Levity is Good for the Soul. Intelligence is good for the mind. This should soothe both!

Greetings, dear reader! Today thought I’d catch you up on some of Mister Tom Gauld’s latest and greatest. Please visit Tom’s website if you can and give him a little love. You won’t regret it!! ❤️

On the meantime, here are a few laughs.

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #comic #tomguald

2025-07-13 11:30:00

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

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

Path of a Heart

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

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

2025-07-22 12:00:00

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

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.

2025-08-02 11:09:49

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

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

The most convincing lies are the ones we tell ourselves.

There are certain kinds of dishonesty that don't feel like lying.

I tell myself I'm tired when I'm actually disappointed. I call it being busy when I don't want to answer. I say I don't care because caring would require admitting that I do.

It's funny how easily a person can become their own accomplice.

I notice everything. The pause before someone answers. The message that gets shorter. The way a room changes when one particular person walks into it. I notice when I'm being tolerated instead of wanted.

Then I pretend I didn't.

Maybe that's what hypocrisy really is: not believing two opposite things, but believing one thing and behaving as though you believe another.

I want honesty, but I also want the comfort of my excuses.

I want to be understood, but I keep parts of myself deliberately untranslated.

I want people to tell me when I've hurt them, while quietly hoping they'll be too kind to do it.

And maybe everyone does this to some degree. We construct little stories in which we're reasonable, misunderstood, unlucky. The stories aren't always false. That's what makes them dangerous.

A lie is easier to recognize when it has no truth in it.

The harder lies are the ones built around something true.

Yes, I was hurt.

Yes, they were unfair.

Yes, I had reasons.

And yes, I could still have handled it better.

I'm trying to become less interested in being the hero of my own version of events.

Not because I think I'm secretly terrible.

Because I think I'm probably ordinary.

Capable of kindness and selfishness. Generosity and pettiness. Courage and cowardice, sometimes within the same hour.

I'd rather know that about myself than spend my life polishing the mirror until it only reflects what I want to see.

So lately, when I catch myself saying, I don't care, I try to stop.

Usually, I care.

That's the inconvenient part.

That's also the part that feels most honest.

#reflection #writing #music

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

The beauty of finding oneself in the gutter is the unadulterated view of the stars!

Broken-minded, but not a broken spirit.

A dark room alive with night sounds. A whirring refrigerator fan. The dishwasher hums quietly nearby. Something tick ticking. The faucet. – low drip every minute or so.

The leather couch is cool against my cheek when I turn my head. I realize I’ve fallen asleep watching music videos. My wife has long since retired, traipsing through the dream realm. I vaguely remember a kiss in my twilight. Was that a dream? Or were her gently parted, cool lips a goodnight gesture before she shut down our evening, cast the cat into the night air, and went to bed?

I decide it was real—a quiet gesture of love after last night’s emotional storm. We had a long, tense early morning that finally ended in calm and a mutual resolve to keep moving forward. I appreciate that she seems to be celebrating our life rather than regretting it.

I love this couch, but it isn’t made for sleep. It’s a modern affair—long, low, white leather with stilted legs. Italian-made. A quality piece of furniture. But it has three distinct seating cushions built into its very frame. When a 200-pound gorilla curls up on it for a night of television, five hours later he’s aware of two prominent bars subtly pressing into his rib cage and thigh.

It’s time to follow through on the bedtime routine I skipped earlier when I drifted off. Toothbrush and pills, then I’ll roll out my pallet in the studio. First, I need to reclaim my pillows from the dryer. I had to wash them after last night’s disaster with a large bottle of ink.

After two beers spiked with lemon vodka, I thought it wise to unplug something on my bookshelf. In doing so, I unknowingly knocked a large glass bottle of black India ink onto the tile floor—right next to where I sleep these days. In my very relaxed state, I didn’t notice until hours later, when I woke up lying in a pool of something cold, viscous, and everywhere. My pillows, blankets, face, back, shoulders, arms, and chest—everything was soaked in the rich liquid I usually love to draw with.

If you’ve never spilled artist’s ink, you haven’t lived.

Remember The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss? The one where the kids get a spot of something in their mom’s clean house, and the cat’s efforts to clean it only make it worse? I’m convinced spilled ink inspired that book. It never stops spreading. It took over an hour to clean what I could this morning, and most of the day to scrub it from my skin and hair. My pillows will bear the scars of battle until retirement.

Incidentally, isn’t it strange that those two kids in the book were left home alone? I recall being left to my own devices around age ten or eleven. As an adult, that now feels far too young. I shudder remembering the bent proclivities of people like fictional Hubert Hubert and his appetite for innocence.

I called on a woman early this morning in my ministry whose daughters—nine and ten—opened the door alone, explaining their mom was at work and they were home by themselves. I shivered. The house is on a busy thoroughfare, just a block or two from what appears to be a drug den.

Please close and lock that door, girls. And don’t let in any cats, with or without hats.

I fumble in the dark for my phone and check for new messages.

Nothing.

I’m equal parts satisfied and disappointed. I’m glad my friend is safely tucked away in the mountains of the East, waiting for nine hours of sleep and a full day with friends. The family is spending a week volunteer-teaching and preaching somewhere in the east—hillsides, hollows, and curious souls. A world away from Dust Meridian.

I reflect on my own day in the preaching work. We made subtle efforts with a few people, all while trying to avoid heat stroke. This time of year is always a challenge. But it’s a pleasure to be doing something worthwhile together. We were joined by a friend who needs people—a widow of two decades. Her adult daughter recently moved to the Northeast, and it’s been a hard adjustment. I can tell—when we’re together, she chatters constantly. Not in a bad way. She just has no one to tell her stories to.

That’s a theme with the single women in my life, usually older, often widowed: they love to talk. A quick call to check on their well-being often turns into an hour of catching up.

This morning, one story stands out. Her 25-year-old daughter had a crush on a man a few years older. The spark faded fast after he told her that getting coffee is the woman’s job. It sounded one “toots” away from a swat on the backside. So much for that budding romance.

The morning of spiritual conversation was followed by a couple of hours of lawn and building maintenance at the our house of worship, a light lunch, then a nap and a movie (Idiocracy). Evening came too quickly. A friend’s call pulled me away for some emergency counseling—a couple burdened by guilt and regret over past choices. They needed to be reminded that they are not seen for their mistakes, but for their successes.

We all carry so much guilt. And we don’t have to. Of course, letting it go is easier said than done.

I’ve lived a long life convinced of right and wrong. And those truths exist. But lately, I’m learning that survival means doing what’s good for you, not just what someone else says is right.

Be good. Do good works. Don’t beat yourself up if you don’t get it all right all the time.

Back home, my wife started the evening with music videos on YouTube. The first 45 minutes were soundtracks from old films—The Way We Were, Barefoot in the Park, Heartburn, and others. Beautiful songs. Some were new to me.

I finally dozed off during a reel of classic film clips. The last I remember was a scene from Casablanca—Rick coming in to find Sam playing “As Time Goes By,” and ushering him out when he sees her again.

Which brings us here, dear reader. To my reverie on an early Sunday morning in July, the year of our Lord, 2025. 4:38 a.m. CST.

I feel indifferent tonight. I feel hungry. I feel like flying. Maybe it’s just fatigue. Maybe it’s yesterday’s argument.

One way to find out: sleep a few more hours and see if the fire returns—or if it’ll take a few days to relight my zeal.

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

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

Listen or suffer the consequence.

A good name is to be chosen rather than great wealth; to be respected is better than silver and gold.

The rich and the poor have this in common: Jehovah made them both.

The shrewd one sees the danger and conceals himself, but the inexperienced keep right on going and suffer the consequences.

The result of humility and the fear of Jehovah is riches and glory and life.

Thorns and traps are in the crooked man’s path, but whoever values his life keeps far away from them.

Train a boy in the way he should go; even when he grows old he will not depart from it.

The rich one rules the poor, and the borrower is a slave to the lender.

Whoever sows unrighteousness will reap disaster, and the rod of his fury will come to its end.

The generous person will be blessed, for he shares his food with the poor.

Drive away the scornful man, and contention will disappear; disputes and insults will cease.

The one who loves a pure heart and whose speech is gracious will have the king as his friend.

The eyes of Jehovah safeguard knowledge, but He overturns the words of the treacherous.

The lazy one says: “There is a lion outside! I will be killed in the middle of the public square!”

The mouth of wayward women is a deep pit. The one condemned by Jehovah will fall into it.

Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a boy, but the rod of discipline will remove it far from him.

The one defrauding the poor to increase his wealth and the one giving gifts to the rich will end up in poverty.

Incline your ear and listen to the words of the wise, in order to apply your heart to my knowledge, for it is pleasant to keep them deep within you, so that all of them may constantly be on your lips.

For your confidence to be in Jehovah, I am giving you knowledge today.

Have I not already written you, imparting advice and knowledge, to teach you true and reliable words, so that you can return with an accurate report to the one who sent you?

Do not rob the poor man because he is poor, and do not crush the lowly man in the city gate, for Jehovah himself will plead their cause, and he will take the life of those who defraud them.

Do not keep company with a hot-tempered man or get involved with one disposed to rage, so that you never learn his ways and ensnare yourself.

Do not be among those who shake hands in a pledge, who put up security for loans. If you have nothing to pay, your bed will be taken right out from under you!

Do not move an ancient boundary marker that your forefathers put in place.

Have you seen a man skillful at his work? He will stand before kings; he will not stand before common men.

#biblereading #proverbs #reflection #essay #memoir #journal

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper