I once knew a man who hated runny eggs. He refused to eat them; in fact, he couldn’t even stand the sight of them. Maybe he was petrified they would chase him down the street before breakfast. I shouldn’t have cared, but I happen to like my breakfast eggs runny and with a dash (pun intended!) of Tabasco sauce on the side. And that’s life in an eggshell: different yolks for different folks.

I haven’t seen the man who hated runny eggs in several years, but the demise of our friendship—if that is what it was— had nothing to with his egg preferences. He simply moved away and we lost touch. But I admit that when I’m about to dig into my breakfast of bacon and (runny) eggs, I still think of him from time to time, wondering where he is and if he’s still an anti-runny eggs guy. Maybe he evolved. Probably not.

People can differ about their egg preferences, but in the grand scheme of things, that’s a relatively minor dispute. But when it comes to galloping fascism, that’s an entirely different story. Political and legal retribution against one’s perceived enemies, sending masked agents into cities deemed “too blue,” squashing dissent and free speech, none of those egregious actions fall into the category of runny versus hard eggs. In fact, those actions and their accompanying lies are brutal frontal assaults on our democracy and our cherished Constitution. If you can’t understand that, then we have a problem.

I began writing these weekly Musings nearly ten years ago. Almost from Day One, I decided not to make them about politics; there are many writers in The Spy stable more qualified than I to comment on what’s going on in Washington. So, I stayed on the sidelines, perfectly content to write about more mundane things: the weather, the change of seasons, the view from my front porch, even an occasional postcard from some far away place—any benign subject that might interest or amuse my readers but wouldn’t rile their feathers. But lately, you may have noticed a shift in the content of these Musings. I still feel that there are more qualified political pundits out there, but that doesn’t absolve me of the responsibility to raise my voice against the current tide. In doing so, I don’t mean to offend anyone; I simply cannot remain on the sidelines any longer. When all this is over—and someday it will be—I want to believe I did what I could.

So please bear with me. I’ll still write softly, but I intend to carry a bigger stick. Oh, I’m sure there will be Musedays when I fall back on old ways and write about more mundane topics like the price of eggs in China and whether there should be tariffs on them or not. Darn it! There I go again…

You can have your eggs any way you want them. But when it comes to endorsing policies that defy truth or logic, or suppressing basic human rights, we will fundamentally disagree. That doesn’t mean you and I have to think exactly alike; there is still plenty of room in the middle to civilly discuss our differences. If that’s the case, I’d be happy to meet you for breakfast. You know how I like my eggs.

I’ll be right back.

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Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

I’ll try to keep this long story reasonably short: a few days ago, my wife and I found ourselves soaking in a pool of warm mineral water with ten other people we had never met before and will probably never see again. The day was chilly, but the water was deliciously warm (one degree above body temperature), and the lights were dim. Ahhh…finally some peas and carrots.

Now I don’t consider myself antisocial, but I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not very good at making small talk. My wife, however, wrote the book on small talk, so over the years, I’ve learned to let her steer the conversation while I ride along in the passenger seat. However, on this particular occasion, once we got in that soothing water, she was uncharacteristically quiet, so I closed my eyes and just let go. I think I might have and drifted off…

Wait; I need to back up. My wife and I have had an unusually peripatetic few weeks: in August, we visited friends on the Jersey shore. In September, we were off to Cape Cod to spend another few days with dear friends there. Now, it’s October, and here we were at The Homestead, a rambling, historic resort tucked into the Virginia slopes of the Allegheny Mountains. Why? Because my wife is a busy realtor, and busy realtors need an occasional recharge. This year, her company chose The Homestead as the site of its annual conference, so when my wife asked me if I wanted to join her, I decided to tag along. Good decision! 

We wound our way across the Blue Ridge Mountains and up into the Alleghenies. On the day we arrived at The Homestead, the foliage was just beginning to turn, the sky was azure blue, and that night, we had our first freeze warning of the season. I guess that was what put us in the mood for a good, warm soak in the resort’s historic mineral waters, but first things first: before my wife and I and all our other fellow-soakers could even put a toe in the soothing clear water, we were given a brief history lesson about the place. That’s when I learned that Thomas Jefferson used to come here often to “take the waters” because he felt bathing in them eased the aches and pains and inflammation in his joints, a medical condition that later became known as rheumatoid arthritis. Maybe that was the last image in my mind as I floated off in the steaming pool because when I opened my eyes a few minutes later, there he was staring straight at me—“Long Tom,” the Sage of Monticello himself.

We were alone; just Tom and me. I readily admit was I was a bit star-struck—wouldn’t you be?— and it seemed strange that suddenly, it was just the two of us in that pool. Where was my wife? Where was everyone else? Fortunately, I had enough sense to introduce myself. Tom was most gracious, but when I reached out to shake his hand, I found I couldn’t quite grasp it; it felt like nothing more than a wisp of smoke. Nevertheless, we chatted amiably for a few minutes about many things: the price of tobacco and cotton, about the amazing discoveries of Captains Lewis and Clark, about his ideas for a great public university, about Sally Hemings, and even about The Declaration of Independence. “That was quite an opening line,” I told him. 

Tom was forthcoming—charming, even— but I sensed he was curious, and that there was a question he wanted to ask me. I didn’t have long to wait. “Forgive me, Sir,” he said, “but I’m of the impression you are perhaps not from around here, nor, for that matter, from this time.”  

I nodded. “It’s now 2025.”

For an instant, he seemed startled, but he quickly became thoughtful. “So, tell me, friend: is America still a democracy?”

I hesitated, and in that moment, he seemed to understand everything I—we—are going through. He was silent for several minutes, and in the stillness, I became aware of thousands of tiny bubbles emanating up from a deep underground source, of the pungent smell of sulphur, and of an extraordinary mind that could make sense out of senselessness.

When Tom finally spoke, he said “Think on this, friend: when the people fear the government, there is tyranny, but when the government fears the people, there is liberty. It is all up to you…”

I felt a hand on my shoulder—my wife’s gentle touch. “It’s time to go,” she said.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

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Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

 

One of my favorite folk anthems from back in the day was Judy Collins’ rendition of Joni Mitchell’s haunting song “Both Sides Now.” Remember it? The song and the singers looked at both sides of clouds, of love, and of life, seeing the duality—the yin and yang—of human existence. Back then, it was still possible to imagine that different—even opposite—perspectives could exist in nature simultaneously. Now, not so much. Sigh…

It’s hard to be in two places at once. My wife and I know this because we maintain homes on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay and we’re forever confusing what’s in the refrigerator of one home or the other. Or we’re transporting items—clothes, food, charging devices—back and forth until we forget something at Home A that we need at Home B. We’re not even sure which place to call “home.” I tend to favor the east side of the Bay; my wife’s roots run deep on the western shore. But we manage. Our situation is resolvable whether by the old-school tactics of negotiation and compromise. Try telling that to the powers that be up on Capitol Hill. 

As I write this, the government is still shut down. The President and the Constitution are still at odds with each other. The Supreme Court is as divided as a tennis court. We are so polarized that a conclave of generals and admirals sit in stoney silence while their Commander-in-Chief wanders off into impenetrable claptrap that makes absolutely no sense to anyone. If anyone in their right mind is considering invoking the 25th Amendment, no one says it out loud for fear of retribution. Even Mario Puzo couldn’t have imagined such a Godfather style of governance.

And yet, we have it. I may be old, but I know I wasn’t alive in the 1850s when this nation drifted ever closer to the shoals of civil war. Was the gulf between the states then like the chasm between the red and blue ones now? We know there were families split asunder, brothers turned into enemies, neither side seeing any way to bridge the gap by any means other than bloodshed. There was no possible way to consider opposing sides of an issue then, and there isn’t now. There is simply “my” side which is always the “right” side, or “your” side which is always wrong. There are no longer “both” sides.

I admit it: I fall into this very trap. It is inconceivable to me that one human being cannot choose to love another human being regardless of gender. Or that someone cannot arrive in this country and be made to feel unwelcome. Or that race and/or gender should matter in soldiering or in any other profession, for that matter. But I am fully aware that there are many people who would vehemently disagree with any of those statements. Not “both” sides, just “my” side.

If clouds, love, and life can have two sides, why can’t we? While the extremes may have become irreconcilable, I believe there is sufficient room in the middle, enough space to see both sides. Yes, there are times when traffic on the Bay Bridge is hopelessly snarled. Yes, it’s aggravating and frustrating, but we eventually make it across and arrive home, on one side or the other. Both are good.

I’ll be right back.

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Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

A few days ago, I was sitting on the front porch, sipping my morning cup of coffee. It promised to be another lovely day—warm and dry, hardly a cloud in the sky. I was woolgathering, not thinking about anything in particular, when I happened to see a leaf drifting down from the tall sycamore tree that holds sway over our quiet little street. I followed its drift, then another, and another, one-by-one, when suddenly, a thought crashed into my mind: those leaves are like the human and civil rights enshrined in our Constitution, and one by one, they are falling. Pretty soon, that tree—the tree that protects our cherished home— will be bare.

Leaf fall is a natural phenomenon triggered by shorter days and cooler temperatures. That kind of autumnal weather induces hormonal changes in trees, causing them to prepare for winter dormancy. It’s all part of the cycle of life: the leaves detach and fall, and in their death, they provide some practical benefits: nutrients for the soil and habitat for wildlife. New life from death—what a concept!

We are living through a menacing period of our history. The leaves that are falling all around us don’t seem to promise much of anything except more and more chaos. Soon, the trees that have always protected our nation—our laws, our system of justice, even our cherished Constitution—will be bare. In the natural world, leaf fall makes biological sense, but in the political life of this nation, it’s an ominous situation that leaves us all adrift and unprotected. 

As much as I hate to write this, America is broken. Our freedoms and rights, respect, decency, even the most common of courtesies have detached from the limbs of our nation’s tree and fallen into the gutter; nothing good can come of their demise. Hope may spring eternal somewhere, but I’m finding it harder and harder to find a modicum of it anywhere in America these days. I suppose it’s possible that something good will grow out of this mess, but I fear we will have a lot of raking to do before anything can sprout again. If natural leaf fall symbolizes seasonal transformation and the cycle of life, let’s hope its political counterpart can lead to something just as enduring and productive. 

Civil war may be an oxymoron, but it’s an incredibly dangerous one. We should have learned that lesson 165 years ago, but apparently we didn’t. As incredible as it sounds, we’re on the brink of another civil war, and this time, there are no great statesmen to guide us through the darkness. Just the opposite, in fact. Today’s so-called leaders are the very ones stoking the fire, and they have neither the knowledge nor the will to extinguish its flames.

There is a school of thought that believes raking leaves is not sound environmental practice. So instead of raking this fall, I will get out my lawnmower and mulch all those fallen leaves, turning them into nitrogen and good organic matter that will protect root systems and preserve soil moisture. I wish the solution to the political counterpart of all those falling leaves were that simple, but sadly, it isn’t. However, I will not despair. For every leaf that falls from our collective national tree, I will keep on doing what needs to be done.

I’ll be right back.

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Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

 

Origins are like opinions: we all have at least one. My origin, at least on my paternal side, is in Scotland, in Dumfries, to be exact, a city also known as “The Queen of the South.” In the Scots dialect, my ancestral roots make me a “Doonhamer,” someone from “down home” in the Borders on the banks of the River Nith. It was my seven-times-great grandfather who emigrated from Dumfries to America in the middle of the 18th Century, and, in 1763, it is well documented that he became the last white settler to be attacked by Indians in Western Pennsylvania. Thankfully, he survived or I wouldn’t be writing this now.

On my mother’s side, I have fewer details, but I know this much: mother’s ancestors were Dutch settlers who arrived on this side of the Atlantic a few decades even before my paternal forbearers. (Mother never let father forget that.) They settled in Manhattan before moving a few miles up the Hudson River Valley to Tarrytown. It took a couple hundred years, but eventually, father met mother on a blind date in Boston, and, yada, yada, yada, one thing led to another, and I originated in Pittsburgh. That was now more than three-quarters of a century ago. Sigh…

Is this going somewhere? My point is that unless your ancestors were indigenous to this continent, we all come from afar. Some of our ancestors wanted a better life, or sought relief from persecution of some sort, or maybe just had a dream, an American one. But there are also those of us who had no choice in the matter: their ancestors were forced to come here, captured and sold to the highest bidder. Whatever it was that impelled or coerced our individual originators to leave kith and kin and cross an ocean to start anew on theses shores both blesses and haunts us to this day. In our time, immigrants are still arriving; the only difference is that instead of an ocean to cross, now there is a long, difficult trek that ends at a border with a fence painted black. There is no welcome sign.

Immigration is not an easy issue. We’ve been dealing with its tangled tendrils ever since the first white explorers and settlers set foot on this continent more than five hundred years ago. There were people already living here, and despite the vastness of this land, there was both competition for its resources and a different cultural vision of land ownership. It’s hard to get along with your neighbor when resources are finite and cultures see things differently. Just ask the Israelis and the Palestinians; they have been reading this sad story for literally thousands of years.

We are up against all sorts of knotty problems these days, and, sadly, there are no easy solutions. But I know this much: violence is not the answer, nor is cruelty, nor is authoritarianism. We have to find a way to live together; otherwise, the dream will become a nightmare and when that happens, we’re all doomed.

I’m proud to be a Doonhamer; I celebrate my Scottish roots in all sorts of ways. But, even with all that’s going on today, I’m prouder to be an American. We can get through this. We can sort this all out. All it takes is adherence to one simple rule: love thy neighbor as thyself.

I’ll be right back.

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Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

You may recall that when I was wallowing in lament last week, I promised you I would seek higher ground this week. Despite the tragic events of the last few days, I intend to keep that promise here.

The thing is, when you’re down in the valley, it’s easy enough to discern the higher ground, but sometimes getting there is another matter. Ascent is hard; you have to overcome gravity and that takes willpower, fortitude, strength, and purpose or else you’ll stay stuck in bottomland muck. As much as I admire Michelle Obama, I fear she may have been a tad naive when she told us that “when they go low, we go high.” That sounds great, but it’s easier said than done, and anyway, it’s unlikely that the bullies and bigots will get the message. They never do.

Be that as it may, there is higher ground out there. In 1898, John Oatman penned a Methodist hymn that contained this verse: 

“My heart has no desire to stay
Where doubts arise and fears dismay;
Tho’ some may dwell where these abound
My prayer, my aim is higher ground.”

A hundred years later, Stevie Wonder sang it this way: 

“teachers, keep on teaching
preachers, keep on preaching
world, keep on turning…
gonna keep on tryin’ ’til I reach my highest ground.”

The point is, there is still much that is good in this weary world. Despite all the inflammation and heartache we are experiencing these days, we can still find some higher ground. We can still help our neighbors; we can still work out our differences; we can still love one another. Despite all signs to the contrary, I still believe we can—and shall—overcome.

Over the past few days, I’ve made a point of finding some personal higher ground. I decided to start by taking better care of myself: by eating healthier, drinking less, and exercising more. If I told you it has been easy, or that I’ve suddenly climbed the mountain, I’d be lying. It has been a step-by-step journey, but I had to start somewhere, so I started at home, and if I ever find my way out of my own backyard, you’ll be the first to know. Promise!

There was a period in my life when I spent a lot of time in the high desert country of New Mexico and Arizona. I loved the arid, raw beauty of the region: the shifting play of light under an endless sky, heat without humidity, sweeping landscapes that were at once both simple and complex. There was something soothing and serene in the washes and mesas, landforms cut out of rock over eons and eons. There was a stillness, an absence of clutter and noise, in those ancient places that enabled me to feel closer to what is timeless and divine rather than immediate and temporal. I would return home refreshed and restored as though I had sipped handfuls of cool water from a hidden spring.

Many miles and years later, I crossed the Chesapeake Bay, and, as they say, the rest is history. I don’t miss the high desert, but I remember it fondly, like an old friend or lost lover. Now, here, I find myself surrounded by rivers and streams, towns and fields, sunrises and sunsets—an undiminished abundance of natural beauty. And, maybe best of all, by many good friends. 

So here is where I will stand. This is my higher ground.

I’ll be right back.

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Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

I strive for positivity, but sometimes I fall short. In the Old Testament, the primary message of the Book of Lamentations is to express the grief the Jewish people felt over the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians in 586 BCE:

“How deserted lies the city,
once so full of people!
How like a widow is she,
who once was great among the nations!
She who was queen among the provinces
has now become a slave.”

I think I know how the poet of Lamentations (Jeremiah?) must have felt. I’d like to think I could process my lament for America and turn it into something hopeful and restorative. But National Guard troops on our cities’ streets, our diminished standing in the world, and the myriad woeful divisions at home make me wonder where this moment in our nation’s history leads. The exile of the Jewish people ultimately ended, and they returned to rebuild Jerusalem. Will we ever be able to rebuild America? You tell me.

Just as I strive for positivity, I struggle with resistance. I was a college student in the 1960s so I should know something about protest. How do we—how do I—resist the slow and painful death of our great experiment? I was never one to march in protest, but neither am I one to sit idly by and watch democracy die. So I muse. Does it do any good? You tell me.

Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’ “five stages of grief” reflect the most common human responses to change, shock, and loss. They are denial, anger, depression, bargaining, and acceptance. I get the first three, but not the last two. How does one bargain with the devil? How does one accept the unacceptable? You tell me.

Scholars believe Jeremiah’s lamentations were written to express grief, acknowledge sin and judgement, and (thankfully!) to offer hope to a people who had lost everything. Despite its roots in grief, Jeremiah’s song is a compassionate message, one promising a future restoration. Just as I am no protester, I am not a biblical scholar. But I do believe in the laws of karma and that good things happen to good people. That is the hope I carry through these lamentable days.

The Jewish people were captive in Babylon for seventy years. They returned to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem, only to see it destroyed again by the Romans in 70 CE. That was the beginning of the diaspora which loosed two more sad histories on the world, one that is currently being written in blood in Gaza. How will that tragic story end? How will ours? You tell me.

In keeping with my usual positivity, I’m searching for a happy ending to this Musing. Maybe there isn’t one. I’ll do my best to return to higher ground next week because an excess of lamentation isn’t good for the soul. In the meantime, can’t we all make an effort to be a little more kind, a little more empathetic, a little less nasty, a little less divided? 

You tell me.

I’ll be right back.

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Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.