Why I Watch So Closely

I’ve always been a noticer.
Of how people move.
How they hold their coffee.
What they say when they think no one is listening.

I watch the way life leaves fingerprints on faces—creases in the brow, light in the eyes, the slump of a shoulder when someone thinks they’ve failed.

Maybe I learned it as a kid—when you grow up in a house full of chaos, you learn to read the room fast. You learn to listen between the lines. To anticipate. To survive. But somewhere along the way, it became more than survival. It became storytelling.

Now, in quiet moments or loud ones, I look for the meaning in the mess. The small truths hiding in plain sight. The sacred tucked inside the ordinary.

Because most people don’t stop long enough to see it.
And if I can hold it for a second—capture it, name it, write it down—maybe it becomes something someone else needed too.

That’s what this blog is.
It’s not just stories about dogs and couches and coffee and backyard walks.
It’s me, sorting out what it means to live. To be human. To heal.

Some people preach.
Some people sell.
I sit quietly and tell the truth as I see it.

And if something in these words touches a memory or opens a soft spot in your heart—good. That means we found each other.

Because underneath all this observation is a simple hope:

That none of us feel as alone as we sometimes do.
That we learn to trust our own story again.
And that we start seeing the beauty in our lives—even the hard parts—with new eyes.
    ( That's me, circa 1980)

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