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he wants a dad not a coach


I had a chance to take my son to his first Toronto Maple Leafs game last night. It was an unbelievable evening, filled with a lifetime of memories, and a five – nothing shutout, is nothing to sniff at either.

But the day turned out to be more than a lopsided hockey contest.

When I got to Canada in 1985, I remember vividly, playing road hockey with a handful of some neighbourhood kids, just outside of 10 Grenoble Drive, near the Science Centre. I found my tattered stick, in a garbage bin somewhere, and although I didn’t understand much of what they were saying, they somehow convinced me to become a Leafs fan.

Their welcoming spirit had a profound effect on me, and ever since that day, despite facing down countless remarks and spiteful laughter over the years, I have remained a loyal Toronto Maple Leafs fan, ever since.

But last night was more than just hockey.

Last night was a chance for my son and I to realize what we mean to each other.

I cannot tell you his side of the story. Maybe he will be inspired to write about it one day, but for now, mine will have to be enough.

We arrived somewhat early by the Go Train, and so we walked around for a few hours, exploring downtown Toronto, and all its hidden promises.

We saw some homeless men, who were so cold, they didn’t put much effort into begging strangers for their spare change. We encountered a gray-haired man, grasping for breath, collapsed but conscious, just outside a busy designer boutique, inside a busy shopping centre, while most people ignored him and rushed frantically to their next destination.

We found a place to eat and we also ran into several revolving doors and a dozen escalators to amuse ourselves with. Some of us did the amusing. The rest of us did a lot of cautioning and waiting.

We gave a deaf gentleman while waiting in line to get into the arena, two dollars, for a little Maple Leafs button, that now proudly sits atop my son’s backpack.

All in all, we had a tremendous day, despite the weather, but there is one thing that stands out the most.

During the game, because my son is somewhat obsessed about hockey, I took the time, as a learning experience, to point out some of the strategies both teams were employing to try and win the game.

My son looked at me and gently asked if we could just watch the game.

I instinctively said yes but have been thinking about his request ever since.

Can we just watch the game?

At that moment, I realized that my son was enjoying my company, and didn’t want to sit there with his coach. He wanted to remember the day and flood his mind with memories of his dad.

This got me thinking.

How often do we sit with our coaches?

How often do fail to listen to people when it’s our turn?  

We are very efficient playing the role of counselors and dishing out invaluable advice, but our friends are not looking for a psychiatrist or a social worker. They simply desire a friendly, dependable ear, and perhaps a genuine nod or two, once in a little while.

How often do we recognise our own human worth?

How often is that value distorted, mangled, and superficially based on a daily wage, we graciously agreed to, as payment? Is that truly what we do and is that what we are worth?

We sometimes fail to see what provide for others, because we only concern ourselves with the scripts others have written for us.

It wasn’t too difficult to revert back to being a dad, and to ignore the inclination, in a momentary lapse of reason, to become a coach.

There is plenty of time and plenty of people that are willing to do the coaching.

But the landscape is scarce and deficient of good listeners.

The world is starved for genuine companionship.

So, it’s important, to remain and reimagine being a mom and a dad, a son or a daughter, a sister and a brother.




I have never had the pleasure of meeting Larry in person, but I miss him, now that he’s gone.

I didn’t know him that well, and our series of encounters came through Facebook messenger. Over a period of a year or so, sending messages back and forth, here and there. A series of quiet and unassuming pieces of conversation, in spurts and flashes.

We didn’t chat for long, or often, for that matter, and sometimes about nothing in particular, but as I write, I really miss him.

I am writing this post because I want to remember Larry, and everyone else like him, I happen to meet along the way, in this seemingly trivial life of happenchance.

We met through a magnificent friend of ours, who connected us, because we both loved music. She is always connecting people. She’s really good at it. A sort of non-romantic match maker par excellence.

Larry was a bit older than me, and for this reason some people would probably question his deep but youthful aspiration to be a musician, which suited me just fine. We were a great pair, because I like to think of myself as an aging, but aspiring writer and photographer.

Larry and I blended well.

I told him he needed to record his music. That most people go to the grave with their song still in them. He huffed and puffed that he didn’t have the right equipment. That he didn’t have enough courage or time. I told him that there was no such thing as the right equipment and that courage comes to those who dare to leap into the moment, and right now, is always the perfect time.

He agreed.

But life crept, as it always does, at its seemingly slow and petty pace, and so he went to his grave with his song unsung.

As sad as it is that the world will never hear his music, I am thankful and grateful, that we had a chance to share a few moments together.

He admired my concert photos I would post from time to time and he encouraged me to keep making more, telling me that I had a good eye for things.

I don’t really know what his voice sounded like, but I sometimes think I can hear it, when I am by the concert stage, in the pit, half blinded by the colourful lights, and ready to pursue the perfect frame of digital film.

I wish Larry and I had some more time. He died so suddenly.

I hope he finds some much-needed rest and I will have a few choice words for him, if he doesn’t finish his music, his magnum opus, because I still want to hear it someday.

Not for a while though, I have my own music to write.

Thank-you Larry, for teaching me an important lesson about what it means to be human. Something that I won’t soon forget.

I learned from you, that it doesn’t take much to truly connect with anyone. It just takes a little smidge of effort and a tiny pinch of time.

The fact that there are so many lonely people in the world, is truly sad and unnecessary.

Too many people suffer in silence. Too many of us are desperately disconnected from one another. We sit all alone. Battered by our own cruel voices of discouragement. At a time in human history, when human connection is not only possible, but available everywhere, and at every turn.

I hope that during this magical, but dark time of year, you embrace the ones you love. Tell them love them and explain what they mean to you. Give them the best gift you can. The gift of time. Time with you. Undisturbed. Undistracted.


I also hope you have a chance to smile at a stranger. A chance to exchange a few courteous words with those which fate binds you with. Even the cranky ones.

Come to think of it, especially the cranky ones.

Remember that it’s never the grand gestures that truly matter. They just happen to be what we remember the most.

But sometimes.

Sometimes. The little things. Those seemingly insignificant forgettable words, happen to mean more, because they truly connect us.

They carry within them, the true spirit of living.

The true spirit of being human.


who over what


When you are asked about your day, what comes to mind?

Did you awake today to be with people or to take your orders from things?

Things to do. Things to analyze. Things to sell.


The question is very important and an honest, truthful answer, even more so.

As you search your mind for what you’ve done today or perhaps what you have failed to do, so begins the deliberate dance of measuring yourself against predetermined expectations, obligations, and the tiresome struggle for happiness.

It’s so easy and effortless to recall the things we have done. The things we do.

The what of our lives always bubbles to the surface, because we were taught to be task oriented.

Our schooling, very dutifully and forcibly, convinced us that life is nothing more than a series of lectures, dry PowerPoint presentations, complied into notes, late night study sessions, which ultimately culminate in a seemingly important test.

Our lives haven’t changed much. 

Our thinking is still very much confined to what we have learned in our educational institution.

We have traded our hopes and dreams for good marks, and our rightful place in a commercial or industrial institution.

We pride ourselves that at least we are not suffering the toil of meaningless work in a penal institution.

So, we wake up. Bitch about our morning. Drag our feet to work. Struggle and complain with those who choose to commiserate with our putrid sadness.

We go home. Drown our misery with some fried fish, some Gin and Tonic, and endless episodes of streamed entertainment.

We wake up tired and we begin where we left off. We look for more things to do.

But it’s not about the what.

It’s not about our to do list, about efficiency, productivity, the predictability of measurement, or our misguided expectations, assessments, and evaluations. It’s not about spending the best part of our day at the shopping mall, alone, fighting and searching for the biggest trinket for someone we love, so they can return it after boxing day.

Our day should be about the who.

About the people we love, and about the people whose company we enjoy.

The who is more infinitely more important than the what.

People never serve a purpose. They are not a means to an end.

There is nothing for them to do.

They are human beings.

They are.

They be.

And all we have been give is just a bit of time. A bit of time to spend in their company. To get to know them. To help them and in turn to be supported by them. To leave them a little better and happier than we have found them.

Many of us feel terrible about our day, but we often don’t remember who was there by our side. Who brought us coffee. Who shared a laugh. Who dared to dream out loud. Who persevered against a sea of troubles. Who battled. And who understood and embraced us for who we are.

The who should always trump the what.

You should see your day for the people you spent it with.

It is so simple, yet why is it so complicated?

When you finish reading this. When you are finally done here. Won’t you go back to whatever things are clamoring for your attention? Won’t you forget I ever existed?


perfect imperfections


We have never managed to conclusively nail down the circumference of a circle.

Our best scientific minds and our fastest computers, after centuries of effort, are still unable to come up with a definitive number that identifies pi, much beyond the very danceable 3.14.

We have been stuck with our human flaws for millennia, yet, collectively, we continually find courage to draw the imperfect circle anyway. We play with them. We paint them. We obsess over them. We admire them.

Yet we have never once embraced a perfect circle.

We can’t come up with the criteria to even identify one, but think of where we would be I’m as a civilization, if we allowed perfection to stop us and run our lives.

Part of the human condition is the wisdom to perfectly accept our imperfections!

If you look at several clear examples of success, or at the people you greatly admire, you will undoubtedly see perpetual failure, and undeniable flaws.

Every broken bone mends, but not quite the same. Every cut heals, but always leaves a scar. Every slice of cheesecake offers a delectable possibility of divine bilocation, but enhances the circumference and girth of your ass.

Our relationships don’t last forever. Our happiness comes and goes.

Nothing is perfect.


Everything that exists in the universe gives us any indication that we need to be perfect.


That is precisely what we strive for.

We buy into acquired illusionary ideals. We embrace visions and far-fetched expectations, that breed their origins with the perfect circle.

We obsess about being perfect. We don’t allow ourselves to accept any level of happiness, unless we are great. We consider it a failure, when we deem ourselves good enough.

We constantly measure ourselves into sickness. We measure ourselves into hell.

We obsess about perfectly doing, when we should accept our imperfection of being.

Successful people aren’t lucky. They only appear to be at first glance.

They are not perfect. I would beg to guess that they have an infinite number of flaws and a myriad of imperfections. Things that they hide, because quite frankly, it’s nobody’s business.

Success is achieved through perfect imperfection!

The sooner we allow ourselves the courage to take a million chances, the sooner we will experience success.

Success and failure, professional and personal, comes from the same well. It fills the same bucket. The only one we have. The one we were born with.

Happiness and success are achieved through a hundred attempts to fly. Thousands of attempts to quit. Millions of attempts to forgive, to move on, to say sorry, or to begin once again.

Success and happiness come to those who persevere. To those who embrace vulnerability and their magnificent flaws.

Don’t ever be afraid to be wrong. To look foolish. To take a stand. To dig ditches. To quit and begin again. To face yourself in the mirror. To freak out. To imperfectly stride forward, until your last breath.

Become perfectly imperfect.

Be you. Be glorious.



I hate Christmas


I hate Christmas.


I said it.

I hate the very idea of decorating our homes, with bright, shimmering lights, in the middle of Fall. Yes, Fall.

Feel free to hate me at the very core of my ignorance but I am just not ready to inundate my senses with all these magical grand illusions of twinkling lights and enchanted ferries.

I hate Christmas.

I hate many things, but I definitely hate Christmas.

I hate the fact that everything is on sale. That black Friday is upon us. That everyone is rushing around trying to buy something, anything. It seems like everyone is planning their Christmas or March Break vacations, Christmas dinners, or how to not make an ass of themselves at the office Christmas party. At least not this year. Or at least not anymore.

But for me the world got really dark. 

For me, I entered into an all-consuming period of loneliness.

I am not sure what I did to deserve becoming its lovely host, each and every year since I was a small child, but I have resigned myself not to resist anymore. Darkness has become my lovely friend.

These days, the sun rises late, and it sets far too early. The few moments of sunshine that are left, I ignore, by working in an ugly portable, away from what matters, pretending that I know something.

Please forgive me if I don’t get overly excited over tinsel and stockings. Forgive me if I don’t get overly excited to rush around, fighting for a parking spot of a crowded mall, while trying to imagine what to buy, and what joy it will be when I pay it off, a year from now, or at some point, I’m sure. I’m so grateful to the credit companies for their generosity and extended credit at this, my greatest time of need.

I’m lonely and I strangely alienated. I’m a Scrooge, devoid of all magical Holiday Spirit. Yes, I am a cancer to your glee and generosity. In November. Yes, November.  

They say that a child ends up spending less than fifteen minutes playing with their Christmas present before they get bored and look to do something else.

Fifteen minutes.

Is it worth it.

I don’t really hate Christmas.

I like it.

I just wish we were nicer to each other, especially through the dark days of November and December. I wish we didn’t pretend to care when we don’t. That we didn’t make promises, we don’t intend to keep. I wish we were a little more human. A little more lonely.

I wish we were more in touch with our loneliness.

Being lonely is not easy, but I no longer run away from its embrace.

I am lucky that I have never looked for shelter with drugs or alcohol. I don’t distract myself with binge watching television shows or get engrossed with the latest gossip on the internet. I struggle with overeating at times, that’s for sure. Food is my drug of choice. My dirty habit, but even here, I’ve managed to find a teeter totter type of balance of sorts.

We are lonely people.

Why do we treat our loneliness as a morbid debilitating disease?

Why are we not kinder to ourselves?

We are just longing for something. Searching for something. We want to know we are not alone.

At this time of year, I miss my mom and dad the most. I wonder when it will be my turn, and if I will be missed at all. I look back and smile at the silly things I’ve done and the mistakes I’ve made. I glance back at all the dreams that are still unfulfilled and most of all I long to live the rest of my days with a deeper purpose, with more meaning.

There is no reason to hate Christmas.

There is no reason to hate loneliness either.

As long as you don’t face it down alone.


green grass and gas


Sometimes the grass looks a bit lusher and has a somewhat stronger hint of green, but it is always hiding on the other side.

It doesn’t matter where we are, where we go, or where we look; someone else, something else, somewhere else, seems so much better as a place to happen.

This morning I needed some gas. 

The price at the pump at my local gas station, conveniently located right outside the gym, read 115.9 cents per liter.  I have lived here for a very long time now, and I know, without question, I know, that gas prices are always cheaper here.

I looked at the gas light. 

I looked at the price. 

I thought to myself, what if today, what if I’m lucky, what if the price of gas was actually cheaper there than it is here.  I have enough fuel to get there.  I’m going to take a chance.  I am going wait and absorbed in looking at the seductive hint of lusher pastures somewhere else.

As I sit here I can see the gas pump price and its neon glow.  The price of gas is 124.9 cents per liter.  What makes me laugh though, is that, not only will I pay .09 cents more, because I deemed to know better, but because I drove, I actually need a little more gas.  Wasting it, in pursuit of a few cents of savings.

I know better, but I can’t help to laugh at myself.

I am sharing this somewhat insignificant piece of Monday trivia with you, not because I wish to complain about price of fuel, or the refining costs, or the disproportionate taxes attached to every single liter.  My intention is simple. 

You and I look for cheaper gas all the time.

When we want to call our friend on his birthday, we somehow hesitate, or get too busy.  A few days later we can’t call, because we would be embarrassed if he asked why we didn’t call him on his birthday, in the first play.  So, we play a little game, and wait for some time to go by.  We create a bit of distance, so we can save face, so we can finally call.  So, we can finally do what we should have done.  Should have done, when we should have done it.

How dreadfully complicated.

While we wait, we also often forget.  We’re not mean, we’re just a touch weak. 

Life trucks on.  New tasks present themselves.  Life gets complicated and time continues to lose those tiny little grains of sand, which we imagine we can find later.

You may do the same with your art or music.  You sit down to write a song, and by next week you are writing another, and another song.  Pretty soon, all you have, are pieces of melodies and half written ideas, that lead you back to absolutely nowhere. 

That’s what you get when you need gas but seek greener grass.

I can give you countless examples, about writing, about the perfect moment to take your wife or boyfriend on a date, to spend time with your kids, to quit your job, to retire, to see a doctor, to lose weight, to stop eating after midnight, to quit smoking, to quit drinking…

On and on it goes.

We perpetually wait for greener grass.  We get distracted by greener grass.  We spend our time looking and hoping to find a lush green field to rest out mind.

But in the end, we end up lowering our heads, cracking our wallets, and paying a little more.

We end up paying with our lives.

I am about to finish up here, and head to the gas pump.  I will pay extra.  I will consider it a tip.  An investment.  A lesson to look and find those parts of my life that require more work, more digging, and a little less navel gazing.

Do what needs to be done today.

Take comfort in staying the course.

Sometimes the best square of dirt, is the one you don’t move away from.


hiding in plain sight


When it comes to having dreams, we always raise our hands in excitement.  When it comes time to buying the shovel and spade, and doing the work, the numbers noticeably dwindle.  When it’s time to finish what we started, and be finally done with our labour, the numbers become even more anemic.  Finally, when it’s time to gift the world with what you’ve made, you will find yourself very much alone.

You will begin to doubt, get anxious, and become overwhelmed with fear. 

I am still trying to figure out what it is about our human nature that prevents us from sharing who we are.  What it is that distracts us and convinces us that we are not good enough.

We don’t think of ourselves as unworthy impostors, until we have something we can share. 

We begin to imagine we will die a slow and painful death of shame and indignation and so we pull back in fear, because everyone will once again know and see our very frail limitations. 

The good life, the happy life, is meant for someone else.  The lives of Saints, are a painful reminder that success is not found on a road less travelled.  It is nothing more than an abandoned dead end. 

This is a lie we tell ourselves.

It is a truly strange because when toss the first shovel full of dirt over our shoulder, the glory and sense of accomplishment, is all we envision and sense. 

We spend time imagining what it will feel like when we were finished.  We impress our minds with how meaningful and beautiful it will all be when we finish.  How glorious, to share who we are, and what we have made, with perfect strangers.  Strangers no more.  Brothers and sisters connected in a beautiful spirit of human experience.

But we don’t ship.  We hide.  We hide from ourselves and we hide from each other.

We hide in plain sight.

When we are close, we nit-pick. 

We find fault. 

We notice errors in the smallest of things, the insignificant, magnifying the mistakes no one sees or even cares about.  We seek the council of people who we know deep down, will find something wrong with what we have made.  We thrash about looking and embracing every sensible opinion that convinces us that what we really need, is just one more day, another week, another month, and perhaps another whole year. 

You need to get it right, to polish it up; just a little bit more.  Just a tiny bit.  Almost there.  Have faint, it’s almost time.  A crank here. A little adjustment.  A little tug.  The slightest pull.

And so, you hide.

We have hidden who we are for years.  Decades. 

We run away from what we want, who we are, and what we dream about.

It’s safer not to make a ruckus. To not raise your voice.  To sit down.  To timidly, take it.  To politely wait your turn.

But your turn never comes. 

You are almost there, but never there.

You hate yourself for not speaking up and become tired and weary for spending your entire life, sitting back and taking it.

When is it going to be your turn?

When will you stand up and have people take notice?

It won’t be easy.  The criticism will certainly fly.  The gossip will wage a war against your human dignity.  Eyebrows will be raised in indignation.  Your work will be scrutinized.  It will be misunderstood.  Dissected.  Laughed at.  Jeered.  Embraced?

Could there be a chance someone will find value with what you have made?

Think of the possibilities.

You might make someone laugh.  Bring a smile to their tired face.  Give them an opportunity to cry.  Afford them permission to be who they are.  The courage to no longer pretend who they don’t want to be.  You might give them a voice, or dispel their loneliness. 

You might give them a moment of peace.  A chance to reflect.  An opportunity to embrace their broken humanity.

You might inspire them. 

Anger them. 

You might make them think and feel.

You might make a ruckus!

But not, if you remain timid, and hide in plain sight.

Nothing matters.  Nothing grows.  Nothing changes with silence and fear.

Find your voice. 

Find the courage.

Find a way to share.


the beginning of the end


I have been searching my soul this week, wondering where all this is going. 

By the end of this December, which is quickly approaching, I intend to organize and edit everything I have written so far, and turn it into a book.

I believe Diggin’ Ditches is definitely a working title.

I am not sure who will read the book.  I have many doubts, questions and reluctant thoughts on the matter.  I am not crippled by fear, but definitely a little unhinged, wondering if anyone will care or buy the book.

I chase those thoughts far from my consciousness.  I instruct myself to keep digging and not to spend too much time dwelling on the possibility of being a failed author, on my very first try.

It might be a little easier now, instead of a few months from now, when I will need to find the funds and leap forward.

A very dear friend proposed the idea for book, and I am extremely grateful.  It has given me a renewed sense of purpose and a goal I didn’t have before.

Writing every single day is not easy. 

I am not interested in easy.  I am in this thing for the challenge and a sense of meaning.

I have decided to end this blog.

Not yet.  I’m not done.  I am not ready to move on to other things, but for the first time since I started I can see the end coming.

I am giving myself four more years.

It is so easy to write down, but the end of 2021 is a lifetime away.

In either case, I now know the end.

When I am done, I will have five volumes of meaningful musings, and one volume of quotables.  Enough to create a daily reader, which will guide you through an entire year.  I might throw in an extra few entries to compensate for a few leap years.  An appendix of sorts.

Why am I thinking out loud and why does this have to end?

I am sharing this today because I don’t want all of this to just vanish one day.  I don’t want those of you who read on a regular basis to wake up and never hear from me again. 

I have visited many wonderful blogs, and it saddens me, when I see their last entry read 2012, 2015, or 2009.  They burn bright and burn out.  They are not heard from again.  I am sad when I find yet another forgotten graveyard of beautiful writing

Today I have a purpose.  It will end my terms.  All I must do now, is just the hard work of sticking to it and never losing grip.  Never losing faith or hope, that despite not knowing where I am going, I am helping in making ripples somewhere, along the way.

Thank you for reading.

I don’t think I would write as often otherwise.

Every clown with a hat on the dirty street, needs an audience what is willing to stop and stare.

Thanks for staring.

I hope your lives have been enriched for having been here.


infinite possibilities


I have been dreaming in my sleep lately, which is quite unusual. 

It’s unusual because I rarely dream.  It takes my unconscious directors, months, if not years, between each screening of her carefully crafted spindles of film.

I know I dream.  We all dream. 

I just have no memories of anything.  I wake up from the night before without a trace or the smallest hint of anything, everything.

I’m not sure what that says about my state of health, but I guess that a good night might be somehow good for me. Despite the health benefits, a part of me does feel a little left out.  Left out from the common human experience, of sharing some unbelievable tales and terrifying nightmares.

My recent dreams are too personal to share.  My subconscious mind is living out some things I need to focus on.  I don’t know what any of it means, but I’m glad to be involved in the conversation.

I sometimes wish my mom and dad would come and visit me in my dreams.  I sometimes think they do.  It would be lovely to see them again.  To embrace each other.  To remember.

We are lucky because our dreams offer us a world of infinite possibilities.

We have a chance to work out our anger and frustration, or perhaps feel the joy of something that hasn’t happened yet.  The visions are vivid.  They are real.  We should definitely pay more attention to them.

And why can’t our lives be as vivid?

Why can’t our living dreams be as colourful as our slumbering tales?

Aren’t they scripted, directed, and produced by the same mind?

One takes about ten minutes to play out and feels like a lifetime.  The other sometimes takes ten or twenty years, and feels like a brief breath of time.

Anything can happen when we are sleep.

We should probably awaken to the reality that anything can happen in our wakefulness too.

But it can only happen through action and engagement.  Our lives can only take shape by meaningful work and by sharing our work with the world. 

I think it is time to stop hiding.

Time to stop telling ourselves the false story that we can’t, that we need more education, more time, or more or less of everything.

So, stop hiding.

Start dreaming.

Dream out loud, because the nightmares of others, or perhaps your own, may not become as loud and terrifying if you struggle against remaining silent and numb.

So, share something.

Dream out loud.

Dream often.


armed with a coffee


Life seems like a long journey until it isn’t.

It is infinite, until it just suddenly ends. 

There are no reminders.  No sticky notes.

There is no final phone call.  Perhaps no last goodbye.

Just the end.

It doesn’t really matter how long you’ve been on your journey.  Nor does it really matter how much you’ve laughed or cried along the way.  It seems insignificant how often you’ve been scared, anxious, or worried.  In the final calculation it doesn’t matter, because we will all face the same curtain call. 

And it is a curtain call.  The end of an act.  But it is not a punishment or a curse.

But what do I know?

I am very incapable and insecure about the subject of death.  I haven’t figured it out.  Far from it.  It scares the living shit out of me sometimes. The pun is intentional.

Over the years, I continue to humbly listen and watch for wise words and examples, in the hopes of learning something.  Something that will help me figure out what I am doing here, why I matter, and why it is preordained that I must leave one day. 

One day. 

It’s a long journey. 

We live it one step at a time.  One year at a time.  

Until the end.

In an effort to repeat myself, I don’t have many answers.  I don’t even have a dozen.  But I do have a myriad of very complex questions.  Questions which generally fall on deaf ears as very few every want to hear or discuss them. 

I am therefore subjected to gathering insights on my own, and you probably share a similar fate.

I am just trying to get at the truth.  It is not easy.  It is very elusive.  It is a story that speaks in silence and through the mystery of earthly events.  It sings in art.  It whispers through music. 

And I long to find some clues to this somewhat unidentifiable, but a very complex universal mystery, that troubles all of us. 

We are on a very long journey, with very limited time.

So, I remind myself, as the people I love leave me, that I don’t have too much time.

So why do I sometimes get wrapped up in so many things that drive us from each other?  Why are you and I not conscious of the suffering humanity we find everywhere?  Why are we unhappy?  Fearful?  Anxious?  Cancerous?  Materialistic and fat?

Why do we shit on freedom, disrespect the value of suffering, and ignore human dignity? 

Why do we sometimes hate ourselves?  Why do we hate each other?

Why don’t we see the connections in all things?  The infinite possibilities in everything that we do.  And destroy or make fun of those who try.

Every decision we make.  Every breath we take.  Every struggle.  Every emotional discharge.  Indeed, every single movement and every little thought, leads all of us to a blessed moment of infinite possibilities.

A moment we get to frame.  A moment we get to embrace or abandon.

Please forgive my rambling thoughts about our temporal mortality, on this very temporal Friday morning.

Sometimes, they are all I have.  But in a matter of mere minutes, the sun will rise again.  The responsibilities of the day will burden me yet again with many new thoughts and challenges.

In the meantime, though.  I will sit here, alone, armed with a cup of coffee, thinking of all the wonderful people I have been blessed to know.  I will think of all the magnificent people I can reach out to at this very moment. 

I will end my morning imagining the person I am going to become.