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Drive

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There is a jagged line of blue highways that runs between where I was born in northern Illinois and where I spent the better part of my childhood in northeast Arkansas. I first rode them as a 4 year old, sitting in the back seat of my beloved grandparents' car, on the way to spend a month with them while my father and my pregnant mother went away on a bowling trip. My memory of the trip is filled with love and laughter and too much strawberry shortcake and Dr. Pepper on a hot day. The next time I rode them, I was with my grandfather in a funeral procession of borrowed cars filled with sad, angry people and moving boxes. We went the wrong way on one of the highways and my grandfather made a wild, illegal u-turn in the median to get back on track. He had the heart of a rebel, and I loved that about him. After that trip, I came to know those highways every summer as the scenery of my heartbreak, with my father at the wheel unable to do anything but drive.  We passed through land once
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God Bless You, Lily Gladstone

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I started writing stories when I was 11 years old. I loved the process of traveling in my mind to a reality of my own creation, and I dove into it with glee every chance I got. The response, at best, was little notes in the margin of my work in my english class folders every year from semi-supportive teachers. My rural Arkansas school district didn't have creative writing or drama classes, or any kind of theater program when I was growing up. I saw our guidance counselor in the hallways once in awhile, but there was no mentoring of any kind--not for kids like me, anyway.  I didn't go to college after high school. Not knowing anything about how the system worked, I was afraid that if I got a student loan, something would happen to it and I would have to move back in with my mom and her husband, defeated. After months of pouring through catalogs from different schools that showed bright adults-in-training enjoying their classes and dorm life, making lifelong friends in the quad,
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Quests

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The other day, as my wife was sending me calendar invites for several races she is running next year, I was thinking about why it is that I would rather eat nails than commit to a schedule of regular exercise and better diet. I have all the requisite information to know that it would be good for me and my longevity, and stupid not to do it--and yet, here I am, not doing it, not planning to do it in any measured way. If you asked Rainy what her new year resolution was, she'd probably tell you something about wanting to be her best physical self. If you asked me the same question, I would tell you about wanting to learn more about my lost family and finally settling down to write the book I feel in my heart. Conversely, if you told me to take a run to the bottom of the hill, I'd find some way to wiggle out of having to do it, and if you asked Rainy to watch a documentary about the history of coal mining, she would do the same.  I may have reached the million mark on how many time
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Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus and the Sears Wish List Catalog

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There's nothing like Christmas. We come out of our winter dens, drawn like moths to gaze with awe at colored lights hanging from trees. Our hearts are a little more open than they are most of the time, and we wrap hope inside happy envelopes and boxes to give to the people we love. Children make their best attempts to behave themselves so Santa will bring them all they wish for, and our pets bounce around, happy that everyone is home on a work/school day. There might be snow, if we're lucky.  I have a vague memory of celebrating Christmas in my Illinois childhood. If I part the fog that opens the gate to everything lost in my mind, I can see myself sitting on the living room floor unwrapping presents at Grandma and Grandpa Atherton's house. My parents are together, my aunts and my uncle and my 9-months-older cousin are there, and if I hot wire one synapse to another, I think I can remember Great Grandpa Mike sitting in his usual spot by the window.  My Christmas memories po
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Are We There Yet?

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September 15. It's a beautiful day in western North Carolina, and I am writing this from my window that overlooks a sunlit stand of trees. My wife and I bought a wonderful house in late October last year that is planted firmly into the side of a mountain within 5 miles of town center Hendersonville, North Carolina. It's on a road that only goes to other houses and we walk our dogs down the yellow line when it's quiet, which is often. I've spent time watching the trees in their patient stillness, listening to the birds sing to each other, getting to know the way the sunlight transforms the mountains all year long. I have driven windy roads in the foggy mornings, thinking about how quietly that water vapor quenches the thirst of everything. I've spent a year in deep contemplation, waiting for a direction to appear for me to walk in. What was supposed to happen after all that healing I did with Christine? Why am I alive? What am I here to do? How many times do I have
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My Reckoning

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We are faced with choices every day, all the time.  For many years of my life, I chose to follow my base impulses, good and bad. I grew up lonely and needy. I got out of a toxic family situation by letting fear and disinformation drive me. I moved in the world feeling blind but wanting to understand everything. Along the way, I numbed my pain with drugs and bad relationships I desperately hoped would keep me safe from my unknown self. I worked in a profession that caused me great anxiety but that was better than other options and less scary than following my dreams. I chased people who didn't want my desperate energy, I lived and loved for validation from the external, anything I could find that was outside of me. I prayed for rescue. 3 years ago, I began working with an energy healer who helped me start to turn that long train around. Who was I? Was I worth the effort of drawing breath? Was I worth the effort of untangling myself from all of the complicated relationships that brou
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Closing Time

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Thank you, Joni Yesterday I was driving the long Howard Franklin bridge back from St.Pete to Tampa when A Case of You started playing. Ugh, right in the feels.  My time here has been charmed, a promise I was told in 1993 would come to be. By the time I got here, I was deeply shattered by the death of my father, and shortly after, my mother died. The water flowed my tears, the birds flew my grieving. My prayers for help were heard in the divinity of this place, and the promise of long ago that people would come was answered exquisitely. 7 years after I moved my physical being into this space, my dad and my mom are home in me, and I know now that needed to happen before I could move forward in my divine purpose, however that reveals itself. I have been feeling gone already lately, to the mountains and the forest I am going to root myself into. It feels like a disservice to live as a ghost in my final days here, but I think it's been part of me trying to sneak out without deeply ackn
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