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Field Notes

I’ve heard it said that the best musicians are those who must sing or must write music. I guess it follows that I write because I can’t not. It only recently dawned on me that my inner muse demands that I open up a notebook or my phone to capture thoughts. Many are pure musings—slightly self-satisfying and frequently foisted on my wife for her reaction.

All said, perhaps some of the pieces below will contribute to your deeper insight or another way to think about the world. You will find published pieces interspersed with my own regular observations.

And generally, the accompanying images are my own, serendipitously composed while wandering, driving, walking, and more.

Enjoy!

Latest Observation

{#48} Routine or Ritual?

,

The other day, I drove up the canyon to “check if it’s still there,” or so I told my daughter on the phone as I accelerated.

I didn’t have a question in mind as I drove. There’s always something waiting at home—unfinished work, loose worries—and lately there’s even the broader concern of what the winter hasn’t delivered up that way. But none of that explained the drive. It happened almost without forethought or consent.

“He does this daily,” my wife might say.

That possibility hadn’t crossed my mind until I reached the end of my favorite side canyon and turned around.

That turn was familiar. Too familiar.

I didn’t linger. I didn’t get out of the car. I simply pointed the hood back toward home and headed down-canyon, the way I have so many times before. And that’s when it surfaced—not as an accusation, just as a noticing.

I come here a lot.

read more
{#48} Routine or Ritual?

{#48} Routine or Ritual?

The other day, I drove up the canyon to “check if it’s still there,” or so I told my daughter on the phone as I accelerated.

I didn’t have a question in mind as I drove. There’s always something waiting at home—unfinished work, loose worries—and lately there’s even the broader concern of what the winter hasn’t delivered up that way. But none of that explained the drive. It happened almost without forethought or consent.

“He does this daily,” my wife might say.

That possibility hadn’t crossed my mind until I reached the end of my favorite side canyon and turned around.

That turn was familiar. Too familiar.

I didn’t linger. I didn’t get out of the car. I simply pointed the hood back toward home and headed down-canyon, the way I have so many times before. And that’s when it surfaced—not as an accusation, just as a noticing.

I come here a lot.

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{#3} Woodman

{#3} Woodman

I was standing at the grave of Richard Ezra Rapp, my great-grandfather, on Memorial Day 2019 and struck by the inscription on the top of...

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