Of late, friends and family have been going through it. Illness. Injuries. Loss. It’s been an eventful summer (and year or several) that way. My heart, of course, goes out to each of you.

Over the past decade, give or take, I’ve faced a bit of adversity—off and on. As I’ve been in it and going through it, I haven’t always had the tools to sustain, withstand, or overcome. I have had friends and family and community to help me persevere.

When I lost my dad to bladder cancer eight years ago, I felt a pain I had never known—a gut-wrenching hollowing of my soul. I fell. I spiraled. I grasped aimlessly at reality. I was on shaky ground, daily treading through quicksand, and making zero headway.

I hurt. I struggled. I floundered.

I went through a period of deep self-reflection. Questioning. Regretting. Self-loathing.

Eventually, as they say, time heals all wounds and, in fact, I have genuinely found this to be the case.

Not a day will ever go by where I won’t think about the man who brought me into this world and raised me, but the distance between the day he passed and now has given me perspective, poise, and strength that all failed me in the moment.

I will not ever pretend to know somebody else’s pain.

I may not understand the depth of one’s loss but I do know the profound nature of the world when the subject of our love is suddenly taken away.

Nothing fills the void. Nothing kills the pain.

Sometimes, though, I find writing, and specifically free writing, is a bit of an antidote. It’s therapeutic. It’s cathartic. It helps me process, find my footing, recalibrate.

Writing without censoring. Just letting one thought after the next pour out. Sentence fragments. Errant phrases. Non sequiturs. They’re all welcome.

Giving oneself over to the pen and the page, and seeing where it takes you.

To that end, a short piece here that, in times of great uncertainty, may help you get by:


She sat with him for long stretches through the night. The hours rolled like minutes yet took their time.

She fixed his blanket. There were wrinkles in it, so it didn’t lay quite right. She tugged at the corners until the surface was neat. She smoothed it with her palm and found the process incredibly satisfying.

Still, she didn’t do this for her. She did it for him. There was great reverence and respect. Adoration.

She loved to gaze at him while he slept. It brought her pleasure and peace.

She held his hand. It was warm. Not warmer than usual, but warmer than she expected and warmer than her own.

She generally ran a degree or two colder than average, and her hands and feet were often small blocks of ice.

She reached across his torso and grasped the other one.

His hands felt good within her own. They were a comfortable temperature.

He warmed her. She cooled him. It was reciprocal. The epitome of a well-formed symbiotic relationship. Mutualism, where both parties benefitted. They were used to being that balance for the other.

In the moment, she had no idea that this would be the last time they held hands. The thought had crossed her mind but not right this second. She studied the shape of each digit on each finger and was never more committed.

She held fast to his love and she loved him so.

She loved him with all of her heart and all of her soul, as he did in return.

She spoke not a word, but let her love be known simply by way of her delicate touch.

Her grip did not signal a desperation to hold on. Rather, it conveyed with every crease in her skin the strength of a woman who had known the greatest, truest, purest love.

I love you, she thought. But she said nothing.

She stared. She stared intently, hoping the words may transfer from her mind to his by osmosis.

She’d long thought, we are of like minds. We are of one mind.

Their wavelengths were tightly woven. Their frequencies uniquely intertwined. It hadn’t always been this way but it had been so for long enough that it was nearly impossible to know where her thoughts ended and his began.

She considered it.

And, of course, right then, as if by some miracle or her desired osmosis, his eyes opened just long enough to meet hers and, without uttering a sound—neither him, nor her—they spoke as loudly and heard as clearly as either of them ever had.

He knew. She knew. They knew.

And the grip of their hands was firmer than any that they’d ever known just before its imminent release.

She was thankful to be present, and she was thankful to be in his company. In this room. In this life. In this world.

She considered all of it as she wept silently, by his side.

What a gift they had been given to know one another as none had ever known, to share each day as completely as any had ever been shared.

She wiped her cheek and in that brief interlude missed the part where his eyes quietly closed again.

If tears were a measure of gratitude, hers would send a message of thanks to last a million years.

What an intense flood of emotion. She realized none of it as it washed over her and she went through it. But later, in time, she would come to study the moment, to appreciate it, to find comfort in conjuring it.

It was the surest way of never having to say goodbye.

She sat quietly, shaking and sobbing, completely at peace in his company. Never more alone.

She pulled from her purse the book of poems he had given her in their youth. She’d been carrying it with her for weeks. She opened it and landed on the fourteenth page. She read to herself in between fits of sobbing, laughter, bittersweet angst. Her tears soaked the page but, intrepid, she continued.

My heart aches with the keen sensation of a thousand cut veins.

Upon my search for serenity, I die the death of uncertain release and ask of every being the kindness to go quickly.

I know the hurt will come and from it, in vain, I run in slow motion toward the wall.

The night catches me by the heels before I fall.

Blessed am I to feel the pull of the breeze beyond my shoulders in a moment where feeling is lost on us all.

Here is where I stood, awaiting the greatness of a flood of trust though whose mercy I will never know.

I exercise my right to bring a companion in the wind along. The wind, my friend. She coasts with me for hours and I will never be able to thank her justly.

Sudden is everything and none of us is the better for it. I can no more suffer the known than I can tame that which I will never know.

Still, in the attempt there is the sweetness of teasing a petal from a rose, a pearl from an oyster, a calm from a storm.

Go tenderly we will when our time has arrived, fighting not as a tempest but relenting with the nobility of an unsheathed sword cutting a whisper wide open, its blade glistening as it draws downward and brushes against a stone.

The turbulence in my gut momentarily subsides as the breath that fills my lungs comes in. The sound goes rushing home, a train of light riding the iron rails with a wisp of chaos that tells me no fear is warranted.

For the earth is ever a friend and the air, fresh as freedom, will never betray its own.

Setting the book down, not to be opened again for an ample spell, she gently fell asleep. And in her slumber, she found bliss.

At the recommendation of a friend, I recently finished reading The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.

It taught me several things, not the least of which is, no matter how slow a reader I admit to be, I need to keep reading as a routine part of my practice.

It not only sharpens my skills as a writer, it unlocks parts of my brain that may otherwise lay dormant and challenges me to view the world in new ways.

The same friend who recommended the book then challenged me to read Coelho’s subsequent tome, Warrior of the Light.

I have every intention of reading it. But first, I am committed to rereading The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway in tandem with my wife.

She bought me a copy and took a copy out for herself from the library.

Interesting thing to me is, my friend recommended The Alchemist based upon my having read Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act: A Way of Being.

When I read that one, the timing couldn’t have been any more perfect. Every word seemed to echo sentiments about creativity and the process of channeling it that I was feeling in the moment.

For me, that one was a quick read—a bit of a page-turner. Not high drama or suspense that had me on the edge of my seat. Still, I couldn’t put it down.

Probably a solid two years between reading the two, and they are quite different in their structure.

As I’ve stated here before, I am a huge believer in the universe and its uncanny knack of presenting things to each of us in ways and at times that are poignant and irrefutable.

I finished The Alchemist about two days ago and picked up The Old Man and the Sea immediately after.

Turns out the protagonists in both stories are named Santiago.

Earth-shattering? No.

Life-changing. Not entirely.

Still, there’s something to that detail that I can’t ignore. Or, maybe more accurately, I choose not to ignore.

Because reading has always brought with it a bit of unwarranted rigor, I’ve often elected other pursuits to occupy my time.

But now and for the foreseeable future, I’m newly committed.

I have yet to plow through The Old Man and the Sea but The Alchemist was, for sure, filled with life lessons and wisdom in the form of several thoughtfully crafted parables.

Inadvertently choosing to read a book about a shepherd while traveling to Iceland, a nation known for its sheep, while also penning a post about herd mentality? Also not lost on me.

What does it mean?

What does any of it mean?

I don’t know.

I couldn’t tell you.

But to me—someone trying his best to pay attention to the signs and the signals and the world around him—it surely means something.

Every bit of everything that ever happens could be happenstance or coincidence.

I, for one, choose to counter that notion.

As I go, I continue to learn things about myself.

With books and films, to varying degrees, I can remember specifics but I’m often left mainly remembering how they made me feel.

I can cite passages or quotes occasionally. More often, I’m inclined to take away a bigger picture message.

Knowing this about myself, I’m trying to be more diligent about absorbing and recounting the granular pieces.

Without spoiling the plot or the story, The Alchemist teaches various life lessons. Patience. Belief. Kindness. A proper understanding of destiny, soul-searching, and the circuitous nature of life.

I could not recount for you every excruciating detail—nor would I—but the net takeaway for me is to stay open to what the world will ultimately provide and to treat everything and everyone in a manner we would all want to be treated.

One never knows where another has been, what they have seen or done, or who they may be. Despite what we see or think we know, we may, in fact, not even have a clue.

For these reasons and simply because it’s a good way to be, do your best to reserve judgment and let the course of the future unfold before you.

Not always an easy thing to do but, for sure, liberating.

Thanks to their tremendous hospitality, we were able to experience the country like locals and, I might even say, at times, what felt like royalty.

It’s a gift to be able to travel and especially so, for me, when I get to feel like I’m living in a place temporarily versus simply visiting. This experience was every bit of that.

We spent three days and two nights in the countryside. We saw waterfalls, walked dormant volcanoes, and laid on black stone beaches. We bathed in the Secret Lagoon—Iceland’s oldest public swimming pool, formerly owned by my friend’s family, and swam in another community pool mere steps from his home.

We stayed in a pop-up camper in the south while the kids spent the night steps away in my brother’s parents’ small cabin.

We took up temporary residence in a house that came with two cats that were accounted for and discovered two bonus cats who played on the nearby coastal rocks and occasionally slipped in through the cat flap at the base of the laundry room door to sneak in a meal. They were all generally sweet to us but, between them, there were some catty cat dynamics, for sure.

We squeezed in a lot in a week.

No photo or video taken and shared here begin to do the terrain or company justice.

I don’t speak the language but, after this most recent trek, I’m more motivated than ever.

I was able to visit with and meet another dear friend face-to-face for the first time. I’ve mentioned her and her enormous talent here more than once. She and I have been connected for years and creatively collaborated, but we met IRL on this trip as well.

So special for so many reasons.

I can’t overstate the value and power of travel. Exposure to different cultures—whichever and wherever they may be—is the stuff of life, as they say. Humbling. Grounding. Enlightening.

Would one expect to find a poster of Nina Simone from a 1961 performance at The Apollo on a wall in an Airbnb in the west end of Reykjavik? If I had to venture a guess, I’d say maybe. Would one expect to find among the eclectic book collection in said Airbnb Ayn Rand, Margaret Atwood, Syd Field, Jack Kerouac, Kahlil Gibran, and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird? It’s possible. Either way, the mix of publications certainly put a smile on my face and wasn’t lost on me.

It just goes to show how truly similar we are and how much humans share in common. It’s the exposure to those from faraway places that bring us close together.

I have a few friends in this world who I genuinely consider brothers. And this particular brother’s name is Einar. As you know, my name is Dana. Physically, he and I bear very little resemblance to one another yet, back in the day and maybe not even that long ago, people would get us (or at least our names) confused. In fact, some folks, for simplicity’s sake, would meld the two names together and refer to us collectively as Deinar. We are truly of like minds.

From afar, especially for those who’ve never visited, I think some might assume it’s the waterfalls, geysers, and high-key places like the Blue Lagoon that make Iceland magical. There is truth to that. On the contrary, I’d advise that it’s the people.

I want nothing more than for my children to get bitten by the travel bug. I want them to partake in all the things that broaden our perspectives and strengthen the bonds between us.

I want them to try new foods, develop mature palates, and understand though while cultures may make us who and how we are, at our core, we are all truly the same. Guided and governed by the same natural forces. Susceptible to the same euphoria, joy, tragedy, loss, and pain. Longing for the same truth, respect, love, and companionship.

With them, we have been a few places. This trip felt especially meaningful. We covered a lot of ground and ate a lot of things, including harðfiskur and (a bit shamefully) KFC, but we didn’t try fermented shark. I’ve had it before. Someday, they may get to it. We did, however, otherwise get fully immersed in the language and the land.

I know what the experience was like for me. I can only hope it was just as memorable and lasting for them. Time will tell.

I’d begun penning this post several months back, then abandoned it for a bit, not because it didn’t feel relevant, rather other things simply crossed my mind and, for one reason or another, took precedence.

I find myself returning to it now, as my travel has brought me places where I’m nearer to animals that inherently display the behavior that was the subject of my writing.

Yet again, a simple connecting of the material dots.

Initially, I’d been inspired by human behavior—the tendency to follow others versus forging one’s own path.

There are some flocks, schools, herds in nature that I find wholly fascinating. Fish. Birds. Bats. Wildebeest. Have you ever studied a massive group of starlings on a wire or slender silver baitfish moving as one? Grace personified. The level of intelligence and connectivity required to achieve such fluid motion and synchrony doesn’t just give me pause. It renders me speechless.

Of course, this type of choreography is designed to keep individuals within the group safe.

As it pertains to humans, we are governed by an entirely different set of rules, laws, and social parameters.

Blending in does sometimes telegraph our security. It ensures a level of complacency and comfort. It is often the safest path to choose.

Straying is not for the meek. It’s not for the faint of heart. It requires independent thought, and independent thought is hard. People enjoy and consciously seek out things that are easy. Challenging one’s own morals and beliefs takes effort and can ultimately lead to our questioning our own behavior, choices, and values.

Who needs that?

In truth, all of us.

But, in this case, the postulation was rhetorical. Nobody wants to put in the work required to consider that they may be wrong, misguided, or worshipping false prophets. And nobody, for sure, wants to give way to the idea that they’d been following an errant path for a generous span of time. I mean, that would undermine everything we know. It would mean we’d have to go back to our earliest days and reconsider every last detail of life, existentialism, scrupulousness, faith, and certitude.

Much safer and less detrimental to one’s own psyche to just blindly give oneself over to what the rest of the herd is thinking or doing or consuming. That requires little effort and insulates us from self-sabotage.

Conformity begets complacency and vice versa. When we’re complacent, we’re less sure of our wants and desires. We’re more apt to settle. We’re less discerning. We’re more vulnerable and impressionable. More prone to tire or wither in the face of a challenging notion.

Flocking requires nothing of us but grazing and a commitment to close physical or ideological proximity. No thinking. No curiosity. No wanderlust. Just an unrivaled acceptance that one’s fate cannot be affected by one’s actions, rather swallowing the bitter pill that there can and will only ever be one sweeping set of irreversible identical circumstances for the masses.

This works for some. This works for many. This certainly doesn’t work for all.

Flocking is instinctual behavior and in order to do something different, one must intentionally contradict the laws of nature. This requires energy, effort, and a conscious decision to push or rail against the system. This takes gumption, cajones, hubris, a spine. Guts. Stones. Audacity. To make oneself vulnerable. To leave oneself out in the open, presumably lost, and almost certainly in harm’s way. Knowing the potential dangers and existential threat it poses, why would anyone choose to do that

There’s no one reason. But it can often be tied back to integrity. A trait that can be neither bought nor sold. Handed down from generation to generation. Taught early and then, if you’re diligent and committed, exuded for a lifetime.

So, beware the shepherd with the crooked staff or the shortcut through the resplendent mountain pass.

And instead, should you find yourself conflicted, dig deep and summon the strength to go it alone. Look within. Follow your heart. That internal guiding force has never led you astray.

My 9-year old was able to identify a Mercedes-Benz logo unprompted immediately, which, as a fervent observer of brands, made me particularly proud.

It’s the spitting image.

I also see a Star Wars galactic shuttle. That one’s a bit more abstract and requires an ounce of an extra leap, but it’s pretty fascinating where the mind can go when we let our imaginations take us.

Speaking of leaps, if you squint or allow yourself to get even more abstract, you can see the Jumpman logo. Another iconic symbol rivaling the prior examples in their ubiquity. That one’s likely a bit of a stretch for many of us, but the mind thrives on pliability and elasticity.

Maybe watermelons like the one I cut grow like this all the time, and this is nothing special. That’s likely the case. Still, I persist.

Is there deeper meaning to it? Likely not. But does making the association—connecting the (otherwise arbitrary) dots—bring me some level of joy? For sure.

A couple of days later, I sat on our back deck, early morning, sipping a cup of coffee, taking in my surroundings. Laying back on the small couch, feet kicked up on the table, I got comfortable and did my best to study everything around me, including the birds, the trees, the flowers, and the plants.

I don’t do this often enough.

I shifted focus. Closed my eyes. Tilted my head back. And dialed in, trying in earnest to be present and aware of every little thing.

I don’t regularly meditate, but this level of awareness is maybe the closest I’ve recently come.

I sat there, still. Feeling. Listening. Noticing. Absorbing.

Taking in every bit of all the sensorial experiences currently affecting me.

The shrill droning chorus of cicadas in my ears. The warm sunlight falling gently on my brow. Not covering my entire face, rather hitting this one concentrated area just above my right eye. The grass, herbs, and flowering plants in my direct line of sight. My eyes landed upon the small jade plant growing in a ceramic pot immediately in front of me. And, maybe not for the first time, I studied it closely.

I took a photo of it with the express intention of sharing.

For me, on its surface, in the negative space of the flower pot, between the grids of diagonal dots, amid the lines, is the letter X. I love finding alphabetical and numerical forms in nature.

Can you see it? Perhaps you see something else.

I am doing my best to be intentional about how I move through the world these days, in my spare time and at work.

In truth, for me, the (work and personal) worlds overlap and, at some point, become one. There is no hard line between them. My mind is beholden to my thoughts and those thoughts are associated with all things. Things that happen between the hours of nine to five. Between the hours of five to nine. It’s all fair game.

Whatever my mind takes in by way of my eyes gets processed and interpreted and added to an inexhaustible mix of ideas. One after the next after the next, they stack up. They collide. They overlap. They intermingle. They become entangled. They play. They satisfy my thirst for knowledge, for understanding, for wondering.

And I suppose, since we started there, and it has to do with food and an insatiable appetite (albeit conceptual), it can all be brought back to the center of that watermelon.

Even after thirty plus years in an industry, I’m hungry.

Hungry to learn. Hungry to solve. Hungry to contribute. Hungry for food ,too, but hungry for more.

More of what, you might ask. More of everything. More fulfillment. More enrichment. More conversations. More deliberating. More civilized debating. More critical thinking. More signs from the universe.

More. More. More.

The faucet never shuts off and the wheels never stop turning.

This affliction I refer to quietly as the curse of the creative mind.

Disparate parts of my brain shaking hands, taking what might otherwise feel like random associations and somehow piecing them together neatly to make sense.

From whence this hunger derives, I have no idea. But I can’t help it. It’s just there. And, after many conversations with other creatives who are similarly wired, I don’t know how to teach it. I don’t know how to make young kids (or even folks who’ve been in the game a long time) want to want it as much as we do.

I’m largely guided by the universe, doing my best to stay open and receive whatever positive energy I can. I know it may sound a bit nutty and woo-woo to some of you, and I’m completely okay with that. While I’m happy to have you here, the details of these specific words in this paragraph are likely lost on you, which simply tells me this particular message isn’t for you.

But then there are those of you who do get it. Those who are also attuned. Those who pay attention to the often overlooked signs and details like numbers and organic shapes that resemble letterforms in nature. Shadows and the twists of power cords laying on the floor that favor the letter S or a treble clef or, perhaps, even a heart.

Those who tap away at the keys of their laptop while standing in the kitchen with the dishwasher running and suddenly hear the steady beat of the whooshing oscillating arm that becomes a rhythm to move you on your feet. It’s not just cleaning the dishes, doing its job. It’s contributing something greater to the overall sensory experience. It’s no longer background noise to be drowned out. With a subtle shift in perspective, it’s the basis for music to be taken in.

It’s things like this—highly improbable, unlikely, nonsensical things—that occupy my brain and keep me up in the wee hours of the night.

They don’t make sense to most, but they do make sense to me.

And while it can be a bit overwhelming at times, deriving the largest meaning from the smallest exchange, it’s also wildly comforting, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So I encourage you. Next time you’re up early, cup of coffee in hand, weight of the world on your mind, maybe step outside and take a seat. Clear your head and adjust your aperture. Let the quiet, observant, perhaps naturally dormant side of your brain take over.

Pay attention. Succumb to the moment. Make all the random associations you possibly can and be completely okay with it.

I all but guarantee you’ll see something new. Or maybe you’ll see something old in a completely new way. And then there’s a good chance you’ll never look at that thing the same way again.

There’s a whole world just waiting to be observed and appreciated everywhere around us at any given time.

Make as many random associations as you can. Someday we may all be surprised and delighted to learn that some or most or none of it was so random after all.

Examined closely, I arrive at the conclusion that there’s merit to both approaches.

My heart currently guides me to share.

If you have a minute, and you’re so inclined, take just a bit of time to study these images (and the world around you) closely. Notice the rhythm, the chaos, the repetition. Find balance in the bricks, tension in the tiles, and stillness in the symmetry. The curves. The sheen. The stitches. The reflections. It’s all there for the taking. Look for patterns within patterns and maybe you’ll find something no one else has ever seen.

This was a somewhat conscious decision, as I was the only Black person in our group and, beyond that, I simply felt as though I’d want to consume the content at my own pace. I generally feel this way about museums, clothes shopping, record shopping, grocery shopping. I need time to sit with things. Let them settle in and marinate. Sometimes I want to go fast. Other times, I want to go slow. Totally dependent on my mood. It has little to do with anyone else, and pretty much everything to do with just me.

This was just one of those things that I felt like I needed to experience on my own.

I started off slowly, taking in each piece and its respective description. I meandered from room to room, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. The museum is really well considered and laid out. Interactive. Immersive. The stories spanning decades and centuries unfold seamlessly, pulling you in, advising, enlightening. For me, it was a proper education, all at once filling my cup and breaking my heart. Ours—America’s, the Black community’s, and the world’s—is a complicated history. So much to consider. Great opportunity to learn, from our mistakes and our successes. We’ve come far yet, with present day very much in mind, we have so far to go.

Later, shortly after my museum visit, as we walked South Main Street, headed to dinner, I shared my feelings with a coworker.

Each year, a dear friend of mine and I make it a point to honor Martin Luther King, Jr. at the beginning of the year. Mid-January, on or around his birthday, it’s become tradition to host one or more meals, inviting friends and family to partake. It’s called the Great American Peacemeal. At that time, we ask attendees to be intentional about the fact that we actually benefit from the privilege of being able to gather with who we want, where we want, for whatever reason we want. As we know, it hasn’t always been this way.

I told her this.

My visit to the museum shone a light on the depth and breadth of experiences associated with MLK and the Black experience in our nation, and made it even more apparent the significance and magnitude of it all.

It struck a chord and hit upon something much greater and deeper than I’d previously felt or known.

I took in the first building of the museum but, when directed across the street to the Legacy portion, I opted not to take it in, in the moment. I was neither overwhelmed nor too heavy from the weight of it all. Rather, I was properly sated and steadily processing. It was a lot. In some way, Memphis felt like a bit of a time capsule—a bridge to a world gone by, still connecting us imperatively to our shared history.

Contrary to all of this was the experience I had on my first visit to the city—where I began this whole story in the early paragraphs. It had never quite sat well with me and I’d never been able to properly reconcile it or achieve closure. In fact, this most recent trip to the museum further contextualized things for me and gave me a better sense of where I currently stood in the country, in the world, in the city, and in society.

Some twenty five years ago, I was also on production in Memphis. Different agency. Different partner. Different client. Different political climate.

I’d awakened early one morning and, as I was prone to do those days, got up and headed to the hotel gym. With a bit of spring in my step, I headed out of my room, down the hall, down the stairs of the Peabody, to the athletic center on the lower level.

I was going about my business, feeling relatively good about myself and normal, when all of a sudden I stopped dead in my tracks. Stone-cold. Frozen. Not so much as a flinch. Never before had I experienced this sensation, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood properly at attention and I could feel a tingle along my shoulders and the top of my spine. Call it a sixth sense. Call it my Spidey senses. Call it an overwhelmingly eerie feeling. Whatever it was, I felt it and it gave me an undeniable sense of pause. Mid-stride, I locked up. I craned my neck over my shoulder, spun on my heels, and turned around. There was not one, but two security guards. One White. One Black. Staring me down. Literally burning holes into every fiber of my being with their stern, fixated, wildly accusatory glares. And then the White one delivered a line that I can still hear as clear as day and I will never forget.

“What are you doing in this hotel,” he demanded with a tone so firm and resolute, it almost had me questioning my own self and my permission to be there.

I was shocked. Completely caught off-guard. Dumbstruck. Internally reeling.

Had I been a cartoon version of myself, my jaw would have literally hit the floor.

Probably visibly shaken, for sure seething on the inside, I literally had no words. Making sure I heard him correctly, I replied with the only thing I knew how.

“Excuse me?”

He repeated himself, verbatim.

He doubled down, maybe even came a little more emphatic.

“I said, what are you doing in this hotel?”

Okay. I wasn’t crazy. He’d said exactly what I thought he’d said, and it was wholly incriminating. Based off of nothing.

He had a visual ID on me. That was it.

Me, in my loose-fitting black and white Adidas 3-striped sweatpants and a random tee shirt. Armed with nothing but a deep desire to eek out a few sets of pull-ups and a handful of preacher curls.

The crime? Traipsing while Black.

Then again, completely dumbfounded, stammering for words, trying to keep the boiling blood within me from spilling over, I replied. I said something to the effect of me being there on production with a team from an agency. I might have shown him my room key. If I did, it was completely against my better judgement because, in truth, I’d done nothing wrong. I’d committed no crime. I’d broken no rule or law. I’d simply been stopped for existing.

I may have said “hotel guest…staying here,” or some other combination of words attempting to defend my position. Stammering. Seething. Flabbergasted. That was me. That’s where things get a bit fuzzy as, in the moment, I still struggled to reconcile the fact that all of this was actually happening.

I had zero context. To this day, I can still find myself trying to make excuses for him. Maybe I looked like someone he’d seen before. Maybe I bore an uncanny resemblance to an individual he knew who perpetually plagued him by frequenting the hotel when he, for whatever reason, was forbidden from it. Maybe he thought he knew who I was but then suddenly found himself mistaken. I don’t know now and I, for sure, didn’t know then. It just caught me completely off-guard and sent me mentally and spiritually tumbling. I’ll never forget it.

Ultimately, if memory serves, once I was able to prove my case and validate the fact that I was a paid guest with every right to be there, he offered a modest apology. The other security guard never said a word. No nod. No eye contact. No nothing. Not a peep. They went their way and I went mine. I didn’t make anything more of it. I shared the experience with the producer and my partner at the time. Told a few friends when I got back home. Beyond that, I let it go. Didn’t bring it to the attention of hotel management. Wasn’t compelled by the desire to get him fired. Simply chalked it up to an experience and kept moving forward with my life. In retrospect, maybe I should have been a bit more irate. Maybe I should have been a bit more incensed, incredulous, and vigilant. Generally, that’s never been my nature. I think, more than anything, I was in a state of shock. And, as ever, it’s easy to see things in a clear-headed manner when we have the benefit of time and distance working in our favor. Were it to happen today, it would be something altogether different. Having the context and a bit more wisdom (maybe) now than I had then, it would play out differently. But as convenient as that seems and as noble as that sounds, I’m left to deal with and process the realities of how things played out.

It’s funny. On this most recent second trip to Memphis, we were one phone call away from staying at the Peabody again. They apparently were being a little difficult with the room reservations, so my producer took a different path and we ended up at the Arrive hotel on Main Street, about a 3-minute drive away, which was lovely, btw.

I kind of wanted to stay there at the OG. I wanted to see if my experience might have been the same or something entirely different. A friend suggested that I could’ve gone on a search for that security guard. Seen if he was still working at the hotel. Perhaps a changed man, perhaps up to the very same antics. We could have sat down for a cup of coffee and dissected the what, how, and why of it all. Properly made peace with it and set the world ablaze with a newfound glory and understanding precipitated by time, mutual respect, and understanding. Maybe someday we still can.

Until then, we lead separate lives. I take with me yet another indelible memory of Memphis and some lessons well-learned.

In reconstructing the details of this story (like just a few days ago), I went on the Peabody website to find a few specifics about the gym. The links are broken but I did find this image on the amenities page. And even, maybe especially, in this day and age, it feels properly telling. In the context of everything laid out here, it calls attention to itself and stands out.

I was then and am still now a duck of a different color. I see no difference between me and my counterparts but I cannot ever be certain that the sentiment is reciprocated. This image seems harmless enough. I mean, they’re just a bunch of rubber ducks, right? Maybe. But when your life is predicated on the notion of constantly being singled out—when you spend a lifetime fighting for the same rights, visibility, compassion, acceptance, treatment, common decency as others—suddenly it becomes clear that this seemingly innocuous image is representative of something much deeper.

Different head shape. Different eye shape. Different bill shape. Different skin tone. Different material with a bit of a sheen. Perhaps I’m reading too deeply into it, as some might dismiss. Perhaps not.

This entire experience has newly impressed upon me the weight and gravity of it all. It has contextualized our history in a profound way that not having made a trip here ever could. I am newly committed to our annual Peacemeal tradition of gathering and breaking bread in honor of MLK and now have a new experience to share and build upon. I am invigorated and motivated in a manner that may have escaped me had I not seen Memphis again through my own eyes.

I’ll leave you with this.

Never underestimate the power of travel. Take a trip abroad. Take many. Move about domestically. It’s good for our souls and the continued expansion of our minds. Hit the north, south, midwest, northwest, Atlantic, Pacific, and everything in-between. If you have a chance, swing by Memphis.

Visit the museum. Visit the Peabody. See the ducks. Draw your own conclusions. Create your own experiences. Live your truth. Share your stories. Connect. Listen. Learn. Observe. And let those around you—similar to and different from you—in. The exchange of ideas, the crossing of paths, the trading of knowledge, the mixing of orbits—all of it is what we’re here for.

Be a gentle soul. Proceed with grace but never allow yourself to be trod upon. Fight not only for your rights, but for the rights of others.

May people continue to be kind to you and show you nothing but love, courtesy, civility, and compassion. And even if they don’t—because not everyone will—take the high road. It always leads to a better place.

In trying to build a successful communication channel, even if I don’t like it, it’s my responsibility to pay attention to things like performance data and metrics. And, to date, all things considered, by a long shot, one of my best-performing posts involved these GIFs that I’ve been drawing and animating. So, I’m doubling down and posting another one.

What started off as a ridiculous pursuit for me has actually turned into something much bigger. The door initially cracked ajar has now been kicked wide open.

It’s a testament to the idea that viable, sustainable, and sometimes lucrative concepts often come from silly notions and unexpected places.

One Sunday a few months back, a dear friend—Rán Flygenring—gave a presentation. It was virtual. We were all on the screen. There were about a dozen of us in attendance. She’s a brilliant illustrator and an exceptional storyteller. Somehow, that day, she lit a spark within and a fire beneath me, and I began to draw. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing earth-shattering. Just simple concepts hinging upon unrefined line work. Then I added color. Then I added motion. I took a very rudimentary approach. But with each one, a style began to emerge and my confidence grew along with it. I was compelled to start and keep going. No rhyme or reason to any of it. And I’d preface the work or punctuate with caveats.

“These are ridiculous.”

“Absolute nonsense.”

“It’s just silliness.”

But I, for sure, was having fun.

And that, for me, has always been a cardinal rule of any and all creative pursuits. Once it’s no longer fun—once the joyousness has been stripped from the work—it’s likely time to wrap it up and move onto something else.

Advertising can be challenging. It can be competitive. It can be dog-eat-dog. It can be cutthroat. But, despite all of these truths, it can be fun and, for me, historically, it largely has been. If there’s no joy coming from the work, there’s joy coming from the people you’re doing it with. If there’s no joy in the process of creating, there’s joy in the camaraderie. There’s trauma bonding. There’s commiseration. There’s unity in being in the trenches together, fighting the good fight as one. The bottom line is that there needs to be joy coming from somewhere, otherwise the likelihood of true, legitimate burnout largely looms.

Within the commercial art discipline, there are rules, and watch-outs, and guardrails, and landmines. There are so many ways and places to mess up or for things to break down. It’s a hard industry in which to consistently win.

Though outside of that world and maybe still adjacent to it, the possibilities for creativity are endless. And that has always gotten me excited, and leads me back to these seemingly arbitrary illustrations and GIFs.

A slightly feminine character with an oversized smallmouth bass head?

Yep.

A potentially more masculine character (relative to the first) with a propellor-powered airplane head?

Exactly.

What does any of it mean?

I couldn’t tell you.

Is there some deeper-seated subconscious relevance to it all?

Maybe.

Does any of that really matter?

Perhaps.

But I don’t care and I hope you don’t either.

From my brain to the page to the screen. So it goes.

And from there, again, the possibilities (for merch and impressions and exposure) are without limits.

My main point in breaking down and sharing any of this is to simply boost others’ self-confidence and encourage more creativity.

If you draw and haven’t taken out your tools in a minute, dust them off and have at it. If you think you’re not creative, give that consideration anew. If you write but haven’t been recently inspired or prolific, bust out your journal and take another swing.

Life is short and there is so much making to be had.

And when the voices begin to creep in, telling you you’re no good, nobody cares, or the world doesn’t need another (fill-in-the-blank), shut ‘em down. Drown ‘em out. Turn the page. Flip the script. Leave the room. Do whatever it takes to counter the false narrative(s) and keep the industrious artistic fire burning.

Got to.

Several years back, my wife (a singer) performed in a four-person show with three dear friends, produced by a few other dear friends. The production was titled “Title of Show,” and it’s a musical about the making of a musical. Two writers writing about writing. I know. Super meta.

It’s really, really good, and their rendition was awesome.

I don’t say this because we’re married and I’m obligated. I say it because it’s true.

I’ll leave you with this.

When those voices (referred to as vampires in this number) creep in, do yourself a favor and play this song. (Linked below. Double-click the video.)

Note: There is a bit of profanity, so it may not be for young audiences or the faint of heart. Properly adult themes and colorful language ahead. Consider yourselves warned.

Over the years, it’s become my go-to, providing just the reminder and gentle—maybe even stern—lift that I need…every…single…time.

Go here. Give it a listen—once, maybe twice. Three times for good measure.

Then take that mojo and turn it into something you love.

Matter of fact, I’m gonna give it a listen right now, myself, because it’s just that good.

Then, newly inspired, I’m gonna get back to it.

I’m gonna keep thinking. I’m gonna keep writing. I’m gonna keep making GIFs, and I encourage you all to keep on keepin’ on, in all the ways that you can.

By comparison to some of what I’ve recently written, this one will be fairly short and sweet.

I want to take a moment to express my gratitude. I want to express my deep appreciation to all of you, for caring enough about anything I have to share to pay attention. I want to thank you all for opening my emails and reading them.

I want to thank all of you for opting in.

I want to thank all of my online followers and friends, free subscribers, and paid subscribers. I want to thank those who have started off as free subscribers and become paid subscribers. This is massively appreciated.

Not only does it help generate revenue, it boosts my confidence. It motivates me to do more and do better. It reaffirms that somebody out there actually takes time to consider and possibly care about what I have to say.

As someone who—not often but occasionally—grapples with imposter syndrome, it sincerely goes a long way. That struggles is real, y’all. As I understand it, many of us—even the most celebrated and accomplished—can relate.

I want to thank anyone who has ever crossed my path and become a friend, mentor, or collaborator.

I want to thank you for sharing your wisdom, your knowledge, your time, your ideas, your perspective, and your leadership styles. All of these things have shaped me into the human I am today. And, of course, I’m continuing to be shaped on the daily. That’s a lifelong constant and, for me, a dedicated pursuit.

I want to thank all of my creative friends for sharing your work and your practice and your process.

I want to thank all of those with whom I occasionally share a conversation. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. That time is a privilege. I always come away enlightened and the better for it. Always.

I want to thank the optimists among you for imbuing the world with positive energy. It so needs it, especially at a time like now when the collective energy is consistently anxiety-inducing, unsettling, and all over the place.

I want to thank all of you currently reading this for being present and empathetic and vulnerable. For sharing your hopes and dreams, your ups and downs, your good and bad, your loves and hates.

I am so grateful for the opportunity to share a little bit of myself with each and all of you each week, and I will continue to try to keep it interesting, with thoughts and visuals and projects and questions and interviews and spotlights of other people doing all sorts of interesting and impactful work in the world.

If at any time you’re no longer feeling it, and are compelled to unsubscribe, I get it. I will understand and I, for sure, won’t blame you.

Our free time is precious. We have limited appetite and bandwidth for all of the information and input coming at us each day. We have little choice but to pick and choose what we avail ourselves to and what we do not.

So, if you ever feel as though you don’t have time for any of this, I will unconditionally respect that decision. I won’t begrudge you for a second. I will simply look back and reflect, and appreciate the time you gave.

That said, for each and all of you that are here today, I am humbled and honored that you engage and give so selflessly of your time.

I’d say, if you feel similarly about people in your world, let them know.

Thank you.

Work is important. It can be deeply fulfilling. In its simplest form, it’s also a means to an end. We spend a great deal of our lives studying, specializing, preparing for the thing we’ll ostensibly commit ourselves to for years. It certainly has its place.

Yet, what we do for work does not define us. At least, in my mind, it shouldn’t. Society puts an inordinate amount of pressure on us as employers and employees, managers, leaders, executives, and entrepreneurs.

The question of “What do you do?,” for some of us can be daunting.

A friend recently reframed it for himself, leaning contrarily into “What do you love?” and I can surely appreciate this.

All of it is a lot to consider, especially if you do or love multiple things, which brings me to these questions.

How does one define in the most simple terms what one does when one does more than one thing? And how does one define oneself in terms unrelated to work at all?

Well, first off, it’s not your job to make it easy for people to understand what it is that you do or how it is that you do it.

Let’s start there.

As it pertains to making (things) and doing what I do for a living, I’ve arrived at this place. I’m an artist. I’m a creative. I’m an arts enthusiast. I’m an arts advocate. I’m a writer. I’m a creative director. I’m a curator. I’m a photographer. I’m a site builder. I’m a connector. I’m a communicator. To boil that down into a neatly-packaged, bite-sized elevator pitch is not easy. Not for me, anyway. All of these descriptors are related but they are not one and the same. I do them concurrently, not necessarily ALL at the same time. But on any given day, there’s some multiplicity going on, and I’m good with it.

For other creatives, I think it’s easy to understand, but for the rest of the world—those with the burning desire to assign labels, driven by the need to know, the yearn to compartmentalize—maybe not so much.

I’ve long been reluctant to call myself an artist. Not sure why. I’ve generally been more at home with the “creative” label, as it leaves a bit more room for interpretation. But these days, as I painstakingly GIF and sketch my way toward artistic credibility, I’m more comfortable with both.

When I ran my gallery space a few years back, people would often come in and ask if my work was on display—almost immediately expect to see it. Occasionally, I would have a piece or two to share, but mainly I was putting forth other people’s wares. On any given day, the concept of me doing something that I might describe as a bit more altruistic (than what they assumed I should be doing) was lost on them. Coming from more of a studio artist/owner experience, I assume this is more of what they may have had in mind. Open studio vs curated exhibition space. It’s a worthwhile distinction. I have no regrets and I’d do it all over again in the same way. Some parts of how I ran it, I’d keep, while other parts I’d refine. Lot of learnings.

In all of it, I love being able to keep people guessing. Always have. Always will. As humans, we think we know, based upon what we see. We think we know based upon what we hear. We think we know based upon what we’ve experienced. We often ultimately discover just how narrow our thinking was and how much room there was for reinterpretation. I appreciate that. Because it telegraphs and facilitates learning. It clearly demonstrates to us that, despite what we were thinking, outside of what we thought we knew, there’s another way. It’s eye-opening. Enlightening. Humbling. Creates room for reconsideration.

And maybe more importantly than how one defines her- or himself, is why. Why must we so deliberately define for others what it is we do? It’s not for us. It’s for them. People are hardwired to want to know. Do you do this thing or do you do this thing? Conventional wisdom says each of us can only do one thing. And, in order to make it easy on everybody else’s brains, you’d just as soon better limit yourself to one thing. Yeah. Over here, I don’t think so.

And that’s the fun part. That’s where the breakdown of the constructs takes place and the stripping away of the labels kicks in. You mean, people can actually do more than one thing? You mean they can actually be good or adept or excellent at multiple things? In succession or even at the same time? I mean, what on Earth are you talking about?

A few examples. Robert Deniro. Clint Eastwood. Jim Carey. Steve Martin. Sally Field. Penny Marshall. Melissa McCarthy. Jordan Peele. John Krasinski. Jon Favreau. Leonardo DaVinci. Pablo Picasso. James Baldwin. Gordon Parks. Defying stereotypes. Transcending definition. Constantly evolving and expanding one’s skill set, focus, and expertise. Widening the aperture. This is a short list. There are others too, but these are a few that immediately come to my mind. Actors turned directors turned artists turned advocates turned activists turned musicians turned authors turned innovators. Life isn’t a box. It’s an arc. It’s a line upon which there are infinite points and it’s, for sure, not straight. Not direct. Not necessarily sequential. Said line can break. We can double back. We can double down. We can start. Stop. And start again. Same thing. Different thing. New thing. Any number of things. And it’s totally up to us when and where and how and why we do it. Any of it. All of it. That is the human experience. And for that privilege, I am effusively thankful.

Some people won’t get it. Some people will never understand. Some people will always remain reluctant to try. Some people will insist you can’t do it. Some people will try to stand in your way. Some people will sit back, watch, and laugh, secretly hoping for your failure. It’s just what humans do.

Let none of this stand in your way.

Their issues, not yours.

So next time you find yourself struggling to define (for others) in simple terms what it is you do, especially if you do more than one thing, and especially especially if you define yourself in terms other than your chosen vocation, take a minute. Pause. Assess. Reassess. Evaluate. Reevaluate. Then speak on it.

Don’t succumb to the societal pressures to name one thing. Don’t force yourself to limit your definition of yourself to the abbreviated Cliffs Notes version you’ve been convinced every prospective contact needs to hear. Give the full story. The complete picture. Whatever it is you’re compelled to share, share. Put it all out there. Because, in truth, we all do a lot of things. We wear a bunch of hats. We are multidisciplinary, and that’s just the way we like it.

Write. Paint. Draw. Design. Act. Direct. Shoot. Cut. Sing. Compose. Play. Knit. Weave. Crochet. Be eclectic. Own it. Close one career door and open another. Stop chasing the dream and start executing in a way that manifests it into reality. Do all the things and don’t worry one bit about how, when, where, or why to define it. Do it for work. Do it for your own gratification. If the people don’t get it or get you, that’s on them and you might just arrive at the wholly liberating conclusion that they’re likely not your people anyway. Keep ‘em at arm’s length and, again, keep ’em guessing.

Last weekend, I got to spend time with four of my closest friends on the planet and, in the case of three of them, also the people they hold most dear. Two are committed with kids. One recently married. And the fourth lives alone.

I spent time with them separately and all of it was a gift. Some of them know or know of each other. None of them knows all of the others. One’s from grade school. One’s from college. And two are from my advertising world. At some point, all of the worlds collide.

All of them very different from one another, yet we each connect deeply.

One’s Black, of Nigerian descent. Two are White. One’s Puerto Rican. Ultimately, none of this matters. I’m just painting a picture for you. They all reside in the northeast. Beacon, Brooklyn, Jersey. And, lucky for me, I was able to coordinate and triangulate so that my trip enabled me to see the whole lot of them. It was a balm for my soul and the through line was conversation. Talking. Listening. Giving. Receiving. Ebbing. Flowing. Absorbing. Sharing. Inhaling. Releasing. It’s as natural to me as breathing and I highly encourage it.

It started with my traveling to the Berkshires (western MA) to join a dear friend to celebrate his birthday. The event was organized by his partner—a lovely human being and extraordinary woman—and executed supremely. Turns out, of the fifteen or so adults in attendance, I knew only five, including the man of the hour and his better half, leaving a lot of room for exploration and discovery when it came to new friends.

The format was called a Junto. And a Junto (also the word for “together” in Spanish, pronounced with a soft h-sound) is defined (by Google) as the following:

A Junto was a club founded by Benjamin Franklin in Philadelphia in 1727—a group of tradesmen and artisans who met weekly to discuss morals, politics, philosophy, and business, with the goal of mutual self-improvement and community benefit. It led to projects like the first lending library, fire department, and a hospital in Philadelphia.

More broadly, “junto” now refers to any small, often informal group that meets for mutual discussion, self-improvement, or shared interest.

Ours was beautifully orchestrated and, summarized, played out like this.

On Friday, guests arrived at various times throughout the day and gathered mainly in the kitchen of the main house, where we made introductions.

The trip was a bit of a homecoming for me, as I grew up in the greater New York (metropolitan) area. What used to affectionately be referred to as “upstate” is really just a stone’s throw from Manhattan. Funny how times change.

I flew into LaGuardia, rented a car, and drove about three hours north, most of that ride taking me straight up the Taconic (Tagkhanic) Parkway. If you’ve never driven it, by all means, add it to your list of scenic highways. It’s not to be missed.

Normally, I take time like that—long stretches on narrow, straight, or winding roads—to make calls and catch up with friends. This time, I kept that urge at bay and drove the whole thing accompanied by a calming singer-songwriter soundtrack, allowing myself to get lost in and my mind to catch up with my own thoughts. It was perfect.

Arriving in Lenox, MA, I made a stop at Market 32, as Guido’s Market (the local favorite) had just closed since it was just after 7pm. Picked up some beer and burgers for the grill, per instructions, and kept it moving.

Finally, at about 7:45pm, I pulled in. Gave hugs. Shook hands. Said a few hellos. It was a travel day for me so, after meeting most of the group, I turned in a little early.

Saturday was chill—a day of relative leisure. Half of the group headed out for a hike while the other half attempted to find a nearby beach. I was with the beach group. A caravan of three cars, we located several lakefront spots but, as fate would have it, none of them was officially open and, we were told by local law enforcement, that that wouldn’t happen until school let out for summer. So, a bit crestfallen, we returned to the house and settled in. I found a quiet spot in the grass. Two of the kids played in a hammock and on a rope swing. It was absolute serenity. I eventually got coerced into a game of hide-and-seek with the four and five year old. The kids hid while I seeked (sought). After three rounds, we called it and I resumed leaning into the downtime.

It didn’t hurt that the weather was absolutely perfect.

A few more people showed up and we gathered on the porch.

There was a chef for the evening, so we could lean in, be present, focus, and concentrate on the conversation and each other. Prepping for the family-style dinner soon to be served, she occupied the kitchen—the usual gathering place—forcing us to spill over into all the other spaces.

Then, eventually came the main event. We migrated over to the screened-in free-standing structure up the hill, marveled at the table settings, and took our seats. They were unassigned.

First, a toast. It was an imperative.

Then, the food arrived steadily. The wine flowed. And the conversations started.

In all of it, I recognized and maintain continued recognition of my privilege.

As I often confess to my friends at the tail end of a conversation, simply getting to speak with them is a privilege. Getting to hear their thoughts and opinions, and connect them with my own, is nothing shy of an honor. The back and forth between us is wholly unifying.

We are one.

Have you ever closely watched a flock of pigeons or starlings fly in unison? Have you ever seen a “ball” of baby catfish move together? Have you ever sat and studied a colony of ants? I highly recommend each and all of these experiences. It’s fascinating. Mesmerizing. Humbling.

As humans, we know plenty, yet we don’t understand so many things. The migratory patterns of whales, birds, Painted Lady butterflies. The latter traveling thousands of miles on perfectly delicate wings. All of it is there for us to take in, consider, and revere.

And just like that, the evening began to unfold, with an invitation to be curious, to share, to listen, to ponder, and to partake.

A poem recited from memory set the table and from there an hours-long string of beautiful consideration continued.

These were not the specific questions, but much of the territory examined similar subjects and, in expressing ourselves, vulnerability and subjectivity were checked at the door.

Do you believe that things largely happen in your life for a reason? Do you chalk it all up to coincidence? Do you reside somewhere in-between? Do you never, ever stop to give any of it a second thought? That’s totally plausible, too.

How do you approach and handle conversations about organized religion? As we grow older, our relationship with religion and maybe mortality changes. It doesn’t have to but it may.

I, for one, am not afraid of nor driven by an aversion to being banished to and perishing in the depths of Hell. If that is ultimately my fate, I guess, somehow, I earned it and so be it. I don’t think that will be the case but, to me, my destiny remains a mystery.

I like to believe that something lovely, divine, and perhaps eternal awaits all of us but, then again, who in their right mind wouldn’t wish that?

I typically shy away from conversations about politics and religion, for obvious reasons. They can be highly polarizing and inflammatory, pushing participants to the farthest corners of the proverbial ring.

But in the name of contemplation and enlightenment, for a minute here, let’s go there, as we did that evening.

For some, God is love. For others, God is a being. For others, God is energy. For others, God is a feeling. For others, God is everything. And for others still, God is nothing. God is sacred. God is omnipotent and omnipresent. God and our relationship with him or her or it or them is personal.

For me, examining this, there’s value and merit to all of it. None of it is blasphemy. None of it is certain. But, at the risk of losing some followers and friends, I’m willing to consider and examine the full spectrum of beliefs and opinions, and arrive at the conclusion that I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll ever know. And I’m completely okay with said not knowing.

It’s a hot topic for some. A sore subject for others. A lightning rod for others. But it shouldn’t be.

The common response—sometimes knee-jerk reaction—is to denounce, chastise, rebuke, dismiss, or criticize. The grownup thing to do, no matter where one stands, is to hear people out.

I don’t have all the answers. I likely have very few of them. Answers to some of life‘s biggest questions, and some of life‘s smallest inquiries.

What I do know is that I often quite enjoy spending time thinking about these things.

I don’t know where we go once we leave this material world.

I really love the idea of living someway, somehow, somewhere again. But I don’t know if reincarnation is, in fact, something any of us gets to experience.

Though I am open to the possibility of it. And I can appreciate that ideology and line of thinking. And I don’t dismiss it or cast it off as rubbish, hogwash, or pagan sorcery.

And, for the sake of our own solace, I encourage each and all of us, to examine our own doctrine and religious denomination, and the teachings associated with them, deeply, and then consider welcoming different ideas, not designed to sway you one way or the other, but to enlighten.

I guess, in summary, for me, nothing should be taken at face value. Everything should be questioned and considered at least a little. Challenged. Examined. Explored. Processed.

If for no other reason than because we can.

I’ve perhaps mentioned before in one of my posts my relative disapproval of the term expert.

Likewise, at my core, I think some level of certitude is okay, but abject certainty about anything is something that I find largely off-putting.

There are some things that, while science may appear to explain and explain well, remain beyond our understanding, and that’s just how it’s always been and how it will always be.

The world is fascinating and our ability to leverage and utilize all of its resources in the myriad ways we do is extraordinary. Humans are quite adept at essentially everything. And the full extent of our potential is just beginning to reveal itself as we continue through this phase of the technological revolution.

I love that I got to spend time with this group and that we were bonded by all of 48 hours.

It was a time of great discovery and I was reminded gently that loud ideas reside in quiet corners.

At a time when we’re being societally choked by minutia, trivial pursuits, and small conversations, this was just the rejuvenating breath of fresh air I needed, and my curiosity was newly piqued.

Are there any inherent benefits to critical thinking? What happens when we question? What happens when we think about things on a deeper level than routine acceptance? What happens when we poke and prod and pry hidden and guarded doors wide open? Are all of the elements in our lives predetermined? Would all of the good things and bad things happen no matter what? Do our choices make a difference? Or has the outcome been decided for us in advance? Where do we go when we leave this Earth and the material world? What is consciousness? What happens when we give ourselves over to the notion of uncertainty?

The questions—should we choose to ask them—are never in short supply.

Learning. Growth. Empathy. Understanding. Curiosity. Connection. Exploration. Expansion.

At some point, our bodies stop growing. And there’s a limitation to how much space we can take up physically. But our minds? Our minds are infinitely expandable, and that’s a pretty incredible notion, when you think about it. We can live within boundaries. Or we can consistently transcend them.

Our minds grow. Our circles grow. Our networks grow. Our lives grow.

How any of these results may seem unwelcome, I’ll never quite understand.

Eventually, the conversation moved from the long table at the center of the screened house outside to the fire pit around which were positioned several plastic Adirondack chairs.

We got comfortable. The flames grew. The discussion continued.

It occurred to me at some point between then and now that a fire is a fitting metaphor for a conversation, each participant contributing something to it, the narrative equivalent of adding another log to the fire. Each piece doing its part to make the whole greater, burn bigger, glow brighter, and emit more energy in the form of heat.

And just as things were heating up, literally and figuratively, things took a turn.

To cap off the evening, with 3 minutes and 30 seconds remaining, the entirety of the group rolled indoors to watch the Knicks clinch their first NBA Finals victory in an historic 53 years. It was a fitting end to the night, though the questions, eating, and drinking carried on till about 4:00 in the morning.

The fire eventually burned down to a very contained pile of dusty greyish-white ash which a smaller group of us discovered the following morning over coffee.

On the heels of the NBA Finals came another long-anticipated sporting event. In the spirit of the World Cup, let’s continue to fill the world’s cup with kindness, empathy, and exchanges that lean toward enlightenment.

And next time you have the chance, I implore you. Assemble with friends and strangers-soon-to-become-friends, find a long table or a roaring fire, and gather ‘round it. Let the quest for knowledge and the exchange of ideas guide you. Let the ability to listen intently without interruption overcome you. Let the thoughts and opinions of others challenge, quiet, and inspire you.

It’s a beautiful thing.

This past week, there were layoffs at my agency. Not quite 10%, but still a substantial number. Probably 40-50 people.

I retained my position, but several friends and peers did not. I posted on LinkedIn and Facebook, doing what felt right—to look out for some of my situationally less fortunate colleagues. Within minutes, I got a reply from a stranger—someone outside my network. I read it and dug a little deeper. Checked out his profile. Viewed his website. Turns out he runs a stop-motion animation studio out of Oklahoma City. He wrote me. I replied. He replied back. This led to a couple of exchanges by text, and the next thing you know, we’re talking. Sharing stories. Swapping ideas. Learning a bit about one another. Starting from scratch. Conspiring to see what sorts of opportunities we could come up with.

No projects hitting at this exact moment, but we’re poised to connect and, hopefully, collaborate in the future.

He suggests he often has a need for illustrators, motion designers, art directors, sound engineers, muralists, stop-motion animators, and other creative types. Nothing just yet but, when something hits, his network is now broadened and he’s primed, perhaps even inclined, to reach out.

I say all of this to say, sometimes it’s nice and valuable and worthwhile to put yourself out there—take a chance on something or someone who may come from a different world, experience, or POV.

Newly connected, I feel compelled to share his site, his work, and his story, as we are of like minds and it seems he, too, is driven by a desire to create a more benevolent, art-filled world—one that is especially kind to fellow artists and creatives.

It’s loudcloudanimation.com, btw. Check them out. They’re kind of awesome.

What can we learn from any or all of this?

Business can be messy. It can be ugly. It can be unkind. When we step back and try to make sense of who gets cut and who doesn’t, it typically doesn’t pencil out and often leaves us scratching our heads.

More than that, for me, it leaves a hole in my heart. For some, it’s easy to compartmentalize. Work lives over here, and the outside world and all other pursuits live over here. In my world, it all blends together. That’s not to say I’m friends with everyone I work with, but I do care and, as fellow human beings, I do generally care about them, wish them well, and want to see us all thrive and succeed. It’s hard for me to put up a wall or insulate myself from these feelings.

Maintaining relationships is arduous, especially with folks you don’t know. It can always be rewarding. But it takes time and effort.

I said it on social and I’ll say it again here. The advertising community is small and tight-knit. Not everybody knows everybody, but the degrees of separation are few. And, as such, one never knows who will end up where, on whose team, or working for whom. So, it’s advisable to keep good karma on your side and more than an ounce of perspective and altruism in your pocket.

Here’s an invitation.

If you happen to know of anyone hiring, recruiting, contracting, backfilling, or otherwise staffing up, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me by way of a message or comment. Or, if you have any friends, acquaintances, or colleagues in your circle who’ve had similar misfortune befall them, maybe just reach out with a note that lets them know they were kind of awesome (at work) and you’re sad to see them go. No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever in vain.

The smallest gestures can and often do have the deepest impact.

I’m using my voice this time around to advocate not just for my fellow creatives but for all those facing adversity as it pertains to employment, across departments and industries and state lines. It’s, for sure, a challenging time.

For those in positions of influence, please consider using it to the benefit of others. For those newly on the hunt for work or taking this time to pivot, conspire, or reassess, keep your head up. I won’t placate you with some vapid cliché here but I do genuinely subscribe to the notion that, in ordinary days and in times of great distress, the universe provides. Can’t rest on your laurels but, if you chase it, maybe even sooner than you think, the reward and realities of a new opportunity will come.

All of it requires a bit of resilience and tenacity but there is truth to the idea that we create our own luck.

Stay positive. Stay focused. Stay committed.

The next thing awaits and it’s maybe not entirely—but still largely up to you—to determine what it is. That’s more than something. In this moment, that’s everything.

Easy for me to be unconditionally positive. Convenient for me to sit back, survey the landscape, and armchair quarterback the situation from the sidelines. Can totally understand if you feel that way upon reading this. But what I know is this. In life, with rare exception, you get what you give. If you lead with optimism you innately better your chances. A woe-is-me mentality, while understandable and maybe even warranted in this case, will likely yield little more than blank stares and heavy hearts.

So I suggest, take time to process. Take as much time as you need. Take all the time in the world. Then, make a notable shift in behavior and attitude.

One more thing.

Even though you may be collecting unemployment, don’t think of or refer to yourself as unemployed. That, to some, sets the wrong tone. Sends the wrong message.

Think back to your youth, when you were dating. When you’re in a relationship, you’re maybe fighting off would-be suitors left and right. When you’re notably, visibly single, you can’t find a date to save your life.

Unemployment = Single = Undateable

Maybe. Kind of. Sort of. I don’t know. But, seriously.

I’m no expert, so take all of what I have to say with a grain of salt.

On platforms like LinkedIn, I know the open-to-work symbol is intended to work one way—and it may. My theory is that it may, in fact, have an inverse effect. Just me, over here postulating.

An engagement ring—a shining, gleaming rock—says you’re taken, spoken for, and it intrigues. Attracts. Pulls people in. In the eyes of some (not all), the lack of one may send a message that you’re not necessarily marriage material.

“What’s wrong with that one?,” as it were.

I kid, yet I still advise, manage your brand. Tread lightly. Go boldly. Control your destiny.

So, as you go, general rule: treat things as though you’re between gigs, planning, strategizing, community-building—a caterpillar cocooned, preparing to emerge, reborn, transformed, eager to show off and demonstrate the newfound utility and gift of its wings.

Not damaged goods but, in fact, highly dateable.

Confident. Discerning. Laying back in the cut, waiting to choose your moment.

You decide.

Is this an unfortunate and unexpected life event? Or is this an opportunity? Is this something you weren’t prepared for and didn’t see coming? Or is this just the onramp to the next thing you’ve been waiting for? In truth, it could be a bit of all of these things.

In the end, it’s all in how you frame it.

Remember that scene in Swingers, where Mikey is leaving the voice message? On the rebound, he meets a girl. He gets her number. He’s feeling confident, so he decides to call (too soon, btw). After the beep, he starts talking. The recording stops. He gets cut off. So, he calls back. Again. And again. And again.

It’s painful to watch. Truly painful. Nooooooooooooooo!!!

Whenever you’re in a situation where you’re looking to make a great impression but not overdo it, remember that scene, and keep the desire to impress or oversell yourself at bay.

Animals can sense fear and a whole lot of other things. Earthquakes. Cancer. Rancid Milk bones in the couch cushions. They’re remarkable.

Likewise, not nearly as remarkable, prospective employers (of the human variety) can sense desperation.

So through it all, no matter what, know that, though this time the deck may seem stacked against you, you may in fact hold more cards than you think, giving you the upper hand.

Most importantly, you will get through it and come out on the other side.

As with all things, this too shall pass.

I had coffee with an acquaintance this week. Solid human. We’re friendly. Met at the gym. Don’t know him very well yet, but it was a good session and we covered a lot of ground. He confided in me a laundry list of ways he’d faced some demons and completely turned his life around. Major transformation, physically, mentally, spiritually. All the things. He’s been through a lot. Not all of it bad luck. Much of it due to lifestyle choices and behavior where the damage caused was self-inflicted. Through it all, he managed to find the light. His story is not my story. I’d argue, he’s faced more adversity than I. Likewise, his approach, while maybe similar to my own, is still his own. Definitely some synergies between us. Lot of overlap. Coming off our conversation, I’d say we see relatively eye-to-eye on a variety of things.

In the end, what struck me the most was the positivity. Despite the litany of challenges, string of adversities, obstacles that stood (and to some degree, still stand) in his way, he keeps his head held high and proceeds with a smile, viewing the world through a lens of optimism through it all. And, to be honest, knowing how we humans tend to be, that’s not an easy thing to do.

The voices in our head? The false narratives? The stories we tell ourselves about ourselves? They are many and they sometimes tend to be unkind. We can generally find room or make space for grace for others but often hold ourselves to a different standard, and it trends impossibly high. I’m not quite sure why that is, but we need to be kind, especially to ourselves, and especially at a time like the time we’re currently in, where we’re witnessing the myriad ways in which humans can be so unkind to one another. Vilification. Persecution. Deportation. Condescension. Self-aggrandizement. Belligerence. Radical extremist politicization.

I catch headlines here and there. More and more, I’m discovering friends in a similar place. Largely, I’ve distanced myself from the news because the relative toxicity of it all vexes my spirit and, these days, I’m not willing to stand for it. I value my time as too precious to willingly hand it over in exchange for doldrums, anxiety, and misery. So many laws and bills being put forth that fundamentally rival what I believe in and counter what I’ve long known to be okay. Not here for it.

While it may at times feel like our hands are tied, while it may seem as though there’s nothing we can do, while we may feel helpless, powerless, voiceless, when it comes to the stories we let in and the endless barrage of energy (good or bad) thrust upon us, we do have a choice. And I choose, at this moment and for the foreseeable future, to keep the doom and gloom at bay.

That brings me back to the positivity piece. Daily, our feeds, channels, systems, minds, bodies are being flooded with content, much of it negative or at least mildly disconcerting. It’s an all-out assault. It hovers. It lingers. It affects us deeply. We carry it with us and the weight of it all is too much to bear. The more bad we take in, the more good we need to counter it. So, it stands to reason, if you’d prefer good, you need to lean more heavily in that direction. Open your own personal flood gates. Choke the system, with positive energy and optimistic affirmations. Doesn’t take much to make the shift and once you’re onboard and in it, it’s somewhat easy to maintain. But it does require a concerted effort. It does take some retraining of your brain to get there.

Do I recommend making the adjustment? I most certainly do.

We can be encumbered by things that lie just outside or far beyond our control, or we can be wholly liberated by leaving those things alone and focusing on what is actually in our grasp.

I choose the latter. Think it might suit you as well.

This acquaintance I mentioned—he now spends his time working on himself and doing what he can, when he can, to positively impact the lives of others. Something as simple as flashing someone a smile—going out of his way to add just a little bit of joy to another person’s world where there otherwise may be none. Who knows? As it pertains to just about any exchange, we never, in fact, know the other individual’s story. So, it serves us to give each person the benefit of the doubt and to maybe go above and beyond—perhaps even a little out of our way—to inject an ounce of positivity to their lives.

It’s not an especially heavy lift, but it does take intention and commitment and practice. Being positive isn’t just something you do. Done most effectively, it becomes a way of life.

Some are wired to think the sky is falling and the world is out to get us. The truth of it is, it isn’t. These days, it’s easy to choose that path and spill over an existential cliff to our imminent demise. But when we take a moment to assess and recalibrate, we can see, think, and act clearly. We realize, while things may not be perfect, while they may not be ideal, while they may not be as we might prefer, they’re still not as far gone as the headlines make them out to be. Not even close. Again, it all comes back to what’s within and outside of our control.

So, I encourage each of us to be a bit more mindful of our own lives, those around us, and our surroundings. For your own well-being, keep it all in perspective. And the next time you have an opportunity (big or small) to bring a little optimism to someone’s life, consider it, and go out on a limb and find a way to make it happen.

For me, it’s a beautiful melange of passion projects, labors of love, and side hustles that each and all get the attention I can afford until they become the primary focus. And that generally takes time.

Gonna use this opportunity to do a little promotion.

My friend and creative partner Joseph Watson and I have been working on and building our children’s book series for several years now. Excited to add our fifth book to the collection. And, should you have any publishing contacts, would be happy to entertain a conversation to help us grow even further. No pressure.

If you’re not familiar, our pint-sized hero, Greta Duzzett, is as active, curious, and fearless as they come. She’s the self-proclaimed busiest girl in the world, seeking adventure at every turn and encouraging others to follow suit.

Her mantra (I can do anything. I can do it all.) is a testament to her tenacity, self-confidence, and unbreakable will and, in this fifth installment, she takes that unbridled spirit to the soccer pitch, the football stadium, the swimming pool, and beyond.

Greta Got Game! is an homage to girls and women participating in sports and, hopefully, an inspiration to all kids and grownups to go, do, play, compete, and be intrepid in every pursuit, on and off the field.

Our books are tailored for young readers and even those not yet reading on their own. The sweet spot is kindergarten (even pre-school) through second grade, say, age three to eight. But the message is one that hopefully resonates with human beings of all ages. Infinite possibility. Optimism. Positive reinforcement. Self-confidence. These are the common and recurring themes.

It was a trip to Judy Wadleigh’s classroom at Hickey Elementary School in Las Vegas in 2008 that first inspired me to put pen to paper. A classroom full of active, brilliant young minds. You could feel their energy, wanderlust, and enthusiasm. It was palpable and contagious.

And ever since that day, we’ve been on a mission to author, illustrate, share, and inspire kids (and grownups) just the same by way of our creativity.

I mean, as far as motivation goes, what else really is there?

This is a little teaser of the book that’s soon to come.

If you’ve got a newborn, a niece or nephew, a recently arrived grandbaby, or a classroom full of rambunctious five year olds, and you want a little something to inspire them, please think of us and our stories.

If you know a teacher, librarian, parent, grandparent, aunt, or uncle who might want to entertain and encourage one or several little ones, we think there might be some appeal.

You can purchase the other four titles here:

https://tinyurl.com/GretaBooks

If you like the content and believe in the message, please consider leaving a review. Those types of things really do make a difference.

Soon as Greta Got Game! is ready (in a month or so), we’ll let you know. Feeling really good about it and hope you appreciate it just the same.

Right now, for me, it’s all about the GIFs. I find them utterly fascinating. Plus, they’re super fun to make. No rules. No guardrails. Just input, output, and unfiltered, concentrated enjoyment.

Three weeks ago, had you asked me about my sketchbooks, I would’ve conceded, crestfallen, that mine were steadily collecting dust, having remained untouched for an embarrassing amount of time. Thankfully, I received a much-needed shot in the arm from one of my contemporaries and, ever since, I’ve been notably prolific.

Specifically, I’m attributing much of what I’m learning and sharing right now to a recent presentation by and conversation with my friend Rán Flygenring. She notes that, as the child of two architects, growing up in a home where multiple languages were spoken, one that was uniquely part of the mix was drawing. That’s right. In her household, drawing was a language. Adults and child articulating simple and complex concepts by way of visualization. We didn’t communicate this way in my household when I was but a wee lad, but now, as an adult, in retrospect, I can see a huge upside to it.

Language—in all forms—helps us bridge gaps, connect, and understand. Abstract ideas become less so. Things that are foreign suddenly become native. We can get on the same page by showing one another what’s literally on our own page. Communicating by way of imagery helps us stretch and bend our own minds and imagination. I’m guessing it might even makes us more empathetic and better listeners. More invested observers, for sure.

The GIFs shown throughout here are a little glimpse into the nonsense that often plays out in my head. I’m no illustrator but when I set that notion aside for a moment and lean into just getting lost and letting loose, the kid in me returns. Rather than overthink and confuse my plan of attack, I simply dive in and embrace the artistic ice bath. Straight cold plunge.

For me, absurdity is the gateway to contentment.

I remind myself. Lean in. Be stupid. Resist the urge to be perfect. Adopt a new mentality. Trial over triumph. Good things—interesting things, unexpected things—happen when we let irreverence creep in. Follow your heart and, if you’re lucky, it will lead you somewhere ridiculous.

Finding meaning in the meaningless is an art form in and of itself.

Pick up a pen or a brush or a stylus and give yourself permission to let go.

Strategies are good. Wholly necessary in many instances. But instincts, too, are invaluable. And, more and more these days, something tells me each of us should be listening to them.

On the daily, we come together as teams, share ideas, think through all the potential pitfalls and opportunities of any given situation. We measure all sorts of risk and reward. We project and weigh every specific variable. We give way to any and all viable outcomes. We squeeze every last iota of calculable consideration out of the matter at hand. And then we pause. And then we reconsider. And then we second guess. And then we scrap what we’d come up with and start anew.

It’s very methodical. It’s quite practical. Analytical. Logical. Rational. I mean, it makes sense. Millions of dollars are on the line. There’s little room for error. Mistakes made in haste will likely bode well for none of us.

But outside of the conference room, in an alternate environment, under less pressure-sensitive circumstances, there’s more margin for random things to unfold in the margins.

GIFs do something altogether different to my mind, in my mind, for my mind. They derive from nowhere and may ultimately mean nothing. Yet, they make me smile because they go on forever. Infinite loops. No beginning. No end. They unlock an entirely unique space.

Homemade GIFs hold a special place in my heart. They are so simple yet, for me, so completely mysterious and gratifying. They go on and on and on. Perfectly perpetual. So absolutely basic. Satisfying in their complete imperfection.

My approach here, too, is strategic. And the strategy is to flood the system with joy. Love. Delight. Whimsy. All manner of positive energy. To tip the scales. To affect all that is hanging in the balance. To shift the overall trajectory. To move the needle even ever-so-slightly in the opposite direction. To replace chaos with character. To smite confusion with creation. To turn ineptitude and inflation into invincibility and inspiration.

From the last few posts I’ve shared, you may detect a theme.

Letting go and getting lost in whatever it is we generally shy away from is not only good, it’s wholly necessary.

We get busy with work, with kids, with life. We set aside the things that are small and novel, and replace them with things that are big and important. And rightfully so. But occasionally we need to be reminded to get back to making for making’s sake. To return to our sketchbooks and our journals. To revert to our youthfully exuberant selves. To shut down the analytical parts of our brains and let the autonomic take over. That’s when and where the fun happens. And it is, indeed, all about having fun.

It’s amazing what we can do when we stop flooding our brains with all the false narratives of what we can’t do. We’re infinitely capable. We can truly conjure anything. We just need to get out of our own way.

If you’re reluctant about drawing or maybe haven’t tapped that vein in a while (if ever), I encourage you to step aside and counter all the energy that’s keep you away from it by simply picking up a pen or a marker or a brush and letting it guide you. No excuses. No editing. No censorship. No interruptions.

The catharsis is real, y’all.

Let go, and let GIF.

If I may, I’d like to coin a new term here. It’s mundane chic. Not shabby chic. Not Boho chic. Mundane chic, where the most gratifying sensory experience may be attained through the most banal of inputs. Where joy may be derived from easily discarded subtlety.

Overlook nothing. Contemplate everything, within reason, of course.

A recent trip to the quaint hamlet of Hudson, NY (by way of Astoria) yielded this bounty.

Individually, the images may not mean a whole lot, but together they somehow seem to unify and become a family.

Colors. Textures. Grids. Patterns. Letters. Numbers. Surfaces. Some resembling shapes on a globe. Others with geometric elements jutting sharply, forming hard angles. Others still, gentle, falling off softly into the light. Some symbolic and directional. Others arbitrary. We imbue meaning where it feels right and let the rest fade into the ether.

Small scenes constantly tugging at me for a double-take. Bits and pieces of ephemera quietly calling for somebody—anybody—to take notice.

Again, I encourage us all to not let the seemingly small and insignificant pass us by.

If something catches your eye, give yourself permission to examine a bit more closely.

If the garment tag on someone’s collar or the vibrating herringbone pattern on a carpet speak to you, lean into it.

If a crack in the sidewalk, for whatever reason, captures your attention, have a moment with it.

For me, it’s not about how the bricks and mortar were laid, but how the tone of bricks so beautifully complement each other. It’s a lovely marriage of masonry.

To pay attention suggests that there’s a cost associated with our focus and, if that is in fact the case, I’d just as soon get my money’s worth.

All of it calls into question deeper meaning. Are these visuals, in fact, arbitrary? Or is there something greater at play? Something more cerebral at work? Something special just for us to encounter and explore.

For me, I think it comes down to recognizing that none of it is wallpaper unless, of course, you find yourself in an extravagant hotel lobby or friend’s home that is literally decked out in gorgeous wallpaper, at which point I encourage you to take every stitch of it in.

Otherwise, get lost in the plainness of it all. Surprise yourself by the contemplation of a rivet on a train car or the undulating surface of the smallest patch of the ground.

All of it is so easily forgotten or quickly dismissed. For, to capture it all and recall it consistently would be too much for our minds to bear, but to give it a moment of one’s attention is to be ever-so-slightly more present. Just takes a minor shift in our focus to see beyond what’s right in front of us. There’s magic in the mundane. There’s meaning in the minuscule. There’s mystery in the mid, as the kids might say. Go forth. Pay close attention. And you will find it.

I leave you here with three visuals. One grid of images and two GIFs (hard “g”). And, for me, GIFs are, in fact, gifts, fascinating, dazzling the mind in perpetuity.

Sit with each of them and let your thoughts wander. Be mesmerized by the simplicity and the smallness. Consider everything.

Some of us have kids. Some of us don’t. Some of us may in the future, and others may not. That said, all of us know what it’s like to be a kid because, despite our lived experiences, we’ve all shared in that before. That, for sure, is universal. There’s commonality in the fact that we were all younger once.

Every so often, we humans need to be reminded of things we likely learned early on in life but have, through the course of time (and adulthood), been slowly conditioned to ignore, suppress, or push down.

Our brains are malleable. Complex. Elastic.

And, as we grow, we have a tendency to bring structure, rigidity, and analytical thinking along for the ride. More than that, we often develop an inclination to lead with them, letting exuberance and inquisitiveness fall by the wayside.

But every so often, it’s good to let go.

It’s good to let loose.

It’s good to be ridiculous.

It’s good to put the tip of a pen or marker or brush against paper or canvas, and let the tool guide you.

This practice—if it ever was one—often gets cast aside or forgotten.

Drawing mindlessly. Doodling with abandon within the margins or, heaven forbid, on the central part of the page. Gasp!

As children, many of us do this. Then, over time, we grow out of it. If we’re lucky enough, the routine sticks with us. If we’re fortunate, we continue drawing and doodling voraciously and never kick the habit. If things go our way, we get steered in the direction of being uninhibitedly artistic and it simply becomes a way of being.

More often, over time, we learn to take ourselves too seriously and, in doing so, sacrifice the room to make mistakes.

I get it.

A blank page can be an inordinately scary thing.

For many of us, it’s wildly intimidating, daunting, and counterintuitive to get lost in the enormity of it all.

“Where do I start?”

“I don’t know what to draw.”

“I can’t come up with any ideas.”

”I’ve never been good at this.”

The impediments are many.

I am no illustrator. But the more I consider it and lean in—the more I let my guard down and let instinct and intuition take over—the more appealing letting one’s ideas run free becomes.

While it ultimately may not be my calling, I have recently been reminded—by my massively talented and conscientious (illustrator) friend Ran Flygenring—of the need for us to remain childlike in our pursuit of pretty much everything.

She articulated it exquisitely and made it perfectly clear. As we grow older, our tendency is to become more fixed and inflexible. Not just physically—which happens as well—but in our thinking. We ought to be more diligent about remaining limber cognitively in order to tap into our deepest creative potential. It’s generally not that we’re not capable, rather we’re guarded and don’t often (as grownups) grant ourselves permission to ideate and sketch freely.

At some point, we become wired to shut down the kid inside us. We become trained to seek perfection from every thought, line, stroke, or word we utter. There is less and less room for experimentation, happy accidents, and irreverence.

But here’s what I believe.

If we allow ourselves the creative liberty, there are monsters and characters and animals and stories within each of us, just yearning to come out. They’re in there, eager to be released. Untold millions of them waiting to be brought to life by way of a single first stroke. That’s all it takes.

But what this requires is an absolute commitment to not thinking. You simply have to be in the moment and let something other than your conscious mind guide you. Be it your heart. Your soul. Your hand. Anything other than the logical, rational, or comfortable. Just let it take over and see where you end up.

The second fear begins to enter the equation, pick up the pen, place it down in another spot, and start anew.

Make something intentionally nonsensical, mindless, or exaggerated.

It requires us to surrender. It takes a bit of vulnerability. We must check the urge to second-guess at the door and just let play take over.

Fight the urge to fix in the moment. Just draw freely. Or better yet, be drawn to whatever it is that compels you and see what unfolds.

It’s fun and the world could surely use more of it.

In examining my own sketches, I often determine that I have many “styles” (used very loosely) and I hesitate to commit to a single one of them. But, upon closer inspection, without applying the pressure of having to give it a name, I discover commonalities between the body of random images.

In writing, drawing, making of any sort, it’s hard to get out of your own way. We’re so primed to be in control and to not mess up. There are those among us who also lead with this notion of “not being good at drawing,” which as I explore further, seems more and more like a misnomer. We simply have to be courageous enough to let go.

Something as enjoyable as drawing with few inhibitions should bring with it waves of fulfillment and euphoria, and little angst. Highly encouraged. It’s cathartic and gratifying on so many levels.

If you can imagine yourself riding a bike for the first time and taking your hands off the handlebars, it’s like that. Taking a bit of a leap. Applying a modicum of blind faith. Letting your instincts guide you may take a bit of time, but that kid that lies deep within and all the stories associated with them, once unleashed, will thank you.

Get comfortable with your weirdness and let the subconscious take over. Don’t think. Just visually meander. Let yourself fall into a deep well of wonder, and get lost in it. You may soon discover, it’s not scary at all.

If I can make these rudimentary and absurd panels and be unafraid to share them, so too can you.

While some manner of talent always helps, big picture, the key to drawing isn’t being good or knowing what you’re doing. On the contrary, it’s to forget everything you’ve learned that stands in the way, and to bring to the foreground permission to release yourself from all external and internal judgement. When you get to that place, you discover, in fact, everybody can draw. Everybody can create. But not everybody can give her- or himself over to the notion of being 100% carefree, as we once were as children.

The goal isn’t perfection and the process shouldn’t be precious. The desire is to tap into the part (or the lobe) of the brain that mainly lays dormant in our sometimes restricted (and constricted) mature daily lives. To allow the visually-driven region to guide us. To let those instincts we once—as much younger versions of ourselves—let rule our lives return for a few minutes and take over.

Even as full-fledged adults, it’s good to play and getting our ideas out on paper is but one way to do that. As humans, our desire to be good at something or to want to improve upon it is inherent. It’s what we do. But this is quite the opposite. This is about us recognizing the beauty of not knowing. This is about us relinquishing control and seeing where that unfamiliar feeling may take us.

The idea of it will likely feel a bit unnatural at first, but then, once one gets past that initial intimidating part, you find yourself in it, and the magic takes over.

What’s harder than drawing—much harder—is unlearning. If you can do that, you can pretty much do anything.

Weirdness is—thank goodness—not for everyone.

It’s not for the faint of heart.

It’s not for the vain or the petty or the traditional.

It’s not for the self-conscious or the precious or the demure.

These days, seems like people got their guards up mighty high, for so many reasons. But for sure, on account of not wanting to be considered weird. Heaven forbid we stand out from the crowd, stray from the pack, or stick out like a sore thumb.

No, no.

Gotta blend. Gotta assimilate. Gotta conform. Gotta stay good and quiet and sheepish. Fall in line.

Maybe. If that’s your thing.

But shying away from weirdness has never really been my thing.

Not that I’m that weird or that out there or that left of center.

I mean, I can hold a conversation and generally function in mainstream society. That’s a relatively low bar.

I’ve never railed against the system simply for the sake of it or because it seemed like the thing to do.

I’ve simply tried to be.

Honestly, I think that’s all any of us really want. To be. And, should said being not align with the likes of others? In those cases, I think many of us might agree we’d simply like to be left alone.

In peace.

To listen to our weird music and wear our weird hair and rock our weird clothes and dance our weird dances and chill with our weird friends in our weird spaces full of weirdness.

Yeah. As a matter of fact, right now, that sounds pretty dreamy.

No suits. No bros. No bullies. No dress codes. No judgement. No scrutiny.

Just good old-fashioned weirdness. Wallowing not in self-pity or self-loathing, rather wonder. Slathering ourselves in inquisitive consideration and unbridled imagination.

Reveling in the kind of free-flowing energy that comes from kids in an elementary school finger painting class or on the playground, where they’re allowed to just…be. Be kids. Be goofy. Be loud and boisterous and quiet and mindful and wacky and zany and ridiculous and preposterous and all the things.

That energy. The kind that’s fun and pure and whimsical and curious and experimental. Unchanneled. Unfiltered. Unrestrained.

100% concentrated weirdness.

Right now, I would love me some of that.

I’ve long held the view that weird is good. I encourage my kids to embrace it.

Others take issue with it and make your concern their concern. They make how you choose to live your life their business. That’s the part that I’ve gotta say I enjoy the least. I have zero interest in challenging one’s relative blandness. If that’s your thing, roll with it. Own it. Still, that doesn’t seem to matter.

Ne’er-do-wells persist.

And they seem to relish inserting themselves where they really have no place.

It’s like bullies unprovoked tripping kids in the lunch room or smacking a food tray out of another student’s hands in some anemic display of machismo, honestly, for no good reason. An emboldened upperclassman slapping a freshman’s books all over the hallway or shaking down “nerds” for lunch money, as if they’re entitled to it.

We’ve all seem these films or read these stories. They don’t conjure themselves. And, in fact, they’re not just films or stories. They’re rooted in reality.

It’s a tale as old as time. Those who don’t fit in with everybody else get singled out, picked on, ridiculed.

Nobody wants to be associated with a freak.

People have weaponized that term over the years.

On the contrary, I quite enjoy freakishness of the household variety.

I find people on the fringe much more interesting than those too concerned about what everybody else is doing or wearing or driving or learning or thinking.

I think I’ve always been that way.

And while my flavor of weird may feel fairly conservative these days, we all know it wasn’t that long ago that so many of us were forbidden from fitting in. We were broadly discouraged from participation. Zero tolerance for commingling before integration. Again, rooted in fear.

Today’s war on weirdness is different, but the fear of anything “other” is real. And sad, because the crazy creatives among us, in truth, have so much to give.

Sometimes I kind of feel like the little green 72 Volkswagen Beetle, creeping along at 35 miles an hour, topping out with a shake and a rattle, happily hugging the right lane shoulder, among a sea of big, lumbering haulers with truck nuts, and semis crowding the highway, bearing down unsympathetically on smaller more modest, practical vehicles in front of them, riding bumpers and flashing lights to clear the way. Same road. Different speed. And, by all means, even if we’re headed in the same direction, our destinations couldn’t be farther apart.

Is that weird of me? Maybe. Who knows? Who cares?

What I do know is this.

The morning’s moon at 4am on the way to the airport was more orange than pink but Nick Drake still streamed on the radio and guided me forward. Colin Hay, Coldplay, and Alexi Murdoch, too.

Is it weird of me to listen to any of these artists? To some, I’m sure. Is it weird for me to notice and write about the color of the pale moon and draw some strange universal linkage to Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon,” the one album from which, in those early moments, several songs were playing?

Maybe.

Yeah. Probably, at least a little bit.

But that’s just a part of the deal. The weirdness deal. The deal between weirdos where we either just seem to get it or we just move on with our own weirdo stuff, never skipping a beat.

We may not see each other. We may not know each other. We may never encounter one another. But, to all the self-declared freaks out there, I salute you, and I encourage you to keep it that way—your way—for life.

Yours weirdly,

d

I had a conversation with my nine year old two days ago that was a gentle yet painful reminder of just how little has changed in my time on this planet. He recounted a story to me of one of his closest schoolmates and friends (a third grader) who had been kept from sitting at a table of other children due to the color of his skin. As I understand it, several other friends (of various ethnic backgrounds) heard what was said and immediately came to his defense. This part warms my heart but the rest hurts my soul.

The basic gist—He can’t sit with us because he’s Black.

It’s very reminiscent of a story from my own childhood that I’ve shared before. I feel compelled again in this moment to share it here.

My own kids are the product of a biracial union. I rarely bring it up and I certainly don’t belabor it. Occasionally, however, I remind them—You’re equal parts Black. You’re equal parts White. And you’re all parts beautiful. You’re complete human beings and the color of your skin is but one teenie, tiny facet of everything that you are. In the grand scheme of things, it’s inconsequential—or at least, it should be.

It’s easy to make people feel different. It’s rare to make them feel special. Please choose the latter and, given the opportunity, do that as much as you can.


THE BROTHERS HOMELY
Story by Dana L. Satterwhite. Illustrations by Rán Flygenring

I’ve been called a lot of things in my day. Some good. Some not so good. Some with the intent to lift me up. Some with the intent to break me down. Some I let roll off and some I’ll remember forever. And for some strange reason, most of it, for me, can be tied back to the fourth grade.

My sister (who is thirteen months my senior) and I were enrolled in public school in what, at the time, seemed to me like a small suburban town called Eastchester, which was nestled in the county of Westchester. I live in Kansas City now. This was back in New York. The “Eastchester: A town in Westchester” thing always struck people who’ve never heard of it as funny, as one might easily think they were side-by-side cities or adjacent counties. Logic says, given their names, they should be equals. Actually, one resides within the other. Eastchester (city) is within Westchester (county). Mildly confusing. I’m sure there’s some history to it. I didn’t do the naming. I just grew up there. On a map, it makes sense.

From as early on as I can remember, my best friend was Black. His name was Ralph. His sister Andrea (pronounced “on-dray-uh”) and my sister, Kelli, were best friends too. The four of us were tight and there were others in our adjacent apartment complex crew. There was John and his slightly older sister Betsy. Two towhead blond kids who lived about four apartment buildings over. Their age difference was about the same as the rest of ours. Thirteen months between them, give or take. Make it easy and call it a school grade. The boys were mainly in fourth grade and their older sisters in fifth. Danny was from Guatemala. He was a class clown. Heidi was from Holland. She was sweet and cute, but I remember kids teasing her because she had warts on her fingers. Still, I crushed on her and crushed on her pretty hard.

We were a mixed up motley crew, burning up the cement with one-speed bikes decked to the nines with rainbow spokes, banana seats, and bright orange triangle banners bending in an arc as we pedaled our faces off, pliable plastic popping and crackling in the wind. If you ever watched The Little Rascals or Our Gang as a kid, in our minds or mine anyway, that was us. A ragtag hodgepodge of ages, heights, weights, skin tones, and countries with hella squeaky voices, wreaking havoc on this otherwise charming and eclectic red brick mid-rise neighborhood. We were busy and full of energy but we were rarely getting up to no good. In fact, with The Little Rascals thing, my mother even went so far as to take me in to audition for the part of Buckwheat on a remaking of the original series. I was all at once honored, excited, petrified, and mortified. I mean, I liked Buckwheat and all, but something about the idea of playing the role felt really, really wrong. Maybe it was the part about that being the sum total of my contribution to Blackness, playing Buckwheat in the remake of The Little Rascals…not that there’s anything wrong with that. I felt then as I feel now—that that role may have been fine for someone but it wasn’t right for me. I don’t think I made callbacks and I certainly didn’t get the part. There was another kid personality named Rodney Allen Rippy who, throughout my childhood, my mother was constantly referencing and with whom passing strangers would often draw comparisons as they admired my neatly coiffed fro, ample cheeks, and wide-lapeled denim jacket—things that were somehow reminiscent of him. I, myself, never really knew him. I just knew that some people, even my own family, saw something similar in the two of us.

At school, I had Asian friends. There was Masato and Masashi whose collections of impossibly small pliable rubber cars and airplanes were fascinating and filled me with jealousy. They were the coolest things I’d ever seen. Some opaque. Some translucent. Lotuses. Maseratis. Ferraris. Lamborghinis. Miniature primary colored luxury sports cars, all finely-detailed to resemble the real thing but at 1:10,000th scale, each one about the size of a sewing thimble. Little glimmers of Japan, they filled me with joy and sparked my desire to amass a collection of my own. Some of them were actually pencil erasers. Others were hard, barely bendable plastic not intended to erase anything. You would try and they would just smear the #2 pencil graphite around the page, get it all over your fingers, and leave your desk a smudged-up mess. Our babysitters Mariko and Misa were also from Japan. They lived in the same building a few floors above or below us. I can’t remember. I think we were on four and they were on seven. It’s been a long time since I’ve deeply considered any of it. They were lovely and I crushed on them too. I think that’s just what young boys do.

In my class, there was a girl named Divina whose ethnicity I never knew but whose name made me go weak in the knees and now that I know its meaning, still has the same effect. There was Claudine who I think may have been Italian and Stephanie who I believe was Irish. Ann was tall. Beth was funny and kind. She had the longest, thickest, ropiest braid I’d ever seen and, as I’m remembering it, a birthmark the size of a pencil eraser on one of her cheeks. She loved my hair, as did John. He used to take both hands, fingers splayed out as wide as could be, hold them above my head, then plunge them quick-fast into my tightly-wound afro, while simultaneously exclaiming “Rainstorm!,” punctuated by a bolt-of-lighting or crack-of-thunder mouth-made sound effect. “Pckkkeeeooowww!!!” This whole ritual—often the way he greeted me when he first saw me—was as if his fingers were the rain falling from the clouds onto my head. He would do this several times a day, often a few times back-to-back in rapid succession. I have no idea why or how it began. It just came to be. While it bothered me just a little bit, his fascination with the feeling of my dark coarse hair in his hands versus that of his light straight hair in his hands was endearing to me. So I let him do it as often as he liked. We were tight and it was never something that made me feel excluded or uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. Beth on the other hand would pull out two puffs of hair and make me look like a teddy bear. She thought it was adorable. I did not. Yet, despite my usual protests, I let her do it anyway as well. All of these things were harmless learning exchanges between friends.

There were other kids I remember as well. As I think back, new names continue popping into my head, as I crack open a little wider this door that has remained dust-covered and shut for a very long time. Adam, Vincent, Mark, Willie, Matt, and Tommy. Jennifer had braces and a last name that was fun to say. Several years later—in college—I found out that she’d had a crush on me in the first or second grade and I’d wished I’d known then so I could’ve done my part and acted awkward and aloof. Kim and Bernie were a couple (in air quotes), destined to graduate high school sweethearts and possibly prepared to pair for life. I’m not sure what happened to any of these folks though a quick scouring of Facebook might give me a few clues.

I recognize and make the distinction between ethnicities here, in recounting this one childhood story, but at the time I did not. I didn’t see many or any differences between us. We were all kids and we all loved to play with one another. We were from different places with different stories but none of it seemed to matter and none of us ever called it out, were it not for an occasional twinge of curiosity.

There were plenty of others but, as I attempt to call them all to mind, the folks first listed were the main players in my daily elementary school ecosystem. The planets scattered throughout and orbiting about my tiny asphalt kickball universe, as it were. At least, those were the good ones—the ones that conjure fond rather than frightful memories.

But two names that were notably absent until now are John (not Rainstorm John, a different John) and Paul, a set of blonde-haired, blue-eyed fraternal twins separated by about four inches and I’m not sure how many minutes at birth. I think Paul was the eldest. But I don’t know and I may make that assumption based on the fact that he was the taller of the two, so don’t hold me to it.

They, too, lived up the block and, for reasons still unknown, beyond my being brown, took an immediate disliking toward me and my friends, but especially my brown best friend and more especially, me.

There were two incidents in particular that stand out that involved these brothers. I’ll detail the first here. Their last name was not Homely but it started with an H and ended with -ly, so I’m just gonna run with that for now since, as it pertains to me, their behavior was inordinately ugly. The first incident was “The Fight.” In the fourth grade—so I had to be all of nine years old—word began to spread like a brush fire across the schoolyard that John Homely wanted to fight me. Fight me?, I thought. Fight me? Nobody on the planet had ever wanted to fight me. At least, to my knowledge they hadn’t. But maybe that’s where I was wrong. Maybe the whole world had been wanting to fight me but I’d just, to this point, remained blissfully unaware. I think it was Ralph who first told me of this news. So, what do I do? I needed to plan. Maybe I even needed to train. You know, get in the ring and spar a little. I needed to cut some weight and make sure I could keep my dukes up long enough to fend off any uppercuts or haymakers that came my way. I needed at least a day or two to figure out how to go about this whole thing, but that never happened. That stuff was for the movies. This was fourth grade real life and just like that, before I even had a chance to give my strategy a second thought, we—this angry, unfamiliar white kid and I—were squaring off, nose-to-nose, being pushed insistently to the middle of a circle that had formed. Hands shoved from behind, in the small and middle of our backs, jamming us close, and squawking voices goaded us on.

“A fight. A fight. An N-word and a white,” somebody began chanting. Only they didn’t say “N-word.” No. They said the real thing and it stung. And, probably as you’d expect it to, it cut deep. As I understood it, that was the worst thing one person could say to another person. It just felt so spiteful and vindictive, simply in the way it came off the tongue. And I just didn’t know why someone might use it, especially now, and at me. To my knowledge, I hadn’t done anything. But actually I had. I’d been born a different color (from many of them) and, for this kid, that was justification enough. Fights were not my thing, so all of this was new and, I suppose—reverting back to my 9-year-old self—a little disconcerting. The chants grew louder. Some said “a black and a white.” It all sounded the same.

The way the playground prodders used it though was less to cut me down and more to get the crowd pumped up and worked into a lather. It was a singsongy chant with a jaunty little cadence and rhyme scheme, derived to build anticipation and keep entertainment value high. Schoolyard fights, especially those involving kids of different colors, were by all accounts a rare treat. Everyone wanted a front row seat.

Before a single punch was thrown, however, he, the instigator, made a laundry list of rules. Fighting was new to me but I knew the basic protocol. What was really new to me was this idea of making pre-pugilistic guidelines before the engagement had even begun. But, having never actually engaged in a brawl with anyone other than my at-the-time-annoying older sister, I was not really in a position to argue. I could only imagine that things didn’t generally unfold this way. I had actually given a friend a black eye in the first grade but how and why we ended up there requires some explaining. We’ll save that for another time.

I’d watched enough boxing in my day to know that you fought fair and square, no hitting below the belt and all that but, when the time came, when the bell rang, you still put up your paws and went at it. As the invitee to this dance, I was especially taken aback at the demure nature of this altercation. Who invites somebody else to throw down then tells them all the stuff they can’t do? Probably a coward but I was too slow and shocked in the moment to think it all through. Having had several decades now to replay the unlikely scenario again and again in my head, that sounds about right. Only a chicken would bully someone, call them racially insensitive names, invite them to fight, then ostensibly run away.

“No punching. No kicking. No pushing. No biting.” he rattled off. That’s where the list started. “No shoving. No tugging,” he continued. I was confused. In that case, what kind of fight would this be? What was left? Licking? Hugging? Basically we could glare at or breathe on one another till the other cried mercy and conceded defeat.

“No pinching. No scratching.” The litany of pre-grapple ground rules meandered on. Then, just like that, we were shoved into a momentary embrace and the melee got started. “Just fight already,” somebody lamented, and we were in it. I tried to grab his wrists and he pulled away. Or maybe he went for mine and it was I who broke free. Those details are a little fuzzy but the event is clear as day. Coming into this thing, I was not the aggressor but the pacifist in me had been momentarily subdued. We sized each other up and stepped sideways in a circle, warning people to “move back” and “give us room.” Those two in-battle directives were the first and only things we would agree on. Finally, sensing the crowd wanting to see some action, knowing, as the peace-loving underdog, I had them on my side, I went for it. A la Daniel San in The Karate Kid, I think it was a leg sweep I employed to take him down. He dropped like a sack of dumb rocks and once down on the ground, on his back, I had him right where I wanted. I pinned one shoulder with one knee, then the second one with the other. I pulled back my right arm and cocked it, ready to blast him with a beautiful brown fist full of fury. He deserved it. He deserved the chocolate knuckle sandwich I was about to feed his fat face. He deserved to be punched and slapped and kicked in the nose and the throat and the gut, this little instigating turd who’d come into the district (my hood with my friends) and begun to spread his hateful, insidious ways. But that would be too good for him. That wasn’t me. I didn’t start fights with people. Though happy to oblige in this case, I didn’t end them either, not like that. If I cold-cocked this fool as my rushing adrenaline was egging me on to do, I’d be just as wormy and lowlifey and despicable as he was, and I didn’t want that.

I’d been invited to the throwdown and accepted. We’d tangoed for a minute and that was satisfaction enough. I didn’t need to finish it any more. It was already finished, and I’d emerged unscathed and victorious. I’d proven my point and held my ground. I’d represented. I was small and wiry. Even over the years, that about me hasn’t much changed. But I’d gotten the upper hand and he knew better than to try that again because the next time I might not be so benevolent and I’d probably have back-up. His brother, to that point the less instigative of the two, didn’t quite seem to get the message and that led to incident number two, aka The Hershey Chronicles.

Then as now I wanted everyone to get along and be kind to one another. This altercation had been thrust upon me for no reason at all. But as I think about it now, there’s got to be something deeper. John Homely didn’t show up on this planet filled with rage, spewing hate toward Black people. This behavior was learned. And it’s possible that somewhere along the way a Black boy like me had solicited him to tussle for no reason and he’d singled me out on this day in this heretofore peaceful arena to exact his vengeance. I didn’t know and I didn’t ask. We never talked about it and I only saw him once in a blue moon, mainly from a distance, after that. My family uprooted and moved a little over a year later. I never did get closure. But my parents raised me to know good from bad and, even after facing some simplemindedness, to give that person the benefit of the doubt so that maybe someday the cycle would truly no longer continue.

Unbeknownst to me, there remained one more incident on the horizon. It was equally unexpected and the net result just as satisfying.

A dear friend sent me a handwritten letter recently. He took the time to think it through and write it out. Letter writing is, for sure, a lost art.

It brought me great joy to receive it in the mail and read it from start to finish.

And ironically, but not surprisingly, the contents of his note were not too far from the topic of this post. The core idea and his motivation for sending somewhat align.

We, as humans, are bound by our thoughts. We’re connected to each other in ways we can’t even imagine. We are one with the universe and there are forces greater than any of us can or will ever understand continually at play.

Big picture?

I’m listening.

At least, I’m being intentional about doing a better job of listening.

I’m working hard to leave no stone (literal or figurative) unturned and no detail, no matter how small, unconsidered.

Everything we see. Everything we hear. Everything we take in through our eyes, ears, nose, mouths, and minds is an opportunity. An exchange. An experience. Another chance for a chance encounter with love.

Every raindrop. Every shadow. Every soft breeze. Every hard edge. Placed there in your midst to be felt, heard, seen or, at the very least, acknowledged.

Every crack in the pavement. Every knot on a tree limb or in the wood grain of a table top or natural floor board. Every petal on a rose. Every small jagged and asymmetrical rock trapped in the sole of your shoe.

It’s all there for the taking. To be romanced. To be remembered. To be admired.

Every small and seemingly insignificant detail reaching out, beckoning, vying for your attention. Posturing as if to say, “I’m here for you. Please don’t dismiss me. Please don’t avert your gaze. An ounce of your time is all that I ask.”

The sound of sneakers on concrete. Heavy walkers. Light runners. Toddlers getting out ahead of their parents and out over their shoes. Squirrels rustling in dried fallen leaves and Carolina wrens calling back and forth in the otherwise quiet branches overhead.

Once you give in to your surroundings, they become nearly impossible to ignore. And you realize just how resplendent the world is with gifts. The universe is hardwired to give and we are fortunate if we stay open enough to receive.

Every whisper of a creek. Every revolution of a bicycle tire. Every hum of an air conditioner or swish of a dishwasher.

Lean in and listen. Look a little deeper and linger a second or two longer. In many instances, that’s all it takes.

The shapes are pleasing to the eye. The sounds are pleasing to the ear. The smells and flavors and textures are pleasing to the nose, the taste, and the touch.

And it’s easy to leave it all on the table. It’s common to miss most of what we’re being presented with as it feels mundane and simply a part of the background.

But it’s up to us to determine what is background and what is foreground. We have a choice.

Patterns in nature and our fabricated surroundings. They abound. And they are there to be absorbed and admired. Picked up by our rods and cones and tucked away for a glimpse at a later date. Committed to memory.

Why pay attention at all?

It is a conscious decision. It takes energy to be mindful. But in the end that’s what everything is—a hopeful ebb and flow of energy tides. Giving and receiving. Positive affirmations guiding and beguiling.

The questions are many and they remain. Why is any of it there in the way that it is? How does any of it make a difference and why should we care? Will our lives be any better or worse should we choose to ignore all of it?

In truth, I don’t know.

But I do know that when I pause long enough to pay attention, it calms me. The balance shifts. I can feel the scales tipping from one direction to the other. It’s somehow reassuring that all of what I’m consciously engaged in—bombarded by—matters less and all that’s quietly—passively—vying for my attention suddenly matters so much more.

So, when I say I’m listening, it’s less about literally hearing sounds, while that is a part of it, and more about giving over of my entire self to pick up on all the cues, large and small, overt and subtle, obvious and discrete.

We’re not here for long. So the key is to squeeze the most out of every bit of every experience while we are.

And maybe the most beautiful part is the mystery. The not knowing. The why or how or what’s to be made of it all. We never know where any of any of it will take us.

I encourage us all. Let’s put our respective antennas up and let our guards down. Let’s give ourselves over to the beauty of the ordinary and accept every bit of it as truly extraordinary. For me, that’s exactly what it is.

Maybe take time to pen a letter to a friend and drop it in the mail, old school-style. The rare experience of ink or graphite on paper is a wonderful thing, as is writing from the heart without editing or censorship. It’s amazing the places your thoughts will take you, should you simply give yourself over to them and let them guide you. More than anything, give yourself permission to pay close attention to the things that may ordinarily go unobserved. Not everything has deeper meaning but, to me, for sure, some things do.

I don’t always know what the message means but I simply enjoy that it is and that I was lucky enough to receive it.