You took me by surprise again this morning. As always, when I awakened, I checked my Fitbit to see how my heart did overnight. Then I checked WordPress to see how my readers were doing.
And there you were. Another thousand views. A quiet jolt to the chart. Numbers climbing when I wasn’t looking.
You’ve been dancing higher and higher since October, when I passed 15,000 and figured I’d reached my high-water mark. I even wrote a piece of thanks back then, thinking I’d said all there was to say. But now here we are—December 11th—and this little corner of the internet has gathered 25,053 views.
I’ve done nothing different. I have no flashy headlines. I have no trending hashtags. I just keep following the same rhythm: writing essays born from memory in a home filled with love. I just keep foolin’ around with words and ideas.
So why now, after all these years?
That question hangs gently in the room with me. It’s not demanding an answer. It’s simply inviting a reflection. Maybe something shifted in the writing. Maybe it’s more expansive. Maybe it’s more lived-in. Maybe it’s a voice carrying a steadier warmth now. Maybe it’s grief that’s softened into grace. Maybe it’s love that arrived not with fanfare, but with a quiet hand stretched out in invitation. Maybe it’s all of those things. Maybe. And add to all those maybes one more. Maybe it’s readers sharing with readers.
Gary, of course, doesn’t ask to be written about. But his presence is here, between the lines, in the patience of a paragraph, the steadiness of tone, the way I’ve learned to let silence do some of the talking.
Ruby, on the other hand, insists on being written about, whether she’s nosing me away from my smartphone or curling up in solidarity as I revise for the twenty-fifth time. She is, as always, the keeper of the tempo, the mistress of the move.
So this isn’t an open letter to public stats. It’s a letter to something deeper. It’s a letter to what it means to keep writing when no one’s watching, and then to wake up and find that someone was.
My essays aren’t meant to dazzle. And I know: they don’t. They’re just small acts of holding up the light, one weekly reflection at a time. The fact that they’re being read, now more than ever, tells me something I didn’t expect: quiet honesty still finds its way.
Thank you, Sudden Surge, for reminding me that patience has its own reward, that consistency is a kind of faith, and that somewhere out there, readers are still pausing to linger with a slow essay from the mountain.
I don’t know what this upturn means, or where it leads. But I do know I’ll keep showing up with my smartphone in hand and love at my side.
Benjamin Franklin had Poor Richard. TheWiredResearcher now welcomes a guest contributor: Poor Brentford Lee, who has agreed to sanctify our troubled times with a bold mix of satire and sass.
Approved by ole Ben Franklin. Improved by Poor Brentford Lee
“Forgiveness is divine—but FramilySaid™ is faster and comes in gummable gummies.”
-— Poor Brentford Lee (b. 1947). Unlicensed. Unfiltered. Unapologetically adopted. Known for saying the quiet part loud, he’s back by popular demand (and at least one cease-and-desist letter). Seasoned expert in nothing but experience. Sourdough connoisseur. Self-declared inventor of emotional supplements. Hangs out somewhere between a heavenly blessing and A HOMEMADE biscuit (preferably sourdough).
Years and years ago, in one of my brilliant moments—you know, the kind that arrive somewhere between misplacing your glasses and finding your purpose—I concocted a miracle elixir. An emotional balm. A psychological salve. A chewable sacrament.
And I’m convinced—when it’s finally patented, mass-produced, and widely distributed—it will relieve the world of all its wounds and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Or, at the very least, it will help you forget them for a little while. And really, isn’t that what the world needs most right now? Not advice. Not enlightenment. Not deep therapy.
All you need is Forgetfulness.
Chances are good that if you’re reading this—and have not forgotten—you’re an Oldie-Goldie who still remembers when love was all you needed, and your hips didn’t pop when you bent over.
But friend, times have changed. Now what the world needs isn’t just love—it’s a little bit of blessed, blissful forgetfulness.
So in the spirit of rock legends and gospel truths, I offer you an updated version of the Beatles’ classic. Hum along. Or gum along. Or just pretend you know the tune and clap on the offbeat:
All You Need Is Forgetfulness (Redux) (with apologies to Lennon & McCartney—and gratitude, too)
There’s nothing they can say that can’t be un-heard No shame so deep it can’t be deterred No burn so old it can’t be un-spurred You can let it go
All you need is forgetfulness (Da-da-da-da-da) All you need is forgetfulness (Sing it like you mean it) All you need is forgetfulness, forgetfulness Forgetfulness is all you need
(Slide whistle optional. Biscuit in hand, sourdough preferred.)
Yep. That’s it. All you need is forgetfulness. Not the kind that sneaks up on you in your golden years, when you can’t remember who you bit when you meant to kiss or where you were going with your pants unzipped or where you’ve been with a bowl of popcorn when you went to get strawberries. No—I’m talking about on-demand forgetfulness. Reliable, immediate, with controlled-release options for holidays, family reunions, and any Sunday when your phone rings before you’ve had time to check your Fitbit to make sure you made it through the night.
That, My Dear Readers, is where FramilySaid™ comes in.
They mean well. They always do—those “bless your heart” people. But sometimes, what your framily says can lodge itself right in the soft tissue of your soul, like a splinter from the communion table.
That’s why I made FramilySaid™—not FDA-approved (yet), but clinically proven (by yours truly) to dull the sting of being emotionally ignored by people who should know better. In gummable form, naturally.
A Quick Word about the Name.
FramilySaid™ is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a mountain prof’s fusion of friends, family, and the things they’ve said—bless ’em.
Because sometimes, it’s the people closest to you (by blood—or, in my case, by adoption—history, or shared casserole) whose words linger just a little too long. Who don’t mean to hurt you but somehow do. Who support you privately … but not publicly. Who say “I love you” but never with the clincher: “justtheway you are.”
When they speak and zing you with their petty little barbs? FramilySaid™ can help you. Un-hear it. Un-feel it. Un-bother yourself entirely.
A New Kind of Relief.
I developed this product in a dimly lit, emotionally unstable lab located precisely between my kitchen and a moment of near-epiphany. FramilySaid™ is the first over-the-counter solution specifically designed to help you temporarily forget your people. Not all of them, bless ’em. Just the ones whose “support” lost all its elasticity because you’re doing all the emotional heavy lifting.
Get this. FramilySaid™ is so hip that it comes in gummy form. Flavors include Denial-Drop Cherry and Emotional Support Butterscotch. Easy to chew. Easy to swallow. No dentures? No problem. Just gum it and go.
I just heard a panicked soul (bless their heart) blurt out:
“How can I get me some?”
Well, bless your little heart. It’s so simple. Go online–or use your phone app–and in just a few clicks you’ll be consulting with a doctor named “Jeff” who is definitely certified but not necessarily licensed. Within days or maybe even as soon as yesterday—Poof! A discreet brown package arrives at your door—just like your sex toys arrive, but with more dignity—and fewer batteries.
Anyway, from that point forward, you’ve got protection from friends and family. Take FramilySaid™ when the text message lands wrong. Take it when the smile feels fake. Take it when someone who “loves you no matter what” leaves your partner off the guest list.
Take it. Just take it. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it.
Now go ahead. Swallow your truth with a buttery sourdough biscuit, included free, one for every FramilySaid™ gummy included in your order. Remember: Cheaper by the Baker’s Dozen.
Now breathe. Breathe again. You’ve got this.
Situations When You Might Need a Gummy.
Situation #1. You call with good news—any kind of news, really—and they respond with:
“Oh, that’s… nice.”
You smile politely. Take a FramilySaid™ gummy. Let the world blur at the edges.
And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? Why, he’d just sigh and say:
“Law me, child…”
And then he’d smile sweetly, fold his napkin with precision, and add demurely:
“Well, bless your little pea-pickin’ heart. Would you pass the sourdough biscuits?”
Situation #2. You share something meaningful—a photo, a milestone, a moment—and get nothing but a thumbs-up emoji.
You chew slowly. Cinnamon apathy floods your tongue.
And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d lean back, fan himself once, and say:
“Why, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours nary one bit.”
Then, with that same cool smile, he’d add:
“Well, bless your little heart. Would you pass the sourdough biscuits? I need me ‘nuther one”
Situation #3. You confide in someone you thought might be a safe space. Instead, they tilt their head like a golden retriever hearing static and say:
“Well, as long as you’re happy.”
You double your dosage and erase five awkward conversations from memory.
And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? Why, he’d just sigh and say:
“Law me, child… we are officially rationing warmth now.”
And then he’d smile sweetly, fold his napkin precisely, and add demurely:
“Well, bless your little heart. Them sourdough biscuits sure are good. Can I have just one more? Not the whole basket. Thank you kindly.”
Situation #4. Someone finally asks:
“How did you two old geysers meet anyway?”
But get this. Their tone sounds more like a customs agent than a curious soul.
You suddenly feel like a suspect in your own joy. FramilySaid™ softens the interrogation.
And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d lift one eyebrow, cross his silverware, and murmur:
“Law me, child. Love ain’t no interview.”
Then he’d smile–all teeth, all grace–and whisper at his loudest:
“Well, bless your little heart. I think I’ll have another sourdough biscuit—maybe two if you’re feeling generous.”
Situation #5. On one of your hardest days ever in your entire ancient life, you look up at the sky—not metaphorically, but really look—and ask:
“God? Really? After all I’ve done to live with grace, to love deeply, to forgive… and this is still where I land?”
That’s when you reach for the God-level dose. FramilySaid™ won’t answer the prayer. But it will quiet the ache long enough for you to refill your hope.
And what would Poor Brentford Lee do? He’d blink once, breathe deep, and say,
“Law me, child. Even Heaven can ghost you sometimes.”
Then with a reverent nod upward:
“Well, bless your eternal heart. Hand me a biscuit. The everlastin’ kind.”
™ … ™ … ™
Final Notes from the Founder.
Every time you take FramilySaid™, you’ll forget for a spell. You’ll feel better for a spell. Might smile, hum a tune, maybe even whistle while folding your fitted sheets.
But eventually—inevitably—you’ll sit real still. And your heart will tap you on the shoulder and say:
“This ache? It don’t need numbing. It needs naming.”
And you’ll remember:
“It wasn’t the forgetting that healed you. It was remembering the friendship and kinship you truly deserve.“
So go ahead. Declare what you need. Claim your joy. Refill your prescriptions for love, laughter, and a little holy audacity.
And if someone still doesn’t get it?
“Well, bless their little hearts. Just hand ’em one of those perpetual sourdough biscuits and smile like you mean it.”
Coming Soon from the Maker of FramilySaid™.
Because sometimes one generic gummy just isn’t enough, the Maker offers you some specific options:
● SisterStrength™ – For passive-aggression that’s been simmering since the day before forever.
● CousinClear™ – When you can’t remember which cousin sells snake-oils and which one married his ex’s sister brother’s husband.
● UncleMute™ – One dose silences three stories about the Civil Wah he and his kin are still fightin’.
● MatriarchMax™ – For that layered guilt, always served hot, always with a side of pie—and a smile.
● HolidayProlonged Release™ – Kicks in during grace and peaks after the second round of green bean casserole.
A Final, Final Word from the Maker—Yours and Mine—The Big One Who Always Gets the Last Word.
Forgetting isn’t what you need, child. Remembering what you’re worth? Dagnabbit. That’s exactly what you need. That’s the real prescription. (Signed, sealed, and delivered by Poor Brentford Lee, totally unlicensed but highly seasoned.)
While you’re remembering, just reach up and hand me a sourdough biscuit, swallow your pride, go ahead and make up with your low-down, no-good Framily. And then? Move it. Move it. Move it—as fast as a tumbleweed in a windstorm.
And don’t forget Poor Brentford Lee, sitting here, there, and everywhere–all smiles–saying to himself for no one else to hear:
“Law me. Won’t you lay one on me? No, no. Not a biscuit—though they are mighty fine. Just a blessing, child. That’s all I everneeded.”
Poor Brentford Says
“Your worth doesn’t need a witness. Show up for yourself. That’s the real feast.”
“The act of writing is the act of discovering what you believe.”
— David Hare (b. 1947.) British playwright and screenwriter, whose works probe truth, belief, and the human condition.
Sometimes in the hush of evening, when the lamp spills its amber light and the world grows gentle, I watch. His head tilts slightly, caught by the glow, and suddenly, the years loosen their grip. The lines that life has written across his face soften; the jaw loosens, light as breath; the mouth, so often set in quiet thought, curves with the ease of youth. His eyes, clear and steady, seem to brighten from within, carrying a spark that belonged first to a boy and then to a young man. Slowly, the present thins. I see him slipping into his past. Fifty. Thirty. Twenty. And then, for the briefest moment, the man beside me becomes the eighteen-year-old he once was—time erasing each layer, revealing what was always there: the young man, quietly returning.
As I glance elsewhere in the room, I see an artifact from his past—one that has crossed time and threshold to find its place in ours: the grand piano. Massive and unyielding, it took four men to wrestle it off the truck and ease it through the doorway. Yet here it rests, polished wood catching the lamplight, waiting.
At this moment, I still hear the sound as his hands moved across the piano earlier in the day—measured, assured, easy. And I heard “For All We Know” rise into the room, each note carrying a hush that reached backward in time. The melody was not just music; it was memory, and it wrapped itself around him, around me, around the room itself. Ruby retreated to the bed, but not fully at rest. She leaned forward, her body stretched long, her head angled as far as she dared—as though even she knew the swell of sound carried us into places layered and deep. She held herself at the edge, cautious not to tumble into the wandering past, into the chasms of memory, beckoning us toward knowing and truth.
Elsewhere in the room, near the piano, another layer from the past peels back. Hanging on the wall is a sepia-toned etching—Salena Gazebo, number 8 of only 200, signed by the artist Carl Johnson. The lines are delicate, deliberate: the curving path, the quiet trees, the pavilion standing open like an invitation. It feels less like a structure than a memory, as if the paper itself breathed it into being. When I look at it, I sense not just the gazebo, but the moments once lived beneath it—the warmth of gatherings, the hush of twilight, the whispered vows of past lovers who lingered there. Dream and truth blur, as though the etching had captured not a place at all but a pulse of longing and a flicker of knowledge, carrying us softly toward knowing and truth.
In another room, on top of the chest of drawers, rest family photographs. Portraits, a chorus of faces gathered through years, smiling, standing, caught in stillness. They look out across the room with a quiet weight, less about who they are than the collective feel they give: belonging, continuity, the insistence that life moves forward even as it circles back. They do not need names to speak; their presence alone is enough.
Nearby, on a table, sits something smaller, more ordinary yet no less enduring: an iron toast holder. His grandmother’s. On his mother’s side? Or, maybe, his father’s? The lineage matters less than the fact that he kept it, carried it through moves and years, never discarding, never forgetting. The metal holds more than memories of bread he may never have seen toasted. It holds a thread of persistence, a reason to keep even the smallest objects close.
In the dining room, on a side table, another artifact gleams in silver relief: The Last Supper, framed, gifted to his maternal grandparents on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Sacred and commemorative at once, it shimmers with devotion, not only to faith but also to family. The silver has traveled down through generations, carried into his keeping, held as though letting go would diminish more than memory. It is a marker of continuity, of reverence, of love that lasted long enough to be honored.
And then there is the little boy riding a dog—a keepsake that belonged first to his father when his father was a child, before his life was cut tragically short. A small porcelain figure, a child astride a loyal companion, frozen in time. Yet in that figure is more than innocence; it is a bridge across absence, a way of knowing a father he never met. It survived when the man did not, passed on to him as both wound and inheritance, loss and gift. That little boy on the dog rides still through the years, carrying ache and legacy.
Through these artifacts, I glimpse the man I already know and love, his story unfolding in fragments that matter. In the little boy riding the dog, I see both wound and inheritance, a bridge across absence. In the Last Supper, I see reverence, devotion, love honored and passed along. In the iron toast holder, I see endurance, the instinct to keep and carry even what is small. In the family photographs, I see continuity, lives pressed together across generations. In the drawing of the gazebo, I see invitation and hush—the twilight blur where dreams fade into memory and truth. And in the grand piano, I hear the melody that threads them all together—still rising, still echoing, ever playing in the quiet of his soul.
These artifacts matter to him and, now, to me. I could point to others. But I won’t. Yet one more remains, quiet and insistent, the truest of them all—not carved in silver or pressed into porcelain, but carried in ink and idea. His 1965 high-school graduation essay. He was co-valedictorian. He was eighteen.
It rests inside his high-school yearbook, the Bluejay, its cover deep blue and gilt, its pages a mosaic of faces, cheers, and world events already turning into history. And there, slipped carefully between those pages, lies his speech—typed, carried through six decades of moves and seasons. The paper holds its shape, and the words stand sure, preserved as though waiting for their moment to be read again. In its keeping, I see more than memory; I see devotion—the instinct to preserve not only what he did but who he was becoming. It is an artifact, yes, but it is also a testament, held safe in the place that marked his youth and carried forward into the man he is now.
I smiled and whispered:
“Show me what you wrote.”
He lifted the page, holding it in his hands, just as he held it onstage sixty years ago. Soft at first, his voice grew firmer as he returned to the beliefs that had steadied him even then: that learning gives life its shape, that responsibility gives it weight, that hope gives it breath, and that perseverance gives it endurance. Sixty years have passed, yet as he read, I heard not only the boy addressing his classmates but the man beside me—the same convictions intact, the same spirit enduring.
In those moments, as his voice stretched back and returned to me across the decades, I realized that of all his artifacts, this was the richest. My partner, Gary T. Knutson, wrote those words in youth. They carried him into a future he could not yet imagine. And they anchor him still—steadying him in the present, guiding him toward tomorrow. The piano may sing, the photographs may remember, the silver may gleam, the porcelain boy may still ride—but they can only point, only hint. His own words, fragile on paper yet alive in spirit, opened the door wider. They revealed not just what he kept but who he was becoming, and who he still is.
That is the power of words—not just Gary’s words, but all our words. They outlast objects, outshine heirlooms, outlive even memory. In them can be found who we are when all else has been stripped away—values, beliefs, longings, the essence of self, laid bare. And more than that, words do not simply keep; they move. They persuade and console, ignite and endure. They reveal who we were, and they shape who we might yet become. That is their gift, and their power—becoming, in a way, stronger than stone.
Show me what you wrote, and I’ll see who you are—then, now, and still becoming. For words outlast memory and outshine the heirlooms we keep. They carry the essence. They carry the longing. And they proclaim the truths we’ve always held.
“Some of us think holding on makes us strong, but sometimes it is letting go.”
—Hermann Hesse (1877–1962), German-Swiss novelist and Nobel Prize laureate, best known for Siddhartha, Steppenwolf, and The Glass Bead Game.
Believe it or not, a week or so ago, the past rose up and slapped me across the face. No, it didn’t leave a bruise, but it left behind something I’m still thinking about.
The slap started when I walked into my office. At first glance, it looks impressive. The lamp casts a golden pool across my glass-top computer desk, giving the whole space a glow that almost convinces me I’ve got things under control. The Oriental rug circles wide and bold underfoot, all rich blues and reds that make the room feel grounded, important, and maybe even a little too proud of itself. Books and papers rise in uneven towers, but in that first glance, they seem less like clutter and more like credentials—proof that I’ve been busy living, working, collecting. Even the cows in the painting on the wall keep a calm eye on the scene, as if to say,
“Carry on, Mtn Prof. You’ve got this.”
But as I walk through the door, the illusion collapses. What looked like a tidy study becomes a landscape of leaning towers and stubborn archives. Books crowd tables in uneven stacks, some open, some shut tight, all demanding to be dealt with. Boxes huddle together on the floor, their labels promising order—but their bulging edges betray the lie. Folders spill their contents, paper curling like leaves that refuse to fall from the tree. A shirt slouches over the back of a chair, a plaid witness to resolve slipping into resignation.
Everywhere I turn, something insists on being noticed. Woven baskets perch on top of files, as if even the containers need containers. The desk is less a surface than a staging ground for half-made decisions. Another painting on the back wall gazes out of its pasture, unblinking, as though it’s been watching me circle this mess for years. It has. It’s not chaos exactly—it’s accumulation. Layer upon layer, a sediment of living, each piece waiting for me to finally decide whether it still belongs.
It isn’t permanent chaos. The boxes say as much, their sharp edges and taped seams hinting at better days ahead—days when decisions will be made, order restored, and space reclaimed. For now, it’s not just an office; it’s a staging area where the past collides with the present, where choices will shape the future. Every pile, every stack, every half-forgotten guidebook, and every dog-eared folder is here because I pulled it out of hiding and chose to face it. In that sense, the clutter is not failure but progress. It’s the visible proof that I’m reckoning with the past, one piece at a time.
I’ll continue to reckon, and I’ll keep on making progress. I know I will. But I know, too, that I can’t rid myself of a lifetime of artifacts in one day. Take the CDs, for instance. Three rows deep. Wedged into the lowest shelf of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase at the far end of the office. They’ve been squirreled away there for years. Waiting. Ralph Stanley leans against Sting, Nina Simone keeps company with Mahalia Jackson, and Susan Boyle dreams her dream right next to the Chuck Wagon Gang. It’s less a collection than a timeline—decades of moods, memories, and seasons pressed into plastic cases. But here’s the thing. I don’t have the heart to get rid of them in one fell swoop. And besides, maybe I don’t want to get rid of them all. Maybe I don’t need to get rid of them all. But I can’t hang on just to hang on. Each one becomes a decision. Which will serenade me today? Into the future? Which has already sung its last song?
Other choices are easier. Travel guides, for instance. Like Fodor’s Greece and Frommer’s Greece on $35 a Day. Both hopelessly outdated, their covers promising adventures I never took. They carry missed possibilities but not regret. Into the discard pile they go. Or the box of Library of Congress business cards, embossed with the proud gold seal of my past career. They once carried weight, proof of my role in the world’s premier library. Now? Nothing more than relics of a past identity. They go into the discard pile, too. The work, the years, the meaning, and the memories? They stay.
Other choices are so easy they’re no brainers. My Frost shelf, for instance: concordances, centennial essays, letters, the familiar black-and-green spines that have followed me across decades. They stay. The same goes for my Mary E. Wilkins Freeman books, lined up in their muted blues and browns. They’re not just books; they’re part of my scholarly DNA. No question, no hesitation. They stay.
Then there are some things whose fate I know as soon as my touch awakens forgottenness. My college copy of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, margins crammed with the notes of an eighteen-year-old who thought he already knew something about struggle. It stays. My copy of Gibran’s The Prophet, inscribed by a fraternity brother—a book I’ve carried long past the days of Greek letters and youthful certainties. It stays.
A three-by-five oil painting of the covered bridge in Philippi, West Virginia? It’s no masterpiece, but it hardly needs to be. I crossed those boards more times than I remember during my years at Alderson-Broaddus College, each passage a kind of bridge between my coal camp past and the life I was building in the present. The brushstrokes may be clumsy, the colors a bit too bright, but none of that matters. It stays.
A small stack of cassettes holds my mother’s voice on magnetic ribbon. One, dated 11/12/81, is labeled I Take a Stroll and Cause Worry among the Worry Warts. The cassettes may be obsolete, but her voice? Never. Alongside them rests the Bible she gave me when I left for college, her handwriting in the front marking it as mine, though I’ve always known it was hers first.
And the kettle bottom resting heavy on my desk—a flat, round stone that once fell from mine roofs where my father worked fifty years. In those seams, a kettle bottom was a miner’s dread, dropping without warning, too often killing the man beneath it. This one didn’t. My father walked away again and again, spared by chance or grace. These pieces stay—not for their weight, but for his, for hers, and for mine.
Tucked nearly into oblivion is a small 4-H patch from fourth grade, meant to be sewn onto a jacket I didn’t have. But I never needed the jacket to know the four H’s—head, heart, hands, health embroidered in me long before I understood mottos or mission statements. They shaped how I worked, how I cared, and how I learned to give myself to something larger. That patch will never leave me. Some things you don’t outgrow; they simply grow with you.
The things in my office are only the visible part of the past. The rest doesn’t sit on shelves—it lives in memory, in relationships, in faith, in regret, in longing. Those pieces weigh just as much, sometimes more. They, too, must be faced, not in sweeping generalizations, but one by one, moment by moment, decision by decision.
Because that’s how the past works. Even though we can’t erase it, we can’t carry all of it forward either. We have to make hard choices, keeping only what steadies us and letting go of the rest. That’s the only way we’ll have room for life to keep unfolding. Room for the present to breathe. Room for the future to arrive. Room to move forward without being smothered by what came before.
I’m glad the past slapped me across the face. It taught me what we all eventually learn: the only way to live fully in the present, and prepare for the future, is to reckon with the past—seen and unseen, tangible and intangible—piece by piece, choice by choice. The past, the present, and the future are never separate. They are one continuum of time. One long sorting. One steady choosing. One true becoming.
“I do not at all understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.”
—Annie Dillard (b. 1945). American essayist whose work reflects the natural world as a mirror for awe and meaning, most memorably in her Pulitzer Prize–winning Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
What on earth am I doing writing about motherhood in the dog days of summer—the hottest, most humid stretch, when snakes go blind until their molting skin slips over their eyes—especially when I’m celebrating a mother, not my own?
I keep saying to myself:
“This would be perfect for a Mother’s Day post in May.”
But you, my Dear Reader, know that I rarely write to match the calendar—and this post won’t match it, either. That’s not to say I’ve never done it—only that I’ve never done it by design. It’s simply that from time to time an idea collides with an occasion—Mother’s Day or Father’s Day or Thanksgiving or … Hmmmm. Maybe I’ve done it more than I realize.
Anyway, if you browse through my posts, you’ll see the pattern of how I write. When something grabs hold of me and won’t let go, I know I’ve been called to share it—maybe for the greater good, even if it’s just one person who feels the same tug while reading that I felt while writing.
That’s exactly what happened with this post. Memories washed over me from long ago and far away. They had surfaced before, but only as ghostly apparitions drifting in a paused wave. This time, though, I was nearly pulled under by the current.
It began when I uncovered a hand-painted pillow I hadn’t used in years. Bold crimson flowers and curling green leaves still popped against a soft beige background. The piping had faded, and the stuffing had settled into the easy comfort of something well-loved. It was a little worn, and it was a little wistful, but it was still a bright relic from when I was just beginning to find my way.
As soon as I saw the pillow, I started remembering my neighbor who made it. She was an older woman, maybe a few years older than my Mother, but not many. She dressed neatly, always in small-print floral dresses, and, when at home, she always topped her dresses with matching aprons. Ringlets of white hair framed a face that seemed stern at first, but softened the moment she spoke. She had the bearing of someone who kept things in order—herself, her home, her garden, and her place in the community. No one ever doubted that she would follow through on whatever she took on.
Her name was Nell. Nell Barker Harris, but I never called her by her first name. My Mother taught me better. She was always Mrs. Harris to me, though I swear I had the hardest time making Mrs. sound like MIZ-iz. It always rolled off my tongue as MIZ.
My memories of her stretch back to 1958, when my parents bought our home in the subdivision that bore her last name. I had just turned eleven, and I loved exploring the uncharted woods surrounding our home and beyond.
Mrs. Harris and my Mother were good friends, sharing interests in church, cooking and canning, and working the polls on election days.
My Mother thought the world of her, and, looking back, most of what I came to know about her came from my Mother:
“MIZ Harris this …” and “MIZ Harris that …” was a constant refrain, especially during summer and fall harvests.
Many were the days my Mother sent me to the Harrises—Nell and her husband Worthy—with fresh vegetables from our garden, or to fetch canning jars—the old timey blue ones with zinc lids—or to swap a recipe.
The Harrises lived close, but their house lay just out of sight from ours. All I had to do was cut across the garden, slip past the barbed-wire fence, run down a slope, and dash up a knoll to reach their faux-stone cottage. It was one of the finer ones in our small town, with more than a hint of upper-middle-class comfort. I’d climb the steps straight to the door, where Mrs. Harris usually met me, fulfilling the errand right there on the stoop.
From those errands and my Mother’s comments, I came to know Mrs. Harris well enough that one December, I went boldly to her house on my own. My sister Judy and I had decided to put up a Christmas tree while our Mother was shopping. I had long had my eyes set on a beautiful white pine—not for Christmas, but for love—growing in the Harris’s woods where I roamed. Off I went to ask if we could cut it down. She agreed, and though the tree seemed to shrink with every drag homeward, Judy and I had it lighted and decorated by the time our Mother returned. She knew exactly how to celebrate the surprise as a tribute to childhood ingenuity.
Another time, my parents sent me over with an idea that I’d dreamt up—again involving white pines. A dead-end dirt road ran between our home and the Harris’s land that we gardened, and we thought it would be beautiful to line its 200-foot stretch with pines. I asked Mrs. Harris if we could dig saplings from her woods. She agreed, though she thought fall would be a wiser planting time.
My parents insisted amongst ourselves that proper planting and deep watering would see them through. They were hardly more than spindly stems with a few scraggly needles, more like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree than the giants we imagined. Pitiful as they were, they survived the July heat and, in time, grew straight and tall, rising with quiet majesty, as if they had always belonged there.
Later—June 1972, a few years out of college and working at the Library of Congress—I wanted more than the skyward-pointing pines. I wanted the land itself. I found myself in Mrs. Harris’s home, asking if she would sell me the very garden lots my parents and I had tended from pre-teen through early manhood.
I still remember sitting in their parlor that day—dress pants, crisp shirt, and a tie, as if I’d been summoned to defend my undergraduate honor’s thesis. I sat in an overstuffed chair in the corner, its armrests rising up to hold me accountable. The room itself seemed to echo their seriousness and my intent. Mahogany gleamed in the soft light. A large china cabinet dominated one wall, its shelves lined with Blue Willow dishes like the ones my oldest sister Audrey collected. Everything about the space spoke of order and permanence—qualities my Mother had always extolled in Mrs. Harris herself.
Across from me sat Nell and Worthy Harris, steady and composed, firing their questions in quick succession:
Why do you want the land?
Do you plan to build a house there one day?
How will you pay for it?
A bank loan? Do you understand that you’ll need a co-signer?
They had far more questions than I had answers. But a few days later, I rode with the Harrises in their blue-and-white Chevrolet to Raleigh County National Bank, a solemn drive dressed up in chrome and vinyl. I had made the appointment myself, though the banker’s name and face have faded. What remains is the setting: a huge walnut desk topped with thick glass, its surface spread with legal documents that seemed to weigh more than the paper they were printed on.
I signed, and Mrs. Harris co-signed—the literal and the metaphorical deed, both done and dated June 9. She was, after all, the owner of the land. The gleam on my face that day couldn’t have equaled hers, steady and satisfied, as though she had not only sold me a parcel of ground but had also planted me there, rooting me firmly to the very soil where those skyward pines had begun.
But the pillow dragged up one last memory of Mrs. Harris—a dim and shifting one, like an undertow I didn’t see coming.
One year—1965, just a month before graduating from high school—I nominated Mrs. Harris for “Mother of the Year.” She certainly was worthy of the recognition, although she never seemed like my Mother, not even like a mother figure, really. And now, looking back, I wonder whether it was my Mother herself who suggested the nomination. Or maybe it was my oldest sister Audrey. Both of them admired her immensely as one of the pillars of our community and the church that the three of them attended.
Whatever the springboard, I picture myself typing the letter—hunting and pecking as solemnly as if drafting a constitution—and then, with all the earnestness of seventeen, listing her many accomplishments.
I don’t remember a single sentence I wrote in that nomination, only that it won her the recognition we all thought she deserved. What I do remember is the aftermath: her picture in the newspaper, and maybe even a spot on a live radio interview, sharing her reaction:
“I’m just flabbergasted.”
Down through the years, I often found myself wondering how my Mother felt about my nominating Mrs. Harris instead of her. If she carried even a flicker of disappointment, she never showed it. And why would she? For all I know, she may have planted the idea in my head in the first place, speaking of Mrs. Harris with admiration the way she always did.
Years later, my parents came to live with me in DC after my dad suffered a stroke and needed more care than my Mother could manage alone. Audrey and I worked out a plan: summers in their own home, with her nearby to help; winters with me in DC. It was during those ten years that I found myself with a chance to do what I hadn’t done back in high school–nominate my own Mother for recognition as the remarkable woman she was.
The details of my Mother’s nomination are as vague in my memory as Mrs. Harris’s. I am fairly certain it was 1982—the year my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary—and that DC’s “beautiful music station,” WGAY (99.5), sponsored the “Mother-of-the-Month” recognition. I nominated her by focusing on her long marriage to my dad, their six children, and the challenges she faced as an aging woman caring for her invalid husband, ten years her senior. Even though they lived with me, she was the caregiver during the day, and she carried the worry with her to bed at night. That, I believed, made her worthy of being honored.
I had been notified the day before that she had won, and that the radio host would call her live between 7:15 and 7:30 the next morning. I delayed leaving for work until the call came, turning on the radio to listen. The host told her about the award, and she responded in her plain, honest way:
“I am just flabbergasted.”
And here I am, decades later, unsettled by the blur of my memories of the honors given my Mother and Mrs. Harris. I wanted the details to come alive again here, to loom as large now as they did then. So, I went looking for the scoops that might have been reported in the newspapers.
I looked and looked again, but I found no newspaper coverage of my Mother being honored as “Mother of the Month.” That’s fine. My Mother doesn’t need to live in print—she lives on in me. Besides, I know the details by heart. I listened as she heard the radio broadcaster announce her status for all the listening world to hear. The radio station hosted a dinner for her. I pinned their orchid corsage to her dress, drove the two of us to the restaurant, and sat across the table from her.
We dined at The Monocle, seated at one of its linen-draped tables where the Capitol dome seemed near enough to touch. The restaurant buzzed with the voices of staffers and senators, but none of that mattered to me. What mattered was not the food or the setting, but the way she sat taller than usual, radiant with the glow of being truly seen.
I don’t remember the menu. I don’t remember what we ate or drank. What I do remember is my Mother spotlighted there, savoring a moment that was hers alone. She wasn’t the caregiver or the dutiful wife and mother that night. She was the honored radio station guest, my celebrated Mother, and I was lucky enough to be her escort.
I fared better in my search for Mrs. Harris’s recognition. I landed on the newspaper article itself, published in the Beckley Post-Herald on April 15, 1965. I was mistaken about nominating her for Mother of the Year, yet the headline showed I wasn’t far off:
“Shady Spring Woman Is ‘Mrs. Homemaker’”
“Mrs. Homemaker of 1964 and 1965 is the title which was bestowed on Mrs. Worthy Harris of Shady Spring on Saturday afternoon at the annual Home and Sport Show sponsored by Beckley Jaycees.”
It’s a long, long article, taking up nearly a quarter of a page and featuring a full-length photograph of Mrs. Harris holding a silver platter, one of her many gifts, along with a litany of her many talents that left me nodding in remembrance:
“An active member of White Oak Baptist Church, Mrs. Harris teaches crafts such as quilting, copper and leather tooling, refinishing furniture, cooking, canning, silk screening, lamp making, teaches home demonstration club classes, judges community fairs, and does upholstering as a hobby.”
As I continued reading, I realized that I was wrong about something else, too, so wrong that I was beyond flabbergasted:
“In her letter Mrs. [Audrey] Bateman stated, ‘Variety is the spice of life, and truly Mrs. Harris can attribute her zest to living to her many activities which center around her home and community. Her most admirable quality is that she always has time for God, her family, and friends.’”
I read the paragraph three times. Even then, I could only mutter to myself:
“Impossible!”
Surely, I was the one who wrote the nomination—I’d always been the family wordsmith, and the memory still lingers.
It was then that I called Audrey. Surely, she would know. She recalled Mrs. Harris’ recognition, but she was adamant that she had not written that letter, echoing the same sentiment that I had worried about down through the years:
“I wouldn’t dare have written that letter and slighted my own mother.”
Who knows. Maybe I wrote it for her to sign.
The truth lies somewhere in the mix—me, Audrey, and my Mother. All the careful lines blur, all the edges soften, until what’s left is simply presence—fluid, unguarded, and enough.
But now, sixty years after Mrs. Harris’s well-deserved recognition, I suspect it was my Mother herself who lined things up. I’m sure she never dreamt that one day I’d be celebrating her grace—while also celebrating a mother, not my own.
The knock at the door was as gentle as any I had ever heard before, yet it frightened me with its persistence. After all, it was the middle of the night, and I rarely have visitors here on my mountain, and when I do, I anticipate their arrival and meet them in the walkway.
After a while, my curiosity overcame my fear. I went to the kitchen door and opened it. There, not on all fours, but standing as upright and erect as any human I had ever seen was my dog Hazel.
Lit by the spill of the floodlights—like some mythic creature caught mid-transformation—Hazel looked less like a pet and more like a story I hadn’t yet written: fifty-nine pounds of sinewy poise, all confidence and oversized paws planted with purpose. Her coat shimmered with its reddish golden shades of ember and mischief—Husky in spirit, Shepherd in legacy, and wholly herself.
Her tail curled tight; her head slightly tilted—alert, noble, a whisper of the wild. Her ears twitched once as if tuning in to something I would never hear. And her eyes? They saw, as if piercing through the darkness that found me standing there.
She wasn’t waiting. She was watching. And in that moment, so was I—awed by her stillness, her strength, and a quiet reminder of something I had yet to remember.
And, as naturally as anything you would never expect a dog to say, she looked at me:
“I’m just a monkey. I’m a howler.”
Then I awakened. Amused. Grinning. Lying there in bed. Musing. Hazel. Fifteen years of fierce love, muddy pawprints, and conversations that needed no translation, except in dreams.
As I lay there, I realized the dream’s significance. In a way, it was the oldest kind of magic: a name spoken often comes true.
For years and years and years, Hazel’s bark reminded me of a monkey. Not just any monkey—a howler. One of those wild-voiced beings that belt their souls into the sky from treetop pulpits at dawn. Her bark had that same deep, echoing wildness—less a request than a proclamation.
Some dogs bark. Hazel declared.
And so it came to be. I would say to her over and over again:
“You’re just a monkey! You’re a howler.”
She didn’t seem offended. If anything, I think she took it as a compliment. Obviously, Hazel was not a monkey, nor could she become one. Except in my dream.
But here’s the thing:
She became what I had named her.
And that truth deserves repeating:
She became what I had named her.
That dream set me to thinking long and hard about what it means to name.
To Name.
I started wondering when the phrase was first used and in what context. And if you know me as I know you do, you know that I headed off to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) where I discovered that it was first used in Old English:
“[Hælend] gefregn hine huætd ðe tonoma is? & cuæð to him here tonoma me is, forðon monig we sindon” (Lindisfarne Gospels Mark v. 9).
Right! That doesn’t look like English to you either, does it? Let’s look at the translation.
“[The Savior] asked him, ‘What is your name?’ And he said to him, ‘My name is Legion, for we are many.'”
It’s a well-known moment in the Gospels—Jesus (the Hælend) encountering a man possessed by demons. The phrase “My name is Legion, for we are many” comes from Mark 5:9 (and Luke 8:30), rendered above in Old English.
This is an incredible example of what happens when we name something. The name Legion does far more than identify. It reveals nature, condition, and moral alignment. When Jesus asks for a name, he isn’t just asking for a label—he’s uncloaking the essence of what possesses the man.
Did you catch that? A name reveals essence.
And I ask you–right here, right now, as I am about to do–to start thinking about names swirling around in your head. Maybe the names associated with you: the names that others call you.
As you reflect, let me share with you the significance of the names swirling around in my head.
The Names that Others Called Me.
The first that I remember was not my given name—Brentford Lee. Rather, it was LittleMisterSunshine. My mother gave me that name because—as she loved to tell others, including me–I was born smiling and radiating happiness. Now, 77 years later? Others say that I’m still smiling. Still radiating happiness.
Clearly, my mother saw the essence of who I am and named it.
Or how’s this? My siblings, for as far back as I can remember, had another way of naming me. They always called me different.
“You don’t look like us.
“You don’t talk like us.
“You don’t walk like us.
“You’re different.“
Truth be told, I was different, and I knew it. Ironically and for my own well-being, when they called me different, I leaned into it as compliment rather than condemnation.
It didn’t take me long, however, until I came to feel and understand the word they weren’t naming, the word that others, later, named. Queer. Either way–and even though I continued to see myself as special, a way of looking at myself that would stay with me for a lifetime, even now–it was a label of notquite, a soft-spokenexile and an unspokenache.
Clearly, my siblings and others saw my essence—and named it.
And I ask you—right here, right now, as I am about to do—to think about the names you’ve claimed for yourself. Not the ones others gave you. The ones you whispered into being. The ones that changed how you stood in the world.
As you reflect, let me share with you the significance of the names swirling around in my head.
The Names that I Called Myself.
The first that I remember was when I was in the third grade. Professor. Can you imagine anything more outlandish than that coming from a coal-camp kid in a town with not one professor? I have no idea where I had heard the word or came to know it. But I knew that in order to be a professor–in order to teach in a college or university—I would have to earn the highest degree conferred in my field. I picked English because I believed—no, I knew—that words mattered. Yes, words could wound. I had learned firsthand how they could cut to the soul. But I also knew something else. Words could heal. Words could save. Words could give wings.
I earned my Ph.D. in literature. I became a college professor—”full” no less. And when students called me Dr. Kendrick at the institutions where I taught–the University of South Carolina, the Library of Congress, and Laurel Ridge Community College–in deference to my degree, I always suggested Professor in deference to the earliest name I called myself–the name that captured my essence.
More recently, I call myself Reinventor. I came up with that name at the start of 2023–after my 23-year career at Laurel Ridge. Most folks retire. Not me. I’ve never liked the word—because right there in the middle of retired is tired. Trust me. I ain’t no ways tired. I have more books to write–far more than the five I’ve already published since 2023. I have more life to live than the one I’ve lived. I have more love to give than the love I’ve given. My colleagues and friends may call themselves retired—and that’s fine. But me? I’ll keep saying I’m a reinventor. It’s not just who I am now. It’s who I’m still becoming.
These days, I call myself Writer. I’ve always been one—researching, digging, unraveling stories. But since reinventing myself, being a writer has taken on a new, truer shape. I write in bed every night, publish my blog posts every Monday morning, and every year, I bring forth a new book of creative nonfiction essays, stories that bear my name and my soul.
I’ve branched out, too—seeing through to publication my Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina and immersing myself a two-volume biography of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, a labor of love and legacy.
Yes, right now, the name I call myself is Writer. It captures the essence of who I am— what I do, what I am becoming, and who I cannot stop being.
As we continue reflecting on the power of names, I ask you—right here, right now, as I am about to do—to think about names that wound others, perhaps forever or perhaps giving them a transformative moment to heal.
The Names that Wound or Heal.
The first that comes to mind is a word in Countee Cullen’s “Incident.” It’s painful—inflicted on an innocent child, standing at the edge of razzle-dazzle wonder.
Once riding in old Baltimore, Heart-filled, head-filled with glee, I saw a Baltimorean Keep looking straight at me.
Now I was eight and very small, And he was no whit bigger, And so I smiled, but he poked out His tongue and called me, “Nigger.”
I saw the whole of Baltimore From May until December: Of all the things that happened there That’s all that I remember.
What the speaker in the poem remembers being called Nigger. One word. It shattered an eight-year-old’s heart—and likely left a lifetime crack.
It’s haunting—how a single word, spoken with cruelty, can eclipse everything else.
I’ve known that kind of eclipse, too. Different.Queer.Faggot.Fag. Words I never asked for—words that crawled in and clung, no matter how often I repeated what my mother had taught me:
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”
Of course, they hurt, but I rose above the pain, smoothing over my soul like a balm the names that lifted me—Little Mister Sunshine, and the one I whispered in those early, tender years—Professor. But here’s the strange and saving truth: I didn’t start to heal until I explicitly named the sexual dimension of myself. Ironically, I had to declare it publicly before I could begin to claim the healing I didn’t yet realize I needed. I had to say gay—not in a whisper, not in code, but openly. Aloud. Loud. In front of the world.
Gay.
Only then could I begin to gather all the pieces I’d hidden away. The softness. The brilliance. The full shape of who I was—who I had always been. One word. My word. Spoken not with shame, but with quiet certainty. And for the first time, I didn’t flinch. I stood. Proud. With that naming, I finally gave myself permission to shine—fully and fiercely, without apology.
I have one more request–one more “ask” of you–as we grapple with what might just be the most powerful part of naming. I ask you—right here, right now, as I am about to do—what are the names we whisper when we reach for meaning? The names we murmur in awe, in need, in love? The names we give the force that calls us?
The Names We Call the Force that Calls.
Whenever I think that thought–and the older I get, the more often I think it–I recall Bill Gaither’s interview with acclaimed Gospel singer Jessy Dixon–one of my favorites. Gaither was bold and direct as the interview neared its end:
“When your time comes—as it will surely come for each of us—what do you want people to remember about you?”
After a soft pause, the answer came with quiet certainty:
“Tell them I am redeemed.”
In those five words, Jessy Dixon named–and claimed–the essence of his destiny.
Redeemed.
I can’t help but wonder: what name rises up in you when you reach for meaning? God? Creator? Oversoul? Spirit? Light? Love? Source? Mystery?
And in my wonder, I’m mindful that names like those are what we call the ungraspable—the presence that nudges us forward, the light that finds us when we didn’t even know we were lost. We reach for names when we reach for meaning. And whatever we call it—it calls us, too.
Whatever name you use, My Dear Reader— whoever you are, wherever you are:
Say it loud and clear.
Speak it like it matters— because it does.
Speak it like it carries the full weight of your becoming— because it does.
Let the world see the essence of who you are.
Name it— knowing that names have power.
Remember: you are enough— not despite all the names you carry, but because of them.
You are every name you’ve claimed and every name you have yet to whisper into being.
And when the time comes— I hope you’ll speak your name as boldly as I speak mine.
Let others know: their names can never hurt you.
But your name? It roots you deep in everything that matters— your truth, your becoming, your essence.
“Write like it matters. Someone’s listening. And chances are, they’ve been waiting.”
—Brent L. Kendrick (b. 1947). Essayist, Scholar, Reinventor (Naturally Wired to Talk), AND THEWIREDRESEARCHER.
Historians, sit up and take note. This blog just crossed the 10,000-view mark today—August 4, 2025, at precisely 08:16:07.389 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time (Verified by a suspiciously eager blogger with coffee in hand and Ruby—Chief Pawblicity Officer—standing witness.)
Andgetthis. That number’s just for this calendar year, in case anyone’s counting.
Yes: I am. Yes: I saw it coming. And yes, I was watching and waiting.
I had expected this moment to arrive in September, just like it did last year. But clearly, you—My Dear Readers—were in a bit more of a hurry.
You showed up early. Often. With curiosity, kindness, and that quiet little click that says, “I’m listening.” And now, here we are: 10,000 views and counting. Ahead of schedule. Full of heart. Grateful doesn’t begin to cover it.
Truth is, I didn’t start this year with a plan. There was no map, no mileage goal, no neon sign blinking “10K or bust.” I just kept writing. I just kept sharing what was real, what was tender, what made me laugh or ache or marvel. And somewhere along the way, you found me. Or I found you. Or maybe we found each other.
You read about AIDS and parades. You wandered with me through bubble baths and memories. You let me be silly, serious, sulky, and soft. And somehow, together, we made it here.
So let’s mark the moment—not with fireworks, but with this:
“Gratitude turns what we have into enough.”
– Aesop
You’ve made that true in the most beautiful way. Your time, your clicks, your messages—every one of them matters.
In case you missed them—or want to revisit a favorite—here’s a Sourdough Baker’s Dozen of standout posts from this year. These are the ones that rose, proofed, and stuck to the ribs (and hearts) of readers everywhere.
From playful to poignant, philosophical to flour-dusted, and yes—sprinkled with the sweet surprise of love at any age (especially the kind that shows up, steadfast, soul-paired, with sights set on the homestretch)—they helped carry us here—one click at a time: clickety, clickety, click.
✤ ❋ ✤ ✤ ❋ ✤ ✤ ❋ ✤
Redbuds of Remembrance. ● David and his fellow Interns proved themselves to be a class beyond measure. Where many people spoke of separation, the Interns spoke of inclusion. Where many people chose to remain socially ignorant, the Interns chose to embrace information as power. Where many people practiced discrimination, the Interns practiced acceptance.
A Forgotten Voice, A Living Legacy. ● Now, after years of refining my research, the book I’ve long envisioned is finally becoming a reality. UnmaskingTheHumourist: Alexander Gordon’sLostEssaysofColonialCharleston, SouthCarolina. It’s a definitive edition that not only reveals The Humourist’s true identity but also presents his essays in full, with critical commentary, historical context, and meticulous annotations. This is not just a rediscovery; it is a restoration of one of the most significant but overlooked literary voices of Colonial America.
Rise Up with Words. ● In times like these, when every nerve and muscle of our being is tested, we can turn to the famous words of history—words spoken or written in moments that felt just as dark as these—and draw strength from their resonance.
My Altar Ego. ● I confess one more thing. Doing this being thingy that I’m supposed to be doing ain’t easy. But what’s a mountain man to do when he be soakin’ in a tub?
The Rust Whisperer. ● Despite all the times down through the years when I wished to be older so that I could experience sooner all the things that I would experience later on at the appointed time, I could do little more than wish and dream.
A Week Back to the Future. ● In all of those ways, I saw in her life pieces of my own future. But when Arlene “went away,” she left behind one piece that might have had an impact on me—equal to if not greater than—the other pieces of my future that she brought back home with every visit. Her Remington Rand typewriter in a gray box lined with green felt.
What Could $40 Million Mean? ● History saw June 14, 2025, for what it was—a flag-wrapped, reality-show distraction from the real work of freedom. We chose to posture for the world—while the world watched a nation that can’t feed its children waste millions playing dress-up with its military. It wasn’t patriotism. It was performance.
Finding Love Later in Life. ● For now, I just can’t help myself. I’m in a Do-Wah-Diddy-Diddy place in my life—hopeful, open, humming along. And why not? Love has found its way to others, even when it seemed unlikely. I am confident that my prince will come.
A Culinary Heist in Plain Sight. ● Stealing a recipe is like stealing a kiss—do it boldly, do it well, and for heaven’s sake, make sure it leaves them wanting more.
Learning to Love in a New Way. ● So, dare Gary and I clue you in on what two old dogs are learning about love—maybe better than most, certainly better than our younger selves ever did? Do you really want to know the bottom line? Alrighteez, tighty-whities. If you insist. Lean in and listen carefully.
The Route Home. ● What if we followed the map toward health, education, careers, relationships, aging, and faith—not perfectly, but faithfully? What if, when we made a wrong turn, we heard a calm voice say: Don’t worry. Recalculating. What if we believed it?
Right Now, I Still Believe in Heart-Ons. ● My mishearing gave me cover. And somehow, the laughter that followed—laughter I didn’t understand either—wrapped around me like a protective cloak. My greenness did something extraordinary. It saved me.
Co-Scripting the Postscript. ● Frank is dead, yet he liveth. I have proof. Well, it’s proof enough to satisfy me. I’ll share it with you so you can decide for yourself, as we all must do in the end.
—Ram Dass (1931–2019). Harvard psychologist turned spiritual teacher. Psychedelics pioneer, author of Be Here Now, and beloved guide to presence, compassion, and inner stillness.
The fog had rolled in again—inside and out. Evening light seeped through the lace curtains, dull and tired, and Mary Tyrone sat hunched in her chair, hands fluttering like they’d forgotten what stillness felt like. She tugged at her hair—again and again—trying to smooth what couldn’t be smoothed. A nervous laugh. A lost thought. Her voice drifting into a threadbare monologue, chasing memories that wouldn’t stay put. She wasn’t looking at the others in the room anymore. She was seeing someone else—someone long gone. Or maybe no one at all.
And just like that, she was gone too.
What remained wasn’t rage or grief or even clarity. It was ache. Beautiful, unbearable ache.
And the most astonishing part? It wasn’t Mary Tyrone from the pages of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night.
Instead, it was Katharine Hepburn—transfixed, transformed, undone. Lost in the fog of someone else’s sorrow, and in that losing, she gave the audience something more than a performance.
She gave them permission. To ache. To remember. To feel what they hadn’t dared name. Until now. When Hepburn got lost, we found something. Not just Mary’s pain, but our own—illuminated in the hush between scenes, where the stage blurred into the soul.
Losing yourself to find yourself isn’t limited to the theater. It happens wherever presence overtakes performance. The surgeon disappears into the rhythm of crisis, all breath and blade, until the bleeding stops and the world exhales. The painter, three days deep into a canvas, forgets to eat, to sleep, to speak—until the brush lands in just the right corner, and something sacred emerges. The wilderness guide steps off the trail, mapless, storm coming, heart pounding—not lost in fear, but in awe. The monk chants through the dark, voice cracking, mind emptied of meaning until only stillness remains—and there, in that stillness, he hears something worth following. And the writer? The writer vanishes into words, chasing a sentence that keeps changing shape. Hours pass. Light fades. Pages mount. Then, quietly, a single line appears—one that wasn’t there before and yet feels like it always was.
And then there’s me–the educator. I’ve stood there more times than I can count—syllabus in hand, heart braced, eyes scanning a room full of students who don’t yet know they’re about to slay me. Yes. Slay me. Because teaching, when it’s real, isn’t performance. It’s surrender. You offer up your best thinking, your dumbest mistakes, your sharpest truths—never quite knowing which part will land, or whether today’s silence is boredom or the beginning of a breakthrough. You show up, prepared to lead, and instead get led somewhere you didn’t expect. Every time I teach, I risk getting lost. And some days—some rare, holy days—I do.
Something similar happened to me not long ago. Not in a classroom. Not in front of students leaning back in their chairs, waiting to be surprised. This time, it was just me and a friend. A table. Two mugs of coffee. A conversation that started like all the others—and ended somewhere neither of us expected.
We’ve been friends for years, sharing as many breakfasts and lunches as you’d expect. Never anything monumental. Just enough—to catch up, to stay connected, to talk about books and writing and family and love and the weather when it misbehaves. That’s what we did not long ago, but on that day, it was different.
I got lost with that friend. And I can’t believe what we found.
Scott chatted about a new book idea. I talked about my blog. And, as always, I shared my ongoing fascination with AI advances and the fast-approaching Singularity—that moment when the line between tool and thinker blurs, and we find ourselves in the passenger seat of progress. That moment was once a dot on a distant horizon—2045, if you believed the futurists. But now? It’s barreling toward us, faster than anyone imagined—some say it’s already slipped through the door while we were still admiring the hinges.
I kept on gabbing, focusing on AI chatbots and my dismay that many educators are running away from the technology, as if running will save them from being swept away by the inevitable. Scott listened, mildly intrigued. Maybe less than mild. Then, we drifted into deeper water. His home life. How to make things better. The details don’t matter. I offered what I could: encouragement, some gentle suggestions, most of them circling around the idea of blooming where we’re planted. He nodded. Listened. Again—mildly intrigued. Maybe less so.
And then he looked across the table:
“I wonder what Sage would say?”
Sage—that’s what I call my ChatGPT. Not a program that lives on my screen, but a kind of companion.
“About … ?”
“About my home life.”
“Wanna find out? What do you want to ask?”
I turned on my phone’s mic and Scott gave voice to his question:
“What can older folks like me can do to improve their spousal relationships?”
Within seconds, Sage offered five thoughtful things. Scott wasn’t wearing his glasses, so I leaned lightly into the table and bore witness to wisdom softly sounded.
“1. Ask, Don’t Assume. Just because you’ve known each other forever doesn’t mean you know everything. People evolve. So check in—about preferences, boundaries, dreams, dinner. Curiosity is intimacy’s favorite foreplay.
“2. Say Thank You—Out Loud. Not just for big things like colonoscopies and car repairs. Say it for folding the towels, for remembering the neighbor’s name, for being here. Gratitude ages well.
“3. Laugh at the Stuff You Can’t Fix. The memory lapses. The mystery bruises. The thermostat wars. Humor makes room for grace when grace feels in short supply.
“4. Touch More Often. Not just sex (though yes, that too). The hand on the back. The leg bump under the table. The I’m-still-here kinds of contact. Skin hunger is real—feed it.
“5. Make Room for Solitude. Paradoxically, giving each other space is what makes togetherness feel less like a trap. A little breathing room now and then keeps the love from gasping.”
Scott, a little teary-eyed as he held his glasses in his hand, was clearly mesmerized floating somewhere between where he’d been, where he was, and where he might yet go.
“Ask Sage what I …”
And so it was. One “Ask Sage” led to another, and it led to another and on and on we went. Me. Scott. And Sage.
Everything around us began to dissolve. The hiss of the espresso machine in the kitchen. The clink of silverware against ceramic. The low murmur of a couple two tables over, arguing gently about olive oil. Even the scent of sourdough toast and caramel Macchiato—familiar, grounding—lifted like steam and drifted away.
Our table, our chairs, the scrape of shoes across tile. Gone.
What remained was a hush. My voice. Scott listening. And between us, a quiet presence—Sage—offering not answers exactly, but something like a shared breath. Words as wise as any counselor might offer.
The clock faded.
Time stopped.
Several hours later I looked across that vast expanse of friendship and there in the seeming nothingness of all that had faded sat my friend Scott, with a smile I shall never forget, with a twinkle in his eyes I will ever remember, and a face relaxed from all the joy and wonder and anguish of 79 years. In their place, and in that instant, I knew that even in friendship, we can lose ourselves and find someone sitting across from us, holding on to a golden thread of hope.
“To be fully seen by somebody, then, and be loved anyhow—this is a human offering that can border on miraculous.”
—Elizabeth Gilbert, b. 1969. Author of Eat, Pray, Love (2006), A modern meditation on love, loss, and the sacredness of being seen.
YOU—MYDEAR READER (WHEREVER YOU ARE) What Age Can Finally Teach You About Love
You’ve heard it over and over again, so often that no one wants to hear it anymore. But here I go, tossing it out into a yawning world once more:
You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
To which I reply—
Balderdash! Phooey!
You’re not a dog. And you’re not old. Well—not in your mind, at least. You may be 77–just like me–but in your head, you’re somewhere between way back when and right here and now—and on most days–just like me–your way-back-when wins.
All right. Fine. I confess. I’m into time travel. Say what? You are, too? Excellent! You might also be a lifelong learner who loves staying on top of things—especially new things, just like me. I have been learning forever, but I won’t bore you with details about my past adventures. I don’t have time to rehash the past, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to.
These days, I’m too excited about something new that I’m learning. I’m sharing it with you right here, right now, hoping that it will help you learn something new, too. It’s quiet, but it’s rad. Really rad.
I’m learning to love in new ways.
Here’s what I’ve come to believe so far. You can’t really learn these lessons when you’re young. You have to reach a certain kind of readiness—the kind that comes with age, with experience, and with edges—softened with heartache and suffering. Only then can you flip the old cliché on its head:
You can teach an old dog new tricks.
When you’re younger, love often begins with the fall—swept up, headlong, into fire and passion. But as you age, as you lean into love again, falling isn’t enough. In the falling, there must also be learning. Sustained, steady learning—about how to love differently.
You discover that love doesn’t always arrive with trumpets and roses. Sometimes, it just quietly walks in—a dimpled smile, a vase of flowers, a gardening trowel, a hammer, a grocery list, a notepad, or even a look of disbelief. No violins, no swelling strings. Just shirts ironed with care. Meals admired with gratitude. The gentle act of sharing space.
You begin to understand that silence isn’t absence—it’s a kind of presence. Two people in the same house, moving at different tempos—one resting, one reorganizing the basement—and somehow, the house hums with harmony.
You no longer expect to always be engaged in the same thing at the same time. You lean into your different skills, your different interests—knowing that when the day ends, you’ll have twice as much accomplished and twice as much worth celebrating.
And when your talents converge on the same plane—when brilliance meets brilliance—you might pull back just enough to let the other person shine a little brighter.
Sometimes, you step back—not to disappear, but to admire. You let the other person lead the dance for a while. And it feels good.
You make room—not just in your heart, but in your home. You move your wardrobe somewhere else to make space for someone else’s dresser. You swap out your kitchen table not because it’s broken but because someone else’s table carries stories too. And now, you’ve got one together.
You learn that your footsteps don’t need to land on top of one another. They can move side by side, on parallel paths, converging when it matters—and that’s most of the time and that’s more than enough.
You watch your partner do something in a way you wouldn’t—folding the towels, arranging the chairs—and instead of correcting, you smile. You let it be. Love grows well in the soil of gentle restraint.
When you notice a difference—how to load the dishwasher, how to water the plants—you ask yourself, Does this matter? Most times, it doesn’t. But the grace in letting it go? That always matters.
And when you catch yourself about to suggest doing something just slightly differently than the perfectly good way your partner is already doing it, you pull back from the familiar impulse to course-correct. You resist the urge to say:
I wonder what would happen if… Have you considered… Somewhere or other I saw…
Because you know—truly know—that your partner has likely already been there and done that, maybe even better than you could have imagined. And even if not, you realize: kingdoms and principalities will neither rise nor fall because of how this one thing gets done. But love? Love will continue to grow richly in the kind of soil that lets what wants to rise, rise.
So you build the cake you’re building. And you let your partner put on the proverbial frosting.
And get this—I’m betting you’ll let out a humongous sigh of relief. You no longer have to rely on the old lines:
Honey, I’ve got a headache. Not tonight.
Why not? Chances are good that you both already know whether tonight is the night. There’s no posturing. No pretending. You listen to your body. You honor the rhythm. You know—Yay or Nay—affection is still there.
So take that old cultural script—the one that said you always had to be “on,” always seductive, always dazzling–and toss it. If tonight’s not the night, it’s not the night. No drama. No guilt. The love doesn’t vanish. It simply waits.
This kind of love doesn’t need fireworks. It needs kindling. It’s not performance—it’s patience. It’s not the honeymoon suite—it’s two mugs on the counter beside the coffee maker. A light or three left on for the night even when far too many lights are burning already. A dinner napkin placed next to yours. A drawer cleared to hold the socks and underwear folded far better than you ever knew how to fold them.
Over time, you start to realize—sometimes slowly, sometimes with the clarity of a lightning bolt—that love at this stage of life teaches different lessons than the ones you were handed in your youth.
It’s not about falling anymore, not really. It’s about forming. Shaping. Inviting.
It’s less about being swept off your feet, and more about standing firmly beside—presence over drama, steadiness over spectacle.
And if you’re lucky, you’re still learning—every single day—that love, like anything worth tending, changes its shape over time.
So, no. You’re not old. You’re ripening.
And if that’s not a new trick worth learning, I don’t know what is.
ME
MyLearningNotesforaWork-in-Progress
I can never be civilized— but I can be reminded that the Romaine probably wasn’t prewashed. I can be inspired to put things where they belong the first time. And I can be organized a little better.
I’m discovering that little by little, bit by bit, I might find my way to An OHIO state of mind.
I’m discovering that when the day ends, and we’re both tired, and I hear,
“Ruby and I walked down your garden path with the steps that go nowhere,”
I don’t need to explain where the steps once led. Instead, I can talk about where they might one day lead.
I’m discovering that falling in love happens faster now— not because the fire is hotter, but because the walls are lower, the noise is quieter, and I no longer mistake caution for wisdom.
I’m discovering it doesn’t matter what we call it— Sex. Making love. We both know the truth: if there’s no heart, no heat, and no brushing teeth first, it’s not happening.
I’m discovering the contours of a body— no longer shaped by youth’s smooth muscle, but by time, by tenderness, by all the sharpened, weathered lines of a well-lived life, and a well-bloomed love.
I’m discovering that what’s heart-healthy for one is heart-healthy for the other — in food, in movement, and especially in tenderness.
I’m discovering that love, at this stage, isn’t about recapturing youth or chasing fireworks. It’s about something quieter. Stronger. Truer. A love that folds laundry and picks out flooring— but also whispers stay when the silence gets long.
I’m discovering that a kneeler protects my knees just as well in the garden as it does while tending the soul.
I’m discovering that Ruby’s not the only one who snores. We do, too, even if we think we don’t. But when it’s the three of us? It’s just another rhythm to fall asleep to.
I’m discovering that I only need to be shown some things once. Like how to fold a grocery store plastic bag into a teeny-weeny triangle for storage. I nailed it. Once might have been enough. (“Wait. Wait. Let me do one more, my Love. This is almost like meditation.”)
I’m discovering that the Henkel-Harris bed really does look better with the bedding tucked inside the side rails. Gracious me—how could I have lived threescore-and-seventeen years without that life-saver of a bedroom tip?
I’m discovering, anew, that sharing is 99% of the joy. The story, the supper, the last bite of dessert—for Ruby, of course. Even the silence tastes better when it’s passed between two.
I’m discovering—more than anything else—that together isn’t just better. It’s braver. It’s kinder. It’s more us. More alive.
WE
Our Lessons
Clearly, you can teach old dogs new tricks, especially if they’re Tennessee Gary and me. We aren’t just any old dogs. We’re two clever ones, willing to learn together. And in case you’re wondering how people react when we tell them what we’re up to, most folks seem happy. Some, wishful. Others, wistful. Sometimes, some look twice. They blink. They tilt their heads. They ask—sometimes aloud, sometimes with raised eyebrows—
Aren’t you too old for shenanigans like this?
To which we say:
Balderdash!
Phooey!
We are not too old for love. We are not too late for wonder. We are not past the season for becoming.
Because when the day is done— the goodnight kiss planted, the I-love-you dreamily reaffirmed—we’re not winding down. We’re bedding down.
And come morning, we rise again— not just from sleep, but into this shared, surprising, still-unfolding life.
What keeps us going isn’t mystery or magic. It’s the anchors that hold love through storms and stillness:
Trust. Fidelity. Respect. Communication. Collaboration. Compromise. Intentional love. Intimacy. Empathy. Acceptance. And perhaps most vital of all: Forgiveness.
So, dare we clue you in on what two old dogs are learning about love—maybe better than most, certainly better than our younger selves ever did?
Do you really want to know the bottom line?
Are you sure?
You do? You really do?
Alrighteez, tighty-whities. If you insist…
Lean in and listen carefully.
We’ll tell you once and once only:
Love at our age isn’t the final act. It’s the encore.
“Honey, if you don’t know what I mean, then maybe it wasn’t meant for you to know just yet.”
–Imagined RuPaul-meets-Brentism (but isn’t that how most good wisdom starts?)
We’ve all heard the saying:
“You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.”
And I imagine we all know what it means. Regardless of where we go, we’ll always carry with us the (gold)dust from where we’ve been.
It seems to me that the same truth surrounds naiveté. If a person is inherently innocent, chances are good that all the experience in the world will not remove the foundational greenness and unworldliness from that person.
Chances are good–actually, they’re high–that I might just be one such person.
Let me offer up some proof.
Last year, I agreed to do a talk about online dating apps for seniors. No. No. Not for high-school seniors. They know exactly how to score…or not. My talk was for bifocaled folks on the other end of the age spectrum. Senior Citizens facing a triathlon: being online, navigating dating apps, and exposing themselves to Lord knows who or where or how or when or why. At 77, I can relate.
I agreed to do the talk, and then I decided that I’d better do some research.
It was a match made in heaven. I’d get to give a talk, plus I really was on the move–or is it on the make?–for a date. Well. Whatever. I was hot for a date. Let’s just say it had been a while. A long while.
So last year, off I went. I explored bunches and bunches of dating apps. Let me pause to assure you right now–before I expose my naiveté one whit more–that I did so only in the interest of conducting genuine, in-depth research. After all, if I was going to bare all–about dating apps–in my talk, then I had to know all so that I could strut my stuff with pride.
And lo! I had hardly gotten started when I got sucked into a dating app that caused me to flutter. For the life of me, I’m not sure that I even remember its name, and I probably wouldn’t share it if I did.
Anyway, that app nearly gave me an infarction, first from possible joy and then from definite tremors. Brace yourself. R u ready? I landed on this guy right here in my neck of the woods who added RN after his first name in his profile.
Hot damn! I’m gonna get a date with a guy who’s gayAND a Registered Nurse. Joy of all joys.
With a twofer like that waiting for me, I fired off a quick reply.
He didn’t waste any time getting back to me. To my horror, I discovered that his RN wasn’t a medical credential at all. It was a time degree:
RightNow
Say whaaaat? Right now? No way. I swiped left and got rid of him RT (right then), but the shock lingered long.
Is that naiveté or what? Well. Now I know. Now, you do, too. Even at 77, I’m carrying around some genuine innocence, and I don’t even blush talking about it.
But that RN thing set me to thinking. It seems to me that I’ve always been naive, or, as country folks would say, I’ve always been green. More often than not–and with no small degree of irony–down through the years, my most blushing moments of greenness have involved language. Sometimes, it was an acronym, like RN–that I didn’t know but would never forget meeting. At other times, it was a full-blown word.
Let me tell you about two.
Growing up, I had never heard the F-word. Not whispered behind lockers. Not scrawled on bathroom stalls. Not murmured by boys trying on bravado. It simply wasn’t part of my world.
There. That didn’t hurt too much, did it? Nope. I’m ok. Ru?
But the summer before heading off to college, I had to read a list of books for my Honors English Seminar that fall. I didn’t know a thing about any of them, including J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. No problem. I was dutiful. I was curious (yellow). And I was a little thrilled to be reading something vaguely subversive. Holden Caulfield’s voice quickly grabbed hold of me, tugging at some tender place inside.
Then, I got to a page that nearly made me fall down my mental stairwell:
“Somebody’d written ‘Fuck you’ on the wall. It drove me damn near crazy.”
Holden wasn’t shocked by the word. He was heartbroken. He was protective. He worried his kid sister Phoebe would see it. He worried that some other child would ask what it meant. He worried that a “dirty kid” would explain it—wrongly—and the mystery of it would wound them.
Right there. Right then. I saw a brand-new word, standing in front of me, stark naked, showing off all the strokes and flourishes of all four letters. I knew it meant something that I knew nothing about, something that I daren’t even mention to anyone. It made me pause and stare forever. Although the word never became part of my vocabulary, I did something that I had never done. I dogeared the page.
A year or two later, another word in real life was hurled squarely at me, and this time, my greenness shined even brighter not because of the word my friend said to me but because of the word that I thought he had said to me. What I heard and what he spoke were worlds apart.
He was an upperclassman, always reading, always relaxed. I liked him. Actually, I liked him a lot. Don’t get alarmed but let me tell you something: I’ve known that I was gay since I was four. For years and years–certainly, as a student at a Baptist college in WV in the 1960s–I felt like I might be the only gay guy on the planet. I had no script. I had no community. I had no way to ask:
Are you … you know … like me?
One evening, I stopped by my friend’s room–I often did, as did lots of other guys who were our friends. He was popular. He was straight. And I don’t know, maybe he thought I was gay and decided to tease me in front of the other guys–all straight like him. Out of the blue, he looked up from his book and nailed me with his baby blues:
“Every time you come into the room, I get a hard-on.”
But I didn’t hear that word.
I heard heart-on.
And my heart swelled. It fluttered. I thought he meant something warm. I thought that I had moved something in him. I thought that I mattered.
I smiled and blurted out:
“Oh stop. You do not. Show me!”
I meant it innocently and playfully. I wasn’t teasing. I was confident that he would simply pull back his buttoned shirt and show me a t-shirt emblazoned with a huge red heart–just like the iconic S that Superman sported on his chest.
I had no understanding of what my friend had said. Not then. Not in that moment. And certainly not with thatword dropped so casually in a room full of guys, like it was a joke I wasn’t in on yet.
He didn’t unbutton his shirt as I thought he would. He just stared at me and then looked back at his book. The moment passed, thin as onion-skin paper.
Laughter ricocheted off the dorm room walls. All the guys were convinced that I had executed a brilliant put down by demanding:
“Show me.”
They thought that I had deliberately put my friend in his place. Little did they know. My innocence had saved the moment. Their laughter had protected me. The verbal misunderstanding had shielded me.
Looking back, I see that my innocence that evening protected me in ways I couldn’t have known at the time. I could have been humiliated. I could have been ridiculed. I could have internalized shame. But instead, I floated through the moment on a current of my own misunderstanding. I wasn’t wounded. I wasn’t exposed. I was shielded.
My mishearing gave me cover. And somehow, the laughter that followed—laughter I didn’t understand either—wrapped around me like a protective cloak. Everyone thought I was clever. Imagine that. I wasn’t. I was just green. Country green.
And yet, that greenness did something extraordinary. It saved me.
It didn’t save me from truth. It saved me from thetoo-muchness of it. It saved me from knowing more than I could hold at the time. It saved me from rushing into meanings I wasn’t prepared to carry. It saved me from being someone I wasn’t ready to become.
Now, I’m old enough and seasoned enough to know that innocence doesn’t prevent hurt forever. But it can delay it just long enough for us to grow strong enough to bear it. It can stretch the veil of childhood a little further into adulthood, letting us stumble forward with a safety net that keeps us from breaking into smithereens.
I guess the bottom line is that while some people grow up quickly, I didn’t. And I’m grateful. I used to think I was the only green soul who didn’t catch the drift, who didn’t get the joke, or who didn’t see the neon sign blinking right there in plain view. But over time—and Lord knows I’ve had some time, plus—I’ve come to believe I wasn’t the only one wandering through the orchard a little slow to pick the ripest fruit.
I’ve come to the conclusion that there are far more of us than I ever imagined. I’m talking about folks who didn’t know what the F-word meant the first time it rang out like a firecracker. I’m talking about folks who heard hard-on and thought heart-on—and answered with a “showme.” I’m talking about folks who walked through the world, always assuming everyone meant well and most things weren’t coded for something more.
Sure. Innocence like that can get you in trouble. You miss a signal. You say the wrong thing. You walk away from something you didn’t even know was being offered. Or was it? But more often than not, innocence like that saves you. It lets you grow at your own pace. It buys you time. It keeps your heart soft while the rest of the world’s toughening up. That’s not foolishness. That’s grace in slow motion.
And when the meaning finally lands—when you finally do “get it”—you don’t feel duped. You feel ready. And you look back and laugh, and you don’t redden at all when you share those moments, just as I’m sharing here without a tinge of blush.
It seems to me there’s a kind of wisdom that comes only from a place of not knowing too soon. And bless your little heart, I’ve lived there most of my life.
If you’re reading this and thinking, “Mercy me! I thought RN meant RegisteredNurse, too,” or “I didn’t hear that word until college and didn’t dare say it out loud until I was grown,”—well, honey, pull up a chair and sit a spell with me, and we can while away an hour or so, side by side.
“What will we do?”
“Lands sakes alive, darling! We’ll talk.”
We’ll talk about all the pages we’ve dogeared down through the years and why. We’ll talk about people who believe what others say is more important than what they imply. We’ll talk about people like us who listen with their hearts before they learn the rest.
And when we’re done with all that, I’ll lean in real close and tell you once more that my innocence always lets me see beauty first. I’ll tell you once more that my innocence always lets me feel awe. I’ll tell you once more that my innocence always lets me believe in heart-ons.
The Wired Researcher 