Feeling Human Again

In this episode, The Unexpected Thankfulness of Feeling Human Again

I’ll be honest with you: My triumphant return from France was not the glamorous homecoming I had imagined. No graceful glide back into routine. No cinematic jet-setter moment where I lift my suitcase off the carousel and wink at life like we’re old pals.

Instead?

I came home and immediately launched into a two-week performance piece titled The Great American Couch Collapse. My days blurred together in a haze of soup, hot tea, tissues, and desperate negotiations with the universe for just one nostril—one!—to function properly. The living room sofa became my emotional support furniture. And any creative idea that dared tiptoe into my congested brain was gently shown the exit with a firm but courteous, “Not today, friend. Try again later.”

When life hits the pause button like that—when you’re exhausted, sick, and mentally unplugged—how do you find your spark again?

Somehow, today, I felt it. A tiny shift. A clearing of the mental windshield. And it struck me that the thing I’m most grateful for this Thanksgiving isn’t the trip or the memories or the miles—it’s the astonishing, unglamorous blessing of simply feeling human again. Coming back to myself hasn’t been about grinding forward. If anything, it’s been about drifting until I found the right current.

So I shut down my notifications. Ignored the to-do list (which did not appreciate being ignored). And went back to the things that have always steadied me: picking up my guitar, wandering back to the piano keys, and letting myself read quietly in the early morning light.

These aren’t just hobbies. They’re homing beacons. Each one gently tugged me back toward the person I recognize. And the more I played and read, the clearer it became: the spark I needed wasn’t some new, future goal. It was a memory. It lived somewhere much older, much deeper—tucked away in a warm, perfectly preserved moment that still glows.

The Geography of Wonder: Cuba, IL, 1960s

Every time I sit with music or stillness, I get transported straight back to Cuba, Illinois, in the early '60s—my original landscape of wonder.

There, the air smelled fresh and clean, promising snow. Fall wasn’t merely a season; it was a display, a kind of fireworks show from nature. Winter crept in with a hush that felt sacred. Those weekends at Grandma’s house—good grief, the unconditional love in those walls could’ve powered a town.

That’s where the spark lives.

It’s in the hush of the first snowfall—the Christmas lights glowing on the town Square. The thrill of walking into Santa Land at the old True Value hardware store, staring at everything like it was magic because, in that moment, it truly was.

That childhood innocence still charges my batteries better than any self-help book ever could.

We’re constantly told to grind, hustle, and stay forward-looking. But sometimes, to move ahead, we have to turn inward. And backward. And softer. If you’re depleted, overwhelmed, or bone-tired, I hope you can find your own Cuba, IL—the place, the music, the ritual that reminds you of who you are at your most hopeful and unburdened.

Because getting back “On the Fly” isn’t about doing more; it’s about seeing the magic again. It’s about remembering the tiny miracles that lift us in the first place.

Today, I’m profoundly grateful for a healing body, a clearer mind, and the memories that help me greet a complicated world with something like optimism. I'm thankful that the lights on the Cuba, IL, Square still shine brightly enough to illuminate the path forward.

Here’s to renewed energy, a beautiful holiday season, and carrying those childhood sparks—that essential wonder—wherever life takes us next.

I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions. Happy Thanksgiving!

The Compass of Cuba: Mom

🎄 Preview of this week's On the Fly blog: A Holiday Tribute to Mom. As the holidays hustle with pixels and beeps, the world scrolls along in a smartphone-y sleep. I log off for a moment—just one little minute— To breathe in the past and to sit myself in it. My mind doesn’t wander to faraway places, Or trips full of tickets and new airport faces. Instead, it drifts backward, as memories do, to Cuba, Illinois, where the best moments grew. To a home full of warmth, in the wintry Midwest, Where my mother—dear “Marcie”—put love to the test. With a smile that could melt the most frigid of dawns, and hugs that hung on you like shivering fawns. She came from La Rochelle in France, brave and bright, Across oceans and war shadows, into new light. A town full of strangers soon felt like her own, And her courage built up the foundation of home. “Oh yes, we know Marcie!” the locals would say— “It's Doc Ball’s French lady! She brightens the day!” She cleaned, and she cooked, and sh...

A Holiday Reflection–Mother's Love

In this episode, How a Mother’s Love Built My Memories– A Holiday Reflection As this holiday season approaches and the world buzzes with shopping, planning, and busy schedules, I find myself embracing something wonderfully simple: taking a moment to pause. Not to check off a list or recharge devices, but to breathe deeply, remember fondly, and honor the person and place that have shaped my sense of home long before I had the words for it. This year, after regaining my strength from a lingering post-travel fog, my mind didn’t wander to exotic destinations or future adventures. It drifted backward—across oceans and time—to Cuba, Illinois, in the early 1960s, and to the woman whose love built the foundation of my world: Mauricette Elaine (Bontemps) Ball. My Mom . We came to Cuba after leaving La Rochelle, France, in 1959—a transition so dramatic I only appreciate its enormity now. My mother, barely in her mid-twenties, stepped off that plane and into the Midwest with a courage that s...

Believing Is Seeing

🎄 In this episode, Believing Is Seeing . . . It's December, we bustle, we wrap, and we dash. We sort life into boxes— myths here, to-dos in a stash. We whisper of Santa (adult code: “Not Real”), but hold on one minute—let’s rethink this whole deal. For the stories we cherish, the movies we stream, hold more truth in their sparkle than we grown-ups may deem. So hop in this sleigh and hold on real tight— We’re chasing down Santa by the glow of his light! Scott Calvin once landed in the North Pole’s cold air, with elves, cocoa, and snow everywhere. He squinted and frowned—“This just cannot be so!” (Like thinking tangled lights will detangle if we blow .) Then Judy the Elf gave a cocoa so steaming, and said something simple . . . yet surprisingly gleaming: Seeing’s not believing—no, that’s not the key. "Believing is seeing!" Just trust, and you’ll see!” Kids don’t need a map or a satellite screen to know Santa’s workshop is her...

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