My neighbor up Lambert’s Cove Road texted me the other afternoon: “I need your help!”
When I was a boy the Pagoda Tree reached the sky
It took a few weeks, but I can no longer watch the news of the country I no longer live in.
There are only so many topics you can cover at dinnertime when you’re spending all day with the same person.
In his new book, Skip Finley examines the reality of black men who earned their place as equals in the brutal world of the American whaling industry.
A few years ago when I was still discovering the incredible information I could get from my computer, I Googled myself.
One meditation teacher I listen to said we have 85 thousand thoughts a day.
Recently, I participated in a Zoom meeting with about 25 other ACE organizations from around Massachusetts.
The plan was to deliver my baby in New York city at New York Presbyterian Hospital in Manhattan.
On Monday, my daughter and I drove down to Five Corners so that we could put our knees on the gritty pavement for eight long minutes.
As inaccessible now as Atlantis before it sank in the Sound.
Made, we are, from the dust. And for mere dust to try to dominate other dust, to put your dusty knee on the neck of another man.

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