Images of Hope

This week I felt like a pressure cooker where the heat gradually increased throughout the week. Between work, the exploding COVID crisis and the virtual reality being created by the “man behind the curtain”, it was everything I could do to keep the lava from spilling out of the top of my head. Apparently Rudy Giuliani was also feeling the heat because his face was apparently melting like that of the Wicked Witch of the West in the climax scene of The Wizard of Oz. The good news is that it looks like the witch is almost dead. Hopefully if we close our eyes, click our heels a few times and repeat that that “there is no place like home”, we’ll find that this suffering was all just a dream.

The misery of the week was sealed with the diagnosis that Enzo, our beloved Tibetan Terrier, has lymphoma. We seem to have caught it early and we are hopeful that the chemotherapy prescribed by the vet will extend his time with us. In the meantime, we are savoring his company. Even in his illness, “The King of the Sillyheads”, still knows how to make us laugh and bring peace to our household.

Buddhist monks cherish this breed for their companionship. The monks never sold these dogs but gave them to others as gifts of good fortune. My wife and I have been the beneficiaries of a monk’s generosity for we are fortunate to have shared in Enzo’s unselfish friendship.

I am not a Buddhist nor do I pretend to know much about the religion. I have read about the “Four Noble Truths” and recognize that life involves suffering and that there is a path of enlightenment to the end of suffering. It seems that in these difficult days Buddhism has much to teach us.

It turns out that Buddhist monks have also been cultivating the chrysanthemum for centuries where it was used as an offering. Today, this beautiful flower is cherished throughout the world. It has come to symbolize happiness, honesty, friendship and loyalty. What could be a more fitting tribute to our beloved friend Enzo than this photo taken just over a week ago?

Images of Hope

We are going to do things a little bit out of sequence this week. Let’s start by taking a couple of seconds to look at the photo at the bottom of the page. <1> <2> <3>. Excellent. Now commit this rather tranquil image of the Patio de los Arrayanes from the Alhambra in Granada, Spain to memory. We’ll return to this image later in the blog.

I have been having great difficulty trying to understand how so many people that I like, respect and even love could have chosen to re-elect our president. For someone that I consider a narcissist, pathological liar, cheat, misogynist, and racist, I find it hard to understand that they could have voted to re-elect such a person.

I remember from college taking a class about the origins of the Cold War. If there was ever a period when there were diametrically opposed views, this was one of those times. I believe that it was after reading “The Good War” by Studs Terkel that I gained a new appreciation for people’s perspectives at the time. American foreign policy was based around the perception that the Soviets were trying to overtake the world. Soviet foreign policy was based around the perception that the Americans were trying to overtake the world. The reality is that both nations were trying to create a buffer for themselves from the devastation of yet another world war. Same concern, only 180 degrees apart.

I have come to the understanding that a similar situation has developed in this country. Conservatives are concerned that their rights and way of life are being threatened. Liberals are concerned that that their rights and pathway to a better life is being threatened. The only difference this time is that the enemy is internal.

Let’s now return to this week’s photo. This image is actually rotated 180 degrees. It is a photo of the reflecting pool in front of the Patio de los Arrayanes. The Alhambra sees as many as 8,000 visitors each day. Trying to take a photo devoid of tourists is impossible. The only way that I could properly take an undistracted image of this iconic architecture was to take a photo of the reflection of the building, not the building itself.

Most likely, the only reason that you perceived that this was a proper image of the Alhambra is that I didn’t give you the time to fully let your brain resolve the image and I conditioned you to think that this was a tranquil scene. You were never given the opportunity to analyze the photo without any outside bias.

This may be the most concerning issue of our time. Truth has become perception. Whoever is best at manipulating the image or message, controls the truth. Deciphering the truth from fiction is near impossible. It all looks and sounds so real.

We must use more than just our eyes and ears. We must consider both sides of the issue. Engage our brains. What are people’s motivations? What do they have to gain or lose? This will not be easy as it requires knowledge. There are numerous influences, both inside and outside, that are trying to control our sources of information.

As you can tell by now, I am greatly influenced by the lyrics in music. There are certain words and melodies that are Windex to my blurred consciousness. Let me repeat some words from Sting’s song entitled “Russians” that are very prophetic:

“There is no monopoly on common sense
On either side of the political fence
We share the same biology, regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too”

Now do me one last favor. Replace “Russians” with “Americans” in the last line of these lyrics. That gives me reason for hope.

Images of Hope

My home state of Pennsylvania has been spending quite a bit of time in the headlines these days. Both presidential candidates said early on in their campaigns that Pennsylvania was key to their election. This is not all that surprising. Pennsylvania’s official nickname is the “Keystone State”. For those not familiar with masonry, the keystone if the stone in the center of an arch that structurally ties it together. During the colonial period, Pennsylvania was not just the geographical center of the fledgling states, it was also at it’s heart politically and economically. Clearly the State retains this importance today.

Pennsylvania has always been center stage for this country’s fight for freedom and liberty. Just a few blocks from where Philadelphia’s election ballots are now being counted, 56 patriots from both the north and south, declared this nation independent from England in an overt act of treason. Shortly after securing freedom from England, many of these leaders returned to the same room to sign the Constitution. It is important to note that only 39 out of 56 delegates ratified this document that provided the foundation of this nation. Apparently, we have a history of division that started at birth.

Pennsylvania also has the unfortunate distinction of being witness to some of the bloodiest conflicts in our history. Our inability to resolve conflict resulted in over 51,000 casualties in the three-day Battle of Gettysburg and almost 23,000 casualties in a single day in the Battle of Antietam. This is a stark reminder of the dangers in leaving our internal divisions unresolved.

Politicians from both sides of the fence claim Abraham Lincoln as one of the greatest leaders in our young history. Lincoln, who prided himself on his personal integrity, understood the need to bring healing to the dismembered nation. For many of us, it has been a long time since childhood history lessons. Maybe time has faded the vivid words that once jumped off the page in their significance. Just in case, let me end today with Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. These words are as relevant today as they were 150 years ago.

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow, this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us. That from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion. That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain. That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

Images of Hope

I have entitled the photo below “Old Glory” for obvious reasons. Although the image possesses all the qualities of our flag, it is a photo of what is now officially known as the “Star Barn”. The Star Barn was built in 1877 by Colonel John Motter upon returning from his service in the Union army. It was part of a 144-acre commercial horse farm situated on the fertile land just outside the village of Highspire, Dauphin County, Pennsylvania. As carpenter gothic revival architecture was most commonly incorporated into churches and houses, its appearance in a barn makes this a very rare example of the style. However, had I used a wide-angle lens instead of a telephoto, you would immediately recognize the similarity in design between this structure designed to shelter God’s creatures, and that to house God’s worshippers. I do not think that it is any coincidence that the Star Barn was built with a spire that rivals that of any church in grandeur or height.

In its near 150-year history, the Star Barn was a witness to significant change. As the horse became an obsolete form of transportation, the barn was repurposed as a dairy barn. It remained in this role until the 1980’s. By this time, the once bucolic farm had shrunk to an island of just a few acres, surrounded by the rising tide of the Harrisburg suburbs. Yet another afront to its agrarian heritage, a four-lane superhighway was constructed just 75’ from it’s doors. The structure was exposed to a constant bombardment of vehicle pollutants and the saline spray sent airborne by winter-time traffic. After years of insufficient maintenance, the integrity of the barn had been compromised and its continued existence was in question.

Several grass roots movements failed in their altruistic efforts to save the Star Barn from collapse. Fortunately, a local charitable organization recognized the cultural and spiritual significance of the Star Barn. They were able to negotiate the acquisition of the Star Barn and received the numerous approvals required to relocate this priceless monument to nearby Lancaster County. They carefully disassembled the barn, post by post. Components that were beyond restoration were reproduced by hand. When the adoptive location was ready to receive her, the barn was rebuilt to her original glory. Although no longer used to shelter animals, the Star Barn now has a new life as a wedding venue. A fitting purpose for a barn originally built in the style of a church.

The year of 1877 is also considered the end of the period immediately following the Civil War known as the “Reconstruction”. It was not just a period of rebuilding the ravaged southern infrastructure. It was also a period of reintegrating the South into the union of states. More importantly, it was a time of integrating hundreds of thousands of freed slaves into the nation’s citizenry. Reconstruction continued to be a time of great division between the North and South. Paradoxically, this period not only saw the adoption of the 14th Amendment, guaranteeing citizenship and its associated rights to the newly freed slaves, it also experienced the emergence of the Ku Klux Klan. Reconstruction was the beginning of a process of acceptance that remains incomplete to this very day.

As we approach Election Day, we are reminded that our democracy cannot be taken for granted. There are internal and external forces that want to raze this hallowed foundation. Its future depends upon constant maintenance and vigilance. If we only checked the framework of our house for termites every four years, we might find that by the time we identified the rot, it was too late to restore the house.

As the stewards of democracy, it is our responsibility to elect a president that can lead a “New Reconstruction”. Understand that this election will not unite the nation. As a matter of fact, it may well increase divisions. We need to elect a president that can not only heal a divided nation, but has the unselfish desire to rebuild it, piece by piece. It may not look exactly like the same country after reconstruction. However, it will better serve the needs of all its citizens.

Images of Hope

We woke this week to the first frost of the year. You really didn’t have to look at the grass or cars to see the crystalline frosting. You could smell it in the air.

The first frost is like adding an accelerant to an ember. The transition from summer to fall started relatively slowly and barely noticeable. The foliage will now transition to an explosion of color. The intense burst will be ephemeral, quickly burning out like the trail of a firework. In a couple of weeks, the trees will return to their dormant, naked state. Frost’s airborne cousin is sure to quickly follow.

Although I have always been drawn to the vibrant autumn scene that James Taylor paints in “Walking Man”, I have only recently come to the understanding that this song is actually about the longing for his emotionally and physically distant father. Probably not the proper lead in for a blog about hope.

The only other music that I think embodies the season is Vince Guaraldi’s “Great Pumpkin Waltz”. Much like fried baloney sandwiches, canned fruit cocktail and Count Chocula cereal, I was reared on this song. As Halloween neared, I’m sure that I asked my mother a dozen times ““When is “It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown” coming on?”” In my biased opinion, “The Great Pumpkin Waltz” is the perfect accompaniment to the television special. If I were describing the composition like the taste of a wine, I would say that it maintains notes of melancholy, the spice of newly fallen leaves and just a hint of poisoned dog lips.

I don’t know where Charles Schulz came up with the concept of the Great Pumpkin. Maybe he was trying to find a deeper meaning to the holiday. Only a year prior to the release of the Halloween television special, he did a masterful job of gently awakening us to the distractions of a commercial Christmas. Much like his weekly cartoon strip, I suspect that there was a subtle lesson to be learned in his Halloween classic.

Released against the backdrop of an escalation in the Vietnam War, continuing race riots and growing distrust in our leadership, Charles Schulz chose to focus on sincerity and hypocrisy in this autumn tradition. If we fast forward past all of the Dolly Madison commercials to 2020, it all feels strangely familiar.

The Great Pumpkin will not be visiting the Rose Garden this year. I am optimistic that it will rise again next year. To make matters worse, today it was announced that this Fall tradition will not be coming back to broadcast television. Apparently Apple TV (it’s a big syndicate you know) wrapped up the rights to air all of the Peanuts specials. Good Grief!

Images of Hope

As I have gotten older, I realize that life is much like being a game piece in one of those electric football games from the 60’s and 70’s. I really only have general control of my direction. I can go straight-ish, right-ish and left-ish but with no real level of precision. I don’t have any control of those around me. I might have developed the perfect play, but it always seems my opponent has anticipated my very move. Forward movement can be very difficult. More often than not, I just end up in a big scrum of players in the middle of the field with no one really going anywhere. I have also learned that when the playing field is not flat, I end up face forward into the sidelines at a dead stop. It turns out that God is in control of the toggle switch that controls the length of the play. Sometimes the board stops vibrating long before I have reached my desired outcome. However, every so often I break out into the end zone. Through some miracle, the quarterback with the rubber band arm hits me in the helmet with the foam rubber football for a touchdown.

It has taken almost fifty years for me to come to the understanding that I am not really in control. There are external forces in my life, whether you call it fate, destiny or even luck, that are actually controlling the play. All I really get to do is react to the developing action.

The day in my junior year of high school that the doe-eyed girl walked into my homeroom will forever be engraved into my memory. A girl with the most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen walked into classroom and started walking down my row of desks. My heart started to race as she got closer to me. Then, our class president, seated right in front of me, stood up, and gave her a big hug. Apparently, they were a couple. I thought to myself what a lucky guy. Then I returned to my homework, frantically trying to complete it before the bell rang for the start of class.

I don’t recall seeing the doe-eyed girl again during the remainder of the school year. Between basketball, prepping for the all-important SAT’s and having a serious girlfriend, I had a lot going on, at least in the mind of an 18-year-old . Then, like a cornerback blind-siding a receiver in full stride, I was dumped by my girlfriend. I went down hard and had to be removed from the field on a stretcher. That was it. I rode out the remainder of my junior year on the sidelines. I watched the game but really was unable retake the field. Too many aches and bruises to be taken off of the injured reserve list.

My high school years were spent in the South Hills of Pittsburgh. You know that when a Pittsburgher calls something a hill, they mean it. Our house sat at the very top of one of those hills. All of us kids were spared the injustice of having to climb that hill at the end of the long school day because our bus dropped us off right at the top. That was until we got the notice in August of my senior year that our bus route had been changed. We were now going to be picked up and dropped off at the bottom of the hill. I dreaded the thought of having to end each day with the arduous trek from base camp to up he summit of Mount Scenic View Drive.

I arrived at the new bus stop on the first day of my senior year with renewed optimism and doing my best to look sharp. I decided that I was going to re-enter the game with a vengeance. I was wearing my new Joe Jackson shoes, baggy pleated pants and button-down shirt by Polo. I was hoping to make my best impression on day one. Although the new bus stop was at a different part of the neighborhood, I really didn’t notice anyone that I didn’t recognize. Then just as the bus arrived, who came running down the hill but the doe-eyed girl.

The next day, I arrived early at the bus stop, hoping to get a chance to talk to the doe-eyed girl. I was disappointed not to see her. We boarded the bus and as it started to pull away, the doe eyed girl came running down the hill again. Someone alerted the driver to stop. The doe eyed girl took a seat at the front of the bus after being told by the driver that the next time she was late she would have to take alternative transportation to school.

The pattern never really changed. I always arrived at the bus stop early hoping to talk to the doe-eyed girl and she always arrived in the nick of time. While waiting one day, I asked a neighbor of mine the name of the doe-eyed girl. I knew completely well that my request would start a chain reaction. My neighbor would ask if I thought she was cute. I would say yes. She would ask the doe eyed girl if she thought I was cute. If there was any attraction, I would have an answer in a couple of days. Needless to say, the next day the doe-eyed girl arrived early and we sat next to each other on the bus.

It has been thirty-seven years since those first awkward conversations. Somehow we were able to navigate through a game where the outcome is never easy to predict. Although both of us knew in what general direction we wanted to head, we didn’t have a game plan. There were plenty of broken up plays. We did not expect to encounter such a skilled defense.  Yet today, I celebrate thirty-one years of being married to the doe-eyed girl, the love of my life.

I can’t explain exactly how we got to this point in our lives. It is, in fact, the outcome for which I had always dreamed. I know that a change in bus stop played a big part. I can’t downplay break-ups or even wanting a date for the upcoming basketball season. However, these words from Stevie Wonder to which we danced at our wedding may say it all.

This is not a coincidence
And far more than a lucky chance
But what it is that was always meant
Is our ribbon in the sky for our love, love

We can't lose with God on our side
We'll find strength in each tear we cry
From now on, it will be you and I
And our ribbon in the sky, ribbon in the sky

Images of Hope

Today is the feast day of St. Francis of Assisi, one of the most venerated of all the canonized saints. His life continues to be celebrated by the faithful from his hometown of Assisi, Italy all the way to San Francisco, California. Judging from this image, even in a town named after St. John, the people of San Juan, Puerto Rico also have a soft spot for this most beloved saint.

This week my family also marked the 9th anniversary of the passing of my wife’s father, William Francis Mach. Not only was my father-in-law given St. Francis as a middle name, he too is a saint. He was loved by everyone who knew him.

Many people believe that anyone who has entered the gates of heaven is considered a saint. Those that knew him recognize that Coach, as I respectfully called him, arrived at his destination safe and sound. Understand, I don’t think that St. Peter just waved him through at his appearance at the Pearly Gates. I suspect that Coach had some explaining to do.

First, there is the story of the painted cat. There is also the story of the commandeered bulldozer and hanging by his fingertips from the Homeville bridge while it was under construction near his hometown in West Mifflin, PA. I still don’t think that we have the whole story as to why he was asked to leave the seminary. Yes, he often dozed off during a less than inspiring homily during mass, my wife’s head leaning on his strong shoulder. He would also occasionally take the quick exit after communion to get home before the kickoff of the Steelers game. The bottom line is that St. Peter probably let him off easy and asked him to say a handful Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s. Then requesting that he try to keep the cigars and Drambuie to a minimum, gladly reunited him with his family and friends that preceded him.

The reality is that it is hard to let go of someone who made life on earth so much better. He was one of the most loving people I have ever met. He genuinely cared for people. He always made the conversation about you, never himself. He was the epitome of an educator. I was mesmerized by his ability to make and maintain friendships. The twinkle in his eye revealed his penchant for fun. He was a man of the highest integrity. He found solace in his unbending faith.

Whether you called him Bill, Daddy, Pops, Paps or Coach, his warmth is missed like the sun disappearing behind a cloud on a brisk October afternoon. It is impossible to replace his loss. However, his spirit remains in each of us who had the pleasure of his company. It is our responsibility to maintain his legacy of love, caring and friendship.

I want to conclude this blog with the Prayer of St. Francis, one of Coach’s favorites.  It truly embodies not just the life that he lived here on this earth, but how he would expect us to live ours.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Images of Hope

It was a surreal week. Our president threatened to take this country to the point of civil war if his own selfish aspirations were not satisfied. In addition, the majority of our senators sold off any semblance of integrity by reversing their position of letting the incumbent president nominate the candidate for the seat in the Supreme Court vacated by Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I fought to maintain a positive attitude this last week. Needless to say, by the time Friday afternoon arrived, this corpse needed revival.

I made the mistake a couple of weeks ago of letting self-pity pull me down into the primordial ooze of the drained swamp. Rather than be held captive up to my knees in the reeking sludge, I am once again pulling myself out onto higher ground. The vestiges of the absinthe in Friday’s cocktail have evaporated from my mind and have been replaced by Louis Armstrong reminding me that this is in fact a beautiful world.

I flipped through my folder of images and came across this photo of the Castle Hill lighthouse on Narragansett Bay. Taken almost a year after my cancer surgery, I will remember this as a time of renewed optimism. I was checking off my bucket list, a pail in each hand.

There may be no more iconic symbol of hope than a lighthouse. For more than two thousand years, their beacons, being projected out into the darkness, have been guiding seafarers to refuge. Anchored precariously where the land and sea meet, they have withstood the tempest of innumerable storms. Selfless light keepers, knowing that maintaining the continuity of the beacon was all that separated a sailor from arriving safely to port or washing up lifeless on the beach, courageously remained on station even though their lives faced the identical jeopardy.

Today many people are speaking out to alert us to the hazards that are lurking just below the water’s surface. We must not ignore their warnings. As this country, without a capable captain at the helm, is plowing full steam ahead through treacherous waters, the potential for catastrophe is an imminent and real possibility.

Images of Hope

I just reread last week’s blog. Wow. That was a real Debbie Downer. I can almost hear the collective Wah, wah, wahhh. Sorry about that. I was clearly not in a rainbows and unicorns state of mind. This week I’ll try to hold the despair. It was never my intent to have anyone feeling worse about their situation after reading a blog entitled ”Images of Hope”. Sometimes it is best just to look at the pretty pictures and not read the captions.

As the new week begins, we see the sun finally setting on summer. To some this may seem like an introduction to another blog where I lament about the end of something we all hold dear. On the contrary, my peculiar personality that has a love affair with the morning, actually sees the fall as the season of rebirth. I know, my internal time clock is 180 degrees out of phase. Just bear with me a second.

I am one of those strange people who actually looked forward to the first day of school. As I think that I have mentioned previously, I viewed the start of the school year as if I had 100% in every class. From my perspective, I had yet to lose any points on a test.

As a kid, the beginning of the school year meant two pairs of new shoes, a pair of “sneakers” and another pair of dress shoes. It also brought a shopping excursion to Sears and JCPenny where I was always walking the tight rope of trying to express my inner rebel without upsetting my mother. Believe me, when 99% of your classmates were shopping from the identical racks of clothes that you were looking at, it was incredibly hard to establish any amount of individualism.

The new school year also brought with it a trip to Woolworth’s for new school supplies. The crayons were sharp and had yet to have had the label peeled back. You could still open the bottle of Elmer’s glue before the tip became clogged. To this day, the smell of cedar emanating from the un-sharpened Ticonderoga #2 pencils still reminds me of school.

The first day as school also meant the distribution of your new text books. The first thing you always did was to see what student had inscribed their John Hancock on the back of the cover the year before. You always hoped it was a cool kid. More often than not, I ended up with a book from the kid that never took a shower or was always the first to be pelted with a ball to the head during dodgeball. It didn’t matter for long because I knew that I would be hiding my disappointment in a brand new cover carefully fabricated from a brown bag from Acme. I would try hard to keep that virgin cover free of doodles for as long as possible. I could usually only hold out for a week before the first boring lecture caused my inner Dali to adorn the blank space with some mind-numbing gibberish.

It has been roughly 40 years since I last walked to the bus stop, new shoes squeaking the entire way. However, when the humidity of the summer has been pushed away by the cool northerly winds, I hear the high school band practicing off in the distance. I am immediately transported back to having to look sharp for the first day of school. You never knew what new girl you might meet at the bus stop. More on that in a couple of weeks.

Images of Hope

Throughout the COVID pandemic our minds have been reluctant to accept that we can’t do all of the things to which we have grown accustomed. We can’t go wherever we please, eat in our favorite restaurant or even attend school. It has been even more difficult to accept that we are unable to hug the ones we love or be by their side when they take their last breath. We are slowly coming to the realization that there are so many essential things in life that we have always taken for granted.

If there is not enough burden on our pandemic-weary minds, so many of us are unable to find basic refuge in our homes. Domestic abuse and gun violence has soared since COVID forced us to seek shelter. If that is not disheartening enough, the effects of global warming are having a brutally tangible impact on our lives. This summer’s “unprecedented” tornado outbreaks, severe thunderstorms and hurricanes has left thousands homeless.  Now “unprecedented” wildfires in the west are incinerating entire cities.

I am hopeful and confident that the global effort to develop a vaccine will bring this pandemic to an end relatively soon. For those of us fortunate enough not to have lost a loved one to COVID, there will be a return to normalcy. However, this will not be a time to fall back behind our lines and recover. We must waste no time remobilizing our global forces to draw up the battle plan to defeat global warming. As we are currently experiencing, scenes like this cannot be taken for granted.

Images of Hope

This weekend brings with it Labor Day, the unofficial last day of summer. It is always hard to send it off on its way. I think it is even more difficult this year. For just a few months, things felt relatively normal.

We just returned from our annual camping trip to Assateague Island in Maryland. We have been making this trip for the last 20 years. When we were young and money was tight, this was an affordable vacation. It did not really cost much more than the campsite fee, a tent and wood for the campfire. The cost per memory ratio made it a bargain. Even after having more means, we continue to make the trip, with hardly any additional comforts. The original Coleman gas stove and lantern from that first trip still accompanies us. There is no need to upgrade something that has proven to be so reliable.

It is comforting to return to a place that has hardly changed in two decades. The complex smell of the air, infused with brine, marsh grass and bayberry, is immediately familiar. It is as comforting as the smell of bacon and eggs slowly wafting its way into my bedroom on a cold winter morning when I was a kid. The muffled sound of the waves breaking just yards away on the other side of the dune becomes the reassuring heartbeat of the ocean. Even the stars, clearly visible through the essential mosquito netting of the tent, are in the exact same locations as the last visit.

My daily routine has not changed much either. I am usually awakened before sunrise with the first call of a mockingbird. I grab the camera and head down to the beach with the same optimism of a fisherman. I position the tripod in anticipation of capturing a blazing sunrise reflected in the surf. I have done the same thing, every morning of vacation for over twenty years with one of two disappointing outcomes. Either the sun rises without a single cloud in the sky to catch the crimson glow or there is so much cloud cover that it is totally hidden from view. I have grown accustomed to returning to the campsite with an empty stringer. No trophy photos to show for my efforts.

Finally, Mother Nature took pity of me this year and rewarded me for my persistence in a way I never imagined. The remnants of hurricane Laura passed over the island the previous day and cool, dry air was pulled in behind her. The change in wind direction was welcomed by both this photographer and the feral Assateague ponies as we had both been plagued by swarms of biting flies for the last several days. It turned out that Mother Nature, the ponies, and I all came together all at the perfect moment this year. As the sunrise was blossoming into a full palette of color, a herd of ponies, in full gallop, came up the beach. The horses could have opted to run behind me into the empty wide-open beach. Instead they chose to squeeze between the breaking surf and where I was positioned with my camera, just outside the reach of the waves. I think that my good fortune is clearly recorded below.

In addition to the nearly intolerable flies, our car suffered from both a flat tire and a failed battery. We experienced an electrical storm so severe we had to retreat to the relative safety of the vehicle. We awoke the next morning to find one tent surrounded by a pond of water. Much of the tent contents, including ourselves, were not much drier than our belongings we left outside. Yet, we have already made our reservation to return next year.

Why subject ourselves to such abuse? The opportunity to gaze hypnotically into the fire, laugh uncontrollably during a round of cards or play another round of sand golf will be remembered long after the discomfort. Hopefully, we will be able to talk about the insanity of 2020 as a thing of the past. If not, we will find solace in the smell of the salt air, the murmur of the surf the clarity of the stars.

Images of Hope

According to my mother, I was born a morning person. Apparently, even as baby, I awoke with a sunny disposition. To this day, I awake at 4:30 in the morning, with or without an alarm clock. It takes about 5 minutes to shake off the fog of sleep and then I’m ready to go. This poses a problem as my wife and son do not embrace the same enthusiasm for the start of the day. This usually means that while on vacation, I am dressing in the darkness and sneaking out of the room in relative silence, camera in tow. I can’t bear to waste even a minute of the photo opportunities available at this prized time of day.

To me, the morning is like the first day of school. It is a blank slate. I get to forget about the botched exams and disappointing grades from the last semester. For all practical purposes, I’m starting out with a new pair of shoes and a report card of straight A’s.

Each morning the world awakes to a new opportunity to get everything right. The news has yet to be written. We all have the opportunity to make a positive impact by the 11 o’clock news broadcast. Sure, there is much beyond our control. However, we at least get to establish the attitude we will use to embrace these unexpected challenges.

Mother Nature also greets us with a fresh reset. The footprints on the beach have been erased by a new cycle of the tides. The virgin air has yet to be tainted by the exhaust from man’s machinery. Even her musical score is a silent sheet until we choose to add our discordant refrain. There is no time to waste if we want to experience her fleeting perfection. Once the sun fully raises it’s head above the horizon, we awake and add a myriad ripples to the once placid water.

This image from Dead Horse Point captures the magic that reveals itself to those that are willing to brave the darkness and position themselves in a front row seat for the morning spectacle. I consider myself very fortunate to have shared this exhibition with my wife, cousin and his bride. I know that we were all generously rewarded for investing just a negligible bit of slumber.

Images of Hope

This has been the first week since I began writing this blog that I did not know what image I wanted to feature. Usually I have plenty of time to think about the subject on my morning walk. Having something to compose in my head helps to minimize the boredom and keep my mind off work. That meant this week I had two full hours each day before work to steam about the latest customer issues with which I have been dealing. Not particularly good for maintaining a healthy state of mind.

This morning I found myself scrolling through archived photos I have taken that might provide appropriate material for today. I almost skipped right over this folder of images as I thought that there was not much of value contained within. I came across this image which for years has laid abandoned. I always believed that the one I am featuring today had potential. However, it was taken relatively early in my photography obsession and technically, it was a mess. Fortunately, my Photoshop skills have developed nicely out of necessity and I can now compensate for poor technique.

I noticed this sailboat sitting in one of those fallow boatyards littered with vessels that will probably never once again feel the rush of water against their hulls. The air carried the same scent of aged motor oil you first notice when you walk into your local repair garage. Perfume to a frustrated mechanic like myself. This boat was immediately discernable from the others in this boneyard of watercraft. The others were made of fiberglass, now bleached in the intense South Carolina sun. This one was made of wood. Although it too has not stood the test of time, it had character. You could almost feel its pain. The rust from its iron fittings stained its sides like blood trailing from an open wound. Its paint was peeling like your skin after a particularly severe sun burn. I could almost hear its pleas for help.

Years ago, I remember turning to the internet to see if I could discover anything interesting about this boat. I was surprised to find that for the first time, I stumped the artificial intelligence built into the Google search engine. Zero returns. Hah! I finally broke you. Fuga City was finally the topic that exposed the great and powerful Google as a fraud. As I scrolled down the single page of related topics. I did find several hits for the word “fugacity”. My elation quickly turned into embarrassment. Just like the town of “Fuga City”, I had never heard of the word “fugacity”.

Apparently, the term fugacity is typically used in describing the thermodynamic properties of a gas. For an engineer that could barely muster a “C” in chemistry, no surprise that I could neither recognize the word nor understand the definition. However, there is a less used literary form of the word. Fugacity is also defined as the quality of quickly fading from existence, sight, or memory.

So now I have two options. I can believe that the owner of this boat was a either a chemist or a poet. Considering the emotional connection I had made with this boat, I am selecting the latter. What a more fitting and romantic name. I have always been amazed that we could arrive at a destination across an ocean, on a vessel built by hand out of trees, powered by the capricious wind, and guided by the stars. A relic of days long past.

Seeing a wooden boat outside of their preserved state in museum now makes it an anachronism.  Yet, the mere sight of seeing one, even decaying in a yard removed from its natural element, can temporarily transport us to locations far away from the cruel realities of the day. All I need now is a pina colada and plan my escape.

Images of Hope

Quite by coincidence, this post ties in well with last week’s discussion.

This photo of the late afternoon sky was taken a day before the remnants of Hurricane Isaias tried to make a swimming pool of our basement. Although I can’t see the sky out of my office window, I could see by the quality of the light streaming in that something interesting was taking place. After a quick peek outside the window, I grabbed my camera and ran outside. The unsettled atmosphere caused the tops of the cumulus clouds to billow upwards in a ballet of vapor. The remaining sunlight peering over the horizon was illuminating the tops of the clouds just as the sky was entering “the blue hour” that landscape photographers favor.

It would be impossible to duplicate this image with a box of the Crayola “Basic Eight”. No, this image exhibits strong midnight, periwinkle and denim.

We do not give Mother Nature credit for originating performance art. Throughout the day she presents us with a new show. We are usually too absorbed in work to notice. At least pre-COVID I had a seat to two daily performances during my commute. Now I lock myself into the confines of my office practically from darkness to darkness. The only light cast to the back of my retinas is generated by the 1920 x 1080 LED’s contained in this monitor. Shame on me for not taking the time to emerge from my cave and direct my attention upwards to observe the latest creation.

After long hours sitting at the computer, staring into this artificial window to the world, I am often distracted by these links that appear to be news stories. One such link took me to a collection of videos of people who were so preoccupied with their “smart” phone, they put themselves in some very “dumb” situations. The internet is full of videos of people, totally oblivious to their surroundings, walking into light posts, open manholes, and even oncoming cars, while texting.

If we continue to keep our heads down, we will fail to notice that plain clothes police are hauling protesters off in unmarked vehicles, children are being separated from their parents in detention centers or that our elections could be delayed for the benefit of the incumbent. No, these days require extra vigilance. Borrowing the words from Buffalo Springfield, “It's s time we stop, hey, what's that sound, everybody look what's going down”.

In this chaotic world, there are many legitimate distractions that are occupying our attention. However, we must not forget to take a break and look at what is taking place with our leadership. If we don’t,  we too may find that our country has  fallen into a sewer manhole.

Images of Hope

This week’s blog features a black & white photograph, which is rare for me. It’s not that I don’t appreciate black & white photography. I do. Like so many, I was drawn into photography by the iconic landscape prints of Ansel Adams. Brett Weston’s abstract compositions inspire me. The nautical photography of W.R. MacAskill makes me long for simpler days. Black and white photography is classy. When you want to make an impression, you put on a tuxedo.

The reality is that I see black and white photography as an austere distortion. Our world is filled with a myriad of colors and hues. Why limit yourself?  Crayola never came out with a two-crayon set of black and white. They came out with a box of 120 unique colors. There are 36 shades of blue alone. When I look at the sky, I see cerulean, cyan and cornflower. What a boring world this would be if our vision resolved everything to black and white. Would we still gaze in awe at a rainbow or the blaze of color projected in a sunrise? I suspect not.

In an increasingly more complex and intimidating world, we seem to have this need to simplify things into black and white. I believe that the current term in use now is “binary”. Rather than address subtlety or ambiguity, we find it easier to just separate the world into two distinct piles. Discussions in the media about race tend to be about black versus white. If you are not skinny you are fat. You are either straight or gay. If you don’t have the same faith you are a heathen. You are either from a red or a blue state. You are either like me or not. There is no acceptance for anything in between.

Although I am optimistic that in the upcoming election, we will see a change in the ideological leadership of this country, we must be careful not to simply oscillate 180 degrees. There is going to be a time of rebuilding that it is going to extend beyond a four-year administration. To make this country a more perfect union will require a New Reconstruction. It will be a movement by the people to respect difference. Although our leaders can point the direction, it is the responsibility of us, the citizens, to affect the change and heal the wounds.

On a close inspection, you will observe that there is no such thing as a black and white photograph. In actuality, it is composed of infinite shades of gray. Black is nothing more than the completely saturated form of gray. White is the devoid variation. When you put things in those terms, we are not so different are we?

Images of Hope

I have been very fortunate to have been able to work in the comfort and safety of home since even before the corona virus quarantine declaration. Sharing the space with my wife and two dogs, I recognize that my exposure to the virus is dramatically less than that of the front-line, essential workers. There are other life threatening hazards, such as greeting my wife in the morning before she is fully awake. This is one instance where social distancing has served me well.

The only problem with working from home is that the office is always open and only a few steps from any room in the house. Factor in that most of my customers are in the same position, there is no such thing as a 40-hour work week anymore. Since the quarantine began almost 5 months ago, I have been averaging close to twice the standard. Having a start-up company that is till in the sapling stage, I recognize that we are in a critical stage of development. Our ability to survive in this uncertain climate is based upon our growth. That responsibility falls solely on my shoulders.

I have heard people who have left the industry state that they were burned out. I have always looked at this as a convenient excuse. I have never seen anyone walking around like a zombie with smoke rising from their scorched head. Toughen up. It is just work. How hard can it be working in an air-conditioned office, sitting on your butt all day responding to email and talking on the phone?

Well I just learned. Over the last couple of weeks, I have noticed that it has been more difficult to maintain focus. Tasks that only a month ago were virtually autonomous for me required a concentrated effort to complete. My willingness to accept the routine, unreasonable deadline had faded. Why was it so hard to keep pushing after 10 pm? What happened to my willingness to go the extra mile? Why in fact did I feel like a character from “Night of the Living Dead”? So much for convenient excuses.

We were fortunate that in the winter we booked a three-night stay at our favorite bed and breakfast for last week. Located on a dead-end road in a long-abandoned fishing village on the Eastern shore of Maryland, this has been our place of refuge. It is a place that is a remnant of a simpler time. My wife and I joke that it is a place about nothing. That moniker does not give this place, so near to our hearts, credit. It is in fact, much more than that.

If you are willing to slow down, take the time to look and listen, the beauty of this place will reveal itself. The room in which we have stayed for all but one visit has a porch that overlooks the marsh, gardens, and river. From our front row seats, we were able to watch the latest presentation from mother nature. A hummingbird played its aerial version of hopscotch, jumping from flower to flower, pausing seemingly motionless to sip the nectar. A pair of ospreys were raising two fledglings in a nest built in an old channel marker. With every puff of wind, they would test their wings, alighting into the air but not quite leaving the confines of the nest. It was like watching a couple of teenagers getting ready to sneak out of the house when mom and dad are away. One night we were treated to an electrical storm that rivaled even the best fireworks display we have even seen. Veins of cobalt blue and silver arced across the sky and were reflected in the river. Strangely, the fury in the sky was calming. It seemed that mother nature was also in need of relieving some stress.

If not for Cindy, the innkeeper, this bed and breakfast would not be much more than a hotel with very little to do. However, Cindy has made a visit to the hotel feel like a trip to Grandma’s house. It is immediately comfortable and familiar. It is a place where you can let your guard down. Just like Grandma’s house, you are never judged. Rather than excuse ourselves from the breakfast table and head out of town to the nearby attractions, we always find ourselves talking up to lunch. Conversations about family and the latest developments in our lives always pick up right where we left off, almost as if our last visit were yesterday. Cindy has become a lifelong friend.

When our brief visit was over and it was time to return home, we got that familiar sense of longing about our departure. Part of us desperately wanted to stay in our place of sanctuary. Even though we knew that COVID was still lurking out there, much of the stress that had gripped my mind prior to the visit had released. Unfortunately, the return trip up Interstate 95 tested my refreshed state of mind. It only took a couple of unenlightened drivers to ruin my heightened state of being. No sooner did I get home that I had to mix my favorite cocktail, a Corpse Reviver #2. Hopefully not a sign of things to come.

It is impossible to totally free ourselves of the stress that COVID has inserted into our lives. Even if you are able to shield yourself from the continuous barrage of bad news raining down from the media, you still cannot stop worrying about the immediate threats to your loved ones, friends, and job. For a few short days, we were able to get some shore leave. We had time to reconnect with friends and resync with nature. From the confines of my home office, it has been difficult to maintain any sense of continuity. It was reassuring to know that our friends are safe, and that the world is still turning.

Images of Hope

July 18th is a day that my wife and I have dedicated as “Superman Day”. We celebrate this day as the anniversary of my body being free of cancer. From diagnosis, not only was I focused on not letting cancer beat me, I was not going to let cancer slow me down. I immediately went into a fight response with turbocharged optimism and prepared my body with a hyper-tuned level of fitness. Up until surgery, I was riding my bike 130 miles a week. I figured that nothing could stop Superman.

For the last nine years I have had a deep sense of pride that I survived cancer. Somehow, I have felt that I beat cancer. I selected the right surgeon for treatment. I prepared myself physically for surgery. I pushed myself through recovery to return to my previous level of fitness.

I have since come to the understanding that I was more or less a passive participant in this entire process. My attitude and preparation certainly helped. However, the reality is that the people on my team are really the ones that deserve the credit.

Dr. David Chen and the wonderful staff at Fox Chase Cancer Center here in Philadelphia led the physical assault. I cannot say enough about their ability to not just treat the disease, but to do so with humanity. Many doctors are clinically very skilled. It is rare to find a group of people who are equally capable in treating the emotional needs of the patient. I am eternally grateful for the unequaled level of care provided to me.

Every team that achieves a level of success recognizes the role played by their fan base. I am no different. Not only was my wife holding my hand through diagnosis, treatment, and recovery, she also guided me through the mental minefield. Thank you for loving the “modified” me no less than the one I considered “complete”. You gave me reason to carry on.

Prior to becoming a father, I never fully understood mother’s intuition. I know that my son shares 50% of my DNA. However, my participation in bringing our son into this world was, well, limited. I did not nourish and protect our son for nine months. It was not my heartbeat that soothed him in the warmth of the womb. I now recognize that there is a special mother/child bond that exists from conception.

Although I was in my mid-forties, my mother was persistent in reminding me to get a PSA test. My father was diagnosed with prostate cancer several years prior. I think that she knew that something may be awry with half of the genetic material I had inherited. Sure enough, the biopsies showed that my cancer was already at stage 2 and was rounding the base for 3rd. Thank you Mom for never doubting your intuition. You probably saved my life.

Although it is our mother that brings us into this world, I think that we have tendencies to look toward our fathers as role models. As mentioned, my father preceded me into being a cancer survivor by several years. I watched him face his cancer with courage, humility, and resolve. Although no father should have to help their child prepare for cancer, by watching him, I already knew what I had to do.

There is another person to whom I owe a debt of gratitude. Growing up on the opposite side of the country, my cousin Chris and I only had a couple of opportunities to meet and we didn’t really know each other well. I was fortunate that Chris and his friends from Cyclists Combating Cancer (CCC) came to Philadelphia for a fundraising ride for the Livestrong Foundation. It was at that point that we realized that we grew up in some kind of parallel universe. It was eerie how much we had in common. Although it took almost forty years, we realized that we were actually “brothers from another mother”.

Our love of cycling and involvement with CCC gave the two of us opportunities to get together at various fundraisers. Looking back on things now, I suspect that divine intervention had taken place to make sure that we connected. Little did we know that we were both about to confront life changing events. Having an unbiased and non-judgmental confidant is just what we needed at that time in our lives to work through our challenges.

For a couple of years we participated in the Skinny Tire Festival in Moab, Utah. Initially I thought that this event was just going to be a chance to get away to do some cycling in the desert. It turned out to be much more than that. Spending a week with people who were in various stages of their battle with cancer helped me to redefine my ideal of a superhero. Superheroes seldom look like Superman. They are often frail or decimated with disease. Superheroes are simply ordinary people doing extraordinary things to make this world a better place. Thank you, Chris, for helping to show me what living is truly about.

This picture, entitled “The Optimist”, was taken in Arches National Park while participating in the Skinny Tire Festival. It has always resonated with me. The fragility of the sapling Oak lies in sharp contrast to the permanence of the boulder. Yet, the young tree is clearly being nourished from some source beyond our sight. Although very subtle, I have always found this to one of my most powerful images. I dedicate this post in honor of all of you have given me the opportunity to celebrate yet another “Superman Day”. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Images of Hope

It was a bit of a draining week. Take all of the normal challenges, throw them into the pressure cooker of COVID, and you have a recipe for disaster. It was also difficult not to pay attention to the continued insanity in the news. Just like passing an accident on the highway, your curiosity always forces you to take just a brief glance over to see the carnage. Sometimes it is a relatively harmless fender bender. Other times you can only hope that everyone survived. This was one of those weeks that feels more like the latter.

There is plenty of fresh material for me to write about this week. However, I have decided to take a brief break. Maintaining an optimistic attitude sometimes takes a significant amount of energy. I have decided to recharge this weekend.

Just like the last minute of CBS’s “Sunday Morning” that is dedicated to some Zen-like scene from nature, I am just going to leave you with this picture from a sunrise over Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge. I find the name of these places, set aside for the protection of our natural resources, quite ironic. More often than not, it is we humans who seek these spaces when in need of sanctuary. Just imagine the familiar trumpet theme as we fade to next week…

Images of Hope

It is somehow July already. Arriving with the new month, right on time, is the heat. It has been in the 90’s all week. I think we have already had more 90 degree days than we had all of last year. Unfortunately, the long-term forecast does not show any reprieve from the punishing conditions.

This oppressive weather always reminds me of Stevie Wonder’s “Hotter than July” album cover. Any of us who have dared to venture outside of the air-conditioned  sanctuary of our homes on a stifling July afternoon can relate to the red, yellow and orange, background, the sweat streaming down his face and the sun’s reflection on his glasses.

Although not as recognizable, the album’s inside liner also has images that are immediately relatable to these current days. The liner is a collage of black and white images of the race riots of the 60’s. There are photographs of burning buildings, police brutality and peaceful protests. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it.

I have always admired Stevie Wonder. Not just because his music has brought so much joy into my life, but because he is a true humanitarian. Stevie Wonder has been an ardent activist for social justice, the creation of the Martin Luther King holiday, famine relief, AIDS awareness, the abolishment of apartheid and the support of the blind. The United Nations has even honored him with the title “UN Messenger of Peace”. Come to think of it, there is probably no other musician who has done more for love, except for maybe Barry White. Barry really did more to promote making love. Obviously, very different motivations.

One of my favorite Steve Wonder songs is “Love’s in Need of Love Today”. It is a simple song with very repetitive lyrics. It is one of those songs that you never want to end. Not surprisingly, it is also one of those songs that you find playing in the background of your mind hours later. For those not familiar with the song, I encourage you to seek it out for a listen. Otherwise, let me repeat the lyrics here:

“It's that
Love's in need of love today
Don't delay
Send yours in right away
Hate's goin' round
Breaking many hearts
Stop it please
Before it's gone too far”

I don’t pretend to have the answers to solve our problems. It is naïve to think that we can get all the world’s people to simply love one another. A handful of special people have been promoting this approach for thousands of years with limited success. What I do know is that it is the place to start.

Images of Hope

It is almost exactly eleven years to the day that we arrived at the aerial tram station in Stechelberg just in time to catch the last departure up to Mürren. The trip from Montreux took much longer than I had anticipated. Not that the scenic route up through the Jaunpass was excessively long, it was the number of stops for photos that slowed our forward progress. Had it been up to me, we would have arrived a couple of hours early at the station. However, my wife reminded me that this may well be a once in a lifetime trip. We should savor every moment. I’m glad we did.

We were in such a hurry to get our tickets at the station that we left our son’s hiking boots in the rental car. We also left behind the phone number for our hotel. Unbeknownst to us, both errors would prove to have memorable consequences on our trip.

The cable car rose roughly 2700’ to the car-less village of Mürren. Although daylight was fading, we could tell that that the cloud layer was increasing with altitude. By the time we arrived at the Mürren station, it was a steady rain. That’s when we realized that we had left the hotel phone number in the car. We were told to call Hotel Eiger at our arrival at the station. They would dispatch a golf cart to pick us up and the porter would drive us the ¼ mile to the hotel. Instead, we ended up on an impromptu hike, each with two weeks’ worth of baggage, in what grew to a full downpour.

My wife, son and I arrived at the hotel lobby looking like a trio of drowned marmots. We were soaked to the skin, tired and hungry. I know that these three Americans were not in a mood to make a very good first impression. I think we were all surprised to be greeted with the welcoming Swiss hospitality of the owners and managers, Susanna and Adrian Stähli von Allmen. They graciously apologized for not being there to pick us up at the station even though it was totally our fault. The next thing we knew were each provided with a warm towel. As we buried our faces into the posh warmth, the stress of our arrival began to melt. I think out of pure pity they offered us a room upgrade. I now realize how bad we looked because they gave us one of the best suites in the hotel.

Mürren is as close to heaven as I have ever been on earth. Not only is the village at an altitude amongst the clouds, the cowbells echo off the hills as if the angels were calling. As you peer across the Lauterbrunnen Valley, it feels like you can simply reach out to touch the peaks of the Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau. The air is pristine and the water from the melting snows of the Schilthorn are piped directly to your room faucet. We were always greeted with a hearty “Grüezi” from the locals. By the end of our stay, we had formed a bond with Mary, our waitress in the hotel. I guess it was no surprise that Mary was married to Joseph, who also worked in the kitchen. Fitting names considering that we were in heaven.

Like many tourist destinations, the novel coronavirus has been hard on Mürren. I know. Ever since our return to the realities of home, each week I religiously start the day with a peek at the hotel webcam. The throngs of tourists that usually make the day trip up from Stechelberg on sunny days have largely disappeared. The hotel rates have dropped from those we paid eleven years ago. I have noticed that the snow starts later and melts sooner. The last vestiges of snow would normally disappear from the shaded corners of the village in early June. This year the last drift disappeared in late April. This village, also famous for skiing, is dependent on voluminous snowfall. I am afraid that without snow and the summer hikers, the village will not be able to sustain itself strictly on the dairy cows that supply their raw product to the local cheese makers.

There are a handful of places that I have visited that were absorbed into my very soul. To this day, I still crave the hospitality of the people, the sound of the cowbells and the purity of the land. It has always been my intent to return to Mürren. It is my hope that I will be able to once again stay at Hotel Eiger, enjoy a warm croissant with local Alpkäse and ham for breakfast, then hike into the Alps with my wife and son, and if so blessed, with his wife and children. Truly heaven on earth.