Grappling with life’s purpose and discovering meaning in the smallest moments. My seventies have been a peculiar period. Life has felt routine in many respects—so ordinary and uneventful that it seems barely worth noting. I find myself pondering questions like: Why are we here? What have I accomplished? What’s the meaning of it all? Realizing there may be no real answer brings a sense of quiet resignation, more from fatigue than any profound revelation, yet there’s still some relief. With limited time ahead, you may as well savor what’s left.

In the end, I suppose, we all arrive at the same conclusion—centuries of humanity gradually coming to terms with the absurdity of it all.

I explored various creative paths in my younger years; however, I’ve since let go of most of them, including being an artist and professional photographer.

Now, I’ve embraced simplicity, using only my iPhone. These days, I mainly capture portraits of Aspen, my dog. Friends occasionally ask for a shot when I bake, but I’ve stopped photographing meals. I focus on flowers from our walks and my feet in the sand from last year’s beach trip, and I rarely take photos of myself.

My images are now shared with just a tiny circle of close friends. The dream of shooting for a book I once imagined has quietly faded.

Aside from my volunteer work, writing remains my primary creative outlet. I still have plenty of words and ideas to share, and I don’t doubt their value. Yet, I often wonder what impact my writing truly has. With millions of voices expressing similar thoughts, the world keeps spinning. Will anything change because of a single piece of writing? Or am I just another drop in an endless ocean—unremarkable and unnoticed—gradually fading into the background noise of humanity as it drifts toward oblivion? It’s not as grim as it might appear. Acceptance is a healthy response, especially when the alternative has been living in illusion.

Once you stop obsessing over the “why” of it all, you can begin to appreciate life’s simple pleasures for what they truly are.

Each day is a random miracle—a fortunate chance that you’re here on this planet, at this moment, in relative comfort, experiencing both the good and the bad.

As for the alternative, that’s a story for another time. Even a mediocre day is undoubtedly better than no day—ask those nearing the end.

The comedian Garry Shandling, a practicing Buddhist, once said that our purpose is to express ourselves, and perhaps that’s the most we can hope for.

Perspective is a powerful thing. I wouldn’t say I’m excelling by any conventional measure. There’s no big success or impressive fortune—just another person walking the same familiar road, hoping for sunshine and a good meal. Today, the weather is perfect—sunny and mild. I’m writing outside, listening to music mixed with the sounds of birds and passing cars. Life undoubtedly throws its hardships at all of us, yet it also brings moments of simple joy. Yesterday’s highlight of my day was watching a group of seven-year-olds play soccer. The game was as chaotic as you’d imagine—a swarm of little ones circling the ball, unsure of what to do except kick it. It was wonderfully absurd. The rest of my day was spent cooking, walking with Aspen, and working on a website design project for someone I know. Funny enough, web design was part of my career in the ’90s when I worked for companies like Avery Labels, BP Oil, and Safeway. Who knew those skills would come in handy later in life? It keeps my creative juices flowing, and, hey, it’s better than digging ditches. Everyone needs something to help pay the bills after retirement, right?

Throughout my creative journey, I’ve been almost entirely self-taught. Whenever I wanted to explore something new, I figured it out—mainly through trial and error. Over the years, I’ve dedicated 10,000 hours to taking classes and mastering various skills to support my work in educational coaching, advocacy, and coaching. I’m proud of my success in starting my own company and thriving in that field for 30 years. By December 2023, I felt it was the right time to step away, having accomplished more than I ever imagined. Last year, while on sabbatical, I quietly decided to step back without making any formal announcement.

The passion had faded, and the drive just wasn’t there anymore. I felt I had accomplished everything I set out to do, and anything beyond that seemed unnecessary. So, I returned to writing—my first love and the one creative pursuit that has stood the test of time for me. Most writers aspire to be published, whether it’s through articles, magazines, novels, or investigative journalism (my personal favorite).

Even when it’s not an explicit goal, it lingers as an eventual aim or at least a quiet desire. Yet, publication is no guarantee of anything and, indeed, not a clear path to success. It’s simply another milestone on a long journey. It offers validation, sure—but the validation of what, exactly, remains uncertain. I believe that as I continue to grow as a writer, my ambitions will expand, too. I’ll aim for bigger projects, like writing a book or two, exploring broader themes, and connecting with a wider audience.

I’ve always believed that the most effective way to tell a grand story is through a series of smaller ones. This approach has been at the core of my work in starting this blog. As the saying goes, “The only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.”

You can’t take on the whole thing at once—it’s overwhelming. However, you eventually get the job done by breaking it down into manageable pieces.

In writing, the details weave together to form a larger, honest, and authentic story. You don’t start by telling someone’s entire life story. Instead, you begin with a single moment—a memory or realization tied to a specific time and place—and expand from there.

We don’t recount every meal we’ve ever had but focus on that one unforgettable flavor we’re always trying to relive. The small, seemingly insignificant moments often linger with us the longest.

The more specific a personal story is, the more relatable it becomes to the audience. It may seem counterintuitive; however, the more detailed a story is, the more accessible it feels. The authenticity in those details allows readers to connect, often substituting their experiences in place of the story being told.

We all share much of life’s journey, and it’s in the specifics that we recognize our shared humanity—the emotional highs and lows, the setbacks, and the victories. Even if we haven’t lived through the exact event, we understand the feelings behind it and can relate.

Something is refreshing about embracing simplicity—letting go of the urge to scale the mountain and instead focusing on a single flower in the meadow below.

We often overlook the small things around us, dismissing them as mundane, when in reality, they might seem extraordinary to someone with a different background or perspective. We don’t need to explore the entire universe when a walk through a park can offer the same revelations. Ultimately, we’ll arrive at similar conclusions, so why not begin with what’s right in front of us?

I recently revisited Anne of Green Gables, Lucy Maud Montgomery’s classic. Near the end, Anne confides in Marilla, her adoptive mother, that she’s still the same imaginative girl at heart despite growing up. The difference now is that she keeps more of that imagination to herself, using fewer and simpler words. It’s not because she’s lost any part of herself but because she’s learned to channel her creativity and expression more effectively, becoming more precise and focused.

There’s a lot of wisdom in applying this mindset to many aspects of life. By focusing on the details, we naturally uncover the bigger story—about humanity and our curious place in the universe. That’s my new approach: to remain true to myself, with the same goals and ideals, but to see how small I can go. I want to focus on the little things, the world right before me—close to the heart, simple, small.

It’s a small world, after all.

“It’s a Small World” is the iconic theme song for the Disney Parks attraction of the same name, composed by the Sherman Brothers in 1963.

A cover of the song by Baha Men was featured on the Around the World in 80 Days soundtrack.