“Where's the other undershirt, the bigger one?”

What other undershirt, dad?

“Over there.”

I don't see any undershirts there.

“There should be one.”

What?

“Son”, a little frustrated now, “right now, in my hand, the other one like it.”

Show me your hand, dad.

“What?”

Show me your hand.

(He does.)

Now look at it. Do you see anything in your hand?

“What I mean to say is...”, looking at his empty hand, then using it to gesture towards the chair between the bed and closet, “That.”

That? The chair?

“Yes.”

What about it?

“The other one. Where is it?”

You mean the ones out on the terrace?

“Yes.”

What about them?

“It's different.”

What does the chair have to do with undershirts?

“It was there! Do you understand what I'm saying?”

No, dad, I really don't.

“Let me show you.”

Show me what? Where?

“Over there.”

Over where? The terrace?

“Yes.”

Okay.

#journal

Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

Part 1: The Still and Imagination

2:30 AM –

The house is so quiet tonight—well, this morning. I guess it always is. But when I lie here with my thoughts, I become aware of the absence of everything. Light and sound shape our world constantly. Removing those senses almost feels like decoupling from existence. Even a child in the womb has its mother’s heartbeat, the sounds of muscles and fluids all around—the wet of its growth. But once we are cast down from that heaven, we must find that comfort here: in the cold, in the dark.

I don’t mean to exaggerate. There’s a comfort and safety here, wrapped in my layers like a gallowglass battling the horrors of loneliness. The beauty of this state is the freedom of imagination.

I can simply employ my mind and go anywhere.

In an instant, I can be a giant standing on the face of Venus. I am so large, I see her curve fall away to the horizon. My face glows with the sun’s radiation, bleaching me hot white. The heat is immense and solar winds tempest like a spring storm.

Or, I can quietly walk the halls of the Louvre. My shoes click on the polished tile. Oh! A guest! I become a statue—one of Michelangelo’s lesser-known works. Not David, but his cousin Frank. I, too, was freed from a block of Carrara marble.

Sometimes, I join Jack London as he wanders 19th-century San Francisco. We sit and drink at Heinold's First and Last Chance Saloon. Or I sit beside Tolkien at Oxford, Thoreau by his lake, Degas as he sketches dancers. History and imagination are rich playgrounds.

But most often, I simply sit in the sand on a beach at sunrise. Smelling the salty air. Gulls caw overhead, hunting crabs that haven’t made their dens for the day yet.

What a joy to be here. By its very nature, this is not a moment that can be shared. How beautiful, that though we are designed as social creatures—craving touch, voice, scent—we can also find satisfaction in solitude. Time to think. To pray. To simply be.

Part 2: Burrito Writing and Morning Promises

5:30 AM –

A flash of light and a deep-throated growl pull me back. A roiling thunderstorm has returned me to my nest. Radar shows intense rain for the next hour or two. No matter—I am warm and safe. Dry and pleased.

My phone, my silent bedfellow tonight, is nearly dead. While I recharged, it drained. Soon, it too will fall into forced slumber, and I’ll be relegated to archaic tools to capture my whim and whimsy. I type faster.

I love pen and ink on a blank page. It is ecstasy. But it requires clothes. A chair. Light. I can’t be a burrito and write. But this little miracle of silicon and glass and precious metals lets me roll to my side, blankets hugging my body, pillow caressing my cheek, tip-tapping as long as desire, imagination, and battery hold out.

6:00 AM –

I’m supposed to get up and drag wares out for the neighborhood garage sale. But my desire is with you, reader. Not hawking junk for less fiat than it took to move it.

I’ll SAY I’m going to do it at 7. Then 8. But I won’t.

My wife—still happily unconscious 30 feet to my east—is half-interested, but only to the point of reminding me before bed.

The thunder massaging the walls tells me this is a fool’s errand. Rain cancels all garage sales.

Part III: Watermelons, Gifts, and Gentle Wisdom

9:00 AM – Time to rouse and dress. We’ll spend the morning in the ministry. The rain has cooled the day, and we’ll enjoy being out in the world.

The weather has inspired others too. No one’s home! Perhaps they’re knocking on our door, wondering where we are.

We pass the farmers market—it’s bustling. Some still try to rescue their yard sales. Mid-morning, we stop at a diner. I have half an egg sandwich, in honor of a dream I had a few nights ago. It’s good, though not cosmic.

On the way home, we stumble upon a watermelon vendor. We stop—hoping for spiritual sparks—and buy three plump, red melons. We’ll eat one. Two are gifts.

There’s a mix-up. I hand him a $50, but he thinks it’s a $20. At first, he believes I’m tipping him and tries to give me a third melon. I ask gently if I get change, and he blushes, apologizes. I laugh. A very human moment. Different expectations. Worst case: expensive fruit.

But it is delicious.

We spend the rest of the morning delivering the melons to our mothers. They’re pleased to be remembered.

Gifts are like that. We think it’s the object, but it’s the gesture. A gold bracelet can impress—but so can a letter, a pillow, a flower. For those whose love language is gifts, even the smallest one becomes a star in the night.

Early afternoon: rest, polishing an essay, catching up on work, messaging friends.

We have two events today: a wedding and a funeral. The funeral, remote in Colorado, we’ll tune into quietly. But we must attend the wedding in person.

Part IV: A Wedding, Dancing, and the Return of Light

My friend is marrying for the second time. He’s ten years younger and has battled depression much of his life. His first marriage lasted two years—she wanted a home, children, stability. He wanted a partner to save him from himself and join him in chaos.

Eventually, he stayed the week with his parents, only visiting his wife on weekends. The flame died. Ignored coffee goes cold. She found someone who gave her what she wanted. He sank deeper. Then came an unexpected spark—a caregiver for a sick family member. He found joy helping her family. Something new bloomed.

I pray it lasts.

The wedding is intimate—just 50 guests. Good for him. Most couples don’t have the resolve to keep it small. I’m used to hundreds.

Dinner is brisket, ribs, potato salad, green beans, and salad. Something doesn’t agree with me, but the fault is mine. We've acclimated to clean eating—deviation punishes. Still, it’s delicious going down.

The cake is modest and lovely. I’m glad they’re keeping it simple. Too often, debt is the first gift a couple receives.

And there’s dancing! What joy. Months since we danced in public. It feels like light has returned to our shadowed selves.

I miss some familiar faces. A little wine would’ve been a cherry on top. Friends and drink—possibly man’s greatest invention. I would’ve loved to toast my friend’s new life.

Still, these are not complaints. Just notes of how nearly complete the evening felt. We’re home before 10. She watches a true-crime show; I want to talk. But she’s drained from the crowd. An introvert. She’ll need until tomorrow to recharge.

I lay down. My phone feeds me funny videos—silly, forgettable, delightful. Then, some Scrabble. My opponent tonight is a savant. Her vocabulary is endless. She’s never watched television, and it shows. My brain? Rotting.

Part V: Sleep Cycles and Sacred Tools

Midnight. I feel like I could stay up all night. But I know my body’s tired. The mind just races. New chemistry. A better version of me waking up.

I cue up The Seldom Seen Kid by Elbow. The little fan hums. I’m gone sometime mid-Mirrorball. Too bad—I was looking forward to The Fix and One Day Like This.

I wake around 3AM. I’ll write all this down in 30-minute bursts between dozing. The cycle continues until I rise for real.

Sunday will be full: worship, lunch, lawn work, tree trimming, maybe a bike ride—if she feels better. From our meeting this morning, one lesson lingers:

What tool am I in the Master's toolbox?

We often compare ourselves or complain. But: * Drill: always spinning, making holes * Plane: skimming surfaces, never deep * Pencil: short, dull, fragile * Sandpaper: rough, abrasive, useful only with effort * Tape measure: exacting, single-purpose

Yet the master craftsman knows each tool’s value. Uses each with intent. When young, we think we can be all tools. But wisdom teaches us to know our place, our purpose.

One friend sees herself as a dolly—built to bear loads. She calls me a socket wrench: versatile, reversible, adaptable. I’m grateful not to be the hammer.

I've gone on long enough. If you're still here—you are a golden soul.

And I love you for it.

Love always,


Charlie

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#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing #dream

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Shall we go to the bathroom, I suggest, as he snatches a piece of lettuce from the bowl I left out on the dining table.

“No, I'm fine” he says, munching on lettuce.

Dad, I can smell it. It's time to change your diaper.

He shakes his head, snatching another piece of lettuce.

I can smell it, dad.

“What do you smell?” he asks, annoyed, munching on lettuce.

I can smell the shit in your diaper! Let's go!

“No, there's nothing of the kind”, he insists.

Okay, let's make a bet; we go to the bathroom and check. No shit, I owe you a 100 pounds. We find shit, I get a hundred out of you.

“Deal”, he says, excited.

This was a bet I would rather not have won because said diaper was indeed full of shit in addition to plenty of piss. So much so that the old man's crotch was smothered in the stuff like Swiss fondue. This is a time when all manner of social inhibitions and psychological holdups are completely obliterated, and you become laser-focused on one thing and one thing only: Cleanup.

Very. Serious. Cleanup.

#journal

Sometimes we are born again through the memories we left in cold rooms.

I was looking for my hat—the wide-brimmed one I wore when I was someone else, someone who drove through red dirt roads and squinted into the sun like it was a dare. The kind of hat required in Dust Meridian.

It had been missing for years. Maybe longer. I didn’t even know I was looking until I opened the refrigerator and there it was, perched beside a frosty beer and a carton of eggs.

Cold to the touch.

But not dead.

I blinked.

“What are you doing here?”

I wasn’t joking.

It felt like it owed me an explanation. It had disappeared ten years ago. I looked high and low, traveled and called everyone I knew, but it never materialized. I lamented its loss—the countless adventures we’d shared. It was practically part of my identity for nearly a quarter of a century.

The hat turned slowly—almost shy—and answered, but the words slipped sideways, as if the air between us was warped. I heard syllables like birdcalls, like eucalyptus leaves whispering in spirals.

Like a secret I knew once, but had since packed away with my passport and the smell of old firewood.

Still, I smiled. Not because I understood. But because something in me stirred—some flicker of a self I’d shelved. Not abandoned, exactly—just chilled for safekeeping.

I held it to my chest. It smelled faintly of sweat and eucalyptus, of rain that never came.

I considered putting it back in the fridge. Maybe it liked it there. Maybe it was hiding from the heat of a life half-lived.

But I didn’t.

I slipped it on, and for a moment, the kitchen spun into something vast the wood floor cracking into gravel, the hum of the refrigerator becoming cicadas in the trees.

And there I was.

There WE were.

Me, and the version of me that remembered what the wind felt like in wild, open places. The one who once drove toward the horizon with no map.

And no need for one.

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#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing #dream

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