Next acts are important, a prescription for me that is much more effective than most medications.  Next acts propel us forward, away from fear, confusion and the discouraging signals I sometimes get from the world around us. I will not live a life that rides up and down on the market, or Italy, Greece, Spain or the decisions of frustrated and angry people in Washington. And I’m not drawn to Occupy Wall Street either. They are welcome to it.

Coming to the cabin where I wrote “Running To The Mountain” was a Next Act. Buying Bedlam Farm was a Next Act. So was getting Izzy. Rose. Lenore. Frieda. So was Maria coming into my life. So was Simon. And returning to fiction. And “Dancing Dogs,” my short story collection coming out next October. So, for that matter, was this blog. And the new design. And the amazingly successful co-campaign with my local bookstore to sell 1,000 copies of “Going Home.” My whole life is a series of Next Acts,and some of them work, and some of them don’t. I feel like I’m on a tear though.

Next Acts force us to redefine ourselves. Challenge or own sense of limits. Defy the limited expectations of others. Push away fear and anger, and most importantly, replenish the loss of hope that can afflict people living in a world gone mad with fear, warnings, conflict and greed.  In our culture, young people are told they have no future, older people no purpose. This kills the spirit. Next Acts renew it.  This morning I asked myself, “what is my Next Act?” It will be a creative one, I think. For me, life with no Next Act is a kind of loss, a kind of death of the spirit. I can’t wait to feel it. I can’t wait to share it. I can’t wait to do it.