One day, a few years ago, I boarded a jetliner in Houston, bound for New York. When I had stowed my carry-on bag and buckled myself in, I looked over to see who I had for a seatmate. I saw a small, elderly lady, sitting straight and prim in her seat, clutching her handbag and …
I am love, and energy, and creativity. I am pure, blinding, compulsive joy that knows no bounds and spreads far and wide.
The next generation is not angry, way underneath it all. They are frustrated.
Fred wonders why the world is the way it is and decides what he’s going to do about it.
The good old days are gone for sure.
Are the fine arts in jeopardy?
The journey of defining one’s self.
A sweet poem to celebrate the joy of marriage.
Mother’s Day should be a year-round holiday.
Would the world be better if everything was just black and white?