The Views From The Peaks Are Always The Same.

I recently met with my retina specialist. Same story; slow but steady progression. The good news is that my vision can be corrected in my left eye to 20/20 with my glasses, although that is just in specific spots. Every time Dr Lalawani looks at my scans or looks at the back of my eye she says the same thing; “I don’t know how you are able to see so well Chris.”  Large portions of the center of my retina are apparently so thin that you can see right through it to the blood vessels behind; Geographic Atrophy she calls it. I have a few remaining islands of photoreceptors that allow me to see in small areas and by scanning the scene in front of me I am able to assemble the complete image in my head. She tells me I am fortunate that I have the mental capacity to do that. It is the only way I can function as well as I do. A quick scan of her waiting room and I know what she means. Even as I am about to turn 60 I am well below the average age of her patients.  I can see the compassion and the sadness on her face. She is has been with me on this journey since the beginning. She knows far better than me what lays ahead.

My doctor and I talk less about my medical condition these days. Her counsel is more about pragmatic issues such as the need for long-term disability insurance. Her biggest concern for me now does not seem to be my vision, with current medicine, that future appears clear. “You are very social and independent Chris. I worry about you being isolated as your vision continues to deteriorate.”

I had a therapist tell me once that when it came to relationships my attachment style was such that when I moved on, I never looked back. Like the quote from the movie The Gumball Rally, ”The first rule of Italian driving. What’s behind me is not important.” As cold as that makes me seem, I know that has been true about me. There is far too much evidence for me to deny it. Looking back over the years I see a long list of friends, wonderful relationships, that I have somehow lost. It is one of the things I dislike about myself the most.

While I wish they were in my life today, I know that I am a better person for each and every one of those relationships. I carry with me the memories of so many good times and those experiences are some of the most influential in my life. The bad memories in my life have left an impression, but not as big as the good ones. I am not sure what that says about me.

It is an area where I think my brother and I are very different. I have spent a lifetime chasing the highs and, if I was to guess, I would say he spent more time preventing the lows; I could be wrong. I have had some great high times over the years but boy, have I had some incredible lows. After 60 years now I think I have come to only one conclusion. It may be worth it but it certainly is not the easy way.

Today, I have a handful of close friends from Oregon to Florida that I am so blessed to have in my life. We don’t see each other as much as we would like. I worry that maybe with time some of them will just disappear from my life altogether. For the first time in my life that thought scares me. It scares me because I spent nearly 60 years never looking back and when I look back now I see the valleys more than the peaks.

But maybe,  that is just what the view is like from the top of a peak. Everything is below you and it can be scary.

I need more Christmas ornaments

I started writing this blog as a way to get to know, to actually study, myself. These are not easy for me to write. What makes it so hard is the fact that I have chosen to share my words with anyone who cares to read them. Not only does that feel very risky but it forces me to really study my feelings to be sure that I am being honest, or authentic, about what I am writing.

One thing I have learned is, that as the subject of my writing, I am perhaps the one least objective about what I write. When I look back I sometimes struggle to remember or understand events that were so significant in my life. Time and life has a way of filtering or distorting the past.

My mother-in-law, Lenore, is a wonderful woman. From the day I meet her she warmly welcomed me into the family and I have always appreciated her quick wit. Besides the love of her daughter, we also share a birth date. On January 13th I will be 60. Lenore will be 88. You are not supposed to love your mother-in-law but I love mine.

She recently moved into a memory care facility as she battles with the growing shroud of dementia. I can see the confusion and the sadness in her eyes when I speak with her as her short-term memory slowly slips away and is replaced by confusion. Her sense of humor still comes through as she talks about breaking out of the facility but it is clear to us, and to her, that this is a progressive condition. That the slow steady march of dementia will eventually completely rob her of her memories and her personality.

My brother Mike, born on Christmas day, is the only person who has known me for almost 60 years now. Likely, no one will ever know me longer than my brother. Today he faces similar challenges as Lenore. We don’t talk so I am not sure what he feels but I imagine he is scared. I wonder if he even knows. I hear he is angry. He is angry about liberal politicians and press, gun control, and me. As his memory slowly slips away I can’t help but wonder when the memory of me will completely slip away as well?

I love the podcast, Revisionist History by Malcolm Gladwell. This summer he did a fantastic episode entitled “Free Brian Williams” that completely challenged the way I thought about my understanding of my past. Using the backdrop of the events on 9/11, Gladwell talks about the accuracy of our memories. How they are shaped by the events around us and the distance of time. He makes a very compelling case that the memories we are so sure about today may not have actually happened the way we remember them. I see it with some of my friends when I talk about it with them. They vehemently defend that their memories of an event are rock solid; “I can remember so clearly…” I have no doubt their memories are crystal clear but are they accurate? Are they complete?

I think about the memories of my childhood, of my mother and father who passed away many years ago. There are the vague memories and then there are the ones that are just so clear and vivid. I can’t help but wonder how those have been shaped over the years by emotions, time, or changes in my own brain’s chemistry.

Like most, my family had its dysfunctions but for the most part, I grew up feeling safe and secure. I have been very fortunate in my life. I have had so many wonderful experiences. Growing up in a Navy family meant we had the opportunity to live in many different places. I went to five different schools before I graduated from high school. Over the years I have lived in 25 different cities and three different countries. I have had so many rich experiences as a result. The downside is it is difficult for me to answer the question “where are you from?” I know a lot of people, however, our relationship, in most cases, is in the context of a specific time or place in my life.

My wife, Marilyn has had a very different path. She has lived in only three or four different cities, and in the Boulder area alone for nearly a quarter of a century. When Lenore moved into the memory care facility just before Thanksgiving, she moved out of the house Marilyn’s childhood home. She has four siblings and a long list of friends who have known for many many years.

As she was going through the Christmas decorations today to put up the tree I overheard her saying to a friend that of all the ornaments only two were mine. After all those experiences how is it possible that I only had two ornaments? As I thought about that, it occurred to me that I actually have very little in my life from my past. I have very few material things, and there are very few who knew me as a young man, let alone a child. My parents are both gone. My brother and I don’t speak and as his memories slip away, that perspective will be gone as well.

I am left mostly to rely on my own memories of the past. Unsure of how they have been shaped over time?

So while I started writing this blog to study myself, I think I share it as a way of, somehow, keeping my memories alive; keeping me alive. A way to help Jonathan and Jennifer get to know their father a little better. So someday, when they are approaching their 60th birthday, and I am long gone, there will be more than a faded memory, distorted by time and brain chemistry, of who I was;

or, at least, thought I was.

A Love Story

On August 4, 1914, a young merchant marine from the tiny village of Lussinpiccolo in Austria Hungary, today Croatia,  arrived in the US on a small freighter, the S.S. Lucia. His name was Julius Hector Pacori or Pacoré, we are not sure. US Immigration changed the spelling to something far less ethnic sounding. He was 17 and his ship had just been seized by the United States Government when we entered World War I.

Jules, as he was known, made the U.S. his home. He married a woman from Philadelphia and got a good corporate job that provided he, Jenny, and their four children a comfortable life.

As a young child, I knew my grandfather as a warm and loving man who was larger than life. I remember fondly, him sitting in the breezeway of his home in Connecticut, smoking a pipe, or perhaps it was a cigar, lost in the opera performed in his native tongue, Italian.

Jules was from the other side of the Atlantic. My father’s father, Alfred, lived  in Detroit and was from the “other side of the tracks.” On his draft card, his previous residence is listed as the Ohio State Reformatory. He never spoke to his siblings. Their relationship so strained he even changed the spelling of our name, adding an E to the end, in an attempt to prune the family tree from our branch.

Alfred and his wife Edith were born more than 120 years ago. It was a time when, if you had a hard life, it was hard! Then, they lost their oldest son Herbert at 19, when his ship sunk in the war.

My father, also named Alfred, or perhaps he was still known as Bud those days, met Julie in 1944. I imagine she saw him as a quick witted, handsome “man’s man” who knew how to take care of himself, and his woman. He would have been attracted to her strength of character, her heart, and perhaps the more cultured air about her. Like her father, she loved the Italian opera. He would have enjoyed swing music like Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman. They both loved to dance. She was the type of woman that a young man from the other side of the tracks dreams of meeting. He may have been the guy you hope your daughter never meets.

They had known each other for only a couple of weeks before he was deployed for another two years at sea. They wrote to each other constantly and when he returned they got married on July 6, 1946. It was love at first sight and it lasted a lifetime; just shy of 60 years when she passed away in Jan 2005.

I have written here about what a hard man my father could be, yet as hard as he was, Dad was no match for my mother. He used to say proudly, “I’ve got your mother right where she wants me.” Truer words have never been spoken.

He wasn’t very expressive about his love but there was no doubt where Julie stood in his priorities. I remember his exact words to me when I made the mistake of complaining to him once about something she told me to do. “Your mother has been with me for more than 30 years and she will be here long after you move on. You don’t want to ask me to chose between the two of you!” There was never any doubt in my mind of his love, for her.

Yet, as can happen over 60 years together, there was a difficult time in their marriage. It was sometime between when Mike was born and I was born. I don’t know if it was the dozen miscarriages my mother said she had as they tried in vain to have a second child, the pressures of a young Navy family trying to make ends meet or an “indiscretion” by my father that he alluded to many years later. Whatever the cause, by the time I arrived, seven years after my brother, my mother clung to me perhaps more tightly than my brother. Perhaps that was because as the first born son, my brother had a special connection with Dad.

While I have no doubt they loved us both, I was hers. He was Dad’s.

I have countless stories about my father. Mostly because he was, without question, a colorful man. The stores about my mother are far harder for me to tell without choking up, even today, 14 years after she died. To this day I can’t make it through the song Always by Patsy Cline without crying. I can still hear her squeaky voice singing along. To say I loved my mother is unquestionably the biggest understatement a guy can make. Even now, when something big happens in my life I have a fleeting thought that I have to tell Mom about it. I miss her so much.

In the summer of 2004, my mother had a stroke and they moved to Oregon to live with us while they were having a small home built nearby. They never got that house.

Another, far more devastating, stroke in October of that year sent my mother to a nursing home. Every day for three months, my father got up in the morning and drove there to sit next to her, to read the paper to her, and watch the news with her, even though she was totally unresponsive. What else could he do? He knew no other life than the one with her.

On the afternoon of January 20, 2005, she suddenly smiled, reached up, and patted my father on the cheek as if to tell him she loved him and everything was going to be okay.

She died in her sleep that night.

My father was devastated. At times he could barely function. I had never seen him so vulnerable. So raw. I remember him telling me once, “I don’t want to live.” I knew he meant it.

He lived with me for the next six months before he moved to Texas. Almost every night I would come home and sit with him to watch TV or just talk.

After 46 years, I finally got to know my father; to understand what an amazing man he was. He lived his entire life with what seemed to be only one objective, to provide a better life for his wife and two children than what he had known. He joined my mother two years later, after more than delivering on that commitment.

I have often wonder if that time spent getting to know my father was, in some way, my mother’s plan all along. And that when she smiled and said goodbye to him that day, was it because she knew that her work was finally done?

I wish she was here to help my brother and me now.

How I Remembered I Like to Dance

I was perhaps 11 years old. We were living at the Naval Training Center in Bainbridge, Maryland. My father was the General Manager for the Chief’s Club, a pretty good gig for for a guy like Alfred, or Jerry as his friends knew him. And for some unknown reason, Gary Puckett and the Union Gap was playing a show at the amphitheater at the Naval Base. Mike really, really, wanted to go. He would have been about 18.

My parents agreed, on one condition. “You have to take Chris.”

I wonder if that's the real reason we don’t speak today?

I was too young to remember the details but I remember two things that night; my brother was pissed, and I saw my very first live music show.

By the time I was a teenager, music was a big part of my everyday life; Lynyrd Skynyrd, Aerosmith, Grand Funk Railroad, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin. The list went on.  I remember saying, “But Dad, it says, ‘To Be Played at Maximum Volume’,” after he yelled at me for playing David Bowie so loudly in my room.

I didn’t see a lot of live shows as a young man but in my mind, I played in countless. I typically played lead, not Gilmour. I was the one playing Blackie, not Eric. I can tell you what it feels like to play the most amazing guitar riff in front of thousands; yet while I own two guitars, I can barely play two chords. 

Through junior high, I played clarinet and saxophone but never as good as I was on the guitar. I spent a short time in the chorus and learned I wasn’t a vocalist but man can I sing the blues with a Stratocaster in my hands. And one thing I knew for sure was that I loved to dance, although I did not attend a single prom or take my girlfriend dancing, even once.

Ten years ago this month, as I was about to turn 50, I left my wife of 16 years, my 14-year-old son, 11-year-old daughter, and I moved in with a woman 15 years younger than me.

How did I get here?

She loved music more than anyone I had known. You could see it on her face and in how she moved when listening to music. She turned me on to some great new music and she turned me on to the music I had loved so much, so many years ago. She introduced me to that young guitar player I once knew. Her love of life and music was intoxicating.

Together, we were so much less.

How did I get here?

It all started when I stopped playing Voodoo Chile.

Now 10 years later, as I am about to turn 60, I see how truly blessed I am. I have my two wonderful children in my life, a good job, a comfortable home, there is almost always music on in the house, I get to see a lot of live music with friends

And dance with my wife.

How did I get here?

It all started when I picked up my Stratocaster again.

Sixty to Sixty

A few years ago I became interested in night photography, specifically capturing shots of the center of our Milky Way Galaxy. I was initially interested only because I thought the images were visually compelling. I found myself eagerly reading books and watching videos on astrophysics as I tried to learn more about the images I was trying to capture. It is so fascinating that when you look at the center of our Milky way you are literally looking back in time at a light that was generated more than 26,000 years ago.

Today marks 60 days until I turn 60 years old! Actually a rather insignificant number, I tell myself. As I sit here today about to start the ... cough, cough, choke ... seventh decade on this planet I have no idea how long this journey will go. Many would tell me, “Chris, death isn’t the end, you will live on in heaven” … perhaps somewhere else.

I say, “who really knows" and "what does that really mean anyway?”

Our solar system is about 90 million miles in diameter and our sun is one of more than 200 billion stars in the Milky Way. Our galaxy is so large it would take as much as 200,000 years for a photon of light to travel from one end of the galaxy to the other. That’s enormous!  Consider that the Milky Way is only one of perhaps 100 Billion Galaxies in just our observable universe.

What do we really know about our world and how can anyone be so certain about what lies beyond what we can see today?

Don’t get me wrong, I am not an atheist. I am also not a Christian, a Jew, a Muslim, nor am I comfortable with any other label that you might put on someone to define their spirituality.

When I do think about life and death in the context of this immense universe it is so clear to me that we know such a small fraction of the truth. Any truth.

I recently heard the phrase “Post Truth Era” referring to what’s going on in U.S. politics. I am not sure that is anything new. For centuries there seems to have been several variations of the truth, particularly when it comes to politics or religion Countless thousands, millions, have died fighting over stories that have been passed down across generations as the “Truth.”

I have always valued critical thinking and I believe it is, at times, one of our most underutilized skills as a human race. I have rarely been the person who just accepts things blindly. I want to know why even when there isn’t an answer.  Particularly, when there isn't an answer.

Like any skill that is overused, at times, I tend to use critical thinking more like a club rather than a tool and as a result, I know I have left a few scares along the way. I remember one conversation at work a few years ago when a team member said to me, “Chris, just once, can you say, good job and leave off the but…?” Those words have never left me. Thank you Bryarly.

So while one of my favorite words will probably always be “why,” because there is just so much more that is unknown than is known, I am trying hard to replace all my “buts” with “ands.”
And, that is hard!


“People who believe they are ignorant of nothing have neither looked for nor stumbled upon the boundary of what is known and unknown in the universe.” Neil deGrasse Tyson

Stonewall Jackson wasn't exactly right

Reality. I got a big dose of that this morning. My alarm went off at 5 am at the Courtyard in Fort Smith, Arkansas. My flight back to Denver departed at 11am from Tulsa and I figured I would get up early and try to catch the sunrise over the Arkansas River before beginning my two hour drive to the airport. I was excited and jumped out of bed. I had carefully planned out where I would go to get the shot the night before. Looking at the map I found a place on the west bank of the river looking back toward Fort Smith. The sun would be rising over the city at about 6:45 with the river and the bridge into Oklahoma in the foreground.

It was a short drive through the small town of Fort Smith to the first exit in Oklahoma. Then down a small back road for about ½ mile to a turn off and maybe another ½ mile down what appeared to be a dirt road to the spot I had selected. An easy drive. Should take me less than 10 minutes. I figured I needed to be on the road by 7:30. The timing was going to work out perfectly. Now I just needed the sky to cooperate. It didn’t.

The sky turned out to be almost completely overcast. And worse, as I got off the highway I realized that the tiny back road I was on was extremely dark and the lights on my Kia rental car were providing little help.

In the human eye, Rods are primarily used for peripheral vision, they help us see motion, and are well suited for adapting to night vision but they cannot transmit sharp images or colors. That is what the Cones do. The Cones are all located in the macula and they are the only photoreceptor found in the Fovea, the center of your macula, what you use when you look at something such as when you are reading, looking at someone’s face, or driving.

So as I drove down that dark country road this morning I was able to see motion, to see dark and light but seeing the faded lines on the road, street signs, or even the subtle edge of the pavement was difficult at best.

I crept along, way below the speed limit, trying hard to keep the car from running off the road or from hitting something, or worse, someone, while I found a place to turn around and head back to the safety of a better lit road.

That was one of my daily reminders that I am no longer “normal.” That I can no longer do all the things that I have taken for granted for so many years.

I think back to the time when my brother and I decided to take my father’s car away from him after nearly 70 years of driving and how furious he was; “I used to change your diapers,  so don’t tell me what I can’t do!” I get it Dad. At least I do now. It’s not the loss of freedom or flexibility. It’s that you just can’t.

There is a quote prominently displayed over Jackson Arch at VMI; “You may be whatever you resolve to be.” Every VMI Alumnus walks under those words perhaps 5,000 times in their life. Through much of my life I have had to fight a quiet, but persistent whisper in the back of my mind that I am not good enough, but I have always kept that quote in mind. Stonewall Jackson did not say, you can be whatever you “want” to be. He said, whatever you “resolve” to be. While I have struggled with confidence at times in my life, one of the things I learned from my father was resolve; some might describe it as pigheaded.

But what I realized today is that while Stonewall Jackson’s infamous words have helped me get through many things in my life there is one thing they cannot do. No matter how hard I try, or what my resolve, I need to come to terms with the fact that there are some things I just can’t do and every now and then, that quiet voice in the back of my mind that I have fought so hard over the years, says, “see I told you so.”

Building Bridges

Have you ever been just so sure you are right and yet no one can see that? Boy, I have a few examples just in the last week alone. And as you can imagine from my first sentence here, those interactions didn’t go well.

Why is it so hard to say to yourself, “what if I am wrong?” Or, “what if I am right, but there is an even better answer and it may not be mine?”

Why is it is so difficult to be open to really understand someone else’s idea when it differs from yours? Don’t get me wrong, I can easily understand someone who thinks like me. But someone who I strongly disagree with? That’s a different issue. After all, I am right and they are wrong. Why should I try to understand them? They are wrong.

I find myself all too often, when trying to resolve a disagreement, sitting on the opposite side of the issue when I know that if I can emotionally "build a bridge" and cross over to the other side, if I really try hard to see the situation as the other person sees it, WE will almost certainly find a far better answer then what either of us had alone.

But hey, why should I do that when it is so clear they are wrong. Perhaps if they come over to my side and look at the issue they will see that I am right and then, maybe, I might glance over at their position, or maybe not because, after all, they are wrong and I am right.

Why is it so hard for me to realize that being dead right is never a great outcome and that two people working together will always be better than two people working against each other? And of course the more emotionally charged the issue the harder it is.

My guess is that the culprit here it’s my old friend fear. What does it mean if I am wrong? How will I be judged by others? Judged by others? No, I couldn’t stand that.

But here’s the thing, I believe with all my heart, that when it comes to all human relationships, working together creatively always enriches the relationship and that working together you will always find a better outcome.

So I will keep trying to build that bridge and when I don’t, it isn’t that I don’t care. It’s just that inner demon that I am wrestling with. And if that happens with you, and it doesn’t look like I can make that move, you can help me with a smile and the understanding that it is almost certainly fear that is getting in the way of doing what I know is right. And maybe, with your help, I will find the strength to make the move.

How to Make Chicken Salad

Young Man, you have spent much of the last twenty-some years afraid. Afraid that you aren’t good enough, that you won’t live up to expectations. Afraid of disappointing your father. When you went to college you chose Virginia Military Institute where they promised to make you a man. But they didn’t. You chose to become a Marine where they promised to make you a strong man. But they didn’t. Remember what the Gunny at Office Candidate School said? “You just can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit.” Isn’t that what you have always been afraid of?

“Afraid? Not me you crazy old man.” Of course, you’d say that, after all, fear is a weakness and one thing you cannot be is weak.

Perhaps someday, through the miracle of time travel, you will be able to see what I see. That you turned out alright. That your father would be very proud. That he was always very proud. And maybe, just maybe, you will see that you are good enough.

If you could see that, how would that change your life? What could you accomplish if you began to find the personal strength that vulnerability brings? How would it change your future if you were able to be less defensive with others and instead try to really understand them? What they are afraid of? What could you accomplish if what you cared the most about was finding the best answer, not being the best answer?

And I wonder, if you could travel through time, how would it change me today? Do I really know who you are? That was so many years ago. Where did I lose touch with you? I am sorry I let that happen. I have been trying so hard to get to know you again. To understand you. 

So, if someday time travel becomes a reality, and you find yourself here in 2018, I hope we can spend time getting to know each other. I also hope you will get to know Jonathan and Jennifer. You will love them. I could not be prouder of them. They are without question the two biggest blessing in my life.

Today they are exactly where you are in life, and perhaps, you can both learn a thing or two together.

Strength and Regret

I will always remember, and forever regret, the last conversation I had with my father. My father was a good man. He loved and cared deeply for his family, that was never a doubt to me or anyone who knew him. Dad, was also a strong man for who anger was the only emotion he showed easily. So, in early 2007 when my brother, Mike, and I decided we needed to take his car away from him, Dad was livid. The last time my father and I spoke was not too long after that and ended with me pushing him against the wall and yelling at him. He tried to threaten me, to exert his dominance as he had done for 48 years but I wouldn’t let him. I had to prove I was right. That I was stronger and more powerful. Not only did I take away his car but then I took away his dignity and showed him just how old and powerless he had become. We never spoke again. He died in May 2007. If there is anything in life I would like to have back it is that day.

My brother is seven years older than me and, as his first child and oldest son, Mike enjoyed much of our father’s attention growing up. Basketball, football, baseball. I suspect Dad loved having a young son. I remember him telling us how important it was that we were both successful and were able to have a better life than he did. Dad grew up with a father that believed in extremely harsh treatment when children misbehaved so Dad’s attention also brought very firm discipline for Mike. By the time I came along seven years later Mike, and my mom, had paved the road for me so my childhood was very different than his. That was the first of many things my big brother did for me over the years. If I got in a fight with the school bully, he was there to help me out. When I took my first job in sales he taught me everything he knew about being successful. When I divorced my first wife he was there for me. He has always been there for me. Helping me. Paving the way.

I think it was also about seven years before I was diagnosed with Macular Degeneration that Mike received similar news from his doctor. Yet once more leading the way for me. Most recently he has been faced with a new challenge; today it’s cognitive impairment. I remember Mike telling me one of the last times he and I spoke several months ago that his two biggest fears in life were losing his eye sight and losing his mind. How scary it must be for him now.

Being a good Texan and a staunch conservative, Mike believes in exercising his second amendment rights and carried a concealed weapon. Personally, I do not have issues with responsible gun ownership but poor eyesight and cognitive impairment; well perhaps you see where this story is going. We don’t talk anymore.

I guess I could fly to Texas and bang on his door and demand that we talk but I know how that story ends. He is my father’s son for sure and he is angry.

I miss my big brother. He is the only living sole who has known me for nearly 60 years now. I wish I had the benefit of his insight on the mutual challenges we face with our vision. I wish I could be there to help him, as he has done so many times for me, as he faces whats before him now. And I wish my big brother were here to help me come to terms with my own fear, that perhaps we are both running out of time and he is leading the way for me yet once more.

Wide Angle Lens

My closest friends have all asked me some variation of the same question; what is my vision like? I get it, if you care about someone, you really want to understand the things that impact their lives. I appreciate that.

Like most people, for the vast majority of my waking hours, I don't think of my eyesight at all. I am focused on what I am doing at the time; reading email, meeting with clients, photography, listening to music, talking to friends or loved ones. While my right eye is pretty bad these days, my left eye is actually 20/20 with my glasses on, and I have a very weak prescription. The challenge is, that is in a very narrow field of view. Imagine looking through a tube. If I look at your face, I see you with somewhat of a slightly soft focus. If I look directly at your left eye I see it very clearly, but I can barely make out your right eye, or your smile. Or if you quickly point to something while I am looking at your face I may miss what you pointed at all together. All the while, my peripheral vision does not appear to be affected. I see the environment I am in such as the forest or a room, but peripheral vision is rather low resolution, so that image isn’t sharp. If something in my peripheral vision catches my attention my eyes try to snap to that image, using my compromised macula. The result is I am now suddenly looking through that “tube.” If I am to take in the entire scene in front of me in sharp focus, I have to rapidly scan what’s in front of me. A rather strange thing to adapt to.

I am not sure why I started writing, or continue to write this blog. That's a question I ask myself, and likely something that at least a few of you who read this have asked as well. I am not sure I can answer that question with any reasonable degree of confidence. What I know is that I am on a journey. I am not sure where that started or where I am going but I know without a question, it’s a journey. Something I never really understood less than ten years ago.

Over the last six or seven years I have found myself looking to find more creative outlets; a renewed interest in music, photography, and now writing. I assume these creative outlets are to fill some "gap" I felt through much of my life. Whatever it is, it seems that as my eyesight narrows my perspective seems to broaden.

Someday, my retina specialist tells me my field of vision will drop to zero and all I will see wherever I look will be completely black. My peripheral vision will apparently remain. The way I envision that is I will be able to take in the landscape without ever seeing any detail. I wonder how that will feel?

My hope is that as my field of view decreases and my perspective on life broadens I will find reward in the bigger things in life, without getting dragged down by the details; as has dominated my life so far.

Discovery Trail

While doing a guided mediation recently, the woman who was leading it asked that we think of the one thing we most wanted in life. One word, or a simple phrase. The first thing that came to mind.

I was shocked how quickly and dramatically the word jumped into my mind; Peace. It's not something I remember ever thinking about before. I even went back and tried on all the usual ones, health, happiness, security, wealth but none of them was as brilliant in my mind as Peace.

Over the last five years, I have had a front row seat to a slow but undeniable change in my eye sight. I honestly don’t think I realize just how much my vision has changed, although there are plenty of queues. But why Peace? Why not Health, or even Vision?

For me, the mid-life crisis began somewhere around the fall of 2008. It was textbook, and for anyone other than my wife (now ex-wife), our children, and me, it was a rather uninteresting cliché. For our family it was devastating. The reality didn't catch up with me until three years later when I suddenly found myself in complete crisis. I remember that day as if it was yesterday. I was 52 years old and I suddenly realized I had not a clue of who I was. I could no longer deny the mounting evidence in front of me, I was not the guy I thought I was. The man I had fabricated over the last half century to fit the role I was supposed to play.

Knowing I needed help, I found a therapist and scheduled my first meeting. Having never been in individual counseling I thought it would be helpful to come prepared with a "few" notes about why I was there to see him. Imagine sitting alone in a quiet room with only a trained therapist as he carefully reads six, single-spaced, printed pages of you pouring your heart out, with him periodically peering over the pages and saying "hmm". To this day I still laugh out loud when I think about it. I was so lost, but I don't remember thinking; I want Peace.

Over the next few years, I saw my therapist, Brent, regularly and it was likely one of the best decisions of my life. I was fortunate, that not only did I have Brent working with me but the company I work for had invested in partnering with Dr Charlie Palmgren on the development of leadership training. The training centered around helping our leaders learn a little bit about authenticity and helping them see how failing to recognize their own self-worth, and the resulting insecurities can get in the way of developing creative and productive relationships with their team members and colleagues. A gross oversimplification of a very powerful and compelling concept. Through the participation in, and the delivery of, many sessions with our leaders I learned a lot about self-awareness, authenticity, and vulnerability; I learned a lot about me. I will be forever thankful to Charlie, who today I am fortunate to call a friend, for what he taught me and several others.

What I also learned is that real self-awareness is a double-edged sword. Going through life blind feels far less risky than with even a little bit of awareness. Of course, the operative word there is "feels." The more I try to remain true to the authentic me, the choices I make, and the impact I have on others, the scarier it gets, because I am aware of how my decisions and actions impact others. The other downside of awareness is that every question I answer about myself only presents two more questions yet to be answered. It feels just like the never-ending journey I guess it is. Can you ever really be completely self-aware?

Is that why Peace immediately jumped to mind as the thing I wanted most?

So, if I am to take anything from all this, I think it is that if I really want to find true peace, I need to learn to embrace the journey of self-discovery and stop trying to find the answer, because there isn't one.

Yet one more, work-in-progress.

Shades of Gray

When I decided I wanted to learn about photography I jumped in with both feet. I read everything I could, watched videos, talked to friends, read magazines, and practiced, practiced, practiced. I learned a lot about theory and technique. What doesn’t come natural to me is the creativity that it takes to make the difference between a good shot and one that truly captures the imagination.

Creativity isn’t something that comes easy to me, and probably many others. I grew up in a family that was very private. We didn’t talk about our fears. We didn’t take chances with emotions. For my father, in particular, things were always very Black and White. We loved to debate things, sometimes very passionately, and while our dinner discussions frequently got extremely colorful they were always “safe.” Emotionally Black and White. My brother and I were taught, if not through words but actions, to be strong, not show weakness, and that vulnerability was bad.

Now through the distance of time I have begun to realize that, while it isn’t easy for a guy like me, vulnerability brings tremendous strength and I believe it is a key ingredient to creativity. It is that Gray space between the extremes of Black and White. It’s where the truth lies.

To be creative you have to take chances. That means someone won’t like it, and that can hurt. We are programmed, starting as a child, to avoid pain. So, when your father tells you vulnerability is bad, you do your best to be “strong” and not show emotions for fear of being judged; fear of being hurt. So, I spent most of my life in what I saw as safe; the Black and White.

What I have only recently begun to understand is just how harsh Black and White can be. It is that Grey space in between the extremes where the beauty lies.

In my life, that lack of authenticity has not only stifled the creativity I need for great photography it has hurt me in every human interaction I have had over the years. There are countless situations I can think of over the years but none as painful as a failed marriage after 17 years and two wonderful children. To me, it is clear, the single biggest issue was that neither one of us was willing to be truly vulnerable with the other. We were both raised to be strong. Don’t show emotions. Black and White. How could there be any other outcome?

Over the last several years I have worked hard to find out just who I really am; the

authentic me. It is far harder than I imagined. While there is only one Black and one White, there are infinite tones of Gray. It is only fitting that there are two accepted spellings. When you paint with only two colors the choices are easy. When the palette is infinite it is so much harder to choose. It takes a willingness to be wrong, to accept that not everyone will like my ideas, my thoughts, my photography, me. What I am finding is that just the opposite has happened and, perhaps most importantly, I am learning to like myself.

Today my life is so different than it was just half a dozen years ago. I am married to a wonderful woman who truly appreciates and encourages me to explore and share the shades of Grey within me. I am blessed to have my two amazing children in my life, although I miss my daughter terribly and I have amazing friends who love and care for me, the real authentic me; as best as I know him today.

So, while many people have complimented me on my photography, for which I am immensely grateful, more often than not, I can only see what’s missing. That will be a work-in-progress for the rest of my life; and not just in photography.

Changing Light

I am sitting in the office of Dr Geeta Lalwani, an Ophthalmologist and Retina Specialist, trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to read the large E on the eye chart. She tells me, you have a form of Macular Degeneration, and that Someday, I will almost certainly lose all my central vision; the ability to read, drive a car, recognize faces or colors, and see objects in fine detail. That was July 29, 2013, and Someday was rather abstract. A long way away. Certainly not today.

Macular Degeneration is a chronic progressive disease that affects the cells which convert light to electrical signals that are transmitted via the optical nerve to your brain so you can “see.” In my case, the light makes it through the cornea fine and it shines on large sections of dead cells. As more cells die less light is converted to electrical signals for my brain to “see.” My own setting sun of sorts.

Today, five years later, I see Someday, more clearly than I see most things. I no longer drive after dark. Finding the cursor on my computer is a constant frustration. Worst of all, how do I tell the people I have worked with for years that the reason I don’t acknowledge them right away is not that I don’t care, I just am not sure who they are until they are close, or I hear their voice?

I read somewhere that when you take a picture of something it helps you remember that moment more clearly. Perhaps that is what draws me to photography. Images like this bring back great memories. The day my friend, and amazing photographer, Ron Williams and I climbed up to the top of Hawksbill Mountain to capture the setting sun; from a point that most people will never see. It is an image that will be forever in my memory. Even Someday.

A Moment of Solace

As I look back through my previous images this is one I find myself stopping at over and over again. It is a rather simple shot taken in the Caribbean near Haiti. As I sat and watched the sun set this particular evening I found myself fixated on this small sailboat. I wonder where is it going. Where is it coming from. Perhaps nowhere. I know its just a moment in time. That soon the sun will drop below the horizon and it will be dark and the sun will rise the next morning on a brand new day but for this brief moment in time I imagine the passengers on this small boat completely at peace, without a care in the world.

Don't Give Up

It is after 1:00am in the morning in Westcliffe, a small town about 4 hours south of where I live near Boulder, CO. I am there because it is an International Dark Sky community and tonight is a new moon. The sky is super dark, and I am excited to try and capture a shot of the Milky Way. As I get in the car at the hotel to head to the site I had picked out earlier it starts to rain, and it becomes obvious that it is overcast with few stars visible, let alone the galactic center of the Milky Way I was hoping to shoot. With encouragement from my wife, we press on and as we get close I opt for a convenient location rather than hike up to the spot I had picked earlier, assuming that there wasn't much to get. As my eyes adjusted even further to the pitch-black night and I began to see what my camera was capturing I realized how fortunate I was that I didn’t turn around and climb back in bed like I wanted to an hour ago. I still regret that I gave up hiking to the spot I originally scouted out as I think that was a better shot but in the end the shot turned out okay.

One of the things I have learned about photography is having decent equipment and some knowledge of how to use it helps but the most important thing is to be in the right place at the right time. The only way to do that is try, try, and try again even when you aren’t sure what you get. And sometime that means standing on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere at 2:00am hoping something works out.