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.