Another mark of depression’s weariness is me sitting in my journaling chair, penning these words into the Moleskine, rather than head out in my pj’s with my camera and search for an image of a stone sculpture in rare repose thanks to the early morning mist. The magic will come again, I rationalize. Though no
Depression’s insidiousness can include an almost complete obliteration of one’s perception of life as God and nothing else. Maybe more than almost. This is especially unsettling when that has been one’s default orientation for decades. Over the past thirteen months, my beloved’s internal world has become more and more both numb and agitated––empty and overwhelming––despite
So the U.S. women’s World Cup team thrashes Thailand 13-zip, the most lopsided result in World Cup history. A squabble ensues over whether all those goals, and the jubilant celebrations following each one, exceeded the norms of sportsmanship. My interest is elsewhere. I wonder about Thailand’s coach. What if I had her job? What would
Vermont’s popular former governor, former U.S. Ambassador to Switzerland, author, poet, Madeleine May Kunin, 85, gave a talk and read some of her verse. My beloved and I attended. I had never before seen Ms. Kunin in person. As it is for many people at a certain aging time, her voice no longer enjoys
On Sunday Tiger won the Masters. On Monday Notre-Dame burned. On Tuesday my younger son, whom I met when he was 41, turned 53. On Wednesday I ran across philosopher Carlyle, who said: “Change yourself, and then you’ll know there is at least one less rascal in the world!” On Thursday the Mueller report was
When I was a kid in St. Mike’s grammar school Joseph Stalin was the leader of the Soviet Union. This was the 1950’s. Mr. Stalin, we were told, was an evil man. His evil was the reason we practiced hiding under our desks to protect ourselves in the altogether possible event that he would rain
My take on death is delightfully captured in one of my favorite cartoons. The grim reaper is escorting a buddhist monk from a meditation hall. On his way out the door, the monk turns to a fellow monk who remains behind on his meditation cushion and says, “I’ll be right back.” I have no big
This photo, taken in 2015, is symbolic of my life, not uniquely I’m sure. Intense challenges, deep support. I’m reading the book “Betrayal,” by the Boston Globe investigative team that revealed the harrowing story of pedophile priests within the Catholic Church, the Church’s decades-long coverup of that abuse, and the lives brutalized by it. Napping