Tag Archives: Personal Growth

Finding Love Later in Life—Baggage and All

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“There is no remedy for love but to love more.”

—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862; American philosopher, naturalist, and writer whose reflections on love, like his views on life, emphasize depth, authenticity, and resilience.)

Trust me: I can’t sing. I can’t hit the high notes. I can’t hit the low notes. Honestly, I’m not even sure I recognize the notes. But that doesn’t stop me from trying, and when my vocal efforts disappoint even me, I just switch to humming and keep right on going.

I’ve been doing that a lot for the last few days, I guess because February is the month of love, and, at 77, I have a large repertoire of love songs filed away mentally in my jukebox of melodies, most from the 1960s when my teenage head was full of love notions.

I’m thinking of songs like Ben E. King’s “Stand by Me,” The Crystals’ “Then He Kissed Me,” The Beatles’ “And I Love Him,” Sonny & Cher’s “I Got You Babe,” and The Bee Gees’ “To Love Somebody.”

I could croon on and on with those golden oldies. But right now, I’m thinking of one that was released on November 21, 1961, the day after I turned fourteen. It’s Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love”:

Wise men say
Only fools, only fools rush in
Oh, but I, but I, I can’t help falling in love with you

[…]

Take my hand
Take my whole life too
For I can’t help falling in love with you
For I can’t help falling in love with you

Those lyrics capture a truth about love that we’ve all experienced and know first-hand. When Cupid shoots his arrow, you’re filled with uncontrollable desire. You just can’t help yourself. You’re a goner.

Here’s another thing to consider.  Cupid strikes at times when you least expect it and in places where you’d never dream. Remember Manfred Mann’s “Do Wah Diddy Diddy”?

There he was just a-walkin’ down the street, singin’
“Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do”
Snappin’ his fingers and shufflin’ his feet, singin’
“Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do”
He looked good (Looked good)
He looked fine (Looked fine)
He looked good, he looked fine
And I nearly lost my mind

Lord knows he looked mighty fine to me. Lord knows, too, that I lost my mind, many a time, in those days. When nothing came of my uncontrollable desires, I just hummed another classic love song, “Some Day My Prince Will Come”:

Some day my prince will come
Some day I’ll find my love
And how thrilling that moment will be
When the prince of my dreams comes to me
He’ll whisper, I love you
And steal a kiss or two
Though he’s far away
I’ll find my love some day

All of those lyrics are spot on, and you know why as well as I do.

When you’re young, you’re convinced that your prince will come.

When you’re young, you fully believe that he’ll come a-walkin’ down the street, right toward you. When he passes, he’ll look back to see if you’re looking back to see.

When you’re young, you’re so full of yourself that you’re not about to listen to all the wisdom in the world pleading with you not to rush into love, telling you that only fools are brazen enough to do so.

When you’re young, you’re certain that you’re ready to love, ready to find your soulmate, and ready to offer up your whole life. Why not? Your whole life lies ahead of you as you lie in bed, dreaming about how sweet it will be when “I” becomes “We.” You create little mantras each beginning with We Can:

● buy our first home together, pick out furniture, argue over paint colors, and plant roots.

● build careers together, support each other’s ambitions, and figure out work-life balance.

● start a family (or not), decide whether to have children, get a pet, and shape a shared future.

● travel together, dream about Sedona and Scotland, and road-trip just because.

● make traditions, holidays, Sunday morning pancakes, little rituals that become “ours.”

● grow old together idyllically, just as English poet Robert Browning would have everyone do:

Grow old along with me!
 The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made.

All of these things feel right when you’re young because time is on your side. Love feels like an open road. And it is. More lies ahead than behind.

Trust me. I know. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. The love I shared with Allen was like a twenty-year fairy tale, even if it did come along later in life than I expected. But love doesn’t always last a lifetime. Sometimes, death claims it, as it did mine. Other times, it’s cut short by separation or divorce. And for some, it never arrives at all—not for lack of wanting, but because life has a way of unfolding differently than we imagined.

Now here’s where you have to work with me, especially if you’re an older person like me looking for love once more to round out life’s final act.

When you’re older, things are a little different. You’ve already bought your first home together, built careers together, started a family (or not) together, traveled together, made traditions together, and grown old together.

You get it, I’m sure. When you’re older, you’ve already done all of the We Can’s that you dreamt of when you were young. Those love feats shaped you, molded you, and will be with you forever. It’s your baggage, and even if you wanted to get rid of it you couldn’t. When you’re looking for love later in life, you realize that in all likelihood more lies behind you that ahead of you. No problem. Longevity is not guaranteed to anyone, not even the young. So, be bold and be willing to step into a bright new tomorrow with a brand-new lover, but as you do, be ready to reconcile the past, yours and his.

It is possible to do that, you know. I’m thinking of a famous American short story where the protagonist is able to reconcile four past lives that ironically come together in ways that cannot be avoided. In Edith Wharton’s “The Other Two” (1904), it happens with an almost comedic inevitability.

Waythorn, a successful businessman in his late 30s, has just married Alice, a poised and pragmatic woman in her mid-to-late 30s, twice divorced with a 12-year-old daughter. He assumes her past is neatly behind her—until it isn’t. First, he finds himself dealing with Haskett, Alice’s first husband, a quiet, working-class man likely in his late 40s or 50s, who remains involved in their daughter’s life. Then comes Varick, Alice’s second husband, a smooth and socially active businessman in his 40s, who reappears through business dealings.

Before long, all three men find themselves in the same room, sipping tea like old acquaintances, their lives inextricably linked by Alice. What should be unsettling instead becomes an exercise in adaptation. Waythorn comes to accept that Alice isn’t burdened by her past—she’s shaped by it. Indeed, she has baggage—but baggage is just another word for experience, and experience, he realizes, isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Waythorn may not have married an untouched ideal, but he has married a woman seasoned by life—poised, pragmatic, and undeniably her own person.

I’m thinking, too, of a more recent literary work where the protagonists must reconcile their pasts as they navigate love later in life. In Elizabeth Strout’s Olive, Again (2019), it happens with an almost startling inevitability.

Olive Kitteridge, in her 70s, has spent a lifetime being sharp, independent, and sometimes difficult. She’s lost her husband, Henry, and has settled into widowhood, resigned to a future of solitude. Then along comes Jack Kennison, a retired Harvard professor, also in his 70s, widowed, stubborn, and carrying regrets of his own. They meet hesitantly, two people who never expected to find companionship again, both acutely aware that their pasts don’t just vanish with a new beginning.

Their baggage doesn’t disappear; it sits beside them at the table. Olive and Jack don’t have the luxury of youthful romance, where love is a blank slate. Instead, love at their age requires a different kind of bravery. Not the reckless kind of “jump in and build something new,” but the quiet courage of “I accept you, scars and all. Can we walk forward together?” And somehow, despite everything that came before, they do.

Isn’t that something? Love can come even later in life—maybe even for me. I’ll carry my baggage with me, including Allen’s love that can never be replaced. And let’s face it: if the man I fall in love with as we write our final chapters together is the right fit for me, he knows that Allen can’t be replaced. He accepts it because he has his own past loves, too, and I will accept them. More importantly, he knows that he and I can have a brand-new love, unique and special, unlike any love that either of us has ever enjoyed in the past.

For now, I just can’t help myself. I’m in a Do-Wah-Diddy-Diddy place in my life—hopeful, open, humming along. And why not? Love has found its way to others, even when it seemed unlikely. I am confident that my prince will come.

Maybe love won’t come the way it did when I was young, but I know this: the heart doesn’t close with age, and mine is still wide open as I keep reminding myself that love is all about:

● knowing the past is always present—but choosing to love anyway.

● making space at the table, even if there are ghosts.

● finding someone whose baggage complements my own.

● laughing over dinner, even if we’ve both told the same old stories before.

● realizing that February isn’t just for the young.

● looking ahead, even when there’s more behind.

Perhaps, most important of all is this: believing that it’s still possible to find love later in life–baggage and all.

Too Big to Handle

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“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass but about learning to dance in the rain.”

—Vivian Greene (American author and motivational speaker who focuses on themes of personal growth, resilience, and embracing life’s challenges.)

Winter settled in early here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Its chill, chillier. Its still, stiller. With night temps below zero and day temps hovering in the teens and twenties, my mountain road became ice layer upon ice layer. Snow still blankets the Great North Mountain Range across the valley, ridgelines shadowed, deep furrows of gray wrinkles defining sharp and rugged terrain lulled into surrender.

As I bring my glance closer to home, I see my wrap-around, snow-covered deck, and in the midst of the floating whiteness is a fire-engine-red hand cart.

I smile as it transports me to last year when my deck, always my above-ground oasis, became a special summer escape. I spent weeks getting down and dirty, scraping off years of deck paint and putting on new primer and new paint. It looked so beautiful that I decided to make it even more special than usual. I married lush greens and artful design, allowing nature and human craftsmanship to merge mid-air. The solid presence of four Adirondack chairs and matching lounger–rich burgundy slats with jet black frames–offered a ready invitation to sit, glide, recline, and be. The rugs defining the sitting areas–bursts of Oriental color and abstract design with blues, pinks, and golds–grounded the whole deck.

I won’t even blush by telling you that my plants last summer stole the show. My tall, stately night-blooming Cereus stretched upward as if trying to touch the sky, while elephant ears fanned outward, their broad, green leaves catching the light just so. The royal purple Musa banana plants, their wide leaves giving off a tropical vibe, reminded me daily that tropical life can flourish for a season, right here on my mountaintop deck. Tucked betwixt and between, smaller pots cradled succulents and geraniums and ferns, almost spilling into the space, their feathery fronds adding softness to the more structured, towering greens. For me, it all felt perfectly placed yet organic, as if my deck had become one with the natural world that surrounds it.

It’s my summer space to unwind, reflect, and listen to the rustle of the breeze, framed by the valley and mountains beyond. It always seems perpetually forever.

Yet, I always know that when fall arrives, my deck morphs into a transition space, caught between seasons. I always move the houseplants indoors, leaving behind scattered soil, stray leaves, and colorful rugs peppered with dirt—a stark contrast to the vibrant life that flourished there just a few days before the march indoors began.

I’ve always loved this parade of plants. I loved it more when I was younger, and my muscles could handle the massive ceramic pots and even larger plants that were a gardener’s eye candy. This past year, the plants seemed lusher, the pots seemed larger, and everything seemed heavier.

I realized that in order to keep the parade moving, I needed a hand cart to help with what had become too big to handle. The cart worked beautifully. Together, we moved the pots so that I could roll up the rugs and ready the deck for its long winter sleep.

When I finished, I left the fire-engine-red hand cart on the deck, right where it made its final lift. I wanted it to stand out, bold and purposeful, a conscious and constant reminder of the options I had when I discovered that the pots and plants on my deck were too big for me to handle.

In that moment, I could have decided that too big to handle was fate’s way of telling me to give up–to stop doing what I’ve spent decades doing; to stop enjoying what I’ve spent decades enjoying. I do not believe the season will ever come when I’ll sigh:

“Enough. I’m done.”

But if that season should arrive, I like to think that I will celebrate it triumphantly with all the notes my feeble gardener’s voice can warble.

Then again, I could have decided that too big to handle was a subtle nudge to scale back, to embrace smaller pots and smaller plants. I know that season may come when I’ll answer the call of the bonsai.

Standing there, however, I realized that too big to handle was not a defeat, but instead, it was an opportunity for me to get the job done differently.

You might be wondering why I didn’t decide to hire someone to move the pots and plants for me. If they’d been in the yard, I might have. To me, the deck is personal, even sacred. It’s me, myself, reaching out to touch the forest beyond and the sky above. The sky and forest reach back, their touch completing the connection. Somehow, the deck is me–one with the universe.

For now–and now is all that matters–I have my fire-engine-red hand cart, my ready ally, poised to see me into a new season and all that might seem too big to handle.

Handshakes from the Universe

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“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?

“Stop Looking, So You Can See Where You’re Going.”

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“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”

—Stephen Covey (1932–2012; leadership expert and author of the bestselling book The 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!

“Warn’t No Accident”

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“When you come to the edge of all that you know, you must believe in one of two things: there will be ground to stand on, or you will be given wings to fly.”

–Patrick Overton (b. 1948; American poet, author, and educator whose work explores faith, creativity, and the resilience of the human spirit.)

It wasn’t by chance that I found myself in a booth at a local diner one morning, sipping a modestly strong cup of coffee. A group of farmers crowded the table next to me, boots dusty from the fields, their voices low but carrying the kind of weight that makes you lean in without meaning to.

One of them, a man whose face looked like it had been sculpted by weather and years, paused, letting the heft of his story fill the air.

“Biggest snappin’ turdle I ever seed,” he declared, his voice carrying the awe of the moment.

“She was stuck in a pond, thick and still with mud, scorchin’ sun beatin’ down. Musta come up from the Shenandoaher to lay her eggs, but thar she was. Stuck. No way out.”

He stopped, shaking his head as if the memory had hold of him.

“Took me a 2×4, went in slow, pried her loose, gentle as I could. Watched her crawl off on her way back home.”

Then, with a solemnity that could rival any preacher’s, he took off his cap, held it tight, and looked at the others. His voice rose just enough to mark the words:

“It warn’t no accident I was thar when I wuz. Nope. Warn’t no accident.”

And in that moment, you’d have sworn the diner itself leaned in to listen.

I’d been leaning in all along, drawn by his words. How well I could relate. I started thinking about various times in my life when something seemed to magically reach out, take hold of me, and point me in the direction of home.

My mind slid back to 1965 when I was a senior in high school, beginning my college search. I applied to the University of Richmond and Marshall University, my first choices, but then Tom Bee from Alderson-Broaddus College (A-B) visited my school, and everything changed. He encouraged me to apply, I did, and the college offered me a scholarship package too attractive to resist, though I tried my best to do so. As if to convince myself that I would not pursue my education at my third choice, I decided to prove the point to myself by making a college visit.

I will always remember that summer day when we drove on campus. I’d arrived determined that A-B wasn’t the place for me. But then I saw it—Old Main, its stately presence rising over the hilltop plateau.

I stood there, framed by two Civil War-era cannons, gazing down at the winding Tygart River, its covered bridge linking the campus to the little town of Philippi. The scene was simple but breathtaking, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Beneath the expansive sky, surrounded by the campus’s serene beauty, a profound peace washed over me. In that timeless moment, as the sun cast a warm glow on the college, something deep within whispered: home.

It warn’t no accident.

That same sense of being guided resurfaced when my career path took an unexpected turn, thanks to a serendipitous nudge from someone who believed in me.

During my final summer as an A-B undergraduate, I interned in Washington, DC, at the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare’s Division of Two-Year Colleges. My supervisor, Dr. Roger Norden, was so impressed with my conscientious and dedicated work ethic that he initiated paperwork to appoint me to a full-time position. I extended my apartment lease, bought some new clothes, and basked in how well my education was paying off. A few days before my appointment was to become official, Dr. Norden called me into his office to share the sad news that I would not be appointed to the position after all because a hiring freeze was in effect.

His news hit me hard—I’d planned my future around that job. But seeing my disappointment, Dr. Norden offered a lifeline:

“Take your résumé up to the Library of Congress. It might be just the place for you. It’s a Legislative Branch agency, not impacted by the hiring freeze. With your degree in English, it might be the perfect place for you to work as an editor.”

That nudge led to a 25-year career at the Library of Congress, where I served in roles as an editor, training coordinator, and advisor to two Librarians of Congress. Each position deepened my connection to the Library’s mission and allowed me to contribute in ways I never imagined.

Looking back, I realize that moment in Dr. Norden’s office wasn’t just serendipity—it was part of a larger pattern of guidance, shaping the path I was meant to walk.

It warn’t no accident.

Looking back, each step seemed to prepare me for the next, even when I didn’t realize it at the time. When I turned fifty, I took an early retirement from the Library of Congress and relocated to my weekend home in the Shenandoah Valley. One dream, though, had lingered since childhood—the dream of becoming a college professor. That dream began to take shape one day as I was driving back from a consulting gig in DC.

I saw a sign that I had no doubt seen many times before, but this time, as the “Lord Fairfax Community College” exit drew near, I decided to stop and see whether I could talk with the head of the English Department about a teaching position.

To my surprise, the Dean of Humanities, Dr. Sissy Crowther, was free to meet with me. Impressed by my Ph.D. in American Literature and my editorial experience at the Library of Congress, she offered me the opportunity to teach Technical Writing and American Literature.

That meeting opened the door to a series of opportunities I could never have imagined. I became a full professor, fulfilling my childhood dream, and was challenged to teach in ways I never thought possible—dynamic Friday and Saturday classes, Virtual Learning, and even free Open Educational Resources I designed and curated myself. I co-advised an honor society, co-authored the college’s accreditation report, and worked alongside brilliant colleagues from throughout the commonwealth to redesign developmental English education across the Virginia Community College System.

Each of these opportunities built on the last, guided by mentors and colleagues who believed in me.

It warn’t no accident.

Looking back, I see how every step led me exactly where I was meant to be, and not just in my career. Sometimes life’s most unexpected gifts come when we least expect them.

I certainly never expected this gift. I was traveling and decided to stop for a bite at the only restaurant in town. Suddenly, across the parking lot, my eyes met his. In that moment, time stood still. There was a spark, an inexplicable connection that swept me off my feet and left me breathless.

That’s precisely what happened when my late partner and I met at Applebee’s. Our eyes locked, and in that instant, the world around us faded. There were no words, no explanations needed—just a clarity that this was it. Allen and I knew, without question, that our lives were meant to be shared.

Our twenty-year love story began with that electrifying connection, the kind that transcends logic and reason. Some might call it serendipity, others destiny, but I know this much:

It warn’t no accident.

The love Allen and I shared was a guiding light in my life, an anchor that grounded me and a compass that pointed me toward home. Even now, I can look back and see how every twist and turn in my journey brought me closer to him.

That sense of guidance has stayed with me, extending beyond love and career, to moments of quiet reflection in the natural world.

My mind is drifting back to one of my hiking adventures right here in Shenandoah County. As an experienced hiker, I knew all about the thoughtful process of placing trail markers to guide hikers without detracting from the natural beauty of the wilderness. Trail blazes are there to ensure hikers stay on course, marking key points such as the beginning and end of a trail, turns, and intersections along the way.

I had decided to hike Big Schloss, a popular trail in George Washington National Forest, where orange blazes guide hikers along the Mill Mountain Trail from the Wolf Gap Campground to stunning views at the summit. The trail begins steep, then narrows along the ridge, leading to a wooden walkway and the iconic rock outcrop—a perfect spot to pause and reflect.

As I hiked, I realized that I hadn’t been paying attention to the blazes, completely swept away by the terrain, the breathtaking views, and my own reveries. Just as a flicker of panic about being lost began to rise, I spotted a blaze not far ahead, quietly assuring me that I was still on the right path to my destination.

It warn’t no accident.

Looking back on these moments—some planned, others entirely unexpected—I see a pattern too intricate to be coincidence. Each twist and turn, each nudge and connection, feels like a deliberate part of a greater design, one I didn’t always see in the moment but have come to trust over time.

Some might call it luck, others fate, or even divine intervention. For me, it’s an Unseen Hand, guiding, steadying, and pointing the way forward.

Whether it was choosing a college, finding a career, falling in love, or hiking a winding trail, that presence has been there—quiet but constant, assuring me that I’m on the right path, even when I’ve felt lost.

It warn’t no accident.

Gratitude: The Best Dish on Your Thanksgiving Menu

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“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 grateful for 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 a difference.

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-long learning.

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 turned on 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 earth that reach up, grab me, and make me take notice.

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 to seek guidance.

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.

The News Is Here! Guess What? It’s Universally Good!

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We are all different expressions of one reality, different songs of one singer, different dances of one dancer.

–Swami Satchidananda (1914–2002; pioneering spiritual teacher who emphasized the unity of all religions and the interconnectedness of humanity, best known for founding Integral Yoga and promoting peace, love, and harmony globally.)

“Every cloud has a silver lining” is such a cliché that I’m appalled that I’m using it, no less at the beginning of my post. But I am. In a minute, you’ll understand why. For now, though, bear with me while I find out when the cliché was first used. Don’t run off! I’ll be right back after I consult my good friend, the Oxford English Dictionary (OED).

When I tell you what I found, you’ll be glad that you stayed. The expression started out as a truly original thought:

“Was I deceiv’d, or did a sable cloud Turne forth her silver lining on the night?”

That’s downright beautiful! Who gets the credit? John Milton. He used the phrase in Comus, his 1634 masque in which a virtuous Lady, lost in a magical forest, resists the temptations of the sorcerer Comus, the son of the wine god Bacchus and the sorceress Circe. With a combo like that, do I need to say more? Well, yes, I do, and I will. The “silver lining” in Lady’s dark cloud was the triumph of her chastity and inner strength over vice and deception. There. That says it all.

It took an understandably long, long time before Milton’s original thought veered off in the direction of becoming a cliché, thereby losing its impact. Let’s face it: most people would be challenged to remember Milton’s line, and if they did, they’d probably stumble over sable, perhaps not knowing that it means black or dark.

But don’t worry. Over time, the expression morphed into something more memorable and more understandable. More than two hundred years later, a variation appeared in Samuel Smiles’ Character (1871):

“While we see the cloud, let us not shut our eyes to the silver lining.”

Smiles was well-known for his self-help books, enshrining the basic Victorian values associated with the “gospel of work.”

Things started to speed up in the next decade, when an even more memorable version appeared in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado, or the Town of Tutipu (1885):

“Don’t let’s be down-hearted! There’s a silver lining to every cloud.”

That comedic opera went on to become one of the most frequently performed works in the history of musical theatre. Little wonder that the line became overused and stale.

And there we have it: the birth of a cliché, with a small amount of its genealogical baggage tossed in for free. How’s that for good news?

Since the rest of this post is free, too, you’re getting a double dose of good news today. Who knows. With luck, maybe you’ll get even more. I hope so.

As for your humble bearer of all this free good news, apparently, I’ve been spreading it for a lifetime. My mother always boasted that I was born smiling, and I’ve kept right on smiling for nearly 77 years. I can’t help myself. Optimism is one of my core values. I guess you might say that I’m hardwired for seeing silver linings. There you have it: my personal good news and my rationale for opening this post with a cliché.

I wish that I could take full credit for seeing life as positively as I do. But I can’t. I have to acknowledge my mother. I have no doubt that while she was carrying me in her womb, she was conjuring up all the positive attributes that she wanted her sixth child to possess, and I’m sure that in addition to her conjurations, she was casting equally powerful spells on me and others by singing Gospels and by reading, praying, and preaching the Bible.

It took me a few years before I could sing the songs, pray the prayers, or read the Bible–the vessels carrying the Good News that was at the core of my Judeo-Christian upbringing.

But that was not a problem for me. Reading was not required for me to find my own good news, here, there, everywhere–outdoors.

I found as much delight in whispering to the buzzing honeybee cupped in my hand as I did chasing with wild abandon the heifer on the run through the coal camp, as confident that it would let me lead it home as I was certain that the honeybee would not sting the hand that proffered love.

I found as much joy lying in the grass blowing dandelion seeds into the sun as I did racing between the pitter patter of raindrops or as I did in dancing off to the end of the rainbow, coal bucket in hand so that I could bring back home all the gold nuggets awaiting my arrival.

I found as much miracle in green beans poking their fragile-coated selves through the hardness of blackened coal-camp earth as I did in the sticky white pinkness of the Mountain Laurel outside our kitchen door, stretching toward blue, over the top of the house.

And when someone reached up to the top of the Hoosier kitchen cabinet and turned off the horizontally ribbed, off-white Philco radio, I found myself believing that whatever song was playing would keep right on playing when someone else turned it back on, and if it didn’t, I believed beyond any shadow of a doubt that an even more beautiful melody would lift me up.

I found that the child in me awakened every morning, always delighted and excited to be part of a brand-new day, every second of every day. I had no idea what the day would bring, but I was eager for it to start ticking, knowing that I would find joy in its unfolding.

It should come as no surprise that everyone called me Little Mr. Sunshine. The good news that I found all around me stamped its imprimatur of a joyful smile upon my countenance.

It should come as even less of a surprise that when I learned to read and entered into a fuller understanding of the world around me, I was pulled as if by gravity itself to Robert Frost’s poetry and his profound connections between nature and humanity. In those early years of studying Frost, it did not matter that I did not see his darker side, personally or poetically. All that mattered was that his poetry spoke to my heart and made me believe–no, know–that I was part of the universal scheme of things. I’m thinking of poems like “Birches” and the speaker’s desire to escape the complexities of adult life and return to nature’s purity. Or “Mowing,” in which the speaker meditates on the act of mowing a field, focusing on the simple, rhythmic, and satisfying–almost sacred–connection between human labor and the natural world. And I can’t leave out his “Tree at My Window” and its compelling opening stanza:

Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.

I could relate. I never wanted the curtain drawn between me and the outer world, and, for that matter, I never felt that it could be drawn because I saw the outer world and my inner world as one and the same.

I could relate even more when I discovered Walt Whitman who saw mankind as an integral and interconnected part of nature, celebrating the unity between the human spirit and the natural world, where every individual is both a unique expression of life and a vital element in the eternal, cosmic cycle. I could blindly open Whitman’s Song of Myself, letting my hand fall on any page that I might open, hoping to find validation and the positive connection between man and the cosmos–my source for the good news–confident that I would find it. Right now, I’m thinking of Section 6, where Whitman uses the leaf of grass as a symbol of the individual and the continuity of life:

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

The leaf of grass becomes a metaphor for the cycle of life, the interconnectedness of all living things, and the mysteries of existence. Whitman reflects on how the grass can represent everything from the handkerchief of God to the graves of the dead, expressing his belief in the unity of nature and humanity.

The notion that all living things share an interconnectedness clutches my heart and shakes my soul in jubilant celebration. I am one with all. All is one with me. I’m not certain that the news gets any better. But it does. Let me explain.

When I started reading the Bible–one of the major books in the world declaring the Good News–I saw multiple ways of looking at it. Without a doubt, I understood that many Christians focus on the Good News as God’s plan to save humanity through Jesus Christ’s death and resurrection, offering forgiveness of sins and eternal life to those who believe. I also understood that others emphasize the coming of the Kingdom of God, where Jesus’ teachings bring transformation in how we live, treat others, and build just communities. Some understand the Gospel as a message of unconditional love, grace, and acceptance, where God’s love is freely given to all, regardless of merit. For some, the Good News is also a message of personal renewal and transformation, where individuals are invited to grow spiritually, morally, and in relationship with God. For others, the Gospel is about challenging social injustices and bringing peace, equality, and care for the marginalized, aligning with Jesus’ teachings on compassion and service.

It can, of course, be all those things. At the same time, a leaning toward one in no way excludes or minimizes the others. But for me personally, central to the spirit of the Good News is the belief that better times are coming. That doesn’t surprise me at all. This belief goes hand-in-hand with my conviction that every cloud has a silver lining. The idea that better times are ahead—whether today, tomorrow, or forever and a day—is a powerful way for me to stay hopeful and to embrace the positive transformations happening in my life. It’s uplifting for me to frame my life and life in general that way, because it keeps the focus on growth and renewal.

This is where the news starts getting better. The spirit of the Good News, as I see it—focused on personal transformation, hope, and the belief that better times are coming—resonates in other major world religions. While the specifics differ, many religions share themes of renewal, hope, and the potential for positive change.

Judeo-Christian beliefs are rich in Jewish thought and teachings with its strong emphasis on hope, justice, and the idea of tikkun olam (repairing the world). Jewish teachings often stress that despite the suffering or hardships experienced, there’s always hope for better times, often through collective effort and living according to the Torah’s ethical principles.

Emerging after Judaism and Christianity is Islam, with hope and transformation expressed through the belief in God’s mercy and guidance. Muslims believe that turning toward God, following the teachings of the Quran, and striving to live a just and righteous life bring both inner peace and divine rewards. The idea of continuous improvement (through repentance and good deeds) mirrors the personal transformation that I see in the Good News.

Another ancient world religion, Hinduism, also emphasizes personal growth through karma (the law of action) and dharma (righteous living). The belief in reincarnation offers a hopeful outlook that the soul evolves over lifetimes, learning and growing until it achieves moksha (liberation).

Closely related is Buddhism, in which the concept of transformation is central. The Four Noble Truths recognize the existence of suffering, but the Eightfold Path provides a way to overcome it, leading to enlightenment and freedom from suffering (nirvana). There’s a strong focus on personal growth and cultivating a positive mindset through mindfulness and right action.

In the same spirit, Taoism focuses on harmony with the Tao (the Way), advocating for living in balance with the natural order of the universe. The Taoist view of life’s constant flow and transformation aligns with a hopeful perspective, trusting in the natural unfolding of life and the possibility for renewal and peace.

Indigenous Spiritual Traditions agree with some truths to be found in these other paths of wisdom as I see them. Although indigenous belief systems are more localized, generally, they share a reverence for nature, for spirits, and for the interconnectedness of all life.

Search the foundational books and the oral traditions of all these world religions–the Bible, the Torah, the Quran, the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, the Tripotaka, the Sutras, the Tao Te Ching, and the Zhuangzi--and you will discover that they are all deeply rooted in optimism, interconnectedness, and the power of personal growth. The wisdom of the world is that life is a web of connections–between nature, people, and the universe itself–moving outward in positive transformations.

I find comfort in knowing that the fire in me is in all, burning away the old in me, clearing space for new beginnings and transformation.

I find comfort in knowing that the rain that washes me washes all, rejuvenating, cleansing, nourishing, and purifying.

I find comfort in knowing that the wind that sweeps my face sweeps all, and elusive and unpredictable thought it might be, it blows in change, freedom, inspiration, and transformation.

I find comfort in knowing that the earth that anchors me anchors all, giving stability, permanence, and a connection to nature.

I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that live in me area are alive in everyone.

I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that surround in me are alive in all living things.

This is the Good News: in every faith, in every life, in every cloud, and in every clearing, there’s a silver lining. And that silver lining is universal. It’s hope. It’s renewal. It’s transformation. It’s better times ahead—for all of us. Together, one.

Beauty in Brokenness

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“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.

We Are Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On

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“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”

—William Shakespeare (1564–1616; an English playwright, poet, and actor, widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language. The quote is Prospero reflecting on the fleeting nature of life, The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1.)

Raindrops had been falling steadily all day, but I was determined to get a better glimpse. I pulled safely off the road and parked in a grassy area, hoping to turn my drive-by impressions into something more tangible.

Right across from me stood the nearly remodeled house at the corner of Gateway Lane. Its fresh gray siding gleamed against the misty afternoon, and the neat white trim on the roofline and windows gave it a crisp, modern edge. This clean contrast seemed to soften against the backdrop of the old, towering trees surrounding it. A small front porch, still under construction, wrapped around to the side, its bare framework waiting to cradle the entryway that would soon welcome visitors. The simplicity of the single-story structure was anchored by the earthy lawn and the gentle curve of the road, reflecting a quiet transformation. Even the steady rain couldn’t dampen the renewal unfolding before me.

But this remodeling was more than just a surface change. It had been going on for over a year, maybe longer. The house wasn’t just getting a facelift; it was being rebuilt from its very foundation. This wasn’t simply a matter of adding a porch or changing the siding from white to gray. The work was deep and structural, and that’s what had taken so long.

I remember when it all started. The house was suddenly surrounded by the relentless growl of a backhoe, its sharp metal teeth tearing into the earth around the foundation. Day by day, the trench grew deeper and wider, as if the house itself were being uprooted, its very stability pulled into question. Dirt piled high, and the house seemed to brace itself for the transformation ahead.

Then came the cinderblocks, stacked in neat, heavy rows, patiently waiting to reshape and fortify the foundation. The windows—the house’s eyes to the outside world—were ripped out, leaving dark, hollow spaces. They were hastily covered in sheets of plastic, which flapped and snapped against the wind on gusty days, as if the house were drawing deep, ragged breaths during its lengthy transformation.

Through it all, the house endured quietly, as if preparing for a rebirth beneath the dust and debris. The process dragged on, perhaps because the crew was never more than one or two people at a time. Sometimes, I wondered: Why not tear it down and build anew? Other times, I thought: Were the owners tied to the house by more than just bricks and mortar? Were they new buyers, envisioning profit from this modest fixer-upper?

Now, on this misty afternoon, as I admired the nearly completed house from my Jeep, I knew that soon—perhaps by Thanksgiving or maybe before the joy-filled month of December—someone would move into their new home. Someone had a dream, and now it was realized, born not just from superficial changes, but from all that’s required to make dreams come true.

As I became transfixed by the modest transformation in front of me, my mind’s eye gradually faded into a sharp focus of me, myself, chasing my own lifetime of dreams.

My dreams have been few in number but big in size. They’ve been big because I see dreams as different from the gazillion goals that I’ve set for myself down through the years, the things that I knew I could achieve in a day, a week, a month, a year, or even longer.

For me, dreams go far beyond goals. They overarch all else. They serve as a life-compass. They keep me oriented and aligned with my true North, my own authentic self.

From as early as five years old, I started dreaming on clouds, and my first cloud dream was bigger than my home, bigger than my coal camp, bigger than West Virginia, bigger than anything that I knew or could comprehend. I knew then something about myself that would shape my entire life: I was drawn to men, though I didn’t fully understand the depth of that attraction. Growing up in the late 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s in the Bible Belt South, with a fundamentalist minister for a mother, I quickly recognized that this truth about myself would be a challenge to navigate. In a world where the church preached that men like me were sinful, and where societal norms pressed in from every side, my dream was simple: to move forward, to stay true to who I was as a person, and one day, to live an openly gay life, free from ridicule and condemnation.

Back then, the idea of living openly wasn’t even something I could articulate fully. Yet the desire to live authentically, without having to hide a core part of who I was, remained my compass. I was too young to understand the full scope of what it meant to be gay, but I already knew that the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. All around me was the conflict of sin and salvation. Even as a child, I had a hope, a dream, that someday, the world, however big it might be, might allow me to live openly as myself, without fear.

That was my first big dream. One day, it came true. One day, though it was decades in coming, I was able to live openly as a gay man. One day, when I met my late partner, I discovered the power that two people experience when they surrender fully to true love. One day, Allen and I said our vows, exchanged our rings, and went on living our lives together, openly, as all people should be allowed to do. Through it all, my dream empowered me to maintain my authenticity.

My second cloud dream wasn’t as big as the first, but it was bigger than my home and bigger than my family. Influenced by my mother, the minister, I fell in love with language as a preschooler. Her sermons were magical, and I came to believe that her words held great power. Her Biblical research also fascinated me, as I watched her thumb through multiple Biblical commentaries, especially her treasured Matthew Henry Commentary on the Whole Bible, originally written in 1706. Her quiet, unseen research brought informed clarity to her interpretations, helping her with her sermons and helping her help others navigate their own spiritual journeys through the Bible. Without knowing it, her unpretentious research revealed to me the joy of discovery and exploring comparative meanings in a text. By the time I reached third grade, I had a dream not only that I would become an English professor but also that I would earn my Ph.D., become a published scholar, and make learning my lifelong companion.

Today, that’s not an unusual dream, but for me, the son of a coal miner and the first in his family to go to college, it was extraordinary. Even so, extraordinary dreams come true. One day, I earned my Ph.D. One day, I became a college professor. One day, I became a published author, not only of scholarly works but also of creative nonfiction essays. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to fulfill all of those things and, in addition, have a distinguished career at the Library of Congress? But it did. For a kid who grew up in a home with just a handful of books and in a town with no library, it was beyond imaginable that I would spend a quarter of a century working in an institution with “all the books” and giving human resources advice to two Librarians of Congress. Who would have dreamt that nearing eighty, my dream would still be propelling me toward learning? But it does. I’m as turned on now by learning as I was turned on by words when I was a child, but these days I’m hyped by Artificial Intelligence (AI) and my belief that we can harness its power to make us better than we are. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to taste “the good life” without ever making it a priority? But it did. The material comforts, joyful and meaningful career engagements, loving relationships, physical and spiritual well-being, and belonging to rich and diverse communities fell into place.

My third dream was bigger and billowier than the first two. Although I never made a conscious effort to live “the good life,” I did resolve from childhood that I would live “a good life.” I’ve always taken the moral high ground, based on justice and goodness rather than personal gain or self-interest. I’ve always stood up for the underdog, knowing that I’m standing up for everyone because somewhere along our journeys, we’re all underdogs. I’ve always shared my plenty with those whose want brings pain and suffering not only to them but also to me. I’ve always accepted people for who they are and where they are, believing that their blood pulses through my veins and mine through theirs. I’ve always been grateful for what I have, celebrating that my meager mite, regardless of its manifestation, is my lot. I’ve always tried to make amends by the end of the day for words harsh-spoken and feelings ill-harbored, knowing the wisdom of my mother’s teaching:

“Never let the sun go down on your wrath.”

I’ve always seen every day as a brand-new day, giving me one more chance to “get it right,” whatever the “it” might be. I’ve always tried to live every day so that at the end of each day, even if it should be the end of my life, I am at peace with myself and with my soul, being able to slip into slumber, sighing the words of that great gospel song:

“It is well with my soul.”

As I reflect on the three dreams that shaped my life, I know now what I never knew as a youngster starting out on my journey. It’s clear to me that without even knowing what I was doing, my dreams aligned with key stages of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, illustrating how my pursuit of a fulfilled and meaningful life followed a path of human development that is universal. We all pursue our physiological needs of food and water. We all pursue our need for safety of person, employment, family, and resources. We all pursue our need for love, belonging, and sexual intimacy. We all pursue our need for self-esteem gained through achievements as well as through respecting others and being respected by others. We all pursue the most important pursuit of all, our need for self-actualization, of discovering, developing, and celebrating our own authentic self.

And you? What about you and the life dreams that you are chasing? Whatever they might be and wherever you might be in seeing them through to fulfillment, let me offer a few words of encouragement based on where I’ve been and what I’ve experienced on my journey.

● Above all else, dream. Dream big, bigger than the bounds of your imagination, and perhaps even bigger than what you think possible. The greater the strive, the more likely the achievement.

● Wake up every day to your dream, letting its brightness surround you and lead you throughout your day. The more beaming the vision, the closer the reality.

● Work tirelessly and endlessly toward achieving your dream. The greater your grit, the more triumphant your victory.

● Expect setbacks, reminding yourself that life often leads us two steps forward only to thrust us one step back. Turn every setback into a comeback.

● Keep an eye open for naysayers, realizing that you yourself may be the chiefest among them. Transform traitors of dooming doubt into warriors of powerful prayer.

● Surround yourself with supporters, those who believe in you and your dream. The stronger your circle, the more robust your resolve.

● Validate yourself, but never forget to validate others, knowing that each of us is enough. The more you uplift others, the more we rise together.

In the end, what matters most is not the size of our dreams, but the dreams themselves and the heart and grit that we pour into them. In the end, we need to be ever mindful that we are all such stuff as dreams are made on, constantly rebuilding our foundations, striving toward fulfillment, and learning that the journey itself is the real victory. Dreams are not just distant destinations; they are the roadmaps guiding us toward our authentic selves. Whether we stumble or soar, each step along the way is a testament to our perseverance and our determination to not let go of what we hold most dear.

Whatever dream you are chasing, know that it is not the finish line that defines you—it is the striving, the growing, and the becoming that shape who you are. Keep dreaming. Keep reaching. Keep believing that every effort, every setback, and every triumph will bring you one step closer to your truest and most authentic self.

Unsubscribe: The Power of Pausing Before Acting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

● “I’m too busy right now.”

● “I don’t really care what you do.”

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

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

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

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

● “Why can’t you be more like …?”

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

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

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

● “I’ll get to it when I can.”

● “That’s not my job.”

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

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

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

● “I can’t believe I messed that up.”

● “I’m not good enough for this.”

● “I’m not lovable.”

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

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

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

● “Why is this happening to me?”

● “I’ve lost all faith.”

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

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

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

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

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