Website banner of an older Norse man, walking with his tamed wolf, holding a walking stick as he walks along a path near a Buddhist Temple, river, and bridge

Welcome to A Different Path's Place Of Reflection

A peaceful place for reflection, inspired by Okinawa and Zen simplicity.

A Different Path

Where East meets West… and the old anger becomes stillness.

They call me a wanderer, though I no longer run. I walk now—slowly, deliberately—staff in one hand, the other often brushing the thick fur of my companion, Geri. A wolf once feared by villages, now walking beside me like a brother.

Geri once hunted with his mate, Freki, among the northern forests before a hunter's trap took her from him. They say wolves don’t mourn like people—but I know better. Geri’s howl once shook the mountains with grief. When I found him, he was thin, hollow-eyed, bloodied from his attempts to free her too late.

I did not tame him. I simply sat and waited. For hours. For days. Until he chose to come closer. I shared what little food I had, and when he finally lay beside my fire, I knew I was no longer alone. He walks with me now—not as a pet, but as kin.

I was born of the West—raised to appreciate nature, foolishly spending a big part of my young adult life in the harsh streets, tested by fists and betrayal. I grew up with a fire in my chest, one that burned friend and foe alike. I survived. But surviving is not the same as living.

My body remembers those years. A partial toe amputation due to a simple infection. An arthritic limp that never left. My walking staff is both a tool and a testimony to the stubbornness of life. And yet, age brings its own alchemy. What once was rage has become reflection.

My birth mother taught love in quiet acts - entering my life on a birthday that welcomed my thirties. My stepmother, who came from the Philippines, believed in discipline. She called me to higher standards, even as I failed to understand her strength. Their voices are in me now, even as I tread foreign soil.

I walk now through the visions of Japanese forests, not seeking answers, but asking better questions. I do not wish to convert, nor abandon the truths I’ve clung to. Instead, I seek stillness. The quiet teachings of stone gardens. The poetry of rainfall. The discipline of breath.

I have a gift—or a curse, depending on who you ask. Since I was young, I’ve been able to feel the language of trees, hear emotion in the songs of birds, and sometimes… just sometimes… know what the river wishes to say. It frightens people. It alienates me. But in this quiet path, in the company of a grieving wolf and the temple’s distant bells, I wonder if this curse is actually a blessing.

I limp softly now, each step on the dirt path a reminder of where I've come from. The man in the image above? That’s me—older, slower, still bearing the weight of years spent in fury. I’ve buried pieces of myself in every street I once called home, every shelter I survived, every fight I didn’t win. That toe I lost? A reminder of when I refused help. The ache in my joints? A whisper from the past, asking if I've truly changed.

In those hard years, I believed anger was strength. I wielded it like a sword, never realizing it cut me deeper than anyone else. My wife—she was the only one who stood toe-to-toe with me, fiery and fearless. We were twin storms. But the winds grew too strong. Her silences became more frequent. My rage more predictable. The love we swore would last outgrew the house we tried to build.

When I left, it wasn’t to run—it was to seek. I needed to know if there was still something in me worth saving. Worth loving. Geri found me in that search, or perhaps I found him. Either way, we’ve walked this path together ever since.

They call me mad, a man who whispers to roots and wind. But here, in this foreign land, I feel understood. I’m not here to join a monastery. I’m here to learn how to breathe again. To understand what it means to be whole—so that one day, if fate allows, I might stand before her again. Not as the man who left, but as the man who returned with peace in his voice and stillness in his soul.

This journey—this different path—isn’t just mine. It’s a bridge I hope to build back to her. Even if the road is long. Even if she’s already gone. It is the hope of healing, the hope of forgiveness, that keeps my feet moving.

This blog is not a sermon. It is a journal of becoming. A place where shadow meets light, where faith meets discipline, where the rage of a younger man finally meets the mercy of his older self.

– The Old Man With the Staff

What This Blog Involves

This blog is a series of allegorical lessons, blending personal experience with imaginative storytelling. It is not meant to present absolute facts, but rather to offer reflections and insights that aim to inspire growth in mental health, spirituality, and self-awareness. Through these stories, I hope to encourage a deeper understanding of what it means to be a better, more genuine human being—free of pretense and full of honesty.

The Still Morning

Thoughts on the quiet before sunrise, and the practice of being present in silence.

As The Sun Sets

A chance to look back on the progress of the day and acknowledge the truth of each lesson.

The Farmer’s Lesson

Out here, before the rooster even thinks of crowing, there’s a hush that wraps around the fields. You hear it in the frost, in the slow yawn of trees, in the kettle warming on the stove. That’s when the old truths come knocking—quiet as dust, firm as stone.

My grandfather used to say, “Don’t pray for an easier life. Pray for the strength to carry the one you’ve got.” It’s not that he lacked faith—it’s just that he believed the Creator already gave us the tools. Hands for work. A back for burdens. A mind for reckoning. And kin, if we’re lucky, to walk beside us through the years.

That’s sisu—not just grit, but grace in the grind. It’s showing up even when the crops are thin and the sky’s turned cruel. It’s mending what’s torn, planting what’s needed, and coming home with dirt on your boots and love still in your heart. You don’t spill the day’s frustration on the ones waiting for you by the hearth. You hang it on the fencepost, let it dry, and walk inside grateful to be seen and fed and known.

This ain’t just Finnish wisdom—it’s Gospel truth, too. Jesus didn’t tell us to wait for miracles like rain on fallow ground. He taught in parables—about seeds, soil, servants. He lived among tradesmen, not kings. He wanted us to build, to tend, to teach each other. He handed us a plow, not a throne.

We live in a world now wired with signals and screens, where a man can lose whole hours chasing meaning through a glowing box. But the land, the breath, the still morning—they remain. And so does the call to responsibility. Even in this modern age, we must honor the old ways: rise early, love well, give more than you take, and leave room at your table for those who’ve gone before you.

Technology may change the tools, but not the task. The harvest still needs hands. Children still need stories. Partners still need patience. And every soul still needs to be reminded that even on hard days, you are not alone—you are part of a long line of survivors, workers, wanderers, and saints.

Breathing With The Tide

Remembering Wisconsin's vast and sandy coast on the shores of Lake Superior—what waves taught me about letting go.

The waves of Lake Superior were always a reminder that there is something greater than the storms that pass through us. I remember the first time I sat by its shore, feeling the rhythm of the water against the rocks. The wind howled and the waves crashed, but there was a pattern, a dance—a knowing that came from somewhere deeper than anger could reach. I have carried that lesson with me since, as one carries a heavy stone in their pocket, always there but rarely noticed.

Anger has always been my storm. It raged within me, turning everything to ash—relationships, hopes, even my own peace of mind. I remember the first time I let it take me, I lost sight of everything I loved, consumed by the fire that burned in my chest. But just like the waves of Superior, the storm passed. The anger returned, but I had to learn to breathe with it, rather than against it.

“Like a city that is broken into and without walls, so is a man who has no control over his spirit.” (Proverbs 25:28 AMP) These words come to mind often, especially now as I walk this path toward the temple. In those waves, I see my own battle with anger, crashing against the shore with no care, no direction. But the water, despite its ferocity, always finds its way back to peace. And so must I.

The Finnish people have a word—sisu. It is resilience, but more than that—it is quiet perseverance in the face of hardship. My ancestors knew this truth well. In their fight for survival on the harsh lands, they did not wait for miracles to pull them from the storms of life. They learned to endure, to press forward even when the winds blew cold and the nights were long. In the same way, I must learn to breathe through my own tempest, to find peace even when the waves are crashing.

The Buddhists teach that suffering is an inherent part of life, but it is in our response to suffering where we find the path to freedom. The Buddha said, “You will not be punished for your anger, you will be punished by your anger.” And how true that is. It is not the world that brings the storm; it is the storm that brews within us. To let go of that anger, to breathe with the tide, is to free oneself from the tempest inside.

Yet, in my walk toward wisdom, I cannot forget the teachings of the lost gospels, the hidden wisdom from early Christian texts that speak of Jesus’ deeper messages—those lessons of stillness in the storm, of embracing the still small voice in the chaos. In the Gospel of Thomas, Jesus says, “Whoever finds the interpretation of these sayings will not taste death.” The words are simple, but the meaning is vast. To find peace, one must first find understanding, and that requires letting go of what no longer serves us.

As I take my steps alone—my wife staying behind in the comfort of our home, tending to the hearth that has always been our sanctuary—I wonder what she will say when I return. I know this journey is one I must walk alone, just as the waves must crash alone against the shore. I cannot bring her with me, nor do I expect her to understand the stillness that calls me. But I hope, when I return, the storms in me will be quieter. That my heart will be still, and I will no longer bring the weight of my anger into our home.

The waves, the wind, the breath—all these lessons are here to teach us that the storm will pass. And in the stillness, we find the clarity to let go. Just as the lake remains still after the storm, so too can we. We are not defined by the chaos within us. We are made to be the calm after the waves have settled.



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