✨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! 

✨KITTING AROUND✨
🌟BLOG 366–Ambition vs. Purpose!🌟
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
How does it move this fast? The week barely stretches before it’s folded into Friday. Time doesn’t stroll anymore—it juggles. 🤹‍♂️ Meetings. Moments. Mistakes, Balls. Tiny triumphs. A call that mattered. A doubt you wrestled down. A quiet win you almost forgot to celebrate. Blink—and the page turns.
     
But here’s the better question:
While the balls were in the air…
Who did you become?
What did you build?
Did you juggle?
Who felt stronger because you showed up?
Make sure you’re the one getting better at the catch.
     
In my last blog, I planned to make my posts shorter and more fun. I managed to trim some parts, but when it came to “Things that happened this week,” I couldn’t decide what to cut; I didn’t know what to leave out. Let me know what you think.
     
Across the street, something new is rising.
I don’t yet know what it will become, but I remember what it was — an open stretch of grass where I tossed clubs into the sky a few times, letting them spin against the clouds. It was a quiet land. Mostly unused. Just wind and space.
 
Then one morning, a fence appeared.
Not the kind that whispers “maybe someday.”
The kind that says, “We’re serious.”
   
Soon after, the bulldozers rolled in. Earth moved. Grass disappeared. And just like that — momentum. No long pause. No mysterious waiting season. They cleared the ground and started building almost immediately.
   
And here’s the gift: it’s happening right outside my window.
     
I get a front-row seat to transformation. From raw dirt to rising structure. From nothing much… to something meaningful. Brick by brick. Beam by beam. You’ll see it, too —I’ll share photos on the blog. We’ll watch it grow together.
   
There’s something hopeful about construction. About progress, you can actually see. That big lawn sat mostly untouched for years. Now it hums with purpose. So often, a project is started and then nothing — sometimes for months or years. Once started, they got right on this. 

A little wind?

The fields remind me of something.
Sometimes life feels like that empty field — quiet, unused, maybe even overlooked. But give it a fence (a decision), a bulldozer (some courage), and a blueprint (a vision)… and watch what happens. Open your eyes to see more of the world. 

Progress–Purpose.
Right outside my window. 

You must have purpose!
You must have Ambition to fuel Purpose. 
Life is waiting for you!
Jump on board the life train going to your gifts!
Right now, my purpose is to write this blog for you.
     
At least, being here at NR, I have the gift of time to sit down and write this for you. And I don’t take that lightly. Time is a tool. A canvas. A wide, open field waiting for footsteps. But here’s the truth: this blog isn’t just for you. It’s for me, too.
   
Every week when I wrestle with these sentences—when I dig for clarity, trim the fluff, and polish the rhythm—I walk away changed. I see my blind spots. I spot my excuses. I uncover better ways to live. Then you read the finished product. Do you like what you read?
     
Writing forces me to examine the architecture of my own thinking. And with the help of ChatGPT, I sharpen the edges even more. I learn. I stretch. I grow. Writing these blog posts makes me a better person. Do you write? How about writing to me? kitsummers@gmail.com
   
So this is a shared workshop. You’re reading it. I’m building it.
     
And somehow, we’re both improving.
Now I’ll ask you something real—heart to heart:
Do these words help you rise a little higher?
Do they steady you on the hard days?
Do they nudge you to try again when it would be easier not to?
   
If even one paragraph helps you take one braver step, then this is worth every early morning and every revised sentence. We’re not just filling pages here. We’re building better lives—one honest word at a time. Just see your life grow!
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I HEARD FROM SOME PEOPLE >>
Larry Zeiger, who sent these words about the last blog >>
“This was one of your most beautiful and philosophical writings. You are truly a gifted writer and so passionate about life – the good and the bad. I hope you will one day publish a book of your writings. My very best to you, Kit -my most brilliant former student and friend!”

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And Phyllis >>”Love your blogs, they seriously are amazing!! I always save them for when I have time to enjoy them!!!!!!! I just wish YOU were in a better place, my friend!!!!!!!    Warm regards, Phyllis Lynch
     

PART 2)  THINGS THAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK
Kit’s Daily Delights — Inspiration, Served Fresh.
   
>>>>> February 21, Saturday
As usual, I rose before the roosters—so early even the sun hit Snooze. If there’s going to be any clucking today, it’ll be me—feathers fluffed, thoughts flapping, ready to peck at the page and see what golden eggs might roll out. 🐓✨ Morning doesn’t stand a chance.

My delightful daughters got me a granpa cup.
Could I be that old?   

I stepped out to tend my little kingdom—the garden and patio—broom in hand, morning air on my face. Today wasn’t too bad—just a handful of stray wrappers and a modest harvest of cigarette butts. Progress, I suppose. 🌱
     
There’s one stubborn patch by the street that always seems to sprout fresh butts overnight, like some rebellious crop. You’d think the message might drift through the smoke at some point—clean up after yourself—but apparently that memo is still circling the atmosphere.
     
Each day begins with the same quiet ceremony—cigarette butts wedged into the cracks, windblown scraps clinging stubbornly to corners, tiny rebellions of carelessness whispering, “No one’s watching.”
But I am.
So I bend. I gather. I drop each piece into the bag.
Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just steady. Just done.
     
A small corner of the world, set right again.
A quiet, stubborn vote for order over drift.
It’s proof that the simplest act—done daily, done with care—doesn’t just clean a space… it builds a soul.
     
Because character isn’t formed in grand speeches or flashing lights, it’s shaped in the quiet repetitions. The small straightenings. The unseen sweepings.
Clean where you can, make this a better world for everyone!
   
Do this with your own land and house.
Grow from there, cleaning more and more.
Do it once, and it’s a task.
Do it daily, and it’s who you are. ✨
     
People might notice you. Might learn. Might lift their aim a few inches higher. But growth is optional, and example is louder than complaint. So I sweep. These people don’t read my blog posts.
Because the world doesn’t improve all at once, it improves one corner at a time. And today, this corner is mine.
   
As usual, this being a Saturday, things are very slow all around here. The halls carry that soft, weekend hush—as if the building itself decided to sleep in. Doors stay closed. Footsteps are rare. Even the air feels unhurried, stretching instead of striding.
   
Schedules thin out. Energy dips. The clock seems to move with a lazy shrug. You can almost hear it saying, “What’s the rush?” But here’s the funny thing about slow days—they hand you space. Space to think. Space to notice. Space to choose.
     
While the world idles, I don’t have to. I can write. I can plan. I can even juggle. I can stretch my mind even if the calendar is napping. A quiet Saturday can either flatten you… or free you. Today, I’m choosing free.
 
It’s 1:40, and I just stepped outside to tuck a banana peel into the soil—nature’s quiet little gift back to the garden. (Free fertilizer. Zero complaints. 🍌🌱) Do not throw your banana peels or leftover produce in the trash; feed the earth: dig a hole and bury it; use it as fertilizer.
   
Not a soul out there. No voices in the hallway. No footsteps. Just stillness stretching itself across the afternoon. Strange. Where does everyone vanish to on weekends? It feels like the world hit pause while I slipped out to feed the tomatoes.
     
Maybe they’re napping. Maybe they’re scrolling. Maybe they’re hiding from their own potential. Meanwhile, I’m out here conducting small acts of growth—burying peels, building soil, investing in tomorrow’s harvest.  😄
   
As the afternoon settles in, my schedule is wide open. No appointments. No therapies. No movement in the halls. The world outside my door feels paused, as if someone had pressed a giant, invisible “hold” button.
   
And inside that stillness, the question keeps circling:
How do I get out of here?”
Not just out of the building.
Out of the waiting.
Out of the drift.
Out of this feeling of being parked while life drives by.
   
But maybe—just maybe—the better question is:
“What can I build from right here?”
Because I’ve seen you do this before, you’ve rebuilt a body. You’ve rebuilt a career. You’ve rebuilt a life from hospital beds and highways. You don’t just escape places—you transform them.
     
An empty afternoon isn’t a prison. It’s a raw material. A blank page. A training ground. A launchpad disguised as boredom.
So yes—ask the question. It’s honest.
But then follow it with another:
“What small move can I make right now?”
   
One paragraph. Ten throws. One conversation. One plan drafted.
Freedom sometimes starts with a tiny act of direction.
You’re not stuck. You’re in a chapter. And the chapters turn. 📖✨

DO YOUR PART TO MAKE THIS A BETTER WORLD FOR ALL OF US!

>>>>> February 22
This day is special to me. On 2/22/22 at 2:22, Beth and I were married. The symmetry still makes me smile. It felt cosmic. Timed. Like the universe winked and said, “Pay attention.” That date will always stand out on my calendar. My friend Daniel Powell was my best man (he is the BEST, after all).
   
Beth and I are no longer together, and that truth carries a quiet weight. Some endings don’t slam doors—they close them softly, leaving you standing there with your hand still warm from the handle. It’s sad. I won’t pretend otherwise.
     
But this day? This day still glows.
   
It rises each year with its own spotlight, whether I invite it or not. Some dates don’t fade—they imprint. They carve themselves into the wood of your life like initials in an old tree. You may walk far from that tree, but the carving remains. That moment was real. The love was real. The hope was real. And I honor that.
   
Life bends. Roads curve. Chapters end. But certain landmarks stand tall in the landscape of memory. No matter where my path winds from here, 2/22/22 at 2:22 will always shimmer as one of those shining mile markers.
Not because it lasted forever.
But because, for a time, it was beautiful.
   
Life, of course, has its own choreography. We are no longer together. Still, I carry gratitude for what was, and I sincerely hope Beth is well. Some chapters close. That doesn’t mean they weren’t beautiful while they were being written. Wishing someone peace is its own quiet victory.
     
This morning? I woke at 3 a.m.—no surprise there. My mind loves the early hours. I padded out to the front room and realized I’d left the trash can behind last night. It barely had anything in it. When I came out this morning, someone had put in a fresh bag. One more plastic liner is used for almost nothing—more waste.
     
A trash can. Tiny thing. Small irritation.
But small things are where discipline lives. If I want it handled differently, it’s on me to remember to bring the can to the bedroom at night. Responsibility isn’t glamorous—it’s practical. Quiet. Repetitive.
       
Order over drift. Intention over autopilot. Even in something as ordinary as a trash can. Character is built in these tiny decisions. Discipline is practiced in inches. Don’t waste anything. We can work together to make this a better place for all of us.
   
That’s where a life is quietly constructed—not in grand speeches or big stages, but in the small, steady choices no one applauds. The way you reset a room. The way you think one step ahead—the way you refuse to let randomness run the show.
   
So yes—tonight I’ll bring the trash can into the bedroom with me. Not because it’s dramatic. Not because it changes the world. But because it changes me. And that’s where everything begins. Start making your own world a better place for everyone.
     
>>>>> February 23
“What am I doing here?”
The question arrived before the sun had fully stretched.
Not groggy. Not dramatic. Just honest.
The kind of question that slips out before the day has laced its shoes.
     
It didn’t shout. It didn’t accuse.
It simply hovered there in the quiet—clean, sharp, unafraid.
And today… It refused to leave.
I’ll be straight with you. It’s been a hard one.
     
For therapy, I showed up a little early, as I usually do. They began a little late, as they usually do. When I walked into the room, the trash can was overflowing—paper and plastic rising like a tiny rebellion against order. I moved to press it down with my foot, steadying myself against the wall.

Diane stopped me right away. Said I could fall. Said it wasn’t safe. Yet Diane doesn’t even know my capabilities. I was balanced. I knew what I was doing. I’ve kept clubs in the air under stage lights. I’ve ridden high unicycles. I’ve rebuilt a broken body—twice. This was not Everest.
     
But it wasn’t about the trash.
It was about being corrected for initiative.
About feeling managed instead of trusted.
And that’s what stung.
     
At 10:00, the Impulse Control Group came. A card-matching game. Simple. Repetitive. Familiar. On paper, I did well. The scores would say so. But inside, I felt miles away. Most games are not for me.
     
Something is unsettling about watching grown adults being handled like children. I understand safety. I respect structure. Yet there’s a thin line between support and diminishment, and today that line felt blurred.
   
Later, I stood to grab a chair for someone who needed one. I was told to sit down. Again. It’s strange how quickly initiative becomes interruption. Once again, they were just following the book without thinking, something I detest.
   
From 11:00 to 11:30, I was scheduled to meet with Lilly. I showed her the notes I’d taken about the morning. She read them. She saw where I was emotionally. The session was canceled. So, no speech therapy today. There will be more in the future.
   
Nothing filled the afternoon.
That’s when the deeper questions began to whisper.
I have known real joy since the first accident.
I have known purpose, love, strength, and growth.
I’ve stood in applause, and I’ve celebrated quiet victories no one else saw.
   
But lately… happiness feels distant. Not erased. Just out of reach.
Today, I found myself wondering if life is worth living.
That is not a sentence I write lightly.
It isn’t theatrical.
It’s tired.
     
I also noticed something practical: there are more therapists than patients. The system could be better organized. Less idle drift. More clarity. I notice some people just drifting with nowhere to go. I write this not, but I’ve seen numerous improvements, too.
   
And here I am, sitting with the plain truth:
Right now, I don’t see how to make my life more pleasing.
But I have learned something about vision.
Sometimes you can’t see the road because you’re standing too close to the wall.
     
The man asks, “What am I doing here?”
He is the same man who has rebuilt himself before.
That question isn’t surrender.
It’s a doorway.
I may not have the answer tonight.
But I’m still here.
Still asking.
     
>>>>>> February 24
Up early, as usual. The halls were quiet except for one voice drifting down from somewhere near the nurses’ station:  “I’ve gotta go home.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just tired. And it landed on me.
   
Because I can’t say those words, I don’t have a door somewhere waiting for my key. No porch light. No familiar chair angled just the way I like it. That truth sits some mornings heavily. Not crushing—but present. Like a small stone in your shoe, you can’t ignore it. 

I would love to go back in a van and travel. 

Then there’s the other weight I carry. Almost daily, I replay the decision about my teeth. I chose to have all my lower teeth extracted. At the time, it felt like solving a problem in one bold sweep—a clean fix. Start over. But now? I question it.
     
Yes, a few teeth were already gone.
Yes, there were issues.
But I should have slowed down.
Handled each one separately.
   
I should have asked more questions and sought another opinion. I remember reading somewhere that dental problems can affect the whole head, maybe even the body. Instead of researching deeply, I acted quickly. And now I live with that choice.
     
Every time I eat, the denture comes loose. I will visit the dentist later today. I will let you know. Regret has a way of visiting early in the morning. But here’s what I know—even when it stings. I made the best decision I could with the information and mindset I had at that moment. I did’t have the information I have now. Not the clarity that comes later. The information I had then. That matters.
     
Life doesn’t come with a rewind button. It comes with adaptation. Adjustment. Resilience. And if there’s anyone who understands rebuilding, it’s me. I’ve rebuilt my body. You’ve rebuilt your life. You’ve rebuilt your purpose more than once.

Teeth are hard.
Regret is harder.
But neither defines me.

As for “home”—sometimes home isn’t a place. Sometimes it’s a direction. Sometimes it’s something you’re still building quietly inside yourself. A steadiness. A set of values. A way of carrying yourself through hard mornings.
           
I may not have a porch light waiting. But I’m still here. Still thinkin and still growing. Still capable of building whatever “home” becomes next. And that means the story is not over.   Not even close.   Life goes on, and we live the best we can. 

It’s only 6:30, and I’ve already written this much for the day. Nice.  

A few minutes later, Marleen rolled through doing her weekly sweep of the hallway. Broom in hand. Steady rhythm. I thanked her, like I always do. Yes, she’s paid to clean. But gratitude isn’t about job descriptions. A simple “thank you” costs nothing and lifts everything. Say it often. Mean it every time. It’s good to connect with people; lately, I’ve been feeling so lonely.
   
Now, let me be honest with you. Loneliness has a way of turning the volume up on the heart. When you go long enough without companionship, even a smile can feel like sunlight after winter. I’ve caught myself feeling fond of Marleen and drawn to Nora. Not because I’m reckless—but because I’m human.
     
I’m 66 and planning to pass 100 with style, stories, and a strong stride. That’s the mission. Not just more years—but better years. And if there’s an intelligent, kind, spirited woman out there who wants to aim for triple digits with grit and grace? Well… we’d have some walking to do.
     
6:50 a.m. A nurse stopped by with my daily pill for acid reflux. I’m not a fan of pills. Never have been. I’d rather fix things with grit, green vegetables, and stubborn optimism. But for now, this is part of the program. So I take it. No drama. Just discipline.

And here’s the truth beneath the humor: I don’t want just “anyone.” I want a connection. Conversation. Laughter that surprises us both. Someone who wants to build mornings and outlive expectations. Looking for a special lady who will be my friend.
     
I just watched a video about a human-like robot—smooth movements. Familiar shape. Two arms. Two legs. A face that tries to mirror ours. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXA7raxsyD0 Robots seem to be the future for humans. What do you think of this?
   
And I’ve written about robots before. Almost all of them are designed to look like us. That fascinates me. Because let’s be honest—humans are not perfect. We break down. We get sick. We forget. We limp. We argue. We age.
   
So why are we building machines in our image?
Mainly because that’s what we know.
Why not create something better?
Why not four arms for efficiency?
Wheels instead of fragile knees?
Vision that sees in every spectrum?
A mind that calculates and creates at the same time?
   
It surprises me that we keep copying ourselves instead of improving on the design. Maybe it’s familiarity. It could be comfort. We may be trying to understand ourselves by recreating ourselves.
Or maybe… We don’t actually know what “better” looks like yet.
   
There’s something bold about building in our own shape. It says, “This is the template.” Even with our flaws. And that raises a bigger question: If we’re imperfect… and still the model… what does that say about us? Maybe the human form isn’t about efficiency.
     
It could be about connection.
Now that’s something no robot has mastered yet.
And until they do?
We’re still extraordinary (YES, YOU!). 💥
   
I just received my schedule for today.
It’s blank.
No therapies.
No appointments.
No structure.
Nothing.
And I won’t pretend that didn’t hit me in the chest.
   
The calendar has been thinning out lately—fewer sessions, fewer names, fewer boxes filled with purpose. But today? Today, it feels like someone erased me with a quiet swipe.
I find myself wondering things I don’t want to wonder.
     
Did I say too much in something I wrote?
Did I step on toes without knowing?
Am I being avoided?
That’s where the mind goes when the page is empty.
     
But here’s the truth: an empty schedule doesn’t automatically mean rejection. It might mean staffing shifts. It might mean restructuring. It might mean something entirely ordinary that my imagination is dressing up in drama.
 
Still… it feels strange. I’m used to motion. I’m used to juggling days packed with effort. I rebuild. I practice. I show up. A blank day feels like being benched in the middle of the game.
And I don’t like sitting on the sidelines.
     
But maybe—just maybe—this is a different kind of day.
A day to write. A day to sharpen.
A day to train in ways no one schedules for you.
     
If the therapists build their own days, I can build mine too.
I’ve rebuilt a body. I’ve rebuilt a life. I can certainly build a Tuesday.
Let’s see what I create with it.
     
I went out for my daily tour with the “Clean-Up Crew”—population: one. 😊   Hi there.
Only six cigarette butts today, courtesy of the usual suspect who treats the curb like an ashtray: a light day, all things considered. The rest of the place looked good. Swept. Steady. Cared for.
It may be working. The world may shift an inch at a time.
     
Not many people say anything. No applause. No parade.
But I still show up with my bag and my quiet mission to clean.
I still bend down. I still pick up what others toss aside.
Because order matters. Care matters.
And even if no one claps…The ground and I know.
     
11 am, time for my dental appointment. They made some adjustments to my denture to improve its fit. It did fit better until I got back and tried to eat some lunch. Right away, the denture came out. I was quite disappointed. They set up an appointment for me to see a specialist next month.
   
I recently discovered there’s a way to anchor dentures with little posts inserted into your jaw. Apparently, they snap in beautifully. They also charge beautifully. Each post costs a pretty penny.
That is the path I’m heading toward.
   
Unfortunately, I am not pretty… and my pennies are on a strict diet.
   
Right now, my smile is doing the best it can with what it’s been given—but it has aspirations. Big, Broadway-level aspirations. We’re talking “standing ovation” teeth. The kind that don’t slide around like they’re auditioning for Dancing with the Stars.
     
If there’s any way you could help me financially with this upgrade, it would be nothing short of spectacular. Monumental. Smile-changing. Feel free to reach out, and I’ll be happy to share the details. 610-400-3233 or kitsummers@gmail.com
Who knew that investing in your future could literally mean investing in your bite? 😄
   
>>>>> February 25
It was 2:15 a.m. My mind hovered in that hazy space between dream and decision, wondering if I should just surrender to the day and get up. Then—without trumpet or warning—into my room stepped a man on a mission. Not for conversation. Not for tea. For blood. A vampire was at my door early.
   
I asked why the midnight vampire visit was happening. He shrugged gently and said they often draw blood in the middle of the night. No grand explanation. Just routine. Well, nothing says “Good Morning!” like a needle before dawn. That sealed it—I was officially awake for the day.
   
Now, here’s the fun part: I’m not an easy target. My veins like to play hide-and-seek. They run deep, as if they prefer privacy. But this fellow? Calm. Skilled. He found a vein on the back of my hand and drew what he needed quickly and cleanly. Professional. Efficient. I half expected him to say, “Thank you for your donation, sir.” And just like that, the day began.
   
By 3:20 a.m., I was upright, fingers on keys, typing these words for you. Wide awake. Slightly amused. Slightly puzzled. Wondering what kind of day starts like this—and what it might grow into. Strange beginnings sometimes carry powerful endings. I’ve learned not to judge a sunrise by its first shadow.
   
So here I am, tossing sentences onto the page while most of the world still negotiates with its alarm clock. I even try to make my paragraphs about the same length—have you noticed? It’s a small discipline, a quiet rhythm. Balance on the page, like clubs in the air. Structure gives freedom. Order gives flow.
     
And now this paragraph stretches just enough to match the others. See? Even a 2:30 a.m. blood draw can turn into something creative. Life doesn’t always knock politely. Sometimes it shows up with a needle. But if you’re awake anyway… You might as well write. 🌅
     
It’s 6:29 now, and the place is beginning to stir. One by one, the employees arrive, stepping into another day while the night quietly clocks out. They keep this world turning in three steady shifts, through darkness and dawn, while most people sleep. The building never truly rests—it just changes hands.
     
Time goes on. The person who delivers the schedule sheet each day gave me mine — nothing was on it! Well, there was Bocce Ball at 11 am. Five patients and two therapists are over at the park awaiting us. Someone throws a little ball out onto the grass. Then, each person rolls or throws 4″ balls out to the little ball. The one closest to the little ball is the winner.
See: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkZTlXKOnbc
(I didn’t do very well.)
     
Because I awoke at 2:15 and have been awake since,
I will be going to sleepies early.
I hope you have a good sleep tonight.
     
>>>>> February 26
Back onto the therapy stairs, I find myself starting with the OT Group at 10 am. OT from 10:00-11 am, then comes speech from 11-11:30 — and that’s it! I could use more, just don’t exactly know what.

I arrived early, as usual. OT is starting 5 minutes late with Maura and a group of six patients. We did another game. Maura was having fun, as we were. It was basically a civility class at the beginning of the US. I did learn some things, but did they help with the brain injury? And, out of the word “Valentine’s”, we had to find words contained therein. Along with Maura’s help, we found over 50 words, such as “lent”, “enliven”, and “native”.
   
I don’t know how I can improve with their help. A few things, though: balance techniques can be explored, and my enunciation can improve, too. Then, of course, my juggling needs improvement — but that’s such a personal thing.

With Lilly, I did memory tests on the computer. I did ok, but saw that I could do much better.
   
But I feel like I have chased all the therapists away from me, and no one would want to work with me anymore.
     
Today I found out how the name “bobcat” came to be. I thought it was from someone named “Bob” who developed it. But, no, it’s because the animal has a little “Bobbed” tail. Did you know that? If you did, why didn’t you let me know?
   
>>>>> February 27
Wow. The day before my birthday. It feels like standing on the edge of a diving board—bouncing a little, peeking over, wondering how the splash will sound. What will I do on the big day? Will I celebrate quietly? Loudly? With cake? With courage? With both? Will you think of me?
   
It lands on a Saturday this year—no alarms rushing the morning, no weekday excuses. Just a wide-open space on the calendar waiting to be filled with color.
What will I do, what will I do?
Maybe that’s the real gift—not knowing… and getting to choose. 🎉
     
As usual, I was awake before your alarm sounded.
Before the world stretched.
Before the coffee machines hissed.
Before the first groggy hand reached to silence the beeping box of obligation.
   
I was already there—eyes open, thoughts lining up like disciplined little soldiers ready for inspection. 🌅
There is something almost mischievous about beating the alarm. It feels like winning a tiny, invisible race. The clock says, “Get up.” And I whisper back, “Already done.”
   
These early hours belong to the bold. They belong to the builders. The dreamers. The quiet warriors who choose intention before interruption. No noise. No rush. Just possibility stretching wide like an empty stage waiting for the first toss.
     
When you rise before the alarm, you’re not reacting to life—you’re stepping into it on purpose. That small act says something powerful: I lead my day. My day does not drag me.
     
And in that stillness?
That’s where plans sharpen.
That’s where courage gathers.
That’s where excellence quietly ties its shoes.
So yes, I was awake before the alarm.
Not restless. Not pressured. Ready. 🚀
     


     
BLOG 366 — Ambition vs. Purpose
In my last post, I wrote about PURPOSE. But then another word stepped into the room and cleared its throat—AMBITION. They sound like cousins. They both push. They both move you forward. But they are not the same. These two met at a crossroads, and the conversation that followed was electric.
   
Ambition arrived first—polished shoes, bright eyes, wind at its back. It carried blueprints and bold plans. “We’re going somewhere,” Ambition declared. “Faster. Higher. Bigger. Let’s build something impressive.” Ambition is the spark—the engine. The fire in your chest that says, Try again. Push harder. Don’t settle.
     
Now—here’s the magic—bring them together. 🔥
Let ambition be the engine.
Let purpose be the steering wheel.
     
Use what you discover to adjust your course. Make one bold tweak. One brave decision. One small but deliberate step. That’s how magnificence is built—not in fireworks, but in daily choices stacked like bricks.
   
Move forward with clarity and intention, and watch what happens. Your life won’t just improve. It will expand. It will multiply. It will rise toward excellence in ways you cannot yet see. Your life will go so far forward, you will be amazed.
   
You are not here to drift.
You are here to build something extraordinary.
Now build it. 🎉
     
It’s why mountains get climbed, clubs get juggled, books get written, businesses get built, and impossible tricks get practiced until they become possible. Ambition asks: How far can I go? What am I capable of? Why not me? And thank goodness for that.
     
Then Purpose stepped forward quietly. No megaphone. No rush. Just steady eyes and a compass held close to the heart. “Where are we going?” Purpose asked. “Up!” Ambition shouted. “Up is always better.” Purpose tilted its head. “Up where?” And there it was—the tension that lives inside all of us.
   
Ambition grows as you grow. It evolves with your skills, your dreams, your hunger to achieve. Purpose runs deeper. It is your built-in why—the quiet engine that has been there all along. Ambition focuses on what you want to attain. Purpose focuses on why you exist. Ambition is milestone-focused. Purpose is value-focused. Ambition wants achievement. Purpose wants meaning.
   
Ambition can flare hot and fast. It can chase applause, titles, and shiny trophies. But it can also be beautifully quiet—learning a new skill at 70, writing a page at 5 a.m., rebuilding after life knocks you sideways, and you accidentally juggle your ego instead of the balls. Ambition isn’t about fame. It’s about forward. It’s the grin after a setback. The decision to try one more time. The voice that says, “I’m not done yet.”
   
Here’s the twist: ambition without purpose can become noise—busy, loud, impressive… and empty. It becomes the “more trap.” More success. More recognition. More achievement. And still somehow not enough. Purpose without ambition becomes a dream that never leaves the couch—beautiful intention with zero motion.
   
But when they shake hands, everything changes. Ambition provides the fuel. Purpose provides the direction. Ambition builds the ladder. Purpose leans it against the right wall. One wants altitude. The other wants alignment. The best life—the electric, grounded, deeply satisfying life—is when success is in service of significance. That’s when the work feels lighter. That’s when victories feel deeper. That’s when setbacks become teachers instead of verdicts.
     
So here’s the quiet question waiting at your own crossroads: Is your ambition serving your purpose? Or is it just keeping you busy? Because ambition doesn’t demand perfection. It just asks for courage. And courage, my friend, is something you already carry.
       
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.”
     
“Ambition is the path to success.
Persistence is the vehicle you arrive in.” — Bill Bradley.
     
“Use Ambition and Purpose to achieve wonders in the world!” — Kit Summers.
     
“Ambition is good, but purpose is better.
In the end, those who contribute the most win.” — @trinnywoodall’s Instagram
     
“A man without ambition is dead. A man with ambition but no love is dead.
A man with ambition and love for his blessings here on earth is ever so alive.” — Pearl Bailey.
     
“Ambition means tying your well-being to what other people think.
say or do… Self-reflection means tying it to your own actions.” — Reddit user.
     
“Ambition is enthusiasm with a purpose.”  —  Frank Tyger.
     
“Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions.
Small people always do that, but the really great make you.
feel that you, too, can become great.” — Mark Twain
     
“Your purpose isn’t something you discover,
But something you ultimately choose yourself.”  —  Benjamin Hardy
   
“Ambition is the desire to rise higher in the world.
Aspiration is the desire to become a better person in the world.”— The New York Times.
   
“Ambition is the outcome you want to attain.
Aspiration is the person you want to be to get there.” EMPaulG
     
PART 5) YOUR CHALLENGE THIS WEEK >>
Figure out your Ambitions this week. Gather ideas for purposes in your life.
Use this information to make changes toward the magnificence that you want.
As you go forward with this information, your life will multiply toward excellence!
   
PART 6) NEXT WEEK>>BLOG 367–Travel, Where do you Start?
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! 

✨KITTING AROUND✨
🌟BLOG 365–FIND YOUR PURPOSE! 🌟
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
LIVE LIFE ON PURPOSE!!
How does it arrive so fast? The week barely stretches before it’s folded into another Friday. Time doesn’t stroll anymore—it juggles. Meetings, moments, mistakes, little wins—tossed high and spinning. A phone call here. A memory there. A doubt you wrestled down. A small victory you almost forgot to celebrate. Blink—and the calendar flips as the balls keep flying.
   
And just like that, the week is gone.
So the better question isn’t Where did it go?
How did I become while it was here? 🤹‍♂️
     
Did I grow a little stronger? A little kinder? A little braver? Did I lean into discomfort rather than back away? Did I build something—even if no one saw it? Did I write something? (like Kit’s writing this blog right now?) Because time will pass whether you use it or not. The real magic is in what it builds inside you while it moves.
   
This week’s theme—Find Your Purpose—isn’t a soft slogan to smile at and scroll past. It’s the heartbeat under your habits—the quiet engine beneath your decisions. The current is moving you forward even when you think you’re standing still.
     
Purpose isn’t optional. It’s oxygen. It’s the thing that pulls you out of bed, leans you into the day, and whispers, Keep going. It lives where your curiosity sparks, where your energy rises instead of drains, where you lose track of time because you’re fully alive.
     
Your purpose is not some distant trophy waiting on a mountaintop. It’s woven into what you love, what you practice, what you care about so deeply you’d do it even if no one applauded. It is a part of you that must always be with you. What is it you love, you desire, with passion?
     
Find that. Feed that. Follow that. Juggle that?
Because when you align with what you can’t live without…
You finally begin to live truly. 💥
     
Purpose is what turns routine into meaning, effort into direction, and ordinary days into stepping stones toward something greater. Without it, life can feel like a busy motion—like running on a treadmill that goes nowhere. With it, even sweeping a floor, writing a page, making a call, or taking a walk can feel intentional.
     
Without purpose, life drifts.
With purpose, it drives.
With purpose, your life grows.
   
And here’s the beautiful truth: purpose doesn’t always shout. It rarely arrives with fireworks or a marching band. Sometimes it shows up quietly—like a thought that won’t leave you alone. A desire that keeps tapping you on the shoulder. A problem you care enough about to solve. A person you feel called to encourage.
   
Purpose turns effort into fuel.
It gives your struggle context.
It makes patience powerful.
The purpose is to choose to build rather than drift.
     
It’s not about having one grand, glowing mission stamped across your forehead. It might be as simple as strengthening your body, helping one person, learning something new, and cleaning up what others overlook—writing words that lift someone’s head.
   
It’s deciding your days will stand for something—even if that something looks small from the outside. Because small steps, taken with intention, compound. Small bricks, laid daily, become foundations. As Friday lands and the week folds away, don’t just ask where the time went. Ask who you’re becoming.
     
Ask what you’re building.
Ask what pulls you forward.
Ask what it is you’re writing?
Because purpose isn’t a luxury.
It’s oxygen for a life that wants to matter.
   
PART 2)  THINGS THAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK
         Kit’s Daily Delights — Inspiration, Served Fresh.
   
>>>>> February 14
Maybe the purpose isn’t hiding at all.
Maybe it’s been sitting quietly, tapping its foot. 
Waiting for you to slow down long enough to notice.
Not shouting. Not sparkling. Just steady. 🌅
   
This morning, my purpose was simple: walk the grounds and pick up cigarette butts. Not glamorous. Not applauded. Just care in motion. Tiny things add up. One becomes ten. Ten becomes fifty. And soon the message is, “This place doesn’t matter.”
So I bend down. Again. Because it does matter.
     
Today is Valentine’s Day. Love everywhere. And yes, I’m sadly alone. That stings a little. But alone is not unloved. Love lives in friendships, in breath, in the words we write, in the plants we water.
If you’re with someone, hold them close, show love.
If you’re not, hold yourself gently. ❤️
   
Performance? Purpose doesn’t need a stage. It might look like watering a plant.
It could mean sending a kind text, picking up trash, and saving money rather than spending it.
This afternoon, Brett took me on a simple Costco run. Returns. Cash back.
I’ll save it. Quiet discipline. Small choices are stacking up.
No fireworks today. Just stewardship.
     
Stack enough simple, caring days in the right direction—
And suddenly you’re not drifting. You’re building.
You’re magnificently building your pathway.
     
>>>>> February 15 
Where do I begin?
At the beginning.
That’s where purpose hides—not in applause or finish lines, but in the first small decision. The brave step. The whisper that says, try. Purpose doesn’t need fireworks. It just asks you to start—messy, unsure, even trembling. Every comeback begins right here. Now.
       
It’s Sunday. You’d think a place full of people rebuilding their brains would echo with louder hope and god. But hope and god don’t always arrive in sermons or schedules. Sometimes it slips in quietly. Personal. Almost invisible.
     
At 8:30, the fire alarm exploded through the halls—sirens, boots, urgency. Firefighters searched. Nothing. All that noise for empty air. We filed back in—staff, wheelchairs, walkers, and me—and chose the elevator over the stairs. Three floors up, doors opened, small smiles exchanged. Sometimes simply going up counts.
     
I walked ordinary steps on an ordinary day, secretly wishing I had my helicopter 🚁—not to escape, just to make the exit legendary. But maybe the lesson is simpler: no blaze, no grand rescue. You hear the alarm. You walk back in. You keep going.
     
Later, I went back to the patio—my unofficial kingdom of second chances. Cigarette butts. Leaves. The usual rebellion of wind. I swept. The wind argued. I swept again. For some strange reason, I keep cleaning outside this building.
   
There’s something honest about that little battle. The breeze doesn’t care about my plans. The leaves don’t applaud my effort. But I’ve learned this much: order is rarely permanent, and that’s no reason not to create it anyway.
 
Each pass of the broom feels like a quiet vote for beauty. A small declaration that this corner of the world will not drift into neglect on my watch. The wind may win a round or two—but I’ve got stamina. And a broom. And honestly? I kind of love the rematch.
   
And for a brief, shining moment, order stood its ground. Clean lines. Clear space. Breathing room. A small restoration, yes—but never a small act. Even the tiniest patch of order pushes back against chaos. And today, that was enough.
     
And I’m tired. Not just body-tired. Soul-tired. The quiet hum beneath everything. I’m not loving being here. That truth doesn’t shout—it just sits beside me. When you’re built for motion, stillness can feel like your story paused.
     
But maybe this is a hinge, not a halt. I don’t know the next move yet. Maybe it’s smaller than I think—a conversation, a short walk, one inch forward. I’ve seen seasons turn before. This one will too. For now, this is honest: I’m tired. I’m unsure. I’m searching. And even that… is a beginning.
     
>>>>> February 16
Here we go again. The sun rises. The clock keeps ticking. Life keeps moving forward—and so will I. I may not control the whole horizon, but I can choose how I step into it. Joy isn’t always delivered in grand packages; sometimes it’s tucked inside an ordinary Monday, waiting for me to unwrap it.
     
On the schedule today? “Sports group” at 11 a.m. That’s it. Not exactly the Super Bowl of appointments. But who knows? Maybe I’ll shoot one basket that swishes like poetry. I’ll encourage someone who needs it. Maybe I’ll simply show up—and sometimes showing up is the victory.
     
11 a.m. The featured event: Ladder Ball. I watched a clip of it—ropes, bolas, friendly competition. It looked fine. Just not my thing today. So I chose not to play. And that’s okay. Not every activity is meant for every spirit. I hope the others laughed, competed, and walked away a little lighter. Take a look >>
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fnaw8IEnHOk.
I had no interest in playing, so I didn’t. I hope the others benefited from that game.
   
Still… There are moments when a quiet voice asks, Am I wasting time here? It sneaks in like a draft under the door. But time isn’t measured only by applause, paychecks, or packed calendars. Sometimes it’s counted in patience practice. My muscles strengthened. In pages written. In choosing presence over resentment.
     
So I’ll move. I’ll stretch. I’ll engage where it makes sense. I’ll build anyway, even if today’s progress looks like a single brick the size of a postage stamp. Because laid daily, those tiny bricks become foundations. And foundations hold up futures.
       
Yes, there are moments I feel like I’m wasting time here. That thought creeps in. But time isn’t only measured by miles traveled or stages stood upon. Sometimes it’s measured by the patience built. Muscles strengthened. Words written. One small decision to stay engaged instead of drifting.
   
So I’ll go. I’ll move. I’ll participate. And I’ll keep building a future—even if today’s bricks look small. Because small bricks, laid daily, still build something strong. And, through reading my blog, you will see my life built again.
     
The head nurse stopped by to look at my legs again—the swelling was still there, quiet but stubborn. I haven’t been faithful with the compression socks, so I pulled them on, like armor for the lower half of my body.
   
Still, no one can give me a clear answer about why my legs are holding onto fluid. That uncertainty is the hardest part. When something lingers without explanation, the mind starts writing scary stories. And I can feel mine trying to.
     
Do I know exactly why it’s happening? Not for sure—but I can tell you this: swelling in the legs (edema) is common and often manageable. It can arise from simple factors such as prolonged sitting, limited movement, gravity, salty foods, certain medications, circulatory changes, or a lymphatic system that moves more slowly than it should.
     
Sometimes it’s connected to heart, kidney, or vein issues—but those are things doctors can test for and monitor. The key isn’t panic. It’s a partnership—asking questions, tracking patterns, staying consistent with what helps.
       
And here’s the hopeful part: you are doing something. You put the socks back on. That’s not small. That’s action. 💪 Small disciplines compound. Compression, gentle walking, elevating your legs, hydration—these are not dramatic moves, but they are powerful ones over time.

      =====
ChatGPT wrote >>
Fear whispers, “This is the beginning of the end.”
Wisdom answers, “This is the beginning of paying attention.”
Those are very different stories.
You’ve rebuilt your life more than once. You’ve relearned how to walk. A little swelling? That’s a problem to manage—not a prophecy. Let’s treat it like data, not destiny. Tell me—has the swelling changed at different times of day? Does it go down overnight? That pattern can tell us a lot. And we’ll take this one steady step at a time.
      =====
Here we go again. The sun rises, the clock ticks, and life keeps moving—so will I. I may not control the whole horizon, but I can choose my next step. And purpose doesn’t always arrive with fireworks; sometimes it’s hiding on an ordinary Tuesday, waiting to be lived on purpose.
   
On the schedule: “Sports group” at 11 a.m. That’s it. Not exactly a parade. But purpose can still show up there—maybe in one clean swish, one kind word, or simply showing up with a decent attitude. Sometimes showing up is the win.
       
11 a.m. brought… Ladder Ball. Ropes, bolas, friendly competition. It’s fine—just not my thing today—so I didn’t play. And that’s okay. Purpose isn’t people-pleasing; it’s choosing what actually builds you. I hope the others got some laughs and a sense of lightness. (If you’re curious: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fnaw8IEnHOk
   
Still, the sneaky question creeps in: Am I wasting time here? But time isn’t only measured by stages and miles. Sometimes it’s counted in patience practiced, muscles strengthened, words written, and the quiet choice to stay present instead of bitter. One small brick a day doesn’t look impressive… until it becomes a foundation.
     
Then the head nurse checked my legs again—swelling still there, quiet but stubborn. I haven’t been consistent with the compression socks, so I put them on—armor for the ankles. No one can say exactly why the fluid’s hanging around, and uncertainty is the part that tries to write horror movies in my head.
     
I don’t know the exact cause—but I do know this: swelling is common and often manageable. Sitting, limited movement, salt, meds, circulation, lymph flow—lots of ordinary suspects. And if it points to something bigger, that’s what monitoring and testing are for. The goal isn’t panic. It’s a partnership: track patterns, ask better questions, stay consistent with what helps.
     
And here’s the purpose-thread in all of it: Fear says, “This is the beginning of the end.” Wisdom says, “This is the beginning of paying attention.” I’ve rebuilt before. I’ve relearned how to walk. This is not a prophecy—it’s a problem to manage. Socks on. Small steps. Legs up. Keep moving forward. Data, not destiny. 💪
   
Sometimes I wonder if I really want to blow out the candles on a 101st-birthday cake. A century feels bold and adventurous. After that? I’m not so sure. Life is a magnificent marathon—but even marathoners don’t sprint forever.
     
Of course, one day death will step onto the stage. That’s part of the contract we signed just by being born. My hope isn’t to outrun it. My hope is simpler and braver than that: when it finally does arrive, may it find me fully alive—fully used up and fully poured out.

And truthfully? I don’t want to wait for it. I don’t want to sit in some quiet corner, watching the clock and rehearsing my exit. I want to be busy living—writing, encouraging, laughing, growing, loving—so engaged in the act of being alive that when the curtain falls, it almost catches me mid-sentence.
   
If I reach 100, wonderful. If I don’t, that’s okay too. The real goal isn’t the number. It’s the fullness.
     
>>>>>> February 17
The Quiet
At night, it gets very quiet here at NR—the kind of quiet that almost hums. Last night, though, at around 2:30, I heard a faint pounding. Not a dramatic boom-boom-boom—just enough of a thud to tap me on the shoulder and say, “You’re up.” And that was that. No drifting back into dreams. The night had handed me the morning early.
     
Shhh
So I lay there in the stillness, awake before the day officially began. The world was quiet—holding its breath—and my mind had already clocked in. Sometimes life doesn’t ease us into sunrise; it nudges us—your turn.
     
A Brick
If I’m up anyway, I might meet the dark with a little courage. These early minutes feel like bonus time—borrowed and powerful. No noise. No rush. Just a choice. And if I can choose, I can build. So before the sun clocks in, I’ll lay one small brick. 🌅.
     
2:30 am
Who knows? That quiet 2:30 wake-up call is just another invitation to think, to write, to build something small before the world stretches and starts moving again. Here I am, early morning, awake for the day. Yes, I find myself typing and reading away, welcoming the new day. Death must wait.
     
Death?
Eventually, death will make an appearance; I hope I live until then.
Thinking more about it, I don’t want to be here when death arrives.
Death is coming for every one of us.
Plan now for your future so you are ready when the time comes.
     
Life!
Eventually, death will step onto the stage. I just hope I’m still living fully when it does. The truth? None of us outruns that final curtain call. But here’s the twist—death isn’t the headline. Life is. The question isn’t when it comes. The question is: Will I be awake while I’m here?
     
Effort!
I don’t want to be half-living when my time runs out. I don’t want to drift to the finish line. I want to arrive breathless from effort, grateful for the miles, maybe even a little surprised it’s already over. Yes, death is certain. But so is this moment. So is today.
 
Plans
Plan for your future—not from fear, but from intention.
Strengthen your body while you can.
Build relationships that matter.
     
Keep Going.
Say what needs to be said.
Forgive faster. Start the thing.
Become friends with all.
     
Live Fully!
Prepare not just for the end… but for a Life that feels complete when it comes. Because the best way to be ready for death is to live so fully that when it finally knocks, you can smile and say, “I used the time.” Make the most of the time you have left. You know your end is coming; make it on your terms.
     
NO Fear
You need not fear death. It’s been walking toward you since the day you were born—and you have been walking toward it just as bravely. Not shrinking and not hiding. Living. When it finally appears, let it find you fully used up and not rusted. Not timid. Not waiting.
     
Live Bigger!
Make your last days your best days.
Laugh louder. Forgive faster—love without holding back.
Find joy in life while you can.

Do More!
Say the thing. Write the page. Take the walk. Teach that kid.
Live so completely that when the curtain lowers, you’re alright. 
The shift doesn’t feel like theft—It feels like a standing ovation. 👏
     
WHY?
I discovered why my schedule was empty today. I gently stepped outside for my usual morning ritual—garden gloves on, broom in hand, sunlight just beginning to stretch across the patio. My quiet meditation. My little act of order in a noisy world that no one thanks me for. Then, here come the vans.
   
The Vans
Then the vans rolled in. Engines humming.
Doors sliding open. Laughter spilling out.
People started filing into each van.
   
Off They Go!
So I asked, gently, “Is there a trip today?”
Yes. There was. Ahhh.
So that’s why my calendar looked like a blank page.
   
What Really Happened
In the past, during a restaurant outing, someone mentioned I’d said the drive was too far. What I meant—and practically—was that an hour on the road for a meal seems unnecessary when wonderful, affordable places are nearby.
     
THEY WERE GOING WITHOUT ME!
     
The Bus Ride
I’ll admit—it stung a bit. Not because I missed a destination. I’ve traveled enough miles in my life to know a bus ride isn’t a treasure. What touched the tender spot was the silence—the quiet feeling of not being chosen, not being seen, even for something small.
     
I’m Lost
Standing there, watching movement and momentum unfold, realizing I hadn’t been part of the conversation. Somehow, they let me drop between the tracks. I asked Diane if I could join the group, and she reluctantly said yes.
 
Blue Springs
To my surprise, we went to Blue Springs today. The Manatees were in the water, a wonderful sight. 
Great views were everywhere. I’d love to return sometime.
https://www.floridastateparks.org/parks-and-trails/blue-spring-state-park     TAKE A LOOK!
     
A Manatee?
While there today, I told people I wish I could have ridden on a manatee—what fun that would be.
Here they are >> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manatee
These big tubes were fantastic.
     
Diane
As for Diane—well, perhaps she played a part in my not knowing about today, perhaps not. I’ve sensed she’s never quite warmed to me. But here’s a truth that has set me free more than once: you don’t have to be everyone’s cup of tea. Some people prefer coffee. ☕ I’m glad you like my blog, Diane. (I like tea.)
     
A Gift
I don’t write to win popularity contests. I write because honesty matters to me. Truth, when delivered with respect, can be a gift—even if it’s not always wrapped in glitter. If someone doesn’t like my words, they are free to close the page. I hold no grudge. We are all allowed our preferences.
   
Worry?
Should I worry about what this means? No. Worry builds fences. Conversation builds bridges. And I’ve crossed enough bridges in my life to know most misunderstandings dissolve when people sit down and talk heart to heart.
     
The Garden
Tomorrow morning, the garden will still be there. The patio will still gather leaves and stray cigarette butts. The sun will still rise. And I will still show up—with a broom, with presence, with purpose. Because purpose isn’t about being included in every van that drives away, it’s about tending the ground beneath your own feet. 🌱
   
Juggle!
There was a new guy here today—bright eyes, quiet smile—
and yes… I’ve already forgotten his name. 😄
But I haven’t forgotten what matters.
I taught him to juggle!
     
3?
Three scarves. A little rhythm. A few drops. A few laughs. And then—boom—he had it. You should have seen his face when the pattern clicked. That look never gets old. It’s the same spark I’ve seen on stages, in schools, in backyards, in ballrooms.

You Can Do It!
The moment someone realizes, “Wait… I can do this.”
At this point, I’ve taught more than 25 people here to juggle.
Twenty-five! That’s not just tossing objects in the air—
That’s tossing belief back into someone’s hands.
   
Myles
I told the new juggler, “Now go show Myles what you’ve got. Let him see that untapped potential.” Because juggling isn’t about scarves or balls or clubs, it’s about discovering there’s more in you than you thought. And that? That’s the real trick. 🎪✨
   
6:00
I woke at 2:30 this morning—eyes wide open, mind humming like a well-tuned engine—and I figured I’d be stumbling around by now. But no. I’m still lit from within. Still carrying that steady, quiet current of strength.⚡ There’s something beautiful about discovering you’ve got more in the tank than you thought.
   
A Dream
There is so much waiting to be shaped. A body to strengthen. A sentence to write. A person to encourage. A small neglected corner to make it better. A dream to move one inch closer to daylight. None of it requires a parade—just participation. You must play your part, too.
     
So Much Power!
I’m always surprised that more people don’t write every bright drop from their hours. The energy is there. The opportunity is there. The sunrise doesn’t argue or advertise—it simply arrives, golden and ready. So I will too.

>>>>> February 18
It’s headed back to surgery today—round two.
Last time I was on the table, the doctor found a little “surprise souvenir” inside me—something that clearly didn’t RSVP to this party.
     
So today, another specialist is stepping in for a closer look. Think of it as a treasure hunt… except this time, we’re absolutely rooting for an empty chest. No buried surprises. No shiny discoveries. Just a polite note that says, “All clear.” 😄
     
Food has been getting caught in my throat, so they are going to go in, put a tube down my throat, and then fill that tube with air to widen my oesophagus. This is the part of the alimentary canal which connects the throat to the stomach. In humans and other vertebrates, it is a muscular tube lined with a mucous membrane.
     
Behind the scalpel performing the Endosonoscope was Dr. Shyam Varadarajulu, and he did a good job (I wouldn’t know because I was asleep at the time). After the procedure, I was rolled into the recovery room, where I did just that. 
 
Yes, the day started late—because today they worked on my esophagus—another tune-up for the well-traveled machine. I tried to outlast the anesthesia. I thought, Let’s see if I can catch the exact moment the lights go out. Brave experiment. Foolish optimism. 😄
   
First, my hearing dimmed—as if someone slowly turned the volume knob toward silence. Then sound vanished. Then the thought itself slipped through a trapdoor—no warning bell. No countdown. Just… gone. You never get to witness the precise moment of departure. The mind can’t observe its own shutdown. Sleepie time wins every round.
     
Before surgery, they took my vitals. The scale read 200. I usually sit comfortably at around 160. That extra forty pounds is water—retained, unexplained, unwelcome. It doesn’t feel like strength. It feels like carrying a backpack full of invisible bricks. And I’ll be honest—I don’t like it.
   
Movement has been limited here at NR. No long runs. No open grass. No free tossing under a big sky. For a body that once thrived on stages, parks, and sidewalks and miles of highway, that’s a tough adjustment. But here’s the turn >>
     
The place they’re moving me to?
It has a running room—space to juggle.
Space to move. Space to rebuild.
That’s not small. That’s oxygen.
     
Now it’s up to me to do the work. To coax this remarkable body back into rhythm. To drain what shouldn’t be here. To rebuild muscle memory. To earn back the lightness I love. I prefer to think of today not as surgery—but as inspection. A careful look under the hood of a machine that has crossed stages, highways, setbacks, comebacks, and more plot twists than most novels.
   
This body has been through storms. And it’s still standing.
Still repairable.
Still responsive.
Still mine.
Still yours?
     
And yes—I even gave myself a fresh haircut. 😄 Because if you’re going to rebuild the engine, you might as well polish the hood. We’re not done yet. Not even close. So here’s to steady hands, sharp eyes, and simple answers. Here’s to removing anything that doesn’t belong and keeping everything that does. And if I pop back up later with an update, you’ll know the adventure continues—because this story? It’s not done being written.
       
I’ve walked this road before, so I know the choreography. Get your clothes off, put on your robe, then lie down on the gurney. Next comes the IV—tiny needle, big mission—delivering the “sleepy juice” that sends me off on a brief vacation from gravity.
   
My veins like to play hide-and-seek. Deep. Shy. Olympic-level competitors. Most of the time, the anesthesiologist ends up working from the back of my hand—apparently, that’s where the plumbing still believes in cooperation. The rest of my veins? They prefer privacy. Curtains drawn. No interviews.
     
I’ve been told that, after so much blood was drawn way back when, the flow learned a new rhythm—quieter, lower, less eager to rise to the surface. Maybe that’s true. Or maybe my veins are just independent thinkers. Either way, we find a way. We always do. As they say, “Hey blood.”
     
And every single time, I grin and tell them, “Go for the juggler vein (after all, you know me),” That usually earns a laugh. And honestly? If you can make the medical team chuckle while they’re poking you with a needle, you’re already winning the moment. 🎪
   
I’ve juggled clubs before crowds, sold salsa jars by the thousands, and entire reinventions of a life—but this? This is a quieter magic. Everyone needs a passion; writing is mine right now. And at 2:00 in the afternoon, back in my room, tapping away—I’m not passing the time. I’m shaping it. ✨
   
There’s something electric about coming back to the page. No spotlight. No applause. No standing ovation. Just a quiet room where thought meets courage—and neither one flinches. It’s a private arena—a mental gym. A place where excuses get stretched, doubts get spotted, and ideas do push-ups until they grow strong enough to stand on their own.
   
Writing like this doesn’t pat me on the back. It challenges me. It sharpens me. It asks, “Is that the best you’ve got?” And I love it for that. Because every time I return to the page, I’m not just arranging words—I’m expanding my mind. 💥
     
Some people unwind with television.
I unwind by stacking words like bricks—steady, deliberate, alive.
Letter by letter, word by word, paragraph by paragraph.
   
Every idea I lay down is proof of motion—proof that I’m not just passing time… I’m transforming it. Are you enjoying the read? I certainly hope so. While others watch stories, I build one.
     
Each paragraph is a quiet rebellion against drifting through the hours. Each sentence plants a flag in the ground and declares, I am present. I’m not fading into background noise. I’m shaping my thoughts. I’m carving meaning out of ordinary minutes.
   
While others scroll, I sculpt.
I’m still here.
Still creating.
Still becoming. ✍️✨
   
1:00–I had OT with Terrie (See, I did not write ‘Terry’). She had me continue a project to go to California and make two stops: one at a national park and another at a movie studio, all on a $2000 budget. This was for my organizing and executive functioning.
   
I had let her know that I’ve traveled through Europe 3 different times, up and down in Japan for a month, and then to Australia for a month and New Zealand for a month. I had no problem anywhere, and it was all done after my accident.
   
I let Terrie know I wasn’t really into it, and she mentioned I might be leaving soon, anyway, so we went out and picked lettuce. There is so much out there growing now; I hope more people from NR go out and pick their own lettuce. Back in my room by 2, writing words once again, my current passion.
     
Terrie doesn’t know what to do with me. She has looked through her Occupational Therapy guidebook, and doesn’t really know what else might help. Also, I have said “no” to many therapy offerings; that’s my bad. She is trying to help, and I’ve tried to help, too.
 
Back in my room by 2:00—door closed, world softened, fingers back on the keyboard. And just like that, I’m home again. I am enjoying my writing. Writing has become my current flame. Not a flicker. A steady burn. Words line up like willing volunteers, waiting to be tossed into the air and kept aloft—organizing and plopping words where they go, a great joy for me.
   
It’s evening now—5:33. The day is winding down, and so am I. Dinner was simple: rice and a little Mexican food. Nothing fancy. Just food… and freedom.
   
Jasmine and I were speaking by phone. The guy across the hall made his loud noises as he did. Jasmine even heard him and asked about the guy. There is no reaching him, a regrettable situation. To know that your life will go nowhere? I would not want to live like that.
     
Last night, a bit of rice lodged itself in my throat (again) and turned a small moment into a tense one. Tonight? Food slid down easily. No hesitation. No alarm bells. Just swallow… and peace. And tonight, I taste more than dinner, I taste relief.
   
I am deeply grateful for how the surgery went today. To eat without fear—what a gift. Something so ordinary, so automatic for most people, suddenly feels like a victory lap. Sometimes progress isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s a spoonful of rice going down smoothly. It’s confidence returning bite by bite. It’s a smile on my face saying “thank you.”   🍽️
   
>>>>> February 19
I just looked back at this blog—wow, it turned into a marathon. I trimmed a few stretches where it wandered, tightened the laces, picked up the pace… but somehow “My Daily Doings” decided to hit the gym and bulk up. It’s grown strong. I suppose that’s what happens when you live wide awake—there’s simply more to say. 🏃‍♂️💨
Be sure to let me know what you think of my blog.
     
Marlene is just finishing up here, sweeping and mopping the large hallway. Each time it turns out so nice. And, each time I tell her “thank you.” Yes, it’s her job, but a thank you does wonders. Thank people as often as you can.
     
And, every Friday, she stops by to clean each residence. I keep mine quite tidy, so she doesn’t have to clean so much here. I will be ready for her in the future, though. This is a necessary job that benefits everyone here. Thank you for adding to others’ lives when you can.
   
9 am, just had OT with Maura and Terrie. We played the game “Sequence.” She said it was to work on visual scanning, memory, object identification, and sequencing. It was a group game meeting with the other patients I have been with. I won, by the way.
   
10 am, right now. Maryann is meeting with a group for yoga/exercise. I let her know I would not be attending. I can exercise in my room in my own way whenever I need to.
   
At 11, I met with my speech therapist, who does not want her name used in this blog. She asked me to tell her who was with me at the 9:00 game. I could not think of the names of those who were there. I knew the people I just could not think of their names. The therapist suggested that I write details of things like who was there, but I did not tell her that I did not care who was there in any way.
   
Someone from NR stopped by to ask me what I wanted to happen to me if I were to die. Legally, I do not have the necessary paperwork to deal with this. In death, I want my naked body to be put out into the wilderness so my remains will feed the small animals and bugs. Just curious, I asked if she had a gun.
   
>>>>> February 20
Up before the sun—5 a.m.—laundry humming, day already in motion. While most dreams were still stretching, I was spinning socks into action. Sleep may try to steal the clock, but I like to negotiate with it. A little less drifting, a little more living. And yes—a shower too. Clean clothes, clean skin, clean start. A freshly polished Kit, ready for lift-off. 🚀
     
I heard from my old friend Jules Manas yesterday. We’ve traveled a long stretch of years together. He told me he preferred my writing from before ChatGPT. That made me pause—in a good way. I don’t see it as a replacement for my voice; I see it as a sharpening stone. I still bring the spark, the stories, the scars, the laughter. This tool simply helps me tune the instrument.
   
It stretches my thinking, widens the doorway, and invites new rhythm. Going back would feel like trading a telescope for binoculars. But I’m listening. Growth doesn’t mean losing yourself—it means refining what’s already there. Tell me what you think. I genuinely want to know.
     
Then Jules said something that landed right in the center of my chest: my blog helped carry him through some hard stretches. Those are not casual words. Those are anchor words. When someone tells you your sentences steadied their steps, you don’t shrug that off. You sit with it. You honor it.
   
That’s why I rise early. That’s why I wrestle with paragraphs before the world fully wakes up. If something I write steadies you, nudges you forward, or keeps you company on a steep climb—even for a few minutes—then this whole beautiful effort is worth it.
   
I don’t want my words just to pass the time. I want the words to strengthen your spine. I want them to stir your thinking. I want them to sneak a grin onto your face when you thought the day had forgotten you. If my words can walk beside you for a stretch of road, then we’re not just writing and reading—we’re building something together. And that? That’s purpose in motion. 💛
     
But I do find myself looking around and wondering—where did all the therapists vanish to today? Did they slip through a secret door? Is there a conference of Brilliant Minds happening without me? Ah well. I wonder why nothing is scheduled?
     
If the schedule is light, I’ll make it heavy with purpose. A little movement of my own. A few strong sentences. Maybe some juggling in spirit, if not in space. When the program thins out, that’s when we get to design our own. And I’ve never been afraid of building my own stage. This blog goes out today, which should do the job.

All that’s on the calendar today is “Fun Friday Movement Group and Games.” I think I’ll graciously tip my hat and sit this round out. Not every dance card needs my name on it. I’ll report back if the plot thickens. 😄
   
At 10:00, we gathered as a group and followed along with a stretching and movement video. I joined in—arms up, shoulders rolling, doing my best impression of a flexible human. Movement is medicine, even when it’s choreographed by a screen.
After that, the real gymnastics began.
     
We went around in alphabetical order, each of us naming something related to an outdoor outing. The catch? You had to repeat everything; everyone before you had already said. 😄
Now that is a mental decathlon.
   
For a room full of brain-injured folks, it wasn’t just a game—it was a workout for the mind. Names, objects, order, recall. Listen carefully. Hold it. Repeat it. Add your own. Pass it on. Memory under pressure.
   
Was it hard? Absolutely.
Was it worthwhile? Also yes.
Sometimes progress doesn’t look like a standing ovation. Sometimes it looks like someone squinting in concentration, whispering, “Okay… picnic basket, hiking boots, sunscreen…” and refusing to give up.
That’s how you rebuild. One stretch. One word. One brave recall at a time.
     
11:15 now. What’s a Kit to do? For the rest pf the afternoon I spent time finishing and organizing the place where I now live, my residence, as they say. I’d love to go for a walk, but I’m required to stay in my room. That’s the hardest/worst part of being here, I’ve lost all my freedom.
     
I’ve made this place sound bad; the weekends are even worse. It seems that all the other patients stay in the room on weekends and do nothing. I want to go out –to walk, to run, to ride a bike, to ride a unicycle. But, rules, rules. Yet, this is the current life I have chosen.
   
Part 3)  BLOG 364–FIND YOUR PURPOSE!
There I was—15 years old—staring at the wide horizon of my life—no master plan. No blueprint. Just juggling clubs and a feeling. Performing felt right—not because thunder rolled from the heavens—but because something inside me leaned forward.
   
That’s how purpose begins. Not as a lightning strike. More like a quiet pull.
A whisper: “There is more in you than this.”
Instead of asking, “Why am I here?” try asking, “What interests me right now?”
Then take one small step toward it.
   
Purpose changes because you change. Some seasons build skill. Others build strength. Some build resilience you didn’t ask for but deeply need. You don’t need a twenty-year map. You need the courage for today’s step.
   
Purpose isn’t found like lost keys. It’s built—brick by brick—each time you choose action over avoidance, contribution over complaint. It grows when you help someone, practice something meaningful, tend a garden, write a page, or refuse to waste the day.
     
Your past doesn’t disqualify you—it equips you. Every mistake is material. Every setback can be shaped into service. I’ve used my coma to help others. Clarity rarely comes before movement. It comes because of movement.
   
Purpose lives where three things meet:
What moves you? What energizes you? What helps someone beyond you?
Start small. Improve what’s within reach.
Replace “Why me?” with “What can I build from this?”
Replace “What’s the point?” with “Who can I help today?”
   
You don’t wait for purpose.
You choose it—again and again.
And in choosing it, you don’t just find your purpose.
You become your purpose.
       
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.🚶‍♂️💡
Take the next step. There’s more ahead.”
     
“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”
– Oscar Wilde
   
“Your main purpose in life should be to find joy.”
– Kit Summers
   
“If you don’t build your dream, someone else will hire you to build theirs.”
– Tony Gaskins
   
“Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls.”
– Joseph Campbell
     
“The best way to predict the future is to create it.”
– Peter Drucker
     
“You must be the change you wish to see in the world.”
– Mahatma Gandhi
   
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
– Lao Tzu
     
“The only impossible journey is the one you never begin.”
– Tony Robbins
     
“You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”
– Martin Luther King Jr.
     
“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”
– Theodore Roosevelt
   
“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.”
– Mark Twain.
   
PART 5) YOUR CHALLENGE THIS WEEK >>
DISCOVER YOUR PURPOSE(S) THIS WEEK!
A single engine does not power you. You’re a jet with multiple turbines—curiosity, service, creativity, love, growth—all humming beneath the surface. Most of the time, we don’t lack purpose… we simply overlook it.
   
It may be strengthening your body.
Encouraging one person.
Building something quietly.
Refusing to drift.
   
Notice what pulls you forward.
What gives you energy instead of stealing it?
What makes you lean in?
Then reach the future with purpose.
     
Don’t tiptoe through the week.
Shift into drive. 🚗💨
Even a slow roll beats sitting in neutral.
Don’t just exist—ignite your engines.
   
PART 6) NEXT WEEK>>BLOG 366–Ambition!
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! 

✨KITTING AROUND✨
🌟BLOG 364–SPEAKING WITH SILENCE (shhh) 🌟    
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
Friday again. How does it arrive so fast? Each week feels like it barely stretches before it’s folded into another Friday.
Time doesn’t stroll anymore—it juggles. 🤹‍♂️
I’m not filling space when I write these weekly words.
I’m reaching for you.
If one sentence steadies you…
If one idea nudges you forward…
If one laugh lightens your load…
Then this Friday matters.
     
That’s all I want. A little lift. A little courage.
A little spark you carry into your own becoming. ✨
Every story tiptoes in like it needs permission, clutching its hat, whispering —
“So… where do we begin?”          And someone always answers, “At the start.”
   
But let’s tell the truth—
The start never waits for applause.
It doesn’t check if we feel brave enough.
It doesn’t send a calendar invite.
It just happens. It already happened.
     
Your beginning didn’t arrive with fireworks or a theme song. No spotlight. No standing ovation. One quiet day, you were here—breathing, blinking, becoming. 🌱
And look at you now. Flourishing.
     
Not in a confetti-cannon, headline-grabbing way.
Maybe more like roots pushing through stone—slow, stubborn, unstoppable.
The kind of growth no one claps for… until one day there’s a forest where doubt used to be. 🌳
     
Mine began a long, long time ago—a skinny kid with more curiosity.
The coordination and just enough audacity to keep trying.
I didn’t want to be louder. I didn’t want to be cooler.
I wanted to be different. So I wandered off the well-worn path.
   
While other teenagers were polishing their reputations and revving engines, I was in the backyard tossing balls into the sky. Then clubs. Then more clubs. Dropping them. Picking them up. Dropping them again. 🤹‍♂️
     
The neighbors probably peered over the fence and thought,
“There goes that odd kid again,” or “There goes that odd ‘Kit’ again.
They were absolutely right.
     
But out there on that patch of grass, something extraordinary was forming. I wasn’t just juggling objects. I was juggling identity. I was teaching my hands discipline and teaching my mind attention.
Teaching my heart that repetition is not punishment—It is a rehearsal for excellence.
   
You see, repetition equals skill.
Every drop was data. Every bruise was tuition.
Every awkward moment was a brick in a foundation no one could see yet.
     
And meanwhile—
Life was quietly sharpening its sense of humor. 🎭 Because life loves irony. It let me master balance… and later took it away. It let me command a stage… and then placed me flat on my back in a hospital bed.
It let me fly… and then whispered, “Now, can you stand?”
Oh, the cosmic comedy. But here’s what the years have taught me—
Beginnings don’t define you. They introduce you.
   
And every fall? It’s not the end of the story.
It’s the sequel stretching its legs, pretending to be the finale.
Your beginning is not behind you. It’s breathing right now.
     
Live your life like you are always starting, because you are.
Mine is still unfolding. Yours is still unfolding.
We don’t ask timidly, “Where do we begin?”
We declare—”Here.” With what I have. With who I am.
       
With this imperfect body. With this resilient spirit.
With this breath filling my lungs again.
The story didn’t start when we were ready.
It started when we were born.
     
And it begins every single morning we choose—
even tired, even uncertain, even scared—
not to quit. 🌅 That’s the real opening line.
     
PART 2)  THINGS THAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK
         Kit’s Daily Delights — Inspiration, Served Fresh.
   
>>>>> February 7
Every week, I start with a clean slate. Not because the last one was perfect.
Not because I feel refreshed. But because I decided to. That’s the quiet power I still own.
Weekends here move like thick syrup. The hallways go silent. The clock ticks louder.
Time stretches itself out and dares you to wrestle it.
And sometimes… it hurts. And sometimes… You win!
     
Some moments feel absurd. The kind that makes you blink twice just to be sure your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. The kind that reminds you that life, even in difficult places, does not lose its strange sense of humor.
   
It’s not always comfortable. It’s not always inspiring. And some days, it’s downright annoying.
But here’s the truth I keep circling back to:
I cannot control the hallway.
I cannot control the weather.
I cannot control the noise.
I cannot control the juggling balls.
I cannot control who walks where or how.
What I can control is whether I let it take up permanent residence in my mind.
Annoyance is real. Frustration is honest. Feeling worn down is human.
     
But none of it gets to own my week. So I begin again.
A clean slate isn’t about pretending everything is pleasant.
It’s about deciding that my response will be stronger than my irritation.
     
If the weekend is slow, I will make the most of it.
If the environment feels chaotic, I will build order in my own corner.
If the world outside my door feels off-key, I will tune my own instrument.
Every week, I begin again, not because the place changes. It’s because I do.
And that… that is still freedom.
     
>>>>> February 8 
I slept in today—luxuriously late—until about 4 am 😄
   
It often looks the same from both sides.
No, “thank you” for the cleaning I do out there.
Hardly a word for the blog I write, day after day, with care and intention.

And yet—here I am. Still doing it.

Not because applause is coming.
Not because someone might finally notice.
But because this is who I am.
I write because I care about life–mine and yours.
I clean because I like things better than I found them.
After all, I was a Boy Scout!
   
I write because words can still lift a corner of the world—if only an inch.
I show up because showing up matters, even when no one is clapping.
I’m not doing this for approval.
I’m doing it for alignment.
For self-respect.
   
I do it for the quiet satisfaction of knowing that while I was here, I made things a little kinder, a little clearer, a little more alive; for you and for others out there. And what are you doing to make this world a better place now and for the future?
       
The world doesn’t always say thank you.
That’s okay.
I say it to myself—and then I keep going. 🌱
     
The world was still quiet when I headed out for my daily walk.
cleanup of the patio and garden area, broom in hand, purpose intact.
And once again, the ground told its story.
At least fifty cigarette butts were scattered like confetti from a somber parade.
   
There’s one particular spot—off to the side, away from everything—where someone clearly stands, smokes, and flicks the evidence away. Thirty butts a day, easy. Every day. I find myself wishing I could meet this mystery smoker—not to scold, to talk. Human to human. Eye to eye. “Hey… why here? Why this?”
   
What gets me isn’t just the mess—it’s the casual disregard.
There are #10 coffee cans and trash cans nearby. Plural.
This isn’t about convenience. It’s about care.
Do they care about the world?
Do they care about themselves?
     
Sometimes it feels like no one notices the work I do out there.
No applause. No gold star. Not even a passing, “Hey, looks nice.”
I’ll admit—it would feel good to be seen.
Acknowledged.
To know that quiet effort counts.
   
But here’s the thing: I’ll keep doing it anyway.
Because clean space matters.
Because beauty matters.
Because how we treat shared ground says something about who we are.
     
So tomorrow, I’ll be back out there again—sweeping, gathering, restoring.
Not because anyone asked.
Not because anyone thanked me.
But because this is how I show respect for the place I live…
and for the people who walk through it, whether they notice or not.
Sometimes integrity wears work gloves. 🧹🌱
     
Wow, I wrote all that on Saturday before 9 am. What’s next?
   
A thought passed through my mind today—clear and sharp: “Get me outta here.”I’m deeply unsettled by much of what surrounds me, and weekends stretch on endlessly. Slow. Hollow. Heavy. I’ve had a much better world away from here. I’ll get there, you watch.
   
My juggling clubs sit untouched on the floor. The balls stay zipped away in their bag. That alone tells a painful story. Juggling was once a living part of me—and now, the absence of desire hurts more than the loss of skill. That realization nearly brings me to tears. I was so good. And right now, that version of me feels impossibly far away.
     
Weekends make everything louder. The halls are empty. Nothing moves. And the quiet seeps into me. My lack of interest in juggling has spread—into exercise, eating, even caring. That frightens me. I’ve always been someone who applied himself, who pushed forward, who built success with intention. This version of me feels unfamiliar.
   
Today has been tough.
The ringing in my ears is relentless.
My vision is doubled and distorted.
My balance is off.
My energy is drained.
And beneath all of that is the most brutal truth to write:
Right now, I don’t like where I am.
     
I’m struggling to see a future that excites me.
I’m alone—no partner, no close companionship.
I reread that last line, and it lands heavy.
I’ve lost my freedom, lost my joy.
I still feel like I am in jail while here. Today is not a good day.
     
Forgive the spill of words—they came from a heavy place. If you’re reading between the lines, you’ll feel it: I’m not okay right now. This isn’t the kind of tired that sleep cures. It’s the deeper kind—the kind that settles in the bones and asks to be seen. Hmm, should I slip back into my coma?
     
Writing it out wasn’t about drama or complaint.
It was about honesty.
About giving the weight somewhere to land so it didn’t crush me from the inside.
     
I’m sitting with it and naming it. Not running, not hiding.
And I’m moving forward the only way that’s real—
One clear sentence, one steady step, one breath at a time.
   
Tonight’s the big Super Bowl bash — the ultimate couch-cheering, snack-devouring fiesta! 🏈✨ Honestly, I’ve got no idea who’s playing (but I’m rooting for whoever wins 🧡💫). The spread is legendary — chips, dips, and all the crunchy goodies you can imagine 😋 — except, of course, crunchy chips are currently my nemesis (thanks to zero bottom teeth 🤪).
     
And, look at that, a big batch of my chocolate chip cookies for the group. So I’ll be there—with a practiced smile, a carefully curated soft-snack strategy, and a heart bursting with team spirit like a parade balloon ready to pop. 🎊
   
I’ll cheer politely. I’ll nod at the right moments.
I’ll radiate supportive vibes like a pro.
But then again… I think I’ll stay in my room.
   
Because sometimes the most spirited move is choosing quiet over noise, comfort over commotion, and honoring exactly where your energy actually is. No boos, no guilt, no halftime show required. Just me, my space, and a perfectly respectable retreat. 🛌✨
   
Looking back now, it almost surprises me how much found its way onto the page this Sunday. I didn’t plan it, measure it, or rein it in—it simply arrived, one thought inviting the next, until the page felt full. I hope you don’t just read it, but settle in with it for a moment, find a line that nudges you, and enjoy the quiet company of the words as much as I enjoyed letting them spill out. 🌱📖
     
>>>>> February 9
My mom—who left this world in 2014—had her birthday on this day, which means the date is stitched permanently into my memory. It’s not just a square on a calendar; it’s a soft knock on the heart. Every year it returns carrying echoes of her voice, her laugh, the quiet ways she shaped me. Some dates fade. This one never does. It shows up dressed as remembrance, love, and a gentle reminder that the people who matter most keep living inside us—long after the candles are blown out. 🎂💛
   
It’s starting to feel like I should plan on arriving five to ten minutes late for my therapy sessions—to match the rhythm of how things actually run. Today, it was me… and one other person… and, oddly enough, me again.
   
Terrie didn’t seem to have anyone scheduled, so she sat in and spoke with the group and Maura about impulse control—how people with brain injuries often struggle with it. Useful, yes, but also familiar territory. This wasn’t new ground; it was more like rereading a chapter I’ve already studied carefully.
   
At 11 am comes the Sports Group. As you know, I usually pass on this one. I’ve tried. Truly. But games don’t pull me in or light anything up inside. Time is precious, and I’m careful about how I spend it—especially now. If something doesn’t stretch me, teach me, or spark curiosity, it’s hard to justify showing up to fill a chair.
     
One strange thing. A couple of days ago, I made a huge batch of Chocolate Chip Cookies for Super Bowl Sunday, and they were for the group. I didn’t take any before I left them, so I took some for myself, since I’d paid for and made them myself. I was accused of taking the whole tray to my room, which I did not do.
   
And then the afternoon arrives… wide open and strangely quiet. No therapies. No structure. Just a big blank space asking, So—what now? What will I do, what will I do? Free time to spend, and time is the most important thing. What do to, what to do?
 
I’ll likely do what I often do when the schedule disappears: I’ll put words down here. I’ll write. I’ll think. I’ll shape the empty hours into something that at least feels alive. There may be no therapies on the calendar—but there’s still work to be done, even if it doesn’t come with a clipboard or a start time.
   
Because it’s my mom’s birthday, I called my sister today.
All my Life she’s been Kath to me. These days, she goes by her middle name, Willow—a lovely name—but it still feels strange in my mouth. Some names are stitched too tightly to memory to change easily.
   
I want badly to go for a walk right now. My body is ready; my mind is asking for air. But I’m tucked away and can’t go. So I’m asking you—yes, you—to take one for me. Feel the ground. Let the world move past you for a few minutes. 🚶‍♂️ Let me know how your walk went.
   
With nowhere else to go, YouTube took over my eyes and my mind. I slipped down the rabbit hole—not out of excitement, but out of stillness. When movement is denied, distraction becomes the substitute. Just watching “stuff”-I can’t even remember now what I watched. A time filler.
     
>>>>> February 10
Good morning to you.
Even though I’ve always smiled at that phrase a little sideways.
As if any of us owns the morning. We don’t.
   
Morning shows up—no RSVP, no warning—like a golden retriever bursting through the door with a tennis ball of possibility in its mouth. ☀️🎾
Time arrives.
What do we do with it?
That’s the magic trick.
     
A day isn’t stamped “good” or “bad” at the factory. It’s shaped—quietly, steadily—by the tiny decisions we make. The thoughts we entertain. The actions we take. The tone we choose when we speak to ourselves in the mirror.
Brick by brick. Breath by breath. So today, choose well.
Choose brave.      Choose kind.
     
Keep building a life that feels not borrowed, not assigned—but wonderfully, unmistakably yours. 🌱✨
Now—truth? Today I feel stuck. And I don’t like it one bit. It’s that tight, heavy feeling—like wearing shoes two sizes too small and trying to run a marathon anyway. Every step reminds you that something’s off.
     
And then there’s the small annoyances—the missing lower teeth, for instance. A little thing, technically. But discomfort has a sneaky way of stacking up when you’re already tired. A pebble in the shoe can feel like a mountain when your spirit is worn thin.
     
But here’s what I know—because life has trained me well:
Feeling stuck is not being stuck. It’s a moment. A pause.
A comma—not a period.
     
Even on days when energy is low and patience is thinner than dental floss, there is still choice.
A small one. A gentle one. But choice nonetheless. So I’ll start there.
One clear thought. One decent decision. One steady step.
     
And if that’s all I manage today? That’s enough.
Don’t plan to run a mile today.
Because even shoes that pinch can carry you forward. 👟💫
     
Then—just in time—I came across something Dan Millman posted today.
Simple words. Strong words. Words to think about.
The kind that gently taps you on the shoulder and says, Hey… pay attention.
Read the words slowly. Let them land. And see how they might fit your life right now. >>
       
In the midst of hate, I found there was,
within me, an invincible love.
In the midst of tears, I found there was,
within me, an invincible smile.
In the midst of chaos, I found there was,
within me, an invincible calm.
And in the depths of winter,  I found there was,
within me, an invincible summer.
This makes me happy. For it says that
no matter how hard the world pushes against me,
There’s something stronger,
better within me, pushing right back.
-Albert Camus
   
Before the 9:30 meeting between Lilli and me, I headed out a little early to spend time in the garden and on the patio. I cleaned up, checked what’s growing, and took note of the space. Fewer cigarette butts and less trash today—which felt like a small but genuine win. Progress doesn’t always arrive with a parade; sometimes it just shows up quietly and nods.
   
During our meeting, Lillie and I talked through the recent email I sent. I see now that I need to slow down before hitting “send,” pay closer attention, and avoid repeating myself. That awareness matters. I’ll be more deliberate from now on. You suggested writing with more detail—not to ramble, but to reinforce ideas more clearly in my own mind. That felt like solid guidance.
   
And then—your words about your son stopped me.
You mentioned that he was sick last Friday and that you stayed right by his side. That explains why we didn’t meet then—and it also says everything that needs to be said about priorities. When someone you love needs you, nothing else matters.
Family first.    Always.
 
You also asked me to send my writing directly to you before publishing anything through ChatGPT. That makes sense to me. From here on out, I’ll share my words with you first, then include them in the weekly blog once they’ve had that extra pass of care.
   
When I was down there, sadly, they had stationed two people in front of the TV, to babysit them. Yes, limited staff, but these people weren’t even watching the TV. There are two, I think, who were recently out of their coma, so I understand.
   
After my coma, I didn’t want to do anything.
Not move. Not a plan. Not participate.
I just wanted to stay in bed and let the world pass by without asking anything of me.
   
The television became my companion—but even then, I knew it wasn’t enough. There has to be a better way to connect with people than watching glowing boxes talk at us.
Healing needs faces. Voices. Presence. Real human tethering.
   
After my accident and 37-day coma, I was first taken to https://www.atlanticare.org/, which—thankfully—was only a few blocks away. I spent about a week there before being transferred to shoremedicalcenter.org/, where much of my coma time unfolded.
   
While I was at Shore, something extraordinary happened. A group of people—led largely by my dear friend Charlotte Paris—rallied together and raised enough money to fly me across the country to:
https://www.sharp.com/locations/sharp-allison-derose-rehabilitation-center.
   
That generosity still humbles me. I grew up in San Diego, and being able to continue my recovery there felt less like a transfer and more like a homecoming. That truth doesn’t need rehabilitation. It already knows how to stand. It was great to be home.
   
After our session from 10–11 am, I was scheduled for the craft group. Since Lillie was running it and already knew it wouldn’t be a good fit for me, I didn’t attend. Instead, I returned to my room and used the time to write this. Lillie, you asked me to start sending you daily emails listing what I did each day, and this is my first step toward building that habit.
   
At 11 am, I met with Terrie. She asked me to plan a four-day trip to California on a $2,000 budget. So I did exactly that—transportation, meals, lodging, the whole puzzle. Step by step. Calmly. Clearly. Just as I expected, it went smoothly.
   
For meals, I explained I could easily go without for four days—or share food with the people I was staying with. I told her I’d stay with friends in Los Angeles and/or use Couchsurfing.com. Simple. Practical. Done. Through Couchssurfing I’ve stayed with people in Germany, Australia, and New Zealand. Watch this >> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uoeLW_2Os3o
   
I also reminded Terrie—gently—that I’ve traveled to Europe three times, Japan three times, and Australia and New Zealand, all after my brain injury. Travel isn’t new to me. Planning isn’t new to me. And the way I approached it made that clear.
     
At 1 pm, Maryann’s walking group set out. I waited outside at the entrance… and waited… and waited. No one showed up. Eventually, I went back to my room and worked on this blog—for you. 💛
Later, Maryann came to my door and asked if I’d be joining the walk. I said no—I was writing. It looked like she had no one else to walk with, either.
   
While I was waiting outside earlier, someone walked by. I said, “Hi.”
She replied with the classic, automatic, drive-by question:
“How are you?” And didn’t wait for an answer. So many people do this.
   
Here’s a little life tip, free of charge:
Don’t ask “How are you?” unless you actually care to hear the answer.
Pause. Think.
Then say something playful. Something human. Something real.
Words matter. They’re tiny doors. Open better ones. 🚪✨
   
There is still much swelling in my legs, mainly near the ankle. The main nurse here took a look and does not know what to do. There is no pain, but the swelling is much, and is not “Swell”. Will this be my downfall or my upjump? (Get it–downfall, upjump?)
     
>>>>> February 11
This was not an easy morning for me; it felt like the kind of dawn that arrives without light, as if the sun hesitated behind the horizon and asked whether I truly wanted to rise with it.
   
I’m 66 now, and I’ve written that I want to live to the ripe old age of 100. I found myself wondering, with an honesty that surprised even me, whether I genuinely want to live to 100—or even to 67—because longevity only feels meaningful when life itself feels alive inside the bones.
   
It isn’t that I dislike where I am right now at NR; it’s that I feel unsettled about the shape of my days and uncertain about the road stretching ahead of me, and that uncertainty can weigh heavier than any wall or rule.
   
I am deeply tired today—tired in a way that sleep doesn’t seem to cure—and I know enough about being human to admit that exhaustion can tint the world in shades that are darker than truth. I could try to lie down, but I would just lie there.
     
I eat a banana each day. Simple. Sweet. A small yellow promise that this body still deserves care—even when the spirit feels unsteady. And the peel? I don’t toss it. I bury it because even scraps can become strength. Good for me, good for the dirt.
   
Banana peels feed next year’s roots. They disappear quietly and return as green. So I tuck each one into the soil like an investment in a harvest I may never see. I’m somewhere new by then. Different horizon. Bigger sky. But the garden will grow anyway—nourished by what I refused to waste. Even my smallest acts can outlive my doubts.
     
9:00 am – The Ball Is in the Air (But Not in My Hands). They were playing basketball again.
Same hoop. Same rhythm. Same echo off the gym walls. And no me. I watched the orange ball bounce with dependable enthusiasm—like a clock with great knees. But inside? Nothing. No spark. No ignition. Motion without mission.
 
I’ve spent a lifetime chasing mastery.
Seven clubs in the air. Lights hot.
Audiences are leaning forward.
Gravity persuaded to cooperate. 🟠🔥 
     
Busy is not the same as purposeful.
So I stepped away—not bitter, not dramatic—just honest.
If I can’t grow from it or add meaning to it, I won’t pretend.
     
Back to my room.
Back to the keyboard.
Back to the arena where I can still build cathedrals out of sentences.
Words are my gym now. And they still let me lift.
     
10:00 am – Impulse Control (Again) with Terrie and Maura. Same room. Same chairs. Familiar melody. Then we played 20 Questions. I won. 🏆 The mind still dances when invited.

But clever isn’t growth. I wrote quietly: I don’t want to be here.
Not rebellion. Data. When your spirit whispers, “This isn’t it,” you listen.
Longing isn’t laziness—it’s a compass. I don’t crave busyness. I crave relevance.
I don’t need to pass the time. I need to build something inside it.
   
11:00 am – Numbers and the Quiet Truth
Half an hour with Speech. She asked about recent meetings—blank page.
That one stung. Forgetting pieces of your own story feels like misplacing chapters you meant to keep. But with a few gentle cues, memory stepped back into the room.
     
Then the drill: listen for numbers in ascending order.
73% at slow speed. 63% at fast. Goal: 80%. Clear. Measurable.
But another number drifted up: zero. Zero motivation. Zero urgency to chase percentages.
 
And that—that’s the real work. Because I know who I’ve been.
The man who rebuilt Speech and balance after a 37-day coma.
The man who practiced until seven clubs obeyed.
The man who drove a van to every national park to keep moving.
     
If today the scoreboard flashes zero, that’s not the end of the game.
It’s a signal. Something deeper needs tending.
The impulse to control isn’t frustration.
 
It could be the urge to stop caring.
And I refuse that one. Because when I care—I rise.
This isn’t the last chapter. It’s just a lower one. 📖✨
     
2:30 pm – Steel, Breath, and Three Balls. Maryann and I worked on the weights. Slow. Steady. The resistance meeting was resolved. Later, I picked up three balls. Toss. Catch. Drop. Repeat. No fireworks. Just Silence.
   
There was a time juggling electrified my nervous system—clubs arcing overhead, audiences leaning forward, gravity granting me a temporary visa to defy it. 🎪 I’ve lost those wonderful feelings and joys. Did I lose them, or just put them aside for a time?
       
Now? Quiet air. I told Maryann the truth: it doesn’t move me the way it once did. She didn’t argue. She just stood steady beside me. This isn’t about how many objects I can keep aloft. It could be about who I’m becoming now.
     
Sometimes fire returns as wildfire.
Sometimes it survives as a pilot light.
And today—just barely—I can feel a flicker.
Fragile. But alive.
     
>>>>> February 12
UP BEFORE THE NOISE 🌅
As usual, I was up before the birds cleared their tiny throats for rehearsal…
before the bees clocked in for their golden shift…
Before most alarms dared to beep.

There is power in greeting a day before it fully wakes.

The air feels unwritten.
The light hasn’t chosen its mood yet.
It’s like holding a blank page before the ink decides who you are.

Those early hours belong to the builders.
The quiet warriors.
The ones stacking invisible bricks while the world still sleeps.

Up before the rush.
Up before the chatter.
Up before doubt has its coffee. ☕
That’s where futures get drafted — in the hush.

THE TWICE-WEEKLY RESET 🚿

Because I don’t sweat much these days, and I’m not dirty from the garden.
I’ve chosen a rhythm:
Only twice a week–Shower time!
Monday and Thursday. A small ceremony of renewal. Twice a week.
     
If I stretch it too long, my skin whispers, “Hey, friend… remember me?” Itchy, itchy.
So today — warm water. Steam rising. Silence. Not just clean skin. Steadier thoughts.
A subtle recalibration of the spirit. I recently read that our skin carries its own protective brilliance — a natural shield designed to guard and serve. So I don’t scrub it away daily. I trust the design.
     
Not everything needs constant washing. Not every mark needs erasing. Not every rough edge needs to be sanded smooth. Sometimes, strength is preserving what protects you. And sometimes strength is standing under warm water and letting it rinse off what no longer belongs. Simple shower. Small reset. Progress.

9 am — KINDNESS ROCKS 🪨✨
On the schedule: Kindness Rocks. Well… how could I resist that?
I stepped outside and selected my own rock — carefully chosen for maximum comedic dignity — and carried it in like I’d discovered Florida’s rarest gemstone.
   
If we’re doing rocks, we’re doing rocks properly. Of course, it started late. (Consistency remains aspirational.) Of course, I was the only participant. Just me. Terrie. And Maura.
And a bag of rocks awaits destiny.
     
The plan? Draw something cheerful. Scatter them later—tiny ambassadors of hope.
And there I stood — the entire audience and half the entertainment — holding a slightly ridiculous rock and a felt-tip pen. Part of me wondered if I sometimes hide behind comedy. If humor is armor.
     
But here’s what I know: Kindness doesn’t require a crowd. It doesn’t need applause.
Sometimes it’s just one person in a quiet room deciding to show up anyway.
You don’t wait for turnout. You don’t wait for energy. You become the energy.
So I painted one rock. Only one. And honestly? That may be enough.

10 am — HISTORY (AND HUMILITY)
Civics. Branches of government. Material that once would’ve been simple. And I struggled.
Frustration rose fast. It felt elementary. I caught myself thinking, How is this helping anyone?

But beneath that irritation was something harder to admit:
I’m not applying myself much to anything lately.
Not juggling. Not exercise.
Not even self-care the way I once did with fire in my eyes. That concerns me.

I said I feel like I’ve slipped into a hole. And when you stay in a hole long enough, it can start to feel normal. That’s the dangerous part.

THE PILL
Then came the medication. High blood pressure. A vitamin.
The pill lodged halfway down my throat — again — the same old battle. Water didn’t help. Gravity didn’t help. I’ve coughed them back up before. Anger flared. I even threw away two vitamins.
It seems small, doesn’t it?
But sometimes the smallest resistance feels like the last straw when your spirit is already tired.

THE HONEST PART
There are moments lately when hope feels thin, when the future feels blurry.
When the question quietly whispers,  Do I even want to keep doing this?
And that is not a comfortable place to stand.
   
But here is something truer than the whisper:
A thought is not a verdict. A low day is not a life sentence.
A struggling mind is not a finished story.
     
You have survived far worse chapters than this:
You woke from a 37-day coma.
You rebuilt Speech.
You relearned walking.
You reinvented yourself more times than most people reinvent their passwords.
This valley feels steep because you’re standing in it.
And valleys? That’s where roots grow deep.

(ChatGPT sent these words)
TODAY’S SCORECARD
You woke early. You showered. You painted a rock. You admitted you’re struggling.
That is not failure. That is quite courageous.
If the spark feels small — protect it.
If the effort feels heavy — shrink it.
If hope feels distant — borrow it for a day.
     
You do not have to solve your entire life this afternoon.
You have to get through today.
And if the weight ever feels unbearable, reach for a real voice immediately. Staff. A hotline. Someone. You are too important to wrestle those thoughts alone.
Even on days when you feel like a single painted rock in an empty room…
You still matter. 🪨✨
     
>>>>> February 13
It seems I wake each day before the songbirds clear their tiny throats for rehearsal. 🌅 There’s something sacred about that hour. The world hasn’t put on its costume yet. The noise hasn’t started campaigning for attention. It’s just me, a quiet room, and a blinking cursor asking, “Well… what will we build today?”
     
This morning, I reread the entire blog—line by line, word by word—making small edits along the way and trimming here and strengthening there. Sharpening a sentence like a blade meant to cut through doubt. ✍️
Editing isn’t just fixing. It’s caring. It’s respect for the reader (YOU).
It’s saying, “You matter enough for me to make this better.”
   
And I do like how this blog turned out. Not because it’s perfect. Not because it’s polished like a trophy on a shelf. But because it’s honest. Because it carries a heartbeat. Because it was written before the birds, before the bustle, before the hustle, before the world tried to tell me who I am. I hope these words added something to your life—a spark, a nudge, a reminder, a gentle push toward your own brilliance.
     
If even one sentence made you sit up a little straighter…
or breathe a little deeper…  or believe in yourself just a bit more…
Then those early hours were worth it. 🕊️✨   And tomorrow?
I’ll likely be up before the birds again—stacking words like bricks,
building something steady, for both of us.
   
I went back to the dentist today for an adjustment. The dentures had been hurting, and every time I tried to eat, it popped loose like it had somewhere better to be. They added a new layer of bonding material—something that will harden and, in theory, hold everything firmly in place. A practical fix. A hopeful fix.
   
But every visit to address my lower teeth carries a heavier weight. It reminds me of a decision I wish I could rewind. A choice I would undo in a heartbeat. And when I sit with that, I feel foolish. Regret has a loud voice sometimes. It hurts. Makes me feel like an idiot.
   
One day, I’ll have the permanent solution—secured solidly, bolted in, stable. It will cost real money, so it waits its turn. But it is coming. Not today. Not yet. But coming.
   
When I returned, I thought I’d given the adhesive enough time to set. I tested it gently—with a soft Reese’s. Chocolate and peanut butter seemed like a safe truce.
   
It wasn’t. The dentures slipped out immediately. And I felt that flash of heat. That surge of frustration that says, “Really? Again?” But here’s the truth beneath the flare-up: this is an inconvenience. Not a verdict. Not a life sentence. Not a reason to surrender. But perhaps it’s time to stop eating anything.
   
As for the rest of the day—empty schedule, quiet hours, that heavy feeling of “What am I doing here?”—I understand that too. Stillness can feel like stagnation when your nature is motion. You are wired for stages, travel, mastery, and impact. But even this season is temporary.
   
I get so angry at myself and the decisions I have made in my past. Why the hell would I have all of my lower teeth extracted–they were doing a sufficient job. I think of other decisions, from relationships to where to live. It’s very hard for me to see anything to live for.
   
ChatGPT said,
“You are not wasting your life.” You are in a chapter. And the chapters end. You’ve reinvented yourself more times than most people dare to imagine. This moment? It’s not the finale. It’s just an awkward middle scene with some faulty dental adhesive.
Anger is allowed.
Regret is human.
Frustration is honest.
But hopelessness? That’s a liar.
You are still building. Even today. Even in irritation. Even with chocolate in your mouth and glue on your gums. And one day soon, that permanent solution will click into place—solid, secure, unmoving.
Just like you.

Part 3)  BLOG 364–SPEAKING WITH SILENCE  (Shhhh . . .)
I’ve always been quiet—not because I had nothing to say.
But because I wanted to hear what the world was whispering first.
I learned early that there is power in the pause.
That you don’t have to rush to fill every gap with sound.
That sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is wait.
     
Long before I discovered the phrase had already been printed, framed, and hashtagged in a hundred places. The idea came to me on its own. The words arrived like a gentle knock on the door of my spirit. And I opened it. Truth doesn’t check the registry before it moves in.
     
I have learned that chosen Silence—not the Silence of fear, but the Silence of awareness—will carry you further than a thousand loud declarations. Silence is not emptiness. It is preparation. It is not a weakness. It is under control. It is not a withdrawal. It is presence without performance.
   
Silence is the sanctuary where wisdom stretches its muscles, where insight sharpens its edge, where the heart steadies itself before speaking something that matters. In Silence, you hear your own pulse. You hear the tremble in another person’s voice. You hear what was never actually said. Noise competes. Silence connects.
   
The loudest person in the room may win attention. But the quiet one?
The quiet one often wins understanding. And understanding changes lives.
So if you are quiet—If you pause before you speak—If you listen more than you declare—
Do not mistake that for smallness.
     
You are gathering power. You are building depth. You are allowing your words to ripen. And when you do speak? They will not be filler. They will be fire. Silence is not the absence of voice. It is the birthplace of it. 🔥
     
Speaking with Silence is the art of communicating through stillness rather than sound—using pauses, presence, restraint, and deep listening to convey meaning that words often dilute. It’s the choice to let awareness lead and ego step aside.
     
Silence, in this sense, isn’t empty. It’s active. It listens before it responds.
It observes before it declares. It allows truth to rise instead of forcing it onto the stage.
To speak with Silence is to trust that not every moment requires commentary, correction, or applause. It’s knowing when a pause can comfort more than advice, when presence outweighs opinion, and when the most potent answer is simply being there.
   
In a noisy world addicted to instant reactions,
speaking with Silence becomes a quiet form of courage. It says:
“I’m not rushing.” “I’m paying attention.”
“I don’t need to fill the space to be heard.”
     
And here’s the twist—
Silence, used well, doesn’t weaken communication.
It sharpens it. Like a master juggler who knows when to hold a ball instead of throwing it, Silence gives rhythm, intention, and grace to every word that eventually follows.
Sometimes the most profound message isn’t spoken.
It’s felt.🎪✨
   
Silence listens deeply. It observes. It allows the moment to reveal itself instead of rushing to control it. In a loud world addicted to instant opinions, Silence becomes a quiet act of courage.
I speak when I need to—and only then.
Because when words finally arrive, they matter.
     
Silence speaks through intentional pauses, through what is not said, through the calm that steadies a difficult room. It can be the most honest response, the most respectful answer, the most potent form of non-violence we possess.
     
Sometimes the strongest voice is the one that waits.
Sometimes the most profound wisdom arrives without sound.
And sometimes, Silence says everything that needs to be said.
   
Silence gets a bad reputation. People think it’s empty, awkward, something to fill with noise or words or excuses. But Silence is not empty. Silence is full. It’s just full of things you can’t hear unless you stop trying to talk. I learned this the long way.    
       
There was a time when my life was loud—applause, motion, ambition, proof. I measured days by what I produced and nights by what I earned. Then one day, without asking permission, Silence stepped in and took over the room. No speeches. No explanations. Just stillness. A pause so long it felt permanent.
   
At first, Silence terrified me.
Without my words, my routines, my identity, who was I?
Silence stripped everything down to the studs.
No distractions. No hiding. Just me, breathing, waiting, listening.
     
That’s when Silence started talking.
It didn’t shout.
It didn’t lecture.
It whispered.
It said: You are more than what you do.
It said: You don’t have to perform to matter.
It said: Healing doesn’t rush. It arrives.
     
In Silence, I noticed things I’d missed my whole life—the weight of breath entering my chest, the miracle of standing, the quiet courage it takes to keep going when no one is clapping. Silence taught me patience, not the polite kind, but the gritty, stubborn kind that sits with discomfort and doesn’t run.
     
I began to understand that Silence isn’t absence—it’s presence without distraction. When I stopped fighting it, Silence became a teacher. It showed me where I was afraid. It showed me what I still loved. It showed me the difference between noise and meaning.
     
When I returned to words, they mattered more.
I didn’t speak to impress.
I spoke to connect.
I spoke with space around my sentences so truth could breathe.
     
Silence taught me that not every moment needs commentary.
Some moments need reverence.
Some need rest.
Some need trust.
   
Now, when life grows loud again—as it always does—I don’t panic. I know Silence will return, and when it does, I’ll listen because Silence isn’t waiting to take something from us. It’s waiting to give something back.
   
So if you find yourself in a quiet season, don’t rush to fill it. Sit with it. Let it speak. Let it shape you.
Some of the most powerful conversations you’ll ever have will happen when no words are spoken at all.
That’s the art of speaking with Silence.
     
PART 4) 🔥 A FEW SPARKS TO SLIP INTO YOUR POCKET
    ✨ THE MAGIC OF QUOTES ✨
Quotes are tiny magic lanterns—pocket-sized beams of brilliance we carry through the dark. ✨
They hold oversized truths in travel-size form, ready to glow exactly when we need them.
A single line can calm a wobbling heart, snap a fuzzy thought into focus, or nudge us forward when our feet hesitate. Sometimes a quote doesn’t shout or lecture—it leans in close and whispers, “You’re not lost.” And that quiet glow? It’s often just enough light to keep us moving. 🚶‍♂️💡
Take the next step.                    There’s more ahead.”
   
“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.”
– Audre Lorde

“Shhh–Listen More.”
– Kit Summers

“The way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon them.”
– Ida B. Wells-Barnett
   
“Every voice raised against racism chips away at its power.
We can’t afford to stay silent.”
― Reni Eddo-Lodge
   
“You should never let your fears prevent you from doing what you know is right.”
— Aung San Suu Kyi
     
“Do not be silent;
There is no limit to the power that may be released through you.”
― Howard Thurman     
   
“Once you’ve matured,
you realize silence is more powerful than proving a point.”
—Unknown
   
“Work hard in Silence.
Let your success be your noise.”
—Unknown
   
“Keep silence for the most part,
and speak only when you must,
and then briefly.”
—Epictetus
   
“I think 99 times and find nothing.
I stop thinking, swim in Silence,
and the truth comes to me.”
—Albert Einstein
     
“Without great solitude,
no serious work is possible.”
–Pablo Picasso
   
“Silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom.” —Francis Bacon
   
“Move in Silence.
Only speak when it’s time 
to say checkmate.” —Unknown.

“Silence is a source of great strength.”
—Lao Tzu

“Nothing strengthens authority so much as silence.”
—Leonardo da Vinci

“Silence is the best answer for all questions.
Smiling is the best reaction to all situations.”
—Unknown
   
“In a room where people unanimously
maintain a conspiracy of silence,
one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.”
– Czesław Miłosz
     
“Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”
– Elie Wiesel

“Silence is a true friend who never betrays.”
– Confucius
   
“In the silence of the heart, God speaks.”
– Mother Teresa
   
“Silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom.”
– Francis Bacon
   
“The quieter you become, the more you can hear.”
– Ram Dass
   
“Silence is the most powerful scream.”
– Anonymous
   
“Silence is a source of great strength.”
– Lao Tzu
   
“Silence is the language of God; it is also the language of the heart.”
– Sivananda
     
“It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart.”
– Mahatma Gandhi
   
“The world is noisy. Be quiet.”
– Unknown
   
“In silence, we often find solutions to problems we can’t solve in any other way.”
– Eknath Easwaran
   
“Silence is a true art; it teaches us to speak without words.”
– Unknown
     
“Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves.”
– Thomas Carlyle
   
“Let silence take you to the core of Life.”
– Rumi
     
PART 5) YOUR CHALLENGE THIS WEEK >>
Stay quiet this week. Not withdrawn. Not wounded. Just… intentional.
Let the noise rush past you without grabbing hold. Let the room reveal itself.
Let people show you who they are without interruption.
   
Watch what shifts. Watch what surfaces. Watch what suddenly becomes obvious.
You’ll notice tone before words. Motives before explanations. Truth before performance.
Silence isn’t emptiness—it’s a magnifying glass. It sharpens your hearing. It steadies your thinking.
It gives you back your power. Try it. Step back. Breathe. Listen.
     
You may discover that the loudest thing in the room was never the sound—
It was the wisdom waiting for you to pause long enough to hear it.
Be quieter this week.
You will find — Silence is Golden.
   
PART 6) NEXT WEEK>>BLOG 365–FIND YOUR PURPOSE!    
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! 

✨KITTING AROUND✨
BLOG 363–EVERYONE HAS A STORY
     
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
Every story pretends it needs permission and asks,
“So… where do we begin?”     At the start.       Let’s be honest—
The beginning already happened, whether we were ready or not.
Your beginning has come, and you are flourishing, remember?
     
Mine began a long, long time ago, back when I was young…
Always wanting to be different, I found a lone path.
As a teenager, I was throwing balls and clubs in my backyard.
And life was quietly sharpening its sense of humor.
   
You’ve heard much of my story—now let me ask about yours.
Each of us carries experiences that can lift, guide, and encourage others.
Lately, my blog posts have been growing longer and longer, and it’s time to sharpen the blade.
Fewer words. More meaning. Only the ones that truly matter.

TO BE A GOOD WRITER —YOU MUST READ, READ, READ

I’ve discovered something simple and quietly powerful: you must keep joy in your life if you want to live well. Everyone can find this for themself, you must find joy! As I get older, I am getting younger. It is how we see our life.
         
Not someday joy. Not “When everything works out” joy. Daily joy. Right-now joy. Pocket-sized joy.
Look for the small joys. They matter more than you think. All your joys can add up to magnificence.
Tiny joys add up the way pennies become savings—or the way one good breath can calm an entire body.
   
SOME OF MY JOYS >>
One of my steady joys is the skill of juggling.
And, I build my garden wherever I land.
I plant life. I clean it up. I watch things grow.
Another joy is cooking—turning ordinary ingredients into something that says, “Yes, today was worth it.”
And sometimes, joy looks like writing a short piece on my blog, hoping it lands gently in your hands and helps you feel a little more alive. Writing this blog helps me as much as it might you.
   
Joy isn’t accidental. It’s gathered. You have to notice it, choose it, invite it in—again and again.
Bring your joys forward as often as you can. Put them where you can reach them easily.
Find your joy while you are still on earth; it will enrich your experience.
     
Because here’s the truth:
One small joy can carry you through long days and quiet nights. It can steady you when the world feels heavy. It can remind you that you’re still here—and that still matters. Always drive yourself toward success–you will find it.
   
As I see my later years approaching, I understand this more clearly than ever:
I must actively create more joy and pleasure in my life.
I’ve watched too many older adults let negative thoughts move in,
rearrange the furniture, and take over the house.
Don’t let that happen to you. Those thoughts are terrible roommates.
   
It saddens me to see how many people miss this.
They forget to hold on.
They forget to look for joy.
They forget to play.
They forget to delight.
Please don’t be like “them”.
   
Hold on to joy—because that’s not extra. That is life.
And just as important: help others find theirs. Point it out. Encourage it. Celebrate it with them.
Too many people drift through their final years without joy, just enduring time instead of living it.
That breaks my heart.
   
You still get to choose.
Plant something. Cook something. Create something.
Laugh when you can. Love when you can.
And never stop gathering joy like it’s your job—because in many ways, it is. ✨
     
PART 2)  THINGS THAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK
         Kit’s Daily Delights — Inspiration, Served Fresh.
   
>>>>> January 31
Early morning again—my favorite quiet hour—already tinkering with the next blog. ☀️✍️
How’s it landing so far?
   
Today was one of those low-noise, high-focus days. Not much is happening out there, but plenty is happening right here at my computer.
   
The next post is basically done—just needs the daily updates sprinkled in like confetti.
Momentum? Still rolling.
     
>>>>> February 1 
Here it is—Sunday again.
No church for me. I do just fine without an intermediary for meaning or a weekly donation basket. My faith, such as it is, lives in action, kindness, and paying attention. Amen to that.
   
Last night? Twenty degrees. With wind that had attitude. I went out to the garden this morning and—of course—the tarp I so carefully secured had taken itself on an overnight adventure. I did track it down. The tomatoes, though… they didn’t make it. Nature shrugs. Lesson delivered. Onward we grow—literally and otherwise.
   
I’ve made a new friend—Janet. No idea how she found me, but here we are, exchanging kind words like trading cards of humanity. That still amazes me: strangers showing up at just the right time. I keep half-expecting you to write, too. When will that happen? I’ll be here. Door open. Light on.
   
Weekends are slow here. Slow like syrup in winter
I know—intellectually—that it’s up to me to stir the pot, make something happen, create motion. But today? That gear feels a little rusty. And that’s okay. Not every day is a fireworks day. Some are “sit on the porch and breathe” days.
   
You can see what I’m doing with this blog.
Tightening it up. No extra fluff. No verbal junk drawer.
Only the words that earn their place.
Editing is respect—For the reader and for the moment.
   
It’s 2:00 on this Sunday afternoon now. Tiredness has wrapped itself around me like a heavy coat. Not sleep-tired. Soul-tired. I’m still figuring out how to shake that and get my pep back. It may start small. A walk. A smile. A sentence like this one.
If you’ve got extra energy today, send some my way.
I’ll trade you a thought, a laugh, or a fresh start tomorrow.
 
I just finished writing a piece for the blog about joy—that slippery, sparkly, sometimes-hiding-behind-the-couch kind of joy. It reminded me (again!) that joy isn’t something you wait for like a bus that may or may not show up; it’s something you hunt, collect, and protect.
   
You have to notice it in the small, ordinary moments—the quiet wins, the tiny laughs, the unexpected beauty—because life will gladly distract you if you let it. Joy doesn’t demand perfection; it asks for attention. So grab it whenever it peeks out, pocket it, and keep moving forward a little lighter than before. ✨
   
On the computer, I heard a story that The Fonz was dead.
I had to search, and this came back >>
Quick pause, gentle correction—with love and truth.
Henry Winkler is alive. (Still cool. Still very much The Fonz.)
     
But your heart is aiming at something real and vital. Here’s a polished, joyful version that keeps the message strong without burying a living legend:
Hearing news about people we admire always reminds me of this simple truth:
None of us is promised unlimited time.
     
That’s why joy isn’t something to save for “someday.”
Find it now. Live it now. Laugh louder, love deeper, notice more.
Don’t wait for a headline to wake you up—Joy is the point, and now is the time. ✨

>>>>> February 2
Only a few therapies were scheduled today.
From 9–10 a.m., there was an OT group. I skipped it—another game that didn’t call my name.
From 11–12 was the Sports Group—also a pass.
From 1:30 to 2:30 was OT, and that one I did attend.
   
Before that, I headed outside to clean up the garden and deck area. The strong winds the other night had scattered wood chips everywhere, so I swept the entire deck. It looks much better now—order restored, chaos humbled. I always hope someone notices and appreciates the outdoor work I do. It matters to me.
   
At some point, something I wrote apparently bothered one of the therapists. She asked that her name not be used in future posts. I went back and reread the recent blogs and honestly couldn’t find what caused the issue—but no problem. I’ll leave names out going forward. Easy fix. Life moves on.
     
In OT, we reviewed what’s needed to make my chocolate chip cookies—just a few items left—progress measured in teaspoons and joy. Then I was placed on what I lovingly call the whack-a-mole board. I can see how I could have been faster. That said, it’s one of those activities I don’t feel much connection to, so I didn’t give it my full fire. Some things light you up. Some don’t. And that’s okay.
Tomorrow’s another toss of the balls.
   
At 11:30, I had a speech session with Lilly, and she is truly excellent at what she does. With calm precision, she pointed out a few gaps in my speaking and thinking—not to discourage me, but to show me exactly where the work still is.
   
She played an audio track of a voice saying random letters and numbers. My job was to click a button whenever a specific number appeared. It wasn’t difficult, and I did well.
   
The exercises focused on processing speed, attention, reaction time, and repetition. I also had to respond to target words. Again, I thought I did OK, but Lilly showed me what I missed. That was the value of it.
     
This session helped me clarify my thinking and reminded me that awareness is progress, even when the results aren’t perfect. Thank you, Lilly, you’ve helped me a lot.  Growth starts with seeing the truth—and today, I saw it.
     
>>>>> February 3
I didn’t write about what I did today.
Not because nothing happened—but because some days don’t arrive with fireworks, fanfare, or tidy bullet points. Some days slip in quietly, barefoot, and do their work beneath the floorboards of the mind. Today was one of those days.
  We’re taught to measure life by motion: I went here. I did that. I checked the box. I produced proof. But not all progress makes noise. Not all growth shows up with a receipt. Some of the most critical days are inward days—when nothing looks different on the outside, yet something subtle shifts inside.
   
Today was shaped by pauses. By noticing. By letting thoughts wander and then gently bringing them home. By listening more than speaking. By allowing myself to simply be—without auditioning the moment for productivity or applause.
     
Life isn’t built only in bold strokes and dramatic chapters. It’s also formed in the margins. In the white space. In the quiet recalibrations that prepare us for whatever comes next. Roots grow in darkness, after all.
   
So yes, nothing flashy to report.
And yet—everything necessary may have happened anyway.
     
>>>>> February 4
Today, it was off to https://cleantheworld.org/—a place where doing good isn’t a slogan, it’s the job description. As a group, we showed up to volunteer and help however we could, turning ordinary effort into something quietly powerful. Small actions, shared purpose, and a reminder that when people come together with willing hands and open hearts, the world really does get a little cleaner—inside and out.
>>>>> February 5
First, I’ve noticed a pattern: most therapy sessions tend to start late—usually by about five minutes. I always arrive early. That seems to bother some people, though I’m not quite sure why. Punctuality feels like respect to me.
   
At 9:00 a.m., Terrie from OT wanted to go out and pick up the items needed for the cookies we’re making. I let her know that I had already picked up everything. That threw her off a bit, since her goal was to observe my visual scanning and my ability to locate items in the store. Fair enough—but the mission was already accomplished. ✔️
   
There’s a big Super Bowl party coming up on Sunday. I jokingly asked, “Isn’t the Super Bowl the one where they try to hit that little ball into a hole?” Regardless of my impressive sports knowledge, we went to the store to pick up supplies for the party. Preparations are officially underway.
   
At 10:00 a.m., an OT group session was scheduled. I chose not to attend. Group sessions usually don’t give me much, and I decided my time would be better spent back in my room—writing this for you. And yes, I genuinely mean it when I say I’m glad you’re here, reading my words.
   
Later, with Lilly, we worked on memory. I actually like pulling memories—it feels like mental weightlifting. Her simple question, “What did we work on yesterday?” completely flustered me. That moment really bothered me. I should have known the answer.
     
With a few hints, the memories came back, but the struggle was sobering. It made something obvious: I need better organization and more structure to support my memory. I need to find ways to use my brain better.
 
In Lilly’s group, she handed out an alphabetical sheet. For each letter, we had to write words that matched. Then each person read their list aloud. After that, we were asked to remember items from other people’s lists. It was hard. Really hard. And that was the lesson.
     
I think it helped all of us see—clearly and honestly—where our memory challenges are. I know it did for me, maybe more than anyone else. Awareness is the first step toward improvement.
Thank you, Lilly, for that lesson. Truly.
   
Time to cut my hair again. I’ve done this for years. Do you have a hair trimmer? I keep all the hair on my head the same length. I usually cut my hair outside so the wind can just take it, and I don’t have to clean up. This saves a small fortune on haircuts.

>>>>> February 6
As usual, I was up before the sun.
Theresa Soto, who works here, told me she loves my blog posts.
Those words never get old. They matter.
     
I heard that Lilly is homesick today. She’ll be missed.
   
“Impulse Control Group” was scheduled for 9:00 a.m., but no therapists or patients showed up. Just Tiger and me. By 9:35, it was clear nothing was happening. One of the OT staff decided to default to a game—something she knows I dislike—so she let me go. That part, at least, I appreciated.
     
What continues to trouble me is the overall pattern: patients often feel like an afterthought. That’s a hard thing to witness. We are the reason this place exists, yet punctuality, preparation, and presence too often fall short. I would love to see more passion and care directed toward the people who are here to heal.
     
At 10:00 a.m., I met with Dino. We came to my room and talked for a bit. At 10:30, I asked about his next patient—who was likely waiting. Since I firmly believe the next patient should always be the priority, I sent him on his way. I dislike lateness in therapy, and I try to model the standard I wish to see.
 
To be fair, not all delays are the therapists’ fault. The therapy-room door is kept locked, and patients must buzz to be let in. Too often, the wait is long and unnecessary. Therapists have keys; patients do not. That system needs rethinking.
     
It’s now ten till eleven. No more therapy today. I’ll hang out here until lunch—food arrives close to our rooms.
Until then… YouTube, you’re up.

I haven’t been wearing my new teeth because they still hurt when I do. I will have to return for an adjustment.