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

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