Come in.
Sit down
Take a second
You get enough advice
This is about nothing
And everything
And all of it in-between
That’s enough for now
It’s not a sprint
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Come in.
Sit down
Take a second
You get enough advice
This is about nothing
And everything
And all of it in-between
That’s enough for now
It’s not a sprint
Travel to A Well Run Life.com
Tell us how you are
I bought a sack of Red Wrigglers and they arrived on my porch yesterday.
Here's how it's supposed to work: I give them my vegetal table scraps, they eat them and shit agricultural gold.
I'll let you know how it goes.
November 2013 I became a gardener.
By January 2014 I will be a goddamn farmer.
In 1978 our Christmas tree made the Charlie Brown Christmas tree look like the one in Rockefeller Center.
I'm not sure it wasn't actually a branch.
It is the only tree we ever talk about.
It always delivers – we laugh and joke each time about how we kept spinning it looking for its "good side."
Good side? It was barely three-dimensional.
What a gift that scrawny little guy gave us.
I am composing this missive in my head while at the Scottsdale Fashion Square Mall.
An elderly Chinese man has his elbow buried in between my spine and scapula.
He is using a level of force usually reserved for extracting information.
He says: "How about this?"
And now, my right shoulder and his right shoulder carry the same mark.
Seen or unseen, he's right there.
From here – 'til the end of my road – at every pool, beach, shirtless work-out – the old man is doing his best to make me look cool.
I am a crier. It's just the truth, what can I say?
As such, I have to watch The X-Factor in private.
I realize they are just shilling for Tide, condoms, Toyota and whatever else.
But when the coaches offer a psychological disposition of support – frankly I don't give a shit if it's fake – I always bite.
Belief in another – support of someone's hopes – vocalizing the notion "I believe in you" simply touches me in some indefensible place.
I may not be the luckiest person who ever lived, but I have extreme good fortune.
There are many many problems I do not have.
My plane is leaving soon to return me safely home.
At different times, I have lived precariously balanced.
My loved ones kept me upright.
I am on more solid footing now.
More often than not, I trip into great surprises – seeing wondrous, beautiful things and meeting curious people.
It is a lovely planet.
When I was very young, I didn't like onions.
I think it was that my taste buds were still so new.
Everything tasted so precisely, vibrantly, purely what it was.
I now like jalapenos on everything.
The artist has an audience.
In that relationship, a person can delight, antagonize, soothe or jolt another.
There you will find a moment of some consequence between two people.
It is a beautiful thing.
My mom is a successful and brilliant poet.
Before other people wrote blurbs on the back of her books and gave her awards and spent money to own her writing, she woke at 4:30 in the morning, sat at the kitchen table and wrote – every day – before kids, work and a million other demands would claim her attention.
I am a slow learner.
Impatience and haste have cost me a lot.
But, against all my instincts, I have decided against rushing to any conclusions.
Things break apart – I rack 'em up– and start again.
The New York Times and I have a mixed relationship.
Without meaningful argument, consistently high levels of thoughtful, careful writing land on my porch every Sunday.
But I can't help but feel it is saying,
"You are smart for reading this, but not as smart as I am for writing it."