I promised myself a vacation. Well, that isn’t entirely true. In late May, there was a creeping sense of burnout. By June, that became a sense of deepening fatigue. Researching and writing became more burdensome than pleasurable. I convinced myself that I would take the month of July off. The intention was to read for pleasure and paint. Things haven’t worked out as planned. They seldom do, as you well know.

Life consists of spilled milk moments. We decide whether to cry over the puddle running over the table, or clean it up, pour ourselves another glass, and savor the taste as we enjoy the view outside the kitchen window. Perhaps I should change milk to lemonade or iced tea since it is summer.

The growing fatigue, turned out to be attributed to the continuation of a heart problem that has twice been treated. A procedure was recommended. The doctors scheduled the procedure to be done within days of advising me of the problem. Then the drink was spilled. The procedure failed. Now I wait for the surgeon to advise me of the available options. And there are options.

I am not telling you this for sympathy. Those of you who read my essays are, for the most part, unable to say that you truly know me. What you are aware of is the diversity of my interests and dry sense of humor. I tend to either push through or go around obstacles, though some have proven more difficult than others. The current situation with the spilled milk is merely about allowing the doctors to clean up the mess. They have, after all, home mortgages and car payments to make. For my part, I have to do a little self-pruning—follow their advice and move along.

Self-pruning is an aspect of life. In a Times Literary Supplement review of Robert Moor’s book In Trees, Charles Foster writes:

We must keep branching, realized Moor. Neurones sprout branches and connect with other neurones. Changing, relating and indeed being sensate at all involve the incontinent multiplication of connections. Connections generate experience, and experience in turn generates connections. We are alive if and insofar as we are in the business of forging and using connections. “Let your mind grow like a [continually branching] tree”, urges Moor (original emphasis). “This was the simple mantra I had chosen to guide my midlife growth spurt.”

Despite my age, or because of it, I am ready for another growth spurt. To achieve this, I need to do a little pruning. Over the next few weeks, I plan to reduce my presence here to work on a four-week course I am scheduled to teach beginning in late October. There are minor revisions to make to my novel Mister Lincoln’s Elephant Boys, and I am searching for a literary agent and publishers. If you know anyone who is an agent or a publisher (not a vanity or hybrid press that wants payment), please contact me. There is a pile of books next to the chair by the fireplace that beckon. And there are sketches and photographs in the studio that await translation to empty canvases.

This isn’t to say I am closing shop. I have plans to post regularly, once a week rather than twice. Also, I am going to ask a few people to fill in. After all, this is a vacation. A brief holiday that will end with Labor Day.

I want to sincerely thank you, dear readers, for giving of your time to read the essays I have posted. Actually, I am rather surprised, yet grateful, to be read by people in Canada, China, Belgium, Brazil, France, Germany, India, Japan, Spain, the Netherlands, among other countries and various locals throughout the States.

For those of you looking for good books to read, I recommend Robert Moor’s In Trees, Who By Fire, by Mary L. Tabor (https://www.maryltabor.com/) , Pekka Hämäläinen’s Indigenous Continent, Henry David Thoreau: A Life, by Laura Dassow Walls, Benjamin D. Sommer’s Revelation and Authority: Sinai in Jewish Scripture and Tradition, Mary Beard’s Talking Classics: The Shock of the Old, and Eddie S. Glaude Jr. America, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries. There are also numerous books of poetry by poets from the nations mentioned above. Additionally, take the time to explore the poetry available on Substack and WordPress.

I would also recommend for your consideration a visit to the artist Terrill Welch’s websites, https://terrill-welch.ghost.io/ and https://creativepotager.com/

Finally, I want to thank my wife, Terri. We have been together for 47 years. Besides enriching my life, Terri is the editor of the essays. The following song is dedicated to her with deep gratitude.

The Brothers Comatose & AJ Lee – “Harvest Moon” (by Neil Young)

Title Image: Photograph by Anita Jankovic on Unsplash

Moving Along©2026 Charles van Heck