I live at 10,500 feet.
From my back deck, I can see three 14ers, several 13ers, and not one manmade object. The night sky here is indescribably huge—monumentally awesome. On any clear night, you’ll find me outside no matter the weather, just gazing at the miracle of the universe. And the Milky Way? Sometimes it is so overwhelming that it takes my breath away.
Up here, under that vastness, it’s easy to imagine how insignificant we are. How tiny this blue speck is in the endless stretch of space. How small our lives are. How meaningless our actions might be in the overall scheme of things.
It’s humbling.
And then I come back inside—back into the full reality of earthly life—where the news is on, the world is loud, and I’m faced again with what humankind is capable of doing to one another. Where cruelty and division don’t feel theoretical, but immediate. Where it can feel like we are fighting, day after day, to keep our Constitution healthy and real. Fighting for truth. Fighting for decency. Fighting for the simple idea that every human being should matter.
Some days I feel flat-out outraged.
And I don’t think outrage is a weakness. I think outrage can be evidence of conscience. It means we still know the difference between right and wrong. It means our hearts haven’t hardened. It means we refuse to normalize what should never be normal.
Still… the dichotomy is hard to reconcile.
How do you hold the cosmic truth—that the universe is unimaginably vast—and still believe that what we do in our Rotary meetings, our projects, our communities… matters?
Here’s where I’ve landed:
The universe may not need us.
But people do.
The stars will keep burning whether we show up or not. The mountains will stand long after we’re gone. But right here—right now—human beings are hungry, lonely, scared, displaced, overwhelmed, untreated, unseen.
And this is the place where Rotary belongs.
We don’t fix the whole world. We never will. But we absolutely change the whole world for someone. We make a difference in the lives of millions across the globe—and hundreds right here in our own mountain community. And that matters.
Sometimes I think we Rotarians are the bridge between those two realities:
- We can stand beneath the Milky Way and remember how small we are…
- and still walk into the next day believing that kindness, service, truth, and justice are worth fighting for.
Maybe that’s the point of awe—not to make us feel powerless, but to make us wiser. Maybe it teaches us humility, perspective, and breath. And maybe that breath is exactly what we need so we can come back inside, roll up our sleeves, and keep doing the work.
So yes… I intend to remain outraged by man’s inhumanity to man.
But I also intend to remain energized by the people who refuse to surrender their humanity.
By the Rotarians who feed families, support students, fund health care, protect the environment, advocate for peace, and simply show up—again and again—when it would be easier to turn away.
And when the world feels too heavy, I’ll step outside.
I’ll look up.
And I’ll remember: we are small… and still capable of extraordinary good.
Let the universe take care of itself.
We’ll take care of each other.
With warm Rotary hugs,