Inside your head’s a bustling town Where up is up—and down is down. A worrier waves a frantic flag, A dreamer totes a hopeful bag. A judge bangs loudly on a drum. A timid soul says, “Don’t be dumb.” A warrior growls, “Stand up and fight!” A saint insists, “Be kind. Be right.”

Poor Judgment’s been slandered, accused and maligned, As if using good sense were a terrible crime. “Don’t judge!” say some people. “Be spiritual instead!” Yet without a bit of judgment, we’d all bump our heads. We’d wander through life like a cart with no wheel, Or smile at a snake while ignoring how we feel…

When life gets quiet (and quiet it will), 
When noise fades away and the world holds still, When chatter goes soft and the rush disappears, And you’re left with your thoughts… and your questions… and fears— Most folks get uneasy. They reach for a sound, A screen, or a voice, or some busyness found. They fill up the silence, they turn up the noise, Distracting themselves with a thousand small toys…

Oh life is a puzzle with pieces askew, With socks that go missing (just one of the two).
With glasses misplaced on top of your head,
And thoughts that arrive… then promptly have fled. We laugh at ourselves (or at least we should try), At keys in the fridge or the why of the why…

Oh dear, what a tangle of banners and cries, Of “My truth is truer!” and “Mine’s far more wise!” Of temples and doctrines and sacred decrees, All wrapped up in “holiness”. . . if you please. They march and they shout and they thump and they pound, With righteousness ringing (a very loud sound). But peek past the noise, past the flags that they wave…

How do you measure: are you losing or winning? Is life full of triumph or slightly head-spinning? Here’s a small exercise, simple yet wise: Take stock of your “big deals” – your lows and your highs. Your marriages, missteps, your loves and your losses, Your brilliant “I nailed it” or “Oh Well . . . that was crosses.” Your children, your choices…

Oh, many folks think (and they think it quite loud), “Once I’m ON MY PATH, I’ll feel certain and proud! A burst of bright brilliance! A creative parade! No doubts, no confusion, no plans left unmade!” But here’s the small secret (now lean in, don’t roam): You’ve always been walking your path all along…

When I’m scared of the dark I whistle or sing,
Which fixates and pixates each scary thing.
The scaries are lonely, but not when I’m there.
They know that my music means that I care…

Oh, the “V” word is clever. It whispers, “Their fault.” And saves pain and bruises to hold in your vault. It catalogs injuries, polishes blame, Hands you a banner emblazoned with shame. It points out the villains, rehashing their crimes, And tells the same story, time after time.

Now let’s carry on, dear reader, stay near,
For Part Two holds truths some avoid out of fear. Because after the money, the wires, the pleas, Come silence… then questions… then nights without ease. You wait for a message. Refresh. Then retry. You tell yourself stories. You reason out why…