Through the weathered screen of this old Adirondack porch, Lake Spitfire stretches before me like a mirror, its surface broken only by gentle lapping against a fallen pine that’s become part of the shoreline. The silence is so complete that the ringing in my ears becomes the loudest sound, competing only with the steady tick of the hand-wound clock that has marked time in this camp for 120 years. I’m not the first to sit in this wicker chair with a warm cup of coffee, watching the lake’s morning ritual. Generations have found their way to this same spot, drawn by the magical escape these mountains offer. I’m not really an owner here — just a temporary caretaker until someone else takes their turn in this chair, continuing a tradition that predates me and will outlast me. Perhaps the only proof of my time here will be the painting hanging over the stone fireplace, slowly darkening with soot from countless fires. I like it here because I can get lost in my thoughts and just disappear. Have you ever felt invisible? Like if you simply vanished, the world would barely register the absence? I know that feeling intimately. Years ago,

It’s peaceful, sitting lakeside in the Adirondacks, on the dock and staring aimlessly at the morning mist rising off the water and pondering what I’m grateful for as I think about some of the wonderful moments in my life. Today, before the sun started to think about painting the sky pink, the loons acted as my alarm, starting the day with their haunting loooooon call across the lake. It’s not just a sound — it’s a two-way conversation that’s been going on for thousands of years, since long before we humans showed up. That call echoes off the mountains and settles right into my bones, making me realize that I’m just a guest here, and not even a particularly important one in the grand plan. Like clockwork, as if someone said, “Cue the birds,” a giant bald eagle comes swooping in overhead like he owns the place — which, let’s be honest, he pretty much does. Wings spread wide as my mother’s old ’55 Buick, riding the thermals with the kind of effortless grace that makes you wonder why we humans work so hard at everything. All summer long, we’ve been watching two baby loons ride around on their mama’s

The morning air carries the sound of an aluminum motorboat that moves slowly across the lake with a slight, muffled hum as it penetrates the remaining fog resting on the water. Steam rises from my coffee cup, resting on the arm of my 100-year-old Adirondack chair on the dock. There’s something about Sunday mornings that makes the world feel full of possibility. The Dream That Wouldn’t Die At 14, I fell desperately in love with an impossible dream: becoming a radio DJ. Not just any DJ — a star. I wanted it with the kind of burning intensity that only teenagers can muster. While other kids played Pong, I practiced my craft with religious devotion. When songs came on the radio, I’d talk up the intros like I was broadcasting to millions: “This is Eric Rhoads, your favorite DJ, and here’s a brand new record from the O’Jays.” My secret weapon was a K-Tel record album — one of those compilations that crammed 20 shortened hit songs onto a single disc. Perfect for practice. I could rehearse talking at the start and end of records, 20 songs in a row, pretending I was the voice that connected people to the

The high-pitched clanging of the flagpole cuts through the morning air like a metallic rooster, beating out a rhythm that echoes off the distant Adirondack shore. I’m wrapped in that perfect combination of pine-scented air and the kind of silence that only exists when you’re far enough from civilization that your phone has given up trying to find a signal. My morning tea steams in the cool breeze — tea is a habit I picked up in China last week, though I’m pretty sure the monks who taught me didn’t intend for it to be consumed while wearing swim trunks in an Adirondack chair. The sun is already making promises about another scorcher, and I can feel my bare arms getting that familiar tingle that says, “You’re going to be diving into that lake by noon.” This is where the magic happens — not in boardrooms or conference calls, but in these stolen moments when you’re forced to sit still and let your brain catch up with your life. It’s here, listening to the water lap against the dock, that I always have the same predictable post-vacation revelation: “I want fewer meetings, fewer commitments, and I want to think about

Last night’s crickets performed their deafening concerto outside my window here in Austin — that ancient sound of summer that transports me instantly to childhood. It’s remarkable how the sound of 10,000 crickets’ chirps can unlock an entire vault of memories: my mother calling us in for dinner, telling us to come home when the streetlights come on, screen doors slamming, my brothers and I racing barefoot across grass though the sprinklers, staying up late and sleeping late, and watching it rain from the safety of the garage, sitting in old webbed lawn chairs commenting about how God is bowling. Tonight I’ll hear different crickets as I arrive for the summer at our Adirondack lake home, but they’ll be singing the same timeless song, the rhythm as reliable as my grandmother’s heartbeat when she’d hold me during thunderstorms at her lake, miles from where we go now. Bronze Warriors Summers were our family’s sacred season. My cousins and I would transform into bronze warriors, armed with bottles of baby oil that we’d slather on like war paint, laying out on the dock determined to achieve the perfect tan. We’d sprawl across multi-colored terrycloth towels — mine was an orange ’60s

Last night’s crickets performed their deafening concerto outside my window here in Austin — that ancient sound of summer that transports me instantly to childhood. It’s remarkable how the sound of 10,000 crickets’ chirps can unlock an entire vault of memories: my mother calling us in for dinner, telling us to come home when the streetlights come on, screen doors slamming, my brothers and I racing barefoot across grass though the sprinklers, staying up late and sleeping late, and watching it rain from the safety of the garage, sitting in old webbed lawn chairs commenting about how God is bowling. Tonight I’ll hear different crickets as I arrive for the summer at our Adirondack lake home, but they’ll be singing the same timeless song, the rhythm as reliable as my grandmother’s heartbeat when she’d hold me during thunderstorms at her lake, miles from where we go now. Bronze Warriors Summers were our family’s sacred season. My cousins and I would transform into bronze warriors, armed with bottles of baby oil that we’d slather on like war paint, laying out on the dock determined to achieve the perfect tan. We’d sprawl across multi-colored terrycloth towels — mine was an orange ’60s

Darkness envelops me like a velvet cloak, not a single photon daring to peek through the bedroom window. The world holds its breath in that magical pre-dawn stillness. After stretching with a yawn so massive it threatens to dislocate my jaw, I remember my secret mission: stealthily brew that life-giving coffee before tiny footsteps and demands for breakfast shatter the silence, giving me these precious moments to share my thoughts before we rush headlong to the airport for my big artist convention. Pondering Life  Contemplation visits me uninvited but welcome as I balance on this tightrope between yesterday and tomorrow. This morning’s meditation feels especially poignant because it was on just such a morning that I awoke from one of those dreams so vibrant, so insistent, it felt less like subconscious meandering and more like a heavenly telegram from God delivered directly to my soul. My Vivid Dream A massive castle came to me in my dream state, a magnificent stone fortress with soaring 50-foot ceilings, where flags of every nation flapped gently in some unfelt breeze. I find myself centered at an impossibly long table, a feast fit for royalty being laid out by silent servants, while the fireplace

The first light of dawn creeps across the Texas sky this morning, a gentle watercolor of pinks and golds that feels both timeless and fleeting. The dew clings stubbornly to the wildflowers, their purple and yellow heads nodding in the whisper of a breeze that carries the mingled scents of fresh coffee, rain-washed earth, and honeysuckle. From somewhere nearby comes the persistent, hopeful chattering of grackles, and their abrasive sound puts me on high alert, awakening me better than coffee. Suspended Time  On mornings like this, time seems suspended. The porch swing creaks in gentle rhythm, a metronome marking moments that will never return. The coffee mug is warm between palms that once were held by my mother’s steadying hands. There’s something about these quiet moments that peels back the layers of adulthood, revealing the child within who still longs for the comforting presence of Mom. I’m missing her today. Love Unbounded Mother’s love is perhaps the most profound miracle of ordinary life — a love so expansive it seems to defy the laws of nature. It’s like the Texas sky itself — boundless, ever-present, sheltering us through storms and sunshine alike. Even when they’re gone, mothers leave an imprint

Dawn breaks early across the Texas landscape this morning, carrying its own special music — mockingbirds competing for attention, the rustle of new spring green leaves dancing in the warm breeze, and the hoot of a confused owl perched atop our water tower. There’s something magical about these mornings here on the long porch that wraps around this Texas ranch house, where I sit with my coffee reflecting on whatever comes to mind. This morning, as I watch the intricate dance of nature unfold around me, I’m reminded of how often the most valuable treasures require us to dig beneath the surface. We live in a world of quick fixes and instant solutions, yet the most transformative answers often lie several layers deeper than our initial search. Chances are if I were to dig deep on my own property, there would be a massive cave that would fit the Empire State Building — or at least an aquifer filled with spring water. The Doctor’s Verdict Years ago, I faced a non-life-threatening physical issue that left me in constant pain. My doctor delivered what felt like a life sentence: “Nothing can be done. You’ll need to learn to live with it.”

The rhythmic hum of Manhattan traffic invaded my dreams before I even opened my eyes. Construction jackhammers pounded in perfect disharmony with taxi horns and the constant murmur of 8 million souls moving through their day. The smell of street vendor pretzels and coffee wafted through my cracked hotel window, along with that distinct perfume that is uniquely New York — a blend of ambition, exhaust, and possibility. My brain struggled to reconcile these sensations with my expectations of birdsong and Hill Country morning dew. Then reality crystallized: I wasn’t in Texas anymore. I was smack in the middle of Manhattan, having flown in for a quick speech at the American Watercolor Society Banquet. Business Trip Transformation  Before having kids, business trips were personal adventures. I’d add extra days to explore, discover, and soak in new experiences. But somewhere along the way, I developed the habit of treating trips like surgical strikes — get in, do the job, get out. This time, though, I managed a small victory: visiting the new Sargent exhibition at the Met before rushing to the airport. And I even allowed myself the luxury of an afternoon flight rather than my usual pre-dawn scramble. Time Management

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