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THE YEAR I BECAME A RAKING PHILOSOPHER


I was out raking the yard a few weeks ago — because this is who I am now, a man who rakes recreationally — when a thought hit me so hard I had to stop and lean on the rake like a frontier widower gazing into the distance.

I pretend it’s “admiring the foliage.” But really, it’s “my lower back gave out and I’m seeing stars.”

Anyway — there I was, ankle-deep in leaves, raking around dog poop. And not just dog poop — chicken poop. Because I, in my infinite wisdom, said, “Let’s let them free-range! Let them live their best lives!”

Well, their best lives are now splattered across my lawn like Jackson Pollock took up poultry.

So while navigating the Poop Olympics with my rake, it hit me: It’s been thirty-six years since I graduated high school. Thirty-six. That’s not a time span — that’s a paleontological measurement.

Back then, I had no idea who I was or where I was going.

Career? No clue.

Life plan? Zero.

Where I’d live? Literally anywhere but my hometown.

And now? I live… in my hometown. Like a homing pigeon who flew around the world just to say, “Yeah, no, this was fine the whole time.”

Back then I thought adulthood was a crisp tri-fold brochure: 

Step One: Have clarity.

Step Two: Have direction.

Step Three: Have abs

Turns out adulthood is more of a scavenger hunt with missing clues and the constant feeling you forgot a dentist appointment.

And yet — somehow — through pure stubbornness, caffeine, and a spiritual cocktail of hope + delusion, I built a life.

A career I’m proud of. A family I love. A home that feels like mine, even with chickens treating my lawn like a public restroom. But here’s the truth that thumped me harder than the rake handle I’ve smacked myself with twice:

I’m proud of what I achieved. I’m not proud of what I sacrificed to achieve it. The moments I rushed. The Saturdays I traded away. The times I was there… but not there. (Not physically — physically I was always there. Emotionally? I was like dial-up internet buffering.)

So here I am, in Act Three of life, surrounded by leaves, dog bombs, chicken landmines, and the realization that what I want for the rest of my days is embarrassingly simple:

Not faster. Not louder. Not “more.” Just here.

Here for my kids’ jokes that make no sense. Here for Erin’s smile when she catches me talking to the chickens like coworkers.  Here for Rosie’s morning existential dread. Here for the sky. Here for God. Here for me.

Presence is the new ambition. Presence is the dream. Presence is the prize.

The kicker is — the one that knocked the wind out of me as I avoided one last pile of “free-range fertilizer”:  The thing I spent decades chasing…the purpose, the pace, the meaning…was standing still the whole time, waiting for me to finally stop running long enough to notice.

So yes, this year I became a Raking Philosopher. A monk of mulch. A sage of scattered leaves and barnyard chaos. And honestly? It might be the smartest thing I’ve ever been. 

Turns out the meaning of life isn’t out there — it’s wherever your feet finally stop.


 “Be still, and know that I am God.”

— Psalm 46:10

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