Everything is just, happening.

I feel like the days zoom by and I am the roadside jetsam and flotsam, getting picked up in the current of a passing 18-wheeler.

Up and down, left and right.
I’m thinking it’s a pace I’m going to have to get used to.

I am in a comparing season of my life. I suppose we all are, at many times in our lives. Meaning, I’m comparing myself with other things. Like cooking. I’m thinking I could do better and that I am better, or I’m thinking I’ll never be that good.

I’m comparing myself to my friends who are uncles, and I’m thinking I’m not a great uncle because I’m always late on giving gifts.

I feel a bit on edge at times. Dodgy and picky and stubborn.
I feel apologetic.

For my generation. For me, really. My inability to not check my phone every five to ten minutes. My fear to choose in a world of choices. My need to feel authentic but to not stick out.

I feel sad for our recent losses. I think there is a gaping wound there. It hit us again. We are knee jerking and moving forward quickly and it’s just a lot. I’m okay with everything, but really, it’s not about me or what I think is right.

I used to really want my beliefs. I wanted my certainties. They made me feel important and unique. Edgy.

That’s what I want to come back to, each day. How much this world is not about me.

I am in a luxurious, though sometimes lonely, season in life where I have so many freedoms. It is addictive. It is so fun. I’m not sure how healthy it is to have it all, but I’m close to feeling content with where I am at.

That is okay. I am still removing the ideals of being a gypsy of some sort. Some of that still resonates within me. The idea that the world is meant to be traveled and understood by me.

But I am not so much that guy anymore.

I am the guy conflicted and pulled by gravity.


The guy who is scared that the Bible is not quite making its way back into my world like I thought it would, being back in the South. That is not to say that I think it is stupid or unintellectual. It is just not a framework that I live my life through anymore, and haven’t for quite some time. I think that is scary, sometimes. I wish I had faith like my friends and family.

Deep down, where the waters are still, I find it there. A small glow, but a glow indeed. My peace. My ability to show grace and absorb pain.

But nearing the surface — that is where the waters are tumultuous. Pulled in by the moon and sent crashing into rocks as though it is in my nature to break and form back together.

So while I do my comparing and floating and crashing, I am still drawn to whatever it is that gives me peace every day. At least for a moment, and then I go on surviving and bumping into people and colliding with their thoughts and their own wars.

Luckily grace exists outside of the Bible. As does love and mercy and forgiveness. All of which I learned from Jesus, but I also learned from my momma, and Mother Teresa, and my chef.

Today, I will be carrying everyone with me.



Every so often, I’ll find myself looking through old pictures.

Maybe, when I was chubbier or thinner. When my beard wasn’t as full and maybe when I had more hair on my head.

I mostly see people.

I feel again the come and go of relationships. The people I’ve let go, and others I’ve found again.

Maybe they let go of me.

And maybe they found me.

I’m not really sure.
As the year ends, I grow more introspective. I think a lot of us do. I struggle connecting the dots, and there is little that I know to be true. The doubts that grow inside my heart say, “Well, who’s to say they aren’t going to drop you after a few years?”

That is the fear in my stomach.

Who’s to say I won’t leave again and create another tiny life. Home. Job. Family.

I have loved growing older into myself. I love the places I’ve been able to live and the people who have pulled me into their own messy and wonderful worlds.
I can’t help but to see life as moments of knowing a person and place. In my head, that is how I organize my world. That is how I organize my years.

Like a hermit crab moving into another shell.
Or seeing the cicada skins attached to them pine trees, growing out of their spaces and moving. Always moving.

You outgrow your own skin in the proper season. And as it goes, sometimes people outgrow you, and you them. But you hold on to them like heirlooms. Because they are important. Everything…is important.


I imagine this life as a space man, getting nudged and sent off on another trajectory. Small bumps. New direction. Falling through space, moving with the smallest bits of energy.

I’m currently sitting on my couch, listening to the sounds of my oven popping and moaning as it bakes a cake for a friend. All they wanted was yellow cake with chocolate frosting. But dammit if I’m not going to try to make it look the best I can.

Because everything is important.

Look outside and you will see it all around. The leaves that have already given their life for the year and the way things quiet down. I like to call it a simmer.

That’s what this stuff feels like.

A few bubbles to the top every so often letting you know the heat is steady and low.

To me, all of this stuff is small movements. Never an energy wasted. Perhaps your skin is getting ready to shed again, or maybe yours is fresh. Maybe you’re in the middle. All according to their own season.

And all the more reason to notice and breathe and look upon those heirlooms with big love and feel deeply your place in our ceaselessly changing world.