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

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

The twinkling of Christmas lights stretches for miles across the Texas landscape as dawn breaks outside my window. Inside our cozy home, the scent of pine needles and a roaring fire mingles with my morning coffee while I cuddle up under a thick blanket, fending off the unusual chill in the air that makes it feel more like Christmas than our typical Texas weather. A Christmas Request A few weeks ago, my college-age son approached us with an exciting proposition: joining his four best friends on a pre-Christmas adventure to Brazil. They planned to hike, surf, sail, and immerse themselves in the local culture. Of course, they hoped we’d contribute to their expedition. After careful consideration, we agreed it would create wonderful memories — with one crucial condition. He had to be home before Christmas. As seasoned travelers ourselves, we knew how easily holiday reunions could be derailed by flight delays, so we requested he return two days early, just in case. Wishing Things Would Never Change As our children grow, mature, and begin falling in love, we’re acutely aware that our time together as just our family unit of five — without spouses or partners — is finite. While

There comes a time when the question of legacy weighs heavy on our minds. Perhaps it’s triggered by a milestone birthday or simply the growing awareness of our mortality — that silent companion that makes us wonder what traces we’ll leave behind when we’re gone. But what are the odds of truly being remembered? Even the brightest stars fade from collective memory. Consider how time has swept away countless authors, performers, and pioneers who once commanded the world’s attention. Yes, a rare few — the Shakespeares, the Einsteins, the Monets — have transcended their eras to become eternal fixtures in human consciousness. Yet mention Johnny Carson to today’s youth and you’ll receive blank stares, despite his decades of cultural dominance. Even most U.S. presidents are not remembered. The Ego Dance Still, my ego persists in this peculiar dance, urging me to carve something permanent into the bedrock of history. Why this relentless drive? Even now, the achievements that once defined me remain unknown to my own children, and most of what I’ve accomplished will likely drift into the mist of forgotten things, preserved only in the memories of those closest to me. Perhaps the real question isn’t how to be

It’s as dark as a shadow’s whisper and silent as the space between heartbeats. The sun isn’t even thinking about peeking its bright head over the distant mountain. No birds are tweeting; they won’t awaken for at least another hour. The world holds its breath in these last moments of night, when even the wind seems to have tucked itself away to sleep. The darkness wraps around everything like a thick velvet cloak, making familiar shapes into mysterious silhouettes that stand guard over the sleeping earth.Getting ZZZZsThe dogs are still snoring peacefully, their breath echoing from all the way across the house. Carefully and quietly in my stocking feet, I tiptoe cautiously through the kitchen, avoiding the coffeemaker so I don’t wake the dogs and my wife. Silently I slip out, suitcase in hand, headed for the airport. The keys jingle softly in my pocket — a sound that suddenly seems as loud as church bells clanging in this pre-dawn stillness. Each creak of the back door’s hinges feels like it could shatter the delicate quiet, but somehow the peaceful breathing from the bedroom remains unbroken.Sneaking OutThe morning dew has already settled on my car, its droplets barely visible because I

It’s quiet and peaceful around the house. One of our kids is home from college; the others will show up by Thanksgiving day. And soon, the house will be filled with cheer and laughter as the holidays begin and visitors begin to arrive from other places. It will be one giant slumber party. And then the house will be quiet again, one week from today.Thanksgiving FitsAs a child, Thanksgiving and Christmas were my two favorite holidays. I loved them because it was a gathering of family, time to run around like crazy with my cousins, time to see people we only saw at holidays.But some Thanksgivings stand out as overly dramatic … like the time something upset me and I hurled my plate of food across the room out of anger. I remember my aunt saying, “That kid is spoiled and needs to be punished.” She was right. I had a bad temper as a child. Most disagreements were about which football game to watch or which team to root for. If there was political discord, I don’t remember much of it. But this Thanksgiving may be different. WoundedThis year, there are a lot of hurt feelings and wounded people who did not

A slight chill is in the humid Texas air. My eyes are squinting as the warm yellow sun pops up over the distant purple hill, turning it more pink. Light is splashing everything, and the air is starting to warm up a bit as I sit here on my old wicker couch on the back porch.Playing CoachOne of the most fun things I get to do is coach younger people who want to become successful. I love sharing any wisdom I may have accumulated — acquired through decades of work, decades of mistakes, and decades of pain. Instant SuccessLiving in a fast-paced Instagram-and-SnapChat world, all the gurus are online sharing 90-second sound bites of wisdom and selling success courses. It’s really no different than when I first craved success; only the delivery method is different. I listened to tons of cassettes, and later CDs, learning from the hot gurus at the time. Of course I’ve attended dozens, maybe hundreds, of seminars, classes, and events in my career. In fact, I was at the first, or one of the first, Tony Robbins events in Fort Lauderdale when he first launched his career, and at another event he held so small, there were

Sketchbook on my lap and watercolors in hand, I’m trying to capture the vibrant pink clouds as the rising sun bounces off their otherwise purple shadows. I’m trying to learn to paint the feel, not just the scene. I think that’s a lifetime goal. Then again, sometimes I forget the goals that are important to me, and then I forget to pursue them. A Basket of Dreams Imagine for a moment that you have a basket sitting there in your kitchen. Beside it are some note cards. Every time you have an idea, or a dream about doing something, you write it down on a note card and throw it into the basket. In my case, I have a document open on my desktop. It’s the basket that all my ideas go into. I have 30 ideas a day, and every one goes in my basket. Lots of Pitches My team will tell you that I’ve been known to drive them a little bit crazy. I’ll have an idea, send an e-mail throwing it to the team, and expect them to do it. The problem is that I keep throwing fastballs. They probably get 50 a year, maybe more. They

I’m nervous. In spite of the glowing sun hitting the trees and the cool breeze making the grass sway, in spite of the musical birds nesting in the trees above the back porch, I’m nervous. I’m not only nervous, I’m anxious. In spite of my desire to avoid the news cycle and to not become consumed with social media, I’m nervous about the election and the future of America. Wait. Before you assume I’m about to make a political endorsement, just know I don’t do that.  Though I desperately want my favorite candidate to win, for the good of the future of our country, I don’t feel it’s my place to try to influence you just because I happen to have a platform. I’ve spent too many years hopefully building your trust and respect, and for me to try and convince you that my candidate is better is a fool’s game. Nothing I say will change your mind. But I am anxious because the media rhetoric has me believing that if my person does not win, the world will change for the worse. The problem is, the other side believes the same thing.  We all want a better world, a

Twisted, gnarly oak trees are projecting interesting-shaped shadows onto the dry fall grass below. Pink and purple clouds are glowing from the morning light, blending into the distant purple hills. The hot Texas sun is taking a fall break and we’re experiencing what we call “California Weather,” which is about as perfect as it gets here and one of the few signs of fall we experience.  Like being wrapped in a warm blanket, it’s good to be home after weeks of travel. There really is no place like home. Or is there? A Formerly Crazy Life I have to admit that as much as I’ve jumped back into life post-Covid, I’ve resisted my former travel habits of being almost continuously a road warrior. After slowing down, the thought of waking up in hotel rooms for 120 nights a year wasn’t very appealing. And though I’ve traveled to my convention, retreats, and art & painting tours, which is part of doing business for me and more fun than most things I do, I’ve avoided all the extra travel I used to do that wasn’t mandatory. After summer in the Adirondacks, I was home in Austin for exactly 48 hours before catching

A thick bank of fog brightly fills the view from my window. I can barely make out the light gray silhouettes of distant palms and poetic eucalyptus trees. Today is my last full day in “sunny” California; tomorrow I’ll return to Texas. We lived in Northern California for a decade, and our kids were born in Berkeley. But alas, we moved to escape excessive taxes and other issues that were deteriorating our quality of life and our bank account. But I have to admit, as I rode down the freeway near our old house and saw Mount Diablo, the massive mountain in our area that I frequently painted with friends, I found I had a sentimental tear in my eye. Since I started painting, I’ve always wanted to live where I was inspired to paint. California provided me variety in droves. We were an hour from an amazing and colorful city, and two hours from the Carmel coast, with giant rocks, crashing waves, and beautiful cypress trees. Or in another direction, I could be in the High Sierra surrounding Lake Tahoe. I used to fly to these places as a tourist, but living here was different. On this trip I

I wish today was raining and cold. Instead it’s sunny and warm, almost the perfect summer day, no signs of fall weather other than the view of decay in the leaves surrounding our little island camp in the Adirondacks. Instead of packing up and leaving, it’s a day that feels like we should be waterskiing, canoeing, or painting in my little wooden electric boat. But I’ve done those things throughout this summer, which seemed to go by faster than most — we normally leave here much later in the fall. The loons are calling out, in their eerie way, as if to say goodbyeeeee, we’ll miss youuuuuuu. See you next springgggggg.  Texas Tea Like an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies, we’ve made a couple of trips with the boat stacked with all our stuff, our bags, our summer projects, and some of our kids’ stuff. I packed up some of the machinery in my woodshop and all of my painting gear, plus a dozen or so paintings I want to take home to finish for an upcoming show. Our little outboard can barely keep up as we chug across the lake with stuff stacked high. Thankfully no boats are making

The screen door makes a creaking sound as the spring pulls. Suddenly it slams behind me, making that familiar and somehow comforting sound I remember from my grandparents’ farmhouse when I was 3.  Coffee in hand, I make my way to the dock, carefully plop down in my original 1901 Westport Adirondack chair, left over from the original owners. I’m reminded that it’s in need of some loving care in a couple of spots where the wood is starting to rot after 123 years of spending summers on the dock. If it could talk, the stories of lake life, old wooden boats, and long, non-revealing bathing suits would be wonderful. One such story is of a woman whose giant diamond slipped off into the muck of the lake a hundred years back. The tale has attracted divers for a century, but the diamond is not to be found. Or when the house by the dock caught fire and burned to the ground, leaving only the giant fireplace, which is still there, warming the patio where the house used to be as we make s’mores.  Signaling Fall Suddenly the tone of everything around me is warm orange and yellow. The weeds