The baby boy brings the food to his mouth, a slippery, frozen piece of yogurt, and smiles slowly as he chews it. I watch with satisfaction, for I’d mixed the frozen berries into the yogurt, I’d carefully spooned quarter-sized amounts onto freezer paper and let them freeze overnight. This is my son’s favorite new snack, an extremely easy one to make because we usually have frozen berries, and we always have yogurt in the fridge.

I’ve enjoyed baking and cooking for years. Since becoming a mother, I do it more often — no, constantly — always thinking of the next meal or snack, which comes faster than I’m expecting it. I’m now experienced with making Bisquick biscuits (the way my Nonnie did), baking peasant loafs in the dutch oven, knowing how long to boil pasta, which fruit can be cooked down for compote, and generally, what will fill the kitchen with food. For most of human history, a well-stocked household didn’t have nearly half the contents we do now, but the people who kept the home did have the knowledge to transform simple things into what was needed.

I’m learning how to do the same thing. Recently, on an afternoon where it was too late to go out for lunch, I fished out a can of Campbell’s condensed tomato soup. We had bread and cheese as well. I was able to fix it up the soup nicely by adding milk, butter, garlic powder, Italian spices, some salt and pepper. We all enjoyed it, especially our baby, who mopped up the soup with soggy grilled cheese. It made me feel useful, to scrounge for ingredients, to find something quick and filling to prepare.

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Bread is made from flour. Jam from fruit. Soup from vegetables. Pasta from eggs and flour. A meal can come from whatever was already in the pantry.

When I worked full time, the luxury was money, and I was short on free time. When we had nothing to eat, I swung by the taqueria and we enjoyed overpriced tacos. Now, I’m rich with free time. How can I use it, and what can I make with it?

There’s an argument that we’ve inherited extraordinary convenience but lost some of the satisfaction and intelligence of domestic competence. Relearning these things doesn’t have to be about rejecting modernity or LARPing as if we’re living in another era. I long to become less dependent on the market for every little pleasure.

For example, ordering grocery deliveries feels alien to me. Plenty of people do it, and perhaps it works for them. Even when I worked full time, I considered it a calming experience on my lunch break to peruse the market in town and contemplate what to make for dinner. I became close with the owner of the market, a charming Italian man, and his daughter who worked at the checkout. Those social interactions are priceless to me now. I remember them fondly. They wouldn’t have happened if I had ordered the same things on an app.

There is a particular kind of wealth in knowing how to make something from almost nothing.

I imagine my ancestors, like my mother’s Nonnie, who rolled out their own pasta and baked bread every day. They cut the heads off their chickens. They hung deer carcasses in the barns. They would balk at the idea of not knowing what to make for supper. They would slap us on the heads before kissing us and telling us to sit, to watch and learn.

This extends beyond food. Sewing a button, mending a sweater, growing herbs, preserving fruit, writing a letter to a faraway friend, keeping a household notebook for budgets and bills, knowing how to welcome someone for dinner.

I suppose with the internet, we are rich with information. We can look up how things were done, and we can learn technical skills. This is a wonderful thing that I’m grateful for. But where do we learn how to be hospitable? Or how to organize recipes the way our grandparents did? The practices were passed down to a point, and now they’re fading away. Even children’s etiquette books are sold as novelties in upscale boutiques. For better or for worse, most of what we consume today comes from our phones.

I guess this is about more than just biscuits and bread. I’m beginning to see self-sufficiency as a form of cultural inheritance.

There are values that my parents passed down to me that have made me who I am. Now I look at my son and wonder what kinds of things he should be learning from us, his parents. I write this as a kind of goal to further my practices of making things from scratch. I want to make the most of what we have in the pantry. I hope to create sweaters for us in the cold weather, and to grow produce for us when the weather is warm. I look forward to making our own decorations, pressing and drying flowers, creating our own wreaths. These are the things that will make us wealthy in a way that exceeds the monetary. As my son grows, I want him to be self-sufficient, and I hope he will enjoy the life I’m making for him by hand.

There is a common image of coastal decor. Seashells, sailboats, driftwood art on the walls.

Beach signs are distressed just right. Rope knots are on shelves with books. Bright turquoise is here and there, reminders of the ocean under a summer sun. I can close my eyes and remember the many beach houses I’ve stayed at over the years, I can feel the sand lingering on the floor when we thought we’d swept up.

There are other ways that the coastal style shows up. For those that live there year-round, there’s a lived-in, utility to their design.

Some of my favorite coastal homes were never trying to look too coastal. I’m thinking of Nancy Meyers, with her sweeping, chic interiors.

Though I love the ocean, I haven’t had the luxury of living near it. It feels exciting to visit each year, to study the locals, to see what in their style has grown from their proximity to the water.

Salt air softens paint and fades striped cushions left on the porch a little too long. Pine floors wear smooth beneath generations of sandy feet. The same hook that holds a woven basket after a Saturday at the farmers market catches a yellow raincoat when the weather changes overnight. On the coast, the sea is another member of the household, forever asking to be considered. This looks best when it’s everywhere without being an eyesore.

The coast becomes a part of the house through use. It can be seen in the sea glass collected by the sofa, the old seafaring maps framed on the wall.

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The working coast is what we see beyond the tourist season. Each year, my husband and I make a pilgrimage to the town of Rockport, Massachusetts, where we have grown to love the locals.

Not every coastal town is a vacation destination, especially on the North Shore. But Rockport is for much of the summer, calming down after Columbus Day.

These are places where people live ordinary lives. The first year we were there, I stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts to get my husband a coffee and stumbled upon what was clearly a weekly meetup with the local fisherman in town. When we parked early at Bearskin Neck, we saw the shop owner’s unlocking their doors, putting out their signs. A tag sale was being held in a tiny and beautiful lawn, and we perused while chatting with the folks who lived there. Figures in fleece jackets walk their dogs on the beach each morning. Children visit their favorite ice cream store, laughing with sticky faces. Last year, we visited a magnificent thrift shop in town with our newborn baby, and I had the privilege of meeting the loveliest locals who told me stories about their own children.

These people have their own fishing boats. They lock their garden gates behind them. Laundry hangs from their lines, flapping against the passionate wind. Libraries are small, historic, overwhelmed for three months of the year and quiet the rest of the time. Churches are filled with the same members who had grown up in town, faithful people who return each week. Farm stands burst with local produce, and townsfolk mingle and gossip and laugh. To be in this orbit for even one week is intoxicating to me.

This is the coast that interests me. Not the one that puts on its best face for tourists, but the real day-to-day lives of the normal people who live there.

Postcards are sold in gift shops. The smell of seafood is strong on a hot summer day, and I can’t but help wondering what this magical place is like during the winter.

The everyday has always been a fascination of mine. I love to imagine where people shop for groceries, what their post office is like, what thunderstorms sound like against rock and piers and sea.

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A palette for this place is borrowed from weather, stolen from the landscape.

My photos from these trips are full of fog blue, faded sage, driftwood gray, dune grass green, oyster white, weathered cedar, linen, cloudy skies, sea glass. Sometimes there’s a shock of red from a boat, a blinding yellow raincoat.

But nothing feels too loud. These old New England towns have preserved an elegance in their subtly.

Everything has softened with time. Even the historic signs that educate on the town’s folklore are chipped, worn down under years of attention.

There’s practical beauty in wooden stools, canvas bags, old baskets, enamel pitchers, hooks by the back door. William Morris said, "Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful."

Weathered materials also become things of beauty, wood silvered in the sun, brass with fingerprints, stoneware, cotton, linen, wicker, canvas, leather softened by years of use. Heirloom textiles are present year-round, washed linen, cotton quilts, crocheted blankets, blue ticking stripes, faded florals, old tea towels.

There is maritime without being nautical, an old oar from an old family boat, baskets and wooden pegs, corners of homes that are collecting stories. These houses leave room for the season, for flowers from the garden, stacks of books, piles of blankets, shoes kicked off after swimming.

A coastal house knows the seasons, and refrains from becoming a Pinterest-worthy home. It isn’t perfect, and that’s what makes it comfortable and simultaneously beautiful.

These houses change gently with the calendar. We shifted our annual trips from summer to early autumn and were amazed at the change in tone, the coziness.

Windows stay open. Chairs are set up on back decks to view sunrises and sunsets.

The same white sweater returns each June. When the rainy season hits, galoshes are lined up by the door to the garden. Good design isn’t always deliberately added, but it accumulates.

Sun hats wait by the door. In summer, they carry anything from vegetables to shells, and in autumn they’re heavy with pumpkins and apples.

Curtains move with the afternoon breeze. Pots of coffee are brewed in the morning, early, so early, trying to wake up before making it down to the beach, wrapped in scarves and sweaters to stay warm.

The modern coast style is something more realistic than Nancy Myers, something simpler than gothic seaside stories. I was reminded of it after watching Widow’s Bay (filmed in Rockport) and seeing our favorite places in a new light.

Perhaps that's what I admire most about the working coast. Not the houses themselves, but the quiet confidence of the people who live in them. Their homes change with the weather because they do. Windows open when the breeze returns. Boots gather by the door when autumn rains arrive. Baskets fill with tomatoes in July and apples in October. Nothing is hurried, and very little is replaced simply because it is old. The house grows alongside its people, shaped by seasons rather than trends. In time, it begins to look as though it has always belonged exactly where it stands.

Summer announces itself gradually. There’s not a specific date on the calendar that corresponds, but there is a gentle return to familiar things.

I could go on about shopping lists and things that I love to buy. But actually, this is about the everyday objects that send my soul the signal that we are in the height of this hot season, and that I should try to savor it.

The Return of Familiar Things

Opening the linen closet and finding the lighter quilts to use at night is one of the first things that reminds me. When I change my wardrobe out, I find summer dresses stored away that finally come to life again, and I’m filled with the memories of years past.

Something that returns again and again in the summer are the farmer’s markets, and with them, the baskets and totes that we tucked away in the fall. Lighter sweaters, white cotton and some crocheted, are now folded over chairs, ready for a cool evening when we need them. My book of seaside poetry finds itself from the bookshelf, reminding me of our summer on the coast when we had far less responsibilities.

Little things.

Blooming things.

Each season has its own vocabulary of objects. Summer is shaped more by use than by ornament. The watering can is used daily, the sun hats hang by the door.

Objects don’t necessarily make a season, but they reoccur, a pattern that becomes comfortable year after year. We return to them and greet them with smiles.

These things help us live inside the season. And after enough summers, we reach for them instinctively.

Little Dishes

I collect antique dishes and saucers. My mom had a wedding design business, so I was lucky to have plenty of beautiful objects to choose from over the years.

I keep several of these in my bedroom, in the bathroom, even in the kitchen. They hold jewelry that I remove before we go swimming, treasures collected from vacations, tea light candles that I put near the bath, under our basil plant that was grown from seed, and bars of vanilla-scented soap in the bathroom. These are more feminine touches, perfect for the hotter months, decorated with florals and gilded gold.

To me, these types of dishes will always be timeless. I love hunting for them at estate sales and thrift shops to match each room.

Beautiful design can be simple, and this is one of my favorite examples. As old as they may be, they feel as if they’re telling stories of tea and cakes and conversations gone by.

Baskets and Boat Shoes and Books

By midsummer, the basket by the back door has become indispensable. One morning it carries peaches home from the farm stand, another afternoon library books rescued from the annual sale. A week later it's filled with basil, green beans, and a pair of muddy gardening gloves. Every snag on the wicker seems to remember a previous season.

Gardening books remind us of all the season can offer, with dogeared pages, notes scribbled into margins, bookmarks in the best parts, a collection of what has and hasn’t worked over time.

There is something about a stripe that belongs to summer. It appears on tea towels drying by the sink, on old swimsuits, beach umbrellas, and faded deck chairs. Unlike many patterns, stripes never seem to chase fashion. They return each time as though they've been waiting all winter.

White and cream sweaters seem at home when worn on the way to the beach, reading on the porch, cool evenings after swimming, watching fireworks, or walking back from a late dinner with friends.

Boat shoes are the style of choice this year, giving off the feeling of exploration, timelessness, all-weather endurance, craftsmanship, and memories of being by the water.

The most important object of all, to me, is open windows, the smell of fresh air and sunshine, swirling the scent of fresh laundry through the room, the curtains lifting in the breeze, falling asleep with the crickets and waking to birdsong and blue skies.

This is the height of summer, and I can feel my appreciation for these objects growing. To love something is to pay attention to it.

I’m proud of how little I’ve purchased this year in an attempt to be more intentional with consumption. There are so many cherished items in our home that have stayed with me through so many summers, and it’s a gift to use them and remember them.

That repetition is what makes the season so sweet. George Elliot said, “We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it, if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers …What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known and loved because it is known?”

The same basket sits by the door, ready for harvesting vegetables from the garden. My sweater (thrifted) from years ago is the one I reach for on chilly nights by the bonfire. The windows we sleep next to, open and lovely and refreshing, are the same ones I grew up with. The antique dish that holds our favorite soap is older than me, and it’s graced our home for almost ten years. I use these things daily like a prayer, noticing them and being grateful for what we have in this season of abundance.

While some items are new (my husband bought me an embroidered Boat and Tote from L.L.Bean), many of these things are not fashionable, they simple work for us during this time. Some will remain until the end of the harvest, and others will be packed away before and after, as the evenings grow shorter and cooler.

Perhaps that's what heirlooms really are. Not simply valuable objects, but faithful companions to our lives. They teach us how to notice the season we're in, and quietly remind us of every summer that came before.

Each ritual begins with a small moment. The sharp scent of cinnamon. Steam rises from my cup of tea outside. At night, I turn the page of my journal and find my favorite writing pen. Striking a match, I light my candles to illuminate my desk. In the afternoon, I let my baby lounge on the deck beside me. I open up my book and read in the warmth of the sunlight. Morning, afternoon, and night, I slip on my shoes and put a sweater on my baby. We walk listening to the birds sing at different times of the day. These rituals are ordinary, but they feel sacred because of the attention I give them.

The unfurling of spring is like the blossoms that unfold like origami. I welcome it after a busy season. The cool mornings hold the promise of comfortable afternoons. Winter is finally gone. With the ability to walk freely outside, I find my inner dialogue getting louder, more ambitious, more passionate. Gone are the months where I couldn’t hear myself think.

Why do rituals matter right now, and why am I craving them? Within the blink of an eye, I watched my newborn turn nine months old, out in the world as long as he was safe in my womb. Life is moving quickly. We have vacations planned where I expect I’ll be tired, unable to check in with myself. I’ve already been suffering from overstimulation. One minute, I’m exhausted, and the next, I’m inspired by all that I want to do. I’m knitting sweaters, I’m sewing dresses. I’ve watched more videos than I should on how to create tiny houses for my baby’s Maileg Mouse. Motherhood has changed my relationship with time. The time scrolling on my phone creeps up on me, and I don’t always notice it until my sweet baby is reaching for the device. The eagerness in his eyes is terrifying. The quick dopamine hit of social media becomes sickly sweet, turning my stomach. I want to experience things deeply. The twitching need to post everything online feels omnipresent at all times. I wish to rediscover slowness.

Postpartum has not been terrible for me, but I have had to manage my anxiety. Grounding myself is the best way to do so. I feel best when I’m curious about the world. I love to notice details. Making plans with a friend of mine every other week becomes an essential time built into my schedule. During that window, we can reconnect. In a world that constantly fights for our attention, it feels good to be deliberate about how I each day to feel. This means creating softness in daily life.

1. Morning tea outside

In the spring, I love the mist that clings to the hills in the distance and the fog that sometimes lifts along the rinding road. The temperature of the air is cool, and by the time I’m heading inside to make breakfast, it’s already warmed by the early sun. I relish the sound of the world waking up. Birdsong meets me from where nests were made on our front porch. In the shade, I feel myself shiver. But those flashes of sunlight feel transformative, kissing my face. I let my drink warm me from the inside. It feels right to wake up gradually.

I can’t always do this every single morning. I can feel when I miss this step, which allows me to begin the day intentionally. The day ahead is unknown, but I can guess that it will be filled with laughter, with difficulty, with wishing I had a few moments to rest my eyes. I find this ritual allows for a pause before the noise enters. Even five quiet moments outside changes the shape of my morning.

2. Walking, walking, walking

When I was pregnant, I finally stopped my weekly running, something I had done for over a decade. I was surprised to find that walking actually gave me more peace, and I enjoyed walking without headphones to notice the world around me. I let myself walk as far as I felt I could, as long as I still felt good. I let my mind wander.

I try to walk every afternoon, most mornings, and even some nights after dinner. It’s a luxury to hear the wind, the birds, the gravel under my shoes. My mind turns things over and over, like waves on the ocean. I allow my thoughts to surface naturally. New ideas present themselves, tiny revelations every day. I notice that creativity often arises in silence.

3. Lighting candles while journaling

I’ve tried to be careful about only having one or two candles per season to burn. The scent immediately changes the room. It feels good to know that I can master this part of the experience for myself. I can create the atmosphere. This was a method I learned on a writing retreat years ago. It signals to my brain that it’s time to reflect.

I don’t actually have time to journal every day. When I do, I find lighting a candle first helps me start by making space for thought. It casts the beautiful, soft glow over my familiar living space. This helps me romanticize a quiet moment. Even a difficult day, or a horrible day, can be transformed. This helps me create calm.

4. Reading in the sunlight

Sometimes, I don’t have the ability to actually go outside to read. On those days I can read next to my open windows. But when the weather is right, I bring my baby outside with me. We place a blanket out on the grass. I’m lucky if I get a full chapter in. But it’s worth it to turn the pages, seeing the sunlight fall on them.

I just wrote an article for my local newspaper about reading in the summertime. It made my realize that I see books as a form of companionship. To escape into a different world is a beautiful way to learn. Reading is a way to suspend time. I remember a year ago when I began reading each afternoon on the rocking chairs in front of the house. These seasonal reading rituals have transformed with my baby joining us.

The larger meaning behind these rituals is that they help me connect back to myself emotionally. They shape my life, they force me to pay attention, they make me more thoughtful, and they create a life that feels inhabitable. A meaningful life is often built from very small moments repeated with care.

These rituals are helping me notice my own life again. The quiet moments become anchors, punctuating each part of my day. I’ve noticed the difference, like the calm I can pull over our lives like a blanket. Our universe will continue changing, morphing and shifting, perhaps becoming unrecognizable, but somehow that brings comfort too. It means there will always be new rhythms to grow into.

Back in the fall, I felt the transition quickly because we had a young baby to take care of. Now the sunlight looks different as it hits the pages of my book in the morning. Opening a window after winter is a refreshingly chilly rush. Making tea in the morning, I look out at where the snow has melted and left the spongy earth exposed. On rainy days, when it’s still too cold to go outside, I find myself rearranging my bookshelves to make room for new titles, and to get rid of those that should be donated. Then, something magic happens when I step outside and feel the first day of warm air. These moments are brimming with possibility, like the start of a new chapter.

The shift from winter to spring is noticeable. Days of winter were slow, but I crave the type of slow that means we don’t have to rush from car to house because now the sun feels beautiful on our faces. Our lives are barreling forward, and it feels like it’s time for a reset.

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In New England, the first few warm days are enjoyed before the season truly starts, which is probably a lesson. Spring often feels like a turning point. It isn’t dramatic like the fiery colors of autumn, but subtle in the growth we see start to bloom. I hear people talk about how they begin to feel like themselves again, like the old version of themself was thawing out. Winter is a time of reflection, and many times, it has a heaviness to it. Spring invites curiosity again. There is excitement in the idea of beginning something quietly.

Personally, I feel that we are on the edge of many changes, and that brings a buzzing of interest into my life. Life unfolds dependably like the seasons. Many times, we feel when there is a new beginning just ahead, even when we don’t fully know what it is yet.

Recent parts of my life have whipped by, full of adventure, rich with stories, lingering when I needed to grow, or to grieve. This is the first time in a long while that I feel as if I’m starting fresh, even with so many changes in the last year, and that resembles a new chapter in my life.

I’m paying attention to different things now. My time is precious, as is my limited energy, and both need to be protected. As a new mother, I’m just getting my footing, and I finally can try to live more intentionally. While I tried to practice introspection during winter, I’m hoping to choose slower rhythms during spring as well.

There is much that feels like it’s brewing under my skin, ready to bubble out with my creativity. But this shift is meant to balance my energy, tempering myself so that I don’t burn out and get discouraged.

And so, life goes on. The ground is softening and the birds are singing. New beginnings are starting quietly. I’m allowing my life to morph into its next phase, changing gently. I remain curious — and hopeful — about what comes next. Motherhood helped me become a new person completely, and I feel the itching in my bones that there is much more growth to be had.

As I close my eyes at night, I can almost hear the faint sound of parchment, of new chapters about to start, of paging turning.

February is a presence that moves in rather than begins.

The letdown from the beginning of the new year can plummet one into depression. February’s ice freezes the wheels that were fueled by January’s performative energy. Gone are the resets that inform diet changes and exercise sessions. Our goals for a shiny future are already coated with a fine layer of dust. The noise of business (of getting things done) has lessened to a murmur.

Now we’re left with a blue month that feels impossibly long for how short it is. Still, if we can pay attention, the details of February can be beautiful. The light is growing stronger each day, the sun casting shadows later into the afternoon. The temperature remains frigid, perhaps even colder than before. On rare warm days, birds sing as if spring is on the horizon, but they are mistaken. The air is fresh with the smell of snow and chimney smoke. But the most identifiable trait about this month is the distinct silence.

What did February change in your home or routines? What did you notice first when it arrived?

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Rather than a period of time to get through, I’m aiming to personify the month. February is like many that we may have encountered before. It’s a quiet roommate who never seems to leave the house. It is some combination of monk, hermit, and winter crone, with lessons to teach if we are willing to listen. It’s the pause between sentences that allows a thought to marinate.

The rest of the year feels full of life, passion, color, expression, senses and things that easily satisfy. February has the traits of a koi fish hibernating beneath a frozen pond. It’s unhurried, knowing that the bustle will return. It also feels honest, a mirror to our bluest days. There’s melancholy, since we must sit in our homes with just our memories, but this doesn’t feel dramatic. The feeling is intimate compared to the festive nature of previous months.

If February were a person, how would they behave in your space?

Let us be honest about how this stretch will feel before spring arrives. By acknowledging the hardship, we might be able to see the comfort in it. Energy is low in February. Afternoons feel the longest, when the sun warms the couches through the window and the night still seems far away. There can be a lingering sadness of unfinished feelings, of expectations for the year that already feel too heavy.

Perhaps we should expect something else of ourselves this time of year. The reframe doesn’t mean failure. This is dormancy. February asks less of us than other months.

What did February allow you to stop doing? What feelings surfaced when things slowed?

Rituals

I usually reserve candles for special moments, like baths or during yoga. This month, I’m lighting them more often, bringing a small glow to our frigid nights.

My reading goals were more than accomplished last year, and I even started this new year strong. Re-reading instead of consuming new things can be a small comfort when I need to slow down.

Cooking is also a creative outlet for me, and I love the challenge of finding new recipes for us that coordinate with seasonal produce. Repetitive meals, on the other hand, can also be grounding, simple, and rejuvenating for the soul.

Fitness is at the forefront of New Year’s goals. Walking with no destination can be intuitive, and with a friend, it becomes an adventure.

Decluttering starts in January and usually carries until spring cleaning. Tidying one drawer instead of reinventing your entire life can be a small bite that’s easy to digest.

What did you do more slowly this month?
What felt sustaining, not productive?

Light dances on snow, bare branches scrape each other in the wind, and steam clings to windows where warmth is found inside.

The rest of the year will come quicker than we might wish. Let’s take time this month to ask ourselves some questions. What did February bring into your home? What did it ask you to sit with?

Its design tucks away hairstyles and creates a surprising reservoir of warmth. There is a gentle tension in its form. Concealment pairs with coziness, anonymity is softened by wool. And this is not the first time humanity has hidden its face for protection.

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To understand this curious resurgence, we might look first to a far harsher winter. Utility once trumped accessory when the earliest versions of these headpieces emerged from scenes of blood and ice. British soldiers fighting in the Crimean War of 1854 endured brutal cold, hunger, and insufficient supplies. They required headgear that covered the head, ears, and neck to survive the crushing winter. Knitted hoods were sent directly to the front, and soon became known as “balaclavas” after the Battle of Balaclava—a key clash in the Siege of Sevastopol on October 25, 1854.

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The town of Balaklava in Crimea lent its name to the garment: a close-fitting knitted cap enveloping the head, neck, and sometimes the shoulders. Victorian domesticity intersected with public duty as women knitted vital items for soldiers, the balaclava among them. The handmade protection served as a tangible thread between home and battlefield. Although women were confined largely to the private sphere, the Crimean War and later World War I expanded their roles, allowing them to contribute patriotically through craft. Each stitch carried hopes, fears, and love, reminding soldiers they were not forgotten, binding the front lines to the hearth.

There is comfort in the tangibility of such tasks. Human desire seeks always to shield loved ones, with weapons and with spun wool. Clothing, in those moments, becomes a vessel of care.

As decades passed, the balaclava slipped from battlefield necessity into the world of sport. Skiers, mountaineers, and explorers adopted it to brace against bitter winds. The military still uses them in high-risk missions, and professionals braving arctic conditions rely on versions made from merino wool and fleece. This made them lightweight, warm, and easy to layer beneath helmets and hoods. The romance of twentieth-century exploration is etched into these details: white-capped peaks and woolen armor.

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Yet the balaclava’s roots stretch deeper than the nineteenth century, echoing fashion’s earliest languages of concealment and protection. Medieval wimples, which evolved from Crusader influence, bear a conceptual resemblance. Made from linen or silk, they draped under the chin and around the neck, sometimes structured with wire frames. Renaissance veils share this lineage too: richly handmade, worn in various configurations to shield the head or obscure part of the face in a gesture of mystery. Even the voluminous hoods and muffs of the eighteenth century, though less concerned with concealment, played in the same vocabulary of warmth and enclosure.

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By the 1950s, ski masks emerged as yet another iteration. In the modern imagination, the balaclava also carries the symbolism of anonymity. In tactical or rebellious contexts, it can become a threatening silhouette, an emblem of resistance, secrecy, or evasion. Literature associates it with mystery and the unknown. The accessory balances on the duality of its purposes. Humans have long oscillated between revealing and concealing, between modesty and defiance. These concepts thread themselves together as protection and provocation, warmth and anonymity.

Perhaps that is why the balaclava endures as a small reminder that warmth is both material and ancestral. This winter, countless hands will lift their knitting needles to craft woolen hoods anew. As we return to winter streets, the balaclava becomes a tiny historical echo moving through the modern cold.
Fashion today repeats the patterns of yesterday, reworking them into new forms. The balaclava reminds us that the past is always stitched into the present. From soldiers in Crimea to our cedar closets today, there is comfort in how designs endure, carrying their stories with them. Clothing is never merely clothing, but shared memory, lineage, and our persistent human desire for warmth.

Going to the store, list in hand, I buy specific ingredients with the promise of a warm meal just hours away. The task is still as fun for me as ever. Like modern-day foraging, I collect my items: rice, mushrooms, sage, broth. I planned a risotto with crispy bacon on top for when my brother-in-law came to visit. This is a dish my mother-in-law has made for us many times, and I wanted them to enjoy something familiar. December makes me sentimental.

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After the shop, I drive home on winding roads. Darkness has set in, only punctuated by bursts of Christmas lights. I step out of the car to see my mom has added more decorations to the house. Through the ribboned wreath on the front door, I peer inside at the perfect scene before I enter.

Lights pepper the stairs, lanterns glow from the floor, a winter village glows from the foyer, and the Christmas crackers are scattered where I left them on the counter. Beyond, my parents blur by, running after the cat who’s trying to bully the elderly dog. My husband is opening a beer while his brother holds our baby. They’re laughing, perhaps at the baby, or maybe at the cat and dog situation. Regardless, I take a moment to enjoy it before stepping inside. I hope I remember moments like these for a long time.

Being a new mother means I feel doubt within me all the time, questioning if I’m doing the right thing. But intuition, shining with the fuel of new life, leads me like a torch in the night. I travel in and out of the stores that play holiday jingles. We decorate by hanging ornaments, tying ribbons, cutting snowflakes. It feels like magic to conjure the holidays of my blessed childhood and regift them to my son.

Christmas is just on the horizon, and the frozen air at dusk feels familiar like an old friend. As the sun sets, I admire the light when I drive, noticing the spindly winter trees that look black against low clouds, and the spire of the church that pierces the sky. It’s comforting that when the December nights descend into shadows, there is a home waiting for me, full of lights and warmth, with candles in every window.

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Things I love this month:

Our second month of autumn brings early evenings and cool nights. The harvest is upon us, and our ripest prizes from the garden are ready to be enjoyed.

Produce of the rare heirloom varieties are strange and intriguing. The farm shops are full of multicolored gems of fiery orange, ruby red, sage green, bone white, and even inky black.

Tomatoes, squash, and gourds have special breeds that are unique to New England, along with stories about them that have been passed down for generations.

Pumpkins are the spectacle of October. These, too, have unusual history in New England. At the pumpkin patch, the ground is sprinkled with orange shapes, big and small, lumpy, smooth, and everything in between. The iconic symbol of Halloween has been a staple for cooking and baking for centuries.

Making pumpkin bread is a lovely memory for me. My Nonnie used to roast pumpkin seeds with salt for us to eat after the children carved pumpkins at her large kitchen table. These are the recipes I remember from Octobers of my childhood. I want to explore the history of how this produce came to be in New England.

Cherokee Purple Tomato

An heirloom tomato grower named Craig was growing up to fifty different varieties back in 1990. He began getting a reputation as a preserver of heirloom tomatoes. It is Craig who ended up naming this unusual produce.

After receiving seeds of a rare tomato that originally came from a family who had been gifted the seeds from Cherokee Native Americans, Craig added the tomatoes to his garden. The only thing Craig didn’t have was a name. Instead of naming it after the sweet flavor, he thought it would be best to name it after where it came from. The family who had been gifted the seeds from the Native Americans had been growing them in their garden for a hundred years.

Craig shared the seeds with other seed exchanges, and soon it became a known variety in gardens nationally. Cherokee Purple payed homage to their heritage as well as their deep red color, which looked close to purple.

The gardener noticed that as he bred the variety, it began to change. Cherokee Purple was deepening its color, creating even more unique varieties. One was Cherokee Chocolate, and it didn’t end there!

Cherokee Green was born when a cross of Cherokee Purple and Cherokee Brown bore a fruit that was lime green even when ripe. The flavor was sweet and layered, becoming another favorite of the bunch.

New England Blue Hubbard Squash

Believed to have been brought over from South America or the West Indies in 1798, this squash has been grown in Massachusetts since the early 1800s. It was first recorded in Marblehead.

Elizabeth Hubbard introduced the squash to a nurseryman named James J.H. Gregory. He saved the seeds from year to year. It was relished for its excellent flavor. Gregory sold the seeds in the local area.

It was officially sold by the Gregory Seed Company in 1909. The first name it was given was Symmes Blue Hubbard after a nursery worker named Symmes. The fruit was long in shape and had a blue-green color, with sweet and orange flesh inside. The fruit was popular because it could be stored for a few months up to a year. The full-flavored squash had a buttery texture.

The squash became a hit, winning Gregory an award from the Massachusetts Horticultural Society in 1860. This put him on the map in the horticultural world.

The sweet flesh is perfect for baked goods. Many classic New England recipes call for this variety of squash for seasonal pies. You can pick up a pack of seeds for your own garden and grow these unusual gems yourself!

Warty Goblin Gourd

The popular choice for pumpkins has always been smooth and orange, and any with warts were seen as unhealthy. But as with any market, the customers wanted fresh and new autumn decor. The warted pumpkins began to be seen as novel.

Some of these gourds are genetically disposed to having warts. The Knucklehead Gourds are a family that include the Warty Goblins, amongst other varieties. They had been engineered to enhance their imperfections. What started as naturally lumpy pumpkins has resulted in warts bubbling up over the surface of the gourd like a witch’s cauldron.

Pumpkins belong to the gourd family. Because they can cross pollinate, a wondrous amount of varieties can be created.

It took over ten years of cross-breeding to get the wart-infested ones we see today, and they’re grown best in warm climates with full sun exposure. This type is especially popular for Halloween. Reminiscent of cackling witches, the gourds are like the black sheep of the pumpkin world.

Warty Goblin isn’t even the strangest of the names that this produce gets! One with red and white stripes is called One-Too-Many for resembling a bloodshot eye. Others are more tame, like the flower-shaped gourd called a Daisy Gourd.

Turk’s Turban

Turk’s Turban is used for plenty of recipes despite its decorative aesthetic. This is mostly used as a winter squash. It’s closest relative is the butternut squash!

Marina di Chioggia

Popular in Italy for pasta dishes, this pumpkin is green and bumpy in appearance. They date back to the 1700’s when they were brought to Venice from the Americas. The pumpkins nave been bred in the Veneto region of Italy for over three hundreds years. While difficult to peel, they’re worth it for their flavor.

Long Pie Culinary Pumpkin

Arriving in Nantucket off a whaling ship in the 1830’s, this was known in the beginning as the Nantucket Pumpkin. Easy to stack and delicious to cook with, this has become a New England staple.

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Autumn is ripening, and so too is the harvest produce. Take a trip to your local farm stand to see what treasured heirlooms await you. My local farms are a delight to behold: speckled gourds, warted pumpkins, tomatoes in every color. Let us feast our eyes on the delightful patterns and colors. And then, let us feast.

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Sources & Further Reading

1. “Heirloom Tomatoes: Cherokee Purple.” Farm Progress.
   https://www.farmprogress.com/heirloom-tomatoes-cherokee-purple

2. “Cherokee Purple Tomato.” Slow Food USA.
   https://slowfoodusa.org/cherokee-purple-tomato

3. “New England Blue Hubbard.” Thresh Seed Co.
   https://www.threshseed.com/products/new-england-blue-hubbard

4. “Hubbard Squash.” CooksInfo.com.
   https://www.cooksinfo.com/hubbard-squash

5. “Blue Hubbard.” Clara.vrx.
   http://clara.vrx.palo-alto.ca.us/works/pumpkin/Colors/blue/blue_hubbard

6. “Knucklehead Pumpkins.” Specialty Produce.
   https://specialtyproduce.com/produce/Knucklehead_Pumpkins_11298.php

7. McCarthy, Erin. “Decorative Gourds Get Weirder Every Year.” Mental Floss, 2015.
   https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/69619/decorative-gourds-get-weirder-every-year

8. “Why Does My Pumpkin Have Warts?” IFL Science, 2023.
   https://www.iflscience.com/why-does-my-pumpkin-have-warts-76404

9. “Turk’s Turban Winter Squash.” Garden Betty.
   https://gardenbetty.com/turks-turban-winter-squash

10. “Marina di Chioggia Pumpkin.” Hoss Tools.
    https://growhoss.com/products/marina-di-chioggia-pumpkin

11. “Bio Pumpkin: Marina of Chioggia.” Seeds of Italy.
    https://seedsofitaly.com/bio-pumpkin-marina-of-chioggia

12. “Long Pie Pumpkin.” Slow Food Foundation: Ark of Taste.
    https://www.fondazioneslowfood.com/en/ark-of-taste-slow-food/long-pie-pumpkin

The garden in September is one in gorgeous transition. Mornings are cool and dewy, and the last of the summer flowers are blooming or beginning to wilt. As morning tilts to afternoon, the sun burns off any chill. This is the time that I enjoy laying out on a blanket and sitting in the grass. I now do this not only with friends and family but with our newest addition: our son James.

It’s one of the biggest blessings that he was born in August. As I get to the end of my healing, the weather has become lovely, and going for walks with the baby is a delight. How different this is from all the Septembers of my past, like last year when I sat in the sun on my lunch break, or Septembers spent in Boston when I studied out in front of my dorm, or Septembers of childhood when I was summoned back to school wearing new clothes and peeling sweaters off in the afternoon.

There are small things I’ve done to mark the change of season. Wearing a new scent is like cueing your mind to jump on a new track. I picked up my body mist in the scent Chai Eclair by Le Monde Gourmand, which has notes of violet and fig with a hint of lily of the valley. This brings back memories to when I purchased it a year ago, back when life was full of change and anticipation for what was to come.

Having a child is like rewriting your life, creating new traditions and seeing the world through different eyes. Though the refreshing chill of early autumn feels the same as it always did, it’s me who has changed. Each moment I try to enjoy the descent from summer into fall, I now see it through the eyes of my son, and I'm in love with the magic that he'll soon encounter.

Soon we will pick pumpkins and put mums in front of the house. But for now, we’re looking at the last rays of summer light, which are leaving us more quickly each night.

Summer had its challenges. The heat mixed with late pregnancy was not simple. There are moments when I’m overcome with relief to have already had our baby. Everything feels like a blurry, beautiful dream.

We’re preparing to watch Over the Garden Wall, one of my favorite miniseries, and one I haven’t seen since my husband and I were first dating. The nights are cool and feel appropriate for the autumnal cartoon. When I first watched the series, I was an adult but could admire the humor and artwork. It feels bittersweet to watch it now and know that in a few years, our son will be old enough to understand it.

Some things that I used to do often are now a luxury. We took a walk through the cemetery in town and enjoyed the view from up top. This was an easy walk just a year ago when I climbed it with my friends. Now I carry the baby and walk deliberately, trying to soothe him as we make our way to the mausoleums, trying not to jostle him too much.

There were rituals that we held each year around this time. Some of them aren’t possible with a new baby. We used to go to the candle factory, we used to shop for new clothes, and go for a ride to the Berkshires. This is my first year not doing these things. But I’m making my own rituals. I’ve switched out floral scents and flavors for cinnamon and spices. In the afternoon we go for a short walk before coming home to take a quick nap (something I desperately need). My big outing for the week is usually to the store or farm to get supplies for dinner.

In The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” It’s certainly always felt like this, but now things are even more renewed for me. It feels as if I have a completely new life. This is not meant to be negative. As my son was born in early August, I too was born again. I’m simply a different creature than what I was. Things that used to matter just don’t anymore. Things that I used to not care about matter more than anything else.

I remember wanting to read challenging books around this time of year, diving into Dostoevsky (which I managed) and Dickens (which I could not). Now, I want anything that will truly entertain me. I began the new YA title Immortal Consequences by I. V. Marie and it’s lasted me weeks, which is slow, but expected with a newborn. The story is about a boarding school in the afterlife where the students are competing for a chance to make it out of purgatory. Each night, I relish in another chapter, wondering what will happen next. This is before I drift off to beloved sleep.

Sleep is what I need most now. I get little of it and I need to supplement throughout the day. In the depths of the night, I sit by the open window as I feed the baby. The crickets of summer are still as loud as ever, serenading us through the dark. But A fresh breeze sneaks through, which was not the case throughout August.

Often, I’m awake to see the sun rise over the hills and trees. Delirious from sleeplessness, I hold little James close and try to remember that he won’t always be tiny. One day he’ll sleep in a separate room, and he’ll sleep through the night, and I won’t have so many moments to hold him constantly.

Having a newborn is like anticipating the autumn season: it’s exciting and beautiful and over too quickly. I find myself on the beginning of this journey, holding on to the feeling for dear life, even when it’s hard, even when I long for just one night of sleeping through until morning.

This has become a reminder for me that life moves awfully fast. Watching my son, I’m reminded of the traditions of fall where we live in New England. I have precious memories of crunchy leaves, picking pumpkins, new boots, and wool socks. We enjoyed apple cider afternoons and candle-lit evenings after dinner. I remember them so clearly! Now the years have flown as easily as the birds that we watch in the sky. Soon, James will be grown up too, and I feel that this next portion of my life will pass more quickly than the last.

Days are sweet right now, sweet as the apples I bought for our oatmeal, sweet as the cinnamon donuts we bought for dessert. They are sweet despite challenges. I feel I’m learning a crucial lesson about comfort, mainly, how little it really matters. I had a fantastic and blessed life free of most discomfort before I was pregnant. Now, I rarely find a moment of true comfort in my day, and I find that it doesn’t matter to me at all.

There is no other way to say it: life is good.

Welcome to the height of summer, where the birds and insects sing like a symphony each dawn and dusk. In late afternoon, I walk quietly along the tall grass to spot foxes and bobcats. By night, the haunting call of the owls slips through our open windows.

The long days leave me sticky with sweat and itching from mosquito bites, and yet I am drawn to the untamed world. We endured a heatwave recently that made me break out in an uncomfortable heat rash. Still, I found myself slinking out into the muggy world to hear the young finches sing on the porch. Nature is elegant despite being wild. My goal this year was to observe more of the natural world, to chronicle of the beauty in wilderness. A deer stops in a clearing and tilts its head, and we hold in our breath, watching, not daring to move, hoping it will grace us with its presence for a few moments more.

I talk a lot about curation and the way that people line up their social media feeds to impress a feeling. Nature laughs at this concept. It feels as if much is going on outside, and yet nothing unusual in particular. A bird carries off a worm to its babies, who writhe and chirp when the mother lands on the edge of the nest. As Lao Tzu said, “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”

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Where the Wild Things Are

I’ve had more time this summer than ever to relax in nature and take a look at the wider world around me. There are places near and far that we’ve explored. The local nature preserve is a good place to walk amongst swans and geese that float on the ponds. We also visited a nonprofit exotic animal site where we fed goats, gazed at the highland cattle, and played around with the emus. We’ve hiked up the side of mountain trails. I laid a blanket at the edge of an overgrown meadow and watched rabbits curiously ease their heads from brush.

For me, time amongst wildlife is about embracing the unknown. My husband is from England and is desperate to see a bear, as he’s never seen one before. Each time we go for walks before sunset, we stop when the bushes rustle, we investigate the parted grasses. It requires slowing down. Many times when we are in the presence of an animal, I don’t want to scare it by getting my phone out for a photo, and so I’m forced into the beautiful present.

While we’ve seen our fair share of wildlife from living in the New England countryside, there is plenty I’d love to experience in the future. Our trip to the wildlife preserve scratched that itch to an extent. But I would love to see the animals that roam around safaris, the giraffes in Africa, the giant tortoises of the Galapagos. The world seems bursting with possibilities, and with creatures that I could never even conceive of seeing. Because I’m pregnant, we’re restricted to just our local area for now, but that doesn’t stop me from dreaming of trips that we can take. I’m still delighted by the monarchs that drift through the garden, the hummingbirds that dart between flowers.

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Magic in Motion

Seeing wildlife in their natural habitat is like examining ourselves. There’s something profound in the way that the rabbits dash across the road, the way that foxes slink into the shadows of the forest. As we walk on trails, turtles amble across the path and towards their oasis: a pond full of lily pads, insects skimming the filmy water, unknown creatures creating bubbles that travel up to the surface where our reflections ripple. A rare treat is a deer that pauses to watch us, and in the silence while we breath and stare at each other, there is reverence and some kind of poetry.

I have been living in the woods all my life. My husband isn’t as accustomed to the amount of animals that live amongst us out in such a rural area. I give him tips: to speak quietly when he sees something emerge from the grass, to move at a glacial pace. We spend much more of our time listening. The peak of summer heat has hit us and with it comes the fascinating singing of birds, insects, predators in the woods. At dusk, the frogs sing together and we pause, we stop, we listen with smiles on our faces.

The thing I’ve learned most from animals is rhythm. I’ve watched the same species of bird move into the nests at the front of the house, heard their babies cry for food, seen them fly from their perch when we walk out the door. Another relevant skill for me right now is instinct. I watch the way fox cubs dash after their mother, the way that fawns stumble in the trodden path behind the adult deer. I’m ready to go through my own primal experience, feeling a baby grow slowly, knowing there will be a blindingly painful entrance into the world that we all go through to be here with each other. But mostly what I learn from the animals is stillness.

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Beauty as a Way of Seeing

I’m aesthetically driven, and that’s usually manifested in material items. This summer I’ve felt closer to the wilderness than ever before. The beauty of the natural world has altered my lens to the world in this period of my life. The sun grazes the blades of grass, the sparrows swoop low and their wings flutter past us.

This summer, I invite you to let the wildness of nature lure you in. There is much for us to see reflected from our own lives. Keep your hearts and eyes open. Let the unknown raise the hair on your skin. I hope you come away with an affinity to these creatures we live amongst. I wish for you to take a moment to feel the vibration of silence, the hypnotic sensation of organic movement, and to feel at peace.

At night I find myself scrolling and learning too many internet terms that I’d be better off without. Yet some of these fleeting trends give me some insight into where we’re at in society today. One of these was The Bean Soup Theory.

It all started like this: a woman posted a recipe online for bean soup. The comments were filled with people saying things like, “what if I don’t like beans?” and “I can’t cook beans,” and “can I substitute the beans because I don’t have them,” etc. Why couldn’t people simply refrain from commenting on the video? If they didn’t like beans, they could ignore the recipe. But a shocking amount of people couldn’t help themselves.

The conversation started ballooning into one about narcissism, which is already a hot topic these days. I personally think the term is thrown around too often. But the way that we all obsess and post on social media has certainly changed the entire world, and I think we’re all a lot more self obsessed than we used to me. Individualism has led to Main Character Syndrome, and I worry that we might lose sight of how we each fit into a larger part of society. Do we not feel more fulfilled when we expand our capacity of understanding for each other?

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Perhaps this came about because of the popular “For You” and “Explore” options on social media. Even TikTok has users endlessly swiping and receiving videos with the creators telling them, “if you found this video, you were meant to hear this message…” perpetuating the idea that each piece of content is meant for us or is something for us to respond to. With this messaging, it makes sense that eventually the social media users would become almost intolerant to content they don’t personally connect to.

Here’s the thing that scares me these days: many people are posting about the narcissists in their lives, but narcissism is something that should be diagnosed. Therapy speak has also popularized armchair psychologists who are eager to see selfish traits in their family members or peers. But narcissism seems to exist in a much more subtle way these days, an entity that permeates most environments that I find myself in. While I feel like I’m not one of the people perpetuating this, I still scroll online and find myself weighing in on posts that are made to complain, and those posts are socially rewarded with attention and sometimes monetization. Here I was thinking that I was above the mudslinging, and then I find myself telling my husband about every little thing that people are fighting about online. I realized that what is missing for me is my ability to contextualize myself in a larger system.

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I’m trying not to be too hard on all of us, because we’ve been placed in this mass social experiment that we call social media where everyone is herded via algorithms, self-branding, and hash-tagging to reach a larger audience. TikTok culture gave us short video content for the tiniest attention spans which gave way to everyone thinking they could become popular online. The therapy speak of “my boundaries” and “speaking my truth” and being on a “healing journey” can be helpful to the individual, but focus on the self almost always seems to draw them away from the rest of the world, of which they are a communal counterpart. At times, I want to ask people to describe how they really feel, even if it’s messy and doesn’t come out perfectly.

I worry for all of us, as there is a global epidemic of anxiety, dissatisfaction, and loneliness. Everyone wants to be the main character, and they want their life to feel like a movie. I have felt like this many times myself, but I’ve never felt more alive and satisfied when I wasn’t so focused on myself.

There have been times when I’ve been shocked to feel a lack of empathy for people due to what I’m seeing online. Thinking back, I was fueled by my own bias, which made me incredibly emotional. The internet and social media accounts give us the impression that we have all the right answers, that we can be the masters of our own destiny, and we can help define and find ourselves along the way. The downside is that we become lone wolves. Everything that happens in life becomes about our character arc. I have gotten so wrapped up in an online world and what I want my persona to be that I’ve lost sight of the rest of my tribe around me, which completes the ensemble of my life.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, while I wouldn’t comment on the bean soup recipe, I have certainly taken things personally online that were not truly about me. That’s okay! It’s been freeing to identify what can be applied to my life, and what I need to let go of. We all have our strengths, and when managed correctly, social media can be a way that we enrich each other. At the same time, my goal moving forward is to practice empathizing with people who are different than me. We actually need each other much more than we need to feel represented everywhere we look.

There have been so many times in my life where I’ve succumbed to the allure of individualism that social media indulges. I want to one day write about all the positives that can come from finding online communities and being inspired by what we see in content creators. And I’m certainly not bringing a new perspective to the table that social media is bad for us (in fact I’ve written about it before) but I believe that we hear this perspective so much because it can truly be detrimental to mental health. My takeaway from this subject is to remember that romanticizing your life can be really good, and is different than “starring” in your life that you see as a movie/tv show/video game. There is something incredibly nourishing about opening up your perspective to see the wider world around you and realize that we work best when we’re asking questions and learning without defensiveness and judgement.

The other thing I don’t wish to do is minimize exceptionalism. There are people who are wildly talented and should be encouraged to show the world what they can do. There are those who will seek success in doing so, and I feel that they should. But in a world where there is allure to becoming a sensation online, I find myself wondering if it would satisfy my itch to have lots of adoration in that space. Certainly I would like to be as extraordinary in my life as I can be. But I also want to focus on being dependable to the people around me, and most importantly, good to them.

So…I turned thirty-one years old a few days ago, and I’m thinking about this as I sit on our front porch, pregnant with our first baby. Pregnancy has taken a lot of my time and energy, and much of that was time that I used to spend writing or creating. Now I mostly rest.

That isn’t totally fair. I’ve accomplished a few things since decreasing the amount I work each week. I’ve knit the baby a sweater, and I’m nearly done with his baby quilt. But I’ve certainly had to slow down.

The first trimester was one of darkness; I barely remember anything beyond a blur of cold winter days, the night coming too early, and my tiredness forcing me into bed after a long day of working. We made the decision for me to back away from full-time work during the second trimester, and we used that time to relocate to a more rural area. Since then, my days have been slow, the weather becoming lovelier and lovelier, and I’ve regained the energy to work on the garden and enjoy daily walks.

My most precious time is the morning before I begin my daily tasks. I enjoy sitting out front with a cup of tea and listening to the baby birds that are nearby in their nest. The hotter days are coming, but for now, life is slow and sweet.

More to come.

Audrey Hepburn said, “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.” I feel the same way about planners.

As a child I received yearly agendas from school that helped me keep track of homework and assignments. This was like a bible. It was a time before smartphones, and I was too young for a Blackberry. No Chromebooks were assigned to students. It was a uniform notebook that I scribbled every note in. Since then, I’ve been in love with planning.

There are plenty of different planners out there, and I feel as if I've tried them all. I've enjoyed large, small, and pocket-sized planners. I've had patterned, plain, leather, plastic, and many more. As I’ve gotten older, more subtle styles and colors are what I gravitate towards.

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Benefits

I now use my planner as a catch-all for anything written: grocery lists, to-do lists, goals for the upcoming season, projects that I'm working on, gift ideas, and more. It helps for me to examine what exactly I was picking up my pen for each day, or what I use my Notes app for. I took these focuses and added them to my planner. When I noticed that I always typed up a grocery list, for example, I made a place in my weekly spread to write out groceries.

The only downside is that I need to have it with me most of the time. But frankly, it feels nice to have a physical object and know that if I don't have it with me, I'll have to figure it out. There’s a mental load taken off.

One gripe that I've always had with many styles of planners is that they allow for too much planning. There are areas that I personally don't need in a book, like a habit tracker or my expenses. Plain bullet journals were enticing to me. The entire notebook is fully customizable! I bought colorful tape, pens, and stickers to decorate monthly and weekly spreads.

Yes, monthly and weekly. Long story short, I could not keep that up. Also, the complete lack of structure actually made planning more difficult for me. I would get to the end of a busy week and totally forget that in order to plan the following week, I needed to create the pages by scratch. There's a pile of abandoned bullet journals in my desk that need to be recycled in some way.

Putting everything into a yearly planner seems like the most effective method for me, especially of the book is simple and aesthetically pleasing. I can clip reminders and receipts to it. I can add sticky notes. I can jot down what I need from the store inside.

My current planner (the Common Planner by Sterling Link) has simple monthly and weekly pages with enough space for me to jot everything that I need down. The best part is that the back portion has a grid setup for writing in it. I use this to jot down ideas all the time because there's way more blank pages than any other planner that I've used.

I myself went for the N1 H Full Year Planner. This skinny size is best for my bags. This is not sponsored at all, I just love this planner.

Mental Clarity & Stress Reduction

We've all missed a date because we forgot to write it down. Or worse, we incorrectly put it into our phone calendar. This happens to me a lot.

One thing I love about my little planner is that I can pull it out for any date that I need to jot down, whether it's a doctor's appointment, plans with a friend, or birthdays. Relying on my phone has not been helpful for me, as the iPhone calendar interface is unintuitive and unreliable. My stress is reduced incredibly by knowing that I'm hand writing important dates and can refer to them at a later time without issue.

Goal Setting & Habit Tracking

If I set a big goal for myself at the beginning of the year, my planner helps me with things like habit tracking. While I said earlier that I wasn’t interested in a habit tracking section of a journal, I do keep goals in mind to pencil them into my lifestyle.

For example, I wanted to make more meals at home and to buy less processed food. I often mark when in my week that I plan to go to the store, which groceries I need to buy, and what meals I plan on making on certain days. This has helped tremendously as I'm more likely to cook if I've already bought the ingredients and assigned a recipe to a certain day.

I do the same with social plans. I really need to make an effort to see my friends, and setting a date every week (or every other) holds me accountable.

I can see how this process would also be helpful with goals like fitness, hobbies, or learning. By breaking down the habit that you wish to normalize, you can track it and measure the success of your ultimate goal.

Looking back at the end of the year, it's nice to flip through and see how these aspirations are going. For some that aren't quite where they need to be, it gives me some space to reassess and try to approach things differently.

In fact, there are journals entirely committed to habit tracking. This gets too granular for me personally, but I can see how it would benefit some people. If I take just five minutes in the morning or evening to assess my day, it helps me reflect and be more mindful in the future. This tends to lead to success!

I'll note that when I stop using my planner for various reasons, I become lazy, but also guilty that I've stopped. It gets hard to start again. But it helps to remind myself that I am the one forcing myself to do this. It's meant to benefit me! Sometimes I take a break, and that's okay.

The way that planners are laid out for students is project-based, and that can actually work well for those of us that aren't in school. There are many projects I wish to work on that require constant maintenance: gardening, writing a novel, sewing and knitting my own clothes, etc. So even if you aren't a student but you have a lot of projects, it might help to look at the way that they organize their weeks.

There are so many other notebooks that I use in conjunction with my planner. Perhaps this is because I have a soft spot for notebooks. I have a journal committed to my novel-writing as well as a food diary. As my life changes, some things are less needed, and others are added to the mix.

How do you keep track of things in a planner?

Each year I create a checklist of things I want to do throughout the year and I refer to it while I’m making plans. Please feel free to use it, or to create one yourself.

New England is the quintessential place for winter magic. After a glorious autumn, we’re enjoying the slow descent into winter.

Things To Do

Go ice skating.

This is fun to do with friends. Sometimes, there are ice skating trails where you can actually skate outside! As a former ice skater, I would love to try this soon.

See a local performance of The Nutcracker ballet.

Another nostalgic trip for me. I performed a few times in The Nutcracker when I was young and I find it to be my favorite holiday story. The closest cities to me have beautiful productions of it, but sometimes even small towns have them performed at the local theater.

Let yourself indulge in Christmas. Make it something special.

Wake up in your Christmas pajamas, put on your favorite slippers, and make a festive breakfast that everyone can enjoy. Make yourself a vanilla chai hot chocolate. Try something new, like a French toast casserole. Then spend the day opening gifts and singing your favorite songs. Take an afternoon drive to see the decorations or snowy landscape. See if any local pubs are actually open and go for a spontaneous drink. Return home to enjoy a roaring fire while you watch your favorite holiday film. Ruminate in the magic of the day!

Read a big, difficult book.

I love getting lost in an old classic, especially during winter when I’m forced to stay inside. For this season, I’d like to read Anna Karenina or Ethan Frome.

Try to bake a festive treat every week.

I like to challenge myself and use what’s in season for my baking. Some ideas are: cinnamon spiced dutch baby with cranberry butter, gingerbread cookies, vanilla hot chocolate cookies, spice cake with eggnog buttercream.

Have a snow day reading corner.

There’s nothing more cozy for me than getting that call (either from my school or my supervisor) that we have a snow day. It depends on the severity, but if you get plowed out quickly, or you have friends and family nearby, you could invite them around to having a reading day. Tell them to bring their favorite book and prepare to lounge around for hours. Light candles, make hot chocolate. This is the perfect time to dive into the book that you’ve been wanting to read.

Knit, cross stitch, or practice embroidery.

My good friend and I were just talking about how the winter is perfect for those hobbies you’ve wanted to do but just haven’t gotten around to. December happens in a flurry, but the rest of winter can feel long and bleak. Projects to keep busy are exciting, and they give you something to look forward to. I have several knitting books that I’ve collected over the years, and I’d love to dive into a sweater soon. We also perused the library and found plenty of inspiring books about Fair Isle knitting, cozy cross stitching, Victorian floral embroidery, and more.

Create your own coffee syrup at home.

While I love treating myself to Starbucks (and in fact did so today), I’ve been trying so hard to save money by making my tea and coffee at home. However, sometimes it just doesn’t feel as exciting as the overpriced coffeeshop. I think you can make the same festive flavors at home. Here are two of my favorite flavors: gingerbread syrup and chestnut praline syrup.

Films to Watch

• The Nutcracker and the Four Realms (2018)

• Sherlock Holmes (2009)

• The Lord of the Rings series

• Chocolat (2000)

• Julie & Julia (2009)

• Hugo (2011)

• Elf (2003)

• Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009)

• Harry Potter series

• The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

• The Huntsman: Winter's War (2016)

• Spectre (2015)

• It's a Wonderful Life (1946)

• Sleepless in Seattle (1993)

• The Shining (1980)

• Silver Linings Playbook (2012)

• The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (2005)

• Abominable (2019)

• Little Women (2019)

• The Holiday (2006)

• Knives Out (2019)

Books to Read

• Juniper & Thorn by Ava Reid

• Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

• Girl in Snow by Danya Kukafka

• Between Shades of Gray by Ruta Sepetys

• The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman

• The Holiday Switch by Tif Marcelo

• A Winter's Promise by Christelle Dabos

• Beartown by Fredrik Backman

• Moon of the Crusted Snow by Waubgeshig Rice

• The Bear and the Nightingale by Arden, Katherine

• The Empusium: A Health Resort Horror Story by Olga Tokarczuk

Winter Moodboards

Shopping in the city:

Classy stores with festive decorations, business people in the city picking up a tree on their way home, Gossip Girl inspired outfits, glossy magazines with gift guides, winter outfits with long coats. Leather, lattes, sitting near the fire at restaurants.

Snow day:

Luxurious loungewear made of wool and cotton, winter scenery outside, rich brown tones of wood, the blue light of dusk as it falls over the fresh snow, reading classic books late into the night. Cashmere socks, hot cocoa, and a warm bubble bath.

Winter at the farm:

Wintry chill that kisses the noses of animals, high quality snow suits and boots for trekking through the woods, going on adventures like the March sisters, brown tones in the snow-covered forest, snowflakes and soft textures. Deer frolicking, cutting down a fresh Christmas tree, and homemade bread.

A final note…

In winter, I begin to get sluggish, desperate for warmth and stimulation. To make the most of the season, I try to plan as many activities as I can. Sometimes it feels impossible, especially when the holidays get busy, and I feel like I’m losing steam. But there have been seasons that came and went and I felt as if I wasted my time. My goal this year is to get outside (despite the cold), spend time with friends and family, plan gatherings, and stay creative even when I’m forced to stay inside.

The truth is, winter feels magic for a reason. Our world is transformed when it snows. Despite the hardships of the colder months, I try to relish in what we don’t have access to during the summer. For example, I love bundling up to sit outside. It’s cozy to pile on sweaters, a coat, scarves, earmuffs, mittens, and venture into the freezing climate. The colder it is, the more of an adventure it seems.

This is also the season of soup and tea, two things that I’ve fallen in love with during the fall. Soup can be kept warm in a thermos and brought to work, or on a walk, or for a cold-weather picnic. Tea has been a staple for me as I cut down on coffee. My favorite during autumn was Celestial Seasoning’s Bengal Spice, as well as Harney & Son’s Hot Cinnamon Sunset. To kick things off for winter, I’ve been adding eggnog to my tea instead of milk, which is delicious. I’m still looking for a new tea flavor to try for the holiday season.

This will be my first winter being married. Because my husband is from England, there are plenty of experiences I’m excited for him to have in New England for the first time. One holiday tradition that my parents and I started a few years ago is driving up to Lenox, Massachusetts to enjoy the festive scenery. We visit the Red Lion Inn and get something to eat with our hot toddies.

Some traditions remain the same. My Nonnie passed away a year ago. She was truly the matriarch of our family, and she ran a tight ship when it came to Christmas. She instructed us on exactly how to make her coffeecake (which was eaten on Christmas morning), how to sprinkle our Italian Christmas cookies, how to put decorations on the tree, how to set up the Christmas village in the kitchen. This will be our first Christmas without her. But she won’t be too far away. My mom will be making the coffeecake and cookies with my aunts. Hopefully these are traditions that we’ll carry through future generations.

Christmas always makes me feel like a little girl again. I had a blessed childhood, especially at Christmastime. It was filled with Nutcracker performances, ice skating, decorating the house, cracking nuts before dinner on Christmas Eve, velvet dresses, new toys. I feel like I can relive the beautiful parts of childhood during the holidays, and make new precious memories as well.

There are new things that I’ve been wanting to do for years, like learn how to ski, ice skate outdoors, make homemade gifts, bake new recipes. The lovely thing is that after the holidays are over, plenty of winter activities can carry over into January and February. During those months, I like to look to Scandinavian and Nordic books that celebrate their dark days of winter. They inspire me to knit, bake and cook, and to carry some of the magic of Christmas throughout the rest of the winter season.

In classic books, we see a mirror to our own human condition as well as a portal to the past. Sometimes, the downside to reading theory about classical works is that interpretations can be copied and internalized. Without realizing it, readers might alter their perceptions of the storytelling style because they've heard enough about an author or story. It's a magical thing to be curious about an old book and to approach it with a sense of adventure.

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I remember picking up my first classic, Wuthering Heights, and stumbling through the language. I was in high school and romanticized the idea of reading an older title. I have to admit it was hard, and that I persevered through several chapters before realizing I hadn't retained any of the information, and then I put the book down for good. It would be years before I picked it up again. 

Before reading Frankenstein, I read the book The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein, a Young Adult book written by Kiersten White. The book was exciting, horrific, and shocking. Once I finished it, I researched the life of Mary Shelley. I even watched the film Mary Shelley (2017) starring Elle Fanning. Her life fascinated me. By the time I read the original text of Frankenstein, I admired it and knew plenty about Shelley's life and influences. It became one of my favorite books. 

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Plenty of essays and criticisms are in response to a classic text. This almost solidifies it in the literary Canon, and assigns meaning to themes and symbolism. But in doing so, these responses also pose questions that I myself sometimes don't consider on my own. And while I can see a point for jumping into an older text without reading the corresponding essays first, I admit that I used to love flipping through critiques of works that I always thought were above my comprehension. These felt like guidebooks to another world that I was isolated from: the world of Great Literature. When first approaching these works, I didn't always know what to regard as good or great, I only knew the texts seemed verbose. But reading the critiques like guidebooks were sometimes too leading, not allowing me to explore the chapters with my own curiosity. I began diving into classic works without guidance. The older the material was, the more mystical it seemed as it was further removed from my everyday life.

Developing a love for an old text requires a personal connection to the story. I remember reading Jane Eyre for the first time and feeling as if I were being spoken to across decades, my own plights heard, my own life understood. The role of exploration was crucial. To me, the magic of revisiting an old work is less about being led towards meaning and more about making meaning for myself. Viewing the story through a modern lens gives adequate perspective. Plenty of works have become sentimental to me because I'm able to view the story in an aesthetic way rather than a strictly critical one. I had few chances in my college courses to pick apart these works. When we spoke about them, the lessons were either shallow or biased. It wasn't until I graduated from my first degree that I applied free critical thinking towards the works that I consumed. Having a personal opinion towards something without worrying if there was a correct lens is a freeing experience. Still, there are times when help is appreciated. I enjoyed reading a tiny, decades-old copy of The Merchant of Venice by Shakespeare which had historical context written on each page to explain the text better.

I'm currently reading The Empusium by Olga Tokarczuk. The novel is intriguing, sometimes laboring, and reminiscent of an older text. Olga Tokarczuk shared in recent interviews that she rereads The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann once a year. Her novel has several identical plot points as Mann's 1925 book. Because I hadn't read The Magic Mountain, I had nothing to compare The Empusium to. But I had to admit that it felt like it came from another era. I’ve already added The Magic Mountain to my reading list.

In learning about Ancient works, we can also learn a thing or two about how great civilizations like Rome and Greece were able to rise and fall. But these great nations didn't fall overnight. It can especially help us today in our great Western nations to learn that each superpower can be taken down with slow and strategic moves. Even when Rome fell, enough survived to trickle through time until we eventually held their stories and beliefs. But think about the work that was pillaged, burned, buried and eradicated. The beauty of art and philosophy that flourished during that time was pulled back, and we have no way of knowing how advanced culture would be today if that weren't the case.

When Greece and Rome built themselves up again, it was through art that they were able to gain relevance. Work being passed down, sometimes literally and figuratively, is a beautiful thought, especially for someone who loves to write. It reminds me of Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr, a story of what happens when a work has transcended time, passed down through generations and rediscovered. It's an enchanting idea, one that gives me goosebumps. To imagine a faraway future where one of my descendants stumbles upon the very works that molded me as a reader: Far From the Madding Crowd, The Goldfinch, Frankenstein. And to imagine that someone in the future would hold significance with my own work is also something that stuns me with meaning.

I'll give an opinion sacrilege to book lovers and librarians alike. I prefer to watch a period film first, and if I enjoy the story enough, I will read the book that it was adapted from. When I was pleased with the films, it influenced me to pick up the accompanied book. Of course, the book was always better, and it was a treat to discover that. Rather than experiencing disappointment over a lacking adaptation, I was charmed by the film first and then overjoyed to find the original material contained a delightful amount of dimension and context. 

If I had to give any advice about reading classics, it would be to understand that it's difficult, especially as we aren't thought to critically analyze the texts in school the way that people used to. Reading requires mental muscles. Those muscles need flexing. Keep up your endurance and try harder and harder material until you make your way to Dostoyevsky. I hope you find much satisfaction in the process, and that it helps give perspective that has been handed to us from artists through the veil of the past. 

Welcome to mid-autumn, the time of leaves falling, pumpkins scattered across the town, jackets, boots, and crisp mornings. 

I've spent years loving autumn more than any other season. But it’s fleeting, which is agonizing. It feels electric when those first leaves begin to turn. First they appear yellow as dandelions, then fade from gold to rust. The maples are now fiery red, and the rest of the trees are burgundy and orange.

I snap photos everywhere we go so that I can capture it: when on a morning run, when getting coffee on my lunch break, when stopped at a red light as the sun is going down.

Recently, we've been going on long walks in the forest. We've been lucky to have the time on days off to enjoy the beauty of nature during October. This is when New England truly shines. On a recent walk, we were in awe of the breathtaking views. But when we tried to capture the leaves on our phones, it just wouldn’t translate. I kept saying, if I had my better camera, if we came an hour earlier, etc. But when I put my phone away and took in the layers of trees and hills, I enjoyed it much more.

It's sometimes difficult to live a slow life. When trying to document my favorite moments of stillness, I end up making my moment all about taking a photo. Still, I aimed to snap moments of my everyday life that were realistic. 

My parents live North of us and went on a vacation last week. We traveled up there to watch the dog and house while they were away. The house was quiet in the height of autumn. Every morning, vibrant leaves blew in the air and fell elegantly to the covered ground. I spent hours lying outside while reading a book. We napped with my dog. We went for long walks in the forest every single day, noticing how the leaves changed overnight. 

One evening, I set out to make my own tomato soup from scratch. It took much longer than anticipated, and I decided halfway through that I was going off-script. With my recipe abandoned, I was standing over a bubbling pot and adding things by taste. By the time the grilled cheese was made for us to dip, I was exhausted.

I lit two simple candles on the kitchen table and left the other lights off. The first taste of soup was like heaven. I might have just been starving, but I thought it was the best soup I’d ever made. My husband remarked that I should try to write it down to remember it, but it was quickly leaving my mind. Instead, I enjoyed the soup, both herby and sweet, and savored every last spoonful. 

Our close friends have been busy with their lives, as have we. There are have been difficult things going on with both of us recently. We decided to invite them last-minute to breakfast at a local farm stand. This is our favorite place to eat at the moment. We woke early to beat the line that inevitably shows up around 10:00 am. As we pulled up, we saw people riding horses on trails, a beautiful day to do so. The stand was so busy that we had to spread a picnic blanket in the garden and dine on the ground.

The hot cider was fresh, some of the best that I'd had. It was lovely to catch up with these friends and hear how their lives had been. Families chattered around us. A corgi (the local farm dog) waddled over to us to sniff the biscuits in our lap. The garden that is usually in full bloom during summer had faded with the cooler weather. Behind us was the equestrian center and the mountains in the distance. We all agreed that a nice walk would be good after eating. 

We found the same forest trail that we'd been walking day after day, and this time we walked it with friends. We talked about autumn, the way it had been perfect this year. In the past, the weather changes so rapidly that we go from air conditioning to turning up the heat. But we've eased into sweaters and thick socks. Afternoons are so incredible in the sunlight that I wish they could be bottled. 

There are many ways to enjoy the height of autumn. I've recently written here about my favorite drinks to make. But I'd like to share what I do during this part of the season to enjoy the slowest parts of it, the moments that are so sweet and can hardly be captured by photos.

Going for long walks. We usually go for short walks most nights, but on days off, we walk for miles in the forest. This gives us space to dream and talk for long periods of time. We can also observe the changes in nature as the season goes on.

Cooking on days off. I like to pick recipes that take a long time. While I cook most days, I save the more complicated recipes for when I can take my time.

Reading the day away. In the afternoon, I curl up outside wherever the sun hits. If it’s in the grass, I find a picnic blanket. I usually carry on until the evening, when I move inside by the window with a warm drink. My mystery book was the perfect thing to read last weekend.

Planning future sewing/knitting projects. I perused the library book sale and found several beautiful knitting books. I want to save money on clothing and accessories moving forward, and I also have a goal to be picky about wearing more natural fibers. I’ve been slowly making my own clothing. I'd like to move on to an easy sweater and see how elaborate I can get. I've already made myself shrugs, cowls, hats and socks. If my cat behaves well, I might make her a winter sweater too. I like to plan these projects before the frost sets in. 

Thrifting for clothes. To go along with my last point, I was looking for higher quality clothing to wear during colder months. I use an app to buy thrifted items, but I also visited the thrift store to see what they had to offer. I was surprised to find a beautiful 100% cashmere sweater in excellent condition. My goal is to peruse some more and find great pieces for better prices. It helps that this is also more sustainable.

Visit local farm stands. I’m lucky that there are so many where I live. I used to associate farmer’s markets only with warmer months. But this is the time that markets and stands have some of their best items: apples, cider, donuts, pies. Supporting them feels like a worthy investment in our community.

How do you slow down during the season?

Welcome to a cozy little post to celebrate fall. I'm not a huge alcohol drinker so I wanted to share a few mocktails inspired by autumn. These can all be spiked, of course, if you prefer.

I find these to be perfect for a picnic or a walk while enjoying the fall foliage. But they would also be perfect for a party, or even for a late-night treat. Many of the ingredients can be found in your pantry besides the produce. You can dress them up in a crystal glass and a cinnamon sugar rim, or you can pour them into a thermos to take on an adventure. I wish we had tried these while we were staying by the ocean a few weeks ago. Enjoying a tasty drink by the sea during these crisp days of September is heavenly.

The trees are becoming golden. The pumpkins are out in shops and on porch steps. We have to bundle up for walks and light candles in the evenings. I hope these easy drinks will inspire you and help you get into the spirit this season.

Cooking up the apple cider in the crockpot is lovely for making my home smell amazing. While pumpkin spice is the trendiest scent/taste of this season, I prefer to stick with apples, pears, and cinnamon.

Maple Pear Sparkler

Ingredients:

• 1/2 cup pear juice

• 1 tablespoon maple syrup

• 1 tablespoon lemon juice

• Sparkling water

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Hot Spiced Apple Cider

Ingredients:

• 1 gallon fresh apple cider

• 1 orange, sliced and peel removed

• ½ tablespoon whole cloves

• 1 whole nutmeg

• 3 cinnamon sticks

• ½ cup maple syrup , or Agave Nectar

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Cinnamon Maple White Russian

Ingredients

• 1/4 C cream

• 1/2 C whole milk

• 1/2 C Dry Sparkling vanilla soda

• 1-2 ounces coffee flavored syrup

• 2 Tablespoons maple syrup

• Sprinkle of cinnamon

• Cinnamon sticks

At the beginning of the month, we rewatched Practical Magic (1998) for the first time in years. The film had been trending and I wanted to remember just what had enchanted people so much. Why was this film having a renaissance?

I instantly remembered as the beautiful house on the water came into shot. The 90’s and early 2000’s style is dated enough that it’s becoming trendy again. Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock stun as sister witches. Yes, they were beautiful, but they still managed to feel relatable.

The least relatable part of the film is not that the sisters can use magic, or that they kill someone only to bring them back to life, but the fact that two old ladies without a stable job could afford that stunning home on the ocean. But let’s forget the housing market for a minute. This movie is supposed to be an escape. Each year, September starts looking the same: pumpkin spice everything, Michaels fall decorations that have been on the shelves since July, cinnamon brooms from Trader Joe’s. But this year, the inspiration has been taken from 90’s/2000’s films that we all loved and maybe forgot about.

It’s not a huge surprise since this era of fashion is also popular right now. But why? There was a simplicity to the styles back then that wasn’t simple at all. Interiors felt cluttered compared to the minimalist designs in recent years. But the clutter showed the character’s personality, and that felt realistic, charming, and cozy. I see photos online trying to capture a similar photography style today which can only now be described as lo-fi. The desired effect is that of an older camera that blurs lines and softens edges for a dreamlike quality.

Even our cell phones seem to pick up too much detail today so that everything we snap a picture of is clear and in-focus. The shots in older films are still current enough that we can relate to them, but far enough away in technology that we can romanticize the time period.

Some other truly great films that give me that same cozy feeling is You’ve Got Mail (1998), What Lies Beneath (2000), Hocus Pocus (1993), Good Will Hunting (1997), Dead Poets Society (1989), The Parent Trap (1998), and Mona Lisa Smile (2003). It’s not only the styles that feel dated, though. Watching them is like a time machine to a different era where we weren’t attached to cell phones and social media.

The idea of a world without these things isn’t completely foreign to me. I was a child of the 90’s and 2000’s. But that was long ago. The films bring me right back to a childhood before Instagram existed, when school started on cool mornings and ended on hot afternoons. I remember the smell of pencils as we bought school supplies. I can recall nights in late September when I did homework at the dinner table and the sun was going down, a candle was lit on the counter, and we had to close the back doors when it got too cold.

Now, as I attend events for my work, I drive home at dusk and I’m amazed again at how quickly time goes by. The sun fades the way that it had in my youth, the houses are turning on their porch lights, the crickets still sing in the meadows, and I imagine a warm kitchen inside each home where a candle is lit and a child is pulling out their homework.

Living in New England, this also feels like the world of Gilmore Girls. In fact, the Connecticut town that I work in could serve as a set for the show. There’s something about this time of year that cannot be captured on camera. The leaves are only just becoming golden at the edges so that sunlight allows them to glow. The shops put out mini pumpkins on their windowsills. The markets are stuffed with apples. It’s too warm for scarves, but that doesn’t stop the high schoolers from wearing black leather boots that become sweaty in the afternoon when they walk home from school.

One thing that’s changed since I was a child is the swift ushering in of Halloween. This year, there was Halloween candy at the local grocery store before August over! I find myself looking at ghosts and ghouls, pumpkin cupcakes, witchy pet costume, and it’s only September! For those who can remember buying things in the 90’s, please tell me, were things this dire back then?

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I remember fall being a slower season, one we weren’t rushing to get on with. Perhaps by starting early, they’re making the season last longer, or maybe they’re just trying to get Christmas started by November 1st. At any rate, I’ve been desensitized to the Rapid Halloween Consumer Machine, and I’ve already bought our new cat six Halloween outfits. I can feel myself falling into Hocus Pocus territory. The one saving grace is that if I wait until the appropriate time to buy Halloween decor, it’s been on the shelves so long that it’s probably on sale (if there’s anything left).

This time of year, everything is spiced— cinnamon, cloves, cardamon, all swirling around — and it feels impossible to avoid pumpkin in its many forms: lattes, cupcakes, cookies, and more. One of our favorite shops on Main Street serves pumpkin bread with chocolate chips and almost everyone seems to be eating a slice.

There are moments that bring me back to childhood that are less specific, just a sliver of a moment, like blurry raindrops sliding down the foggy window. Then I can feel the damp air around me from when I would exit the school bus and run to my mom’s car, the cold soak from wet socks and shoes. Wet leaves stuck to the black asphalt. Sleeping as the rain tapped away, the bed feeling warm and safe, the blankets cocooned around me for the long journey of slumber, knowing that on the other side was an alarm clock waiting for me, and an early morning of sunlight through golden trees.

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On a recent morning, I had to run an errand and was delighted to feel the chill of a September morning as I carried back warm coffees to our apartment. Fallen leaves stuck to the bottom of my shoes. It's cool enough in the evenings that I have to wear socks as I walk around the hardwood floors.

I've planned many autumnal programs this fall for the children of the library, which requires foraging for fallen leaves that we can use in crafts. Though the change is slight, I enjoy admiring the green-to-gold colors just outside the windows.

What I’m Loving:

Decorating The Home

• Neutral color schemes

• Antique-inspired linens

• Stone and tiled flooring

• Parisian-inspired details

• Parisian all-white kitchens

Let me know what you’re inspired by this month.