Having an itch is one of those small aspects of human experience that’s part of our commonality. Everybody itches – and if the itch is accessible, we scratch it. Or try to. . .
“I hate my birthday! Just HATE it.” That’s the anguished outburst of a lady friend, whose day of birth is in January. . .So – What to do? Me, I try to be helpful. . .
“You’re not alone in your confusion about Christmas. . .” That’s me trying to be helpful to a young agnostic friend who is somewhat anxious and defensive about Christmas and what’s expected of her.
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. . .
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. . .
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.