Wake up early. Saturday morning. Leap out of bed. Oh, the bliss.

You sprint to the television set, racing your sister.

Last one’s a rotten egg.

You are still wearing Superman pajamas. Beneath your Man-of-Steel PJs, you’re wearing Batman skivvies, which is a slight conflict of interest, but you make it work.

You slap the power button on TV. The old Zenith console warms up. The television is cased in a faux wooden cabinet, with warped oak-grain veneer from a bygone Dr. Pepper someone once placed atop the television, even though this someone’s mother told them to NEVER set ANYTHING atop the TV, not that we’re naming names here.

So anyway, you’d sit on the floor, before the old tube, criss-crossed, which we used to call sitting “Indian style.” (No hate mail!)

Cartoons blared. It was undefiled rapture. Until your mom yelled from the other room, “Don’t sit so close to the TV or you’ll hurt your eyes!”

But you HAD to sit close.

They were playing all the greats today. Bugs, Daffy, Elmer, Porky, Marvin the Martian.

Yosemite Sam growled, “Say your prayers, varmint!” Speedy Gonzales would be chirping, “Ándale, ándale!” Wile E. Coyote and the bird were hard after it.

Then came Yogi and Boo Boo, “Smarter than the average bear.” George, Jane, Judy, and Elroy. Fred, Barney, Wilma, Betty, and Mister Slate.

After cartoons, you’d eat a wholesome breakfast of Rice Krispies. Rice Krispies had the same dietary value of No. 4 Styrofoam packing pellets. But it was okay. Your mom increased the nutritive value by topping your cereal with liberal spoonfuls of refined white sugar.

Next, it was time to go outside and play.

Mainly, we played Army Man. We used imitation firearms, pump rifle BB guns, and Andy’s dad even had a real bayonet from World War I.

We used these items…

Q: Sean, what your views are on politics, so we know where you stand?

A: My thoughts are, there is nothing more terrifying than waking up and realizing that your high-school class is now running the world.

Q: Sean, who are your literary heroes?

A: Gary Larson.

Q: Do you believe that all denominations will go to heaven?

A: When I was a kid, the Sunday school teacher said that when the Lord returned, with the last trumpet, all the Baptists would be raptured, and I would remain here on earth.

“You don’t want to be left behind, do you?” my teacher would say. “You’d be stuck in a world without evangelicals. Doesn’t that sound awful?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I’d reply. “Just awful.”

Q: So Sean, what DO you believe?

A: I believe I’ll have another beer.

Q: Dear Sean, are you rich? I looked your net worth up on the internet and it said you were several million dollars.

A: Pardon me while I laugh so hard ramen noodle soup comes out of my nose. I am

not rich. I am a writer.

Q: So you’re saying writers don’t make much?

A: What do you call a writer with health insurance?

Q: What?

A: Married.

Q: Dear Sean, I too want to become a professional writer. It has been my lifelong dream to earn a living doing what I love. I am looking for a field of specialization (fiction, non-fiction, etc). I wanted to ask you, in your experience, what kind of writing pays the best?

A: Ransom notes.

Q: Hi, Sean. I am wanting to get into writing. What is it like to be a writer?

A: I can’t put it into words.

Q: I’m an English teacher, and I wanted to ask you what you think of the current state of our country, when it comes to reading and literature. Fifty…

Today is a big deal.

If you don’t read any further, just keep repeating the above sentence in a loud, clear voice until it sinks in and your spouse begins to wonder whether you’re clinically insane.

Because you’d be insane NOT to realize what a big deal today is.

Today is a massive deal. A huge deal. A ginormous deal. A colossally, titanic, herculean, humongous, astronomical deal. With cherries on top. This is the most important day of your life.

Before you quit reading, you should know that you’re not reading some clichéd motivational speech from your high-school counselor whose wardrobe consisted of corduroy jackets and Just For Men hair color.

This day, you see, contains Right Now. Which is this exact moment. This micromoment of nowness. The little space,lying directly between what just happened and what’s about to happen. These current nanoseconds of nowness are flying by at breakneck speed, and you’re missing them by reading a crappy article.

Even so, I’m grateful you’re reading. Because I am here

to remind you that “Right Now” matters. Right Now is not trivial.

“Now.” What a word.

What is Now? Hell if I know. I’m not smart enough to define Now. Maybe Now is a physical moment. Maybe it’s a single breath. Or perhaps Right Now is a little patch of real estate in our metaphysical universe. A tiny portion of geographical space and time which allows you to be Here.

Either way, definitions don’t matter. What matters is that Right Now is all you have. Now is all anyone has ever had, but we were too distracted to notice.

You know why we were probably distracted? We were likely too busy thinking about Later. Or worse: Before.

But Later isn’t real. And Before doesn’t exist anymore. Right Now, DOES exist. And we can work with Right Now.

Namely, because…

Five years ago I was in Huntsville when the world shut down. Five years. Almost to the day. I’ll never forget it.

I remember what life was like at the time. I had spent the previous year working on a book. A memoir about my dad’s suicide. I put a lot of myself into that manuscript.

At the time, my wife and I were living in a junky fifth wheel trailer with two dogs roughly the size of NFL running backs. Our mobile-home toilet did not work; whenever anyone used the restroom our dwelling became uninhabitable.

Which is why my wife and I—this is true—started performing our morning necessaries outside on our rural property. There were posthole diggers in our outdoor bathroom area. Also, a stack of little neon-orange flags for marking landmines.

So anyway, when my book was published my publisher sent me on a multi-city book tour. After several cities, we landed in Huntsville, at Randolph School.

There, I performed my show. Played some

music. Told funny stories. It was a gracious audience, some audience members even stayed awake.

After the performance, I was in the lobby, hugging people, signing books, kissing babies. I was meeting other suicide survivors like myself. It was a meaningful night. Perhaps one of the most meaningful of my life.

That night, I remember a random older lady came through the line. I had never met her before. She hugged me and said ominous words I’ll never forget:

“Don’t waste today, sweetheart. It’s all you have.”

That night, in our hotel, I couldn’t quit thinking about her words. I felt as though her message was a mystery. I’d spent the last four hours hugging so many people that my skin chafed, why had the lady chosen to tell me this? Of all things.

Then I turned on the TV.

The newsperson said,…

I remember my first cellphone. I felt like one bad hombre.

I was in my mid-20s. The cellphone retail salesperson outfitted me with a state-of-the-age phone about the size of a residential General Electric refrigerator.

And, boom, just like that, I was Billy the Buttkicker. Whenever I wanted, I could whip that sucker out and call—I don’t know—time and temperature.

MODERN CHILD: What’s time and temperature, grandpa?

GRANDPA: The original Siri.

You had to call time and temp back then because, of course, there was nobody available to call since only a few of your friends even HAD cellphones. And all your friends were away from landlines, engaging in various activities such as, gainful employment.

Over the years, phones kept getting more advanced. Each day: a higher-tech phone. It seemed like you were always buying a new phone.

Eventually, phone retailers switched to the current sales system still used today, offering complimentary wastebaskets after sales transactions because, after you pay, your phone is obsolete.

Over the years, phones became able to do more. First came text messaging. Then your phone could receive emails. Then phone cameras. Apps. Mobile internet. Phone GPS. Video. Social media. Voice assistant. Paying with your phone. Fingerprint recognition. Face ID. AI.

Pretty soon, my phone was capable of doing everything except scrubbing my backside in the shower. Although, that never kept me from taking my phone INTO THE SHOWER where I could conveniently browse Amazon, watch YouTube, and most importantly, drop and break my phone.

But that’s okay. I just went to the phone store and upgraded to the most current device.

PHONE SALESPERSON: Our latest model of phone has a built-in bikini trimmer.

I was INSANELY addicted to my phone. I could not leave home without it. I could not use the bathroom without scrolling, sometimes for long periods, sitting on the toilet until…

The young woman sits in my truck passenger seat. She is 19. Her hair is red. Scottish red. Luminously red. People always comment on her hair first. 

Today she attended a presentation I gave at the library. Everyone at the library asked about her. They noticed her red hair and assumed we were related since my hair is also red. 

At first, I explained that we weren’t related. Then I’d tell the story of how we met, when I first wrote about her, some years ago. But after a while we got tired of explaining ourselves and we started calling her my niece. 

The young woman attended my presentation because she is very supportive of me. Although heaven knows why. We come from different generations. She’s a college kid in a sorority. Whereas, yesterday a salesperson enrolled me in AARP to save 15 percent.   

Currently, as we drive through Birmingham traffic, my “niece” is using her GPS to navigate aloud for me. She is better at using phones than I am.

She is

tranquil and collected, delivering important driving instructions as I wage battle with the homicidal motorists of Jefferson County. 

“Turn here,” the girl says calmly, using the same tone a driver’s ed instructor might employ. “Go past this light.” “Use your right blinker.” “The lady in the left lane is flipping you off.” “I believe she is using both fingers.”  

The child is well-mannered. Smart. Polite. Talented. Thoughtful. And I don’t think I’ve met anyone with more genuine optimism. 

It’s her optimism I marvel at the most. 

She lived in the hospital for nearly 230 days last year. For nearly a decade, she has struggled with an itemized list of medical issues that would make most grown men crumble. 

Paralyzation. Vision impairment. Diabetes. Relearning to walk. Twice. She lives on a feeding tube. She hasn’t eaten solid food since June. And yet she smiles. 

Our young heroine…

She shall remain anonymous.

Her classroom was out of control. Had been for a while. The kids in her “at-risk” fourth-grade class were about as organized as a prison riot.

That’s what we call them in today’s world. “At-risk youth.” Once upon a time, in a less modern era, we might’ve called them “troubled youth.” But such words are unsavory in today’s modern and unbiased age.

Either way, the kids never listened. They did not pay attention. They seemed to always have their hands where little hands should not be. Their indoor voices were loud enough to change the migratory patterns of most varieties of waterfowl.

The endless behavioral issues were upsetting the young teacher’s life. She was trying so hard to reach them, but she left class each day feeling like a Stretch Armstrong doll on Christmas morning.

Then.

The teacher had this idea. The next morning, instead of their regular lesson plan, she paired the kids off. Everyone got a partner.

The kids

were required to find a private spot in the room and talk to one another. Their assignment was to write biographies on their partners. They were to do research.

Most of the kids groaned and protested. But in the end, they did it. They all got together and started talking about their lives. Really talking.

“It was the most engaged I’d ever seen them…”

Over the span of two days, kids were connecting with each other. They were empathizing. They were exercising compassion. There were no behavioral issues in class.

“You could see everyone’s moods shift,” she said. “It was incredible.”

This went on for a week. Until one morning, when the teacher was running late for class.

There had been a wreck on the interstate, so a substitute watched over the classroom until the teacher arrived.

When the young teacher walked…

I have been doing a lot of walking. More walking than I’ve ever done in my life. More walking than I thought possible.

We wake up; we start walking. We go to bed; I’m walking in my dreams. My feet are so used to endless stepping that my feet subconsciously move while I use the bathroom.

But we have to walk. Got to keep training. Got to be prepared. In a few weeks we will be in Spain. And then it will all be real. We will be walking the Camino de Santiago every day. Walking will be our full-time job.

You can learn a lot about yourself by walking. I don’t know how this is possible. But walking does something to you. To your soul. You hear a voice when you walk. A still, small voice you would have never heard otherwise. A wise and ancient voice that speaks directly to your heart.

The voice keeps telling you, “You are insane.”

And we

are insane. Namely, because we’re carrying heavy backpacks as we walk. The packs are not all that heavy in regular life. In fact, they’re pretty light. They’re just normal backpacks. No big deal. But after several miles uphill, your backpack becomes a mid-sized Nissan from hell.

This is why you are constantly thinking about ways to reduce your pack weight. But you can’t, of course. Everything inside is a necessity. You’ve already reduced your belongings to a few pounds.

Your shampoo is a tiny bar of special camping soap. Your toothbrush has the handle cut off to save .0004 ounces. You carry only enough toilet paper to accommodate the needs of a small hamster.

Funny thing is, when people find out you’re walking the Camino, they offer friendly advice. Everyone has a useful tidbit. You quickly learn that everybody on planet earth must’ve known about the Camino except…

I have here a letter from 19-year-old Erin, who lives in Bristol, Virginia.

“Dear Sean,” she begins, “I want to be happy, but I’m not…

“My family is stressing me out, big-time. Especially my mom. My therapist actually recommended that I write to you, seeing if you have any insightful thoughts about happiness.”

Hi, Erin. My first insightful thought is: Fire your therapist. If he or she is recommending that you reach out to me, your life is in serious trouble.

If you want pure happiness, however, you should visit the guest laundry facility at my hotel. Which is where I am right now.

It’s a room about the size of a residential bathroom. I am trapped in this room with an all-boy soccer team.

There must be 841 little boys crammed in this space. They are loud. They are unbelievably happy. Testosterone waves are crashing against the walls, compromising the structural integrity of the Hampton Inn & Suites.

I don’t know anything about soccer. Namely, because we did not have soccer when I was a

kid. During childhood, we only had two choices athletics-wise: (1) baseball, and (2) First Methodist choir.

Naturally, we boys gravitated toward baseball. I loved baseball. Baseball made me happy. I played first base. Granted, I wasn’t great, but I wasn’t good, either.

I don’t mean to toot my own kazoo, but I set a few Little League records. For example: I still hold the record, for example, for eating an entire birthday cake in under two minutes.

But that’s the kind of everyday happiness we experienced as kids. Just like the soccer players in this laundry room. Because when you’re that age, you’re always happy. You’re pretty much cheerful all the time.

Sure, sometimes things stress you out, but almost nothing can threaten your overall kid-happiness. So my question is: Why did we grow up?

The American Psychological Association states that childhood offers unique…

Maryland. The old cafe is mostly empty this time of night. Music plays overhead. Pedal steel guitar.

The cook is cleaning his flattop. The waitress is reading a magazine. Thank God magazines still exist in our AI Age.

I smell cured pork and onions. There are globe lamps hanging over the bar. Half of my American youth happened in places like this. The only thing missing is the smoking section.

I sit at the counter. My waitress is named Sharon. I know this because it’s on her name tag. She speaks Alabamian. I can hear it in her voice:

“You doin’?”

“Good,” I say. “You?”

“Better’n I d’serve. Choo drinkin’?”

“Coffee, please.”

She gets out a pen and pad. Thank God pens and pads still exist.

“Knowcha want, sweetie?”

“Two eggs. Bacon. Hash browns.”

“White’r wheat?”

“White.”

“‘Bout them eggs?”

“Sunny.”

“‘Thing else?”

“You got any chocolate milk?”

Smile. “You sound like my four-year-old.”

I’ve been on the road for days, performing my one-man spasm before audiences. It’s been fun, but I miss home.

I stay on the road for a living. Sometimes you get homesick. Last night, for example, I got out of bed to use the restroom and walked face first into my hotel room wall.

But it’s the little things that keep you grounded. Familiar food. Pedal steel guitars. And a familiar accent.

My food arrives.

“Your accent,” I say to my waitress. “Where’re you from?”

“Close to Troy.”

People from small towns almost never tell you the name of their town first. They always start with the nearest big city and work their way inward.

“Where around Troy?”

“Brundidge.”

“Pike County.”

She smiles. “Shut up. You know it?”

“How long you been gone?”

Her face is still wearing a smile, but it’s the kind of smile that…