Go To Bed, Dad

Go To Bed, Dad.  It’s Tuesday night.  I’ve just come downstairs and entered the living room; Jane, Annie, and a beloved young friend, Calliope, are sitting there.  I’ve known Calliope since she was born 21 years ago in Los Angeles.  She’s in town to see Noah Kahan, a musician she and Annie enjoy. Consequently, last

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Memento Mori

In ancient Rome, immediately behind the generals parading through the streets celebrating their most recent victory, there was a servant paid to repeat over and over to the lauded conqueror, “Memento Mori”—remember that you will die.   Can you even imagine Caesar, in his hour of victory and achievement, so intentionally humbled?   Wow.  

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Book Shame

    It’s the first Monday of the month, so it’s a slightly chattier 77% Weekly.   ===   Beloved reader,   I’d love to frame it as “I am figuring out how to do things right,” but that doesn’t feel authentic.   I can’t frame it like that. Because I’m doing something wrong. I’m

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Mistaken    I leave my cart near the lemons and limes and walk over to ponder Trader Joe’s robust selection of dried fruits—dried passion fruit rounds are a new fave.   A woman, mid-fifties, coarse salt-and-pepper hair, approaches my cart and starts to wheel it away.    I say, “I’ll gladly trade for the items

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⅞ Time

⅞ Time   “The challenge I’m putting before you is called ⅞ time,” I tell the Zoom screen containing the head and torso of the person with whom I’m doing spiritual direction.   “I don’t know what that is,” comes through my speakers.   “I’m not surprised,” I laugh, “I just made it up this

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