I did, in fact, almost drown in frigid water at six years old. Except, it wasn’t under ice, just the cold waters of a man-made lake in southern Wisconsin. I imagine that the relief I felt was much the same as if it were ice above me and not just deep water—the coughs, gasps, murky taste, then the first breath that filled every inch, cranny, and crevice of the lungs with beautifully crisp and full-bodied air. I love that relief. I love it enough to put it before long-lasting pleasure, or at least the prospect of it.

I wish things would have been different there so I don’t hate walking down Belden and Racine and Sheffield and Webster, but it is also a beautiful view from the vantage point I have now.

There’s an easy way about the tortured that make them easy to fall in love with or easy to transfer love onto if we’re being honest. If you’re looking for the love or even the like that you just lost, it can easily be found in the image you create in the eyes of a dreamy sensitive tortured creature. Especially when you, yourself, are particularly inclined to the dark.

From September 2013 to February 2015, I lived in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood while studying English at DePaul University. I hated it. I have often refused to go back to that neighborhood much like a homeowner may paint the door shut to a room someone died in. On April 15th, 2023, I went back.

Sometimes, when running is hard and I worry if I can keep going, if my heart will explode, if my legs will somehow buckle before my mind is ready to stop; I see all of those faces above. I hear my Uncle Jack say, “We won’t let you fall.” I see my Aunt Janet’s smile, and I know that I can keep moving forward. 

In October 2023, I’m running the Chicago Marathon to raise money for the American Cancer Society, for all of them and so many others.

It's official, as marked by my annual crying to Billy Joel’s ‘Vienna’, it’s almost my birthday. In a month, I will be 27 years old.

The mind’s threat system is a primal, somewhat vestigial, part of the brain left over from the days of Lucy. This threat system was created when our ancestral beings lived in the open among their predators. It allowed the brain to turn on its super good hearing to listen for any cracking sticks indicating something was near. It let our ancestors run faster, be stronger, and survive the very real threats that were around them.

My head hurt so much that I guessed the only solution to be one of submersion. So, I jumped, not so gracefully, into the chilly water and just got underneath it. I swam like a child, kicking my feet like a mermaid and floating on my back.

There has been something particularly isolating about this year, about this time in history, despite the fact that it is challenging everyone. I think perhaps it’s that we are all perceiving the difficulties presented to us in different ways, and the actions each of us are taking vary dramatically. Despite that isolation we may be feeling, there is also a hum of human noise carefully carrying itself throughout all of our lives.

Books, however, they are the powerhouses when it comes to refueling for me. Reading enables me to entire a whole different universe and when the book ends I’m still welcome to come and visit any time.

With that being said, I’ve decided to explore the healing power of art in three parts: how art has fueled and recovered me, how it has done so for others, and how artists feel they bring forth that healing power.

I can’t go a summer without eating a cold plum and thinking of sitting in a wooden desk with explicit carvings made by student’s past. This summer the plums, that were once ‘so sweet and so cold’ don’t have any taste.

As I was faced with so many points of uncertainty lately I thought of my Grampa, and his generation. I thought of each of my grandparents and what they would say if I talked to them today.

I have deemed my sole pursuit during this moment, this time, this unknown, to provide anyone and everyone with a positive place to think and exist. I do not possess the hubris to think I can create what we stay alive for, but I am hoping to keep the fire of my soul, and hopefully yours, going by posting what can keep the coals stoked.

There is no point in a focus on the bad, the ugly, the terrible, as long as we are cognizant of its presence. Instead, there is a need now to escape the realm of intrusive thoughts that bring anxiety to the most calm of people. So, as is my favorite thing to do in all circumstances, I list the good.

See, I’ve never been in love with a man, but man have I been in love with writing. 

It could be a kitchen, or a stairwell, or a questionably clean couch, but most have heard it before. The air is filled with smoke, fumes of bready beer attached themselves to individuals, and the music is so loud that there’s a vague requirement to come up for air. Its in those moments in which we search for a pocket of solace that “Good News” exists.