I made a book. It’s not perfect (I think the dimensions are too big), but I like it. It’s a collection of photos and writing I created between June 2010 and August 2011. It was a very tumultuous, beautiful, difficult, humbling and profoundly amazing time for me.

The book covers a very distinct chapter of my life. A period when every aspect of my life was up in the air. I accepted some of my weaknesses and made some significant changes to how I live these precious few moments of time I will be here.

Maybe that sounds a bit melancholy. But that is what motivates me. That is how I motivate myself. My time is precious because, by nature’s standards, it will be short. How short? I don’t know. I think 80-90 years sounds about right. But no one knows for sure. Everything is a river. Time is just flowing by. What am I doing to make the most of it? I don’t always know, but I’ve tried to stop letting fear or “the way you are supposed to do things” get in the way.

In the past year, I became a more solid person. Solidly grounded and focused on how I can surround myself with people I love and meaningful experiences. I’ve also become more at peace with the person I am: sometimes gregarious and silly and sometimes quiet and introspective. Making that peace was a journey that at times broke me into little pieces. I’ve collected some of those pieces as well as the mementos from that journey in this book.

Let me be clear: I didn’t solve any existentialist dilemmas in my little book of corny poems and sunset photos. I simply used a couple of different forms of art (writing and photography) to document the thought processes by which I learned a little bit more about myself.

Maybe there is something in this book you can relate to. That would be incredibly humbling and neat for me. If there isn’t? That’s ok too. Either way, thank you for taking a look.

You don’t have to buy it to see it. You can flip through it on Blurb.com

This is that day.
That one day.
That one day that can never just pass like the others pass.
Today is the day when my scar burns.

Any other day, It is easy to see the thousands of days of growing and listening I’ve done between 1982 and now.

But not this day.

This is that day.

That day my dad picked me up from school.
He never did that.
There could only be one reason he picked me up on that day.

He didn’t even wait. He held my hand as we crossed Allenwood Drive and spoke in the most gentle way he has ever spoken to me.

“Your mom died today.”

And I said, “OK.”
And then October 6, 1982 became that day.

The day that will never pass quietly.
The day I just allow myself to feel it.
To feel it as though thousands of days have not passed since that day.

Like I’m still in that crosswalk.
On Allenwood Drive.
On October 6, 1982.

That day.

Last night after work, I grabbed my guitar out of the trunk of my car and walked down to Natural Bridges state beach to watch the sunset. I’ve had my guitar in my trunk for the past couple of days. I’ve stepped away from work a couple of times to walk down and play guitar on the beach for awhile. Yes, it sounds cliché and silly. And I’ll forgive you for whatever thought just crossed your mind about me potentially being a hippy.

I’m not the kind of person who is comfortable singing and playing in front of people. But with the ocean churning in the background, I’m much more at peace walking around, singing songs and clobbering my guitar strings.

Friday nights at Natural Bridges tend to be like Friday nights at the movie theater. There were plenty of people out to watch the sun go down. Still, I was able to find myself a spot to walk around and play without interrupting anyone’s moment of natural beauty.

After a few minutes of playing, I saw that a toddler, no more than 1-year old and wobbling around the beach with her parents, had taken an interest in me. She fearlessly started toward me, squeaking and pointing the whole way. Her parents seemed apprehensive to disturb me, so I knelt down and offered my guitar to the slowly approaching little one. She got even more excited and continued to make her way up to my guitar.

Her mom spoke to her in English and her dad spoke to her in French. It was very cool to watch them explain to her what it was and what she was doing in both languages. She had obviously strummed (I’m using that term loosely) a guitar before, so I held a few notes while she hit the strings. Her little face was mesmerized.

It was a really neat moment and a perfect way to end the week. I stayed out there for another 30 minutes, playing in the dark until my fingers got so numb I had to stop.

Earlier in the day, I had lunch with friends and we were talking about how amazingly lucky we were to live in a place as beautiful as Santa Cruz. So, after playing guitar on the beach at sunset and letting a toddler curiously strum along while her parents spoke to her in French and English, all I can do is agree. I’m pretty lucky to live and work here.

Happy birthday, big sister. I’d really really really really love to meet you someday.

However, on the plane flight home from Seattle, I was thinking about more serious things and decided a right-handed drawing might be the best way to express some heavier thoughts.

Normally I post these on Facebook. But I think this one is better suited here, where things are more quiet. This isn’t intended to start a religious debate. These are just my thoughts, poured out at 37,000 feet, through my right hand. Cheers.