BLOG 377–I CAN(‘T) WHISTLE

✨KITTING AROUND✨
BLOG 377–I CAN(‘T) WHISTLE
This Video will let you know more about me–1
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. ✨

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It might make things easier for you if I added a table of contents. That way, you can jump straight to the sections that interest you most—like having a remote control for my wandering brain. 😄 Let me know if it helps.

At the moment, I still need to figure out how to add page numbers properly. Somewhere inside this machine, tiny digital gremlins are hiding that information from me. But don’t worry—I’ll track them down and have it sorted out before the next blog post. At least you can see the order of things. ✨

PART 1) THE BEGINNINGS PAGE 1
PART 2) THINGS THAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK PAGE
PART 3) BLOG 377–I CAN(‘T) WHISTLE PAGE
PART 4) QUOTES PAGE
PART 5) YOUR CHALLENGE THIS WEEK Next to Last Page
PART 6) THE BLOG NEXT WEEK Last Page
PART 7) FINAL THOUGHTS Last Page

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Every week, I try to write the very best blog I can—something that makes you laugh a little louder, think a little deeper, and step back into life with brighter eyes and a lighter heart. A few words of joy. A little wisdom. A spark of wonder. The kind of writing that stays with you long after the screen goes dark. ✨

Can you feel that in my writing? The heart, the humor, the miles traveled, the lessons dropped and picked back up like juggling balls over the years? I hope so. Because I don’t just place words on a page—I try to breathe life into them. 🎪

If you ever miss a blog notification—or simply feel like wandering through a colorful garden of past posts—visit kitsummers.com, then look for and dive into the blog. Every post is waiting there like a tiny spark on a bookshelf, hoping to light something alive inside you. ✨

And if the notifications ever start feeling like one ball too many in your juggling pattern, no worries at all—just let me know, and I’ll gently remove you from the list. No drops. No drama. Just a smooth catch and release. Though I’ll miss having you in the audience. 🎭 🎯

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PART 1) THE BEGINNINGS
DON’T LIVE FOR THE FUTURE OR THE PAST—
MAKE THE MOST OF THE MOMENT YOU’RE HOLDING RIGHT NOW!

Whistle while you work–can you imagine? Many keep themselves occupied and happy by whistling. Try it, you might like it. How ’bout this–I will listen to try and hear you from where I am. You will have to be very loud. You know the line — “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Can you whistle?

Lots of people think whistling is a genetic trait, but it is just a learned physical skill. You aren’t alone—an informal poll showed up to 67% of people can’t whistle. You can train your lips and tongue to get it right.

Hmm, a list of things I can’t do?
Pull up a chair… This could take a while. 😄

I can’t whistle very well… yet. Right now, my whistles sound less like beautiful music and more like a confused tea kettle asking for emotional support.
I can no longer run a mile under five minutes. These days, if I run at all, nearby people start looking around for the escaped bear I must be fleeing from. 🐻💨
Pole vaulting? Those days are over. I once cleared 18’6″… but these days I can’t even try again, mostly because I’m missing one tiny detail: the pole.
Seven-club juggling? Those glorious days may be behind me. At this point, I’m hovering around, juggling 3½ clubs. The other half usually introduces itself directly to my forehead. 🤹‍♂️
I will never be a racecar driver. Mostly because I prefer my vehicles upright and not wrapped around a flaming tire barrier while commentators scream, “HE’S STILL SMILING!”
I’ll never believe in the long parade of gods humanity has invented through the centuries. Zeus hurled lightning bolts, Thor swung a hammer, and Jesus conquered death. Thousands of gods have risen and fallen through history, yet I’ve never seen convincing evidence that they were anything more than human stories—wrapped in thunder, mystery, and hope.
I will also never be female. Biology looked at me and said,
“Nope, we’re installing the deluxe beard package instead.” Wrong parts. 😄
I can’t ride a 300-meter-tall unicycle either.
Mostly because none currently exist…
Though somewhere, some circus engineer just whispered, “Challenge accepted.” 🎪
I have not yet learned to fly. I’ve tested gravity many times.
However, I can confirm the wind remains highly committed to its job.
And I will never become a prostitutie. Sorry, ladies.
The line forms somewhere else. Besides, nobody wants to hear >>
“For an extra twenty bucks, I’ll also teach you to juggle scarves!” 😂

AsIwrote,therearesomanythingsIcan’tdo.
(Whoops. Apparently, my space bar took a coffee break.)

I was outside, all geared up to do a short run. My lungs, however, called an emergency board meeting and unanimously voted, “ABSOLUTELY NOT.” 😄 So instead of jogging, I performed the rarely celebrated sport of Competitive Standing Still.

Back in my room, I could hear Bob across the hall doing his daily pain-crying. That part hits hard. Every time I hear it, I wish I could fix something, help somehow, say the magic words, juggle the pain away, something. But at times, life hands you moments without an easy answer—just a reminder that being human can hurt.

Still, even caring matters. A smile. A few kind words. A tiny act of kindness tossed into someone’s difficult day like emotional confetti. Sometimes those little things are the closest thing we have to superhero powers… unless Amazon finally delivers my cape and officially promotes me to Captain Compassion. 🦸‍♂️✨Do what you can . . .

Until then, I’ll keep using my secret abilities: listening, encouraging, and fighting evil with dangerously powerful dad jokes and slightly overcaffeinated optimism. ☕🦸‍♂️ I may not have laser vision, but if I can make someone laugh, feel stronger, or believe in themselves again, that’s a pretty good superpower.

I may not fly or leap tall buildings anymore—stairs, and I are currently in delicate negotiations—but I’ve learned that real superheroes are usually ordinary people who keep showing up with kindness, hope, and humor even on hard days. So I’ll keep spreading a little light, lifting spirits where I can, and waiting for Amazon to finally deliver my cape. ✨
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PART 2) THINGS THAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK Kit’s Daily Delights — Inspiration, Freshly Served. Every week, I sit down to map my week—and every time, it begins the same way: a blank canvas. Nothing there. It still surprises me. That quiet moment, just before I fill it in… when the whole week is wide open, waiting for me to decide what it becomes. And here’s the beautiful truth—you’ve got that same wide-open canvas, too. Start now and make the life YOU want as you help others!

>>>>>May 9
THE EARLY MORNING
It’s only about 8 a.m., and I’m already finishing most of my next blog. 🌅✍️ While much of the world is still waking up and hunting for coffee, my mind has already been dancing with ideas. There’s something magical about these early quiet hours—the silence, the sunrise, and the feeling that anything is possible before the noise of the day rolls in.

Getting most of a blog done before 8 a.m. feels like a head start on life itself. The day says, “Ready?” and I smile back: “Already moving.” 🚀 You know me… up early as usual. At 4 a.m., while most of the world is still drooling on pillows and negotiating peace treaties with alarm clocks, I’m rolling laundry down the hallway like a determined little nighttime raccoon. 😄
LAUNDRY
The laundry room was empty—my kind of rush hour. Two washers. Two dryers. No waiting. No chaos. Just me, a mountain of rebellious socks, and the hypnotic ballet of spinning machinery. Honestly, it felt less like doing laundry and more like I’d rented out a tiny nightclub for exhausted T-shirts. 🌀😄

Most people here have their clothes cleaned by staff, but I still do my own. I actually like it. There’s something satisfying about handling the little pieces of life yourself. A bit of independence. A bit of rhythm. A bit of, “Yep… still moving forward.” And honestly, I do it with a smile on my face.
I SMELL SOMETHING
My sniffer isn’t operating at Olympic level these days. My sense of smell barely punches the time clock, so I can’t always tell when that classic “well-aged human aroma” might be quietly sneaking onto the scene like an uninvited guest at a barbecue. 😄

Along with that, my taste buds are not really my “buds” these days either. 😄 Ever since everything my body has been through, my sense of taste has wandered off like a confused tourist with no map and a broken compass. Some foods arrive with all the excitement of wet cardboard, while others surprise me out of nowhere like, “Well, hello there… where have YOU been hiding?”

But honestly, when you don’t fully remember what something is supposed to taste like, you don’t spend much time mourning it. Human beings are amazingly adaptable creatures. We adjust. We improvise. We keep moving forward. Here I am, changing with the changes.

I may not experience flavor the same way I once did, but I still enjoy the ritual of eating, the conversations around meals, the laughter, the tea in my hand at sunrise, and the simple joy of being here for another day on this wild spinning rock. 🌅☕🍳

Life changes the recipe sometimes. A few ingredients vanish without warning. Others come flying into the pot like a raccoon with a shopping cart and no adult supervision. Plans burn. Dreams boil over. Somebody definitely forgot the lid. 😄

But somehow, if you keep stirring with gratitude, humor, and a little stubborn hope, the meal still becomes something worth sharing. Maybe not the dish you expected… but often one with far more flavor, depth, and surprise.
RELAX
But if you keep your spirit seasoned with gratitude, humor, curiosity, and a little stubborn hope, life still has a way of serving up something surprisingly beautiful. Maybe not the meal you originally ordered… but often one with far more flavor, depth, and stories worth telling around the table. 🍲✨

My sense of taste took a vacation, too. The taste buds apparently packed tiny suitcases and left without notice. But here’s the funny thing about being human: when you slowly lose certain senses, you adapt. You stop mourning every little thing because your brain learns a new version of normal. Life keeps saying, “Alright, Kit… different tools now. Keep juggling.” And somehow, we do. ✨

STRANGE THOUGH, I STILL TASTE
“HOT” MEXICAN FOOD.
(OR PERHAPS IT’S NOT TO TASTE)
THAT HAS NOT CHANGED.

I was just out doing my daily cleanup mission. Fewer cigarette butts today—which felt like a small but glorious victory for Team Earth. 🌎 Every little bit matters. Still, that wave of exhaustion I sometimes get came crashing in hard today, like my internal batteries suddenly filed an official complaint with management and demanded an immediate coffee break. 😄
RUNNING?
I had planned to run a few laps afterward, but my mind stepped in, folded its arms, and said, “Not today, Captain Cleanup.” So instead, I listened. Sometimes strength is charging forward… and sometimes it’s knowing when the engine needs a little tune-up before the next adventure.

They had spread fresh wood chips around the grounds, and I already know the routine: the next big storm will send them flying across the property like nature’s version of confetti. So off I went, making my rounds, gathering scattered chips and tidying things up before the wind could turn the place into a wooden tumbleweed convention. Sweep, sweep, sweep.

The funny thing is, most people probably never notice the effort behind small acts like this. But little by little, cleaned corner by cleaned corner, we shape the world around us. Even tired… I’m especially tired… there’s something good about leaving a place better than you found it. ✨

>>>>> May 10
It was already 1:30 in the afternoon, and I still hadn’t written a single word on this daily schedule… so, after deep thought, intense concentration, and what I can only describe as a dramatic literary breakthrough, here it is:

“Word.”

A late start, perhaps — but technically, the streak is alive. 😄 Sometimes progress arrives like a roaring rocket. Other times, it limps in wearing slippers and carrying a sandwich. Either way, it showed up. And honestly, showing up counts for a lot in this life. 😄
  THE BLOG
Truthfully, I’ve been busy working on other parts of this blog—with you in mind and excellence as the target. I don’t just want to toss words onto a page like socks into a laundry basket. I want each piece to carry heart, humor, insight, and maybe a tiny spark that makes your day feel a little more alive. ✨

There is a lot more to building a good blog than just throwing words onto a page like spaghetti at a refrigerator and hoping something sticks. 🍝😄 It’s rhythm. Timing. Heart. Humor. Clarity. Too many words, and readers need a nap halfway through. Too few, and your brilliant idea walks out wearing only one sock.

How’s your writing?
Are you quick?
Accurate?
Or do you type one sentence… stare out the window dramatically… delete it… rewrite it… Then reward yourself with a snack for surviving the emotional journey? 😄

Some writers sprint like caffeinated squirrels. Others move slowly, polishing every sentence as if it were going into a museum. The real magic is finding the balance—writing fast enough to keep the fire alive, but carefully enough that your words actually land where you aimed them instead of crashing into the neighbor’s petunias. 🌺✨

I know it’s a beautiful sunny day outside. The sky is showing off, the birds are probably holding tiny afternoon meetings, and somewhere out there, the world is rolling forward in full color. Meanwhile, I’m in here… stuck inside this room, unable to get out.
CARTWHEELS
Some days, that reality lands softly. Other days, it hits like a locked door inside the chest. You can almost feel the sunshine calling your name, teasing you through the window like life is out there doing cartwheels while you sit on the sidelines holding the ticket stub. ☀️

I miss movement.
I miss wandering.
I miss the beautiful simplicity of thinking,
“I think I’ll go for a walk,” and then simply opened the door and went.

No planning.
No permission.
No obstacles.
Funny how the smallest freedoms barely whisper to us when we have them…
but roar like thunder once they’re gone.

A breeze on your face.
The sound of shoes on pavement.
The randomness of life happening around you.
Even standing somewhere with absolutely nothing.
Nowhere is more important than suddenly feeling magical.
TRAPPED
But here’s the strange thing about human beings: even when the body feels trapped, the spirit still searches for open windows. That’s what writing does for me. That’s what humor does. That’s what hope does. They become tiny escape artists. 🎪

So yes, part of me aches to be outside under that bright sky today. But another part of me refuses to let these walls become the borders of my life. If I can still encourage, still create, still laugh, still dream, still send a little light outward into the world—then the room may hold my body, but it does not get custody of my spirit. ✨
“MY” BARBER
About once a week, I visit my barber—an exclusive little shop run by a highly trained professional named… me. 💈😄 The appointment is always available, the conversation is brilliant, and the waiting room is wonderfully empty.

I use my trusty razor and give everything the same deluxe treatment: hair, beard, sideburns, and yes—even the eyebrows. Why should the eyebrows think they’re above the law? Or above getting trimmed just because they happen to live closer to the penthouse suite? 😄

Around here, everybody gets trimmed to regulation height. It’s less “Hollywood stylist” and more “efficient lawn maintenance,” but I walk out feeling clean, sharp, and aerodynamic enough to reduce wind resistance as I walk down the hallway.

And the price? Absolutely unbeatable. The owner gives me a huge discount on every visit. No tipping required either… although I do occasionally pause at the mirror afterward and compliment myself on the exceptional craftsmanship. Five-star service. Very handsome clientele. (Who, me?) 😄 😄

Truthfully, there’s something satisfying about doing it yourself. A few careful passes with the razor, and suddenly you feel lighter, fresher, more ready for the day. Besides, at my rates, I can still afford luxury items like peanut butter and bananas.

Do you cut your own hair, or do you place your fate into the trembling hands of a professional barber named Skippy, armed with scissors, clippers, and the enormous responsibility of eyebrow management? 😄 One wrong move and suddenly your eyebrows look like two squirrels that got into an argument and moved to opposite sides of your forehead.

I handle the job myself. Hair, beard, sideburns, nose hair, eyebrows—everybody gets the same VIP treatment. I believe in equality. No strand gets special privileges around here. The cost is excellent, the appointment wait time is zero, and the barber never tries to sell me expensive shampoo with mysterious ingredients harvested from moonlight and volcano flowers.

There is also something oddly satisfying about standing there with a razor in hand, taking control of the situation like a slightly underqualified sculptor working on a very nervous statue. So far, I still resemble a human, which I consider a tremendous success. ✂️

>>>>>May 11
A good morning to you.
No breakfast for me today, it never arrived. I hope others who need their morning nourishment are getting something. All I have scheduled today is a speech from 10-10:30, then “Sports Group” from 1 to noon.
10:00–10:30
I spent the last half hour in speech therapy. She suggested I use my notebook more often to help with memory. We talked about several things, and within minutes, I had already forgotten much of the conversation. Moments like that remind me that, yes, I still need the notebook—no shame in that. A notebook is not a weakness—it’s a backup for the brain. Even astronauts use checklists, and they’re flying rockets, not trying to remember where they left their coffee. 🚀☕
11:00–Noon
I went into the Sports Group and was basically asked, “What do you want to do today?” Honestly, nothing came to mind. A few people chose Corn Hole, which I completely understand. Some people really enjoy it, and that’s great. But for me? My passion for tossing beanbags at plywood has not yet burst into flames. 😄 So I sat that one out. Everybody has different things that light them up. One thing I don’t like is litter and waste.

There are NO therapy sessions this afternoon, which honestly makes me sad. Therapy is not just something to fill time for me—it is movement, progress, challenge, and hope rolled into one. Each session gives me a chance to sharpen my mind, strengthen my body, and feel like I am actively climbing forward instead of sitting still. When those sessions disappear, the day can suddenly feel much quieter, heavier, almost like the engine of progress has been switched off for a while.

For people recovering from brain injuries, structure and purposeful activity matter deeply. Growth does not usually arrive wrapped in fireworks and marching bands. Most often, it comes through small repetitions, steady effort, and continued engagement with life, even when it feels difficult.
THERAPY
Therapy represents possibility. It whispers, “Keep going. Keep rebuilding. Keep reaching.” It is movement, challenge, progress—the quiet proof that tomorrow can still become something greater than today.

Without therapy, the afternoon can feel strangely hollow, like a gym with the lights turned off, a stage after the applause fades, or a circus tent standing silent after the crowd has gone home—the energy changes. The momentum pauses. And for someone fighting to rebuild a life, that emptiness can echo louder than people realize. 🎪

Still, I remind myself: progress is not limited to official therapy hours. Even on quiet afternoons, I can still practice patience, writing, thinking, memory work, movement, humor, gratitude, and determination. Recovery does not completely stop just because the schedule does. The human spirit is sneakier than that. It keeps stretching, adapting, and learning—even in the slow moments.
THE WASTE
I see so much waste here, especially wasted time. Time is life, and too much of it drifts away in this place like smoke in the wind. I already went out and did my daily cleanup mission this morning, but once again, there were more cigarette butts, more trash, more signs that people have stopped paying attention.

It’s sad. Not just because of the litter, but because it feels symbolic of something bigger—people slowly giving up on their surroundings, and maybe even on themselves. Many of the staff here waste time, which costs NR a lot of money. That’s one of the reasons I do the cleaning that I do.

Yes, I keep cleaning. One little piece at a time. One butt. One wrapper. One small act that says, “I still care.” 🌎 Maybe that sounds tiny in a world this messy, but revolutions have started with less. Besides, if Captain Cleanup retires, the squirrels may form a union and take over the property. And frankly, I do not trust them with management responsibilities.

>>>>>May 12
WHICH DIRECTION?
Here we go again… another day stretched out in front of me like a long open road, asking the same question: What will I do? What will I do? Maybe that question is not a burden at all. Maybe it is an invitation. A blank stage. A fresh juggling pattern waiting for the first toss. 🎪

Some days arrive with fireworks and marching bands. Others quietly shuffle in wearing sweatpants and carrying lukewarm tea. But every single day still holds possibility—a conversation, a laugh, a lesson, a tiny victory nobody else even notices.
SIT?
So I sit with the hours ahead of me and wonder: Will I write something that helps someone breathe easier? Will I make someone smile? Will I challenge myself a little more today? Will I whistle through the hard parts? Will I head outside again for Captain Clean-Up duty and rescue the planet one cigarette butt at a time? 🌎

Life does not always hand us perfect circumstances. Sometimes it hands us detours, pain, boredom, waiting rooms, and walls that seem much too close together. But even then, a choice still lies hidden inside the day.

We can drift through it… or meet it standing tall. So here we go again. Another sunrise. Another chance to think better, move better, love better, laugh louder, and keep going forward—one step, one word, one slightly overcaffeinated thought at a time. 😄
11 TO NOON
From 11 to noon, I was scheduled for Game Group. I waited until 11:09 before finally retreating to my room. You may realize that games are not exactly my Olympic sport. 😄 Unless the event is Extreme Professional Avoiding of Corn Hole… in that case, I may be world-ranked. 🎯

Sitting around waiting for a game I didn’t want to play in the first place felt like being stuck at an airport gate for a flight to someplace I never planned to visit. So, back to the room I went—where at least my thoughts, ideas, and keyboard still know how to keep me entertained.
MY WRITING
As words fly from my fingers to your eyes, I hope they carry more than letters and sentences. I hope they carry sparks. Tiny fireworks of thought. A little laughter on a hard day. A reminder that life is still happening right now, right in front of us, waiting to be noticed.

Every word I write has traveled a road with me—through applause and silence, hospitals and highways, victories and spectacular face-plants into reality. 😄 Some words limp a little. Some dance. Some juggle flaming bowling balls while riding a unicycle through a windstorm. But all of them are trying to reach you with something real.

Maybe that is what writing really is—not typing, not grammar, not commas behaving themselves for once—but one human being reaching across the invisible distance to another and saying, “Hey… keep going. There is still magic here.”

As words fly from my fingers to your eyes, I hope they carry more than letters and sentences. I hope they carry sparks. Tiny fireworks of thought. A little laughter on a hard day. A reminder that life is still happening right now, right in front of us, waiting to be noticed.

Every word I write has traveled a road with me—through applause and silence, hospitals and highways, victories and spectacular face-plants into reality. 😄 Some words limp a little. Some dance. Some juggle flaming bowling balls while riding a unicycle through a windstorm. But all of them are trying to reach you with something real.

Maybe that is what writing really is—not typing, not grammar, not commas behaving themselves for once—but one human being reaching across the invisible distance to another and saying, “Hey… keep going. There is still magic here.”

And if a few of these words happen to sneak into your heart, straighten your back, or make you grin like a raccoon that just discovered an unattended taco truck… then the mission was a success. 🎪
1:00–2:00
Yoga Group. I politely passed. 😄 Nothing against yoga at all—I fully support stretching, breathing deeply, and achieving inner peace—but twisting myself into shapes that resemble a confused lawn chair did not feel like today’s adventure.

Some people find calm through yoga. I find mine through movement, ideas, laughter, writing, juggling, and occasionally wandering the planet like an overcaffeinated philosopher with a cleanup mission. Different roads, same destination. ✨
2:00 to 2:30
I taught my juggling class. Five people came out to practice, and the beautiful thing is… most of them are really starting to get it. You can almost see the lightbulbs flick on mid-throw. 🎪✨ There is something special about watching confusion slowly turn into rhythm.

Maryann, along with some of the staff, continues improving, too. She still has that very common beginner habit of launching her left-hand throws off forward during a sightseeing tour. 😄 But that is part of learning. Every juggler starts with wild throws, chasing runaway balls like they are escaping prisoners. I noticed it, smiled, gave a little nod, and we kept going. Progress—not perfection—is the game.

>>>>>May 13
BUTTS
Why does littering seem to come bundled with smoking like some terrible “buy one, get one free” deal? Polluting the air is already bad enough, but covering the ground with cigarette butts, too?

Come on now. Right outside the entrance/exit, I counted at least 25 butts scattered around like tiny toxic breadcrumbs. Then I reached the patio—another 20 or more waiting for me there.

It is discouraging because cigarette butts are not harmless little scraps. They sit there, ugly and forgotten, soaking chemicals into the environment while making the whole place feel neglected.

Small actions matter, both good and bad. A single person tossing one butt may seem insignificant, but multiplied by hundreds, it turns into a dirty landscape that everyone else has to walk through.

So out I went again—Captain Clean-Up on patrol. 😄 One more bag, one more round, one more quiet reminder that taking care of the world still matters. Even when others drop the ball… or the butt.
THE THERAPISTS HERE
I must commend the therapists and nurses I have worked with here. In past posts, I’ve sometimes been critical of parts of the system, but it’s also important for me to recognize the many people here who truly care and work hard every single day.

So many of these therapists bring patience, skill, encouragement, and heart into what they do, often helping people rebuild pieces of their lives one small step at a time. That matters more than words can fully express.

I sincerely thank every person I have worked with here at NR. Recovery is not always an easy road—it can feel more like juggling flaming bowling balls during an earthquake while someone keeps changing the music. 😄

But through the chaos, frustration, setbacks, and small victories, so many people here have shown patience, kindness, and genuine care. For that, I am deeply grateful. Every bit of encouragement, support, and effort matters more than you may realize. 😄

But many of you have continued to show up with support, professionalism, and kindness. I appreciate the effort, the conversations, the guidance, and the belief that improvement is still possible. Thank you for being part of the climb.
CLEAN THE WORLD
Today, we head back to https://cleantheworld.org/. As you know, we go a few times each month, and we’ll be leaving at 8:30 this morning. It should be a good time—part service project, part field trip, part “look at us being productive before some people have found their left sock.” 😄

The beautiful thing about it is that it costs Clean-the-World nothing. They receive free volunteer labor, and the work truly matters. Many businesses and organizations send teams to help with the projects there, packing and preparing recycled soap and hygiene supplies that are distributed to people in need around the world.

Small actions, multiplied by many hands, create enormous good. A little effort, a willingness to help, and suddenly the world becomes cleaner, kinder, and brighter. Real change rarely begins with fireworks—it begins with people quietly deciding to care. ✨ ✨

ARE YOU DOING YOUR PART TO CLEAN THE WORLD?

Breakfast was not delivered before we left.
I’m not hungry, as usual.
But I worry about others.

At Clean the World, I got a tremendous amount done today, as usual. 😄 Part of me wants to teach others some of the little techniques and rhythms I’ve discovered that help me work quickly and efficiently.
HOW TO BE SUCCESSFUL
Over the years, I’ve learned that success often comes from tiny adjustments repeated consistently. But I also understand that everyone has their own style, pace, and approach, and I never want to come across like an overcaffeinated efficiency ninja barking orders in a soap-packing factory.

So I try to balance enthusiasm with respect—offering ideas when they’re welcome, while remembering that the best teamwork happens when encouragement leads the way. A little inspiration can open doors far better than a shove ever could. ✨

Along with two therapists, there were four of us brain-injured adventurers gathered together—our own little team of bent-but-not-broken humans, trying to rebuild circuits, confidence, and pieces of ourselves one conversation, one exercise, and one laugh at a time.

We stayed for a couple of hours, which was right. Long enough to stretch the brain, challenge the spirit, and remind ourselves that recovery is not a straight highway—it is more like juggling flaming bowling balls on a trampoline during an earthquake. 😄

Still, there is something powerful about being in a room with people who understand struggle without needing long explanations. Each person there is carrying invisible battles, frustrations, and victories that outsiders rarely see.
DEALING WITH BRAIN INJURY
A forgotten word. A shaky step. A moment of confusion. Then suddenly—a smile, a breakthrough, a tiny success that deserves a standing ovation. Those moments matter. They are proof that the human spirit keeps reaching forward, even after life throws a brick through the windshield.

By the end of the session, you could almost feel everyone’s mental batteries slipping into the yellow zone, blinking low-power warnings. Brain work is exhausting in a way many healthy people never fully understand.

A damaged brain can turn concentration, conversation, memory, and simple thinking into the equivalent of climbing a mountain with ankle weights strapped to your thoughts. Even a few hours of focused effort can leave someone feeling wrung out—mentally, emotionally, and physically.

Two hours can feel like climbing a mountain while solving underwater crossword puzzles. So yes, a couple of hours was probably enough for all of us brave neurological warriors before our brains started waving tiny white surrender flags.
THE AFTERNOON
In the afternoon, there was nothing—nothing scheduled, nothing happening, not even a tiny crumb of excitement rolling down the hallway. Nada. An empty stretch of hours just sitting there, staring at me like a goldfish with no hobbies. 😄

And honestly, that can be surprisingly difficult. People often think doing “nothing” sounds relaxing, but when your mind wants movement, challenge, conversation, purpose, or growth, too much emptiness can feel heavy. Time slows down. The clock starts acting dramatically. Even the walls seem to yawn.

I found myself wondering what to do with myself. Read? Write? Walk? Juggle imaginary juggling clubs for an invisible audience? There are only so many times a man can reorganize his thoughts before his thoughts start reorganizing him.

Still, I keep reminding myself that empty hours are not empty lives. Sometimes these quiet spaces become the birthplace of ideas, reflection, gratitude, or determination. A blank afternoon can either swallow your spirit—or become a blank canvas where you decide what comes next.
SEARCH
So I keep searching for little sparks: a conversation, a few written words, a bit of exercise, a laugh, a plan for tomorrow. Sometimes progress does not arrive wearing fireworks. Sometimes it quietly sneaks in disguised as “just getting through the afternoon.” ✨ How about you? Can I be with you?

Someone turned Bob on, and soon his voice and the sounds he made filled the room like a radio stuck between stations. At times, it can feel grating on the nerves—but the truth is, Bob, isn’t choosing any of it. His injured brain no longer gives him the control most of us take for granted. That realization softens my frustration. Beneath the noise is a human being fighting a battle he never asked for, doing the best he can with the damaged wiring life handed him.

>>>>>May 14
Four in the morning, and it was time once again for my twice-weekly shower and full clean-up operation. 🚿✨ Not exactly a rock concert, but let me tell you—there is something deeply refreshing about feeling human again.
SHOWER TIME
Warm water, clean clothes, a fresh shave—and suddenly the world feels a little less like a battlefield and a little more like a place I can handle again. 😄 It is amazing what a bit of soap, stubborn determination, and a decent razor can do. One minute, you look like a shipwrecked pirate arguing with seagulls, and the next, you are practically ready to rejoin civilized society.

Sorry, but I’m not going to turn this into a live
pay-per-view event by showing myself naked in the shower. 😄
Some mysteries are better left behind the curtain.

There is also something encouraging about these small routines. They may not look dramatic from the outside, but they matter. Tiny acts of self-care are quiet declarations that we are still in the game. Even at four in the morning, half awake and shuffling around like a confused raccoon searching for coffee, we are rebuilding ourselves one step at a time.

And afterward? I felt better—much better—cleaner body, clearer mind, lighter spirit. Sometimes progress does not arrive with fireworks and marching bands. Sometimes it slips in quietly at four in the morning, carrying a towel over its shoulder and whispering, “Let’s begin again.” What looks ordinary from the outside can actually be victory in work clothes. ✨
THE BLOG
Then I sit down and send words flying from my fingertips to your eyes. Thursday becomes editing day—time to read through the blog again, tighten the bolts, polish the sentences, and make sure the right words march out into the world instead of wandering around like confused penguins. 😄

But you do know something important, yes? This helps me too. Writing is not only something I give to others; it is something that quietly rebuilds me while I create it. Every sentence becomes a small act of healing. Every paragraph helps me stand a little taller inside myself. The words may reach your heart, but in the process, they help repair mine as well. ✨

Every paragraph straightens a crooked thought. Every sentence throws another ball into the air, keeping the pattern moving. In helping you think, smile, reflect, or feel less alone, I end up helping myself right along the way.

You must remember that the words I place before you have been reviewed, reshaped, polished, and scanned again and again—each pass searching for the exact rhythm, meaning, and feeling needed to reach your mind and heart.

That is the secret behind great writing: not merely inspiration, but the willingness to return to the page repeatedly, refining rough thoughts into something clear, powerful, and alive. Great writing is rarely born in one burst of genius. It is built into the editing process, where ordinary sentences slowly learn how to sing. ✨
JAPAN
Currently, I have an itchy eye and an itchy knee.
Naturally, my brain wandered off to Japan.
“Ichi” means one. “Ni” means two. (As in, Itchi knee.)

Apparently, my body has decided to turn itself into a multilingual vocabulary lesson. One itchy eye, two itchy complaints… and suddenly I’m starring in The Adventures of Professor Scratchy-san. Do you speak Japanese? 😄

When I was young, I was learning Japanese, and I truly wish I had kept it up. I have visited Japan three different times, and I absolutely love being there. The culture, the kindness, the safety, the precision, the beauty—it all stayed with me long after the plane rides home.
A JAPANESE DAD?
My stepfather, Kiyoshi Nakagawa, was Japanese, so I grew up around much of the language and culture. Looking back, I realize what a gift that was. My sister, Willow, dove even deeper into the customs and traditions, and sometimes I wish I had followed her lead and studied more seriously.

Still, some things stuck with me. I can use chopsticks—hashi—like a professional noodle ninja. 🍜 And honestly, I would love to study the language again someday and return to Japan. Life is funny that way. Some dreams wander off for a while… then quietly bow and return. And, what about John?
JOHN
Many years ago, I helped my friend, John Fox, make his way to Japan for performing and circus training (he being the trainer). We had already spent years performing together and touring across Europe, chasing applause, adventure, and the occasional meal that looked suspiciously capable of chasing us back. 🎪

Those were wild, beautiful years—two performers hauling props, chasing applause, and carrying just enough money to survive one more train ride, one more cheap meal, and one more show beneath unfamiliar lights.

We wandered through country after country, not as tourists, but as students of the world—learning the rhythms of different cultures, the humor of different people, and the strange truth that a smile and a juggling act can open doors in almost any language.

Now John is completely fluent in Japanese and deeply woven into the customs, language, and everyday rhythm of life there. A white boy in Japan fitting in — I admire that immensely. There is something beautiful about a person stepping so fully into another culture that it no longer feels foreign—it feels like home. He did not just learn the words; he learned the heartbeat behind them.
TOKYO
There is something beautiful about watching a person immerse themselves so fully into another culture that it begins to shape the way they think, speak, move, and experience the world. Japan clearly captured his heart, and over the years, he allowed it to become part of who he is.

And if I am being completely honest, a small part of me is jealous, too. Not in a bitter way—more in the way you admire someone who followed a path all the way to the horizon. When we were younger, we traveled, performed, and chased adventure together across Europe and beyond, living out stories most people only daydream about. Then John was Japan-bound.

But John kept going deeper into Japan, deeper into the language, the customs, and the spirit of the place itself. I can understand why. Japan has a certain magic to it—a balance of discipline, beauty, kindness, precision, and wonder that stays with you long after you leave. ✨

He didn’t just visit Japan—he stepped fully into it and built a life there with both feet and an open heart. I doubt he will ever move back. Japan captured something deep inside him, and from everything I have experienced in that beautiful country, I can understand exactly why.
TUKO
For the artwork on my book, Juggling with Finesse, I was fortunate to find Tuko Fujisaki, a gifted Japanese artist whose work immediately captured my imagination. She did the opposite of John; she went from Japan to the US. The moment I saw her art, I knew it carried something special—grace, movement, elegance, and a kind of quiet power that perfectly matched the spirit of juggling itself. Her illustrations did not merely decorate the book; they gave it soul.

There is a refinement in Japanese art that I have always admired. Even the smallest details seem alive with intention and balance. Tuko’s work had that same feeling. Her lines flowed almost like a juggling pattern in the air—smooth, disciplined, and beautiful. It felt as though she understood the rhythm and poetry behind what I was trying to teach. 🎪✨

To this day, I remain deeply grateful for her contribution. A great cover does more than attract attention; it invites people into the world inside the pages. Tuko Fujisaki’s artwork did exactly that. It helped transform the book from a collection of ideas into something that felt artistic, alive, and unforgettable.

CAN YOU USE CHOP STICKS?

A BRAIN INJURY HOSPITAL?
It is strange to realize that I am currently living in a hospital, NeuroRestorative at Avalon Park (230477) – CARF International.
They are a part of https://neurorestorative.com/
Yes, it is helping to be here.

Life can change directions so suddenly—one moment you are out juggling dreams and miles of highway, and the next you are learning how to rebuild your world from a hospital room. But thankfully, I am not facing this alone.
,
But, I find it very limiting around here; I can’t even cross the street out front to go to the park to juggle clubs or do some running. They do feed me well, and I have a nice residence in which to reside. The staff is kind and very helpful, too. I just want more freedom to chase my dreams. And, yes, I am dreaming of you.
A CHANGE
My daughters, Jasmine and April, along with Case Manager Myles Mireles and Greg Golden from the insurance company, are all working together to help me find a new place to live. That gives me something powerful: Real Hope. It reminds me that even during uncertain seasons, there are still people beside you helping carry the map, the flashlight, and sometimes even the heavy luggage of life. 😄

Sometimes the next chapter begins long before you can fully read the pages. Change often arrives quietly at first—like the faint sound of a door unlocking somewhere in the distance. Right now, out there beyond what I can currently see, a new beginning is patiently waiting for its moment to open. 🚪✨
DRAWING BY TUKO

Wherever I go next, I hope for a little more freedom—room to work on my juggling, room to run, room to breathe without feeling so confined. I want to say again that the people here are good. Many have been kind, patient, and genuinely helpful. This place has helped countless people rebuild their lives, regain skills, and eventually step back out into the world stronger than before.

But for some, this becomes their final home. That is a difficult reality to sit with. Some residents are as young as 30 and will spend the rest of their lives in this structured environment because they truly need this level of care and support.

I understand that completely, and I respect it deeply. Still, inside me, a voice keeps whispering, “There is more life to live yet.” So I keep looking toward the horizon, juggling hope in one hand and determination in the other. 🎪

10:00–11:00 — This therapy session began a bit late while everyone waited for one more person to arrive. The class was called “Visual Group,” and we were given puzzles where colored blocks had to be matched to specific patterns and designs. I completed one very quickly and soon realized the activity simply was not challenging enough for where my mind was operating that morning.
BYE BYE
So I left early. Some exercises are helpful stepping stones for many people, but this one did not feel like the right fit for me. My brain was ready for calculus… or at least something slightly more advanced than Olympic-Level Competitive Block Stacking. 😄 Sometimes the real challenge is not solving the puzzle—it is finding one worthy of your attention

11:00–11:30 — Speech therapy was next, a half-hour session with Lillie. She seems a bit frustrated with me for not consistently carrying through on the daily writing book, where I’m supposed to record things that happen throughout the day.

And honestly, I understand her point. She reminded me of several things I had completely forgotten, which certainly strengthens her argument. Still, part of me wonders: do I really need to document every tiny detail of life like an overworked detective solving The Mystery of the Missing Afternoon Snack? 😄

She ad asked questions such as, “What day of the week is it? I knew because I know the blog comes out tomorrow, Friday. She asked the actual date, but I had no idea and didn’t care. If I need to know the date or the time, I can ask someone, so I don’t care.

I suppose that is the balancing act—trying to improve memory and awareness without feeling like I must carry a notebook everywhere like a wandering philosopher/journalist/juggler hybrid. But she is right about one important thing: memory can be slippery after brain injury, and sometimes the moments we think are unimportant quietly disappear before we realize they mattered at all.

2:00–2:30 — OT was up next. We headed to Publix Supermarket and gathered supplies for the gourmet masterpiece I’ll apparently be preparing Monday or Tuesday. “Meal preparation” sounds very official, though at this stage it mostly involved me trying not to crash the shopping cart into innocent displays of avocados. 😄
PORK CHOPS?
That is what is on the menu, the chops. I’m expecting you, of course. If you suddenly hear someone in Publix announcing, “Attention All Shoppers, Chef Kit is approaching the Salsa Aisle,” you’ll know things have escalated quickly. https://www.summerssalsa.com/ . 🍝🎪
>>>>>May 15
As often happens, breakfast arrived 45 minutes late. I do not worry much about myself; I think most about the others here. For many people, routines are not just routines—they are stability, comfort, and part of how they navigate the day. When one thing falls behind, the entire rhythm of the day stumbles along behind it like a shopping cart with one bad wheel. 😄

Because breakfast was delayed, my entire schedule started late as well. The only activity listed today was “Fun Friday Group” at 10:00. Honestly, I did not feel it was something I could truly benefit from. I am always looking for activities that challenge the mind, encourage growth, or build toward greater independence. My brain still wants to sprint, while the schedule often feels like it is asking me to color gently inside the lines.

I was late, but I did stop in for the Friday group. By the time I arrived, they were just beginning a game of Hangman. People laughed, guessed letters, and seemed to enjoy the simplicity of it all.

And perhaps for some minds, these kinds of games are helpful—something light, social, and easy to engage with. I understand that. Not every activity has to be climbing Mount Everest with your brain carrying bowling balls. 😄
NOT FOR ME
But for me, I could feel almost immediately that it was not where my mind wanted to be. My brain still craves challenge, complexity, creativity—something that stretches me a little further. I wanted conversation, ideas, problem-solving, perhaps something involving writing, strategy, storytelling, or deeper thinking.

Instead, I sat there, realizing that while my body may currently be in a recovery center, my mind is still out there somewhere, running marathons, building projects, juggling possibilities, and trying to calculate the meaning of life before lunch.

That is one of the strange parts of recovery. Sometimes the greatest frustration is not what you cannot do—it is knowing what you still can do, while not always having the right outlet for it. Still, I showed up. That matters. Even arriving late is better than disappearing entirely. Life is funny that way. Sometimes progress is not winning the game… sometimes it is simply walking into the room anyway.

Then, at 11:00, I had speech therapy for half an hour. We spent most of the session simply talking, and by the end, we both seemed to realize something important: perhaps I do not really want more therapy sessions after all. Funny how the human mind works. I complain about not getting enough therapy, yet when asked what kind of therapy I actually want, my mind suddenly goes blank like a game show contestant under bright lights.

This part may be on me, too. I may have been fighting a battle without clearly defining the goal. That is a hard thing to admit. Still, realizing that is not losing—it is information. And information is useful. Even a juggler drops a few balls before figuring out the pattern.

I DON’T KNOW HOW I WANT TO GET BETTER OR EVEN IF I WANT TO GET BETTER.

Some days, the hardest truth to admit is this: I do not even know how I want to get better… or if part of me truly wants to get better at all. Recovery is strange that way. One moment, you are fighting like a warrior; the next, you are exhausted from carrying the armor.

There are times when the mind becomes so tired from the battle that even hope feels heavy. And yet, honesty like this is not weakness at all.

It may be the beginning of something real. You cannot build a stronger future on fake smiles and forced motivation. Sometimes the first courageous step is simply admitting, “I’m lost right now.” And maybe that is okay for today. Even a juggler drops the balls before finding the rhythm again. 🎪

In the afternoon, I will sneak out to run and get my heart rate up, something I cannot do here.
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PART 3)–BLOG 377–I CAN(‘T) WHISTLE

Whistling is one of humanity’s smallest miracles—a simple breath transformed into joy, courage, and light. A whistle can lift heavy spirits, calm troubled thoughts, and chase tension out of the room like a mischievous little bird stealing the gloom. Sometimes all it takes is one tiny tune floating through the air to remind us that life is still wonderfully alive.

Through wars, heartbreak, lonely roads, hospital hallways, long shifts, and exhausting days, people have whistled to keep hope breathing. A whistle says something words often cannot:
“I’m still here.”
“I’m still moving forward.”
“I may be bruised, bent, tired, or dented like a shopping cart with one bad wheel… but I’m still rolling.”

Whistling is courage with a melody.
A tiny anthem of joyful defiance.
The soundtrack of the human spirit refusing to sit quietly in the shadows.

A person whistling while they work is often carrying far more than a tune. They’re carrying optimism. Peace. Resilience. Maybe even a little rebellion against despair. In a noisy world full of stress, bad news, and people arguing on the internet about things nobody will remember in six weeks, a cheerful whistle becomes the soul’s way of smiling out loud. 🎶✨

And I love this part…
For years, I believed I simply could not whistle. Walk and whistle? Forget it. Chew gum and whistle? That sounded like Olympic-level wizardry. Some people can juggle chainsaws. Others can whistle. Apparently, I had been assigned to the wrong circus. 😄

But then one day, I challenged that story.
I taught myself to juggle seven clubs.
I rebuilt my life more than once.
Surely I could learn to make one tiny musical squeak with my face.
So I practiced.

At first, I sounded like an exhausted squirrel trying to inflate a balloon. Then came the strange wheezing noises. Then accidental bird impressions. Then one glorious, clear note appeared out of nowhere like the universe whispering:
“SEE? KEEP GOING.” 🎶

That’s the magic of learning.
Most people quit during the “confused teakettle phase.” 😄
But almost every worthwhile skill hides behind awkward beginnings.
Whistling teaches something bigger than whistling:
What feels impossible today is something you haven’t practiced long enough yet.

And honestly, the world becomes more delightful once you discover there are actual whistling champions. Yes, professional whistlers exist. Somewhere out there, someone’s entire life mission is dominating competitive airborne face music—and I deeply respect that. 🎶😄

Whistling champion Chris Ullman explained it beautifully: with patience and practice, most people can learn. That’s encouraging, because it means whistling isn’t reserved for a chosen few blessed by the ancient Lip Gods at birth. It’s learned, built, and earned one awkward puff of air at a time.

Nature itself whistles constantly🎶🌎

Dolphins whistle to identify one another, almost like names.
Marmots are known as “whistle pigs” for their warning calls.
Guinea pigs whistle for food like tiny furry managers demanding that snack service speed it up immediately.
Male mice sing ultrasonic songs.
Wild dogs coordinate hunts through eerie whistles in dense forests.
Even caterpillars get involved.

Apparently, the entire planet has secretly been in one giant wind-powered orchestra this whole time.

And then there’s folklore.
Cultures around the world have long believed nighttime whistling could summon spirits, mystery, or trouble. Stories of Skinwalkers and Stekini weren’t merely spooky entertainment—they carried warnings, wisdom, and cultural identity through generations. Humanity has always used whistles not just as sound, but as symbols: signals in the dark, echoes of caution, courage, wonder, and imagination. 🌙

Which leads us to one of the funniest truths about learning to whistle:
Nearly everyone goes through the same stages:
Silence. Damp disappointment. Aggressive air leakage.
One accidental bird noise. A magical, clear note. Immediate overconfidence. 😄

After that first successful whistle, people suddenly behave like they’re auditioning to summon dolphins from three counties away. But that could be beautiful too.

Because whistling is more than noise, it is evidence of breath.
Evidence of effort. Evidence of joy.
Evidence that something inside you still wants to sing.

Sometimes life takes away strength. Sometimes it takes away certainty.
Sometimes it knocks juggling clubs, plans, confidence, and comfort straight out of your hands.
But if you can still whistle…
Even softly… even badly…
Even like a tea kettle being attacked by raccoons…
There is still music in you. 🎶✨
LIVE FOR NOW! NOT YESTERDAY! NOT TOMORROW! NOW IS THE TIME!
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PART 4) 🔥 A FEW SPARKS TO SLIP INTO YOUR POCKET
✨ THE MAGIC OF QUOTES ✨
Inspirational quotes are like mental spark plugs. 💥They snap you awake, simplify big ideas, and give you a quick push forward. A good quote can shift your thinking—turning “I can’t” into “let’s try.” And the more you repeat it, the more it becomes part of you.
Simple truth: A quote on a page is nice… A quote you live by? That’s power. 🚀
=====
Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.
―John Dryden

“Work?– I whistle while I play!”
―Kit Summers

“To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.”
―Doug Larson

“And it’s the funniest thing: as soon as I see it, the whistling in my ears stops, and the feeling of terror drains away, and I realize this whole time I haven’t been falling at all. I’ve been floating.”
―Thomas Hood

“Discourse on virtue, and they pass by in droves. Whistle and dance the shimmy, and you’ve got an audience.”
―Lauren Oliver

“My worst habit is whistling while I sleep.”
―Billy Boyd

“I know of witches who whistle at different pitches, calling things that don’t have names.”
― Helen Oyeyemi,

“Nobody likes a whistler, particularly not the divinity that shapes our ends.”
― Douglas Adams

“As we rode along, LaBoeuf commenced whistling tunes, perhaps to take his mind off his sore arm. Rooster said, “God damn a man that whistles!” It was the wrong thing to say if he wished it to stop.”
― Charles Portis

“Self-driving cars are so lonely. Are you really going to use all that extra commute time to binge-watch Netflix? Why not hire me to sit next to you and whistle all your favorite tunes?”
― Jarod Kintz

“The sound circulated like an autonomous being whose tentacles needed to experience a sensitive awareness of the terrain.”
― Ondjaki
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PART 5) YOUR CHALLENGE THIS WEEK >>
LIVE FOR NOW! NOT TOMORROW. NOT NEXT WEEK. NOW IS YOUR TIME!
Your mission for this week is, of course, to teach yourself to whistle.
If you already whistle, take it to a higher level—volume, tone, and do songs with it.

If you already know how to whistle, don’t stop at a tiny little “tweet-tweet” and call it a day. 🎵 Take that superpower to the next level! Play with volume. Learn to whistle softly like a breeze slipping through the trees… then crank it up like a train conductor announcing the greatest adventure on Earth. Experiment with tone, pitch, rhythm, and emotion. A whistle can sound joyful, mysterious, playful, lonely, triumphant, or downright mischievous.

And here’s where the real fun begins—learn songs. Start simple. Whistle a melody while walking, cleaning, driving, or waiting in line at the grocery store, pretending you’re starring in your own movie soundtrack. 😄 Before long, you’ll notice people smiling, turning their heads, or even joining in. Whistling has a strange little magic to it—it lifts the mood of a room without asking permission.

The beauty is this: whistling is not just noise… Its expression. It’s music carried on nothing but breath and joy. Some people juggle balls. Some paint pictures. Some dance. And some turn ordinary air into melody. That’s pretty amazing when you think about it. So pucker up, practice, and let your inner songbird clock in for work. The world could use a few more happy soundtracks floating through the air.
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PART 6) NEXT WEEK>>BLOG 377–THE YEARS PILE ON
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