Tiny Things
My Dad Ran Fifty Miles
People see a race. I see thousands of mornings when nobody was watching.
Room 01 · From the private writing desk
Come sit
for a while.
Some days I come here to tell a story. Some days I come because I cannot stop thinking about something. Sometimes it is a letter. Sometimes it is a photograph. Sometimes it is only a sentence.
This is where I leave the things that have stayed with me.
Open the desk ↓The drawers
Finished thoughts.
And things still becoming.
This is not a tidy blog arranged by date. It is a working desk: letters that were mailed, observations scribbled after a hospice shift, people I carry with me, and borrowed words that helped me see differently.
Drawer 01Letters
Words written because time mattered.
Drawer 02Field NotesSmall moments before they become larger stories.
Drawer 03People Who Changed MeOrdinary lives that permanently altered mine.
Drawer 04Borrowed WisdomWords, art and ideas worth carrying forward.
Drawer 05Tiny ThingsA photograph. A sentence. A thought under 150 words.
Drawer 06UnfinishedBecause not everything honest arrives with an ending.
People who changed me
This woman changed my life.
Rosa and her husband, Pasquale, came into my life when they needed support. What I did not expect was how quickly the work would become relationship—and how deeply they would become family.
This is a story about home, dignity, a poinsettia on the kitchen table and the ordinary life we worked very hard to protect.
Open this story →On the desk now
Pages worth opening.
Some are complete. Some are the beginning of something. Both belong here.
Places that raised me
Ordinary Houses
To most people it is a white bungalow. To me, it is where the story starts.
Field Note
The Poinsettia
Sometimes the most important care happens while doing something that has absolutely nothing to do with care.
Borrowed wisdom
“In looking for something, I found everything. Saved by the beauty of the world.”
— Mary Oliver
I keep other people’s words because some sentences become compasses. They do not tell me what to think. They quietly ask me to look again.
This drawer will hold the writers, artists, paintings, poems and ideas that became part of me—even though I did not make them.
Letters
I wanted to tell you everything.
A letter mailed to Joanne before she died. It remains exactly what it was: an attempt to fit an entire friendship into an envelope before time ran out.
“I want to have one more visit, one more hug, one more moment to look into your eyes and tell you how much you mean to me.”
Video lives here
A quiet clip—rain on glass, pages turning, a kettle beginning to sing—can sit beside a story without demanding attention. Add one when the right moment arrives.
Publishing rhythm
The desk waits patiently.
There is no promise of a new post every Tuesday. Something appears when there is something worth leaving here. Collect constantly. Publish thoughtfully.