“My dad’s tackle box
sits in my sister’s garage,
filled with memories.”
My dad, Harold Berman, was born seventy-three years ago today.
I’m sitting in his seat in the cabana, looking zen-like at the ocean as he would.
(thanks for reading my words, especially today – I’m grateful for you)
“I am almost out of words.
Soon I will exhale only ellipses…” – gb
“In Live Like a Fruit Fly, Gabe Berman shares his recipe for living a more joyful, worthwhile, and abundant life in every way. A witty, entertaining, and insightful read.” — Deepak Chopra, Author, The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success
When a man of my age shaves his face in the morning,
Who is it that stares back and greets him?
The ghost of his father long dead all these years?
Or the boy that he was, still wet in the ears?
Or the terrible sum of all of his fears,
In the eyes of this stranger who meets him?
So his glance rarely strays from his chin or his jawline,
To face up to the truth of his soul,
It’s the eyes he avoids so afraid to acknowledge,
Something strange, unexpected, out of control.
There are times when a man needs to brave his reflection,
And face what he sees without fear,
It takes a man to accept his mortality,
Or be surprised by the presence of a tear. – lyrics from Sting’s new album The Last Ship
“Without music, life would be a mistake.” – Friedrich Nietzsche