Find Your Joy
The day before Thanksgiving was cold and grey, ponderous with the promise of a holiday season already declared by the tinsel decorations hanging from small town streetlights and the boldly declared sales of merchants desperate in the face of economic difficulty. The air hung over the darkened countryside, its aether rendered visible by the mist suspended in the air, caught between warm and cold weather fronts. It was almost twilight as I drove home, piloting my heavy pod of steel across moisture slicked concrete on my way to begin my own preparations for the holiday. For some reason, the drive seemed longer than usual. Perhaps it was the anticipation of a long holiday weekend

The right to be wrong
It was an unexpected tribute, the honoring of William Safire on a talk show hosted on NPR. The remembrance was warm, a celebration of life. Driving home from work, I found myself fascinated by a show that I frequently turned off or tuned out in favor of music or the peaceful quiet that promotes thought. The tribute to the life and writings of an adamantly conservative columnist was unexpected on NPR, yet I found myself smiling and laughing as one of his dear friends, a man who held quite political views quite opposite of those espoused by Safire, spoke of the life and wit of the adamantly conservative wit and author. It was almost the end of the segment when a young woman ca

The people we touch
I don’t honestly remember his name, which is ironic, I guess. He was the professor who taught Russian history in my last semester of college. He wasn’t one of the instructors I usually took classes from, and I had my favorites. Their names I remember, teachers whose lessons and teaching style stayed with me, men whose names bring memories of late night study sessions and difficult assignments that inspired lifelong passions. But none of them taught the class I needed that semester to finish my degree, so I took the course I needed to graduate. I remember him as graying, blonde, and thin; it was common knowledge that he’d had some emotional problems, and the college rumor m

Crucified
They haunt me sometimes, black eyes bright in fur matted by rain it was never meant to withstand, soft arms flattened by wires, forever denied their natural purpose. I see them in my mind’s eye at unexpected moments, a symbol of sadness and the perpetuation of grief. I have to admit that I enjoy the drive to work. After I’ve left the comfort of home and ventured out into the grander world, the spinning of the miles, safe in the womb of rubber and steel we call the automobile, allows me quiet to think and to simply be. Outside the grip of responsibility – there are few things one can really accomplish while operating a high-powered machine at 60 mph – there is a sense