May 24, 2026

Paper-cut strategy

On the edges of my community there is a small bridge over Perfumo Creek. The flow varies dramatically throughout the year as it connects to the nearby Laguna Lake drainage canal. At this time of year the water diminishes visibly, week after week. It’s depressing. I pass there with the kids at least once a day. The bridge is made of weathering steel. The kids have climbed and licked it more than once. Their fascination for the rusty bolts, spiderwebs, and the water stops us almost every time we pass.

While waiting for kiddo to finish his inspection, I spent a few minutes touching metal. Nothing is happening, but it doesn’t feel empty. When rubbing a bridge becomes poetic, it’s a clear sign that I need an adventure, a sabbatical, something. These rare moments of physical contact bring the feeling of having left the dance.

Lately I’ve felt like I’ve seen it all, which is egregious because I obviously have not. Perhaps spending 95% of my time within a 1-mile radius is starting to leave marks. Sedentary atrophy gives a viscosity to my moods. Twitching is not movement. Too much time in front of screens and schlepping around the block ages me more than anything. On my birthday I found myself stuck in work thoughts while trying to enjoy the quiet of the morning. My recent notes have been circling around this tiny world of mine.

Life is so big. Anne Lamott hit me hard when she said that good writing skips the witticisms. I indulge too often, mostly trying not to give a voice to the madness inside. Silence the man-child. But I’m a man-child. Sometimes angry and disinterested. Bhakti yoga says that living is dying by loving. Everyone sensible knows love manifests in a multitude of ways. Some forms resemble hatred on the surface, though underneath there is care trying to express itself. Maybe I’m only romanticizing my neuroses. I feel like a walking percussion instrument. The stick and the drum. That’s a lot. Inside, it feels like Homer Simpson’s cymbal monkey.

I don’t know when you feel “eternity in a moment” the most. For me it’s unfortunately during diarrhea or a flood of anger. I have to search forcefully within myself when I’m looking at my baby boy peacefully asleep. Why is that? His little smile, still missing canines, is the best thing I’ve ever seen. It’s so beautiful and precious, and it’s gone already. Occasionally, I feel compelled to explain how short words feel close to his silly little face.

I fight him to sleep. He seriously busted my lip and nose a few times, and countless scratches on my face. He literally falls asleep. He is either on or off. I massaged my oldest to sleep for a few months. Ear massages are still his favorite. He lost my long arms when we switched co-sleeping buddies. His mother is a better storyteller but a lesser masseuse. This is love. Not the abstract version. Not just putting kids to bed. It’s exhausting, devotional. Do I really need to travel the world? Isn’t that simple family life trippy enough?

I don’t know. But I’m fairly certain that most of my trouble comes from not being truly there, let alone relaxed. I’m learning to regenerate attention and to waste time, lots of it. Heightened awareness reveals so much that it becomes oppressive. Like staring too long at a Georgia O’Keeffe painting.

Maybe I traded too much wholesomeness for comfort. Stuck in my castle. Walking through stuffed grocery stores. 340 days of summer. Writing about feeling the feels. Feeding a conversation that increasingly resembles a monologue. I imagine my mental crowd looking at me aggravated, listening to me mansplaining the great big truth: “It is what it is. Ups and downs. Yin and yang. Change the game or play the game. It’s all perspective.”

I hope this finds you thriving. Personally, I’m somewhere in the cracks. The white space. Making my case, writing the same thing over and over again, Groundhog Day style. Going for the paper-cut strategy. Trying to rewrite the script. Going mad for the sake of sanity.