TL;DR: Halfway through the year, and the number feels different than I expected. My mother's anniversary arrives this week, and with it a silence where her voice used to be. The house I'm living in right now holds grief and space at the same time. Something in me is getting quieter. I'm noticing more.

On Getting Quieter

TSN 26.26 June 29, 2026

Hiya

The Sunday Note... number 26.26 ...

The 26th Sunday note of 2026, sent on the 26th week of the year. One way of saying: we're at the halfway point.

The solstice is behind us. Shorter days ahead. More things to start, move through, or finish. I've been sitting with that for a few days now, and what surprises me is how quiet it feels. Not empty. Quiet.

Wednesday is the first of July. One year since my mom had her stroke. Next Sunday is the fifth. One year since Felice found her alone, on the floor, her body and will tested to the very limits.

Her voice is what I miss most.

Not just hearing it. The particular thing it did in a room. Aphasia has changed the path to words. The back-and-forth of conversation, the kind that wanders and doubles back and builds, is very hard now. What remains are moments.

A card arrives, handwritten by a friend, and she reads it aloud. Slowly. Each word is deliberate.

I saved voicemails over the years. Didn't know why at the time. I know now.

Friday, I flew to Spokane. A friend retired from the Air Force, and I wanted to be in the room.

One day. Just to show up. There's something about a military retirement that demands my attention; I've officiated one, and been to a few others. Decades of service, distilled into a ceremony, into handshakes, into a folded flag. On the flight home, I was thinking about what it actually means to say yes to the most important things.

Not as a strategy. As a practice. I'm saying yes to planning trips with Jodi. Yes to caregiving days on the calendar with my mom and Felice.

Yes to work that goes deep enough to last.

Not more of just anything... not more of EVERYthing.

More of what matters.

This evening, driving in from Denver, I stopped at Whole Foods for dinner. It's what I normally do on the drive to Colorado Springs.

The hot bar was already closed. So I wandered. Built a small picnic from the prepared foods section. Found a quarter pound of Rainier cherries for dessert. Sat in the parking lot and ate them one at a time.

A year ago, I might have kept driving. Frustrated. Looking for something closer to the plan.

Things are getting quieter within me. It's hard to describe from the inside, and I don't talk about it much. For a long time, I've run a fairly active judging machine.

Situations. Decisions. People. Mostly myself. The machine is still there. But lately it runs slower. Less urgent. I find myself pausing before I decide what something means. Assuming there's more to the story.

There always is.

Jodi and I have been spending more time outside these past two months than in the past year.

Coffee on the patio in the morning. Happy hour in the backyard. A mile-long walk most evenings, around the neighborhood, without a particular destination. Her childhood home holds us differently now. Emptier in one way. Fuller in another. We're dreaming a little bigger. Worrying a little less.

I don't have words for that yet. I'm not sure I need them.

At any given time, I'm starting something, in the middle of something, or about to finish something.

Sometimes I'm aware of it. Sometimes I'm not. Halfway through the year, I'm noticing more of it. The cherries in the parking lot. The card being read aloud. The folded flag. The evening walk.

The quiet underneath all of it.

That feels like enough.

Sending love from Colorado Springs,

JW

PS: My mom is still fighting. My sister Felice shows up for her every single day.

Together they've built a rhythm that makes more recovery possible, and I believe there's more ahead.

One piece of her speech therapy is reading letters out loud. Short ones. 150 to 200 words, arriving in the mail. Each letter is practice. Each word, a small step forward.

I write them. Some friends do too. But I keep wondering what would happen if everyone reading this note sent one.

That's a lot of people. A lot of letters. A lot of therapy.

Text me (805-798-1362) if you want in. I'll get you her address and a few ideas to get you started. It doesn't have to be complicated. It just has to arrive.