Recognizing myself, again

A year ago, I wrote these words of hope on the eve of my 45th birthday …

I look down at my hand and wonder what it will look like in another 45 years. Will it recite the stories of my hard work? Will it show the lines of caring for those I love? Will it tell me that I’ve done my best? Will it look like the hand of the man, the human, I want to be?

I sit here on the day of my 46th, knowing that I didn’t do my best at 45. I wasn’t the human I wanted to be. I let circumstance and the actions of others control me. I let anger and frustration get the best of me. From the grand stage of national news to the most intimate moments of my personal life, most of my year was spent in reaction instead of intent. I felt like a prize fighter swinging out of desperation, punch drunk by a volley of shots to the head, unsure if my corner of retreat existed any longer.

I no longer saw the future clearly. Read More

On the eve of 45



As the sun went down on the eve of my 45th birthday, tears welled up in my eyes as I sat alone at the water’s edge — yet surrounded in spirit by those I call my closest family and friends. It feels like I’ve finally found myself, my family, my partner, my tribe and my purpose. Read More

Ignoring the tough guy

On October 4, nearly three weeks ago, I noticed an echo in my left ear. Middle to high-frequency sounds seemed to be arriving a millisecond or so late in my left ear, in normal time to the right. My brain, not used to such a delay, interpreted it as an echo. Read More

On the eve of middle age

Middle aged? A strange concept for me. Perhaps working in a college town helps retain a younger, college mentality, but I’ll freely admit the difficulty in grasping my entry into “late-30-somethingness.” I’m not worried about growing older. I’m confounded that I don’t feel older. Forty is right around the corner, and I’m yet to feel like the “grown-up” my parents and their cohorts appeared to be at my age.

Maybe “growing up” is a myth.