“Accept—then act. Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it.”
–Eckhart Tolle (b. 1948). German-born spiritual teacher and author of The Power of Now and A New Earth, whose teachings focus on presence, acceptance, and personal transformation.
A few weeks ago, over cocktails and conversation, my neighbor—an IT guy with a philosophical streak—offered a twist on the old “glass half full or half empty” dilemma. His late wife, Jody, always saw the glass as half-full, but as an engineer, Gary sees it differently:
“Just get a glass that’s the right size for what you’ve got.”
At the time, I nodded politely and filed it under:
“Clever things other people say that may or may not linger in my memory.”
Turns out, I remembered.
A few mornings later—cue ominous music!—my tablet powered up with all the charm of a sulky teenager and promptly informed me that Microsoft had done me the favor of wiping my PowerPoint app into oblivion.
This, mind you, on the eve of speaking to the Mary E. Wilkins Freeman Society—an international gathering of scholars and fellow literary sleuths—about a woman who has occupied both my imagination and my file drawers for over fifty years. The event was titled An Hour with Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and Brent L. Kendrick. The tech test was hours away. I clicked. I reinstalled. I cursed. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
And then I thought of my neighbor.
“Wrong glass, Brent.”
I hauled my all-in-one PC upstairs to the better WiFi zone, and boom—there it was. Slides intact. Calm restored. Presentation saved.
Turns out, sometimes you don’t need more water. You just need the right-size glass.
Since then, I’ve been thinking more about the right-size-glass concept, and I can think of several other times when I applied it unawares.
There was a time, for example, when I thought my glass had shattered completely. Not cracked—shattered. After Allen died, I wasn’t sure there was any vessel left that could hold what I’d once poured so freely: love, joy, even hope. For a long while, I didn’t try. But healing has its own quiet rhythm, and eventually, I realized I didn’t need the same glass. I just needed one shaped for the life I have now. It took a while, but recently I’ve found one the right size to hold who I’ve become. To hold who I am. Now.
Long before that right-size-glass moment came the time when I first moved to my mountain. I wanted a cabin in the clearing—so I cleared a wide swath of woods to make it so. I cleared far more than I could have imagined, and certainly more than I could realistically manage, especially now at my age. Some days, it feels like my glass is half empty, like I’m falling behind. But the truth is, I just need a different-sized glass. If I choose—as I have chosen—to let some of those cleared areas return to their wild, natural state, I haven’t lost anything. In fact, my glass is now full—full of birdsong and the wisdom of knowing when to stop clearing and simply let things grow.
I think we can apply the “right-size-glass” concept to more than gardening and grief.
Let’s begin with a few low-stakes moments—the ones that test our patience more than our purpose.
● Cooking substitution. Out of buttermilk? Use yogurt and lemon. Different glass. Same outcome.
● Gardening workaround. Tried planting in the wrong spot? Don’t mourn the wilt—move the pot.
● Home décor puzzle. Wardrobe too big for one wall? Move it to a room with a larger wall that showcases all of its Shaker joinery.
Some shifts, though, aren’t minor—they’re wake-up calls. Still, the right-size glass helps.
● Travel plans. Canceled? Money’s tight? Plan a “staycation” with the same sense of purpose.
● Exercise limitations. Can’t run anymore? Try swimming or yoga. Same vitality, different vessel.
● Friendship shift. Someone pulls away? Focus on others who consistently show up.
● Career detours. Passed over for a promotion? Use the freedom to explore a side gig or project with heart.
Or let’s move on up a little higher to some emotional and existential applications.
● Creative droughts. When the writing won’t flow, ask: is it really writer’s block—or just the wrong-shaped glass for the ideas trying to come through?
● Life plan upended. Divorce, retirement, illness—what happens when your “glass” shatters? You pick up what still holds and find a new container for your spirit.
● Shifting beliefs. Formerly held faith, politics, or ideals evolve? Refill your life with what still nourishes—and let go of the brittle framework.
By now, I’m willing to bet you’ve started thinking of your own moments—the ones when you didn’t force what no longer fit, but quietly shifted, adjusted, adapted. Maybe you pivoted. Maybe you paused. Either way, those are the moments that reshape a life.
So, myDear Readers, consider this your open invitation to rethink how you hold disappointment, change, resistance—or anything else that life sets before you. Not by pouring harder into what doesn’t fit, but by choosing a different container altogether.
Here’s to finding the right-size glass—for your spirit, your strength, your joy.
“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.
“The universe is not outside of you. Look inside yourself; everything that you want, you already are.”
–Rumi (1207–1273; Persian poet, scholar, and mystic whose timeless works explore themes of love, spirituality, and the interconnectedness of all things.)
I don’t have a farm, and I’ve never had one. But these days, I’m feeling like Old MacDonald himself. Patterns surround us, after all—sometimes playful and sometimes profound—and lately, the rhythm of that old nursery rhyme keeps echoing in my mind:
Old MacDonald had a farm Ee i ee i o And on his farm he had some cows Ee i ee i oh With a moo-moo here And a moo-moo there Here a moo, there a moo Everywhere a moo-moo
By the time I listen to the cows, chickens, ducks, pigs, and all the other animals that have wandered into the song since it started in 1706, I’m always left wondering what animal sound I’ll hear next.
But these days, I’m feeling like Old MacDonald not because of the animals I don’t have but because of the numbers I do. They’re everywhere—so much so that my version of the rhyme might go like this:
Old Man Kendrick saw some numbers Ee i ee i o And in those numbers, he found great calm Ee i ee i oh With a one-one here And a two-two there Everywhere a three-three
Those numbers aren’t just any numbers. They’re palindromes–they remain the same when reversed, like 121. We all see them, and usually, it’s not anything to write home about. However, I wrote about them once in “Take Three | Living With a Writer: Owning Up to My Own Eccentricities.” In that post, I mentioned my fascination with palindromes.
Some of you might be saying:
“They’re just numbers. After all, the brain is wired to notice patterns.”
Some days I’m saying the same thing.
Or some of you might be thinking:
“What you’re experiencing with those numbers is synchronicity–the universe lining things up in a way that you can’t ignore. So, sit up and take notice.”
Some days, I’m thinking the same thing because I’m a big believer in synchronicity. I could point to endless examples in literature. Surely, you’ll remember that moment in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” when the narrator perceives an external presence—seraphim swinging a censer—as he grieves and longs for his deceased Lenore:
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
The seraphim seem to offer grace and comfort—a chance to shift perspective. Yet instead of accepting it, the narrator clings to despair, choosing to fixate on the raven’s ominous “Nevermore.”
Or consider Sarty in William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning.” His inner conflict aligns with external signs and moments.The flickering fires, the repeated moral choices, and the final break from his father feel like synchronistic echoes guiding him toward a moral path, despite his family’s destructive tendencies.
And in Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral,”the narrator’s transformation during the drawing of the cathedral feels like a moment of deep synchronicity. His inability to “see” spiritually aligns with the blindness of the visitor. As they draw the cathedral together, there is a sense that the universe orchestrates this connection to lead the narrator toward personal growth.
These moments in literature remind me that synchronicity often acts as a mirror, reflecting back a truth we’re ready to see. They resonate because, like the seraphim in “The Raven” or the blind visitor in “Cathedral,” I’ve experienced moments where something beyond myself seemed to nudge me toward clarity.
But what’s happening with the palindromic numbers that have taken up residence with me is different. This feels deeper and more personal. This feels gentle, steady, like footsteps in alignment with my own, affirming my path.
It all started back in November when I reached my palindromic birthday of 77. I chuckled when I saw it coming—it wasn’t my first palindromic birthday, of course, but something about 77 felt especially auspicious. Since then, palindromic patterns haven’t just appeared occasionally; they’ve settled in, becoming a quiet rhythm in my days.
It’s not just the random glance at the clock showing 3:33 or the odd receipt totaling $22.22. These numbers have become more consistent, almost as if they’ve found a permanent rhythm in my life. The day after I made a tough decision, the clock read 12:21—a subtle nudge from something beyond myself. Later, after a longer-than-usual bike ride, I checked the dash: 22.2 miles. By then, I was already tuned in.
They’re not asking me to figure something out, nor are they pointing to some hidden treasure or cosmic secret. Instead, they light up the small corners of my day, asking only to be noticed and appreciated. License plates, receipts, random book pages—they all flicker with symmetry, mirroring something steady and affirming.
Last week, the numbers seemed to crescendo, appearing almost everywhere in one single, solitary day: 444, 717, 505, 808, 919, 404, 414, 555, 88 1111, 404, 111, 212, 414, 444, 555, 77, 44, 212, 515. It felt like a boisterous celebration, arranged by the universe—not for my analysis, but simply for my acknowledgment.
These patterns aren’t luring me toward some great revelation. Instead, the numbers feel still—like standing in the center of a room, with mirrors reflecting me from every angle, reflecting where I stand.
And in that reflection, I feel something that I wasn’t seeking and hadn’t expected—affirmation.
I’ve spent a lot of my life chasing after answers, but this feels like the opposite. The palindromes don’t feel like questions at all. They feel like handshakes from the universe, soft and steady, offering no demands—just quiet reassurance. They’re not saying, “Keep going,” or “Turn around.” They’re saying quite simply, “You’re already here. And it’s enough. All is well.”
I might not have cows or chickens, but I have these numbers. They’re mine, and they’re here, there, and everywhere—soft reminders that I’m two-stepping with the universe. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade my handshakes from the universe for all the moo-moos in the world. These quiet handshakes remind me that I’m exactly where I need to be. And isn’t that enough?
“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
—Stephen Covey (1932–2012; leadership expert and author of the bestselling bookThe 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.)
All couples have a courtship phase, I suppose, and Allen and I were no exception. At one point, he was a traveling surgical technologist in upstate New York. We connected midway in Hazelton, PA, for long weekends together. One stands out in my memory as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. We were exploring Ricketts Glen State Park, home to the Glens Natural Area, a designated National Natural Landmark. Our plan was to follow the Falls Trail System so that we could take in the glens, where a series of untamed, free-flowing waterfalls tumble through rocky chasms carved into the hillside. Towering old-growth trees and a variety of wildlife enhance the natural beauty of the area. The crisp autumn air carried the faint roar of distant waterfalls, hinting at the adventure ahead.
The rumble of my two-door Jeep Wrangler echoed through the park as I navigated the winding roads, though “navigated” might be too generous a term. My hands rested lightly on the wheel, but my eyes were far from the road ahead. I was preoccupied by everything around me—the way the sunlight pierced through the canopy, dappling the ground with shifting patterns; the flash of a deer darting between the trees; the ripple of a stream running parallel to the road.
Every turn seemed to unveil something new—a stand of old-growth timber with gnarled branches twisting skyward, a cluster of huge rocks that looked like they’d been placed there deliberately, and the ever-present cascade of waterfalls, their spray catching the light like shards of glass. I felt my gaze wander again and again, lingering on the sights rather than the road. It wasn’t long before I realized that I wasn’t looking. I was losing track of where I was going, as if the Jeep were steering itself, and I was merely along for the ride.
I turned to Allen and exclaimed:
“I have to stop looking, so I can see where I’m going!”
“Say whaaat?”
“Yes. I have to stop looking, so I can see where I’m going! You look at the sights. I’ll focus on the road.”
Allen thought my comment was the funniest–and most ridiculous–thing that I had ever said. Throughout our twenty years together, he would look for any and every opportunity to teasingly remind me whenever I got distracted:
“Maybe you need to stop looking so you can see where you’re going.”
I laughed along with him, but over the years, I’ve come to realize that moment held more truth than I understood back then. That moment in the Jeep was more than a funny memory with Allen. It’s become a metaphor for how I approach life, especially at this time of year. The end of the year is like the winding road ahead of us, a time to pause, take stock of where we are, and decide how we want to navigate the twists and turns of the coming year. It’s easy to get distracted by everything around us, to try to take in too much at once. But clarity and focus—learning to “stop looking so we can see”—are the keys to achieving the goals that matter most. With clarity, we can set intentions that range from simple joys to profound transformations.
Let’s start with the simple goals, the ones that remind us to savor life’s small pleasures. These might seem minor in the grand scheme, but they ground us in the present moment and remind us of what it feels like to truly enjoy living. For me, this might mean experimenting with my sourdough pizza recipe to get that perfect balance of crisp and chew or revisiting my recipe for Sourdough Double Chip Crunch Cookies to enhance their texture. These pursuits are not about achieving perfection; they’re about immersing myself in the process, enjoying the creativity, and sharing the results with others.
Another source of joy for me is my garden. Whether it’s marveling at the tenacity of roots as I rework my peony bed or taking a step back to admire how my Koi Pond complements the Japanese-inspired landscaping, these moments of connection with nature remind me to slow down. Clarity here means carving out time for what nourishes the spirit—no matter how small or ordinary it may seem. These lighthearted goals are about reminding ourselves that life is rich with opportunities to pause and appreciate beauty.
Moving deeper, we come to goals that ask for more of us—those tied to our relationships, community, and self-care. These require intentionality, balance, and, most importantly, focus. For me, that might mean thoughtfully cultivating connections, such as inviting a neighbor to join me for dinner or reaching out to a friend to share a memory, a laugh, or a little gratitude. It’s about being present for others and making sure they feel valued.
At the same time, balance is key. I’m reminded of my online dating journey this year—how my profile reflects my true self while staying open to the possibilities ahead. It’s about embracing vulnerability while maintaining authenticity. Goals like this require clarity about what we value most in our relationships, whether it’s empathy, honesty, or simply the joy of shared experiences.
Self-care is another aspect of connection—this time with ourselves. It’s not just about routines but about listening to what we need to recharge. For me, it might be my daily biking to clear my head or listening to Black Gospel to feed my soul. Clarity here means recognizing that we can’t pour from an empty cup. These goals challenge us to strike the delicate balance between giving to others and nurturing ourselves.
And then there are the serious goals—the ones that stretch us, challenge us, and ultimately transform us. These require a willingness to dig deep and reflect on what truly matters. For me, this might involve continuing my exploration of “roots”—how the unseen foundations in our lives anchor us through uncertainty. This year, that theme surfaced in my writing and my gardening, reminding me that superficial fixes rarely work; it’s the deep work, often unseen, that brings lasting growth.
Another area of transformation is spirituality. Whether it’s reflecting on my Judeo-Christian principles or universal truths, I find that clarity in this realm often comes from leaning into questions rather than rushing to answers. I think, too, of the DNA test I took this year and how it invites me to explore not just where I’ve been but where I’m going. The results remind me of the rich identity that we each carry, and they prompt me to think about how we honor and build upon that in our daily lives.
Serious goals like these demand that we stop looking in every direction at once. They ask for stillness, focus, and trust. They require us to let go of distractions and be fully present with the questions, uncertainties, and hopes that guide us toward becoming our truest selves.
No matter the scope of the goal—whether it’s perfecting a recipe, strengthening a relationship, or embracing personal transformation—clarity of focus is what makes it possible. In the Jeep all those years ago, I realized that I couldn’t take in everything around me and still stay on the road. The same holds true as we navigate our lives. At times, we need to pause, set our sights on what truly matters, and let go of distractions to see the path before us.
As we stand at the threshold of a new year, I find myself reflecting on the power of clarity. It’s not about seeing everything—it’s about seeing clearly. So, as we step into 2025, I invite you to join me in setting goals that align with what matters most. Let’s stop looking in every direction and focus on where we’re going, one thoughtful, intentional step at a time.
Here’s to clearer roads, steady hands on the wheel, and the courage to keep moving forward. Happy New Year!
“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more.”
–Melody Beattie (b. 1948; American self-help author, known for her bestseller Codependent No More.)
Lean in close and listen to America gathering ’round for Thanksgiving:
“Oh my goodness, look at that turkey!”
“Mmm, do you smell that? I think it’s the rosemary!”
“Would you look at this spread? It’s a work of art!”
“Ooh, I can’t wait to dive into those mashed potatoes!”
“Save me a piece of pecan pie—no, make that pumpkin and pecan!”
“Pass me the sourdough rolls—they look so fluffy!”
“Is that sage in the stuffing? Smells amazing!”
“Wow, check out the glaze on that ham—it’s shining like caramel!”
“Even the cranberry sauce is sparkling!”
“Oh, wait! I need a picture of this before we did in!”
As everyone takes in the scene, their excitement quiets into warm smiles.
“All right, everyone, lean in! Let’s get a group selfie!”
“Come on, squeeze in! Come on. Get closer. We’re all family here!”
“Say ‘Thanksgiving!‘”
Conversations like that will be heard in more than 85% of American homes this Thursday, as families, friends, neighbors, and even community groups come together to celebrate Thanksgiving. These days, the notion of “family” has become so inclusive that many people call the day “Friendsgiving.”
Here’s the beauty of it all. Regardless of what we call the day and regardless of whether we’re celebrating as a group or alone, it’s a day to appreciate relationships, health, opportunities, or simple pleasures. It’s a day that lets us stand together on the common ground of gratitude regardless of who we’re with, what we believe, or what we’re having for dinner.
But when the meal is over, and everyone trots home, I hope that each of us takes one part of Thanksgiving with us, to enjoy daily, all year long. It’s the best part. It needs no cooking. All it needs is practice, slow daily practice. I’m talking about gratitude.
Hopefully, you’re already practicing gratitude. It’s not that hard to do.
I know some people who keep a gratitude journal. They take the time every day to write about the good in their lives. Maybe it’s something as simple and as subtle as the warmth of sunlight coming through a window. The specifics don’t matter; what matters is taking the time to notice the overlooked, appreciate small kindnesses, and celebrate resilience, beauty, and connection. They’re celebrating the things in life that matter to them–whatever those things might be, even on challenging days and through trying times.
Ironically, maintaining a gratitude journal doesn’t work for me. I prefer acknowledging my gratitude by metaphorically bowing to my blessings throughout the day.
It starts the moment I wake up to Ruby’s unconditional love—one that forgives bedhead and morning breath—and stays with me throughout the day, loyal companion by my side. ● Every day, I’m grateful for my dog.
It’s there when I look at my Fitbit to check my health stats or when I use my Smartphone to connect with the world or when I use ChatGPT to glimpse into the future unfolding before my eyes. ● Every day, I’m gratefulfor my technology.
It’s there in the small acts of self-care, from soaking in a warm tub to sipping Bunnahabhain Scotch, neat, as I write my blog posts in bed. These moments remind me to slow down and truly savor life. ● Every day, I’m grateful for my rituals that restore.
It’s there in the joy of seasonal celebrations, like Thanksgiving or my birthday, where meaningful meals and thoughtful traditions mark the passage of time. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the rhythms that shape my year.
It’s there in the legacy I’m building—mentoring others, inspiring through teaching, and leaving a lasting mark through my writing and endowed scholarships. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the chance to make adifference.
It’s there in my sense of humor, which allows me to find lightness in life’s challenges and keep my perspective balanced and grounded. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the gift of laughter.
It’s there in my endless curiosity, whether I’m exploring advances in AI or delving into Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research. These pursuits keep me engaged and growing. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the spark of life-longlearning.
It’s there in the sanctuary I’ve created in my home, nestled on a mountaintop—a place overflowing with peace, security, and the stories of my life. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the home that holds me tight.
It’s there in the memories of family and friends—those I loved and sometimes lost, yet whose love continues to buoy me. Their presence lingers in the stories we shared, the lessons they taught, and the warmth they left behind, reminding me that love endures beyond time. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the love that never leaves me.
It’s there in the joy of cooking, whether I’m perfecting a recipe, having friends in for dinner, or conjuring up new ways to use up my sourdough. ● Every day, I’m grateful for getting turnedon in my kitchen.
It’s there in my health and active lifestyle, in the moments spent biking, gardening, or simply moving through the day with energy and purpose. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the strength to keep on keeping on.
It’s there in my connection to nature, whether I’m tending peonies in the garden or reflecting on life’s deeper truths. ● Every day, I’m grateful for all the lessons of the earththatreachup, grabme, andmakemetakenotice.
It’s there in the purposeful work I do, from my research projects to my blogging to my public speaking, which bring fulfillment and meaning to my days. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the power of purpose.
It’s there in all my hopes and dreams—for myself, for my family, my friends, and for the Earth that is my home. It’s in the vision of a brighter tomorrow, a kinder world, and a deeper connection to the beauty around me. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the possibilities that lie ahead.
It’s there in my spiritual growth and the personal transformation that comes from understanding interconnectedness and embracing life’s deeper mysteries. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the wisdom toseekguidance.
It’s there in the freedom to live authentically, to be true to who I am in my work, relationships, and values, with courage and joy. ● Every day, I’m grateful for the life I’m living.
These moments of gratitude don’t just enrich my days—they also shape who I am and how I move through the world.
My moments of gratitude, both small and profound, create a steady foundation for my life.
My moments of gratitude remind me that gratitude isn’t reserved just for special occasions like Thanksgiving but can be with me every day.
My moments of gratitude keep me singing a happy song all day, even on days that are challenging and trying.
My moments of gratitude boost my happiness and my optimism, and they nurture my positive mindset.
My moments of gratitude help me appreciate others, and they strengthen my relationships. When I make others feel good, I feel better.
My moments of gratitude prompt me to take better care of myself always and in all ways.
My moments of gratitude keep me resilient by helping me accentuate the positives, even in the face of setbacks.
My moments of gratitude foster a glass-full outlook on life and remind me that my worth is defined not by others, but by how I live each moment.
Together, these moments of gratitude create a life filled with meaning and joy. It doesn’t take a holiday or a feast to remind me—it’s there, every day, in the small and the grand, in the fleeting moments and the lasting impacts. And here’s the beauty of it all: gratitude is a practice we can all share. So why not start today? Pause, look around, and bow to the blessings in your life. They’re already there, waiting for you to notice—and for you to give daily thanks.
“You can’t break something that’s already broken, but you can always build something new.“
–Yoko Ono (b. 1933; best known for her avant-garde art and her influence in the peace movement alongside John Lennon.)
The pieces are on top of a bookcase, and they’ve been there for a month or so. Every time I walk past, I see them, five torn pieces of paper boasting blue, picked up from the floor after my dog finished her clandestine mischief.
Once upon a time, I would have just thrown the paper scraps away. This time, I didn’t. This time, I’ll take my time to put the pieces back together.
Here’s why. What Ruby tore apart and left behind for me to find was an important family recipe. Imagine an exquisitely moist applesauce cake replete with raisins, pecans, and candied cherries, baked in a pressure cooker. My mother made the cake every year a few weeks before Christmas, and it was one of my favorites. I haven’t had one of those cakes in decades, maybe longer.
Lately, I’ve had a hankering for that cake, and I’ve searched all over the Internet for the recipe, not remembering that I had it already. My mother had given me the recipe. One day, while looking for something else, I found the full-page recipe with ingredients and instructions, all in her gentle cursive.
I’ll do my best to piece that page together again, hopefully with enough precision that I can read the full recipe. The page, of course, won’t be the same. It never can be. Ironically, it will take on even more meaning because I cared enough to mend it and put it back together. Even though it will always show its brokenness, it will still be my mother’s recipe in her handwriting on her paper. I’ll bake the cake when Christmas nears, and I fully believe that it will be the best one ever because it will have an extra scoop of love.
This is not the first time that I’ve mended the broken.
I’m thinking of a sculpture in my living room. Its earthy tones reflect seamlessly into the highly polished cherry coffee table. The sedimentary rock reveals the raw beauty of erosion and time, with jagged edges and smooth, wave-like ridges suggesting years of elemental force, reminders of the rock’s enduring strength. The fissures, winding through the top, were not there when my late partner gave me the sculpture. But a month or so before Allen’s death, he stumbled against it, and there it lay on the coffee table, shattered brokenness. It stayed there, a daily reminder of fragility and brokenness. Time passed, and I mustered up the courage to artfully glue it back together, its fissures now seemingly an integral part of the rock, adding an almost mystical feel. It’s still on my living room coffee table. It’s still very much alive and reminds me of Allen’s presence.
I had another encounter with the beauty of brokenness years earlier. I had built a graceful, curved walkway on the east side of my home, near the Koi Pond. I wanted to maintain a natural rustic look, so I made the walkway out of large, rectangular natural stone pavers, stabilized by the very earth itself. I leveled the ground as I put the pavers in place, making sure they didn’t move when stepped on. When I finished the 60-foot stretch of walkway, I decided to test its stability by jumping on each paver. When I landed on the second paver from the end, I heard a crack. I looked down and could see a fissure running through the center. I looked beneath the two pieces and discovered a rock, small enough to escape my searching eyes when leveling the paver but large enough to cause brokenness. My immediate reaction was to replace the paver. But I had second thoughts. It still functioned as an integral part of the walkway, and if I widened the fissure just a little and filled it with soil, it might even add a sense of age and character, especially when small patches of grass and weeds started to grow through the crack, proclaiming nature’s power to take back what we think is ours.
My decision to repair what was broken in these three instances was influenced directly by Kintsugi, the centuries-old Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the breaks with a lacquer that’s mixed with silver, gold, or even platinum. The intent, obviously, is not to disguise the brokenness but rather to celebrate its repair and survival, believing that the broken can be mended, made stronger, and remain useful and purposeful.
It seems to me that we can all benefit from an important lesson, whether it be found in broken Japanese art, a broken paver, a broken sculpture, or a broken recipe. The essence of being is being broken. The strength of being is the power of repairing the broken. The virtue of being is valuing and celebrating brokenness.
Let’s face it. As human beings, we are all flawed and broken. It seems to me that if we can repair our broken objects and continue to see their value and their beauty, so too can we repair the broken parts of our own lives.
In our personal lives, we’re destined to encounter moments of fracture—relationships that crack, trust that falters. It’s easy to walk away and to discard the pieces. But when something matters—when love, friendship, or family is at stake—mending becomes an act of grace. It is in the careful work of rebuilding that we find deeper connections and more profound love.
Similarly, in our professional lives, we are not immune to failure. Our careers break under the weight of expectations, and our ambitions sometimes shatter. But brokenness does not mark the end of a career; it marks a turning point. The effort to repair, to rebuild, to piece together what once was, shapes not just our work but our purpose.
And in our spiritual lives—our most intimate, vulnerable selves—there are moments of doubt, of disconnection, of feeling broken. Yet, like ancient pottery, our spiritual cracks are not meant to be hidden. They are to be filled with light, with the gold of wisdom, faith, and renewal. It is through our brokenness that we find our way back to our wholeness.
What is broken can be mended. What is flawed can be made beautiful again. The cracks, the breaks—they are part of the story. And for the things that matter most—our relationships, our work, our spirit—they are worth every moment of care, every act of patience, every effort to repair and restore so that we can celebrate beauty in brokenness.
“The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.”
–Attributed to Mark Twain (1835-1910; one of America’s most celebrated writers and humorists; often referred to as the “father of American literature.”)
By now, MyDearReaders, you know more about me than you should, including the titillating fact that I keep everything. I mean everything. I do. If you doubt me or if you have forgotten my-way-too-personal disclosures, check out “My Taxing Review: A Reality Post” or “OHIO on My Mind,” but not until you finish reading this post. Until then, you’re mine, all mine. I want to keep you to myself. Stay put and relax while I tell you about something I’ve held on to without even knowing that I was holding on to it.
I realized just the other day that I was getting an outlandish number of emails from companies, foundations, and organizations, just because I gave them my email address eons ago, simply to get that 15% discount or simply to get a freebie by donating to a good cause. Over time, “DELETE” became my morning email mantra simply because it never occurred to me that I could stop getting those no-longer-wanted and no-longer-valued emails simply by clicking on UNSUBSCRIBE.
UNSUBSCRIBE. Can you imagine. Is that a brilliant solution or what? Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy, right? Wrong. More like stressed, depressed lemon zest.
Sometimes, though not too often, unsubscribing is easy. The option appears prominently right at the top of the email.
More often than not, however, I have to work really hard at unsubscribing. More often than not, the option appears hidden amongst all kinds of other options at the very end of the screed that I didn’t want to read anyway. Even then, the option to unsubscribe is in a smaller font requiring a magnifying glass, or it’s in an entirely different color font, almost always so light that it’s impossible to read. And get this. Sometimes, I don’t have a clear unsubscribe option at all. Sometimes, I blaze my way to unsubscribe by clicking on the preferences option.
Unsubscribing, as a rule, is anything but straightforward. Even after finding my way there, I have to confirm that I really do want to sever the tie that I had been holding on to. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice.
I cannot help but wonder what other areas in our lives we might want to think twice about before taking action.
What about things we often say things to friends in moments of emotion or impulsiveness, forgetting that words can have lasting impacts.
● “I’m too busy right now.”
● “I don’t really care what you do.”
● “I don’t know why I’m even friends with you.”
Perhaps if we paused and considered the weight of our words, we could strengthen our friendships rather than strain them.
Or consider the dynamics of family relationships, where familiarity sometimes leads us to make careless remarks.
● “I’ll call you later.” (But never do.)
● “Why can’t you be more like …?”
● “You’ve always been a disappointment to me.”
Perhaps we need to pause for a moment to remember that our words can either heal or hurt, especially with those closest to us.
Let’s not forget our professional environments where words can carry significant consequences, especially with our boss.
● “I’ll get to it when I can.”
● “That’s not my job.”
● “I think you’re making a big mistake.”
Perhaps we need to pause and remember the powerful importance of tact and diplomacy when communicating with authority figures.
Also, I wonder about our constant self-talk, especially when we become our own harshest critics.
● “I can’t believe I messed that up.”
● “I’m not good enough for this.”
● “I’m not lovable.”
Perhaps we need to think twice before engaging in negative self-talk and instead replace it with a kinder, more supportive internal dialogue that sends us a strong, empowering message.
Finally, what about thinking twice before questioning or challenging our higher spiritual and philosophical beliefs?
● “I don’t know if you’re really there.”
● “Why is this happening to me?”
● “I’ve lost all faith.”
Perhaps we need to pause and approach our beliefs with respect and thoughtfulness in a way that fosters a sense of reconciliation and growth.
Oh. There’s one more thing that I’ve noticed. More often than not, the last thing that happens when unsubscribing is a pop-up window, sighing:
“Sorry to see you go, but if you change your mind …”
It seems to me that if foundations, organizations, and companies are willing to have us back after we unsubscribe from their mailing lists, then surely our friends, our family, our boss, and our Higher Being, will welcome us back into the fold as well. And with any luck, we’ll even come to understand that we are worthy and welcome unto our very selves.
One thing’s for sure. The next time I consider unsubscribing—from an email or a relationship—I’ll remember the power of pausing before acting. And if I act in a way that I later regret, I’ll remind myself that our relationships, like our subscriptions, can often be mended with effort and humility.
Down and dirty and pumped. Yep. That’s what I am. And I’ve had one helluva good time getting there. For the last week or so, I’ve been manhandling the garden that I moaned and groaned about in “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”
Remember? I was working in my 70-foot garden, a serene haven that runs along the east side of my home. The garden starts with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into a Koi Pond and ends with a towering granite Pagoda. A flagstone walkway curves between these two focal points, with a bog garden on one side, originally full of Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Cardinal Flower and Pond Sedge, and a specimen garden on the other, showcasing Clumping Bamboo, Hinoki Cypress, Flowering Crabapple, and more.
It was everything I ever wanted in a small garden—until the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo began taking over. Then, it became something that I … never wanted.
At first, I thought cutting back the invasive plants would solve the problem, but they kept returning, seemingly stronger each time. The roots were thriving beneath the surface, undeterred by my efforts. Now, I faced a choice: keep battling the tops or dig up the deep, stubborn roots once and for all.
I made the right choice, the only one for me. I decided to do the hard work now and reclaim my garden.
I knew right away that I needed the big guys to get the job done. The first was my 40-inch, fiber-glass-handle trenching spade. It’s lightweight but has a penchant for heavy-duty roughness. With a backstep that provides increased leverage, it’s perfect for getting beneath the roots and lifting them out.
The second is a handheld, dual-headed, carbon steel big guy. It’s great to use when I’m sitting on the ground, really getting down and dirty, digging up roots that the spade didn’t lift out. One head is a pick that goes deep with every thrust; the other, a fork that yanks out mass roots with every pull.
I’ve been putting both big guys to good use for the last week or so, during which time I’ve learned a lot about roots.
First, roots grow in places that I didn’t even know existed. Imagine it, and I can find roots there. Second, roots can be long, really long. I’ve dug out some that were even 10 feet long. Most have been around 3 or 4 feet. Third, roots love to grow beneath flagstone pavers, beneath rocks, and even in and amongst roots of other plants, making the smell of Theodore Roethke’s “Root Cellar” a reality:
“Shoots dangled and drooped, Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates, Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes. And what a congress of stinks!”
Fourth, roots grow in clay and rubble where nothing else would dare stake out a claim to life on less-than-meager fare.
Even though I’ve learned a lot, it’s been drudgery. By the end of a day’s work–a kind of outdoor dirt prayer–my hands feel arthritic from sustained gripping, and my blue jeans are knee- and butt-dirty from kneeling and sitting. But I do what I do not only to control the roots and but also to give me the fleeting assurance that they don’t control me.
I won’t tell you about other things that happened while digging up roots, like adding scalloped stone edging along the walkway or relocating a granite pagoda lantern to a slightly higher spot or popping in a new evergreen shrub or three here and there to brighten the fresh layer of pine bark mulch.
And if I’m not going to tell you about all of those enhancements, then I’m certainly not going to tell you about how open and expansive my specimen garden feels now, with all the Bamboo and Pond Sedge gone–tops above and roots below. I know. I know. It’s no bigger than it ever was, but it looks twice as big as ever.
But don’t worry. I’ve got some important observations that I’m about to share with you. They’re important to me, and, hopefully, they’ll resonate with you, too.
For starters, I’m delighted that I had the daring-do to tackle root removal of this magnitude. Even though I still have more work to do, I sprawl out on the ground from time to time, celebrating what I’m accomplishing, knowing that in gardening, as in life, superficial fixes won’t solve deep-rooted problems. Just like with my invasive plants, truly eliminating an issue requires getting to the root of it. Whether in health, relationships, career, or broader societal issues, confronting and removing the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives.
But get this. As I sprawl in celebration, I do so modestly. I claim no victory. I know that these roots run deep. I know that these roots run wherever they’re inclined to run. I know that remnants of these roots remain, and that probably by the end of this season, Bamboo and Pond Sedge will sprout up here and there all over again. I know that these roots have a tenacious hold.
Those gardening observations remind me that even though roots–literal and metaphorical–may need to be removed when they cause problems, most of the time, roots are essential anchors that ground us.
I’m thinking, for example, about my love of the outdoors. My connections to nature and the environment serve as a grounding force, offering me peace, perspective, and a sense of renewal. Those roots go back to my childhood and even further back to generations of farmers who make up my heritage. Even during periods of my life when I lived in cities, I always found ways to allow the natural world to dig deep into the fiber of my being.
Or here’s another example. My love of cooking. It runs in my family, including my father and my brothers. We felt as much at home over the kitchen stove as we did anywhere else. Let me add to that our love of ethnic foods. I can trace those roots back to my childhood and my cultural heritage in the coal camps of Southern West Virginia. Our little town was a melting pot of nationalities, and everyone shared recipes with one another. Greek Green Beans. Hungarian Chocolate Potato Cake. Caribbean Souse Meat. Polish Cabbage Rolls. Italian Gnocchi. Jewish Latkes. Those ethnic foods and many others continue to tease my palate and provide a sense of belonging.
Or what about the roots that anchor my simple philosophy of life? I believe in the inherent goodness of life, all life. I believe that life is purposeful. I believe in life’s thrust toward greatness. When I look into my metaphorical mirror, I always say, “Every day in every way, I grow a little better.” Those principles—learned in childhood—have always directed my actions and my choices, and they continue to help me navigate my life.
Even when it comes to my notion of community and social connections, my roots run deep. From childhood, I learned to value and embrace diversity, equity, and inclusion. It’s part of who I am. I like to think that I have always been sensitive to race, ethnicity, gender identity, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, religious beliefs, age, and other unique variations that make us human. Because of those roots, I like to think that regardless of where I might be in the world, I will always enjoy a sense of belonging, and I will always lend a helping hand to those around me.
Also, my work ethic has deep roots. I was born into a working family, and I grew up in a working community. Everyone worked, and, equally important, everyone enjoyed working. Working is what we did. I’ve shared before–and I’ll share it again–the little poem that I cut my teeth on:
“If a job is once begun, Never leave until it’s done. Be its labor, great or small, Do it well or not at all.”
Later on in school, one of my history teachers reminded me and my classmates regularly of the Biblical proverb, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Her voice echoes still. Even today–after a 25-year federal career and a subsequent 23-year teaching career–I’m reinventing myself, working as much now as ever. Work continues to give me stability, purpose, and a sense of accomplishment. I have every expectation that I will work forever and beyond.
My education and learning roots run deep, too. Even though I grew up in the coal fields of West Virginia, I had some of the best educators in the world, formally and informally. Because of them, I came to believe that an education allows anyone to do anything and to go anywhere. I came to believe that an education is the best investment ever, knowing that it will never depreciate and knowing that no one can ever take it away. I came to believe that learning is lifelong, requiring little more than an inquiring mind focusing on the 5 W’s of writing and journalism: Who, What, When, Where, and Why. What a powerful and empowering foundation for growth.
Personal resilience is a root for me as well, always anchoring me during challenging times. I believe in the power to adapt and grow in any circumstance. I practice what my mother taught me, “Bloom where you’re planted.” I’ve spent a lifetime doing just that. My childhood dream of becoming a college professor was deferred until I turned fifty. Nonetheless, I thrived during those intervening years and had a distinguished career at the Library of Congress. Those 25 years paved the way for me to become a college professor and helped make me the educator that I became.
Intertwined with it all, of course, are the roots of my faith and spirituality. Both have always played a role in my life. My mother was a fundamentalist minister and prayer warrior whose influence on my life is immeasurable. I have always felt that my life was governed by an Unseen Hand, even in times when I was unaware that I was being led. It gives me a sense of connection and grounding, in all times but especially in times of uncertainty. Don’t ask me to explain the Unseen Hand. I’m not sure that I could even begin to do so, other than to celebrate my belief that my God is a big God who loves all creation and who embraces all creation.
So, there you have it. Roots. They anchor us, shape us, and sometimes challenge us. Whether in the garden, where I wrestle with the stubborn roots of Pond Sedge and Bamboo, or in life, where I draw strength from the deep roots of my beliefs, family, and experiences, they are always there. They remind me that while we may need to dig deep to address life’s challenges, we also need to nurture the roots that sustain us.
Every day, as I work in the garden or reflect on the day’s events, I’m reminded that roots are both the foundation and the framework of our lives. They’re what give us stability when the winds of change blow, what nourish us in times of need, and what connect us to the larger world around us.
And as I continue to tend to my garden, both literal and metaphorical, I know that I’m not just removing what doesn’t belong—I’m also nurturing what does. In the end, it’s the roots that keep us grounded, it’s the roots that keep us growing, and it’s the roots that remind us of who we are and where we come from.
Every day, in every way, I grow a little better—roots and all.
“Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness.”
— Thich Nhat Hanh (1926-2022; a Vietnamese Buddhist monk and peace activist known for his teachings on mindfulness and compassion.)
It all started a week or so ago. I remember with great clarity that it was on a Monday. I woke up feeling a weight around my neck, something I hadn’t noticed before. It was subtle but persistent, almost like wearing a heavy choker. At first, I tried to dismiss it, thinking it was just a minor inconvenience. But as the hours passed, the weight grew more noticeable. I felt uneasy, as if something was slightly off, casting a shadow over my thoughts.
The next day, the weight was unmistakable. It was heavier than I expected, plus it seemed to be tightening. Simple tasks became more cumbersome, and I became acutely aware of something that I could not escape. The burden started to affect my mood, causing frustration to build.
By the third day, the albatross felt like an anchor dragging me down. I was tired and irritable, and my patience was wearing thin. It seemed to point me toward a deeper problem or unresolved issue that I knew I shouldn’t ignore. Despair started to set in as I tried to identify the problem and figure out how to escape the torment.
Finally, on the fourth day, while relaxing on my deck in the early sunrise, the albatross looked at me, and in that fleeting glance, I saw the source of the nearly unbearable weight. Brace yourself. You might not believe what I’m about to reveal. Here goes. The weight was coming from the blog post that I was working on for the next Monday.
The realization stunned me. Actually, it mortified me. Here’s why. I knew exactly where I was going with the post, and I had drafted more than half of it. But get this. I didn’t like the opening paragraphs. I hadn’t liked them from the start, I kept telling myself day after day that those paragraphs would fall into place as I got closer to the post’s ending.
I was wrong. They didn’t fall into place, and I wasn’t willing to let that albatross hang around my neck any longer. I found myself saying out loud to myself as I sat there, sipping coffee:
“Give it up, Kendrick. Just give it up.”
I didn’t mean that I should delete the draft. I just meant that I should put it on the back burner until its time had come. As soon as I gave it up, the albatross that had become unbearable let go of me and flew away. I felt an immediate sense of lightness and relief. The burden that once felt insurmountable was gone, and I was overwhelmed by a wave of elation. I felt a profound sense of freedom. The contrast between the heaviness of the past few days and the newfound lightness made the relief even more exhilarating. I was finally free.
With the albatross gone, my mind was free to soar, and a brand-new idea for a post came to me immediately, filling me with renewed energy. As I continued sipping my coffee, I cobbled together a really rough draft of what I wanted the new post to become. All day long, I kept the post on my mental backburner. That night, in bed with my Smartphone in hand, I completed the post rather effortlessly and published it the following Monday: “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“
Letting go of the writer’s albatross that had been weighing me down for days allowed me to cue my own metaphorical vacay. Now, here I am sharing my specific challenge and my specific solution, hoping that it will speak to other writers out there. Sometimes, you simply have to let go of an idea that has possessed you if it becomes a deadly weight instead of wings that give flight. Letting go does not mean abandoning. It means putting the idea aside until it calls you back and begs you to give it the attention that you need to give it. The two of you–your idea and you as the writer–are the only ones who will know when the time is right.
In the end, letting go of the albatross allowed me to discover some new creative wings. By acknowledging the weight and releasing my grip, I freed myself to explore new ideas and approaches.
If you’re a writer, hold on to the truth that I have shared. Sometimes, the best way to make progress is to let go and cue your own vacay–embracing the freedom to create and enjoy the journey.
If you’re not a writer, reflect on this nugget of truth as well. It might help you, too. Just as a writer’s stubbornness can turn a blog post into an albatross, so too can our refusal to release emotional baggage turn relationships into anchors, holding us back from sailing into calmer waters. Or our insistence on controlling every detail turns projects into burdensome backpacks, weighing us down on the journey to success. And what about those stubborn habits we cling to, even when they no longer serve us? Don’t they become the equivalent of a ball and chain, hindering our progress toward a healthier, happier life? In each case, the albatross effect whispers a haunting question: What weight am I shouldering that’s keeping me from soaring? Sometimes, letting go of our personal albatrosses is the only way to find freedom.
Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge. May we all find the courage to release our albatrosses and let them fly away so that we might discover the liberating power of letting go.
“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”
–Albert Einstein (1879-1955; KNOWN FOR HIS MONUMENTAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO PHYSICS AND OUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE UNIVERSE WITH HIS THEORY OF RELATIVITY, E=MC².)
Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” a shocking celebration of sensuality and self, is one of my favorite literary works. I especially celebrate the spirit of the poem’s ending:
“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”
I can relate. Underyourboot-soles is exactly where you’ll find me after my time has come and my ashes are scattered.
Until then–hopefully far, far into the future–if you’re looking for me, you can find me outdoors, more likely than not weed whacking or working in one of my specimen garden beds.
Looking back, it seems to me that since early boyhood, I’ve been a wild child, outdoors communing with nature, usually in the garden, so much so that my family always knew where to find me. Even on the rare occasion when someone bruised my young, fragile feelings, I retreated quietly and without fail to the garden. My youngest sister’s high-pitched taunt still echoes in my ears as I recall stumbling over my lower lip while heading out the door:
“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms.”
At that tender age, I learned that being outdoors comforted and healed. It is one of my most important lessons, ever. Emerson expresses with eloquence the truth that dwelt within my young boy’s soul:
“In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, — he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me” (“Nature,” 1836).
Down through the years, I’ve learned many other life-lessons in the garden, and from time to time, I’ve shared those lessons with you here.
Other posts about gardening can be found, too. If you unearth them, you will see that they all sprang up from the same celebratory soil. As we garden, we cultivate not just plants, but also the very qualities that enrich our lives: resilience, interconnectedness, patience, and mindfulness, reminding us to tend to our own growth and flourish in harmony with the world around us.
On the surface, it seems that I have nothing more to learn from gardening. However, as a lifelong learner, I know better. This spring, for example, I had a new epiphany while gardening. It wasn’t anything monumental upon which cults and sects are built. But it was significant enough that I want to share it with you.
I was working in an east-facing garden bed, running the full length of my home from the kitchen door, past the guest bedroom, the master bath, and the master bedroom.
The garden is 70 feet or so long and 30 feet or so wide. It begins with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into the Koi Pond, and it ends with a towering granite Pagoda. Half-mooning its way between these two focal points is a flagstone walkway. On the narrow upper side is a bog garden, originally showcasing Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Bog Rosemary, Cardinal Flower, and Pond Sedge. On the wider side next to the house is a specimen garden with Clumping Bamboo across from the Koi Pond, a tall Hinoki Cypress, a Flowering Crabapple, a disappearing polished-stone fountain, an Alaskan Cypress, and a columnar White Pine.
It’s all that anyone would ever want a small garden to be.
But here’s the thing. When Allen and I put in the plants, we had no idea that the Pond Sedge, over time, would not only take over the bog garden but would also pop up in the specimen garden on the other side of the walkway. To make matters worse, we had no idea that the Clumping Bamboo would run wild all over the wide part of the garden.
It took many years before these two plants started popping up here, there, and everywhere. In fact, it wasn’t until this year that I had to own up to the harsh reality: the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo had invaded the garden so extensively that they threatened the well-being of the other specimen plants.
I bolted into action by mustering up my resolve to cut back all of the Pond Sedge and all of the Clumping Bamboo that had sprung up everywhere.
“There,“ I thought. “Not so bad after all.”
Wrong! It was worse than bad. Two weeks later, everything that I had cut back had popped up all over again, seemingly even stronger.
“Fine. I’ll cut it back again.”
In my mind, I thought that if I continually cut off the tops of the invasive plants, they would die because they would no longer have the source of their food supply.
Guess what? I was wrong once again. It’s now August, and I’m still cutting away the tops.
I’ve got options, of course, other than spectracides, which I loathe because of environmental impacts. I can put down barrier plastic, top it with mulch, and, eventually, the roots will die. Candidly, I don’t like that choice because I will be mindful that the roots are still there, lurking beneath the surface. That leaves me with one course of action: go ahead and do the back-breaking needful and dig up the roots now.
It’s sad, but it’s very true. I can cut back the tops over and over again, but the roots will still be there, not only spreading and intertwining but also running deeper and deeper.
As I tackled my gardening problem, I had a realization. To get rid of my invasive Clumping Bamboo and my invasive Pond Sedge, I have to get to the source of the problem. I have to find and remove the roots.
I chuckled–perhaps you will too–because I had not actually had a realization at all. I had simply had a gardening reminder of a concept that I learned decades ago.
You’re probably aware of it, too. But in case not, brace yourself. I’m not making this up. It’s a concept called Root Cause Analysis (RCA).
It’s not a new concept, either. Identifying underlying causes–root causes–dates back to ancient Greece, with philosophers like Aristotle who discussed the idea that fixing a problem requires identifying the fundamental causes.
Today, RCA is widely used across industries to find and resolve the underlying causes of problems, errors, and incidents, rather than just treating the symptoms. For instance, in healthcare, it’s used to analyze medical errors and improve patient safety by identifying systemic issues. In manufacturing, it helps pinpoint the causes of defects in production lines to enhance quality control. Similarly, in information technology, it’s employed to troubleshoot recurring system failures, ensuring long-term solutions rather than quick fixes.
If it works in industries, then it seems to me that it can have powerful applications in our personal lives as well. Actually, it seems to me that it can be applied to every area of life. It’s about digging deeper to uncover the true sources of our challenges rather than just addressing superficial symptoms. When we understand the root cause, we can make real, lasting changes.
Take health and well-being, for instance. When we feel run-down or stressed, it’s tempting to just blame it on a busy schedule. But what if there are deeper issues at play? Maybe it’s a lack of balance between work and rest, or perhaps unresolved emotional stress. By identifying the root causes of our health concerns, we can make more informed choices—whether that’s changing our lifestyle or seeking support—and improve our overall well-being.
Or what about our relationships with others? When tensions rise or communication breaks down, it’s often because we’re reacting to surface-level problems without understanding the deeper issues. Maybe there’s an unspoken fear or past hurt that’s influencing our actions. By addressing these underlying issues, we can build stronger, more authentic connections with those we care about.
We can even apply the concept to our professional lives to help understand why we’re not feeling fulfilled or why a project isn’t succeeding. Are we in the wrong role, or is there a lack of support in the workplace? Understanding the root causes of our career challenges allows us to take steps toward greater satisfaction and success.
On a broader scale, what about using the concept to tackle societal and environmental issues. Complex problems like poverty or climate change can’t be solved with quick fixes. They compel us to look at the underlying causes—like systemic inequality or unsustainable practices—and tackle them head-on. It’s only by understanding these root issues that we can create meaningful change.
Even in our spiritual lives, the concept can help us understand why we feel disconnected or adrift in our beliefs. Are there doubts or unresolved questions that need exploration? By examining the root of our spiritual struggles, we can embark on a journey toward deeper understanding and connection with our faith or spiritual practices.
These are just a few ways my gardening lesson of getting to the root of the problem can be a powerful tool for uncovering the truth behind life’s challenges. Whatever you are facing–and, at any given time, I’m confident that each of us is facing something that we want to fix or improve–I urge you to be determined enough and bold enough to go beyond the surface. But be forewarned. When we go beneath the surface into nooks and crannies where we’ve never gone, we find darkness darker than any we’ve ever experienced. But confronting the darkness in life is the only way that we can shine light on solutions that are not only effective but also lasting. Whether it’s our health, relationships, career, societal issues, or spirituality, dealing with the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives. Cheers to the hard work of digging deeper and making changes that truly matter in our lives.
The Wired Researcher 