[Author’s note: I wrote this over twenty-five years ago. It remains a favorite bit of writing–especially this time of year. Readers who wish to may share it for non-profit purposes with due attribution. ]   Dear Friend  (How Many Blessings Can You See in This Picture?) By William Hecht   Though I never suspected it (and usually don’t), I had been blessed when Paul asked me if I might join him on Christmas Eve. He intended to call the Salvation Army or Goodwill Industries and offer to help serve dinner that night to the needy and homeless. I told him that I had no other plans and would be glad to join him. That Paul would initiate such a plan was not the surprise that it

  AT THE AGE of 22, my life path was given a shake when a roommate spontaneously recited a few poignant passages of a book he was reading. The title was The Day on Fire and the author, James Ramsey Ullman, had fictionalized the life of a great poet. Arthur Rimbaud was the enfant terrible of French Poetry; he was only 17 when he arrived in Paris, and by the time he turned 21 he had shocked the literary world.  He shocked my world, too. He wrote things powered by vision and imagination–and their impact was not overly weakened by filter of translation: As soon as the idea of the Deluge had subsided, a hare stopped in the clover amid the swaying bluebells, and said

[Author’s Note: I wrote this a little over three years ago.  Dec 14th, 2024 (today) will be the three-year anniversary of her passing.] In Memory of Mary Helen Duren Hecht In the earliest memory I have of you, I woke to the music of your voice; my eyes opened on your smiling face. A young mother, you roused me from sleep with the softest, sweetest lilt you could produce. You knew how children’s dreams, their souls still bright, are visited by cherubs—in whose presence there can be no fear or need. You eased the harsh stir from soft bliss to garish day. And so, as a child, my heavenly dreams ended gently, and earthly days began with your smile and the music of your heart.

She is Winter      by William Hecht Deep December night and she is spent. She is consumed–like the fields after a greedy harvest. She slumbers—as does the world. Only her essence is sentient, aware. It is a spell: cast in the light of the great moon, it will break with the first rays of the equinox sun. Her hair is black. It is a wave of boreal night that flowed through the glass, swept down her  cheek, and spilled on a pale shoulder.  Things made of night are smooth–and softer by far than anything made from day. She dreams—as does the world–of light and warmth, of aromas and twitching roots, the launch of dancing sprouts: calls to life. If I could dream with her, I would

    [Author’s Note: I wrote this eleven or twelve years ago, before I moved back from the Southwest. Every time it snows during the night, I am reminded of this piece.]   I AM IN THE NORTH for a family visit. My elderly parents manage their simple life with a grace that humbles me. They could be threatened by the simplest acts. My minor setbacks would be their calamities: a fall, the flu, a minor accident driving to the store. Today they were mirthful and sweet and I could not decide if they were revisiting childhood or auditioning to become angels. Last month, I watched the movie “Amour,” an intense look at a couple managing change after half a century of life together (they

We are still under the spell of the liquidity events surrounding the pandemic. Between Federal Government spending and the Federal Reserve actions (two different kinds of stimulus: one monetary, one fiscal),  investors got used to markets that bounce up and beat the drum like the Energizer Bunny. I maintain that there were three confluent bubbles in place: the Trump trade, the Fed trade, and the AI trade. Right now, the Fed Trade and the AI trade appear to dominate the narrative as markets  reflect “squeezy” conditions where hedge funds have been too quick to bet on the downside and  with continued upside action are forced to buy back in. I read a headline a few weeks ago  implying that individual investors are driving the push

  [This is a seasonal piece from Unit Three Writings] MY SEASON APPROACHES and with it arrive my best prospects for redemption. I refer to September, both as the ninth month and as a stage of Life–the ripeness of being that precedes the bitter cold. I refer to the September I was born to and those sweet, sad days that invite surrender to Melancholy’s caress. This belief takes shape in me only now, at fifty. It formed in increments by way of three separate and eclectic experiences. The first came while I was away at college, that blissful period when my future was indiminishable by doubt or skepticism, and a writing pad stuck out of my back pocket that I might recognize and record rare

  [Authors Note: With the calamity-induced emphasis on teaching remotely, I remembered, fondly as with special friendships or past celebrations with family, a short story I wrote about teaching online and perhaps about “connecting” in that context.  It occurred to me to dust it off and share it with readers of this blog.  Because it is longer than the usual fare,  I attach a link to the PDF below.]   MORE CERTAIN THAN HOPE10  

IN THE COLLEGES where I learned and taught, students were required to write papers and reports to demonstrate their understanding of topics or concepts. The emphasis was always to support a premise or an argument using credible sources: facts and authorities, proven theories or accepted logic, studies, and experiments. The soundness of a paper or report relied upon the foundation of existing knowledge–of Truth.  Almost all we  can point to as human progress is a result of the process of establishing what is True and then building on it. The structure of human advancement is a citadel atop a mountain of Truth. Certainly the leaps in sciences could not have occurred if we had designed our cars and boats and planes  based on how we

IN THE EARLY DAYS of this blog seven or eight years ago, I noted the rising trend of films  about women, directed by women, and likely featuring strong women as protagonists or antagonists as the case may be. The trend has strengthened with the many new series out now.   Dune: Prophecy   IF YOU ARE PREDISPOSED to watch fantasy or Sci-Fi and already know of the Dune franchise, you should enjoy Dune: Prophecy, a prequel by ten-thousand years of the  two earlier segments. In the Dune universe of the first two, there is a powerful group of mystical robed and hooded women who have supernatural powers. These are the Bene Gesserit and while they at first  hint at  something akin to the witches of