As I stood under the eaves and waited for the dog to relieve herself in the dark, cold rain, I realized something.  I’ve been trying to hard. While there is no doubt that there are many areas of my life in which I could do more and try harder, I wasn’t thinking of that kind of perseverance.     This trying-too-hard isn’t visible in the tangible, physical sense.  This trying-too-hard is mental and done within the space between my ears.  It is attitude, pure and simple, and it is my attitude that often makes me feel miserable.

Before I had time to really sit with this thought and write it out, I checked e-mails and found this quote at the end of a post over at  JoAnn Rothman writes,

“Stop thinking about what you are meant to do and start thinking about what you want to do. That is the way to live your purpose. “

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Story Complications

Life  is rarely simple.   A lot of its plot lines reach odd dead ends.  Some strands of my life will always remain incomplete and unfinished.  Literature talks ceaselessly about the beginning, middle and end.  It’s what confines a story and makes it what it is.  My life resists such structure.  There are things I will never understand.  Things that will not have an ending or what seems to be an ending. Yet, still I try.

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Wake Up and See

A rising sun paints the morning sky a rich red.  Distant mountains stand a sharp silhouette against a fiery curtain.

“Wake up and see,” they say.  “Wake up and see.”

But sleep calls me back.  The morning road is so familiar that for a moment I forget where I am.  I could be in a dozen other cities.  My mind starts playing through the familiar routes in the places I’ve called home.  Finally, I remember. Continue reading


5:30 a.m.  I awake to a horrible ringing in my ears.  It takes a while for me to realize that it is only the chiming of the alarm clock.   The shower feels so good I don’t want to leave it.  I finally step into my day realizing that it isn’t the big things that will destroy me.  It’s the devastation of the day-to-day that will be my undoing.

The contrast of the freedom of vacation with the servitude of the day does not escape me.  I work less hours for less pay and the money is never enough.  I see my future wiping trays in McDonalds or as a greeter at the doors of a Wal-mart.  It’s hard to get excited about what lies ahead.   This line of thinking is like dipping myself in acid.  It eats away at me.  Time to write.  I’m looking for salvation.  Maybe the words will take me there.

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Deer and Driver

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I cried today.  There are things in my life worthy of tears.   I usually don’t go there.   Avoiding the tears makes getting through a day much easier.   Underneath it all, those sad pieces poke at me and make me uncomfortable.  It’s like my own psychic hair shirt.  Just thinking about a hair shirt makes me itch.  Hair shirts always seem worse than sack cloth and ashes.   But, I digress and on purpose. . . to avoid feeling. Continue reading

I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.


I am reading

The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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