It was a path we’d never walked before, its dirt worn trail barely visible on the other side of the lake amongst the pines and oaks. Prior to our entrance, my son crouched down and plucked a bright yellow dandelion from its stem and twirled it between his fingers.
“For mommy,” he informed me.
Fragile, she lay in my arms, as my wife placed the medicine dropper to her mouth. Like nursing an injured little bird back to health, I thought. Against my chest, I could feel her compacted warmth against me. She wouldn’t take to my wife’s breast in the beginning, so this is how we fed her those first few weeks of life.
In the rearview, I glance back at my son Henry. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that has on its front drawings of insects, different kinds, beetles and flies—bugs that shout, “I am a boy!” He moves the toy truck into the air as if it has wings and glides on air.
“Do you know what my favorite thing to do with my dad was when I was growing up,” I ask Henry.
An excerpt from Sleeping Birds Do Not Sing, a novel about mental illness and friendship that I wrote a decade ago that only one person has ever read—until now.
In this episode of “This Is Me Being Uncomfortable,” I mumble largely about writing, creativity, and the influence of life (and death) experience on how you see the world.
“Something doesn’t feel right… I don’t feel right. My body. I feel like I’m filled with cancer.”
“She’s lost a lot of weight,” I heard someone say at a lunch table near ours. “Like so much she could die.”
Recently, my wife and I began a couple’s love journal titled Why I Love You—a love story, in our own words.
In this episode of This Is Me Being Uncomfortable, I mumble about seasonal affective disorder, low level depression, my son, and walking away from society’s norms
The ancient Stoics believed that to live one’s life to the fullest, to truly appreciate those you love and your own life, contemplating death was necessary.