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.
Gently he grasped the copper handle of the door – the warmth of the mountains, woods, rivers and valleys, would discover the hidden depths of human existence, would finally understand that the unbreakable ties that bound him to the world were not imprisoning chains and condemnation but a kind of clinging to an indestructible sense that he had a home; and he would discover the enormous joys of mutuality which embraced and animated everything: rain, wind, sun and snow, the flight of a bird, the taste of fruit, the scent of grass; and he would suspect that his anxieties and bitterness were merely cumbersome ballast required by the live roots of his past and the rising airship of his certain future, and, then – he started opening the door – he would finally know that our every moment is passed in a procession across dawns and day’s-ends of the orbiting earth, across successive waves of winter and summer, threading the planets and the stars. Suitcase in hand, he stepped into the room and stood there blinking in the half-light.
Post Title & Inspiration: Aldous Huxley: “It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.
For centuries, people have gathered to honor this longest day— Celtic people lit hilltop fires, and Slavic communities wove flower crowns, leapt over bonfires, and floated wreaths down rivers to honor love, light, and life’s turning. The Summer Solstice is no ordinary day— it is a threshold between seasons, a celebration of the earth at her peak of light. Let this be your moment to honor all that has grown within you— dreams tended in quiet, wounds turned into wisdom, love that kept showing up. The Solstice teaches us not just to feel the warmth on your skin, but in your soul and to stand in our radiance— fully, gently, without apology. So lift your face to the Sun, feel the pulse of life in your chest, and remember: you, too, are part of this sacred rhythm of the world. A Soul blooming in time with the turning Earth.
The sun rises at 5:21 a.m, the earliest day/time of the year. I set my internal clock (each morning) 90 minutes ahead of Sunrise to catch twilight, that’s 3:45 a.m. Groan.
It’s been 1,865 consecutive (almost) days, and counting, on this morning walk at Cove Island Park. Like in a row.
One could say, same-old same-old track, ‘How about a change?’ A new track? Mix it up a little?
Yet, I’m grooved in this track, akin to deliberately steering within deep ruts of a muddy country road to keep forward momentum. Ocean Vuong: “It seemed the light wouldn’t change for a while. When he was younger Hai had wanted a bigger life. Instead he got the life that won’t let him go.“
There are days (among the 1,865 consecutive days) when you get out of the car, and tell yourself: “Self, there ain’t nothing here, you’re tired, snap a shot to prove you were here, drive back home and snuggle up to Wally.”
That day wasn’t today.
Park is empty. Birds have awakened. I pick up the pace, heartbeat quickening. I arrive at the shoreline at look out.
65° F, gentle breaths of wind from the north. A strip of golden light paints the horizon. Luna pops her head in and out between gaps in heavy cloud cover, splashing golden light on the ocean surface.
I could feel it today.
The Cove won’t let me go.
“How you can fall in love with the light.”
Ellen Meloy: Of all the things I wondered about on this land, I wondered the hardest about the seduction of certain geographies that feel like home — not by story or blood but merely by their forms and colors. How our perceptions are our only internal map of the world, how there are places that claim you and places that warn you away. How you can fall in love with the light.
DK Photo @ 4:09 am. June 13, 2025. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT. More photos from this morning’s walk here. A magnificent morning.
