Month: July 2024

When We’re Old

It felt like I’d been hit by a ton of bricks.

Muscles ached. Joints creaked. Pain proliferated.

What had I done to endure this? Hike a mountain? Lift heavy boxes? Plunge a shovel into the dirt?

Nothing of the sort. I’d simply slept in my own bed. And now I was waking up wrecked.

This has become my new reality. I’m getting older. And the cracks in my armor are starting to show.

Some days, I might feel sore all over for no apparent reason. Other days, I’ll wear down faster than I used to. Still other days, it’ll take me longer to remember things I once recalled instantly.

And on the worst days, all three outcomes converge upon me.

These disruptions are still relatively mild – more inconveniences than anything. I’m still relatively young, and I remain fiercely independent.

Still, they offer a dire warning. For aging only goes one way, and I’ve still got plenty of runway left for it to do its worst.

It will only get tougher to navigate the obstacles in my path going forward. And the cost of failure is sure to get higher.

When I was young, I spent a lot of time with my grandfather.

I would read children’s books with him. I’d build model train sets with him. And occasionally I’d steal his glasses and scamper off.

I’ve written a bunch about my grandfather – my mother’s father. The child of depression-era Brooklyn turned World War II veteran turned high school math teacher. He often regaled me with stories from his life. And in the process, he sparked my fascination with narrative.

The reason I shared all this time with my grandfather in my early years was that he was already retired. He volunteered at an art museum now and then, but he mostly helped care for me.

Back then, I didn’t quite grasp how unusual all this was. I didn’t understand that few people even had the option to retire in their mid-50s, still able-bodied and sharp as a tack. I didn’t grasp how rare it was for people to be able to bond with their grandchildren as much as they desired, free of professional or financial obligations.

I did notice my grandfather aging as I grew up. He had a triple bypass when I was 5 years old, and he seemed a bit more fragile after that. Recurring back problems made his posture a bit more hunched as the years went on. Occasionally, he would shuffle instead of walk.

I took it all in stride, to the degree a child could. I knew I’d need to be a bit more patient with my grandfather, and that some physical activities were off the table.

But what I hadn’t considered was what things would have been like if he were still working. Would the slow physical decline have gotten in the way of his job responsibilities? Would he have been forced out of his position? And what would he have done if he had been?

I never had to consider these prospects for him. But I surely will for myself.

It’s now harder than ever to retire at an early age. A rising cost of living and shrinking safety blanket make longer career timetables a reality.

And yet, we have little acceptance for the consequences of working into our later years. Particularly the impact of aging.

We cringe when public figures – entertainers, athletes, politicians – stay in their roles too long. And we could hardly be blamed for doing so.

These prominent people can gracefully exit stage left. They’ve accumulated enough trappings of fame to sustain them for decades.

The cards are in their hands. So, when they don’t play them, we’re left wondering why.

But few of us have the same advantages. Our options are few and far between.

So, we’re often stuck hanging onto our professional positions for as long as we can. Even as our body and mind start to fade away. And even as the world tries to cast us off.

It’s terrifying. But it’s true.

Several years ago, I started running competitively.

I was well into adulthood at this point. And years removed from my high school cross-country exploits.

I wasn’t exactly pining for those long-gone days. And I wasn’t masochistic enough to crave the sensation of sore legs, burning lungs, and a sweaty brow.

So, what got me back into racing? The allure of the fountain of youth.

Now, I’m no Ponce de Leon. I realized that there was no backwoods stream in Florida to sustain me forever.

But I believed that leveling up my fitness would help me stave off the debilitations of aging. While my less-active peers would degrade physically over time, my body would operate like an advanced machine.

This theory proved true for a bit. I got into the best shape of my life. And I posted impressive times in distance races over and over.

But then, I broke.

An injury sidelined me. Then a second. And a third.

MRI scans, physical therapy sessions, and doctor’s visits became commonplace. The word surgery went from a frightening concept to reality. Yet, I persevered through it all, determined to get back on track.

Still, I couldn’t shake a feeling. The feeling that something was different.

I was struggling to recover from my workouts, even if they were a shadow of what I once breezed through with ease. I was tweaking muscles as I got up from a chair or stepped out of the shower. And I was waking up sore nearly every day.

Despite my best efforts, it seemed that aging had caught up with me. No amount of exercising would forestall the inevitable.

If anything, my fitness efforts would collide headlong with the rip current of Father Time. I’d need to fight three times as hard just to be a step below where I used to be.

I wouldn’t say I’ve made peace with this outcome as much as I’ve rationalized it. For while running is a passion of mine, it’s not my profession. My mind is what earns me my keep, and it’s shown no signs of decline.

At least not yet.

I know that my cognition will also start to slide someday. That gaps will start to form, that failures will start to mount. I’ll fade into a shell of what I once was by any measurable dimension. I’ll start hearing others referring to me as elderly.

Given the economic realities of this society, there’s a good chance I’ll still be working then. I might desire to ride off into the sunset. But I won’t have the horse to get me there, the way my grandfather did.

I’ll be trapped in a living purgatory. Taking up space in a world that wants me to move along but provides me nowhere to go.

This is the cost of inaction when it comes to aging. Collective denial allows its problems to proliferate. And to crush us all someday.

It’s time to take a different path. To embrace clairvoyance about our future. And to use that perspective to calibrate our present.

This is a big ask. But it’s a critical one.

So, let’s not drop the ball.

We all deserve a soft place to land when we’re old. Let’s make sure we have one.

Art and Science

The two Alka Seltzer tablets fell out of my hand, landing in a glass of water.

A subtle hissing sound rose from the glass. The circular tablets disintegrated into a fine powder as the water transformed into tiny bubbles.

It was like the homemade volcano model I showed off to my parents and teachers back in second grade.

Only I wasn’t 8 years old anymore, looking for an A. I was an adult, looking to ease the burning sensation in my throat.

And that would demand a Part 2 of this experiment. It would require me to ingest the contents of this bubbling glass, so that they could neutralize the acid in my throat.

So, without hesitation, I gulped down the concoction. And within a minute or two, my discomfort dissipated.

This was the power of modern medicine. A vivid testament to the wonders of science.

But it might not have been possible without art.

You see, this whole Alka Seltzer setup is unique. Most other medical remedies come pre-prepared, making them far simpler to consume.

This posed a problem when Alka Seltzer first hit the market. The extra work of dropping tablets into full water glasses threatened to scare away consumers. And without robust sales, the product line would be doomed.

So, the makers of Alka Seltzer turned to advertising. Marketers invented the jingle Plop Plop, Fizz Fizz. Oh, what a relief it is.

There was precious little science behind this rhyme. It was mostly artistic expression. But it worked wonders.

Consumers added Alka Seltzer to their cabinets, followed the instructions from the jingle, and saw the desired results. This pattern continued for decades, until I was the one dropping tablets into a water glass on my kitchen counter.

Art and science had come together. And we all reaped the benefits.

There’s a poignant scene in the film The Dark Knight.

Batman is interrogating The Joker at the Gotham Police Headquarters, and the masked crusader asks why the sociopathic villain wants to kill him.

I don’t want to kill you, The Joker replies. You complete me.

This exchange encapsulates the relationship between art and science. They find themselves in the same venue time and again – and at tension with each other.

Take cooking. Many are drawn to the art of it, and TV shows – from Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives to The Bear – have only furthered that perception.

But there’s a heavy dose of science in cooking as well. Ingredients meld, char, evaporate, or congeal, resulting in palatable textures and flavorings.

The clinical precision of these changes has helped countless chefs notate their recipes and share them with the masses. And the members of those masses have been able to whip up reliable meals as a result.

Yet, this scientific contribution to cooking is all but forgotten by most. It’s constantly overshadowed by the glitz that often comes with meal preparation.

Whether it be Hibachi’s tableside acrobatics, elaborately plated desserts, or surprise menu specials at five-star restaurants, people go wild for the art of cooking.

It’s flashy. It’s notable.

But it’s only part of the picture.

I am putting these words on the page. And you, dear reader, are taking them in.

This is the process of writing. Of sharing testimony through the written word.

What should we make of this process? Is it an art or a science?

Many would lean heavily toward art. The trope of authors crafting novels in secluded cabins remains prevalent. The Michelangelo of the Moleskin moniker still sticks.

Yet, if you were to ask an author about their process, you’d likely get a measured response. One filled with rules, patterns, time management hacks, and much more.

Many writers, as it turns out, don’t sit around waiting for inspiration to strike. They take a scientific approach to their craft, mixing artistic talent in along the way.

I know this, because I am one of them.

As I write this, Ember Trace has been running for close to a decade. For more than 450 weeks, I’ve shared a fresh article with you, dear reader.

This venture has been my passion, and my pleasure. But make no mistake, it’s entailed plenty of work.

Such efforts cannot be chalked up solely to artistic expression. On finding a dose of inspiration and putting it on the page.

No, a great deal of the credit goes to science. On uncovering what works best for topic generation, article length, and literary style. On determining which days and times work best to type away on my computer. And on replicating that successful formula, over and over.

There’s certainly some art involved. But my work is built on a foundation of science.

As such, I bristle a bit when I’m labeled a creative. And I roll my eyes when others say they’re too left-brained to do what I do.

It’s not that they cast me on the wrong side of the divide. It’s that they put me on one side to begin with.

Writing is not art or science. It’s both.

I could keep going. I could bring up more examples of disciplines we consider to be strictly art or science. And I could share how we’re mistaken.

But I’m not going to do that. Your attention is much appreciated, dear reader. And it’s worthy of something far better than an endless ramble.

I will pose a question though. Why are we so hesitant to accept reality?

It seems we can’t wrap our brains around the idea that art and science can co-exist. It’s too nebulous, too uncomfortable.

So, we focus on the inherent tension between them, and we seek to resolve it definitively. Even as such a quest is doomed to futility.

It’s high time we take a different approach. It’s time we look at that tension as an opportunity, rather than a threat.

Indeed, if we can manage the intersection between art and science in cooking, writing, and other disciplines, we can differentiate ourselves. We can get one step closer to mastery of those crafts. And we can stay one step ahead of whatever innovations yearn to commoditize them.

Leveraging the tension can do us a world of good. But only if embrace the mission.

Art and science might be strange neighbors. But they belong together.

Let’s put the wedge away.

Youth and Experience

The ball wasn’t going where I wanted it to.

Sometimes it would slice. Sometimes it would hook. Sometimes it would skid across the grass.

With each swing, my frustration mounted. And a sense of dread started to sink in.

You see, I had come to this driving range near Fort Worth with good intentions.

I was unemployed at the time, residing in an extended-stay hotel, and applying to jobs left and right. But none of it was going well.

No hiring managers were willing to take a chance on a career-changer with no experience in their industry. Few even offered me an interview. And all the while, I was burning through my savings to fund my food and lodging.

I needed to get away from it all. To spend an hour or so outdoors, doing something that could clear my head. And spending $20 to hit a bucket of golf balls seemed like a sensible choice.

But now I was kicking myself.

My hand was chapped from gripping the golf club too tightly. My golf pants and polo were drenched in sweat. And my doubts about my golf game threatened to rival those of my employability.

Was I ever going to be able to earn an honest living again? And if I did, would I even be able to live life to the fullest?

If this day was any indication, the answer was no.

It’s been more than a decade since that afternoon on the driving range.

I’m now gainfully employed, and I’ve advanced in my career. I have a true place to call home and tangible financial stability.

At first glance, I have everything the younger me once craved. But looks can be deceiving.

These days, I could go to the driving range just about any time I desire to. The cost is negligible, and the stakes are low.

And yet, I don’t do that. I haven’t for years.

For the joy in that activity has dwindled for me. Just as it has for so many others.

Some of this change is physical. I don’t have the stamina to do as much as I used to. And when I do wear myself down, my body aches for days.

But the shift is also mental. I’ve lost the capability for unbridled glee. And the sensation of letting myself go now feels foreign to me.

For example, there was a time when I loved roller coasters. I would patiently wait in line for hours at the theme park, boldly lock myself into the safety harness, and cheer with vigor through each dip and turn of the track.

I was having the time of my life.

I still want to love roller coasters in this way. And occasionally I do find myself riding one.

But as my body is defying the laws of gravity, my mind is somewhere else. It’s staring down from a distance as I dip and twist and invert.

I’m just not there anymore. Not completely.

This, I believe, is the encapsulation of experience.

Growing long in the tooth can make a person somewhat jaded. It can leave one detached from the thrills of life. It can estrange one from the reckless abandon of innocence.

With those connections severed, the only way to relive such sensations is through one’s own memories.

And so, from my high perch of career and fiscal stability, I look back longingly at my younger self. The one who would venture out to the driving range to clear his head, even if such a trek was to end in futility.

The older me might have the trappings of a successful life. But not the inclination to get the most out of it.

A few weeks after my ill-fated trip to hit golf balls, I got a call back for a job application I’d submitted.

The hiring manager wanted me to come into the office for an interview. I accepted the invite.

The interview ultimately went well. While I wasn’t one to count chickens, I was relatively confident that I’d be offered the job.

So instead of microwaving a pouch of rice back at the extended stay hotel, I went to a Cajun restaurant for a proper lunch.

Sitting at the bar in my suit and tie with a plate of fried crawfish in front of me, I was hopeful. This was just the start of the pathway to success, I told myself.

I think back on that memory of myself more than I’d like to admit. For that young and scrappy version of me was looking unabashedly at who I am today. And yet, I find myself just as unabashedly staring back.

We’re both staring through the murky portal of time. Each wanting what the other has — and neither knowing it.

Truth be told, we each want to believe that there’s no inherent tradeoff between youth and experience. That gaining one doesn’t necessitate losing the other.

But given the inextricable truth of that tradeoff, we’re each looking to fill a hole in the current version of our life. For one, the substance to sustain the joie du vivre. For the other, the joie du vivre itself.

It’s devastating in a way. Even tragic.

But it’s the reality of my life. And I’m not alone.

Indeed, many of us look longingly at our former glory, just as we once stomped our feet yearning for our future to arrive. If we think hard enough on it, we can each find our own split-screen moment.

But should we? That’s open to debate.

There’s something to be said in leaving the past behind and living in the moment. On recognizing that what’s gone is gone. And on giving it no further mind.

But there’s also value in sustaining those memories. On recognizing the sensations we once had. And on gaining context from those recollections.

Such thinking might not eliminate the tradeoff between youth and experience. But it will provide helpful context in assessing our lives. It will also make us more empathetic and socially aware — which is always a plus.

The key to this, of course, is discernment. We must be able to glance at our youthful past without getting consumed by the memory.

That’s easier said than done. I’m Exhibit A as to how challenging it can be.

But I’m working on it. And I will continue to do so.

I hope I’m not the only one.

On Counterfactuals

My father shuffled the cards and dealt them out.

Face up on the table in front of me were a 6 of Diamonds and an 8 of Spades.

My sister and mother each also had two cards face up in front of them. I took a quick glance at the cards. But then, my father set me straight.

Don’t worry about them, he stated. The goal of this game is to beat the dealer. In this case, me.

I asked him how I might do that.

It’s simple, my father replied. Your cards just need be closer to 21 than mine, without going over 21.

My father went on to explain the rules of Blackjack.

Both my cards were face up, while one of his was face down. I’d have to add my cards together and determine if my hand was better than the dealer’s.

This was a guessing game as much as it was an exercise in arithmetic. But there still was some skill involved.

For each round, the dealer would ask each player if they’d like more cards to help their cause. If any of the players said Hit me, they’d get another card. If they said I’ll stick, they wouldn’t.

This meant that if I didn’t like my chances, I had ample opportunity to improve them. But I’d need to manage that opportunity artfully.

I looked at my cards again. They totaled 14, which was a far cry from 21. I’d surely need more to win.

So, when my father asked what I wanted to do next, I emphatically said Hit Me. He dealt me a 2 of Hearts, bringing my hand up to 16.

This still seemed too far from 21. So, during the next round, the words Hit Me again left my lips.

I got an 8 of Diamonds.

I had a higher card total than the dealer. But I’d also gotten my hand up to 24.

I’d busted. I’d lost.

I didn’t take my failure all that well.

But as I sat there sulking – as 8-year-olds do – my father took a moment to coach me up.

You don’t need to go ‘Hit Me’ on every turn, he said. Sometimes the math makes that too risky.

Sometimes the best way to win is to stick.

This stunned me.

I had never considered how not doing something could be more impactful than springing into action.

How could I have?

My entire life to that point was defined by motion. I bounced from activity to activity, at school, at home, and everywhere else.

Sure, there was plenty of downtime. Regimented bedtimes in the evening, regular naps in the mid-afternoon, and so on. But I had no recollection of the stillness, as I was unconscious throughout those quiet moments.

I’d never really gotten good at mastering the pause. At seizing the non-event. At embracing the absence of action.

All these years later, I still haven’t excelled in those areas. And I’m not alone.

You can’t prove a negative.

This is a common refrain. You hear it often during Monday Morning Quarterback sessions.

The point is straightforward. Time moves in one direction, and only on one track.

We can ponder what would have happened if we didn’t make a certain move, meet a certain person, or pursue a certain dream. We can muse about how much better or worse we’d be for choosing a different path or encountering a different fate.

But these are just pontifications. We can’t know for sure.

There’s plenty of logic behind this theory. After all, we humans have long been proficient in notating things. As we’ve evolved from stone etchings to silicon computing chips, we’ve kept the thread of recording events alive.

Those data points have proven essential to understanding our world. We recount history so that we might replicate successes and avoid repeating disasters. We keep scientific notations to prove hypotheses and spur innovation. And we look at numeric indicators to help prognosticate what’s to come.

Absent these readings, we have nothing. No data to ground our musings in. No substantive proof of how an alternative path would have played out.

And so, the prevailing wisdom has been to ignore the negatives. To avoid spending energy on what could have been. To proclaim Hit me when the dealer offers another round of cards, over and over.

Yes, away from the Blackjack table, the do-nothing option is too unproven to even be an option at all. No wonder we don’t pursue it.

But, at long last, that might finally be changing.

In recent years, a term has garnered some buzz.

Counterfactuals.

This term describes an alternative fact set. Not in the form of lies or half-truths, but more in the prevalence of empirical simulations.

Counterfactuals have existed for quite some time. But their use was traditionally limited to certain situations, such as courtroom testimony. (Think of the question from prosecutors in too many Law and Order episodes: And if that hadn’t happened, what would you have done?)

But now, things are changing. Thanks to advances in data science and artificial intelligence, we can take a fresh look at the past. We can change one input and see what the statistical outcomes were likely to have been.

This new age modeling has changed the game for decision making.

It’s broadened the scope of possibilities beyond the triumphs and failures of record. It’s helped us to preview occurrences without clouds of doubt. It’s allowed us to experiment free of the shadows of collateral damage.

Yet, this potential still comes with a cost. Namely, the cost of our innocence.

No longer can we be willfully blind to the road not taken. No longer can we shun the outcomes we – or our predecessors – had not experienced firsthand.

Those storylines now written in probabilities and code. The do-something- option, the do-something-else option, the do-nothing option – they’re all out in in the open.

It’s our obligation to look at them before choosing a path forward.

This might seem like a daunting task. An uphill climb. A joyless sojurn.

But it doesn’t have to be.

I am a huge fan of Malcolm Gladwell.

Longtime readers are familiar with my Gladwellian obsession. His bestselling books adorn my bookshelf. His acclaimed podcast fills my audio feed.

There’s a certain clarity in Gladwell’s work. A mix of eloquence and boldness in his statements.

But that’s not what draws me to him like a moth to a flame.

Malcolm Gladwell is somewhat of a contrarian. He’s embraced counterfactuals since long before it was cool. Before there was data science and advanced computing to back up his views.

Indeed, in those early days, Gladwell would often dive deep into obscure datasets and historical studies to support his claims. He would connect disparate dots in a manner that wouldn’t become clear until the story was nearly over.

Gladwell’s perspective was maddeningly uncomfortable to me when I first encountered it.

I yearned follow the prevailing winds. I desired to kowtow to custom. I wanted to go Hit Me on every round.

I had no appetite to upset the apple cart. I wasn’t buying what Malcolm Gladwell was selling.

Gradually, though, his well-informed perspectives won me over. I became less consumed by perspectives, and more enamored with getting closer to the truth – as unsightly as it might be.

The prospect of encountering counterfactuals became exciting, not exhausting. And my decision-making chops flourished.

I no longer play Blackjack. But if I did, I’m certain I’d be far more proficient at it these days. For I understand the subtle pull of the do-nothing option in an environment yearning for another card. And I’m willing to give it an audience.

Such power lies within all of us. I am sure of it. We just need to harness it.

And that starts with the right mindset. With embracing counterfactuals, rather than running from them.

Are you ready to take that quest?

Deep in the Heart

It was hard to miss.

As I drove by the pasture on the way to work, an irrigator was hard at work dampening the sod.

An industrial-strength spigot fired blasts of water 10 feet in the air, before gravity and the wind took over. The water would fall to the ground in a thick mist, allowing one pump to bring water to several square feet of land.

Then the fixture would rotate a bit. It would reload, firing a blast of hydration to fall on an adjoining patch of ground.

This pattern continued until the circle was complete. Then the cycle would start again.

The morning sunlight made all this quite a spectacle. The water appeared as a transparent curtain as it fell back to earth. A million tiny bubbles were transfixed in the air.

It was a sight reminiscent of an exotic destination. A waterfall secluded in the jungle, perhaps. Or the craggy cliff face where the frothy sea collided with the land.

And yet, this location was anything but.

No, this water was falling on land as flat as a pancake. Across the pasture, some longhorn steers grazed. And behind the thick mist was the asphalt of a highway and the glass façade of an office tower.

This was Texas personified. And I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else.

Every fall, pictures of massive corsages proliferate through social media.

The floral displays are up to three feet high. And they often adorn the fronts of dresses that high school girls wear to the homecoming dance.

Or so I’m told.

You see, the spectacle of mums at the homecoming dance is a distinctly Texan tradition. It exemplifies the school-age experience in the Lone Star State — an experience I never had.

I was 20 years old when I first set foot in Texas, and 22 when I formally made it my home.

I still had some maturing to do in those days of early adulthood. But there was no doubt that I’d grown up elsewhere.

This dichotomy has dogged me a bit.

Sure, I chose to dig my boots into Lone Star soil at my earliest adult opportunity. But I can never claim to be a Texas Native.

The region I can claim native status in – the Northeastern United States – well, I left it at my earliest opportunity. I was a high school graduate, a teenager who realized that many of his happiest moments were found on vacations far from home.

I yearned to follow the thread of that intuition, to try out somewhere new for size. And college offered the perfect opportunity to do just that.

So, I moved from New York to Miami. And I spent my undergraduate years under the warm South Florida sun.

The experiment had mixed results. I was grateful to be out of the Northeast, harboring no real desire to return for the long haul. And I thrived in school, ultimately graduating with honors.

But as that graduation date approached, I was overcome by a certain feeling. A feeling that Florida could not be my forever home.

I belonged somewhere else. But where?

I was sorting through that question when I got a job offer in West Texas. I accepted without hesitation. And not long after moving west, I recognized that I’d found my answer.

This is where I was meant to be all along.

Growing up in America’s oldest and most populated region meant making several assumptions.

The winters would be cold. The summers would be sticky. And no matter the weather, the traffic would be awful.

From an early age, I recognized that my family’s suburban home had a modest backyard and no garage. But at least we had a yard and a car. I know plenty of people without either.

I never did ask why we all signed up for this. I didn’t have to.

Even as a child, I understood that the Northeast was a vanguard of culture and a beacon of professional opportunity. That’s why most of my family had made their home in the region. And why the families of my friends had done the same.

I respected that tradition, even as I moved to defy it. But the reactions I got for doing so caught me off guard.

Family and friends would lampoon my new home, evoking the most outlandish stereotypes. They’d rail against politics in Texas. Or they’d derisively refer to the state as The Flyover Zone.

I brought this on myself to some degree. On my first trip north after my move, I sported boots, Wrangler jeans, and a belt buckle – in the middle of summer.

But as the years flew by — and it became clear that I wasn’t moving back — the derision continued. It was as if my choice to swap zip codes was a betrayal. A wayward trek that flaunted an invisible boundary.

This rankled me.

The winding road had finally led me home. Yet, I was still the only one to accept it.

The pasture was now in my rearview mirror.

As the shadow of the office tower hovered over me, my mind began to wander.

I saw beauty all around me. In the rustic cattle patch bathed in sunlight. In the curtain of mechanical mist dampening it. And in the modern marvels – the highway and the office building – providing a backdrop.

Maybe that vista wasn’t everyone else’s cup of tea. But it sure was mine.

I suppose this is a prime reason why I’ve remained steadfast in my devotion to the Lone Star State. Perhaps it’s why I’ve grudgingly endured the underhandedness from those who reside far beyond the Pine Curtain.

Texas is deep in the heart of me. I’ve found beauty in both its grandeur and its monotony. I’ve found grace in the kindness of its populace. I’ve found grit through its tradition of resilience.

I’ve found myself through it all.

Others might not see what I see here. And ultimately, they don’t have to.

I just hope that they respect my decision. My right to put a stake in Lone Star ground. And to find peace on the Southern Plains.

Home is where the heart is. Mine resides here.