I’m not doing well. And it feels oddly good to say just that, whether it be to family, friends, strangers or you readers alike. I haven’t felt good in a long time. Truth be told, I can’t remember when the I began to feel this way.

Christmas Eve. With the sun fading behind the Blue Ridge Mountains, the sky transitioning into bright pink, purple and orange, I found myself quietly jogging the four-mile path around Lake Junaluska. Nobody around me, the air quickly gets cold during sunset. Dozens of Canada geese roaming the walking trails and shoreline, with many more either swimming or in-flight nearby. 

Last Thursday evening was a pure and present justification of why music (especially when performed live) has such an extremely deep and intricately intrinsic (and lifelong) hold on my heart and soul. 

Sunday. Late morning. I’m awakened by the sounds of a curious dog in my upstairs neighbor’s apartment. He’s a sweet pitbull mix. Always running around the yard, happily barking at the knowns and unknowns of this big ol’ world outside of his second story window. 

Thanksgiving morning. The streets of downtown Waynesville are quiet save for a slight, crisp breeze whirling through from the mountain ridges cradling the community. Emerge from bed and peer out the window blinds onto the cloudy sky holiday unfolding in real time. 

Thursday morning. Although the sunshine and blue skies over Western North Carolina seemed rather inviting, it was false pretense as I stepped out onto the front porch and realized that flip-flops were not the ideal choice to battle a cold mid-fall breeze across naked toes. 

It’s not much after 9:30 on Sunday morning. I awoke in bed just as my girlfriend, Sarah, was heading out the door to have coffee and eggs with one of her good friends. Living in downtown Waynesville, she’d have to make her way quickly to Sunny Point Café in West Asheville before the usual Sunday rush of brunch folks and out-of-towners. 

In the midst of the most important and crucial presidential election in my 39 years of existence in this country and, perhaps, also that of my now elderly parents and long-gone grandparents, I decided to order a New York Strip Steak, medium with sautéed onions. 

It was nearing midnight last Saturday when I found myself in a circle of friends in the small, cozy sitting nook between the front door and the bar counter of The Scotsman in Waynesville. 

Hello from Section 117 at the Bank of America Stadium in Charlotte. I’m here on assignment covering the “Concert for Carolina,” a flood relief fundraiser put together by country megastars and Western North Carolina natives Eric Church and Luke Combs. Some 82,000 folks filled the outdoor venue, while around $25 million was garnered during the performance.