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Alone in a crowd is still alone but a lesser lonely. At a dockside concert it becomes obvious that an invisible energy connects us—something that we need as much as the food that sustains us, or the air that we breathe.

When you adopt a dog, “Come!” is a command, but “Stay” is a request that can only be honored for a decade or so. Willingly loving what you know you will lose is the paradox we were born for.

The place we grew up and the places we have lived have imprinted themselves on our psyches, but is it possible that have we left something of ourselves on the land?

How the brain memorizes and how the heart memorizes are two different processes. One requires effort (like converting Fahrenheit to Celsius), the other, does not. What do you carry in memory and why?

When a fifth-grade boy is run over by a powerboat and comes back to school injured, a classmate who is drawn to heal him has a dream.

Why is it that rediscovering friends from our past feels even better than making a new friend in the present?

Why is it some of us always get pulled from line for extra security screening? Why is it that we never forget those people who intersected our lives, however briefly, while traveling?

Nothing is as unreliable as memory, so how do you decide what is true?

Three precognitive dreams result in an epiphany and a meeting with guardian angels.

An impossibly tight layover between international flights reveals the fundamental difference between a husband and wife and, as the plane lifts off for the southern hemisphere, the nature of grace.