A walking paradox. I treasure the time in the gatherings of many. Though my time alone becomes increasingly critical to my health…emotional, physical, spiritual. My growing distaste of small talk and materiality is at a tipping point. So much of it serves to veil the deep passions and the trials of those around me. I avoid the very places I used to love for an absolute fear of the same introductions followed by the same topics and the same questions and the same looks that bounce around a room with kinetic–or should I say pathetic–energy.

They…we… mean well. Its manners, I guess. But, I find myself shying away. And I’m not shy. I find myself more in retreat. I typically swan dive into life. Is this a primer for a life of a recluse? A proverbial Howard Hughes.

I don’t think so.

A signal adjustment is in order. I feel restored when I stand before a piece of art; when I listen to a song with story layered on thoughtful melody; when I notice the tone and inflection in another’s voice in conversation…and the meaning in their eyes; when words of poetry have so much life I might as well be reading in brail and feeling each word; when I am on a bike in the woods hearing the crackling mulch under the wheels or on my kayak in the marsh; when I sit quietly and scratch the bridge between my loyal pup’s nose and forehead (R.I.P. Tybee).

I am going to the beach soon.

No computer. No phones. No “i” anything. Some hardbacks, my first guitar, a bike, a boat, and this old body carrying a mind too full and a spirit needing to be filled.

Not seeking an epiphany. Not expecting an Oprah moment of discovery or Maslow’s self-actualization. Just peace of mind. I expect to run and purge. I expect to rid myself of any demons of cynicism that try to create a beachhead against my joy. This is a life of joy.

Ride. Dive. Swim. Sing. Be quiet and let it in.