There are no shortage of things to work on in this grand life, no limits to areas in need of refinement. Of late, for me? Communication. In specific? Tongue-holding.
One of my most frequently asked questions in a podcast interview or Q&A session is always some measured form of this: OK, yes. I get it. I see the importance here. But how do I get my spouse/roommate/community to support and adapt to my decision to live more simply? How do I live as a
I am forever wondering if our quest for self-exploration has become burdensome, backwards. Enneagrams, Myers-Briggs – the idea of whittling down our complex personalities to a number and a few letters. Are we placing boundaries where they weren’t intended; living within confines that needn’t be there? While I love nothing better than a tidy definition
Your husband is recovering from pneumonia slowly. He is tired. He is stressed. On his desk are stacks of envelopes, invoices, important-looking papers. His birthday is in eight days, and you wonder if you should shelf the celebration for a better time. (There is no better time.) — You text the wives of his friends:
There’s a tried-and-true tip I’ve often heard from seasoned married folks, one of which is guaranteed to keep arguments fair, gentle and in-the-moment (rather than relying on cheap shots and past scripts), and it is simply this: Avoid two words: (1) Always and (2) Never. There are a few obvious reasons here, one of which
One of the greatest shifts in my marriage, possibly in my adulthood as a whole, has also been one of the smallest shifts. It has slipped by unnoticed in the mundane tasks of laundry cycles and dish duty, a simple phrase that has ever so slightly changed the energy in our home: I’m doing this
When I think of love, I think of trash. — I’ve never believed in soul mates, not really. I believe in compatibility and commitment, in choice and work. I believe in the partnership of marriage — two people walking hand in hand not in an attempt to complete each other, but in an attempt to
Ken used to tease me mercilessly (justifiably) for my choices in footwear. Once, on a Saturday afternoon in Los Angeles, we threw a chunk of marble cheese and some sourdough into a picnic basket and headed for our favorite cliff. You’re wearing those? he’d ask, eyeing my wedges. They’re cute! I’d say. You’re gonna look