See where your intuition leads you.

The ability to know before knowing and to choose ‘correctly’ without knowing why was a gift I took for granted. The number of times I ignored intuition, however, used to outweigh the times I followed my gut.

How often do you do something for all the ‘right reasons’ despite the loud voice of warning coming from that irrational place? How often do you say afterward, ‘I knew I should have…!’

I usually run screaming from the word “should” unless it rises up from that place without explanation. Navigating by intuition used to be something I did only when traveling and that’s why it was such a drug for me. Now I at least listen to that voice, the urge, that ‘wild notion’… even if I don’t always follow.

Nonsecular Spirituality

You’re about to enter the realm shared by the curious and the zealotry, the seekers and the close-minded, the believers and the fanatics, the prophet and the heretic… the realm of spirituality. I hope you can stay afloat. Fortunately for me, my family taught me how to swim.

See, I’ve had to finally admit that I am a spiritual person on a spiritual path and these musings are the first step I see to sharing that journey. But don’t worry too much; I’m still a smart-ass, sarcastic ‘cheeky fellow’ so I’m sure that this conversation won’t get too deep… or rather, to out there… or in there.

After all, I did find god in a septic tank; that’s quite the irreverent start.


When Coming Home Takes 23 Years

Laying in my bed at 1:30 a.m., I hear the sound of home. From my apartment on Hawthorne Boulevard the train whistle is more distant than when I was a child in Aloha, but the feeling is the same.

Like most boys, I was fascinated by trains, particularly their mass and myriad of moving parts. The sight of one no longer impresses me but the idea of trains — running on America’s arteries feeding the capillaries of roads and the red blood cells of semis — still fascinates me. The tracks were not far from my home on Southwest 175th Avenue in Aloha 23 years ago and I can recall the typical Portland sight of a train snaking along with steady deliberation for what seemed like a hundred miles and, of course, waiting at the flashing gates for what seemed like an eternity.

The train whistle is part of what tells me I am home.


Why KC?

Surely this question (or ones of similar variety) has crossed the mind of many after hearing that I moved from Portland, Oregon–the preferred destination of much of the hipster migration–to Kansas City, Missouri, the epicenter of… well, fountains? Meat slathered in BBQ sauce? Terrible sports teams? Jazz?

Truth is, KC was way cool a mere 70 years ago or so but now it is relegated to a lower-eschelon “cool city” status in the part of the country that my friend Marty refers to as the “flyover states.” In other words, it is no Chicago or Minneapolis or even Madison or Ann Arbor. So, again, why KC?

The answer starts a little over two years ago.

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