Ron's Ramblings

Clinging to the Rock

There’s a little creature clinging to a rock at the bottom of a stream. The current rushes past with power and purpose, but the creature is terrified. The rock feels safe. The current feels unknown. So it hangs on for dear life.

Time passes. Its arms ache. The rock, once a comfort, starts to feel like a prison. Finally, in exhaustion—or maybe clarity—it lets go. And the stream lifts it. Gently. Effortlessly. Not to destruction, but to discovery.

That’s life, isn’t it? We clutch our rocks—plans, fears, identities—thinking letting go means doom. But often, release is the only way to be found. The current isn’t the enemy. It’s the guide.

I’ve had my rock-clinging moments. Times I refused to trust or change. And every time I finally let go, things shifted—not always perfectly, but always purposefully. The stream knows where it’s going. We just have to stop fighting it.

So if your fingers are cramping and your heart is tired, maybe it’s time to loosen your grip. Trust the current. You don’t need to know where it’s taking you—only that it’s carrying you somewhere worth going.

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Christmas Reflection

Christmas is often seen as a Christian holiday, yet at its heart it celebrates the birth of a spiritual teacher. Jesus himself lived as a man of faith, not as a “Christian,” and his life reminds us that spirit transcends labels. To honor his birthday is to honor the seed of compassion, courage, and hope he planted. Whether we call ourselves Christian or simply spiritual, Christmas invites us to nurture that seed in our own lives — to let kindness grow into legacy, and light into renewal.

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The Greatest People

We live in a world where everyone wants followers, attention, and applause.

But the greatest people?

They’re often the quiet ones.

The ones who lift others up when nobody’s watching.

They don’t leave behind fortunes.

They leave behind better lives, stronger communities, and people who learned what kindness looks like.

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Still Here

Five years ago, radiation burned through my throat, chasing cancer from its hiding place. The doctors called it treatment. I called it survival.

I wasn’t sure what life would look like after. Would my voice fade? Would my rhythm break? But here I am—still speaking, still writing, still walking among the deer that cross my yard.

I am proof that research matters. Proof that resilience matters. Proof that hope is not wasted.

Maybe I am just one sample in the great ledger of cancer statistics. But I am also a witness: to mornings, to laughter, to the quiet persistence of living. And that is enough.

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Don't Quit

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,

When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,

When the funds are low and the debts are high,

And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,

When care is pressing you down a bit—

Rest if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,

As every one of us sometimes learns,

And many a failure turns about,

When he might have won had he stuck it out;

Don't give up though the pace seems slow—

You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than

It seems to a faint and faltering man;

Often the struggler has given up,

When he might have captured the victor's cup;

And he learned too late, when the night slipped down,

How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out—

The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,

And you never can tell how close you are,

It may be near when it seems afar;

So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit—

It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

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Why I Troubleshot Something I Don’t Need

i already had a perfectly good eReader. Two, in fact. Karen’s Kobo Glo still glows like it did a decade ago, and the one tucked away in her closet powered up without complaint. So why did I spend hours coaxing the Libra 2 back to life—resetting, adjusting timers, watching it sleep, watching it wake?

I wasn’t trying to win. I was trying to understand.

There’s something about a device that’s shared your rhythm—your quiet mornings, your deer crossings, your wind-downs at dusk. It becomes more than a tool. It becomes a witness. And when it falters, you don’t just toss it aside. You listen. You test. You give it one more chance to speak.

Maybe I didn’t need the Libra 2. But I needed to know whether it was truly done—or just waiting for someone to notice it still had something to offer.

And now, it sleeps. It holds a charge. It waits quietly, like a book you’ve already read but can’t quite shelve.

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Compassionate Caregiving

Caregiving often feels like walking a tightrope. No matter how carefully the steps are taken, the balance can seem off—efforts may be judged as wrong, or at least not enough. It is natural to wonder if compassion has limits, if patience can run dry.

Pain changes people. It sharpens words, narrows worlds, and sometimes turns gratitude into frustration. When someone depends on another for comfort, the fear of being unable to manage alone can spill out as anger. The sting is real, but the storm is not always about the caregiver.

Compassionate caregiving is not about perfection. It is about showing up, even when the response is not what was hoped for. It is about setting boundaries so the caregiver’s spirit does not collapse under the weight. And it is about recognizing that resilience is not just endurance—it is the quiet courage to keep caring without losing oneself.

Caregiving is both a burden and a gift. It tests patience, but it also deepens understanding. It asks for space to hold another’s pain while protecting one’s own. And in that balance—messy, imperfect, human—lies the true meaning of compassion.

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🌱 Universal Reflection

“One heart, one path, one clear step.”

• One heart → Stay true to yourself, your values, and what resonates emotionally.

• One path → Choose simplicity over complication; focus on what matters most.

• One clear step → Move forward gently, one action at a time, without piling on unnecessary layers.

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