The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.

My old friend,

I'm writing this in the final hours of your time here in Dust Meridian. This letter began a year ago, but time and tide have stood against it's execution. It stands to send tonight, Monday April 7, 2025.

Let me begin by saying how deeply I will miss you both.

Words fall short of capturing your presence in this place—a land not without beauty, but with a dearth of polished gems. You were rare among the common stones—shining not only to me, personally but to us as a couple, and unmistakably, to your fellowship.

I have cherished your clarity of spirit—your candor, creativity, and steady delight in spiritual things. That spark will be missed here in Dust, and far beyond.

I can only speak for myself, but you made me feel worthy in a way few others ever have in my time here. The work has been… costly. I love the people here and the men with whom I serve, but none of them have ever truly understood the weight I carry the way you did. I remember, during a visit last spring, you saw I was unraveling, and you said—

“I want you to know that our visits here are something we very much look forward too. And, you need to understand something— that is because of you. Everyone here is great, and we love them. But, we feel a specialness in you that we very much appreciate. Really... You... thank you.”

Your kindness helped me feel seen and loved in a way few others have since we arrived.

You probably don't recall it, but I will never forget it.

I’ve long counted on the understanding of others—and when that didn’t come, though I believe they were doing their best—I hitched up, said a prayer, and kept moving. But like a mule who only knows forward, even I have a breaking point. And I’ve reached it.

I’m not fine right now, but I will be—in time. Burnout set in last year, and it’s been deep, consuming. When I finally asked for help, what came was so inadequate it bordered on absurd—except it taught me something vital: when a man says he’s at his limit, believe him.

For now, I’m holding on. Just a body, waiting for the Spirit to mend what’s frayed. Trusting patience, His love, and His power to bring me back.

I wish I'd written sooner. Maybe I wouldn't have reached this place. Perhaps it's made darker by the loss of so many dear ones these past few months. The weight of my sister—and of my parents circumstance—certainly hasn't helped. Maybe if I’d taken the time to reflect on your kindness, to write it out, I might have sidestepped the pit of despair.

One thing is certain: your warmth, enthusiasm and patience made an insurmountable situation seem less daunting. Thoughts of the two of you kept me going many times. And, will do so in the future.

You've both had your own losses, challenges and setbacks. Yet you continue to move forward, bearing scars and the weight of it all, but still reflecting the glory of our God. I think that's beautiful.

At the funeral in February, you said something that struck me deeply. You looked at me and said:

“This is hard to bear—probably harder because you worry about her.” You were absolutely right. That was a bullseye.

All the success and privilege I’ve enjoyed—I only ever hoped it helped my partner feel supported and worthy. But I’m learning that no amount of effort or good intention can shield someone from life. No matter how hard I try to be a good husband (and I fall so short), she will still suffer.

That woman lost the only two people she truly trusts in this world. And there is nothing I can do about that.

While most people offered condolences for my loss, you were the only one who seemed to see the real grief I carried: not mine, but hers. You understood that what I truly lost was a part of her peace and happiness.

Husbands are replaceable. Little sisters—and the lifetime of comfort and care they carry with them—are not. We may be one flesh, but those girls were of one mind.

Your words helped me understand why the weight of all this has been so crushing. Thank you.

I’ve become an expired element here. The time to move on passed long ago—I just hadn’t caught up to it. Whatever change I hoped to effect has likely already played out. The needle has barely moved.

There’s an entrenched spirit here—tribalism, perhaps. The kind that circles wagons and draws lines rather than building bridges. The men on our body are not unkind, but they are not close. We are friendly, but not friends. That’s a dynamic I’ve never been able to crack.

Maybe, in time, with tenacity and a new generation trained to close ranks as brothers first and serve as older men second, that will change. I believe it can.

I’ve grown weary of the abundance of words that say little and mean even less—and of personalities content to sit back while others carry the weight of decision-making. They avoid commitment because it might require the sacrifice of their own time. It’s easier to sacrifice someone else’s.

Lately, I’ve come to see just how powerful a loving shepherd can be. I’ve spoken with men in positions of responsibility whose kindness and warmth honestly surprised me. There’s a new effort to train men to care in a way that makes people feel truly seen, valued, and worthwhile—in a world that constantly tells you otherwise.

You, my dear friend, have that same gift. That’s why I say you make me feel seen. And loved.

We are not problems to deal with, but people to be loved.

I will always remember standing on your deck in the rain and drinking icy tequila from that red bottle and I will never forget learning about bees from you. Both are treasured memories for me.

We will miss you. Even though we didn’t see each other often, just knowing you were close by was a comfort and an inspiration. It brought us real joy to know that those around you were benefiting from your care and attention. That’s not something easily replaced.

I wish we could have served together more closely—maybe one day we will. Until then, hold fast to your integrity. Never slow your service to, or love for, the Creator. But always, always make time to keep your foundations strong.

I’m sorry if this feels scattered... sometimes I write like a song, sometimes like a shotgun blast. I hope that two themes come through: Love and understanding.

Whatever comes next, and wherever you both go, know that a part of you stays with us both. We carry our dear ones in our hearts always. Some are stored in quiet corners, but souls like yours live in the lofty places of our love.

With deep respect and gratitude, Your friend.

#essay #letters #100DaysToOffload #Writing

2025-04-08 11:52:55

Sometimes, love burns too brightly to be held in the palm.

A streak blurred across the night sky somewhere remote. A witness, if there was a witness (for only the crickets watched tonight), would describe it as a shooting star. Only much dimmer and slower.

The streak arched down in the dark, making a quiet thud as it impacted. There was a small puff of dust as whatever it was tumbled into the tall waving grass, carving out a long channel through the field.

The crickets grew silent long enough to feel safe again. In short order, the stalks regained their composure and stood erect enough for the wind to restore the channel and the object disappeared into the obscurity of a sea of green.

If the crickets could report an observation, it would be that there lay a small boy. He was curled up asleep, wearing a loose cotton shirt the color of faded sky, and linen trousers rolled at the cuffs, both worn thin. His feet were bare. There were little bits of dried stubble stuck in his blonde hair and dirt smudging his face.

He didn't seem hurt, only resting. And the crickets quickly lost interest and went back to singing their serenade into the windy night. And so he slept for many hours.

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was blurry darkness. The sounds of rustling grass was like the undeniable roar of a waterfall. The smell of young green stalks filled his nostrils and he could taste the soil.

His body ached, and he tried to remember what had happened, and how he came to be here sprawled on a windy summer night.

But, he had nothing.

He didn’t have nothing. Just not the right somethings.

Let’s see—what did he have?

A name —No. A place?—Blank. A purpose? A whisper of freedom, maybe.

What he did know was that, his head hurt, his body ached, he was a boy, and the grass, it smelled wonderful.

All things considered, not a terrible balance sheet. Not ideal, but not the worst.

He may not have felt great, but he did feel safe. He sat up. A mistake, his body let him know. But, it confirmed when his head peeked out of his little hide that he was in a swell of grasslands. The dim starlight didn’t illuminate much, but it was enough to sculpt hills of roiling fields far into the horizon.

The boy lay back and laid his arm across his forehead. A new sensation swelled in him: loneliness.

Yes, he could recall the distinct emptiness of being distant— one hidden from the world, though he longed for more.

A thin stream of a tear ran down the side of his face and into his ear. The cold wet tickled the tiny hairs and the sensation betrayed his sadness.

How strange, the boy thought, that something born of unhappiness can trigger the tiny joy of a tickle. Like a hug given in support, small kindness in the face of bitterness was a human remedy for so many things.

It made him smile, the little happiness. And with that thought, his mind relaxed and he drifted away to sleep.

In that timeless state, the boy dreamed. Of warmth and love and laughter. Hearths and food and small joys the absence of which had brought the tickling tear.

Eons passed before he opened his eyes again. Not blurry now. He could see the crisp sharp infinity of the night sky with precision. His head no longer ached and he felt tired, but rested.

The boy studied the stars for long minutes, enjoying how the night winds made the light bounce and twinkle in the atmosphere. They looked like a blanket of diamonds across the sky.

“Oh, stars,” the boy whispered into the wind “why does life sometimes leave us abandoned when we need companions but other times surrounded when all we wish is to be alone?”

Expecting the answer to be a hush and rustle of grass, he closed his eyes and inhaled to listen and decode what the wind whispered back.

When he heard a low grumbling voice, his eyes shot open.

“Life is ambivalent to your circumstance.” The growl said. “Everyone wants someone to blame, but most things just are.”

The boy looked around a little desperate. He thought he was all alone.

“Wh-who... who's there?” He stuttered, a little frightened.

It took a moment before the voice spoke again. The boy began to wonder if he had imagined it.

“Raise your eyes and you will see me.” The voice directed.

He was confused as he looked up and saw only the sky. Another moment and nothing. He leaned back on his elbow.

“Where?” He asked. “Are you invisible?”

“Many things are seen when one is patient.” The voice hummed.

The boy lay back again and looked at the sky for many minutes before he saw it. The star Aldebaran moved ever so slightly toward him and twinkled a little brighter.

He pointed excitedly. “Is that you?”

“Aaaaahhhh, good, good. You know how to see. To be patient. To wait is not a gift most hold.” The voice now had a mouth. The boy could see the shimmer of something shifting in the sky.

“Give me a moment, I will come to you.” It was warm and kind sounding.

Curious, the boy asked, “Are you a star?”

“Hmmmm—some would say I am a star, others a group. A few have called me a god.” The voice said this thoughtfully, as if seeking a way to explain. “The people I used to watch who lived where you rest tonight called me Tayamni Pa'. But not one has called me that in a long, long time. You, may call me Tayamni, or Tay if you prefer.”

As the boy watched, he could see now a dark mass warping with starlight. As it got closer and larger, he could begin to make out the faint edges of the shape. It looked like a large black—buffalo. Its eyes glowed a pale blue light and the tips of his horns, tail and hooves all twinkled like the stars.

“I am no god, little boy,” now the shape, Tayamni, spoke from a dark mouth. “I am just he-who-waits-and-watches. I observe the universe and man, recording for all time what I see. My friends, the other celestial creatures, that is our task.”

As the great beast descended to the ground, its form solidified and its size, still massive against the boy’s diminutive frame, shrunk to approximately what the boy imagined a buffalo would be. The ground shook ever so slightly as the creature's full weight alighted. Tayamni was no longer some ethereal sky monster, he was real flesh and blood, though its eyes, horns and hooves still had that starlight quality.

“Did you watch me?” The boy asked timidly. “I woke up here and I can't remember anything. Just that I am tired and lonely.”

“Why yes,” Tayamni answered. “That is why I reached out to you. I could feel the ache in your heart and see the panic in your little blue eyes when you peeked above the grasses.”

“Please, Tayamni,” the boy was eager now, leaning forward on his knees before the great buffalo. “Can you share anything? Maybe it will help me remember.”

The giant, settled into a relaxed pose, lying on the ground, forelegs crossed in front of it, like a schoolmaster about to instruct a pupil.

“You have made this journey before.” He began, “Many times. Your fall here is not a punishment or accident, but a result of having outgrown something you share. A connection whose form cannot contain your want and desire. As with any container, when full, it overflows. essentially, your love overflowed the universe and you are washed away as a result. Carried by some etheric tempest.”

The boy looked confused.

“This was no act of aggression, my young friend.” Tayamni assured him. “There is no anger involved. You were released by love. Some lights grow too bright to hold in the palm, so they return to the sky.”

“But—” the boy began “I am not in the sky. Right? I am here, so why didn't I return as you were?”

The old bull leaned his enormous head toward the Boy, cocked it slightly so one eye drew close, it was the size of a saucer. “THAT, is the question you always ask! I cannot say except to presume it is your desire. Your want for this love is so great, you are unwilling to leave it behind and ascend to your place in the heavens. If you look there in the night sky, you can see a tiny blank spot where you belong.”

The astral animal gestured to the northern sky with his sparkling hoof.

“Do I find that which I seek? This great thing I cannot deny?” the boy was calm, seeking clarity.

“Perhaps. You always leave seeking. And I can only assume at some level, you find your goal, but always you fall here, in the cricket grasses. They’re already singing of your return. You’re big news in the lives of little insects.” The boy was sure he saw Tayamni smiling and wink as he said this. They could not speak of the boy's journey, but would always sing what they knew.

“Tonight, you will rest and sleep through tomorrow. Starlight travels best in the dark and dawn grows closer even now.” he said as the eastern horizon bloomed the faintest of magentas against the inky indigo sky.

“The rest of your journey will wait for you. The destination always will. This much, I do know.”

“You know that which I seek?” again the boy piqued.

“No, no, my little star—” the buffalo shook its head. “But I've watched planets orbit stars for millennia and comets who can never quite pull away from the pull at their hearts. When true love is struck, there is no stopping it. You will burn out the universe in timeless pursuit of your goal.”

The boy grew suddenly very sleepy as the sky glowed to a bright yellow and felt a great urge to sleep.

Standing to yawn and stretch before leaning his weight against the coarse fur of the buffalo's head he said, “Oh, my—I am suddenly in desperate need of rest.”

“I know, starlight.” the warmth of the animals voice was very soothing to the little boy, making him sleepier still. “Come, rest in my heart. I will protect you until the daystar grows too weary herself and returns the night to us.

At this invitation, Tayamni's chest glowed pale blue and shimmered to translucence. The boy stumbled next to the bull feeling the course fur with his hand and reaching the glowing heart lay down inside the buffalo. The viscous blue light was like a comforting hug from a mother and in short order, the boy was fast asleep. As soon as he was, Tayamni stood and shook his mane at the rising sun.

“Hello, old girl!” He said as he began to trot eastward. Rumbling into a gallop, the ground shook and the crickets leaped away as the big beast transformed back into his celestial form and glided away into the brightening morning sky. Within moments, it was no longer distinguishable from the rest of the fading night sky.

Day had begun.

The boy woke after a timeless sleep, feeling energetic and alive. The sky was growing dark and the first stars were beginning to emerge.

The low rumble of Tayamni's voice rolled across the grassy plain. “Safe journey, little prince. We will watch your journey and guide you where we can.”

The boy stood erect, face to the sky, an arm extended in a waving salute. “Thank you! Tayamni! Do you think I can find her?”

“I have felt your heart many times, my little light.” The voice carried the feeling of love and pride the bull had for the boy. “It is pure and true. And a true love like yours will always succeed, because you will never stop.”

High above the stars shimmered—kind and watchful, and a tear streaked back across the boy's cheek and tickled his ear, making him smile. So he found the north star, for which he had a strong feeling of kinship, turned right and took his first steps. He was certain of one thing. It was not the first time, but possibly, this would be the last.

And the little audience of insects watched as the boy vanished over the hill. As he drew away they began their song again. Crickets could not speak of his journey—but they remembered. And they sang of it forever.

Foolishness is a disease that comes on very slowly. And without preamble or prejudice.

No cure, Only symptomatic mitigation And the collateral tears.

Affliction of the young, The old The wise The bold, especially.

It cares little for your Hopes and dreams Except to bend Them to it’s ineffable will.

Like a sucker punch, foolishness is impossible to expect. The best you can hope for Is to counter the blow with routine.

Of goodness, Of seriousness Of generosity Of will.

What began as parental illness, Propagated to pandemic And today… Endemic.

Incurable. But it shall Not always be so.

One day, foolishness, which is ever tied up in the heart of a boy, will die with youth.

We will laugh At the foolishness Of Children When we can truly Say we are men.

When we are wise And can see the end from The beginning And so we STOP.

And marvel At how Knowledge applied, Really is wise.

#poetry

What is it you would like to say?
 Say it, for this is the world’s end.

A poem about death shortly after the anniversary of losing my wife's closest friend.

How could I worry about me?

I am now struck— Struck by how much I loved her, And how through all the years, I never once said, I love you.

I laughed with her. Supped with her. Took her cookies. Listened to her. Suffered next to her. Dreamed of her.

But—like my flesh and blood, I took her for granted— This woman who gathered me in, Through three decades and five, Sometimes as son, Sometimes as brother, Sometimes as a wise one.

—

Now, it's 3:30 a.m., Adrift in the emptiness of a parking lot 
I hear the distant whistle Of a night train crying Through the wind.


The clack-clack-clack Rolling in the dark Carries me back Where these sounds once Wove themselves into her walls.

Vibrations signaling I was trapped— Not in fear, But in refuge Walled from a worried world For just a few minutes more.

How I wish now— I wish I could be trapped one more time, Just for those moments. Not long— Just long enough to say:

Thank you.

I love you.

#poetry #death #confession #storytelling #write #100daystooffload

2025-04-26 09:39:17

Written by Richard Halliburton, read by Woolfinius Whürl

I love this book. I can't find it as an audiobook and print editions are difficult (but not impossible) to find. It was first published in 1925. I decided to record my own version of audiobook. There is no production team and my reading is middling at best. The French in particular is killing me. But I'm giving it a shot.

Prefer to read it? You can find the text on Google Books. Though I prefer the printed page, it's hard to find. The Royal Road to Romance by Richard Halliburton on Google Books

#reading #audiobook #royalroad

Hope— hope springs eternal, but I'm finding the well dry of late.

My wife's sister is dying of cancer. Yeah, yeah, yeah... I know she's FIGHTING cancer. But she's losing the fight. And it's absolutely devastating. I can throw a rock and hit 35 people the world would be a better place without, but instead it is going to kill a truly genuine and good human. The kind of person that the world needs more of. Not less.

It's been 18 months since the first tiny spot on her left breast. 'It's aggressive' the doctors said. 'We need to move fast and rigorously.' SO, her and her husband's newly retired lifestyle went on hold while she spent every day week after week, month after month getting this treatment and that treatment. Surgery after surgery. Now that the treatments have run their course and we're all expecting an 'all clear', they say instead, 'oh, we're sorry, it looks like it is in your brain and spine now'.

Why? Why spent the last two years fighting this instead of sapping every moment of joy from life? Why waste hours and hours in a chair in a sterile office instead of walking in the giant forests of Northern California? Or swimming in the warm waters off the coast of Florida? See Spain. Eat in Italy. Make love in France.

Hell.

I've lost other friends and family to cancer and it's never a good thing. I know half a dozen breast cancer survivors. One is fighting her second round right now. But they're all living their lives. I also know half a dozen who didn't survive. I suppose losing this soul will eat into my circle of trust. That foundational group of people that I just expect to always be there. It is unbalancing. I worry my wife won't be the same after this.

She has two sisters, both younger. Her middle sister to whom I think she is closest in the world is the one that is dying. My wife isn't like me. I lost both of my sisters 30 years ago and never had the relationship she does. I've learned to exist in this world unmoored from that kind of closeness to another human. Longing for it, but existing without it. When her sister goes, she'll start to learn what I've had to. Her youngest sister, while kind and a lot of fun to be around, just doesn't have the selflessness and compassion that the older does. It's probably the social dynamic of being the baby that's kept them from being closer. The youngest is certainly her mother's favorite. And best friend.

Everyone is being very pragmatic about it. 'Oh, it'll be fine no matter what.' And 'We'll learn to adapt.' But It's making me angry. Which is challenging because I am supposed to be the supportive one, the voice of encouragement in this family circle. The balanced and level thinker through the last 30 years. But now that we are all older (my brothers in law, my nephews and nieces) I find that all the steady and reliable emotional strength I've displayed for my adult life... it's gone.

Would I trade places with her? Definitely. Why not the wretched? I think my wife could and would bounce back from losing me. She won't from losing her little sister. And she doesn't know it yet.

Come, hope. Come soon. You're our only...