Hope

There’s a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow

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On Remembering the Past and Choosing Hope for Tomorrow.

Some weeks feel heavier than others.

The headlines are louder. The conversations a little tighter. The future — which usually stretches out like an open road — can feel uncertain around the edges.

And yet, tomorrow still arrives.

For as long as I can remember, there has been a song that comes back to me in moments like this. It plays inside my head almost without invitation:

“There’s a great big beautiful tomorrow, shining at the end of every day . . . .”

The song was written by Richard and Robert Sherman — the Sherman Brothers — for the Carousel of Progress, first introduced at the 1964–1965 New York World’s Fair in New York City.

The fair carried a hopeful motto: “Peace Through Understanding.”

It is hard to imagine a more necessary phrase in any generation.

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The Smallest Invitation in Winter — National Bird Feeding Month

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A Handful of Seed, a Dish of Water, a Safe Place to Rest — and Why Small Actions At Home Matter

February can feel long.

Not dramatic. Not tragic. Just . . . . long.

The trees are bare. The color has drained from the fields. The air moves a little slower.

And yet — there is motion.

A flutter in the honey locust.
A finch on the ledge.
A woodpecker arriving like he owns the place.

February is National Bird Feeding Month.

And it is not only about enjoying the view.

It is about helping birds make it through winter — and preparing the ones who are about to arrive after journeys that stretch farther than we can easily imagine.

 

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Lead the Way

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Having come across a line the other day that stopped me in my tracks, I wanted to share it with you — not because it was clever, but because it was so clear.

“Don’t wait for other people to be loving, giving, compassionate, grateful, forgiving, generous, or friendly . . . lead the way!” — Steve Maraboli

That simple idea has a way of lingering.

So often, we wait.

We wait for the mood in the room to improve.
We wait for someone else to soften first.
We wait for the world to give us permission to be kind.

But kindness has never needed permission.

Being loving, generous, or compassionate is not something done after conditions improve. More often than not, it is the very thing that improves them.

Leading the way does not have to be loud.
It does not require a spotlight or a platform.

Sometimes it looks like:

  • offering patience when impatience would be easier
  • choosing gratitude when complaint feels tempting
  • being friendly without checking first to see if it will be returned

Small acts, yes — but small acts have a way of traveling farther than expected. Like ripples on water, they move outward quietly, reaching people and places we may never know about. And isn’t that a good thing?

There is a quiet power in deciding to go first.

First to Smile.
First to Forgive.
First to offer Grace.

In uncertain or heavy times, that choice matters even more — not because it fixes everything, but because it reminds us, and those around us, of who we still are —
that we are human, and that we care.

There is no way to know who needed to see that kindness today.
No way to measure the ripple it may have started.

And that is all right. What matters is simply that the kindness was offered.

The world does not change only through grand gestures. Sometimes it shifts because one person decided not to wait.

So if there is a question about what to do today, perhaps this is enough —

Be the Loving one.
Be the Generous one.
Be the Friendly one.

Lead the way.

Doesn’t that feel like a good place to begin — leading with Kindness?

‘Til next time.  — Jim  (and Red!)

If you’d like to receive these notes as they’re written, you’re welcome to follow along here.

These illustrations were created with the assistance of AI

 

 

Why Small Stories Last

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Why the Little Things Stay With Us

Small stories. Small moments. Small actions that reverberate through the years, often in ways we never fully realise at the time.

My own writing life — if one can call it that — began in the fourth grade, with a teacher named Mrs. Drew. I do not recall her first name, if I ever knew it at all. Back then, adults were simply Mr., Mrs., or Miss, and that seemed sufficient. (You need not bother doing the arithmetic — I am seventy-six.)

One afternoon near the end of the school day, Mrs. Drew propped a landscape painting against the blackboard for all of us to see. Our assignment was simple enough — write a short story inspired by the scene in the painting. It showed a family in a wagon, travelling along a dirt road that wound through woods and farmland, headed somewhere beyond the frame.

We began writing in class and were sent home to finish. A few days later, Mrs. Drew returned our papers, handing them back one by one. All except mine. Mine, she kept.

When she finally explained why, it was because she intended to read it aloud to the class. And when I eventually received it back, there at the top of the page were words I have never forgotten:

“A++      Jim — You will be a writer someday.”

I was painfully shy at the time. I did not know what to do with such encouragement. But I carried it with me — quietly, steadily — for the rest of my life.

There are moments like that — small at the time, almost unnoticed — that stay with us long after louder things have passed. They do not announce themselves. They do not demand attention. And yet, years later, they are often the ones we remember most clearly.

Perhaps it is because they arrive without agenda. Or because they involve people rather than events. Or because they ask nothing of us except that we notice.

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Reflection and Renewal — Gently Finding Our Way Into the New Year

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A gentle welcome for the year ahead — and an unhurried way to begin again.

January has a way of arriving with instructions already written for us, doesn’t it?
Begin again. Improve. Fix. Hurry.

But some years ask for something different.

Some years do not need to be conquered at all — only entered. And once inside, listened to. The quieter truths tend to reveal themselves that way, without ceremony or noise.

Here, reflection is not a reckoning, and renewal is not a contest to be won or lost.
What if it never needed to be?

Instead, it can be something simpler — an ongoing process of noticing what still matters, what has endured, and what might simply need a little tending rather than replacing.

If you have arrived here tired, or curious, or simply passing through, you are in good company. And welcome here.

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While the Year Is Still New

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Easing out of December and taking the new year one unhurried day at a time

While the year is still new, there is a softness to the days that does not last long. The holidays have packed themselves away, and the calendar has turned without yet asking much of us. Mornings arrive more gently. Even the house seems to move at a slower pace, as though it, too, is willing to linger a moment before the year begins in earnest.

Porches are swept clean. Decorations are carefully taken down and set aside. The lights that remain are fewer, but somehow warmer for it. Routines return slowly — politely — without knocking too loudly. Most of the calendar is still blank, and there is comfort in that. Room to move. Room to breathe.

By the time January reaches its first full week, the talk of New Year’s resolutions has begun to hum a little louder. Lists are made. Promises are weighed. Some folks feel the pull to hurry — to decide everything at once, or to prove something before the year has truly had time to arrive.

But there is no bell to beat here.

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