It’s Mr. George from WP. That alone kind of freaked me out—nobody calls that early unless something’s wrong, especially from Mr. George. But I answered anyway. Turns out he was “just” already bored at 8 AM on his first day off of the week.
The last time the G-man called me was about a while ago when they had a mechanical issue on the gondola and had to break the ropes out. He gave me a full play-by-play of what was happening up there. Later that night I saw the same story on 9News.
Today’s report from GMan: a couple of his lift maintenance snowmobiles were tied up dealing with kids and moms who were wandering into the closed lift area down by the snowmaking pond. Apparently that’s the first morning adventure of the day.
I apologized for not calling him lately. Truth is, we just haven’t been heading up there much. The snow kind of sucks right now, and when the snow sucks, the motivation to make the trip in traffic disappears pretty fast.
Still, it was good hearing from him. Funny how a random 8 AM phone call can suddenly drop a little WP into a quiet morning down here.
There’s a difference between avoiding effort and adjusting effort.
For a long time, I couldn’t tell the difference.
If I took a day off, I felt guilty.
If I took a week off, I felt like I was sliding backward.
After a brain injury and a stroke, effort isn’t just about willpower. My nervous system doesn’t always fire evenly. That shows up in my gait. In the limp. In recovery time.
Explaining it mechanically keeps it neurological instead of moral.
I’m not lazy.
I’m recalibrating.
2. The Shower Debate
Two days without a shower.
Not because hygiene doesn’t matter — but because the effort had a cost.
When you’re managing pain, recovery, and energy regulation, even a shower becomes a negotiation.
“If I’m not working out, why shower?”
Then I stepped in.
Hot water. Steam. Stillness.
When I got out, I didn’t feel perfect.
I felt good.
Sometimes maintenance isn’t about productivity.
It’s about momentum.
3. Weed Day
There’s ritual in it.
Cleaning the supply. Replacing it. Air moving through the house. Fan on. Draft from bathroom to office.
Outside, Castle Rock hums with loud trucks and hard acceleration. It feels aggressive sometimes.
First and foremost, it gives me something solid to show for my day.
Not every day comes with visible progress. Recovery is slow. Thoughts are messy. Time can slip by without anything concrete to point to. But when I write, there it is — a page, a post, a record. Proof that I showed up.
Writing turns an invisible day into something tangible.
There is only one boss: my spell check.
No committee. No performance review. No applause meter. Just me, the keyboard, and the quiet discipline of putting words together in a way that makes sense. Spell check might argue with me, but it’s a fair boss. It doesn’t care about status. It doesn’t care about noise. It just wants clarity.
I like that.
Writing slows my thinking down enough for me to see it. It forces honesty. If a sentence doesn’t work, I fix it. If a thought doesn’t hold up, I reshape it. That process feels constructive. It feels like progress.
On days when everything feels scattered, writing gathers things up.
On days when the world is loud, writing gives me control over the volume.
And at the end of it, I have something real — something I made.
That’s why I like to write.
Version two
Day One Journal Entry
One Journaling App
I need to convince myself to stick with just one journaling app, and I’m leaning toward Day One.
There’s something about having everything in one place that feels calmer — less scattered, less searching. One timeline. One archive. One habit.
When I bounce between apps, it works, but it also feels unfinished. Like I’m halfway committed in two directions. Choosing one feels intentional.
Day One is built for journaling. It feels like a home for thoughts, not just a storage bin. That matters.
Recovery after my stroke isn’t dramatic or linear. It’s slow, repetitive, and easy to lose track of. Writing gives that process structure. It helps me notice patterns, track progress, and make sense of days when my thinking feels foggy or uneven. When my brain gets overwhelmed, the page doesn’t. It waits.
Writing things down is part of how I rebuild clarity — one entry at a time.
In other news, I still have some sativa left over from a half‑gram joint from my stepbrother John. It’s early. I could change my mind. But honestly, I think I’m good for the day.
Living with a traumatic brain injury has made clarity not just helpful, but essential.
We went to Woodland Park on Sunday morning, just outside Colorado Springs, and I didn’t get out of the car the entire time. That wasn’t a failure—it was the right call. Being there was enough.
It was a totally awesome experience simply sitting in a real mountain town—no glitz, no spectacle, none of the polished urgency you get in resort-driven places. No pressure to participate. No expectation to keep up. Just mountains, quiet, and space that didn’t demand anything from me.
After my stroke, public spaces take more out of me than they used to. Crowds, movement, unpredictability—my nervous system notices all of it. I don’t hate going out; I hate being overwhelmed. Knowing the difference matters.
The point of this trip wasn’t errands or activities. It wasn’t about doing anything at all. It was about being somewhere that didn’t try to sell me an experience.
Gravity still sucks. Crowds still jam me. But quiet mountain towns that let you exist without explanation? Priceless.
Watching Lindsey Vonn crash was a ⛷️brutal reminder of how unforgiving downhill skiing really is. She’s always preached “ski fast, take chances” and even “to turn is to admit defeat.” That mentality is exactly why she’s a legend—and also why the consequences are so violent when things go wrong.
The irony? You earn a helicopter ride at full speed… and instead of a backcountry lap in waist-deep powder, you get strapped to a board and flown to a hospital.
That’s downhill skiing. Inches matter. Gravity always wins. And the mountain doesn’t care about résumés.
Respect to anyone willing to live by that code.
If you want it sharper, softer, or spicier for the comment section warriors, say the word
It’s my life 