Robert Fulghum Journal EntriesMy recent travels, musings, insights shared with you every Sunday.
What do you want to be when you grow up? If you had asked me that question in the summer of my twelfth year, I would have readily answered: The driver of an ice cream truck. . .read more
Simply said, mutton busting is an American rodeo event involving sheep and young children. Or more precisely – a full grown female sheep – and a kid between 7 and 9 years of age who weighs less than 65 pounds. The goal for the kid is to stay aboard the sheep for 8 seconds and get points from judges for style and technique. . .read more
Early on a cold, rainy, dreary Sunday morning, a man sits in a chair in the deep darkness of a small side chapel off the main sanctuary of the church of the old Monastery of Gonia. . .read more
. . .The whole Universe is still expanding, so say the astronomers. The landmass under my feet is moving west at the rate of half an inch a year. The sea floor is still spreading. Nothing is holding still – every atom in existence is whirling away in relentless motion.read more
. . .Fleeting beauty is always poetic, but flowers are dead on arrival – a fading, fugitive, momentary gesture.
An onion, on the other hand, is not only beautiful; it is useful and contains lasting possibility – magic and mystery and miracle. . .
. . . a little boy – 5 maybe. . . has drawn a picture of mountains on either side of a valley that has a river running through it. Now he has added a rainbow, also drawn in pencil, and he is ready to fill in between the lines with colors. He pauses. Looks up at you and asks: “Which color goes on the top?”read more
This Museum has some unique qualities. It is completely private and personal – never ever open to the public. Each human brain Museum is unique – no two exactly alike.read more
. . .our interest in sports and games is seldom rational or conscious. It’s idiosyncratic – specific to the individual person. To each his own, with acceptance, not disapproval. That’s why I can tell you about Sumo and Hakuho Sho.read more
It’s mid-day in mid-winter in mid-town Moab, Utah. Here’s the intersection of Center Street and Highway 191. The traffic light has just turned yellow. . .read more
I, like most people, am in a reflective mood about the mystery of Christmas just past and the mystery of the year to come. . .But for some reason I’ve been thinking about a man in the Bible . . .read more
The Winter Solstice puts me in a state combining mild euphoria and self-reflection. It’s always a time of taking inventory – to consider the year-end profit-and-loss state of my personal enterprises: Fulghum Heavy Industries.read more
The Christmas process for me usually moves in a parabolic curve. . .A journey from the ridiculous to the sublime and back is what I hope for. And this year?read more
Plan A this week was to write a meditation on the subject of snow globes. Plan B was to engage in a do-it-yourself project to make snow globes myself. . .Here’s the story:read more
This is essentially a casual letter to friends – mostly personal – sharing the small moments and thoughts and images that make for a day-by-day life as November winds down into the holiday season.read more
Last week I wrote about the utilitarian aspect of a five-gallon bucket. In the past week I’ve been extending “bucket thoughts” in my mind. . . So here’s my process, and at the end, I found a magnificent beginning.read more
The insane spirit of optimism about one’s carrying capacity overcomes experience and common sense. And you think you can collect all of the stuff out of the car and wrangle it into the house in one trip – all by yourself.read more
One of the few items marked off my bucket list is #21 “Flying my own plane.”
It’s too late now. I’m too old and forgetful – and forgetful is not good for flying.
Somehow, my life circumstances were never just right to learn.
That doesn’t mean I’ve not flown whenever I had the chance.
My Sunday morning focus shifts from The Unimaginable to The Unbelievable to the Unmentionable.
But it’s less vexing to write about my socks, so . . .