“To toot one’s own horn is to sound the music of one’s journey. And today, my friends, the notes are jubilant, triumphant, unmistakably heartfelt, and wrapped in a little holiday cheer!”
–TheWiredResearcher (b. 1947; self-effacing educator, essayist, Green Mountain scholar, and Humourist—patiently awaiting long-overdue New York Times recognition.)
Beloved readers–of all ages and from all corners of the globe–I’m going to toot my horn proudly today!
At 11:22am today, my blog hit 15,000 views in 2024! Is that a special Christmas gift or what!
Let me pause and let that sink in: FIFTEEN. THOUSAND. VIEWS.
Can you hear the confetti cannons? Feel the glitter raining down? That’s the energy I’m channeling today. Because let’s be honest—this doesn’t happen by accident. It’s the result of showing up week after week, pouring my heart and soul into every post, and, most importantly, connecting with YOU, my remarkable readers.
If you’re like me, you know that milestones mean more when you see where they began. Let’s rewind:
● 2021: 3,940 views. A small but solid readership.
● 2022: 6,655 views. Growth doubling and momentum building.
● 2024: 15,000 views… and the year isn’t over yet!
From 3,940 to 15,000 in just a few years—this isn’t just growth. It’s a story of connection. It’s a story of us.
What Does 15,000 Look Like?
It looks like 140 countries—stretching from the United States’ plains and mountain ranges to Afghanistan’s rugged peaks, India’s vibrant deserts and Himalayas, and France’s vineyards, all the way to Zimbabwe’s sweeping savannahs. It looks like comments from faithful followers. It looks like early risers sipping coffee as they dive into my Monday morning musings. It looks like connections that transcend borders, reminding us all of the power of words.
The Greatest Hits (According to You!)
As we bask in this milestone, let’s revisit the top-ten posts that you’ve loved the most this year:
● “From Stars to Soil.” A nostalgic return to childhood gardening and the realization that it gave me a profound appreciation for the interconnectedness and sacredness of all life.
● “My Mother’s Dress.” A story exploring how a dress that my mother made for herself included her hopes, her visions, her aspirations, and her dreams for her family and her world.
● “Sister’s Hands.” A celebration of decades of selfless love, compassion, and service.
● “My Taxing Review.” A humorous exploration of opening personal archives as a way to create a rich personal narrative.
● “Not Alone.” A triumphant tale of my own Coming Out.
A Milestone Worth Celebrating
Fifteen thousand views aren’t just numbers—they’re stories, connections, and a shared love of learning. Each one represents someone who paused in their day to engage with my words. Together, we’ve created a space where ideas flourish, where history meets memoir, where research mingles with creativity, and where we never stop asking the big questions.
The Future Is Bright
What’s next? More posts that inspire, challenge, and delight. More glimpses into the magic of the everyday. More stories that remind us why we love the written word.
To everyone who has ever clicked, read, commented, or shared—THANKYOU. You are the symphony that makes this blog sing. And as the music swells, I can’t help but toot my own horn just a little louder.
Because today, it’s not just my achievement—it’s ours.
Here’s to 15,000 views—and the countless stories and connections that brought us here.
“You can’t break something that’s already broken, but you can always build something new.“
–Yoko Ono (b. 1933; best known for her avant-garde art and her influence in the peace movement alongside John Lennon.)
The pieces are on top of a bookcase, and they’ve been there for a month or so. Every time I walk past, I see them, five torn pieces of paper boasting blue, picked up from the floor after my dog finished her clandestine mischief.
Once upon a time, I would have just thrown the paper scraps away. This time, I didn’t. This time, I’ll take my time to put the pieces back together.
Here’s why. What Ruby tore apart and left behind for me to find was an important family recipe. Imagine an exquisitely moist applesauce cake replete with raisins, pecans, and candied cherries, baked in a pressure cooker. My mother made the cake every year a few weeks before Christmas, and it was one of my favorites. I haven’t had one of those cakes in decades, maybe longer.
Lately, I’ve had a hankering for that cake, and I’ve searched all over the Internet for the recipe, not remembering that I had it already. My mother had given me the recipe. One day, while looking for something else, I found the full-page recipe with ingredients and instructions, all in her gentle cursive.
I’ll do my best to piece that page together again, hopefully with enough precision that I can read the full recipe. The page, of course, won’t be the same. It never can be. Ironically, it will take on even more meaning because I cared enough to mend it and put it back together. Even though it will always show its brokenness, it will still be my mother’s recipe in her handwriting on her paper. I’ll bake the cake when Christmas nears, and I fully believe that it will be the best one ever because it will have an extra scoop of love.
This is not the first time that I’ve mended the broken.
I’m thinking of a sculpture in my living room. Its earthy tones reflect seamlessly into the highly polished cherry coffee table. The sedimentary rock reveals the raw beauty of erosion and time, with jagged edges and smooth, wave-like ridges suggesting years of elemental force, reminders of the rock’s enduring strength. The fissures, winding through the top, were not there when my late partner gave me the sculpture. But a month or so before Allen’s death, he stumbled against it, and there it lay on the coffee table, shattered brokenness. It stayed there, a daily reminder of fragility and brokenness. Time passed, and I mustered up the courage to artfully glue it back together, its fissures now seemingly an integral part of the rock, adding an almost mystical feel. It’s still on my living room coffee table. It’s still very much alive and reminds me of Allen’s presence.
I had another encounter with the beauty of brokenness years earlier. I had built a graceful, curved walkway on the east side of my home, near the Koi Pond. I wanted to maintain a natural rustic look, so I made the walkway out of large, rectangular natural stone pavers, stabilized by the very earth itself. I leveled the ground as I put the pavers in place, making sure they didn’t move when stepped on. When I finished the 60-foot stretch of walkway, I decided to test its stability by jumping on each paver. When I landed on the second paver from the end, I heard a crack. I looked down and could see a fissure running through the center. I looked beneath the two pieces and discovered a rock, small enough to escape my searching eyes when leveling the paver but large enough to cause brokenness. My immediate reaction was to replace the paver. But I had second thoughts. It still functioned as an integral part of the walkway, and if I widened the fissure just a little and filled it with soil, it might even add a sense of age and character, especially when small patches of grass and weeds started to grow through the crack, proclaiming nature’s power to take back what we think is ours.
My decision to repair what was broken in these three instances was influenced directly by Kintsugi, the centuries-old Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the breaks with a lacquer that’s mixed with silver, gold, or even platinum. The intent, obviously, is not to disguise the brokenness but rather to celebrate its repair and survival, believing that the broken can be mended, made stronger, and remain useful and purposeful.
It seems to me that we can all benefit from an important lesson, whether it be found in broken Japanese art, a broken paver, a broken sculpture, or a broken recipe. The essence of being is being broken. The strength of being is the power of repairing the broken. The virtue of being is valuing and celebrating brokenness.
Let’s face it. As human beings, we are all flawed and broken. It seems to me that if we can repair our broken objects and continue to see their value and their beauty, so too can we repair the broken parts of our own lives.
In our personal lives, we’re destined to encounter moments of fracture—relationships that crack, trust that falters. It’s easy to walk away and to discard the pieces. But when something matters—when love, friendship, or family is at stake—mending becomes an act of grace. It is in the careful work of rebuilding that we find deeper connections and more profound love.
Similarly, in our professional lives, we are not immune to failure. Our careers break under the weight of expectations, and our ambitions sometimes shatter. But brokenness does not mark the end of a career; it marks a turning point. The effort to repair, to rebuild, to piece together what once was, shapes not just our work but our purpose.
And in our spiritual lives—our most intimate, vulnerable selves—there are moments of doubt, of disconnection, of feeling broken. Yet, like ancient pottery, our spiritual cracks are not meant to be hidden. They are to be filled with light, with the gold of wisdom, faith, and renewal. It is through our brokenness that we find our way back to our wholeness.
What is broken can be mended. What is flawed can be made beautiful again. The cracks, the breaks—they are part of the story. And for the things that matter most—our relationships, our work, our spirit—they are worth every moment of care, every act of patience, every effort to repair and restore so that we can celebrate beauty in brokenness.
“Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.”
—WilliamShakespeare (1564–1616; an English playwright, poet, and actor, widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language. The quote is Prospero reflecting on the fleeting nature of life, The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1.)
Raindrops had been falling steadily all day, but I was determined to get a better glimpse. I pulled safely off the road and parked in a grassy area, hoping to turn my drive-by impressions into something more tangible.
Right across from me stood the nearly remodeled house at the corner of Gateway Lane. Its fresh gray siding gleamed against the misty afternoon, and the neat white trim on the roofline and windows gave it a crisp, modern edge. This clean contrast seemed to soften against the backdrop of the old, towering trees surrounding it. A small front porch, still under construction, wrapped around to the side, its bare framework waiting to cradle the entryway that would soon welcome visitors. The simplicity of the single-story structure was anchored by the earthy lawn and the gentle curve of the road, reflecting a quiet transformation. Even the steady rain couldn’t dampen the renewal unfolding before me.
But this remodeling was more than just a surface change. It had been going on for over a year, maybe longer. The house wasn’t just getting a facelift; it was being rebuilt from its very foundation. This wasn’t simply a matter of adding a porch or changing the siding from white to gray. The work was deep and structural, and that’s what had taken so long.
I remember when it all started. The house was suddenly surrounded by the relentless growl of a backhoe, its sharp metal teeth tearing into the earth around the foundation. Day by day, the trench grew deeper and wider, as if the house itself were being uprooted, its very stability pulled into question. Dirt piled high, and the house seemed to brace itself for the transformation ahead.
Then came the cinderblocks, stacked in neat, heavy rows, patiently waiting to reshape and fortify the foundation. The windows—the house’s eyes to the outside world—were ripped out, leaving dark, hollow spaces. They were hastily covered in sheets of plastic, which flapped and snapped against the wind on gusty days, as if the house were drawing deep, ragged breaths during its lengthy transformation.
Through it all, the house endured quietly, as if preparing for a rebirth beneath the dust and debris. The process dragged on, perhaps because the crew was never more than one or two people at a time. Sometimes, I wondered: Why not tear it down and build anew? Other times, I thought: Were the owners tied to the house by more than just bricks and mortar? Were they new buyers, envisioning profit from this modest fixer-upper?
Now, on this misty afternoon, as I admired the nearly completed house from my Jeep, I knew that soon—perhaps by Thanksgiving or maybe before the joy-filled month of December—someone would move into their new home. Someone had a dream, and now it was realized, born not just from superficial changes, but from all that’s required to make dreams come true.
As I became transfixed by the modest transformation in front of me, my mind’s eye gradually faded into a sharp focus of me, myself, chasing my own lifetime of dreams.
My dreams have been few in number but big in size. They’ve been big because I see dreams as different from the gazillion goals that I’ve set for myself down through the years, the things that I knew I could achieve in a day, a week, a month, a year, or even longer.
For me, dreams go far beyond goals. They overarch all else. They serve as a life-compass. They keep me oriented and aligned with my true North, my own authentic self.
From as early as five years old, I started dreaming on clouds, and my first cloud dream was bigger than my home, bigger than my coal camp, bigger than West Virginia, bigger than anything that I knew or could comprehend. I knew then something about myself that would shape my entire life: I was drawn to men, though I didn’t fully understand the depth of that attraction. Growing up in the late 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s in the Bible Belt South, with a fundamentalist minister for a mother, I quickly recognized that this truth about myself would be a challenge to navigate. In a world where the church preached that men like me were sinful, and where societal norms pressed in from every side, my dream was simple: to move forward, to stay true to who I was as a person, and one day, to live an openly gay life, free from ridicule and condemnation.
Back then, the idea of living openly wasn’t even something I could articulate fully. Yet the desire to live authentically, without having to hide a core part of who I was, remained my compass. I was too young to understand the full scope of what it meant to be gay, but I already knew that the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. All around me was the conflict of sin and salvation. Even as a child, I had a hope, a dream, that someday, the world, however big it might be, might allow me to live openly as myself, without fear.
That was my first big dream. One day, it came true. One day, though it was decades in coming, I was able to live openly as a gay man. One day, when I met my late partner, I discovered the power that two people experience when they surrender fully to true love. One day, Allen and I said our vows, exchanged our rings, and went on living our lives together, openly, as all people should be allowed to do. Through it all, my dream empowered me to maintain my authenticity.
My second cloud dream wasn’t as big as the first, but it was bigger than my home and bigger than my family. Influenced by my mother, the minister, I fell in love with language as a preschooler. Her sermons were magical, and I came to believe that her words held great power. Her Biblical research also fascinated me, as I watched her thumb through multiple Biblical commentaries, especially her treasured Matthew Henry Commentary onthe Whole Bible, originally written in 1706. Her quiet, unseen research brought informed clarity to her interpretations, helping her with her sermons and helping her help others navigate their own spiritual journeys through the Bible. Without knowing it, her unpretentious research revealed to me the joy of discovery and exploring comparative meanings in a text. By the time I reached third grade, I had a dream not only that I would become an English professor but also that I would earn my Ph.D., become a published scholar, and make learning my lifelong companion.
Today, that’s not an unusual dream, but for me, the son of a coal miner and the first in his family to go to college, it was extraordinary. Even so, extraordinary dreams come true. One day, I earned my Ph.D. One day, I became a college professor. One day, I became a published author, not only of scholarly works but also of creative nonfiction essays. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to fulfill all of those things and, in addition, have a distinguished career at the Library of Congress? But it did. For a kid who grew up in a home with just a handful of books and in a town with no library, it was beyond imaginable that I would spend a quarter of a century working in an institution with “all the books” and giving human resources advice to two Librarians of Congress. Who would have dreamt that nearing eighty, my dream would still be propelling me toward learning? But it does. I’m as turned on now by learning as I was turned on by words when I was a child, but these days I’m hyped by Artificial Intelligence (AI) and my belief that we can harness its power to make us better than we are. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to taste “the good life” without ever making it a priority? But it did. The material comforts, joyful and meaningful career engagements, loving relationships, physical and spiritual well-being, and belonging to rich and diverse communities fell into place.
My third dream was bigger and billowier than the first two. Although I never made a conscious effort to live “the good life,” I did resolve from childhood that I would live “a good life.” I’ve always taken the moral high ground, based on justice and goodness rather than personal gain or self-interest. I’ve always stood up for the underdog, knowing that I’m standing up for everyone because somewhere along our journeys, we’re all underdogs. I’ve always shared my plenty with those whose want brings pain and suffering not only to them but also to me. I’ve always accepted people for who they are and where they are, believing that their blood pulses through my veins and mine through theirs. I’ve always been grateful for what I have, celebrating that my meager mite, regardless of its manifestation, is my lot. I’ve always tried to make amends by the end of the day for words harsh-spoken and feelings ill-harbored, knowing the wisdom of my mother’s teaching:
“Never let the sun go down on your wrath.”
I’ve always seen every day as a brand-new day, giving me one more chance to “get it right,” whatever the “it” might be. I’ve always tried to live every day so that at the end of each day, even if it should be the end of my life, I am at peace with myself and with my soul, being able to slip into slumber, sighing the words of that great gospel song:
“It is well with my soul.”
As I reflect on the three dreams that shaped my life, I know now what I never knew as a youngster starting out on my journey. It’s clear to me that without even knowing what I was doing, my dreams aligned with key stages of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, illustrating how my pursuit of a fulfilled and meaningful life followed a path of human development that is universal. We all pursue our physiological needs of food and water. We all pursue our need for safety of person, employment, family, and resources. We all pursue our need for love, belonging, and sexual intimacy. We all pursue our need for self-esteem gained through achievements as well as through respecting others and being respected by others. We all pursue the most important pursuit of all, our need for self-actualization, of discovering, developing, and celebrating our own authentic self.
And you? What about you and the life dreams that you are chasing? Whatever they might be and wherever you might be in seeing them through to fulfillment, let me offer a few words of encouragement based on where I’ve been and what I’ve experienced on my journey.
● Above all else, dream. Dream big, bigger than the bounds of your imagination, and perhaps even bigger than what you think possible. The greater the strive, the more likely the achievement.
● Wake up every day to your dream, letting its brightness surround you and lead you throughout your day. The more beaming the vision, the closer the reality.
● Work tirelessly and endlessly toward achieving your dream. The greater your grit, the more triumphant your victory.
● Expect setbacks, reminding yourself that life often leads us two steps forward only to thrust us one step back. Turn every setback into a comeback.
● Keep an eye open for naysayers, realizing that you yourself may be the chiefest among them. Transform traitors of dooming doubt into warriors of powerful prayer.
● Surround yourself with supporters, those who believe in you and your dream. The stronger your circle, the more robust your resolve.
● Validate yourself, but never forget to validate others, knowing that each of us is enough. The more you uplift others, the more we rise together.
In the end, what matters most is not the size of our dreams, but the dreams themselves and the heart and grit that we pour into them. In the end, we need to be ever mindful that we are all such stuff as dreams are made on, constantly rebuilding our foundations, striving toward fulfillment, and learning that the journey itself is the real victory. Dreams are not just distant destinations; they are the roadmaps guiding us toward our authentic selves. Whether we stumble or soar, each step along the way is a testament to our perseverance and our determination to not let go of what we hold most dear.
Whatever dream you are chasing, know that it is not the finish line that defines you—it is the striving, the growing, and the becoming that shape who you are. Keep dreaming. Keep reaching. Keep believing that every effort, every setback, and every triumph will bring you one step closer to your truest and most authentic self.
“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.
“The most dangerous phrase in the English language is: We’ve always done it this way.It raises the question, ‘Are we doing this because we always have, or because it’s the right thing to do?‘”
–Grace Hopper (1906-1992; Pioneering computer scientist and Navy Rear Admiral who revolutionized programming and inspired generations to embrace change. The quote first appeared in Computer World, January 26, 1976.)
When I converted my weekend cabin into my permanent home by tripling its size, I knew the focal point of my downstairs office would be an expansive, floor-to-ceiling window covering a significant portion of the wall. The view it provided far surpassed my wildest visions, offering varied vistas. Right in front was the patio. Just beyond was the peony garden with evergreens. Beyond, across the valley, were the mountains. I positioned my desk directly in front of the window, with my computer on top, and for twenty years, I sat there day after day, week after week, gazing at my coveted views.
Something happened, though, a month or two after my partner Allen died in early 2021. A day came that Spring when I was sitting at my desk, looking out, and I suddenly realized that my computer monitor was blocking a large part of my view. In fact, it had been obstructing my view for twenty years.
I decided to shift my desk to the window’s end, with the monitor facing the French doorway into the adjoining rooms. This minor adjustment immediately revealed the full, expansive window view. I could see things that I had not seen fully before. The Adirondack chairs inviting me to come sit on the expansive flagstone patio. The massive garden with perhaps 60 stately peonies, a Peeve Minaret Bald Cypress dancing giddily, and three Weeping Norway Spruce standing solemn sentinel, calling me to meander. Beyond, the Shenandoah Valley, and beyond that Big Schloss, peaking at the top of George Washington National Forest, beckoning me to come back and hike once more.
Fast forward, if you will, to this Spring. I decided that one of my major projects would be straightforward: clean and paint the deck that stretches across the front of my home and wraps around to my bedroom on the side. I discovered quickly that this project was anything but straightforward. It required power washing, scraping, wire brushing, sanding, and priming. It was day after day of elbow-grease drudgery, but I didn’t mind. Proper prepping always makes joyful painting.
After the paint had cured for several days, I started putting the Adirondack furniture back in place. Two chairs up close to the house, at an angle to one another, in front of the dining room windows. Table between. On the other end of the deck–the wider section–two chairs, at an angle, in front of the living room windows, but up close to the deck railings. Table between. Then, on the bedroom side, two chairs at an angle, in front of the smaller living room window. Table between.
I could have arranged everything blindfolded because Allen and I had done it that way for years. I was about to do it again when what ifs suddenly popped into my head.
Whatif I arranged three of the chairs in front of the dining room windows in a semicircle with a table on each side? Perfect for a relaxed, intimate trialogue, looking at one another and, to the West, the majestic Shenandoah Valley.
Whatif I bought an Adirondack chaise lounge and positioned it on the wider end of the deck, facing not only the three chairs but also the morning sun. Perfect for soaking up those early rays.
Whatif I reversed the arrangement on the other side of the deck? Chairs at an angle facing outward toward the living room window and the western side of the deck? Perfect for watching the evening sun go down.
Whatif I grouped all of the usual plants around the chairs and tables in such a way that it gave the impression of three separate areas? Private. Secluded. Surrounded. Musa bananas, elephant ears, Macho ferns, jade plants, Bougainvillea, pineapple sage, Cereus night-blooming cactus, golden barrel cactus, Emerald Giant euphorbia, coral geraniums, and ruffled pink tuberous begonia.
I put those whatifs into action, and I loved the magical results. Candidly, however, aside from “loving it,” I didn’t give the transformation any more thought than I had given my office makeover.
But then last week, something happened that made me see in a nanosecond the significance of what I had done with my office and my deck.
Let me explain.
I was getting ready to enjoy my dinner in the kitchen at the same table where Allen and I had often eaten. Allen always sat on the fireplace side, giving him a view of the dining room and the living room. I always sat on the opposite side, facing him and the fireplace. I have no idea how the two of us ever arrived at that seating arrangement, but we had always sat that way.
I started to sit in my usual spot, but I had put something on the table there, so I decided to move to the other side where Allen had always sat.
And so I did. I had never sat there before. I was amazed. I had no idea how limited my view had been. I was no longer looking at the fireplace. Now I could see into the dining room. Porcelain and brass parrot candlesticks on a cherry Queen Anne dining table, centered on an immense Oriental rug. Long, glass-top side table with Chinese cloisonné vases, marble Laughing Buddha, and a hand-painted Budgies lamp with tan, rectangular silk shade. Cambodian, bejeweled wooden Buddha surveying the room from beneath a Victorian gold metal floor lamp with silk shade and dangling vintage tassels. A quartz crystal singing bowl sitting atop a primitive two-door, Shenandoah Valley chestnut buffet, with blue milk paint fading on the side panels.
Beyond I could see the living room fireplace built by the original owner with rocks dug out of the ground right here on my mountain. I could see the entire expanse of the living room, filled with all the antiques and treasures collected down through the years, flooding me with memories that made me forget all about dinner.
There I sat, realizing I had gained a brand-new perspective on my world by sitting on the other side of the table, by rearranging the deck furniture, and by moving my desk. I was swept away by the simple epiphany: change the point of view and gain a new outlook.
More important than that truth, perhaps, is this. I came to realize that I had fallen into the trap of doing things a certain way simply because I had always done them that way.
Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with doing things the same way if it works well. But reflecting on my habits, I can’t help but wonder:
● What daily routines am I stuck in, and what new possibilities might emerge if I shook things up? Do I hit the virtual snooze button every morning out of habit, or could I start my day with a refreshing walk or meditation? Are there tasks I’m doing out of obligation, rather than purpose?
● What areas of personal growth are waiting to be explored, if only I dared to challenge the status quo? Are there skills that I still might learn that I’ve always wanted to learn, but never made time for? Are there parts of myself I’ve neglected, or dreams I’ve put on hold?
● What relationships in my life are stale, waiting for a fresh perspective to revive them? Conversations I’ve been putting off or assumptions I’ve made about someone without really listening to their side of the story?
● What decisions am I making out of habit, rather than intention or purpose? Am I choosing the same options, the same paths, the same solutions, without considering alternative possibilities?
● What beliefs or assumptions have I held onto for too long without questioning their relevance or truth? Are there opinions I’ve inherited from others rather than forming my own? Are there ways in which I’ve limited myself, simply because I never thought to challenge those beliefs?
I won’t answer those questions here. Instead, I’ll carry them with me, letting them whisper gently, inviting me to explore, question, and shift my perspective. Who knows what new possibilities might emerge if I’m bold enough to change my old familiar ways and wrap my arms around the bright and shiny newness of what might be?
—Rachel Carson (1907-1964; American marine biologist, conservationist, and writer, best known for her 1962 groundbreaking book Silent Spring.)
Something remarkable just happened, thanks to you! My May 11 post “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands” has gone “viral,” already reaching over 1,000 readers—a milestone for me that touched my heart deeply.
As I reflect on why this post might have resonated so widely, I want to express my profound gratitude to all of you who read, shared, and connected with it. I can’t begin to thank you enough, My Dear Readers, whoever you are and wherever you are.
Let me share with you some possible reasons behind its impact and celebrate the universal themes that seemingly brought us together.
Emotional Connection
We all have someone whose hands guided us, comforted us, and helped shape who we are. Whether it’s a parent, grandparent, or mentor, the memories of their touch and care hold a special place in our hearts. It seems that my post captured the essence of this emotional connection, and it’s clear that many of you felt a similar bond. Thank you for allowing my intimate memories to remind you of your own cherished moments.
Vivid Imagery
Describing my mother’s hands and the memories tied to them in vivid detail perhaps allowed many of you to visualize and feel these experiences alongside me. I believe that this shared imagery created a bridge between my personal story and your own life experiences. It’s a testament to the power of storytelling, bringing us closer despite our different backgrounds.
Nostalgia and Sentimentality
Nostalgia is a powerful force that connects us to our past and to each other. The sentimental journey through my memories of my mother’s hands seemed to evoke a similar sense of nostalgia in many of you. It’s a reminder that we all hold onto pieces of our past, and sharing these pieces can bring warmth and connection to our present.
Timeless Themes
The themes of love, caregiving, and the passage of time are universal. They resonate across cultures and generations. Your engagement with these themes in my post highlights our shared human experience. By reflecting on these timeless elements, we honor those who have shaped us and acknowledge the ongoing journey of life.
Personal Storytelling
Sharing personal stories can create a powerful connection. By opening up about my mother’s hands, I hope that I touched a chord within you. The wide reach of this post suggests that personal stories can transcend individual experiences and resonate on a much larger scale.
Broader Appeal
While the post was a tribute to my mother, the themes it touched upon are broad and inclusive. The experiences of love, loss, and memory are ones we all share. Thank you for finding your own reflections in my words and for making the story your own.
§ § §
As I look back on the unexpected “viral” success of “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands,” I am filled with gratitude. Your readership and engagement have shown me the incredible power of connection. Thank you for being a part of this journey, for sharing in these universal themes, and for reminding me of the ties that bind us all. Here’s to many more moments of shared humanity and heartfelt connection.
“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.”
—Desmond Tutu (1931–2021; a South African Anglican bishop, social rights activist, leading figure in the struggle against apartheid, and an enduring global symbol of hope and resilience.)
Sometimes, a recollection gets trapped in my mind and won’t exit, even when I open a door. One memory paid me a visit weeks ago, and it’s still lingering. I’ve decided that the best way to get rid of it is to write about it, send it out into the world, and let it take up residence in other people’s minds. So, here: it’s yours now.
The memory is from 1968. Student attitudes on college campuses–even at a conservative school like Alderson-Broaddus, where I was a junior–were marked by activism and rejection of traditional norms and authority. Fueled by the counterculture movement, we protested for civil rights, opposed the Vietnam War, and championed various social justice causes, shaping a decade defined by idealism and dissent.
Some of that spirit spilled over into the classroom and sometimes made some of us bolder than we might otherwise have been.
It certainly made me bolder that spring when I was taking a three-credit World Literature course. We focused heavily on Dante Alighieri’s epic poem The Divine Comedy, widely considered to be the pre-eminent work in Italian literature and one of the greatest works of Western literature. Divided into three parts–Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso–the poem explores the state of the soul after death and its journey toward God.
My classmates and I felt challenged by Dr. Callison’s rigor and her insistence that we gain an in-depth understanding of this acclaimed literary work. We did, as I recall, and we even grew to like the poem, playfully sprinkling our daily conversations with some of its famous lines.
Nonetheless, we all felt anxious as exam day approached. I decided to be bold and comedic by making a banner to put above our classroom door so that my classmates would see it as they walked in to take the exam. I created the banner alone, told no one about it, went to our classroom in Old Main, and hung the banner well in advance. There–in a position of prominence for my classmates and Dr. Callison to see as they entered–was a line from the Inferno section of TheDivine Comedy as Dante passes through the gate of Hell:
“Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
I wanted the banner to be a grim but humorous reminder that as we faced the Hellish torments of Dr. Callison’s exam, we could neither be redeemed nor rescued.
Everyone stared at the banner as they entered the classroom and proceeded to their seats. Some laughed. Some gasped. All questioned: “Who would dare be so bold, especially in Dr. Callison’s class?” Some even speculated that she was the prankster. I sat there quietly, hoping to look as innocent as one of the souls headed toward Paradise.
My countenance worked. No one suspected me, not even Dr. Callison when she walked through the door. To our surprise, she burst into laughter and continued laughing as she handed out bluebooks and wished us well on the exam.
I’ve thought about that day often down through the years, not because of my bold banter–revealed here for the first time ever–but rather because of my take on the famous line, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” I understood the literal interpretation of the line precisely. It’s a warning to all who enter Hell that they are leaving behind all hope of salvation or escape. It sets the tone for the suffering and despair that pervades Hell, emphasizing the eternal nature of the punishment awaiting the damned souls within.
However, as a student then–and as a lifelong learner now–I find that literature takes on richer dimensions when looked at metaphorically.
I saw Dante’s poetic line then–and I see it now–as a caution against entering into a state of despair or hopelessness. It suggests that giving in to despair is like crossing a threshold into a mental or emotional Hell, where recovery becomes incredibly difficult if not impossible. It’s a warning to maintain hope and resilience even in challenging circumstances. Otherwise, we will create our own Hell and live in it right here on earth.
Don’t get me wrong. I know despair. Who doesn’t experience despair during moments of profound loss, such as the death of a loved one, the end of a significant relationship, or the loss of a job? We all do. Who doesn’t experience despair when grappling with chronic illness or debilitating injury, especially if it hinders our ability to pursue our passions or maintain our independence? We all do. Who doesn’t experience despair when feeling overwhelmed by financial struggles, loneliness, or a sense of purposelessness? We all do.
Although I understand the nature of despair, it seems to me that embracing a positive and optimistic mindset can be a powerful antidote to despair.
Years ago, I made a conscious decision that my glass would always be “half full” and that I would actively cultivate a positive outlook on life, even in the face of challenges. That approach has served me well.
Let me share with you some of the strategies that I use to foster positivity and optimism.
I strive to find joy in everyday moments. I cultivate mindfulness by being fully present and appreciating the simple pleasures of life, whether it’s a beautiful sunset on my mountaintop, a delicious meal in my kitchen, or a heartfelt conversation with a stranger.
I work hard at practicing positive thinking. When negative thoughts come my way–and they do–I reframe them in a more positive light. When I have problems–and I do–I shift my focus and dwell in the realm of solutions.
I make a point every day of counting my blessings. Sometimes, I carve out time to reflect on the things that I’m grateful for. However, more often than not, I take time to be grateful each time I’m aware of a blessing. I find that approach to gratitude lets me be in constant celebration of what I have.
I do my best to surround myself with positivity. I listen to uplifting music, and I spend time with optimistic and supportive people who uplift and encourage. Positivity is contagious.
I make living a healthy lifestyle a priority. I know that my physical well-being directly influences my mental and emotional health. Indoor biking is a priority for me, along with nutritious eating, adequate sleep, and meditation. All of those things work together to keep me upbeat and resilient.
I do my best to practice self-compassion. I try to be kind to myself when the going is rough, and I try to treat myself with the same compassion and understanding that I offer others who would be facing similar challenges.
I believe in laughter. I don’t have to work too hard to find humor in life through books, jokes, spending time with friends who make me laugh, or, best of all, laughing at being me. Humor provides relief and perspective in tough times.
I’ve saved my best strategy for last because it’s the one that I know I can rely on the most. I cultivate a sense of faith or belief in the overall goodness of life and humanity. I trust and believe that, despite challenges, humanity’s inherent thrust toward greatness and goodness will prevail.
I must add that because I work to stay positive doesn’t mean that I ignore or deny negative emotions. I don’t. I acknowledge them while consciously choosing to focus on the positive aspects of life and maintaining hope for the future.
As I look back on that bold act of hanging the banner, I realize how much it symbolizes a pivotal lesson from my college years—maintaining hope and resilience in the face of adversity. That memorable day in Dr. Callison’s class reaffirmed for me that humor and a positive outlook can transform even the most daunting challenges into manageable experiences.
Now, decades later, I believe that lesson remains relevant. We all encounter moments of despair, but we don’t have to surrender to them. By fostering positivity and optimism, we can navigate life’s hardships more effectively. The strategies I’ve outlined—practicing gratitude, surrounding ourselves with positive influences, and embracing humor—serve as a powerful toolkit against despair.
Ultimately, the famous line from Dante’s Inferno serves as a cautionary reminder not just of the perils of Hell, but of the importance of hope in our daily lives. By choosing to see our glass as half full, we can maintain a sense of purpose and joy, even amid difficulties. Let’s embrace the enduring message that hope and resilience can guide us through even the darkest times.
“To finish the moment, to find the journey’s end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom.”
–Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the transcendentalist movement in the mid-19th century. The quote is from his essay “Experience.”)
Last year, as autumn’s chill set in, I stood before my peony bed, an expansive testament to thirty years of nurturing. I vowed to rejuvenate it. I like to think that my peonies are sturdy—they are. I like to think that they’re strong—they are. I like to think that they’ll live forever—they will, with proper care, including digging, lifting, dividing, and replanting the tubers every fifteen years or so.
My peonies were long overdue a re-do. Somehow, though, despite my resolve and the shared anticipation, winter arrived, masking the overgrown bed beneath a blanket of snow. “It can wait until spring,” I reassured myself, delaying the inevitable.
With the arrival of spring, of course, came the return of my senses. (Spring is not the season to dig up and replant peony tubers.) It also brought the return of reality. (Briars, weeds, and saplings survive all seasons, always returning stronger than ever.)
Additionally, my peony bed is just one of my garden beds. Yet, I am only one, tending to many. While I recognize that I am a mighty force to be reckoned with, my garden beds sometimes seem mightier. But with spring also came the return of my determination to get my peony bed in shape.
So, it came to be. In the stillness of one morning filled with unimaginable promise, I set out to “do the needful” as I like to call any odious task that must be done. Not long into my doing, I found myself wishing that I had it done, all of it. Right then. Right there. Right now. I sat there on the cold, damp ground, wishing my peony bed into the state of perfection that I dreamt of it being. Right then. Right there. Right now.
In that same wishful moment, I shook my head in disbelief. I knew that my wish was impossible. I could not, in a moment, reclaim a garden bed that had gotten away from me, moment after moment, day after day, month after month, season after season, year after year. Aside from the impossibility of achieving instantly what I knew would take time to achieve, I shook my head in disbelief, wondering why I, an avid and seasoned gardener, would even contemplate wishing to be finished with my gardening just when I had started it?
I knew the answer. “Right Now” had become my gardening tyrant. I had been lulled into the desire to have my desired outcomes without putting in the required work.
I know first-hand that as a rule in life, we get what we work for. I know first-hand that as a rule in life, if it’s worth having, it’s worth waiting for.
But I realized more than those obvious truths. To have my peony bed restored to my longed-for state of perfection instantly–in one fell swoop, if you will–would deprive me with equal speed of all the pleasures that gardening always brings.
It would deprive me of a succession of days strung out like a strand of precious pearls as I get down and dirty.
It would deprive me of letting my hands take the temperature of the soil, feeling the cool, damp earth cradled in my palms, a subtle gauge of the season’s transition.
It would deprive me of letting my eyes look skyward, watching the clouds drift and gather as I take measure of the day’s weather, or of letting them look downward, studying the intricate network of roots between my clasped fingers, each one a testament to nature’s resilience.
It would deprive me of letting my nose smell the earthy, musty, and slightly sweet scents of decaying leaves and grasses from yesteryear, a rich concoction of aromas that evoke the passage of time and the cycle of life.
It would deprive me of letting my heart pound wildly as my blacksnake slithers unexpectedly from nowhere, its cool, smooth scales brushing against the skinscape of my forearm, sending a jolt of surprise and awe as it continues its mysterious journey to somewhere.
It would deprive me of all the joy and fulfillment that comes from the process and the journey. I would miss it all, all because I wanted it all. Right then. Right there. Right now.
No doubt I could come up with other deprivations if I dug deeper. But sitting amidst my peony bed, caught between the reality of briars and saplings and the dream of blossoming flowers, I realized the insidious nature of the tyranny of “Right Now.” If we’re not careful, it can infiltrate every facet of our existence, threatening to strip away the very essence of the joy we seek.
Just as in gardening, the tryanny of “Right Now”–this desire for immediacy–can manifest itself in numerous ways and hinder our experiences in many areas of life:
● personal growth and self-improvement: rushing into self-help quick fixes. ● relationships: expecting instant gratification in love. ● career development: trying to reach the top overnight. ● health and wellness: following fad diets and workout routines. ● financial management: falling for get-rich-quick schemes. ● learning and education: wanting to earn a degree immediately. ● creativity: aspiring to become an artistic genius instantly. ● spiritual growth and mindfulness: seeking enlightenment at the click of the keyboard. ● aging and dying: not taking time to enjoy life’s final lessons.
As I reflect, I’m grateful for the lesson this gardening journey has taught me. It’s not about the destination. It’s about the journey itself—the process, the progress, the growth. Whether nurturing peonies or nurturing our own lives, it’s the patience and perseverance, the embracing of the journey, that truly enriches our souls and helps us escape the tyranny of “Right Now.”
“Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forwards.”
–Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855; Danish Philosopher, Theologian, and father of Existentialism.)
As promised, today is the day for the third reveal from my forthcoming collection of essays, More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed.
Yesterday, I disclosed that I’ll be donating all proceeds from the sale of More Wit and Wisdom to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College.
The day before I shared with you that the book is dedicated to educators worldwide, in recognition of their transformative impact on our lives through education.
Today’s reveal is an excerpt from the book’s preface, “Embrace the Journey.” It has not appeared as a blog post. It’s a special essay just for the book.
By sharing an excerpt with you, I hope it will encourage you to do as I am striving to do. Reflect on your own journey. Embrace your journey. Trust your journey.
So, without further ado, let me share the final paragraphs from preface—a space where words dance, ideas collide, and the magic of Creative Nonfiction begins.
As you read these essays, I hope that you will see what I have come to see. What started for me as a cathartic ritual morphed into a nightly routine that anchors me and in a mysterious way strengthens me to embrace my journey more and more every day. It’s allowing me to grow personally. It’s allowing me to leave behind some kind of written legacy, even if it’s nothing more than my thoughts about my own experiences on this wonderful planet Earth. It’s allowing me to expand my creative landscape. It’s allowing me to foster connections through creating a sense of unity and shared understanding. It’s giving me the chance to address societal issues, with the potential to drive positive change on a broader scale. It’s giving me the chance to connect with readers from all around the world. Who would have imagined that this coal-camp kid from West Virginia would have the chance to share his ideas and emotions with 7,320 people from 88 countries around the world? Yet, that’s how many readers I had last year. I am humbled and grateful, realizing that the power of connection transcends backgrounds and boundaries, turning a coal-camp kid’s dreams into a heartfelt symphony that resonates with thousands, reverberating the sound of our shared humanity.
Embracing my journey in writing is an exhilarating testament to the richness of my life. Each word written is a celebration of the journey I’ve traveled, and every essay penned is a reflection of the life I’ve lived. As I continue to navigate my journey, I do so with a heart full of gratitude for the many chapters that have unfolded. Life, in all its complexities, is beautiful, and I am blessed because I see the beauty more clearly as I continue on my way. It’s an affirmation that, indeed, life is good. I hope that my melody resonates through the words on the page and the years in my life that have brought me to this moment. With each passing day, I embrace the journey, with open arms and a spirit eager to discover the wonders that lie ahead. Life is not just a journey; it’s a magnificent composition, and I am still living it and writing it.
I hope that you, too, will embrace your journey, whatever it may be, and I hope that this collection of essays will encourage you. Life’s journey is an opportunity for growth. Each moment is a chance to celebrate meaningful and fulfilling endeavors. In the midst of solitude and the questioning of life’s purpose, remember that your journey matters. Let me say it again. Your journey matters. Embrace it with open arms, finding motivation, validation, and personal connection all along the way. May these essays inspire you to navigate your path with resilience, discover the beauty in your unique perspectives, and confidently affirm that your journey, too, is significant and purposeful.
Next week, More Wit and Wisdom will be available in all formats: hardback, paperback, and Kindle. Stay tuned for details!
“In a world where we can be anything, let’s choose to walk the red carpet of life with kindness, grace, and a sprinkle of stardust.”
–Lady Gaga (b. 1986, Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta; a Grammy Award-winning singer, songwriter, and actress known for her groundbreaking music, bold fashion choices, and advocacy for social justice issues; one of the most influential and iconic figures in contemporary pop culture, captivating audiences worldwide with her unique blend of creativity and authenticity.)
Hey, y’all. Come here, curl up real close to me, get comfy, and listen while I purr. I need to share something with you that I simply dare not share with the world at large. But since you’re special and know how to keep secrets, I’ll share it with y’all. Okay? So, get close while I whisper my secret in your ear:
“The other day, I was lying on my sofa, all innocent and quiet like, and right out of the blue, I was smitten, right there in my living room, in broad daylight! Can you imagine?”
Well, I couldn’t imagine it either, mainly because it came on so sudden like. I mean. I was just lying there, and then Shazam! I had been smitten! Well, actually, that shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise. I’m smitten easily, and I’m smitten hard. Hopefully, you are, too. Right now, I’m smitten by the gorgeous moss, harbinger of an early spring, greening itself in my Koi Pond Waterfalls. I’m smitten, too, by the online photography course I’m taking so that I can take better photographs with my new Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra. I continue to be smitten by advances in AI, especially by Aloha, a housekeeping humanoid who can cook and clean. (If you dissed me when I announced my Caden last November, I guess I’m getting the first laugh. Ready to hop on board? There’s room!) And, in case you’re wondering–and I know, I just know that some of you are–I have not been smitten by any of the studmuffins who failed to find their way into Anne Lamott’s life or into mine during our respective flings with online dating apps. (For her account, see “My Year on Match.com”; for mine, which matters far more and is really the only one that matters at all, see “My Year on Unmatched.com.”)
I cannot speak for Lamott, but I remain hopeful. I am doing my best to smite the frog at my kitchen door with regular, passionate kisses so that I can practice my pucker and stay in shape. Who knows? I might just have an opportunity to be smitten by a prince. (Princes like good kissers. Just sayin’.)
No doubt you’re wondering what the hell I’ve been smitten by, aside from my nonsense. Chill. I’m about to tell you.
I’ve been smitten by a red carpet. Mind you, though, it’s not just any ole red carpet. It’s THA red carpet that gets rolled out right in front of you to seduce you into a waltz with destiny, leaving you breathless with anticipation and a sprinkle of stardust in your eyes.
Yep. I’m a smitten kitten. Hear me purr? But here’s the thing. The glamour of rolling out the red carpet goes all the way back to ancient Greece, where it was mentioned in Aeschylus’ play Agamemnon describing the king’s return home after winning a battle. His wife Clytemnestra says to him, “Now my beloved, step down from your chariot, and let not your foot, my lord, touch the Earth. Servants, let there be spread before the house he never expected to see … a crimson path.”
Despite its ancient heritage, it was not until the early 20th century that rolling out the red carpet became associated with celebrities and VIPs, particularly in the entertainment industry. The first known reference to a red carpet being used at the premiere of a movie dates back to 1922, when it was laid out for the opening of the Egyptian Theatre in Hollywood.
Since then, the red carpet has become synonymous with prestige, glamour, and exclusivity, particularly at award shows, movie premieres, and high-profile parties. It’s often used to signify that the individuals walking on it are special guests deserving of special treatment and attention.
That certainly was the case during this year’s Grammy Awards, as the red carpet sizzled with music’s biggest stars like Taylor Swift and SZA. Amidst wardrobe changes and rehearsals, the red carpet set the stage for unforgettable fashion moments.
Beyond Hollywood, the red carpet is used in various other contexts as a symbol of importance, honor, and VIP treatment. I dare say that each of us, at one time or another, has said to ourselves or to someone else “I want to roll out the red carpet” to celebrate someone or to jazz up a special occasion.
You’ve probably had enough of my caterwaul, so I’d better roll out THA red carpet that turned me into a smitten kitten. Meow, meow, meow, purr, purr, purr, meow, meow, purr, purr, meow, purr, MEOW!
Like I said, I was lying on my sofa in broad daylight, amusing myself with some TikTok videos when out of nowhere a video featuring Opatija, a picturesque coastal town in Croatia, popped up on my smartphone. But it wasn’t just any ordinary kind of video. It was a red-carpet tourism video, weaving together a rich tapestry of emotions, triumphs, and shared moments. The taglines alone speak volumes:
● Exploring the vibrant tapestry of choices on the red carpet, where every step unveils a world of possibilities.
● In this beautiful world, imagine if every moment mirrored a red carpet affair—filled with smiles, hugs, and unbridled happiness. Let’s choose to embrace the elegance of joy in every step we take.
● Witness the unexpected on the red carpet—a celebration of diversity, love, and transformation.
● Imagine if every moment mirrored a red-carpet affair—filled with smiles, hugs, and unbridled happiness. Let’s choose to embrace the elegance of joy in every step we take.
Typically, a man appears suddenly and rolls out a red carpet in public places, such as sidewalks or parks, treating unsuspecting strangers as if they were celebrities, complete with photographers, fans, and sometimes even limousines. Without fail, the reactions and interactions with the new celebs are amusing and heartwarming, often catching people off guard with the unexpected VIP treatment. The goal is to capture genuine reactions and create humorous situations, so they often approach anyone who happens to be in the vicinity of where they set up the red carpet. This approach helps keep the content unpredictable and inclusive, as they showcase reactions from a variety of individuals.
Typically, the people who walk the red carpet in the videos seem to be surprised by what is happening. Almost always, they are hesitant to step onto the red carpet after it has been rolled out in front of them, even as the tall young man extends his arm graciously and invitingly. Their movements are cautious, almost as if they’re tiptoeing into unfamiliar territory. Their expressions betray a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity, unsure of what awaits them as they traverse this unexpected path. Each step is tentative, as if testing the ground beneath them for stability.
Yet, as they progress further along the scarlet pathway, something remarkable begins to happen. A subtle shift occurs in their demeanor, a gradual transformation fueled by the energy of the moment. Their apprehension gives way to wonder. Their eyes light up with newfound excitement and anticipation. With each stride, they seem to shed the weight of their doubts, stepping into a realm where anything is possible.
As they walk across the red carpet, a sense of liberation washes over them, freeing them from the constraints of everyday life. In this fleeting moment, they are not defined by their roles or responsibilities but by the sheer exhilaration of the experience. Laughter bubbles forth, spontaneous and unrestrained, as they embrace the joy of the unexpected.
Amidst the vibrant tapestry of emotions, the little dramas of life begin to unfold. Strangers become companions, sharing stories and forging connections that transcend the fleeting encounter. Inhibitions are cast aside, replaced by an unbridled sense of camaraderie and belonging. It’s as if the red carpet has become a stage, and they are the stars of their own impromptu performance.
In the end, as they step off the red carpet, their spirits are buoyed by this enchanting journey. Though they return to the routine of their daily lives, they carry with them the indelible imprint of this extraordinary moment—a reminder that magic can be found in the most unexpected places, if only we dare to take that first step.
“Dare to take thatfirst step. “
We can look at that statement in two ways. The people in these little dramas have to dare to take that first step onto the red carpet. Then, and only then, can these magical transformations take place, even if only for a few moments. But let’s not forget the other individuals who are involved in these little dramas: the Croatian video team, who time and time again, dare to roll out the red carpet for strangers whom they encounter. Without the video team, strangers could not become stars.
I cannot help but wonder what our own little corners of our world would be like if we spent some time thinking about ways that we dare roll out the metaphorical red carpet before strangers whom we encounter in our own lives.
It could be as simple as sincerely complimenting someone on something positive about them. Whether it’s their style, smile, or skill, our words can brighten their day. For instance, we might notice someone’s vibrant scarf and express admiration for how it complements their outfit. Their initial surprise might give way to a smile of appreciation, boosting their confidence and spreading warmth.
It could be as simple as performing small, random acts of kindness without expecting anything in return. It could be as simple as holding the door open for someone, helping carry groceries, or simply offering a friendly smile. Imagine seeing someone struggling with heavy bags and offering assistance without hesitation. Their gratitude and relief could radiate as they realize there are still caring strangers in the world.
It could be as simple as striking up conversations with people we encounter in our daily lives. This could be as straightforward as asking how their day is going or commenting on something happening in the community. Picture starting a conversation with someone standing in line at the grocery store and sharing a laugh over a funny observation. Our genuine interest and friendliness might brighten their day and foster a sense of connection.
As I continue to be smitten by the transformative allure of the Opatija tourism videos, where a mere red carpet, a lens, and the sincere desire to infuse fleeting moments with joy can ignite profound change, I am stirred to contemplate our collective capacity to impact the lives of strangers. Perhaps, in our quest to touch hearts, we need not seek grand gestures. Perhaps all that we need to do is strive to live our lives as radiant beacons of kindness and warmth so that with every interaction, we joyfully roll out the red carpet.
The Wired Researcher 