As I step outside to photograph the snow that is quickly building on the grass, I decide to get as close as the camera will let me.

Every year, I am always taken by surprise by the first sign of life in the garden.

Two seats over from me in a crowded airport gate, a young teen bends over his sketchbook. I decide we should talk.

Only minutes remain before I am to start scribing an event in Hollywood (sigh: Florida) and I am staring into the huge eyes of a robot.

The Amish girl behind the counter at the Farmer’s Market views me with puzzlement as I take a photo of the bags of flour in her stall. But when I make my purchase, she gives me her usual parting words, “Have a great deh.”

While packing today, I come across two figurines in my bureau drawer. I have long forgotten why I put them there. But they make an odd combination: Horus and Batman.

I sit down in a new sanctuary – recently built and new to me. I lift my eyes to the front of the sanctuary and there I see a cross unlike any other I have seen. For it is made entirely of light.

On the way to see my son’s new office in Harrisonburg, Virginia, we walk past a sculpture that captures the dismay I feel about the latest school shooting.

I am alone in the woods and walking on water. And through water. And under water. And by water. Water, water, everywhere.

Why is red the color of love?

When I want a feel for a town, I don’t head for Main Street. That’s for the tourists and TripAdvisor junkies. For me, nothing gives an unvarnished feel for a place like an alley.

Wedged between a large man and the plane window, I wonder where else in our society a person has to have constant contact with a stranger for four straight hours.