Tag Archives: Self-Discovery

Looking Back on the Outer Edge of Forever

Posted on by
2

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

—Marcel Proust (1871–1922). from his The Captive (1923), the fifth volume of his seven-part masterpiece In Search of Lost Time. Proust’s exploration of memory and perception reshaped modern literature.

Somewhere I saw it. Everywhere, maybe. Nowhere? Wherever—it grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let go.

It was the gripping question:

“What would you tell your 18-year-old self?”

It lingered—since forever. Or yesterday? Either way, one morning not long ago, I tried to get rid of it by tossing it out to others—as if the orphaned question might leave me alone once it found a new home.

The replies were as varied as I expected, and as humorous and matter-of-fact, too:

“Buy stock in Apple and Amazon.”

“Be good at life; cultivate a well-rounded lifestyle.”

“Be patient; trust in God.”

“Serve God better.”

“Stay young; don’t age.”

“Be friends with your mom. Spend more time with family. Don’t let important things slide.”

“Don’t worry about impressing anyone other than yourself.”

Almost always, their offerings included a request to hear what I would have told my 18-year-old self. As a result, the question dug itself more deeply into my being, as I stalled by answering:

“I’m still thinking.”

It was true. But I knew I had to answer the question, too, not for them, but for me.

Several possibilities surfaced.

The first was rather light-hearted:

“You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just stay curious, kind, and honest. Don’t waste your energy chasing approval. Learn to cook, listen more than you talk, and remember: dogs and good people can tell when your heart’s true. Oh, and wear sunscreen.”

I dissed it immediately (though it carried some truths). Then I came up with:

“Don’t rush. The world will still be there when you’re ready to meet it. Pay attention to seemingingly insignificant things. They’re where meaning hides. Keep your humor close and your integrity closer. Fall in love, but don’t lose yourself in the process. And when life hands you a fork in the road, check which one smells like supper.”

I didn’t like that any better, though it, too, spoke truth. I was certain I could nail it with a third attempt:

“You think you know who you are right now, but you’re only meeting the opening act. Be kind. Be curious. And don’t confuse noise for meaning. The world rewards loudness, but grace whispers. Listen to that whisper. It’s you, becoming.”

Then six words sauntered past, not so much tinged with regret as with remembrance. Six words. Six.

“Be a citizen of the world.”

Those words had crossed my path before. In fact, I remember exactly when—not the actual date but instead the general timeframe and the location.

It would have been in the early 1980s, when I was working at the Library of Congress. I was standing in the Main Reading Room of the Jefferson Building, as captivated by its grandeur as I had been when I first started working there in 1969.

Above me, light spilled through the dome like revelation. Gold, marble, and fresco conspired to make the air itself feel sacred, as if thought had taken on architecture. Beyond those arches, knowledge waited in silence, breathing through pages and time.

Even now, I can close my eyes and see it: the way the dome seemed to rise into forever—an invitation, a reminder—that the world was larger than any one life, and I was already standing in the heart of it.

As an editor of the National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints—the “bibliographic wonder of the world”—I knew every alcove, every corridor, every one of its 532 miles of bookshelves, holding more than 110 million items in nearly every language and format. I had walked those miles over and over again doing my editorial research. I had come to learn that knowledge knows no barrier. I had come to learn that it transcends time and place.

At the same time, I decided that I could transcend place, too. With my experience and credentials, I began to imagine working in the world’s great libraries—first the Library of Congress, then The British Library, then the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, then the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Roma.

I didn’t know where the journey would end, but it gave me a dream, a dream of being a citizen of the world of learning.

More than that, it was a dream untainted by pretense—never by the notion of being uppity. Instead, it was a simple dream. I figured that if I had made it from the coal camps of West Virginia to the hallowed halls of our nation’s library, I could pack up whatever it was that had brought me that far and go throughout the world, savoring knowledge and learning—and perhaps, over time, gaining a smidgen of wisdom.

But here’s the catch. If transcending geography is the measure of my dream’s fulfillment—the wanderlust, the scholar’s yearning for marble floors, old paper, and the hum of languages not my own—then, at first glance, I failed. I never made it to any of the world’s great libraries except the Library of Congress.

However, as I look back through my life-lens of 78 years come November 20, I realize that maybe I went beyond the geographic destinations that I set for myself.

I went from the mountains of West Virginia to the monuments of D.C., from there to the marshlands of South Carolina where I earned my Ph.D., from there back home to the monuments, and, from there, at last, to the Shenandoah Valley and college teaching that took me internationally via Zoom and tapped into Open Educational Resources that did away with the restrictive border of printed books.

In a sense, then, although I didn’t cross country borders, I crossed the borders of ideas, with my voice carrying me farther than my feet ever needed to.

I’ve managed to live generously, teach across generations, write with empathy, research with joy, garden with gratitude, cook with curiosity, and love with intentionality. In all of that, I have been that citizen of the world—not by passport stamps, but by curiosity. By compassion. By connection.

Maybe that’s the truth I’d offer my 18-year-old self:

“You don’t have to travel the world to belong to it.
You only have to live with your eyes open.”

My Altar Ego

Posted on by
5

“I tried so hard to do nothing that I accidentally did everything I needed.”

— Poor Brentford Lee (born 1947 and born again today).

Long, long ago I learned to not complain about the weather. For me, it was not a hard lesson to master. I love weather. I love how it arrives unbothered by plans, how it doesn’t ask permission to shift. Rain seeps, sun scorches, wind whispers or howls—all of it a steady reminder that the world turns whether I make a list or not. Seasons don’t hustle. They don’t perform. They simply become what they are, and in that quiet becoming, I find permission to do the same.

And so it is that I often find myself luxuriating in my bathtub–sunny days, rainy days, snowy days. Any day in any weather will do for a good old-fashioned soak. It’s especially good in a real tub like mine. Cast-iron enamel. Please tell me that no others are manufactured. Or if you tell me that they are, please have my smelling salts handy.

Let’s be clear: my bathtub is not clawfoot elegant, but it’s deep enough to pretend. When I slide in, I tell myself that I’m taking time to be. But I know the truth. I’ve turned soaking into an event that I do.

Usually, it’s not much of an event or a do. It doesn’t need to be since I don’t need much. Water. Hot. Always hot. None of this lukewarm nonsense for me. If I’m going to bother drawing a bath, I want it to steam like a sultry Shenandoah Valley morning, rolling up from the tub like fog curling along the Seven Bends of the Shenandoah.

Getting the water that I need is not as straightforward as you might think. No. It’s not. Even though I live on a mountain, I do not draw it from my well. It’s pumped from my deep well and flows through copper pipes indoors, as befits a mountain man with a porcelain tub. And, of course, mine has proper porcelain turns—white handles, chrome collars, and bold Hot and Cold lettering, like a tub straight out of a 1950s film noir. Hot, thank goodness, does bring hot. Cold brings cold. So far, so good. But to adjust the flow, I have to turn both knobs left. Why? Because my plumber, bless his well-meaning hands, apparently installed them backwards. I think. I always thought I turned the hot water knob counterclockwise to turn on the flow and clockwise to turn off the flow. The cold lever is opposite, clockwise to turn on the flow, and counterclockwise to turn it off. It is something like that. Right? Damned if I know anymore. Apparently, I’ve spent years turning one way, only to be met with the smug silence of a faucet that refuses to gush or blush. In this tub, turning is just plumb wrong.

I guess it’s a small metaphor for life, really. Just when you’re sure you’re doing it correctly—hot water flowing, intentions pure, and everything else on course—you realize the universe wants you to turn the other way.

But before I turn the other way and step into the tub–which is, I must warn you, the stage on which I will be soaking, ruminating, and possibly overdoing it for the rest of this essay—I must direct the stage lights toward something magnificent. Close your eyes for a sec. Okay. Now open, look down, and let your eyes feast upon my …

… bubble bath.

Yes. I do use bubble bath. Lord knows it’s not for the scent—though I admit, I have a weakness for sandalwood. And lavender. But let the record show: I allow lavender only in the tub. Nowhere else. A mountain man like me has standards and has to stand by them.

I tell myself that it’s not for the fragrance. It’s for the foam. Even though I reveal to you, My Dear Readers, far more than I should, I want to assure you that I do have a modicum of modesty. A bubble here, a bubble there—tastefully arranged to preserve an illusion of decency. Let’s just say the bubbles know where to gather.

Yep. That’s about all I need for one of my regular soaks. A tub. Hot water. Bubble bath.

But let’s face it. Every once in a blue moon, a mountain man needs a little spice. I’m no exception, even though I confess to being more than a little exceptional.

It’s on those blue-moon occasions that I line up a full production. Then, believe you me. I don’t just take a bath. I stage a bath.

I arrange things just so on my Broadway altar: mug of chamomile tea (because sometimes wine in a stemmed and fluted Baccarat feels like too much doing), one candle (the fancy one that I don’t even own, but begrudgingly burn anyway), and three colognes that I don’t own yet, each vying for my American Express card that I do own. Imagine. Three bottles lined up like contestants on The Bachelor: Mountain-Man Bathroom Edition. It’s far more than cologne drama. It’s downright Shakespearean. It’s The Mountain meets The Globe.

It opens with a cologne smackdown.

Baie 19: (sniffily) “Let’s not pretend I’m not the one Poor Brentford truly wants. I’m rainfall and memory. I’m the whisper of longing on damp skin. I’m practically poetry in a bottle.”

Oud Wood: (with velvet growl) “Poetry’s lovely, dear, but I’m seduction that lingers. I’m cashmere confidence. I’m what Tennessee Gary leans in to smell twice.”

Patchouli Absolu: (swaggering) “Children, please. I’m the heartbeat of the forest and the soul of a vinyl jazz LP. I’m Poor Brentford in full earthy glory. He doesn’t wear me, he becomes me.”

Baie 19: “You smell like a commune.”

Oud Wood: “You smell like wet pebbles.”

Patchouli Absolu: “And you both smell like insecurity.”

ME (overwhelmed on one of my rare occasions when I know how it feels to feel overwhelmed, which is not overwhelmingly often): “You’re all exhausting. No one’s coming over. I’m about to confess my sins to the lefty-tighty, righty loosey faucet and cry into the loofah that I neither have nor want.”

They fall silent. I choose. None. Scentless, I splash around in the tub like a mountain man who moonlights in musicals.

Then what do I do? I lean back, all the way back, and I start confessing. The bubbles gather ’round in all the right places like gossiping parishioners. The faucet stares. Ruby settles nearby with the look of a creature who’s seen this show before, seen it all before, all too often.

I speak.

“Forgive me, tub, for I have over-functioned.”

Drip.

“I said I was going to be. Just be. Instead, look at what I’ve done. I’ve curated a still-life. I folded the towel just so. I fluffed my own ego like it was company. I …”

Drip. Drip.

“… I checked my smartphone. Three times. I told myself I wouldn’t, but what if he texted? What if he sensed my aching soul? Oh, do not ask me, “Who?” You tease. Please be still. Surely, you know exactly who. Surely, you do. You do, don’t you?”

Ruby raises one eye and promptly closes it again. Even she doesn’t buy my shameless shenanigans.

“And yes,” I whisper, “I lit the special candle that I don’t have. The one I said I was saving. For what? For when? Who knows. I guess I was saving it for this moment of low-grade thirst.”

Replies? None. Not one. No, not one single solitary reply. I suspect judgment. Is that what exfoliating looks like? Is that how it feels? Judgment?

I confess one more thing. Doing this being thingy that I’m supposed to be doing ain’t easy. But what’s a mountain man to do when he be soakin’ in a tub?

The very question made some of the less bashful bubbles pop, just as I brought on stage everything that I’ll need to play out my after-the-rain weather act—the one I fully plan on doing.

I’ll harness my weedwhacker around me like medieval armor and march into the yard. Oh. Don’t get alarmed. I’ll don all my clothes so that the scorching sun will not be led into temptation. No doubt the overgrowth in the lower yard and along the rutted road will wave at me and thrash about, like green adversaries, defiant and smug.

And I, in true Don Quixote theatrics at their finest, will tilt my weedwhacker and tackle it all, tackle it all already, as I have tackled it all already so often already in the past.

And I will be noble.

And I will be productive.

And I will be heroic.

And I will let the rains come and the winds blow. Ruby, smarter than I, will bolt for shelter. But I will stay. Drenched. Steaming. And—without even trying—I will finally be. Just… be.

Wet. Ridiculous. Peaceful. Winded. My trusty weedwhacker by my side. But I will have achieved being.

That is the theme, isn’t it, of whatever it is that I’ve got goin’ on in this here tub? Right? The daily tug-of-war between doing and being.

I want to be at peace, but now I’ve done gone and plotted out all the steps and ruined it.

I want to be still, but now I’ve done gone and ended up writing about the stillness.

I want to be the mountain man who soaks in sandalwood and lavender in a porcelain tub with porcelain faucets that can’t figure out which way to turn.

But I also want to be the mountain man who hosts, cooks, flirts, loves, writes books, directs theatrical Broadway tub shows, and maybe gets a text from someone–in Tennessee?–who says, “You smell good—even when you don’t wear cologne, especially when you don’t wear cologne.”

And here, my dear Readers, is the moment when the lights begin to dim ever so faintly, the audience leans in more spellbound than before, and Poor Brentford steps on stage–front and center, fully wrapped in his towel (or is he fully wrapt?)–for his soliloquy that he never dreamt of speaking, let alone rehearsing:

“I tried so hard to do nothing that I accidentally did everything I needed.

“I made peace with three colognes I dreamt about, one candle that I don’t own but burn at both ends anyway, a tub with faulty faucets, and me– myself, just as I am.

“I let the bubbles baptize my busy mind.

“And when I stepped out—wrinkled, radiant, ridiculoos—I realized:

“‘I be fabulous.’

“I also realized: ‘You be fabulous, too.’

“So. Listen up. Go now. Take a soak, with or without bubble bath.

“It’s where becoming begins.”

“Always Done It This Way.”

Posted on by
6

“The most dangerous phrase in the English language is: We’ve always done it this way. It raises the question, ‘Are we doing this because we always have, or because it’s the right thing to do?‘”

–Grace Hopper (1906-1992; Pioneering computer scientist and Navy Rear Admiral who revolutionized programming and inspired generations to embrace change. The quote first appeared in Computer World, January 26, 1976.)

When I converted my weekend cabin into my permanent home by tripling its size, I knew the focal point of my downstairs office would be an expansive, floor-to-ceiling window covering a significant portion of the wall. The view it provided far surpassed my wildest visions, offering varied vistas. Right in front was the patio. Just beyond was the peony garden with evergreens. Beyond, across the valley, were the mountains. I positioned my desk directly in front of the window, with my computer on top, and for twenty years, I sat there day after day, week after week, gazing at my coveted views.

Something happened, though, a month or two after my partner Allen died in early 2021. A day came that Spring when I was sitting at my desk, looking out, and I suddenly realized that my computer monitor was blocking a large part of my view. In fact, it had been obstructing my view for twenty years.

I decided to shift my desk to the window’s end, with the monitor facing the French doorway into the adjoining rooms. This minor adjustment immediately revealed the full, expansive window view. I could see things that I had not seen fully before. The Adirondack chairs inviting me to come sit on the expansive flagstone patio. The massive garden with perhaps 60 stately peonies, a Peeve Minaret Bald Cypress dancing giddily, and three Weeping Norway Spruce standing solemn sentinel, calling me to meander. Beyond, the Shenandoah Valley, and beyond that Big Schloss, peaking at the top of George Washington National Forest, beckoning me to come back and hike once more.

Fast forward, if you will, to this Spring. I decided that one of my major projects would be straightforward: clean and paint the deck that stretches across the front of my home and wraps around to my bedroom on the side. I discovered quickly that this project was anything but straightforward. It required power washing, scraping, wire brushing, sanding, and priming. It was day after day of elbow-grease drudgery, but I didn’t mind. Proper prepping always makes joyful painting.

After the paint had cured for several days, I started putting the Adirondack furniture back in place. Two chairs up close to the house, at an angle to one another, in front of the dining room windows. Table between. On the other end of the deck–the wider section–two chairs, at an angle, in front of the living room windows, but up close to the deck railings. Table between. Then, on the bedroom side, two chairs at an angle, in front of the smaller living room window. Table between.

I could have arranged everything blindfolded because Allen and I had done it that way for years. I was about to do it again when what ifs suddenly popped into my head.

What if I arranged three of the chairs in front of the dining room windows in a semicircle with a table on each side? Perfect for a relaxed, intimate trialogue, looking at one another and, to the West, the majestic Shenandoah Valley.

What if I bought an Adirondack chaise lounge and positioned it on the wider end of the deck, facing not only the three chairs but also the morning sun. Perfect for soaking up those early rays.

What if I reversed the arrangement on the other side of the deck? Chairs at an angle facing outward toward the living room window and the western side of the deck? Perfect for watching the evening sun go down.

What if I grouped all of the usual plants around the chairs and tables in such a way that it gave the impression of three separate areas? Private. Secluded. Surrounded. Musa bananas, elephant ears, Macho ferns, jade plants, Bougainvillea, pineapple sage, Cereus night-blooming cactus, golden barrel cactus, Emerald Giant euphorbia, coral geraniums, and ruffled pink tuberous begonia.

I put those what ifs into action, and I loved the magical results. Candidly, however, aside from “loving it,” I didn’t give the transformation any more thought than I had given my office makeover.

But then last week, something happened that made me see in a nanosecond the significance of what I had done with my office and my deck.

Let me explain.

I was getting ready to enjoy my dinner in the kitchen at the same table where Allen and I had often eaten. Allen always sat on the fireplace side, giving him a view of the dining room and the living room. I always sat on the opposite side, facing him and the fireplace. I have no idea how the two of us ever arrived at that seating arrangement, but we had always sat that way.

I started to sit in my usual spot, but I had put something on the table there, so I decided to move to the other side where Allen had always sat.

And so I did. I had never sat there before. I was amazed. I had no idea how limited my view had been. I was no longer looking at the fireplace. Now I could see into the dining room. Porcelain and brass parrot candlesticks on a cherry Queen Anne dining table, centered on an immense Oriental rug. Long, glass-top side table with Chinese cloisonné vases, marble Laughing Buddha, and a hand-painted Budgies lamp with tan, rectangular silk shade. Cambodian, bejeweled wooden Buddha surveying the room from beneath a Victorian gold metal floor lamp with silk shade and dangling vintage tassels. A quartz crystal singing bowl sitting atop a primitive two-door, Shenandoah Valley chestnut buffet, with blue milk paint fading on the side panels.

Beyond I could see the living room fireplace built by the original owner with rocks dug out of the ground right here on my mountain. I could see the entire expanse of the living room, filled with all the antiques and treasures collected down through the years, flooding me with memories that made me forget all about dinner.

There I sat, realizing I had gained a brand-new perspective on my world by sitting on the other side of the table, by rearranging the deck furniture, and by moving my desk. I was swept away by the simple epiphany: change the point of view and gain a new outlook.

More important than that truth, perhaps, is this. I came to realize that I had fallen into the trap of doing things a certain way simply because I had always done them that way.

Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with doing things the same way if it works well. But reflecting on my habits, I can’t help but wonder:

● What daily routines am I stuck in, and what new possibilities might emerge if I shook things up? Do I hit the virtual snooze button every morning out of habit, or could I start my day with a refreshing walk or meditation? Are there tasks I’m doing out of obligation, rather than purpose?

● What areas of personal growth are waiting to be explored, if only I dared to challenge the status quo? Are there skills that I still might learn that I’ve always wanted to learn, but never made time for? Are there parts of myself I’ve neglected, or dreams I’ve put on hold?

● What relationships in my life are stale, waiting for a fresh perspective to revive them? Conversations I’ve been putting off or assumptions I’ve made about someone without really listening to their side of the story?

● What decisions am I making out of habit, rather than intention or purpose? Am I choosing the same options, the same paths, the same solutions, without considering alternative possibilities?

● What beliefs or assumptions have I held onto for too long without questioning their relevance or truth? Are there opinions I’ve inherited from others rather than forming my own? Are there ways in which I’ve limited myself, simply because I never thought to challenge those beliefs?

I won’t answer those questions here. Instead, I’ll carry them with me, letting them whisper gently, inviting me to explore, question, and shift my perspective. Who knows what new possibilities might emerge if I’m bold enough to change my old familiar ways and wrap my arms around the bright and shiny newness of what might be?

The Third Surprise from More Wit and Wisdom

Posted on by
6

“Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forwards.”

–Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855; Danish Philosopher, Theologian, and father of Existentialism.)

As promised, today is the day for the third reveal from my forthcoming collection of essays, More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed.

Yesterday, I disclosed that I’ll be donating all proceeds from the sale of More Wit and Wisdom to the Student Success Fund at Laurel Ridge Community College.

The day before I shared with you that the book is dedicated to educators worldwide, in recognition of their transformative impact on our lives through education.

Today’s reveal is an excerpt from the book’s preface, “Embrace the Journey.” It has not appeared as a blog post. It’s a special essay just for the book.

By sharing an excerpt with you, I hope it will encourage you to do as I am striving to do. Reflect on your own journey. Embrace your journey. Trust your journey.

So, without further ado, let me share the final paragraphs from preface—a space where words dance, ideas collide, and the magic of Creative Nonfiction begins.

As you read these essays, I hope that you will see what I have come to see. What started for me as a cathartic ritual morphed into a nightly routine that anchors me and in a mysterious way strengthens me to embrace my journey more and more every day. It’s allowing me to grow personally. It’s allowing me to leave behind some kind of written legacy, even if it’s nothing more than my thoughts about my own experiences on this wonderful planet Earth. It’s allowing me to expand my creative landscape. It’s allowing me to foster connections through creating a sense of unity and shared understanding. It’s giving me the chance to address societal issues, with the potential to drive positive change on a broader scale. It’s giving me the chance to connect with readers from all around the world. Who would have imagined that this coal-camp kid from West Virginia would have the chance to share his ideas and emotions with 7,320 people from 88 countries around the world? Yet, that’s how many readers I had last year. I am humbled and grateful, realizing that the power of connection transcends backgrounds and boundaries, turning a coal-camp kid’s dreams into a heartfelt symphony that resonates with thousands, reverberating the sound of our shared humanity.

Embracing my journey in writing is an exhilarating testament to the richness of my life. Each word written is a celebration of the journey I’ve traveled, and every essay penned is a reflection of the life I’ve lived. As I continue to navigate my journey, I do so with a heart full of gratitude for the many chapters that have unfolded. Life, in all its complexities, is beautiful, and I am blessed because I see the beauty more clearly as I continue on my way. It’s an affirmation that, indeed, life is good. I hope that my melody resonates through the words on the page and the years in my life that have brought me to this moment. With each passing day, I embrace the journey, with open arms and a spirit eager to discover the wonders that lie ahead. Life is not just a journey; it’s a magnificent composition, and I am still living it and writing it.

I hope that you, too, will embrace your journey, whatever it may be, and I hope that this collection of essays will encourage you. Life’s journey is an opportunity for growth. Each moment is a chance to celebrate meaningful and fulfilling endeavors. In the midst of solitude and the questioning of life’s purpose, remember that your journey matters. Let me say it again. Your journey matters. Embrace it with open arms, finding motivation, validation, and personal connection all along the way. May these essays inspire you to navigate your path with resilience, discover the beauty in your unique perspectives, and confidently affirm that your journey, too, is significant and purposeful.

Next week, More Wit and Wisdom will be available in all formats: hardback, paperback, and Kindle. Stay tuned for details!

Silent Triumphs

Posted on by
6

“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.”

Albert Camus (1913-1960; French philosopher, author, and journalist known for his existentialist philosophy and literary contributions; winner of the 1957 Nobel Prize in Literature for his significant literary achievements, which continue to influence existentialist thought.)

One of my greatest joys is watching people succeed against all odds. I write a lot about those triumphs, most recently in my “Let Your Light Shine Bright.” It seemed fitting that I do so since it was December, a month chockfull of celebrations, each carrying a unique message of hope, transcending boundaries, and unifying us in a shared spirit of optimism and celebration.

Most of the people who populated that post–ranging from Susan Boyle to Barack Obama–are out there in the public eye as performers or politicians. Others are out there as motivational speakers. I’m thinking especially of Nick Vujicic, a charismatic and dynamic speaker who captivates audiences with his powerful presence and inspiring message. Born without arms and legs, Nick exudes confidence, warmth, and authenticity as he shares his personal journey of overcoming adversity and finding purpose and joy in life.

His message is one of resilience, faith, and the limitless potential of the human spirit. He encourages listeners to embrace their own uniqueness, overcome obstacles with courage and determination, and live a life of purpose and meaning. Through his words and example, Nick inspires others to believe in themselves, pursue their dreams, and make a positive impact on the world.

While Nick’s triumphs are anything but silent, witnessing his resilience and ability to overcome immense challenges prompted me to think about the unnoticed private triumphs that people experience.

As you might expect from an English professor, I started thinking about the people from my literary world. One by one, characters tiptoed past, whispering their silent triumphs.

Hester Prynne from Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter reminded me that her silent triumph came in her resilience and strength in the face of public shaming and ostracism. Branded with the scarlet letter “A” for adultery, she quietly bore her punishment and found redemption through her unwavering love for her daughter, Pearl.

And what about Janie Crawford in Zora Neale Hurston’s novel Their Eyes Were Watching God? She underwent a journey of self-discovery and empowerment, ultimately finding her own voice and identity despite societal expectations and pressures. Her silent triumph came from her ability to assert her independence and pursue happiness on her own terms, even in the face of adversity and criticism.

Next Nora Helmer marched dramatically onto the stage of Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. Her silent triumph prevailed at the end of the play when she chose to leave her husband and children in order to seek personal freedom and self-realization despite the societal expectations and conventions of the time.

A more ambiguous and bittersweet silent triumph can be seen in Tom Wingfield from Tennessee Williams’ play The Glass Menagerie. He ultimately chose to leave his overbearing mother and disabled sister in search of his own dreams and aspirations, despite the guilt and responsibility he felt towards them. While his departure may seem selfish, it represented his quest for personal fulfillment and freedom from the constraints of his family’s expectations.

People in short stories have their silent triumphs, too. Consider Sammy in John Updike’s “A&P” who experienced a silent triumph when he quit his job at the supermarket in defiance of his boss’s mistreatment of a group of girls who entered the store wearing bathing suits. The potential consequences of his actions did not keep him from asserting his independence and standing up for what he believed was right.

In James Thurber’s “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” the protagonist, Walter Mitty, experienced silent triumphs throughout the story as he escaped into vivid daydreams to cope with his mundane existence. He found solace and fulfillment in his imaginative fantasies, where he became a hero, a pilot, a surgeon, and more. These silent triumphs allowed him to momentarily transcend his ordinary life and find excitement and adventure within his own mind.

Obviously, silent triumphs can be poetic, too. “Home Burial” by Robert Frost is a perfect example of a silent triumph. In this poignant dialogue, a husband and wife mourn their child’s loss differently. While the wife openly expressed her anguish, the husband silently strove to bridge the emotional gap between them, offering solace despite their differing ways of grieving. This silent triumph highlights the power of emotional connection amidst grief.

In Langston Hughes’ “Mother to Son,” the speaker’s resilience in facing life’s challenges is portrayed through the metaphor of a staircase. Despite hardships, she persevered, quietly inspiring her son and readers with her determination to keep climbing. This silent triumph underscored the power of resilience in overcoming adversity.

And, yes, they can triumph on the big screen, too. In The Trip to Bountiful, the victory occurred when the main character, Carrie Watts, finally made her journey back to her childhood home of Bountiful. Despite her age and frailty, Carrie’s determination and resilience shone through as she persisted in her quest to revisit the memories and places of her youth.

In Fried Green Tomatoes, a silent triumph occurred when Evelyn Couch, one of the main characters, underwent a transformation and found her inner strength and confidence. Throughout the film, Evelyn struggled with feelings of invisibility and dissatisfaction with her life. However, her friendship with Ninny Threadgoode and the stories she heard about the lives of the women in Whistle Stop, particularly Idgie and Ruth, inspired her to take control of her own destiny.

But guess what? The journey of silent triumphs extends far, far beyond the pages of literature and the spotlight of public figures. While they serve as poignant examples of silent triumphs, the essence of their victories resonates deeply within each of us. They are not confined to the extraordinary narratives of books or the public eye but are intricately woven into the fabric of our daily lives, waiting to be acknowledged and celebrated.

Conquering fears, whether big or small, such as fear of public speaking, fear of PowerPoint, or fear of rusty observation towers, can be a significant silent triumph. It may involve facing challenges head-on, pushing past comfort zones, and gaining confidence in one’s abilities.

Adopting healthier habits, such as exercising regularly, eating nutritious foods, quitting smoking, or reducing alcohol consumption, can be silent triumphs that contribute to improved well-being and quality of life.

Finding healing and closure from past traumas, heartbreaks, or losses can be a silent triumph. It may involve seeking therapy, practicing self-care, forgiveness, and cultivating resilience in the face of adversity.

Accomplishing personal goals, whether professional, academic, or creative, can be silent triumphs that signify hard work, perseverance, and dedication. It may involve setting SMART (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic, Time-bound) goals and taking consistent steps towards achieving them.

Speaking out against injustice, discrimination, or oppression, even in small ways like blogs, can be a silent triumph that demonstrates courage, integrity, and moral conviction.

Successfully navigating major life transitions, such as starting a new job, moving to a new city, becoming a parent, or retiringinventing, can be silent triumphs that require adaptability, resilience, and resourcefulness.

Finding peace, contentment, and fulfillment within oneself, despite external circumstances, can be a silent triumph that signifies self-awareness, acceptance, and gratitude.

Performing acts of kindness, generosity, or compassion towards others, without expecting recognition or reward, can be silent triumphs that contribute to building connections, fostering empathy, and making a positive difference in the world.

Challenging and overcoming self-limiting beliefs, insecurities, and negative self-talk can be silent triumphs that lead to increased self-confidence, self-esteem, and self-empowerment.

Discovering passion, purpose, or sense of calling in life can be a silent triumph that brings clarity, direction, and fulfillment. It may involve introspection, exploration, and embracing opportunities for growth and self-discovery.

Many of these triumphs often go unnoticed, obscured by the hustle and bustle of our daily lives, concealed within the folds of routine tasks and responsibilities.

Today, I urge you to pay attention to the silent triumphs of those around you, whether it’s a friend, family member, coworker, or stranger. Offer words of encouragement, support, or recognition to acknowledge the quiet victories that may go unnoticed by others but are meaningful, nonetheless. Extend compassion and appreciation to those around you. Foster a culture of empathy and recognition for the silent triumphs that unite us all.

Today, I encourage you to pause and reflect on the silent triumphs that have shaped your life. Embrace them with gratitude and pride, knowing that they are the threads that weave the tapestry of your existence.

Today, let’s join hands as we celebrate these silent triumphs–mine, yours, and others, real and imagined–knowing that as we do, we honor the essence of our humanity and inspire others to do the same.

Today, let’s salute the quiet heroes among us, whose resilience, courage, and determination light the path for us all. May we continue to cherish and champion these moments of victory, weaving them with pride and gratitude into the collective story of our silent triumphs.

My Year on Unmatched.com

Posted on by
12

Ooh, somebody, ooh (somebody)
Anybody find me somebody to love?
(Can anybody find me someone to love)

–Freddie Mercury (1946-1991; legendary British singer-songwriter, best known as the charismatic frontman of the band Queen; the quote is from their song “Somebody to Love.”)

Some people say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Maybe so. Personally, I’ve never been one to imitate. I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drum. Yet, way back in 2013, I ran across an essay by Anne Lamott, a New York Times best-selling author and one of my favorite writers. The title was straight to the point: “My Year on Match.com.” In case you don’t know about Match.com, don’t feel bad. At that time, I didn’t either. I’m not certain that I had even heard about it. After all, I was happily partnered and had no desire to know about online dating apps. But I like Lamott a lot and decided to read the essay to find out whether she succeeded in spicing up her life with a studmuffin that she picked up on a dating app.

As I expected, Lamott was as candid, witty, reflective, and self-deprecating as I had always found her to be. Indeed, her essay builds upon her experiences using an online dating app, but she takes it up a notch by exploring themes of self-discovery, resilience, and the importance of authenticity in relationships. It’s a well-structured essay as well as an entertaining read, so I started using it in my Creative Writing classes. It seemed to me that my students couldn’t do better than to imitate Lamott’s memoir style of writing.

Fast forward nearly a decade, and I found myself imitating Lamott, too, in a roundabout way. My partner had died at the start of 2021, and two years or so into my grieving, I started thinking that maybe I should try dating once again. Why not? Doing so would in no way diminish the special relationship that Allen and I had for 20 years. Doing so would in no way diminish the love that we shared and the love that I still feel. Irreplaceable is just that: irreplaceable.

At the same time, like all human beings, I crave companionship and connection, someone with whom I can share experiences, conversations, and life’s moments. Dating might do just that. Equally important, it would be great to have someone who understands, accepts, and offers a sense of emotional security. Dating might do just that. And let’s not forget about being able to engage in shared interests and activities, which can bring joy, excitement, vibrancy, and fulfillment to daily life. Gardening. Cooking. Hiking. Embracing. Kissing. Snuggling. Dating might do just that.

Those notions aren’t new ones for me. If you follow my blog regularly–and I am confident that you do–you will recall that I’ve written about this dating thingy already in my “Dating after Twenty-Three.” Obviously, there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I could have written a post as silly as that one without giving some serious thought to the prospect of getting back out there into the dating scene. You bet. I had.

Those ponderings were fueled, in part, by Lamott’s essay. After all, she and I have lots in common. We’re both writers. (All right, fine. I’m not a New York Times best-selling author, yet.) She’s single. I’m single. She’s looking for a man. I’m looking for a man. She wrote about her online dating experience, and here I am writing about mine. Her essay appeared in Salon. Well, mine is appearing here in my blog. Who knows. With luck, it might get picked up by The Advocate or Out Magazine or even Queerty. Simply put, I figured that if Lamott could bring dating apps into my world, so too could I bring them into your world.

However, I confess. Thinking about joining a dating app frightened the hell out of me. It was frightening for Lamott, too:

“I’d done so many scary things in my life, but this might be the scariest. At the age of 58, I joined a dating site.”

That sentence caused me to ghost Lamott for a while. I was downright nasty:

“Stop whining, Anne! You’re a SWF ISO SWM. So what if you’re 58? You can look ahead and behind and find some good stuffds.

“Try being a 76-year-old GWM ISO GWM in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.

“Then and only then can you talk about scary.”

All right. I realize that maybe I need to pause here and explain some of those initialisms that I just tossed out. They might be as new to you as they were to me before I tried this online dating thingy.

● SWF ISO SWM stands for Single White Female in Search of Single White Male.

● GWM ISO GWM stands for Gay White Male in Search of Gay White Male.

And, please, please, please, let me explain one more initialism for you in case life makes you take up with a dating app. RN does not stand for Registered Nurse as I, in my naïveté, believed. It stands for Right Now. I will say no more. But I will advise you to be cautious of that initialism unless, of course, you’re looking for RN.

Then, of course, there’s another initialism I should warn you about in case you decide you’re going to imitate me. Dating is fine and dandy, but what I’m really looking for is a date that might become a serious and meaningful relationship that might lead to a Long-Term Relationship. Toward that end and with the intent to be fully candid and transparent, I included LTR in my profile. Bad move. I discovered that in many circles, LTR stands for Leather. Now I know. Now they know. I limit mine to my shoes, my belt, and my book bag. My profile now reads: “ISO meaningful dates leading to possible Long-Term Relationship.”

Finding out the deeper meaning of LTR and RN might well be my most frightening discovery in my online dating experience. I mean, after all, I fell for it. At my age, who wouldn’t look more than once at a man who’s a registered nurse. Well, he wasn’t, and I’m still lookin’.

Notwithstanding near-encounters of the casual, leather kind, I’ve been imitating Lamott for nearly a year, and I certainly have a thing or three to share, and I’ll do so right here, right now. So, let’s see. How shall I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my dating ways? It’s simple. I’ll begin at the beginning when I, armed with nothing but a smartphone, unbelievable naïveté that borders on stupidity, and a questionable sense of humor, tackled a virtual world of dating sites, each boasting to be the ultimate game-changer. Check out their come-ons:

● Love: Only a Click Away. (This might have been where I was introduced to RN.)

● Start Your Love Story Today. (Sadly, everybody out there seems to have a love story. Most are tragedies.)

● There’s much more fun after 50. (Says who? Take me to your leader. RN.)

● A shared interest is just the beginning. (Yep. I’m pretty sure this is where I found LTR. Not shared. Not interested. Next.)

● This is the year to focus on yourself, boost confidence, and attract genuine connections! (Sure. 899 views and 12 likes. What a confidence booster. Those numbers really pump me up.)

● It’s never too late to experience the beauty of togetherness. Join today and find that special someone who will make “together” your favorite place to always be. (Sweet. Sure. Gimme time to buy some Velcro.)

● Don’t waste more time on casual flings. See who our experts match you with, for free. Take our free compatibility quiz today!

I learned fast that the assessments tend to be pretty reliable. I learned even faster that “free” isn’t. What’s the point of belonging to a dating app if I can’t see profile photos and can’t message? If you want to see and if you want to say, get ready to pay. Like I said, “free” isn’t. Everything comes with a price, including online dating.

Then, I learned that online dating isn’t as secure as I expected. Scammers sneak under the radar. Check out this one.

“Hey. I just met my new boyfriend. Otherwise, I’d like to connect with you. But I showed your profile to a friend who likes you a lot and lives near you.  Here’s his email: IHopeYouFallforThis.net.”

What else? Despite the sophisticated assessments and matching algorithms, all of my matches around my own age look like frogs! As for the ones that make my heart pitter-patter, most are in California or New York City. But guess what? Those potential matches are usually way younger than my age preference. I’m not interested in guys under 45. Forty-five is calculated based on a scientifically established compatibility formula: half my age plus 7. Anyway, some of those guys nearly threw me into AFib because sometimes they threw me a wink or a smile. But here’s the thing. Just as soon as I revived myself with smelling salts and mustered up the courage to return a smile, they had disappeared. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve decided to use my own formula for calculating the lower compatibility age for my dates. I’m thinking along the lines of half my age + half my age + “guaranteed annuity.”

Don’t get me wrong. I have had some near successes. I’m thinking about the match who was a year older than I, had a chiseled face, and checked off all the right boxes in all the right places. He kept me awake, dreaming about endless possibilities until I dozed off with endless possibilities chasing me in my sleep. I “liked” all of his attributes. He “liked” all of mine, too. We were a perfect mutual admiration society. What did I do the next morning? What did I do? I logged back on to suggest a real-time date. And what did I discover? What did I discover? He had deleted his profile. Next.

Not to despair, though. One match remains, and one is all that it takes. Plus, he’s not a frog. Actually, he’s damned handsome and super butch. More, our compatibility scores are off the charts. I look and look and look. Yep. He seems perfect. But he’s three hours away, and he seems as cautious as I. Nonetheless, we’ve exchanged a smile or two, a “like” or two, and a message or two. Right now, I’m waiting to see whether he responds to my message that I sent him this morning inviting him to lunch. Rest assured, I have a strategy for how we can meet in the middle for a grand lunch, assuming that he answers and that his profile has not disappeared when I attempt to reply.

While I wait, hoping for the courtesy of his reply, if I were asked to rate my online dating experience so far, I would give it a big fat zero. Dating experience? When? Where? Oh, to be sure. I’ve had a few entertaining Vibe Checks via secure video. By mutual agreement, they did not lead to dates. Through one, however, I now have a newfound daily messaging buddy.

Believe it or not, I’ve actually had some fun. Right now, for example, Unmatched.com seems to be recycling all the profiles. I look. I scream:

“Seen them all! Seen them all already.”

Does it matter if I “liked” him in the past? Maybe his memory isn’t as good as mine. Maybe this time around, he’ll “like” me back. Hope springs eternal.

Also, I’ve learned a lot. I mean, really. I have. I just need to stop liking every Tom, Dick, and Harry coming down the app. Also, I think that I would much rather be in a bar seeing the eye-candy in person and in action. But, hey, I would probably end up with one drink too many and find myself at home with one of the frogs that I’ve managed to avoid successfully online.

But you know what else? Through all the ups and downs, the frogs and fleeting connections, I’ve discovered a treasure trove of emotions that transcend the swipe of a screen. Whether it’s the warmth of a genuine conversation, the laughter sounded over shared interests, or the spark ignited by a thoughtful message, each interaction reminds me of the beauty that surrounds me.

As I reflect on my journey through online dating, I’m reminded of the longing for companionship, connection, and shared experiences that initially spurred me into this adventure. Yet, amidst this pursuit, I realize the importance of staying true to myself. I know now more than ever that I’ve never been one to imitate. I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drum, and that’s a rhythm I intend to continue, joyfully chanting my blessings. My entire life has been filled with love, joy, and contentment. Until Mr. Right arrives, I revel in my autonomy, finding joy in my passions and savoring life’s pleasures independently. This journey has taught me the beauty of self-discovery and embracing life’s twists with open arms.

Cheers to adventure! Cheers to never losing sight of the magic, even on Unmatched.com.

Flipping the Switch: Exploring Life’s ON/OFF Dynamics

Posted on by
10

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”

–Aristotle (384–322 BC; Greek philosopher whose foundational contributions to philosophy, science, and ethics profoundly influenced Western thought and continue to shape intellectual inquiry today.)

As a lifelong learner, I never cease to be amazed by the little things that I learn–more or less by accident or by trial and error–that have far-reaching significance when I apply them to my life.

One day last week, for example, I was in the kitchen after dinner, trying to make the biggest decision of the day. Do I use the dishwasher? Do I wash the dishes by hand?

It was hardly a decision. Actually, it was a no-brainer, especially since we had seven inches of snow on the ground, and I had spent a lot of energy that day clearing the stone walkway and the gravel driveway. It was a quick and decisive win for the dishwasher.

I loaded it systematically, popped in the little Cascade pod, selected NORMAL and SANITIZE, pressed START, and closed the door. Usually, at that moment, a red beam flashes on the floor, just below the dishwasher’s door. I never look to make certain, but this time, something made me look back. No light.

Hmmm. Maybe I didn’t press START. I opened the door, pressed START, and closed the door. Once again, the light did not shine its beam.

I opened the dishwasher and looked at the control panel more carefully. To the far left, I saw ON/OFF. Then I remembered the electrical hiccup earlier in the day. Maybe if I turned the dishwasher OFF and waited for a while, it would reset itself. If powering OFF works for computers and other gadgets, it might work for dishwashers, too.

Sure enough. Five minutes later, I pressed ON, NORMAL, SANITIZE, and START. The red light beamed on the floor, and my Bosch worked as beautifully as ever.

Imagine that! All that it took was turning it OFF, waiting a bit, and turning it back ON. One switch was all that it took to get it going again, just like new.

Somehow, I immediately started thinking about aspects of my life where I might need to press the OFF switch in order to come back ON again with greater vigor.

I wasn’t thinking about a major life reset, nudging me to step back in order to get back on course. I wasn’t thinking about having a day of unplugging my Smartphone, my PC, and my other electronics as people are challenged and encouraged to do on the Global Day of Unplugging.

What I had in mind was exploring some areas of my life that I could turn OFF long enough to allow me to step back, evaluate, develop new strategies, and then turn back ON with a new sense of purpose and joy.

Luckily, my life is simple. I do what I do by choice. I try to avoid extraneous activities or social connections that aren’t meaningful.

Luckily, too, I don’t need to push the OFF switch on areas of my life such as finances, friendships, reinvention, research, or writing. They can remain ON.

Luckily, I don’t have a lot of OFF/ON considerations to make. Nonetheless, I have a few things to consider.

The first thing that sprouted in my mind was gardening. How ironic considering the seven inches of snow on the ground. But, hey, my first gardening catalog had arrived from Plant Delights Nursery, and I had been in a lustful mood ever since. Who wouldn’t be with gorgeous specimens such as Philipp Hardy Ladyslipper Orchid and Gay Paree Peony staring at me, winking at me, and tempting me.

The shameless seduction went on, page after page. Every time I saw a hot specimen that I had to have, I dog-eared that page. The catalog had 113 pages, and that’s exactly how many dog ears I had. Don’t worry. With each wink, I mentally surveyed my snow-covered garden, planning where I would bed down this plant and where I would tuck in the next plant and the next and the next.

And the next thing I knew, I pressed my gardening OFF switch. Here’s why. My garden beds have always involved huge investments of time and money. For twenty years, my late partner and I took great joy in creating new beds and putting in new specimen plants. Each year, the gardens and our investments grew exponentially. However, since Allen’s death, I’ve had to do the “doing” alone.

What better time than right now in the dead of winter with snow on the ground to press the gardening OFF switch? Maybe my decision will provide unexpected emotional healing. Maybe it will allow me to acknowledge the weight of past investments and the changes that have occurred in my life during the last three years. By giving myself permission to hit the OFF switch and step back, maybe I’ll be honoring Allen’s memories while also prioritizing my own well-being. Maybe my ultimate decision will be to focus on garden maintenance and garden celebration instead of new projects and new plants. It might give me a deeper appreciation for the beauty of the present moment while laying the groundwork for continued growth and creativity in the gardening seasons yet to come.

Then, I started thinking about cooking and baking. Next to gardening, that’s probably the area in my life gobbling up the most time and money. Don’t get me wrong. I love my kitchen adventures. But here’s the thing. I like to cook daily, using fresh ingredients bought daily. While I like simple down-home foods, more often than not, I’m traipsing into the more complicated culinary wilderness of international cuisines, especially Thai and Vietnamese. To make matters more complex, I don’t like leftovers, especially if I’m going to pop them into the freezer to be thawed for future consumption. Sorry. It just doesn’t turn me on at all. On top of all that, these days I’m cooking and baking most of the time just for me. I still use my best linens, china, flatware, and stemware daily, but it can be a challenge even when I’m dining by candlelight or in front of the kitchen fireplace.

If it sounds lovely, it is. But I’m wondering what would happen if I turned my cooking/baking switch OFF for a while, maybe for just a week. Maybe stepping away from daily cooking and baking routines would prompt me to appreciate the simplicity of meals prepared with minimal effort. Or I might discover the joy of uncomplicated dishes and find satisfaction in the ease of preparation. Or maybe it would deepen my appreciation for the artistry and craftsmanship of professional chefs, especially if I ate out or (God forbid!) ordered takeout during my OFF week. It might inspire me with new culinary ideas and perspectives and enrich my future cooking endeavors. If nothing else, stepping away only to reaffirm my belief that home cooking always wins would be worth switching to OFF for a week.

Next up, my exercise routine. I’ve been biking indoors seven days a week for 20+ years. Obviously, I love my Schwinn. In addition, I have a LifeFitness weightlifting system, and I try to work out three times a week. However, if I had to pick one word to describe how I feel about my exercise routine these days, it would be boring. Yep. Boring. I really need to hit the OFF switch for a while. Even before I do, I know that I will be miserable and grouchy. Aside from needing physical benefits, I need the emotional centering that biking gives me. Maybe I need to “miss” it in order to rekindle the flame. But what about the weights? I ain’t missing them at all, yet I know that a man my age needs to lift weights to maintain muscle strength and bone density. Who knows what my OFF time will do? Maybe I’ll end up joining a local gym so that I have more structure, discipline, camaraderie, and even competition. OMG! Maybe I’ll end up with a personal trainer. Double OMG!! Maybe I’ll end up with a home sauna as an incentive to work up a sweat. Triple OMG!!! Maybe both, at home!

I have one last dimension of my life to think about. My spirituality. I like to believe that I know who I am. I like to believe that I know my core values and beliefs. I like to believe that I know how things stand between me and the universe and a snowy winter day. I like to believe that I listen to the constant whisperings of my inner voice.

Yet, even in the still and calm of my mountain world, the busy-ness of my daily life creates mind chatter that interferes with spiritual communication signals. It’s been a while since the flutter of angel wings, the sound of unknown voices, or the mysteries of Third Eye visions have made me pause, longing for lasting. I want those spiritual moments to be more frequent and more abiding.

To reach them, I won’t turn my spirituality switch to OFF. Instead, I will turn everything else OFF as I head off to a retreat–perhaps a day, perhaps a weekend, or perhaps a week–with nothing required of me other than honoring a vow of silence so that I might better hear the sound of my soul calling.

Flipping the switches to OFF will not redefine me. It will refuel me.

Flipping the switches to OFF will not weaken me. It will strengthen me.

Flipping the switches to OFF will ignite a more profound ON and will push me forward, nourished, rejuvenated and powered by newfound vigor and dynamics.