As I was cracking the third of four eggs into the bowl to then scramble the yolks, the chorus of John Prine’s seminal 1971 number “Spanish Pipedream” echoed throughout the room. I decided then and there that to make breakfast with Mr. Prine playing in the background is the only way to start your day. 

Early Tuesday morning. Sitting in the dentist chair, I stared blankly out onto the parking lot, only to then notice the bustling traffic on nearby U.S. 276. It was at that moment when the nice dental hygienist asked if a date and time in mid-September 2025 would be ideal for my next teeth cleaning.  

By the time you read this, I will (hopefully) be the newest member of the 40-year-old club. God willin’ and the creek don’t rise. Onward into this next chapter of my existence. Head held high at what may come to pass in the next decade. 

Yesterday was a rough one. Real rough. She moved out the last of her things from my apartment, formerly “our apartment.” She’d already signed a lease for a new spot across town. And she seemed genuinely excited to see what this next chapter of her life will look like in the coming weeks, months and years. 

It’s Friday. Late morning. And I’ve just completed my fourth online therapy session in four weeks. Another hour of purging my heart and soul of what bothers the former and latter. Another moment and interaction to reflect on what I was just asked about.

I’m not doing well. And it feels oddly good to say just that, whether it be to family, friends, strangers or you readers alike. I haven’t felt good in a long time. Truth be told, I can’t remember when the I began to feel this way.

It’s Jan. 6, 2025, and my mind was on established routines and rituals. The warm frenzy of the holidays is now behind us. Time now for my wife, Lori, and me to re-establish some of that routine. 

Dec. 31, 2024, marked the ninth anniversary of my “running streak.” Since Dec. 31, 2015, I’ve run every single day. The standard is to complete at least a mile to qualify as a run, with most of my jogs hovering around three miles. 

Christmas Eve. With the sun fading behind the Blue Ridge Mountains, the sky transitioning into bright pink, purple and orange, I found myself quietly jogging the four-mile path around Lake Junaluska. Nobody around me, the air quickly gets cold during sunset. Dozens of Canada geese roaming the walking trails and shoreline, with many more either swimming or in-flight nearby. 

Last Thursday evening was a pure and present justification of why music (especially when performed live) has such an extremely deep and intricately intrinsic (and lifelong) hold on my heart and soul.