I have been reflecting more than usual lately, moving through moments that can only be reached now through memory. Adi left for a few days to give her heart to a cause in the Hill Country, and she took our oldest with her, leaving me as steward of the house and keeper of the cats. The mornings have settled into a simple rhythm of feeding them, walking the beach, and drifting back nearly forty years to a time when life had not yet revealed itself. From where I stand now, many of the answers have already been lived, yet I can still feel that earlier place where everything remained unknown and quietly possible.
Our dreams are curious jewels, window-shopped in youth and purchased on consignment as we grow older. The cost is often more than we expected, and once paid, they feel nothing like we imagined.
So much has changed in forty years, so many beliefs challenged and quietly rearranged. As I reflect, much of what I once trusted now feels like a narrative, not meant to guide but to lead me away from myself. The world I invested in turned out to be a penny stock that could not hold its value when I finally looked closely.
It is the music from the past that brings me back. As the melodies return, the memories once etched to them follow closely behind. It amazes me how music marks the moments of a life, the loves that slipped away, the dreams of what might have been, and the quiet way everything unfolds over time. I think of my parents who are gone, and my brother and sister who left much too soon, gently receding into the Akashic Record of Time. So much has changed, and yet so little has been truly known.
Now my thoughts turn to my children and the paths that will open before them. I find myself wondering what might be worth offering as they step into adulthood and begin their own unfolding. Here are ten things for them to consider.
Our bedroom waits in a quiet way that feels like it has been holding its breath for you. The bed is made with care, the pillows gathered close as if they remember your shape and the warmth you leave behind. A single rose rests at the center, simple and certain, saying what words often fail to carry. The note lies there without urgency, knowing it will be opened in its own time. There is something here that speaks without sound, a feeling that lingers the way old wisdom does, steady and patient, asking nothing but your presence.
The island has missed you in ways that only become clear when you return to it. The air feels softer now, and the light moves through the room as if it recognizes you again. These small offerings are not meant to impress, only to remind you of what has always been true between us. You are welcomed back in stillness, not as a grand gesture but with something that can be felt long after it is seen. Come back into this space slowly, and let it meet you where you are, as it always has.
—David Ahearn
Galveston Island, Texas
Spring, 2026
Quietude: The Wisdom of Rumi
“Where there is love, there is no need to speak.”—Rumi.
I’ve spent most of my life onstage, telling stories for laughs and feeling a room shift in real time. For twenty five years I hosted an improvisational show called Four Day Weekend, and that stage felt like home. In 2020 the world shifted, and so did I. The questions of the world began to matter more to me than comedy, and I turned toward writing about life's greater mysteries, finishing We’ll Always Have Paris and later Quietude, which became a quiet turning point in my life. Exploring The 12 Universal Laws widened the lens even more. Now the island reflections and everyday synchronicities I share carry one intention, which is to help you awaken to your highest potential. I am not here to convince or impress you. I simply hope to brighten your day, invite you to question what you have been told, and remind you of what you already know. Each morning I return to the same ground. I am awake. I am aware. I am able. I remember. Everything I share grows from there.