“When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”
—Lao Tzu (6th century BCE; ancient Chinese philosopher and founder of Taoism. His teachings emphasize harmony with the natural flow of life.)
Ta-TUM. Ta-TUM. Ta-TUM.
With rhythmic precision, it keeps pounding just like my heart.
But it’s not my heart.
It’s my mind, beating to the same rhythm, chanting.
I want. I want. I want.
In my most recent chant, I wanted Francesco Mattano’s famed Peposo, a traditional Tuscan Red Wine Beef Stew. It’s so simple with just a few ingredients: garlic, beef, salt, coarsely ground black pepper, a bouquet garni, and red wine. Simmered for several hours and served up in a well of buttered polenta, it’s the recipe’s clean simplicity that makes it so sinfully delicious.
Altroché! That’s just what I wanted–an entree promising good-to-the-last-bite deliciousness. At the same time, I was well aware that I had leftover pork tenderloin as well as chicken salad.
Once upon a time, I would have rushed off to the grocery store, bought the provisions for Peposo, and celebrated another culinary triumph.
These days, however, even though my wants are as rhythmic as my heart, I am pulling back as I try to reconcile what Iwant with what Ihave.
With food, for example, I wanted Francesco’s stew, but I had pork tenderloin and chicken salad already prepared. The craving was there, but so was a perfectly good meal.
Take books, for example. I’ve dedicated decades of my life to Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and I’ve amassed a significant collection. But I want to chase after one more obscure letter or document that will make my already rich archive even richer.
What about dating? I want romance—not out of need, but out of hope. My life is full and meaningful, yet I’d love to share it with someone who brings his own fullness—a shared life made richer by both of us.
Even in garden centers, new specimen evergreens whisper, “Take me. Plant me.” But I already have a beautiful Zen-like landscape.
I’m also trying to reconcile what I want with what I need.
I might want dessert, but what I need is a meal that aligns with my health goals. I’m cutting out sweets but keeping nightly Bunnahabhain—for balance!
When it comes to fitness, I might want quick results, but I need consistency not as much in biking as in weight training. At my age–no, at any age–real strength comes from steady, intentional effort.
What about my writing? I want more time to write, but I need to manage my other commitments more wisely so that I have the time I need.
Even in relationships, I want certainty, but I need to let connections unfold naturally—his rhythm, my rhythm, coming into step together.
The more I realize that I don’t need everything I want and that, in reality, I already have what I need, the more I’m discovering new dimensions of freedom.
What had been a constant search for more, whether material things, achievements, or validation, has given way to peace.
What had been a scarcity mindset has become a focus on embracing abundance—not in excess, but in sufficiency.
What had been a notion that having more means being more has yielded to the realization that I’m already enough.
What had been impulse is now intentional as I make choices that nourish me rather than just satisfy my fleeting cravings.
I’m shifting from grasping to gratitude, from craving to contentment.
I’m no longer mistaking wants for purpose. I’m recognizing that growth, connection, and presence matter more.
I’m starting to trust the rhythm of life, just like I trust the rhythm of my own heart.
My heart beats on, steady and sure— not demanding, just existing.
It thumps a lesson that I’m learning: I don’t have to chase every want. What I need is already here—or on its way, arriving in the fullness of time.
“We were just boxwoods until someone believed we could be part of something beautiful.”
–— Anonymous. Possibly the shy one in the corner.
Ten pots of BuxusMicrophylla, or, as I prefer saying in plain English, Little Missy boxwoods—five per row, glossy green and neatly packed—sit patiently in the open bed of an Army Green Jeep Gladiator. It’s the last Saturday in March, early morning, overcast, but already brushing up against seventy degrees. The air hums with quiet possibility. The gravel drive crunches underfoot, the hills beyond still bare-limbed and watching. The day is waiting, hopeful. So are the boxwoods—waiting, hopeful, wondering—ready to take root in the earth but not yet knowing where.
One other player in this little drama unfolding before us is waiting–hopeful and wondering, too. That would be me. It’s been two weeks since I bought the boxwoods and asked Woodstock Gardens to hold them for me. I had been eyeing the weather forecast, and when I saw that Saturday’s temp would soar to 83°, I knew that the time had arrived for me and the Little Missy boxwoods to perform.
I knew where I wanted to plant them: along a stepped, stone pathway with a wide expanse of gardening space reaching out to the rock wall above that defines the walkway to my kitchen. Down through the years, lots of perennials have flourished there, mainly hardy bananas and lilies. But this past winter, I decided that small, evergreen patches would soften the stones and brighten the landscape year-round.
I expected putting in the Little Missy boxwoods to be straightforward. Position in place. Dig the holes. Tease the tangled root balls. Cover with topsoil. Water. Mulch. Those expectations defined my day, making me confident that I would move on to reclaiming the peony bed in the lower yard by early afternoon.
And so it would have been, I suspect, had I not decided to adjust a rock here and there with an eye toward little more than leveling them as they once were. I knew from the start that leveling one rock would lead to three to five and on and on. But what I didn’t expect was that the rocks would become my focus—not as a distraction from planting, but as a quiet joy, inviting me to sit and let them show me where they wanted to be. As I moved the rocks, the soil spoke to a past that I had created down through the years, with a fierce determination to turn mountain clay into fertile loam.
And there I sat with nowhere that I had to go and with nothing that I had to do other than sit right there, centered in nothing yet in everything.
I glanced at my Fitbit and realized that I would be a 1pm peony-bed no-show. But that didn’t matter. I had spaced my boxwoods exactly where I wanted them to begin with, but now they were framed by rocks whose voice I had heeded. I knew in that moment that this is the way to plant boxwoods.
I could brush this aside just as readily as I cradled the soil carefully around each boxwood.
But I won’t—because this wasn’t just a moment in the garden. It was a quiet revelation.
The stillness of that moment—just me, the rocks, the soil, and the Little Missy boxwoods—stirred something I hadn’t expected. It reminded me of another time I resisted the urge to rush. A time when I could have taken the more efficient path, but chose instead the one that felt truer, even if slower.
Years ago, colleagues and friends encouraged me to publish a selected edition of letters by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. “It’ll be faster,” they said. “Get it out there. Choose the best, the most representative.” But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to curate a highlight reel. I wanted to listen to her whole voice—every quiet, overlooked, handwritten and typed syllable of it. “If not me, who? If not now, when?”–I mused.
And so, I kept going. Year after year. Archives and attics. Libraries and ledgers. It took a decade, but in the end, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman bore an honest title and held honest content. Collected. 585 letters. All. No stone unturned.
What mattered as much as the scholarship was the joy of the journey. The small discoveries. The forgotten details. The moments when her voice, long quiet, seemed to rise again from the page, breathing life into a history nearly lost. Just like those rocks, just like that soil—I had to be still, to listen, to let her show me where she wanted to be.
Years later, my students came along. In my online classes, I interacted with each class as a whole, and with each student as they turned in their work. But I always made it a point to reach out to students who didn’t submit an assignment or who seemed to be slipping away. My messages weren’t elaborate—just a quick, casual “checking in with you.” I never knew where those simple interventions might lead.
More than once, a student replied to say they were struggling—juggling work, family, illness, or grief—and that my short note had stopped them from dropping the course altogether. From giving up.
Those became some of my most memorable teaching moments. I hadn’t said anything profound. I had simply shown up. And somehow, I had rolled away a small stone of darkness and doubt so that a student could glimpse light—and maybe even hope.
In each of these moments, I was doing what didn’t have to be done. No one would have faulted me for skipping a few rocks, publishing a selection of letters, or letting a silent student drift away. But something in me paused. Listened. Chose the slower path. Not because I had to—but because I could. If not me, who? If not now, when?
Maybe that’s the deeper truth. Not every action we take has to change the world. But every time we pause and ask If not me, who?If not now, when?—when we do the thing that doesn’t have to be done—we create the conditions where light can get in. Where roots can reach deeper. Where someone, or something, can grow.
It could be something as simple as picking up the phone to call someone who’s been on your mind. Or checking in on a neighbor whose curtains haven’t opened in days. It might be stopping to thank the cashier who’s clearly having a rough shift. Or finally taking the time to write that note of encouragement, apology, or love.
It could mean speaking up when a voice needs backing. Or standing back to let someone else shine. It might be mentoring a colleague, even when your plate is full. Or walking away from a quick fix to do something the right way, even if no one will notice.
It could be choosing kindness when sarcasm’s easier. Planting hope where cynicism wants to take root. Offering presence when no solution is in sight.
These aren’t dramatic acts. They’re just pauses. Moments when we choose to show up with care. To ask ourselves, If not me, who? If not now, when? And then to listen for the answer.
It’s not about doing more. It’s about doing what matters. Trusting that presence—not perfection—is what carries us forward. And knowing that when we show up, even quietly, the outcome will almost always be better, more beautiful, and far more rewarding.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver (1935–2019; American poet celebrated for her keen observations of nature, the human spirit, and the connection between the two. Oliver’s poetry encourages readers to engage deeply with the world around them and to embrace life’s moments with curiosity and intention.)
Crunchy fried chicken, its golden-brown crust crackling with every bite. Check. Pimento cheese potato salad, creamy and tangy, with just enough bite to earn nods of approval. Check. Green beans simmered long and slow, tender and rich with the deep, smoky whisper of a ham hock. Check. Sliced tomatoes, their sun-ripened juices glistening under a light sprinkle of salt. Check. Peach pie cooling on the counter, its buttery crust cradling syrupy, sun-warmed fruit, promising the perfect sweet finish. Check.
Dinner was falling into shape, as country as country could be—homey, solid, the kind of meal that settles deep and satisfies. Except I hadn’t made my sourdough biscuits. And it’s those damned biscuits that caused the problem.
Easy peasy. Sourdough discard. Flour. Butter. Milk. Salt. It’s hard to imagine that such a modest assemblage could rise up to become so flaky and tender, hundreds of layers as light and lofty as billowy clouds. But that always happens, in record time.
Get this. I had all the ingredients lined up, waiting for the gentle touch of my deft hands to spring into action. But with my measure mid-air, I stopped in a heated exchange of self-talk:
“I don’t want to bother.”
“Come on. They only take ten minutes.”
“But everything else is done. Why mess up the kitchen now?”
“Biscuits. You always make biscuits.”
“Not tonight.”
“Come on. Just mix the dough.”
“No.”
“You’ll regret it.”
“No. I won’t.”
I set the measuring cup down, exhaled hard, walked away, and floured one up to “I don’t want to bother.”
I’d like to think that ended my self-talk on that topic. It did, for a while. After all, with a meal that was a culinary triumph by anyone’s standards, who needs biscuits?
But here’s the thing. The next day, those biscuits got on my case. In reality, it wasn’t the biscuits. It couldn’t have been since I didn’t make them. It was the underlying reason for not making them that started eating away at me:
“I don’t want to bother.”
I mean, let’s face it. I could have said any number of things:
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m tired. I need a break.”
“With a spread like that, who needs biscuits?”
I didn’t say any of those things because they just weren’t true. My truth was what I had told myself:
“I don’t want to bother.”
Bother. That’s the word that stuck in my craw. Bother—a term that’s been around since at least 1842, when someone first wrote, “We can’t do it at all, we can’t be bothered.” And here I was, almost two centuries later, falling into the same trap.
Realistically, one single utterance should be no cause for alarm. Right? I’m not so certain.
What if it moved from biscuits to other areas of my life?
What about brushing Ruby, my best dog ever? It would be easier to let it slide.
What about publishing my blog posts, week after week after week? It would be a lot easier to skip a week here, there, forever.
What about pushing through with my daily biking routine? It would be a lot easier to bike fewer miles every day or to skip a day now and then.
What about finishing a major research project? It would be a lot easier to put it aside.
Luckily, I haven’t allowed “I don’t want to bother” to prevail. And look at the results.
I have a well-groomed faithful companion, Ruby. I have a blog with a track record for being published every Monday morning before seven just as regularly as clockwork. I bike 15-20 miles every day, seven days a week, knowing that it never gets easier. I just solved one of America’s greatest literary mysteries–Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina. The Humourist’s incisive voice will now be heard once more.
I hope, especially as I age, that I will never let “I don’t want to bother” prevail. Here’s why.
It seems to me that the more we avoid doing things, the smaller our world becomes. What starts as skipping small inconveniences—like making biscuits or brushing the dog—can gradually turn into avoiding new experiences, opportunities, and relationships. The mindset can shift from “I don’t want to bother” to the even more passive “I can’t be bothered.”
It seems to me that the best experiences in life often require an extra push—whether in personal growth, relationships, or creativity. Habitual avoidance means fewer “What if?” moments that lead to breakthroughs or unexpected joys. Sometimes we find ourselves in a rut, not because we lack talent, intelligence, or resources, but simply because we repeatedly choose the path of least resistance.
It seems to me that friendships and family connections need tending. If “I don’t want to bother” becomes the default, relationships slowly fade through neglect. This can lead to isolation, where we wake up one day and realize we haven’t had a meaningful conversation in weeks or months.
It seems to me that small decisions accumulate. If we regularly skip writing, gardening, dating, or learning new things, we might later look back and wonder, “What did I do with all that time?”
It seems to me that the difference between people who feel satisfied with life and those who feel unfulfilled often comes down to these small moments of effort—choosing to bother when it counts.
Believe me. The next time I serve up a meal like that—or any meal, for that matter—I won’t hesitate. I’ll bother.
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
–W. B. Yeats (1865-1939; renowned Irish poet, playwright; awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923; celebrated for his lyrical and evocative poetry, often exploring themes of mysticism, mythology, and the intersection of the ordinary and the magical.)
“Iris, go get Great-Grandma’s dress so that Brent can see.”
Off she went, her smile bright enough to nearly lighten the darkened hallway. In a few minutes, she returned and dutifully handed the crumpled brown bag to her mother.
Clara leaned forward, cautiously using her walker to steady herself as she rose, stooped but standing tall for the big reveal. She opened the bag and pulled out a dress. She handed it to me with all the pomp and circumstance that a milliner might have mustered up in presenting the work of her loom to her most valued customer.
“Now, Brent, that’s the dress that your Great-Great-Grandma Slaughter wore to her infare when she got married, right over thar in Elamsville, not too far from here, six miles or so I reckon.”
I knew that Clara was talking about Mary “Polly” Conner who married Martin Slaughter on August 11, 1825. Mary was eighteen, just a week shy of nineteen. Martin was twenty-three, just a few weeks shy of twenty-four.
I would not know until much later that, historically, an infare was a celebration held in rural Virginia areas after a wedding, often on the same day or a few days later. Friends and family gathered together to share a meal, extend their support and well-wishes to the newly married couple, and have a good time eating, dancing, and making music. It was a community affair that folks remembered.
But I didn’t know those details then. All that I knew at that moment was that I was standing there, holding my Great-Great-Grandmother’s dress. I clasped it gently in my hands. I let my fingers feel their way across the muslin. I admired the autumnal pattern of small red and yellow and orange leaves floating on a field of dark brown. I rubbed each and every button, polishing their smoothness.
It was then, in that moment, that it happened without my even knowing that it was happening. Suddenly, I was no longer in Clara’s kitchen. Suddenly, I was embarking on a picturesque drive through the heart of Patrick County, motoring from Stuart to Elamsville along well-maintained roads, framed by lush greenery and rolling hills, all providing a serene backdrop to my 6-mile journey.
I went past pristine farms and meandering streams and caught glimpses of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance as I soaked in the tranquil beauty surrounding me.
I went past time as I galloped into Elamsville, a small, close-knit, timeless community. I went past the setting sun and dismounted at a farmstead nestled amidst rolling hills and sprawling fields. I went past lanterns and candles illuminating the rustic barn, filled with laughter, lively fiddle tunes, and the fragrant scents of freshly harvested crops. I went past long wooden tables covered with homespun white linens and wildflowers, laden with roasted meats, cornbread, seasonal vegetables, preserves, and jugs of cider and homebrew.
I went past guests, dressed in their finest, dancing reels and jigs, as children chased fireflies and elders told tales passed down through generations. I went past John Conner, an elder in the Primitive Baptist Church, who officiated his daughter’s marriage to Martin Slaughter earlier in the day.
I went past everything except Polly. I walked right up to her, standing there majestically slim in her infare dress that had prompted my reverie. I took her hand—her eyes level with mine at 5’ 8”—and gracefully twirled her across the worn wooden floor, the lively strains of the Virginia Reel filling the air as our laughter–hers and mine–echoed the joyous spirit of the celebration, equal to what it had been when she had danced with Martin and many of the guests at their infare feast.
As quickly as I had journeyed back to 1825, Iris’s voice jettisoned me back to the present:
“I wore that dress once to a Sadie Hawkins dance when I was in high school. Mama had to do a tuck here and a tuck there, but it fit me just fine.”
There I stood in the kitchen once more as I handed the dress back to Clara and watched her return it to its cumpled brown bag with all the solemnity of a flag-folding ceremony.
I had been transported magically, even if for a fleeting second, to a familar land, a familiar place, and a familiar face that I knew not at all yet now knew all so well because my imagination had allowed me to break away.
I wasn’t too surprised. As an avid reader, I have lots of similar breakaways. For me, they’re momentary, never lasting long but lasting long enough to make me lose myself. If I’m reading a compelling literary work–whether it’s a poem, a short story, a play, or a novel–I always lose track of time and find myself immersed in the writer’s world. For example, whenever I read Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s short story “On the Walpole Road,” I always find myself inside a chaise with Almiry as she drives her friend Mis’ Green along the dusty road from Brattleboro (VT) to Walpole (NH). I watch with them as a storm comes up. I listen as Mis’ Green recalls her Aunt Rebecca’s funeral and proceeds to tell the story for the next 18 miles. And, at the very end, I sigh in relief with Almiry, who confesses: “… it’s kind of come to me, as I’ve been listening that I had heard it before. The last time I took you to Walpole, I guess, you told it.”
As a writer, I have similar break-away moments. When I’m sharing my thoughts and emotions in my blog posts, I lose track of my immediate world because I’m so immersed in creating a world for my readers to discover. Take, for example, my post, “Just Like Mama Made.” When the idea occurred to me, I was so swept away that I worked on the first draft until midnight, and I swear to you that lying there in bed I could smell from far, far away the essence of apples seducing me back to the kitchen. Lifting the lid, I could see by their near translucency that the apple slices–including their skins–were perfectly tender and ready to be sugared and spiced.
Whether writing or reading or engaging in other endeavors, we all know the power of the break away. That’s especially the beauty of the arts. That’s why they pull us in, time and time again.
When we look at a painting or sculpture–whether a classic masterpiece or contemporary art–the act of truly looking at and contemplating the piece of art transports us into the artist’s world, giving us a sense of connection and engagement. We have a momentary breakaway from our surroundings.
The same thing happens when we’re creating art or crafting. Whether it’s painting, drawing, sculpting, knitting, beading or engaging in other creative activities, we lose ourselves in the process of making art, and we break away.
Or what about listening to music and losing ourselves in the nuances of the composition? The rhythm, melody, and lyrics evoke emotions, allowing us to break away to another mental space. It happens, too, I am sure, with musicians. When playing challenging pieces or improvising, they enter a state of flow where they are entirely absorbed in the music. They break away.
I could go on and on and on. Cooking. Baking. Hiking. Jogging. Exploring new places. Gardening. Meditating. Holding hands. Kissing. Having sex. Cuddling. Praying. Worshiping.
In each of these activities, the boundaries of self seem to blur, and we find ourselves immersed in the present moment. Whether it’s the rhythmic chopping of vegetables in the kitchen, the crunch of gravel beneath hiking boots, or the serene stillness of meditation, these endeavors transform us as we surrender to the experience, allowing our minds to temporarily float away from the demands and stresses of daily life. They give us an escape from the relentless chatter of our minds, creating an opportunity for introspection and a deeper connection with the immediate surroundings. Then, we can break away from our routines and lose ourselves in sheer joy or tranquility.
Our journeys often carry us back to ourselves, richer and fuller for having embarked on these break-away moments. Whether we travel the dusty roads of history through a beloved family heirloom, ride through the pages of a captivating story, or immerse ourselves in the strokes of an artist’s brush, we experience the human capacity to leave ourselves behind.
As we reflect on the many ways that our lives allow us to momentarily break away, let’s remember the power of those experiences. They’re more than mere moments of escape. They are transformative journeys that mold the very fabric of our being. So, Dear Reader, cherish your break-away moments, hold them close to your heart, and celebrate the richness they bring to your life. Let them serve as reminders of the vast reservoir of joy, wonder, and connection that resides within the human spirit. In a world that often pulls us in different directions, these break-away moments are the compass that steers us back to ourselves, to our shared humanity, and to the magical power that transports us to places unseen and emotions unfelt.
The Wired Researcher 