There are a lot of things you can be. In fact, you can be anything you want in this life.

You can be social, or you can be anti-social. You can be an introvert, be an extrovert, or be an ambivert—which is both.

You can be alone. Or you can be a friend.

You can be cautious, be adventurous, be carefree.

Be exhausted, or be lively. Be wild, be peaceful, or you can be aggressive—be, be, aggressive!

You can always be right. A lot of people like to be this. They prefer to be an authority on every subject. These are probably the same people who were told by their parents to “be smart,” “be a winner,” or “don’t be an embarrassment.”

Meanwhile, some people would rather be quiet. Be in the background.

You can be other things, too. You can be a hard worker, be prepared, be responsible, be on top of things, be ready, or be a doer. Or you can be easy going, be chill, or be as lazy as

a house cat.

Then again, you could also be what other people want you to be. You can be a pleaser. You can be obligated. You can be busy, fulfilling everyone else’s needs. Be dutiful. Be committed to all causes but your own.

Or you can just be yourself. You can be free. Be empowered. Be comfortable with who you are. Be invested in your own life.

Likewise, you can be angry. Be upset. Be a victim. Be rageful. You can be crisis-centered. You can be the star of your own life’s movie.

Or you can be selfless. You can be nice. Be humble. Be part of the solution rather than the problem.

Be a helper, instead of a critic. Be a…

They say blind dogs shouldn’t run.

Namely because you can’t run when you’re a blind dog. You might run into stuff. Too many dangers. It’s scary.

Even if your owner takes you to a big park, where there are no obstacles, only a big green field, you still can't run wide-open.

Too many variables. What if you collide with a park goer? What if you get disoriented and run the wrong direction, and head straight into traffic? What if you outrun your owner and then you’re on your own?

Your owner, your dad. He’s your security blanket. You can’t be without him.

So you mostly live a life without running. You walk everywhere very carefully. You have the house mapped out in your head. You know how to move up and down the stairs. You know how to use your nose the same way a blind person uses a cane.

But under no circumstances will there ever be any running. It’s simply too frightening.

Still, here’s the thing. You’re a dog. You’ve got this huge part of your genealogy

that is saying, constantly, “WE NEED TO RUN!”

Your biology is alway screaming at you. That’s part of being canine. Your physiology is perpetually barking important messages to your conscious mind:

“WE NEED TO EAT OUR SECOND BREAKFAST!”

“WE MUST DRINK OUT OF THE TOILET EVEN THOUGH WE HAVE A PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE WATER BOWL WHICH IS KEPT REPLENISHED BY OUR MOM WITH DISTILLED WATER THAT IS FREE OF FLUORIDE AND PURCHASED FROM THE SUPERMARKET!”

“WE MUST REFER TO OURSELVES IN THE COLLECTIVE TENSE AND SPEAK IN ALL CAPS!”

Because you’re a dog. This is just how dogs are.

So it sucks being blind. Because when your canine brothers and sisters go outside, they are…

This story is for a young man named Anderson (12). He knows who he is. And he knows why I’m writing.

Once upon a time, there was a duck named Lucky. He was small and white with a bright yellow bill, and he was born missing one leg.

Lucky was unable to walk on land, but he could swim. In fact, Lucky never left the water. He couldn’t. Thus, while other ducks were on land, doing duck things, eating berries and acorns, Lucky stayed in the water, watching from afar.

He never understood why his mama named him Lucky. It was a weird name for a duck that wasn’t like other ducks. All his brothers and sisters had normal duck names like Donald, and Daffy, and AFLAC.

Lucky wished so badly that he could walk on two legs, like the others. Instead, whenever he tried to venture from the water, he could only hobble a single step, then collapse from exhaustion. Then he’d wiggle back into the water with shame.

One day, Lucky met a turtle

named Billy. Billy was a baby turtle with no front legs. Billy was sitting onshore, watching Lucky swim.

“Swimming looks like fun,” Billy called out. I wish I could swim. But alas, I am a mud turtle, and mud turtles are not great swimmers even WITH all their legs. But without front legs, all I can do is sink to the bottom. Alas, all I can do is scoot along the floor of the forest.”

Lucky replied, “I wish I could scoot like you. But alas, all I can do is swim.”

“Alas,” said Billy.

“Alas,” said Lucky.

Then they both said it together.

That’s when Lucky had an idea.

“Hey, I know!” said Lucky. “Would you like to…

I keep thinking about the Camino. It’s always there. In the back of my mind.

If my brain were a school bus, all the nerdy thoughts would be sitting up front. These are the responsible, grown-up thoughts, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and neckties, performing important tasks on calculators, computing existentially vital equations such as, “Do BLTs actually need the L?”

Meanwhile, all the cool thoughts would be sitting in the back of the bus. That’s where the cool kids sit.

These back-row thoughts represent notions I never have time for because I’m constantly thinking adult stuff like: “The mortgage is due!” “Don’t forget to mow the lawn!” “Make sure you’re wearing clean underwear in case you get into an automotive accident!”

But when I slow down long enough, I find that I’m always thinking about the Camino. The 40-day walk my wife and I made across Spain.

I see it all from a different perspective now.

When you’re on the trail, you’re immersed. You’re living it. You can’t see what it is because there is no “it.” You’re part of

“it.”

You’re saying “Buen Camino” to everyone you meet. And they’re all saying it back to you. You’re speaking Spanish more than English. You’re walking 10 hours per day sometimes. Hotel proprietors are serving you beer for breakfast without the slightest hint of irony.

But when you’re NOT on the trail; when you stand back to view the whole experience, “it” takes on a different light.

I am not the same guy I was when I started the Camino.

Back then, I didn’t think often about my own personal spirituality. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been a spiritual guy. Kind of.

But to me, your spirituality was just a thing. A hobby almost. Like yoga,…

Washington D.C. It was the height of summer. Early July. I was in town for a book event, to make a speech. I had time to kill, so I went to the National Mall.

The National Mall is “America’s Front Yard.” There are thousands of tourists, and even more screaming babies.

One particular tourist, however, stands out in my memory. A young woman who was wearing a shirt that read: “I’m not proud to be an American.”

I get it. Believe me, I do. Everyone is entitled to their outlook. But this was the National Mall. I mean, come on. Really?

The National Mall is definitely worth a visit. You see all the greats.

There’s the Franklin Delano Roosevelt memorial. Good old FDR.

In 1921, Roosevelt contracted an illness that permanently paralyzed his legs. They said he’d never be a politician. They called him names. He used a wheelchair. But he proved his critics wrong. When making speeches in public, he usually appeared standing, leaning on his wife or sons.

He was

the longest serving president. He served four—count’em—four terms.

Then there’s the Jefferson Memorial, a pantheon standing among the cherry blossoms. Jefferson, who so eloquently gave the middle finger to the British crown.

And the Korean War Veterans Memorial. Nineteen statues stand in remembrance of a war that received almost no media coverage compared to previous wars. And yet people forget that 5 million people died. It’s not too late to remember.

There’s old Abe. The “Great Emancipator” himself sits on his chair. A 170-ton statue, composed of 28 blocks of white Georgia marble, rising 30 feet high. “In this temple, as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.”

You have Martin Luther…

Peace. I pray for peace.

Not national peace. Not global peace. Those concepts would be nice, but they are too big for my head to comprehend. No human has ever seen world peace. I don’t even know what it would look like.

So what I pray for is small peace. Tiny, microscopic, unnoticeable-to-the-naked-eye peace.

I’m familiar with this kind. Because I’ve felt it before. So have you. It’s not a completely rare sensation. It’s an inner stillness, beginning in your chest, working its way into your whole body.

Sometimes you feel this peace in the early mornings, before everyone is awake. For a brief moment, without reason, you’re simply not worried about normal crap. You’re not stressed or frightened. In fact, you’re not even wearing pants.

You’re just cool. Everything is cool. Life is cool. God is cool. It’s all cool.

That.

That’s what I’m praying for. Because a guy at peace doesn’t think the same as regular people. Regular people are not at peace. Regular people are terrified. And do you know WHY we’re all

afraid?

Me neither.

What the hell are we so scared of?

But we are most DEFINITELY afraid of something. You can see it all over our faces. Hear it in our voices. Fear. It’s in our TV shows, social media posts, and even in the faces of our kids, who try so hard to fit in, tirelessly trying to keep up with the rest of the mainstream crowd, even though that crowd has the collective IQ of mayonnaise.

I ask myself, what are they afraid of? Moreover, why do we always need to be right? Why are we constantly playing games of one-upmanship? Why are we always looking out for Number One instead of looking out for Number Two, Number Three,…

“I am 10 years old. My name is Peyton. I am a girl. People think Peyton is a boy name. But it can be both. What is your favorite animal? Mine is a dolphin.

“…Dolphins are nicer than people sometimes. People are mean to me at school because I have a speech impediment and I wish I was a dolphin so they weren’t mean. Thank you. Have a nice day.”

Dear Peyton. I agree. Dolphins are at the top of my list. Namely, because they are so smart. And they ought to be, they’re older than Methusala. Literally.

Dolphins first appear in the fossil record about 50 million years ago, only slightly before the birth of your mom and dad. By contrast, humans are in our 300,000th year of existence.

Think about that.

This means the dolphin brain has had MILLIONS of years to improve itself, perfecting its hyper-intelligent design. As a result, dolphin brains are advanced in areas where human brains are not.

Areas like sleep. When a

dolphin sleeps, half the brain sleeps, allowing the other half to remain alert, monitor its breathing, regulate heart rate, etc. This is called unihemispheric sleep, a state of consciousness humans can only achieve during long sermons.

Also, dolphins are more advanced in communication than us. Dolphin language is a significantly complex language, built on a system of squeaks, whistles, clicks, and body language.

We humans cannot begin to understand their language because (a) many dolphin communication signals occur at frequencies 10 times higher than equipment can detect and (b) our species is still busy trying to remember each of our individualized internet passwords.

FACT: The average person has 168 individual usernames and passwords.

Some researchers believe that dolphin communication is so advanced that it borders on telepathy. Seriously.

They were good kids. Mostly. Two boys. Brothers. Lots of energy.

Friends of the family say the boys couldn’t sit still without vibrating. They were always getting into something. To call them “bad” kids would be unfair. They weren’t bad. Not at all. They were simply professional hellraisers.

To be fair, their daddy was a preacher, and you KNOW what they say about preachers’ kids.

Willie, the older of the two, was a senior at Steele High School. He was a good student and an even better athlete. He had plans. Big plans. He was going to graduate, then attend Yale Divinity School and become a minister, like his father.

His kid brother, “Bubs,” was his best friend. They rode bicycles together. They were inseparable. They were smart. They were funny. They were energetic. They brought the party. They had such bright futures.

Until everything changed.

One March afternoon, Willie was playing hockey with the high-school varsity team, when life took a sharp deviation. It was a heated tournament

between friends. All the guys were out on the ice, yelling and laughing. Willie took a stick to the face.

The boy went down. He lay on the ground, covered in blood, crying in agony. His teeth were gone, his mouth and jaw a mangled mess. The bones of his face were shattered. The surgeon had his work cut out.

After the operation, Willie was put on strict bed rest. No more sports. He fell behind on his studies. He stayed home and fell into a deep funk. There were complications after surgery. Willie developed stomach trouble, heart trouble.

Soon, Willie was no longer the picture of adolescent health. He was a shut-in. He dropped out of high school. His future in academia went “poof!”

The boy sat around the…

My dogs sleep all day. It’s just what they do. Except when they’re busy chewing up my 48th pair of reading glasses.

They sleep, sleep, sleep. And amazingly, after a full day of sleeping, they don’t feel guilty about it. Not even a little.

They don’t appear to undergo any self-loathing for laziness. They don’t hate themselves for exhibiting careless unproductivity. They don’t worry about their inability to “carpe” the current “diem.” They just crawl off the sofa, wag their butts, stretch, and go outside to pee on something.

We aren’t like them. And by “we” I mean Homo sapiens, as well as many forms of Congresspersons. “We” aren’t carefree enough to sleep all day.

In fact, we don’t sleep at all. Over one half of Americans are sleep deprived. This statistic continues to rise. Americans already lead the world in consumption of sleep aids and tranquilizers.

Even our children aren’t sleeping. Approximately one third of American children do not get adequate sleep. Some researchers believe this is due to brain patterns affected by electronic devices.

Which

isn’t surprising. The average American child spends five hours on electronic devices per day.

The average adult spends eight.

Still, I can’t help but wonder what life would be like if we took a cue from dogs?

My dogs certainly don’t spend any time on devices. They will, however, occasionally eat one.

Not long ago, my dog, Thelma Lou, ate one of our houseguests' smartwatches. When the deed was done, we were worried about our dog. Our vet said it was no big deal. Then he said immortal words which I shall never forget: “This is just another way for your dog to ‘pass the time.’”

You know what else my dogs do? They sit by the door and wait…

I was in the airport when an AI robot custodian was roving around, sweeping the floor and accepting various bits of trash from nearby passengers.

The robot came close to me. We just locked eyes.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello, do you have any garbage for me?”

I smiled. “No.”

The robot buzzed away.

When I was a kid, artificial intelligence did not scare me. In kid-world, the concept of AI always carried a fun-loving tone. Robots were your friend.

There was Rosie from “The Jetsons.” She was a big, maternal robot. A lovable mechanical member of the Jetson family cooked, cleaned, and spoke with a Brooklyn accent. All her antennas (antennae?) flashed and beeped whenever she spoke.

There was the Environmental Control Robot on “Lost in Space,” an advanced computerized intelligence module that looked exactly like a guy wearing a trashcan. The robot’s role was unclear. But he was a valued member of the Robinson crew, exhibiting a wide range of human characteristics such as laughter, sadness, as well as

singing and playing the guitar, and answering each question helpfully with, “That does not compute.”

So I didn’t know I was supposed to be afraid of AI until this year when someone asked a chatbot to write something in the style of Sean Dietrich.

Now, my first thought was: The chatbot is going to reply, “In the style of WHO?”

Namely, because in the literary world, nobody knows who I am. If the publishing world were like high school, I would not be one of the “cool kid” authors. I’d be the author who is in detention every weekend dutifully trying to break his record for most spit balls stuck to the chalkboard.

Even so, the chatbot actually imitated one of my essays. Although, you…