When I was younger, I read Hemingway and dreamed of running with the bulls in Pamplona in July and sailing the Pilar, working the Gulf Stream off Cuba when the weather grew cold. Art has a way of inspiring us. Hemingway inspired me to travel, and more than that, to find a career where I could travel. I have been lucky to see the world. Adi and I have slowed down now, and no part of me ever pictured a summer on a ranch in the Hill Country.
Like Hemingway, I write in the morning when it is cool and stop while I still know what comes next. He always left the next sentence sitting there for tomorrow. People remember the marlin and the lions and the wine in the afternoon. They forget that he closed the notebook on purpose and walked away from work that was still good.
There is a gift hidden in that habit, and it belongs to you as much as it belonged to him. When you reach a stopping point in the work that matters to you, stop before you are finished. Stop while the next move still burns clear in your mind. Most of us grind until we are empty and then dread the blank wall waiting the next morning. Leave yourself a door instead. Leave the next sentence sitting there, the next stroke, the next brave call you have been circling. You return to momentum instead of fear. The work stays alive because you walked away while it was still breathing.
You have your own Pamplona. The place you read about once and swore you would stand in. You reached it, or you are still moving toward it across the years. Somewhere in your life a notebook waits, open and unfinished, the next line already glowing in the dark. You know which one. Leave it open tonight. Go back to it in the morning when the air is cool and the next sentence is still yours.
I'll keep writing and can't wait to see what you are creating in your world.
What Hemingway lit in me was a beginning. The first step of a path I could not yet see. You have your own, the moment something stirred and you turned toward it. Every life moves through that season, the call and the trials and the way home. Yours is still being written. Discover your own Hero's Journey here.
You can travel the same road a thousand times and never see it differently until the light shifts and gives you a new way of looking. The road through the ranch curved the way it had always curved, the oaks standing where they had always stood, the gravel and the rise and the bend toward the horizon exactly as they had been every other time, and yet on this evening the sun came low and gold through the trees and the whole familiar path became something I had never quite seen before. Nothing about the road had changed. The trees were the same trees and the curve was the same curve and the distance was the same distance it had always been.
I was the one who had changed, and because my perception had changed, the path became easier. This is the thing no one tells you about the roads you walk over and over across a life, that they are not waiting to become smoother or shorter or kinder, that they will offer the same climb and the same turns until the day you stop asking them to be different and change the way you look at them instead. The light shifting through the oaks was only the outward sign of it. The real change was quieter and entirely interior, a shift in perception alone, the same road seen through different eyes, and that turned out to be enough, because the road had never been the problem. The way I had been looking at it was the only thing that ever needed to change.
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.