Pics of the Day

A Quiet Table, a Full Heart

This Thanksgiving will be a small one for me, but it will still be a good one. I’ll be making my own little feast: turkey, cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Truth be told, I’m mostly looking forward to the dressing. It has always been one of my favorite foods of the season—comfort, tradition, and memory all in one dish.

It will just be me and my lovely Isabella at the table this year, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. She has truly been a lifesaver for me in more ways than I can count. She has an uncanny way of knowing when I don’t feel well, when I’m anxious, or when I just need quiet company. I am deeply thankful for her sweet, steady presence in my life.

I’m also incredibly thankful for my friendships—especially Susan—and for the people who show up for me again and again with kindness, laughter, and support. And yes, I’m even thankful for my family, even though they do manage to drive me crazy most of the time. Love is complicated, but it is still love.

Most of all today, I want to thank you—my wonderful readers. So many of you are so encouraging in your comments, and over the years I have made real, meaningful friendships through this little corner of the internet. Some of you I still hear from often. Some I haven’t heard from in a long time. And some I know have passed on. Each of you, in your own way, has made an impact on my life, and for that I am truly grateful.

I know some of you rarely comment publicly, but every once in a while I’ll receive a quiet email instead—and I treasure those messages just as much. In fifteen years of writing this blog, I’m grateful to say that negativity has been rare. The overwhelming majority of what I receive from you is warmth, encouragement, and generosity of spirit. That is no small gift.

To my readers in the United States, I wish you a peaceful, joyful Thanksgiving. And to those of you around the world who don’t celebrate this holiday—please know how thankful I am for you being part of my life all the same.

Today, my table may be small, but my gratitude is anything but.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. 🦃❤️

A Rough Day, a Better Morning

It’s been a bit of a rough 24 hours. Yesterday started with a migraine and nausea, and the longer I was up, the worse it got. Eventually the vomiting joined the party, and needless to say, I did not work yesterday. Instead, I slept off and on all day with my sweet Isabella curled up beside me. She’s always been good at sensing when I’m not feeling well. Sometimes that means she snuggles close; sometimes she simply stations herself nearby like a little feline guardian. She used to wake me up when my blood sugar dropped too low—thankfully that hasn’t been an issue for quite a while—but she’s still the most empathetic cat I’ve ever known.

I went to bed early last night but woke from a bad dream around 1:30 a.m. I’m not sure I’d call it a nightmare, but it was unpleasant enough to make getting back to sleep difficult. Eventually I drifted off again and slept until 5:15 a.m.—which is quite a bit later than Isabella usually allows. This time, at least, I was having a far more enjoyable dream. Let’s just say it involved meeting two guys at a bar and a rather delightful ménage à trois. Waking up from that was certainly nicer than waking up from yesterday’s misery.

I’m feeling much better today, thankfully. I’ll be at work for my half-day and need to get a few preparations done for the classes coming in next week. Afterward, I have a few errands to run, but I’m hoping it will be a good, calm day.

I hope all of you have a pleasant day as well. May it be migraine-free and maybe even dream-enhanced.

Pic of the Day

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

by James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916)

Let us be thankful—not only because

  Since last our universal thanks were told

We have grown greater in the world’s applause,

  And fortune’s newer smiles surpass the old—

But thankful for all things that come as alms

  From out the open hand of Providence:

The summer’s sunshine and the winter’s calms,

  And all the glad return of recompense.

For we are richer than we know, or need;

  The measure of our daily bread is more

Than we can gather in our hands, or heed,

  Because of God’s munificence and store.

And so, amid the tumult and the strife,

  Let us give thanks for an untroubled time;

For all the blessings of a quiet life,

  And peace from every care and every crime.

About the Poem

As we move into Thanksgiving week—a short one for many of us, and hopefully a peaceful one—it feels right to slow down, take a breath, and sit with a poem that understands the holiday not as perfection, but as presence. James Whitcomb Riley’s “Thanksgiving” is simple on its surface, yet gently profound in its reminder that gratitude often lives quietly in the ordinary spaces of our lives.

Riley is sometimes called the “Hoosier Poet,” known for his nostalgic portrayals of Midwestern life. But “Thanksgiving” reaches far beyond its setting. The poem invites us to be grateful not just for success or blessings that shine, but also for the quieter graces—calm days, sufficient bread, moments of peace in a noisy world.

It’s a gentle reminder that gratitude doesn’t only come wrapped in celebration. Sometimes it comes in small mercies: time off before a holiday, a quiet office, or even the chance to sit with memories of those we’ve loved and lost. For many LGBTQ+ people, Thanksgiving can be complicated, but Riley’s poem offers a form of gratitude that doesn’t require perfection—just awareness.

This week, many of us juggle traditions, emotions, travel, absence, and the bittersweet ache of remembering those who won’t sit at the table with us anymore. Gratitude can be tender, even painful. And yet, as Riley writes, we “are richer than we know,” not because everything is easy, but because blessings—large and small—still find their way into our days.

For LGBTQ+ folks especially, finding spaces where we can breathe, belong, or simply rest is a blessing worth naming.

As we enter this holiday week, may we find gratitude in whatever form it takes—joyful, quiet, complicated, or tender. May we honor the memories that still ache, the friends who steady us, the moments of peace that carry us through. And may we remember that grace often hides in the ordinary.

Wishing everyone a gentle and meaningful Thanksgiving week.

About the Poet

James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916) was one of America’s most beloved popular poets. Sometimes sentimental, often nostalgic, he captured a vision of everyday American life rooted in kindness, simplicity, and warmth. His work was widely read in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, often recited at gatherings and printed in holiday editions of newspapers and magazines. “Thanksgiving” reflects the accessible, heartfelt tone for which he was known.

Pic of the Day

Monday Morning Musings

After ten days away from the office, I’m heading back in this morning. Luckily, it’s a short week—just today, tomorrow, and half of Wednesday before the long Thanksgiving weekend begins. I’m definitely looking forward to the extra time off.

It should also be a pretty peaceful week at the museum. My boss is out on vacation all week, and my other coworker has her office tucked away elsewhere in the building. So for the most part, I’ll have my little corner of the museum to myself. Honestly, I’m hoping for quiet days and easy work.

You may notice that my posts this week might have a slightly maudlin tone. It’s not because I’m spending Thanksgiving in Vermont or because my birthday is coming up. It’s because this time of year always brings a familiar sadness: a friend of mine won’t be celebrating another birthday. It’s been ten years, and I still miss him. Grief has a way of slipping into the rhythm of the holidays.

Every year, for my birthday, I go out to dinner with a close friend. We always share a bottle of wine at our favorite restaurant—at least, we used to. This year will be different. My liver no longer allows alcohol, but that’s alright. We’ll still have dinner on Friday, and afterward we’re planning to visit a holiday lights festival at a big outdoor museum near Burlington. It should be beautiful, and I think a little beauty will do my heart some good.

People always ask if I’m going home for Thanksgiving, and the answer is always no. I can’t afford two plane trips a month apart, and even if I could, I’m not especially eager to spend my birthday week in Alabama—or worse, fly back to Vermont on my actual birthday. I’d rather spend the day with Isabella, curled up in the quiet warmth of my Vermont home. Yes, home. My parents hate when I say that, but I’ve been here ten years now. Unless something tragic forces me back, Alabama will never be home again. It’s where my family lives, but Vermont is where I live.

Have a wonderful week, everyone. May it be gentle.

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Grateful Peace

And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in the one body. And be thankful.

—Colossians 3:15

Thanksgiving is one of those seasons that invites us to slow down, breathe deeply, and take stock of what really matters. For many LGBTQ+ Christians, gratitude can be complicated—we know what it feels like to be excluded, misunderstood, or overlooked. And yet we also know the beauty of finding chosen family, affirming community, and sacred spaces where we can finally breathe.

Colossians 3:15 reminds us that peace is not a passive feeling—it is something we allow, something we make room for. “Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts.” It’s an invitation to unclench our fists, release the narratives that harmed us, and allow the gentler voice of Christ to guide us. And then, Paul says, “be thankful.” Not thankful instead of honest, or thankful to cover up pain, but thankful because Christ’s peace is already stirring and healing us from within.

Paul expresses a similar spirit of gratitude in 1 Corinthians 1:4–5, where he says, “I give thanks to my God always for you… because in every way you have been enriched in him.” What a powerful reminder that our gifts, our stories, and our existence enrich the body of Christ. We aren’t mistakes. We aren’t outsiders begging to be let in. We are—with all our queerness, our resilience, our creativity, our compassion—part of the richness God has woven into the world.

And then there’s the joyful call of Psalm 95:1–2: “Come, let us sing to the Lord… Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving.” This is not the quiet gratitude we whisper in private moments—this is gratitude that sings, that resonates, that shakes loose the old shame we were taught to carry. It’s a reminder that worship can be joyful and embodied, not timid or apologetic. We come into God’s presence with thanksgiving because we know that presence is safe, loving, and already welcoming us home.

This week, as many gather around tables—or navigate them carefully—we can choose to center gratitude that feels real:

• gratitude for the people who love us as we are
• gratitude for communities that celebrate rather than tolerate
• gratitude for the peace Christ offers when we stop trying to justify our worth
• gratitude for the ways God enriches our lives through connection, resilience, and grace

We don’t pretend everything is perfect. But we do acknowledge that God is present in the imperfect places, working peace into the cracks and creases of our hearts.

May the peace of Christ find space in your spirit this Thanksgiving.

May gratitude rise gently but firmly, like a hymn in the morning light.

And may you know—deeply, unwaveringly—that your life enriches the world and the heart of God.

Pic of the Day

Moment of Zen: Morning Joe

Pic of the Day

Apropos of Nothing

Every now and then a picture pops up online that sends your mind wandering down the oddest memory lane. I came across this picture earlier—just a very handsome, very naked man lining up a pool shot—and for whatever reason, it sent my mind spinning backward about twenty years to the first time someone ever taught me how to play pool.

Back in grad school, I had one of those unexpected friendships that just sort of ignite out of nowhere. He was a very straight, very frat-bro guy from Illinois. We met at the annual graduate welcome party at a professor’s lake house—the kind of event that involved a keg, mismatched lawn chairs, and a lot of awkward introductions. Somehow he and I started talking, and before I knew it, we were back at his apartment drinking on his balcony until dawn.

Too bad he was so straight—genuinely, hopelessly straight—because we could have had a great deal of fun together. And yes, I’m speaking from evidence. He was the kind of guy who talked a big game about his 9.5” dick and then casually proved it, not out of flirtation, but because frat boys operate on a completely different plane of shameless bravado. It was, I must admit, an impressive sight.

We became inseparable. Friday nights were for bar-hopping, poker with other grad students, or just whatever chaos the week produced. He technically had a girlfriend back in Illinois, but that didn’t stop him from sleeping with half the women he came across. She found it hilarious that her straight-as-an-arrow frat bro boyfriend’s best friend in Mississippi was gay. She always said he’d come home to her in the end, and she was right. They eventually got married, and to my knowledge, he never strayed again once they were living in the same city. But those Mississippi years? He was a horny little bastard. Weren’t we all when we were in our twenties.

One night in 2005—my birthday, I think—we ended up at a bar we almost never went to, one of those places with an almost perfect half-and-half mix of straights and gays. I can’t remember the name, but I could still drive you to it.

That night, he decided he was going to teach me to play pool.

Now, I was terrible at pool. Abysmal. So he stepped behind me, pressed his body against mine, and guided me into the proper position—very much like the pose in the picture above, though in our version everyone kept their clothes on. For him, there was absolutely nothing sexual about it. For me…well, it was one of the more pleasant lessons I’ve ever received. And honestly, I did get better at pool after that night.

Somewhere in the mix, we ended up playing pool with two girls who I’m pretty sure were on the university’s softball team — definitely not the stereotypical “lesbian softball players” people love to joke about. One of them came back to his apartment with us and was very clearly hoping for a threesome. To my eternal regret, I figured it out a little too late, mostly because I had drunk way too much. I got sick, passed out on the couch, and fell asleep to the soundtrack of the two of them having sex. I woke up to round two the next morning before she cheerfully said goodbye to me on her way out.

Those were my “wilder days,” though in truth I was never that wild. I was still a very serious student. It was simply the first time in my life I’d had real freedom—living three hours from my family, coming out, navigating grad school, rebuilding life after Hurricane Katrina destroyed the house I’d been living in, and having to move into the dorms for a semester because my town was overrun by Katrina refugees and housing was at a premium and in short supply.

Another morning, I woke up in his bed with a female professor lying between us. Nothing had happened; none of us had hooked up. But the way she woke—going from dead asleep to standing at the foot of the bed in one swift, acrobatic motion—is a sight I’ll never forget.

A lot of people didn’t like him. He could be an intellectual snob, and he was proud of it. For some reason, he thought I was the only person in our grad program smarter than he was. That’s not true, there were other people smarter than him. But he was a loyal friend to me during a very chaotic time in my life, when a lot of people I thought were friends turned out not to be such good friends. After his two years in Mississippi, he went back to Illinois, got a master’s in library science, followed his girlfriend to Texas for a job at a major oil company—she was a biochemist, and he eventually became the oil company’s corporate librarian—something I didn’t even know existed. Last I checked, he’d gone on to law school and was working as an attorney for the same big oil company.

We eventually drifted apart, as people do. But him teaching me to play pool—pressed behind me, bending me over just right, guiding my hands—remains one of my fondest and most vivid memories.

Funny how a single picture can open a door you didn’t even realize was still there. If this sparks a memory of your own — a friend, a night out, or a moment that caught you off guard — don’t be shy. Share in the comments. I always love reading your stories, and I know other readers will enjoy them too.

Pic of the Day

Staycation Thursday

My vacation is officially more than halfway over, and I’m already dreading returning to work next week. The only silver lining is that it’ll be a short week—and most of it I’ll be entirely alone at the museum. There’s a certain peace in that, even if it also reminds me that the quiet is coming to an end.

All week, I’ve told myself I’d finally get back to working out. With the days free, I could go during daylight hours and maybe even run into my former trainer. After being out so long because of my back, I’ve become an expert at excuses—telling myself I’ll go after work (I never do) or that I’ll get up early and go before work (I definitely never do). But even this week, one thing after another has popped up and thrown off my plans.

Yesterday I even packed my gym clothes when I headed to the Headache Clinic. The plan was simple: do a little shopping, have lunch, and then swing by Planet Fitness before heading home. But the Botox had my head feeling tender, and a migraine settled in before the day was over. So instead of working out, I went home and took a nap. Not exactly the fitness comeback I envisioned.

This morning, though, I plan—there’s that word again—to go before lunch. I’ve got a dentist appointment this afternoon for the crown I’ve been putting off. The appointment is from 2 to 4 p.m., which means my mouth will still be comfortably numb right around dinner time. So either I skip dinner altogether or eat far later than I prefer. Either way, I suspect I won’t feel like doing much once I get home.

Staycations never quite go the way we imagine, do they? But at least for now, I still have a few slow hours ahead of me—and maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it to the gym today.

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A Quick Check-In

I have to make this one short today because I slept in a bit—one of the perks of being on vacation, even if it means I have a little less time to get myself going this morning. Honestly, I’m not complaining. A slow start felt good.

Even though I’m taking some vacation time this week, I would have had today off anyway because I’m heading down to the headache clinic for my next Botox appointment. The good news is they were able to get my insurance to approve treatments every ten weeks instead of every twelve. The helpful effects always wore off right around week ten, so I’m hoping this new schedule will keep the headaches at bay a little more consistently.

Fingers crossed—and coffee in hand—I’m off to get ready for the day. I hope your Tuesday is gentle and kind to you.

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Spring Rush

Spring Rush

By Aaron Smith

The college boys have pulled their shirts
off and are playing football
on the lawn. Their farmer tans pink
in the afternoon sun. They toss

and jog, slight fake and almost
tackle. One puts his face too close
to another one’s stomach, grabs
the guy’s waist—steady—to keep

from falling; then a damp armpit on the back
of his neck, as a blond wraps his arm
around him in a quick guy-hug. I am old-
er and pretend not to see, furtive

in sunglasses, looking at them, past
them, at them. I could ruin the game
by watching the wrong way—professor gawking
at students; even a shift between them

could change everything: a hand more than
smacking an ass, someone pressed too long
against a humid chest. Crash of skin,
body pushing body into perfect crush.

Their biceps bulge, un-bulge, bulge again.
It’s not that I want them. I’ve had enough
men, and yet I can’t stop looking at them
while trying not to look at them.

About the Poem

Aaron Smith has a way of holding up a moment—one we might otherwise dismiss as simple, ordinary, harmless—and revealing all the longing, all the humor, all the complicated ache underneath. His poem “Spring Rush” captures a scene many of us know all too well: young men tumbling across a sunlit lawn, roughhousing with the kind of careless intimacy that adulthood slowly chisels away.

The poem opens with a tableau of shirtless college boys playing football, their “farmer tans pink in the afternoon sun,” their bodies moving with effortless confidence. It’s a familiar choreography to anyone who has watched young men at play—how easily they invade each other’s space, how unselfconscious their closeness is, how they grab, steady, press, and laugh without a second thought. Smith catches each gesture with almost photographic clarity:

one puts his face too close
to another one’s stomach…
a blond wraps his arm
around him in a quick guy-hug.

What he’s really capturing, though, is the speaker watching. Not intrusively, not predatory, but with a mix of wistfulness and restraint—half nostalgia, half desire, and a healthy dose of gay self-awareness. “I am older and pretend not to see,” he admits, slipping on the protection of sunglasses, watching but trying not to watch. Smith renders the tension of that gaze with startling honesty. He knows how easily a moment like this can break, how a look held too long can change the boys’ play, turning innocent roughhousing into something self-conscious, something policed.

It’s the familiar queer balancing act: seeing without being seen seeing.

One of the most poignant lines comes near the end:

It’s not that I want them. I’ve had enough
men, and yet I can’t stop looking at them
while trying not to look at them.

It’s a line that resonates with age, experience, and the complicated beauty of queer desire. Wanting isn’t always erotic; sometimes it’s longing for a kind of ease, a kind of freedom, a kind of uncomplicated belonging that many of us never got to fully inhabit in our younger years. The poem complicates the gaze—it’s not a hunger for the boys, but a hunger for the days when closeness wasn’t dangerous.

Spring Rush is tender, observant, and unflinchingly honest. It holds space for that bittersweet place where desire, memory, and self-restraint overlap—where we both relish and mourn the distance between who we were and who we have become.

About the Poet

Aaron Smith is an award-winning American poet known for his candid, queer-centered writing that blends desire, humor, vulnerability, and sharp cultural observation. A graduate of the MFA program at the University of Pittsburgh, he is the author of several acclaimed collections, including Blue on Blue Ground, Appetite, and Primer. Smith’s work often explores gay identity, aging, pop culture, and the messy intersections of intimacy and longing. His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The Yale Review, Court Green, and Best American Poetry.