How Do We Find Our Way Back?

John Prine's first album - I've owned this since 1972

Like many people, I spend a lot of time wondering how we got to where we are as a nation. I'm not talking only about politics, but about our culture, our economy, and the way we relate to one another. Constant wars. Cell phone addictions. Growing social divisions. It often feels as though we're all pulling in different directions, and I find myself asking the same question over and over:

How do we find our way back?

    Last night, while talking with a younger friend about philosophy, wisdom, and the things that shape us, I had something of a revelation. It hit me like the beacon of an ocean lighthouse piercing through the fog on a moonless night.

    Almost casually, I mentioned that much of my personal philosophy comes from listening to John Prine.

    That surprised even me.

    Realizing that not everyone had the pleasure of seeing John perform while he was alive—or of spending much time with his music—I started thinking about why his songs became such an anchor in my own life.

    It began in early 1972 when I walked into Moles Den Records in Joliet, Illinois. I spent a good portion of every paycheck there, always hunting for music that commercial radio overlooked. The owner, Denny, knew my tastes well and often steered me toward artists he thought deserved to be heard. That day, he pointed to John Prine's self-titled debut album. More than fifty years later, it's still the only album purchase I can remember that vividly. From the first spin, I knew I was hearing something unlike anything else.

    John's music wasn't polished. His voice was rough and nasal. The production was simple and understated. His guitar playing wasn't flashy, but it was unforgettable. His Travis-style fingerpicking—with the thumb laying down a steady alternating bass while the fingers carried the melody—became instantly recognizable. Like many longtime Prine fans, I can identify most of his songs within the first few notes.

    But it was the lyrics that completely changed me. John wrote about people no one else seemed interested in writing about.

    Lonely old people.

    Veterans struggling with addiction.

    Middle-aged women quietly longing for something more.

    Ordinary people trying to make sense of an increasingly confusing world.

    He even challenged shallow displays of patriotism long before that became a common topic of conversation.

    Those songs helped shape the values I've carried throughout my life.

    "Hello In There" taught me empathy. I honestly believe it influenced my willingness to become a caregiver for aging family members and friends.

    "Sam Stone" remains, in my opinion, one of the saddest songs ever written—and perhaps one of the most honest portraits of what many Vietnam veterans experienced after coming home.

    "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore" challenged the idea that patriotism is something you display rather than something you live. More than fifty years later, it still feels remarkably relevant.

    What amazes me most is that John Prine was only twenty-four years old when he released that first album. Kris Kristofferson summed it up perfectly when he said John was "twenty-four years old and writes like he's two hundred and twenty."

    That brings me to my point. Maybe we'd all be a little better off if we spent less time letting politicians, television personalities, and social media tell us what our values should be, and a little more time listening to artists who remind us what it means to be human. John Prine never told us how to vote. He reminded us how to care and what values really matter when it comes to building a community or nation that truly cares for one another.

    He reminded us to notice the lonely, the forgotten, the broken, and the ordinary people who quietly carry the weight of the world. Those lessons seem just as important today as they were to me in 1972.

    If you've never listened to that first John Prine album, give it an hour of your time. Then share it with a friend.  Who knows? If enough people did that, we might just straighten out this big ol' goofy world. You can listen to the whole album with commentary here.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Are you familiar with John Prine’s music?  If so, how has his music affected your values?  Are there other artists who have affected you in similar ways? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.

Beyond the Bubble — What You Might Learn About Yourself and Others

My Zoom Buddies From The Speakup Ukraine Program

In these days, when society and cultures seem so divided - subdivided into ever smaller camps and the common bonds of civility and respect feel increasingly rare, it’s comforting to know there are still opportunities to enrich ourselves through gentle, human connection. For me, especially, the chance to meet people from different cultures and simply share conversation is something that truly nourishes my soul.

    I suppose I was born this way. One of my earliest friends in grade school was Gus. Gus was Mexican, the son of farm workers, and his family lived in the upstairs portion of a large barn. His home life and culture were different from mine, but none of that mattered. Gus was outgoing, friendly, funny—someone who got along with everyone. We rode bikes, played ball, shared sodas, and did all the things kids do. And in the process, I learned something that has stayed with me ever since: when it comes to friendship, things like race and culture don’t matter much at all.

    When I arrived at Western Illinois University in 1977, I was struck by the number of international students on campus. WIU sat deep in the corn belt, about four hours west of my hometown of Joliet, Illinois, and for some reason I hadn’t expected such diversity. But it was like a miniature United Nations. Before long, I had friends from Japan, South America, Iran, and beyond. A month or so ago, I wrote about my friend Cyrus from Iran. We spent time together like any group of college kids. Remarkably, a few of us are still in touch nearly 50 years later.

    My time in the Air Force only broadened those experiences. I met people from all over the world—different backgrounds, different stories—and we worked together, socialized, and genuinely enjoyed learning from one another.

    Later, in my corporate career, I worked closely with international customers and traveled abroad frequently. Meetings often required translators, but the dinners afterward usually did not. Somehow, we always found ways to communicate. The friendships I made during those years remain some of my fondest memories.

    One of my closest friends is a Vietnamese man who came to the United States as a teenage refugee. His escape from Vietnam alone could fill a movie script, but so could the life he built afterward. He learned English, graduated from the Virginia Military Institute, and built a dual career as an Army National Guard officer and an electrical engineer at ITT Night Vision, where we worked together. Eventually, he went on active duty full-time and rose to the rank of Major General before retiring two years ago. He was also one of the most patriotic people I’ve ever known. No one values freedom more deeply than someone who has lived without it.

    In recent years, I’ve been welcomed into the local Ukrainian community, forming close friendships along the way. We’ve celebrated together, mourned together, held vigils and rallies, and shared countless hugs. Most of all, I’ve come to understand their culture and values, and discovered something simple but profound: they are just like us.  

    Over the past year, I’ve also had the privilege of participating in a twice-weekly video conference called Speakup Ukraine. The program pairs Virginia Tech students and volunteers like myself with Ukrainian refugees eager to practice conversational English. Through the magic of Zoom video-conference technology, I spend a couple of hours each week talking with new friends as if we were sitting together over dinner or in a park. Some remain in Ukraine, displaced within their own country, while others now live in Poland, Romania, or Lithuania. Our conversations cover everyday life—movies, children, sports, and everything in between. What began as language practice has grown into genuine friendship, extending into emails and social media beyond our calls. I’m deeply grateful to Virginia Tech professor Dr. Matthew Komelski for opening that door—and to my new Ukrainian friends, who have welcomed me so warmly.

    If only more people would step outside their bubbles and take the time to meet others from different cultures. Maybe we could begin to ease some of the division and hostility that seem so pervasive today. Maybe we could work together for the common good. And just maybe, we would discover that we are not so different after all. And wouldn’t that be something?

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Have you ever had the opportunity to get to know people from other countries and cultures? How did it affect your life or ideas about them or even yourself? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.