So how do we look at the people who didn’t follow him? The everyday folks: scribes, healers, stewards, craftsmen, breadmakers—people doing their best to survive, focused on their own lives. People who didn’t have time for some strange man on the corner with a message.

Jeremy’s back in a mental health hospital. Again. I’ve lost count of how many times this has happened since his first break from reality—the month before he turned 21. He’s 38 now. It feels like a never-ending struggle.

We’ve forgotten how to talk — really talk. We whisper, we posture, we translate our words mid-sentence for fear of offending someone who isn’t even in the room. But if we can’t even say what is, how are we supposed to talk about what could be better?

Are there ever enough wind chimes? Now, if you ask my husband, the answer is a resounding, “Yes—about 15 wind chimes ago!” If you ask me, the answer is, “Of course not!”

But today, Breeze had me all to herself. There was no need for possessiveness, no vying for position. Benny was busy… pouting. You see, I had the unmitigated gall to give him a bath.

My coworker and BFF announced on Zoom this morning, “I’m a pluviophile.”The word pluviophile rolled out of her mouth like a secret society password. I half expected a thunderclap and a butler to appear with an umbrella.

But when I checked the moisturizers, they had separated. The skincare equivalent of a divorce.

Her jade-green head tipped into the kitchen, silver highlights catching the oven’s glow, nostrils flaring on a scent that wrapped the room like a promise. Cookies.

Yes, it was a land positively dripping with Splendid Things. The only hitch—and you can always count on a hitch—was The Rule. Nobody was to say anything that might unsettle the general atmosphere. Not a peep. Not a whisper. Speak truth and, it was believed, the rivers would sulk and turn an unbecoming shade of brown. So everyone went about with fixed smiles and polite coughs, like distant cousins forced to share a parlor sofa.

Breeze is a big, active dog who needs those walks as much as Rick does. Rick doesn’t get the zoomies in our yard — spinning donuts, throwing dust up with his feet — without them, though. Breeze does.

Next thing I knew, I was handed a whole recipe. Did I ask for a recipe? No, I did not. But that’s ChatGPT for you — forever assuming I don’t know how to bake. I only wanted validation that pumpkin, sunflower seeds, chocolate chips, orange zest, and a pink lemonade cream cheese drizzle would work together.

Rick and I were chatting this morning, as we often do when he's had just enough coffee to string sentences together and I haven’t yet been pulled into some digital rabbit hole. He told me he'd seen a lizard he’d never seen before.

The other day my husband and I were driving home from Houston. Long drive, empty freeway, podcast playing—because apparently we’ve reached the age where podcasts feel like entertainment. This one was about Egypt. Some archaeologist talking about discovering a massive underground labyrinth.

I don’t know what’s going on with the planets right now—maybe Mercury’s retrograde is doing cartwheels, or Mars has its warrior pants on—but I cannot sit still. I’ve been bouncing around the house like a human Roomba with a short attention span.

I woke early this morning thinking about Queenie. But to understand Queenie's story, I need to start with Betsy. We had a wonderful dachshund named Betsy.

But the sandwich came disassembled. A cellophane-wrapped slice of bread—thick, square, the shape and consistency of Texas Toast—and a plastic cup with a scoop of chicken salad. Nothing more. No lettuce, not even a napkin.

I’ve heard and read so much over the years about the major hate toward Crocs, and honestly, I don’t get it. I mean, they’re not made from actual crocodiles.

They just sit there, looking innocent, as if butter and sugar were perfectly ordinary things that had no intention whatsoever of forming a conspiracy. The oven hums along, pretending it’s just a metal box and not a device with ambitions of culinary tyranny.

I’m not trying to win a Pulitzer. I’m just trying to find my words — and thanks to a few digital tools, I’m finding them again.

And no matter how many Christmases come and go, he will always be — without question — the best Christmas present I’ve ever received.