November 1st, 2026

 
   It is All Saints' Day for us Catholic League kids. It is also Autistics Speaking Day.
  That second one hits particularly close to home for a father raising an adult son with autism.
   I could have taken the easy way out this morning. I could have chalked something about National Calzone Day, National Cinnamon Day, or even World Vegan Day.
   I decided to tackle the Almighty, autism, fatherhood, and the American family. All before my proper Sunday breakfast.
  Today's quote tells us that the task ahead of us is never greater than the strength within us. I have spent a good part of my sixty years trying to understand that.
       For me, it comes down to four words.
              His will be done.
  My Catholic faith has always taught me that the Heavenly Father doesn't abandon us when life gets difficult. He gives us the strength to face what is put before us, even when we aren't particularly convinced we have that strength.
      Sometimes, I think He has a peculiar sense of humor.
    Consider the American family portrait. We have all seen those pictures on Facebook.
    There is the perfect family. Everyone wearing matching sweaters, flashing big smiles on a ski trip somewhere or they are standing on the sidelines, huddled around Jimmy after his last football game at Saint Basil's.
    Mom and Dad are holding hands. The kids are smiling. Even the dog is looking at the camera. Everything is wonderful.
     Then there is the other family portrait.
 The husband is standing on one side of the picture, and the wife is as far away as humanly possible on the other. Both are wearing tired smiles.
     One kid is looking off to the side, refusing to make eye contact with the camera. Another is slumped over in an anarchy T-shirt, with sadness in his eyes. The youngest is standing off to the side with a shit-eating grin and a nonchalant middle finger.
    There is an ashtray on the table, a couple of empty beer cans, and a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes in the background. Nobody thought to straighten up before taking the picture.
    We have all seen those plastic, I mean, perfect family portraits, and we have seen the messy, upside-down ones.
   The trouble is that we have a habit of assuming the first family has everything figured out.
No drama, no police reports, no bad grades, no affairs, and no financial problems. Just matching sweaters and happy endings.
     Photographs don't tell us much about what happens after the camera is put away.
    That second family might have a child with autism who doesn't particularly care to look into a camera. Another child might be struggling with sadness or feeling overlooked because so much attention goes toward a sibling who needs extra help.
      And the third kid?
        Well, maybe he is just struggling to get through the shitshow.
  Meanwhile, Mom and Dad have drifted so far apart that the distance between them in the photograph is the least of their problems.
   Look back a few years ago, and you might find pictures of those same two people standing together, young and in love, convinced they had the whole world figured out.
     Life has a way of rearranging the furniture, and sometimes it knocks the dysfunctional house upside down.
   My family looks a lot more like the second picture. The parents are rarely photographed together. One of my children has struggled with sadness. Another is trying to find his way through life. And the oldest talks loudly, talks constantly, and notices things the rest of us never seem to see.
     His name is George and he has autism.
 Five years ago, that kid climbed onto his bike in the middle of the night and rode six miles through some sketchy neighborhoods to come live with me in Riverside.
   He hasn't left my side since and there is a decent chance he will be with me until the day I rejoin my parents.
   I am not chalking this to brag about my fatherhood or bitch about the hand I was dealt. I am chalking it because the Heavenly Father knew George and I needed each other.
    George talks loudly, often nonstop, and rarely seems to listen to a fucking word I say, but he notices the little things.
    Things I walk past every day without giving them a second thought.
He sees details I miss. He understands things that leave me scratching my head.
     When my home computer starts flickering while I am trying to buy a thousand put spreads, George gets it working for me.
      Here is the part of George that means the most to me.
  Almost every night, he comes into my bedroom, tucks me in, and tells me he loves me.
    …And that is something.
Because when I tell George I love him, he generally responds with one of two things.
    "Okay."
       Or...
        "I know."
     That is George.
  Love expressed on his terms, in his own way, and on his own schedule. I would not trade those moments for any matching sweater photographs.
    I don't know why some families seem to sail through life while others spend their days bailing water out of the boat. I don't pretend to understand all of God's intentions. There is a reason George and I are together.
   Maybe I am supposed to teach him how to navigate this world, and maybe he is supposed to teach me how to see it.
     Perhaps we are both works in progress.
  That is where today's All Saints' Day comes into the picture.
For us Catholic League kids, the saints remind us that holiness is not reserved for people who lived perfect lives. It is found in sacrifice, patience, forgiveness, perseverance, and love.
     Sometimes those things are practiced in a messy kitchen, with a sink full of dishes, by people who are simply doing their best to get through another day.
    I have come to appreciate those imperfect family pictures. What you see is what you get, and I have learned not to assume the perfect family photographs are telling the whole story, either.
   Every family has its own bullshit and shenanigans. Some just have better lighting. The real difference isn't between families who have problems and families who do not.
     It is what we do with the problems we have. Whether we show up. Whether we forgive. Whether we love each other when loving each other is not particularly easy. Whether we remember that the person standing next to us might be fighting a battle we know absolutely nothing about.
        So, Chalkheads, remember this.
   Every one of us has something stressful jagging up our lives. That is why Chalkhead Nation needs to support one another.
     Straight on, without judgment, and without the bullshit.
    His will be done.
     Go get some gusto and know that November brings astonishment.

October 31st, 2026

   
    It is the last day of October. It is Halloween, and it is the final day of daylight saving time.
    While we are sleeping tonight…
        …well, while I am sleeping and some of you are stumbling home from Halloween costume parties, our clocks will turn back an hour.
   All this really does is rearrange the lightness and darkness in our days.
It doesn't give us another hour of life. It simply moves the daylight around.
    I have been thinking about that hour and the new arrangement we will be living with for the next 133 days.
   We won't move our clocks forward again until March 14th, 2027. There is quite a bit on the calendar between now and then.
  We start with an opportunity to rearrange our government at the ballot box this coming Tuesday. Then comes Armistice Day, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, and the arrival of 2027.
           And, for some of us, Dry January.
   That is a lot of living to squeeze into 133 days, but I have been thinking that these next four and a half months might also give us an opportunity to rearrange some of the darkness and lightness in our own lives.
    I have been calling it wintering these last few years. A time to work on both my heart and my soul. A time to take inventory of what I have done, what I have lost, what I have learned, and what I still want to accomplish. A time to figure out where the fuck John Shepley fits into this whole scheme of things.
             … And believe me, that remains a work in progress.
   I am not going to chalk out a list of suggestions or some grand master plan for how we should all go about wintering. We each have our own ways of cleansing, healing, reflecting, and finding a little peace.
Some of us need solitude.
Some need company.
Some need forgiveness.
Some of us simply need to forgive ourselves.
     I am going to make one recommendation.
            Just one.
               Buy new lightbulbs!
  I have got these lightbulbs around my home that brighten and dim with a remote control. They change colors, moods, and the whole atmosphere of a room. Tonight I am going orange for Halloween.
    The next few weeks, in particular, are going to be increasingly dark. The sun will disappear earlier, the evenings will stretch longer, and winter will begin settling in around us.
      We can't do much about the darkness outside our windows, but we can do something about the light inside our homes.
   And maybe, just maybe, that is a pretty good place to start.
                Buy new lightbulbs!

October 30th, 2026

 

Today's quote mentions two things I do a shit ton of, worry and pray.

    I tend to pray the most for those I worry about the most. The funny thing is that I don't worry about myself nearly as much as I did when I was younger.

    The prayers for myself these days usually involve catching that green light up the road or asking the Good Lord to help the Bears and White Sox win a few more games.

    Apparently divine intervention has its limitations when it comes to touchdowns and homeruns.

   I have also learned not to sweat the small crap that is beyond my control. Some things aren't mine to decide, and no amount of worrying is going to change that.

         So, fuck it.

       There is a certain freedom in accepting that.

   On this date in 1938, Orson Welles frightened a good portion of America with his infamous radio adaptation of The War of the Worlds.

    He used a medium that was still relatively young to convince his audience that Martians had invaded New Jersey.

    It became one of broadcasting's earliest examples of the power of media to create panic, although the extent of the hysteria was greatly exaggerated.

    Nearly ninety years later, we have perfected the art of frightening ourselves. Only now, instead of Martians invading New Jersey, we have twenty-four-hour news channels, social media prophets, and keyboard bullies convincing us that the world is ending before breakfast. We have either come a long way or dug ourselves one hell of a deep hole.

    I still listen to those old radio programs every Saturday afternoon on WDCB. I have been listening to Those Were the Days since I was a little boy sitting on my Oldman's lap.

       Just like that, October is packing its bags.

   This is it, Chalkheads. Turn those clocks back this weekend. The season of wintering is upon us.

      There is a silver lining…

      Twenty-four-hour Christmas music returns to 93.9 FM next week.

A little Sinatra, a little Bing, a little Wham and a reminder that there is still some good in this wacky world.

     Finish October strong, Chalkheads.

            Worry a little less. Pray a little more and be ready for the gusto and astonishment waiting for us in November.

October 29th, 2026

 

    A cat that dreams of becoming a lion must lose its appetite for rats…

   We all spend part of our lives chasing things that eventually lose their appeal. What seemed important at twenty doesn't necessarily matter at forty, and by sixty, you begin to wonder why you wasted time chasing stupid shit in the first place.

   A lion doesn't become a lion without hard work and instinct. He needs to change his appetite and hunting patterns. He has to stop settling for the trivial things that keep him from becoming something greater.

       And that is the trick to growing older. Knowing when to stop chasing rats.

     Today is National Oatmeal Day.

   I enjoy a hot bowl of oatmeal a couple of times a week. My ma made me a bowl on the first day of school every year, from kindergarten through my senior year at Dear Old Cathedral. From Sister Balthazar to Father Kelly... 

  ...seventeen years of first-day jitters, Catholic girl uniforms, freshly sharpened pencils, and a bowl of oatmeal made by someone who loved me.

   The Board of Trade cafeteria made a helluva bowl of oatmeal. Nothing hit the spot like a steaming bowl after a bitter winter walk from the Lake Street el to the opening bell in the bond room.

   Back then, I was a young lion with an enormous appetite. I wanted to make money, make a name for myself, and make my way in the world.

     Forty years later, I still have some of that appetite, but the menu has changed with wisdom and instinct.

   This morning, before heading off to work, I got to kiss both of my sons and tuck them in. I spoil those two magnificent bastards, and I make absolutely no apologies for being their Oldman.

     Funny how life works. You spend your younger years trying to become a lion, only to discover that life's greatest pleasures are as simple as a bowl of oatmeal, a mother's love, and kissing your children goodbye before the sun comes up.

     Maybe the lion's greatest accomplishment isn't what he manages to catch. Maybe it is what he learns to cherish.

        Gusto and astonishing performances today, Chalkheads!

October 28th, 2026

 

        You got to pray just to make it today…

   Stanley Burrell might not be the first person you think of when it comes to spiritual guidance, but the man had a point.

    It seems that over the last few days, I have added more people to my prayers.

My morning prayer.

My driving-to-work prayer.

My biscuit-break prayer.

My teatime prayer.

My nighttime recap prayer.

    Apparently, my prayer list is growing faster than my Christmas list.

 I think it is pretty clear to the Chalkhead Nation that I am a foul-mouthed Catholic kid.

   I have been getting paid to scream and yell for forty years. Bids, novenas, offers, and litanies. I have a deep Chicagonese accent, a vocabulary that I picked up as an altar boy, and I am pretty fucking fond of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

   In fact, I catch her having breakfast with my ma and gramma when I am saying my driving-to-work prayers.

     I like that picture. Three women that I love sitting around a kitchen table somewhere in heaven, having a cup of coffee, a cinnamon roll, sharing some gossip, and shaking their heads at the bullshit going on down here on earth.

   Especially my shenanigans and stunts…..

   Today, I thought I would share my driving-to-work prayer with the Chalkhead Nation.

    Of all the prayers I say throughout the day, this is the only one that remains the same.

    Every morning, word for word.

  It needs to be uniform because, while I'm concentrating on my faith, I also need to concentrate on the road.

     After all, I don't think the Good Lord wants me rear-ending somebody on Mannheim Road while asking for a little divine intervention.

    So here it is. Never shared or heard in public before this morning. Someone should notify Geraldo Rivera.

      Jumbo’s Driving-to-Work Prayer.

Good morning, God.

Good morning, Jesus.

Good morning, Mary and Joseph.

Good morning to all you angels and saints and all my brothers and sisters who have gone up to heaven before me.

Look down upon me and bless me.

Forgive me of all my sins.

Give me the strength to be a better person today and know how much I love you.

Look down upon those who have asked me to pray for them.

Look down upon those for whom I have promised to pray.

Look down upon Jojo and Uncle Bill out in Wyoming and his family.

Look down upon Terese and George and Fritz and Hazel.

Look down upon my Uncle Chris, my Aunt Barb, my cousin Ann and her family, my cousin Trish and her family, and my cousin Chucky.

Look down upon all my dear and close friends.

All those who have come around through the years and, at one point, thought that I was kind of special.

Look down upon my colleagues, my neighbors, and my acquaintances.

Bless them all.

Give them the strength to get through this day!

 … and let the devil know I plan to fuck up his day today.

Amen.

     It isn’t a fancy prayer or something Leo is going to repeat in the Vatican. There aren't any big theological words or passages from Scripture. It is just a conversation between a Catholic kid from Saint Ita and the people he believes are listening.

      I do not pretend to understand how prayer works. I do not know why some prayers seem to be answered while others leave us scratching our heads.

    And I sure as fuck don't believe that saying a prayer guarantees that everything is going to turn out the way we want.

    But I do believe there is something powerful about taking a few minutes out of your day to think about somebody other than yourself.

To remember the people who are struggling.

To remember the people who are sick.

To remember the people who have lost somebody they love.

     And to remember the people who might just need a little help getting through another Wednesday.

   Maybe prayer changes things. Maybe prayer changes us. Maybe it is a little of both. I don't know because prayer is just another mystery of our faith.

    Somewhere between Riverside and Heaven, every morning, I have a conversation with Papa God, His long-haired Son, the Holy Ghost, and the Blessed Virgin.

   I ask them to forgive me for yesterday, help me be a better man today, and keep an eye on the people I love.

    Somewhere up in heaven, I like to think my ma and gramma are finishing their breakfast with the Blessed Virgin Mary. My ma is probably apologizing because I still swear too much.

       And Mary is probably smiling and saying…

                    "Cecilia, at least your boy remembers to call."

     Have a wonderful Wednesday, Chalkhead Nation. If somebody crosses your mind today, say a little prayer for them.

    It doesn't cost anything. You don't need to make an appointment, and you never know how much they might need it.

     After all, you got to pray just to make it today.

                                     2 Legit 2 Legit 2 Quit.

October 27th, 2026

 

       I have come to realize that there will never be peace on Earth.

   Even though Sister Balthazar taught us how to sing “Let There Be Peace on Earth” back in kindergarten.

   The history of mankind suggests otherwise.

Blacks and whites have spent generations fighting over race. The Irish and English have centuries of bad blood between them. The Polish and Germans, China and Japan, Turkey and Greece, India and Pakistan, Russia and Ukraine and Islam against everyone.

    Different countries. Different religions. Different centuries.

                       Same old hatred.

   History books will continue to write chapters devoted to war.

      The next line in that song Sister Balthazar taught us all those years ago is the one that matters the most.

      “And let it begin with me.”

     That is the part I have come to understand through my life.

      Peace has to begin with me. Not Trump or Putin. Not Netanyahu or Ayatollah Assaholla. It begins with the fat kid from Edgewater.

    Before I can bring peace into the world, I need to make peace with John Shepley, and that has not always been the easiest thing to accomplish.

     I have spent sixty years getting to know him. His shortcomings, his mistakes, his regrets, his triumphs, and the occasional good decision.

   Somewhere along the way, I have come to realize that making peace with yourself doesn't mean pretending you haven't made mistakes along the way.

    It means accepting that you have, learning from them, and getting on with living.

       Peace begins in my heart, grows in my home, trickles down to the Shepkids, and follows me around town.

   I need to be the guy who brings a little peace to the people who cross my path.

     Sometimes peace is nothing more than a kind smile, a firm handshake, or handing a shopping cart to someone at Aldi.

   Peace also means making certain that the jagoff turning into the Jewels parking lot without using his directional has been properly informed on the purpose of a turn signal.

      I am still working on that particular part of inner peace.

   This morning, I found a little peace when Van Halen came blasting out of the radio on Two for Tuesday.

    You might as well jump, followed by a reminder to run from the devil.

Not bad advice from Diamond Dave before sunrise. Sometimes peace is that simple.

    One of my favorite bands from my younger days. A strong cup of coffee. A quiet moment before the rest of the world wakes up and starts acting like the rest of the world.

  Peace is easy to find. Making peace work is another matter.

    This morning, I chalked three ancient words for peace in the grabber section.

            Shlama. Shalom. Pax.

            Aramaic. Hebrew. Latin.

    Different languages, different civilizations, and thousands of years of human history.

       All searching for the same thing.

    Maybe Sister Balthazar knew something back in kindergarten that it has taken me sixty years to understand.

I can't bring peace to the entire world, but I can bring a little peace to my piece of it, and maybe that is where it all begins.

    Let there be peace on Earth.

                  And let it begin with me.

October 26th, 2026

 
 I like the moon.
    I like what it does every month…
     … Or, technically, every twenty-nine and a half days.
   I like its folklore, its mystery, and the uniqueness of the names we give each month's full moon, and don’t forget the occasional Blue Moon.
     What I really like about the moon is that it belongs to all of us.
  I like knowing that a friend in England, Tennessee, Indiana, Montana, or Texas can step outside, look up, and see the same moon that I am looking at.
   We might not be sitting in the same backyard. We might be separated by hundreds or even thousands of miles, but we are standing on the same planet, looking up at the same sky, and somehow, that moonglow brings us a little closer together.
   October's full moon is called the Hunter's Moon, although I have always associated the October moon with Van the Man Morrison.
  There is something about a Moondance underneath the cover of an October sky that makes it a marvelous night for romance.
        Van understood that.
  I am a Cancer, which means, according to the zodiac, I am ruled by the moon. In fact, Cancer is the only zodiac sign ruled by the moon. The rest of you are lined up behind planets.
     That explains a few things about me.
  Maybe that is why I get sentimental. Maybe that is why I occasionally find myself staring into the night sky, contemplating life, love, and everything in between.
    Hell, I probably cry watching Brian's Song because of the moon.
  Speaking of moons, all my former lovers and exes have witnessed the legendary Shepley Moon.
   Usually in the morning, when I climb out of bed and make the long journey across the bedroom to put on my trousers.
    Not exactly the celestial wonder we are discussing here, but a full moon, nonetheless.
   From here on out, whenever you look at the moon, I want you to think of me. Think of me standing somewhere, looking up at that very same moon.
Just don't think about those few awkward steps between my bed and the dresser.
     Some things are better left to the imagination or on my OnlyFans page.
  The Hunter's Moon is October's contribution to the nighttime sky, and Saturn will be keeping it company.
    Then comes November's Beaver Moon. Yes, I have a sophomoric observation about that particular name, but in a rare display of maturity, I am going to let it pass.
   December brings the Cold Moon, illuminating the winter sky and perhaps helping Santa Claus find his way through the neighborhood.
     While the days are getting shorter, that doesn't mean I am putting the sun up on the shelf.
    I love the sun. I love what it does for my disposition, and I intend to enjoy every minute of daylight Mother Nature gives me, but these longer autumn and winter nights offer something special, too.
     They give us more time to appreciate the moon.
  There is something wonderfully reassuring about its predictability. It waxes, it wanes, it disappears, and it returns.
     Month after month. Year after year.
  Long before any of us arrived, that moon was hanging above the people who came before us…
     …and long after we are gone, it will be shining down on those who follow.
  The same moon that illuminated the evenings of our grandparents now shines over our children.
   The same moon that watches over Riverside shines above England, Tennessee, Indiana, Montana, and Texas.
    And for a few moments, no matter how far apart we might be, we are all sharing something.
A little moonlight.
A little wonder.
A little reminder that this enormous world isn't quite as big as it sometimes seems.
      I love big butts, and I love full moons.
  One of those observations is more profound than the other.
I will let you decide which.
    Tonight, step outside. Look up and find the moon.
   Think about someone you love who might be looking at it, and remember, even darkness gives the moon room to shine.
    Enjoy its gusto and astonishment and do not forget to smile at the sun when it returns from behind the clouds.

October 25th, 2026

 

   When I had my first apartment in Oak Park, I did my laundry at a laundromat up the block.

   Back then, I stuffed my dirty clothes into an old duffle bag I bought at the Army/Navy surplus store in Forest Park.

    I am chalking today's Morning Chalkboard from a laundromat up the street from where I live today.

     Thirty-six years separate these two laundromats.

     Thirty-six years packed with a career, bachelorhood, marriage, fatherhood, family, divorce, and back to bachelorhood.

          And apparently, back to the laundromat.

   When I was doing my laundry in 1990, I was embarrassed that I couldn't wash my clothes in the comfort of my own home.

    When you are twenty-four and working at a place where everyone seems to be making a shit ton of money, you don't exactly feel like you are setting the world on fire schlepping an old duffle bag of dirty laundry into a coin-operated laundromat on Oak Park Avenue.

     One of the older guys at work told me he took his laundry to the cleaners. They washed it, folded it, and had it ready for him after the closing bell.

    I tried that a couple of times.

    It was lush.

  Unfortunately, it was also a little beyond the budget of an arb clerk working in the ten-year pit.

   So, back to the duffle bag and the quarters.

   Here I am at sixty, schlepping two big bags of laundry into another laundromat.

   I'm not sure why a twenty-four-year-old needed one bag and a sixty-year-old needs two. I do know they seem a hell of a lot heavier these days.

      But something else has changed.

  The laundromat no longer carries that little badge of failure I pinned on it when I was young.

    I'm not embarrassed to be doing my laundry at six o’clock on a Sunday morning.

     In fact, it has become a peaceful little ritual.

  There is something satisfying about the hum of washing machines, the smell of clean clothes, and having absolutely nowhere else you need to be.

    The technology has made it a helluva lot easier.

      In 1990, I needed five bucks in quarters and a box of detergent.

   Today, an app takes my money, starts the machine, and dispenses the detergent and softener.

   Thirty-six years of progress, and I am still watching my underwear go around in circles.

    Which brings me to the words on today's chalkboard.

      "Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild…"

  Those words belong to William Butler Yeats, who wrote of escaping the troubles of the human world.

   At twenty-four, I was desperate to escape the laundromat. I wanted the house, the washer and dryer, the money, and all the things I thought would prove I had finally arrived.

   Somewhere along those thirty-six years, I got many of those things.

      I also lost a few.

    That's life, that’s what all the people say.

 At sixty, I realize that the things I once thought were signs of success weren't necessarily the things that made life successful.

   The young man with the duffle bag was so busy worrying about where he wasn't that he couldn't appreciate where he was.

    The old man with two bags knows better. Maybe Yeats was onto something.

  Sometimes we need to come away from the noise, the expectations, and the endless comparisons that clutter our lives.

  Sometimes the waters and the wild aren't some magical place far away.

  Sometimes they are at a laundromat on a quiet Sunday morning.

  Sometimes it takes thirty-six years to discover that being back where you started doesn't mean you haven't gotten anywhere.

   Especially when you've got all your laundry finished before seven in the morning.

    A special shout-out to JoJo on National Mother-in-Law Day!

 I might not be married anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't still have a mother-in-law to keep an eye on!

   More importantly, I want to make sure JoJo continues spending time with the Shepkids. Divorce might change the family arrangement, but it doesn't erase the family connections.

      And those connections are worth keeping. Happy Mother-in-Law Day, JoJo!

      Finally, Chalkheads…

      …enjoy this last Sunday before we turn the clocks back next weekend.

 Next Sunday, November 1st, we get that extra hour of sleep, but we also start surrendering our late-afternoon sunshine.

    So get outside today, soak up a little autumn, and enjoy the daylight while we've got it.

    There is still plenty of living to do before the sun goes down.

Have a fanfuckingtastic Sunday.

Go at life with gusto and astonishment and don't forget to put a smile on the sun!

October 24th, 2026

 

         It depends on how you look at it…

What an incredible philosophy to find in a friend’s father’s obituary. A few words that say a shit ton about how someone chose to live.

            It reminds me of how Joni looked at both sides.

     Think about it. Two people can look at the same situation and see entirely different things. One sees an obstacle while the other sees an opportunity. One sees a rainy Saturday as a ruined weekend. The other sees an excuse to stay home, make soup, and read a good book.

    Neither is wrong, they are simply looking at the same world through different windows.

    An obituary is an odd place to discover a lesson about perspective. After all, the person whose life is being remembered has run out of tomorrows, while the rest of us are still busy worrying about ours.

        At twenty, sixty seemed ancient. At sixty, twenty seems like yesterday.

  When we are young, we measure life by what lies ahead. As we grow older, we begin measuring it by what we have experienced. The disappointments that once seemed catastrophic become stories we tell at Thanksgiving dinner. The ordinary afternoons we barely noticed become the memories we would give anything to revisit.

    That is the great gift of growing older. We begin to understand that happiness is not always about changing what is in front of us. Sometimes it is about changing how we see it.

    I wouldn't suggest that everything in life can be simplified by looking at it in a different light.

    Death is death, grief is grief, and a broken heart still hurts, regardless of the angle from which you examine it.

        …But perspective can change what we carry away from all of those negative experiences.

    We can look at the death of someone we love and see only the years we will not have together anymore. Or we can look at that same life and feel gratitude for the years we did have together.

      Both feelings are legitimate and both can exist in the same heart. Maybe that is what makes those eight words so powerful. We spend the first half of our lives trying to change the world around us and the second half discovering that sometimes all we needed to change was the way we looked at it.

     This morning, I found eight words in an obituary that made me reconsider the day ahead.

                 It depends on how you look at it….

  The sun rises in the east whether we are happy or miserable. The clock keeps ticking whether we are grateful or complaining. Another perfectly good Saturday is sitting outside our front door, waiting to be lived.

            It depends on how you look at it.

    And the beautiful thing is, we get to choose.

       I choose gusto and astonishment. I choose to love rather than hate. I choose to see the blessings before the burdens. Because Sunday October 25^th isn’t promised, but Saturday October 24^th is sitting right in front of my big ass.