Tears of Saint Lawrence


Look up at the night sky tomorrow, and you are spiritually connected to millions of other watchers across the northern latitudes, as well as millions more who have gazed in wonder through eons of recorded time.  

This is the time of the Tears of Saint Lawrence. The Perseids. The thousand points of light that soundlessly rip across the inky heavens each hour of this remarkable night.

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The Value of Grandparents



My youngest grandson, Andrew, arrived on Thursday to spend a week with me in Vieques. He’s the handsome guy in the center.

As much fun as I hope we’ll have in the coming week, playing the role of a grandparent poses its own kind of pressure.

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Death Is Easy


A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . . I was employed by IBM as a speechwriter.

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Citizen of the Planet


Back in May, when I sold my Cape Cod house and took up temporary residence in a small room at my daughter’s house on the Connecticut shoreline, I wrote in my blog post that Paradise is an attitude, not a place.

In that little Connecticut bedroom—no larger than a Trappist monk’s cell—I found expansive emotional freedom from the pressures of home ownership, the calendar, and the clock.

I had not been to Vieques since Hurricane Maria, and I dreaded returning—and seeing firsthand what that wicked witch from the east did to my Caribbean dream house.

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Ripple Effect


A touch can hurt, but it can heal.

It can divide, or unite.

Cause pleasure, or instill pain.

But always, touching causes a ripple effect whose consequences can be far more widespread than our intent or imagining.

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In Harm’s Way


I am writing this blog post as Truman Capote did all his writing—in bed. It’s well before dawn here in Vieques, my island home five miles off Puerto Rico, and we’re under a state of emergency declared by the governor.

I was not here when Hurricane Maria devastated idyllic Caribbean outposts last September. Now, however, I am fewer than twenty-four hours from Puerto Rico’s first cyclonic attack of the 2018 hurricane season.

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What do you call it when you decline any kind of romantic relationship? And give up any prospect of having children and grandchildren? And forgo any ambition of financial security? And relinquish the freedom to choose where you live? And cede the prerogative even to select your own wardrobe? 

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Counterfeit Life


We must be a very stupid species, we humans.

For at least 3,500 years, we’ve been trying to figure out what Truth is.

For example, an estimated 47,000 religious denominations each claims to herald the Truth.

Americans are riven by a level of mutual animosity we haven’t seen since the Civil War, with each side accusing the other of hateful, non-stop lying. Or should it be called the War Between the States? Depends on which side of the Mason-Dixon line you hail from.

Ancient Romans would tell you that Truth is usually found in media res—in the middle of things.

But us? When we cannot agree about Truth, we make it up . . .

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Here's . . . Billy!


My new novel, Billy of the Tulips, was released yesterday by TouchPoint Press. It’s been called “ . . . a realistic depiction of young adulthood and coming of age . . . it’s My Side of the Mountain meets Hoboken, New Jersey.”

Lots of people ask what the book is about, where the idea came from, are the characters based on real people.

Here are some answers . . .

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In the right


You can’t call America a nation anymore, because that word comes from the Latin born and is defined by Oxford as a body of people united by common descent, history, culture, or language.

This was made clear to me last year during Thanksgiving dinner at a friend’s home. As he set the steaming turkey on the table, he issued orders to his two dozen guests—all of us either family or close friends—that we all were so divided over politics that the subject was off-limits for discussion. 

Our societal brokenness smacked me in the face a second time the other day when I got into a political argument with my youngest grandson—over Bernie Sanders, of all things!

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