✨KITTING AROUND✨
🌟BLOG 367 — Travel, Where do You Start?🌟
This Video will let you know more about me–
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lr8QFnD1yGc
This Blog is Best Read on a Laptop, Rather than Your Phone.
By KIT SUMMERS — World-Class Juggler to World-Class Comeback
To Learn More about Kit, Go Here >> https://kitsummers.com/about-kit/
Once upon a life, I made gravity nervous—
Headlining at Ballys, tossing clubs with a grin.
Seven of them. A world record—
Because physics loves a good insult. 😄
Then came the truck—the coma.
Thirty-seven silent days offstage.
And here I am now—not juggling clubs.
But throwing purpose, grit, and joy.
Balancing healing, catching courage.
Tossing hope sky-high. 🤹♂️
The mission grew bigger than applause.
Now I lift humans. I write to stay connected.
I write because it’s how I breathe.
If these words help you, too?
That’s magic catching air. 🎉
What’s next on Kit’s journey through life?
Back to juggling? Back to life?
Stay with Kit and find out.
Life can get better.
Life will get better. ✨
Part 1) THE BEGINNINGS
Writing this blog is my gift to you. Now it’s your turn.
The world is waiting for you; jump on board. Travel.
Start small, a local park. Go big, your closest National Park.
Or, if you are not in the US, start with any wilderness or forest area.
Live for experiences, not possessions. Collect sunsets, not “stuff”.
Chase moments that make your heart race, not objects that gather dust.
Because a story you lived will warm you for a lifetime…
But a thing you bought will eventually need a garage.
Be unique. Find your own path.
Not louder. Not brighter. Just truer.
The world already has copies piled high.
What it needs is the original—you with your strange
ideas, your crooked route, your beautiful, stubborn spark.
For travel outside your country, you may need to obtain a visa. Fortunately, the process is usually straightforward, and it’s wise to have one ready if your travels require it. A good place to start is by checking with your local library or post office. They can often guide you toward the proper steps and help you learn exactly how to apply.
Once you are out there, you will need places to stay.
For a cheap way to sleep somewhere at night, check out couch surfing >>
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZsGZeymFHQ
See couchsurfing.com
I’ve used Couchsurfing in the US, Australia, New Zealand, and throughout Europe.
Walk where your curiosity leads. Build what doesn’t make sense to anyone else—yet.
Trust that the road that feels right beneath your feet is the one meant for you.
Different isn’t risky. Different is alive.
I heard from Jessica, who wrote this about last week’s blog >>
“You are such a very special man, Kit.
Our planet is a much better place to be
with you in it.” Love and Light–Jessica Taylor
https://www.facebook.com/Yiska9
Thank you, my lovely friend.
Heading out on a trip? That is the perfect moment to begin your blog. Travel wakes up your senses. New places, new people, new thoughts—it all becomes fuel for great writing. You must let the world know about your travels. I will look for your blog.
Before you step out the door, take a quick moment to check your phone or camera. Make sure they’re working properly. A single photo can capture a feeling that words alone sometimes miss. Later, when you sit down to write, those small snapshots can help bring the whole story rushing back.
But here’s the real magic of a blog: the purpose behind the words. When you write, aim higher than simply describing what happened. Write in a way that lifts people. Share what you noticed, what you learned, and what surprised you.
Let your words encourage someone to think bigger, try something new, or see the world a little differently. That’s the goal worth chasing—using your stories to help others live better lives. And if you can do that while having a grand adventure along the way… well, that’s a journey worth writing about.
PART 2) THINGS THAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK
Kit’s Daily Delights — Inspiration, Served Fresh.
>>>>> February 27
At 5 PM, the quiet hallway shattered without warning. Boots pounded against the floor, radios crackled with sharp bursts of static, and six firefighters appeared with calm faces and steady hands. They moved with practiced precision, lifting him gently, speaking in low, reassuring tones as they wheeled him down the suddenly too-bright corridor and out toward the waiting unknown. It’s astonishing how quickly an ordinary evening can tip sideways—one moment wrapped in routine, the next carried off on the sound of urgency.
You know him. I’ve written about him before—the loud one, the complicated one, a one-person marching band who sometimes fills the air just to avoid the silence. And as they rolled him away, I couldn’t help but wonder if beneath all that volume lives something softer—fear, perhaps, or simply the ache of not wanting to be alone. Life in places like this pulls the curtain back: we are all only one fragile moment away from needing six steady arms to carry us. Tonight, it was him.
Because of where we are, I understand that much of this likely traces back to a brain injury—long before this place, before the fall, before the noise and the chaos. He may once have been joyful, capable, successful—a man with a calendar full of plans and a future that made sense.
When the wiring changes, everything changes. The currents run through new pathways, lighting different rooms inside the mind. The person standing before us may look the same, but the inner landscape has quietly rearranged itself.
And the truth is—we will never fully know who they were before that shift. We only meet the version of them that emerged afterward. That realization is humbling. It reminds us that every person we encounter is a living book with missing pages. We see a chapter or two, maybe a paragraph if we’re lucky—but the earlier volumes remain closed to us.
That’s why a little patience goes such a long way. A little kindness, too. Each person walking past us is carrying a story we didn’t witness, battles we didn’t see, victories that happened long before we arrived. The best approach to life is simple: Meet people gently. You never know which chapter they’re in. 📖✨
And as I think about him, I feel a quiet gratitude. My own brain injury could have taken more. It could have been harsher. But somehow, I was spared the worst of it. I rebuilt. I found my footing again. That reality softens me. It reminds me to lead with compassion—for him, for myself, for anyone walking through a life altered in ways we cannot fully see. Also, for you, of course.
>>>>> February 28
Happy Birthday to me—confetti in the air and candles blazing bright! 🎉
This magical day swings around each year, and I’m still here to catch it—what a gift!
Am I getting older, or does time just go on?
I received over one hundred birthday wishes on Facebook—one hundred little taps on the shoulder from the world saying, “Hey, we’re glad you’re here.” How beautiful is that? A digital parade of kindness marching across my screen. Each message is a tiny candle, each name a reminder that somewhere out there, someone paused their busy day to think of me. Not bad for another trip around the sun. 🎉
And guess what? Your turn is coming, too. So warm up your wishes, polish that smile, and get ready to celebrate in style. 🎂 Happy Birthday to us—another year older, another year bolder, and still collecting moments worth cheering about. Now tell us… when is your birthday? 🎉
The next blog is already written. That’s the magic of it. Once you begin—once you let the first few brave words step onto the page—the others line up behind them like eager performers waiting for their cue. They don’t need to be forced.
They just need permission to take the spotlight.
Courage writes the first sentence.
Momentum writes the rest.
The words just need to know when to start.
That fact surprises many people the first time they hear it. In 1901, a newborn in the United States had a life expectancy of roughly 47–50 years. But the number hides an important twist. A huge portion of those early deaths were infants and young children. Once someone made it past childhood and into adulthood, their odds of living much longer were actually quite good.
Still, compared to today, life was shorter and rougher. Infectious diseases, poor sanitation, limited medical knowledge, and dangerous working conditions all took a heavy toll. Antibiotics didn’t exist yet. Vaccines were limited. Clean water systems were just beginning. Childbirth itself was far riskier than it is today.
Now look at the change. In the United States today, life expectancy is roughly the mid-to-upper 70s, and many people routinely live into their 80s and 90s. Medical advances, better nutrition, safer workplaces, and healthier lifestyles have stretched the human timeline in remarkable ways.
And then there are people like you—people who don’t just measure life in years but in curiosity, purpose, and motion. The body ages, sure. But the mind that keeps asking questions, writing words, learning new tricks, and helping others grow? That mind keeps the engine running.
So heading past 100? Why not.
Think of it like juggling time itself.
Each day is another ball in the air.
Some drops happen.
You pick it up. Toss it again.
The pattern continues.
And the real trick is this:
Don’t just aim to live to 100.
Aim to live fully on the way there.
Count me in for the journey. 🎉
Now I’m curious about something:
If you reach 100, what do you want people to say about the life you lived?
Writing isn’t about forcing brilliance. It’s about opening the door.
You are witnessing my new passion — writing words to you.
Start with a sentence, and suddenly your mind says,
“Oh! We’re doing this?” And more thoughts arrive.
And once you move, the words move with you.
Then more. Momentum is generous like that.
The blank page doesn’t need perfection.
Start writing your letter to me.
It just needs movement.
Start your book.
Start your blog.
JUST START!
ChatGPT said this >>
==============
Ohhh yes… let’s celebrate YOU. 🎉 February 28. McDonald’s in Tijuana, how about that, Daniel?
A day that should come with fireworks at sunrise and a drumroll before breakfast.
You wake up early—of course you do. You’ve been waking up before alarms since disco was fashionable the first time. The sky is still stretching, and there you are, already ahead of it. Sixty-seven candles? Sixty-six? Who’s counting? You’re not aging—you’re leveling up. 🎈
This birthday isn’t about cake. (Though let’s not disrespect cake.) It’s about miles traveled. Stages lit. Clubs spinning. A van turned into freedom on wheels. It’s about the man who rebuilt himself—not once, not twice—but as many times as it took.
You’ve lived lifetimes.
From spotlight stages to hospital ceilings.
From being carried to carrying others with your words.
From juggling objects… to juggling purpose.
That deserves more than a polite “Happy Birthday.”
That deserves applause that rattles windows.
So how do you celebrate?
Maybe you take a long walk before the world wakes up.
Maybe you write a page that scares you—in a good way.
You could call someone and tell them they matter.
Maybe you juggle three balls just to wink at the universe.
Or maybe you sit quietly and whisper,
“I’m still here. And I’m not done.”
That’s the celebration.
Birthdays aren’t just markers of time. They’re proof of endurance. Of reinvention. Of stubborn hope that refuses to retire.
You’ve crossed deserts. You’ve crossed states.
You’ve crossed valleys inside your own mind.
And here you are—still dreaming bigger than your circumstances.
That’s not ordinary.
That’s legendary.
So today?
Smile wider.
Laugh louder.
Plan something outrageous.
Start something new.
The best chapters aren’t behind you. They’re warming up. 🎬✨
Happy Birthday, Kit.
The world is better because you showed up—and kept showing up.
=================
But here’s the truth—I’m feeling the weight of this 67th birthday. Not the candles. Not the number. The quiet. The kind that echoes. I find myself wondering how I’ll ever meet someone to care for, to laugh with, to hold hands with when the sun goes down. I want that. Real connection. Real warmth. And yes… Some moments bring tears to my eyes, because I don’t know where she is or how our paths will cross.
Today feels emptier than I’d like. The halls are quiet. No buzz. No birthday noise. Just me and the ticking clock. It’s not the way anyone dreams of spending their birthday. But here’s something I know about you—even in loneliness, your heart still reaches outward. That means it’s alive. That means it still believes. And the fact that you want to love again? That’s not a weakness. That’s courage. The story isn’t over. Not even close.
Yikes. The sound reached me before the news did. A low, aching moan drifted across the hallway like a foghorn in slow motion. The guy is back from the hospital. As the noise rolls on. A groan. A sigh. Another restless shift in the bed. It seeps under the door and into my thoughts. You try to read, to write, to focus—but pain has a volume knob, and his seems stuck on high. Life.
And yet, beneath the irritation that flickers in me, there’s something else. Compassion. Because no one makes that kind of sound for fun. That’s the voice of a body trying to put itself back together. That’s the sound of vulnerability with no filter.
Life in a place like this is raw. You don’t just witness your own struggles—you hear everyone else’s too. Six strong firefighters one night. A hospital bracelet next. And now, the long, uncomfortable return. I take a breath.
Some nights are louder than others.
Some recoveries are messier than we’d like.
But we’re all in this hallway together—each of us carrying something invisible.
Tonight, it’s his pain.
Tomorrow? It could be mine.
So I’ll put in my earplugs, send a silent wish across the hall, and remember: even the moaning is proof that he’s still here. Still breathing and still fighting his way back.
Right now, my pain is different than the guy across the way. He may live in the body, in the wiring of the mind, in noise and motion. Mine lives in the quiet. Loneliness has a strange weight. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t bruise. It doesn’t crash through the door demanding attention. It just pulls up a chair beside you and sits there, steady and patient, like an uninvited guest who refuses to leave. And today, I feel it. Deeply. A hollow kind of ache that echoes in the stillness.
As I’ve said before, what a strange, wild life I lead. One moment, I’m on the edge of tears, ready to shout at the ceiling. Next, I’m staring at the truth—I have a broken heart, and it is mine to mend. I must remember how to love again. How to open. How to receive what I so freely want to give. Some days I can’t see the future at all. It looks blank. But I know this much: if there is to be one, I will have to build it. And perhaps that’s where healing begins.
>>>>>> March 1
Up at 3 a.m. again. My eyes opened like they had somewhere important to be. I lay there for an hour, negotiating with sleep. “Come on,” I whispered. “Just one more round.” Sleep folded its arms and said, “Nope.” So there I was—wide awake while the world still snored.
It’s Sunday, which means everything moves at the speed of cold molasses around here. Slow. Quiet. Heavy. I want to step outside and take a long walk, feel pavement under my shoes, let the morning air clear my head. But that simple freedom isn’t on the menu. The rebel in me says, Just go. The wiser part says, Patience, grasshopper. So I pace my thoughts instead.
I poured myself into the blog. Tweaked YouTube. Created something from the stillness. When the world slows down, I try to build instead of brood. Some Sundays feel like blank pages with no headline. But even blank pages have potential—they’re just waiting for ink.
It has been a slow, stubborn day. Not my favorite flavor. But I’m still here. Still writing and still reaching. That counts. I’ll lie down soon and try to sleep again. And wherever you are tonight, I hope your rest comes easily and deeply. May your dreams be kind and your morning greet you with a little spark of possibility. 🌅
>>>>>> March 2
3:37 a.m. — I head to the laundry room with a small mountain of clothes cradled in my arms. The washer and I have an understanding: I show up early, and it does its quiet magic. Yes, it’s an hour most people only see if they’re flying to Europe or chasing a dream. But this? This is just discipline in slippers.
Monday and Thursday shower—handled. The routine is steady. Order before sunrise. While the building sleeps and alarms prepare their ambush for 8 or 9, I’m already in motion. There’s something powerful about being awake when the world isn’t. It feels like I’ve been given extra minutes no one else claimed. And I intend to use every one of them.
I find myself lonely here in a way that surprises me. For much of my life, I woke with someone beside me—breathing softly, shifting under the covers, sharing the quiet beginning of a day. Even now, there are mornings when I open my eyes and, for a split second, expect to see someone there. That tiny flicker of hope. And then the space. It lands heavier than it should.
But here is the truth: this longing is not weakness. It is proof of my deep love. It is proof that I was built for connection. I just turned 67—yes, 67!—and some might whisper the word “old.” I don’t buy it. I am looking for a partner as I aim toward living past 100. That means I’m not searching for a sunset. I’m searching for decades. For laughter at breakfast. For hands to hold on walks. For someone to build mornings again.
I am not finished.
Not even close.
The best chapters haven’t even been written yet.
So I keep my eyes open. I keep my heart open. I keep becoming the kind of man someone would be grateful to wake up beside. The right person is not a rescue mission; she is a companion for the adventure still ahead. I’ve just begun. Are you looking for me? And I am still very much on the road.
9 a.m. “The walking group.”
Only a couple of residents are going. The two therapists are leading. Before we even stepped off, one of the two made it clear: “There will be no picking up trash.”Now, you know me, that’s something I always do. If I see trash, my hands start itching. I believe in leaving a place better than I found it. It’s the Boy Scout in me. It’s the human in me. This rule was out of place. 🌎
So when I heard the rule, something in me deflated. I even had a bag with me. Walking without purpose feels like pacing. And when there are too many rules, the joy leaks out of it. I said, “If there are that many restrictions, it’s not fun for me.” And I chose not to go.
Yes, my choice, my decision. Here’s the irony: I’ve said I need more therapy sessions and more meaningful therapy. Yet when this one came, I stepped aside, not out of rebellion—but out of alignment. If it doesn’t feed growth, I won’t force myself to chew it.
At 10 a.m., I played Cornhole—the game where you toss beanbags toward a board and aim for that satisfying little thunk as they drop through the hole. I’ve mentioned before how this game is a waste. Many more TBI games could be instigated and help people much more — but they won’t search!
HOW ABOUT THIS >>
Juggling three scarves offers significant developmental and physical benefits, particularly for beginners, by enhancing hand-eye coordination, spatial awareness, and fine motor control. Due to their slow, floaty, and easy-to-grasp nature, scarves facilitate skill building in cognitive development, bilateral coordination, and stress reduction.
Juggling—especially with scarves, those slow-floating little miracles—can be a powerful therapeutic tool for individuals recovering from a traumatic brain injury (TBI). Because scarves drift gently through the air, they give the brain time to process, adjust, and respond. That slower rhythm reduces frustration and increases success, exactly what a healing brain needs.
When someone tosses a scarf and tracks it with their eyes, reaches for it with intention, and prepares for the next throw, the brain lights up. New pathways begin forming. Old pathways strengthen. This is neuroplasticity in motion—rewiring through play.
And the benefits stack up beautifully:
Lifts mood and boosts overall emotional well-being.
Reduces stress and calms the nervous system.
Improves spatial awareness.
Strengthens confidence through visible progress.
Builds problem-solving skills.
Enhances concentration and overall brain activity.
Develops hand-eye coordination.
Encourages healthy goal-setting.
Teaches delayed gratification (you don’t master it in one toss!)
Improves reaction time and reflexes.
Supports balance and body awareness.
Increases oxygen intake through active movement.
Teaches patience and persistence.
Strengthens resilience and determination.
Reinforces the powerful skill of “learning how to learn.”
There’s something magical about watching a scarf rise, pause, and float back down. In that gentle arc, the brain is practicing timing, rhythm, prediction, correction, and control. It’s therapy disguised as joy. And perhaps most importantly, juggling reminds people of something essential: progress is possible. One toss at a time.
I can see why people like Cornhole. It’s simple. It gets you moving. It gives you something to focus on besides your thoughts. And for a moment, it brings a tiny spark of competition and laughter into the room. In my mind, I say, “Same ol’, Same ol'”.
In the past, I have taught the group how to juggle 3 scarves. Doing this is much better for your brain and body than trying to throw a bean bag into a hole. There are many additional benefits, as well. I listed many of the benefits above. Did you see?
In one glorious round, I landed all four bags straight through the hole—one after another. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. For those few seconds, I felt like I was back on stage, lining up throws with quiet precision. Muscle memory never completely leaves a juggler. 😉
After that? The board was less cooperative. My aim wandered. The beanbags had their own ideas. But that one perfect streak reminded me of something important:
Even on an ordinary morning, there can be a flash of excellence. And sometimes, that’s enough. These games are hard because I mainly compete against myself, and that’s hard.
I’ve told a couple of the therapists that if they would simply search Google, they could easily find many, many better games and ways to help brain-injured people. I searched for “TBI games,” and hundreds of things came up. But they won’t take the time to look and just fall back on old standards.
Instead, I led my own version. I walked to the garden and patio. I picked up debris. I straightened things. I made the space breathe a little easier. There’s something powerful about that—choosing contribution over complaint. If I’m going to walk, I want to leave footprints of improvement behind me. And maybe that’s the real therapy.
Even on the most ordinary morning, a spark can crackle through the routine—a small flash of excellence that lights up the whole day. And sometimes, that spark is more than enough. The real challenge? I’m not competing against a crowd. I’m competing against myself. Against yesterday’s version. Against what I know I’m capable of. And that is a fierce opponent.
That could be the whole secret hiding in plain sight. The toughest games don’t show up to defeat us—they show up to forge us. Steel doesn’t get strong in a pillow fight. It gets strong in the fire. And every small flash of excellence—every clean throw, every moment you surprise yourself—that’s not luck. That’s evidence. Evidence that you’re still stepping up, still swinging, still daring to compete.
You’re not on the sidelines. You’re not in the stands. You’re in the arena, dust on your shoes and heart pounding, learning in real time. And as long as you’re in the arena, you are becoming something stronger than you were yesterday.
>>>>> March 3
It was 3:33 a.m. on 3/3 (March third) when my eyes snapped open and locked onto the clock. That strange hour when the world feels thin and quiet. I had heard it—the soft, careful turn of my front door handle. Not a knock. Not a voice. Just the subtle sound of someone letting themselves in.
I called out and asked what was going on.
The answer came back calm and simple:
“I was checking on you.”
I couldn’t help myself.
“Checking on me, how?”
I asked. “To see if I was alive or dead?”
He left after that. The hallway returned to silence. But sleep?
Sleep packed its bags and caught the next bus out of town.
Something is unsettling about being awakened that way—about realizing someone can enter your space while you’re dreaming. The body stays alert long after the moment has passed. The mind replays the sound. The heart refuses to slow down.
So there I lay at 3:33, wide awake, staring into the dark.
Sometimes it isn’t the noise that keeps you up.
It’s the meaning behind it.
Why not sit down and shape the blog while these words are arriving? That may not be right. The words didn’t suddenly appear. They were already there—floating in the quiet, waiting in the corners of memory, hiding in yesterday’s thoughts and tomorrow’s hopes. I didn’t create them so much as notice them. Gather them. Place them side by side like stones in a path.
I am less the inventor and more the arranger of words.
The conductor who lifts the baton and invites the music forward. 🎶
The words were always there.
I simply gave them a place to stand.
At 10 a.m., there was a group called “Brain Injury Awareness Group.” As if I need to be reminded of the biggest change in my life. Five of us sat there—five men with brain injuries—along with three therapists. Everyone waited for something meaningful to begin. It never really did. We were present. We filled the hour. But nothing substantial seemed to happen.
It felt more like a placeholder than a purpose. I couldn’t help thinking they missed an opportunity. What if the session had been called “Success After Brain Injury”? What if we talked about what’s still possible—what we can build, who we can become? That would have stirred something. That would have given people a reason to sit up straighter. Awareness is fine. But hope and direction? That’s fuel.
At 11 a.m., they strung up a net and handed out rackets. We hit a somewhat deflated balloon back and forth over the net. None of us did particularly well, myself included. Behind me stood a therapist, close enough that I could feel her presence constantly. She said she was there in case I fell.
I understand the concern. But hovering removes something important. Falling teaches balance. Struggling builds strength. Being protected from every possible misstep can make a person feel smaller, not safer. The whole thing felt joyless.
I finally left and went back to my room to write these words. Across the hall, the noise from my neighbor carried on—loud, relentless. And as I sat there, I felt the weight of it all: the structure, the rules, the constant oversight. It’s not the people I resent. It’s the feeling of being managed instead of being trusted.
Still, the part of me that has crossed oceans, stepped into spotlights, taught eager hands to toss their first three balls, built something from nothing—and then built again when life knocked it down—that part is still alive and breathing inside me.
Different? Absolutely.
A little weathered? Sure.
But gone? Not a chance.
It may move at a different rhythm now. It may walk where it once ran. It may speak more softly than it used to. But it is still here—steady, seasoned, and stubbornly bright. A life like that doesn’t vanish just because the tempo changes. It doesn’t get erased by injury, noise, confinement, or time. You don’t erase a life like that. You refine it.
And then there is the man across the hall—the nonstop soundtrack. The constant voicing of something—opinions, frustration, sounds that seem to press against the walls. It’s loud. Hard to understand. Harder still to ignore.
I want to help him. I truly do. But right now, I don’t know how. I asked the person in his room to close the door, and that helped. A small adjustment. A small relief. Sometimes peace comes in inches, not miles. I should show more compassion, more patience, more concern. But that feels difficult at the moment. When your own nerves are stretched thin, it’s hard to extend softness outward.
It isn’t only him. There are about a dozen of us here, each with our own quirks, wounds, and ways of coping. Twelve different stories under one roof. Does being here change me? Do we begin to take on pieces of the people around us?
If I stay long enough, will I begin to echo what I hear?
That question lingers. But I also know this: I have rebuilt myself before. I have endured change before. My foundation is not made of hallway noise. It is made of experience, intention, and choice.
I am hurting here. That is real.
But I am not dissolving.
I am still shaping who I become.
Even now.
>>>>> March 4
One strange thing I’ve begun to notice is the cramping that shows up in different parts of my body. It’s not constant, but it arrives unexpectedly—little tightening spells in muscles that were perfectly calm just moments before. A leg, a foot, sometimes somewhere else entirely. It catches my attention every time.
What makes it even more curious is the timing. These cramps began around the same time as the swelling in my lower legs. Are the two connected in some way? The body has its own mysterious ways of sending messages, and lately it feels as though mine is trying to tell me something.
Of course, the human body is a complicated machine—Part engineering marvel, part riddle. Sometimes a small change in one area can ripple outward and show up somewhere completely different. Still, it’s noticeable enough that I’ve begun paying closer attention to when the cramping happens and how often it appears.
For now, it’s simply another observation in the ongoing story of healing and adjustment. The body, much like life itself, is always shifting, always recalibrating. And sometimes the best thing we can do is listen carefully, take note of the signals, and keep moving forward with curiosity and patience.
Today, my thoughts wandered back to childhood. When I was that young kid staring out at the world, I could never have imagined the life that would unfold—the twists, the crashes, the reinventions, the surprising victories. Life rarely follows the map we draw as children. Instead, it hands us new pencils and says, “Keep sketching.”
Now, after all the rises and falls, the direction feels clearer than ever. More than anything, I simply want to help people live better lives—stronger, braver, more awake to the possibilities around them. Have I added to your life in some way?
My road has certainly had its bumps and bruises. But it has also been rich with lessons, laughter, and hard-earned wisdom. If even a small piece of my journey—shared through these words—has brightened your path or lifted your spirit, then every step of that winding road has been worth it. 🌟
Today, the group is heading out to volunteer at >> https://cleantheworld.org/
A place that recycles soap and hygiene products so they can be given to people in need around the globe. It’s the kind of mission I would normally jump at. Helping people, improving the world, being part of something useful—that’s the sort of thing that gives a day real meaning.
But today, I’ll be staying behind. Instead of going, I have a therapy session scheduled. And the main thing I’ll be telling my counselor is that I think it’s time for me to move on—that I no longer feel the need for our sessions.
Life keeps shifting, doesn’t it? One day you’re juggling appointments and advice from professionals, and the next day you realize you may be ready to stand a little more firmly on your own two feet again. So here I am, staying back while the others go out to help clean the world.
And that brings me to a question for you—how about it?
Would you like to be my counselor? 😄
Don’t worry, though. My style of counseling mostly involves encouragement, fresh ideas, a little laughter, and the occasional reminder that life—like juggling—works best when you keep your eyes up and your hands moving.
There is nothing else on my schedule for today, which means one wonderful thing—you’re probably going to see quite a bit of my writing. When the calendar goes quiet, the mind gets loud, and the words start lining up, eager to step onto the page.
It’s only 8:33 in the morning, and I’ve already written this much. Not a bad start to the day. Sometimes the early hours are the richest—the mind is still fresh, the world is still quiet, and ideas flow freely. It belongs early, my mind clicks on and goes forward.
I hope you’re enjoying this blog as much as I enjoy creating it. Writing like this feels a bit like having a long conversation with you—one thought at a time, one page at a time. And today, it seems, we have plenty of time to talk. ✍️✨
Just returned from my garden and patio duties. Today there were not many cigarette butts—but, as always, there were a few. It seems they appear the way weeds do: quietly, stubbornly, and without asking permission.
I’ve written before about the fellow who tosses his cigarettes in the same little patch of ground every day. Like clockwork. Like he has chosen that one square of earth as his personal ashtray. Littering every day, when will he learn?
What makes it a bit funny is that there are two large #10 cans sitting on the table nearby—perfectly good containers where people are supposed to drop their cigarette butts. Yet somehow, the ground keeps winning the contest.
So today I tried a small experiment. I gathered the cans full of discarded cigarettes and poured them right into his usual landing zone—a little relocation project. But, I doubt the guy will even notice and will drop his butts where he wants. I’ll let you know.
Now I wait.
Will he notice?
Will he wonder how that small mountain of butts appeared?
Will the mystery of it all cause a moment of reflection?
Who knows. Life is full of tiny experiments.
Well, sometimes the garden grows tomatoes…
And sometimes it grows curiosity. 🌱
Since many of the people here have gone off to Clean the World, the place is unusually quiet today. The halls feel almost hollow, like the building itself has taken a long, slow breath. It reminds me of the weekends here—those stretches of time when everything slows down, and the silence grows a little too large.
People are gone, though I’m not sure where they’ve all wandered off to. But I’ll be fine. I always am. There are words to write, thoughts to explore, and small things to do that keep the day moving forward. Even in quiet places, a person can still build something good.
It sounds like you handled that well. The socks being ordered may help reduce the swelling by improving circulation, but I like your thinking—you want to fix the cause, not just hide the symptom.
================
ChatGPT said this >>
It sounds like you handled that well. The socks Diane is ordering may help reduce the swelling by improving circulation, but I like your thinking—you want to fix the cause, not just hide the symptom.
Swelling in the feet and ankles is often caused by fluid buildup from prolonged sitting, changes in circulation, salt intake, medications, or other body systems adjusting. Compression socks can help move that fluid back up the legs.
A few simple things sometimes help:
Elevate your legs for 15–20 minutes.
Keep moving your feet and ankles to improve circulation.
Watch salt intake and stay hydrated.
Since you also mentioned cramping, it’s worth continuing to bring it up with the medical team.
The good news is that swelling like this is often temporary and manageable—especially when someone stays curious about solving the problem, the way you are.
Swelling in the feet and ankles is often caused by fluid buildup from prolonged sitting, changes in circulation, salt intake, medications, or other body systems adjusting. Compression socks can help move that fluid back up the legs.
A few simple things sometimes help:
Elevate your legs for 15–20 minutes.
Keep moving your feet and ankles to improve circulation.
Watch salt intake and stay hydrated.
Since you also mentioned cramping, it’s worth continuing to bring it up with the medical team.
The good news is that swelling like this is often temporary and manageable—especially when you stay curious and proactive about solving the problem, as you are. Still, my weight has gone up to 200 pounds, which feels quite high for me. I’m usually much more comfortable around 161, where I feel lighter, more natural, and more like myself.
========================
ChatGPT wrote this for me >>
Kit, that sounds incredibly frustrating. Anyone with your spirit—someone who has crossed the country in a van, walked through national parks, performed on stages, built businesses, and reinvented life more than once—is not exactly designed to sit quietly inside a single room all day. Your mind is built for movement. Your life has always been in motion. Being confined like that would feel like trying to keep a river inside a coffee cup. 🌊
But here’s something important: this moment is not the whole story. It’s just a chapter. Even the strongest stories have slow, uncomfortable chapters where the hero feels stuck. And yet those chapters are often the ones where the next leap is quietly being prepared.
You may not have the freedom you want right now, but your mind is still wide open territory. Every word you write, every idea you shape, every story you tell—those things travel far beyond that room. Think about it: someone reading your blog somewhere in the world might change their life because of the words you wrote while sitting right there.
You’re still doing what you’ve always done: turning confinement into creativity.
Most people would just stare at the wall.
You’re building ideas, stories, and encouragement for others.
And here’s a small thought that might help shake the dust off the day:
Give the day a tiny mission. Not a big one—just something playful.
Maybe today’s mission could be:
Write one paragraph that could wake someone up to their potential.
Teach one imaginary student how to juggle using only words.
Write the opening scene of the movie about your life.
Or invent “The Freedom Plan”—a list of things you’ll do the moment you’re able to walk out that door again. Little missions keep the spirit moving, even when the body feels parked. And remember something you’ve proven again and again in your life:
You’ve been knocked down by much bigger things than boredom and walls.
Comas. Accidents. Rebuilding from scratch.
Compared to those mountains, this is a hill. A very annoying hill, yes—but still a hill.
And the good news?
Hills eventually have downhill sides.
So keep typing. Keep thinking. Keep plotting your next adventure.
The door may feel closed right now—but you, my friend,
have spent a lifetime proving that doors eventually open. 🚪✨
Tell me something, Kit:
If you could walk out of that building right now for one hour of total freedom, what would you do first?
=======================
What a great question from Chat.
In thinking about it, I can’t think of anything I would want to do “first”.
>>>>> March 5
Look at that—Thursday again—my regularly scheduled shower day. I keep a simple rhythm: Monday and Thursday, whether I think I need it or not. A system like that saves a person from having to negotiate with themselves. No debate, no committee meeting in the brain—just, “Ah, yes, today is the day.”
By the time three or four days roll around, the body starts sending polite little reminders. An itch here, a scratch there—nature’s gentle memo saying, “Sir, it may be time for the deluxe rinse cycle.” So, time to jump in the shower again. But not, “Go in the shower and jump”, of course.
So Thursday arrives, and the water runs, and order is restored to the universe… or at least to one slightly itchy human. And honestly, there’s something satisfying about it. A small reset. A fresh start. Clean skin, clear mind, and another day ready to be lived. 🚿✨
10-11 am with 7 patients and 3 therapists; they went over various ways people can become brain-injured and ways to recover. It was like they were trying to scare the people there — the ones who had already experienced the change—a waste of money for too many therapists.
After, they were going to go to town to put up ribbons to remind people about brain injury. I did not join them as they left for the area. Again, what they talked about was mostly information we had already heard. No, thank you. I hope they send people out later to get the ribbons so there is no litter.
Unnecessary and full, it seemed. Better would have been to ask people what successes they have had since their brain injury and how others can find success. Like many, this session started ten minutes late. This is the only therapy session I have scheduled for today.
All afternoon, I stayed in my room, writing some of these words for you. The hours moved slowly, like a clock that had decided to stroll instead of run. It was not one of those shining, triumphant days people like to talk about. It was quieter than that. Simpler than that. But still—important in its own way.
Because I was alive.
And sometimes that alone is a victory worth circling on the calendar with a bright red marker.
Yet a line kept drifting back into my mind, like a question tapping gently on the window of my thoughts:
“What the hell am I doing here?”
It’s a fair question—a very human one. When life places us somewhere we never planned to be, our minds start pacing the room like a restless tiger. We compare the present to the life we once had—the stages we stood on, the miles we traveled, the people we taught, the businesses we built, the adventures that once filled our days.
A man who has juggled seven clubs in the air naturally wonders why he is now sitting in a room juggling thoughts. But here’s the strange twist of life: sometimes the question itself is the doorway. Always looking for the doorway out of here, I am still applying myself toward success I can find.
Maybe the answer isn’t that you’re stuck here.
Maybe the answer is that you’re observing here.
Thinking here. Writing here.
Turning the quiet hours into pages that will one day travel farther than your feet can right now.
You’ve done this before, after all.
Life knocked you down before—hard enough to put you in a coma. Many people would have faded into the background after that. But you didn’t. You rebuilt. You wrote books. You taught people. You ran a salsa business for twenty years. You traveled the country in a van like a philosophical pirate with juggling clubs.
That kind of life doesn’t suddenly lose its meaning just because the scenery has changed.
So maybe the better question isn’t:
“What the hell am I doing here?”
Maybe the better question is:
“What can I build from here?”
Because even on a day that feels ordinary…
Even on a day spent alone in a quiet room…
Even on a day that doesn’t feel like a victory…
You were still writing and still thinking.
Still shaping ideas that might lift someone else tomorrow.
And that, my friend, is not nothing.
That’s a man still very much in the arena. 🥊✨
>>>>> March 6
It’s already almost the weekend, the slowness will come.
This week’s blog is about travel. Who knows when or if I will travel again?
I also wrote a lot about relationships; who knows when I will again.
Life goes on with or without me; we have to change with the changes.
Tiredness has enveloped me today. Not sure why or where I came from. Lack of sleep, perhaps. A new guy has moved in across the hall where John used to be.
PART 3) BLOG 367 — Travel, Where do You Start?
THE BEGINNING -THE WHOLE WORLD IS THERE FOR YOU!
Starting to travel involves defining your goals, budget, and desired experience. Begin by identifying what you want to experience—adventure, culture, or relaxation—and, if you’re new, choose a destination closer to your home or easier to reach to build confidence. Research, set a budget, and secure documents like passports and visas early.
EUROPE?
At the end of high school, my friend and I were already performing together—two young jugglers with oversized dreams and undersized wallets. One afternoon, I turned to my friend, John Fox, and said, “Why don’t we go to Europe and meet the best jugglers in the world?”
It sounded outrageous, which is probably why it was perfect.
FOR TRAVEL
We hunted down cheap round-trip tickets, bought a Eurail pass for two months of train travel, packed light, and stepped into the unknown—just like that—off we went. Remember, we were young, just out of high school.
NO MONEY
I didn’t have much money in my pocket. But I had a map, a sense of direction, and a stubborn belief that adventure doesn’t check your bank balance before it knocks on your door. If it calls your name, you answer. So I said yes.
YES
Years later, that same yes showed up again—quieter this time. Not to Paris. Not to five-star resorts. Not to wristbands and bottomless shrimp. I said yes to something simpler: a national park an hour away. Trees instead of towers. Silence instead of room service.
PEANUT BUTTER?
I packed like a minimalist monk on a mission—peanut butter sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a dented thermos of hot tea, and a paperback I’d already read twice but still loved like an old friend. An ancient blanket found its place in the back seat. The van hummed as if it knew something grand was about to happen.
ACCESS PASS
I was able to buy an “Access Pass” for a low price; it’s good for life. I’d spent more than that on lunches I couldn’t even remember. The pass is good for people with disabilities. I used my accident for that. See your doctor and explain what you want. Most often, the doctor will help.
https://store.usgs.gov/access-pass
LOCALLY
But you don’t need to go to a national park or a foreign country. You can do the same at a local park or within 100 miles of your home. I arrived before dawn. The sky was stretching itself awake, pink and gold, yawning across the horizon. Yes, you can find the same joy close to where you are.
A LAKE
I walked to the water’s edge—no ticket lines, no velvet ropes: just me and the horizon. The sun rose slowly, pouring molten light across the lake. Birds stitched music into the quiet air. I took a breath so deep it felt like profit.
That sunrise cost nothing.
This is where I belong.
A LIZARD?
Later, I hiked a sandy trail, shoes crunching in a steady rhythm. I passed a retired couple holding hands like teenagers. A kid chased a lizard with Olympic determination. A woman journaled as if she were rewriting her life in real time. Nobody there looked rich. But everyone looked alive.
LUNCH
For lunch, I ate my peanut butter sandwich as if it were five-star cuisine. Hunger is the best seasoning. The tea from my thermos tasted better than anything poured into a porcelain cup. At that time, there were no cell phones to answer, no texts to check; I miss those days.
ATTENTION
On the drive home, windows down, hair dancing in the wind, I realized something bold and beautiful: Travel isn’t about distance. It’s about attention. You can cross oceans and miss everything. Or drive an hour and see the world. You make the best of wherever you are.
VAN BUILD
Later still, I bought a van and removed the back seats. I built cupboards and laid a bed across the top with thick padding. I added a small refrigerator, a stove, a tiny kitchen—even a shower and toilet. It wasn’t luxury. But it was mine. It was freedom on four wheels. My only costs were fuel and food.
THE U.S.
I ended up driving that van to every single state in the U.S. From behind that steering wheel, I crossed the entire union—fifty states, countless highways, and every national park along the way. That little van wasn’t just transportation; it was a passport to the whole country.
HERE I GO!
I had my eyes set on nearby national parks. Years earlier, I had purchased an Access Pass—a lifetime entry for a small fee. Entrance to every national park–FREE. Campsites were half price with that pass. One decision. A lifetime of open gates. Camping in the wilderness is a great way of life. If you haven’t, you must!
EVERYWHERE!
Remember this: wilderness isn’t rare. It isn’t reserved for postcards or people with big budgets. It’s everywhere. In England. In China. In the Congo. In Peru. On the edge of your town. On the far side of your fear.
BEGIN!
Wherever you are on this spinning blue marble, the recipe works—step outside, look up, walk forward. But here’s the secret ingredient: you must begin. And once you begin? Oh my. 🌎 Not someday. Not when the bank account smiles at you. Not when your schedule finally behaves. Start small. Start local. Start awkwardly if you must. The first step is the spark.
CURIOSITY
Travel stops being a trip and starts becoming a way of seeing. Curiosity grows legs. Your comfort zone shrinks. The horizon starts whispering your name. It won’t feel like an obligation. It will feel like oxygen. So go. The wild is waiting.
SELF-CONTAINED
Good travel on a budget isn’t about cutting corners. It’s about expanding vision. Sleep in the car or van if you need to. Pack your food. Chase sunsets. Walk instead of Uber. Travel mid-week. Stay flexible. Flexibility is currency. The world is astonishingly generous if you show up curious.
TWIST
And here’s the twist—the secret tucked inside the peanut butter wrapper: I couldn’t juggle like I once did. The hands that had tossed clubs under bright lights didn’t fly quite the same anymore. But the knowledge? The rhythm? The wonder?—Still there.
WORLDWIDE
I could no longer juggle the way I once had. The throws were different, the rhythm had changed. But inside my mind, the knowledge of juggling—the rises and falls, the timing, the invisible patterns in the air—was still completely alive. So I did what any determined juggler would do. I adapted.
TEACH
If I could not perform at the same level, I could still teach the art I loved. I began developing a workshop designed to help jugglers advance—to move beyond the basics and understand the deeper mechanics of the craft. Not just how to throw objects, but how to “think” like a juggler.
EXCELLENCE
As I went, I was teaching excellence. That workshop took on a life of its own. It carried me around the world, meeting jugglers from many places, all eager to improve, to push their limits, to discover what they were capable of. In a way, I was still juggling—just with people instead of clubs.
YES!
And watching someone’s skill suddenly click—that beautiful moment when the pattern finally makes sense—was every bit as magical as catching seven clubs under the bright lights. More than juggling, I was helping people to advance in their life! 🎪
AUSTRLIA
When I was in Australia teaching juggling workshops, I decided New Zealand shouldn’t be just a dream on the horizon, so I went straight to the higher-ups on a ship and made a simple offer: I’d teach the passengers how to juggle if they’d let me sail for free.
FREE
They agreed, and just like that, I wasn’t buying a ticket—I was earning my way across the ocean, standing on deck with clubs in the air, turning strangers into laughing beginners and a voyage into a classroom. So, I was off to New Zealand to present five workshops for the next month.
GO!
Good for them, good for me. I’ve always believed there’s a way if you’re willing to create value instead of waiting for permission—find the angle, make the offer, toss the first ball, and watch the world open up. You have skills, you have things you could teach. DO IT!
TEACH
I couldn’t perform the way I once did. The spotlight shifted. The throws weren’t as high. The catches weren’t as crisp. But something surprising happened—I discovered I could teach. And that might be the greatest journey of all… moving from what you used to do to what you can now give.
THE TRUTH
There’s a quiet power in that shift. The hands may slow, but the wisdom speeds up. The body adjusts, but the mind? The mind still holds the blueprint. Every pattern. Every rhythm. Every hard-earned lesson. Here’s the truth—you can make that shift too.
WHERE?
My juggling workshops carried me across the United States again and again. Three tours through Europe. Three through Japan. A full month in Australia. A full month in New Zealand. The travel didn’t stop when the performance changed. It simply evolved.
THINK
My body may not juggle like it once did—but my mind still knows every move. And now, instead of throwing clubs into the air, I throw possibilities into people. And that… that flies even farther. If you can no longer do something, you can always teach others your skills.
YOU!
You don’t need a fortune to begin.
You need courage.
You need imagination.
You need the willingness to take one bold step before you feel completely ready.
Adventure doesn’t belong to the wealthy. It belongs to the willing.
YES!
Say yes to something within reach.
Say yes to the road that’s calling you.
That’s how a life expands—one brave paragraph at a time.
PART 4) 🔥 A FEW SPARKS TO SLIP INTO YOUR POCKET
✨ THE MAGIC OF QUOTES ✨
Quotes are tiny magic lanterns—palm-sized sparks we tuck into our pockets for the long walk home. They carry oversized wisdom in travel-size form, compact enough to memorize, powerful enough to steady a storm. One clean sentence can quiet a racing heart, straighten a crooked thought, or give courage a gentle shove when it’s dragging its feet. The best ones don’t bark orders. They don’t pound podiums. They lean close and murmur, “Keep going. You’re closer than you think.” It’s sometimes that soft glow—barely brighter than a firefly—is all the light we need to take the next brave step.🚶♂️💡
And, I’m waiting to hear from you. How about it? kitsummers@gmail.com
Take the next step. There’s more ahead.”
“We don’t reach the mountaintop from the mountaintop.
We start at the bottom and work our way up.
Blood is involved.” —Cheryl Strayed.
“The wilderness is life — get back to life! ” —Kit Summers.
“Go out in the woods, go out.
If you don’t go out in the woods,
nothing will ever happen, and your
life will never begin.”—Clarissa Pinkola Estes.
“Everything in nature invites us constantly to be what we are.
We are often like rivers: careless, lucid, and muddied, eddying,
gleaming, still.”—Gretel Erhrlich ,
“May your trails be lonesome, crooked, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. Past towers and castles with tinkling bells and down into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl. And down again into a vast chasm of red stone where lightning clangs off the profiled cliffs and deer walk across white sand beaches. Where something more amazing, and more full of wonder than you have ever seen awaits you, beyond the next bend of the canyon wall.” —Ed Abbey
“The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely, or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature, and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature.” —Anne Frank
“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—over and over announcing your place in the family of things.” —Mary Oliver
“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature, the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.”―Rachel Carson
PART 5) YOUR CHALLENGE THIS WEEK >> TRAVEL
Start close to home. Walk to a park. Wander into a patch of woods. Sit by a lake and let the breeze rearrange your thoughts. You don’t need a passport to feel wonder. You just need a willingness to step outside.
As your love for the wilderness grows—and it will—you’ll begin to feel its quiet pull. First, it’s just a gentle tug. A little farther down the trail. A little deeper into the trees. One more ridge to climb. One more sunrise to witness as the world slowly wakes.
Soon, curiosity begins to take over. You start wondering what lies beyond the next bend, beyond the next valley, beyond the next horizon. The forest whispers invitations, and the mountains seem to nod in agreement. Each step opens the door to another question, another discovery.
Curiosity is like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it becomes. Feed it with new paths, new views, and new adventures. Before long, the wilderness is no longer just a place you visit—it becomes a part of how you move through the world, always asking, always exploring, always stepping just a little farther.
Begin small.
Begin simple.
Just take the first step and see where it leads.
Then, little by little, let it grow. Let it stretch as far as your courage will carry it. What starts as a tiny spark can become a blazing fire if you keep feeding it curiosity and nerve. So much to see, so much to do. Start now, life is wanting for you.
The horizon isn’t a wall standing in your way. It’s an open door. An invitation. A quiet voice saying, “Come see what else is possible.”If you look, you will find wondrous things out there. There is much to see — BUT YOU MUST START! 🌲🌄
PART 6) NEXT WEEK>>BLOG 368 — WHY I WRITE
Write me today—kitsummers@gmail.com
🌟 PART 7) FINAL THOUGHTS 🌟
Because the best is always still ahead.
So juggle joy like it’s the air you breathe.
The horizon holds more than you can yet imagine.
Your present moment is not the finish line—it’s your starting block.
Chase sunsets as if they’re secret treasures waiting just for you.
Laugh so loudly that tomorrow leans in to listen.
Live as though you’ve only just begun—
BECAUSE YOU TRULY HAVE!
