20 years later.

20 years ago this morning I watched their heroes die, and today I remain determined my children will never watch me die the coward I once was for eight years.

In a puddled pooled of sweat, I awoke on the 10th anniversary morning of 9/11. I’d been a week in seclusion detoxing from eight years of daily drug use. I turned on the news to a dozen or more tearful interviews with the heroes’ children now ten years older and still missing their families.

The regret of how I’d lived all my intoxicated years was no emotional comparison to the pain those kids had endured daily for the past decade. Those scenes were a sobering chance epiphany that I’d been spared from a certain chemical fate and that morning began my journey of 10 consecutive years in sobriety.

The faces and tears of those children, orphaned by tragedy and forever deprived of parents, confirmed I was no hero but that I had been granted a future if I chose it.

It’s not the stuff of heroes and I may never be someone’s, but on 9/11/11 I resumed being a father while those fatherless children still grieved. Some days change an entire nation and some make change possible one day at a time. Some do both.

the further I get, the better I see.

I’ve been celibate since 2011, and the further I get, the better I see. It was a choice I made when I got off drugs and a choice I make still today, approaching my 10 year anniversary celibation. Not much is written about celibacy. In today’s sexually-slathered world, it’s not a popular subject. It alienates, labels and renders one less than desirable to many who still regard sex as a plaything —an inalienable right to exercise freely, openly and without much regard for its significance or consequence beyond it being a driven, primal, self-indulgent pleasure. To be honest, I’ve had more sexual partners in my lifetime than I care to remember. Many I choose not to, most I can’t, and all in hindsight I regret except for the union of love that produced my three wonderful children. And that was many, many years ago. There is a huge difference between mere resistance to sexual temptation and a conscious choice of celibacy. The first one spends too many hours fending off attacks while the other refuses to wage the war. One is a choice to be in a constant driven turmoil while the other is a constant choice of dignity and self preservation. No engagement. No bloodshed. No preoccupation with momentary pleasures. Most men find it an incomprehensible option to be celibate. Culture has made great strides over the years not only to make open sexuality the “normal” way of life but also to banish or render odd those who believe or choose differently. Imagine, if you can, the amount of sitcom time spent on the subject of sex. Imagine the number of stories and exposes about the sexual foibles of otherwise good men and women. Imagine the volume of time, the countless pages, the vastness of entire industries spent on sexual pursuits and libido-lifting messages, telling us it’s just as healthy a way to stay in shape as aerobic exercise. No, it’s not your imagination. Truth is, sex has become the replacement of an important need by an urgent one. I don’t watch much TV, largely because of its stupidifying effect on the masses. I do watch movies though. Lots of movies. And even there, I see how unentertaining most plot lines would be without the sex factor. The general malaise about, and the lack of creativity within media is largely due to the potency of the sex factor to arouse and stimulate single-minded misled people into applause for an on screen violation of what might otherwise be a potentially creative story. But with sex shoved down the throats of the masses (pun partially intended) as if we were all malnourished hookers, we’ve learned to hunger for it like the rush of a smoking bowl of meth. As a social consolation, those who promote free sexuality have successfully fended off attacks by seasoning their appeals with “love, romance and intimacy” as if to give added value to what they are really selling. Eroticism is now much wider in its appeal, equating being sexual with someone or anyone for that matter, quite the “special” thing. Special with this one, special with that one, and each special encounter so meaningful in its own way. Sex is not the highest form of love. Not by a long shot. Humanity’s lie has been to suggest that sexual union with another is the most intimate expression of love in the world. As a celibate man, I believe nothing could be further from the truth.To obey the greatest commandment to love one another is a far cry from having a passionate roll in the hay with them. Loving acts have staying power while sex quickly goes…well…flaccid. Celibacy creates a vacuum for important things. The years I have spent without losing small pieces of my soul to random sexual partners has opened my eyes to greater forms of love than I might have otherwise never known existed. When I stopped seeking pleasure, a vacuum was created inside of me and I began seeking to fill it with true love. Not a person. Not another. Love. Big difference. Storge, philia, agape. Go ahead. Look them up. Affection, friendship, unconditional love. These alternate kinds of love always get the shaft from sex promoters, yet they are the kinds of love expressions that make you cry at commercials, weep at songs and experience the kind of joy of the spirit of a sports team with an incredibly moving back story. They are the kinds of loves you remember over and over again, long after your meaningful casual fling left your bed for home. Perhaps one day I will rediscover that eros kind of love again and my celibate days will be over. But I have found that my freed mind is now capable of deep thought that births deeper movements of love and compassion and a preoccupation with things that last much longer than an orgasmic minute. And when I do find it, I’ll have learned to respect it with much more dignity than I ever did before. And if I never do, I will nonetheless have learned to love as a celibate man, and by then I should be a pretty good at it, because the further I get from sex, the better I understand love.


I don’t wanna know it when I die. I just wanna come home from a long day at work, open the door, drop my briefcase for the last time and suddenly everyone I ever loved jumps out from behind the sofa and yells “Surprise!” and all my old dogs run up and lick me like it’s been ME who’s been gone so long.

Some people.

Some people don’t know when to stop.They offer without an ask, buy before a need, don’t give or take no for an answer and expect nothing in return. The world’s not their oyster, but rather their responsibility. Their gifts arrive on more than just holidays, life is their prize and they consider every morning a personal canvas for the fine art of being human. They create masterpieces in secret for needy people they’ve never even met and surprise unsuspecting strangers from the bottoms of benevolent hearts. They neither demand nor expect the same for themselves and live by intuition, conscience, faith and opportunity. Their deeds are often mistaken for angels and tiny pieces of heaven on earth, which of course, they are. They know no different and don’t know when to stop because indeed, this is what they were wonderfully made to do. And someday. when you meet one, they will either change your life forever or inspire you to follow. LifeMeansSoMuch.com

4th of July.

There’s a lot of angry, fed up people in this world. Here at home and across global ponds, everyone wants change; half one way, half the other, half for economic reasons, half for moral reasons, half for certain rights, half to convict wrongdoings. Remarkably all profess a desire for unity, but only when that unification embraces their own cause at the expense of another’s.
In this early morning calm, I consider the world landscape and how this ideal of “unity in diversity” unravels a little more each day and it’s more than just a little eerie.
The ways of today’s world are far too complex for single issues which arguably do more to divide than unite. No one faction alone can achieve the one ideal all profess as their goal.
Our frustrated responses have become searches for simplicities where available, comforts where reliable and escapes where attainable, all within ever tighter communities which increasingly exclude views of others across their fences. Our solutions have become our problems, our chasms widen and our potential for true unity narrows as we dodge the bloody traps laid by the media and the powerful.
It’s now simpler to stage and post half-truth memes which underpin the basics of our convictions than to attempt to enfold some of the complex truths of others. “Tell me how to think” has taken a front seat to thinking itself because too much pride is at risk for being wrong on some valid points made by the other side.
So we remain angry and fed up for all the wrong reasons and nothing changes, because nothing within any of us changes. Yet without us, nothing will ever change.

I for one don’t have the answer, the we–the one for all–still does if we want it bad enough and we remember that in America—at least on paper—“We, the people” are the leaders still equipped to defeat the divisive anger which polarizes rather than unifies this nation.

So Happy Birthday America. May our many different candles burn bright with passion but not set fire to the entire cake.


When asked why I write stories about old people I tell them it’s because in the end, everyone needs to know their life mattered for something, if only somewhere on a page for someone to read. When no one takes time to ask, our elders’ stories die untold, unwritten, unread and presumed unimportant. Hundreds of undiscovered stories are buried alive every day and to me, that’s the most tragic story of all.

America’s problem.

I think America’s problem might just be laziness after all. Our most important issues are complex, requiring time, careful navigation and critical thinking to arrive at the best solutions. But the lazy among us retire that process prematurely. They settle on narratives and emotionally laden hashtags to summarize their incompletely formed conclusions in hopes that enough likes will make them true.

They’re satisfied with never having completed the effort to arrive at the greater good through intentional and empathetic listening to the opposition for a truly informed decision.

America’s problems aren’t solved the lazy way, but the hard way: together, versus the coward’s way: alone.

a keeper.

My boss is the kind you wish for. Runs you ragged, expects more than you realize you can give, shows passion in even the smallest of pursuits, and plants rewards along the path to make you more hungry for the pain and heartache of being a servant. Not for their own benefit but for those desperately needing the someone you’re becoming.


When a parent dies, I believe God passes their souls directly through their children en route to heaven making that exact moment the one that hurts the most, hugs the closest, and instantly enlightens sons and daughters to the things of life that matter most long before our turn arrives.

a day closer.

Each morning I give my pup a little kiss and tell him to be a good boy as I close the door and turn the key. And each time, the same thought comes over me: I’m another day closer to the one I won’t return from, reminded that every act, gesture and moment with loved ones needs to mean a whole lot more today than it did even yesterday.