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

The glitter of the strong morning sun is blinding as it reflects in tiny bright ripples off the lake here at the dock. Its warmth is comforting, and though this feels like a summer day, hints of color are starting to show on the brilliant yet dying leaves as temperatures drop each night. Someone once said if you think fall leaves are dead, watch them dance when they twirl in a brisk wind.It may still feel like summer, but the lake has changed. The old wooden Chris-Crafts rarely rumble by, and there are fewer and fewer kayak and canoe sightings. Only occasionally do old metal outboard fishing boats cast their lines in the water. The lake is quiet and calm, and most of our summer neighbors have returned to their busy lives. Last night I noticed that most of the dock lights across the lake have been switched off, and the lake is feeling lonely, especially with the melancholy sound of loon calls that echo across the empty water. “All at once, summer collapsed into fall.” — Oscar WildeBut with the new season come new opportunities, and our rapid slide down the hill to Thanksgiving and Christmas. Is it my imagination, or is

Laughter echoed across the lake. The sound of giggling children jumping into the water lasted all day. That night around midnight, teens were heard singing loudly, having a few moments with friends they’ve known their whole lives.  The soft putter of an old motorboat rings in my ears this morning. The scene is an old man fishing with a young boy, probably his grandson. I instantly flashed back to countless hours fishing with my Grandfather Walter in his old rowboat. These are the sounds of summer.  Growing up in Indiana, summers passed too quickly. But they were the best of times, the best memories ever. Downtime away from school, and uptime with friends and family.  We would hit the water first thing in the morning, stay in it all day, breaking only for burgers on the grill for lunch, Popsicles as many times as we could get away with, and dinner, which was usually more burgers. Then we would be back in the water or on the water, hanging with lake friends we didn’t see any other time of year. Being able to boat by ourselves was a freedom I only felt again when I got my driver’s license. In

Describing paradise isn’t possible. The feelings permeate your entire soul. How do you describe the feeling of the warm sun on your skin as you lie on the dock absorbing its rays? Or the feeling of seeing a giant nesting eagle almost within reach as you boat past her in a kayak in waterlily- filled waters? Or a hundred varieties of rich greens, all in one place, in view against the subtle purples of distant mountains? I feel blessed to be spending my summers here in the Adirondacks. Lucky You “You’re lucky to be able to spend all summer in a place like this,” said an acquaintance. Blessed yes — lucky, maybe. But everything I’m experiencing had little to do with luck and everything to do with a deliberate plan I began making after a frustrating turning point. As it turns out, most of the good things that happen in life are born of frustration and the desire to change those feelings and overcome the limitations that cause them. Limited Time Once I was exposed to this paradise — thanks to the vision of my father, who found it and moved here for his summers — I was so in

When I speak of my view, looking out at the fog rolling over rows of distant pines; when I describe the loons cooing, with their eerie calls bouncing off the distant water and echoing back; or when I articulate sitting in the screened porch, 140 years old and with the original wicker couches and chairs that squeak every time I shift my weight, I do so to help you escape for a brief moment to take on my character and place, so my words might be understood from a different perspective … my perspective.  From some of you who occasionally open my weekly e-mails, from time to time I get questions. There have been more lately. Possibly because I say what I’m thinking about, without thinking about signals it might send.  Are you OK?  That’s a polite way to ask if I’ve developed some disease that has ravaged my previously stocky, bloated body.  I set a goal to live the rest of my life under a certain weight and with more strength because the excess was going to eventually cause problems I would rather avoid. Unlike some things that can’t be undone, weight loss can solve a basket of problems.

A squirrel chatters loudly as it jumps across the lace-like tree branches that surround my 140-year-old octagon-shaped porch overlooking the lake. It’s my favorite place — where I have morning coffee, where I read in the evenings, and where I sit to relax during those rare times when I have downtime. When guests come, it’s where most of our chatting takes place, and it’s where I practice my guitar. Sometimes I just sit and stare at the lake and listen to the loons. Unlike June, our first month here at the lake, when things were silent and it was rare to see a boat or a neighbor, the July 4th holiday stimulated most surrounding camps to fill every cabin with guests. It got busy with boats and parties, and now it’s deadly quiet again. But most will be back in another week for the rest of the summer. Some summers at the Rhoads camp are packed with visiting friends, but so far we’ve had no guests. But we’ve had the gift of having all three kids home together, a rarity these days with their busy lives. I told them I’m happiest when we are all together.  Another Lake Another Time