I think steadily saying something of value can drain a person. Unfortunately, the algorithm demands routine posting and the pressure that comes with it. I’ve learned that pouring from an empty cup can do violence to our souls. So I’ve been away for a bit.

The late Blaze Foley sang a song called Clay Pigeons and in it, he sings of being at an intersection, a crisis, a time of searching. A part of the song talking about what he’s going to be up to goes:

Feed the pigeons some clay, turn the night into dayAnd start talkin’ again when I know what to say

The line about feeding pigeons clay has to do with the fact that they eat clay to help with their digestion. That pause for digesting and processing is a luxury and liberty. I have taken the luxury and liberty this summer. Autumn brings me back to this space with some things to say. I’m happy to find you still here.

This is a Substack about living our inherent worth. It will persist in these topics as the pieces I hope to write will orbit around the ideas of flourishing in life from the truth of our God given inherent worth.

You were never a wretch

Here’s what I’d like to add to the conversation at this time: you were never a wretch.

You may not know the reference, but many of you immediately connect with a deep memory. A treasured and fabled hymn of the American church, Amazing Grace, contains the line

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, That saved a wretch, like me!

Taking John Newton’s treasured words to task is not something I do lightly, but I feel it’s more than just a trace line in a song; it’s become a mindset that’s thrived and developed beyond its momentary intent.

New versions exist

You can find adaptations to this line, but you’ll find a pile of pushback to any change of the stone tablets on which hymns have come down from the mountain of our memories. I’m in no way contesting that grace is amazing and a sweet sound, but I have an issue with name-calling apart from the context of John Newton’s abhorrent past. Moreover, projecting that same name-calling forward for all time.

Newton, for his part, we assume was meeting his past as a slave trader humbled and transformed by grace. But it can be misleading when applied universally, especially if it leads believers to see themselves as inherently vile rather than deeply loved.

The word “wretch” suggests someone utterly despicable, worthless, or beyond hope. But Scripture never describes human beings in such terms from God’s perspective. Even in our sin, we are not worthless—we are wayward children whom God longs to restore. From Genesis to Revelation, the biblical narrative affirms the inherent dignity of humanity, made in the imago Dei—the image of God. Sin distorts that image, but it does not destroy it. God’s gaze toward humanity, even in our rebellion, is not disgust but compassion: “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

Having sung this for years isn’t the crime; the crime is believing it to be true. That God’s image in man was so tarnished that it became unpursuable by the Creator of it. That we are an unworthy wretch in all respects, and not someone for whom God would chase after to save.

For some, this has created a way of viewing our need for grace. But that need is present no matter our track record. Read that again. No amount of “unwretched” actions before accepting His grace negates our need for His grace. So, seeing oneself as a wretch to create an indispensability of grace is thoroughly unnecessary. Poetic, maybe, but bad theological scaffolding.

I can only guess the reason John Newton wrote the line or why it resonates with our experience. The shame from our past can be powerful, visceral, and defining. However, just because a line of a song lands doesn’t mean it’s necessarily a helpful characterization. Maybe the line has created a higher level of humility for some, but at what cost? I’m afraid it speaks of a way of thinking about ourselves that has terrible downstream consequences.

There are more than a few people who believe and live like they are their actions. They try to stack enough good ones to earn respect, honor, esteem, and, sadly, even their salvation.

Yes, we need Christ. He achieves for us what our souls could not. But conjuring a flawed definition of man in a lost condition can stay with us for long after we’ve been saved. I’m afraid I know far too many people who aren’t out sinning without a sense of their wrongdoing, but far more who deeply feel God could never forgive them.

You were never more than a lost sheep. If that doesn’t satisfy some desire for deep humility, I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to find a God-inspired word to say it more strongly than you were separated from your Creator. God never calls you a wretch. Ever. No matter what state you are in.

We were lost sheep for whom God comes, pursues, and reclaims. This should satisfy our need for humility. That God would even think of us is amazing, but He’s never thought of us as a wretch. That has less to do with us and more to do with Him.

Be well, friends.

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I’m going to offer my most controversial take in the three years of doing this Substack: We have to schedule noticing joy and put it on the calendar.

I don’t mean create joy, it’s there, I mean merely notice it.

In our over-scheduled lives, usually only two things happen: Things we schedule and have to get done, or the things we do to avoid the tasks we have scheduled and need to complete.

So we’re either working on tasks or avoiding tasks. It’s working for the man or doom scrolling.

Even harder for us

In America, noticing joy isn’t encouraged; there’s no money in it.

Our economy runs on you and me being dissatisfied with what we presently have. That’s consumer capitalism 101.

All advertising is built around one main task: to create desire, meaning you and I are meant to be dissatisfied with our lives. Nothing in our society is designed for you to notice joy; you’re meant to crave endlessly.

Another significant point is that we can’t show joy in our quarterly earnings. We all work for organizations or companies that are obsessed with upward growth; joy seems superfluous, unneeded, and reserved only for those who have suffered enough to be rewarded.

And this is where joy and worth intersect. If we lack worth, we will struggle to notice joy. Or feel like it’s undeserved. We will take up less space for enjoyment altogether.

1) Noticing Joy counters stress and burnout

Modern Life often defaults to being busy. When joy isn't planned, it's easily forgotten or postponed. Or, worse yet, seen as only for the deserving. Intentionally scheduling joy, making it part of your rhythm, not just a reward after exhaustion. You are allowed, you are welcome to it.

If you don’t schedule noticing joy, feeling stress will schedule itself.”

Scheduled times for noticing joy affirm that joy is essential, not optional.

2) It trains our hearts to notice goodness.

Nothing invites this except the last story on the evening news. You know the story about the kid selling lemonade to donate the money to a cause. It’s like news producers think it erases the last 28 minutes of horror porn from around the world.

When you plan for joy, you begin to look for it and anticipate it. This rewires your brain to expect beauty, goodness, and grace, even in hard seasons—a practice deeply aligned with Christian hope and gratitude.

3. It honors your limits and humanity

You might be saying the work you’re doing is so critical. Jesus came to save the world and had three years to do it. Yet, Jesus took time to eat with friends, attend weddings, rest, and retreat—He modeled a rhythm of joy noticing. When you schedule joy noticing, you're saying, "I'm not a machine; I'm a beloved human."

4. It helps shape a sustainable life of service

Without noticing joy, sacrifice turns into resentment. But with joy regularly woven into your Life, you're more energized, generous, and emotionally available for others.

Life can become an unending slog in service to the powers that be, who want us to remain restless and dissatisfied with our lives. To exert some control, we have to be intentional.

Famously, Christians will proclaim they have joy no matter the circumstances. It’s true that where we can do better is in seeing joy and noticing it as critically important.

I’ll quote the sage advice of Ferris Bueller: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

Be well, friends.

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When my wife and I told our friends we were moving to Southern California, the list of things I should be concerned about was long. I should worry about wildfires, earthquakes, the homeless crisis, the liberal direction of government, and the immigration crisis. We just passed the one-year mark here, and I realized I wasn’t warned about what’s been the most persistent concern.

It’s been said that we humans have a negativity bias. Maybe you know this phrase.

Negativity bias is “the human tendency to pay more attention to and give greater weight to negative information and experiences than positive or neutral ones.”

Whether you know this term or not, it can explain the lion's share of our conversation topics.

I’ve noticed that a lull in conversation will often instinctively produce a story about some awful situation or garden-variety annoyance. Ears perk up, and the spotlight shines bright on the annoyed person talking. The aggravating topic being shared can garner immediate attention. (Psst, the news figured this out a while ago.)

There are at least a couple of reasons for a negativity bias:

Stronger Emotional Response: Negative experiences elicit a stronger emotional response and can be stored more vividly in memory. In our distracted culture, negativity can be a shortcut to the front of the line for attention.

Evolutionary Roots: This bias likely developed as a survival mechanism. Quickly recognizing and responding to threats was crucial for survival, so the brain prioritized processing negative information.

However, I’m afraid our bent towards negativity is more ingrained than the phrase negativety-bias can even communicate. We have a negativity obsession.

I’ll leave the reasons to others to decide, but having dedicated the early part of my career to news broadcasting, I know that “if it bleeds, it leads.” Media companies fighting for clicks and eyeballs have become dumpster fire specialists, ensuring the all-mighty click-throughs to earn ad revenue.

Even if you don’t watch the news, the trauma-bonded public of which we are a part can dictate the conversations we all have. It’s like trying to swim in toxic waters; it gets messy even if you’re not drinking the toxicity before you swim.

Why didn’t someone warn me?

So, the real thing I never was warned of or could have anticipated was becoming interested in flowers. These massive blooms with arrestingly beautiful, vivid colors will force me to stop what I’m doing, or where I will take a picture. Why didn’t anyone warn me I’d be gobsmacked by such color and beauty? That I’d become a victim of their displays. Don’t they care about my well-being? My lost work time and slower commute are among the concerns they didn’t alert me to. Please think of the literal minutes I’ve lost to looking at a screen.

What you look for shows up, or often doesn’t

I’m having a little fun here, but the phrase “where focus goes, energy flows.”

The phrase means: “the direction of your attention dictates how your energy is channeled and utilized. Concentrating on something specific will direct your mental and physical energy towards that focus.”

But Rob, you should probably be concerned about those things. You mean the things that might happen? But the concerns aren’t actual flowers. Flowers are happening.

Not another “be present” piece

The number of messages today that tell us to be present is staggering, but the idea isn’t to be ignored. Are we looking for the beauty? If we’re not, we may not even see it when it shows up. Below are a few of my favorite explosions of reckless blooms. There’s beauty where you are, I hope you look for it as much as what there is to fear.

Be well, friends.

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The fact that the bible says God watches the sparrows should surprise me more than it does. Folks who call themselves birders often don’t care much about sparrows.

When someone sees me carrying my camera, the first assumption is that I’m bird watching. (Second, that I’m paparazzi lol) I will often get stories about them seeing a bald eagle. It’s fine, but can I tell you I’ve never gotten a sparrow story? Not once. Lol

Here are a few sparrows I’ve seen. There might be as many as 13 near where you live. Take notice, and when you do, join the God of the universe who prizes sparrows as much as eagles.

What does that mean to you in your life?

I think we all would prefer to have the consideration, attention, or reputation of eagles. Reaching to be an eagle is fine, but even if you make it, God’s care for you doesn’t increase. It’s set for all time in the sparrows as much as the eagles.

I think that with our careers, there are private moments of plotting and hoping for greatness, notice, or esteem. In all of these moments, there can lie an unspoken desire to separate ourselves from the garden variety of the world—a harmless ambition to make a mark and do something special. The challenge for us is to delineate that desire from our value. Whether we succeed or not, our worth is set. We are considered. More than that, we are valued, looked after, and loved by the God of the universe. Much of our life, and the voices within it, try to convince us otherwise. A steady drumbeat reminder that we, in our most common and ignorable, overlooked ordinariness, are intrinsically loved and watched should buoy our hearts as we reach for heights.

A magazine we hadn’t ordered, subscribed to, or requested arrived in our mailbox a few weeks ago. It sat on our kitchen table a few days with an array of other discardable pieces of advertising disguised as personal mail. The main article featured on the front was titled In Pursuit of Awe. I both recognized the sentiment and judged it to be deeply flawed.

I have pursued awe. I’ve tried to instigate awe in others by something in myself. What I’ve learned is that if I sit still, awe tends to show up. God’s interest in sparrows is encouraging and a point of correction in all our pursuits. Awe is uncovered in the everyday as much as the faraway. This can be encouraging for the adventure seekers and the aspirational. The highest judge of beauty has rapt attention on what we ignore. I want to sit with that and let it guide my pursuits for moments of eagle soaring.

There’s nothing wrong with maximizing our efforts for greatness, but let this be a helpful reminder that at the end of all those efforts, as we stand in our often normal, unremarkable outcomes, the attention of the Creator is still cheering for us, noting His handiwork in what is overlooked, even by us.

Be well, friends.

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I started riding a bike for my commute. Please don’t be impressed. It’s a pedal-assist cargo e-bike, so I’m not exerting myself too much. It’s a grocery getter, short-haul carrier bike that might be the most middle-aged purchase I’ve ever made. But the wind in my face, safely navigating around my neighborhood, town, and beyond has been a nice experience. Mostly.

I live where the weather favors biking or what I’ll call “exposed to the weather” travel. As a result, many other forms of transportation and hauling are used. It’s nothing to see electric scooters, skateboards, or pushcarts that sell elote, ice cream, and fruit. There are Latina grandmothers with repurposed baby strollers that hold their groceries. I once saw a guy pushing a shopping cart with materials he used for a remodeling project.

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There are lots of people out of the cocoon of a car. They’re walking, single-wheel zooming, and generally making their way to wherever, with whomever is doing the same. As one of them, I’ve noticed a funny thing that happens as I ride along: shared reverence.

As we pass one another, there’s a nod, wave, or smile. It happens in boating on lakes, among Jeep drivers, and in the motorcycle community. The subtext feels like this: Another person is trying to get somewhere just like me. I’ve found myself thinking of these everyday people differently. I’m softer towards them. The shared struggle is out in the open, so a kind of microdose of care seems to go out to them as we travel together.

Moreover, passing vehicles honor our efforts to navigate the world in this exposed way. They often give us the right of way and provide a wide berth as they pass. There are exceptions, moments when a car aggressively accelerates to get around me as if to say, “Get a horse pal!” but in general we all kind of feel gently considered.

Since I landed in this community of exposed travel later in life, I feel this subtle sense of respect for humanity a bit more acutely. I don’t usually see and honor others in my car unless I know them. Conversely, in the insulated kingdom of my car, I find opposition, competition, and a lack of regard for others. There are remarkable exceptions, but I find it interesting that all it takes is one layer of distance between us and others dissolving to make the shared reverence easier to feel.

The insulated travel I do supports an illusion. The illusion that we’re separate. You’re over there, I’m over here, we are not the same. Even further, the brand or age of our car can add to the imagined separation. Don’t get me started on a license plate from another state or heaven forbid a bumper sticker with a hot take. In our moving boundaries we slowly become less willing to acknowledge we’re “in this together” and instead can invest in “othering” people. This is further supported when we tap a button inside our cars, drive into our garages, enter our homes. There is a screen that delivers a pale substitute for human interaction for the evening. Maybe we live lives of quiet designed desperation. I don’t have a fix for this, suggesting one is so profoundly out of touch with the massive current of progress and modernity. I merely want to encourage myself to be aware of all the insulating layers that keep me one step removed from the people of the world around me. These are sometimes unavoidable, so the move may be to be intentional about peeling back the layers when the opportunity presents itself.

Even as the more wealthy and advanced among us find chartered flights and security fences to be a god-like insulating move, I can do well to remember often that the real God came to live among us and to save the worst of us. So identified was he with those he traveled with that it took a kiss to single him out from among them.

Be well friends.

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We work to make a living—bills to pay, you know? But as we spend the bulk of our time working, something happens. Our sense of self and worth begins to be fueled by our work. We no longer work to support ourselves but to make sense of our place in the world.

This can also affect our recreation and hobbies. Whatever we do can be co-opted to give us an identity. Even good things that benefit our family and society can become a source of our sense of self. It's not the worst thing in the world, but it can set us up for a great deal of suffering.

More through less

Now that we have settled into our new place after moving across the country, I’ve committed to reading much more fiction, as I did when things were less chaotic. Early in Rick Powers's book The Echo Maker, a character experiencing a family crisis is introduced. Her brother is lying in the ICU and clinging to life. She feels her moorings slip as she’s taken from her job and routine. But then she goes to work on the phone, trying to attend to some paperwork.

For the hour it took to transact the forms, she felt the release of being useful. The pleasure of it burned.

While I related to the sense of purpose during spiraling circumstances, the sentences caught me deeply. In the throes of changes we don’t initiate, I’m afraid our sense of self, identity, and pleasure of purpose can all take a hit. And that’s a canary in the proverbial coal mine of a poorly constructed identity. There are both ongoing and eventual consequences that harm us and others.

While what we see in this quote is something to acknowledge and celebrate, after all, work has redemptive and helpful aspects; it’s something to build better.

When it all fades

Who are we when we can’t do much? Or our routine accomplishments are out of reach? When we feel inert and incapable? We may be many things, but we are never without worth. Our worth is unassailable and not created by our accomplishments.

Our worth is unassailable and not created by our accomplishments.

“Unassailable”. There’s a word I don’t use enough, partly because it doesn’t apply to much, but it does apply here. It means “unable to be attacked, questioned or defeated.”

As you read that, I’m not looking for a charity head nod; I’m hoping for a deep knowing that will serve you and me as the days of our need for meaning when we can’t function loom on the horizon.

We’ll all come to days, periods, and seasons in which we cannot do the things that gave us a sense of purpose. But more than that, between here and there, deriving our worth from our doing could lead to a cascade of interpersonal challenges. It can make us pretty miserable to be around.

There is an inevitable competitiveness to our existence. We get more oxygen when what we do is better than the next person who does it. When we can diminish and denigrate through judgment what others do as less meaningful or label it a frivolous, vain pursuit compared to our work, we shore up our fragile worth.

You’ve heard and maybe said this: Oh, that? Yeah, I guess some people are into that (eye roll). That dismissiveness is a reflex to keep a fragile sense of worth — safe.

Letting someone have the spotlight, or even steering it in their direction, suffocates us. While we might not attack them directly, we must name their deficiencies, if only in our minds.

Sabbath as protest

Getting this deep into our spirits will take practice, routine, and habituation. In our meritocracy, we are only what we accomplish and how well we accomplish it—every day, all the time. So, having a day every week when you are a human being instead of a “human doing” is more than a command of God; it is a skilled way to assert the truth about yourself.

On a day you don’t accomplish anything, you aren’t obligated to apologize or feel a sense of failure. This will disappoint your instinct and a world that doesn’t know or agree with the truth of your unassailable worth. Raging against the machine is less violent than it sounds. It’s sometimes merely disconnecting from the myth that we are only a person when functioning for the machine. Be well friends.

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On a recent windy day, I was at the coast, and as I walked along the surf, I was reminded of the phrase “the sea has no memory.”

Unlike humans, the phrase means that the ocean does not retain past experiences or hold onto memories; it constantly changes and is not affected by past events, signifying a sense of timelessness and the ability to exist in the present moment without the burden of the past.

This idea came to mind and stayed as both a challenge and a comfort. It is a challenge to see that I will suffer less if I accept the impermanence of this life. And a comfort that I needn’t let conditions present today define tomorrow.

It was vastly different the last time I was near this same shoreline. As I walked, each tide changed the conditions of the previous tide. In this dramatic cycle of nature, the speed of impermanence can be powerfully observed.

I picked up three things laid bare on the beach by the waves. A stone tumbled smooth for many years, a shell cracked open by the tide, and a US quarter. These things caught my eye. As I sat to reflect, each served as a revelation of what time and impermanence do.

New year, a new tide

A new year approaches, and I’ve been thinking about impermanence—how all things are passing away. Please don’t take back my invitations to your New Year’s Eve parties. I promise I can read a room and won’t bring my melancholy thoughts to the punch table.

The idea of everything passing away might seem like a dark and unwelcome thought, but it applies to the good and the bad. No matter how things are, they will someday not be that way. Good or bad.

While this is a hard truth to remember, it’s more challenging for those struggling with worth. If our worth is built on the condition of anything in this world, we are putting ourselves in a precarious situation. People who struggle with their worth are inclined to stake their well-being on accomplishments, health, appearance, accumulations, or relationship status. All these things are passing away.

The three things I picked up revealed truths about impermanence.

Smooth stone.

A stone’s corners are polished smooth by tumbling forward in time on the tides. What it was 30 years ago no longer is, but what it is now reveals beauty only available today—a smoothness that is a joy to hold. Can I release my attachment to the shape of things today?

Cracked open

The shell was created layer by layer and tightly formed over time. The inside was in complete darkness and lay on the ocean floor. The tide has cracked it open. What was once in complete darkness is now met by the sun's rays from miles away. The conditions in which things are formed are transformed to become the near opposite, revealing a beauty wholly different from what it was once.

The quarter

The once well-defined words and art on the coin were worn nearly smooth. Empires' precise and careful designs dissolve, and all the earthly kingdoms fade into a semblance of what they once were.

Am I okay with all the carefully laid plans I trouble my mind over being lost to time? What I was once precise and careful about may only be similar to what is seen now.

Relish, but don’t cling

Enjoying the present moment but not clinging to the state of things is the move. We can all get attached to the present moment, which will add to our suffering. We will inevitably experience loss as the tide of time takes from us, but we can minimize our suffering by not clinging to the present conditions.

Be well friends.

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Lately, we’ve been through it. There’s been a lot to think about and process. There seems to be a steady stream of things to concern our minds. Even if you’re among those who say they don’t watch the news, it’s hard not to pick up the static of panic in the environment by simply moving through your day. It’s like knowing all the words to the song Sweet Caroline but never having bought a Neil Diamond album. Some ideas just sort of leak into your mind from unchosen sources.

It’s got me thinking about more enjoyable ways to exist amid the dire predictions and wild swings in fortune that seem to loom each day. I suppose I’ve not found the place where the wood drake rests in beauty on the water, as Wendell Berry writes. I certainly know the prospect of living “in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be.”

If we want certainty in this life, a trouble-free experience, I’m afraid it’s not on offer. So when the reasons for fear cycle through our minds, our freedom to choose our focus becomes more critical.

Fly a kite

A couple of weeks ago, we had our first (to my knowledge) “red flag warning” since moving to San Diego County in May. Before I heard about the reasons to be worried, and it’s a legitimate list, I noticed the sustained winds in the palm fronds high over our place. I was thinking about how, later in the day, I’d be responsible for recreation activities for an after-school program for a group of young elementary-aged kiddos. I immediately thought of bringing my large beach kite. On vacation, I used to fly the beauty of a kite off the Carolina and Florida coasts. This would be its maiden flight on western winds, and I knew it would do well in the wind on this day.

I arrived early and sent the kite aloft, paying out line on the thousand-foot spool for a few hundred feet. The kite came alive with the strength to climb higher, but I stopped about a hundred and fifty feet up. The children started to arrive and immediately were interested. They all got in a cooperative line for their chance to fly. Several of these sheltered iPad-generation young’uns had never flown a kite, so they were super excited.

But then there was Christopher.

Christopher patiently waited for his turn and took over the spool. The kite tugged hard, and feeling the aliveness and connection with something approaching uncontrollable, his joy surpassed the others. The kite swayed and dipped, animated by a force nearly overpowering Christopher’s grip. All the kids were joyful, but compared with everyone else, Christopher was something nearer overjoyed.

Overjoyed

The experience of being overjoyed appears in scripture. It’s an experience that is nearly foreign to me. Heck, joy can be elusive for me. I can be the weatherman of any moment: "It’s sunny now, but I can see some clouds coming.” I am not naturally joyful, and staying on the ride to the next stop of being overjoyed seems like a bridge too far.

This factory preset is made a bit worse by being a Christian. As spiritual people (of any flavor), I think we are easy targets for this way of interacting with joy. We’re invested in the world's wellness in a way that can make joy feel undeserved in the face of so much concern and pain. We may have convinced ourselves that in the face of Red Flag warnings and the long list of worries (legitimate and accurate), we are best to reign in our joy. We might think being tamped down in the joy department has more utility.

Here are some questions to consider:

Does suppressing God-given joy help anyone’s struggle? Does curbing my experience of pleasure alleviate suffering?

Does my joy and praise mean all is right in the world? Or am I okay with it all?

We face a fundamental task in working to see the world heal. Do we think our being absorbed in some worry and struggle is the first step to healing the world?

Or what if the first step the world could use in healing looks different than our furrowed brow? What if the world saw us exhibit our joy amid whatever struggle there is in this moment? That would speak to a victory that’s yet to be fully seen but of which we profess to have now.

Joy is an act of worship.

When I noticed how taken Christopher was, I realized I was smiling at him smiling. I found joy in him having joy.

Who smiles at you smiling? There are people in your life, I suspect. But could you allow God to smile at your joy?

I’m not Christopher’s father, but I could imagine nothing would give his father more joy than seeing this joy on Christopher’s face. Not for the act of kite flying but because joy on his face says more about how he is in the moment. It says he’s relaxed, unafraid, and has the time and energy to enjoy a moment. He is at rest in all those truths.

Father Gregory Boyle shared that our worship can sometimes be as simple as this:

“Behold the One beholding you and smiling.”

― Gregory Boyle, Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion

The Red Alerts are real, but so too is our joy.

To be precise, I can tell you that the political winds have brought some real concerns for Christopher and his community. There is a plan blowing in hard to deport his neighbors, perhaps even some of his family. Many of them have been here working and raising families for decades. It is easy to be consumed by the threats and all that could mean.

I can’t control the winds, but I can decide what to do with them. I can ruminate on the list of potential things to fear and become absorbed by what may happen. Or I can hand out kites and see the reason for joy in the moment we do have.

Be well friends.

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What lets you know you’re breathing? As you’re reading this, take a slightly deeper breath. Where do you feel the earliest sensations of your inhale? Get detailed and granular with the data. Sometimes, it takes some time to find the start. At first, it may be easier to find your inhalation's overall more extensive experience. Is it in your chest expanding? Is your belly swelling? From the larger experience back up, pick up the first move. That first clue you’re breathing is evidence you’re alive in the world. You’re here, present to what is, the only place we can be. (James 4:13-15)

Where the inhale starts

My first hint of inhale is cooler air in my nostrils. That’s the first hint I’m inhaling. Maybe I run hot or am usually cold, but the air always feels cooler. That cooler temperature is my first hint. It took some time to find that earliest and subtle beginning. From there, I can surf the sensation of inhalation into my chest expanding and belly expanding.

When I first began mindfulness and noticed my breathing, I realized I didn’t like my belly swelling to accept the inhalation. I didn’t want a swollen abdomen or a more noticeably snug waist in my pants. It made me think, “I should cut out sweets or get more steps.” So, I’d instinctively lessen my inhale. Talk about shallow breathing.

The mid-point pause

After the top and middle of my inhalation, there’s a second where I turn around. A noticeable place where things shift from inhale to exhale. It’s not inhaling, not exhaling; it’s a pause. A kind of midpoint or fulcrum. It’s easier to notice if I get curious about finding it. The solitary second, or maybe two at the most, where the gears shift and move from inhale to exhale. It’s there. For most of my life, it went unnoticed. Imagine carrying something with you and never realizing it. It went unnoticed until I was encouraged to notice it; how many of those seconds have occurred over 54 years?

Interconnected

The long series of sensations began at one starting point—the first time and now this time as I type this. These sensations are connected to my beginning.

We support the idea that each day is a new start. Each day, we awaken to this thing, a stream that began many years ago. Its origin connects us to the origin of man—the breath in our lungs—the creation itself—and the God of it.

Unnoticed and hard to find

We spend the bulk of our time lost in rumination about yesterday or today. All we have is right now. Time machine owners are the exception, but for everyone else, this moment, this inhalation, is all we have. Now, this pause — and the exhalation.

I spent a very long and confusing search for the beginning of my exhalation. I realized last week that it was “settling.” I feel more ‘seated’, more settled in my seating. This may be odd to you, and it probably should be because yours will differ. The weight of myself seated slightly (very slightly) seems to grow through my exhalation, and my chest eases downward, but that’s it. The exhalation ‘show’ is subtle, more whispered, and more noticeable about what isn’t there.

Who cares?

Ok, Osborn, who cares? Getting immersed in observing my breath isn’t going to change the world. No, but you are. I can view changing the world as separate from being home in myself, attentive and supportive of my needs. This is an erroneous compartmentalization. This is where self-care becomes marketed as something over there to sell. But self-care is intrinsic to our doing. We put our oxygen mask on first; it’s not selfish to breathe.To see breathing and being mindful of it as separate from being a human might be the most unintentionally hilarious misunderstanding of mindfulness. There are other misunderstandings, like beginning to think about what *Casper was before he was a friendly ghost while you’re trying to focus on your breath is a fail. Getting distracted is part of the whole deal. Noticing we’re distracted and returning home is like a bicep curl for our attention. Do it enough, and you begin to see you’re on a train of thought earlier. You start to hear the train whistle before you’re in the next town.

Noticing our breath unites our thoughts with this present moment. A thing that is harder to do than we might imagine and more challenging to practice. By the way, the term “practice” implies you’ll be skillful some days, and other days, you’ll realize why it’s called practice.

Practicing the miracle of enough

Every breath is a miracle, connecting us to our first moment of life and creation. Becoming aware of this present breath brings us home to what’s here. It’s an occasion of wonder. And it’s far more available than a perfect sunset, mood music, or a sound bowl. Breath is autonomic, necessary, portable, and non-denominational.

In this way, I hope breath is enough—just like you. Before all our doing, thinking, theorizing, theologizing, politicizing, regretting, planning, and wishing things were different or otherwise, there’s our accepted self receiving without judgment and some notice of what is present—what our first present was as created wholly loved beings.

You’re joining seven billion people and tens of billions of animals all trying to get somewhere but often unaware of the sufficient here they’re in. *credit Dan Harris for this joke and observation

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A continuous stream of crows flows south across the sky in the intense yellows and oranges of the sun’s fading daylight each dusk. For thirty minutes, intermittent waves of one of San Diego County’s largest crow flock head to what I’m told is a nightly roost at Lake Hodges. Fascinated by the flock's regularity and scale, I did some research. Not so much online but with elder residents (living Google, as I like to call them respectfully). Living Google told me the flock has been observed for decades. The crows adjust their daily southward salmon run as the equinox brings an earlier dusk.

Observing this ritual is a kind of natural metronome each day. I wondered why they fly toward roosting grounds. Why do they enter the stream southward like clockwork? They fly out each day to live, eat, and pester other birds but, for some reason, reassemble nightly at shared roosting grounds. The bird geeks (said with endearment) who track avian behavior surmise the evening rally is to check in and exchange information. But I contend that deep within ourselves, we know why.

Our migration

This reliable stream of crows came to mind as I rode the Sprinter train to Oceanside, where I’m writing this. The Sprinter is part of the North County Transit System that runs commuter trains around southern California. Like before, I entered this communal trip with whoever was on the same schedule as me. From our individual lives, we shared cars and space as we migrated together—some for work, some for play, but all going somewhere westward.

I had deja vu watching people stepping into this migration. Everyone in this disparate band of train travelers has an inner journey to a type of roost we humans need and want. We are all headed somewhere in life, and I contend it’s more similar than a separate destination. Our individual lives feel separate, and technology, politics, and what passes for upward mobility sell isolation as a better, more desired way to travel. But we all want the same things: to flourish, to love and be loved, and to feel we are contributing to something bigger than ourselves. That feels like a shared roost.

Migrating together has its upside

I get why public transit is less desirable. If you could never, I get it. This flock, I count myself as a member, can make enjoying it difficult. The train is slower, which isn’t the same as inefficient. A rider surrenders their freedom and has to share space with unchosen others. But something happens as we join the stream of shared travel, probably a few things.

On the train, I’m physically reminded that I’m no better than any other rider. Over the intercom, I’m asked to respect riders who need a seat, and taking up only the required space becomes unspoken respect for one another. Thank yous and nods are exchanged as bikes are situated or seats are requested with a quizzical look and pointer finger.

A successful life in most American cities means never traveling on public transit. Therefore, cars jam interstates going the same way the trains are going. Success means living insulated from every interaction with unchosen others. The desired life is living in a gated community or far enough away that a gate isn’t needed. If not that, we want a life isolated from undesired human contact through layers of technology. Most of us are successful enough to arrive at these conditions—or something that passes for them.

But the glaring issue for me is the results. It turns out that part of the cost of our independence and insulated experience might be paid with our souls.

The results

In an article titled: New Surgeon General Advisory Raises Alarm about the Devastating Impact of the Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation in the United States we’re told

“…calling attention to the public health crisis of loneliness, isolation, and lack of connection in our country. Even before the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, approximately half of U.S. adults reported experiencing measurable levels of loneliness. Disconnection fundamentally affects our mental, physical, and societal health. In fact, loneliness and isolation increase the risk for individuals to develop mental health challenges in their lives, and lacking connection can increase the risk for premature death to levels comparable to smoking daily.”

From Kasley Killam’s book The Art and Science of Connection:

Today, many people show signs of social health in decline. Over the past thirty years, the percentage of Americans with ten or more close friends dropped by 20 percent.? Over the past twenty years, the amount of time people spent alone increased by an average of twenty-four hours per month.* Over the past ten years, participation in communities, such as book clubs, sports leagues, and neighborhood associations, fell by nearly 20 percent.* And according to a national survey in 2019, around half of adults in the US felt as if no one knew them well.

I can’t help but wonder if it might help us to see that all our inner pursuits are shared—our goals, our roosting grounds, so to speak. Our migration and our roosting are tangible and something to experience in public transit. What if that led us to an overriding desire to see others get where they’re going with relative comfort and their space in the migration honored?

When we look out over a public space filled with people, do we see them as birds of a feather traveling to a shared roost? Things that rob us of that view might not be as desirable as we imagine. A public space can be an access point for empathy and connection. Or a reminder of our need for it.

There is an unacknowledged, often avoided, but very real shared destination for us as humans. We’re all heading where time takes us. Age, loss, and death are on all our horizons. But we all generally want the same things. How can we see our shared travel to these things more clearly? As wealth and success draw us into isolation, we might be paying more of a price than we realize.

What can give you a glimpse of our shared migration with all beings everywhere? Consider how we might shed isolated and tribal pursuits for more shared migrations to our hopeful roosting.

Be well friends.

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