Big Sur

Not New York, San Francisco, or Chicago

Listen: Piano background HH

Read: Big Sur

The cliffs of Big Sur stand—

tall, rigid—

like watchdog redwoods

wearing halos of ocean mist,

guarding

looming

spectating—

from their sloped grandstand

to the far, beckoning horizon

of something that never quite arrives

They grin westward

toothy and patient

while the cold Pacific

thrashes itself to music—

rumbling

crashing

whispering

crying—

a chorus that began

before memory

and will outlive it

I was lost in it once

A chance meeting

A decade gone

Still—

it lingers

There was a gas station

set back from the road

white clapboard

gleaming like a pearl

against the green weight of it all

A red dirt road—

fading to black—

slipping into something unnamed

It called

I followed

And there it was—

that feeling

Soft

Hovering

Not strange—

not frightening—

just…

known

Everything felt remembered—

roads

trees

rocks

the smell of salt and bark—

as though I had been there before and simply forgot

I walked the edge of it—

those narrow, shaking cliffs—

feet fixed to the last hard edge of land

while something in me rose clean above it—

free

for a moment

to go where it pleased

The paths pulled me inward—

into that forest of tall, quiet things

redwoods standing straight and certain

like candles

on a cake no one would ever cut

And then—

as suddenly as it came—

it left

Highway 101 took me on

toward Carmel

toward the rest of things

But not all of me went

Because even now—

I can still smell it

Redwood

Salt

Foam

Still hear that low

murmuring song moving under everything

And sometimes—

in the quiet—

it feels like something there is still calling.

Not loudly

Not urgently

Just enough to remind me—

I belong to it in some small

unfinished way

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Available on Amazon

When I was a young father, I used to remind myself that my children didn’t belong to me. I was simply entrusted with the task of raising them, loving them, and preparing them for the day they would walk away into the world without me. And of course, I did my best. But I also know the truth: I missed things. I got distracted. I wasn’t always brave or present. Parenting is a long letting-go, and sometimes, it takes a lifetime to understand what you were really holding onto.

Then come grandchildren, an older, wiser head. Lori is a muse, and through her I tell my stories. ‘Lori Tales’.

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The characters in these stories are not chasing epiphanies. They are moving through days, cities, and the long aftershocks of decisions already made.

Some look back toward childhood. Others move forward knowing there is no clean resolution. All of them take place in ordinary moments, where life changes quietly and without permission.

From Here to There is a collection about leaving, returning, and discovering what cannot be carried home unchanged.

Available on Kindle