It’s a new turn on this blue globe, for you, gentle readers, and this big kid.
I see these new days of ours with fresh eyes. So the winter beach spreads before me as blank sheet music, ready for a new summer song.
I’ve written that only now is real, not the past, not the future. But sometimes I see the now as woven with you and me and the past.
I strolled our boards recently and through my Nikon’s viewfinder I saw you—and me.
Yes, we are separate beings, but there is a part of you that is me, for I’ve been you in your sunny moments and your dark days. Please let me share with you my sights and maybe—insights:
Some on this globe ride nowhere—without their basket of unconditional love.
I saw young love in tandem, so exhilerating to see, to recall. So pure, so ready to soar.
On their return, did she whisper shortcomings of a former beau?
Yes, one-hand it globe rider, if you dare. Ride with sounds of loved ones, literally, at hand.
So easy to call home, to call a friend, to call a lover, or hear a brother.
But please, sweet globe rider know, how easy it is to take a voice for granted. So easy it was for me to not realize, soon—“Hi Lee,” would be gone forever.
I saw a familiar face in the sun.
Gregg LaPenna, owner of Shakes and Shuckers, is still aching from the loss of Lazar, his ten-year-old son.
Last spring Lazar bashed a ball, ran to first—and collapsed. Gone was Lazar.
Gone from the LaPenna family.
But, some might say—he was caught in the glove of God.
Gregg was always quick to smile, but as he spoke of Lazar and this Christmas—the smile fell—the eyes filled.
You won’t see that here.
But these beads once graced the neck of young Lazar. Gregg wears them along with his number 9.
Our kids aren’t supposed to die before us, that’s upside down grief. But they do. One of mine did, many of yours have: in injuries, in sickness, by overdose, sometimes by the hand of another, too often in that grizzly harvest of our young—war. All these deaths pierce our hearts.
But the pain is not forever—just for the rest of our lives, that’s all.
I saw us ride a bike today, no hands. But I wore no backwards cap, just a DA haircut and Levis Jeans. Summer meant a pack of Luckies in my T shirt’s sleeve.
But ride my brother, ride—hands behind your back. Ride like I did—unburdened by wisdom.
Yes, I’ve worn your sneakers, I’ve known your, confidence, your immortality, so willing to go no-hands into the future. Only to fall a time or two, into and out of love—then in again, perhaps.
Run sandpiper, float across this globe as gravity struggles to keep you bound.
Feel the salt air in your lungs, the sand yielding beneath your feet, the sun, a caress, the breeze—a puff.
Laugh, in the innocence you never again will know.
Young quarterback, your dad may not be with you, for whatever reason, but your mom catches your spirals.
Parents these days learn to adapt to new realities, filling roles of another when needed. This is your hero, young man, not Tom Brady, not Aaron Judge, or any other sports figure. She’s your hero because she’s here for you, when you need her, and she will hold you in her heart forever—they won’t.
Remember this day, young man. Be grateful for her—now—and the days when you walk in a bigger kid’s shoes.
Yogist, it’s taken me thousands of turns on this blue globe to find peace in a mind-pause just as you do. To breathe in and out and just—be.
So reach, yogist, stretch to the sun. Suck in this salt air, embrace life—in our moment.