Category: Grow

Walking. In rush hour traffic…

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It’s been 2,149 consecutive (well, almost) days on this morning walk at The Cove. Like in a row.

The highlight of the morning were the Atlantic Brants. The photo time stamp on the shot above was 6:47 am, just minutes before the Sun’s lift-off. There is nothing like the sound of the battalion’s wing flaps and their distinctive call (you really must listen here). Watching them just feet above the water, I couldn’t help but think: “You look marvelous! Absolutely marvelous!“

I stood on the break wall watching the sunrise.

Momentarily at peace.

And then it was The Cove’s rush hour traffic. A new phenomenon. DK’s groupies. 5 years ago, you wouldn’t find a soul at this park at this hour, now I’m mobbed.

Susan’s to my left snapping at the sun (without our Wally, who was left behind at home — the horror!) She’s slinging two cameras over her shoulder, yes, two. (Note to Self – Susan to Dave in 2023: “You always have to take things to the extreme, do you really need two cameras?” Elephant never forgets.)

Cara’s next to Susan, sporting designer Tall Boots akin to a rider in a Dressage event. She’s criss-crossing back and forth, violently snapping at everything that moves. Oh the young-uns, they do everything with such flourish.

Then came the rest: the walkers, the dog walkers and the runners.

I pack my gear and head back.

Look at you DK — The Pied Piper of The Cove.

God, I miss the good ole’ days.

Notes: Shots from this morning’s walk can be found here.

Walking. No where to go. And all the time to get there…

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It’s now, like mid-afternoon on Saturday.

Wally looks up: “Dad, how about nap time.” He jumps up, tucks in, and drifts off.

I feel his little belly with each inhale and exhale. What a great sleeper. Prior to drifting off, I reflect on the last 48 hours — my 19th year anniversary at this stop, to the day.

My desk has been cleared of the work phone, the headset, the zoom lamp.

I turn on my PC to find Corporate Security has wiped all of my corporate apps and my system access. Just like that, gone!

The hum of 100-200 emails a day, conference calls, zoom calls, phone calls, road trips, presentations, strategy sessions, client meetings, staff meetings, back-and-forth commutes, etc etc etc has gone silent.

19 years. Gemini estimates the production and ingestion of 1 million emails requiring 1/2 Terabyte of storage.

“What’s next?”

“I can’t see you sitting still for long.”

I stare at the screen. My fingers tap on the desk, habitually reaching for the keyboard. No task. No task. No Task. No Task.

“How do you feel?”

Right now? Unsteady.

“So what’s the plan.”

(Try to)

“Sit still and let the world do the moving.” (Stegner)

I went into rehab recently…

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I went into rehab recently. It wasn’t to treat substance abuse, though both drugs and alcohol are banned at the facility I checked myself into. Rather, I went to free myself from the noise that is disrupting our mental health in the 21st century.I shut off my phone and laptop and locked them away for three days. But this was more than a digital detox: I joined 50 other people in taking a vow of silence. Instead of scrolling or chatting, we spent hours in guided meditation and the rest of the time alone with our thoughts. As silent retreats go, this one was brief. But I had never kept quiet for so long in my life, and I hadn’t been without my electronics for that long since I got my first iPhone 18 years ago.

I craved the unplugging, but I was admittedly skeptical about elements of the experiment. I didn’t think I had the patience for meditation, and my few previous attempts at yoga typically ended with the administration of Advil. […]

But underneath all that woo, I also found something true. The silent unplugging made me appreciate, in ways I hadn’t fully understood, how much my phone has hijacked my attention. In the notification-free quiet, I wondered: Have I forgotten how to just be?

 Of course, the world’s religions have been practicing forms of monastic silence for thousands of years. The difference is those ancient orders, and even those who went on silent retreats in pre-smartphone decades, didn’t have Instagram accounts. Now, when we go into silence and turn off our devices, we are entirely isolated. In our always-on, hyperconnected world, this is disorienting.⁠⁠

⁠⁠I expected I would go through some digital withdrawal, and that happened. Dozens of times, I felt an involuntary urge to reach for my phone: to check the time, to take a picture, to see if the snow had canceled my flight, to look up “upma” before ladling some onto my plate, to order Valentine’s Day flowers, to find out what I was missing and who was trying to reach me. It felt unnatural not to be scrolling while waiting for a session to begin.

But something else happened during those three days that I didn’t expect — and it was frightening…

— Dana Milbank, read more here: “I went into phone-free silence. Something disturbing happened.” (Washingon Post, February 13, 2026

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

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Now that I’m deep in my 80s, I’d like to stay here forever, and I’ll certainly try. I enjoy being here. The decade is the October of aging. And October is a lovely month, don’t you think? […]

Things I can’t do any more: Run. Play basketball or tennis. I also can’t worry myself to death, or I choose not to. Before my October years, there seemed to be nothing, however inconsequential, that I could not stew over until it grew as big and menacing as Godzilla at night. Nothing was too trivial for my troubled mind. No small rejection. Not the slightest slight. I once came up with a rule, “Nobody’s thinking about you — they are thinking about themselves, just like you.” I wrote it but I didn’t believe it. Now I hardly care if anyone is thinking about me, or not. Hardly.

My love of nature has grown much deeper in this decade. I had always felt an affinity with the natural world, but it was general, casual and fleeting. These days you can catch me at the window, gazing in wonder at the East River (estuary technically), and mesmerized by the shapes in the blue-gray water, the welts and eddies, the tides, the invading armies of the waves, the clouds reflected, looking like submerged sheep.

It’s not what you do in this decade that’s so unusual, or what you think, but rather how you think. The air changes in October. I find myself thinking far less selfishly, giving much more of myself to my friends and family. […]

The general improvement is this: In my younger years I was always looking ahead for whatever would befall me. Now I look at what I have. And as those in their 80s appreciate, what one has is considerable. I don’t fear winter, and I don’t regret spring. […]

— Roger Rosenblatt, excerpts “I Don’t Fear Winter, and I Don’t Regret Spring” (NY Times, October 26, 2025)

Sunday Morning

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For the past three decades, I have covered the dehumanizing cauldron that is our current politics, and the last decade has been particularly soul-crushing. I begin today a new column dedicated to reclaiming the humanity we are losing to the savagery of politics, the toxicity of social media and the amorality of artificial intelligence. One of the keys to that recovery is nurturing our innate sense of awe, the feeling we get when we contemplate something so vast and mysterious that it quiets our anxieties and ambitions and puts our differences and disagreements into perspective.

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