I stood and walked toward my office door. I lingered for a second before gently pressing it closed. I heard the gratifying click signifying it would not open under its own power. I returned to my desk, removed my glasses, placed my head into my hands and vigorously rubbed my forehead. The left side of my head humming with pain. Rubbing my forehead briefly allowed the pain to go away knowing it would not return until I left the office. That time would come but not soon enough.

I sit at my desk and my back remains fixed toward the large windows which adorn my office. I am happy to have windows but on this day, not being able to see the sunshine might have been a better option.

The phone rings and I am made aware my next patient awaits. I stand and walk toward the window and see my Vespa through the window. For a split second I am lost in thought; daydreaming about the ride home which will be the most relaxing part of my day. Before I leave to usher my patient to my office, I call one of our nurses and ask for another “cocktail”, the medication which I know will help this throbbing headache go away and will allow me to hobble through the rest of the day.
After my patient leaves, I begin to think about this session. I realized I have not consistently done the things which I have asked him to do in his recovery. I open my journal to reveal I have not written in it since June 20th. I felt like I had nothing to say; obviously, that wasn’t the case. My meditation cushion has been obscured from view, lying under a pile of opened but unread magazine and newspaper articles. I reached for one of my fountain pens only to find out the ink has dried from lack of use. The pen needs to be cleaned before it can be re-inked. I sigh and walk to the bathroom to clean the pen. As I am flushing out the old, dried ink; I become mindful of my need to flush out these same thoughts which are keeping me tied down. I have allowed myself to dry up and become unusable.

I re-inked the pen, my favorite; a Visconti Homo Sapiens with a nib which writes unbelievably smoothly. I touched the nib to the absorbent paper of my journal and watch as the ink and the words the ink has become, fill the page. Thoughts and feelings are pouring out of me like a water faucet which has been turned on high. I stop momentarily, in disbelief as I previously thought there was nothing there to come out. The clog has been removed. Thoughts and feelings begin to flow again, unimpeded.




Today I went “sauntering.” Henry David does a much better job of explaining the definition of this fine word than I so I will allow him the effort. “I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of walking, that is, of taking walks – who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering, which word is beautifully derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense of going a la Sainte Terre, to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes a Sainte-Terrer,” A Saunterer, A Holdy Lander. They who never go to the Holy Land in their walks, as they pretend, are in deed mere idlers and vagabonds; but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from sans terre, without land or a home, which therefore, in the good sense, will mean having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea.” – Henry David Thoreau


As I watched the Sunday morning news, I found myself glancing toward the window several times to assess the weather. Each assessment rendered the same result; a cloudy, overcast sky. The news, now concluded offered me brief respite from the reality of the goings on in the world. I put down the Sunday Times and retrieved my camera from it’s hiding place in my camera bag in the basement. My camera has not seen the light of day in several months due in part to the excellent camera on my phone also an opportunity to work with Groupon left me feeling emotionally exhausted and with no desire to pick up the camera, let alone to make photographs.


I inserted a memory card, cleared the card of any photographs left over from a previous shoot and retrieved my hat, mittens and a cigar. I entered my car, clipped the end of the cigar and toasted the end before lighting the cigar and inhaling the fragrance of this fine smoke.

 I made the brief drive to the location where I wanted to shoot, parked my car and grabbed my gear. After turning on the camera, I set it to monochrome desiring to make every photograph in black and white. The overcast skies lent themselves to the simple beauty of monochrome as it allows the highlights and tones to stand out and speaks volumes regarding the mood of the lighting. It felt like a black and white day.


Because of the time of year, I had the entire area to myself save for the one or two people also out sauntering. I made my way around Gateway Park to an area adorned by several benches. I brushed the water left over from a cold night from the surface of the bench, sat my camera bag down and pulled my journal from its hiding place in the back pocket of my camera bag. From the front pocket I retrieved one of my favorite fountain pens inked with the deepest of black inks to match the black and white mood in which I find myself.

I wrote with abandon, the thoughts pouring from my brain faster than they could be captured by the nib of the fountain pen. as I stopped allowing the ink on the page to dry, I lined my head back and allowed the emerging sun to shower me in its warmth.

Today was a good day.


I realized this morning I have quite a bit to learn about patience.

I rose and dressed in an uneasy anticipation of a bike ride. I stood for what seemed like several minutes and began to undress. I thought about the beautiful weather awaiting me. I also contemplated the thoughts coursing through my head. When I do not empty my head, my anxiety rises steadily. Instead of a ride I decided to walk Jack.

We retrieved his leash and exited the house. He enjoys as do I a leisurely walk around the house unleashed. He travels one way while I travel the other. We meet on the porch in front of the house. Neither of us had any desire to move. I rose briefly and returned to the house retrieving my journal and fountain pen. I returned to “my spot” and listened intently as the birds sang their joyous song welcoming the sunrise which was peeking over my right shoulder. I glanced a few hundred yards to the intersection and watched as the stop light controlled the lives of those travelling to and from their destination. Red. Green. Red. Green. Red. Green. Most travelers moving about mindlessly, paying little if any attention to what I am present for.


Jack rose and moved toward me pushing his nose between my left arm and torso. It was this moment which resonated so deeply with me. I was thankful I had not ridden today. Sure I could have but I would have missed out on this gift because of the lack of time. Despite my spiritual beliefs and meditation practice I remain a relatively impatient individual.

I realized as much as I enjoy my bike, some of the luster has gone. I feel rushed, constantly checking my watch to assess pace and miles ridden. It is difficult to leave this watch at home. Everything is a competition. This is what I miss about my running; the ability to run where I cannot bike. The ability to stop when I want to sit, to write, to contemplate.

My brain understands it’s okay not to put in a certain number of miles at a certain speed; my mind on the other hand argues this point. Anxiety rises and panic sets in. It’s okay if I sit and write. It’s okay if I sit and think. It’s okay.

When did we become so impatient? I recall the relaxed atmosphere of my youth. Dad returned from work. We ate dinner as a family uninterrupted by the false priorities we have created. There are no text messages, no phone calls, no television. Cable television, cell phones and twenty-four hour news stations had yet to be created.

Breathe * Slow down * Breathe


April Fools…a little late.

April Fools Day! The sun shines and the clouds laying gently across a palate of blue remind me of the days when I lay in a field during summer staring up at the sky and guessing the shapes which they made.

Through the walls of the house I hear the steady roar of the wind. Through the window of my room I can see the bud encrusted branches being blown about by the same wind. They are at the whim of the wind; soon to grow into the leaves which will provide the beauty and shade of these magnificent trees.
The sunlight this morning is deceiving as the temperature hovers just a degree or two above freezing. Snow showers are in the forecast for this day and for much of the week making the decision not to ride the scooter to work an easy one.
I sit and listen to the quiet, interrupted only by the rhythmic ticking of a nearby clock as it marks each passing second.
Briefly I put down my fountain pen and watch in wonder as Jack’s lungs fill with air and then expel that same breath only to repeat the cycle. His eyes remain closed and he remains fast asleep. I sit with wonder and guess as to the thoughts which gently go through his head.
He appears content with what he has: a full stomach, a dish of fresh, cold water, fresh food, a soft bed and a human who scratches him behind the ears until he makes that sound that signals contentment. Briefly his eyes open. He looks in my direction as if he knows he is crossing my thoughts.
Perhaps we have something to learn from our animal friends about the simplicity of life.


i had an idea in my head, an idea that made it to the pages of my journal. The same place most of my writing begins before it is added to the pages of this blog. The idea is one which I have used in my therapy sessions; with those individuals who feel depressed and anxious and struggle to find “why life is worth living.”

I write frequently in my journal of those things for which I am thankful. These writings, and my journal have helped me avoid burnout over the last 27-years. I refuse to allow my work as a therapist to take me to the dark places where it becomes easy to get lost and difficult to find ones way home.

The nib of a fine fountain pen gliding effortlessly across the page, the trail of ink left behind the metaphor for my thoughts. For in my daily gratitude journal it is things such as this for which I am thankful.

Today, this first day of January, I am thankful for my life, for my ability to run and for the sun which accompanied me on this beautiful day.