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Another fun quarter — or two-thirds — of reading! Bring on September!

1. Antony and Cleopatra by William Shakespeare

“SOLDIER
“O noble emperor, do not fight by sea!
Trust not to rotten planks. Do you misdoubt
This sword and these my wounds? Let th’ Egyptians
And the Phoenicians go a-ducking. We
Have used to conquer standing on the earth
And fight foot to foot.”

ANTONY “Well, well, away.”

[Antony, Cleopatra, and Enobarbus exit.]

SOLDIER
“By Hercules, I think I am i’ th’ right.””

– Act III, scene vii

The Kentucky Shakespeare Festival is one of the longest running summer Shakepeare in the Park programs in the country. I read Antony and Cleopatra to prepare to see its production in July. And the timing also coincided with my daughter Beatrice and I listening to Ben Wilson’s podcast on Cleopatra. I came away dissatisfied with the Festival’s portrayal of Cleopatra. Early, she resembles, well, a teenage Swiftie. Later, she becomes tyrannical. Shakepeare’s portrayal (which seems to agree more with her actual life, as reported by Wilson) comes across with more nuance, sophistication and savvy. Cleopatra knew Rome coveted Egypt, and she deployed her wiles first with Julius Caesar and then with Mark Antony to preserve a modicum of freedom. But Caesar’s death and Antony’s bungling cut off avenue after avenue of escape. I do believe Clepatra and Antony loved each other, beyond the political sensibilities of their alliance. But Octavian proved that love does not, always, conquer all.

2. Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare

“BEATRICE “And a good soldier to a lady, but what is he to a lord?”

MESSENGER “A lord to a lord, a man to a man, stuffed with all honorable virtues.”

BEATRICE “It is so indeed. He is no less than a stuffed man; but for the stuffing – well, we are all mortal.”

LEONATO “You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signor Benedick and her. They never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit between them.”

BEATRICE “Alas, he gets nothing by that! In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one, so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse, for it is all the wealth that he hath left to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.”

MESSENGER “Is’t possible?”

BEATRICE “Very easily possible. He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.””

— Act I, scene i

I have loved this play since I first read it and saw it performed while studying abroad at DeMontfort University in Leicester. I love Beatrice’s bravery and strength – she is perhaps the second-strongest female character in Shakespeare, after, well, keep reading. I love Beatrice so much that we named our first-born daughter after her (and for Dante’s guide into Paradiso). I laughed at her wit and cleverness. And I despaired at her instruction to Benedick, “Kill Claudio.” For while this ranks as one of Shakespeare’s comedies, we should recall how perilously close it comes to going completely off the rails. Don John provides the proximate push to cause the trouble – we should guard ourselves against the malevolence of others. But really, most of the characters – and most of us? – are deceived because of themselves. They see what they wish to see. They do not have patience to examine the situation more closely. They do not ask questions of the world or themselves. As a writer with an entire newsletter dedicated to reflection, pausing and slowing down, Much Ado About Nothing exemplifies the daily need to ponder our world and our place in it more carefully.

My friend Charles and I went to Cincinnati to join a discussion of the play by the Catherine Project. Reading, discussing or watching the play will never waste your time.

3. King Lear by William Shakespeare

“CORDELIA

“Peace be with Burgundy.
Since that respects of fortune are his love,
I shall not be his wife.”

KING OF FRANCE

“Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poor,
Most choice forsaken, and most loved despised,
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon.
Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away.
Gods, gods! ‘Tis strange that from their cold’st neglect
My love should kindle to inflamed respect.
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France.
Not all the dukes of wat’rish Burgundy
Can buy this unprized precious maid of me.
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind.
Thou losest here, a better where to find.”

LEAR

“Thou hast her, France; let her be thine, for we
Have no such daughter, not shall ever see
That face of hers again. Therefore be gone,
Without our grace, our love, our benison.
Come, noble Burgundy.

[Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester, and Attendants.]

FRANCE [To Cordelia]

“Bid farewell to your sisters.”

CORDELIA

“The jewel of our father, with washed eyes
Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are;
And, like a sister, am most loath to call
Your Faults as they are named. Love well our father.””

– Act I scene i

We named our oldest daughter Beatrice and our second daughter Cordelia -- perhaps the strongest female character in Shakespeare. When Cordelia learned I was reading Much Ado About Nothing, she asked:

“Why aren’t you reading King Lear, about me?”

“I can read King Lear. You know it’s a tragedy, right?”

“Yes, you’ve told me. So, lots of characters die?”

[Me, hesitantly, sensing a trap] “Yes, they do.”

“But King Lear lives, right?”

[Me, silent]

“Dad! King Lear lives, right?”

[Me, resigned, quietly] “No, King Lear dies.”

“What!? He dies!?” [Long pause] “Wait...does Cordelia die?”

[Me, silent]

“Dad! Cordelia dies too!? You named me after a character who dies?! Why did you do that?”

[Exeunt Cordelia, storming off]

We named you Cordelia because she is brave and just, loving and truthful. May you always be so, Cordelia.

4. La Place de la Concorde Suisse by John McPhee

“You see the big closed doors of a building that appears to be a garage for snowplows. But why would snowplows need to be surrounded by such a high fence and so much barbed wire? Possibly because they plow snow with ten-and-a-half-centimetre cannons.”

Someone told me I’d enjoy the books of John McPhee and the essays of William Hazlitt. I’d read a bit of McPhee before – Coming Into the Country, about Alaska, several years ago. This book, about the Swiss army, written in 1984, seemingly at the height of the Cold War, surprised me. I didn’t recall McPhee being so funny. Plus, ever since I had visited South Korea more than 20 years ago on a work trip, I’d assumed that I had some sense as to why people go to war: because they literally cannot understand each other. But McPhee writes about German Swiss people in the French Swiss area not understanding the language and vice versa. And yet these people have created perhaps the most stable country on earth, despite the language differences. How? Through shared purpose: a common cause of defense and non-aggression. I expected to learn something from McPhee’s prose. I did not expect to find a source of hope in our fragmented world.

5. On Going a Journey by William Hazlitt

“One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but I like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors, nature is company enough for me. I am therefore never less alone than when alone.”

I mean, I expected to love this essay. About walking? I mean...cough, cough...I write about walking, walk a lot and enjoy reading about walking. Philosophical? Um, golf clap, yeah, I love me a writer with a philosophical bent. About the virtues of silence and peace? Count me in.

Annnnnddd, I couldn’t stand On Going a Journey. Too syrupy, too fluffy, too sentimental. The Romantics seem poorly grounded for people who supposedly loved the earth so much.

6. The Penguin Book of Greek and Latin Lyric Verse edited and translated by Christopher Childers

“Zeus sees everyone who carries crime
deep in his heart: all is revealed in time”
– Solon

“But if oxen had hands, or horses or lions had them,
or could draw with their hands and make art like the art of humans,
the horses would make their deities look like horses,
the oxen would make them like oxen, and each would picture
their gods with the same sorts of bodies as they have themselves”
– Xenophanes

At the start of the year, I wrote an “Aspirational list of books” I hoped to read. The list included “at least a little poetry.” In Q2 I wanted to buy no books. But rambling through Dolly’s Bookstore in Park City, Utah, I came across this volume and went for it. I regretted breaking my vow of no new books zero percent, and I began reading it that night. I made it about halfway and enjoyed it quite a lot, given how little poetry I usually read in a year. Two aspects of it stood out. First, Childers spent 13 years reading and translating these poems, often fragments – what lovely yeoman’s work, and that love shines through. Second, many of these poets recall The Iliad and The Odyssey. You really cannot read them without knowing and appreciating, if not loving, Homer.

7. Tales from the Thousand and One Nights translated by N.J. Dawood

“For many years after my return I lived joyfully in Baghdad, feasting and carousing with my boon companions and reveling away the riches which my far-flung travels had earned me. But though I was now past the prime of life, my untamed spirit rebelled against my declining years, and I once again longed to see the world and travel in the lands of men. I made preparations for a long voyage and, boarding a good ship in company with some eminent merchants, set sail from Basrah with a fair wind and a rich cargo.”

– “The Last Voyage of Sindbad the Sailor”

The economist and writer Tyler Cowen wonders whether stories make us stupider. In this case, the 1,001 tales of Shahrazad to her husband the King postponed the King putting her to death for another three years. They eventually secured her release from his death sentence. Perhaps stories do make us stupider, and we should beware. But perhaps they also make us more merciful and joyful, and we should rejoice.

8. Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak

“Then he noticed that a change had taken place in the room. At the opposite end a new visitor had been added. Yuri Andreevich recognized Antipova at once. She was sitting with her back turned to the front tables, at one of which the doctor had placed himself, and talking in a low voice with the sick librarian, who stood bending towards Larissa Fyodorovna and exchanged whispers with her. This conversation must have had a beneficial influence on the librarian. She was instantly cured not only of her annoying cold, but also of her nervous apprehension. Casting a warm, grateful glance at Antipova, she took away the handkerchief that she kept pressed to her lips all the time and, putting it in her pocket, went back to her place behind the counter, happy, confident, and smiling. This scene marked by touching details did not escape some of those present. From all sides of the room, people looked sympathetically at Antipova and also smiled. By these insignificant signs, Yuri Andreevich ascertained how well-known and loved she was in the city.”

I read along with my friend ’s slow reading of the book. I’m glad I did. Cams knows Russian and added innumerable language, translation and setting details of the book, massively enriching it. Such a tough, hard, sad novel. My heart broke for Yuri, Lara, and many characters. And for Boris Pasternak. And, perhaps most of all, for the Russian people. Thank you, Cams, for an outstanding slow-reading experience!

9. The Aeneid by Virgil translated by Scott McGill and Susannah Wright (audiobook)

“The rising Dawn had left the sea behind.
Though anxious to take time to mourn his men
and badly shaken by the loss of life,
Aeneas rose at daybreak and fulfilled
the vows he owed the gods for victory.”

Over the past few years, I have loved listening to audiobooks of The Iliad and The Odyssey. I’ve begun reading The Aeneid several times over the past 20 years but never gotten far. I figured listening to it would aid my engagement with the story. It did, but I enjoyed The Aeneid far less than either works of Homer. Why? For one, The Aeneid simply falls short of them as an epic tale. And Aeneas comes across as a far more passive hero than Achilles or Odysseus or other Greek heroes from Homer. When it comes down to it, I suspect my preference derives from something perhaps a bit mystical and also potentially irrelevant: we really have no idea who Homer was, and his epics come to us from long before the days of written storytelling. He stands behind a cloud, a fog of dusk, which modern science and archeology have not illuminated a whit. We know who created this tale of Aeneas and that he wrote it down. We know the man and some of his motivations. We can guess at possible motives, if we wish to take a Straussian examination of the text. But that’s academic, and a far less scintillating mystery than: Who was Homer and where did his epics come from?

10. The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck

“[S]he lay dying on her bed for many months. All through the long months of winter she lay dying and upon her bed, and for the first time Wang Lung and his children knew what she had been in the house, and how she made comfort for them all and they had not known it.”

My Aunt Mary and her husband David gave me a copy of this book and urged me to read it a few years ago. So I selected the book for the latest gathering of the gents book club. I felt gratified that I loved it, and so did everyone. The entire novel reminded me, again and again, to keep asking two questions I do not ask enough:

Who or what do I not see?

What is not working for me any longer?

11. Waiting for God by Simone Weil

“And my greatest desire is to lose not only all will but all personal being.”

“As for the spirit of poverty, I do not remember any moment when it was not in me....I fell in love with Saint Francis of Assisi as soon as I came to know about him.”

“I have an extremely severe standard for intellectual honesty, so severe that I never met anyone who did not seem to fall short of it in more than one respect; and I am always afraid of failing in it myself.””

“The key to a Christian conception of studies is the realization that prayer consists of attention.”

My friend kept sending me photos of pages and his notes while he was reading the book. After about the third text, I felt compelled to order the book for myself. Upon receiving it, I set upon it instantly. Weil quickly joined the ranks of Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, Marco Pallis, and Whitall Perry as mystics and theologians of whom I need more in my life. Let me stop there, because I do not yet know what else to say about her, except perhaps this: more of us should read more of her. Thank you, JG.

12. Humorous Stories & Sketches by Mark Twain

“The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best to conceal the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny about it; but the teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that it is one of the funniest things he has ever heard, then tells it with eager delight, and is the first person to laugh when he gets through. And sometimes, if he has had good success, he is so glad and happy that he will repeat the “nub” of it and glance around from face to face, collecting applause, and then repeat it again. It is a pathetic thing to see.”

My wife and I began listening to Ron Chernow’s biography of Twain as we rolled to and from the Carolinas this summer. We’ll enjoy several summers of this, as the book runs to over 44 hours. The first few hours found me laughing out loud at many points. I’d forgotten how damn funny Twain could be. I’d forgotten how much I loved his writings when I was in high school and college. I decided to re-read a few of his short stories, starting with his masterpiece, “The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” After many weighty readings this quarter, I found in Twain a needed pause, a rest, a guffaw at the seriousness of the world and myself.

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Kentucky author Wendell Berry died yesterday at the age of 92. He gave us much to ponder, and an unequaled example of living in accordance with one’s principles. In remembrance of this honored writer and towering man, I share an essay I wrote about Berry four years ago. RIP.

On my list of the 25 books I would read for the rest of my life, I included a compilation of Wendell Berry essays. Berry, a native Kentuckian, writer, activist, environmentalist, agricultural and, well, all-cultural critic, and farmer, may not be Insta-famous, but serves as an icon in the modern intellectual rearguard connected to old ways of living contented, fulfilled lives grounded on the ground, a specific place on this wide earth which we make a home. 

The front cover of the book, The World-Ending Fire, includes a photograph of Berry by James Baker Hall1. Reclining in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, chin enfolded in his left hand, Berry stares out his window, deeply immersed in reflection. A pad of paper lays in his lap; he carelessly cradles a pencil in his right hand. More pencils lay in front of him on the desk.

It looks like a simple office, well-lit by the sunshine streaming through the many windows. A bookcase to the right, cut off by the photo, appears relatively small. Berry keeps neither the tidiest desk nor the most cluttered. A few small stacks of papers cover a portion of the desk. A few books too. He also has a clock, binoculars, an open briefcase and a few other odds and ends. 

Like Berry staring outside his window, I find myself staring at this photo again and again. Questions turn over in my mind: 

What preoccupies Berry? 

Conceptualizing an essay? 

Working on a particular sentence? 

Pondering a plot in one of his novels? 

Musing on a farm project? 

Lost in thought? 

Lost in feeling? 

The photographer could have found Berry in this pose quite a while that day – and the day before and the day after, and the year before and the year after. Deep thought extrudes from Berry’s writings, making them some of the most thought-tilling and uncomfortable to read of our era. 

In the photo, we perceive the lie of much of philosophy, the supposed divide between thought and action. In Berry, we witness thought as action. 

Transfixed by this photo, I feel drawn to emulate Berry more. Think and feel. Sit and think and feel. Of course, in a newsletter called Solvitur Ambulando, I would espouse rising from the chair to walk and think and feel. 

As I look closer, more details stand out. His chair, for instance. Its wood construction fits with his office and natural surroundings. He sits at a large, long desk. We see the tape dispenser and eraser by the window. We can’t see the full room, so perhaps he does have storage cabinets. But he seems to keep the few items he usually needs nearby – the simplest and easiest kind of organization. He may appear lost in thought, but he remains ensconced in time – he has a calendar and clock in view, and he wears a watch. Berry wears a workman’s uniform over his clothing (which includes a collared shirt). He wears leather workboots – sturdy yet not unwieldy. He likely came from, or will return to, working on his farm. 

The broad texture of the photo concerns unity in life. Berry lives a unified life. He doesn’t have two sides to him – the farmer and the intellectual. Those sides harmonize in one being. Take his workman’s clothes and boots. If he looks out his office window and sees something requiring attention, he can address it immediately. Contrast that with the modern lives most of us live (acknowledging Covid has altered this point and it may evolve further).  We dress, sit in a car, sit in traffic, enter an office building, sit in a drab office (lucky us) or cubicle (rather less lucky us) adorned by a couple of knick-knacks or photos to remind us of our ‘real’ lives, enjoy the life-sustaining (?) glow of fluorescent ceiling lights, catch a glimpse of actual shining sun as we pass a window in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, work through the pixilated intermediation of technology, re-sit in our cars, re-sit in traffic as we drive home to our ‘real’ lives. 

Take my planned changes today. In the morning, dress in one outfit. At work, I put on a chore coat (to keep warm, not to do chores). In the afternoon, I change clothes for my yoga class. Later, I will change into a swimsuit and sunshirt for family pool time. By today’s standards, I enjoy a short and easy commute – 12 minutes on side streets. I can’t but help note the divides between elements in my life: at home, I dress for work; at work, I dress for exercise; at home, changing clothes yet again, like a premature chameleon, too soon altering my appearance for the environment I do not yet traverse.

Here I do not judge the requirements of my life, or most people’s lives in the modern age. I am simply noting that Berry’s life contains a unity that mine does not. Staring at this photograph spurs further reflection upon that juxtaposition. 

This is the deeper suggestion of Hall’s photograph. Yes, we humans need more time for uninterrupted thought. Yes, I need to spend more time in reflective feeling and thinking. Yes, thought is action. Even more, the Berry photo points us toward living a life of unity. Perhaps we cannot live and work in one place, as Berry does. Nonetheless, the questions pile up, like a cairn in the wilderness of our lives:

What does unity mean in my life? 

Where can I unify more of my life? 

How shall I unite thinking and action more cogently?

In what parts of my life do I live in accord with my truths?

More uncomfortably, in what parts of my life do I not live in accord with my truths?

Where can I at least bridge the disparate elements of life? 

How can I bring them into concord? 

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Welcome to the Walks of Life podcast. This is Russell Smith, and today I’m thrilled to be joined by . Michael studied and trained for decades on the clarinet before embarking on a marketing and writing career. Today, he helps orchestras and other classical music creators reach new audiences.

He also writes a beautiful newsletter called Shades of Blue about the stories behind, and power of, melancholy music. Michael’s approach and philosophy have a lot in common with what I write and talk about; slowness, solitude, internal peace, and seeking outward harmony, and discovering what Michael terms, the beautiful, more perfect world.

When I receive Michael’s new missive every other week, I can’t wait to dive in. We enjoyed a wonderful conversation and I know you will enjoy it. You can listen to the podcast or read the transcript below. Thank you, Michael!

Russell Smith: I want to talk for a few minutes about your introductory essay, where you announced Shades of Blue. It’s one of the most beautiful pieces of writing that I’ve ever read. It was thoughtful and, in its way, concise, and I want to ask a few questions about it.

You wrote: “Growing up in the flat, unremarkable world of suburban Connecticut in the ’90s, classical music became my form of rebellion against the aggressive music my parents enjoyed. At any point in my childhood, you could hear Ozzy Osbourne’s wail on Black Sabbath’s Paranoid erupting from my father’s stereo on one end of our house, while the sweet sighs of Beethoven’s violin concerto wafted through the air outside my bedroom on the other.”

I’m wondering: did you take anything positive, uplifting, memorable from the music your parents liked?

Michael Cirigliano: Yeah, absolutely. The joke I like to make is that my first musical obsession as a child wasn’t Ludwig van Beethoven, but Eddie Van Halen. So it wasn’t like warring factions in the house.

A lot of the music they listened to was definitely formative to me. I use the Black Sabbath example in my essay because it’s about as far as you can get from classical music. But to my parents’ credit, they also introduced me to David Bowie and Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd, all of whom still stand among my favorite musical artists.

What was really cool is I learned much later they were all inspired in some way by classical music — a full-circle moment. And of course, Bowie, Zeppelin, Floyd — they all wrote songs that live in that same world of melancholy and longing that felt like home as I discovered more and more classical music. “Let’s Dance,” “Stairway to Heaven” — they’re still incredible songs that move me profoundly today.

But something happened as I got older. My ear, which is connected to my mind, which is connected to my heart, was increasingly craving the quieter, more intimate moments I had discovered in classical music. That’s where I started to hear the more aggressive music my parents listened to as too aggressive for me.

Then, as a teenager, this music — especially the kind my father did not care for — became my act of rebellion. So it wasn’t that I was totally against the music they listened to. It was that I knew the music I listened to wasn’t very well liked, especially on my father’s side, and that became my point of rebellion.

As my musical training progressed, I started playing the clarinet in fourth grade and began playing in more and more ensembles. I fell in love with the sound of a symphony orchestra, and that was the rabbit hole that led me to explore more and more classical music.

It’s interesting, because people are often surprised how much music I listen to that’s outside the classical realm. I even published one of my melancholy mixtapes on Shades of Blue last summer that was the only one to feature no classical music whatsoever — my favorite songs by Radiohead, Jeff Buckley, Björk, and Lana Del Rey.

It was pretty revelatory to certain readers, which is funny to me, because the forms those songwriters use are going to be much different from a Mahler symphony, but the emotional content is exactly the same. Anyone who profoundly loves Britpop or Brit rock — I wouldn’t be surprised if they also love Elgar or Vaughan Williams.

But for some reason, when people hear someone is really obsessed with classical music, they think that’s it — that there’s this level of pretension, this difference between classical music and everything else. I don’t subscribe to that in any way, shape, or form. The way I connect to music comes down to emotional content, pure and simple, no matter the form.

Smith: Did you attach to anything in that “flat, unremarkable world of suburban Connecticut in the ’90s”? What lessons about how you wanted to live came from that?

Cirigliano: It’s so interesting — looking back on that essay, the words I used to describe it as flat and unremarkable, I could still picture that view outside my bedroom window as a kid. It’s not that there was anything bad about where I lived. We had an amazing school system with a great arts program. But I think why I wanted to point that out is: it’s easy to look out your bedroom window as a kid and believe that’s all there is — that the world is small, that the paths you could take are limited.

On the street where I grew up, everybody worked a job, most of which they disliked. They had their half-acre or acre of land. They were married, had a family, two cars. Even as a kid, it seemed so prescriptive to me.

But the arts — music was a great passion, but visual art too. I loved drawing and painting as a kid. The arts as a whole sphere could serve as a passport outside that bubble. They launch you into the wider world — not just geographically but historically.

That’s what I love about classical music and painting especially. We’ve only had rock, rap, and metal music for sixty years or so. But classical music as we know it today has been around for four or five hundred years, so you get an incredible sense of how human creativity, how expression through music, has evolved over time.

Every album I got, I would devour the liner notes. That was my first introduction to program notes, which I write today for the country’s biggest orchestras. But it was the stories in there that fascinated me and put the music into context.

Learning all that, I realized there was so much I wanted to explore in the world. But I grew up working class. Money was always tight. My family didn’t take trips to Paris so I could walk in the footsteps of Ravel, or go to Vienna to walk in the footsteps of Beethoven or Brahms or Schubert. So until I became an adult and could make that kind of travel a reality, getting to know the world involved a lot of adventures of the imagination. I’ve always had a vivid imagination, and I think a lot of that came from having it fed and fueled by art and music as a small child.

So to go from that one view outside my bedroom window to everything I’ve been able to explore, and all the places music has brought me — that’s the most remarkable thing to come out of growing up with an unremarkable view outside your window.

Smith: Your first essay on your newsletter looked at Henryk Górecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. You called that essay a manifesto. Do you still stand behind it? Has your thinking evolved? If you rewrote it today, what would you add, cut, or keep the same?

Cirigliano: I’m sure I’d find several unnecessary adverbs I could cut — that tends to be my style. But as far as the manifesto of it all, I still stand proudly behind it. I believe classical music has a huge marketing and PR problem, one that’s sadly perpetuated by the industry itself.

The reason I even transitioned from being a performer in an orchestra to becoming a marketer for symphony orchestras and classical music presenters is because it drives me nuts how classical music is marketed — advocating for an art form purely because you call it important, or because it has a storied legacy.

I feel that’s so misguided today, especially when music education isn’t as prevalent in schools, and classical music isn’t as prevalent in popular culture as it used to be. Leaning on historical legacy and importance is misguided, because nobody is attracted to exploring new art because it’s important.

Advocating for an art form by telling someone about the transcendental experience they can have, how they can focus all their senses on the sound as it moves through them — I know firsthand, from the work I do, that this connects with a lot more people.

Here’s the example that was one of my first sparks toward making this my platform as an arts marketer: if I came up to you, Russell, and said, “Are you interested in hearing Johannes Brahms’s First Symphony? It’s about forty-five minutes of music for a full orchestra, written in the late nineteenth century, and I think it’s really great” — you’d probably say no. Maybe you’d say yes because we’re friends. But if a stranger said, “Listen to this because it’s important,” you’d say no. Yes, it’s a famous piece, but what’s the incentive to spend forty-five minutes of our busy world on it?

But if I said, “This music will make you feel like time stands still,” or “Watch it performed on YouTube — take in the sound of fifty or sixty string players playing as one, moving their bodies as one, phrasing as one. It’s going to remind you of the trust you can place in other people, the importance of friendship and collaboration” — or if I told you about the genesis of the piece, about Brahms himself. He was a super sensitive, super insecure artist, just like we all are, trying to make a name for himself in Vienna in the second half of the nineteenth century, in a very crowded field. Any German, Austrian, or Bohemian composer who wanted to make a name for himself had to go and find his way in Vienna.

It took Brahms nearly twenty-five years to write that first symphony. He was so overwhelmed with anxiety about how the music would be received — worried everyone would compare it to Beethoven, who was the be-all, end-all of German music in Brahms’s lifetime. If you were going to write a first symphony, people expected it to be a continuation of Beethoven’s style.

So Brahms wrote and wrote for years, then put most of the manuscript pages into a fire and burned them. He was notorious for burning his music. He wrote more, wasn’t happy with it as a first symphony, took the scraps he liked, and created a completely different piece from them. By the time he finally finished the score, it had been more than two decades. He was in his forties — talk about a late bloomer.

It’s magnificent to behold. But you can hear that frustration, that anxiety, right at the beginning. There’s this roar of sound, this pulse throbbing in the drums. It doesn’t relent — it drives the beat forward, and the strings rise up in a melody that’s painstakingly rising note by note, while the woodwinds behind them play a falling melody, like a waterfall of tears. Are those tears of frustration? Relief? Joy? Pride? All of the above. That’s how you sell someone on listening to Brahms’s First Symphony for the first time. Who wouldn’t want to experience that kind of emotion, seeing themselves mirrored in it?

That’s the kind of storytelling, the kind of marketing, the kind of experience people should know they could have when they devote time to music like this.

Smith: That answer is exactly what I love about your newsletter. You talk about a piece, and I want to go listen to it right then. I wrote down in my notes as we were talking: “Listen to Brahms’s First Symphony right after this.”

Cirigliano: I love it. Please follow up — send me an email after you listen. What moved you in that roar of sound at the opening?

Smith: What, if anything, has changed or evolved about your approach to the newsletter in the three years since you began writing it?

Cirigliano: It’s been wild that I’ve been at it for three years. It took me probably three years of cultivating confidence just to get it started, so the fact that there’s this body of work now is really incredible to me.

From day one, I’ve considered writing this newsletter an act of service. I want to share music that could bring people relief, respite, a few minutes where they can shut out the world and turn inward — to connect with beautiful, moving, human expressions of joy and loss and love and ecstasy. Things we don’t make much time for anymore.

Over the first year, I realized I could do that through a couple of different formats to meet readers where they are. I’m a content marketer by day, so I know not every reader reads the same way. I have full-length essays that go deep into one piece, and then things in between — the melancholy mixtapes, where there isn’t much storytelling. I’ll give a sentence or two to introduce the work, and people can take it on the go, listen without any commentary, or listen with it the first time and then make it their own.

What’s changed most in my mindset is realizing this newsletter isn’t just an act of service for readers — it’s an act of service to myself. Writing about the music I want to write about, in the way I feel will connect with others, is a gift I don’t get in my day job. I’m hired by orchestras to write about the music they’re performing. Sometimes there’s great overlap and I get an assignment about a piece I love, or a piece I don’t know, and in researching it I realize it’s incredible. Other times the piece is just okay, and I try to find the human story that will excite people to listen.

But sitting down with music of my choosing — some works I’ve known for decades. I just published my third-anniversary post, about Gustav Mahler’s Third Symphony, which I’ve known since high school — thirty-two years now. Other times it’s a work I just discovered and can’t stop listening to, with an incredible story behind it. Writing this newsletter, I’ve never had more opportunity to follow my curiosity and make connections I wouldn’t otherwise have had space to consider.

One of my favorite quotes, which relates to being a writer in charge of what you write, is from Marcus Aurelius: “The soul becomes dyed with the color of the mind’s thoughts.” Watch what you think, because your soul will become dyed with those thoughts. If you live your life from a place of anger, resentment, hostility, that will infect you. But if you choose to live from a place of calm and connection and inspiration, healing yourself and healing others, that will transform your soul too.

Living in this world of melancholy music for three years now, especially with the cataclysmic ups and downs of the outside world, I know my soul has been dyed the most beautiful shade of blue from spending time with this music, and with everyone who engages in the comments, who writes to me. That’s probably the most profound shift — realizing I’m giving a gift to others and to myself through this creative venture.

Smith: Michael, where is your line of demarcation between melancholy as insight and embodied experience versus melancholy as indulgence?

Cirigliano: That’s such a great question, because I don’t consider embracing the melancholy aspects of life an indulgence at all. Maybe more people feel this way than I think, but I think certain people picture melancholy as Proust lying in bed for decades, sleeping all day and writing his epic at night, thinking only about tea and cookies.

But that’s not truly engaging with the melancholy aspects of life. Our society today is out of touch with what humans need to flourish, to fully embody our place in the world. We make so little room for expressions of emotion — they’re even demonized. Nonsense like “boys don’t cry.” What is that supposed to mean? Even empathy has become a dirty word in certain corners of the world.

I don’t consider it indulgence at all — I consider it an aspect of truly embracing our humanity and our place in the world. I love that you put it as melancholy as insight, because I think that is what melancholy offers us when we choose to explore and embrace it. It becomes a point of perspective from which to observe the world. That’s how we improve our lives — by observing the world, realizing our place in it, and realizing what we can do to make it a better, more loving, more beautiful place.

We can only do that, we can only truly live the totality of our experience, if we realize that joy has to dance with sorrow, that life is precious because it’s fleeting, that love fuels the universe. I don’t think anyone who spends their days exploring that kind of perspective would ever harm someone or call someone a slur in public. Maybe it’s the budding Buddhist in me, but if you take the time to experience the profound beauty of the world, you will not want to harm it.

In those terms, melancholy transcends discussions of aesthetics and mood and vibe — it becomes a philosophy to practice, to get better at moving through the world, to be less surprised by the sorrow and the challenges everyone will face. It teaches us to embody every aspect of our lived experience with grace and gratitude. I think we need so much more of that in this world.

Smith: You talked about this earlier, but I want to hear an elaboration. Can other types of music take us on the same internal journey toward what you wrote as “the beautiful more perfect world”? I think a lot about jazz and blues, but can other music besides classical take us on these inward journeys?

Cirigliano: Absolutely. First, I want to make sure that phrase — the beautiful, more perfect world — gets its proper credit. It’s actually a quote from , an incredible writer. She wrote a book about a decade ago called Quiet, on the power of introverts, and then, four or five years ago, a second book called Bittersweet, on how longing and sadness help us connect more with the world. That proved a catalyst for me writing Shades of Blue, because I’d been throwing around the idea of a newsletter about classical music but didn’t have my angle. Reading her book, I realized so much of the classical music I listen to lives in this world of melancholy, this bittersweetness — and when I sit down and listen to it, it transports me to that beautiful, more perfect world. So I want to make sure Susan Cain gets credit for that.

But to answer your question — absolutely. I touched on it earlier with Radiohead, Portishead, Björk, Lana Del Rey. There are plenty of musicians outside the classical realm whose sense of the bittersweet resonates with me profoundly. I wish I were better versed in jazz or blues, honestly. A few artists hit that melancholy sweet spot for me — Chet Baker, Billy Strayhorn, Bill Evans. But I don’t know that much jazz or blues, and it’s interesting you bring it up, because when people come to me wanting to get into classical music and don’t know where to start, I respond to that so much, because jazz and blues is also this huge body of music and artists, and I don’t know where to start either.

I hope at some point to find someone doing the Shades of Blue of jazz — someone bringing that kind of perspective to that music, because I know there’s a lot I’m missing out on. I see the same kind of overwhelm in trying to get into jazz and blues. That said, I think this sound world can live in every type of music, because again, it’s not the form, the structure, or the instruments — it’s the content. What’s the expression being made?

One thing that gives me a deeper sense of why classical music speaks to people in this way is the time involved. You could meditate for five minutes and get some sense of calming clarity out of it. But if you meditate for thirty minutes twice a day, you’re digging deeper into that inner ocean of feeling. I feel the same way about music. I can listen to a five-minute song that immediately brings me into the emotional world I’m craving. But if I sit down with Mahler’s Third Symphony, which is eighty-five minutes, and find the focus and flow that comes with a work of longer duration, it gives me more time to dive deep into that emotional world and come out refreshed. Sometimes certain pieces change you on a cellular level. With the length of a lot of classical works, that pool of emotion you’re swimming in is there for longer, and it moves through you on a much deeper level.

Smith: What are you listening to now? What’s on your playlist these days?

Cirigliano: Definitely stuff for Shades of Blue. But I think what’s getting the most play on my Tidal account these days — I was obsessed with it when it came out about a year and a half ago, and I’ve recently become re-obsessed — is a recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations by the pianist Víkingur Ólafsson.

The piece is one of the most miraculous things written for the keyboard, and every pianist who wants to make their name in recording has recorded it. But there’s something very specific about the way Ólafsson performs it — and a lot of his music. If you’ve read Shades of Blue for a while, you’ve seen his name and his performances come up several times. There’s something about the way he approaches the music that creates a state of mind that’s meditative and calm, where you’re just positioned to absorb what the music is doing as it moves through you.

His technical abilities are incredible. The Goldberg Variations open with a simple little theme Bach called the aria, then thirty variations of different levels of complexity, speed, and emotion, and then the aria returns at the end. In terms of structure and technical prowess, it’s astounding. But two of the thirty variations are slow and melancholy, and those are the ones that fascinate me most. I’ll find time at some point to dive into them on Shades of Blue.

These two movements are instances where it feels like time stands still — like there’s poetry being spoken through the piano, through the touch he brings to the keyboard, the range of colors he creates, the emotions coursing through him as he performs. It’s such poetry, and there’s not a single word to it.

This was an assignment Bach received. The legend goes he composed it for a keyboard player employed by a count who had insomnia — the count wanted music to listen to as he tried to fall asleep. So it’s eighty or ninety minutes, mostly in the same key, all these variations, so the mind can keep following what’s going on but also essentially tune out at any moment, because it’s all one idea being thrown through. The most uninspiring of commissions, and yet fascinating to think there was a time when rich people commissioned music to fall asleep to. Ólafsson finds some way to transcend all of that and just provide poetry for us to experience. That’s what’s filling my ears these days.

Smith: I can just picture this count trying to fall asleep in bed with people actually playing the instruments in his bedroom.

Cirigliano: Exactly. And it’s interesting — the two slow variations, one is about halfway through, one about two-thirds of the way through. I think it might be the golden mean position. I like to think those slow sections were put in to make sure the count fell asleep, and maybe the pianist could call it quits a little earlier than usual — picturing him peeking over: “Is he asleep? Is he asleep?”

Smith: Do you like to listen to music alone or with others? Or does it depend?

Cirigliano: It definitely depends. For sitting and discovering music, for researching, for sitting with the music I’m going to write about, I like to be alone, especially since listening to music can be a form of meditation for me. I practice transcendental meditation twice a day, but if I can find twenty or thirty minutes to sit with one work and really dive into it, feel the music moving through my body, note how my mind and my heart are responding — there’s such power in listening alone.

But there’s an equal power in listening with others. I love sharing music. Part of the fun of going to a music conservatory is that all your friends are as into music as you are, and the body of classical music is so large you can spend lifetimes exploring it and not know everything. Especially at eighteen, nineteen, twenty, when someone says, “I just heard this for the first time, you’ve got to listen to it,” and you’re sitting across from someone with a huge smile on their face pointing out, “Isn’t this part great?” — there’s nothing quite like that spark of excitement when people share music that’s meaningful to them.

If it were a more analog world, I’d love nothing more than to start a Shades of Blue listening club, where we all got together, everybody brought one work, about five minutes of music they love, and told us why they connect to it — does it bring back a memory, a certain experience? I can’t think of anything more inspiring than hearing about other people’s experience with music. Just like I want the way I connect with music to be a portal into other people’s experience, I crave that from others too. That’s the entry point. So if we were back in the days of record clubs, I’d absolutely want to do that. It could be just as great to listen alone as in a group, depending on how you want to experience it.

Smith: I want to ask you a few questions about your career. What did playing the clarinet for twenty-three years, many of them professionally, teach you about life? I never played music professionally, so I don’t have that reference point.

Cirigliano: That’s a great question. As I mentioned earlier, I think the first thing is that music serves as a passport for discovering the world — but that’s true of the arts in general. In terms of playing the clarinet specifically, it was my first entry point into honing a discipline, honing my focus, in a way that not many other experiences can do. Of course, you could get that from sports, from woodworking, from writing. But what I learned most from playing clarinet, specifically from playing in orchestras: the clarinets sit relatively in the center of an orchestra. The cellos are to my right, the drums and horns behind me, the bassoons and violas to the left.

Being at the center of the sound of an orchestra is absolutely electric. But being at the center of a group of eighty or ninety people working together gave me an incredible perspective on all the different parts of an orchestra at work. I learned to interpret body language — the woodwinds are guided by the principal flute, whose voice sits at the top of the section. When the whole section needs to enter together, the flute guides everyone in with a shoulder gesture or a lean. It’s a subtle visual cue — not trying to be the conductor, since we still have a conductor on stage, but giving a cue: let’s all do this together.

You learn the art of negotiation like very few other experiences can teach you. There are so many people on stage, so of course there are disagreements on matters of style — how long should this note be held, how hard should you attack a note that has an accent, should it be a ping or a thwap. Every one of those matters, even in a forty-five-minute piece where you’re discussing how to attack one note. Every one needs resolution — if not agreement, then at least everyone coming to a point of, “okay, that’s okay with me.” You can’t go it alone in an orchestra. For an orchestra to excel, there has to be an impenetrable sense of harmony created by every part working together. I think there’s a lot of society at large, and governmental bodies in particular, could learn from how an orchestra works.

Smith: Did playing the clarinet and working in an orchestra make you a better marketer or a better writer?

Cirigliano: As a marketer, I think in terms of the deep knowledge I have of these works — I’m very rarely approaching a piece I’m marketing for the first time, so I already know the story behind it. A big part of my job for part of the year is copywriting the program descriptions for an orchestra season — twenty performances, each with three or four pieces. It’s not just what am I writing about each work, but what’s the thread that unites them, what’s going to make people say, “That’s a mix of ideas and emotions I’d really want to enjoy — that sounds fascinating.”

But I think being submerged in music has made me a much better writer than I probably would have been otherwise, because rhythm and melody are the connective tissue between music and speech, or writing. Spending so much of my life playing clarinet, focusing on rhythm, on how rhythm moves a piece along, on melody and the pace a line unfolds — does it blossom slowly, does it drive right through to a pivotal note you’re not expecting, what’s the harmony blossoming underneath — gave me a sense, in writer’s terms, of sentence structure, word choice, essay structure. Being able to think about how my writing hits the reader in terms of melody and rhythm helps me every day. So many stylistic ideas around pacing, cadence, and flow that a writer spends a career thinking about relate directly to rhythm and melody.

One of my favorite compliments is when a reader writes and says, “Your writing is so musical,” or, “The structure of this essay felt like moving through a four-part symphony.” Compliments like that always make me smile, because I know the only reason I can make that work is that I devoted the first two decades of my life to performing and studying music. Even though I don’t perform anymore, I’m still thinking constantly about rhythm and line and harmony, and imparting those ideas to others through words.

Smith: You’ve written about getting burned out as a professional musician. What was the actual breaking point that moved you from performing into making a shift? Was that burnout specific to the music industry, or have you worried about burnout as a marketer and writer too? Those are both high-performance careers under a lot of external pressure.

Cirigliano: Very honestly, I think about burnout every single day. The PTSD of a former life as a performer is very real, and there’s enormous pressure as a writer too, a lot of it self-inflicted. But the difference between the burnout I faced as a performer and what I sometimes feel as a writer is that with writing, I choose how I move through the work, the pacing of it. Depending on my energy level, on how good a night’s sleep I had, I choose which threads of research to follow — is today a research day, a writing day, an editing day. Those trigger different parts of the brain. Because I worked as an editor before becoming a writer, editing has a lot less pressure for me. Once I get past the first draft and the top-down rewrite that follows, the copyediting stage is where I have fun — clarifying every image, finding better words, stronger verbs.

Being able to pick and choose how I do my work each day as a writer makes the pressure so much easier to navigate, because you don’t get that in the music world. When you’re in rehearsal, especially as an orchestral player, you have to be one hundred percent on. You could have five hours of rehearsal in a day — usually, with union rules, two and a half hours in the morning, an hour break, then two and a half more. If you’re not feeling well, if your dog was sick all night, you still have to show up and do your part. Same with performances.

I get a little misty-eyed thinking about not performing anymore — being part of that roar at the opening of Brahms’s First. But then I think about all the nights where it was the last movement of the last piece on a concert, and there’s a big solo you have to nail, and it could be ten o’clock at night, but you have to nail it. No other choice. If you’ve prepared well enough, you’ll have the muscle memory — you’ve played it hundreds of times, rehearsed it with the orchestra for a week, and you trust your instincts to get through it. But it’s still ten at night, and once I hit my early thirties, my body and mind told me I couldn’t keep performing until ten or ten-thirty at night. As a freelance musician, you might be playing with an orchestra two hours from home — you pack up your instrument, get in the car at eleven, might not be home until one-thirty. That fast-tracked my burnout, because classical musicians are as much athletes as they are artists, and in some ways as much nightlife entertainers — the same way a DJ is working at ten-thirty at night, or a drag queen is getting into her wig to start a show at ten-thirty. A classical musician could be on stage that late, and that’s just not how I work.

So even though there’s more self-inflicted pressure as a writer, you learn to work through those challenges and respect your body and mind in a way you just don’t get as a musician.

Smith: Your marketing headlines read — let me quote — “Copy that demystifies classical music and inspires a lifetime of engagement,” and, “Grow your fan base with friendly, human-centered storytelling that makes classical music relevant and enjoyable as part of people’s lives.” I love every word of this. Tell us more about your work today — what you do, and who you do it for.

Cirigliano: Thanks — as a copywriter, I appreciate that the headline and subhead get a reader excited. When I stopped performing, I got into the editorial world, and the visual arts world was the first to snatch me up. I worked as a writer and editor for the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York for several years, then the Whitney. Then I realized what I was doing there, I could be doing for classical music — I missed the musical part of my life. For about six years now I’ve been working as a freelance arts marketer, specifically with classical music presenters — orchestras most of all, but also chamber music presenters and recital series, so a wide range of ensembles and music. It’s interesting moving between writing about an orchestral program and a piano recital, because those come together in very different ways.

My work falls into two categories. The first is marketing copywriting — everything from season brochures to program descriptions, email marketing, the newsletter space that’s become my forte, and more conversion-based things like digital ads and out-of-home campaigns. The second is longer-form storytelling — program notes. Anytime you go to an orchestral or classical concert, you get a program book with short essays about each work, giving you a sense of who the composer was and what to expect.

Both excite me, but I especially love the longer-form storytelling, because I feel program notes are usually abysmal. You’ll open a program book and read, “Beethoven was born in 1770, his father was this, his mother was this, he had two siblings, and at eighteen he moved from Bonn to Vienna, and then he did this.” By paragraph five, before you even get to the piece you’re about to hear, I’m checked out — and if I’m checked out, with a lifetime of interest in this, most people are too.

My whole idea is to plunge people right into what was going on when the composer was writing that piece. Take Brahms’s First Symphony — no one cares where he was born, what his father did for work, how many times he moved as a child. What matters is the heat of the moment of composing. What was going on in the composer’s world, and in the world outside his door, as he was writing this?

People love Beethoven’s “Emperor Concerto” — magnificent, grand melodies, lots of fanfare. Beethoven wrote it after his hearing loss had started, which is miraculous enough on its own — that’s the point you should open with. But he was also writing most of it holed up in his brother’s basement, because the Napoleonic Wars were happening outside in the streets of Vienna. He was downstairs with a pillow over each ear, trying to protect his hearing, and writing this work. As a human, are you going to feel more inspired by a greater sense of resilience and creativity and the indomitable human spirit hearing that story, or hearing that his father got drunk a lot and made him practice piano as a child?

I feel very blessed to do this work. As a child, getting those records and reading the liner notes was so formative to my exploration of music, so to be writing program notes for the Cleveland Orchestra, the Los Angeles Philharmonic, the Oregon Symphony — some of the biggest orchestras in the country — and to have fifteen hundred people a night pick up one of those programs, read the essay, and hopefully get inspired, is an absolute blessing. It goes to show your life can take very circuitous routes and still bring you to the thing you dreamed of doing as a child.

The ups and downs of a freelance life are very challenging — it’s not for the faint of heart. But building your own business as a writer, in a world where writers are getting less and less value and respect, makes it a lot easier to go through the work knowing that the work is meaningful and important.

Smith: I have just a few final questions, and they relate to why I reached out to interview you — I see a lot of confluence between your work and mine, your newsletter and my newsletter, the themes we talk about. Earlier, when you talked about Brahms’s First Symphony taking twenty-five years, that resonated with me about slowness in life, about taking the time things take. There are people who strike gold the first time out, but many more of us take apprenticeship, effort after effort, to do something worthy of note in the world.

Do you agree with that? Do you think our two approaches — melancholy music and walking — converge? Where do they converge, and where do they part ways? And do you personally walk as part of your meditative or creative process?

Cirigliano: Walking is very important to me. I remember when we first met a couple of years ago, being so excited that someone was writing a newsletter from that perspective — how we become better people, better creatives, cultivate more creativity through walking. It’s the simplest, most human thing we can do.

I’m very lucky to live in a walkable city. I live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and the walks I take around my neighborhood remind me how lucky I am to live there. They help me cultivate a sense of calm, but also make me realize the abundance around me — especially this time of year, when everyone’s gardens are blooming and these mighty trees, some of which have surely been standing for centuries, form these beautiful canopies over the streets. About a fifteen-minute walk from me is Lake Harriet, one of the chain of lakes Minneapolis is famous for. It’s a wonderful way to get out of my head and into the larger world.

Like so many writers and composers — Beethoven, Mahler — I know they wrote about going on walks in the country to think through their music, though I don’t actively use walks that way myself. If I go out purposefully to work something out, that puts pressure on me, because then the whole point of the walk is to figure it out. Instead, I just go for a walk and let my mind empty out. I don’t stay attached to any thoughts — I let the subconscious do the work. The biggest revelation I’ve had as a writer is learning to let go and let the subconscious do the work when it’s necessary, and there’s no greater mechanism I’ve found for that, other than meditation, than walking.

I love walking on my own, but nothing makes me happier than taking long walks with my husband, or going on a hike. It’s fundamental to me. In fact, we’re having a huge heat wave in Minnesota right now, and nothing makes me sadder than it being too hot for my afternoon walk — I need it, but I can’t deal with a hundred, hundred-and-five-degree heat index and still feel like a creative person afterward.

As for where walking and melancholy music converge — I think it’s as simple as this: both invite us to look inward and outward. They call us to observe the world around us, to move through each day knowing we’re part of a larger tapestry. Walking does that externally — seeing everything growing around you, seeing the bees on the flowers. We’re of no more or less value than that bee. Music does it internally — it invites you to realize that emotions a composer felt three or four hundred years ago resonate within our bodies the same way today. They’re invitations to dig deeper into those feelings, that experience of life, and they let us slough off the anger and the rage and the division we encounter in politics, online, and so much of the larger world.

It’s really impossible to feel stressed or overwhelmed when you’re in the good flow of a walk — when you realize you meant to turn right five blocks ago but were so enraptured in your thoughts, or in the trees you were admiring. The same is true of music. To take a walk, to sit down and listen to a beautiful piece of melancholy music — it’s a choice. A choice to choose calm over rage. A choice not to let anxiety or despair fester, but to alleviate it, to find a release for it.

There’s so much scientific evidence, so much literature, on the physical and mental benefits of both. But I think the most important thing is that musical experience and walking return us to our humanity. I don’t think anything could be more important in a world that’s spiraling out of control. We crave meaningful experiences, beauty, connection — they’re the only way we can truly flourish. Every time we choose a route to walk, or a piece of music to listen to, we’re giving ourselves the chance to experience beauty and connection. We give ourselves room to be human. And when time seems to be collapsing, when life seems to be getting faster and faster, I don’t think there’s any greater gift we can give ourselves than the room to be human.

Smith: Michael, I have totally loved this conversation. I’ve learned so much, I’ve had so much fun talking with you. Let me get you out of here on this last question. Besides reading Shades of Blue, which I think everyone listening should — what’s one thing you’d recommend to people who want to, or are open to, learning more about classical music, listening to it, making it part of their lives?

Cirigliano: If you don’t know whether it’s for you, or if you’ve self-selected out of classical music, the first thing to do is go experience a concert live. We all listen to a lot of music through earbuds — you get a sense of the music moving through you. But if you can attend an orchestral concert, spend an hour and a half or two hours watching seventy or eighty people create music in unison, thinking and moving as one — if you can sit through that and see the couple next to you hold hands during a tender moment in a slow movement, or see me start crying at a certain point and still think, “This isn’t for me” — well, that’s the only real way to find out it’s not for you. And then I might ask you to sit down and spend more time with your emotions.

The first thing to do is go see music performed live, because not only do you get the full, supercharged experience of being in a space where everyone’s energy and focus creates this almost religious, transcendental experience — everyone focused, the music moving through everyone — you understand how visceral that can be. Then it’s just a matter of finding the music that’s right for you, that speaks to you. The great thing about classical music is there are about five hundred years of it. You’re going to find works that speak to you — works I may never have heard myself — and you’re going to be excited to share them with others.

There’s nothing I love seeing more than scrolling through the comments on an orchestra’s Instagram post and seeing someone write, “I loved the experience so much, I’m going back next month and bringing a friend.” You want to share that experience with the people you respect and love and care for. Sharing music is a message of love. We all deserve things in our lives that rev us up, that make us excited to be part of the world. Go experience that with fifteen hundred other people in an auditorium, and you’ll be surprised at the change that takes place in you, and how much it inspires you to realize, “I could be experiencing this all the time. Sign me up.” Then reach for Shades of Blue to figure out where to start.

If you want to channel the absolute power of a large orchestra, I’d give you a whole different set of recommendations. If you heard a Shostakovich symphony he wrote during World War II, while bombs were flying outside, that power, that aggression — you’ve got a whole world of music to explore. And if you want the melancholy, sentimental, sweet side of it, that’s when you come to Shades of Blue. But either way, you’re going to find something that resonates with you.

Smith: I love it, Michael. I loved our conversation. Thank you so much for joining me — I’m very grateful for your time.

Cirigliano: Absolutely. Thank you for having me, Russell.

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Thursday

The weather looked scorching from first light. Immediately after dropping Cordelia at camp, I walked to the John B. Stephenson Memorial Trail, at the Berea Municipal Utilities site. The path meandered next to Silver Creek and on the other side, an assortment of fields, an organic farm, and a supply depot for said utilities. Alternately shady and sun-soaked, toward the end of the mile-long trail, a single-family residential area enveloped it.

In the sunny spots, I covered my head with my trusty, cooling, moisture wicking hoody. In a long, sunny straight, I met an elderly man with two black dogs, one also elderly and one a puppy. Seeing me, the man hailed:

“You must be burning up in that sweatshirt.”

“No, sir, it’s a sunshirt. It has SPF protection and keeps me cool.”

He appeared dubious of my outlandish claim; I guess wicking technology, which would have immeasurably aided the lives of Civil War soldiers, hasn’t permeated the entire Union 160 years hence.

He and his dogs and I traded spots along the trail back to the trailhead, as I stopped to rest my feet or his dogs ducked down a short path into Silver Creek.

I emerged at the trailhead by the Municipal Utilities and suffered as I plodded uphill in the sun. On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at Whimsy’s Books, the purveyor of new books in Berea. Chilled by AC – a technology which has blessedly permeated the former Union and Confederacy – I perused the shelves, dawdling to avoid a return to the sunshine. Finally I did and made the short stroll back to the hotel.

I stopped only long enough to pick up my car keys. Then I drove to the Kentucky Artisan Center. Located close to I-75, it serves as a higher-end rest stop and gallery of Appalachian arts, crafts and goods. It included the most extensive selection of books about Kentucky and by Kentuckians I’d ever seen. Sections included History, Biography, Literature, Poetry, and Politics. It also included ones on the Paranormal, Horror and Murder. Not generally my tumbler of bourbon, but hey, I appreciated the comprehensiveness of the variety of stories the great Commonwealth has to share with the wider world.

The Center sold artwork, sculpture, rubs, sauces, pens, jewelry, music, tools, home goods, food mixes and much else. Nothing tempted me, and I have to say, the visit disappointed me. Not by the quality of goods or art. In fact, I saw few tchotchke-type items. But the experience felt incomplete, superficial and pretended. I spied a couple of 6-packs of Ale-8-One soda, made in Winchester, Kentucky. But the drinks fridge and the cafe only sold Big Soda and Big Energy Drinks. It seemed an incongruity in a place dedicated to the uniqueness of Kentucky. Even if they’d expanded the offerings to include other goods and edibles made in Appalachia, say Waynesville Jerk Sodas out of Waynesville, North Carolina, it would have seemed truer to the purported aim of the place. Similarly with the music. The Center sold CDs of a ton of Kentucky artists. But throughout and overhead, they played the soulless pop prevalent in retail worldwide. What a missed opportunity.

I took a couple loops around, but didn’t linger. Details matter in arts, crafts and all work. I felt disappointed that this Center didn’t embody the attention to particulars that so many of its treasures on offer did.

Friday

Cordelia’s camp wrapped up in the early afternoon. I took my remaining few hours in Berea to tread the Old Town streets I had walked earlier. On Chestnut Street, I enjoyed another sausage, egg and cheese bagel at Native Bagel Company. I stopped back in Mary Lou’s Book Shop, and happily met the owner, Mary Lou. In her previous career, she had worked as a teacher. In her ten months since founding and running her Book Shop, she had learned she had a lot to learn about business. And that “they” made it hard to start and run a business. She didn’t need to explain further – I knew what and whom she meant by “they.” We enjoyed a nice chat for a few minutes, then more serious customers came through the door and I excused myself.

On Friday, all my walks around Berea came back to me. As did the prolific writer and walker Craig Mod, whom I have read for several years. For anyone unfamiliar with Mod, he lives in Japan, and over 20 years has developed a devoted following through his walks, especially in Japan and with technologist Kevin Kelly, and through his extensive writings. Those works include craftsman-quality books, exquisite photography, his newsletters and community, and pieces in The New York Times, WIRED, The Atlantic, Japan Times, among others. Several times per year, Mod undertakes extensive walks – 300 miles in the Kii Peninsula, multiple walks in the Tōkaidō, and so on.

I have found his walks both inspiring…and daunting. I too wish to take long walks and I maintain a lengthy list of walks I want to undertake. And from my list of ambitious walks, how many have I completed?

That number, gentle reader, is one.

In 2023, I did take 30 walks in nature. To say I loved it would massively undersell what it did in my life and to my spirit.

Still, the vast majority of the long list of walks stares back at me, unfulfilled.

As I concluded my walks around Berea, I came to a belated but ultimately obvious realization. I am not Craig Mod. I exist in a different stage and mode of life than he does. I have a wife and kids. He does not currently appear to have a partner (he discussed a breakup in August 2025). And he has no children (although he did write about “someone in my life who is like a step-daughter”). So he does not have the continual kids’s logistics I have: the daily schlepping and coordination with my wife. He can focus a high percentage of his days on his work: his walking and his writing. I can dedicate a small percentage to my walking and writing. Family logistics, the third-generation business I have with my uncle and my brother, my own work preserving the legacy of family businesses, and, currently, matters around my Mom’s estate, take up a lot of time. If I can dedicate 10 hours a week to my walking and SA, I feel thrilled.

Let me say it very clearly: I love my life. I love having a family, spending lots of time with my children and supporting them in their loves, helping to coach their archery team, and everything else that goes along with having a family and two small businesses.

Judging myself by the extent, output and even quality of Mod’s work simply isn’t a legitimate comparison or aim in this season of life. And that’s okay. In a future stage of life, I will undertake some of those more daunting walks.

For now, I walk where I am.

That was an enormously liberating realization. I live in Louisville. So walk Louisville. I spent a week in Berea. So I walked around Berea.

Walk where you are.

That’s what I can do. That’s what I will do. I hope you will enjoy a beautiful walk today – wherever you are.

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Tuesday

Living in Kentucky most of my life, I’d heard a great deal about Berea and especially Berea College.

“If you can afford to go there, you can’t go there.”

“You have to work full time and go to school full time.”

“They have an endowment as big as Harvard’s.”

As it turns out, none of those statements check out totally, but all contain a kernel or more of truth. The school covers tuition for students and all students must attend full-time. As one of 11 work-study colleges in America, all students must work, usually around 10-15 hours per week. And for a college that graduates about 1600 students per year, it does have a large endowment – well over $1.5 billion – but, uh, nowhere near Harvard’s.

I’d heard a lot but didn’t know much, and I’d never visited Berea. When the chance to attend a camp came to Cordelia, she jumped at it. And since she’s a day-student, I also get to enjoy Berea and learn about this singular place in Kentucky, Appalachia and America.

After dropping Cordelia at camp for the day, I parked in College Square and headed out for a walk. With temperatures set to hit the 90s, I ducked into the ample shade of the campus, with no agenda in mind. The buildings looked old – brick and limestone. It reminded me of Vanderbilt University, another place I visited for the first time recently. Both campuses appeared, at least on the outside, with a cohesive look in mind. Both had plentiful trees making for blessedly plentiful shade. Alas, soon I wanted to head uphill, toward what I was told was Chestnut Square, which required stepping into the blazing sun beating down on the asphalt and concrete. Passing the firehouse and other public buildings, I started feeling unwell. I needed food. At the top of the hill, I found Native Bagel Company, where I enjoyed a stellar sausage, egg and cheese on an everything bagel. The bagel shop closes in the early afternoon and turns into a more upscale restaurant – Nightjar Food. As I waited for my bagelly goodness, I had found it curious to see what sort of bagel shop exactly served Narragansett Beer on tap. Learning it serves dinner helps explain the tap a bit, but still – why a Rhode Island brewery found rarely in the South?

Revived with bagelly, sausagey and cheesy glory, I stepped back out into the unforgiving sun. Much of Chestnut Street appeared vacant. A grocery store seemingly long gone. An attorney who “no longer will accept clients as of May 1, 2023, and will retire as of December 31, 2023,” and who apparently will not remove written notices on the building until after July 14, 2026. A Mexican restaurant next to the library provided a potential heartbeat in the vicinity, if not exactly a spark.

Almost everywhere I go, I seek out ye olde used bookstores, and ye olde Googley Maps informed me that one, by the name of Mary Lou’s Book Shop, approached. Figuring approximately 8 minutes in the heat was enough, I headed in. A young woman greeted me.

“Are you Mary Lou?”

“No, I wish I could own a bookshop, but I do enjoy working here.”

Her name was Ainsley and we gabbed for a bit about Jane Austen; what she was reading then -- The Lilac Girls, which she said was depressing, a report I recall my wife giving on it too; not reading D.H. Lawrence; and dining suggestions around town, including the aforementioned Native Bagel Company / Nightjar Food transformer. She offered me the names of previous good dining establishments, but, as expected, they hadn’t made it past Covid.

“We lost a lot of good things during Covid,” she informed me, looking down as she spoke.

Then I walked across to the Berea Hotel Building, Berea Welcome Center, L&N Visitor Depot, and The Cabin of Old Town Artisan Gallery. A gallery called Honeysuckle Vine had closed, adding to a sense of loss in town. Nice woodworking but admittedly nothing I couldn’t live without.

As I walked back toward the College Square, I recalled Ainsley mentioning that the Berea Fudge Shoppe sold good ice cream. That sounded yummy and needed today so I headed thattaway, right behind our hotel, The Historic Boone Tavern Hotel and Restaurant. The Fudge Shoppe treated me right, bulldozing a huge quantity of Mint Chocolate Chip into a styrofoam cup – colored, as the Lord Our God intended and revealed in the Gospels – Mint Green, not that bogus white nonsense. I enjoyed the creamy yumminess in the shade.

All in all, I’d walked nearly 5 miles, taking my time, enjoying meandering in a new locale for me. A delightful way to spend a summer day.

Wednesday

As much as I wanted to continue my explorations in Berea on foot, the weather predicted mid-90s weather — highest of the week — with clear skies and little cloud cover. So instead, I opted to visit the Battle of Richmond historic site nearby.

Abraham Lincoln said, “I hope to have God on my side, but I must have Kentucky.” The state did allow slaveholding but remained in the Union following the secession of the southern states in 1861. So the Union needed Kentucky for moral reasons, making the claim that even slaveholding states could remain loyally in the Union. Perhaps even more, Kentucky served as a key strategic gateway, north and south, and east-west. The Ohio River served as a main interior shipping highway. Kentucky also touches on the Mississippi River, perhaps the most strategically vital water artery of the war. The Louisville & Nashville Railroad provided a crucial link for cargo heading south. And control of Kentucky put the occupier on the front door of Virginia, and in the western side, awfully close to St. Louis, again on the Mississippi River.

For all its importance, few large battles occurred in the state, notably Perryville and its precursor, the Battle of Richmond. Fought on August 29-30, 1862, with skirmishes in the days beforehand, the Battle of Richmond ended in the Confederates overwhelming a mostly rookie Union force for a sweeping victory.

The Visitors Center was closed for repairs, but I read the battle overviews on the interpretive panels outside, spending over an hour soaking in sun that, for all the pummeling I felt, didn’t quite hit the high temperatures of those two days in August 1862. Temps climbed between 96F and 100F, and supplies of water ran short for both sides. I wore shorts, comfortable athletic shoes, and a sunshirt with a hood, and I still baked. Those soldiers wore all wool uniforms, often poorly fitting shoes, and let’s say the wicking technology was lacking.

I then headed to Battlefield Park up the road, where the first phase of the battle took place, near Pleasant View House, which still stands, and the old Mt. Zion Church, which remains intact and in-use today. The House included an interesting display of flags of the Civil War, mostly Confederate, but some Union and others used by both sides, as yellow flags were to denote hospital sites. The gift shop, a spin through which I rarely decline, leaned heavily Confederate. Outside, I strolled around the grounds, past the North Barn, offering a vista to a good deal of the battlefield to the north. The interpretive panels offered insight into how the days unfolded. One costly Union error was nearly undone when the Confederate artillery moved too far north too soon. Intriguingly, to me it seemed like the panels were written from the moral point of view of whichever side the panel was discussing. When commenting on the Confederate mistake noted above, it reads, “Fortunately, cooler heads quickly realized a mistake had been made and the battery withdrew south,” as if the reader was cheering for the Rebels. Similarly, the panels focused on the Union seemed, again to me, to use language indicating sympathy for that side. I doubt those word choices were haphazard. But whether the point was to foster seeing the war from both sides, or to subtly encourage the reader to cheer on his or her preferred side, I don’t know.

Richmond ended with a resounding Confederate victory. But five weeks later, at Perryville, the Confederates decided they couldn’t maintain the offensive into Kentucky. Cavalry raids would continue well into 1864, but after Perryville, no serious Confederate threat to Kentucky remained.

Again, I strolled under the blistering sun, wondering about those men — often boys — on those days. The Union troops at Richmond contained mostly raw recruits — barely a fortnight removed from the farm and family. They were soldiers in name and courage, yes, but not yet in skill and discipline. I thought about the sights I would have seen those two days. I thought about the cacophony of guns and cannons, screams and shouts. I especially considered the two senses that reading about war, and touring battlefields, can’t convey: smell and taste. Surely gunpowder burned their nostrils and throats and lungs. The smell of rotting, mangled human and horse flesh in the earthly skillet of battle plain.

I never would have forgotten, or gotten over, those smells.

Fatigued by real sun and imagined horror, I wanted to visit some place of solace. Shortly after the battle, six Sisters of Charity from Cincinnati, trained as nurses, encamped in the ara. For weeks, they tended the wounded and dying from both armies. They were angels of light working in darkness. I went to the final stop of the Battle of Richmond tour – St. Mark Catholic Church, and read of the deeds of these Sisters.

In them, I found hope for forgiveness and understanding.

Two days. Two vastly different walking experiences, not even 15 miles apart. One, a walk through Berea College – a beacon of hope for generations of Appalachian, African-American and international students from over 70 countries (the college motto: “God has made of one blood all peoples of the earth”). But the hopes for the broader Berea community appeared mixed to me. I couldn’t decide whether Berea was growing or declining, but the words of Ainsley from the used bookstore came eerily to mind: “We lost a lot of good things during Covid.” The other walk amidst green fields once flooded with red blood. A war fought to reaffirm the motto of this strategically indispensable state, the motto of my home: “United We Stand, Divided We Fall.”

For several years, my daughter Beatrice and I have listened to the podcast, How to Take Over the World, while we’ve driven to sewing class, archery tournaments and other sundry locations around the Greater Louisville Metroplex. My wife and other daughter, Cordelia, also enjoy it.

In each episode, the host, Ben Wilson, breaks down the life of a notable historical figure and what made him or her so great and successful. Typically, over an episode or even three or four, he digests two to six biographies of the figure, offering the highlights and key lessons from the person. In the nine years of the podcast, Ben has tackled a wide range of remarkable personalities. He began with Napoleon, Steve Jobs and Vladimir Putin. His latest episode examined “the undefeated samurai” Miyamoto Musashi. He’s also explored the life lessons of Joan of Arc, Roger Federer, Picasso, John Wooden, Jesus, Mr. Beast, Rasputin, Queen Elizabeth II, and Brigham Young, among dozens others.

Lamentably, last week Ben announced that he has cancer and a very bad kind: stage 4 high-grade neuroendocrine cancer. He has tumors in his lungs, liver, spine and brain. Doctors expect him to live about another year, or perhaps two or three if he reacts well to a treatment they’re planning. Ben is, by my estimate, fairly young – under 40 – with a wife and four young children.

Given this sad news, Beatrice and I want to offer Ben a heartfelt appreciation of his work and message. She and I have taken enormous delight in listening to his podcast for years. We have both learned from it and we frequently discuss past episodes, biographies and lessons. To create a podcast that entertains and enlivens a 13 year old and a 51 year old is no mean feat. We are grateful, Ben.

Let’s start this appreciation with a look at our favorite episodes.

Bea’s favorite episodes, with a short note from her about why she loved it:

Miyamoto Musashi — “I learned it can be very effective to take your enemy by surprise — not necessarily physical surprise, but psychological surprise.”

Coco Chanel — “She changed the fashion industry in many ways, including developing perfumes that contained multiple scents, a real innovation.”

Johann Sebastian Bach — “I didn’t think I would like this one, but the way Ben told Bach’s story made it fun to listen to.”

the Wright Brothers — “The Wrights displayed so much persistence as they went through trial and error for years in their attempts to fly.”

My favorite episodes with a short note on my impressions:

Picasso — Ben begins the episode with this: “When I was a child, my mother said to me, If you are a soldier, you will become a general. If you are a monk, you will become the pope. Instead, I was a painter And became Picasso.” I mean, with that intro, I was instantly drawn in!

Ben Franklin — Franklin and Leonardo Da Vinci were obsessed with following their curiosity. Interestingly, both wrote a great deal about their curiosities. While Franklin’s writings made him famous in his own day, Da Vinci was famous for other reasons in his time, but later his writings added to his fame.

Cleopatra — She had a profound genius for personal charm, and sending the perfectly crafted, dramatically executed message at precisely the right time.

Gerard Manley Hopkins — We have only his best work, because he burned most of his poetry. Maybe we have 20% of the poems he wrote in his lifetime. Quantity over quality makes a lot of sense in many aspects of life — writing, business ventures, time with family and friends, to name only a few.

Dracula — I often ponder Ben’s view that before Dracula, the hero went out and did something great themselves. Since Dracula, heroes in stories have been the people trying to stop people of vision from enacting that vision.

My daughter Beatrice told me, “One of the best things about How to Take Over the World is the takeaways section at the end of each biography. The takeaways always highlight lessons that you could use in your own life.” Following Bea’s admiration of this aspect of the podcast, I wanted to offer my own takeaways about what Ben Wilson and listening to his podcast has taught me.

1. Ben was made for podcasting. His voice, his pace, the depth of his research – not too much, not too little – all work excellently in the podcast format. A key question that creative people sometimes underweight is: how do I best communicate my views to the world. In podcasting, Ben found his perfect medium.

2. Related, the podcast name and opening music reinforce his thesis and aim incredibly well. He could have picked so many boring titles: “Lessons From Greatness,” “The Best” or some such milquetoast emptiness. No, he called it “How to Take Over the World.” Yeah — that, that I will listen to. His opening music – you have to hear it for yourself. Beatrice, who tends to be a pretty even-keeled teenager, can’t but help sing along with the historic, moving quotes from the opening number:

3. I enjoy his biography/history podcast far more than many hosted by more academically credentialed hosts. So many bore me with trite details, poor editing and ultimately committing the sin of forgetting the needs and wants of their audience.

4. Following that point, so many of the people Ben highlights had few or no “credentials” – PhDs, graduating from the ‘right’ colleges or working at the ‘right’ companies, and so on. They simply went out and did what they did – excellently.

5. Like Bea, I enjoy the takeaways section of the episodes. But I revel in the stories themselves. I knew nothing about Charlemagne, Constantine the Great, or Steve Prefontaine before the podcast. True, it can be instructive to look for lessons from each person or across biographies. But like in his examination of people who succeeded when they weren’t expected to, I mostly enjoy the story and striving of the individual person.

6. Back to the takeaways, Ben does an outstanding job looking for lessons across biographies. That yielded some unexpected insights and curiosities. For instance, many leaders, from Napoleon to Alexander Hamilton to Steve Jobs are light eaters. Perhaps counter examples could be found, but his discoveries like this make for intriguing sources of contemplation about my own life.

7. Ben often mentions, and exemplifies, the virtue of focus. No. More than that – obsession. Walt Disney‘s creative ambitions, Steve Jobs’s obsession with user experience; Horatio Nelson‘s determination to do his duty for England come what may. In one episode, he examined how he started the podcast -- for two straight weeks, he woke up and went straight to work on research, writing and recording the first few episodes. He woke up...and worked. He didn’t brush his teeth. He didn’t eat breakfast. He didn’t take a walk. He didn’t pay bills. He woke up and got to work.

8. Ben also exemplifies the potential fortunate serendipity of the internet age. He had a small but devoted audience in the first few years. Then Sam Parr, of The Hustle and My First Million podcast, discovered him, enjoyed what he heard, binge-listened to all 18 or so episodes available at the time, and promoted HTTOTW on My First Million. Ben later became the producer of MFM, but really, Sam and Shaan Puri became Ben’s patrons - funding his life so he could work full time on HTTOTW, and really turn it into something special. Which Ben did.

9. Ben does a perfect job of allowing the biographies shine on their own, while injecting just a touch of himself into the mix. That balance lets the stars shine and prevents them from becoming rote recitation of facts and chronology.

In his latest episode, the Cancer Episode, he remains upbeat, despite the overwhelmingly difficult diagnosis he has received. He said:

As someone with a congenital heart defect, I completely agree with his assessment – live in the fullness of your life force and strength. Even I, after two open-heart surgeries, do not overly ponder death. I live life as best as I can while I have it.

To me, this is Ben’s greatest lesson, in his podcast and his life: live in your strength and fullness now, today, while you have them.

Bea and I hope Ben continues to have strength and vigor for much longer than expected. We hope he continues to do his work — important work, which clearly gives him joy, and which clearly is his calling. As I think about his role in our lives, it reflects how he salts each episode with a pinch of himself. Every so often, he launches a new episode, and Bea and I eagerly listen at the next opportunity. Over these past few years, he has seasoned and enriched our lives through those episodes. And it reminds me, ultimately, of what Shakespeare wrote of the King in Henry V:

“O now, who will behold
The royal captain ...
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
For forth he goes and visits all his host,
Bids them good morrow with a modest smile,
And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen...
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty...
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks....
A little touch of Harry in the night.”

– Henry V, IV, Chorus

Thank you, Ben, for a little touch of you in our lives. We wish you health and wellness, and the zeal of a beautiful life in the days to come.

Most of the time, I fly the Commodore Perry Flag outside my home. This year, in preparation for America’s 250th birthday, I put out General George Washington’s personal standard during the Revolutionary War.

This flag would be flown wherever Washington stood on the battlefield. On its blue field were arrayed 13 stars - one for each colony – in a three-two-three-two-three pattern. Each star contained six points, a feature long derived from English heraldry, flag makers having an easier time sewing on six-pointed stars, made of two triangles, than the more complicated five-pointed stars.

When I think of America and its founding, I always remember George Washington. I recall his deeds on the blood-soaked hills of the Revolutionary War, his tactical maneuvering a secondary consideration to his masterful leadership in simply keeping his army in existence. I reflect on his words, in war and peace, in governing and retirement:

“But lest some unlucky event should happen unfavorable to my reputation, I beg it may be remembered by every gentleman in the room that I this day declare with the utmost sincerity, I do not think myself equal to the command I am honored with.”

To the Continental Congress, accepting command of the Continental Army, June 16, 1775

“Arbitrary power is most easily established on the ruins of liberty abused to licentiousness.”
Circular Letter to the States, June 8, 1783

“Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair.”

Spoken at the Constitutional Convention in 1787

“I hope I shall always possess firmness and virtue enough to maintain — what I consider the most enviable of all titles — the character of an honest man.”

Letter to Alexander Hamilton, 1788

“For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.”
Letter to the Hebrew Congregation in Newport, Rhode Island, August 18, 1790

“Guard against the impostures of pretended patriotism.”
Farewell Address, September 18, 1796

“The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism.”
Farewell Address, September 18, 1796

“I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. Whatever they may be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert or mitigate the evils to which they may tend.”
Farewell Address, September 18, 1796

As moved as I am as I record his words, I feel immensely more stirred by the force of Washington’s example. “My life is my message,” Mahatma Gandhi said. Washington embodied that dictum.

He used his power responsibly. Then he gave it up. He spoke and wrote without gossip or ill-will. His words counted.

At the end of his life, he was the only Founding Father of note to free his slaves.

He did not live a perfect life or make ideal decisions in every case. No person does. But he demanded more of himself than almost any leader before or after.

Would that I, and we, strive for the same.

On this 250th anniversary of the founding of this nation, I remember this man, his deeds, words and example.

And I share Washington’s hope for the American people, from his Circular Letter to the States in 1783:

“I now make it my earnest prayer that God would... most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy, and to demean ourselves with that charity, humility, and pacific temper of mind which were the characteristics of the Divine Author of our blessed religion.”

Let us thank the Lord of Heaven for these 50 states, this one United States of America, and these 250 years. Long live the cause of freedom!

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As I reflect on my reading habits, over the past two years, I have read more books in community and listened to them in audiobook format than ever before. The gents books club, reading a few books with another friend or two, and slow readings with The Catherine Project, the Blue Mountain Center of Meditation, and (more about which coming in Q3) has massively expanded the range of books I have read, and helped me come to more profound considerations of the books. Listening to audiobooks, usually some of the great epics and poems, reminds me that what we now consider literature used to belong to the wisdom and religious traditions of their societies. We have of course gained immeasurably through the written word. The art historian and theologian Ananda K. Coomaraswamy also once pondered what we lost through the advent of the written word. We perhaps do not perceive such a loss today, but pondering further, we might see that it was something vital indeed.

But all of life contains tradeoffs. Here are the books I said “Yes” to this quarter. Enjoy!

1. Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramhansa Yogananda

“Gravely, Mother instructed me never to use the power of words for doing harm. I have always remembered her counsel, and followed it.”

Perhaps the best known autobiography or biography of an Indian guru available in the West, my friend Alex first gave me this book 20 or more years ago. I read it then, and it made no impact on me. Then, about 10 years ago, I re-read it. While I didn’t understand it, I could tell the man had a serious and munificent aim in telling his story. This time, much more of the beauty of his story came to the fore: his seeming stumbling into his guru, Sri Yukteswar, and their instant recognition of one another; his lovely relationship with his Mother, who died young; his subtle influence on his Father over the decades; his coming to America to teach the science of Self-Realization. The only thing I looked a little askance on: toward the end, his story takes on more of the Western ethos, as he discusses how many Self-Realization Centers were opened, the great leaders installed in each new Center, and so on. Maybe he did so to augment his appeal to the hard-charging Americans. Throughout, though, he never forgets the aim of the spiritual life - union with God, and to signal the truth of existence. And how? Channeling the words and life of Jesus, he writes, “A child of God “bears witness” by his life.”

2. Living Yoga: A Comprehensive Guide for Daily Life edited by Georg Feuerstein and Stephan Bodian

“[T]he implication of this yogic perspective is that health, dis-ease, and personal growth are all aspects of the way in which you deal with yourself.”

“Yoga is first and foremost the discipline of conscious living. When we take charge of our lives, we also tap into our inner potential for happiness.”

Published in 1993, some of the named resources feel a bit dated. But the messages come through as urgent and timeless. I appreciated the wide array of topics examined from a yogic view: breath, stretching, peace, nutrition, and meditation, of course. But also: money, work and careers, creativity, productivity, self-respect, among others.

3. To Heights and Unto Depths by Fr. John Nepil

“I had climbed all the fourteeners; now my greatest joy and noblest ambition was to celebrate Mass on their every summit.”

“In the experience of beauty, man is moved to goodness; for beauty always demands an ethical response.”

“It felt as if we were going into battle.”

“I will walk among you and be your God, and you will be my people.” Leviticus 26:12

Last year, during spring break in the mountains, I read Marco Pallis’s Peaks and Lamas. This year on spring break in the mountains, I read this book, given to me by my dear friend Charles. It is always a joy to read of a man walking with his God, and reveling in the divine bliss of that walk.

4. Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (audiobook)

“From days before we went, I’d had in my mind this picture of me and Tommy standing in front of that door, working up the nerve to press the bell, then having to wait there with hearts thumping. The way it turned out, though, we got lucky and were spared that particular ordeal.”

The gents book club read this and of the dystopian novels I’ve read since last year, this one stuck in me the most. Without the flash and horror of Bradbury, Huxley or Orwell, Ishiguro conjures up a profoundly disturbing story. I don’t want to spoil it. But in it, some people are, shall we say, set aside. As someone with a congenital heart defect, this one hit home. Like those people I do have questions about my ‘wholeness.’ Am I a real, true, or maybe ‘full’ human being? Am I really? Can I live a full spiritual life? I ask these questions not to denigrate myself or anyone with any health challenge, but because people have asked those questions for centuries, at least, and they do not answer with any sort of universal voice. Never Let Me Go raised those questions for me again. Deeply evocative and haunting, the book club enjoyed a spirited conversation.

5. Money and the Meaning of Life by Jacob Needleman

“The aim is nothing more nor less than to sacralize the money question. This does not mean making money itself sacred. It means finding the precise place of money at the heart of the most important undertaking of our lives – the search to become what we are meant to be, in service of that greatness that calls to every man or woman on this endangered earth.”

“[T]he perennial question of humanity, the only question worth devoting one’s life to, is: how are we, how am I, to live fully in the world of “birth and death,” the world of organic life on earth, the world of society, responsibility, making and doing - while at the same time fulfilling the immensely higher and greater possibility that is offered to us as human beings?”

Needleman edited a book I read last year, The Sword of Gnosis, a compilation of Traditionalist writers like Marco Pallis, Rene Guenon, Frithjof Schuon, among others. He also contributed to Living Yoga. It intrigued me, so I ordered the book. At the same time, I listened to my friend L. Vago’s interview with money mapper Daemonic, and signed up for a session. Following, well, a lot of what has happened in life across the past 10 years, I found it a worthwhile exercise to delve into my view of the meaning of money in my life – not society’s opinion or others’s views, but my own. This book – and the discussion with Daemonic – aided that reflection immensely.

6. And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

“Ladies and gentlemen! Silence please! You are charged with the following indictments”

If I learned anything this year, I learned two things. First, they ain’t lying about the Tower of Pisa leaning. Second, they ain't burying the lede with the title of this book.

7. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight translated by Simon Armitage (audiobook)

“Then the warrior in green mocked Gawain again:
“‘Now you’ve plucked up your courage, I’ll dispatch you properly.
“‘May the honorable knighthood heaped on you by Arthur –
“‘if it proves to be powerful - protect your neck.’”

As I have learned with The Iliad and The Odyssey, I am coming to enjoy listening to the old epics and poems more than reading them. Such was true for this tale too. Armitage’s translations might disturb some academics. Not literal, he attempts to make the story flow as he conceives the original to move, using modern language, idioms and metaphors. Personally, I like it. Especially as an audiobook, the story comes alive, and if I ever want to investigate a more academic rendering, I can do so.

8. The Old Ways by Robert Macfarlane (audiobook)

“It was a pilgrimage of a very different kind. Rick was accompanying Jonathan Wright’s daughter, Asia - who had been a baby at the time of her father’s death -back to the place where he had died. She wanted to understand why her father had risked his life and eventually died for these mountains, and Rick wanted to help her with that, so she came here on foot.

“‘They had a hell of a time even getting close to the mountain. The weather conditions were terrible – blizzard, lightning, thunder – but at last they reached the monastery, and from there Rick and Asia made it up onto the glacier. And eventually Rick guided Asia to the point where he remembered burying her father.

“‘To their horror and fascination, Rick found the cairn but he also discovered a flap of Gore-tex showing beneath the stones. He understood straight away what had happened. The glacier had shifted, and the cairn had shifted with it, but - in the surprisingly tender way of glaciers – Jonathan’s frozen body had been pushed to the surface.’”

“Jon paused. ‘Rick told Asia to wait at a distance, and he made her confirm that she wanted to see her father. She did, and so she approached, and there her father was, not returned from the grave but returned by it. She was able to see him in the flesh, preserved almost as well as the day he died. She could touch his face, and she did so. She cut a lock of his hair. Shortly afterwards, they reburied Jonathan, twenty years on from his death.’”

Subtitled “A Journey on Foot,” Macfarlane also takes to water and ice seeking the well-worn paths of our ancestors. I enjoy Macfarlane’s writings, at times marveling at his turn of phrase and imagery. But I own five of his books; this is the second I read. And those two I started and stopped several times before I completed them. Here, I fear I must confess the suspected reason – I feel jealousy and envy of Macfarlane. I know I will never explore, or walk, or write as generously and lovingly anything as he has about so many things.

9. Starstruck: A Journalist’s Pursuit of a Fugitive Pop Star, Her Diabolical Maestro, and Their Teenage Sex Cult by Christopher McDougall

“To me, the warden gave a weary smile. He switched back to English. “Enjoy your visit,” he said. “Miss Trevi is very –” He paused, reflecting. “You’ll see.””

McDougall’s Natural Born Heroes remains one of my favorite books, 15 years after its publication. I loved Born to Run, even though I hate running. I even loved Running With Sherman, his story of human-donkey racing, because, well, why not?

McDougall’s herky-jerky style fits this latest book especially well. Famed Mexican pop superstar Gloria Trevi, and her manager/lover/seducer Sergio Andrade ran a teenage sex cult for years, and spent years on the lam with them. But about halfway through this fascinating tale, I couldn’t stomach it anymore. Even if I didn’t have teenage daughters, I doubt I could have continued. I put down the book, blaming all the adults – Andrade, Trevi, other singers, the girls’s parents – maybe especially them. They wanted superstardom so badly for their daughters – but, perhaps, most of all, for themselves – that they damned their daughters to drugs, abuse, and pure evil. Let the damn dream go lest you awaken to a nightmare.

10. The Practice of the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence

“[M]y kitchen duties. This kind of work was my greatest natural aversion. But, having grown accustomed to doing everything there for the love of God, and in every circumstance asking Him for grace to carry out my work, I found my fifteen years of work in the kitchen to be very easy....I found joy in all places by doing little things for the love of God.”

I read this book along with a couple friends. Let’s just say that I could use a little more of Lawrence’s outlook in my life. It reminds me of the lines from The Bhagavad Gita:

“A leaf, a flower, a fruit
Or even water, offered to me in devotion,
I will accept as the loving gift of a dedicated heart.
Whatever you do, make it an offering to me.
The food you eat or worship you perform,
The help you give, even your suffering…”

Like I said, I need more of this posture, this attitude, this behavior, in my life.

11. Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut

“There was a soft drink bottle on the windowsill. Its label boasted that it contained no nourishment whatsoever.”

We read this for the gents book club. I hated the first half of the book. Well, hate may not quite be right. I didn’t understand the point. But the second half, well, I didn’t follow it as well, but the point came through loud and clear. Vonnegut subtitled the book, “The Children’s Crusade,” a phrase curiously used by Hermann Hesse in The Journey to the East. I’ve tried to investigate their influence on or thoughts about each other. “The Children’s Crusade” may have only been a strange coincidence. As best as I can tell, Vonnegut didn’t think much of Hesse, and I have found no evidence that Hesse knew of or read Vonnegut. It’s all too bad, because both essentially tackled the same quandary – what do we do now that we’ve made a mess of everything?

12. An Attack on an Enemy of Freedom by Cicero

“People who say Caesar was enviable are profoundly misguided. For no one can be said to have a happy life when its violent termination brings his slayers not merely impunity but the height of glory.”

In preparation for our trip to Italy, I wanted to read a little Cicero. Despite his, to be generous, vainglorious nature and cowardice, I like him the best of the Roman writers and orators. He best combined contemplation and action. He also knew that freedom requires many things to survive. He offered his voice, one requirement, and he does not deserve blame that his contemporaries could not supply the other needed virtues.

12. I, Claudius by Robert Graves

“My tutor...Marcus Portius Cato...was always boasting of his ancestors, as stupid people do who are aware that they have done nothing themselves to boast about.”

The Dhammapada contains a verse:

“He who controls rising anger, like a rolling chariot, is a real charioteer. Others merely hold the reins.”

Now, for some reason, every time I read that verse, or it came to mind, I thought of I, Claudius. Why? No clue. But this went on for a couple years. So, I took our trip to Italy as the occasion to finally check out what my subconscious or something was urging me to read. I don’t read much historical fiction but I loved this story. Fast-paced, intricate, conniving, horrifying. You almost get the sense the Roman Empire was pretty good for most people – except the royal family.

13. Strange News from Another Planet by Hermann Hesse

“Ziegler did everything that such people always do and was just like them. He was not untalented, but also not talented. He loved money and entertainment, liked to wear nice clothes, and was just as cowardly as most people. His life and actions were determined less by impulses and aspirations than by prohibitions and the fear of punishment. At the same time he had many honorable qualities and was in general, all things considered, a delightfully normal man who thought of himself as very nice and important. Indeed, he regarded himself, just as every person tends to do, as a unique individual, while he was really typical. He believed that his life and destiny were at the center of the world’s attention, just as everyone does. He had very few doubts, and when the facts contradicted his views on life, he shut his eyes in disapproval.”

In Florence, we wandered into a lovely bookstore, La Feltrinelli, which had a generous English-language section. I’d never heard of the Penguin Archive and so picked up a few. I enjoy small editions of books, and often travel with a few of the small Penguin series (Great Journeys, Great Ideas, Little Black Classics, and others) or Mouse Book Club (alas, defunct) ones. A serendipitous collection. I enjoyed “A Man by the Name of Ziegler” and “Augustus” especially. I’ve come to see Hesse as perhaps the great soft teacher in my life. He does not beat you over the head with his language or his plot. He gently nudges, at most, knowing that, probably, you and I need to come into wisdom gradually, over long periods of time and after much reflection on our inner and outer lives. I need such nudges and am glad to have had Hesse slowly, patiently teaching me for over three decades.

14. The Mantram Handbook by Eknath Easwaran

“Deep within us we have immense reserves of will, loyalty, patience, compassion, and love; it is only that we do not know how to unlock these resources and bring them into full play in our daily lives. But this is something all of us can learn to do if we can gain control of our minds.”

I read this alongside Easwaran’s Blue Mountain Center of Meditation slow reading group. We read only four to 10 pages per week. Generally, I read the section when it was announced on Saturdays. Then I often re-read it several times throughout the week. A good way for me, who tends to read quickly, to force reflection and serious attempts at integration into life.

15. Coomaraswamy: His Life and Work by Roger Lipsey

“When they faced the modern world, Coomaraswamy and [Rene] Guenon opposed it, but when they devoted themselves to study of traditional ideas and symbols, they were at peace: they were like desert cacti, thorny and hostile on the outside, sweet on the inside. In Coomaraswamy’s notes, a fragment expresses this sweetness in few words: “the point of view which I recommend ‘searching the scriptures’ is that of Chandogya Upanisad VII.26.2: ‘from taking hold of the traditional-teachings there is release from all the knots (of the heart).’” If they were warriors, it was not to introduce new conflicts but to remind their readers of categories of experience that are beyond conflict.”

“In his later years, Coomaraswamy was trying to free himself from his biography.”

“Blessed is the man on whose tomb can be written, Hic jacet nemo.”

Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, one of the 20th century’s greatest proponents of Traditionalism or The Perennial Philosophy, wrote little about himself in all his voluminous articles, books, sketches, monographs and reviews. Lipsey performed yeoman’s work, digging through his writings, letters, family memorabilia and even postcards, interviewing his son Rama, Coomaraswamy’s last wife Dona Luisa and colleagues and friends, to reconstruct this life. Lipsey gives a measure of the man and his gigantic intellectual stature, while also offering useful critiques of his life and limitations of his ideas. I’ve come to admire Coomaraswamy immensely. This book humanizes, without diminishing, the wonderful man. It intrigues me, as it did Lipsey, to understand Coomaraswamy in the period 1928 to 1932, when he mysteriously turned his attention from art and symbols to metaphysics, mysticism and the source scriptures of the great Traditions of human history. Lipsey acknowledges we find only a few breadcrumbs of this dramatic transition – we see the evidence of it, not why it occurred. We likely never will. Maybe some people simply sense they must evolve, and they perform their own evolution on themselves. Maybe it was a kind of grace. At least, those are the two best explanations I can conjure up for Coomaraswamy’s remarkable shift.

Also, Coomaraswamy was a fly fisherman. I loved learning that factoid.

16. The Death of King Arthur translated by Simon Armitage (audiobook)

“Our king kept on hunting with a heavy heart….And good Sir Gawain in his glinting gear, face down in the field, fists full of grass, his bold, red banners brought to the floor, his sword and broad shield swimming with blood. Never was our sovereign so saddened and sorrowful, or so sunk in his spirits as he was at that sight. The sovereign stared, stricken with horror.”

I enjoyed Armitage’s translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight so much, I listened to this one too. I felt surprised that I reacted so, well, mournfully, to the deaths of fictional characters who, had they lived, performed deeds I would charitably describe as horrific. And yet I did, indeed, mourn the passing of “good Sir Gawain” and Arthur, “our once and future king.”

What a terrific quarter! Onward to Q3…to Shakespeare, poetry, Sri Ramakrishna and more!

(This article contains Amazon Affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases, which means that by buying from these links, you are supporting Solvitur Ambulando. Thank you!)

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Last year, I interviewed my friend Sarah Landenwich about her newly-published novel, The Fire Concerto. She and I enjoyed a lovely conversation about the novel, her writing process, researching Polish history, her next book, and much more.

Next week, on Tuesday, June 2nd, the paperback edition of The Fire Concerto becomes available. I've already ordered by copy. To celebrate this moment, I'm re-releasing the podcast interview with Sarah.

Below, I share my review of the book, along with some further reflections. Episode links are at the bottom.

I hope you enjoy the discussion. Definitely check out Sarah's gorgeous, touching debut novel — in hardcover, e-book, audiobook, and soon in paperback!

In fact, here's what I wrote about it a few weeks ago:

“This will go down as one of my very favorite books this year. I stayed up past 1:00am three nights in a row to finish the book. And let me say, I am no night owl.

”The story, masterfully crafted by debut novelist Sarah Landenwich, kept me seeking more and my heart racing. What will happen next? And next? And next?

“My wife, also powerfully drawn into the story, sprinted through it too.

“The novel is about music, mastery, loss and renewal. Mostly, to me, it sang about love. Can we love who we were, and no longer are, and never will be again? And can we love who we are and who we might become? Can we reach out to something — or someone — to walk that tense tightrope, the weaving of past, present and future, with us? Can we love what we find inside of us, and also open our eyes in love to what we discover outside ourselves?

“Beyond beautiful, I cannot recommend it highly enough!”

After our conversation, a few thoughts kept returning to me:

1. In the episode, Sarah tells the story of her long journey to getting the book published. It was arduous, but Sarah used it to good effect, learning and improving the steps she was taking. I admire her persistence. It may seem like a simple point, but in the moment, keepin’ on keepin’ on does not always appear as the obvious or correct choice.

2. I love her sticking to her guns about where she saw her novel fitting in the market. She believed it had a broader appeal than upscale fem lit. She sought to work with an agent who also viewed it more expansively. And I agree — it is a book for a broad audience. Again, Sarah showed remarkable persistence.

3. In her writing, Sarah uses tools that work for her — a legal pad and pen. I did not take her point as "analog tools are better than digital ones for everyone." I took it as analog works for her — and the lesson is to experiment in finding the right tools that work for you in your specific workflow, with your unique proclivities.

4. We discuss some forgotten female composers and musicians, such as Tekla Bądarzewska-Baranowska. (Also read Sarah’s essay about some of them, “What If Your Biography Was Just a Footnote to Somebody Else’s?”) Like Sarah, I found it sad that so many stunningly talented female artists have been lost or nearly faded from history. I also took away another consideration — how beautiful that someone cares about them and their work — enough to write a beautiful story based on them — centuries later!

I can’t speaking highly enough about Sarah’s book and this conversation was a total blast for me! Enjoy!

Episode Links

• The Fire Concerto

• Sarah Landenwich’s website

• Other media coverage of The Fire Concerto

• A playlist of music that helped inspire The Fire Concerto

Information about some forgotten female musicians:

• Marie Moke Pleye

• Maria Szymanowska

• Tekla Bądarzewska-Baranowska

(This article contains Amazon Affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases, which means that by buying from these links, you are supporting Solvitur Ambulando. Thank you!)

Let me be clear though. The gear I will shortly review ain’t for mountaineering K2. No, no. I care about gear to get you and me through the rough and tumble of day to day existence, through the difficult negotiation of real life. As Terrible Terry Tate, Office Linebacker, says: “I came to play, baby!”

As it turns out, the dear ole Dads and Grandads and Father-figures in your life would love the items here. I do, and I use them almost every day.

To all the Dads, Grandads and Father-figures out there, enjoy a very happy Father’s Day! And let us always remember that the best gifts are the people whose lives enable us to celebrate this day.

Your Space

Ugmonk Analog

Simple productivity system. I’ve used it for years.

Traveler’s Company Notebook

Like Ugmonk, simple, customizable and a delight to use every day.

Leuchtturm 1917 Journals

My friend , who writes Katy Plays about the process of writing her new book, Play Book, got me into these journals and especially the larger sizes – A4 for her and B5 Composition for me “Look, you don’t want a small journal for your big ideas, Russell,” she told me. And she was right.

Geiger New Caanan Leatherwrap Sit-to-Stand Desk

Last year I decided the time had arrived for a new desk at my office. I liked the sit to stand functionality of my previous desk, but it included no drawers/storage, and the cables/cords organizer seemed a bit 2010s clunky. So I called my friend Jake Theisen of ID+A for ideas. He suggested the Geiger desk. I customized the leather and the wood, and truly, I could not enjoy this desk more. Elegant, lovely, it’s a work of art itself. It makes work and coming to work a joy.

Freewrite Traveler

A friend gave me this for my 50th birthday last year, and it has revolutionized my writing process. In fact, I am writing this essay on it right now. I really can’t adequately describe how much I love it and love using it.

Mythologie Candles

Look, Calgon and candles aren’t only for the ladies. But as you’re soaking in the epsom to restore the body after slaying the day’s dragons, light one of these candles — with names like “Medieval Deer Hunt” and “Warrior’s Hearth” — and breathe in the restorative aura to revive you for tomorrow’s battles.

Threads

Tom Beckbe Coggins Jacket

I’d never owned any Tom Beckbe items, so I ordered this collaboration with with a bit of trepidation. It instantly became my favorite waxed jacket, even more than my Barbour, which I’ve worn for over 20 years. The extra room under the armpits and slightly longer length suit me well. And I like that the sleeves have a bit of insulation built in. It has large pockets, which I also put to good use.

Rancourt Read Boat Shoe

The perfect summer slip on when flip flops won’t do. The ‘Heritage Brown’ color shines.

Bedrock Cairn Sandals and Clogs

interviewed Amy O’Hoyt of Bedrock Sandals and few months ago, and it caught my attention. I’ve had so much trouble with my feet over the past few years that I figured, what the heck, why not try them out. And they both feel terrific on my feet.

Columbia PFG Bahama Vent Shoe

They dry quickly and have SPF 50 protection. My go-to fishing shoes on the boat or shore in summer or warm climes.

Topo Athletic Shoes

Not that you care about this, but given my foot troubles, I’ve had a difficult time finding good shoes over the past few years. The New Balance Fresh Foam v7 Hierro served me well for a couple years. Then New Balance discontinued them. I’d heard about Topo and its wide toe box so I bought a pair of boots for the rain and snow. I loved them. When NB discontinued my go-to, therefore, I decided to try the Topo Terraventure. Wonderful — the wide toe box accommodated swelling feet when worn all day and the shoe offered just the right level of support for my mercurial feet. I wore three pairs in a row. And then what did Topo do? They ‘updated’ it to 5. I bought them, expecting a seamless transition....and was crushed when the front, despite the wide toe box, and midsole, cramped my feet. I believe another Topo model will end up working out for me and will report back.

Jobst Compression Socks

Ye ole legs have gotten ye olde and need some support throughout the day. My physical therapist suggested this brand. I especially like the Sport version. And the dressier ones look nice when I wear a suit or slacks too.

Ebbets Field MLB Team Sweater

This is what Andre Dawson wears every night as he sits back, smokes his cigar, drinks his brandy, and savors what a badass on the diamond he was. Available for many teams.

On the Go

Chester Mox Wallet

I love the vibrant colors, and the texture and quality of the leather.

Everyday Emergency Kit

The best gift I’ve ever given my family members. I dive in and grab at least one item out of there every single day.

Colonel Littleton No. 1 Saddlebag

I’ve carried this every day for 14 years. Each year it looks better and better. I’ve never received so many compliments on a briefcase as I have on this one. Showstopper.

Garmin Fenix 8 Watch

I wear my Fenix 6 Sapphire watch when exercising and rucking. Garmin discontinued this model. The updated version I’d use is the Fenix 8. Large screen to see key data easily. And it has a ton of features if you need them. I really only track distance, steps, heart rate and O2 level, and elevation when traveling.

GORUCK Rucker 5.0

It seems that I see many people wearing a weighted vest when they ruck. But I still prefer the backpack. Plus, if you do events or go on a long ruck, you can easily carry water and snacks as needed. I use the 4.0 but last week GORUCK came out with the 5.0. Looks like a nice upgrade.

Husky 9-Inch Job Site Lunch Cooler Bag

Too many lunch boxes have the standard 1950s lunchbox rectangle design. That’s fine for sandwiches, a small bag o’ crisps, and a soda. But for lunch, I bring in leftovers, bananas, apples, and sometimes a big tall drink. Those don’t fit easily into that standard design, and unless the bags/containers are leakproof, you can end up with a mess. The Husky solves that design flaw for the modern lunch packer. You can stack a couple solid, waterproof leftovers containers, and still have room for fruit and a drink. This — THIS — should be the new standard, people.

Otterbox Fre Series Phone Case

Pretty much break-proof and waterproof, I got his case to protect it when I went fishing. It does add some weight and heft in your pocket, which I’m okay with, knowing my, you know, $20,000 iPhone is protected until a software update in 2 years renders it obsolete.

Incharge 6-in-1 Keychain Charger XL

A nice way to carry multiple charger ends in a small package.

Shinola Runwell Watch

Your intrepid correspondent may live big and write big, but he has a tiny wrist for a man. I’m pretty sure my 13-year-old daughter has a larger wrist. Maybe my 11-year-old too. My wife gave me this watch for Christmas a long time ago and I cherish it. My every day watch.

Watches of Espionage Travel Pouch

My friend John gave me this travel pouch a couple years ago. Keeps my Shinola protected while I wear my Garmin in the airport.

BioLite Range 300 Headlamp

Yeah, alas, previous versions of this seemed better. This one needs recharging much more frequently, I believe, than the two versions before it. Still, a great headlamp, light and bright for your nighttime illumination needs. Also comes in 400 and 500 lumens versions.

Sustenance

Meat Church Chef Knife and Rubs

About a year ago, my friend Aaron got me into the church — the Meat Church. He and I met Matt Pittman when he visited Louisville not long ago. Super nice guy and giving with his knowledge. I follow Meat Church because they offer straightforward recipes — in writing and in video — that deliver a tasty product again and again. Look, as much as I enjoy smoking meats on my Big Green Egg, I don’t have a lot of bandwidth to experiment. I want easy to follow recipes, and proven rubs and sauces, that deliver consistent, delicious food time and time again. That’s what the Church does.

Blanco has become my top pork and steak rub. My girls’s mouths water when I pull out the Blanco. And Holy Cow has become my other all-purpose rub. Almost everything gets better with a lil Holy Cow.

Thanks Matt for great recipes and products that make us simple, part-time backyard chefs total studs in the eyes of our families and guests.

Steaks from 44 Farms

The first time I cook a recipe, I try to reproduce it exactly as the chef hosts. If he or she says to buy a whole chicken from the usual grocery, I do it. If they ask the butcher to cut off a certain piece, even if they show how to do it at home, I ask. When I smoked dino beef ribs for the first time, using a recipe from the aforementioned Meat Church, Matt Pittman used ribs from 44 Farms. So the first time I smoked them, when I hosted the Gents Book Club to read my selection, Spring Snow by Yukio Mishina, I ordered them from 44 Farms. Not cheap, but duh-duh-DAMN did they taste amazing! Even my wife, who does not eat much red meat, raved about the dino ribs and declared them the best food I’d ever smoked!

Sailor Ceramics Mug

My friend Rachel Lutz gave me this mug a few years back. I use it to drink my fancy-man tea — about more anon — every work day. It is simply perfect.

Tea

And what do I put in that perfect mug from Sailor Ceramics? Well, my daily cup of restorative tea. Some favorites from Louisville Tea Company and Churchill’s Fine Teas:

• Kentucky Morning

• Christmas Morning (the greatest tea ever made; available seasonally)

• Keenum Mao Feng Imperial

• Golden Monkey Imperial

• Bamboo Temple Yunnan

• Detox Herbal Blend

• Nick’s Sick Mix (you know, for when you feel sick)

• Stassen Pure Ceylon Black Tea (My friend Marci introduced this tea, grown by a friend’s family in Sri Lanka, a few years ago. Normally I prefer loose leaf tea, but these bags deliver a punchy, rich black tea flavor. Bags are simply easier on the road, so this has become my go-to travel tea.)

Hiware Glass Teapot

Simple, inexpensive. I thoroughly enjoy watching the color darken and deepen as my tea steeps. One of my life’s small delights.

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REMINDER: I am hosting a conversation on Hermann Hesse’s 1932 novel, The Journey to the East, this evening, Thursday, April 16, 2026, from 6:00pm to 7:30pm ET. It’s a short book — you can read it in under two hours.

You can sign up here and I will send you the login details.

Sign me up!

Join H.H., Leo, Albertus Magnus, Plato, Don Quixote, Pythagoras, Paul Klee and me as we journey to the east!

(This article contains Amazon Affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases, which means that by buying from these links, you are supporting Solvitur Ambulando. Thank you!)

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Do you need a day of peace and reflection? Do you need to slow down for even a few hours? Are you aching for the restorative beauty of nature? Consider a personal retreat at Holy Hills Hermitage. Only 90 minutes from Louisville, the splendid spring season makes for the perfect time for a visit. You can read my full piece on the Hermitage here. Or, to inquire about a retreat for an individual or small group, you can reach out to the Hermitage Manager.

At the start of 2026, I did something I’d never done before. I wrote out a list of books I hoped to read during the year — an “aspirational” reading list. I don’t feel wedded to the list — if I want to deviate from it, or abandon it altogether, so be it. It’s my reading time, after all, my reading life. But I enjoyed the exercise and it did focus me. After all, I consistently read about 50 books per year. So if I live another 20 years, I can finish reading about 1,000 more books. That may seem like a lot, but I assure you, gentle reader, it falls far, far below my aspirations. So some focus and tethering to long-term desire may prove useful.

From my “2026 Aspirational Reading List,” I tackled a few books this quarter: Moby Dick, Jane Eyre, an Eknath Easwaran translation, and Martin Shaw’s new book. And I re-read one of my very favorite books, Hermann Hesse’s The Journey to the East, to prepare for the book conversation on April 16th. I loved it as much in this reading as I ever have before. Marvelous!

All in all, a wonderful quarter of reading! On to Q2!

1. The Dhammapada translated by Eknath Easwaran (audiobook)

“The wise are disciplined in body, speech and mind. They are well controlled indeed.”

A wonderful way to open the New Year! I can’t attest to the literal accuracy of Easwaran’s translation of this account of the Buddha’s teachings. But as an audiobook, the passages sing in loving and beautiful language. I wish I’d read – or listened to – it years ago.

2. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

“The spoons were moved slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and try to swallow it; but in most cases the effort was soon relinquished. Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted. Thanks having been returned for what we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, the refectory was evacuated to the schoolroom.”

Now that – that is directness and sarcasm I appreciate. I must admit: I figured to pass through this life never having to read any books by the Sisters Bronte, often recalling William Manchester’s relating of Winston Churchill’s quip upon the defeat of a venerable Member of Parliament: “Thank God we’ve seen the last of that Wuthering Height.”1

On the first day or two of the New Year, my dear friend Charles texted a couple friends, calling Jane Eyre “the Greatest Book Ever.” High praise indeed from a reader of quantity and quality. So, I broke my recurring “vow” to order no new books in the New Year and to order “nothing – not ONE ITEM” from Amazon in the New Year (as I solemnly pledged to my family), and shortly Miss Eyre arrived in a brown, or blue and white, envelope on my doorstep. I began the book that evening and didn’t regret it for a minute. I worried her 1800s language and expressions would bore me or prove difficult to decipher; neither worry came to reality. Bronte does not write with the visual expressiveness of, say, Charles Dickens, but she writes forcefully, directly and again, with a sarcasm I admire. Jane knows who she is and what she’s about, which makes the final 150 pages so fraught – I stayed up until 1:00am to find out and finish the novel. Will she cave to the admonitions of St John Rivers? Will she go that last extremity to seek, and find, as if for the first time, her true love? Will she live as she speaks, that “domestic endearments and household joys” and “the best things the world has”? Or will her slender, wispy self crumble under the weight of a world which scorns her when it cannot use or abuse her?

3. Football by Chuck Klosterman
   

“Pervasive institutional control, so entrenched that it’s become unremarkable, is both the facilitator for society’s overall enhancement and the reason so many individuals within that society feel alienated by the very things that make life easier. Everything was upgraded and nothing got better....Football is a chaotic replication of bureaucratic life.”

“What is already happening, and what will continue to happen, is that the evolution of American culture is in direct opposition to the culture of American football. The sport, in almost every way, is a contradiction of what enlightened people are supposed to want. It conflicts with how modern people are socialized to think, subverting the symbolic meaning of what football represents.”

“Canada did its best, but Canada fucked up. And now the Canadians just have to live with it.”

“I mean, it’s like the hokey pokey. Put your right foot in, you take your right foot out, you put your right foot in, you shake it all about. You do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around. Boom! That’s what it’s all about.” –“John Madden” talking with David Letterman, not quoted in Klosterman’s book.

“When you see butt sweat like that, you know that guy is giving his all.” – John Madden, also not quoted in Klosterman’s book.

“This is a football.” – Reportedly said by Dan Dierdorf. Or John Madden. Or in spoofs of them. Also not quoted in Klosterman’s book.

You can read my full review here.

4. The Black Count by Tom Reiss (audiobook)

“Napoleon could not stand the sight of a black man who was taller, stronger, braver, and more beloved by his troops than he was.”

The father of Alexandre Dumas the author inspired many of the scenes from the writer’s novels, especially in The Count of Monte Cristo. The father overcame benign neglect (at best) from his ne’er-do-well father, racism, and many other challenges to rise very high in the Revolutionary army.

Before this book, I held a low view of Napoleon. This book knocked that view down a few further rungs. What a piece of garbage.

5. The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas

“D’Artagnan obeyed, for Athos had the solemn voice and the powerful gesture of a judge sent by the Lord himself. And so, after D’Artagnan, Porthos came in, followed by Aramis, Lord de Winter, and the man in the red cloak.”

It doesn’t carry the ethical and intellectual weight of The Count of Monte Cristo. But it sure makes for a wild ride through Paris, the French countryside and England. And who among us does not wish for friends, only a few, dear friends, about whom we could say, “all for one and one for all” and who would say the same about us?

6. Moby Dick by Herman Melville

“Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.”

The first 200 pages flew by, then the book slowed and my interest waned. I returned again and again, for 10 pages here, 20 pages there, and so on. Finally, achingly, I rushed through the final 100 pages to finish. I made it, but almost assuredly I shall never pick up the book again.

The mad, swirling pursuit of vengeance - I tired of it. Yes, that deep, gut-burning, wrecked emotion makes for great plots and literature - Moby Dick, the Count of Monte Cristo, among many others. But in a world in which we seem to crave vengeance on thousand year old wrongs, and hours old mistakes, I have grown tired of vengeance. Weepy and exhausted, even if the reading - not even the living.

It may not make for a classic plot, but I would love to read the book in which Christ’s admonition to forgive seven times 77 times is given air and feeling and life.

This leads to a further thought. If I had been a smart, even clever, Englishman of the 1850s, if I’d read this novel by this nobody Herman Melville, I wonder if perhaps I could have foreseen the demise of the British Empire, even a few decades before its zenith. If I’d read this novel, the likes of which my nation had never dreamt, so detailingly researched, so heartfelt, so – as my friend and lover of this book says – lyrical, I think I would have trembled at the achievement. That a workingman American would go to such an extreme effort, with no guarantee of success, no family fortune to buttress him in case of failure, all in the hope of producing something of everlasting value. I should have feared the rise of this workingman author and his growing horde of compatriots. My days basking in the sun of self-assured superiority were numbered.

Again, I say, if I’d been this young Englishman, one other thought might have come to mind as I pondered this ponderous novel of seething rage and determined vengefulness. In less than 75 years my country had fought two wars with upstart America. One we had lost and one ended in a stalemate. But after those wars, our two nations had ceased hostilities and done something quite unique in the history of nations, a story so dominated by grudges and animosity. No, my Britain and this America had done something quite different, even if checkered by difficulties and numerous tensions and pressures.

They became friends.

7. The Great God Pan by Arthur Machen

“‘I could tell you certain things which would convince you, but you would never know a happy day again; you would pass the rest of your life, as I pass mine, a haunted man, a man who has seen hell.’”

Now, except for the writings of my friend Jude Klinger, I don’t read much horror.

But for some reason this book called out to me. Stephen King called it one of the greatest horror stories ever. Maybe it was that recommendation.

Whatever the reason, it seemed to me more mysterious than horrific. And maybe reading Frankenstein last year prompted me to believe – to know – that the world is full of insufficiently reflective men meddling with powers they cannot possibly fathom. They may be conjured up in fiction, but they undoubtedly exist in our world too.

8. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

“‘They’re such beautiful shirts,’ she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. ‘It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such - such beautiful shirts before.’”

Our gents book club read this for our first book of the year. And we and our wives gathered for a lovely dinner to discuss it.

I read the book about 25 years ago. I hated it then and a re-reading reaffirmed my extreme distaste for the book and nearly every character in it. They are, even Nick, callow schmucks.

9. The Journey to the East by Hermann Hesse

“As it has been my destiny to take part in a great experience, and having had the good fortune to belong to the League and allowed to share in that unique journey, the wonder of which blazed like a meteor and afterwards sank into oblivion – even falling into disrepute – I have now decided to attempt a short description of this incredible journey.”

One of my all-time favorite books! I am hosting a book conversation on it on Thursday, April 16th at 6:00pm ET. You can sign up to join us here!

10. The Penguin Book of Dragons

“People who deny the existence of dragons are often eaten by dragons. From within.”
-- Ursula K. Le Guin

Reading it coincided with the latest episode of The Emerald podcast, on dragons and serpents. From ancient times to modern times, in the ages of the pagans and in the Christian era, we have marveled at, fought, tempted and condemned dragons. We have sought their destruction, their blessing, their fire and their treasure. Donkey even found the love of a Dragon, so perhaps we too can take a step into the dragon’s liar.

11. Liturgies of the Wild by Martin Shaw (audiobook)

“Can you remember what it feels like to have something come apart in your hands, again and again? The shame in that? The flush of the cheek and the resolve to continue even as you burn with embarrassment. There is no distance left to run, you simply have to stay with it. Within fairy tales, silence can have a variety of qualities and is substantial in its power and influence. When words are formed, they come from the pathos of the weight of the space around them. It’s not just rat-a-tat-tat. Initiatory silence has the quality of the brood whilst the eggs incubate; it has less spillage, it’s refined, there’s more acuity to it. It’s a dimension that religious orders and mythical folk the world over understand. I know a young African girl who deliberately goes into silence once a week for a full day, to steady herself. Confirm her own fundament. It’s to do with a certain deliberateness, a kind of yoga of the soul. It’s not secrecy but privacy. We get thinned out without it, and it’s much easier to fool.”

I pre-ordered this book so it arrived on the day of its release. My friend Sherry Shenoda reminded me that Shaw is best listened to, rather than read. How right she is! His voice and cadence lend heart to his tales.

I liked it, I didn’t love it, although my sense is that’s more to do with me than Shaw. I want to return to the myths myself. Unmediated by interpreters. I want to find out what I make of them myself.

12. The Big Book of Health and Fitness by Philip Maffetone

“We can break free from the devastating ravages of foods that make us sick and the disease-care system that is more interested in its own financial welfare than in genuine and effective health care. And we can do it by assuming greater responsibility for our own health.”

I found out about Maffetone a dozen years ago through Christopher McDougall’s Natural Born Heroes, one of my favorite all-time books. I read it, implemented much of Maffetone’s lessons, felt great but slowly over the years, fell away. Late last year, I re-committed to improving my health, even if -- given my congenital heart defect -- that improvement was quite modest. That’s okay. The effort matters. The mindset matters. To paraphrase Lord Krishna in The Bhagavad Gita, I must make the effort but leave the results to the Lord.

I won’t delve here into Maffetone’s approach. Some people would love it, others dislike it. I will only say that the closer I follow his counsel, the better I personally feel.

13. Fixing Your Feet by John Vonhof and Tonya Olson

“So the point here is that you need to put lots of miles on your feet in order to train them for long conditions. You can run 10 miles a day, day after day, and then try to do a 50-miler, and odds are that you’ll have problems. You have 10- to 15-mile feet – not 50-mile feet. This applies to walking, running, adventure racing, hiking, and any activity where you use your feet.”

Since 2020, I’ve experienced a steady stream of foot and ankle issues. It started with a painful rash, which abated. Then came deep soreness and pain. I probably caused some by overuse and poor ramp-up in my training. Some may be due to muscle weakness in my feet, legs and elsewhere. Other factors may include downstream effects of my heart defect. The last three years have proven especially fitful. Lots of foot challenges. I turned to this book not as a panacea, but to remind me of the importance of basics. Things like -- the foot-sock-shoe match matters. And to treat each new shoe purchase as starting over. (Two years ago, fearful New Balance would discontinue the model of shoe I’d been wearing, I purchased 6 pairs. The first two worked fine. Pair #3 killed my feet -- in a debilitating manner. Of pairs #4, #5 and #6, I’ve been able to wear one; the rest I donated to Goodwill.)

If you do adventure or long-distance sports, this book offers a huge wealth of tips and advice. Even for me, it reminded me of the importance of the basics. In 2026, so far, so good with my feet. Hopefully I can slowly ramp up to longer walks and rucks like I was doing until mid-2023.

(This article contains Amazon Affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases, which means that by buying from these links, you are supporting Solvitur Ambulando. Thank you!)

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Welcome to Walks of Life, the podcast companion to Solvitur Ambulando. Today's guest is , a longtime friend who writes The Conservative Wahoo blog on Substack. Bryan recently retired after a career as an officer in the United States Navy and then as a naval strategist, consultant and advocate. In the Navy, he served as a surface warfare officer, winning the prestigious Admiral Elmo Zumwalt Award for Inspirational Leadership, and then the ship he commanded, the USS Bulkeley, won the USS Arizona Memorial Trophy as the most combat-ready ship in the Navy. He retired with the rank of Commander and turned his energies to consulting on naval matters, tirelessly advocating for a modern, mighty and ever-ready US Navy. He lives on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. In his writings and in conversation, I always find Bryan a wellspring of clarity and wisdom. I've been eager to interview Bryan for a long time and I know you'll enjoy this conversation as much as I did.

Episode Links

• Bryan’s blog, The Conservative Wahoo

• The Quiet Warrior: A Biography of Admiral Raymond A. Spruance, by Thomas Buell

• Wielding the Trident: Admiral Raymond A. Spruance and America’s Victory in the Pacific, by Andrew K. Blackley (to be released March 17, 2026)

• Unconventional Success: A Fundamental Approach to Personal Investment, by David Swensen

(This article contains Amazon Affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases, which means that by buying from these links, you are supporting Solvitur Ambulando. Thank you!)

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A few years ago, I – and the rest of the business world – read Oliver Burkeman’s take on modern productivity, Four Thousand Weeks. Like virtually everything from every business book I’ve ever read, I immediately forgot almost everything in it. One small part remained with me: Burkeman described an exercise required by Harvard art professor Jennifer Roberts, in which students stare at a painting for three straight hours. No phone, no talking with friends.

One painting. Three straight hours.

Burkeman describes the exercise and his experience doing it, and it’s worth quoting at length:

“In more and more contexts, patience becomes a form of power. In a world geared for hurry, the capacity to resist the urge to hurry—to allow things to take the time they take—is a way to gain purchase on the world, to do the work that counts, and to derive satisfaction from the doing itself, instead of deferring all your fulfillment to the future.

“I first learned this lesson from Jennifer Roberts, who teaches art history at Harvard University. When you take a class with Roberts, your initial assignment is always the same, and it’s one that has been known to elicit yelps of horror from her students: choose a painting or sculpture in a local museum, then go and look at it for three hours straight. No checking email or social media; no quick runs to Starbucks. (She reluctantly concedes that bathroom breaks are allowed.) When I told a friend I planned to visit Harvard to meet Roberts, and to undertake the painting-viewing exercise myself, he gave me a look that mixed admiration with fear for my sanity, as though I’d announced an intention to kayak the Amazon alone. And he wasn’t entirely wrong to worry about my mental health. There were long moments, as I squirmed in my seat at the Harvard Art Museum during the assignment, when I’d willingly have done countless things I usually can’t stand—shopping for clothes, assembling flat-pack furniture, stabbing myself in the thigh with thumbtacks—simply because I could have done them in a rush, instead of having to be patient.

“Such reactions come as no surprise to Roberts. She insists on the exercise lasting three hours precisely because she knows it’s a painfully long time, especially for anyone accustomed to a life of speed. She wants people to experience firsthand how strangely excruciating it is to be stuck in position, unable to force the pace, and why it’s so worthwhile to push past those feelings to what lies beyond. The idea first arose, Roberts told me, because her students faced so many external pressures to move fast—from digital technology, but also from Harvard’s ultracompetitive atmosphere—that she began to feel it was insufficient for a teacher like her merely to hand out assignments and wait for the results. She felt she would be failing in her duties if she didn’t also attempt to influence the tempo at which her students worked, helping them slow down to the speed that art demands. “They needed someone to give them permission to spend this kind of time on anything,” she said. “Somebody had to give them a different set of rules and constraints than the ones that were dominating their lives.”

“Certain art forms impose temporal restraints on their audience in a rather obvious way: when you watch, say, a live performance of The Marriage of Figaro or a screening of Lawrence of Arabia, you don’t have much choice but to let the work in question take its time. But other kinds, including painting, benefit from external restraints—because it’s all too easy to tell yourself that once you’ve taken a couple of seconds to look at a painting, you’ve thereby genuinely seen it. So to prevent her students from rushing the assignment, Roberts had to make “not rushing” the assignment itself.

“She undertook the exercise herself, too, with a painting called Boy with a Squirrel, by the American artist John Singleton Copley. (It shows a boy with a squirrel.) “It took me nine minutes to notice that the shape of the boy’s ear precisely echoes that of the ruff along the squirrel’s belly,” Roberts later wrote, “and that Copley was making some kind of connection between the animal and the human body … It took a good 45 minutes before I realized that the seemingly random folds and wrinkles in the background curtain were actually perfect copies of the boy’s ear and eye.”

“There is nothing passive or resigned about the kind of patience that arises from this effort to resist the urge to hurry. On the contrary, it’s an active, almost muscular state of alert presence—and its benefits, as we’ll see, extend far beyond art appreciation. But for the record, here is what happens when you spend three unbroken hours in a small foldout seat at the Harvard Art Museum looking at Cotton Merchants in New Orleans, a painting by Edgar Degas, with your phone, laptop, and other distractions stowed out of reach in the cloakroom: You spend the first forty minutes wondering what on earth you’d been thinking. You remember—how could you ever have forgotten?—that you’ve always hated art galleries, especially the way their shuffling crowds of visitors impart a sort of contagious lethargy to the air. You contemplate switching paintings, from a work that now strikes you as a self-evidently tedious choice (it shows three men, in a room, inspecting some bales of cotton) to a nearby alternative, which seems to show many tiny souls being tortured in hell. But then you’re forced to admit to yourself that making a fresh start, by picking a new painting, would be to succumb to the very impatience you’re here to learn to resist—an attempt to seize control over your experience in precisely the way you’re seeking to avoid. And so you wait. Grumpiness gives way to fatigue, then restless irritation. Time slows and sags. You wonder if an hour has passed, but when you check your watch, you find it’s been seventeen minutes.

“And then, around the eighty-minute mark, but without your noticing precisely when or how it happens, there’s a shift. You finally give up attempting to escape the discomfort of time passing so slowly, and the discomfort abates. And the Degas begins to reveal its secret details: subtle expressions of watchfulness and sadness on the faces of the three men—one of whom, you notice properly for the first time, is a Black merchant in an otherwise white milieu—plus an unexplained shadow you hadn’t previously seen, as if a fourth person were lurking out of view; and a curious optical illusion that renders one of the figures either conventionally solid or transparent, like a ghost, depending on how your eyes interpret the painting’s other lines. Before long, you’re experiencing the scene in all its sensory fullness: the humidity and claustrophobia of that room in New Orleans, the creak of the floorboards, the taste of dust in the air.

“The second-order change has occurred: now that you’ve abandoned your futile efforts to dictate the speed at which the experience moves, the real experience can begin. And you start to understand what the philosopher Robert Grudin means when he describes the experience of patience as “tangible, almost edible,” as if it gives things a kind of chewiness—the word is inadequate, but it’s the closest one there is—into which you can sink your teeth. Your reward for surrendering the fantasy of controlling the pace of reality is to achieve, at last, a real sense of purchase on that reality. Or, to use the Britishism, of really getting stuck in to life.”1 (Italics in original)

This one section of the book stayed with me for years. I mean, three hours?! I would bet an not inconsiderable amount of money that the average museum-goer spends an average of a minute or less per painting, the aim generally to see as much of a museum as possible in the finite time allotted by the traveler to that specific place. When my family and I visited the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay last summer, I can’t recall ever spending more than five minutes at a single work of art – and we spent that much time because we followed a guide who would stop us to explain aspects of certain pieces.

Again, the Roberts exercise stayed with me. At some point, I resolved to do it myself.

Happily, last summer I bought a painting by a French-Canadian artist, Jean Claude Roy, whom I had admired since viewing some of his pieces in the gallery at the Asheville Grand Bohemian Lodge a while back. This piece seized my attention the moment I saw it – so much yellow amidst other works with copious shades of blue, green, or perhaps red. And I spied a fisherman in the stream, wearing an orange cap. Ah ha! Love!

It has hung in my office in downtown Louisville since August, and has brightened my days since then. What better painting to try my hand at than the Roberts exercise?

My first observation: finding and then actually taking three straight hours to do this exercise proved challenging. I figured that’d be the case, so I pre-booked three hours on three separate days in late January to mid-February, assuming I could make one of them work. The first came, and other tasks intervened. The second came – same thing – other urgent tasks crowded in. The third one came and I resolved not to let it slip through. I held fast and completed the exercise last Wednesday, February 18th.

First Hour: What

I brought my chair around to face the painting. I kept my pen and journal nearby, as I wanted to record my impressions, and what I actually did, for use in this essay. My phone stayed on my desk. I started a three hour timer. Besides glancing over to the phone for a time-check four times, I did nothing with my phone during those three hours. I didn’t touch it.

Now, I am no Straussian. But I honor the artist or writer I’ve engaged with by assuming they have made the choices they have made for a reason. Maybe a good reason, maybe a poor one – but they had some definite aim in mind when choosing to craft their piece, and they made decisions in order to achieve that aim.

So in the first hour, I found myself examining What was going on in the painting. As a kid, I wanted to become a detective; I loved reading Encyclopedia Brown, the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. (And of course in adulthood I love Sherlock Holmes). A few years ago, I applied for a job. As part of the application process, they had me take the Kolbe A test. My results revealed that when I face a new situation, my default approach is to research it. That Kolbe A test illuminated my innate makeup more than any other test I’ve taken – Enneagram, Myers-Briggs, anything. I want to research. I want to play detective.

In that first hour, I scrutinized the painting, asking myself, What is going on in it? What have I missed before? What patterns exist?

I stood up from my chair and walked close to the painting. I viewed it from both sides. I knelt down and peered up at it. I felt my brows furrowing and my lips pursing in curiosity. I also found myself smiling at the challenge.

The first time I saw the painting, at the Grand Bohemian Lodge, I instantly seized upon the fisherman in the left foreground, in the orange cap. It took a couple moments before I saw a second fisherman, to the right. And only after I had agreed to purchase the work did I dimly observe, in the distance, barely in the water, a third fisherman.

Similarly, my pen hummed with new observations coming at me thick and fast. Here’s a sampling of those notes:

All yellow - the sky - yellow-orange

The sun is not really yellow -- white and surrounded by orange with a black V at the bottom - first noted by Amy as she was hanging the painting in my office

The water looks like a trout

The left foreground fisherman is catching a fish -- rod bent with the tension and weight of a fish on the line

In what seemed to me initially a very yellow sky - there are tinges of white - even blue beneath the sun - and orange

Gray cliffs in middle – look like a sleeping Homer Simpson

It just looks like a nice day for a fishing trip

In summary, I tried to view the painting in its entirety and its details to determine: What is going on here?

Second Hour: Why

After a short bathroom break (blessedly allowed by Roberts for this exercise, whew!) I returned and resumed my staring. I kept asking my What question, and it birthed a growing set of Why, or “What Really” questions. Again, let me share a sampling of my notes:

Much more pink in this painting than I initially saw.

What a curious place to build that red building – rocky, no trees, no shade. Why not build it on the brown ridge to the far right? Except that where it is, you can see the building clearly

The red building on the gray clift: is that really a church or a schoolhouse?

Why does the red building sit higher in the painting than the sun?

My eyes go to the triangle formed by the red building, the sun, and the lower-left fisherman in the orange cap. What’s in that triangle? What’s in the middle of it? And what is outside that triangle?

Why did Roy paint the scene in this way?

The church/schoolhouse – sun – lower left fisherman triangle – right in the middle of that triangle is a dark space, a dark swirl. What is that dark space? A bunch of dead trees? Some odd space between the lower grass/trees and the gray cliffs? Why is that dark spot so prominent in the middle of that triangle? There is a little texture / protrusion of paint there too – it sits up from the canvas like a dark eye

The V under the sun is pointing to the fisherman by the shore. Roy wants us to see that fisherman, as I did: he wears the bright cap, he is catching a fish, he stands in bright water, the V of the sun points at him!

Don’t forget the frame. Roy matches his frames with each painting. Why did he choose this frame?

Why did Roy decide to paint this scene?

Now, I don’t know whether Roy really had reasons for these decisions or whether he made them impulsively or on the fly. But assuming he had reasons allowed me to explore the painting at a new, deeper level. It pulled back veils of meaning which enriched my engagement with and enjoyment of the work. It didn’t even matter that I came to good answers about my questions – the questions themselves brought me into a more intense relationship with the painting. Indeed, very often throughout the exercise, I could feel myself smiling, and mouthing silently the words, “I love this painting!”

Third Hour: Who

Time sped by in the first and second hours. No bathroom break needed now. I steamrolled on. I felt absorbed and wanted to continue my enriching engagement with the painting.

In the third hour, again my questioning made a subtle shift. The Why questions from the second hour evolved into Who questions: Who was in the painting? Was I in it, and if so, where? Who else was in it? Who exactly might those three fishermen be? And how did I experience the painting?

As in the first hour, I stood up. But now, rather than peering up close with pen and paper in hand to record minute observations, I backed up -- all the way to my office windows, perhaps 15’ away from the painting. New sensations and even new emotions welled up. Here are some final notes from my journal, some written during the third hour, but more upon reflection after the exercise ended:

Where are the birds? I can hear asking me: Where are the birds?

Is anyone in the school/church? Or has it been abandoned?

We see what we want to see

I want to be in the painting! I want to be one of the fishermen – we are meant to sympathize and identify with the lower left one – but I don’t really care which one I am – I simply wanted to be on the water

Which fisherman am I? I think the one closest to shore. Although I would totally wear that orange hat. Closest to shore and to the sun and to the church / schoolhouse. The most cautious, risk-averse of the three. The closest to doing something besides fishing.

I want to fish and climb the cliffs and see inside that church/schoolhouse – I am torn. Yes, I’m in the water but just barely.

If it’s a church, I want to pray inside.

Which one is Rudy [my father-in-law and fishing buddy]? Who’s the third fisherman?

The three fishermen – which is the Father, which is the Son, which is the Holy Spirit? I think – lower right is the Holy Spirit. Unless you are up close, you can’t tell he’s fishing. His rod is a thin, ghost-like line. I think the one with the orange cap is the Son – active, visible (orange), in the world. I think the one by the shore is the Father. But why do I write that?

What am I missing!?

The paint texture makes it seem like the sky has cracked, which I haven’t noticed until now, or that there are vortices swirling around the sun.

As the exercise came to an end, again a welling of feeling came up in me: I love this painting!

Reflections on the Exercise

It might be obvious at this point, but just in case, let me write it down: I thoroughly enjoyed this exercise. And it significantly enhanced my attachment to and appreciation of a piece of art I already admired and savored.

To experience myself, almost as an outside observer, delving instantly and deeply into What questions, playing detective, in a curious way reinforced the results of the Kolbe A test. When given a chunk of time, what do I do? I research. I ask: What and Why. I engage with my mind which then enhances my emotional connection.

I found it surprising that, contrary to the experience of Burkeman, Roberts and apparently most students, I instantly and deeply connected with this exercise. I did not fight myself to put down the phone. (Ah, you might fairly ask, would you have enjoyed it as much if you couldn’t have your pen and paper? A provocative question!) Not for a moment did I miss text, email or the internet. Or even the phone. Or even the instrumental or nature sounds music I often listen to while working. I felt drawn into the painting and absorbed by the exercise itself. I felt elated.

In a profound sense, I can’t convey the feelings and wonder of this exercise. Like reading The Bhagavad Gita or The Bible, or even noble literature, like Jane Eyre, you have to do it yourself.

One point of pondering has come to me since finishing this exercise. In his and Alex Tabarrok’s daily economics blog, which I read and admire, Tyler Cowen often defends social media, the internet and smartphones against their detractors. In brief, he views the content available as salutary and beneficial, at least by many people and at least potentially, and often unavailable to people any other way. My feeling is that Cowen is wrong, but let’s be clear – he’s far smarter than me, and if he and I disagree, you should probably bet on his view.

But a different tack on the issue is highlighted by technology and culture analyst Cal Newport in a recent essay, “Film Students Can No Longer Sit Through Films.” I think he latches onto something that, perhaps, Cowen has missed. It is not the content of social media and smartphones that is causing us such societal guttural pains.

It is the scrolling itself.

The very action of quickly and with the barest of intellectual attachment moving to the next thing – whatever it is, cat memes, photos of your kids, the latest non-news on Savannah Guthrie’s mom, or suffering children in another part of town or another part of the world – causes somatic shifts in our minds and bodies that we, deep down, find profoundly troubling.

Were we humans meant to scroll, taking in snippets of a rapidly passing global experience? Or to stare, with fixed attention, appreciating our corner of the world and our place in it?

I can’t answer for all humans, of course. But last week, I found the answer for myself.

(This article contains Amazon Affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases, which means that by buying from these links, you are supporting Solvitur Ambulando. Thank you!)

Last year, I began publishing quarterly reviews of the books I’d read in the previous three months. In my announcement I joked that I’d made the change “in response to a diminishing number of requests,” which was true: no one had ever asked me to publish book reviews more frequently.

However, since I began writing this august newsletter, many people have asked me when I would start a book club. Now, I don’t know about a full-blown club, but today I’m really excited to announce the first “Solvitur Ambulando Book Conversation.”

For this first foray, we’ll discuss a book I have loved since I initially read it in my senior year of high school, and which I’ve re-read numerous times, and which I still love today:

Hermann Hesse’s Journey to the East

Hesse remains one of my very favorite authors. And more than any of his novels, I return again and again to this one: more than Siddhartha, more than Steppenwolf, more than Narcissus and Goldmund, more than Demian, more than the Glass Bead Game, which ostensibly won Hesse the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1946.

I won’t describe the book further; I hope you’ll consider picking it up — or reading it again — with me. It’s a short book, really a novella — 100 pages or so depending on the version.

Join me for a fun (and free) discussion of Journey to the East!
Date: Thursday, April 16th
Time: 6:00pm to 7:30pm ET

Please sign up here and I will send you the login details.

Sign me up!

Join H.H., Leo, Albertus Magnus, Tristam Shandy, Paul Klee and me as we journey to the east!

(This article contains Amazon Affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases, which means that by buying from these links, you are supporting Solvitur Ambulando. Thank you!)

I listened to Klosterman’s interview on the Art of Manliness podcast and decided to check out the book. It goes quickly and Klosterman does an impressive job dissecting an array of football topics:

• why football and TV pair perfectly;

• what Canadian football got wrong;

• why Colin Kaepernick’s protests failed;

• the inherent silliness of “America’s Team”;

• the crazy devotion to high school football and in Texas;

• CTE and the physical, mental and emotional toll on players;

• how many black quarterbacks – and kickers – there should be;

• the nature of greatness and who’s the greatest football player of all time;

• and why football, amidst its greatest stranglehold on American culture, is doomed to crash.

Here’s Klosterman contemplating these issues, as only he can:

“Should strangers be allowed to do very dangerous, very popular things?”

“There’s no reason to value life if we’re not going to value living.”

“Bookmakers know things that cannot be known.”

“Pervasive institutional control, so entrenched that it’s become unremarkable, is both the facilitator for society’s overall enhancement and the reason so many individuals within that society feel alienated by the very things that make life easier. Everything was upgraded and nothing got better....Football is a chaotic replication of bureaucratic life.”

“What is already happening, and what will continue to happen, is that the evolution of American culture is in direct opposition to the culture of American football. The sport, in almost every way, is a contradiction of what enlightened people are supposed to want. It conflicts with how modern people are socialized to think, subverting the symbolic meaning of what football represents.”

“The larger problem is this widespread social conviction that humanity is always improving, and that any greatness we see or experience must therefore represent the highest order of those qualities. I think that’s backward.”

“The Dallas Cowboys’ designation as “America’s Team” is the most remarkable modifier in all of sport, a disposable marketing term that became a mystery of faith. It’s an irony so ironical that describing its ethos feels like the epigraph of a Joseph Heller novel: Everyone accepts it, but no one believes it.”

“Canada did its best, but Canada fucked up. And now the Canadians just have to live with it.”

Listening to the podcast and reading the book coincided with something I’ve noticed in the last few years -- my interest in football has declined precipitously. I’ve explored many possible reasons for that diminishment: kids and family life; having two girls and despite the best marketing efforts of the NFL, they simply ain’t that into it; the fact I picked the wrong 35 years to root for the Washington Redskins - Football Team - Commanders (and what a terrible name they ended up with); the fact I don’t play fantasy football or bet on any sports (or really anything); the increasing moral dubiousness of supporting men playing a sport that undoubtedly damages their health, however enriching in many ways they may find it; among others I’ve pondered.

But none of those quite seemed correct. Klosterman’s theory that the conflicting values of upstanding America and of football also didn’t explain my agitation. Maybe they fed into my diminishing interest but none really explained it.

Instead, my tepid feelings come as a reaction to the increasingly pervasive and fervid reach r of the sport itself. The almost imperialism of football within American life – specifically the NFL, but also college football – demanding attention. In the 1950s, NFL teams played 12 regular season games per year. In 1961, it became 14 games. As I was growing up, the regular season lasted 16 games. Now it’s 17 games across 18 weeks. And if you think they’re stopping there, I wouldn’t take that bet. Soon, it’ll be 18 regular season games, then 20. The American market seems saturated, so the NFL looks abroad – Mexico City, Frankfurt, Munich, Berlin, Madrid, São Paulo, London and Dublin have all hosted games in the past three seasons, with Paris on deck for the 2026 season.

From one long-form NFL show — Sunday NFL Countdown on ESPN — and pre-game shows, we now have dozens of daily and weekly pro football shows to watch, plus literally hundreds of national, syndicated or local radio shows. (The Kevin Sheehan Show in DC produced one of my all-time favorite callers in 2013: “Uh, Kevin, I’m looking at this roster and I don’t see how this team goes anything except 16-0.” Kevin and his compadres laughed him off the show. The Redskins finished the season 3-13.)

As I was growing up in the 1980s and 1990s, the football season and Super Bowl dominated media coverage of the game. Then came increased attention on the annual Draft, which led to greater scrutiny of the Combine. Free agency and the salary cap and exploding salaries added interest to the personal and economic stories of the players. The NIKE-fication of the University of Oregon football team, with new jersey and helmet designs each week, spilled over to all of college football and into the NFL. Every team releases a story about the uniforms it’ll wear that week. Mean Joe Greene and Jack Lambert must be losing their minds. They wore one uniform of one color every game, every season – brown mud.

I feel like a player dogpiled by ads, marketing, media, the League itself, players: all demanding more, more, more attention from me. Watch me, see us, buy this, bet on that, support our social justice causes, wear our throwbacks (except the Redskins), pay attention NOW and ALWAYS to football!

And I feel tired of it all, tired by it all. I don’t want to keep up, I don’t want to watch, I don’t want to bet. It feels like yet another Dave Matthews Band album. I’m exhausted and I’m making the only act of protest I can – turning off the TV more and more.

When I purchased Football, I also bought two other books on the game: The Football 100, examining the best pro players of all-time; and Why We Love Football by Joe Posnanski. After Klosterman’s Football, true to my sentiments about the game itself, I put the other two away on my bookshelf, unopened and barely touched. One book on football was more than enough for this year.

And I take comfort that pitchers and catchers begin reporting on February 10th.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll still watch the Super Bowl this weekend (Go Patriots). I still think the Hall of Fame voters should be publicly censured for not voting in Bill Belichick on the first ballot. I’ll still laugh at these football quotes:

“I mean, it’s like the hokey pokey. Put your right foot in, you take your right foot out, you put your right foot in, you shake it all about. You do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around. Boom! That’s what it’s all about.” – “John Madden” talking with David Letterman, not quoted in Klosterman’s book.

“When you see butt sweat like that, you know that guy is giving his all.” – John Madden, also not quoted in Klosterman’s book.

“This is a football.” – Reportedly said by Dan Dierdorf. Or John Madden. Or in spoofs of them. Also not quoted in Klosterman’s book.

And some of my favorite times next season, and every season, will be when Stephen A. Smith dons his cowboy hat and cigar to laugh his ass off following another loss by the Dallas Cowboys.

@stephenasmithWell, well, well. I reckon those COWBOYS have just been eliminated from the playoffs 😂😂😂😂

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Miscellaneous Miscellany

• ’s 10 reasons to read great literature in 2026 — and every year.

• Last year, I wrote a review of the war diaries of Lieutenant General Geoffrey Keyes, an important aide to General George S. Patton, among others, during the Second World War, for the Army Historical Foundation.

• Last summer, Ferris Bueller’s vest sold for pretty much the cost of an average American home.

• A good beginner’s guide to the Ramayana and Mahabharata. (h/t Marginal Revolution)

• investigates how China became the world’s largest shipbuilder.

• Cal Newport examines those morning routines you think you should be doing.

• New books in my library: The Philokalia: A Selection; Jane Eyre (thanks, Charles!); Emma: 200th Anniversary Annotated Edition; What Would Socrates Say? (thanks, Neil!); East Goes West (thanks, Mark!); The English and Their History; and Swann’s Way (thanks, Jesse!)

• Oh, you’ve never seen Tom Hanks and Dan Aykroyd rap? Well, now you have.

(This article contains Amazon Affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases, which means by buying from these links, you are supporting Solvitur Ambulando. Thank you!)

A few years ago, a friend gave me a pamphlet for Holy Hills Hermitage, a small retreat center about 90 minutes from Louisville. In the midst of my Mom’s declining health, and other hustle and bustle of life, Holy Hills called to me – to pause, to take a step away, to immerse myself in the natural sounds and sights I’d felt a deep yearning for.

In the earliest days of autumn, I drove down for a day. The Hermitage was barely a year old when I visited, but I instantly felt at home and at peace. I spent only a few hours, but they fulfilled and restored me. I walked. I visited the pond and perched for a long spell on a nearby bench. I simply stayed still. I walked through the then-tiny Memorial Tree Garden. I wrote in my journal. I listened.

For a few hours, I felt, and felt surrounded by, stillness and peace.

I returned for a day in the summer of 2024. Again, glorious nature and happy tranquility.

As Mom’s health deteriorated in late summer 2025, I spent a night at Holy Hills. That time, surrounded by peace, brought courage to my heart so that I could be with Mom, fully – as starkly as any mortal can be with someone as they cross the passage into eternity – in her final days. At the least, I felt better prepared in my heart because of that visit to the Hermitage.

I really can’t speak highly enough about taking even a few hours away, even once a year. We are bombarded – assaulted – by the synthetic din, noise and brightness in our modern lives. Even a brief time away helps restore our hearts to balance.

Late last year, I happily joined the Board of Directors of Holy Hills Hermitage. I look forward to helping it thrive as a retreat center of natural beauty, to encourage inner stillness and revered connection with our inner and outer worlds.

If you live near Louisville, I encourage you to spend a few hours or an overnight or two or more at the Hermitage. (Even if you don’t live near Louisville, it’s a place worth traveling to!) Or find a quiet, perhaps very small, place of refuge near your home.

For more details about the Hermitage, check out the FAQs or reach out to me. To inquire about a retreat for an individual or small group, please reach out to the Hermitage Manager.

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Happy New Year! 2025 turned out to be a wonderful year of reading for me — I delved into Traditionalism, re-learned what a joy and fun great literature can be, renewed my deep affection for that greatest of fictional (?) detectives, and continued my readings in mythology from around the world. Also for the first time since college, I read several books in community. I wondered how much I would enjoy reading in a book club and in other communities. It turned out: I loved it! What a fantastic expansion of my reading experience in 2025!

Below you can see my reviews of the books I read in the fourth quarter — and links to Q1, Q2 and Q3 are below them.

May this New Year — 2026 — bring you joy, friendship and fulfillment. And of course I hope you enjoy a beautiful walk today, and every day. Onward! A Joyful New Year to all the world!

1. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

“But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated”

“He is so gentle, yet so wise”

“My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in my temperature they were turned not toward childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn....It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn.”

“I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.”

Published in 1818, over two centuries ago, the Gents Books Club read this novel in October, but alas, I could not attend the meeting. I felt the loss keenly as I found this book attractive and repulsive.

My dominant takeaway: Even 200 years ago, people could grasp the potential terrors incumbent on a society which had abandoned even the pretense of initiation for men. Beware the merely self-educated. Beware the man of genius without a guru, guidance, limits. Beware the uninitiated man.

2. Dracula by Bram Stoker

“When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at first, but on learning that I was English he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil eye.”

I read Dracula this year along with the Substack, Dracula Daily. I’m glad I did so — it demonstrated the actual lapsing of time in the story and offered a new way for me to experience the novel. But overall I liked the Daily Dracula far less than reading the novel. Reading the novel assures a certain tension, a particular drama of events that I found lacking when stretched to the actual 6 months. Still, if you have never read Dracula, ah, ah, ah, my friend....you simply do not know what you are missing. So light a fire, rest your feet on an Ottoman, and take heed of the supernatural in our all-too-fragile natural world.

3. The Secret History by Donna Tartt

““It’s a terrible thing, what we did,” said Francis abruptly. “I mean, this man was not Voltaire we killed. But still. It’s a shame. I feel bad about it.”

““Well, of course, I do too,” said Henry matter-of-factly. “But not bad enough to want to go to jail for it.””

Another book read by our Gents Books Club. In the 30-plus years since its publication, it has garnered an enormous cult following — podcasts dedicated to it, online groups, Reddit subs and much more. As one of our bookclub friends noted, it so clearly portrays a thin moment in time in a very specific setting. And the book does so with wonderful success. For me, the book provides a meditation on the young, especially young men, living in a society which has forgotten how to initiate them, or why such initiation played a crucial societal role for thousands of generations. And ultimately the book raises difficult questions about the advisability of smart, talented young men walking around in that uninitiated state. And the supreme danger of young men attempting to initiate themselves. Any thoughtful observer knew Napoleon’s days were numbers once he crowned himself Emperor. Even Jesus let Himself be baptized by another. We cannot initiate ourselves into the mysteries of this universe.

4. The Essential Ananda K. Coomaraswamy

5. Am I My Brother’s Keeper? by Ananda K. Coomaraswamy

6. Selected Letters of Ananda Coomaraswamy

“What better homage to his [Coomaraswamy’s] memory can one find than to join him in striking a blow or two in the battle of Kurukshetra, which is ever with us? No need to look far afield for opportunities; one’s daily occupations, one’s home with its furnishings, how one spends one’s leisure time, what one chooses to wear or not to wear and for what reason, all these things together contribute a field of battle adequate to the powers of any normal person” – Marco Pallis, in his Prologue to The Essential Ananda K. Coomaraswamy

“As for Hinduism and Buddhism, Plato and St Thomas Aquinas, you see differences where I see essentially sameness.”

“In any case, let me say, speaking for Hindus as to Christians, that even if you are not with us, we are with you.”

These three books offer excellent introductions to Coomaraswamy’s views on the Perennial Philosophy. Looking back, I should have read them before his book Hinduism and Buddhism, and now I will go back and re-read that book. Comaraswamy is a tough, cogent, hard-hitting writer, unyielding in his hard questioning of philosophers, religious figures and writers who dare to write of the great traditions of the East without having read and studied their magnificent Scriptures in their original languages. In that sense, his writings become a beacon of humility — a suggestion that we come to evaluate more honestly that which we do not know. And in doing so, we prostrate ourselves in fitting humility before the Divine Mystery of the Universe. Coomaraswamy has thus already become one of the great teachers of my life.

7. The Way and the Mountain by Marco Pallis

“[O]ne of the commonest obstacles in the way of spiritual development is the existence, in greater or lesser measure, of a contradiction between the outward and inward life of the being.”

As with Coomaraswamy, 2025 represents my introduction to Marco Pallis. His Peaks and Lamas might be my book of the year. I loved this book of his essays as well. Pallis traveled to Tibet in the 1930s and 1940s, and eventually became initiated into Tibetan Buddhism, taking the name Thubden Tendzin. Like Coomaraswamy, he viewed the essential rightness of the Perennial Philosophy, or, as he called it, Tradition. He found himself especially drawn to the Tibetan Buddhist manifestation of that Tradition — or did it call to him? — and he spent the greater part of his life bringing a more profound appreciation of that Tradition to the West.

8. Set Your Story Free: The Writer's Guide to Freewrite edited by Annie Cosby with Colin Butts

“Just let the thoughts flow.”

Since I began using Freewrite devices, I’d wanted to read their manifesto, as it were. Good overview of “freewriting” and why it offers a useful approach for writers. As I’ve written elsewhere, nothing has affected my writing process as much as Freewrite this year. An excellent, and needed, addition to my process.

9. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

““It’s Christmas Day!” said Scrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can.””

My full review of my 30th annual reading of this lovely story is here. My old political philosophy professor, Fr. James Schall, S.J., used to say that if you’ve only read a book once, you really haven’t read it. My 30th reading of this book made me wonder whether he meant to say, “If you’ve only read a book 29 times, you really haven’t read it.”

10. A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

“Like all other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.”

For Christmas, I received the Lego Sherlock Holmes book nook set. I delighted enormously in building it and now it happily resides in my library next to my Holmes collection of books. Even though I’d read The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes early this year, the build inspired me to re-read this first Holmes novel. Ah, I delighted in reading the words of “John H. Watson MD, late of the Army Medical Department,” as he introduces us to this curious character, this “consulting detective,” who has so palpably affected our imaginations for well over a century.

(This article contains Amazon Affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.)

You read a book 29 times and you know it, right? I mean, you hear a song 29 times, and you’ve memorized it — every word, every chord, every beat. Right?

As I read A Christmas Carol this year — my 30th annual reading between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve — it increasingly dawned on me that I had missed a fundamental part of the story. Sure, I read it and I knew it. But I didn’t truly internalize it or appreciate its significance.

What had escaped me for nearly three decades?

Scrooge transformed in one night.

““What’s today, my fine fellow?” said Scrooge.

““To-day!” replied the boy. “Why, CHRISTMAS DAY.”

““It’s Christmas Day!” said Scrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can.””

In fact, from the first scene to which the Ghost of Christmas Past transports Scrooge, we can tell some magical alteration is afoot. He instantly becomes giddy at the sight of his old school:

““Good Heaven!,” said Scrooge, “I was bred in this place. I was a boy here!”

““Your lip is trembling,” said the Ghost, “And what is that upon your cheek?”

“Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him where he would.

““You recollect the way?” inquired the Spirit.

““Remember it!” cried Scrooge with fervour — “I could walk it blindfold.””

He behaves so differently, so contrary to how we view him at the beginning of the book, that he already appears as an altered man. The rest of his experiences with the Three Spirits complete this rehabilitation. The book ends with Scrooge waking up on Christmas Day as a totally new man:

“He became as a good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew”

The message I took from this year’s reading — change, improvement, reform, redemption — can happen quickly. In a day, a night, a weekend.

And not only in one aspect of life. Many of them, or even all of them. Scrooge had become submerged in many sins — greed, avarice, unfeelingness toward his fellows, profound remoteness (“secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster”), single-minded focus on himself and his money, and venomous miserliness. The Three Spirits did not chisel away at one of these sins during the night. They thrashed all of them. All at once. So that when he rose on Christmas Day, his old self lay in ruins — completely, to the core. His new self had emerged, a sun to brighten the remainder of his days. It reminds me of G.K. Chesterton’s description of the arrival of St. Francis of Assisi, a symbol of the end of the Dark Ages:

“While it was yet twilight a figure appeared silently and suddenly on a little hill above the city, dark against the fading darkness. For it was the end of a long and stern night, a night of vigil, not unvisited by stars. He stood with his hands lifted, as in so many statues and pictures, and about him was a burst of birds singing; and behind him was the break of day.”

Scrooge still engaged in business — his profits allowed him to assist the Cratchits and Tiny Tim. He still made money — enabling him to donate to the less fortunate. But all these aspects of life had gained a new perspective. He had attained perspective and understanding. He was reborn as a new Scrooge on that Christmas Day.

To be clear, we witness two changes by Scrooge: his “reclamation” from curmudgeonly scoundrel to noble friend, employer and citizen; and also — earlier in the novel, through his experiences with the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present — his devolution from seemingly normal young English lad to “a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner!”

While his magnificent reform transpires in one night, his devolution from regular schoolboy into the unfeeling Ebenezer Scrooge takes time. We do not see it in the visions of Scrooge as a schoolboy, or even as an apprentice with Fezziwig. We only see his degradation in the exchange with his then-fiancee Belle.

“For again Scrooge saw himself. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice. There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall.

“He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a mourning dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“”It matters little,” she said softly. “To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and, if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.”

“”What Idol has displaced you?” he rejoined.

““A golden one.”

“”This is the even-handed dealing of the world!” he said. “There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!”

“”You fear the world too much,” she answered gently. “All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?”

“”What then?” he retorted. “Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you.”

“She shook her head.

“”Am I?”

“”Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor, and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You are changed. When it was made you were another man.”

“”I was a boy,” he said impatiently.

“”Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are,” she returned. “I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this I will not say. It is enough that I have thought of it, and can release you.”

“”Have I ever sought release?”

“”In words. No. Never.”

“”In what, then?”

“”In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us,” said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him; “tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? Ah, no!”

“He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition in spite of himself. But he said, with a struggle, “You think not.”

“”I would gladly think otherwise if I could,” she answered. “Heaven knows! When I have learned a Truth like this, I know how strong and irresistible it must be. But if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl – you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were.”

“He was about to speak; but, with her head turned from him, she resumed:

“”You may – the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will — have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. May you be happy in the life you have chosen!”

“She left him, and they parted.”

Presumably this devolution takes time — years, or at least many months. Belle knows herself and what she’s about. She seems unlikely to have begun dating Scrooge, or become engaged to him, if she’d perceived that Gain would take over his life in the way it ultimately did. And so his decline occurs during the time of their courtship – at least from what we witness going ourselves alongside the Ghost of Christmas Past. So he declines over a year, or maybe two or three. He declines further, steeply, after Belle exits his life.

Scrooge does not perceive his change as a deterioration. He views it as more exactly appreciating the ways of the world, and what the world needs or demands. Belle — and the Ghost of Christmas Past, and we, and Scrooge alongside the Ghost of Christmas Past — clearly view it as a steep moral descent.

How, I wonder, am I different today than I was yesterday? To me, I seem the same. I perceive no difference. But what does my wife, for example, see that I do not? What do my daughters see that I do not? Or my friends? Am I really the same man today as I was yesterday? Or the day before? Or the year before? Or a decade before? I do wonder, what would they say?

I might want to ask those questions. As a dear friend once said, objective self-criticism is very hard.

Dickens suggests moral decline takes time. But again, all these years I’d missed his view of reform, or improvement.

I, for one, have this view that self-improvement takes time. Months, years, even decades — chipping away at flaws, sanding out the rough edges, tackling one area then another, and then the next.

Again, my key insight was that Scrooge reformed in one night. Nearly instantly. So perhaps Dickens has something to tell me about how I should go about my own betterment.

Don’t take my time. Do it all at once. Now.

Because, like Jacob Marley, maybe there are no Ghosts coming for me.

If you’ve never read A Christmas Carol, you will love it! You can read it in an evening. If you have read it before, consider reading it again this holiday season. You may look at it — and the world, and yourself — differently this time. Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays to all the world! A Very Happy New Year, and “as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!”

Welcome to Solvitur Ambulando, which means “Solve It By Walking.” On this journey, we explore the alchemic potency of walking for sorting through life’s puzzles, exploring our world, and transforming ourselves. Like a good walk, you will encounter distinctive ideas, remarkable people and gorgeous scenery. I hope you will enjoy a beautiful walk today. And if you like what you read and hear, please

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Brrrr…Louisville got hit with a 4” snowfall this week — a veritable blizzard for us. Temps haven’t risen above 35 degrees all week. When nature sends that signal, I head straight for my tea bin. I need a hot beverage to thaw my insides and purple hands. And for that noble purpose, nothing in the world beats a cup of holiday-season-inspired tea. 

Over the years, I’ve found my favorites. A couple of years ago, I decided to expand my horizons and test out some new Christmas teas. My reviews – brutal, honest, firm – are below, with a few updates.

Whatever tea you choose this holiday season, may it give you warmth, cheer and joy!

Five Christmas Stars

Louisville Tea Company Christmas Morning

Save the best for last, right? Nope, I am saving the best for first. This is the greatest tea ever of all time, Christmas or no Christmas, and that’s a hill I’ll die on.

First, the look. Huge chunks of almond, apple, orange and raisins. It isn’t a sprinkling of flavor – it’s a wonderful, gorgeous mixture. I smelled every one of them too – and cinnamon, cloves and safflowers. Louisville Tea Co. gets the combination perfect – a delightful blend, a harmony in which each flavor buttresses the others and none overpowers the compound. 

I steeped the tea and it came out a gorgeous, deep brown. Every ingredient appeared on stage. Lovely to behold in my clear teapot. After the steeping, I could smell each ingredient distinctly. The citrus of the orange peel. The sharp sourness of the apple. The sparkle of the cinnamon. And on and on. 

It smelled of Christmas morning: snow on the ground, Santa had visited, trees and decorations lit, beaming smiles on all our faces. It smelled exactly like Christmas morning.

Oh the first sip. The first resplendent sip. A dram of angelic joy. 

Like the look and smell, the flavor on the tongue flawlessly mixes each ingredient into a miracle in a cup. A burst of orange. A stick of cinnamon. They all meld in my palate in lovely accord.

I have loved this tea since my first sip a few years ago. Each year, I eagerly (aggressively?) await its return to the Louisville Tea Co. shop. It is one of the true highlights of my year. 

Four Christmas Stars

Taylors of Harrogate Spiced Christmas Tea

One of the most affordable teas on this list, this tea comes in individually packaged sachets or as loose leaf tea. I tried the sachets. The orange came through strongly with both the smell and taste of this tea. The aroma reminded me of orange and powdered sugar – a fine, light hint of the sweetness at the end of an inhalation.

I steeped it for about 4 minutes, during which the water turned a pleasant reddish brown – less dark than many black teas. I like that color a great deal and usually like teas that steep to that color. 

This tea was no different. The smell and taste blended really well into satisfying sips. The orange came through, a slight sourness on my tongue to complete each sip.  It almost reminded me of an orange pekoe tea, which I enjoyed about 20 years ago, but rarely drink now. Maybe this Taylors Spiced Christmas Tea subtly returned me to those more youthful days. 

I drank this tea in a mug a friend sent me. The first cup in a new mug always provides a warm and special experience. The mug, like the tea, reminded me of good, even noble, days of my past – days which had passed, a life which had passed, and would never return. But the memory did not fill me with sadness; rather, as I emptied my cup, the memories stirred up by this tea and this mug poured into me with gratitude for my unique path.

Twinings Winter Spice Herbal Tea

A unique tea in this list, Winter Spice is an herbal tea and therefore caffeine free. After many days tasting black teas, this one came as a welcome retreat from that flavor profile. Instead, Winter Spice delivers a refreshing, clean, subdued experience. The tea bag doesn’t really smell like much. Even after steeping it in hot water, the smell remained subtle and delicate.

The tea bag advertises the tea as containing “a sweet apple flavour and savoury cinnamon, cardamom and clove spices.” I could detect the apple and clove as hints, deep in my cup after many sips. The cinnamon and cardamom never came through for me. 

But no matter. It smelled and tasted of a dainty floral arrangement, which I enjoyed thoroughly. The tenderness of the flavour (in keeping with this tea’s British heritage) became a pleasant prompt to slow down, to enjoy, to savour this cup of tea. I took the hint and decelerated. 

I’m probably fooling myself but my body doesn’t really respond to tea having or not having caffeine. I felt this tea calling to me as a British gentleman might:

“I do say, my good man, you don’t always need that rush of caffeine to enjoy a fine cup of tea. Sometimes you just have to take it easy. Take it easy with time. Take it easy with the body. Take it easy with the mind. Sit down and enjoy this cup.”

So after drinking this tea, I didn’t miss the caffeine. I welcomed its pretty floral experience and its (or his) invitation to simply enjoy. 

Twinings Christmas Tea

The clove and cinnamon smell and taste came through with more punch in this Twinings tea. There was a nice balance between the flavors. And they came through in smell and taste. 

Again I heard the British gentleman calling out from this cup:

“I do say, my good man, sometimes you do need a jolt of the good stuff. Revs you up, I might say. Yes, that’s it, revs you up. Can you pass the teapot, my good sir?” 

Yes, the British gentleman has a point here too. A wee bit of the ole caffeine sometimes helps too. 

The Twinings Christmas Tea makes a solid, fine cup. Well worth enjoying.

Harney & Sons Holiday Heritage Colonial Williamsburg Blend

This tea comes in triangular sachets. Opening the container, a potent scent of cinnamon hit me – almost like a nice cinnamon gum. The sachets contained a deep, dark black tea and chips of cinnamon. Really lovely. No orange in this one or at least orange wasn’t mentioned and wasn’t apparent. 

Cinnamon dominated this tea, in smell and in taste. The tea steeped to a rich darkness. The cinnamon smell wafted from the steaming cup. And, unlike several teas in this pseudo-advent calendar, the cinnamon flavor came through beautifully in the taste of the tea too. 

That consistency between the smell of the tea unsteeped, the smell steeped and the taste made my day. It announced the cinnamon triumphantly with the first note, and the entire ballad rang clearly and loudly of cinnamon. I really loved that consistency in this delicious cup of holiday tea. 

Three Christmas Stars

Harney & Sons Celebration 

Thirty sachets come in a sturdy white and blue tin. It smells of nuts and dates and apricots. The nuts – walnuts and chestnuts to my nose, did smell nice. But the smell and the taste, like many teas in sachets, seems flat to me – without definition. Two dimensional. Many little tea particles floated in the water – something I’d expect more with a loose leaf tea.

Harney & Sons Holiday Spiced Black Tea

This tea comes in a lovely, sturdy tin. The red counterpart to the blue “Celebration” tea. Curiously, the sachets were less sturdy. I tore two of them as I peeled the small label attached to the string away. 

In smell and taste, the dominant ingredient here were the safflowers. The chocolate and tobacco milieu of the safflowers really came on strong the moment I opened the tin. Steeping the tea and then drinking, again those notes came out, especially the slight bitterness of the chocolate dimension of the safflowers. Then the sweet smell of hung, drying tobacco wafted out delicately at the end of an inhalation or a sip. 

Other flavors mentioned – orange peel, vanilla flavor, clove, almond and cinnamon – did not come out for me. Still, the safflowers made for a different twist on the holiday black tea theme. 

The Republic of Tea Hallmark Channel Countdown to Christmas

Inspired by my friend Bryan McGrath’s enthusiasm for Hallmark Christmas movies, I wanted to try out this tea. The front of the tin proclaims in big letters, “Cardamom Cinnamon.” Opening the tin, the smell of cardamom came on strong and thick. A rich, earthy tone. After a few breaths, the cinnamon came through too – faint and distant, but present.

Again, after steeping, the tea smelled strongly of cardamom. The cinnamon did come through, if possible even fainter than before. Tasting the tea, the cardamom was very strong. The cinnamon seemed to have disappeared. 

Still, I found that earthen taste pleasant on my tongue. And while it did not contain caffeine, the heavy smell and taste of cardamom braced me as if it did have caffeine. I enjoyed the tough jolt of this cup, different from most caffeine free teas, which tend to favor a delicate, light and airy profile.

I wouldn’t drink the tea every day, and when I do drink it, it will probably be no more than a cup. But for a break from my normal teas, or on an especially frigid morning, this tea would be perfect. I think back to the frigid days we had throughout much of the United States before Christmas in 2022. Yeah, this would have made for a hearty, warming, soul-reinforcing tea on those days. 

The Republic of Tea Comfort and Joy Tea

This tea comes in little round sachets, like most of the teas from The Republic of Tea. Opening the tin, I caught a big whiff of orange, apple and cinnamon. So I felt excited to try this tea. I steeped it for about 4 minutes, and appreciated the sweet, orange aroma from my cup.

This tea did remind me of the Taylors Spiced Christmas Tea. It aimed at similar spice notes. Alas, the smell is the highlight of this tea. The tea itself fell flat for me; the flavors simply didn’t pop like the ones in the Taylors tea did. No taste notes lingered in my mouth after swallowing. The tea tasted bland, almost plastic-y, almost like a bottle of water had stayed out in the sun too long. 

My wife and I sometimes note that the spices included in Blue Apron meals don’t really add much flavor – yeah, we add them to the meats or shrimp or veggies – so the color changes but the taste of the food doesn’t. I felt the same way about this tea. The spices, so evident in the delightful aroma, didn’t come through in the tea itself. 

Elmwood Inn Christmas in a Cup

A lovely tea from Danville, Kentucky. The tea comes as loose tea or in sachets. I tried the loose leaf version. I opened the tin and peered down into gorgeous black dried tea leaves, along with specks of cinnamon and chunks of orange peel. What a sight!

To me, the tea smells almost like a nice bourbon ball. A dark flavor, yes, like chocolate. But then a hint of the sharp and yet sweet bourbon at the end of the inhale. I really enjoyed the aroma. 

It steeps into a rich, dark color, gorgeous to behold. In the tea, the cinnamon came through, but the orange did not. It tasted more like a straight up black tea. 

I sunk my nose deep into the cup, intent on reclaiming the glorious smell. Yep, it was there. But for some reason, that delightful smell didn’t translate into the cup. Disappointing.

Still, I enjoyed this tea. And as you can tell, the aroma – crisp, orange-y, with the cinnamon coming through on top of the orange – made my morning tea experience pleasant and full of winter smiles. 

Two Christmas Stars

Oliver Pluff & Co. Holiday Blend

I find it confusing when the smell of a tea does not match the look of the tea leaves. This tea contains: black tea leaves (check); orange peel (check); cinnamon chips (check); and “flavoring” (whatever that means). When I opened the tin and took in a whiff, I smelled….nothing. Well not exactly nothing, but no spices, no “flavorings.” Only, at best, a simple, unadorned black tea. 

Same after steeping the tea – no aroma to write home about. Same about the taste of the tea – it tasted like…nothing more than a plain, cheap black tea. I took a few more sips, wondering if the flavor would emerge gradually. A full cup drained and nothing changed. 

It was an odd experience. The sight of a lovely tea was there, but no smell and no taste. I’ll pass on this one in the future.

One Christmas Star

Celestial Seasonings Nutcracker Sweet

With a maker named Celestial Seasonings, I expected the sugary breath of the immortal gods to gently and lovingly sigh out from this tea. I expected little flakes of angelic gold to steep out, floating into a harmonious and calming pattern of divine invention. I expected a veritable experience. 

It smelled and tasted like something firmly ensconced in the soil. No, that’s not right. It tasted like soil. 

The listed ingredients: “Black Tea, Natural Vanilla Flavor with Other Natural Flavors and Cinnamon.” 

I got a touch of vanilla. No cinnamon. Almond, while not listed as an ingredient, shows up on the box. I did detect almond – burnt almond. “Other Natural Flavors”? Who knows what that includes? Maybe cow dung. That’s a natural flavor. Maybe soil. Again, a natural flavor.

Whatever was or wasn’t actually mixed in, this tea was easily my least favorite of this holiday tea tasting extravaganza. Skip this one – you have far better holiday tea selections in this big wide world. 

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