I was upstairs folding laundry when I heard a knock at the front door. It doesn’t take much to make me forget about folding laundry so I headed downstairs to see who was here. It was my friend Tom, owner of our local bookstore. He had a young man with him. Tom introduced us: “Jamie! This is Jacob. He’s just back from the Peace Corps. You two should talk!” and with a cheery wave of his hand, Tom was gone.

I invited Jacob in and made us tea. He was indeed just a few days back from two years of teaching school in a South African village and, like all of us who have returned home after serving in the Peace Corps, Jacob was wondering about what comes next. I understood. I remembered returning to America and asking myself “So, now what? Where do I go from here?”  

Reentry isn’t easy. In my case, I had been away for four years: two in a small village in the remote western mountains of Tunisia, followed by two more on the Peace Corps Staff in the capital city of Tunis. When I finally returned home, America seemed to have gotten along just fine without me; it hadn’t changed all that much. But I had changed. A lot.

The French have a word for the feeling of being untethered, even lost, in unfamiliar surroundings: dépaysé. All of a sudden, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. For a returning Peace Corps Volunteer, that dilemma is compounded because now you’re back home, but home doesn’t feel like it once did. Moreover, you’re confronted with the challenge of finding your way in a world that is vastly different from the one you’ve left behind. And then there are the existential questions and expectations, some self-imposed, some societal. What comes next?

I delayed answering those questions by going to graduate school. But when that was over, all those questions were still out there, demanding answers. I tried banking, but it didn’t take. So, on the assumption that I had enjoyed international work, I moved my young family to Washington and began looking for a job there… 

I have always admired people who have a plan and stick to it. They know exactly who they are and what they want and they never deviate from their plan; they just make it happen. One of my college roommates was like that: he always knew he wanted to be a doctor, but not just any doctor. He wanted to be a surgeon; not just any surgeon, but a hand surgeon; and not just a hand surgeon, but a doctor practicing in a teaching hospital, training other doctors in the art of hand surgery. And that’s exactly what he did with his life. Now, he is retired from a successful career, and there are many fine hand surgeons today who have my former roommate to thank for their own careers.

But I’m not like that. I had to discover my path, and so I began to cross the river of my life on steppingstones— a seemingly random path of people and professional opportunities that slowly but surely led me to a time and place I did not foresee and could never have scripted. It has been, to say the least, a miraculous journey, guided by unseen hands. For example, When I first arrived in Washington more than forty-five years ago, I was dépaysé in the extreme, I set about looking for work, and one day, after several dead-ends, I went to yet another job interview in which It became quickly apparent to me (and probably to the person interviewing me!) that I would be a fish out of water in that particular organization. I left the building feeling more confused than ever and—literally!— bumped into a man I hadn’t seen in several years. He had known me from my Peace Corps days, and when he asked me what I was doing, I told him my story. He listened then casually mentioned that he had just heard about a new organization that was putting together a series of educational programs including a film for public television and a major traveling art exhibition with the goal of enhancing American understanding of, and appreciation for, Islamic cultures at a time in our history when both were sadly lacking. He gave me the name of a person to contact and off he went, quickly swallowed up in the busy sidewalk crowd. I never saw him again.

The next day, I followed up on that lead and, as they say, the rest is history. That first stone led me to the next and the next, on and on and on, until all my steppingstones eventually brought me to this time and this place. Granted, some of those stones were slippery and, yes, I stumbled once or twice, but now, looking back in wonder, I have no doubt whatsoever that those steppingstones and those unseen hands brought me safely to this pleasant shore where I am blessed beyond measure.

I tried my best to articulate all this to young Jacob. I think he understood. Before we parted, I proposed he speak with a friend of mine whom I thought might be a steppingstone for him. We shook hands and I went back upstairs to finish folding the laundry. 

The next day, Jacob texted me to say he had made contact with my friend and had scheduled a meeting with her. I read his message and smiled: he was on his way. 

I’ll be right back!

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

I love words! If I were King Midas, I would turn all the world’s words to gold. If I were a miser, I would horde every word in the dictionary. If I were an architect, I would build skyscrapers out of words. If I were Warren Buffett, I would invest in words and make millions. And if I were Johnny Appleseed, I would plant words and watch fragrant orchards grow. But I’m just a writer so I celebrate words; they are the precious coins of my realm.

I make it a point to do three or four crossword puzzles every day. My wife thinks I’m just fooling around, but I believe crossword puzzles keep my mind sharp, but every once in a while, I trip over a new word. When that happens, I feel like I’ve run a marathon—giddy, energized, sky-high on endorphins. OK, so I’m a word nerd and proud of it!

Case in point: yesterday, I discovered my newest word—“echt.” It essentially means “authentic.” Apparently, we have George Bernard Shaw to thank for bringing “echt” to America. He used the word in an article he wrote in 1916, and it has been around ever since. As the current saying goes, I appreciate you, GBS!

“Echt” has it etymologic roots in both German and Yiddish. That’s hardly surprising since both languages share the same Middle German source. In both languages, the word is spelled “ekht,” but it still means “true to form.” As German words go, “ekht” is a lot easier to say than “kraftfahrzeughaftpflichtversicherung” (motor vehicle liability insurance), “streichholzschachtel (box of matches), or even one of my personal favorite words, “eichhörnchen!” (Squirrel!). Infatuated as I am with words, I don’t plan on using any of those words anytime soon, but “echt” in English has staying power. It’s true-blue, the genuine article, the Real McCoy. Literally!

Once I’ve discovered a new word, I can’t wait to pop it into speech or incorporate it into my writing as soon as I can. A new word weighs in my pocket like a gold coin waiting to be spent and I don’t want to disappoint it. I look for opportunities to drop the word into conversation. For example, “My friend Allen hails from New Orleans and he sure knows how to make some echt gumbo!” Or this: “Trump doesn’t have an echt bone in his body—no true north, no underlying principles, no overarching philosophy. He’s just an erratic, impulsive brat.” That’s true enough, but “echt” just makes it so much more true. 

Now that we’ve entered the territory of December, I’ll be looking for more timely occasions to drop my new favorite word into the conversation. Please don’t judge me. It’s just that one of my missions in life is to up the English-speaking world’s vocabulary, and there’s no better time than the holidays to introduce friends and family to a new word or two. So, in that spirit, I hope you all had an echt Thanksgiving, and that the days ahead will be filled with all manner of echt cheer and joy.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

Eight score and two years ago—almost to the day—President Abraham Lincoln soothed America’s soul on a blood-soaked field near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. His speech was only 272 words long, and many who were present that day didn’t even realize he was speaking. The President reminded those who were listening that the United States had once been “a new nation, conceived in Liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” A few minutes later, he ended his speech with these words: “and that this nation—under God—shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

Words matter. They not only convey literal meaning, but they also have the power to lift our spirits and show us more clearly not just what is, but what could be. In that sense, they are timeless; they are our enduring legacy.

Fast forward:

Finger jabbing: “Quiet; quiet, piggy.” (3 words that matter)

Shoulders shrugging: “Things happen.” (2 words that matter)

Angry scowl: “You are a terrible reporter.” (5 words that matter)

Mr. Trump has once again defiled the Presidency and demeaned us a nation. He is incapable of any soaring rhetoric, refuses to create dialogue, never makes a responsible or empathetic connection. Just dissembling, ranting, and erratic behavior. Even Mr. Trump’s most ardent supporters must wonder what his words and actions mean. MBS is feted at the White House? Zohran Mamdani is now a “really great mayor” after being labeled a “100% Communist lunatic?” Listening to Mr. Trump, I bottom-out, or think I do, only to discover that he can go lower still. The world watches in disbelief: what has happened to America?

For the first three and a half score of my life, there were a million things I took for granted. Simple kinetic movements, like bending over or pulling on my socks or tying my shoes. In those years, I could still get up from the floor or rise from a chair without all the squawking sound effects that now come from my bones and joints. Back then, I could sleep soundly through the night and dream about America’s inherent goodness. But now, let’s just say that what was once easy is difficult, and what was once difficult is now almost impossible.

I took other things for granted, too: kindness; respect; empathy. All those lessons we were supposed to have learned in kindergarten, like playing nicely, speaking kindly, saying please and  thank you. Practicing common courtesies like giving up one’s seat on the bus, or allowing a pedestrian to use the crosswalk—all the small grace notes that make a big difference in the quality of our lives. But now all those norms are quivering. Pandora’s box is open and all the harpies it contained are loosed upon us.

I took these things for granted, too: belief in Democracy; in the Constitution; in the rule of law; in a free press and free speech. The separation of church and state. Civil rights. Working across the political aisle for the common good. All these things still matter, but they are fading fast, if they’re not already gone, all because of one man and the minions who enable him. How utterly sad.

In another two days, we will assemble— families, friends, and communities—to give thanks for what remains of the American dream. We will pray and hope that we still live under a government that is “of the people, by the people, and for the people, and that it shall not perish from the earth.” 

Of. By. For. These three little words still matter. Now more than ever.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

Don’t ask me why—I’m not sure even I know—but I’ve been musing about labyrinths lately. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept: a labyrinth was a maze-like structure constructed of elaborate multi-branching paths and abrupt dead ends designed to confuse the foolish traveler or contain the monster within. The most famous labyrinth, of course, was the one built by Daedalus for King Minos of Crete to imprison the dreaded Minotaur. That labyrinth was so cunningly designed that even its architect could barely find his way back to daylight. More on that story anon…

Over time, labyrinths developed a less sinister, more spiritual character. In the Christian tradition, labyrinths offered medieval pilgrims or worshippers a meditative experience. The most famous medieval labyrinth, which had a great influence on later designs and practice, was created on the floor in Chartres Cathedral more than a thousand years ago. One could enter that labyrinth and wind his or her way slowly toward the center—presumably God—in an almost trance-like state. All the distractions of this world would slip away as the pilgrim moved ever-so-slowly forward, before eventually reaching the labyrinth’s divine center. 

These days—sigh—the labyrinth is often used in video games that challenge a player to move an avatar either into or away from some cartoon dilemma without getting blown to smithereens by a gruesome fiend bent on universal destruction. We’ve come a long way, baby…or not.

So now, here I am, walking my own labyrinth, wondering why I’m here and where I’m going. The best answer I can come up with is that the twenty-three thousand Epstein documents that were dumped on us last week have created something akin to a modern political labyrinth with truth at its center. I’m positive that even as I write this, journalists all over the world are sorting through this labyrinth of messages, trying to arrive at the kernel of truth that must lie at the center of this sordid, sorry tale. No doubt, many will get lost in byways of deceit or drawn into dead-ends of lies, but in the end, I believe the truth will out and we will navigate this awful labyrinth. Will the modern Minotaur in its center be slain? Time will tell, but I can’t help but dread the darkness that lies ahead.

The original labyrinth story begins when King Minos of Crete ordered the inventor Daedalus to build a labyrinth to imprison a hideous half-bull, half-man creature called the Minotaur. Minos had defeated the Athenians in battle and forced them to pay an annual tribute of seven boys and seven girls who would be left in the labyrinth to be consumed by the dreaded beast. (Ring a bell?) But one year, Theseus, the son of King Aegeus of Athens, came to Crete as part of this tribute, and with the help of King Minos’ daughter Ariadne, he killed the Minotaur and by following a ball of thread found his way out of the labyrinth. Theseus and Ariadne then escaped over the sea, but instead of marrying her as he had promised, Theseus left Ariadne as she slept on the island of Naxos. That might have been the end of the story, but no, not for the Greeks. When Theseus finally sailed within sight of Athens, he forgot to hoist the white sail that would signal to his father that he was returning safely. Alas! Seeing an ochre sail, King Aegeus threw himself into the sea and drowned. 

The Greeks sure knew how to tell a tale. I’m sorry this one did not have a happier ending. I wonder how our own journey out of this modern-day labyrinth will end.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

On the recommendation of a friend, I’ve been reading Timothy Egan’s “A Pilgrimage to Eternity.” It’s not my usual fare, but it’s a thoughtful, intriguing, and deep account of the author’s journey along the Via Francigena, an ancient route of pilgrimage that runs some 2,000 miles from Canterbury in England, through France, Switzerland, and Italy, before eventually arriving in Rome. Like all travelogues, it carries the reader—in this case, me—along with the traveler (Mr. Egan) on a journey that is at once both a physical and spiritual trek through the countryside of modern Europe on ancient roadways of earth, stone, and belief.

There is a lot to mull over on a 2,000 mile hike, as well as a lot of time for mulling. I’m too old now to undertake the physical journey, but still young enough in mind and heart to go along for the ride. Backpacks are heavy, feet get blistered, pants chafe, muscles cramp, and water is scarce. But ideas are light and conversations—even silent ones—are stimulating.

In the small French city of Besançon not far from the Swiss border, Mr. Egan—I guess we’ve been together long enough now that I can call him Tim—muses on two distinctly different concepts of time: what the Greeks referred to as Chronos and Kairos. Chronos is the sequential version of time measured by clocks: seconds, minutes, hours, days. Seasons and years. Kairos, on the other hand, is time measured not by duration, but by opportunity. It’s experiential in that it counts the treasured, memorable moments of our lives. Quantity and quality, if you will, or maybe science and art. Opposites that reflect each other. We exist within Chronos, but are indelibly marked by Kairos.

It’s a mesmerizing mental dialogue that hits close to home. In a couple of weeks, my wife and I will celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary (Chronos) and those ten years have been filled with many memorable moments of joy, and, yes, some sadness, too (Kairos). Both concepts are milestones that mark our separate and collective journeys so we track both measures of time: the specific calendar celebrations, as well as all those memorable moments that have made our lives together worth living.

So, where is this going? Just here: all of us are living through difficult, even dangerous, times. We look back to the last election or ahead to the next ones. We count the president’s days in office, and wonder what will happen three years hence. Last week’s (Chronos) results were perhaps a sign of positive change to come (Kairos). Time will tell—both versions of it.

There’s still a lot for Tim and me to talk about on our way to Rome, but we have plenty of both kinds of time. We log the miles (I suppose distance is a cousin of Chronos) while we observe the glory around us (Kairos). Here at home, my wife likes to walk and she believes in counting her steps; in fact, she’s mathematically inclined in general, a facility that makes her very good at Sudoku. I, on the other hand, am more of a crossword puzzle guy who tends to measure time in words having to do with inspiration, the qualitative, non-linear events that touch our lives: family, friendships, sunsets, love.

But as my wife’s brother David used to say, “It’s all good.” Chronos and Kairos go together. So do we.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

I always thought it was Marie Antionette who once said, “Let them eat cake!” Turns out I was wrong. Historians now agree that the probable speaker was, in fact, Princess Maria Theresa of Spain and wife of French King Louis XIV who, when told that the peasants were starving, replied, “If they have no bread, then let them eat cake.” Whomever the culprit, the sentiment is clear: cake has become the symbol of the oblivious and callous nature of the aristocracy towards the suffering of the poor. The poor? You know, the millions of Americans who rely on food aid to feed their families. Certainly not the people who attended the recent Roaring 20s rager at Mar-a-Lago. More about that anon…

Millions of our neighbors live below the poverty line: for a household of four, that equates to a gross monthly income of less than $3,483 a month. Once upon a time, people who needed help with groceries relied on Food Stamps, but these days, it’s the Supplemental Nutritional Assistance Program (SNAP) that provides access to food for about one-in-eight American families— a little more than 12% of our population. At least, it did until the Trump administration slammed the door on SNAP. To make matters worse, our do-nothing Congress then left town for an extended paid vacation, so don’t expect relief anytime soon. I ask you: is there a large-enough mirror anywhere in which these people can see themselves? They are a disgrace and, mind you, I’m pointing my finger at both sides of the aisle.

Governance is a responsibility, not a mandate to inflict pain and suffering on one’s presumed opponents. And it should never, ever be oblivious to the vital needs of hungry people who need its help the most. There; I’ve said it. Now, back to Mar-a-Lago.

But first, a bit of background: a few weeks ago, I decided to read The Great Gatsby again. I read it first probably in high school, and, like most things from way back then, I had forgotten much of the story. But it all came rushing back quickly, old sport: West Egg and East Egg, the twin pillars of the toney North Shore of Long Island; the Jazz Age with its boozy, hedonistic parties; the mysterious millionaire Jay Gatsby and his awkward attempts to reunite with the love of his life, the beautiful Daisy Buchanan, now married (alas!) to her wayward husband, Tom; and, of course, Nick Carraway, Daisy’s distant cousin and Gatsby’s innocent but well-intentioned neighbor who is both the narrator of, and a participant in, Gatsby’s tragic saga. 

Now, I don’t want to spoil anyone’s reading pleasure, but suffice it to say, The Great Gatsby doesn’t end well for its eponymous character. A few weeks after I finished rereading Fitzgerald’s masterpiece, along comes the news (with photographs, old sport!) of Mr. Trump’s Halloween extravaganza at Mar-a-Lago, and its uncanny resemblance to one of Gatsby’s lavish Long Island affairs. I couldn’t help but marvel at such a confluence of fiction and fact. Moreover, the timing of the Mar-a-Lago bash—on the eve of the elimination of SNAP’s vital food assistance for millions of Americans, as well as on the very day when millions of federal workers would miss their first full paychecks—seemed beyond tone-deaf. It seemed vicious and cruel. It seemed like…cake.

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” 

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.