Posts from July 2009.

Nightmare of Remorse

I freaked out when I woke up. I couldn’t tell whether or not I had killed someone.

The dream that woke me had saturated my mind with guilt and fear. I struggled in the darkness to remember whether or not I had shot a mailman and covered it up for years. I could remember pulling the trigger. That couldn’t be right, but I remembered doing it and felt remorse.

Trying to get back to sleep proved futile, so I got out of bed and shuffled into the living room where my wife was still awake, sewing. I sat on the couch and watched her work. I wasn’t sure whether I should tell her. Even then, in my wakeful state, I wasn’t sure whether the dream were true. It still felt like a true memory. I didn’t want to confess to a crime that would put me in prison if I wasn’t sure it was just a dream.

I decided that I could confide in her. She listened without showing any sign that what I said disturbed her. She showed more faith in my innocence than I felt. She didn’t seem to appreciate my struggle to find a handhold on reality, but her aplomb calmed my mind a little.

The overwhelming remorse for buried secrets felt palpable and real. For all I could tell, I had committed the crime and had evaded detection for years. I thought maybe I had been suppressing the memory, and my dreams had brought it to my conscious awareness.

My wife finished her sewing, and we went to bed together.

I only felt secure in my innocence when I woke up in the morning, though even now traces of doubt flit across my mind. Imagination and memory cannot be fully trusted.

Five Things

  1. Lacey, thank you for being a charitable partner who loves me enough to stay together despite our differences. I admire you for that.
  2. Lilah, thank you for being the first child to help me learn to be a father, for opening my heart to to a new kind of love.
  3. Eden, thank you for convincing me that I could love more than one child with my whole heart. You have lived up to your name.
  4. Thank you to the entrepreneurs and innovators who make my life better through bringing your ideas and expertise to the marketplace.
  5. Thank you to all my teachers who have invested part of your lives to brighten my horizons.


Oh! the human irony of following a green Prius with a 2BGREEN license plate as the driver tosses a cigarette butt onto the highway.

Be My Friend

I’ve given up trying to be discriminating about who I friend on Facebook. I’m tired of deciding whether or not I can really call someone my friend. Am I the only one who struggles with the implied intimacy of “friend”?

My new standard is if someone took the time to make an overture to me and I can remember who they are, I’ll friend them. That’s what it means to be my friend on Facebook. And I think that’s cool enough.

Do you want to be my friend?

Update: Experts apparently agree that I’m on the right track.

Five Things

  1. Thank you to my parents for raising me.
  2. Thank you to my first yoga teacher for setting me on the path of mindfulness all those years ago (at least it seems like forever ago).
  3. Thank you Lacey for loving me.
  4. Thank you Lilah and Eden helping me see the world through your eyes and getting me outside of myself.
  5. Thank you to the people who raise my food and bring it to me, clean and edible.

First Moon Landing

The Onion provides an idea of what people were really thinking (NSFW) as Apollo 11 astronauts walked on the Moon for the first time.


Five Things

Thank you to…

  1. … my children for being who you are. You’re awesome.
  2. … myself for being persistence about my efforts to live more healthily.
  3. … the people of the United States of America for investing in my education.
  4. … my wife for working together on all the mundane things that make up daily life.
  5. … my wife for the way that you communicate with me. I think it makes all the difference. You’re also awesome.

Limo Ride

Right now, I’m in a room where the men are outnumbered 5 to 1. This is a common occurrence in the world of higher ed. I once ended up in the back of a limo with eight women on a business trip. That sounds much more fun than it was.


I can’t go back inside that box. It frightens and stifles and suffocates. Not for your love will I return. I mourn because we cannot be together wholly, callow fantasy, two minds made one. Alone we spend our time together and die.


What am I?

There is a primal urge in me that hungers to belong, take a label as a badge of confraternity, and feel safe in the harbor of settled thoughts. Or I could set out for the landless horizon letting the to and fro of truth lead me along, unburdened by the ballast of labels.

I father children. I marry wives. I walk in the sunlight. I rest in the shade. I study the words of Buddha. I hear stories of Shiva. I doubt the gods. I cherish life. I fear death. But what am I?

In conversation I may apply labels—husband, father, Buddhist, atheist, Thelemite—to aid comprehension. But inwardly, to myself, I hold back. I hesitate at the head of that path. Some wiser part of me knows that deception is the fate of those who follow there.

What am I? By lack of definition, I am everything, a being of great immensity, without beginning of days or end of years. I reign from the rivers to the ends of the earth. If anything is sacred, I am sacred. Petty labels have no power to contain me. Only fools fall for that old trick.

What am I?

I am.