The light or lack of light is running you. You are the animal, moving and being moved.


Sometimes the natural world takes your power, as it does deep in February, when every fiber of your being wants to hibernate. Sometimes it bestows you with power you never imagined you could possess, as it does during the peak of summer, when you don’t need much sleep, and you feel like you’re riding along with all of the motions of the universe. Sometimes it terrifies you with its awesome brutality, as when you are driving alone on a mountain pass and encounter a blustery springtime blizzard. Just as there are receptors in the brain for drugs—like THC and psilocybin—I like to think we have receptors for nature as well. We may believe we are run by our thoughts and anxieties, our urges and our choices, but come to a place like Montana and you will be reminded that the moon is running you. The sun is running you. The light or lack of light is running you. You are the full moon. You are the rushing river. You are the animal, moving and being moved.

Amanda Fortini, The Great Surrender

Image via Your Eyes Blaze Out


Be silent. Listen. Let it overflow.



What are these words worth?

September, October,

What are these words worth?
Who else would believe
these trees &
this sun &
this Aeolian gust?
Amen again.

~ Nate Pritts, “Feelings, Associated,” Right Now More Than Ever: Poems

Credits: Poem – the distance between two doors. Photo: We Heart It.  Bio/website: Natt Pritts

Driving the East River Drive. Every risk, shimmering.


It was Tuesday. Yes, Autumn. Yes, New York City. But it certainly didn’t look or feel anything like this. Add 5,000 cars.  And move the map to the FDR, the East River Drive.

I’m one hour and 20 minutes on the road and Waze is signaling that I’m still 30 minutes away. 1:50 for a 0:45 min ride. And now, the crush of the morning rush.  My lower back is stiff.  There’s a nagging kink in my neck. And, I can’t settle. I shift left, then right. I grab my water bottle, take a pull. Tap my fingers on the console.  I glance at my watch. I’m going to be late. Didn’t count on this delay. I push the pace. DK won’t be late.

If you’ve never driven the East Side Highway, think Daytona 500 with a crudely straightened 3-lane track.  Three lanes made for 2.5.  Traffic, sardines, tightly packed. There’s zero room for a slip, no room for wandering. Hugging your left shoulder is a 4-foot cement girder offering a bumper car cushion. Drains (sink holes) are distributed every 1000 feet to release rain water.  Off your right shoulder, another car – open your window and finger brush the door panel.  You grip the wheel, white knuckles, and Glare, eyes panning up front, left, right and down (especially down to avoid the abyss) and then back again. The Gotham Death March.  I push the pace with the cabbies, we dart in and out, looking to gain one car length, maybe two.

SiriusXM is spinning 70s on 7. [Read more…]

Sunday Morning


…I turned
and the earth hushed.
While I leaned into silence
a morning too vast to fathom
filled with light.


~ David Lee, Dawn Psalm, Pine Valley from So Quietly The Earth

Credits: Poem Source – Rod McIver. Photo: Kyle Thompson via PetaPixel

Driving I-95 N. With Potential.


It was some time ago.
Yet, it is now.

I’m heading home Friday afternoon after a long week and the story replays.
Not a sitcom. But a documentary.

The hotel ball room is tightly packed.
The lights dim.
600 eyeballs watch him amble onto the stage.

Blue sport coat. Gray slacks.
Black boots, clean, polished and up over the ankle.
He’s wearing a watch, a large face, a Patek Philipe.

He’s an Engineer, Inventor, Founder, Investor and VC.
And a new Father.
He’s a Silicon Valley giant. A Giant presence
And, still way on the right side of 50.

Q: China. Q: Europe. Q: U.S.
Q: IPOs. Q: Capital markets. Q: Private Markets.
Q: Innovation. Q: Disruption. Q: Cybersecurity.
Q: Facebook. Q: UBER. Q: Lift. Q: Twitter.
Q: Paypal. Q: Apple Pay. Q: Bitcoin.
Q: Regulation. Q: Politics.
Q: Philanthropy.
Q: Diversity.

A:… A:.. A:… A:… A:…A:… A:… A:…

Crisp responses. Stats to support. Colorful anecdotes.
He’s a Giant knife slicing through Butter.

Q:  Where do you find the time? You work. You travel. You write. You curate. You have a large social media following. Where do you get the ideas? Where do you get the content you curate? [Read more…]

It’s been a long day

black and white,photography,

Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment
when,   nothing
no what-have-I-to-do-today-list

maybe   half a moment
the rush of traffic stops.
The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be
slows to silence,
the white cotton curtains hanging still.

~ Marie Howe, The Moment


Oh, yes. I feel that.


He had said,
‘Sometimes I feel quite distinctly
that what is inside me is not all of me.
There’s something else, sublime, quite indestructible,
some tiny fragment of the universal spirit.
Don’t you feel that?’

~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Cancer Ward

Credits: Quote Source: Memory’s Landscape. Photo:  Miradas (via Mennyfox55)

Stand rapt in awe (50 sec)


  • Source: Grindtv
  • Title inspired by Albert Einstein quote shared by Mindfulbalance: “He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.”

Monday. Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day.


I think the British writer James Meek is accurate when he describes Light Years (1975) by the American novelist James Salter. […]

“There is no complete life. There are only fragments. We are born to have nothing, to have it pour through our hands.”

And this, again, is a common experience [from Virginia Woolf’s essay ‘Modern Fiction’ (1921)]:

“Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad impressions – trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or catastrophe in the accepted style, and perhaps not a single button sewn on as the Bond Street tailors would have it. Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.”

~ Galen Strawson, I am Not a Story

Art: Simon Birch (via Lost at E Minor)