Writing at Sophia’s on this lovely fall morning. Missing my wife and wishing I’d been a better husband. Trying to focus on the present and hoping what I do will make a difference.
Encouraging email from an Australian parent whose reluctant-reader son loves Matterhorn. This within minutes of being reminded some local kids didn’t think much of the books.
Musing on life and my role in it, as usual. In Middle English, “musen” meant: to mutter, to gaze meditatively on, to be astonished. That’s me. Mike the Mutterer, tapping away under the green awning by the front door.
Going to see Scotty later, still at home waiting to die of cancer. We’re all waiting to die of something. Then our musings will give way to stark raving astonishment.
In the mean time … mutter … mutter … mutter …