It’s something I’ve grown used to in recent months. She lost her hearing sometime in the last couple of years, though I’m too ashamed to admit that I didn’t notice when it first started to slip away, for it must’ve occurred during a time when I was deeply preoccupied with trying—and ultimately failing—to keep two human moms alive.

I used to notice everything, and then for a while, I stopped. I could no longer see what was right in front of me, too blinded by concern and guilt and shoulds and book deadlines and self-neglect.

While noticing every subtle change in my mom’s abilities and demeanor, I failed to notice my own body becoming sick and inflamed, or the new lines that creased my face.

I didn’t notice how my husband’s beard grew whiter that winter.

I didn’t notice that friends’ lives were changing during a season when mine felt stuck in time, on a semi-permanent hold.

And I didn’t notice that Charley could no longer hear until one day it was suddenly obvious.

But a new season emerged and I started noticing again.

I’ve noticed the particular blue of the Ann Arbor sky and the green of Michigan grass.

The distinct yellow of rescued day lilies and the soft gray of a hidden newborn bunny in her nest.

The particular balance of hum and quiet in a small-scale city and the precise unmarked border of where it turns into township.

The deep and resonant bass at the beginning of a blues song and the deliberate spaces between notes.

And one day last month, I noticed that Charley didn’t notice.

She didn’t notice when we walked in the door.

She didn’t notice the energetic vibration of the room change that would normally cue her when we were home.

She didn’t notice me come into the room where she was sleeping on the bed, and—come to think of it—she also didn’t even notice when I left earlier that day.

She didn’t notice me bend down to meet her nose-to-nose or when I pet her, to try and gently wake her without startling.

She didn’t notice me nudge her a little—and then a little more.

She didn’t notice me call for my husband to let him know she’s not waking.

For the first time, it took two of us to shake her small body awake. And when she did finally rouse, her eyes met mine, and I flashed back to four years prior when my mom was living alone—the time between her first stroke and when she came to live with us. We were living in Nashville at the time and I would travel back and forth from Tennessee to Indiana every couple of weeks to stay with her, take her for doctors’ visits, clean, shop, and make sure she was being taken care of. One day, I walked in from a quick trip to the store, and during that time my mom must’ve traveled to another time and place because when I walked in, she looked at me with a way she never had before—an expression that communicated some combination of, Who are you? And/or, What are you doing here?

I could tell my mom was confused—maybe even a little startled.

Had she actually forgotten her own daughter for a moment?

Or did she simply forget that I had already been visiting for days on end and had simply run out for an errand?

Either way, my first instinct was to make her feel safe.

I slowed my movement so I didn’t barge through the room hastily with a ruckus of noisy grocery bags. I made sure to smile and soften my face like nothing was wrong, to speak sweetly to her, calling her “mama” and saying, “I’m back from the store,” offering points of reference, to try and bring her to the here and now.

A moment later, I saw her come back. Her expression changed. She remembered. Her pride covered for her and she said, “Oh, I was wondering when you’d be back.” I played along, “Yep, it didn’t take too long.” That was the first sign of either stroke damage or dementia settling in.

The second time this happened would be a year later, after she had moved to Nashville, had another trip to the ER, had another stroke diagnosis, which landed her in a physical rehabilitation facility—which turned into long-term care that she never returned from. One time while visiting her, I walked in to find her sitting in her wheelchair down the hallway from her room, seemingly fixated on a public water fountain mounted on the wall.

“Hey, whatcha doin?” I asked her and then bent down to kiss the top of her head.

She looked startled. “Do I know you?”

This was another one of those moments when I had to carefully choose how to react and respond.

“You do! Do you recognize me?” I hoped she didn’t notice the lump in my throat as I asked while she fixated on my face, scanning it and then coming up with a reasonable assumption.

“Are you my daughter?”

“I am.” I smiled. “How’s my mama today?”

Even though she had forgotten me, something in her remembered. Was it her body that kept the score? Was this remembering cellular in nature?

I wasn’t sure, but in the moment did my best to just appreciate that she had come back to the now, to be here with me.

It’s never one solitary goodbye when a loved one loses their cognition due to stroke, dementia, or Alzheimer’s. She never forgot me again, but she did often forget where and when she was. She would talk about things that happened decades ago as if it had just happened the day before, the way many who lose their shorter-term memories do. She would ask if I had seen Grandma lately—the one who passed away in 2014. I was careful to reply in a way that wouldn’t confuse her or make her relive a great loss. “No, I haven’t seen her lately, but I sure would love to.” It was honest. I sometimes wonder if that day at the water fountain she had traveled back to her own childhood—or maybe to mine—either before she had a child or when I still was one, and she wasn’t sure who this grown, middle-aged woman was who had the audacity to be so familiar as to kiss the top of her head.

The same thing is happening with Charley.

She opened her eyes that day and I could see it take her a moment to clear confusion. I moved slowly. I spoke sweetly, calling her all the little nicknames I have for her, as I believe our words and voices carry vibrations, the kind that transcends eardrums and hearing ability. I carefully lifted all ten pounds of her and held her close to my body with our cheeks pressed together like I normally do before her independence takes over and she pushes to jump down. She was warm and sleep-heavy, letting me hold her just a little longer that day, feet tucked under like a fawn.

She came back—at least for that day.

Later, Charley would get the evening zoomies and we’d pretend like the instance earlier was just an anomaly. “She must’ve been really tired.” But I know the ticking of a canine clock is faster than a human’s, and fifteen years is considered lucky by most.

Maybe she’ll surprise us and—maybe she was just really tired.

Right?

Maybe.

This past Thursday morning, however—just a few weeks after that incident—we found ourselves at the vet urgent care after she had a sudden decline the prior evening and I stayed up with her most of the night. Labs would tell us she has a fever, a UTI, and a kidney infection. She’s had similar problems before that she bounced right back from. But this morning as I write, she is barely eating and still isn’t “better,” though she is still here, still letting me hold her close—maybe even more so.

Both of our moms experienced similar bounce backs, leading us to believe they were “fine” again, only to have a fall or a TSI a week later, ending up with a slight degradation each time.

This watching and wondering has created a new lump in my throat that I can’t seem to swallow. It has brought up something from the deep along with a poem that I’ve been trying to write for two years that has finally poured out.

In 2018, my husband and I had the pleasure of taking my mom with us on an Alaskan cruise out of Seattle, where we were living at the time. Whales were a theme for us that trip; we saw one not far from our ship one night and saw its tail flip up at us, almost like it was waving hello and giving us some sort of sign we were looking for. Was its fluking just a fluke? While in one of the ports, my mom and I purchased twin orcas carved from wood and painted in a traditional Alaskan native totemic style. When I packed her things and moved her in with us, the tiny orca came along. And when she passed, because I am her only child, all of her belongings became mine.

For a little while, I left her things where they were. And then after her memorial service, I donated most of her clothes to the rehabilitation center and nursing home where she passed as these facilities are often in need of clothing for people who come in straight from hospitals and often have nothing of their own. I slowly began working through her belongings to try and make sense of how to process a person’s lifetime of possessions, reduced to a single bedroom, and then being reduced to some boxes that I left out for a while.

I picked up the tiny wooden orca one day while going through her things just after she had passed and the phrase, “Grief is a whale, swallowing me whole,” kept going through my mind, but never any more than that. I couldn’t seem to find the next line. That phrase would surface daily, sometimes multiple times like a baleen resting and logging at the surface all day, until one day it didn’t. She went quiet. And one day became two, which became weeks, followed by months.

Now, the phrase has surfaced again, only this time it feels different. Grief no longer feels like it’s swallowing me whole, but I can still sense its heavy movement near me in deep waters. I can feel it in the way I’ve felt my own rhythms change and churn as I allow myself to swim to deeper places, becoming nocturnal again to keep a watchful eye in the dark. It’s also become a place of stillness, allowing words to form.

And this is what finally wanted to come out.

Grief Is a Whale

It surfaced first in the frost of a Southern winter,
when the daffodils bloomed,
a sudden shadow cutting the water just after my mother left her body.
I was still trying to map its massive contours,
still trying to understand the sudden displacement of the air,
when the sea churned a second time.

Five weeks.

Barely enough time to come up for air and gasp for breath,
to celebrate one woman’s life
before a stroke in the parietal lobe summoned pod and herd,
calling and singing now for my mother-in-law.
And then a quiet, five-month fading
that pulled the calendar and concepts of time down into the dark.

Two years out, the surface of the days looks still and coherent.
People walk past and see a quiet house,
a normal routine.
But underneath, the timeline has collapsed.
These two colossal losses travel side by side,
communicating in low, heavy frequencies
that vibrate through the floorboards
when the rest of the world is asleep.
I can still hear them both,
calling across vast distances—
a song in the dark,
voices blending into a single, continuous chord.

Lately, the song reaches into the kitchen.
It finds my dog,
fifteen years of loyalty
now wandering through a cognitive fog.
The world has gone completely silent for her—
the bark of a neighbor’s retriever,
the rattle of the leash,
the crinkle of a bag of treats,
the sound of her own name,
the door opening as we enter the home,
all swallowed by the deep.
She stands staring at the kitchen wall,
or at a ghost in the corner,
lost in a current I cannot chart,
navigating a solitary ocean of her own.
I watch her slow down,
slipping away in small increments
while her tiny Grinch paws still tippy-tap against the tile.

And I realize this is how the whale moves.
Not always with a violent breach or a crashing wave,
but in the heavy, silent displacement of a room.
In the way a voice fades.
In the way eyes glaze over.
In the way we learn to stand in the deep water,
anchored by a love that stays entirely beautiful even as it prepares to leave.

A whale is too large to comprehend when you are standing right next to it.
When loss compounds—
one right after another—
the grief becomes a massive, monolithic presence.

You can’t look away from it,
you can’t move it,
and you can’t fit it into your normal, everyday routine.

No one tells you how a grief that big displaces everything else around it,
altering the landscape of your home and your days.

No one tells you how compounded grief sinks down into the subconscious,
traveling quietly for weeks or months,
only to breach suddenly and violently when you least expect it—
gasping for air.

A submerged life,
visible for only a moment when it surfaces
and then invisible again all too soon,
causing an oceanic whiplash,
creating a wondering if it was even really there—
this massive thing moving underneath.

Grief is a whale,
and I can feel it—again—seeking to surface.

We’re going back to 2013 with Minor Alps today.

I don’t know what to do with my hands.

I don’t know what to do with my hands.

I don’t know what to do with my hands.

I don’t know what to do with my hands.

By the third repetition of the chorus, the vocals shift. Not quite a chord change, though I don’t know enough about music theory to get the term right. But I hear something there. It’s as if Juliana Hatfield has hit a peak of anxiety, finally straining to break past her own discomfort. I picture her throwing her hands up in utter exasperation. Or maybe she’s sitting on them by now, terrified of making a wrong move.

While the song is more about romantic paralysis and awkwardness, I feel like there’s also a universal, relatable sentiment. And there’s an underappreciated shift near the end where the lyrics strip down:

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do.

And that’s where it ends. It’s no longer about hands. It’s just an honest, vulnerable evaluation of what feels true:

I don’t [in fact] know what to do.

That phrase and chorus have me in their grip this week. I feel stuck in a frozen moment, hyperaware, wanting to move forward and retreat at the same exact time. I’ve also been feeling overwhelmed with creativity while also completely paralyzed by it. I’ve often said I’ve never really struggled with writer’s block, but maybe this is my version of it—more paralysis than actual block. It’s as if there’s a firehose of ideas flooding me, but I’m overwhelmed by the torrent of it all. I’m suddenly overanalytical, serious, and hyper-critical of everything I want to create—feeling a bit like a misfit who forgot their poncho in a downpour.

Aside from that, I also—quite literally—don’t know what to do with my hands most of the time. In meetings, in public, while standing or sitting, walking down the street. Under my desk when meetings get tense, my fingers become their own sort of fidget spinners—thumb to fingertips back and forth. Is this some form of stimming behavior, an attempt to self-regulate?

Maybe.

But I still don’t know what to do.

So I did what any rational, overanalytical person does when faced with creative paralysis: I started researching other people who also don’t know what to do with their hands.

It turns out, this type of physical awkwardness is common. This week’s rabbit hole led me to discover several celebrities who also don’t know what to do with their hands in public or on screen—often requesting props so their hands aren’t idle and awkward. There are celebrities who are criticized for the way they applause. (It’s apparently a whole thing. Look it up.) And there are other threads talking about celebrities who do know how to hold their hands in public and on screen. (Is there some type of training for this we can sign up for?) Without calling attention to all the individual situations, it had me consider that no matter what people do or don’t do, and whether they do it well or not, others will have thoughts, opinions, and judgments about the smallest things.

Even hands.

And especially creative expressions.

I thought back to Juliana’s lyrics and, having never looked closely at them before, I have a new appreciation for the level of vulnerability of the song. It’s so human, really. It’s not trying to be anything other than it is: an honest observation and description about a moment we’ve all been in—either romantically or when faced with something we actually care about. Imagine if we were all so courageous and transparent with each other, especially with the ones we love . . . or want to love.

Younger me would have loved to have access to saying: “I really don’t know what to do here,” instead of letting the moment pass without saying—or doing—anything. Which I often did. Perhaps there could have been a conversation. Perhaps my being open and honest would have invited the same from others.

This is what makes great art—isn’t it? The courage to say what’s actually true? The courage to be vulnerable and to not know, to not have any answers, but to live the questions? The courage to not follow a formula or trend?

Maybe that’s the real secret to working within the human condition. Instead, we build power poses, refine etiquettes, and make clever comedy out of a simple, universal glitch: the moment the brain gets overloaded, the body doesn’t know where to land.

We tuck our hands into pockets. We swirl a coffee cup or cocktail. We hold pens or snacks. We fold napkins or the paper straw wrapper over and over while sitting at dinner.

Or, if you’re Juliana Hatfield, you just scream it into a microphone until the physical awkwardness is stripped away, leaving only the raw truth: I don’t know what to do.

There’s a strange kind of comfort in admitting that out loud. Creative paralysis isn’t a lack of ideas; it’s just the storm before the rain breaks. It’s the buildup of pressure before the sky finally opens up and clears the air.

I still don’t fully know what to do with my hands, or with this firehose of thoughts erupting in my head. But maybe the first step to breaking through the freeze isn’t forcing a perfect solution—it’s just throwing my own hands up in the air, letting the storm roll in, and writing my way through it anyway—come what may.

Poncho optional.

Seven Things Worth Sharing this Week

1. Song that inspired this article

Obviously. This is a live version I found for a slight variation.

2. Show we just finished watching

We took the month of July to do a digital detox, giving up “big screens” for things like TV, movies, and gaming. But in that first week of August, we made up for it and binge-watched HBO’s limited series DTF St. Louis—starring David Harbour, Jason Bateman, and Linda Cardellini. HBO describes it as, a “darkly comedic series, a love triangle between three adults experiencing middle-age malaise [that] leads to one of them ending up dead.”

Look.

It’s not what you think.

And I hesitate even sharing about this one, because this isn’t necessarily a recommendation for everyone and I don’t want to give any spoilers for those who do end up watching. Because—and please consider this a warning—it’s uncomfortable. It’s cringe. It’s triggering. Maybe even devastating. It’s not what I’d call “inspiring” in any traditional sense.

But it’s also not contrived. It’s not formulaic. It’s not predictable. And it does evoke great emotion, compassion, and empathy.

This show will take you on a ride that you didn’t know you signed up for. It also has me thinking about the characters long after finishing it. I’ve since moved on to another show, but I can’t stop thinking about this one and its surprising depth. It’s not just the characters and roles that have me thinking. I’m in awe of the actors who chose to play these complicated roles, who leaned in to a level of unvarnished honesty, allowing themselves to be seen in compromising situations, with jarring moments of vulnerability.

Isn’t that also what makes great art though?

And if you do watch it, you’ll need to take the whole ride in order to fully appreciate it.

I’ll just leave it with this note: This series is tailor-made for viewers who appreciate sharp dark humor and morally complex characters.

3. A book I’m reading

I’m currently reading Elise Loehnen’s On Our Best Behavior: The Seven Deadly Sins and the Price Women Pay to Be Good (Dial Press, 2023), which is a blend of cultural criticism, history, and personal reflection that unpacks the unseen rules governing women’s lives. The author uses the framework of the Seven Deadly Sins—Sloth, Envy, Pride, Gluttony, Greed, Lust, and Wrath—to demonstrate how these ancient concepts have been weaponized by patriarchal culture to still impact women today. It exposes how women unknowingly police themselves and each other in a race to be deemed “good.”

Can you relate?

I’m still reading it, but this is touted as essential reading for anyone interested in gender dynamics, psychology, and personal growth—particularly women who feel bogged down by burnout, guilt, or perpetual people-pleasing—offering a compassionate roadmap to shedding toxic conditioning and reclaiming authentic self-expression.

Yes, please.

4. Something I’m celebrating

I wasn’t able to find the exact origin story of National Book Lovers Day, but it apparently grew organically as an informal, grassroots movement among readers, local librarians, and independent booksellers and is celebrated by book lovers all over the country. It’s held every year on August 9th, and evolved from an unofficial, word-of-mouth celebration into a joyful holiday dedicated to the timeless magic of the written word. Beyond simply celebrating reading as a solitary pleasure, the day highlights the vital cultural roles that literature, independent bookstores, and local libraries play in bringing communities together. Whether it’s revisiting an old favorite, finally cracking open a long-awaited novel, or sharing reading recommendations with friends, National Book Lovers Day reminds us of the transformative power stories have to expand our worlds, cultivate empathy, and enrich our inner lives.

I’ll be celebrating this one all week. Join me?

5. A song on repeat

Brandi Carlile + Alanis Morissette’s “Uninvited” = goosebumps

If you haven’t heard this particular cover, let me just do you a favor and place it below. Don’t bother listening unless you have decent headphones or speakers. Otherwise, you might not get it. And don’t just listen—watch.

I’ve listened to it at least eight times this week. Apparently, I’m not the only one wanting more because Brandi finally just posted the full version in its entirety—from the song’s first haunting piano note to that final, exhausted guitar shred—along with the caption “Since so many of you asked . . . here’s my full totally unhinged version of ‘Uninvited’ at Newport.”

“Unhinged,” indeed. In the best way though. This is arguably more than just a cover and more like a message. Or a battle cry. There’s a moment when she points off to her left, singing, “This . . . is not allowed.” There’s something real at stake here and she’s setting a boundary, drawing a line. And I’m here for it.

Toward the end, Brandi looks absolutely possessed, taken over by the music. I’m not sure she’s even there anymore; she becomes absolutely electric, like a live wire or a conduit allowing this beautiful expression and art to flow through her. And that charge has landed squarely in the middle of her audience’s hearts.

Stunning.

6. A poem worth sharing

Slowing it down a bit with a little poetry moment.

Also, did you know that E. E. Cummings actually did not prefer his name to be lowercase, as was previously believed? I had to look this up to be sure. Apparently, the trend of writing his name exclusively in lowercase was largely popularized by publishers and book cover designers in the 1960s to mimic his poetic style. He did not actively fight it, but it was not his personal preference, according to online sources.

For my fellow editors out there: The Chicago Manual of Style, which prescribes favoring non-standard capitalization of names in accordance with the bearer's strongly stated preference, notes “E. E. Cummings can be safely capitalized; it was one of his publishers, not he himself, who lowercased his name.” (Source: Wiki.)

Summer Silence
by E. E. Cummings

Eruptive lightnings flutter to and fro
Above the heights of immemorial hills;
Thirst-stricken air, dumb-throated, in its woe
Limply down-sagging, its limp body spills
Upon the earth. A panting silence fills
The empty vault of Night with shimmering bars
Of sullen silver, where the lake distils
Its misered bounty.—Hark! No whisper mars
The utter silence of the untranslated stars.

7. A quote that moved me

May you find yourself full of unhinged joy this week—knowing full well what to do with your hands.

Thank you for being here.

“Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

In one of the books I’m working on, the author mentions briefly that gratitude can help heal your nervous system. While fact-checking and adding citations, I came across some interesting research that supports this claim.

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According to an article titled “The Neuroscience of Gratitude and Its Effects on the Brain,” published on PositivePsychology.com, “At a neurobiological level, gratitude regulates the sympathetic nervous system that activates our anxiety responses, and at the psychological level, it conditions the brain to filter the negative ruminations and focus on positive thoughts (Wong et al., 2018).” I encourage you to read the whole article to learn more. It’s truly fascinating and I absolutely subscribe to this philosophy.

A few years ago, I heard a speaker say, “My life is a walking meditation.” That sentence stuck with me, mainly because it’s something that both resonated deeply yet still seemed out of reach for me, something aspirational. When I heard it, my life was near its lowest. I’ve shared about this before, but my husband and I spent a solid four years taking care of our moms and ultimately seeing them both pass away within mere months of each other. My life during a lot of that time felt like anything but a walking meditation, yet I still thought of that sentence and hoped to one day get there. I’m still working toward that, but one thing stayed true for me during those difficult years, which is my lifelong relationship with feeling and being grateful. Yes, even during the hardest parts. Some might say it’s a bit Pollyanna of me, but this sense of gratitude is something that runs very deep for me and at times feels like a lifeline. My life may not yet be a walking meditation—that’s still a stretch goal for me. But one thing is absolutely true for me:

My life is a walking gratitude practice.

This doesn’t come naturally or easily, and was something I’ve had to cultivate over a lifetime. It’s been worth it to me because in those dark and difficult times, gratitude remains the one thing that consistently pulls me out. I also heard it said once that gratitude and anxiety cannot coexist in the same brain at the same moment—a claim supported by the aforementioned article, one that I personally have found to be true. During my most anxious of times—some of which included a few months of recurring panic attacks—focusing on what I was grateful for in the room around me helped take the edge off and helped my heart rate come down, helping to dissipate the panic and anxiety. One thing I want to be careful to do is to not bypass or demonize emotions—nor is this a replacement for any sort of medical advice. Those feelings are real and valid and serve a purpose—sometimes to let you know that something is truly wrong. But when a body is in perpetual fight-or-flight for too long or too often—drenched in cortisol, epinephrine, adrenaline, and norepinephrine (which increases blood pressure)—this can create more problems for a person. It can become overwhelming, and—in my case, at least—the mere fear of it happening again can sometimes trigger the thing itself.

Practicing gratitude regularly—especially in moments when your body is feeling flooded—can help calm the system and get you to a place where you can begin to think and process clearly.

For example, gratitude . . .

• triggers neurotransmitters: Spikes the release of dopamine and serotonin, the brain’s natural feel-good chemicals.

• rewires the negativity bias: Strengthens the prefrontal cortex, making it structurally easier for your brain to spot positive things over time.

• reduces cortisol: Lowers overall stress hormone levels, which calms the nervous system’s fight-or-flight response.

• improves sleep quality: Increases sleep duration and reduces the time spent tossing and turning before falling asleep.

• lowers systemic inflammation: Decreases circulating biomarkers associated with chronic inflammation and cellular stress.

• boosts cardiovascular health: Improves heart rate variability (HRV), a key metric for stress resilience and heart health.

• reduces toxic emotions: Minimizes internal states of envy, resentment, regret, and frustration.

• increases emotional resilience: Serves as a psychological buffer during major life stressors, transitions, or trauma.

• enhances empathy: Reduces aggression and increases prosocial behavior, even when dealing with difficult people.

• improves self-esteem: Dictates a shift away from destructive social comparisons by focusing on your own life resources.

Ready to jump in but not sure how to start? Or maybe revamp your existing practice? Here are some ideas:

• Keep a “Three Good Things” Journal: Before bed, write down three specific things that went well during the day and why they happened. Specificity matters—instead of just writing “my dogs,” write “the way my dogs greeted me at the door when I got home.”

• Keep a Five-Year “Line a Day” Journal: Each day, write down one thing you’re grateful for. This is a great way to look back and see all the things, people, and experiences that made your life feel full.

• Establish a Morning Thankfulness Anchor: Tie a moment of gratitude to a habit you already do every single day. While your morning coffee or tea is brewing, use those few minutes to mentally name one thing you are looking forward to or appreciate.

• Take a “Gratitude Walk”: Go outside for a 15-minute walk without your phone or headphones. Actively look for things to appreciate in your surroundings—the warmth of the sun, the architectural details of a nearby building, or the sound of the birds.

• Write an Unexpected Thank-You Note: Think of someone who did something kind for you recently, or someone who made a difference in your life years ago. Send them a handwritten note, an email, or a quick text letting them know exactly how their actions impacted you.

• Change Your Vocabulary from “Have To” to “Get To”: Shift your inner dialogue. Instead of thinking “I have to cook dinner tonight” or “I have to walk the dogs in the rain,” try reframing it as “I get to cook dinner” or “I get to spend time with my dogs.” It’s a tiny linguistic tweak that instantly highlights the privilege inherent in daily routines.

• Share a High Point at the Dinner Table: If you eat with family or friends, start a tradition where everyone shares one positive thing or “win” from their day. If you live alone, you can text a “high point” to a close friend or partner as a daily check-in.

• Practice Mental Subtraction: Imagine your life without something you currently take for granted—your home, a close relationship, or a reliable piece of technology. Realizing how much harder or emptier life would be without it can instantly spark deep appreciation for its presence.

• Create a Visual Gratitude Jar: Every time something good happens or you experience a moment of joy, write it on a small slip of paper and drop it into a glass jar. When you’re having a tough day or feeling burnt out, empty the jar and read through the notes.

• Savor the Ordinary: When you are experiencing a pleasant moment—like a perfectly quiet house, a great chapter in a book, or a cup of coffee—force yourself to pause for just ten seconds. Focus entirely on your senses and consciously think, “I am thoroughly enjoying this moment right now.”

• Turn Complaints into Re-framing Exercises: Whenever you catch yourself complaining about a minor inconvenience, try to immediately follow it up with a “but.” For example: “This traffic is awful, but it gives me a chance to listen to an extra chapter of my audiobook.”

These practices have helped me more times than I can possibly communicate here. My life is still messy and still has its own stressors, but I’m grateful for the practice and truly thankful for so many things—including you for taking the time to read this and engage with me in this format.

Part of why I share “seven things worth sharing each week” is that they’re things I’m grateful for in some way. Beautiful and lovely things don’t always just show up in my path. Sometimes they do, but many times, I have to go looking for them. So, in a way, I offer these as a sort of love letter to whomever is reading, with a hope that beautiful, inspiring things cross your path when you join me in this space.

Seven Things Worth Sharing This Week

1. An Event: Ann Arbor Art Fair

With the smoke from the Canadian wildfires, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to attend this annual event that was held July 16–18 this year. Thankfully, the smoke cleared on Saturday morning for most of the day bringing the AQI down to manageable (and breathable) levels for a good part of the day—down to an unhealthy 100 from a hazardous 500. I felt that attending the art fair helped me earn my official “townie” badge.

Every July, downtown Ann Arbor completely transforms as a staggering 400,000 to 500,000 visitors descend upon the city for a massive, three-day sensory overload. Spanning 30 city blocks, it stands proudly as the largest juried art fair in the entire nation. What looks like one giant festival is actually a collective of three distinct, independently juried non-profit fairs running simultaneously, a rich tradition that has been evolving ever since the original street fair was inaugurated back in 1960. Today, it hosts nearly 1,000 skilled artists from all over the globe, showcasing an incredibly eclectic mix of mediums—including photography, paintings, woodblock printing, ceramics, fine jewelry, textiles, glasswork, and sculptures. Beyond browsing the artist booths, part of the magic of “Art Fair” is its vibrant sidewalk sales, three stages of live music, and local staples like the sidewalk chalk drawings by David Zinn. It is a beautiful, sprawling chaos where culture meets community block party, and it remains the ultimate midsummer rite of passage for art lovers and locals alike. If you’re at all interested in art, mark your calendar for next July.

2. World Record: Luceros y Penumbras

If you thought a 30-block art fair was a massive logistical feat, try turning the page on an 1,800-pound book without tearing the paper. In July 2026, the rotunda of Downtown LA’s Central Library became home to Luceros y Penumbras (“Starlight and Shadows”), a mind-boggling piece of structural engineering officially recognized by Guinness World Records as the world’s largest pop-up book. Commissioned to celebrate the library building’s 100th anniversary, this towering, four-page tome measures a staggering 31 feet by 20 feet when opened with pop-ups rising more than 11 feet high. Created by local printmaker Daniel González and legendary paper engineer Matthew Reinhart, the book features massive, intricate spreads—including a towering “Tree of Wisdom” and the library’s iconic facade—carved into linoleum, hand-printed, and scaled up using paper, fabric, and corrugated cardboard. Because it requires a team of humans wielding cushion-capped poles just to turn the giant pages, the library rotates the featured spread once a week for visitors. It is a gorgeous, slightly absurd tribute to the magic of libraries and the sheer resilience of physical craftsmanship in a digital world.

I have a love of pop-up books and have had the privilege of working with paper engineers in the past to create some gorgeous architectural pop-up books. But none of them have taken 12 to 15 people to turn one of its pages.

3. Music: Magnus Ferrell

While he happens to be the son of legendary comedian Will Ferrell, Magnus has carved out a distinct identity as a genuine, multi-instrumental force in the alt-R&B and electronic pop scene. Combining his background in jazz piano with a smooth, emotive vocal delivery, his self-described “groove therapy” blends retro disco, soul, and contemporary pop songwriting.

To hear his signature sound and learning about his musical background firsthand, you can watch this Magnus Ferrell Pop Curious Interview, where he details his creative journey and the jazz influences that shape his style.

4. News: a great loss in the music world

This one hits hard for fans of Glen Hansard—the Irish front man from the band The Frames who recently passed away on July 29th at age 56 in a motorcycle accident. The news of his death feels somehow inexplicably devastating—even though most of us have never met him. He was a musician with so much heart, talent, raw vulnerability, and deep compassion.

If his name doesn’t ring a bell right away, perhaps you know him from his heartfelt duet, “Falling Slowly” with Marketa Irglova—one of my all-time favorite songs—showcased in the equally lovely film Once (Samson Films, 2007). I revisit this song more often than I care to admit. If you have somehow never heard it—or haven’t heard it in a while—I invite you to listen by clicking the link below. It won an Academy Award for Best Original Song and rightly deserves all the other awards it has won. I still get all the feels whenever I hear it. May this stir something in you as well.

I encourage you to also listen to his music with The Frames Live at Whelan’s 25th Anniversary (June 30, 2014).

Rest in peace, dear Glen. You’ve touched millions of hearts. Thank you for your many beautiful contributions to the world.

5. Inspiration: a quote

We took a weekend road trip to tour “the thumb” of Michigan, beginning in Ann Arbor, heading to Port Huron where we waved hello to Canada across the river (a bit surreal, really), then stopping all along the way at the various beach towns along the coast of Lake Huron before turning in at Saginaw Bay and landing in Bay City. In one of the coffee shops we visited, this quote was hanging on their wall. I loved it enough to stop and take a picture of it.

6. Astronomy: Perseids meteor shower

Look up this month. Every summer, the Earth plows headfirst into the debris trail left behind by the Swift-Tuttle comet, triggering the Perseids meteor shower—the undisputed heavyweight champion of the annual stargazing calendar. I had to do a little research, and here’s what I discovered.

At its absolute peak, usually around August 11 to 13, this celestial light show streaks across the night sky at a blistering 37 miles per second, producing anywhere from 50 to 100 shooting stars per hour. Apparently, what makes the Perseids particularly spectacular are the “fireballs”—massive, exceptionally bright meteors that leave luminous, glowing wakes of colorful gas in their path that can last for several seconds. Best of all, because it hits during the balmy height of summer, you don’t need fancy telescopes or specialized gear to witness it; you just need to find a dark patch of grass, lie flat on your back, and let your eyes adjust to the dark. It is a striking, entirely free reminder of the cosmic chaos humming right above our heads while we are busy sleeping.

It’s been a very, veeery long time since I’ve stargazed—or in this case, “meteor-gazed”—but the idea of this seems a bit romantic and I’m going to try and catch it from my back patio (now that Mama Bunny and her babies have left their nest, so I won’t be disturbing them). If you’d like to join me from wherever you are in the world and want to plan your stargazing session for the peak nights, you can check out the NASA Meteor Watch Guide for exact peak times, viewing tips, and updates on the sky conditions for this summer’s shower.

7. Poetry: “The Future”

A poet who uses humor, ironic observation, and everydayness to get to a profound point, is former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins. He writes poetry for people who think they hate poetry. He’ll start a poem talking about a dog barking or celery and broccoli florets, and by the end, he has subtly cracked open your chest. Here’s a little floret that struck me recently.

“The Future”
by Billy Collins

When I finally arrive there—
and it will take many days and nights—
I would like to believe others will be waiting
and might even want to know how it was.
So I will reminisce about a particular sky
or a woman in a white bathrobe
or the time I visited a narrow strait
where a famous naval battle had taken place.
Then I will spread out on a table
a large map of my world
and explain to the people of the future
in their pale garments what it was like—
how mountains rose between the valleys
and this was called geography,
how boats loaded with cargo plied the rivers
and this was known as commerce,
how the people from this pink area
crossed over into this light-green area
and set fires and killed whoever they found
and this was called history—
and they will listen, mild-eyed and silent,
as more of them arrive to join the circle
like ripples moving toward,
not away from, a stone tossed into a pond.

May you find so much to be grateful for this week.

Thank you for being here. ❤️

It’s really only by chance that I even discovered the nest, which involves part observation, part intuition, and part curiosity. It started when I noticed my dog Charley lingering in one spot, just a little longer than she normally does. How I even noticed this is mainly due to spending the last fifteen years together and being so attuned to her that I notice any slight shift in her patterns—the way a person might notice a spouse using slightly more or less creamer in their coffee. Some things are simply undetectable to a casual observer. (If you’ve ever met me, you’ll know I’m anything but a casual observer, which I’m sure makes it loads of fun for anyone who has ever lived with me.)

I walked over and saw nothing unusual.

Grass.

Rocks.

But a quick intuitive hit followed by my insatiable curiosity led me to look more closely and I bent down to gain a new angle where I could barely see a bit of loose gray fur. And then a slight indentation in the ground. And then . . . something moved! It was one small, quick movement. I wasn’t even sure if I saw what I thought I saw. I had found a bunny nest. And I panicked: What if they’ve been abandoned????

A quick internet search showed me that the only native wild rabbit you will see hopping around Ann Arbor, Michigan, is the Eastern Cottontail. They are common in suburban backyards, parks, and “edge” habitats between grassy areas and thickets throughout the city. (Interesting as our particular nest is on the edge of grass and rocks.) Mama bunnies visit their nest only twice a day, usually at dawn and dusk (or sometimes later), to nurse their kits. I could see that there was a slight flattening and deadening of a small patch of grass next to the little underground nest where I imagine she sat at ungodly hours.

This isn’t the first time a mama has decided to entrust our home with her babies. In our last home, a house sparrow nested in a utility bag I had hanging on a peg in the garage. We monitored daily and then watched weeks later as her fledglings left the nest—and because they decided to hang around, we watched them grow into adults.

True confession: My concern about the backyard bunnies comes from longheld childhood guilt. When I was ten, I received two bunnies for Easter. My grandpa made a pen next to the house for them, complete with straw bedding and a little bunny house. It was my responsibility to take care of them and feed them, which I was happy to do. I loved these bunnies and we were starting to develop a trusting relationship. One day, I saw that they were eating green grass and the patch they were on was nearly all eaten up inside the pen, so my child self seized an opportunity to pluck the beautiful green leaves from a large patch of tiger lilies growing between our house and the neighbor’s. I fed them their normal food as usual, plus the green tiger lily leaves, which they seemed to love, and then I went on my merry way. The next morning, I woke up to two unalived bunnies. Imagine the horror of a ten-year-old girl at not only finding her beloved bunnies no longer, but coming to terms with the fact that it was likely she who caused it.

Is it possible that something else caused their demise? Sure. But I learned shortly thereafter that some plants are toxic to animals.

PSA: Tiger lilies are, in fact, highly toxic to many animals, including dogs, cats, and rabbits. Do not let your pets near them.

So, after days of not seeing the Mama Bunny tend to the bunny nest in my current yard, despite my best stalking efforts, I began to worry about the kits. Were they still there? Were they okay? Are they still alive? I tried to leave them alone to not disturb them, but five days in, my curiosity got the best of me and I tugged at a tuft of grass one morning to see if I could see anything in the least invasive way possible. The grass pulled back just enough for me to get a glimpse of what looked like soft gray fur. I still wasn’t sure how many there might be or if they were okay. But apparently, I lingered just a bit too long and stirred them awake. I let go of the tuft of grass and they stirred for a moment longer, only noticeable by the long grass above them moving, and they made a cute little chittering sound. They seemed to be okay! (By the way, we’re leaving the recommended ten-feet perimeter as we mow the lawn to not further disturb them.)

I did a little more research for additional reassurance and discovered why you might not see the mama. It essentially comes down to:

• Predator avoidance: She stays away all day so her scent does not attract predators to the nest.

• Speed feeding: She only visits for about five minutes at a time to nurse.

• Camouflage: She covers the nest with grass and fur before leaving

Out there in my yard, hidden under a clever blanket of grass and fur, those tiny bundles are doing just fine without my amateur parenting skills. Rabbits rarely leave their young and mama bunny has a system that’s worked for millennia. She is teaching me a masterclass in a discipline I have spent a lifetime resisting: the agonizing, beautiful art of doing absolutely nothing. It turns out that letting go and trusting the process isn’t just good advice for wildlife management—it’s a pretty solid way to live too. I’ll be over here, sipping my coffee, watching from the window, and letting nature do its thing.

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Seven Things Worth Sharing This Week

1. An Audiobook I’m Listening To

In The Tao of Fully Feeling (Azure Coyote Publishing, 1995), therapist Pete Walker moves beyond the clinical detachment of standard psychology, arguing that emotional recovery requires leaning into—rather than suppressing—our “negative” emotions like anger and grief, which were often forbidden in dysfunctional homes. It’s a beautifully compassionate, non-pathologizing read that treats emotional expression not as a symptom to be fixed, but as the primary vehicle for reclaiming your authentic self. If you’ve ever felt like you’re “too emotional” or, on the flip side, totally disconnected from your feelings, Walker’s book offers a way through, basically giving you permission to feel like a normal, messy human. He explains how burying our anger and grief—usually because it wasn’t safe to show them growing up—is what keeps us stuck in cycles of anxiety or self-blame. It’s a warm, down-to-earth book that teaches you how to stop fighting your own emotions and start using them to heal.

2. A Piece of Art I Admire

If you’ve ever stumbled across a wild rabbit nest in your yard, you know that exact mix of awe and worry that comes with watching them. That’s the exact feeling Albrecht Dürer captured all the way back in 1502 with his famous painting, Young Hare. Dürer didn’t just paint a cute, generic cartoon bunny; he clearly sat down and really looked at one. He captured the golden-brown twitch of its fur, the damp little nose, and those hyper-alert, twitchy ears that anyone who has ever had rabbits recognize. There’s even a tiny reflection of a window painted right into the rabbit’s eye, showing just how closely he was observing his little wild subject. It’s an incredible reminder that humans have been stopping dead in their tracks to marvel at the quiet, fragile magic of backyard wildlife for over five hundred years.

What gives Young Hare its incredible staying power is how purely human it feels. Before Dürer painted this in 1502, art was almost entirely about grand religious scenes or royal portraits; regular old backyard animals were just ignored. Dürer did something radical by treating a common, fragile creature with absolute reverence, capturing its hyper-alert posture and wild energy so perfectly that it still feels alive today. It completely changed the game by showing that nature—just as it is—is deeply worthy of our attention. Every time we stop to marvel at a nest in the yard, we’re sharing the exact same flash of wonder Dürer felt over five hundred years ago.

Because it’s a fragile, 500-year-old watercolor on paper, it’s incredibly light-sensitive. To protect it from fading, the museum keeps it tucked safely away in a climate-controlled vault most of the time. They only bring the real masterpiece out for the public to see every few years during special exhibitions, usually displaying a high-quality replica in the main galleries when the original is resting.

3. A Superstition I’m Considering Adopting (Sort Of)

If you want to keep your luck going, you might want to adopt a centuries-old British linguistic trick that is still alive and well today. There’s a fascinating superstition—heavily documented across the UK and New England—that if you say the word “Rabbit” (or more traditionally, “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit”) as the absolute first words out of your mouth on the morning of a new month, you’re guaranteed good luck for the next thirty days. It turns the simple act of waking up into a tiny, intentional ritual. It’s a lovely reminder of how we use language to invite a little everyday magic into our routine.

It wasn’t just practiced by superstitious schoolkids, either; President Franklin D. Roosevelt was famously obsessed with the habit and did it at the start of every single month without fail. He took this belief so seriously that he famously carried a lucky rabbit’s foot during his victorious 1932 presidential campaign. Today, that very rabbit’s foot charm is preserved and kept on display at the FDR Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, New York.

4. A Book I’m Adding to my TBR List

If you’ve spent any time lately staring at an animal’s nest in your own backyard, marveling at how perfectly it blends into the landscape, you are going to be utterly obsessed with the art of Ingo Arndt. His stunning photography of animal dwellings is portrayed in his book, Animal Architecture.

Arndt travels the globe to document the complex engineering projects of the animal kingdom, treating nests, complex burrows, and delicate webs not just as basic biology, but as high-design architectural marvels. From the intricate woven homes of weaver birds to the stark, minimalist camouflage that creatures use to protect their young, the macro photography in this book claims readers will completely reshape how they look at the natural world. It’s an incredible reminder that humans didn’t invent architecture—we’re just copying the brilliant, instinctual designers that were here first. It’s the ultimate coffee table book for anyone who loves to slow down and notice the quiet, structural magic happening right outside the window.

5. A Musician I’m Keeping an Eye On

If you’re looking for a fresh face to add to your rotation, keep an eye on indie singer-songwriter Izzy Mahoubi. Splitting her time between Phoenix and Nashville, she crafts a brilliant mix of new-age pop, folk, and classic Americana that feels way wiser than her years. She grew up listening to storytellers like Tom Petty, Adele, and Sheryl Crow, and that influence shines through in her blunt lyrics about the messy realities of growing up. After signing with indie label Rude Records, she put out a stellar debut EP called How to Run and has been building a steady buzz with singles like “70’s Baby” and a haunting, bluesy acoustic cover of Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name.” Check that out plus the music video for “Hang Around” to hear her signature melodies and visual storytelling style firsthand.

6. News That’s Keeping Me Awake at Night

There is major news breaking right now in the literary and academic worlds regarding historian Kerri K. Greenidge. Her highly acclaimed book, The Grimkes: The Legacy of Slavery in an American Family (Liveright, 2022)—which was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award—has come under severe fire for widespread factual errors and citation issues.

Following intense scrutiny and a fact-checking deep dive by other historians who noticed discrepancies in her footnotes, Tufts University launched an external peer review. The investigation concluded that the book contained “multiple errors of fact and citation,” including instances where letters she quoted extensively from did not actually exist in the archives she cited. As a result of the fallout, Greenidge is no longer employed as a professor at Tufts, her publisher (W. W. Norton & Company) has completely scrubbed The Grimkes from its website, and she has reportedly lost a subsequent book deal. Greenidge has denied any intentional fabrication or plagiarism, acknowledging possible misattributions while defending her work and publicly arguing that the intense scrutiny and review process were racially motivated.
It’s a massive, unfolding story about academic integrity, the fragile nature of archival research, and the publishing industry’s vetting process that has everyone in the book world talking this week.

The scrutiny began because Greenidge’s book made some highly provocative, revisionist claims about one of the most famous abolitionist families in American history. Historically, the white Grimké sisters (Sarah and Angelina) have been treated as unassailable heroes who boldly left their family’s South Carolina plantation to fight for emancipation. Greenidge’s book completely flipped that script, arguing that the sisters actually practiced a form of deep racial paternalism and “benevolent racism” toward their Black nephews, prioritizing white atonement over true equality.

Because the book took such a sharp, critical stance against beloved historical icons, other specialists in 19th-century history read it with an incredibly close eye. When fellow scholars began doing standard due diligence and checking her footnotes, the narrative started to unravel.

As an editor who sometimes handles complex, high-profile nonfiction, a story like this hits incredibly close to home—and frankly, it keeps me up at night. When we acquire a book from a respected authority or academic, there is an implicit layer of trust; we rely on the author’s expertise and the peer-review pipeline to guarantee the integrity of the source material. Our jobs are built on shaping the narrative, sharpening the voice, and ensuring the structural pacing lands perfectly, and although we send things out for fact-checking, we aren’t equipped to act as full-time forensic archivists verifying every single footnote against a university vault. Seeing a major house forced to scrub a prize-finalist title from its catalog after the foundational primary sources unraveled is a sobering reminder of how fragile that trust can be. It forces a pretty uncomfortable conversation about where the buck stops when a manuscript’s fact-checking fails on a grand scale, and it certainly makes me look at my own upcoming nonfiction list with a much more cautious, hyper-vigilant eye.

7. Poetry That Refreshes My Morning

There is something so comforting about Mary Oliver’s “Morning Poem.” Written back in 1986, it’s basically a gentle reminder to stop carrying yesterday’s heavy baggage around and just look at the day fresh. Mary Oliver famously spent her mornings walking through the woods with a notebook, and you can really feel that quiet, outdoor energy in her words. She captures that exact moment when the dark turns into daylight and the world feels completely still. In a busy life where we’re always rushing to get things done, this poem is like a deep breath—it reminds us that every single morning is a clean slate and a chance to start over.

“Morning Poem”

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches —
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead —
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging —
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted —
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

Thank you for being here.

On that particular day, the entirety of San Diego County and beyond experienced an epic historic blackout. When this happened, as would be expected, people left their workplaces to head home. However, none of us understood the scope of the blackout and what it would mean when a whole city shuts down. And as it turned out, this particular blackout wasn’t just citywide. This affected more than 5 million people in Southern California, Arizona, and Mexico.

How does something like that even happen, you ask? Apparently, an employee at an Arizona Public Service substation in Yuma, Arizona, accidentally performed maintenance on a 500-kilovolt transmission line that caused a cascading system failure. The interruption immediately severed the main power lines importing electricity to Southern California. To protect its own grid from becoming overloaded, the San Diego Gas & Electric system disconnected from the regional power grid, forcing a total blackout across the county.

At the time, I was at the office working for a local publisher. Like half the county, I tried to go home and got about a third of a mile away before my car was stopped because traffic was absolutely gridlocked. I sat there on a surface road near the office thinking it would surely ease up at any moment. But half an hour or so went by and I hadn’t moved an inch and there was no indication that anything would be moving anytime soon. Meanwhile, my near-empty gas tank was beginning to hit such a critical mark that I had to make a hard decision: I turned around and drove back to the office. A lot of us were stuck there and we decided to have an impromptu early dinner party—a mish-mosh of food from the few restaurants across the street. At this point, however, everything was cash only. Credit card machines didn’t work without power and a lot of menu items weren’t available because of how they needed to be prepared. Restaurants that used gas stoves or ovens—or that served cold sandwiches and salads—were still in luck. Some of us procured some food and camped out in a coworker’s oversized cubicle.

An hour or so later, we got word that some of the streets were opening up and starting to move. I had only a few dollars cash on me—enough to get me home if I could make it to the nearest gas station in time. I did a little mental math . . .

. . . and assessed that I could make it, if the reports were true.

When I made it home to my apartment in Golden Hill, a historic and architecturally eclectic downtown-adjacent neighborhood just south of the famed Balboa Park, I was expecting that I would park my car, walk up to my apartment, open my front door, find some candles, and entertain myself while waiting out the blackout until my then-boyfriend came over. But none of that happened. I barely made it out of my car door when I heard music—lots of music from different directions—combined with laughter and conversation.

People were playing music on their portable stereos powered by D-cell batteries and facing them out their windows so other people could enjoy it. Other neighbors, who happened to be local musicians, were playing unplugged sets in their living rooms or on balconies and rooftop patios. I don’t know if they knew it at the time, but the music set such an uplifting score to what would otherwise be an eerily quiet and suspenseful evening. Other people were grilling and also cooking on their own gas stoves as much as they could, and were sharing it with neighbors before their food went bad since none of us knew how long it would ultimately last. A few of us—neighbors who were also friends—gathered and walked down the street to one of our favorite wine bars, Counterpoint, where some of our mutual friends worked. The wine bar had a limited menu that night given the situation, but the wine was flowing and fueling the bustling, excited conversation among our close-knit community. Around twelve hours later, most of the power was restored though a lot of San Diego businesses stayed closed—just in case.

The blackout became famously remembered for inspiring local community resilience. For many of us, it was truly an amazing night to remember.

We were unplugged from the world and plugged in to each other in a way that some of us hadn’t been since we were kids. And we were deeply plugged in to the present moment with no distractions.

The community connection was so profound that some neighborhoods decided this was worth doing again—on purpose, this time—and began planning monthly “blackout parties” in the park with acoustic music, picnics, and stargazing. A great number of us had been missing that analog kind of life without even really realizing it.

All of this leads me to what my husband and I are doing this month.

We’re taking the month of July to unplug (for the most part) and do a modified version of a digital detox. We’ve done some hardcore versions in the past, but this time the main thing we’re doing is “no big screens.” No movies, no television shows, no gaming. We can use our phones and our computers for work or for projects, but the intention is to use it thoughtfully, and to not scroll or binge-watch or check out.

Each time we’ve done this in the past, we’ve discovered something new or we’ve made significant progress in some area of our life or with a project that’s important to us. We’ve been doing this for a few years or so—taking time to disconnect from devices—and it’s something we’ll likely continue doing periodically.

Why would we do this? Several reasons:

• to become more present

• to reconnect with self and others

• to break the dopamine loop

• to live more fully and intentionally

• to see what emerges in this space

• to focus on a specific project or gain serious ground with ultra-learning

There are several ways to do a digital detox, and I’ll share some quick, simple ideas below that we’ve done in the past to help get your started, if you’re interested in taking this on:

• Remove time-sucking apps from your phone.

• Set your phone in grayscale.

• Turn off notifications (I turned mine off a few years ago during our first detox and never turned them back on).

• Commit to no TV, movies, or gaming.

• Use laptops or devices for productive work only.

And if you’re not ready to do a detox of any kind, consider bringing more analog activities into your life. Grab a tote or backpack and fill it with things like:

• books

• magazines

• coloring books and coloring pencils or markers

• crossword puzzle books, sudoku, or word finds

• puzzles

• notebooks, journals, or stationery

• pens and pencils

Or think of something you’ve been wanting to learn, such as how to:

• play a musical instrument

• speak another language

• play chess

• dance

• watercolor, oil paint, or calligraphy

Or maybe you want to reconnect with things and people you’ve grown away from. Maybe things like:

• dinner parties with friends or family members whom you haven’t seen in a while

• picnics in a local park

• nature walks or urban hiking

• playing boardgames

• visiting botanical gardens

• listening to records

The possibilities here are endless, of course. Consider: What excites you? What do you miss? If you’re not a digital native, what did you love to do as a kid? Whatever the answers are, do that.

This leads me to . . .

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Seven Things Worth Sharing This Week

1. Something I’m doing

I have a lot of outdoor activities planned during this gorgeous Michigan summer plus some big house projects planned for July—and a quick beach trip—so I won’t have much downtime. But a popular thing to do these days to combat doom scrolling and beat your screen addiction is to have an “analog bag” ready to go for when you do have some downtime and don’t know what to do with yourself. So I’ve put together my own simple analog bag in a basic canvas tote and it includes the following: a book from my TBR list, an inexpensive sudoku book from the dollar store (I haven’t done sudoku in years), watercolor pencils and paper, a journal and pen, a tiny cross-stitch kit I’ve had for several years, and some notecards.

What would you put in your analog bag?

2. An album from the wayback

I can’t title my post the way I did and not give credit from whence it came (heavily aspirated “h” on “whence” . . . like “Whil Wheaton”). The great Erykah Badu coined the phrase “analog girl in a digital world” in a song lyric on her album Mama’s Gun (Motown, 2000), but my favorite of hers has always been her pioneering neo-soul album Baduizm (Kedar Entertainment, 1997). Perhaps it’s apropos to pull something from the 90s—that glorious time before we were all addicted to devices and when we listened to albums in their entirety. For me, this one is a pseudo time machine taking me to the wayback. It’s a desert-island album of mine that still holds up nearly thirty years later.

3. A podcast I’m following

Speaking of when we used to listen to albums, a new podcast I’m listening to is I’ve Got That on Vinyl. Perfect for going analog. [Bias alert: I’m related to one of the regular contributors. But that doesn’t change my recommendation.]

If High Fidelity has ever been one of your favorite go-to movies on regular rotation like it is mine (“I will now sell five copies of The Three EPs by The Beta Band”) or if you’re at all interested in music and vinyl, check it out. It’s like listening to a bunch of your guy friends smartly discussing the essential albums to own and why. They also discuss their personal ratings of the albums and songs; offer history, relevance, and context of the album; share personal stories and favorite albums, along with what’s currently on their turntable; take polls from listeners; and throw in a lot of additional fun facts.

Why I love this: When I lived in San Diego, I started a monthly music club with eleven of my music-loving friends. This is back in the day when we were still burning CDs with genre-wrecking abandon. Each month, we took turns burning twelve copies of a “mixtape” that we personally (and thoughtfully) compiled to share with the group. And then we’d all meet and hand out the CDs and discuss music, life, whatever. I loved seeing what everyone would come up with. You never knew if you were going to come home with an original DJ mix (created by one of the members in their home studio), or a compilation of essential classic rock, or a mix of the most danceable Latin music, or a selection of the best indie SoCal artists (my personal contribution). It was . . . and I use this term heavily . . . amazing.

And then life slowly changed, our laptops stopped having CD drives, and everyone started streaming music. I miss all the friends I used to discuss and share music with. I miss the days when friends would randomly hand me a CD they burned from me (with fun titles like “Bonnie’s Goth Mix” or “Bonnie’s Beatles Mix”) or when friends would drop me random links via text messages or online chats without giving any context. It was just a song they wanted to share or thought I would like. In a way, this podcast helps to fill that gap for me. And it makes me want to start growing my sad little vinyl collection again.

And maybe that’s why I like to share random music with you too.

4. Music I’m listening to

While listening to episode 2 of I’ve Got That on Vinyl, one of the podcast members mentioned that their favorite band of all time is Carbon Leaf—a band I’d never heard of. Without hesitation, I stopped the podcast and immediately looked them up because if someone says it’s their all-time favorite band, that’s gotta be worth a listen, right? I did a quick YouTube search and the first thing I played of theirs was a near three-hour video called Carbon Leaf Cottage: Songs by the Sea, which I learned is a live concert film and album featuring 27 tracks, and was filmed in their studio in 2019. I had no idea what to expect. But I quickly discovered that I not only really liked their music, which I’d call folk-rock, I also got a sense of the band and their chemistry given the live-concert aspect and seeing their camaraderie. I think I’ll keep them in rotation for a while. If you’re like me and somehow haven’t heard these indie-rock trailblazers before, here’s a link to Songs by the Sea.

5. A game I’m planning on playing

We haven’t yet busted out the boardgames during our digital detox, but when we do, I’m looking forward to a riveting night of playing Wingspan. If you’ve never heard of it, Wingspan is a highly acclaimed award-winning game published in 2019 by Stonemaier Games and created by Elizabeth Hargrave, a nature enthusiast and birder who simply created something that she was interested in playing herself. The gorgeous artwork drew me in first but it’s the game’s structure and engine-building mechanics that put this at the top of my list. Wingspan also has expansions available, but I haven’t played with those yet—nor any of the spin-offs. The expansions include European, Oceania, Asia, and Americas. And if birds aren’t your thing, consider playing with dragons in Wyrmspan or fish in Finspan.

6. An audiobook I listened to

I first read The War of Art by Steven Pressfield (Rugged Land, 2002) in the early 2000s, and then recently listened to it on audio (2 hours 29 minutes) while flying back and forth to Nashville in June. My brother-in-law, who is an artist, had just visited and charged me with re-reading it.

The reason The War of Art is such a classic and remains a perennial bestseller (and worth a re-read) is because it’s an essential recommendation in creative and entrepreneurial circles, mainly because it perfectly bridges two opposite worlds: it’s part tough love, part deep spiritual wisdom.

Pressfield completely strips creativity of its romantic illusions by introducing us to something all too familiar to many of us: resistance—that malicious, anxious voice in that coaxes a person to procrastinate. By naming this force, he takes away the personal shame of creative paralysis. To defeat it, he prescribes a philosophy of “turning pro.” This means stripping away the drama, treating your art like a blue-collar job, and showing up to do the labor every single day regardless of your mood.

Yet, the book’s real magic lies in its final pivot to the divine. Pressfield beautifully argues that when you conquer your ego through raw, daily discipline, you clear a sacred channel for the Muses to enter. It’s the ultimate field manual for creators—especially when you’ve stalled out—because it proves that when you stop whining and simply sit in the chair, the universe rushes in to help you build something extraordinary.

7. Art that I can’t stop thinking about

A few weeks ago, I found artist Dustin D. Smith in my newsfeed and was mesmerized by a video he shared showing how he created a piece in his Soulmates series. The video starts with showing his hand covered by dozens of pieces of masking tape scraps with bits of paint on them—the kind often used by artists like himself to block off paint with a clean line. The caption that accompanies his post reads, “Tape peelings forming 196 serendipitous partnerships in each of these pieces.” What would have ended up as trash becomes art of an entirely new kind—each of which fetches $1,200.00 and are sold out. You can see the individual pieces on his website, and you can watch the process on his Instagram.

The innovation. The audacity. The execution.

The textured masking tape used in these pieces only exists because Smith showed up, faced the blank canvas, applied the tape, painted, and ripped it away, day after day—for something else he was creating. His Soulmates pieces are incredibly unique, sustainable spin-offs of his major gallery works. Instead of throwing away the textured, pigment-crusted masking tape he pulls off his $5,000+ larger paintings, he meticulously upcycles and layers those scraps into these stunning 16x20 mixed-media originals—essentially playing matchmaker with the “beautiful remnants” of his studio practice. Because his primary work is highly sought after, and these pieces are strictly limited by how much tape he actually salvages, collectors jump at the chance to own a rare, deeply conceptual piece of his art history at a more accessible entry point.

By taking what most people would consider trash—the messy remnants of a completed project—and turning it into an entirely new, highly valued series, Smith embodies the ultimate act of creative alchemy. He refuses to let any part of the daily battle with Resistance go to waste. For a collector, buying a Soulmates piece means owning a tangible artifact of that daily grind—a physical reminder of what happens when an artist wins the war of art every single day.

I can only imagine the level of confidence and courage it takes to reach this level of creative expression and ability to connect to an audience.

Perhaps one of his followers sums up what so many of us feel as we watch Smith create his Soulmates: “This is beautiful for many reasons. It speaks to the core need for connection that lives in us all, of course, but you now have me wondering what lives in the “pieces’ that pass through my hands each day. Even if I create nothing with them, I’ll simply never see them the same again.”

May you find time to unplug this week and plug in to things that make you come alive.

Thank you for being here.

Weather: 84 and partly cloudy

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When I began writing on Substack in 2024, my life had a completely different shape. I had become, for all intents and purposes, a total homebody with wide-open holidays and weekends to kill, usually hiding indoors from the midday Southern heat and waiting for those massive, uninterrupted swaths of time to sit down and write. But since upending our lives and moving north to the Great Lakes, life looks very different, and those big blocks of open time have vanished. I’ve realized that if I keep waiting for the “perfect” afternoon to write, I’ll never do it. So I’m trying something new. I’m seeing what happens when I trade long-form essays for shorter, sharper bursts of writing captured in the margins of a much busier, more active life.

If you’ve been holding your breath like I was and waiting for life to clear a perfect, eight-hour runway so you can finally start that creative project, read that book, or build that dream, here’s your invitation to stop. Haven’t we all learned by now that those expansive unscheduled days are a luxury most of our lives simply can’t afford right now? I’m trying to remind myself—and anyone else who needs it—that doesn’t mean our passions and interests have to sit on a shelf. I’m coming to terms with the fact that “writing in the margins” (or creating, or whatever it is we’re wanting to do) is actually a decent strategy. It requires a little more intention to find the random fragments of our days: the fifteen minutes while the coffee brews, the ten minutes while massive files download or a work application runs a report (or in my case, cleans and validates a manuscript I’ve coded for design so they can run transforms), or the time spent in a waiting room before an appointment with apps on your phone. When you lower the bar on having the perfect environment (and lower the expectation of the perfect execution) and start claiming those micro moments of your life for the things that actually feed your soul, you realize that a life built in the margins can still be deeply beautiful and meaningful.

Fun fact: I learned a couple years back while fact-checking a book I was working on that Taylor Swift uses her phone’s Notes app and voice memos to capture notes and compose ideas for songs. She’s been a master of using the margins for years. If Tay Tay can do it, we can too—right?

This week’s post is my attempt at exactly that. Each day, I’m trying to spend a few moments wherever I find them on capturing and writing about things that somehow inspire me. I typically compose my Substack drafts using Notion (where I also keep my second brain), and I’m finally giving up the need to do so using a full keyboard and monitor. As it turns out, I can compose in Notion on my phone too. Here’s a quick look at the things that caught my attention while I was moving too fast to overthink them—things I hope you enjoy as well.

Seven things worth sharing.

1. Something I’m watching

Imagine if The Twilight Zone had an existential crisis after reading some John Keats, took a long, meditative walk through a snow-dusted woods, and decided to trade its twist endings for a good, soul-cleansing cry. That is Tales from the Loop. Based on Simon Stålenhag’s surreal paintings—and written and developed by Nathaniel Halpern—this gorgeously melancholic “soft sci-fi” series moves from what initially occurs as futuristic speculative fiction to something that feels deeply personal for the here and now. The show’s ratings aren’t as high as I would hope, and I assert it’s because it’s a slow-burn that replaces cheap thrills with introspection set against a haunting score (by the legendary minimalist Philip Glass).

I dare you to watch episode 7 and not have your heart broken by a robot.

2. Something I read

Karen Palmer’s She’s Under Here (Algonquin, 2025) is a gripping, vulnerable memoir that tracks the thin line between a mother’s instinct to try to make a marriage work while also protecting herself and her children at all costs. Praised for its unvarnished truth, the book is vital because it offers a raw look at the systemic failures and personal sacrifices forced upon those escaping domestic danger. Warning: It’s an emotionally punishing read at times and this should also come with some additional trigger warnings. Palmer captures the reality of living in decades-long hypervigilance, forcing readers to confront the moral compromises and deep isolation required to rebuild a life in the shadows.

The line from the book that still haunts me:

“I am the monster at the end of this book.”

GAHHHHH!

<<throws book across the room>>

Someone, please give this woman all the awards.

3. Someone I admire

If you were as captivated as I was by the Artemis crew and their epic journey circumnavigating the moon, I have your next obsession ready for you. Did you know there’s currently a woman all alone in the middle of the ocean? My brain can barely comprehend this. I’ve become emotionally invested in following American rower Kelsey Pfendler and looking forward to her daily updates. If you haven’t heard of her, she’s a thirty-one-year-old who is currently in the middle of the ocean—on a mission to be the first American woman to row the Mid-Pacific solo.

Not sail. Row.

Like . . . with oars.

By herself.

I’m captivated by Kelsey because her journey aboard the ocean rowing boat named Lily—a 21-foot vessel built to withstand storms and capsizing—represents the absolute pinnacle of calculated courage. I say calculated because it has taken her two years of rigorous expedition planning. Hers is the kind of epic adventure that happens when profound passion meets meticulous preparation. What’s at stake for her isn’t just survival and bragging rights; she’s rowing to raise funds for the Whale Foundation. She is a seasoned river guide and ocean veteran who spent years honing her craft, building the deep psychological resilience and technical expertise required to stare down 2,400 miles of open Pacific—entirely alone. Watching daily clips of her navigate the physical toll of 18-hour rowing days, weather the terrifying uncertainty of a failing water maker, and maintain a sense of humility in the face of a vast ocean wilderness is nothing short of transcendent. She inspires me because she redefines what’s possible, demonstrating what we can achieve when we refuse to let fear anchor us to the shore. If you’re just as curious as I am about how to do laundry in the middle of the ocean, where she sleeps, what she does when weather hits, how she keeps herself awake, what she eats and drinks in a day, how she has drinking water, the wildlife she encounters, what she rows with, what equipment she’s using, how she’s navigating her vessel, and so much more, you can follow her story on IG at @YouRowKelsey.

She hasn’t reached the shores of Oahu just yet, but Kelsey (and Lily) has already embodied one of my favorite quotes, by John Shedd:

4. Something I’m thinking about

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the yips. If you don’t know what the yips are, an online definition offers this: “While commonly written off as ‘choking’ or nerves, the yips are often a combination of psychological performance anxiety and underlying movement abnormalities. Athletes can experience a cycle of over-thinking mechanics, which paralyzes their natural athletic instincts and creates a fear of repeating a past bad throw.” This all came about a few weeks ago through a conversation with my husband who began coaching a baseball player in Canada.

It’s funny, really, how a baseball player’s sudden inability to hit a ball can mirror the same flavor of my own mid-life existential dread, but the “yips” are never really about baseball itself. They are more about the moment the mind hijacks the body’s muscle memory. As a fifty-something non-athlete, I don’t have to worry about a wild pitch, but I know exactly what it feels like when decades of hard-won competence suddenly freezes under the suffocating weight of overthinking. It shows up when I sit down to do something I’ve done hundreds of times—whether that’s editing a book, drafting a contract or work order, proposing an acquisition, managing my production schedule, or simply trying to trust my own creative instincts—and a glitching inner monologue suddenly asks, Wait, how do I actually do this?” until I’m paralyzed by analysis.

The one thing I keep going back to is something I heard years ago by Tim Ferriss:

I’m not sure if this would work while standing behind the plate with a fast pitch coming at me, but it’s a simple hack in my professional life that gives me enough pause and space for the work I’m doing that somehow allows me to take that next step. I’m offering it here for anyone who hasn’t heard this before or who needs this reminder like I do. Try it on next time you feel stuck or frozen and see if it helps.

5. Something that inspired me

We live in a world that feels incredibly loud, fast, and disconnected right now, which is why the Prophecy of a Hopi Elder felt so powerful to me when I happened upon it last week. I had heard the last line of this piece many times, not realizing where it came from. This message serves as a wake-up call. It’s time to stop looking for outside heroes to save the day and instead ground ourselves in this: Change starts entirely with us.

The 11th Hour: Prophecy of a Hopi Elder

You have been telling the people that this is the

Eleventh Hour, now you must go back

and tell the people that this is the Hour.

And there are things to be considered.

Where are you living?

What are you doing?

What are your relationships?

Are you in right relation?

Know your garden.

It is time to speak your Truth.

Be good to each other.

And do not look outside yourself for the leader.

Then he clasped his hands together,

smiled, and said, “This could be a good time.

There is a river flowing now very fast.

It is so great and swift, that there are those who will be afraid.

They will try to hold on to the shore.

They will feel they are being torn apart and will suffer greatly

Know the river has its destination.

The elders say, we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river,

keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.

And I say, see who is in there with you and celebrate.

At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally.

Least of all, ourselves.

For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt.

The time of the lone wolf is over.

Gather yourselves!

Banish the word struggle from your attitude and your vocabulary.

All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.

We are the people we are waiting for!”

—Hopi Elders’ Prophecy, June 8, 2000, Oraibi, Arizona Hopi Nation

6. Something I’m listening to

A friend of mine released this song last week that I think deserves a listen or two. Til the Rabbit Hugs the Hound Dog is the latest by award-winning musician Brian Holwerda who is well-known among the Southern California music scene—primarily as the front man for Blackout Party. He has since moved to Montana after a brief stop in Nashville, and he shares on his Instagram that the song is a love letter to his guitar and to making music, and the idea came about when he heard the phrase “til the rabbit huts the hound dog” from “an old-timer” in a bar. He says that he heard it and knew instantly that there was a song there, so he wrote it down and then extrapolated that line: “I’m gonna love you til the rabbit hugs the hound dog.” Meaning: “I’m never gonna stop.”

Have a listen. At the very least, you’re helping out an independent musician by giving him a click and hearing something you might not otherwise.

7. Something trending

Apparently, something that made news is Sam’s Club changing their logo.

Honestly, I would normally tune out the internet’s collective meltdown over a corporate logo redesign. But I became a little curious because so much of the type of editing and book-making I do is highly visual. This latest trend actually holds a brilliant lesson for anyone in publishing (or marketing, for that matter), because the public’s fierce backlash over their hyper-simplified new look to appeal to a younger Gen Z audience perfectly captures the exact same gamble we face with book design. Sam’s Club tried to be modern and minimalist, only to find that it looked generic in a time when people deeply crave personality and nostalgia. I’m dealing with that right now with a few of the books I’m working on with authors who have a large following with a younger demographic and a certain aesthetic on their socials. For a book, however, getting that visual tension right is everything; a trendy, over-simplified jacket might look sleek on an Instagram grid today, but it completely misses the point of longevity. A truly great book needs to live on a shelf for decades, and its design has to communicate a deep, permanent narrative soul that can survive the lifecycle of passing design fads. It turns out that whether you’re trying to sell bulk paper towels or a high-design memoir, people want a story they can connect with. Though I’m not personally attached to what Sam’s logo looks like, I do like to look at the history and evolution of a logo especially when I’m wondering what the fuss is about and what it looked like before. If you want to nerd out on this or other logos with me, check out Logopedia.

That’s a wrap for this week.

May you find ways to use all the margins of your life for the things you love. ❤️

Thank you for being here.

Drinking: Iced coffee with a splash of half and half plus a scoop of collagen powder

Listening: slow coffee sessions vol.26

Sunday brunch: Eggs in purgatory, or uova in purgatorio

Weather: 70 degrees and rainy

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We’ve all heard of doomscrolling by now—the compulsive, endless habit of scrolling through negative or distressing news and social media content, even when it leaves you feeling anxious, angry, or drained. I’m not a doomscroller by nature, but earlier this year when there was a lot of big news and certain files released, it was just so salacious that it became difficult to avoid. And when a person (self included) is dealing with the continual dilemma of wanting to “stay informed” versus wanting to maintain sanity, things can creep in, and before you know it, you’ve fallen into the doomscrolling trap.

In January, that happened to me too. And unfortunately, the way social media works, whatever you give any attention to (known as your “dwell time,”) this tells your algorithm that you’re interested and it immediately feeds you more and more of the same to keep your attention.

But you can change this at any time. When I noticed it happening—and noticed my anxiety and anger increasing, along with my blood pressure and feelings of helplessness—I quickly changed gears. I began “bloomscrolling” instead, intentionally following new accounts and doing searches for things that inspired me and helped calm my nervous system. An article on Forbes describes it as “the conscious act of curating your digital space to nurture your mind. As the opposite of the passive and destructive act of doomscrolling, bloomscrolling advocates for intentional consumption, where you scroll through content that uplifts and expands your sense of possibility instead of shrinking it.”

Doomscrolling can happen so fast, one seemingly innocuous post keeping you informed tells the algo that you might like more, and before you know it you’re looking at the horrific underbelly of the world’s most corrupt systems—questioning everything you ever thought you knew and suddenly wondering who or what you can trust.

For those of us who like to stay informed, we need to be aware of the seductive lie at the heart of the doomscroll: the idea that if we just look at the horror long enough, we are somehow staying informed. We tell ourselves that our anxiety is a form of empathy. We believe that if we stop watching the tragedy, we are turning our backs on the suffering of others.

But I’m wondering if that’s less of having empathy and more of being a spectator at a dumpster fire. And after an hour of it, we aren’t more informed; we’re just more paralyzed. We aren’t necessarily a better citizen; we’re just a more exhausted one.

Here’s my PSA: We are responsible for curating our worlds, which is something I feel passionately about. This is also a large part of life design, something my husband and I have built our lives (and his business) around. And as a bonus, I also believe this is what feeds our individual appetites for advocacy.

The Anatomy of the Bloom

I want be careful not to argue for bloomscrolling as an escape, and instead as a discipline. This is meant to be intentional. It’s thoughtfully seeking out the evidence of life, growth, and human goodness. It’s a refusal to let the algorithm—which is essentially a machine designed to monetize your outrage—dictate the contents of your soul.

To bloomscroll is to recognize that while the world is indeed breaking, it is also, in countless ways, being mended. It is looking for the “helpers,” as one of my childhood heroes, Mr. Rogers, so famously advised. It is following the accounts that show the reforestation of a desert, the rescue of a stray dog, the intricate beauty of a Renaissance painting, the inspiring new song from a budding musician, or a teenager in a small town who has figured out a better way to recycle plastic.

This is not “putting your head in the sand.” It is not being a “Pollyanna,” that cheerful girl who refused to focus on the dark—incidentally, a literary figure I’ve often been compared to. This is really about physiological stewardship.

When we doomscroll, we are constantly triggering our sympathetic nervous system—the fight, flight, fawn, or freeze response. We are marinating our brains and bodies in cortisol. And a bodymind on cortisol is a terrible tool for a citizen intending to make a positive difference in the world. It is a brain that sees everything as a threat, everyone as an enemy, and every problem as insurmountable. It makes us small. It makes us reactive.

If we want to be responsible citizens, we need our wits about us. We each need a regulated heart and nervous system. We need to be able to look at a crisis of any size and ask ourselves, What can I actually do? instead of simply being outraged.

Why Curation Matters

The art of curation isn’t just meant for museums or designers. Your attention is the most sacred thing you own. What you pay attention to becomes your reality.

If your newsfeed is 100 percent tragedy, your world is likely 100 percent tragic. You begin to believe that goodness has vanished. And when you believe goodness has vanished, you stop looking for ways to create it. You stop volunteering. You stop being kind to the cashier. You stop believing that a vote, or a protest, or a neighborly act matters.

Curating your feed to include “blooms” is an act of reclamation. You are saying to the world: “I will not give you my despair for free.”

Think of it as landscaping. If you own a plot of land and you let the weeds take over, you’ve just been lazy. (Reminder to self to pull the literal weeds in my yard.) To plant a rosebush or a row of tomatoes is an act of defiance against the weeds. It is an assertion that beauty and utility are just as real as rot.

The Responsible Citizen

I believe that the best citizens are the ones who have a “reservoir of the good.” They are the people who have filled their hearts with enough beauty, art, and stories of resilience that they have a surplus to give away.

When you bloomscroll, you are filling that reservoir. You are reminding yourself of what is worth saving. You are keeping your eyes trained on the capacity of human beings to be ingenious, kind, and creative. This doesn’t make you blind to the news; it makes you resilient enough to handle the news.

Moving Toward the Light

So, how do we do this without falling into the trap of toxic positivity?

First, we acknowledge that the “dark” is real. We don’t ignore the headlines. We read the news, but we do it with a timer. We get informed, and then we put the phone down. We don’t let the tragedy become our ambient noise.

Second, we go looking for the “blooms.” We actively follow the scientists, the artists, the poets, and the everyday saints. We populate our digital worlds with evidence of progress. Because the truth is, while “if it bleeds, it leads” is a rule of mainstream journalism, “if it heals, it lasts” is the rule of history.

When you see a video of a community cleaning up a river, don’t just “like” it. Really look at it. Let it sink in. Let it remind you that human hands are capable of cleaning as well as destroying. That is your evidence. That is your ammunition against despair.

The world doesn’t need more people who are paralyzed by global grief. It needs people who are energized by local hope. It needs people who can look at a problem and see a solution because they’ve been watching videos of other people finding solutions.

We are not meant to carry the weight of the globe on our shoulders. We are meant to carry the weight of our own backpacks and perhaps help the person next to us with theirs. To do that, we need to be strong. We need to be inspired.

So, I invite you to take a look at your digital garden today. Find three things that are beautiful, two things that are working, and one thing that makes you laugh. Notice how your daily experience of life changes.

Seven Things Worth Sharing This Week

To help with your bloomscroll, and to share a little from my world, here are seven things worth sharing this week:

1. Something I’m doing next month

My husband and I like to do a digital detox periodically to reap some of the benefits—like reduced stress and anxiety, improved focus, more time more connection to people than screens, and huge jumps in creativity—and it always ends up being so much fun. What better month to do it than in the summer when there’s so much to do and see? Now that we’re living in a city that doesn’t feel like it wants to kill us (allergenwise), we are thrilled to be playing outdoors again.

Care to join us?

2. Something I watched

We just finished watching a show called Station Eleven, based on the 2014 novel of the same name by Emily St. John Mandel, which I initially resisted because it’s described as a “post-apocalyptic saga spanning multiple timelines, telling the stories of survivors of a devastating flu as they attempt to rebuild and reimagine the world anew while holding on to the best of what's been lost.” Without giving any spoilers, this is unlike any other post-apocalyptic story I’ve ever seen or heard of. It’s beautiful, artful, poetic, and even inspiring. I’ll try to entice you with one little teaser: The story centers around a traveling symphony whose motto is “Survival is insufficient.”

3. Something I read

One of the books I’ve read recently that stood out is one you may have heard of by now as it’s become a bestseller—and for good reason: The Correspondent by Virgina Evans. I love books about correspondence, another favorite being A Transatlantic Love Affair: Letters to Nelson Algren by Simone de Beauvoir. Typically, these types of books contain real, historical correspondence between real people. I was wondering how a novel might work in this format, and I absolutely loved it. It’s often subtle, gently leading you through the inner workings of this woman’s mind and life, and before I knew it, I was deeply invested in her and her relationships—including a surprising little mystery and love story. There are so many beautiful excerpts I want to share, but I’ll share just this one:

“I think of life rather like a long road we walk in one direction. By and large a lonesome walk out in the wildness of hills and wind. Mountains. Snow. And sometimes there is someone to come along and walk with you for a stretch, and sometimes (this is what I’m getting to) sometimes you see in the distance some lights and it heartens you, the lone house or maybe a village and you come into the warmth of that stopover and go inside.” —Virginia Evans, The Correspondent

P.S. There’s a film adaptation in the works.

4. Something I’m listening to

I had gotten out of the habit of listening to radio altogether until I became friends with my new neighbor and her partner who travels back and forth from Manhattan, both of whom worked in public TV and radio, including NPR, and were pioneers in their own rights alongside some of the greats you may have heard of—and alongside others you might not have heard of but have likely experienced their influence. They shared with us about some of the local stations, including a college-student-run public radio station, which focuses on freeform broadcasting, allowing student and community DJs to curate their own diverse, alternative music and talk shows rather than following standard, mainstream playlists. I’ll admit: I love the concept but don’t always love the music selections. I do like that it keeps me fresh though, sometimes introducing me to new things and getting me out of a music rut.

Why public radio matters: It’s a vital public service that protects communities from becoming news deserts by delivering independent journalism and lifesaving emergency alerts, while enriching daily routines with trusted companion programming, local traffic, weather updates, and diverse cultural storytelling.

In case you’ve been out of touch with public radio or television, here’s a little help:

• NPR Station Finder: The easiest way to locate a nearby station is through the official NPR Station Finder, where users can input a zip code, city, or state to see a list of local frequencies.

• Public Radio Fan: For a broader directory that includes independent, community, and college radio stations, the Public Radio Fan Location Search database provides comprehensive local listings.

• PBS Station Finder: If looking for stations that cross-broadcast public television and radio content, the PBS Station Finder maps regional member networks.

5. Something I’m practicing

The first rule of permaculture is “observe and interact.” We just moved in to our new home in February and it’s been so fun to simple observe—seeing what we actually have in our yard, what comes up or blooms in unexpected places: tulips, forsythia, lilac, peonies (Lady Alexandra Duff, in case you’re interested), several varieties of ginormous hostas and plantain lilies, roses, and several thriving, gorgeous day lilies (that the previous owner “rescued” from a TGIFridays demolition site when it was going out of business.)

Permaculture is the philosophy of working with, instead of against, nature. By following this first principle and taking time to observe for at least one full season or year how natural cycles—like sunlight, water, wind, and wildlife—move through the space, and by grounding our plans in the actual reality of the site, we can hopefully prevent costly, exhausting mistakes.

[Thankful this is the first rule, because it’s one I can actually follow right now. I’m exhausted.]

6. Someone I’m following

I first heard Emily McDonald, known as “Emonthebrain,” on someone else’s podcast and then found her on her own podcast, Planetempodcast. She is a neuroscientist, coach, and consultant, who focuses on helping people rewire their brains and shift their mindsets. Listening to her feels like listening to a very smart and kind friend, someone who genuinely seems to care about people, who happens to have two neuroscience degrees and is also a little bit woo-woo.

7. Something I’m relearning

At the time of this writing, I have a 626-day streak on Duolingo. A few months ago, I began feeling burned out with learning languages, so I switched to chess. (In addition to offering 40 languages, they also have chess, math, and music.) I hadn’t played chess in probably fifteen years or more and was a terrible novice even then. My husband has been playing for years and has a decent Elo rating. Meanwhile, mine is a measly 519 (this means I’m still a novice, if you’re wondering), according to Duo.

Why learn chess?

• Enhanced Brain Function: Chess stimulates neuroplasticity (the brain’s ability to form new neural connections), which improves memory, spatial reasoning, and pattern recognition.

• Academic Achievement: Studies show that regular chess instruction boosts student performance, particularly in mathematics and overall cognitive ability.

• Deepened Focus: The high-stakes nature of the game trains players to block out distractions, building sustained concentration that translates to work and school environments.

I also occasionally use the chess.com app, which is free in case you’re interested in learning or don’t have anyone to play with. They have people they match you up with based on your Elo.

Also, if you want to nerd out on some competitive chess, now that the Knicks won their first championship since 1973 in the game 5 clincher, watch this video when the incredible Grand Master Magnus Carlson wins the TePe Sigeman 2026.

Learn—or relearn—something new. Your brain will thank you.

Wishing you a beautiful day and may your world be full of blooms in all forms.

Thank you for being here. ❤️

I didn’t know I needed this.

Laying on my sunroom floor, flat-backed,

legs on a chair, pillow under my head,

my eleven-pound terrier curled up on my belly,

accidental coregulating of our nervous systems

as I look through the window this early Mother’s Day mo(u)rning to see last night’s

waning crescent moon traverse against cornflower blue, Pantone 312.

“Hello, Carroll.”

I thought of the Artemis Crew and how much I love them,

and how they were just there in my line of sight, yet I could not see, and

tried to comprehend the miracle of flight and moon landings

and lunar circumnavigation.

“I love you to the moon and back.”

I thought of my mom and the empty Mother’s Day card still here in my collection

that I had purchased in 2023

(the one with daisies and the perfect expression for her)

not knowing she’d be gone to soon, early 2024,

—unsigned and unwritten—

waiting for that next May to roll around when it would be time to give it to her.

Funny how we hold on to perfectly good expressions of love,

waiting for some extrinsically assigned time to share them.

Charley—nearing fifteen in human years and about seventy-six in dogs’—

sighs and readjusts, but stays curled up,

and I don’t even mind her bony elbow digging into my ribs,

the weight of her applying pressure to my vagus nerve,

settling my system into a mode of rest and digest.

As she slept on me, I thought of how precious our bellies are—

where I could hold a comfortable place for her or for my lover’s head,

where my umbilical cord was literally connected to my mom,

where my unborn son, Ian, lived for a miraculous twenty weeks,

where years before that, it endured regular subcutaneous injections

to stimulate follicles below that couldn’t seem to reach a healthy 20 mm on their own

and doctors said, “I’m sorry, you won’t be able to,” and

where years before that, it withstood tiny incisions to remove years of endometriosis,

and faced additional threats of more incisions to address PCOS,

where years before that,

a virus so violent wreaked havoc and sent me to a hospital for a week.

I didn’t know I needed this.

I didn’t know I needed this.

I thought of how, this mo(u)rning, I woke up “in a funk” as some call it—

as it’s been too short of a time to be considered a true depression.

But there it was, alert and waiting funky fresh for me on what was otherwise

a perfectly good Sunday morning, sunny and sixty.

“You’re depleted; you have no dopamine,” my husband reminds me,

as we’re a week in to trying clean keto and

my body is still begging me to be a sugar burner,

though I’m doing everything to slay this dragon

and force my body into submission.

Why couldn’t this happen on a weekday,

when I could busy myself with work and deadlines?

Our bodies are smarter than we are,

as they are the ones who keep the score and know when to call a time out.

I hadn’t known what to do with myself,

bed-headed and crusty-eyed,

so I did what I’ve done every morning for years.

Let the dogs out,

got a cup of coffee,

thought about immersing myself in work anyway despite the weekend

to feel productive and ignore my needs,

decided to rebel instead and sit in the sunroom until something better gnawed at me.

I thought of how synchronistic the timing was.

Just last night I was browsing Libby,

learning that May is Mental Health Awareness Month—

“More Good Days, Together,”

adding a few titles to my TBR list

before deciding to sleep without reading anything at all.

I thought of the new group program my husband just launched this week,

one designed with an underlying intention for healing a person’s nervous system

—imagine that—

such interesting and inconvenient timing,

borderline rude interrupting my coveted time off.

This week’s topic was all about noticing.

So, as I lay there, I noticed in my direct line of sight

a small piece of clay and metal art from a friend with

a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson:

“What lies behind us and what lies before us

are small matters compared to what lies within us.”

Something I’ve seen hundreds of times,

but in its new position in our new home in our new city,

this stood out in a way that suddenly mattered.

Charley, still on my belly for the better part of an hour,

pressing on “what lies within,”

forcing intentional inhales to save my own life

before exhaling to save another’s through

perpetual people-pleasing.

Subliminal 432 hZ reaches me through

“Native American Flute with Rain Sounds”

while rosemary aromatherapy helps me to remember.

I thought of all that’s lying within . . . and noticed—

the overwhelm from two moves in a few short months

the joys and perils of downsizing when buying a new home,

the stress of three impending book deadlines on the same day,

a cluster of recent mishaps at work,

mental burnout,

physical burnout,

emotional burnout,

health scares,

hunger,

thirst,

complete and utter exhaustion,

unprocessed grief and fear and sadness and anger,

residue of climate trauma and tornado terrors,

remnants of “satanic panic,” rapture anxiety, and apocalyptic nightmares,

frustration about political unrest,

rage for victims who have been ignored for so long,

worries about family members and their health issues,

helplessness about how to make a difference,

feeling behind in reading my friends’ books,

correspondence and messages I keep meaning to reply to,

unfinished paperwork,

unprocessed mail,

equally unprocessed emotions,

the pressure to get my garden started,

the added pressure to get our home picture-perfect,

the self-inflicted burden of writing and posting and letting months go by without,

the fear that my lifelong passions have suddenly dried up,

the concern over whether or not I’m being true to my voice

or if my voice is simply changing . . . and into what,

stops and starts,

more stops,

false starts,

cherished memories,

past lovers,

friends I miss terribly,

family I feel like I barely know anymore,

family I’m just getting to know and miss already.

I didn’t know I needed this.

I didn’t know I needed this.

I thought of all the mothers I knew and how they might be spending today,

lunches and formal teas and dinners and well-deserved gifts,

hoping for each that they are being properly celebrated for all they do,

or that they’ll be left alone in peace to do exactly what I’m doing:

nothing

—which becomes everything.

How perfectly lovely this moment was suddenly becoming.

Intuition and accident had led me to co-create an impromptu sound healing

aromatherapy session with my aging canine companion

and I wondered how many more times I might have with her like this or if this were

something single and sacred,

like laying on the floor of the church lofts,

or dancing near the bay as the night jasmine blooms,

or swaying in the fields in Manchester to Lolawolf.

I promised myself I would lay there as long as she wanted, and tried to remember.

I didn’t know I needed this.

I didn’t know I needed this.

Charley finally stirred and moved to lay by the vent when the furnace came on,

my body heat no longer able to sustain us

and my belly losing to something mechanical.

I stirred as well, considering I might try to capture this

stream-of-consciousness snapshot of a simple mo(u)rning.

What might I tell anyone else who might be struggling?

I would tell them this:

It’s okay to show up exactly how you are—or aren’t.

It’s okay to take a break and lay on the floor and stare at Carroll’s Crater

or the ceiling

or the art you’ve ignored for years, quick allies to your own needs.

It’s okay to be unedited and unpolished and raw and real,

especially when so much in the world isn’t.

It’s okay to expose your Velveteen patches where the fur has been loved off.

It’s okay to feel all the feelings,

and it’s also very much okay to move on from them once you’ve acknowledged them

or whenever you’re good and ready.

It’s okay to change your mind.

It’s okay to change direction.

It’s okay to not always be okay.

And most important: You are not alone.

As I close today, I can’t help but think of the last line

from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey

as Chief Bromden escapes to reclaim his life.

“I’ve been away a long time.”

Thank you for being here. ❤︎

Wishing you all “More good days, together.”

Think of it. Why do we propagate plants? We take a cutting, often from a thriving, mature specimen, and we place it in a smaller container, sometimes just water, with the intention of encouraging new growth. We shed the old, established roots, trusting that in this temporary, seemingly restrictive environment, new, stronger ones will emerge. We don’t discard the parent plant; we simply give a part of it the chance to expand, to adapt, to flourish in a new way. This, my friends, is exactly what we’ve done.

Separate from the house itself, we shed nearly half our belongings, a painful but ultimately liberating process—including all of our beloved plants, as we discovered shortly before the move that our professional movers would not accept live plants in their truck (though one friend, who took the majority of my plants, insists she’s just fostering them for me). The sheer volume of “stuff” we accumulated in our Nashville home during the six-plus years we were there felt, in retrospect, like an anchor. It was the weight of expectations, the burden of materialism, the quiet hum of things demanding our attention. We also accumulated a lot of trauma (both big and little T traumas) and grief.

Trauma as I learned about my mother’s cancer diagnosis in January of 2020. Trauma when a tornado went over our home the next month as we huddled inside a closet beneath the stairs while our power and Wi-Fi went out, though we could still hear the emergency siren outside, providing a backdrop to the percussion of the debris slapping up against the side of our brick home. Trauma when the world shut down the following month as a global pandemic swept over the world, leaving us all feeling very confused and scared. Trauma when my husband’s mother encountered her own health issues, leading her to move in with us for a couple of years as we became her caretakers. Trauma when my husband had to undergo emergency life-saving surgery. Trauma when my mom who survived stage 4 small cell lung cancer that had metastasized to her brain had her first stroke and—just as my mother-in-law moved out to be on her own again (just a few miles away)—came to live with us. Within a year and a half after that, they both would pass away just five months apart, both after encountering multiple strokes of various sizes.

And that’s when grief took the reins.

There were multiple other losses during that time, everything from the death of my father to being robbed of a large amount of money from our savings that unfortunately our bank would not restore for us as the “bad actor” used technology to make it look like it was coming from our computer. (That’s a much, much longer story—with an ongoing investigation—that I still don’t feel ready to talk about.) And so much more.

Oddly enough, none of these are reasons why we left Nashville. These weren’t even secondary reasons. But a place does tend to hold memory.

The main reason for our move is this: We discovered while living there that Nashville is considered by many an “allergy bowl.” It’s consistently ranked as an allergy hotspot. (In case you’re considering moving there, consider this your PSA.) My husband, who hadn’t dealt with allergies since childhood, suddenly started having terrible allergies, including debilitating migraines, which became progressively worse each year. We tried various types of allergy medications, none of which seemed to help, and we soon discovered he’d have to be careful with these anyway because of another aforementioned health condition we discovered related to his heart, as many antihistamines can affect your heart rate.

But wait, there’s more. We both used to thrive in the heat, having lived in Southern California for more than two decades plus living in Mexico and Belize for several months when we first got married. But something happened to both of us—especially to my husband. Sometime during the pandemic, we both began experiencing issues with long Covid, and one of those symptoms is heat intolerance. (This is another PSA: If you have discovered in recent years your own issue with heat intolerance, including heat exhaustion, heat stroke, becoming dizzy and feeling sick, having had even mild cases of Covid may be why.) This has led to many occasions—especially during the long, hot, humid Nashville summers, which was made even worse this past year with the heat dome hitting upwards of 109 degrees—where we would be out at lunch with friends only to be withering and feeling nonfunctional by the time we got home. And with the way the climate seems to be trending, Nashville—and Tennessee as a whole—will only continue to get hotter. Any outings usually happened early in the morning or not at all.

We began looking for places with cooler temps. Even a difference of ten degrees during the summer might help. As much as we loved the Pacific Northwest, we didn’t feel called to go back there (many reasons for that too). We also loved Asheville and had previously considered moving there, but with recent heartbreaking events, I became admittedly hesitant. And although we both do love cooler weather, along with enjoying all four seasons, we didn’t want to go to a place where it got too much snow or had unbearably cold temperatures. We also decided that if we were going to leave the home we loved (we really, really loved our house), we wanted to make it worth it. We had to ask ourselves: What were we missing? Why weren’t we thriving? When were we our healthiest and most fulfilled, and what were those reasons? What lights us up? Where is our current lifestyle not in alignment with our values?

Everyone’s answers to these questions will be different, of course. It’s all so very personal. This first led to a lot of research online, starting in May when we took a trip to a Kentucky lake house. I had brought my husband here because I had read once that being near lakes can help relieve allergies. We were already well underway with allergy season by then, so this was a perfect time to go. I can’t recall which article I had read to lead me to this little experiment, but a recent web search and AI overview suggests the following reasons why being near a lake might help:

Fresher Air: Lakeside areas often have less pollution and more plants, leading to cleaner, oxygen-rich air that’s easier to breathe.

Lower Airborne Pollen: Sea breezes (and lake breezes) can blow allergens away, and moisture in the air helps prevent pollen from traveling as far, resulting in lower counts than inland areas.

Pollen Barrier: Water on the surface can trap pollen, making it less likely to become airborne and reach your nose.

Calming Effect: Being near water (”blue spaces”) can reduce stress, which can improve overall immune response.

It was during this trip that many ideas and new information collided, which led us to immediately researching places that might be a good fit for our personal needs, our unique health issues, our shared values, and our desired lifestyle. Several northern cities were recommended while researching, but one stood out among them all—a place we hadn’t even considered visiting before, let alone moving to: Ann Arbor, Michigan. What followed were three separate visits in what were considered high-allergen and high-heat months—June, July, and early September—each time seeing how we felt, both physically and emotionally. I’m grateful that I work for a publisher who allowed me to become a remote worker in order to keep me on their team, which is what allowed us to make this move when we did—once we sold our house.

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So, Here We Are

When we walked through our new, smaller apartment for the first time—moving from, I half expected to feel a pang of longing for the spaciousness we left behind. Instead, there was a breath of fresh air, a lightness I hadn’t realized I was craving. It was as if, in reducing our physical footprint, we had expanded our emotional and experiential one.

Upon reflection, this past year, the “year of the snake” in some spiritual traditions, felt like a period of shedding, of introspection, of preparing for this very act of propagation. Now, as the new year dawns, it feels like a time of new beginnings, of unfurling new leaves and reaching for the light. We are, quite literally, growing new baby roots in this unfamiliar soil.

And what a surprising soil it has turned out to be!

You’d think a smaller apartment would feel cramped, that the close quarters would lead to friction. But the opposite has been true for us. In what’s technically a smaller space, there seems to be more room for dancing. Almost daily, either my husband or I—or both—will spontaneously start dancing in our living room. It’s a joyful, unchoreographed release, a testament to the unexpected liberation that comes with less. Less clutter, less pressure, more freedom to simply be. This spontaneous joy, this unbidden rhythm, is something we rarely experienced in our larger Nashville home. Perhaps the wide-open spaces of our previous house invited a more sedentary existence, a quiet settling into routines. Or perhaps the grief still hanging heavy in the air there along with bittersweet memories of our moms. Here, in our cozy Ann Arbor nest, the energy is different, more vibrant, more prone to eruption.

Then there’s the outside world. In Nashville, we were creatures of habit, often staying in, especially during the warmest of times and so-called “nicest of weather” when people would typically be enjoying the outdoors. Here, even in the depths of winter, even when it’s snowing and raining, we’ve gone out nearly every day—including walking on trails, exploring many of Ann Arbor’s parks and green spaces, its year-round farmers market, it’s charming downtown scene. We bundled up and ventured forth, exploring our new surroundings with the eager curiosity of explorers in an uncharted land. On Christmas Day, we were driving around to find a coffee shop open for our annual peppermint mochas (our barista there was a PhD student, getting his doctorate in music/the clarinet, and with a goal to soon begin performing with the Detroit Symphony), and we ended up with mochas in hand out walking trails with our dogs, marveling at the quiet beauty of our new city. There are green spaces everywhere! (On our first trip here, we learned it’s well-known for its abundant green spaces, earning it nicknames like “Tree Town” due to its numerous parks, natural areas, and extensive trails, offering countless opportunities for outdoor recreation like hiking, kayaking, and exploring botanical gardens. The city’s park system covers over 2,200 acres, blending manicured areas with wild woodlands, making it a key feature of the community.) It was a profound shift, a clear signal that something fundamental had changed within us. We were no longer simply living in a place; we were engaging with it.

And did I mention the bookstores?! In just a week and a half of living here, we’ve visited six independent bookstores, all within a few miles of us, some within blocks of each other. It’s a literary lover’s paradise, a testament to Ann Arbor’s vibrant intellectual pulse. I discovered that Ann Arbor was once known for having more bookstores per capita than any other U.S. city, and the city has a strong reading culture, partly due to the University of Michigan and its history as a hub for activism and intellectual pursuits, attracting many book-related businesses. (At breakfast one morning, I asked our server if he had a nice holiday and he enthusiastically shared his favorite gift that he received: a book on the constitution that he couldn’t wait to devour this year.) While large chains like Borders (which started in Ann Arbor) are gone, many independent shops thrive. (And we do still have a Barnes and Noble just a couple of miles away. These are important too!) Many sources refer to Ann Arbor as a “book town,” reflecting its deep love for books and high concentration of booksellers. Barely a week in, we both became new library card holders.

Bottom line: We moved north to the “fresh coast” (a nickname for the Great Lakes region) primarily to escape heat and allergies. We moved here specifically for the green spaces, the walkability (walk score of ~94 compared with our home’s walk score of 1 out of 100), the abundance of bookstores, proximity to the university and all that comes along with that, better healthcare (that’s a long story for another time), smaller population and easier around-town traffic, the abundant public messaging of inclusivity, efforts toward sustainability and progressive environmental initiatives, community gardens, normalizing permaculture and front yard vegetable gardening and pollinator gardens, the arts & culture scene (Did you know Ann Arbor hosts the largest annual juried art fair in the nation???), its proximity to incredible beaches and the Great Lakes, the forests and stunning nature, and also for its proximity to larger cities like Grand Rapids and Detroit, which is experiencing a renaissance and significant revitalization. But these things aren’t everyone’s cup of tea—and that’s okay. (Speaking of tea, did I mention, they have a vibrant tea scene with adorable tea houses?)

Each discovery feels like finding a hidden spring, a new source of nourishment for our burgeoning roots. In Nashville, we had our beloved haunts, but nothing like this concentration, this tangible sense of a community built around the written word. (Unfortunately, we had to drive across town in heavy traffic to visit those favorite places.) It’s just another unexpected delight, a confirmation that this “crazy” decision was, in fact, incredibly sane—for us.

So many people, upon hearing of our move, raised an eyebrow. For them, Nashville might be better. It’s a city with its own undeniable charm, its own unique rhythm. But it wasn’t our rhythm anymore. For whatever myriad reasons, known and unknown, it no longer resonated with the beat of our lives.

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?

Sometimes, a life decision can seem utterly crazy, completely counterintuitive, even a step backward in the eyes of the world. But often, it’s precisely these seemingly illogical leaps that propel us forward, that allow us to shed the old skin and emerge stronger, more aligned with our true selves.

Propagation, after all, isn’t about abandoning the past. It’s about taking the essence of what you are and giving it a new opportunity to thrive. We brought with us the lessons learned in Nashville, the love we cultivated with each other and with the friends and community around us, and the many experiences that shaped us. But we also brought a willingness to let go of what no longer works for us, to embrace uncertainty, to trust in the process of rooting ourselves anew.

This isn’t to say it’s been entirely without its moments of doubt. There are still boxes in a small storage unit to unpack, unfamiliar streets to navigate, snow and weather to learn to drive in, new routines to establish, and hopefully a new house to buy. But these are the small, manageable challenges of growth, the equivalent of a plant adjusting to a new pot. The fundamental feeling is one of rightness, of alignment, of a deep-seated knowing that we are exactly where we are meant to be.

As the new year unfurls, I’m embracing this propagated self, this version of me that is both familiar and entirely new. I’m leaning into the dancing, the daily explorations, the quiet joy of discovering new bookstores around every corner. I’m letting go of the need for external validation, of the pressure to conform to someone else’s idea of “better.” And I hope this inspires you to do the same.

The beauty of propagation is that it allows for expansion, for the creation of something new from something existing. It’s a testament to resilience, to the inherent drive toward life and growth. This is an opportunity for not just surviving but flourishing. We are growing new roots, hopefully deeper and more expansive than before, preparing to firmly (and maybe permanently?) plant ourselves in our next new home, whenever and wherever that may be. For now, this temporary container, this vibrant city of Ann Arbor, is providing the perfect environment for us to unwind, dance, and discover what emerges.

Here’s to crazy decisions, to counterintuitive leaps, and to the astonishing joy of propagating oneself. Here’s to finding your rhythm in unexpected places—even in the snow.

Thank you for being here—and may you have a bright, blessed new year. ♡

Note: This is a personal account and human-interest story, not to be intended for medical advice. I am not a medical professional. Please always seek professional medical advice if you suspect you are having any sort of allergic reaction to anything.

On Monday I woke up around 5:30 am, sat down on the couch with my fresh cup of coffee and my laptop, and suddenly felt a stinging then burning sensation on my left calf—a burning so severe, I instinctually took off my pants.

I had been stung by a wasp.

This is my first wasp sting but my fourth time being stung by something. The first time I was stung, I was a small child running around barefoot near a lake where our family had rented a cabin for a fishing trip. I stepped on a bee and it stung me, though nothing happened. The second time, I was in my twenties, walking downstairs inside my home in San Diego and stepped on a bee that had somehow gotten inside. The side of my foot where it stung me swelled a little, but I was otherwise fine. Unfortunately, I learned on sting number three, about fifteen years ago, that I was allergic to bee stings. I had been walking through Balboa while on a first date, and my open-toed sandals had scooped up a bee. The sting hurt terribly, but I tried to play it cool, being on a date and all. And besides, I had been stung twice before, and nothing had happened, so I would surely be fine—right? Wrong. By the next day, my toe had looked like a Hillshire Farms Lit’l Smokey sausage link, and my foot progressively swelled up to the size of Bilbo Baggins’ Hobbit foot over the next couple of days. It became so bad, I couldn’t wear a real shoe—just my flip-flops, the official Southern California footwear. It wasn’t until a coworker friend said I seemed unwell that I took my stubborn self to see the doctor, where he explained to me that I was allergic to bee stings, and that each sting gets progressively worse. So here I was, sting number three, suddenly no longer to tolerate stings.

Fast-forward to this past Monday. I thought maybe wasps were different, and maybe I wouldn’t be allergic to them. Maybe I’d be okay.

By the next day, the swelling hadn’t gone down, but it was manageable. And given that Tuesday was our wedding anniversary—and I had taken off work to spend a day around town with my love—I was determined to enjoy it without letting a “little bug bite” interfere. We ended up having a fantastic day, but by Wednesday, it was a different story.

At first, I was relatively fine on Wednesday morning, and even went in to the office. I was heads-down, focused, editing a manuscript, when I was suddenly not so fine. The swelling had extended to a good inch and half outside the faded pen-drawn circumference on my calf that my husband had drawn two days before to note and monitor the sting area. I was feeling dizzy and unwell, and started to feel a “sensation” on my face and neck that is best described as “numb,” though only slightly. By mid-morning, the area on my leg had become so swollen and inflamed, it required a visit to the doctor’s office. More on why this happened to me below.

This brings me to . . .

Seven Things I Learned This Week

1. Wasps like to come inside during cooler weather.

Every year we have a few paper wasps that make their way into our home and it’s usually no big deal. They are usually slow-moving and keep to themselves by the window. It’s not uncommon for wasps to seek shelter and warmth inside homes during cooler months. We’ve never noticed one near our furniture before, but it’s not a bad idea to check—especially if you have pets and if you or a family member has an allergy. So be sure to shake out blankets and check under pillows or cushions before sitting down if you live in a cooler climate.

2. Wasp stings are worse that bee stings.

This one hurt far worse than my previous bee stings and it’s no wonder. There’s actually a pain rating for insects, and this infographic describes wasp stings as “caustic and burning, like acid on a cut,” and I couldn’t agree more.

3. There are 103,000 types of wasps in the world.

Wasps and bees are related, both belonging to the order Hymenoptera, except that wasps are carnivorous and bees are herbivorous. Wasps are more closely related to yellow jackets and hornets, belonging to the same family Vespidae.

Here are a few, courtesy of animalfact.org.

4. If wasp crosses your path, it may be trying to serve as a wake-up call.

Or perhaps it’s a message that you need to face your fears or set better boundaries. It may also be a symbol of courage or discernment or needed protection. And if you are stung by a wasp, it may be “an alert from the divine, a wake up call to follow the path of the person and do or be what is meant to do or be.”

5. Pepcid and Benadryl (even Children’s Benadryl) can be used to help with allergic reactions to stings.

Having been in denial most of my life about having any bug allergies, I didn’t have either of these on hand. In fact, I had never taken either of them and also had no idea that Pepcid (famotidine)—usually taken for heartburn or indigestion—can also act as an antihistamine and can even be used a supporting medicine for people with food allergies. (My friend with a peanut allergy confirmed this.)

6. Everyone has a “histamine bucket.”

The foods you eat can exacerbate an allergic response. While driving home from my doctor’s visit, I replayed the conversation about histamines and my body having a systemic response to the histamines. And I recalled various things I had read over the years about foods with histamines. When I got home, I decided to look up to see if there’s any correlation, and my intuition was right. Here’s an AI overview I found when asking about how this happens:

Here is how it works:

• The “Histamine Bucket” Effect: Both an insect sting (which causes immune cells to release a large amount of histamine into your system) and the histamine from your diet contribute to your body’s total histamine level.

• Symptom Threshold: When your overall histamine load exceeds your individual tolerance threshold (sometimes referred to informally as your “histamine bucket”), you start to experience symptoms.

• Compounding Effect: A sting releases a significant burst of histamine. If you then eat histamine-rich foods, you add more histamine to your system, which can push you over the threshold and cause new symptoms or make existing ones worse (e.g., increased itching, hives, swelling, or in severe cases, more serious systemic reactions).

7. My diet was part of the problem.

I got home and looked up high-histamine foods and discovered that in the past 24 hours, including Wednesday morning while at work, I ate almost exclusively high-histamine foods. Eggs, gluten, avocado (seriously???), cheese, chocolate, rose sangria for an anniversary toast. And Wednesday morning, I had eaten a small container of yogurt, which can have high histamine content, depending on the type. It was about thirty minutes later when I suddenly started feeling dizzy and overall unwell, and the sting area enlarged and inflamed to the point of needing medical attention.

Over the next couple of days, I did my best to eat low-histamine foods. And on the occasion where I accidentally ate something that I thought would be okay, I discovered I was wrong. Things like Ezikiel bread or honey or hummus posed a problem for me. I’m sure each person has unique responses and it’s important to notice what works and what doesn’t for you. The list of high- and mid-histamine foods is too huge to list here, so I recommend you do a search for particular foods (and all the ingredients it contains) when trying to reduce your histamine levels.

Here’s what I consumed on my low-histamine diet this week:

One cup of coffee per day with stevia

Overnight oats (with almond milk, chia seeds, flax seeds, hemp seeds, and blueberries)

Apples

Slow-cooked chicken (no seasonings at all; some spices have a histamine response)

White rice

Lots of water, often with half a scoop of supergreens powder (both spirulina and chlorella help inhibit histamines)

Roasted dandelion tea (low in histamine and doesn’t trigger histamine release, unlike other kinds of teas, which can trigger a histamine release)

Sweet potatoes with a little butter and fresh blueberries (suprisingly good)

Greek salad, minus tomato (histamine) with the smallest amount of dressing, maybe a teaspoon (vinegar in dressing has histamines)

Grilled salmon

Grilled steak

Roasted vegetables

Pepcid (maximum two times per day)

Children’s Benadryl (half a dose at a time; I’m highly sensitive to medicines)

Quercetin (inhibits histamine release by stabilizing the cells that store and release histamine in response to allergens and irritants)

Vitamin C [helps manage histamine levels by acting as a natural antihistamine, reducing the amount of histamine the body produces and promoting its breakdown by the enzyme diamine oxidase (DAO)]

Aside from diet, another thing that helped me—both with itching and stinging, and with the heat and inflammation—was wrapping an ice pack in a hand towel and resting my leg against it.

I’m still on this healing journey. In fact, today I started to feel so good, got a little cocky, and chanced it with some higher-histamine foods and very soon regretted it. (Will I ever learn?)

On that note, I’ll leave you all with a little song from none other than Sting, because music is healing and I still have my sense of humor intact.

(This one goes out to you, TT.).

Be well, everyone. Thank you for being here.

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1. A Show I’m Finally Watching

Stanley Tucci: Searching for Italy (2021-2022). The Tooch. The Tuccinator. Tooch McGooch. For some reason, I’ve given this award-winning actor a series of unfortunate nicknames, though it’s not for lack of respect. I like to think it’s more that he’s someone I’d like to be friends with. Anyway, this is a show that brings together so many things I love: travel, culture, cuisine. Which leads me to . . .

2. A New Recipe I’ve Added to My Collection

Inspired by Stanley Tucci’s show, my husband asked if I could make Italian food for dinner one night. I decided to try making an authentic Italian Bolognese and found this recipe from An Italian in My Kitchen that was deliziosa!

Note: I didn’t have ground pork, so I used only ground beef. I also didn’t have red wine, so I left that out. Then I added a dash or two of nutmeg, as it’s often considered the quintessential spice in authentic bolognese. Next time, I’ll try it exactly as intended and see if the missing ingredients are worth it. (I might still add the nutmeg though.)

3. A Song I Can’t Get Out of My Head

I’m late to the party with this one. Not even fashionably so. A few months ago, I stumbled upon a video from 2016 of musicians Pharrell Williams and Maggie Rogers and was instantly captivated by just the first few notes in the song, “Alaska.” This may be one of the best “reaction videos” I’ve ever seen, showing Pharrell listening to the recording of Maggie’s song (created from one of her homework assignments) when he visited NYU’s masterclass where Maggie attended.

Here’s her official video and the final mix of the song.

4. A Project I’m Embracing

On November 1st, I wrote an article called “Writers Going Rogue” about the ending of NaNoWriMo (the now-defunct National Novel Writing Month) and the beginning of BoWriMo (Book Writing Month). Why should novelists have all the fun? My goal was to get the first draft finished for one of the many random books I’ve been “meaning to write” over the past couple of decades. But instead of working on an existing idea, I started something new and I’m close to 8,000 words in—just a little short of my goal.

What about you? Are you ready to finally take on that writing project you’ve been thinking about for years?

5. A Flower I Fell in Love With

In September, I was walking through a gorgeous park with community gardens and encountered the most beautiful patch of dahlias I had ever seen. I’ve seen plenty of dahlias in my life, and they’re always lovely. But there was something about seeing this plot dedicated entirely to various varieties of dahlias that took my breath away. By the way, I learned there are more than 50,000 cultivated varieties of dahlias—and it appears this plot owner is attempting to plant as many as they can here.

Here are a few quick snaps I managed to catch as we were quickly walking by.

6. A Film I Was Surprised By

It’s highly unusual that a “horror” film could be so touching and thought-provoking, and yet, that’s exactly how I felt while watching Stephen King’s latest release, The Long Walk—a dystopian thriller based on King’s 1979 novel of the same name. I want to be careful to not give away any spoilers, but in spite of some difficult and graphic scenes, I couldn’t help but think how beautiful some of the final messages were.

One of my favorite lines of dialogue:

“Every moment matters—especially at the end.”

Any other lines might give too much away, so I’ll leave it at that.

But I am taking this to heart and attempting to live more intentionally, loving all the moments.

7. A Topic I Learned Was Trending

Every once in a while, I like to look up what’s trending as part of what I do for work. Perhaps something will inspire a new book proposal or acquisition. I discovered that “Immersive Experiences” were the number one search term in America with a search growth of 950% at the time of this writing.

What’s an immersive experience? It’s one that fully engages a person’s senses to make them feel as though they are part of a different world. These experiences might involve technology like virtual reality (VR), augmented reality (AR), and mixed reality (MR) to blur the lines between the physical and digital. But these experiences can be both digital and physical, encouraging active participation through sensory stimulation, storytelling, and interaction to create a memorable and transformative event.

That’s great and all, but—why now?

An AI overview suggested, “Immersive experiences are trending in 2025 due to a combination of factors, including a post-pandemic desire for connection, technological advancements in AR and LED screens, and the growing “experience economy” that prioritizes memorable moments over material goods. These experiences are increasingly used across industries like entertainment, retail, and corporate events to create more engaging and impactful interactions.”

Ready to escape some of today’s difficult realities and become immersed in something new? Here is a list of ways to explore. Use these search terms + city or location to find immersive experiences near you—or add it to your next travel destination.

• Immersive Art Experiences

• Immersive Dining

• Escape Rooms and Mystery Games

• Immersive Theater

• Immersive Theme Park Attractions

Have a great week!

Thank you for being here. 🩷

It was a sprint, not a marathon, and the motto was simple: Quantity, not quality. The goal wasn’t to write a masterpiece; it was to write a novel-shaped object and, in doing so, prove to yourself that you actually could. It became a global phenomenon, an annual ritual that provided scaffolding for stories that might otherwise have stayed locked in the dark corners of our minds, collecting dust like old high school trophies.

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Nano No Mo’

And yet, here we are. This November, the official, sanctioned, nonprofit scaffolding is gone. The original organization—which grew from a few friends to a massive global community with a Young Writers Program and hundreds of thousands of participants—sadly shuttered its doors earlier this year.

So, why did this happen? Well, as with most things that fail to pay their electric bill, it’s both simple and complex, much like your first NaNo draft. The simple part is money. Arts nonprofits struggle, and the sheer cost of keeping a global community website humming proved too much. But there’s a more complex controversy that I haven’t fully unraveled—and frankly didn’t even know about until I started writing this article. I found many sites online that explain what happened, and here’s one from Literary Hub that sums it up: “The nonprofit has had some challenges in recent years, stemming from both money and missteps. Arts nonprofits seem to always be struggling for cash, but NaNoWriMo’s troubles were made worse after it was scrutinized for some inappropriate behavior by volunteers and moderators and then more recently for its equivocating stance on AI.”

So, the question now is: Do we let the creative spark it ignited simply flicker out and die?

Absolutely not. Because, my friends, the act of writing is about so much more than a word count goal or a publishing contract.

A New Proposal

I’d like to first propose a toast NaNoWriMo for what it was—a beautiful, communal burst of creativity and madness—and commit to keeping the spark alive on our own terms.

The goal was never to join a club; the goal was to write.

And as a book editor, writer, and writing coach who mainly works in nonfiction—including creative nonfiction, lifestyle, poetry, and memoirs—I’ve often been frustrated by the exclusivity of NaNoWriMo, as it focuses mainly on . . . well . . . novel writing only. But what about all the people who have other types of books in them?

So, I propose a new model. Simply:

BoWriMo

Book Writing Month.

Whether it’s November, December, January or some other month, BoWriMo can happen anytime. Why stick to November? When you get that wild hair, I encourage you to tap that energy and enthusiasm and run!

And here’s something that might surprise you: A lot of the book contracts I’ve seen for nonfiction, poetry, and memoirs in the last six years aren’t for 50,000 words, as NaNoWriMo’s guidelines suggested. The majority are right around that 30,000-word mark, sometimes 35,000.

So, I propose a new goal of writing 30,000 words instead of 50,000. That’s only 1,000 words a day. That’s totally doable and achievable. Can you write more? Of course. This is just a guideline to get started and let it flow.

(Heck—this morning by 8:27 am I’d already written 564 words as I typed that last word: achievable.)

Whether you’re a former NaNo writer, a lapsed poet, or someone who hasn’t written a creative word since your ninth-grade English paper, the time is now. You don’t need a forum, a pep-talk email, or an official validator. (But if you do, consider this it.) You just need a clock, a calendar, a chair, and a willingness to be gloriously, imperfectly messy for a little while. Of course, you also need something to write with—either a laptop or pen and paper.

Because I want this to be accessible to anyone, if you don’t have a laptop, you can go to your local library and use their computer. Save your work in a Google drive.

This should cost you literally nothing. You don’t need a new computer. You don’t need Scrivener. You don’t need a new leatherbound journal or fountain pen. Grabby a ratty notebook and get to it.

Why Does This Matter?

I’ve spent most of my career watching writers—both published and unpublished—struggle with the daunting task of writing a book. They expect perfection of themselves.

But I assert that we need to be willing to “write the shit.”

Pardon the expletive, but that’s an exact word-for-word quote I heard in my twenties from someone in the publishing industry (whose name I don’t remember) at a writer’s conference in Southern California. I’ve used the phrase countless times while coaching other writers (and myself) to allow ourselves to be willing to get out all the stuff that’s in the way. (I’ve even used the idea to encourage one of my besties who is an artist, to “paint the shit” when she gets down on herself about her art.) Let yourself create the stuff that wants—and needs—to come out. Because after all that noise has left the system, you’re sometimes left with a more profound truth and a sense of peace that transcends anything I can explain here.

Writing doesn’t always need to lead to publishing, either. Sometimes we . . .

Write to process.

Write to heal.

Write to quiet your mind.

Write to figure out a problem.

Write to remember.

Write to forget.

Do I believe writing can actually be a healing process?

Absolutely. I’ve experienced it myself and have witnessed it in others, especially those daring to attempt to write their own memoirs. I’ve watched writers struggle with the truth of what happened in their life, write it all out on the page, see it, read it, re-read it, sometimes get therapy after seeing it, deal with it, delete it, and then publish a slightly “safer” version they can live with being released into the public. I’ve also watched someone spend the time and energy to write a brilliant, compelling memoir, face their demons, and then decide publishing their book wasn’t their goal after all. They just needed to do it for the sake of doing it. And that’s a completely valid reason to write—for an audience of one.

Why Bother?

If you, like me, were wondering about the effectiveness, quality, or outcomes produced by NaNo, I found this list on GoodReads, which says, “Every November, scads of people commit to writing a novel as a part of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Some of them eventually get published! This list was originally populated from http://www.nanowrimo.org/publishedwrimos.”

You cand find a list of published books that were originated during NaNoWriMo here: Published NaNoWriMo Books (99 books)

And here are “5 Bestsellers That Started Out As NaNoWriMo Projects” from LitReactor:

Will I Be Participating in BoWriMo?

I think so. Today is November 1st. It’s not yet 9:00 am here on Saturday as I type this sentence. I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee yet. I already know that I might not be able to write every day, but can I write 2,000 words the next day to make up for it? Yes. Might I get busy and fail and fall short? Of course. Am I therefore afraid to make a public declaration like this? Eeek! Definitely. Will I likely start with something I think will be easy? Absolutely.

I say all that because I have a list of books in me that I haven’t managed to get out of my brain yet—mainly because I’ve spent most of my life trying to help others get theirs our or ghostwriting other people’s books. At the very least, I can make progress and move the dial. After all, these books aren’t going to write themselves!

What about you?

Care to join me in this endeavor? Do you have a story in you that wants to come out? Maybe even needs to come out?

Proposed Schedule

An online search for the average time it takes to write 1,000 words led me to this AI overview that we could use as a model:

Pure Typing (Average Speed): 25 minutes

Light Research & Writing: 1–2 hours

Heavy Research, Writing & Basic Editing: 3–4 hours or more

My recommendation would be to stick to those first two and get out as much as you can with light research when necessary and then come back when you’re finished to fill in with any heavier research.

Here’s a little guidance from the aforementioned article in LitReactor talking about Erin Morgenstern, author of The Night Circus:

As someone who’s taken part in multiple NaNoWriMos, Morgenstern has a lot of guidance for aspiring NaNo-ers. Here are her tips, straight from the horse’s mouth. I’ll let her have the last word:

1. Never delete anything.

2. If possible, get a running start.

3. Do something, anything that doesn’t involve writing once in a while.

4. Backup.

5. Take risks.

6. When in doubt, just add ninjas.

Let’s do it for the stories.

Go on. Get writing. The world is waiting, and frankly, your prefrontal cortex could use the workout.

I thought I had pared down.

I thought I had simplified.

But there’s nothing like an impending move to help a person force a deeper cut in their belongings, which means taking a closer look at the life they are meant for—creating, of course, a huge upheaval along with it. I say “impending” because, since July, my husband, John, and I have used our free time and spare energy to sort, declutter, partially pack, and stage a home in preparation for listing, along with doing some minor upgrades, home repairs, and deep cleaning. And since we don’t yet have a new place to move to—as our next home is contingent on us selling this one—we don’t know exactly where . . . let alone when . . . that will be. So, impending it is.

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Dilemmas Along the Way

We had to create a new strategy around this particular move as it was unlike any others from our past. This involved us asking the following questions for every single item and piece of furniture:

• Are we keeping this, donating, trashing, or putting it in the garage sale?

• And if we’re keeping this, are we packing it or staging it?

This meant that we had to also become strategic about how we used the space in our house to even begin this crazy packingpalooza.

So I created a master plan, bringing in various philosophies from some of my favorite homemakers and organizers—everything from Marie Kondo’s “spark joy” to the Home Edit ladies’ “edit, categorize, contain, and maintain,” plus whatever other random knowledge I’ve acquired over the years, including experience from my own many moves throughout my life. But there are a few things that no one really focuses on:

• How do you do this during a move when you don’t know where you’re moving to yet—or when?

• Will we find the home we want to purchase right away or will we need to rent an apartment for a while?

• Will we need to put things into storage (something I’m against doing if it’s at all avoidable) and if so, how do we then pack accordingly for what’s living with us and what’s being stored?

As of this writing, I count thirty-one different places I’ve lived. Thirty-one moves beginning from the time I was a toddler. So I employed my lifetime of experience into this process and two initial steps to keep it simple:

1. Start in the garage to create a temporary staging area for the garage sale.

2. After that, move our packed boxes for moving to this location, for staging.

I then created a system and multi-paged spreadsheet for how to strategically—with the least amount of stress and friction—declutter, organize, clean, and prep part of the garage for our garage sale, all in one go. And it worked.

For a few weekends in a row, we systematically made our way through the house, going page by page of my plan, until we were finally ready for our garage sale. By the time we were done with donating, tossing, giving items away to friends, and setting up the actual sale, I estimate we got rid of close to half of our belongings. (And that feels great to my cozy minimalist heart!)

We’re now in that waiting and strategizing phase as the real estate market has softened quite a bit, and we’re living in a staged home with only the essentials. It’s admittedly forcing some creativity on our ends.

Creature Features

For a few months prior to our decision to move, I had been suddenly sensing snake energy. I don’t know how to explain this in any normal-person sort of way, except to say that I became suddenly paranoid that there was a snake somewhere in our home, particularly in the garage. It’s irrational, I know. But I have had a lifelong irrational fear of them and sometime around late spring began checking the garage a bit compulsively every time I’d walk out to my car or to sort the recycling. I’d lived in this home for years with no sign of a snake yet had suddenly become a bit neurotic about it.

So imagine my surprise that first day when we were cleaning and decluttering the garage, and I saw a long-ish reptilian tail flee from a cluttered pile! I was right! We had a snake in our garage!!! Ack! The horror!!!

However, we quickly realized it was a salamander—which seemed particularly synchronistic to us at that time because we had just finished reading Fahrenheit 451 for my Banned Book Club in which the salamander is highly symbolic. Mythically, salamanders are believed to withstand high temperatures and fire. They represent rebirth, much like a Phoenix. Regardless, we escorted him out of the garage so we could continue our work. And we remarked how this felt symbolic of our own rebirth as we embark on this new chapter of our lives. It felt like a message: We were on the right track.

The next day, I was pulling into my now-clean garage and saw the salamander sitting there, right in the middle of the clean floor, basking in his new spacious, spotless digs, and also perhaps upset that we had removed his main food supply of dead insects from the corners of the garage. I stopped the car so I wouldn’t run him over and got out to get a better look at him while also wondering how I would shoo him out, and thankfully he scurried away to the yard. Crisis averted.

A few days later as I was coming home, John called and said, “When you get home, don’t pull into the garage and don’t get out of your car.” I assumed the salamander was back—or maybe he had a whole family there now, ready to take us on and demand their habitat back. As I was sitting in traffic, John sent me a video: We had a snake, close to three feet long, at the front edge of our garage! Horror of horrors! As I arrived home, I parked in the driveway but didn’t heed the second part of his warning and instead got out so I could see the snake for myself, in spite of my fears. John was eventually able to scoot him out using a broom, but I also felt strangely vindicated and almost at peace. I wasn’t going crazy after all; I’m just somehow acutely aware and strangely in tune with things like this. It’s possible, based on something I just learned about this week called “snake detection theory” that I subconsciously picked up on normal sensory cues like a sound, smell, or otherwise.

We assessed that it was a harmless garter snake based on its features. My way of coping with anything remotely distressing is to read about it, and I learned in that moment that one of the things that garter snakes eat is—get this—salamanders. It suddenly all made sense to me. And it’s particularly interesting to note that snakes also represent rebirth and transformation.

Messages doubly received.

We haven’t seen either of them in our garage since then.

The One with the Body Parts

This brings me to what I actually intended to write about after not having written in so long, but it’s something I’ve been avoiding in real life, so naturally I’m taking the long way ’round here too.

One of my favorite episodes of Friends is season 8, episode 14, “The One with the Secret Closet.”

For the past few years, I’ve been living with my own secret closet. Our house is set up with his and hers walk-in closets off the primary bedroom, but with two people who don’t like clutter—and one who outright refuses to have anything extra in his—all of the random stuff ended up in mine. This includes old family historical papers, photographs, memorabilia, and files. And a lot of our moms’ belongings.

There was one small area still left to go through in a corner of my bedroom closet, even after all the decluttering and sorting, and even after the garage sale. I had been avoiding this corner for more than a year now because it’s where I’ve kept both of our mom’s purses, along with their jewelry boxes, plus little trinket boxes and miscellaneous tchotchkes. I’ve attempted to go through their purses about a dozen times in the past year, but get no further than looking at them, maybe picking them up by their straps, then feeling suddenly overwhelmed, and putting them back in their corner, cozied up together like the friends they were later in life. I just couldn’t bring myself to go through them, aside from getting their wallets when needed to deal with any of their medical or financial issues. Otherwise, I’ve left them alone and intact.

Purses are so . . . personal. On some level, it made sense to me that I’ve avoided going through them and sorting through whatever’s in there, and ultimately getting rid of them, because in some strange way, this was one more layer of letting go that I wasn’t ready for. Sure, I could’ve thrown the purses in a box, packed them, and moved them to our new home to deal with at a future date. But I remembered the snake and the salamander and their messages.

Shed the old skins. Rebirth. Transform.

One afternoon, my husband was on a call that I knew would take a long time, so I sat on my closet floor with both purses next to me when I knew I could be alone with them without being interrupted. I wanted—and needed—this time for myself. How it came to be that I was the keeper of purses is perhaps simply because I am a woman and also a purse-carrier, or maybe because I was the only one who understood them, understood their significance.

I decided to look up the significance of women’s purses to validate my feelings, or provide some clarity so I could sort through the more complicated feelings I was experiencing around these particular possessions, aside from the obvious letting go of our moms. A Google AI overview offered something that made a lot of sense to me and helped me to process whatever it was that I hadn’t been able to put my finger on. “Women’s purses are significant for their dual role as a practical necessity and a powerful form of personal and cultural expression, evolving from a symbol of female liberation and social status to a statement of individuality and style. Historically, they provided women with a way to carry personal belongings when clothing lacked pockets and were essential for increased independence, becoming a key part of women’s empowerment as they entered public life. Today, they remain vital for storage, while also serving as a reflection of a woman’s personality, fashion sense, and even her social standing.”

This was a rabbit hole I started to go down, looking up when the purse was invented. As it turns out, the first recorded “purse” that we know if is from about 5,000 years ago, and belonged to Ötzi the Iceman—a mummified man discovered in 1991 along the border of Italy and Austria.

Somehow that original AI overview made so much sense for me and helped me acknowledge the significance of each. Both of our moms were extremely independent. It helped make this part of the journey a little more sacred to me, and I was able to speak this out loud to each of them while sitting in the little corner of my closet and acknowledge these things. Weird? Maybe. But grief and goodbyes are unruly.

I started with my mother-in-law’s purse, a camel-hued leather satchel, with lots of compartments both inside and out. Without going into all the micro details of her belongings, one distinctly interesting finding was this: a snack-size baggie with a human tooth inside—which I assume and hope belonged to her. Why she had this, I will never know. She never appeared to be missing one, though I wonder how many little details I had missed while she was here. How many loved ones’ details do I miss every day? I showed the baggie with the tooth inside to my husband and told him, “I know this is weird, but I kinda wanna keep it.”

Without hesitation, he said, “No. Absolutely not.”

So, I honored his decision and tossed the little snack bag with some sort of molar inside, giving up on my momentary dream of having an Etsy artist make me some weird ring out of it or working it into some other bizarre keepsake somehow.

I moved on to my mom’s purse. Working on these two purses back-to-back was a bit surreal for me. They both had nearly identical belongings inside, and aside from the color (my mom’s was red), they were a very similar satchel style with several compartments—secret pockets to apparently hide body parts. From the main compartment, I pulled out the same items from my mom’s as I did from my mother-in-law’s: a wallet stuffed with random handwritten notes and lists, a full-size make-up bag with their cosmetics and signature shades of lipsticks (dark toffee for his mom, and a powder-kiss pink for mine), plus fingernail clippers, tweezers, cough drops, pill boxes, small sewing kits, travel tissues. And then from one of the little side pockets, I pulled out my mom’s set of dentures. Yes, that’s right: more teeth! What were the chances of this? I tried to remember the formulas for probability from statistics.

If you knew both of our moms and witnessed how this scene actually played out inside my closet, it seemed like they were there having their last laugh with me. My mom comes from a line of practical jokers and his mom loved having a good laugh at the absurd like this. The two of them together had a funny little way about their friendship that we felt privileged to witness, and I was happy that, together, they somehow unknowingly brought together this most bizarre and hilarious memory for me. Whatever sadness I was experiencing with this final stage of letting go was subverted by the surreal. I couldn’t help but laugh. And then I set their empty purses into a box to donate—together.

I thought of Ötzi the Iceman and wondered what sorts of things a man from his time might carry as he traversed the Ötztal Alps 3,200 meters above sea level circa 3250 BCE. I learned from the Penn Museum that his belt pouch—the original fanny pack—contained medicinal fungus, tinder fungus, a scraper, a boring tool, a bone awl, and a flint flake.

Maybe finding teeth in a purse isn’t so strange after all. Maybe not much has really changed for us as humans trying to navigate our ways through this strange world—each of us really just wanting to feel like we’re safe and prepared for whatever comes our way.

This learning process helped me understand that a purse is more than just a container for keys and cash; it’s a profound symbol of autonomy and a self-curated life. It’s a portable sanctuary that a person carries into the world, declaring their independence and capacity to manage their own existence, and sometimes helping to manage the existence of others. From the first ChapStick to the final set of car keys, the purse (or backpack or diaper bag) holds the tools necessary to navigate the outside world without relying on anyone else. It’s the tangible manifestation of agency. Inside that fabric shell, a person doesn’t just store necessities; he or she preserves their priorities, their secrets, and a chaotic, intimate portrait of their daily existence, making the act of looking inside it one of the most personal discoveries we can make.

The Unpacking to Come

Our impending move is what forced my hand, but those two purses belonging to our moms have already given me an unexpected head-start on the emotional work of moving. As I continue to pack up my own life, the memory of those teeth—surprising, intimate, and a little unsettling—feels less like a curiosity and more like a secret key to what matters.

This act of sorting, I realize, has been my own personal shedding of skin and a new sense of preparedness for what’s next. Just as the snake and salamander stand for rebirth and renewal—symbols I’d only intellectualized until now—emptying those bags has shown me renewal in the most tangible way. A purse is far more than a leather pouch; it’s a portable memoir, a fortress of agency and independence. In emptying their bags, I rediscovered the fiercely independent women who carried them, learning that independence isn’t clean or orderly—it’s messy, complicated, and sometimes involves keeping a strange necessity close.

Discovering those teeth wasn’t just a shock; it was a final, loving piece of evidence that they were fully, gloriously themselves. As I start fresh, I hear their call for me to shed any old patterns and conditioned beliefs so I can follow my own path, and keep whatever I cherish close, however strange or absurd it may be.

Thank you for being here.

“The only way to predict the future is to create it.”

—Abraham Lincoln, attributed

I’ve wanted to post this several times over the past few weeks, including posting in time for the Independence Day holiday, but as the world keeps changing faster than I can keep up with it, I have had to slow down and come back to center.

I’m keenly aware of world events and the ways in which we all can be easily whipsawed. It would be easy for me to complain about said events, but one of the things I aim to do is talk more about what I love and what I would like to see rather than what I don’t. So I’ll share a little story along with some of the ways I’m combatting the things I don’t want with the things I do—in case something here inspires you.

* * *

In the midst of grief and mourning the loss of our moms last year—following four years of caregiving—I heard a quote somewhere that shook me awake:

“I’m ready to make my life beautiful again.”

It was a simple sentence that cut through my grief and guilt and reached deep inside, grabbed a hold of something, and pulled me forth. It wasn’t that beauty wasn’t present; I’m able to see it almost anywhere—even while saying a long goodbye. Perhaps especially then.

But the statement stirred me awake again and served as a gentle guide, a sort of north star shining a path toward honoring the loss of my loved ones along with realigning with my values.

Whenever I feel myself slipping back into the ashes of sadness or fear or anxiety, I reach for this and remember. It’s become a sort of mantra, a prayer, and I wanted to offer it to anyone reading.

The news, summer heat domes, watching loved ones struggle, global politics and events . . . whatever is going on in the world, we can still create little beautiful nooks right where we are. Making things beautiful, when life circumstances feel like anything but, is an act of rebellion. It’s saying, “No. This will not stand. Not on my watch.” It’s stepping into agency. I’ve seen other creators out there who have similar stances, and I think it’s important for others to know we’re not giving up on making the world a better place, however we can.

So, if you woke up feeling like the world is a little darker and gloomier, maybe with a knot in your stomach, despair creeping in, grief overtaking you, or nihilism trying to convince you that nothing you do will ever make a difference—whatever turmoil you’re facing (personal or global or otherwise)—please know you are absolutely not alone.

In these times, when the grand narratives feel overwhelming and anxiety-inducing, perhaps the most profound act of resilience and rebellion is to find, cultivate, and fiercely protect the quiet places of calm and beauty within and around ourselves.

And then maybe go ahead and flip a table.

Here are some of the ways I’m intentionally rebelling against despair and creating the kind of world I want to see.

1. Start a beautiful movement.

A couple weeks or so ago at our nation’s capital, they bulldozed the lawn of the historic and symbolic White House Rose Garden. To some, a symbol of resilience and continuity. To others, a symbol of elegance, tradition, and enduring beauty. An article by Native Gardners perhaps said it best: “The White House Rose Garden stands as a symbol of timeless beauty and resilience. It continues to inspire awe and admiration, serving as a living testament to the enduring legacy of the White House and the nation it represents. As visitors stroll through its manicured paths and admire its vibrant blooms, they are reminded of the enduring power of nature and the enduring spirit of America.”

Symbols aside, the rose garden has long been a place used for hospitality and ceremony and sharing public messages. Upon hearing this news, my heart sank. I couldn’t help thinking of the “Big Yellow Taxi” lyris: “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” Anytime nature is paved over, I notice a feeling of sadness creep in, and it felt especially maddening to me this time.

So, I have this fantasy of starting a beautiful movement: What if 75,017,613 of us went big with roses (or other flowers of choice) and planted our own flower gardens, however large or small, all over our country—as an act of beautiful rebellion, making our corners of the nation flourish wherever we are? Or gifted bouquets to partners, friends, neighbors, coworkers? Or planted rogue rose bushes in public spaces where there is otherwise rubble? Using each planting or gift as silent remembrances of loved ones or expressions of hope for colorful futures?

Is it too soon? Am I naive for having a hope so grand?

Maybe—on both counts. But I’d rather be blushing with naivete as nihilism does not suit my complexion. So, if you’re game, read on.

In general, roses symbolize love, beauty, passion, and nobility. Here’s a list of the different meanings of roses based on color:

Red: Love, passion, romance, courage, sacrifice.

Pink: Gratitude, admiration, grace, happiness.

White: Purity, innocence, new beginnings, sympathy.

Yellow: Friendship, joy, happiness, platonic love.

Orange: Enthusiasm, desire, fascination, excitement.

Purple: Enchantment, majesty, splendor.

Green: Fertility, new beginnings, good health.

Blue: Mystery, unattainable, something new.

Bonus: On average, depending on the type and size, a single tree absorbs 22 kg of carbon dioxide per year. Over its lifespan, which can span decades or even centuries, a single tree can absorb and store several tons of carbon dioxide. Each tree you plant helps reduce your own personal carbon footprint.

2. Let your art speak for you.

I mentioned “Big Yellow Taxi” above—an all-time favorite song of mine. I decided to look up this song today and discovered the following from the Joni Mitchell’s website:

Joni introduced the song this way on November 29, 1969:

“Two weekends ago I went to Hawaii. It was my first time there and I was only there for two days which was kind of a bummer, I wish I could’ve really seen more of the island and I arrived there at 11 o’clock at night and the next morning I ran to the window and threw back the curtains and sure enough, there it was, paradise, you know, green, lush hills, old Sugarloaf Mountain up there, white birds flying low, Myna birds all over the place, and, right in the middle of it all, was a big parking lot [laughing]. So I wrote this little rock and roll song to commemorate the occasion. It’s called “Big Yellow Taxi,” or, alternately, “They Paved Paradise and Put in a Parking Lot.”

As archived in Mojo Magazine’s March 2019 issue: “I wrote Big Yellow Taxi on my first trip to Hawaii. I took a taxi to the hotel and when I woke up the next morning, I threw back the curtains and saw these beautiful green mountains in the distance. Then, I looked down and there was a parking lot as far as the eye could see, and it broke my heart…this blight on paradise. That’s when I sat down and wrote the song. When it first came out, it was a regional hit in Hawaii because people there realised their paradise was being chewed up. It took 20 years for that song to sink in to people most other places. That is a powerful little song because there have been cases in a couple of cities of parking lots being torn up and turned into parks because of it.”

I love this example of the power of music to change the world. Or to change us. I love that she used music as a form of rebellion against what she saw as an injustice or affront.

Just a reminder for us all to . . .

Keep writing songs.

Keep composing poetry.

Keep painting canvases.

Keep making art.

Keep putting your messages of hope and joy and stewardship out into the world.

Keep creating cozy cottage kitchens and farm stands. (I’m obsessed!)

People are watching and listening, and we need this now more than ever—not to numb or distract, but because it’s incredibly comforting and inspiring to know we’re not alone. We’re all connected. And the truth is—we need each other.

If you haven’t heard this in a while, here you go.

Joni Mitchell - Big Yellow Taxi (Official Lyric Video)

3. Go local.

More than ever, I’m taking a stand and voting with my dollars and doing whatever I can to “redistribute wealth” with whatever few dollars I have. The ultra-rich billionaires are only billionaires because we keep purchasing from them. Will my piddly monthly withholds alone make any difference to a prime bottom line? No, but I can at least have a say and can certainly help local independent businesses wherever possible where my spending DOES matter to them. I want my local economy to thrive and for small business owners to be able to feed their families instead of helping fund a tech oligarch’s absurd wedding. So, I finally canceled my Amazon subscriptions on July 1st, and I’m researching new companies to purchase some specialty items from. And I didn’t participate in Prime Day this week and likely won’t ever again. Perhaps I’m not alone; early reports said sales were down 41 percent, but it seems these numbers are being disputed.

4. Hit the books.

How is reading an act of rebellion? Well, reading banned books is certainly considered one—standing for literacy and freedom. And it seems every banned book we’ve read so far has been exceptionally beautiful. Books in general offer such deep wisdom, along with new ways to make sense of the world.

Our Banned Book Club is just finishing Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. So many of us read it as teens, but reading it now means so much more to me.

Here’s my favorite excerpt from Fahrenheit 451:

Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.

It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.

I’m also currently reading Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer (not yet banned) and it’s healing an ache, acknowledging a personal longing of mine. Nearly every paragraph inspires me. But for the sake of today’s post, I’ll keep it short and share these two excerpts that feel in line with today’s message:

Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift.

Action on behalf of life transforms. Because the relationship between self and the world is reciprocal, it is not a question of first getting enlightened or saved and then acting. As we work to heal the earth, the earth heals us.

5. Simplify.

What exactly is this rebelling against?

Overconsumption. Overspending. Overcomplicating. Overstuffing.

In my efforts to simplify, I’m continuing to declutter—along with adding to my list of things I’m never doing. Last week we gathered three large bags of books to exchange and release back in the wild at one of our favorite secondhand bookstores who buys books back and gives you either cash or store credit in return.

What about you? Do you have a particular oversized collection or hoard you’re willing to downsize in order to free up some literal and mental space?

6. Curate your experiences.

People often complain about social media, and it’s true that it can lead to doom-scrolling and feelings of depression. I’m pretty good about the accounts I like and follow, but every once in a while I can still get caught up in things that take me down rabbit holes that I don’t intend to. So, I’m making some digital cuts, editing and curating my experiences even more, by unfollowing and unliking those accounts that either distract me or bring down my mood. And I’m unsubscribing from any sales-y, spend-y, news-y noise that bombards my email inbox every day. I can still be responsible for my awareness of the world, but on my own terms when I have the time and bandwidth. I’m looking to cut what I don’t want (a sort of silent rebellion) and add more of what I do.

7. Ground yourself.

As I navigate news, world events, and engage with friends and family who are struggling, I turn back to something I heard during my childhood that I’ve carried with me in life:

“Make me an instrument of your peace: where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.”

—“Prayer for Peace,” often attributed to St. Francis of Assisi

In times where there is so much fear and anger and violence, this prayer seems to me an act of going against the norm—therefore an act of rebellion that resonates with me. Again, I don’t always get it right. But this prayer—often just the first line alone—is something I go back to over and over—a simple line that keeps me grounded, tethered to my core and my sense of self. Honestly, perhaps selfishly even, it just keeps me feeling sane.

What prayer or mantra grounds you and brings you back to your sense of self?

As we enter a new era with a future that can cause us to feel unsettled, I hope something in this publication offered you even 1 percent of peace or inspiration or a reminder that we still have agency.

❤

Thank you for being here.

I read recently in an article by the BBC Sky at Night magazine that the word solstice comes from the combination of the Latin words sol (the Sun) and sistere, which means “to stand still.” While the sun doesn’t literally stand still, “solstices fall when the Sun ceases its apparent movement northwards or southwards that’s been ongoing since the last one.”

Though I also haven’t been literally standing still, I’ve felt like I’ve been stuck in a similar pattern of “ceasing apparent movement.” I’ve been busy yet nothing seems to be moving.

I continued reading: “As for why solstices happen, it’s all to do with Earth’s orbit around the Sun and its axial tilt; its physical inclination relative to its orbital plane.”

I thought about my own personal inclinations, my own orbits (though I like to think of them as spirals), and the things I tend to “tilt” toward. Given my limited human brain with its equally limited awareness, I tend to look for obvious things in life that are causing me to “tilt” one way or the other, things that keep me stuck in a particular orbit. And then sometimes I have to ask myself the hard question: Is this the orbit I want to be stuck in?

For me, the answer is no. And so I embraced a moment of stillness, becoming present to it instead of resisting it, I felt a little something loosen. It was enough movement that inspired me to go through a simple process that has led me to look at how I have been living and spending my time—much of which is dictated by the tyranny of my To-Do List.

What does this have to do with solstice?

Solstice is a time of transition from action to nourishment. It represents the triumph of light over darkness, new beginnings, expansion, and the peak of nature’s abundance.

In order to expand, sometimes things will need to first contract. In order to have true abundance, growth, and flourishing, there will need to be pruning and pulling out some weeds—to use gardening metaphors. And that means, for me, looking at my overflowing plate of intentions (that show up as items in my To-Do List), and practicing the art of “Not Doing Now” and the liberating truth of “Never Doing.”

I was recently reading Walden by Thoreau who said:

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms . . . ”

Nearly two-hundred years later, I’m still deeply moved by this. Perhaps even more so now than I was when I first read it.

I’m feeling called to live more deliberately, more intentionally, and that requires me to be more honest with myself. So, during this time of reflection, as much as I love some of the things on my list, I’m ready to kill my darlings.

Moving from gardening metaphors to literary ones, the concept of “killing your darlings” is used all the time in editing and writing, referring to the deletion of passages, characters, or storylines that you are fond of but that don’t contribute to the story's overall effectiveness. By removing these “darlings,” writers can ensure their work is streamlined, focused, and impactful.

The problem is, some of these darlings can keep a person stuck. Emotionally paralyzed, even. They might be lofty goals we’ve held on to. They might even be great ideas. But like weeds, or even other flowering plants, they need to be pulled in order for the “real” growth to occur. So, I’ve decided to make deep cuts. This means letting go of some possible future storylines for myself, like becoming a full-time librarian or a university professor or starting my own wellness spa.

If the thought of letting go of some of your goals or dreams feels daunting or sad, then maybe those are the things that get to stay on your list. But I’ll bet that there are at least a handful of things (if not more) that you’ll be ready to let go of. And when you do, I imagine you’ll experience a sense of relief. If it helps you, consider thinking of it as a way to step more into your main character story arc or your hero’s journey.

As I stood still this Solstice week, here are some of the things I’ve deleted from my To-Do List (#nerd_alert):

• Become an NPL ambassador (with the Nashville Public Library). As a former library worker, volunteer, and adult literacy tutor, I love all things library. I notice a little guilt rise up as I let this one go, but I have to remember that I can still support, promote, use the library, even though I’m not currently feeling called to step into this role at this time.

• Complete YTT and become a yoga instructor. This has been on my list for about fourteen years and there was a time when my yoga practice was on point! But my current practice is almost nonexistent. So, let’s be real: It’s coming off the list. It would be enough to just get back into my regular yoga practice at this point.

• Read through NPR’s Books We Love NPR: Books We Love. There was a time in my childhood where I had strange ambition to “read all the books in the library,” because at that time, my hometown library was all I could imagine. When I later discovered the Library of Congress and its millions of books (current reports say 36 million), I realized I needed to give up that dream. Not to be morbid, but let’s say I live for another fifty years on the higher end. If I read one book a week for the rest of my life, the max I’ll read is 2,600 books. That’s about what I currently have in my own digital and physical collection. NPR, I love you, but I am giving up this fantasy To-Do.

• Participate in Anti-Slavery Manuscript Translations. I’m embarrassed to admit that this has been on my To-Do List for so long, I literally just found out it’s already done as I was cleaning up my list this past week. So, it’s not even a thing anymore. According to their site, “As of August 12, 2020, this project is complete. Our sincere thanks to the almost 14,000 volunteers who helped to transcribe this collection of more than 12,000 letters in just over 2.5 years. We’ll post on the Talk boards and send out a newsletter with information about the project’s next steps, including where/when you’ll be able to access the completed transcriptions. Thanks again—we could not have done this without you.” This has been done for almost five years!!! I have a small regret for not having played a role in this meaningful project, but I’m also deeply moved by the fact that so many others did. Bravo to you! ❤️

• Paint fireplace mantle. Look. It’s a basic white mantle. Do I have lofty home design goals for creating the ultimate cozy and well-defined space? All. The. Time. But is there anything wrong with my mantle? No. I’m leaving it.

• Develop C2 proficiency in both Spanish and French. This one was hard to take off my list as I’m a lover of languages. This doesn’t mean I’m going to stop learning these languages, but I’m no longer setting a proficiency goal. My goal to be fluent in Spanish stemmed from wanting to be able to communicate effectively, beyond Disculpe, dónde está el baño? As it turns out, I’ve learned that my basic Spanish was enough to get me by throughout various Central and South American countries, and my French was enought to get me by through Montreal and Quebec City. You don’t have to be perfectly fluent to get around a country or even make meaningful connections. You just need some basics, along with a willing spirit and a decent attitude toward people. So, I’ll keep my Duolingo streaks going and while also cutting myself some slack. Hopefully this frees up something for you too.

The Art of Never Doing

Previously, I would move items from my “To Do” list to my “Someday/Maybe” list, also called by some productivity experts “Not Doing Now.” And I would sometimes move some of my “Someday/Maybe” items to my “Never Doing” list—kind of like how when someone wants to get rid of items from their closet, so they box them up and put them in their garage so they can revisit them in six months to see if they still feel good about donating them. They’re still there if we really need them. It removes the sting of an immediate removal and helps you still make progress. And if that’s where you are, no problem.

But I was ready this week to make some hard edits, completely deleting items altogether, admitting: I’m never doing these things.

<sigh>

That feels so good to say out loud. It feels great to let some of these things go.

What about you? What are you holding on to? Think back to your younger days. Remember that boundless wellspring of ambition? Convinced that by thirty you'd be fluent in multiple languages, a master pastry chef, an accomplished musician, and have penned at least one Pulitzer-winning novel? Every book and online course seemed like a vital life skill. Every exotic dish, a culinary pilgrimage. Every craft kit, a pathway to artisanal glory. Writing this now, I still feel those little lingering longings. But I’ve hit the delete key and they are no longer there weighing on me.

Why Does This Matter?

Well, for me all of this matters greatly because each one of these items has been sitting as an incompletion, taking up valuable space in my brainpan. It’s too much cognitive load that I no longer want to carry, even if it’s just 1 percent of my brain. Each item has literally lived on my to-do list—specifically or on my Someday/Maybe list. And I believe that each one of those things sucks a little bit of energy and affects cognitive load. Have you heard of the Zeigarnik Effect? Basically, unfinished tasks create a kind of cognitive burden, constantly reminding us of their existence and making them more prominent in our memory.

At the beginning of this year, I wrote down a single word on my board: Simplify.

In order to live more intentionally, more Thoreauvian, I need to live more simply. I need less noise and fewer distractions. I need a simplified and aligned To-Do List.

Everyone’s lists and callings will be different, and I’m not suggesting anyone model theirs off of mine. My hope is for everyone to have a little more room, more peace, more freedom to do what truly matters to them—and to stop doing things simply because society tells you to.

For me, it doesn’t matter if my mantle is basic when I’m not living in full alignment or ignoring my deeper calling. Having goals is great. I’m a superfan of goals—maybe too much sometimes. But at the end of my life, I’m not going to care about which level of French or Spanish I achieved.

I might, however, regret not publishing my own books on my own terms. I might also regret not planting more trees and flowers for pollinators and edible gardens for myself and my community—or regenerating the soil on whatever little plot I’m afforded and fortunate enough to steward. I would likely regret not opting out of the never-ending cycle of overconsumption and instead opting to reduce and reuse more radically than ever. I know that’s not popular, but that’s okay.

For someone who loves talking about lifestyle—and I do—I’m not the person who has the latest brand-named accessories and fashion typically associated with lifestyle. (Friend, you really don’t need that new Kate Spade bag in order to be happy, in spite of how often commercials suggest you do.)

Instead, I am deeply passionate about the style of life we each get to choose for ourselves—independent of what our neighbors are doing. And that’s where I like to come in—to offer new ways of looking at things. To march to the beats of our own drums. To then make beautiful music together, each with our own rhythms—the kinds we can sustain. How we style our lives therefore matters.

What To Do with Your To-Dos

Maybe you don’t have your goals or To-Dos formally written down like I do, but do you have those things stirring in the back of your mind that you feel you should do?

Given that, I believe each one of those things sucks a little bit of energy from us and affects our cognitive load—each one a minor distraction, even when we’re not actively engaged with it—this can be exhausting and paralyzing, which is a phenomenon called “anticipatory fatigue” or “anticipatory stress” according to Psychology Today.

So, how does one go about an entire reprioritization?

How do we live more deliberately?

During this time of Solstice, over the next week, I invite you to “stand still with the sun.” Take some time to reflect on those things that only you will know for yourself. Go over your lists and goals and see if what it is you’re currently doing—or what you plan to do—still serves you. To continue using gardening metaphors, I hope this process helps you clear away the weeds and sucker branches that keep you away from whatever true fulfillment is waiting for you.

In this time of reflection and meditating, we’re getting real. We’re staring down the barrel of our mortal coil and asking:

What can I actually do?

What am I feeling called to do?

What have I been ignoring for some reason or other?

What have I been afraid to try?

And, perhaps more importantly:

What will I, with intention and grace, simply not do?

For me, it’s this latter question that required the most courage.

When you begin to actively curate your “not doing now” and “never doing” lists, you create space. Not just physical space in your calendar, but mental and emotional space in your very being. You’ll find yourself breathing more easily, feeling less harried, and paradoxically, accomplishing more of what truly matters. Because when you stop trying to do everything, you finally have the capacity to do the things that are truly, deeply, joyously yours. And what could be more deliberate and life-giving than that?

A Solstice Blessing

As the season turns, may you shed what is unnecessary and embrace the beautiful spaciousness you create.

“For in their interflowing aggregate, those grand freshwater seas of ours—Erie, and Ontario, and Huron, and Superior, and Michigan—possess an ocean-like expansiveness, with many of the ocean’s noblest traits.”

Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Recently, the planets aligned for me: Summer Fridays started at work, our house- and pet-sitter was available with just a couple days’ notice, and I had also just handed off some huge work projects. While at a Kentucky lake house rental just the week before, some things showed up for my husband John and me, and we felt a call to visit Michigan and the Great Lakes. Long story short: We did. I grew up near Lake Michigan and have also been to Lake Ontario while visiting Toronto, but hadn’t been to the others—Huron, Erie, or Superior. So, we left from Nashville very early on Friday morning, drove an hour and a half to Bowling Green, Kentucky, stopped at a fantastic coffee shop that I had visited before and knew would be great for camping out for several hours, worked until 1:00 pm, then headed northeast to spend a little time in Ohio, which we hadn’t done before. A quick overnight in a small town between Cincinnati and Toledo, and then by early Saturday morning we were in Michigan. We had a quick peek at Lake Erie for breakfast and lunch with Lake Huron a couple days later. And then a nice long two-day reunion with the lake I grew up going to, visiting several adorable beach towns along the way.

Here are some of the things I discovered this week that I thought you might enjoy.

1. Something that surprised me.

When we crossed the border from Ohio to Michigan, we headed toward a little town called Luna Pier—mainly because we wanted to peep Lake Erie (and also because we have a bird named Luna). After living in Southern California for more than two decades, I’m ashamed to admit that I had forgotten that there are really beautiful and vast lakefront beaches! If you’ve never been to a Great Lakes beach, you’re missing out. (Also: No sharks, no jellyfish.)

What surprised me was not only did this feel like I was on a small stretch of the Pacific for a moment, but also this tiny town has canals designed to provide access to Lake Erie from the “Venice” residential area, named for Venice, Italy. They’re not as large and maintained as the ones I was used to seeing in places like Venice, California, but this reminded me that there are so many cool, unusual, and unexpected places in the world. I found out later that these canals are currently not usable for larger boats, only canoes and very small motorboats, as the canals have become filled with dirt and sediment and require dredging to restore them back to full working order.

Another fun fact: There’s a VRBO you can rent that was originally the hideout of “Pretty Boy Floyd,” who was a bank robber and gangster in the 1930s. According to the listing, this is the “actual Pretty Boy Floyd Hideout, corroborated by eyewitnesses at the time on tape! He walked in the now Key bank in Sylvania, Ohio, with Michigan license plates and robbed the bank, got away, and this was his hideout! He was later caught in Toledo, Ohio, and sentenced to 12-15 years in the Columbus, Ohio, State penitentiary. On the train ride down he jumped out the bathroom window of the moving train and went on to rob banks for another four years. Public enemy #1 ambiance of most famous gangster.”

If you’re a history buff looking for something quirky and off the beaten path, this could be an interesting weekend “getaway.” (Pun intended.)

2. Something that wowed me.

One of the places I wanted to visit—and a primary reason for heading to the Ann Arbor area—was the Matthaei Botanical Gardens and Nichols Arboretum. I was drawn there because of their mission statement, which is stated on their website and happens to be aligned with so many of my values and passions:

Matthaei Botanical Gardens and Nichols Arboretum is a transformative force for social and ecological resilience through the waters and lands we steward. We turn this commitment into action by:

Positioning humans as active participants within the natural world and compelling the university community and our publics to negotiate the full complexity that entails.

Advancing partnerships, programs, and all that we steward to catalyze access and impact in a radically changing world.

Emerging as University of Michigan’s premier partner for research, teaching, and public impact in sustainability, climate-forward practices, and biocultural diversity.

Promoting healthier communities, cultures, and ecosystems through active care and cultivation of the gardens, fields, natural habitats, and dynamic systems that sustain our world.

We wandered part of the grounds and the botanical garden (which reminded me of the botanical building in Balboa Park in San Diego, one of my most favorite places to visit and photograph), and while there, they happened to have a bonsai and penjing exhibit on display. I’ve seen many bonsai before and even have a small tree I’ve been growing for six years, though I haven’t started “training” it, as it hasn’t seemed to need it yet. I don’t give this tiny tree as much thought as I probably could—or maybe should. I’m also so used to my other plants growing so quickly, and I have often wondered if maybe I didn’t have a “real” bonsai. But when I saw that some of these trees at the exhibit were started long before I was even born, and that some don’t get trained until many years later—sometimes upward of twenty years, and more in some cases—I realized that bonsai is a lifelong art, lesson, and pursuit. In a strange way, it gave me a new kind of hope—and lit a small fire for me.

Their beauty alone wowed me, but then I saw something that left me in awe: a thousand-year-old Rocky Mountain Juniper (Juniperus scopulorum) bonsai.

If you’re interested in getting started with bonsai, you can likely find some young trees at your local nursery. And if you’d like or order something online, you can get started with a beautiful tree for as little as thirty bucks. I am considering ordering from this place myself:

Eastern Leaf

Not only did this exhibit ignite something for me, but it also made me wonder, How did this tiny tree last for so long???

Which led me to . . .

3. Something I learned.

The bonsai tree is a symbol of peace, harmony, and luck. When given as a gift, it can symbolize loyalty, love, and respect. In Japan, bonsai trees are therefore often passed down from generation to generation as treasured heirlooms. Since they can live for hundreds of years with proper care, they are often left to family members in their wills, estates, and trusts.

And in case you ever find yourself in the position to inherit one, and begin thinking, Grandpa went to heaven and all I got was this lousy old plant? Consider that a very old tree can be worth up to $400,000.00.

How amazing would it be to begin growing and cultivating something now that could potentially sustain family members that you might never meet? Or at the very least, become a beautiful connection to the past.

All of this reminded me that I still need to pull together my will and get some affairs in order, and decide what goes where in case something happens to my husband and me at the same time. Where should our pets go? What about family photos? Historical papers? The letters and telegrams that Grandpa sent during World War II? My mother-in-law’s jewelry?

But I had never considered, What happens to my plants? I don’t even know anyone near me who loves plants as much as I do (if I do, speak now . . . ), and so many of my closest friends nearby have self-proclaimed brown thumbs. I’ve given away or sold my plants in the past when I’ve moved, but the collection I have now has become really special to me for various reasons. Some of them were gifts from my mom. Some were my mother-in-law’s that I rescued as her health declined. Others were gifts given to me at their losses. Some are simply gifts from friends, and a few others were sent to me for revival when my brown-thumb friends didn’t know how to keep their plants alive.

So, if you are a plant lover and enthusiast like me, and are concerned about what might happen to your plants when you’re no longer here, here are some things I learned:

To include plants in a will, you need to specifically name them and specify who should inherit them. You can do this by listing individual plants or by assigning them to specific individuals or trusts. This is particularly useful for rare or valuable plants.

Here’s a concise, step-by-step list of instructions for leaving plants to someone in a will or estate:

1. Inventory Your Plants: Create a detailed list of the plants you wish to bequeath, including their common names, specific varieties (if known), and any unique characteristics or sentimental value.

2. Identify Beneficiaries: Clearly state who you want to receive each plant or collection of plants. Include full legal names and current contact information for each beneficiary.

3. Specify Instructions:

• Specific Bequests: For individual plants, write: “I give my [Plant Name/Description] to [Beneficiary's Full Name].”

• Collection Bequests: For groups of plants: “I give all of my [Type of Plant, e.g., orchids, houseplants] to [Beneficiary's Full Name].”

• Residuary Clause (Optional but Recommended): Consider a clause for any plants not specifically mentioned, such as: “Any remaining plants not specifically bequeathed shall be given to [Beneficiary's Full Name] or sold, with proceeds added to my residuary estate.”

4. Consider Contingencies: What if a beneficiary predeceases you or doesn't want the plants? Include alternate beneficiaries or instructions for how the plants should be handled in such cases (e.g., “If [Beneficiary’s Full Name] does not survive me or declines the [Plant Name], then I give the [Plant Name] to [Alternate Beneficiary’s Full Name]”).

5. Address Care and Transport: Briefly outline any special care instructions for unique or delicate plants. You might also specify who is responsible for transporting the plants (e.g., “My executor shall arrange for the delivery of these plants to the named beneficiaries, with reasonable transportation costs paid from my estate”).

6. Consult an Attorney: This is the most crucial step. Provide your inventory and instructions to a qualified estate planning attorney. They will ensure your wishes are legally binding and properly incorporated into your will or trust, adhering to the specific laws of your jurisdiction. Do not attempt to draft this yourself without legal counsel.

7. Review and Update: Periodically review your will, especially if your plant collection changes significantly or if your beneficiaries’ circumstances change.

4. Something I found.

While traveling and exploring “the mitten,” one of the places I really wanted to visit was a little beachside town called Petoskey. Learning about this charming fishing village, I discovered that one of the favorite pastimes of residents and tourists is looking for “Petoskey stones.” As a lifelong shell and rock collector, naturally this was something I needed to do. I read that sometimes it can take hours to find one, if ever at all. But in the same way that some rare people can look down at a patch of clover and find one with four leaves, I was there for about two minutes when I looked down and found something special.

[Side note: As a teen, I once knew someone who defied odds and would find four-leaf clovers regularly. He found them so often, he would just give them away, often handing them to whomever he was around, and had given me several. I had them pressed inside pages of a book for years. Apparently, some people have better visual acuity, so if you want to improve your odds of finding one, try looking more for the overall shape of the clover rather than counting leaves: look for more square v. triangular shapes. I have yet to find one myself.]

What is a Petoskey stone anyway?

Glad you asked. A Petoskey stone is Michigan’s official state stone, a fossilized coral (Hexagonaria percarinata) from the Devonian Period (around 350 million years ago). When wet or polished, it reveals a distinctive, intricate honeycomb-like pattern formed by the preserved skeletons of ancient coral polyps.

I couldn’t tell if my find was a true Petoskey, but later that day, I visited a brand-new darling independent bookstore in Charlevoix called Dockside Books—which had been open for only eleven days at the time, and is also certified climate neutral—and met the lovely owner who said she didn’t think it was a Petoskey stone, but looked more like a Charlevoix stone, or favosite, to her.

Wait—there’s more?

“It’s definitely a fossil of some sort,” she said, then gifted me an illustrated bookmark that showed several types of fossilized stones of Michigan.

Favosite or not, I’m very happy to find this little fossilized gem.

Disclaimer: Wherever you go, be sure to check local laws for whether or not you’re allowed to remove something from the environment, as there are many protected lands and laws created as a result. When rock hunting, it’s extremely important to be aware of any state or federal laws. For example: According to the DNR, you are only allowed to remove 25 lbs of stones per year from state land. And if any Petoskey Stone weighs over 25 lbs, the DNR has the right to confiscate it. Keep in mind that in some protected lands, there’s a “look but don’t touch” policy.

5. Something beautiful.

The illustrated bookmark I received from the bookstore owner was by a former Michigan artist named Grace You, owner of Papermiel Designs, who creates art inspired by Michigan’s fossils and stones. I went to her website and was so intrigued—not just by her niche subject matter, but by the charm and detail of her paintings. Here’s a more robust rendition of the bookmark I received in a poster format.

6. Something that gave me hope.

Since I rarely drink alcohol anymore, when I travel, I’m always looking for the best cafes now instead of the hippest bars. Aside from water, my drinks of choice tend to be coffee or tea. So I’m a sucker for a great coffee shop, and when I find one I love, I like to share about it so it stays in business. (Because I’m selfish that way.) While visiting Ann Arbor, my husband and fellow coffee enthusiast found RoosRoast for us to check out—and we were not disappointed.

Not only was this one of the best lattes I had on our trip (served charmingly in a large mason jar), but this place is known for its enviro-ethics. Swoon!

Honestly, I wish more places had this level of intentionality, customer service, and authenticity. Here are a few snippets from their website to hopefully inspire you in whatever business or endeavor you might be involved in:

Things we care about . . . people & the planet!

Solar Power, Eco Roasting, Sustainably Sourced Coffee, Compostable & Reusable Cafe Items.

RoosRoast is committed to the local eco-system: the community, the people who work here every day, and the planet earth we call home.

It starts by going back to what John Roos was raised on: industrial arts & common sense.

Get a good night’s sleep, conserve energy (turn off the lights when you leave a room, put on a sweater and turn down the heat, AC is a luxury), don’t carry debt, wash with soap and hot water, don’t use toxic chemicals (no Drano please!). Look carefully at things; if there is an issue, treat the equipment you use day after day with respect. And love your team & your work.

It’s simple, really, but businesses with a set of ethics like this give me so much hope for our world. If that doesn’t inspire you at least half of a percent, I don’t know what else to say. If you’re in Ann Arbor, I highly recommend visiting—if not for their mission, for their excellent coffee and very cool collection of other shop items. If it’s a little out of your way, you can order some of their beans online. Check out their coffee guide, if you’re interested. I’ve only had their lattes so far, but I’m thinking of ordering some of their “lobster butter” beans, so named because of its smooth and creamy profile and versatility.

7. Something to look forward to.

I was happy to visit several of these beaches and towns, and I’m looking forward to going back and exploring more. This little map is not comprehensive at all, but it would certainly get someone started if they’re interested in beach hopping like we did. We especially liked Charlevoix and Saugatuck, though each of the seven or eight places we visited had some wonderful aspects.

If you have favorite beaches not listed on the map, let me know what they are!

That wraps up some of my highlights. Until next time . . .

Thank you for being here.

This week, we got away for a few days to a lake house that I rented in Kentucky. Kentucky Lake is the twenty-fifth largest lake in the United States—large enough to have a Coast Guard presence—and is home to more than 350 bird species, most of which I’m pretty sure I spotted in the backyard of the house we rented. Okay, maybe not all 350 species, but we did identify blue and green heron, American goldfinch, Eastern Kentucky bluebirds, a golden eagle, a few types of hawks, wood ducks, and a brazen little murmuration of starlings that flew a little too close at times and liked to taunt us.

If you want to nerd out and identify birds with us—because we’ve reached that point in our lives—but you don’t want to take it too seriously, I recommend this book for some light humor.

2. Something I learned.

Getting away from work and screens for a few days and staring at a lake instead offered a huge reset for both me and my husband, John. I’ve always known how important nature is for our well-being but the lake had such a profound impact, it had me look up this phenomenon and I found out it’s a thing: the “Blue Mind Theory.” Watching the water can actually change a person’s brainwaves. In an article put out by UC Davis, “A pair of studies . . . showed that gazing at bodies of water can help lower your heart rate, blood pressure and increase feelings of relaxation.”

How can you tap into Blue Mind near you?

3. Something I checked off my list.

We live in Tennessee, home to incredible state parks. When we moved here six years ago, Tennessee had 56 state parks. Since then, they’ve added three more and are up to 59 now. I keep a list with a goal of hoping to someday visit all of them. This week, we visited another one, Paris Landing State Park, marking off number 16 for us. Only 43 more to go.

To find parks near you in your state, visit:

https://www.nps.gov/findapark/index.htm

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lists_of_state_parks_by_U.S._state

4. Something I read.

I happened upon this and it’s pretty obvious, but here’s a reminder for everyone. You’re worth being chosen for who you are; not what you look like. xoxo.

5. Something clever.

Technically, we heard this after we got home, not at the lake. It’s absurd. Clever. Creative. I’m impressed by this level of commitment. Here’s Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” sung by 331 movies. You’re welcome.

6. Something that made us laugh.

On the drive home, we listened to John Mulaney’s comedy from when he was a mere twenty-six years old. His way of speaking and delivery is so intriguing and astounding to me. If you haven’t heard him yet, here’s a snippet from that set.

7. Something I wrote.

Lake reflects the sky, 
Feathers flutter, hear birds call,
No time for regrets.

Thank you for being here.

Christkindlmarket. (Capitalized. One word.) If Christmas is your favorite holiday—or if you happen to live near one of these holiday markets—perhaps you already know about these German-style Christmas markets that pop up sometime in November through December. Chicago seems to have the largest and most well-known in the States, with more than a million visitors per year, and they also own the domain of the same name. But Carmel, Indiana, was apparently named the Best Holiday Market in the 2019 USA Today 10Best Readers’ Choice Awards.

Here are a few places for about the markets and to find one near you:

Christkindlmarket | Holiday Market 2024 | Chicago

15 Best Christmas Markets in the USA

German-style Christmas Markets in the United States – GermanyinUSA

Lassen Volcanic National Park. Just about due north from Sacramento and southeast of Mt. Shasta sits a volcanic park that—although I lived in California for more than twenty years—I had never heard of, until now. Looking up this park, I discovered that there are four different types of volcanoes in the world and this park apparently has them all. Did you know there were four types? According to the USGS they are: Cinder Cones, Composite (or stratovolcanoes), Shield, and Lava Domes.

Lassen is also home to “Bumpass Hell,” the largest hydrothermal area in the park—so named because “It was discovered by the cowboy Kendall Bumpass in the 1860s. He had good reasons to call it a hell because he lost his leg after breaking through thin crust above a mud pot.” By the way, you can hike the trail to Bumpass Hell during the summer and fall months.

Mapo Tofu. This isn’t a type or brand of tofu; it’s a dish from Sichuan (a province in Southwestern China) comprised of soft tofu simmered in a spicy sauce and roughly translates to “old lady pockmarked tofu.” According to an article in Style, “Mapo tofu is said to have originated in Chengdu in the late 1800s. Ma translates to “pockmarks”, while po refers to an older woman. Together these reference the dish’s inventor, Mrs Chen, an elderly woman with smallpox scars.”

I haven’t had this dish yet, but it sounds delicious, and I might have to try making this sometime. If you’re looking for an authentic recipe for how to make this popular dish, I’d probably start here myself:

Mapo Tofu Recipe: The Real Deal - The Woks of Life

People’s Park. Founded in 1969, this Berkeley, California, property has been a site for and symbol of counterculture and political protests, a park rich with history, and was officially listed on the National Register of Historic Places on May 24, 2022.

Laissez les bons temps rouler. I always have to look up this one, even though I’ve heard it dozens of times. It’s a popular Louisiana French Creole phrase, which means, “Let the good times roll.” This is nothing new. But what’s interesting to me is it’s difficult to pin down who first said the famous Cajun phrase. Even the official Mardi Gras site can’t offer an answer. But if you didn’t take French in high school or college and you’d like to celebrate next Fat Tuesday, you can learn along with the other 230,000 people who have watched this video to see how to pronounce it.

How to Pronounce Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler? | "Let the Good Times Roll" in French? (Cajun)

Branding Day. No, this isn’t a day to launch your new logo or style guide. Cattle branding is a long-standing tradition and Branding Day, usually held in April or sometime in spring, is a very social event—and some might even consider it sacred. In places like Wyoming, Montana, Colorado, South Dakota, Idaho, Utah, and Nebraska ranchers along with their families, friends, and communities gather together to celebrate and often pass down the tradition to younger generations—especially where cattle farming is a main way of life. If you’re squeamish, you might want to skip this one. But if you’re interested in adding this to your bucket list, here’s an informative site that discusses the history, what to expect, and how to best participate.

Spring Cattle Branding on American Ranches: Tradition, Etiquette & Regional Flavor

low top shoes. (Two words, no hyphen. Common usage; not found in the dictionary.) I was surprised since high-tops is hyphenated and is also in the dictionary, but low tops is not—and I thought the commonly accepted way of spelling it would be to match high-tops, with a hyphen, but as I looked around, I found only a couple of places where a hyphen was used. Most often, by far, it’s commonly accepted as two words. And since Nike spells it as two words, I felt good about just doing it.

Nurtured by nature. This is a new distinction I learned, one recognized by the American Psychological Association. In their article, “Nurtured by nature: Psychological research is advancing our understanding of how time in nature can improve our mental health and sharpen our cognition,” they list several of the health benefits of spending more time in nature.

Bottom line: Nature = good for you.

crème brûlée. It’s one of my favorite desserts, but I forget how to spell it every time. Grave accent over first e. Circumflex u. Followed by an acute e. Duh.

If you’re looking for how to make this without using a kitchen torch, here’s a recipe that might be worth trying:

Creme Brulee Without Torch Recipe » Hummingbird High

Ann Hood. Former flight attendant-turned-author whom I’ve never heard of before she was mentioned in a book I’m working on. I found the following in her bio on her website: “I did see a lot of the world with TWA, and I moved from Boston to St. Louis and finally to NYC, a place I'd dreamed of living ever since I watched Doris Day movies as a little girl. I wrote my first novel, Somewhere Off the Coast of Maine, on international flights and on the Train to the Plane, which was the subway out to JFK. It was published in 1987.”

I love hearing how writers get started, and how people find the time to write even with otherwise busy lives. This inspires me.

[Pssst! Perhaps this is you too? Are you carving out time to write or create?]

margarine v. butter. Did you know that you can’t necessarily swap butter for margarine in certain recipes and expect to get the same result? IYKYK. And if you bake, you know. But for those out there who don’t bake very often and who use one when the recipe calls for the other, and your cookies or pie crusts aren’t turning out the way you expected, this might be why. Butter and margarine have different flavors, textures, and melting points. In the book I’m working on, the author calls for margarine in her sugar cookies and begs readers to not substitute it with butter or they won’t get the flavor and texture she so adores for her particular recipe. Unfortunately, I can’t share her recipe here, but feel free to experiment with your own sugar cookie recipes—or other baked goods—and see if you can tell the difference.

Sheep and Wool Festival. The official site sums this up best: “The Maryland Sheep & Wool Festival is one of the largest festivals of its kind celebrating all things sheep, from hoof to handwoven.” What better girls weekend than spending it in a town called “West Friendship, Maryland”—complete with fiber-arts workshops, hundreds of vendors, and even more hundreds of sheep, plus music and other workshops and festivities. Sadly, we just missed it as it was just recently held on May 3rd & 4th, but hey—there’s always next year.

[Adding to list of things to do next time I’m in Maryland in May.]

Making sourdough without a starter. Apparently, this is a thing, but I wouldn’t try to convince my true-blue sourdough aficionados to switch. But if you, like me, have had some sourdough mishaps along the way, there are a few recipes out there that claim to be just as good.

I’m thinking of giving this one a try as it claims to “rival classic sourdough in taste and texture.”

Foolproof Faux Sourdough Bread Recipe without starter! | MerryBoosters

Ernest Dichter. I first learned about him while working on a book with both Mattel and author Robin Gerber called Barbie Forever: Her Inspiration, History, and Legacy (Official 60th Anniversary Collection)*. Barbie’s creator, Ruth Handler (the co-founder of Mattel), turned to the branding expert when mothers felt uncomfortable with their little girls playing with such a mature and “well-formed” figure. But Dichter helped to rebrand the doll as a “model of poise” and an example of ladylike dress and icon for being well-groomed. However you might feel about that—and I certainly have thoughts—his guidance worked, and Ruth was able to effectively market her doll with a mission: “Little girls could be anything they wanted to be.”

But Dichter had played a much larger role in branding before that and still influences the market today. Before becoming involved with Barbie, Dichter influenced a man named John Duff who, in the 1930s, came up with a gingerbread cake mix to which one needed to “just add water.” But the theory is that his mix somehow left women feeling like they were “cheating” and not making things from scratch. The patented gingerbread mix saw a spike in sales after Dichter came along and learned through his focus group that women wanted to be more involved in the process. So they added a new approach with a step that was just enough for American housewives to get behind: “Just add eggs.” And then they saw an uptick in sales. There are new theories, however, that suggests that the increase in sales is because cakes cooked with actual eggs taste better than a mix made with dehydrated eggs, and that’s the real reason why the mixes sold more.

One thing I found particularly interesting is from an article by bon appetit magazine, “One of the most dramatic things that ever happened to me was, as a reporter was in the '90s, finding out that in a survey women always say they bake from scratch—but they meant they used a mix. . . . Cake mixes redefined what ‘baking’ meant.”

Which leads me to my next finding . . .

from scratch. (A widely recognized phrase that’s actually in the dictionary.) It means “from the beginning” and according to Merriam-Webster its origination refers to the starting line of a race that had been scratched into the ground. A runner “starting from scratch” was not given a head start—just like a baker making something from scratch isn’t using a box mix starter kit to bake a cake, but . . . we all need a win, I suppose.

esquites. This is the off-the-cob version of Mexican street corn, elotes, like a Mexican street corn salad. Incidentally, this is one of my favorite Mexican side dishes.

Here’s a recipe I might try sometime:

Esquites » Isabel Eats

Nanxiang. This ancient village in Shanghai is home of the soup dumplings. Who knew?

Cispus River. Just north of Mount Saint Helens in Washington State, the Cispus River flows for about 54 miles and hosts gorgeous rafting and fishing.

Do-Rite Donuts. According to a Chicago-based contributor of this hospitality book, Do-Rite’s donuts are the absolute best in the country, hands down. I’ve never had them myself, but the next time I’m in the region, I might have to stop by after peeping some of the menu items on their Instagram.

planxiety. This word might not have made its way to Merriam-Webster’s dictionary yet, but it’s a thing, and I’ve discovered that I most certainly probably definitely have this. It’s essentially when you develop anxious feelings from having too many plans, or at least perceiving that you do. In researching, I discovered I also have banxiety and scamxiety.

You too?

Kindness freely flows, 
spicy scents of winter fair— 
Let the good times roll!

Thank you for being here!

This is one of the most beautiful and inspiring poems I’ve heard in a while. I’ll just leave this video here and let it speak for itself.

“Sunflowers in Babylon” by Joshua Luke Smith

2. Something I learned.

“You write like a typewriter.”

“Your handwriting is so tiny!”

These are just some of the things I’ve heard throughout my life about my handwriting. I used to have the neatest, tidyest, and tiniest handwriting—printing, not cursive. I have long been fascinated by handwriting analysis and at one point—along with a friend—delved into the theory of “changing your handwriting to change your life,” using a book of a similar title.

Now I look at notes I’ve written, or greeting cards to friends and family, and it looks different to me. I went through some old journals recently and wondered how I even wrote like that. How did I have the time or the patience? It was so controlled. So meticulous. So organized.

Now, my handwriting looks a little wild and unruly—maybe even a little unhinged. Maybe that says more about me and how I may have changed in recent years.

Curious, I did a little research on this and discovered a few things—some of them interesting, some of them concerning.

In “Why Your Handwriting Keeps Changing, Even in Adulthood” by Cari Romm, she says, “Despite the enduring appeal of graphology, the study of handwriting to reveal things about the writer’s personality or mental state, the practice has been widely dismissed as pseudoscience; the British Psychological Society lumps it together with astrology as a discipline that has zero validity.”

Her bottom line: “Handwriting change can probably be summed up like this: It’s life that changes, and handwriting just keeps up.”

What about you? Has your handwriting changed?

For more reading on this, and to see if your handwriting change might be related to something to concerning, check out the following articles:

Why Your Handwriting Keeps Changing, Even in Adulthood

What Your Handwriting May Say About Your Health | University Hospitals

3. Something that made me laugh.

My husband and I fell in love with Brett Goldstein’s character, Roy Kent, when we watched what was—I assert—one of the greatest shows of all time: Ted Lasso. (Season 4 coming soon!) He’s equally lovable as the character Louis Winston in another great show: Shrinking. So, when I saw that he was doing standup, I added this to my queue.

If you haven’t watched it yet, check out his special, The Second-Best Night of Your Life.

Watch Brett Goldstein: The Second Best Night of Your Life (HBO) | Max

I don’t know about you, but I’ve needed more humor in my life lately, and I’ve been leaning in to hilarity whenever possible.

Here’s a clip that made me laugh:

4. Something that gave me hope.

It’s only May of 2025, and—at the time of this writing—there have already been 124 wildfires in the United States alone, which can create feelings of fear and hopelessness. As climate disasters like these continue to happen, we’re going to need to rethink how we build homes—or think how to rebuild them when a house burns down.

So I was filled with hope when I learned about CalEarth through friends who lost their home in the Eaton fire, and who are moving forward—along with several other Angelinos—to rebuild using an old-turned-new way of construction. Using an inexpensive modernized abobe method called superadobe—essentially “earthbags” or sandbags and fabric tubes filled with earth and dirt—they create structures and homes that can withstand winds, floods, fires, and more.

According to the company’s website, “CalEarth is a 501 (c)(3) nonprofit organization committed to providing solutions to the human need for shelter through research, development, and education in earth architecture. We envision a world in which every person is empowered to build a safe and sustainable home with their own hands, using the earth under their feet.” They help educate people how to build environmentally sustainable houses with their own two hands, “using locally available earth, sandbags and barbed wire, that meet modern-day standards for safety, beauty, energy efficiency, and comfort.”

What they’re doing is, in short, awesome.

For more images and inspiration, follow them on Instagram @calearthinstitute.

They also offer inexpensive online courses, which you can find here:

CalEarth Online Courses

And here’s an eight-minute video that shows several examples.

Cal Earth Institute - Building houses with super adobe - YouTube

5. Something I’m propagating.

Plants are one of the main ways I like to decorate. Nothing brings warmth and life into a home or office like live plants—and I’m always up for a trip to a plant store or nursery. One of my favorite houseplants is the common Golden Pothos—which surprisingly is not a Pothos at all. Its real name is Epipremnum aureum.

This French Polynesian plant been misclassified several times and, according to a 2004 study titled “A Review of Epipremnum (Araceae) in Cultivation,” by Peter Boyce, “Epipremnum aureum has a tortuous nomenclatural history.” Although it’s part of the Araceae family, which are flowering plants, Golden Pothos hasn’t been known to spontaneously flower since the 1964.

I have several Golden Pothos and find that they’re a very forgiving plant, able to weather missed waterings, though seemingly less tolerant of overwatering. It’s also a great plant to start out with for any self-professed “brown thumbs” out there. It’s so hardy in fact that some call it “devil’s ivy” or “devil’s vine.” But don’t let that scare you; in other parts of the world, it’s called a money plant.

If you’re into the language of flowers and plants, Golden Pothos symbolizes various things, including new beginnings, strength, growth, good luck, abundance, perseverance, and encouragement to follow one’s aspirations.

Its symbolism and vibrancy are the main reasons I like to grow it for myself but also why I like to give it is a gift to others—and its hardiness is why I like to gift these to those who feel they don’t know how to take care of plants. They’re hard to mess up. I have several in my home in various rooms, and appreciate how easy they are to propagate. In fact, this climber has been reported to grow vines up to 12 meters (66 feet) long. I believe it; I trimmed a few feet off of of mine recently, which was probably a good 13 feet long.

Here are simple steps to propagate your Golden Pothos:

1. Cut a vine: Find a healthy vine and cut off a piece with at least one "bump" (node) on the stem.

2. Put in water: Stick the cut end (with the bump) into a glass of water. (I use an old clear vase, so I can see the water clarity and also watch the roots forming.) Keep the leaves out of the water.

3. Give it light: Place the glass in a warm spot with indirect sunlight.

4. Change water: Change the water every few days.

5. Wait for roots: Little white roots will grow from the bump within a few weeks.

6. Plant (optional): Once the roots are a couple of inches long, you can plant it in a pot with soil.

6. Something I upcycled.

Recycling is great, but I think upcycling and repurposing items is even better, when we’re able. My husband raises an eyebrow because I save weird little things like empty toilet paper tubes. I also shred important papers and usually repurpose that for packing material or for our cockatiel’s play tray (yes, you read that right).

Put these two would-be-trash items together and—instead of recycling or trashing them—a simple thing to make are fire starters for your firepit, camping trips, or your next bonfire.

DIY Firestarters

I don’t recall where I saw this first, but there are a few ways to make them. And it’s a fun, simple thing to make when you’re feeling sort-of-but-not-really crafty.

Here’s what you need:

• empty toilet paper or paper towel tubes

• shredded paper (be sure any plastic is removed from envelope windows)

• dryer lint (optional)

• tissue paper, for wrapping (optional, ideal for gifting or displaying)

Instructions:

1. It’s very simple: Wad up shredded paper (and/or dryer lint) and pack into the a tube until full. Repeat with as many as you have.

2. Optional: If putting some fire starters together as a cozy gift, you can roll/wrap the tubes in tissue paper or other recycled paper. This is a great way to repurpose ad reuse tissue paper that comes in gift bags to you. I recommend intentionally crumpling and wrinkling, then smoothing out by hand before wrapping, for a nice effect. And then tie the ends with something nontoxic, like twine. They’ll look like little party poppers when finished.

7. Something I wrote.

In addition to writing this entry, I also wrote this week’s haiku, inspired by the above.

Golden vines descend, 
Babylon’s fire turns to warmth, 
New growth finds its sun.

May the resilience of golden pothos inspire your growth, and the warmth of shared bonfires ignite your spirit. May you find sustainability in your steps, and may your journey be blessed with enduring beauty and connection.

Thank you for being here.

I often imagine a detective or some forensics team going through my browser history, wondering what kind of person I might be.

I promise, officer, this was all work-related.

And perhaps it’s precisely because I look up the most random things every week (for work, of course) that I often find myself trailing down these kooky little rabbit holes that I sometimes like to share about.

Anyway, this particular list is from last year, when I was working on a book by comedian and actor Scott Seiss.

Why do I keep a list of things I google? I don’t know. I can be weird like that.

Which leads me to sharing my version of . . .

Things I Googled Today for Work

from 1/22/24

Matt Rife body pillows (Adding this to my gift-giving list for Christmas.)

Red Sea pirates (Confirming they’re still active. They are. See also: Houthis.)

Civil War photos (I do not recommend googling this phrase.)

mall walkers (Generally agreed to spell as two words, not hyphenated.)

Philippe Petit (If you haven’t already heard of him, check him out. I also recommend the 2008 film about him called Man on Wire.)

asshat (One word.)

MrBeast (One word, two caps, no periods.)

cuffing season (How have I never heard of this before?)

moneymaker (One word. No hyphen.)

Wile E. Coyote (True confession: As a kid, I thought his name was Wiley. Wiley Coyote. Anyone else? Incidentally, I discovered in my search for Wile E. Coyote [which I admittedly probably typed “Wiley Coyote” to search] that there’s a debate of whether Road Runner says “beep beep” or “meep meep.” As it turns out, Road Runner’s animation historian Michel Barrier says that artist Paul Julian’s preferred spelling of the sound effect was either hmeep hmeep or mweep mweep, simulating a car horn.)

negging (If you’re doing this, just please stop.)

bucko (Yep. Just like it sounds. No funny business.)

role-play (Make sure you put your hyphen on.)

Red M&M (His name is capped. And yes, Red identifies a he/him.)

Daniel Mac (He employs curiosity as approaches people and asks what they do for a living. I want his job.)

Nintendogs (Wondering now if this is on Game Pass.)

Heelys (This is one of those inventions where I like to imagine what it was like when they were sitting around the boardroom pitching this idea. “So, we take a shoe and we add wheels on it.” “Hmmm. Sounds like a roller skate to me.” “No, see, there’s only ONE wheel. On the back. You know—the heely part.” Also, how did this ever get past any legal department?)

ghillie suit (Adding this to my wardrobe rotation for when I start to experience social anxiety.)

adorkable (How is this even a real word in the dictionary?! #nope)

Natty Boh (I’ll allow it.)

What did we learn from all of this?

That life can be absurd. And work can be absurd. And people are most definitely absurd. And mostly what I wanted to share is that there is so much in the world that can amuse us or delight us—if we let it.

Don’t be afraid to lean in to absurdity and enjoy. We need it right now.

May you have a an absurdly delightful weekend!

Thank you for being here. ❤️