Stability often seems like a figment of our imagination, especially when we attempt to establish any kind of routine or long-term plan. My intentions to diligently update the blog and encapsulate the beautiful world through my lens for the next magazine issue were thwarted by the indiscriminate whims of life.

Last week’s agenda was teeming with prospective posts and exploratory jaunts into the wild to capture those frozen moments in time. However, fate took an unexpected turn.

On the preceding Friday, as if on cue from an unwelcome script, a virulent sickness took hold of me. At that time, the nature of my malady was a mystery, but its impact was immediate and undeniable. I heeded my body’s distress signals, retreating early to seek the comfort of my bed’s embrace, where I lingered through the dark hours.

As Saturday dawned, I found myself no better off, wrestling with the relentless clutches of my unseen adversary. Yet, by sheer force of will on Sunday, Deana and I ventured out, attempting to bask in the revelry of Saint Patrick’s Day and to grasp at the slipping sands of my birthday celebration under the specter of my illness.

It wasn’t until Tuesday that clarity was afforded to me by a visit to the doctor. Their diagnosis? The formidable Flu, Type A. At 52, while not resigning to antiquity, I felt besieged as never before. The objective clause of the line made famous by Oppenheimer, “I’ve become death…”—resonated with me as I grappled with this unwelcome guest.

This ordeal wasn’t a mere skirmish but a prolonged siege—the kind that batters the gates with relentless ferocity from daybreak to nightfall. The flu typically embarks on its course with the unpredictability of a tempest, its rampage abating within a matter of days. Contrarily, this strain has held me captive in its tumultuous embrace, relenting only on its own enigmatic terms.

The manifestations of my ailment are numerous, an anthology of discomfort I wish not to impart in full detail. However, the most punishing of its arsenal has undoubtedly been the ceaseless coughing that steals the very air from my lungs.

The simple act of communication has been usurped by this viral scourge, leaving me unable to host Instagram live sessions without succumbing to fits of coughing that drain my strength and disrupt the dialogue.

In this taxing time, my wife, Deana, has been stoically by my side. She is the anchor in my storm, nurturing and understanding, even as she recovers from her bout of illness that seems to have found renewed vigor.

Rest assured, the rhythms of the blog shall find their tempo once again in the coming week. There is much on the horizon that I am eager to share, and my work on the website continues unabated. I extend my heartfelt gratitude to all for your patience and understanding during this unforeseen intermission. Thank you.