“There is no Frigate like a Book / To take us Lands away.”
Emily Dickinson wrote these words in her quiet room, understanding something I didn’t grasp for decades. The greatest journeys begin within.
I know her poem only because of my 11th grade AP English teacher, Mr. Cox. As a rambunctious and cocky 11th grader, would I have taken any of my “super valuable” time to read poems, sonnets, short stories, even books? No way.
But because of his work (and the work of countless other teachers along the way), I did read. A lot. I learned tons of material and information that didn’t matter to me at the time…but matter a lot today.
My focus back then was simple. Be the best student, get the highest test scores, pass as many AP tests as possible, and earn varsity letters in multiple sports. Mostly, I wanted to beat everyone else, pure and simple. It helped that I was blessed with an almost photographic memory and could recall facts and formulas with ease (sadly, not so much nowadays).
I carried that mindset into college. I loved being the student who defined the grading curve for the class. I was annoyed if I didn’t get every single point on an assignment, midterm, or final. I had an almost uncontrollable drive to outshine everyone…as if that was all that mattered.
I was completely wrong.
On the bright side, that drive and motivation made me a successful student and propelled me into my early career.
On the other hand, seeing everyone as my competition, and less as people, meant I probably missed out on a lot of fun. And lots of friendships that never happened. I was so focused on the destination that I forgot to notice who was traveling with me.
That realization connects me back to Dickinson’s frigate in ways I never expected. She saw the book as a vessel capable of carrying anyone, anywhere, without cost or permission. But what I’ve learned over nearly fifty years since high school is that I was asking the wrong question. It was never “How far can I go?” It was “Who am I becoming, and who’s helping me understand?”
My journey from that hyper-competitive teenager to what I hope is a much more caring, thoughtful, empathetic, nuanced, and life-giving person has been propelled by those same teachers I mentioned earlier, and a longer line of guides who keep showing up at the right time in my life.
I didn’t realize it then, but those books, poems, and teachers were all part of my fleet of frigates. Each one quietly helped me close the distance between knowledge and understanding, between my ambition and wisdom.
My mentors, family, and friends have all been vessels that carried me through changing seas. Some taught me to sail straight into the wind. Others reminded me that drifting for a while can be part of my journey as well. Each lesson mattered, even the ones that didn’t make sense at the time…especially those.
Over time, life has a way of sanding down our sharper edges, revealing something deeper underneath. My focus slowly shifted from being the best at something to becoming the best version of myself.
Now, when I think about Emily Dickinson’s frigate, I picture something far greater than a book. I picture a lifetime of learning, carried by the people who invested their time, wisdom, and patience in me. Mr. Cox, and others who gave freely of their time and wisdom, helped me see that the destination isn’t solely becoming the top of the class. It’s finding a profound depth of understanding, the expansion of empathy, and the ability to see beauty and meaning in small, unexpected places.
If I could go back and talk to that 16-year-old version of myself, I’d tell him the real tests aren’t scored on paper. They’re graded every day in how we treat people, how we listen, and how we show grace.
I’d tell him that the frigate he thinks he’s steering alone has always been guided by grace. The true measure of his voyage will be how much space he makes for others to come aboard.
We’re all learning to sail, carried by the steady hand of God.
There are some paintings that do more than just depict a subject. They capture an entire story, an entire lifetime, in a single moment. This piece is one of those rare works that demands to be seen. It grips its viewer, pulling them into a world of experience, emotion, and wisdom.
I see far more than just an old man with a pipe. I see the passage of time written across his face. Lines carved by laughter, sorrow, resilience, and acceptance.
His piercing gaze holds stories of joy, regret, belief, triumph, failure, love, admiration, and appreciation. His expression speaks of a man who has not just existed but has truly lived, embracing all that life has offered, both the good and the bad.
Beyond his gaze, I see a hand that tells a story all its own. His hands have endured hard work. They’ve held the people he loves. These hands have fought, and they’ve also comforted. They are worn, yet steady. A testament to a life of resilience, labor, and tenderness.
His grip on the pipe isn’t just a habit. It’s a ritual. A moment of reflection held between calloused fingers that have stood the test of time.
I didn’t know Richard Hatch personally before his recent passing. But I can see through his painting that he had a remarkable ability to portray humanity on canvas. He wasn’t just painting a face. He was capturing the soul of this man for each of us to see.
Every brushstroke tells a story. Every shade of color conveys emotion, and every detail reflects a life filled with lessons. His is the kind of art that doesn’t just sit on a wall. It reaches out, starts a conversation, and lingers in your mind long after you’ve looked away.
Our days become years, our years become decades, and before we know it, our decades are a lifetime. This painting reminds me of that stark reality. Not in a sad way, but in a way that urges me to embrace every moment while I can. To live fully, to love deeply, and to accept this journey for the adventure that it is.
Mr. Hatch’s painting reminds us of the beauty in aging, the dignity in experience, and the wisdom of acceptance.
There’s a line in a Frank Sinatra song that asks if we’d like to, “…carry moonbeams home in a jar.” A crazy idea. Moonbeams can’t be contained or put in a jar, but their magic can be carried home just the same. What if we could carry home the kind of wonder and light that moonbeams represent?
Life throws challenges at us every day. Deadlines. Difficult conversations. The relentless tug-of-war between expectations and reality. Yet, amid the noise, we often stumble upon moments of beauty. Unexpected acts of kindness, moments of connection with strangers, or simply a sunrise or sunset that stops us in our tracks. These are moonbeams.
Have you ever met someone for the first time and felt their kindness so deeply that it stayed with you? Maybe it was a stranger who gave you directions with a smile, a colleague who truly listened, or someone who saw you struggling and extended their hand. These are glimpses of humanity’s greatness. Magic moments where we see the best of who we are reflected in someone else.
What if we made it our mission to carry that magic home with us?
It’s easy to bring home the worries of the day. Our frustrations, our stresses, our nagging self-doubt. But alongside these, we can also bring moonbeams: the small, bright moments of beauty, hope, and love that we encounter every day. We can share the wonder of a chance conversation, the joy of something new we learned, or the inspiration we felt when we saw someone overcoming adversity.
Carrying moonbeams is about being conscious of what we pass on to those we love. It’s about choosing to share curiosity instead of cynicism, gratitude instead of grumbling. It’s about being the explorer who brings back stories of the world’s beauty to share with those at home, inspiring them to see the magic in their own lives, too.
Imagine if we all carried moonbeams in our metaphorical jars. How much brighter would our homes, our communities, and our world become?
What if we could embrace the day with the motivated curiosity of an explorer. Purposely looking for the moonbeams—the fleeting magic of kindness, beauty, and connection.
Imagine carrying them home to share, not in jars, but in our words, our actions, and our presence.
Because moonbeams, once shared, have a way of multiplying.
Photo by me, capturing a “moonbeam” of a sunrise view outside my kitchen window the other day
Newton’s first law of motion (also called the law of inertia), states that an object at rest will stay at rest, and an object in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by an external force. While this principle is foundational in physics, it can be applied to the way we live our lives.
In our daily lives, it’s easy to remain at rest. We experience moments of doubt and confusion, low motivation, and a natural tendency to avoid change. This mental and emotional inertia can keep us stuck, making it difficult to take action or move forward. Organizations often reinforce this inertia with incentives that promote the perceived “safety” of maintaining the status quo.
As we age, this resistance to movement can become even stronger. We rely on past experiences, often using them as justifications for inaction. “It didn’t work before, so why would it work this time?” This mindset is a barrier to personal growth and fulfillment.
Unfortunately, a life at rest, devoid of risk and new experiences, can become empty and unfulfilling.
Our goal should be to actively push against the inertia holding us in place. This involves taking risks, trying new things, and offering our time and energy to others. Overcoming inertia requires a conscious effort to break free from the comfort of staying still.
The second part of Newton’s law of inertia emphasizes that an object in motion tends to stay in motion. This should be a powerful motivator. Once we start moving in a direction, it’s likely that we’ll continue to do so unless something actively stops us.
Turns out that those around us are battling their own inertia and may not have the energy to impede our progress.
By choosing to move, we can capitalize on opportunities that arise. While others remain stuck in their self-imposed rest, we can explore new paths, achieve our goals, and live our most fulfilling life long before they even notice what we’re doing.
Embrace the motion. Take action. Push past the barriers, especially self-imposed barriers. The world is full of opportunities for those who dare to tap into the Newtonian motion that’s available to each of us…all we have to do is move.
“We must strive to exit our tomb of pessimism.” I heard this phrase echo through the Cathedral during the Easter Vigil homily, a little over a week ago.
As Catholics, we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ every Easter…His triumphant exit from the tomb, three days after his crucifixion.
In a much smaller way, we have a daily invitation to cast off our heavy shroud of negativity. To exit our tomb of pessimism.
To break the shackles of hopelessness and redirect our thoughts toward a brighter horizon.
If everything great begins with a thought or an idea, imagine channeling this power toward an optimistic future, filled with amazing possibilities.
It’s easy to stay in this tomb of our own making, looking through the bars at all the people out there who are clearly happier, more successful, and have all the things we yearn for.
The truth is none of them matter. They have no impact on us…except to show us some possibilities, some ideas, and some pathways that worked for them.
We have the power to rewrite our own narrative, to pivot our lives toward a more hopeful outlook. The choice is ours alone.
Escaping the tomb of pessimism demands courage and resolve. It requires us to confront our deepest fears and insecurities, to challenge the status quo of negativity that has held us captive and kept us comforted for so long.
Yet, it is only by confronting these challenges that we can find the promise of transformation. Only through the struggle that we can discover a new sense of purpose.
Will you remain ensnared in the confines of pessimism, or will you seize the opportunity to step into the light, and walk away from your tomb of pessimism?
Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership 
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