The morning light illuminates golden-green pollen as it drifts through the sunbeams, nature’s own glitter suspended in air and tickling my nose, much like the scent of sweet perfume from the color-filled wildflowers that filter among the spring grasses, growing wildly out of control like a rumor at a small town diner.  Here I sit comfortably on my long, covered Texas porch overlooking the distant hills as I spot a smattering of Indian paintbrush, LYF (little yellow flowers), and a couple of iridescent bluebonnets lending their fragrance to the breeze.  A chorus of bees hum their industrious melody among stands of tall greenery, within earshot but thankfully not within reach. We recently made our way back from the warmth of Florida beaches and have now returned to the ideal spring climate, the comfortable perfect days before the oppressive Texas heat sets in.  It’s good to be home, and just in time for Easter. Happy Easter to you!. Solitude Embraced Sundays offer a different quality of silence than other days. It’s a chosen quietude rather than an absence of sound imposed by circumstance. My phone remains face-down, notifications accumulating unheeded. There is luxury in this deliberate disconnection, this small rebellion against

The Florida humidity descended upon us like an overeager aunt at a family reunion — unwelcome, smothering, and absolutely unavoidable. This morning, the fog rolled in with theatrical flair, a dense curtain of moisture so thick you could practically spoon it into your coffee. My patio, normally offering panoramic views of the shoreline, now revealed nothing but ghostly outlines of what might be trees or might be strangers lurking with nefarious intent — impossible to tell in this atmospheric soup. The pelicans, those prehistoric-looking buffoons of the sky, pierce through the silence with their haunting croaks, invisible sky-beasts announcing their kingdom. “I’m here! I’m here!” they seem to crow, though nobody asked. And hiding behind this temporarily enchanting meteorological performance lurks the true villain of our coastal story — the oppressive heat that’s limbering up in the wings, ready to make us all regret our real estate choices for the next five months. Time to leave. MASTERMINDS OR MADNESS? About 15 years ago, I found myself in one of those suspicious motivational conferences, the kind where speakers pace stages like caged panthers and use words like “paradigm” and “synergy” with alarming frequency. The concept du jour? Masterminds. Though I’d encountered

The Texas spring arrives not like a whisper but a symphony — a crescendo of scents and colors that assault your senses with joyful abandon. Bluebonnets stretch across fields like nature’s own Impressionist canvas, their sweet honey-vanilla fragrance carried on breezes that rustle through new grass. Stand among them and close your eyes: Hear the drone of industrious bees, the distant lowing of cattle, the soft percussion of petals brushing against each other in the wind. Open your eyes and witness the miracle — blue so intense it borders on supernatural, the scene kissed by morning dew that transforms ordinary fields into galaxies of sparkle. Touch a petal and marvel at its velvet strength, simultaneously delicate and resilient, like all the best things in life. This is Texas in the spring — not just a sight, but an immersion, a baptism in sensory wonder. Tradition, Texas Style I love tradition with the fervor of someone who’s collected far too many vinyl records and still writes thank you notes by hand. One tradition I’ve adopted since moving to Texas about 15 years ago is the annual bluebonnet painting pilgrimage — a ritual as sacred to Texas artists as barbecue is to

The mist hangs low over the water, dancing in the first rays of sunrise. The gentle sway of the tides rocks me as I take in the first sip of my coffee, rich and aromatic, bringing warmth to the cool morning air. The distant calls of seabirds punctuate the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore. My fingertips trace the weathered wood of the small table beside me, worn smooth by salt and time. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, tasting the briny sweetness that only comes from being near the ocean. Am I in a dream? Or did I awaken to a window, a balcony, and water for miles as far as I can see? Exactly one week ago at this time, we awoke at six, ran quickly to grab some breakfast in the massive buffet, came back to our room, grabbed our bags, departed the ship, got a ride home, then rushed to the Orlando airport to drop off our daughter, then drove home … exhausted, I took a nap and awoke in a different paradise. The Floating City My daughter was on her last spring break, with her college graduation coming this spring, and one of

The howling wind tore at the ropes like invisible hands, stretching them to their breaking point as they strained against the weight of our vessel.  Vibrant whitecaps exploded across the churning surface — a violent ballet of foam and spray against the deep blue water below. The sharp, briny scent of salt filled our lungs with each labored breath as we maneuvered the boat backward, our knuckles white from gripping rain-slick ropes against the blood-red pylons. The icy droplets stung our faces like tiny needles while the thunderous roar of the gale swallowed our desperate shouts, transforming them into whispers against nature’s deafening orchestra. As we cleared the false sanctuary of the marina’s windbreaks, heading home, the true power of the storm ambushed us — the wind’s howl rising to a banshee’s wail as we fought to control our craft through the choppy, angry cauldron that had once been calm waters. Stubbornness Meets Impossibility As we approached our narrow covered boat slip, the horizontal force of the wind transformed our vessel into an uncontrollable missile, sending us skidding past our target with alarming speed. Twelve times we circled back, twelve times we failed, 40 minutes of battling against nature’s unbending

The sunlight dapples through the palm fronds outside my Florida window, casting intricate shadows across the deck in the back yard where I sit with my coffee this morning. A gentle breeze carries the scent of jasmine and salt air, while a pair of sandhill cranes strut purposefully across my boat dock. The distant rumble of thunder promises an afternoon shower, but for now, the sky remains a brilliant blue, unmarred by clouds. The beauty of this tropical morning truly awakens my senses. And soon our winter here will be over and we’ll return to a new adventure. Haircut Wisdom The recent passing of a world-famous celebrity was met with “I don’t know who that is” by the 30-year-old who was cutting my hair. “He was a huge star, he did all these amazing movies.” Yet the response was, “Never seen him, never heard of him.” My realization from that moment is that legacy may not matter. No matter how famous, there is no guarantee you’ll be remembered. Sure, there will be film buffs who remember him for a generation, and his IMDb profile or Wikipedia page will live on forever. But as I think about all the moments in

There’s something about Sunday mornings that invites introspection. Perhaps it’s the gentle pace, the absence of workday pressures, or maybe it’s just the coffee — this Ethiopian blend that somehow tastes even better when paired with the soft light of dawn breaking over the water. The pelican has returned today. He’s perched high up on the weathered piling at the end of the dock, looking somewhat prehistoric against the modern boats. I’ve been watching him for the better part of an hour now, his patient vigilance occasionally interrupted by hilariously ungraceful dives. For all his awkwardness in the air, he emerges successful more often than not. There’s a lesson there, I think. The water is calm, and a mirror to the sunlit morning sky above. A few early fishermen have trolled by, raising their hands in the universal greeting of those who rise before the world demands it. There’s a fellowship among early risers that transcends background and circumstance — a quiet acknowledgment that we’ve chosen to witness the day’s beginning rather than merely catch it in progress. I’m Honored Several of you commented on last week’s post about finding peace in small moments. Sandra wrote about how she’s started

 The morning breeze carries the scent of salt and sea oats through my screened porch, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. A brown pelican glides past, wings spread wide, barely skimming the waves. The rhythmic sound of surf provides a gentle backbeat to the cheerful chaos of shore birds arguing over their breakfast finds. Just another Sunday morning on Florida’s East Coast, where nature’s theater plays out against a backdrop of cotton-candy clouds and cerulean skies.The neighborhoodʼs starting to wake up. I can see the neighbor next door is already tending to her hibiscus, their bright red blooms a stark contrast to the sandy soil. Her grandson zips past on his bike, the playing cards in his spokes creating that familiar rat-a-tat-tat that takes me back to my own childhood in Indiana. I feel blessed that I had a great childhood, but it's probably not as good for a lot of kids today.A Trip to ChicagoWhen I was 11, my buddy and I hopped a three-hour train to Chicago from our small town in Indiana. Just two kids with some Christmas-shopping money and a crude map of the city. We walked miles from the train station into the Chicago

The steam rises from my coffee in lazy spirals this morning, dancing with the Florida sunlight streaming through my hotel window. The ceramic mug feels extra heavy today, weighted perhaps by the words that have been living rent-free in my head all weekend. The bitter aroma of my dark roast mingles with the lingering scent of a bitter feeling, and somewhere outside, a blue jay is having what sounds like an existential crisis. Welcome to the club. The Knot in My Chest I take a sip and let the warmth spread through my chest, hoping it might dissolve the knot that’s been sitting there since Friday. You see, I just witnessed something that would make even Machiavelli wince — a masterclass in how to turn a big gain into a much bigger loss. The Dating Game Gone Wrong Picture this: You’re dating someone for a year. You’ve met the parents, picked out curtains together, and are about to sign a lease. Then suddenly, they call someone else, not you, to have them tell you that they’ve found someone richer and prettier. Oh, and good luck with those curtains! That’s essentially what happened in my business world this week, and let

The raptors are putting on quite a show this morning, diving from the Australian pines into the water with surgical precision. Nature’s own fishing exhibition, complete with squeaking commentary from above. As I sit here watching this display of survival (and breakfast), I can’t help but think about today being Groundhog Day — that peculiar tradition where we let a rodent meteorologist in Pennsylvania determine our seasonal fate. Politicizing Groundhogs You know, some folks are now protesting the whole Groundhog Day ceremony as animal cruelty. Soon we’ll be trying to protect the small fish from the big fish, and the big fish from the whales. (I spotted two white whales off our coast this week — talk about a reminder of nature’s magnificent food chain!) Sometimes I wonder if we’re overthinking things that “just are.” Groundhog Day, the Movie Speaking of Groundhog Day, I’ve been feeling a bit like Bill Murray lately — minus the charm and comic timing. Wake up, work, meetings, same dinner rotation, same TV shows, same bed. Rinse, repeat, yawn. It’s what I call the “comfortable rut syndrome.” I both love and hate routine. It’s like that old friend who’s great to have around but sometimes

Less than a week after snowballs melted in my gloved palm, I’m stretched out in a lounge chair, watching late January sunlight paint the distant mountain in watercolors. The morning air in Austin still carries winter’s bite, but the sun promises 70 degrees by noon. It’s warmer here than in Florida, but in a few days Florida will return to its sunny self. A cardinal flashes crimson against the live oak’s winter-bare branches, while somewhere in the distance, a tractor hums its morning song across the back 40. This is the kind of morning that reminds you that being alive is a gift worth unwrapping slowly. The kind that makes you question why we spend so many precious hours under fluorescent lights when God’s own lightbulb is putting on a free light show.  Time Flies I’m shocked that our first month of the year has already passed. Time slides by these days, faster than a rattler disappearing under a rock. One minute you’re making resolutions over champagne, next thing you know you’re watching Valentine’s chocolates go on clearance.  My grandmother used to tell me that the years speed up as you age, back when I was too busy being immortal

The familiar hiss of the espresso machine provides a gentle backdrop to the quiet murmur of Sunday morning as I stare across the water, pondering the distant shore. No dolphins have graced these waters in the two weeks since I arrived in this coastal paradise — the unseasonably chilly days keeping them at bay, much like the thoughts I’ve been trying to hold at a distance. Steam rises from my cup, colliding with the cool air, carrying the rich aroma of freshly ground beans — a temporary comfort as my mind inevitably drifts to Friday’s farewell. A Walk in the Woods Warm afternoon light filtered through giant twisted oaks, their Spanish moss swaying like ancient beards in the breeze, casting long shadows across the rough forest floor. Each step brought a symphony of crunching leaves and breaking twigs, nature’s percussion accompanying our solemn procession. A tear entered the corner of my eye as I shoveled a load of fresh earth and spread it across the body of an old friend as he lay inside an open grave. The moment was raw, real, unlike any funeral I’d attended before. Bad News Calling  Just barely a week ago, we received the call

Ah, Sunday morning in Florida — where I’m supposedly sitting on the beach, my coffee sporting a tiny pink umbrella, watching the sunrise paint layers of clouds in spectacular colors while I soak up vitamin D. At least, that’s the dream version! Truth is, I am in Florida, but even paradise got caught in the arctic blast sweeping across America. Though I have to chuckle — my version of “cold” means trading my short sleeves for long ones. I know my Northern friends are probably rolling their eyes right now! And in a week it will be back to 70 degrees for most of the winter. My Therapist Told Me This This morning’s slightly chilly contemplation has me thinking about something a therapist once told me: I’m a “pleaser.” You know the type — we’re the ones who light up when we can help others succeed, who’ll go the extra mile (or ten) to support someone’s dreams. Some might say it stems from deep psychological trauma — or something — but honestly? I’ve grown pretty fond of this part of myself. There’s something magical about watching others thrive because you lent a helping hand. Plowing Forward But here’s where it

Imagine waking up to nature’s own aquatic circus. As I write this, dolphins are pirouetting through crystal waters, their playful squeaks harmonizing with the gentle swish of palm fronds overhead. The sun — a blazing orb of amber and rose — is painting the horizon in colors that would make even Van Gogh jealous. This is Florida in December, our reward after a cross-country odyssey from Texas with our four-legged navigation team. Last night we arrived under cover of darkness, like treasure hunters seeking the Promised Land. The fridge might be as empty as a politician’s promise, but somehow I’ve managed to conjure up coffee and road trip leftovers. The grocery store beckons, but it can wait until after church. Some mornings are too perfect to rush. Life as a Pinball: Confessions of a Derailed Goal Setter Let me tell you about 2024. Imagine being the silver ball in the world’s most chaotic pinball machine. Flippers of fate sent me ricocheting in every direction, and I found the gutter more times than a bowling ball thrown by a toddler. Here’s the deliciously embarrassing part: I, the supposed guru of goal-setting, completely dropped the ball on my own planning. It’s like