She Walked a Crooked Path

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...

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...

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...