew by Estee Lauder. The next time we talk, I’ll ask her. She’ll remember it and all the other fragrances that she thought about wearing but didn’t. To give her fragrance story an added scent, she’ll explain all the details behind her perfumed choices. Then I’ll be able to smell her perfume again, just as I did when I was a kid, and I will know.

I remember two other things about Sister from my early years. It was then that she started her tradition of gifting our Mother heart-shaped boxes of Whitman’s Samplers every Valentine’s Day. They were magnificent, with tufted velvet tops and satin ribbons lending a touch of elegance to our coal camp home. Inside, layers of chocolates offered a variety of flavors like caramels, truffles, and fruit creams. The lavish packaging, combined with the rich selection of chocolates, made opening a Whitman’s Sampler a special Valentine’s Day event for my Mother.

Also, around that time, Sister patiently taught me how to embroider on pillowcases. I was immediately captivated by the array of colored threads—so vibrant and alive in my small hands. The soft yarn felt like magic as I pulled it through the fabric, creating tiny, neat stitches that transformed the plain cloth into something beautiful. Each new stitch felt like a secret unfolding. I marveled at how these simple threads could bring flowers, shapes, and patterns to life. The rhythmic motion of needle and thread became a calming, almost meditative ritual, sparking a lifelong appreciation for craftsmanship.

I remember other things about Sister as well, but this story isn’t about the things that most women born in 1935 lived their lives doing. I could say that this story isn’t about endless labor, both inside and outside the home. I could say that this story isn’t about scrubbing laundry on washboards, hanging clothes on backyard lines to dry in summer sun and winter freeze. I could say that this story isn’t about mending torn seams by hand or pressing starched clothes with a heavy iron heated on a stove. I could say that this story isn’t about cooking tonight’s meal and wondering about where provisions for the next night’s meal would come from. I could say that this story isn’t about waitressing for decades on less than minimum wage while hoping for just a little more than the nickels or dimes or quarters left behind as afterthought tips. I could say that this is not a story about hands carrying out daily chores with unwavering strength and care.

In reality, Sister did all of those things. But she did one thing more, and it matters most in this story.

For five decades, Sister’s hands served others whose hands were not strong enough to take care of themselves in their final years.

For them, Sister’s hands were a source of comfort and strength in the hardest times. Her hands were the ones that soothed fevered brows and prepared meals that nourished more than just the body. They carefully arranged pillows, tucked in blankets, and held on during the darkest moments. They brushed away tears and wiped the sweat from a forehead when words weren’t enough.

Her hands folded laundry, served meals, and held on when strength was needed the most. Whether it was a gentle touch in passing or the firm grip during a time of fear, her hands were always there, ready to offer love and care. Sister’s hands held those who needed it, day after day, year after year, never asking for anything in return.

Sister’s hands offered all of those comforts to our father in his final days, and to Brother’s
wife, caring for her with tenderness. They lovingly attended to our mother until
the very end, and they held her fiancé as their shared future faded away. Lastly,
they cared for Brother—our parents’ firstborn and her first playmate—offering
him unwavering love and support as he faced his final days.

On this special day, as Sister turns 89, her hands still carry the same love and strength they’ve always given.

When the time comes for Sister to cross the Great Divide, her hands will be clapping jubilantly, knowing that on the other side will be those she loved so much and served so selflessly. They’ll be there waiting to greet her once more, to applaud her decades of selfless love, compassion, and service, and to gently wipe away the tears of reunion and celebration.

This is the story of Sister’s hands.

10,000 Views and Counting: A Heartfelt Thank You!

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“Gratitude turns what we have into enough.”

–Aesop

Gobsmacked! That’s what I am! Here’s why. With nearly four months still left in the year, my blog just reached 10,000 views. I know exactly when it hit five digits because I was waiting and watching. I had my Smartphone in hand when the magical moment occurred at 7:45 this morning!

I wish I knew who the 10,000th viewer was—I’d reach out with a warm embrace. But since I don’t, I’m reaching out to all 10,000 of you instead—let’s embrace one another! In the spirit of Bob Marley’s words: “One love, one heart. Let’s join together and feel all right!”

Your engagement, curiosity, and support have blown me away. Whether you’re a longtime reader or just joined the journey, you’ve all played a role in this milestone. Together, we’ll keep pushing boundaries, asking big questions, and exploring new ideas!

Before I go, I’d like to share this year’s five most-viewed posts that have helped soar us to 10,000 views. If you haven’t read these yet, check them out!

Glimpses of my Mother’s Hands
● Through vivid memories of her tender, industrious, and spiritual hands, I explore the profound impact my mother’s hands had on shaping my life—from creating magic in everyday moments to offering strength, care, and faith until her final farewell.

Vermont’s Literary Daughter: Brent L. Kendrick on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
● In my interview on the Vermont Artists and Authors podcast, I discuss the legacy of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and my collection Green Mountain Stories, emphasizing Freeman’s significance as a Vermont writer and my hopes for her stories to inspire readers, libraries, and schools across the state.

Confessions of an Editor: THE INFANT SPHINX Reviewed
● I delve into the serendipitous journey of editing and publishing The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, while sharing for the first time ever the full text of a forgotten self-review I wrote nearly 40 years ago, offering insights into Freeman’s life, my editorial process, and the lasting impact of her letters.

When Lilacs Meet Algorithms: The Unlikely Union of Walt Whitman and Artificial Intelligence (AI)
● I explore the unexpected intersection of Walt Whitman’s elegy “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” with artificial intelligence, as I challenge AI tools to distill the essence of the poem into sonnets, revealing the potential for AI to complement human creativity while reflecting on the power of poetry.

From Dusty Folder to Digital Ink. Part I: The Untold Story of THE INFANT SPHINX
● I recount the serendipitous journey behind the publication of The Infant Sphinx, from a bold encounter with the president of Scarecrow Press to the Herculean task of preparing camera-ready copy, offering readers a glimpse into the untold backstory of my scholarly work.

Thank you, Dear Readers, from the bottom of my heart!

The Strength of Deprivation

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“The more we are deprived of something, the more we realize its value.”

–Plato (c. 427–347 BCE; Greek philosopher and a student of Socrates. He founded the Academy in Athens and profoundly influenced Western philosophy, especially through his works like The Republic, which explore justice, reality, and knowledge.)

Smackdab in the middle of my deck is a wrought-iron rectangular table, topped with a slab of rough-hewn sandstone. Its focal point is a larger-than-I-can-lift Celadon flowerpot, home to a treasured Bougainvillea, a tropical plant that enjoys deck side only in summer and early fall. Its magenta petals are like delicate crepe paper, bursting forth against the sunlit sky. Their blossoms cascade like a vibrant waterfall, painting my mountain world with exuberant hues. They dance in the wind, whispering secrets of their distant homelands, their beauty both fierce and fragile, a testament to the resilience of life.

But such splendor does not come easily. To bloom so magnificently, bougainvillea must endure deprivation, a withholding of water that seems almost cruel. In their struggle, they learn to thrive in harshness, sending their roots deeper, seeking sustenance in the barren soil. It is in this crucible of thirst that their true beauty is forged, their blossoms erupting as if in defiance of hardship.

I have other plants that flourish under similar deprivation. My lavender and rosemary, with their fragrant blooms, thrive in dry, sandy soils, where a lack of water encourages them to produce more potent aromas. My cacti and succulents, accustomed to arid environments, often bloom when faced with the drought of my neglect, their flowers a testament to survival in the harshest conditions. One of my favorites, Russian sage, is most vivid when experiencing the challenge of dry soil, while my sedum and portulaca, known for their drought tolerance, turn stress into a profusion of flowers. Even my prized jade plant, a hardy succulent, responds to dry spells by offering delicate blossoms. These and other plants remind me that sometimes, in the face of scarcity, nature gives birth to her most stunning displays of beauty.

As I witness this seeming contradiction–strength in deprivation–in my plant world, I am reminded of how that same natural truth looms large in my literary world, too, especially in Emily Dickinson’s poetry. In fact, I often think of her as the poet of deprivation. Time and time again, her work reveals that strength born of hardship allows both the flower and the soul to bloom most fully.

I’m thinking right now of a poem that’s familiar to many because it’s anthologized the most:

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of victory

As he defeated – dying –
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!

What an incredible celebration of deprivation! Those who experience the most deprivation—specifically, those who strive to succeed but do not achieve the victory—are the ones who truly understand and appreciate success. Deprivation of triumph can heighten our ability to recognize and value success when it is out of reach.

I’m thinking, too, of a lesser-known Dickinson poem that’s even more akin to what I see in some of my plants that flourish when they are deprived: “I Had Been Hungry, All the Years”

I had been hungry, all the Years—
My Noon had Come—to dine—
I trembling drew the Table near—
And touched the Curious Wine—

‘Twas this on Tables I had seen—
When turning, hungry, Home
I looked in Windows, for the Wealth
I could not hope—for Mine—

I did not know the ample Bread—
‘Twas so unlike the Crumb
The Birds and I, had often shared
In Nature’s—Dining Room—

The Plenty hurt me—’twas so new—
Myself felt ill—and odd—
As Berry—of a Mountain Bush—
Transplanted—to a Road—

Nor was I hungry—so I found
That Hunger—was a way
Of Persons outside Windows—
The Entering—takes away—

How amazing! Dickinson captures the intensity of deprivation by reflecting on how the memory of hunger magnifies the value of being fed. What a wonderful acknowledgment that the experience of lack—physical, emotional, or spiritual—sharpens the appreciation of fulfillment when it finally arrives.

It seems to me that this principle extends beyond poetry and nature into our own lives, where a degree of deprivation–let me emphasize, a degree of deprivation–can lead to greater appreciation, personal growth, and overall well-being.

For example, I’ve been practicing 16:8 intermittent fasting for a while now, an approach that’s believed to promote better health, improve metabolic function, and increase longevity. So far, it seems to be working. More importantly, it’s made me more mindful of what I eat and has given me a deeper appreciation for my meals. Instead of mindlessly grazing, I savor what I’m eating—turning each meal into something I look forward to and genuinely enjoy.

When it comes to my material possessions, it’s a challenge for me to embrace minimalism, but I am discovering that living with fewer possessions is helping me focus more on what truly matters to me, it’s reducing my stress, and it’s increasing my overall satisfaction. In essence, deprivation from constant consumption is giving me true gratitude for the plenty that I already have.

When it comes to taking breaks from technology and media, I agree that doing so can improve mental health, enhance sleep quality, boost productivity, and lead to more meaningful personal interactions. So here’s what I’ve done. I’ve given up entirely on television, and I don’t miss it at all. However, there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I’m cutting back on my Smartphone usage. After all, that technology provides you with my blog post every Monday, just like clockwork!

So let me move on quickly to another area where some deprivation does me some good. I’m thinking about the discomfort that comes through physical exercise. I’ve biked indoors and outdoors for decades, and for the first thirty minutes or so, it’s as painful now as ever, but I know that through the pain, I am growing stronger.

And, believe it or not, I even like stepping away from luxury and convenience from time to time. For example, I still take military showers just as I did in my graduate school days to cut back on my water consumption. Guess what else? Sometimes, it’s a cold shower. It’s a way to reset my expectations and make my everyday comforts more enjoyable.

There are, of course, other areas of life where a little deprivation can go a long way. Take social interaction, for example. I really like being with people, but now that I’m reinventing myself, I’m not with as many people as I used to be. However, I’m finding that my periods of solitude and reduced social interactions give me space to think, to reflect, and to tap into creativity that I might overlook in the bustle of daily life. The truth is, when I do spend time with others after a spell of solitude, those interactions feel richer and more meaningful. It’s as if the time apart makes connection all the sweeter.

And what about our leisure time? Yes, even fun has its limits. Limiting our leisure time can actually make us more productive and help us value those moments of rest more deeply. It’s all about balance, right? Even sensory deprivation can heighten awareness. I don’t have a float tank, but through meditation, I’ve found that stepping away from the chatter–external and internal–opens up a space for deeper relaxation and, more importantly, inner peace.

When it comes to desires and wants, holding back just a little, whether it’s with food, entertainment, or indulgent pleasures, sharpens my self-control and satisfaction. Deprivation, in this sense, helps me better understand what truly brings happiness.

It’s all about small degrees of deprivation. The challenge is to find the sweet spot that allows us to strike the right balance and rediscover the beauty in what we often overlook. Just as the bougainvillea’s vibrant blooms spring from the stress of scarcity, so too can our lives blossom when we lean into the strength that comes from having less. It’s in those moments of restraint that we gain clarity, grow stronger, and truly flourish.

Unsubscribe: The Power of Pausing Before Acting

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“The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.”

–Attributed to Mark Twain (1835-1910; one of America’s most celebrated writers and humorists; often referred to as the “father of American literature.”)

By now, My Dear Readers, you know more about me than you should, including the titillating fact that I keep everything. I mean everything. I do. If you doubt me or if you have forgotten my-way-too-personal disclosures, check out “My Taxing Review: A Reality Post” or “OHIO on My Mind,” but not until you finish reading this post. Until then, you’re mine, all mine. I want to keep you to myself. Stay put and relax while I tell you about something I’ve held on to without even knowing that I was holding on to it.

I realized just the other day that I was getting an outlandish number of emails from companies, foundations, and organizations, just because I gave them my email address eons ago, simply to get that 15% discount or simply to get a freebie by donating to a good cause. Over time, “DELETE” became my morning email mantra simply because it never occurred to me that I could stop getting those no-longer-wanted and no-longer-valued emails simply by clicking on UNSUBSCRIBE.

UNSUBSCRIBE. Can you imagine. Is that a brilliant solution or what? Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy, right? Wrong. More like stressed, depressed lemon zest.

Sometimes, though not too often, unsubscribing is easy. The option appears prominently right at the top of the email.

More often than not, however, I have to work really hard at unsubscribing. More often than not, the option appears hidden amongst all kinds of other options at the very end of the screed that I didn’t want to read anyway. Even then, the option to unsubscribe is in a smaller font requiring a magnifying glass, or it’s in an entirely different color font, almost always so light that it’s impossible to read. And get this. Sometimes, I don’t have a clear unsubscribe option at all. Sometimes, I blaze my way to unsubscribe by clicking on the preferences option.

Unsubscribing, as a rule, is anything but straightforward. Even after finding my way there, I have to confirm that I really do want to sever the tie that I had been holding on to. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice.

I cannot help but wonder what other areas in our lives we might want to think twice about before taking action.

What about things we often say things to friends in moments of emotion or impulsiveness, forgetting that words can have lasting impacts.

● “I’m too busy right now.”

● “I don’t really care what you do.”

● “I don’t know why I’m even friends with you.”

Perhaps if we paused and considered the weight of our words, we could strengthen our friendships rather than strain them.

Or consider the dynamics of family relationships, where familiarity sometimes leads us to make careless remarks.

● “I’ll call you later.” (But never do.)

● “Why can’t you be more like …?”

● “You’ve always been a disappointment to me.”

Perhaps we need to pause for a moment to remember that our words can either heal or hurt, especially with those closest to us.

Let’s not forget our professional environments where words can carry significant consequences, especially with our boss.

● “I’ll get to it when I can.”

● “That’s not my job.”

● “I think you’re making a big mistake.”

Perhaps we need to pause and remember the powerful importance of tact and diplomacy when communicating with authority figures.

Also, I wonder about our constant self-talk, especially when we become our own harshest critics.

● “I can’t believe I messed that up.”

● “I’m not good enough for this.”

● “I’m not lovable.”

Perhaps we need to think twice before engaging in negative self-talk and instead replace it with a kinder, more supportive internal dialogue that sends us a strong, empowering message.

Finally, what about thinking twice before questioning or challenging our higher spiritual and philosophical beliefs?

● “I don’t know if you’re really there.”

● “Why is this happening to me?”

● “I’ve lost all faith.”

Perhaps we need to pause and approach our beliefs with respect and thoughtfulness in a way that fosters a sense of reconciliation and growth.

Oh. There’s one more thing that I’ve noticed. More often than not, the last thing that happens when unsubscribing is a pop-up window, sighing:

“Sorry to see you go, but if you change your mind …”

It seems to me that if foundations, organizations, and companies are willing to have us back after we unsubscribe from their mailing lists, then surely our friends, our family, our boss, and our Higher Being, will welcome us back into the fold as well. And with any luck, we’ll even come to understand that we are worthy and welcome unto our very selves.

One thing’s for sure. The next time I consider unsubscribing—from an email or a relationship—I’ll remember the power of pausing before acting. And if I act in a way that I later regret, I’ll remind myself that our relationships, like our subscriptions, can often be mended with effort and humility.

A Slice of Genius: How I Accidentally Invented “The Perfect Edge”

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“The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of the human race than the discovery of a star.”

–Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755–1826; a French lawyer and epicure, best known for his The Physiology of Taste [1825], which remains a classic in culinary literature.)

Imagine sinking your fork into layers of luscious key lime indulgence—each bite, a symphony of tartness and sweetness that dances on your palate. This is no ordinary pie; it’s a triple-decker tower of tartness and decadence that will linger in your dreams long after the last crumb has vanished. A cinnamon-infused graham cracker crust cradles a silky baked key lime custard, perfectly set and bursting with citrus. Next comes a chilled, creamy layer that melts in your mouth, topped with a cloud of key lime whipped cream that’s just the right amount of airy. With nearly two cups of key lime juice infused into every inch, this pie is the ultimate in citrus luxury. This dessert is pure food porn—so irresistible, it’s worth every sinful calorie.

I made this Triple Layer Key Lime Pie a week ago for my Linden Correspondent (LC) and her family, who are as special to me as I hoped this pie would be to them. Obviously, I was eager to know whether my recipe measured up to my hype and their expectations. It did, and in succinct news style, my LC messaged me her family’s comments:


● It’s a work of art!
● It’s very tart/limey, which I love!
● The texture is perfect!
● How did he get a perfect 90° angle on the crust?!
● What an experience!
● The crust is divine!

And we all say:

THANK YOU!!
🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗”

I was thrilled, of course, by their reactions and returned a bold “YOU’RE WELCOME” along with my own smiley faces.

To my surprise, my friend messaged me some extra zest later in the day:

“But seriously, how DID you get the perfect angles in the crust?”

I paused, perplexed. I nearly replied with a “Duh?” Surely, it would have been clear to her that I had used a springform pan. Right? Maybe not. So, I took a cautious, mittened approach:

“But for real, what do you mean by ‘perfect angles in the crust’?”

Her reply was as precise as the apparent angles of my crust:

“The inside angle on the bottom, where the side and the bottom meet. Whatever you used to press the corners was a perfectly cornered utensil. Ours never come out like that!”

I told her that I used my fingers, but the egg whites that I added to the graham cracker mixture probably helped more.

“Your fingers? No way! My sister and I don’t believe you.”

Truly, what I told her was the truth, as I recalled it, so I decided to move on with a passing remark about the rain that had passed me by.

Later in the day, while cooking dinner, I had a strange reminder as I used one of my handy-dandy silicone tools to scrape sauce from a kitchen pot. In a flash, I remembered how I had gotten those perfect angles. After pressing the crumbs into place with my fingers, I used the silicone handy-dandy to thin and sharpen the circumference where the sides met the bottom.

I took a selfie of me holding my silicone gadget and sent it to my Linden Correspondent:

“I’m cooking dinner and came across my silicone handy dandy.

“I now remember: after pushing the crust in place with my fingers, I used this around the edges!

“Do NOT share this hack with anyone outside of your family.

“I had totally forgotten. It really helps get the job done! It was a discovery of necessity!

“Oh. No. I feel a blog coming on!”

She wittily reminded me that if I blogged about the tool that gave me those perfect edges, my secret would be out.

And so, My Dear Readers, my secret is out! I don’t mind this reveal, however, because I love you and your crumbs, and I hope that you will remember my silicone hack the next time you make a graham cracker crust. Be aware, however, that by the time you’re reading this, I will have applied for a patent, so my hack will be Patent Pending. I can do that, right? I mean. Even though the silicone handy-dandy is patented, surely I can get a new patent since I’m using it in a new-fangled way, right? (Aside to any Patent Attorneys who might be reading: please PM me and let me know if I’m losing my batter.) Well, if I can’t, I’ll just create an appropriately shaped, hand-held silicone gadget expressly designed for getting the perfect edge. OMG. This is getting even sweeter. I will call my gadget THE PERFECT EDGE. Is that perfectly sweet or what?

And isn’t it amazing that necessity drove me to invent a perfect gadget that will find its way into every kitchen in the world, even kitchens without bakers who don’t need a hack to achieve the perfect edge that they’ll never seek to achieve.

This got me to thinking—how many of our favorite kitchen gadgets and techniques were born out of happy accidents or the sheer necessity of the moment?

I know a good number of things right off the top of my head.

Did you know that Melitta Bentz, a German housewife, invented the coffee filter in 1908 when she became frustrated by the bitter taste of coffee brewed with the traditional percolator, which often left grounds in the cup? She simply took a piece of blotting paper from her son’s school notebook to filter out the grounds. She punctured holes in the bottom of a brass pot and lined it with the paper, then poured the coffee through it. The result was a smooth, grounds-free cup of coffee. She applied for a patent and gave birth to Melitta coffee filters.

It’s funny to think that a simple frustration with coffee grounds led to the creation of something so essential to our morning routines. And even if you didn’t know about coffee filters, surely you know about Teflon. In 1938, Roy Plunkett, a chemist working for DuPont, was experimenting with refrigerants and discovered that one sample had polymerized into a white, waxy solid that was extremely slippery. This substance? Polytetrafluoroethylene (PTFE). We know it as Teflon. Although initially used in military applications, Teflon’s non-stick properties made it an ideal coating for cookware. The first 1950s Teflon-coated pan became a game-changer in every kitchen throughout the world except mine. I’m sticking with my All-Clad. I don’t want any of that PFTE stuff slip-sliding into my culinary delights. While Teflon revolutionized non-stick cooking, I’m more of a stainless-steel purist. There’s something about the weight and durability of All-Clad that speaks to my culinary soul.

And who doesn’t know about Percy Spencer’s 1945 accidental invention of the microwave? While testing a magnetron, a type of vacuum tube used to generate microwaves for radar systems, he noticed that a candy bar in his pocket had melted. So he tried popping some popcorn kernels near the magnetron. Yep. Pop. Puff. Burst. Next? An egg, which exploded in his colleague’s face. (Just as an aside. That is not the origin of the expression, “Egg on his face.”) Spencer and his team saw the potential to cook food quickly. They built the first microwave oven, standing over six feet tall and weighing nearly 750 pounds. “Radarange” was released commercially in 1947. Is that rad or what? Personally, I’m not a huge microwave fan, but I’m awfully glad they’re compact enough and affordable enough to be in any kitchen, including mine.

Let’s throw one more gadget into this mash. The potato peeler. Please tell me that you’re not using a knife to peel your spuds the way folks had to before Alfred Neweczerzal, a Swiss engineer, designed the potato peeler found in kitchens throughout the world. It’s simple. It’s lightweight. It’s effective. And it’s probably the cheapest gadget in my kitchen.

If you think gadgets invented by accident are fun, just wait until you hear about some of the delicious foods that came to be thanks to a stroke of serendipity—or perhaps sheer clumsiness. Let’s dive into the culinary cosmos where mishaps turn into mouthwatering miracles.

I’ll start with sourdough not only because you will remember by post, “Oh, No! Sourdough!” but also because I’m still foolin’ around with sourdough at least once a week, sometimes more. Did you know that sourdough is one of the oldest forms of leavened bread, and its origins can be traced back to ancient Egypt, around 4,000 BC? But here’s the savory backstory. A baker accidentally left out a mixture of flour and water, which naturally attracted wild yeast from the environment. The yeast fermented the dough, causing it to rise and develop a tangy flavor. Today, we call it sourdough fermentation, and it’s the foundation for one of the world’s most beloved breads. Just last week, I made two loaves of triple cheese sourdough: Cheddar, Gruyere, and Parmesan. My kitchen smelled like a bakery for days after I gave the loaves to friends.

And you might not think that bread and beer go hand in hand, but they have grains and grains of connection. The invention of beer is often attributed to a happy accident. The Sumerians around 5,000 BC likely discovered beer when wild yeast fermented stored grains or bread that had gotten wet. The resulting liquid had a pleasant taste and intoxicating effects, leading to the intentional brewing of beer and the unintentional drunkenness and debauchery that sometimes sip along. This process became a cornerstone of many cultures and is one of the earliest known examples of fermentation.

Enough of yeasties. Let’s move on to sweetsies, especially chocolate chip cookies. They came about not by accident but rather by necessity. In 1938, Ruth Wakefield, owner of the Toll House Inn in Massachusetts, was trying to make chocolate cookies. When she ran out of baker’s chocolate, she decided to use chopped-up bits of a Nestlé semi-sweet chocolate bar instead, expecting the chocolate to melt and blend into the dough. To her surprise, the chocolate pieces retained their shape, creating the first chocolate chip cookies. These cookies became so popular that Nestlé struck a deal with Wakefield, allowing them to print her recipe on their chocolate bar packaging, which eventually led to the creation of chocolate chips. Thank God for necessities.

This next culinary delight came about not by necessity, not by accident, but by frustration. Get ready to crunch. Way back in 1853, George Crum, a chef in Saratoga Springs, New York, got frustrated with a customer who repeatedly sent back his fried potatoes, complaining they were too thick and soggy. In an attempt to annoy the customer, Crum sliced the potatoes as thin as possible, fried them to a crisp, and added extra salt. To his surprise, the customer loved them, and thus, the potato chip was born. Without a doubt, the necessity here was to please a picky customer, but the humorous twist is that the invention was born out of frustration.

How about this next twist? What do you get if you put potato chips and chocolate chips together? Potato Chip Cookies! That’s no joke. I found the recipe on the Internet by accident, made the cookies one day out of necessity when I was having a sugar fit, and satisfied my frustration with a fascinating plate of crunchy, sweet, tongue-tip salty cookies and a glass of milk.

But I’m going to take that recipe and spin it like a top! You know what I’m going to do? Well, let me give you a hint. The star ingredients will be Potato Chips, Chocolate Chips, and … SOURDOUGH! Yep! You heard it first right here! Sourdough Potato Chip Cookies! Now, you might be wondering—how do these flavors work together? Here’s the secret: the tangy complexity of the sourdough adds a unique depth to the cookie, balancing out the sweetness of the chocolate chips and the saltiness of the potato chips. It’s a trifecta of flavor that hits all the right notes—crunchy, sweet, salty, and just a little bit sour. The sourdough brings an unexpected twist to the classic cookie, giving it a subtle chewiness and a hint of that signature tang that keeps you reaching for just one more. Once again, sourdough will rise to the occasion, taking me—and your taste buds—to a place we’ve never been before

There you have it, My Dear Readers! Mark your calendars! This is a double red-letter day. In the annals of culinary history, I’ll be memorialized not only for inventing Sourdough Potato Chip Cookies but also for inventing The Perfect Edge, both living proof that kitchens give birth to genius–chip by chip and slice by slice.

Roots and All

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“The deeper the roots, the stronger the tree.”

–Unknown

Down and dirty and pumped. Yep. That’s what I am. And I’ve had one helluva good time getting there. For the last week or so, I’ve been manhandling the garden that I moaned and groaned about in “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”

Remember? I was working in my 70-foot garden, a serene haven that runs along the east side of my home. The garden starts with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into a Koi Pond and ends with a towering granite Pagoda. A flagstone walkway curves between these two focal points, with a bog garden on one side, originally full of Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Cardinal Flower and Pond Sedge, and a specimen garden on the other, showcasing Clumping Bamboo, Hinoki Cypress, Flowering Crabapple, and more.

It was everything I ever wanted in a small garden—until the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo began taking over. Then, it became something that I … never wanted.

At first, I thought cutting back the invasive plants would solve the problem, but they kept returning, seemingly stronger each time. The roots were thriving beneath the surface, undeterred by my efforts. Now, I faced a choice: keep battling the tops or dig up the deep, stubborn roots once and for all.

I made the right choice, the only one for me. I decided to do the hard work now and reclaim my garden.

I knew right away that I needed the big guys to get the job done. The first was my 40-inch, fiber-glass-handle trenching spade. It’s lightweight but has a penchant for heavy-duty roughness. With a backstep that provides increased leverage, it’s perfect for getting beneath the roots and lifting them out.

The second is a handheld, dual-headed, carbon steel big guy. It’s great to use when I’m sitting on the ground, really getting down and dirty, digging up roots that the spade didn’t lift out. One head is a pick that goes deep with every thrust; the other, a fork that yanks out mass roots with every pull.

I’ve been putting both big guys to good use for the last week or so, during which time I’ve learned a lot about roots.

First, roots grow in places that I didn’t even know existed. Imagine it, and I can find roots there. Second, roots can be long, really long. I’ve dug out some that were even 10 feet long. Most have been around 3 or 4 feet. Third, roots love to grow beneath flagstone pavers, beneath rocks, and even in and amongst roots of other plants, making the smell of Theodore Roethke’s “Root Cellar” a reality:

“Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!”

Fourth, roots grow in clay and rubble where nothing else would dare stake out a claim to life on less-than-meager fare.

Even though I’ve learned a lot, it’s been drudgery. By the end of a day’s work–a kind of outdoor dirt prayer–my hands feel arthritic from sustained gripping, and my blue jeans are knee- and butt-dirty from kneeling and sitting. But I do what I do not only to control the roots and but also to give me the fleeting assurance that they don’t control me.

I won’t tell you about other things that happened while digging up roots, like adding scalloped stone edging along the walkway or relocating a granite pagoda lantern to a slightly higher spot or popping in a new evergreen shrub or three here and there to brighten the fresh layer of pine bark mulch.

And if I’m not going to tell you about all of those enhancements, then I’m certainly not going to tell you about how open and expansive my specimen garden feels now, with all the Bamboo and Pond Sedge gone–tops above and roots below. I know. I know. It’s no bigger than it ever was, but it looks twice as big as ever.

But don’t worry. I’ve got some important observations that I’m about to share with you. They’re important to me, and, hopefully, they’ll resonate with you, too.

For starters, I’m delighted that I had the daring-do to tackle root removal of this magnitude. Even though I still have more work to do, I sprawl out on the ground from time to time, celebrating what I’m accomplishing, knowing that in gardening, as in life, superficial fixes won’t solve deep-rooted problems. Just like with my invasive plants, truly eliminating an issue requires getting to the root of it. Whether in health, relationships, career, or broader societal issues, confronting and removing the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives.

But get this. As I sprawl in celebration, I do so modestly. I claim no victory. I know that these roots run deep. I know that these roots run wherever they’re inclined to run. I know that remnants of these roots remain, and that probably by the end of this season, Bamboo and Pond Sedge will sprout up here and there all over again. I know that these roots have a tenacious hold.

Those gardening observations remind me that even though roots–literal and metaphorical–may need to be removed when they cause problems, most of the time, roots are essential anchors that ground us.

I’m thinking, for example, about my love of the outdoors. My connections to nature and the environment serve as a grounding force, offering me peace, perspective, and a sense of renewal. Those roots go back to my childhood and even further back to generations of farmers who make up my heritage. Even during periods of my life when I lived in cities, I always found ways to allow the natural world to dig deep into the fiber of my being.

Or here’s another example. My love of cooking. It runs in my family, including my father and my brothers. We felt as much at home over the kitchen stove as we did anywhere else. Let me add to that our love of ethnic foods. I can trace those roots back to my childhood and my cultural heritage in the coal camps of Southern West Virginia. Our little town was a melting pot of nationalities, and everyone shared recipes with one another. Greek Green Beans. Hungarian Chocolate Potato Cake. Caribbean Souse Meat. Polish Cabbage Rolls. Italian Gnocchi. Jewish Latkes. Those ethnic foods and many others continue to tease my palate and provide a sense of belonging.

Or what about the roots that anchor my simple philosophy of life? I believe in the inherent goodness of life, all life. I believe that life is purposeful. I believe in life’s thrust toward greatness. When I look into my metaphorical mirror, I always say, “Every day in every way, I grow a little better.” Those principles—learned in childhood—have always directed my actions and my choices, and they continue to help me navigate my life.

Even when it comes to my notion of community and social connections, my roots run deep. From childhood, I learned to value and embrace diversity, equity, and inclusion. It’s part of who I am. I like to think that I have always been sensitive to race, ethnicity, gender identity, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, religious beliefs, age, and other unique variations that make us human. Because of those roots, I like to think that regardless of where I might be in the world, I will always enjoy a sense of belonging, and I will always lend a helping hand to those around me.

Also, my work ethic has deep roots. I was born into a working family, and I grew up in a working community. Everyone worked, and, equally important, everyone enjoyed working. Working is what we did. I’ve shared before–and I’ll share it again–the little poem that I cut my teeth on:

“If a job is once begun,
Never leave until it’s done.
Be its labor, great or small,
Do it well or not at all.”

Later on in school, one of my history teachers reminded me and my classmates regularly of the Biblical proverb, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Her voice echoes still. Even today–after a 25-year federal career and a subsequent 23-year teaching career–I’m reinventing myself, working as much now as ever. Work continues to give me stability, purpose, and a sense of accomplishment. I have every expectation that I will work forever and beyond.

My education and learning roots run deep, too. Even though I grew up in the coal fields of West Virginia, I had some of the best educators in the world, formally and informally. Because of them, I came to believe that an education allows anyone to do anything and to go anywhere. I came to believe that an education is the best investment ever, knowing that it will never depreciate and knowing that no one can ever take it away. I came to believe that learning is lifelong, requiring little more than an inquiring mind focusing on the 5 W’s of writing and journalism: Who, What, When, Where, and Why. What a powerful and empowering foundation for growth.

Personal resilience is a root for me as well, always anchoring me during challenging times. I believe in the power to adapt and grow in any circumstance. I practice what my mother taught me, “Bloom where you’re planted.” I’ve spent a lifetime doing just that. My childhood dream of becoming a college professor was deferred until I turned fifty. Nonetheless, I thrived during those intervening years and had a distinguished career at the Library of Congress. Those 25 years paved the way for me to become a college professor and helped make me the educator that I became.

Intertwined with it all, of course, are the roots of my faith and spirituality. Both have always played a role in my life. My mother was a fundamentalist minister and prayer warrior whose influence on my life is immeasurable. I have always felt that my life was governed by an Unseen Hand, even in times when I was unaware that I was being led. It gives me a sense of connection and grounding, in all times but especially in times of uncertainty. Don’t ask me to explain the Unseen Hand. I’m not sure that I could even begin to do so, other than to celebrate my belief that my God is a big God who loves all creation and who embraces all creation.

So, there you have it. Roots. They anchor us, shape us, and sometimes challenge us. Whether in the garden, where I wrestle with the stubborn roots of Pond Sedge and Bamboo, or in life, where I draw strength from the deep roots of my beliefs, family, and experiences, they are always there. They remind me that while we may need to dig deep to address life’s challenges, we also need to nurture the roots that sustain us.

Every day, as I work in the garden or reflect on the day’s events, I’m reminded that roots are both the foundation and the framework of our lives. They’re what give us stability when the winds of change blow, what nourish us in times of need, and what connect us to the larger world around us.

And as I continue to tend to my garden, both literal and metaphorical, I know that I’m not just removing what doesn’t belong—I’m also nurturing what does. In the end, it’s the roots that keep us grounded, it’s the roots that keep us growing, and it’s the roots that remind us of who we are and where we come from.

Every day, in every way, I grow a little better—roots and all.

The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free

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“Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness.”

— Thich Nhat Hanh (1926-2022; a Vietnamese Buddhist monk and peace activist known for his teachings on mindfulness and compassion.)

It all started a week or so ago. I remember with great clarity that it was on a Monday. I woke up feeling a weight around my neck, something I hadn’t noticed before. It was subtle but persistent, almost like wearing a heavy choker. At first, I tried to dismiss it, thinking it was just a minor inconvenience. But as the hours passed, the weight grew more noticeable. I felt uneasy, as if something was slightly off, casting a shadow over my thoughts.

The next day, the weight was unmistakable. It was heavier than I expected, plus it seemed to be tightening. Simple tasks became more cumbersome, and I became acutely aware of something that I could not escape. The burden started to affect my mood, causing frustration to build.

By the third day, the albatross felt like an anchor dragging me down. I was tired and irritable, and my patience was wearing thin. It seemed to point me toward a deeper problem or unresolved issue that I knew I shouldn’t ignore. Despair started to set in as I tried to identify the problem and figure out how to escape the torment.

Finally, on the fourth day, while relaxing on my deck in the early sunrise, the albatross looked at me, and in that fleeting glance, I saw the source of the nearly unbearable weight. Brace yourself. You might not believe what I’m about to reveal. Here goes. The weight was coming from the blog post that I was working on for the next Monday.

The realization stunned me. Actually, it mortified me. Here’s why. I knew exactly where I was going with the post, and I had drafted more than half of it. But get this. I didn’t like the opening paragraphs. I hadn’t liked them from the start, I kept telling myself day after day that those paragraphs would fall into place as I got closer to the post’s ending.

I was wrong. They didn’t fall into place, and I wasn’t willing to let that albatross hang around my neck any longer. I found myself saying out loud to myself as I sat there, sipping coffee:

“Give it up, Kendrick. Just give it up.”

I didn’t mean that I should delete the draft. I just meant that I should put it on the back burner until its time had come. As soon as I gave it up, the albatross that had become unbearable let go of me and flew away. I felt an immediate sense of lightness and relief. The burden that once felt insurmountable was gone, and I was overwhelmed by a wave of elation. I felt a profound sense of freedom. The contrast between the heaviness of the past few days and the newfound lightness made the relief even more exhilarating. I was finally free.

With the albatross gone, my mind was free to soar, and a brand-new idea for a post came to me immediately, filling me with renewed energy. As I continued sipping my coffee, I cobbled together a really rough draft of what I wanted the new post to become. All day long, I kept the post on my mental backburner. That night, in bed with my Smartphone in hand, I completed the post rather effortlessly and published it the following Monday: “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“

Letting go of the writer’s albatross that had been weighing me down for days allowed me to cue my own metaphorical vacay. Now, here I am sharing my specific challenge and my specific solution, hoping that it will speak to other writers out there. Sometimes, you simply have to let go of an idea that has possessed you if it becomes a deadly weight instead of wings that give flight. Letting go does not mean abandoning. It means putting the idea aside until it calls you back and begs you to give it the attention that you need to give it. The two of you–your idea and you as the writer–are the only ones who will know when the time is right.

For me, it took about two weeks. After “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“, I moved on to “Listening to the Unsaid.” The next week, I returned to my albatross post, and I knew immediately what I needed to do with the first few paragraphs. Whitman and Emerson reached out to my spirit, and as soon as I gave them a home in my post, everything else fell into place for “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”

In the end, letting go of the albatross allowed me to discover some new creative wings. By acknowledging the weight and releasing my grip, I freed myself to explore new ideas and approaches.

If you’re a writer, hold on to the truth that I have shared. Sometimes, the best way to make progress is to let go and cue your own vacay–embracing the freedom to create and enjoy the journey.

If you’re not a writer, reflect on this nugget of truth as well. It might help you, too. Just as a writer’s stubbornness can turn a blog post into an albatross, so too can our refusal to release emotional baggage turn relationships into anchors, holding us back from sailing into calmer waters. Or our insistence on controlling every detail turns projects into burdensome backpacks, weighing us down on the journey to success. And what about those stubborn habits we cling to, even when they no longer serve us? Don’t they become the equivalent of a ball and chain, hindering our progress toward a healthier, happier life? In each case, the albatross effect whispers a haunting question: What weight am I shouldering that’s keeping me from soaring? Sometimes, letting go of our personal albatrosses is the only way to find freedom.

Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge. May we all find the courage to release our albatrosses and let them fly away so that we might discover the liberating power of letting go.

Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life

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“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”

–Albert Einstein (1879-1955; KNOWN FOR HIS MONUMENTAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO PHYSICS AND OUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE UNIVERSE WITH HIS THEORY OF RELATIVITY, E=MC².)

Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” a shocking celebration of sensuality and self, is one of my favorite literary works. I especially celebrate the spirit of the poem’s ending:

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”

I can relate. Under your boot-soles is exactly where you’ll find me after my time has come and my ashes are scattered.

Until then–hopefully far, far into the future–if you’re looking for me, you can find me outdoors, more likely than not weed whacking or working in one of my specimen garden beds.

Looking back, it seems to me that since early boyhood, I’ve been a wild child, outdoors communing with nature, usually in the garden, so much so that my family always knew where to find me. Even on the rare occasion when someone bruised my young, fragile feelings, I retreated quietly and without fail to the garden. My youngest sister’s high-pitched taunt still echoes in my ears as I recall stumbling over my lower lip while heading out the door:

“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms.”

At that tender age, I learned that being outdoors comforted and healed. It is one of my most important lessons, ever. Emerson expresses with eloquence the truth that dwelt within my young boy’s soul:

“In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, — he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me” (“Nature,” 1836).

Down through the years, I’ve learned many other life-lessons in the garden, and from time to time, I’ve shared those lessons with you here.

I’m thinking especially of posts like “From Stars to Soil: Embracing My Family’s Gardening Tradition” (celebrating the interconnectedness of all life, a steadfast belief in the power of hope and renewal, and a deep-seated reverence for the sacredness of the natural world); “A War on Weeds: What the Heart of the Garden Said to the Gardener” (reminding us that the love of gardening never dies); and “The Joy of Weeding” (discovering what my late partner Allen experienced when he weeded).

Other posts about gardening can be found, too. If you unearth them, you will see that they all sprang up from the same celebratory soil. As we garden, we cultivate not just plants, but also the very qualities that enrich our lives: resilience, interconnectedness, patience, and mindfulness, reminding us to tend to our own growth and flourish in harmony with the world around us.

On the surface, it seems that I have nothing more to learn from gardening. However, as a lifelong learner, I know better. This spring, for example, I had a new epiphany while gardening. It wasn’t anything monumental upon which cults and sects are built. But it was significant enough that I want to share it with you.

I was working in an east-facing garden bed, running the full length of my home from the kitchen door, past the guest bedroom, the master bath, and the master bedroom.

The garden is 70 feet or so long and 30 feet or so wide. It begins with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into the Koi Pond, and it ends with a towering granite Pagoda. Half-mooning its way between these two focal points is a flagstone walkway. On the narrow upper side is a bog garden, originally showcasing Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Bog Rosemary, Cardinal Flower, and Pond Sedge. On the wider side next to the house is a specimen garden with Clumping Bamboo across from the Koi Pond, a tall Hinoki Cypress, a Flowering Crabapple, a disappearing polished-stone fountain, an Alaskan Cypress, and a columnar White Pine.

It’s all that anyone would ever want a small garden to be.

But here’s the thing. When Allen and I put in the plants, we had no idea that the Pond Sedge, over time, would not only take over the bog garden but would also pop up in the specimen garden on the other side of the walkway. To make matters worse, we had no idea that the Clumping Bamboo would run wild all over the wide part of the garden.

It took many years before these two plants started popping up here, there, and everywhere. In fact, it wasn’t until this year that I had to own up to the harsh reality: the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo had invaded the garden so extensively that they threatened the well-being of the other specimen plants.

I bolted into action by mustering up my resolve to cut back all of the Pond Sedge and all of the Clumping Bamboo that had sprung up everywhere.

“There,“ I thought. “Not so bad after all.”

Wrong! It was worse than bad. Two weeks later, everything that I had cut back had popped up all over again, seemingly even stronger.

“Fine. I’ll cut it back again.”

In my mind, I thought that if I continually cut off the tops of the invasive plants, they would die because they would no longer have the source of their food supply.

Guess what? I was wrong once again. It’s now August, and I’m still cutting away the tops.

I’ve got options, of course, other than spectracides, which I loathe because of environmental impacts. I can put down barrier plastic, top it with mulch, and, eventually, the roots will die. Candidly, I don’t like that choice because I will be mindful that the roots are still there, lurking beneath the surface. That leaves me with one course of action: go ahead and do the back-breaking needful and dig up the roots now.

It’s sad, but it’s very true. I can cut back the tops over and over again, but the roots will still be there, not only spreading and intertwining but also running deeper and deeper.

As I tackled my gardening problem, I had a realization. To get rid of my invasive Clumping Bamboo and my invasive Pond Sedge, I have to get to the source of the problem. I have to find and remove the roots.

I chuckled–perhaps you will too–because I had not actually had a realization at all. I had simply had a gardening reminder of a concept that I learned decades ago.

You’re probably aware of it, too. But in case not, brace yourself. I’m not making this up. It’s a concept called Root Cause Analysis (RCA).

It’s not a new concept, either. Identifying underlying causes–root causes–dates back to ancient Greece, with philosophers like Aristotle who discussed the idea that fixing a problem requires identifying the fundamental causes.

Today, RCA is widely used across industries to find and resolve the underlying causes of problems, errors, and incidents, rather than just treating the symptoms. For instance, in healthcare, it’s used to analyze medical errors and improve patient safety by identifying systemic issues. In manufacturing, it helps pinpoint the causes of defects in production lines to enhance quality control. Similarly, in information technology, it’s employed to troubleshoot recurring system failures, ensuring long-term solutions rather than quick fixes.

If it works in industries, then it seems to me that it can have powerful applications in our personal lives as well. Actually, it seems to me that it can be applied to every area of life. It’s about digging deeper to uncover the true sources of our challenges rather than just addressing superficial symptoms. When we understand the root cause, we can make real, lasting changes.

Take health and well-being, for instance. When we feel run-down or stressed, it’s tempting to just blame it on a busy schedule. But what if there are deeper issues at play? Maybe it’s a lack of balance between work and rest, or perhaps unresolved emotional stress. By identifying the root causes of our health concerns, we can make more informed choices—whether that’s changing our lifestyle or seeking support—and improve our overall well-being.

Or what about our relationships with others? When tensions rise or communication breaks down, it’s often because we’re reacting to surface-level problems without understanding the deeper issues. Maybe there’s an unspoken fear or past hurt that’s influencing our actions. By addressing these underlying issues, we can build stronger, more authentic connections with those we care about.

We can even apply the concept to our professional lives to help understand why we’re not feeling fulfilled or why a project isn’t succeeding. Are we in the wrong role, or is there a lack of support in the workplace? Understanding the root causes of our career challenges allows us to take steps toward greater satisfaction and success.

On a broader scale, what about using the concept to tackle societal and environmental issues. Complex problems like poverty or climate change can’t be solved with quick fixes. They compel us to look at the underlying causes—like systemic inequality or unsustainable practices—and tackle them head-on. It’s only by understanding these root issues that we can create meaningful change.

Even in our spiritual lives, the concept can help us understand why we feel disconnected or adrift in our beliefs. Are there doubts or unresolved questions that need exploration? By examining the root of our spiritual struggles, we can embark on a journey toward deeper understanding and connection with our faith or spiritual practices.

These are just a few ways my gardening lesson of getting to the root of the problem can be a powerful tool for uncovering the truth behind life’s challenges. Whatever you are facing–and, at any given time, I’m confident that each of us is facing something that we want to fix or improve–I urge you to be determined enough and bold enough to go beyond the surface. But be forewarned. When we go beneath the surface into nooks and crannies where we’ve never gone, we find darkness darker than any we’ve ever experienced. But confronting the darkness in life is the only way that we can shine light on solutions that are not only effective but also lasting. Whether it’s our health, relationships, career, societal issues, or spirituality, dealing with the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives. Cheers to the hard work of digging deeper and making changes that truly matter in our lives.

Listening to the Unsaid

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“Not to speak is to speak, not to act is to act.”

—Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906-1945; German theologian, pastor, and anti-Nazi activist; Symbol of moral courage and a powerful voice for justice and human rights.

Years ago, a colleague and close friend told me something that I would never forget:

“Always pay attention to what people say …”

And as he continued his advice, his voice became more measured and emphatic:

“but pay more attention to what they don’t say.”

I knew immediately what he meant. When interacting with others, it’s crucial to notice not only their words but also their silences, whether in face-to-face conversations, emails, or text messages. For example, a friend who shares their day enthusiastically but glosses over a specific event might be experiencing discomfort or distress. At work, a colleague who avoids discussing a particular project might be facing hidden challenges or dissatisfaction. In emails, if someone consistently skips over certain questions or topics, it might be a cue that they’re uncomfortable or unwilling to address those issues. Similarly, in text messages, when someone constantly shifts the subject away from certain topics, it might suggest they’re shielding their true feelings. A total failure to mention something significant, like a major life change or a recent accomplishment, might be just as telling. This omission might reveal underlying issues, such as feelings of inadequacy or a desire to avoid judgment. Equally important is when someone fails to respond to something that you’ve shared. It might indicate disinterest or a reluctance to engage with the topic.

These unspoken cues–what I call the unsaid–often reveal more than words ever could, offering deeper insights into the thoughts and emotions that people might not openly express. For example, I’m thinking of President Biden’s July 21 announcement that he was withdrawing from the 2024 presidential race and his subsequent address to the Nation. My siblings have said nothing to me about it, and most of my friends have said little more. It’s as if the President never made the announcement. It’s as if the President never delivered the address. It’s as if those news items were overshadowed by other national and international news.

Right now, you might be thinking:

“Well, I don’t talk politics either.”

I hear you. I get it. You’re probably doing the wise thing. As a rule, I don’t talk politics either with my family and many of my friends because I know that they don’t want to listen to my views. But not even mentioning the President’s decision is different. Although I would not expect to have a discussion, I would expect to hear a brief mention.

The silence that has surrounded me, by and large, since the President’s announcement has caused me to spend more than a little time reflecting on the power of silence and what the unsaid can reveal.

Why People Remain Silent.

Reflecting on why people choose silence reveals a complex mix of motivations. Fear of conflict and judgment often play significant roles, as many worry that speaking up will lead to disagreements or criticism. A lack of confidence in their communication skills or the validity of their thoughts can also hold people back.

Additionally, some prefer to protect others’ feelings, avoiding potentially hurtful conversations. Cultural and social norms can discourage sharing certain thoughts or emotions. Uncertainty about timing or approach further contributes to silence, as does the desire to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths or difficult situations. Others might simply consider their concerns too trivial to mention.

Aside from exploring possible reasons why people choose silence, what about the consequences of this silence. By understanding the dangers of silence, we can better appreciate the importance of speaking up and listening to the unsaid.

The Dangers of Silence.

As I reflected on the whys and wherefores, the dangers of inherent silences popped up in my mind as well. Those dangers can infiltrate our lives and sneak up on us unawares. We need to be aware of them, lest we fall prey to the unintended consequences of our silence. Acknowledging these risks allows us to create a more open, honest, and empathetic environment in our personal and collective lives.

I’m thinking of a number of areas, and I’ve already mentioned two of them. Political Silence. Not discussing President Biden’s decision, for example, can lead to misinformation, apathy, and a lack of preparedness for future developments. Family and Friend Dynamics. Not exploring political issues within families and amongst friends can lead to misunderstandings, resentment, and long-term damage to relationships, potentially causing irreparable harm and estrangement.

Or what about Social Issues? Remaining silent on social justice issues at home and abroad can perpetuate inequality and hinder progress. Silence on systemic racism, gender inequality, and human rights abuses can allow discriminatory practices to continue unchecked, disproportionately affecting marginalized communities and amplifying their suffering.

Environmental Issues loom large, too. Silence on climate change, pollution, and conservation can accelerate ecological damage and irreparable harm, leading to catastrophic climate events and irreversible ecosystem damage. By not speaking out, we’re creating a planet in peril.

Let’s not forget about Workplace Environment. Silence can enable toxic behavior, low morale, and decreased productivity. It can also stifle innovation, perpetuate systemic issues, and harm employee mental health. By speaking up, we can foster a culture of psychological safety, promote positive change, and create a more inclusive work environment.

In the area of Mental Health, silence can exacerbate mental health struggles, allowing stigma, shame, and suffering to persist. By not speaking out, we prevent others from seeking help and hinder our own healing, but by sharing our experiences, we can reduce stigma and increase support.

Spirituality is another area that we need to consider. Silence can disconnect us from our deepest beliefs and values, leaving us feeling unfulfilled and without purpose. By exploring our spirituality, we can discover new sources of comfort, meaning, and resilience.

Obviously, too, we need to be mindful of Aging and Dying. Silence often surrounds the end of life, leaving us unprepared and unsupported. By not discussing our mortality, we miss chances for closure, healing, and cherished moments with loved ones and fail to make informed decisions about end-of-life care and legacy.

These are just a few examples that illustrate the far-reaching impact of silence across different spheres of our lives. Silence affects other areas of our lives, too, such as Education, Media and Journalism, Personal Relationships, and Community and Social Movements. By acknowledging the impact of silence in these spheres, we can work towards creating a more open, honest, and empathetic society, where our voices are heard and valued.

Transforming the Silence.

It seems to me that, at a minimum, we need to have these conversations–even the hard ones–with ourselves so that we know where we stand and what we stand for. Ideally, we need to have those conversations–even the hard ones–with our families, our friends, our neighbors, our colleagues, and our world at large. If we choose silence, we need to remember its inherent dangers. Equally important, if others choose silence, we need to remember to listen to the unsaid. The silences we hear can offer powerful and empowering insights.

As we navigate the complexities of silence, may we find the courage to speak up, listen deeply, and create a world where every voice is valued and feels safe being heard. Not to speak is to speak, and by finding the courage to speak up, we can break free from the constraints of silence and foster a culture of openness, empathy, and understanding. Breaking the silence is crucial not only for our personal growth and relationships but also for our collective well-being.

Let’s resolve to raise our voices and transform the silence.