I was struck this morning by the satellite image of the three storms brewing in the Atlantic Ocean. The National Hurricane Center is predicting an above-average likelihood for storms to hit the east coast this year, making the stretch between North Carolina and Massachusetts as likely to get hit as Florida or the other Gulf Coast states.

Seeing this image reminded me immediately of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It doesn’t take a trained eye to see the similarities.

Some things are timeless, aren’t they? Take away the cell phones and iPads and Facebook and Skype, and you are left with a certain kindred spirit shared with Nature. It’s in us, all the time, waiting to be tapped, accessed, embraced.

Now, I’m fairly sure that Vincent didn’t have some kind of psychical experience with the Hurricane Center, tapping into some yet-to-fly satellites capturing the swirling beauty of the giants in our oceans. No. He probably wasn’t event thinking about hurricanes at all.

But the patterns are apparent in all of nature — the whirls and swirls of the winds, the rains, the energy and spirit running like a meandering current around rocks and banks and all things between.

It’s a universal image, when we stop long enough to see it. Maybe even feel it, too.

School starts up for me on Monday. I resume teaching English 12 Honors after a five-year hiatus, and at times I have let the needs overwhelm me. It is at these times that I feel like it’s me against some other force — time, perhaps. Maybe that won’t-go-away pressure to be perfect all the time.

What will they think if they walk into my room and things don’t look polished and positively sterile?

They’ll probably think that things are as they have always been, for sure.

That’s why I am grateful that I am keeping at least a small channel open in my mind to see the beauty in things like a weather map so that it may serve as a reminder to me, in some way, that I can’t fight or resist; I can only recognize the natural patterns surrounding me, then make a decision about whether to Flow or Go.

That’s all any of us can do. Everything else breeds resistance and resentment, and none of us has the time to waste on such nonsense.

Stop, feel the whirls and swirls around you, and act: Flow or Go?

Suddenly, your life will never be the same. . . .

Your provide a little space in your life, some breathing room, some opportunity for clarity, and the reason why we’re here presents itself….clearly.

I’ve spent most of the weekend NOT running here or there, grading this or that, but rather reading, writing, biking, spending time with old friends, family, and some new friends that I’m looking forward to seeing again soon. As James Taylor offers in his song, “That Lonesome Road,” I’ve taken the time to close my mouth and open my eyes, to cool my head and warm my heart.

The difference between the song and me is that I’m doing it now, before it’s too late.

I was lucky to get through these last few years relatively unscathed. I put my body through unrelenting challenges, and I know that I have suffered for it. I am grateful for the chance to do all that I’ve done, but really–there’s no need to put myself or my body through that kind of punishment ever again.

So I write to you tonight, on a late Sunday evening, with the air conditioner blowing coolly on me to wick away the beads of sweat that had formed on my face. I write to you with a prayer, a wish, a hope that you, too, will slow down. open your eyes, warm your heart, and live genuinely and peacefully. It’s not too late.

I have a lot of work to do in rebooting my health, but I know that it’s possible. Thank God for these moments of clarity.

Now…To stay close to the center and hold on to it–

I’m ready.

Good Sunday, everyone.

A few days ago, I arrived home and was greeted by my screaming son, who wanted to know if I saw the praying mantis outside. I told him that I did not, and just as quickly as he told me all about the green-brown bug standing sentry by the front door. he vanished and resumed playing with his sister.

It wasn’t until we were ready to head out for dinner when he remembered about the bug by the door. He eagerly awaited the chance to run outside and check to see if he was still there. To my surprise, he was.

The praying mantis is such a good subject to photograph because they are amazingly still (much like the great blue heron I shot in yesterday’s post). I did not enlarge this photo at all. He was positioned and poised beautifully, and I felt like I had all the time in the world to get this shot (and a few others, which I will post at another time).

But that’s it, right? Positioned and poised beautifully. Stillness. Taking the time to savor even a few of the many moments in our hectic lives.

On this Sunday, may we all make the time to position ourselves with beautiful poise. The rest of the day may very well be filled with moments enriched with greater love.

I’ve always been fascinated with Chinese characters, and the symbol for Tranquility is one that means a great deal to me.

Quite literally, the symbol depicts male dominance in the Chinese tradition, where the smaller symbol of a man’s “roof” hovers over the symbol for “woman.”

I like the explanation provided in The Spirit of the Chinese Character, by Barbara Aria. She writes, “…[the symbol] has a richer meaning, reflecting the parallel between microcosm and macrocosm. Just as a harmonious relationship between man and woman brings tranquility to the heart, peace comes when universal energies are in harmony—the forceful, creative energy of heaven above, and the gentle, receptive energy of the earth below.”

Growing up in the Chesapeake Bay region, I have lived my life surrounded by the more natural forces of tranquility, as land and water constantly battle for domination among the brackish tributaries of Chesapeake. I know. That sounds so contradictory, doesn’t it? Talking about forces and battles and domination when it comes to tranquility just seems so…unnatural.

Tranquility, though, is rooted in discipline and respect; it is the reward for the efforts put forth to achieve such a balance.

The hard part, of course, is reminding ourselves that the battle to find that balance is well worth the tranquility that follows.

My wife is gifted in the kitchen; she has the patience and natural talent to take somebody’s culinary creation and make it her own. It doesn’t come without a great deal of labor, though. She might spend hours contemplating the right spices—and their exact amounts—to compliment the main ingredient and make the meal just exactly perfect.

After all the hard work is over and we finally sit down at the table to enjoy the meal, we savor the labor and the sweat used to reach such perfection. Tranquility achieved.

Tranquility does not come without that hard work. We all yearn to find that peaceful view atop that faraway mountain or shore when the sun descends into the horizon, leaving us breathless; we forget the labor it took to take the long walk to get there in the first place.

As writers, we face that battle all the time, struggling through drafts and revisions to reach that moment of order where our writing might be considered even marginally close to providing a sense of tranquility for our readers. There’s nothing more comforting than finishing a good story and appreciating that order, that balance. We forget about the struggles the writer went through to achieve such balance.

As individuals, though, we don’t get the opportunity to display our “final drafts” of who we are on a daily basis. We live our lives in draft mode, battling that balance in full view to find those rare moments of tranquility as a result of our hard work to find that balance. Understanding that we are all in “draft mode” striving for that balance, that tranquility, might make us all a little more aware that our friends and loved ones (and even those we struggle with) are not too different from who we are.

We’re all just trying to get it right. We’re all looking for that moment that takes our breath away.

Let’s help each other breathe, so that we may enjoy the tranquility of being breathless.

Thank God for stop lights.

If you are like me, it’s not hard to get caught up in the whirlwind of life, sweeping you off your feet as you try desperately to keep up with family, work, and various social networks—real and virtual—that matter a great deal to you. In fact, we often get swept off our feet without even realizing it—sometimes for months or even years at a time. Our lives seem out of control, a pinball being smacked from bumper to bumper, rolling at unimaginable speeds toward the next event. Sadly, we don’t even know that we need to slow down.

But stop lights. They remind us the importance of seizing 30 seconds of silence to reclaim a fraction of what is most important in our lives. And, perhaps even more important, to take an inventory of the signals we’re sending out to others.

That is, if we choose to slow down.

Yesterday, with a car filled with family, I pulled up to a red light and felt myself wondering autonomously how to use that half-minute. Instinctively, I checked my Blackberry for incoming messages (with my Twitter feeds, there’s always something to read), took a sip of Coke Zero, skipped over a few songs on my iPod playlist, and half-heartedly nodded to something my wife was saying.

Really—I had no idea what she was talking about. I was too busy pushing buttons and making the most of my red-light pit-stop.

Or was I?

My daughter was saying something in the back seat, too. I glanced up into the mirror to give her a reassuring glance and nod, and started to return to my stare at the red light and begin the countdown: five…four….three…

But as I turned to look ahead, I caught a glimpse of my eyes in the rearview mirror. They were insanely intense, creased with crow’s feet with a heavy brow jutting forward in some Neanderthal-like manner.

I didn’t even recognize myself. Worse, I was shocked that I was sharing this face with those whom I loved the most.

Maybe we were all going through the motions a little—they, hopeful that someone would care; me, participating in the physical aspects of conversation; all of us, moving at the speed of light in our own little worlds, ignorant of the other life-pulses around us, just inches away.

I barely had a second to exhale and relax the muscles in my face before the light turned green, and I had to go forward once again. But that time between lights, I thought about the signals I’m sharing with the world when I let the whirlwind sweep me up.

I know this might sound crazy, but the only thing that I regret about the way I behaved during my mother’s funeral two years ago was the signal I was sending out to others at the service as I walked to and from the altar to deliver the eulogy. My face was tense; I remember thinking to myself that the message I was telling others was one of pain, sorrow, intensity.

I wanted to tell them peace, patience, gratitude, love.

At the next stop light, I put my hands in my lap and looked into my wife’s eyes while she talked about paint colors for our bedroom as well as for our daughters’—tea green for ours, a lighter, melon green for theirs. Suddenly, but without her realizing it, I think, her face relaxed a little, and she shared more about painting this weekend despite a hectic schedule.

The tweets could wait, the song was just fine, and my face relaxed.

And this time, when the light turned green, we were all going forward together, despite the whirlwind that nagged and tugged all around us. We can live our busy lives, align with the latest technology, and communicate instantaneously with the virtual masses that wait on the other side of our Blackberries and laptops. But we must also live our lives sharing peace, patience, gratitude, and love every chance we get.

Take the 30-second life check as often as you can, and offer the world the love so desperately sought. You may very well be the red light someone needs to make a change in his or her own wonderful world—a change that will last long after that light turns green.

I agreed with them. How could I argue? It had been a stressful week: club photo shoots, senior superlative voting, teaching at Towson U on Tuesday/Thursday, the end of the quarter approaching, two book projects nearing completion, Lines of Love soaring (such a wondrous thing, that), and my own writing emerging from some inner depth that couldn’t wait a moment more for some light in my daybook.

Throw in a few lacrosse practices, gymnastics sessions, Brownies, birthday parties, and Love and Fishes (all good, mind you–every part of it for my girls)…Yeah, you can see how it all came together in some kind of critical mass situation.

They were right. I was beat, and I needed some kind of retreat, a return to innocence, in the words of Enigma. The weekend seemed quite busy, though, with gymnastics practice Friday evening, and then a long drive to Ocean City for the OC Twisters Beach Party Invitational gymnastics meet. This would be Holland’s last meet before States in mid-April, so it was a big deal.

Trips to Ocean City have always been refreshing for me, a sort of rebooting of the soul in my return to my piscean roots: the water. But I saw little respite with this trip; the meet was Saturday night in a small gym about 20 minutes outside of Ocean City, and we would have little time to enjoy the beach. I just felt like the entire experience would be the antithesis of what I needed. Instead of providing some much-needed R&R like my kids told me I needed, I feared that it would just tease me, being so close to the water with no time to enjoy, especially in the solitude that I crave whenever near the shoreline.

We packed the Jeep and were on the road by 9:45 Saturday morning. A few stops for gas, food, and of course the bathroom breaks for my kids, put us at the Francis Scott Key Family Resort a little after 1 p.m. Check-in wasn’t until 3 p.m., though, and suddenly we found a few hours of free time to head into Ocean City.

We were all so hungry, so we stopped at the Bayside Skillet for a breakfast-for-lunch meal that topped out at $75 (welcome to Ocean City–who says it has to be summertime to blow a lot of cash in mere minutes?). We still had plenty of time to relax before we checked in (and the open-gym time for Holland wasn’t until 6:30), so we headed for the beach. We pulled over on 77th Street right by the dunes, and headed straight for the water.

And there it was, waiting for me as always. True, dependable, devoted, loving, ever-faithful.

The sounds of the waves pushing and pulling the sand along the early spring shore found me first as I made my way along the sandy path, with each side roped off to discourage further erosion of the natural barrier of grasses and sand bars. My heart fell in rhythm with the ebb and the flow of the water’s pulse, and I could not fight it; I could not resist the luring toward the waves as my eyes met the beauty of the outgoing tide. With it went my stress, my tension, all of my worries from a week that suddenly seemed too distant to recall, too distant to worry over.

I stood before the waves, lapping at my feet, sinking in the sand as I succumbed fully to this return to innocence. And it was in those moments of cleansing, of absolute clarity, that I allowed the memories to fill me.

I smiled as the pulse of the ocean was the soundtrack to my experiences along these shores. I remembered vividly the early morning walks before sunrise, the late-night runs with friends, shoes in hand. The solitary moments with guitar, listening to the rhythm of the waves and building a jam around their lead. The many-hundred walks along the cliffs fossiling. The photos, the sketches, the solace.

Just like that–in seconds, all of these experiences returned to me, a collection of memories with the underlying theme of love running through them all. Some of them were from decades ago when I was much younger; others were from our last visit just a year ago October. All of them, though, were pegs in my memories of what has mattered most in my life, all captured through the wonderful and terribly simple art of creating experiences.

These grains of sand that swirled around my feet, as the roar of the ebb-and-flow played on and on, nibbled on my toes like little reminders of the things that give us hope: love, of course, but through the relationships we build with others, or even through greater spirits that guide us along the way. “Plugging in” to the ocean’s life force this weekend recharged me with the energy and focus I need to carry on in this final week before Spring Break, where new and refreshing charges await.

We left the ocean and returned to our motel room, and then proceeded to the Invitational, where Holland placed first All-Around for the second consecutive meet. Then today, before leaving for home, we spent a few hours at Ocean City and then at Assateague, where I somehow transcended the experiences from the previous day. We combed the beach, looking for shells and other sea relics, as an early-afternoon mist enveloped us in its warm, humid cocoon. We felt protected, shielded from the less-than-natural elements that awaited us back home.

These were not experiences to leave on the beach. They joined the other memories within us, and I have no doubt that, on our trip back in a few months, they will resurface and bring us a much-needed warmth and energy to carry us beyond the stresses of day-to-day living.

Before we left the sand and the shells and the pulse of the water’s ebb and flow, I turned to face the waves just once more, close my eyes, and offer thanks for the faith in such memories, as well as for the love of good friends.

When you put the two together, it’s a powerful surge of belief that tomorrow always holds promise–for you, for me, for all of us. <3

I did not know this young, courageous girl, but here in Baltimore, as I get ready for a busy but fun-filled day with my children, I take strength from Haley’s favorite quote.

Today, at 7:59 p.m. EST, marks the beginning of summer solstice, which literally translates to Standing-Still-Sun. It is the longest day of the year and the shortest night. Beginning tomorrow, the days will begin to get shorter and shorter until we reach winter solstice, on December 21, where the sun stands still once again.This is the earliest that summer solstice has occurred in 112 years–or since 1896. In my opinion, it’s the perfect occasion to mark the significance of Haley’s words.In mourning, we pause to reflect, to remember, to celebrate the life of a friend or loved one who has passed away. Our worlds stop, or stand-still, during this time, and we shift our priorities to embrace what we believe to be most important in life.

Thousands of years ago, individuals used to do the same thing during the solstice, where they would stop and take stock of the things they may have taken for granted or neglected. This is especially true during winter solstice, when in BCE times, individuals believed that the Gods were so angry with them that they decided to take away their sun. It wasn’t until a few days after winter solstice (around the 25th of December) that they realized that light was returning (the days were getting noticeably longer), and the celebration began that, once again, the Gods forgave them for all that they had neglected and taken for granted.

So maybe today–tonight especially–is the right time for us to take Haley’s words to heart. As the sun-stands-still at 7:59 p.m., maybe we can make those personal resolutions to get up and resume making our footsteps in history.

It doesn’t matter how you do it. A call to a nephew, a visit with Dad, even a return to a memoir piece you started years ago. Whatever it is, get up. Don’t let the sun go down on you. Take some steps. Make some history.

LIVE. LOVE. GROW.

(picture taken at Loch Raven Reservoir, 6/19/08, as my children fed bread to the Canadian geese)

All else, though, applies. Me -n- my Mac, we’re Puttin’ on the Ritz.

Here’s the background: I bought my G4 Titanium Powerbook at the end of the first week in October of 2001. It was a brisk autumn afternoon, and I remember leaving with my new Powerbook, clutching it as if it were the baby that would be born to us just two weeks later.

Madelyn just turned six, and as she now dances ever-so freely and innocently in this early evening, this eve before we finally turn our clocks back an hour, I write this entry on my Powerbook, a loved and worn friend resembling the Velveteen Rabbit more than anything else. The sound doesn’t work, the cd drive is cracked but usable, the firewire port is no longer on fire, and the battery has long since overheated and sports black singed marks where it just couldn’t give anymore.

It includes a 10-gig hard drive (stop that snickering!). Yet, I have successfully resuscitated it with a gig and a half to spare. I’ve got my essential software loaded, and a core 37 songs on iTunes that, when I twist the earbuds just right, I can hear Dylan, Zep, and Jerry G reminding me that the music never stops, and every little thing’s gonna be all right.

I just ordered the brand new battery pack, the one that I should have received for free when the recalls went out years ago. I saved nearly $50 on eBay (reliable seller; otherwise, I would have never taken the chance), and it should be here by Wednesday.

I’ve priced portable external hard drives, and i can get a fine 120-gig Iomega portable drive for $129, which I’ll get in the next week or so. It’s got a USB drive, so I don’t have to worry about the fire-less firewire…

This, I hope, will last until Madelyn begins 1st grade next August, when I’ll have the money to get my new Powerbook.

But that will be a bittersweet moment for me. It will be nice to have all the new technology, the DVD-R drive, the 17-inch laptop screen, and all the speed and space I’ll ever need to write and design. What I will mourn, though, is the passing of this old laptop, my friend, my brother-at-my-side since before my daughter was born. We have been through over 75 original pieces of writing that have found their way in print, and countless other ideas that continue to develop on and off this screen. We have spent marathon writing sessions in myriad coffee houses and cafes, learned of breaking news–both good and horrific–as it developed online, and of course, shared my life as it unfolded as well with all of you in this blog.

I hope my laptop, my friend, holds up until next August. He is as a part of my muse as my daybook, and I look forward to this Swan Song Run for the next 10 months as I work on another book, share my life with you, and celebrate life as I’ve never celebrated it before.

I have wonderful memories of my mother reading this book to me before I had learned to read. I remember asking her to read it over and over again so I could memorize the text that went along with the pictures. I wish I still had my copy of this book. I am sure that it was nothing more than a book-of-the-month knock off (it was originally published in 1948), but that wouldn’t matter to me. Just having that copy that my mother and I shared every night would be one of those silly priceless things I’d keep on my bookshelf.

We decided to take a ride up to Shaw Orchard just over the Maryland/Pennsylvania border. It’s nearing the end of blueberry picking season, and we wanted to get in our annual harvest before it was too late.

The weather could not have been better. It had just rained, and the temperature was a cool 71 degrees. The wind waved across the endless fields of corn and soy beans as we picked nearly 9 pounds of blueberries.

As we were in the fields, though, there was plenty of time to reflect about the stories my mom used to read to me, the times we would spend picking all kinds of fruits and vegetables at similar farms throughout the state, and the quiet times we would share at our cabin in River Hills, PA.

Tonight, we ate fresh corn and string beans (marinated in olive oil, garlic, and a pinch of salt), jasmine rice with a fresh homemade roasted tomato spread, and of course, blueberries. We finished the meal with a homemade peach cobbler pie. Everything but the rice came from Shaw Orchard…we could not have had a better fresh meal on a cool summer’s night.

But still, the memories linger of time spent with Mom. I miss her greatly.