Stoicism
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“Indian…Moose.”
On his deathbed in Concord, Mass., Henry David Thoreau, drifting in and out of consciousness, muttered two works, “Indian…Moose” and died. His mind had gone to Maine and his adventures in the Great North Woods. I thought of Thoreau on this morning’s run. Lucy and I have made this run up the ridge all but Continue reading
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How best to think.
Cardiff, Ca I was walking the beach this morning when I heard a woman talking behind me. Her voice grew increasingly loud and strained. I turned and saw a runner. She was having a conversation on her phone. A few minutes later another runner passed me. I could hear music leaking from his ear buds. Continue reading
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A Little Recompense.
To paraphrase Tolstoy, we are joyous in the collective, but can only realize sorrow alone. Continue reading
...the house I live in... 