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After spending the night in the desert south and east of Yerington, I packed up my camp and set out further down in the same direction. It was one of those mornings where the air felt thin, clean, and just cool enough to make you glad you’d packed an extra shirt.

The desert can be cruel, no doubt about it, but it can also lull you into thinking it’s your friend. That’s what makes it dangerous, its shifting moods, its way of hiding things in plain sight.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just stretching my legs, letting the stillness of the wide-open spaces do its work on me. Folks will tell you there’s nothing out there but sagebrush, jackrabbits, and dust devils.

But anyone who’s lived in Nevada knows that isn’t quite true. There’s a weight to that land, like it’s carrying secrets older than the people who walk across it.

And if you wander far enough, sometimes those secrets start looking back.

From the top of a rise, I spotted what I thought was a man.

Too far away to make out a face, but his outline was human enough. He stood there, upright, still as stone.

I stopped, gave a wave just to be polite, and he lifted his head like he’d seen me, too. But he didn’t wave back, and he didn’t take a step in my direction. Just stood there, looking.

Now, most folks you meet in the desert are either lost, broke down, or friendly enough to swap a little water and conversation. So when a man doesn’t move, doesn’t holler back, it sets a tickle of unease in your gut.

I told myself it was nothing and kept going forward, downhill into a wash that cut through the scrub. Every so often, I’d glance up and see the figure again on the ridge.

Still there. Still staring.

It wasn’t until the sun shifted higher that I realized something strange. What I’d first taken for clothes wasn’t fabric at all.

It was paint, blue, smeared across his chest and arms, stark against the desert sand. His face came into view next, though calling it a face doesn’t sit quite right.

He was wearing an animal skull, long and narrow. The same blue paint streaked across the bone, glowing faintly like it held its own light.

I stopped dead in my tracks, trying to decide whether I should be afraid or laugh it off as some eccentric out there playing shaman in the desert. People get up to all sorts of strange rituals when nobody’s around to watch.

But something in my bones told me this wasn’t just eccentricity. The way he tilted his head, the stillness of his stance, it was wrong. Not human wrong, but like an echo that doesn’t line up with the shout.

Then he leaned forward, and before I could blink, he started quick-walking at me. He wasn’t running exactly, but moving fast, with a kind of deliberate, jerky momentum that closed the distance faster than I liked.

My gut clenched, and I did what any man with sense would do, backed up a step, then turned downhill and started running.

The ground wasn’t kind. Loose gravel and hidden holes waited for my boots.

I could hear him behind me, not the sound of footsteps exactly, but the scrape of something unnatural on the earth. It reminded me of bones dragging across rock. Every time I risked a glance, he was closer, the skull face bobbing up and down, the blue paint catching the sun like fire.

Then my boot caught on a rock, and I went tumbling, rolling five times over before coming up hard on my side. The air left my lungs in a rush.

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move. My hands scrabbled in the dirt, looking for anything to hold, anything to fight with, because I could feel it nearly on top of me.

That’s when my fingers closed around something smooth and solid. I lifted it and saw I’d grabbed a single deer antler, sun-bleached and half-buried in the sand.

Maybe it was luck, or it was the desert handing me a weapon. Either way, I had no time to think.

As I pulled myself to my feet, he was already springing. Not running, not lunging, springing, like a mountain lion that had been crouching for the kill. That skull face bore down on me, blue streaks and all, and I raised the antler without thinking, bracing it like a spear.

He landed right on it, the point driving into his solar plex, but instead of the thud of flesh meeting bone, there was nothing, nothing but a sharp hiss and a sudden burst of blue mist. He vanished, dissolved into smoke that curled around me, cool and damp against my skin.

The antler dropped from my hands, clattering on the rocks. When I looked down, there was nothing. Not a footprint, not a drop of blood, not even a shard of paint.

I stood there shaking, trying to catch my breath, waiting for the thing to reform, for the nightmare to continue. But the desert was silent again.

The only sound was the wind moving through the sage. My heart was beating so loud I could feel it in my ears.

Some part of me wanted to stay, to look around, to make sense of what I’d just seen. Another part, the wiser, louder part, said no.

No answers out here, just more questions. And I didn’t care to be around when the blue walker decided to try again.

So I turned and marched as steady as I could back to my truck. I didn’t run.

I wanted to. But I forced myself not to, like a man walking out of a poker game with his last dime still in his pocket, afraid that if he moved too quickly the whole sky would fall on him.

By the time I reached the truck, the sun was high and hot, the kind of heat that makes the hood of a car shimmer. I tossed my gear in the back, climbed in, and sat there with my hands on the steering wheel, staring at nothing.

The antler, I’d left it behind. I couldn’t say why, except it didn’t feel like mine to take.

I drove home, dust trailing behind me, not stopping till I hit pavement again. And though the day passed and the night came, I couldn’t shake the image of that skull-faced figure, painted blue and walking fast, too fast, across the desert.

Now, you can chalk this up to heatstroke, or imagination, or some desert hermit who vanished into the sage. Maybe that’s all it was.

But I’ll tell you what I know. I’ve spent plenty of nights under the Nevada sky, and I’ve seen coyotes circle, mountain lions prowl, and lightning strike dry earth so hard it split.

But I’ve never seen anything like that blue-painted walker. And I’ve never gone camping in that stretch of desert again.

Some places ain’t meant for tents and campfires. Some belong to older stories, and if you’re smart, you acknowledge them, respect them, and pass right on by.

If Jesus taught us nothing else, He taught the need to forgive those who have offended you. That’s easy to nod along to on a Sunday morning, but try it on a Tuesday afternoon after someone cuts you off in traffic, and you’ll find it takes more muscle than a gym membership provides.

Forgiveness, as I’ve learned, doesn’t come naturally. Anger does.

Anger is easy. It shows up with its boots on and its fists clenched, ready to move in and rearrange the furniture of your peace.

Forgiveness, on the other hand, is like that quiet neighbor who only knocks when you’ve invited him over. You’ve got to open the door and let him in, and sometimes he stands there waiting longer than you’d like.

I once heard somebody say that holding a grudge is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies. I thought that was a bit dramatic, until I realized how many times I’ve let some small slight stew in my stomach like bad chili. The other person goes on about their day, whistling, while I’m chewing nails and wondering why my blood pressure is high.

There was a fellow I worked with years ago who seemed to make it his life’s mission to get under my skin. He had a gift for it.

If sarcasm were an Olympic sport, he’d have been on the podium with both hands raised. One day, he cracked a joke at my expense in front of a group. It was nothing terrible—just enough to make me feel two inches tall. I stewed on it all night, planning how I’d come back at him the next day.

Then something hit me—probably indigestion from the chili, but maybe something more. I realized that if I spent all my energy plotting revenge, the dude had already won.

I’d be lugging around a backpack full of resentment, while he skipped along without a care. So the next day, I walked into work, looked him square in the eye, and told him I forgave him.

He blinked like I’d just spoken in Martian. Then he laughed and said, “For what?”

That’s when it dawned on me–half the time, people don’t even realize they’ve offended us. We’re carrying grudges over things they’ve long forgotten—or never noticed in the first place.

Forgiveness isn’t for them, it’s for us. It’s the pressure valve that keeps us from blowing a gasket.

Now, I don’t want to make it sound like I float around forgiving everyone like some halo-polishing saint. I still wrestle with it.

Just the other day, someone cut in front of me at the grocery store checkout line with a cart piled high enough to block satellite signals. My first instinct was to ram their ankles with my cart.

But instead, I took a deep breath and said, “Go ahead. Looks like you’ve got enough to feed a small country.”

The woman laughed, the cashier laughed, and suddenly I wasn’t angry anymore. Humor, I’ve found, is a close cousin to forgiveness. It takes the sting out of being wronged and turns it into a story you can retell later with a smile.

The truth is, forgiveness is hard because our pride is stubborn. Pride says, “They don’t deserve it.”

But forgiveness doesn’t ask what the other person deserves. It asks, “Do you want to keep lugging that heavy grudge around, or do you want to walk a little lighter?”

I’ve lived long enough to know that walking lighter feels better. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting.

It doesn’t mean letting someone run you over repeatedly. It means putting down the poison cup, setting aside the bitterness, and choosing peace instead.

So yes, forgiveness ain’t for sissies. It takes strength, grit, and more than a bit of humor, but once you get the hang of it, you’ll find it’s the best workout your heart will ever get.

I’ve seen folks walk around acting like everyone owes them an apology. They’ll strut through life pointing fingers and finding fault in others, never realizing they’re the common denominator in their own misfortunes.

It’s like watching a man play Russian roulette with a mirror. He might not hear the gun go off, but you can bet the damage will show up sooner or later.

Back when I was working the feed store, there was a fella named George who thought he was God’s gift to agriculture and common sense. He’d tell anyone within earshot how smart he was, how he had the best yields, and how the rest of us were a few kernels short of a cob. He’d puff up like a bullfrog on a summer night, croaking about how others didn’t get it.

Now, George had one bad habit. He never looked inward.

When his tractor broke down, it was the mechanic’s fault. When his crops failed, it was the seed company’s fault.

When his wife finally packed up and left, somehow it was her fault too. The man lived in a world where he was always the victim and never the cause.

One day, George came storming into the store madder than a wet hen. He slammed a bag of feed on the counter and declared it was “defective.” He said his hogs wouldn’t eat it. I told him the batch had gone to three other farms without issue. He glared at me, snorted, and left with his pride as inflated as ever.

A few weeks later, word came around that George’s hogs were sick. It turned out, he’d been storing the feed too close to a leaky diesel tank.

The fumes had spoiled it. Nobody had done him wrong. He’d done it to himself.

He never came in after that. Moved out of town, they said.

Probably went somewhere new to find a fresh crowd that didn’t know his history. But I’ve always figured that no matter where you go, your shadow follows you, especially the one cast by your own ego.

See, a lack of self-awareness ain’t harmless. It’s not just a character flaw, it’s a slow, loaded kind of danger. It makes a person pull the trigger on their own happiness and then blame the recoil on someone else.

Life gives us plenty of mirrors, friends, family, and strangers, who show us the truth even when we don’t want to hear it. The trick is learning to look without flinching.

Because the moment you stop being honest with yourself, you might as well be standing in front of that mirror, revolver in hand, telling the reflection it’s someone else’s fault that you’re out of luck. The click you hear after that ain’t the hammer falling, it’s the sound of opportunity walking out the door.

I’ve heard it said that four things don’t really exist: luck, fate, coincidence, and common sense. Now, I know what you’re thinking, you’ve been leaning on at least two of those your whole life. But hear me out, because it’s not as far-fetched as it sounds.

Luck? People like to dress it up as the reason they win the raffle or find a twenty-dollar bill in the grocery store parking lot. But the truth is, someone else lost that bill, and someone else bought those raffle tickets that didn’t win. It’s less about luck, more about timing and showing up.

Fate? That’s just a word we throw around when things happen that we can’t explain. A flat tire, a sudden meeting, or marrying the girl who borrowed your pencil in high school.

We like to think it was all scripted, but in reality, it’s just life unfolding. There’s no curtain call, no stage directions, just us stumbling along.

Coincidence? That’s the twin cousin of fate.

Running into an old friend at the airport or discovering that your new neighbor is your dentist’s brother-in-law may feel like a coincidence, but it can often seem more meaningful than that. But isn’t it proof that our world is smaller than we admit?

Now, common sense, ah, there’s the slippery one. Folks talk about it as if it’s a basic ingredient in human soup, like carrots or potatoes. Trouble is, everyone thinks they’ve got a big helping, but when the pot’s stirred, there’s not enough to go around. That’s because common sense isn’t common at all. It’s learned, practiced, sharpened, and sometimes ignored altogether.

Out of the four, it’s the only one we can change.

I’ll give you an example. The other day at the hardware store, a fellow was trying to wedge a brand-new barbecue grill into the back seat of his sedan. He pushed from one end, his wife pulled from the other, and the box was wedged tighter than a cork in a wine bottle. I walked up and said, “Friend, it’ll fit a whole lot easier in the trunk.” He looked at me, then at the trunk, then back at the grill. Finally, he chuckled and said, “Guess that’s common sense.”

But was it? Or was it just another set of eyes with a different angle? That’s the thing, we don’t come prepackaged with it. We build it, bit by bit, from mistakes, laughter, and the occasional neighbor pointing out the obvious.

If you’re waiting for luck to bail you out, you’ll wait a long time. If you’re leaning on fate, you’re just handing over your choices. And if you’re counting on coincidence, well, you’ll be standing around at airports hoping lightning strikes twice. But if you decide to add a little common sense to your toolkit, life shifts. Problems shrink, doors open, and sometimes, you even save a marriage from ending in a parking lot argument over a barbecue grill.

That’s why I say the other three don’t matter much. Luck, fate, and coincidence are just fancy names for things we can’t explain. Common sense, though, is that one’s alive, breathing, and ready to grow if we let it.

So the next time you hear someone say, “Well, that was lucky,” or “I guess it was fate,” or “What a coincidence,” smile politely. But know the truth: the only thing you can actually count on, and change, is your own measure of common sense. And if you’ve got just enough of that, you’ll find you don’t need the other three anyway.

Forget the endless debate about whether the glass is half-full or half-empty. That’s not my problem.

My problem is: Where the dickens is my glass?

See, I’m not the sort who goes around philosophizing over water levels. I’m more the type who sets a glass down and then spends the next half-hour retracing steps like Sherlock Holmes, only without the pipe, the hat, or the confidence. By the time I find it, I’ve usually poured myself another one, which explains why we own more glasses than any two sane people should.

It’s not that I’m forgetful. Well, maybe it is.

But I like to think of it as “living in the moment.” Unfortunately, my moments don’t always talk to each other. So one moment I’m sipping iced tea in the living room, and the next I’m hammering something in the garage, wondering why my throat’s dry and why I feel like I misplaced a small part of my life.

It is where the glass comes in. It’s always somewhere.

Sometimes in plain sight, hiding behind a newspaper, or sitting next to the remote, I also couldn’t find five minutes ago. The real trick isn’t whether it’s half-full or half-empty; it’s whether I can locate it before the dog knocks it over.

And speaking of the dog, I swear he knows. Buddy’ll sit there wagging his tail, watching me circle the house like a man on a mission. If he could talk, he’d probably say, “It’s on the porch, genius. Right where you left it when you thought you heard the mailman.”

But he grins that canine grin, because he knows I’ll figure it out eventually.

Now, life is less about how you see the glass and more about remembering you’ve got one in the first place. It’s easy to get wrapped up in big-picture questions, hope versus despair, optimism versus pessimism, but most of us are really just trying to keep track of our own simple stuff without losing it in the shuffle.

And isn’t that the way it usually goes? We’re busy worrying about things that might never happen, as the glass, our small, practical needs, sits ignored on the porch rail, or worse, the dog’s already had his nose in it, which is another reason I keep pouring new ones.

I’ve learned to laugh about it, because what’s the alternative? If I get mad every time I lose track of a glass, I’d never have time for anything else.

Besides, losing track of things is proof I’m at least doing something. You can’t misplace a glass if you’re sitting still all day, as movement means life, and life is messy.

So, the real question isn’t about half-full or half-empty at all. It’s about: Are you still looking for your glass?

Are you still curious enough, active enough, hopeful enough to go searching for what you’ve misplaced? Because if you are, you’re doing just fine.

Sure, I’d love to be the kind of guy who sets his glass down neatly on a coaster and remembers it every time, but that’s not me. I’m the guy who finds yesterday’s beer by the lawnmower, shrugs, and says, “Well, at least I found it.”

So the next time someone asks whether you see the glass as half-full or half-empty, feel free to smile and say, “Neither. I see it as missing in action, but I’ll find it. I always do.”

And let’s be honest, no one ever won the meaning-of-life debate with a parched throat.

A thin frost had crept down the trail overnight, laying a pale glaze across the high country. In a meadow fed by the slow seep of a nearby creek, the earth had swelled into frost boils, the mud rising and splitting as if the ground itself were drawing breath.

Just beyond, in a north-facing copse where sunlight rarely lingers, the porous soil still held the soft imprints of mule deer hooves. Frost crystals clung to the sedge like scattered shards of glass, and the once-bright shooting-star blossoms, now bowed and withered, sagged on their stems in a quiet surrender to the season.

A fat marmot, already drowsy from the impulse to hibernate, whistled its disapproval at our approaching horses and then waddled slowly into its rock burrow. If you’ve never had a marmot yell at you, I’ll tell you this—it’s like being scolded by an overfed uncle who thinks the chair you’re about to sit in belongs exclusively to him.

Ty, who was riding just ahead of me, pulled his horse to a stop and turned in the saddle with that half-smile he used when something amused him more than it should have.

“Guess we woke him up,” he said.

“Looks like he’s been awake plenty,” I replied, taking note of the marmot’s rolling belly. “That fella’s carrying two lunches, maybe three.”

The marmot, now tucked into the shadows of his hole, let out another shrill whistle, as if to tell us that our humor was unnecessary. I could’ve sworn I heard him mutter, “Get off my lawn.”

We moved on, our horses’ hooves crunching frost that crackled like breaking glass. The air was thin and sharp enough to remind me that summer was no longer in charge. Even though the sun hung bright in the blue Sierra sky, it couldn’t quite push back the bite of the season sneaking in.

I’ve long believed that nature has a way of keeping us honest. When a fat marmot complains at you, when your fingers go numb even though the sun is shining, when the trail beneath you shifts from dust to ice in the span of a half-hour’s ride—you’re reminded that you’re not in charge of as much as you think.

That lesson has carried me through more than the high country.

Ty and I rode on in silence for a while, except for the occasional clink of a stirrup or snort from the pack mules behind us. I found myself thinking about how much of life boils down to whether you see a whistle-blowing marmot as a nuisance or a gift.

For some, it’s just noise–an animal being cranky because you crossed its path. For others, it’s comic relief, a reminder that the world is still full of characters, even when they come in fur. And for a few—and I’d like to count myself among them—it’s a kind of sermon, short and sharp–don’t get so full of yourself that you forget where you are.

I don’t need a pulpit when a marmot can handle the job.

At one point, Ty cleared his throat and said, “That marmot’s smarter than us.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “He knows when it’s time to hole up. He’s got food stored, a bed ready, and he’s not about to climb another mountain pass for no reason. Meanwhile, we’re out here hauling mule strings over granite because…”

He paused and raised an eyebrow. “…why, again?”

I laughed. “Because we said yes to something that sounded like a good idea in July, when the air was warm and the mosquitoes were the only ones giving us trouble.”

He nodded. “Yep. And now it’s September, and we’re wishing we were marmots.”

It’s hard to argue with logic like that.

The truth is, most of us could stand to live a little more like marmots. Not the eating-yourself-silly part, although I can’t say I haven’t attempted that on Thanksgiving. I mean the preparedness, the acceptance that seasons change, and you’d better have a plan for it.

We human beings spend a lot of time pretending frost won’t come, that the blossoms won’t sag, that the trail won’t ice up. Then we act surprised when life tells us otherwise.

We push back against change like it’s a personal insult, rather than a natural fact. Meanwhile, the marmot shrugs, whistles, and waddles into its hole, ready for whatever winter tosses its way.

By the time we crested a ridge and looked down over another stretch of canyon, the sun had started its slow slide west. Shadows stretched long, painting the granite in silver and blue. The mules plodded, unbothered by philosophy or frost, focused only on the steady rhythm of the trail.

I thought again of that marmot—chubby, annoyed, but wise in his own way. He didn’t need us to understand him.

He just needed to tell us off and get back to his preparations. There’s a kind of freedom in that–do what you need to do, say your piece, then duck into your burrow and rest easy.

That’s a lesson I’m still learning. Too often, I find myself wasting breath trying to convince someone of something, or carrying more weight than I need to, or fighting against a season that’s already arrived. The marmot doesn’t do that as it knows when to save its energy.

When we finally stopped to make camp, Ty leaned back on his bedroll, looked up at the first stars, and said, “If I had half the marmot’s sense, I’d be asleep already.”

I chuckled. “And if you had half his belly, I’d roll you down the hill to get you moving.”

He grinned, eyes already closing. “Fair enough.”

The fire popped. The night cooled fast, the kind of chill that sneaks into your bones if you sit still too long. I pulled my blanket tight and thought of frost crystals on meadow sedge, of hoofprints frozen in mud, of blossoms sagging but still holding onto their stems. Beauty doesn’t vanish just because the season changes—it shifts, it teaches, it reminds.

That marmot may never know it, but he handed me a sermon worth carrying: accept the season, do your work, and when the time comes, don’t be afraid to rest.

We spend our lives rushing through summers, complaining through winters, and acting like spring and fall are interruptions. But I’ll tell you, fall in the high country is no interruption. It’s the season that tells you the truth straight: nothing lasts forever, so notice it while you can.

The frost on the meadow, the shriveled blossoms, the cranky marmot—they’re all reminders that life is short, but it’s also layered, textured, and sometimes downright funny if you let it be.

So next time a marmot whistles at you, don’t just take it as noise. Hear it for what it is: a warning, a joke, and a bit of advice rolled into one. After all, if a fat rodent in the Sierra can keep his priorities straight, maybe we can too.

There’s a little country store down the road where men still sit on the porch, whittling away time and the occasional piece of cedar. The screen door squeaks when you pull it open, and the bell above it jingles like a reminder that civilization hasn’t completely forgotten where it came from.

Most mornings, if you stop by early enough, you’ll find Earl, Clyde, and Miss Hazel, yes, Miss Hazel, solving the world’s problems before the coffee even cools. Earl’s the talker, Clyde’s the listener, and Hazel’s the one who usually turns out right in the end.

Now, last Tuesday, the talk turned to the upcoming town meeting about whether to put a four-way stop at the crossroads by Miller’s pasture. Someone had started one of those online polls asking folks what they thought.

By lunchtime, everyone from here to the county line had voted on it, even folks who hadn’t driven through that intersection since the Reagan years.

“Reckon we’ll just see what the numbers say,” Clyde muttered, blowing steam off his coffee.

Hazel shook her head, like a mother hen disappointed in her brood.

“Numbers don’t drive that road,” she said. “People do. And most of the people voting don’t even know there’s a blind curve behind Miller’s sycamore tree.”

Earl nodded, whittling another curl of cedar to the pile at his boots.

“That’s the trouble with polling data,” he said. “It tells you what folks think they know, not what they’ve actually seen.”

The conversation drifted on from there, how the world gotten used to asking strangers what they should think instead of using their own good sense. Everyone’s carrying around a supercomputer in their pocket, yet half the time they can’t decide what to eat without a dozen opinions and three reviews.

Hazel finally stood up, dusted biscuit crumbs off her apron, and said, “Sound decisions come from reasonable knowledge, not from a crowd hollerin’ ‘aye’ or ‘nay.’”

Then she pointed a finger at Clyde, “You’ve seen near misses at that crossing, haven’t you?”

He nodded, “Two in the last month.”

“And Earl, didn’t you say that big oak limb hangs low enough to block a driver’s view?”

“Sure does.”

“Then what do we need a poll for?” she said. “We already know the truth. The stop sign’s needed, and no percentage bar or pie chart is gonna tell us otherwise.”

She climbed into her old Ford and drove off toward the meeting, leaving the men in a cloud of common sense and dust.

That night, the town voted to put up the sign, unanimously, not because of data, but because Hazel stood there, steady as a fencepost, and told the truth plain.

Funny thing, folks quit checking the online poll after that. When reason comes into play, numbers tend to lose their impact.

The moment I said it out loud, “God, I’m falling apart,” I expected a lightning bolt, a choir, maybe a strongly worded email. The house stayed quiet except for the old clock ticking.

“Falling apart?” came the answer, not in trumpet fanfare but from that creaky place inside me that still liked to use the word ‘why.’ “You mean breaking down.”

“Same thing,” I said. “I’ve got pieces. Buttons, promises, plans with missing screws. I need help. Can you put me back together?”

The reply was gentle and amused, like someone who had seen my model before: “I would rather not.”

“Why?”

“Because you aren’t a puzzle.”

The truth annoyed me in the frank way truths do. “But look at all the pieces on the floor.”

“Let them stay there for a while,” the voice said. “They fell off for a reason.”

They’d clattered out like cards. I crouched and nudged a few shards.

Some were glitter and confession, some were spare keys and a tiny bulb marked ‘hope.’ A few were actually useful: a list of friends, the receipt from a day that made me laugh.

“You don’t get it,” I said. “I’m breaking down.”

“No,” the voice corrected me. “You are breaking through.”

Breaking through sounded odd at first. “Growing pains?” I offered.

“Exactly. You’re shedding parts that didn’t fit. They kept you safe once, like padding in a too-tight coat. But now you’re being measured for something better.”

I pictured myself in a cloak of duct tape and labels that read: ‘comfort,’ ‘habit,’ ‘fear.’ I pulled one off, and it left a tacky smell.

It felt messy at first. “So when I let them fall,” I asked, “what’s left of me?”

“Only the very best pieces,” the voice said. “The bits made for light and love and useful courage.”

Courage was a battered lunchbox, dented but useful. Humor is a bandage. Hope is a pocket you can put your hands in.

“I’m scared,” I admitted. “I like the old things. Even the bad ones are known.”

“You aren’t changing,” the voice corrected. “You are becoming.”

There’s a difference between changing your shirt and growing into your skin. Becoming sounds right. “Becoming who?” I asked.

“Who I made you to be,” the voice said. “A person of mercy, curiosity.”

A laugh escaped me. “So I’m not broken?”

“No,” the voice said. “You’re breaking like the dawn. A new day takes time to spill its light. Let the pieces fall. Pick the ones that fit. The rest are not yours to carry.”

Outside, a truck rumbled, and my neighbor’s dog barked. My neighbor, who clips her hedges with the accuracy of a surgeon and the gossip of a podcaster, waved as I shuffled past.

“You look like you lost a few screws,” she said.

“Just re-work,” I answered. “Or at least trying to.”

She smiled.

Ordinary help is the whole point for the big stuff. You don’t always need a mechanic. You need a neighbor who brings coffee, or a friend who tells the truth.

I stood there a moment longer, breathing, sorting, feeling like a person who’d misplaced himself in the couch cushions and found a dollar and an old photograph while looking. It’s not fixing. It involves careful assembly, choosing what to keep, and allowing the rest to fall away, where it can perhaps find its own path.

“Become,” the voice whispered. “Become.”

Most women want a little reassurance. I’ve spent a lifetime discovering this. And I’ve spent an equal lifetime occasionally ignoring it, usually to my own regret.

It happened again last Thursday. We were at a neighborhood block party, which is always a mix of good food, bad guitar playing, and the kind of small talk that makes you long for your recliner at home. I’d just stepped away from the punch bowl when I spotted my wife across the yard.

She is one of those women who radiates calm, until she doesn’t. “Oh, you wanna see crazy?” she asked, like it was a casual invitation.

Oops! She must have heard me telling Joe that sometimes I’m not sure if it is me or her, “But sometimes she’s a little crazy from minute to minute.”

Now, in my younger days, I might have leaned in. Curiosity is a dangerous thing, especially when it comes wrapped in the word “crazy,” but by now, experience had taught me better.

Most women want a little reassurance, so I smiled, because smiling is safer than explaining anything. “Nope,” I said. “Not today.”

That, apparently, was the correct answer. My wife’s expression softened.

She patted my arm, gently, but with that unmistakable “you just survived a minefield” acknowledgment, and walked off to talk to someone else. Crisis avoided.

It’s funny, the things you learn over the years. When I was younger, I thought women wanted to be impressed.

It turns out, most women want to know you can handle yourself, and them, without losing your mind, or theirs.

Later, I ran into my wife again at the snack table. She was juggling a plate of chips, a soda, and a chocolate éclair. I offered to hold one of her items. She raised an eyebrow and gave me a little smirk.

“You think I’m crazy?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said.

“Smart man,” she replied.

And then she handed me the éclair, which, as it turns out, is a very clever way to test a man’s composure. Eating an éclair gracefully while standing awkwardly in a backyard full of neighbors is a skill I did not know I had, but I managed it, because sometimes reassurance isn’t verbal–it’s being steady and not losing your balance when life hands you a chocolate pastery.

By the end of the evening, I was sitting on the curb with my plate of leftovers, watching the neighborhood kids run through the sprinklers. Someone kicked a soccer ball into my lap.

A man from two houses over muttered something about chaotic energy. I just smiled and handed the ball back, because in life, sometimes the best way to survive crazy is to treat it politely and let it move along.

I realized then that reassurance isn’t about grand gestures or poetic speeches. It’s small things, like holding a plate, or eating an éclair without making a mess, admitting, “I don’t wanna see crazy today.”

It’s noticing the little storms without stepping into them unnecessarily, and letting people know you see them, but you don’t have to be part of every tempest.

I’m calling it a win: I got up to pee three times, but fell asleep on the throne once, so it only felt like twice.

At this stage in life, victories don’t look like championship rings or ticker-tape parades. It seems like they could use some extra sleep in between bathroom trips.

And, in my book, falling asleep on the porcelain seat qualifies as bonus rest. Sure, the ergonomics are questionable, and the décor is a bit undesired, but your body takes what it can get, and you learn to applaud it.

The whole business of nighttime visits is a mystery no one warned us about. When I was younger, I could down a soda before bed, sleep eight hours straight, and wake up feeling like I could run a mile.

Now, one glass of water after dinner is enough to set the internal alarm system into a fire drill. The bladder, once a loyal companion, has turned into that needy friend who texts at all hours, “Hey, you up? We need to talk.”

Trip number one always comes right after I’ve drifted into my best dream. You know the kind—flying over rooftops, or fishing in a mountain stream where the trout practically leap into your lap. Then—bam!—nature calls, and I shuffle to the commode with my eyes half-shut, hoping muscle memory knows the way.

Trip number two usually sneaks up just as I’m warming back into the sheets. The dog sighs. The floorboards creak like an old ship, and I think to myself, this is the midnight voyage no one asked for.

Trip number three is where the magic happened last night. Somewhere between sitting down and standing up, my brain hit the snooze button.

Next thing I know, I wake up, chin on chest, arms folded, like a king slumped on his throne after a long banquet. The bathroom nightlight was still on, the fan humming like a lullaby.

Some people might consider that a loss of dignity. Not me.

I count it as gained efficiency. Why waste the effort of going back to bed to wake up again twenty minutes later?

I compressed two trips into one. That’s the kind of multitasking wisdom you can only achieve through age and trial.

Besides, it teaches a bigger lesson–we’ve got to keep redefining what counts as a win. In your twenties, a win might be pulling an all-nighter and still making it to work on time.

In your forties, it might be paying off the car or fixing the sink without a plumber. In your sixties and beyond, a win is as simple as falling asleep anywhere—even in the most unexpected places.

It’s all about adjusting the scoreboard. If you’re waiting for the world to hand you trophies, you’ll be disappointed. But if you start recognizing the little triumphs—the buttered toast landing face-up, the parking space opening close to the door, the jar lid that pops off on the first twist—you’ll find victories stacked up all over the place.

So, yes, last night was a royal victory. The bathroom ain’t designed as a sleeping chamber, but it served the purpose. I woke up refreshed, chuckling at my own ingenuity, and proud to declare–three trips reduced to two, thanks to a quick nap on the throne.

Tonight, who knows? Maybe I’ll push my luck and aim for only two trips total, or I’ll discover the comfort of the shower potty chair.

Either way, I’ll count it as a win, because life isn’t about where you sleep—it’s about learning to celebrate the odd little ways you rest along the journey.