top of page


for the information age



These bite-sized stories chronicle my efforts, both pitiful and successful,

to navigate the rapidly-changing world.


My hope is that they help you do the same.

christmas motive - cross section of red

On this narrow spit of land, shell fragments fleck the sand—scallop, quahog, whelk. Last night's dishes. A bind of pipers scampers at the shoreline nibbling crustaceans. In the shallows, jellyfish throb and flicker, taking in copepods, larvae, whatever is at hand. A school of menhaden is pushed to the surface by what must be hungry blues and the sea churns like a pot of boiling water. Dinner is on. An osprey appears on high, barrels down, snatches an unwitting fish from the froth, flies inland for supper. Takeout tonight, honey. Where the sand gives way to green, worker bees stab at shore blooms and a lonestar tick perches on a blade of eelgrass, waiting for a host.

This is an all-you-can-eat establishment. Drinks are on the house. It's a free-for-all. Everyone is feeding. Meanwhile, a human, limbed and loafing, walks the bar of sand, oblivious to the bounty. Heads home for dinner. Maybe a hot dog and some chips.

As I wrap your gift, I have the irrational desire to somehow shield you from the terrible emptiness the holidays can bring. It is an embarrassing truth that a gift can sometimes make us feel grossly misunderstood or overlooked. We don't like the gift, it doesn't fit, it's a bad color. It's too practical, it's not practical enough, we already have one.

What I want to tell you is this: very seldom will you find anything that really matters sitting wrapped under a spruce tree in your house. It is your life’s work to discover the gifts. And they will open for you and open for you. Over time. During and after great travails. When you take a leap. On a Wednesday morning.

On Thanksgiving, we passed the baby around. We took turns holding her, swaying her in our arms. We ate cheese and crackers, and then we held the baby. We brought platters of green beans to the table, and we held the baby. We discussed politics, careful not to go too full bore in any direction. We held the baby.

The baby seized our fingers reflexively. That line from an e.e. cummings poem came to mind: nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands. The baby smiled, cried, gnawed on a toy, bobbed her tiny head. When our arms grew tired, we passed the baby back to her mother, who took the infant as if she had just given birth and was holding her for the first time—body-weary, brimming, beaming.

In this way, in the holding and the passing of the baby, we had a glimpse of what it might be to be a family. Or a country.

bottom of page