Overheard, today in yoga class, amidst downward dogs and cedarwood incense: Focused gaze. Drishti. Look up. — One of my instructors is a horse trainer by trade. The way it works, she says, is that you move a horse with your gaze alone. If you want the horse to move, you motion to that area
You know when you’re at brunch and the waiter talks of their artisan jam? “It’s made from hand-picked organic cherries in Michigan, this tiny little farm off 96, and we infuse it with fresh mint from our herb wall over there and really, you’re not going to believe it. It’s divine. Trust me. Would you
This morning, I read a beautiful passage from an interview with artist Janine Antoni, who once learned to walk a tightrope for the art commission, Touch. She says this: So, I practiced tightrope for about an hour a day, and after about a week, I started to feel like, I’m now getting my balance. And
Well, listen. I think you’re fine just the way you are. Sure, you might benefit from a crash course in assertiveness. It might do you some good to cut the sugar, to read the classics, to schedule yourself a detox bath twice a week. But it might not. It might just make you feel gloriously
Fear of mistakes. She gets it from me. Last week, during a reading lesson, we’re working on ‘meat.’ She says each letter’s sound, slowly, surely, and I tell her good job, let’s say them as a word now, let’s read it together. But I might get it wrong, she says. It’s ok, I say. Getting
While brushing my teeth, a realization arrives so quickly that I spit, fast, wipe the errant toothpaste on my bath towel and tiptoe in my moccasins down the hall to the office, and I write this: I have been evaluating my good days all wrong. Nightly, I write a simple daily recap in my journal.
The reunion had been planned for what, six months? A weekend away in Chicago, just our tiny group of women and the many hats we pack in our suitcases: chefs and mothers and designers and musicians. And it sounded perfect. Until it didn’t sound perfect, and the days grew closer and the nights grew longer.
Raising a kid when both parents work flexible, work-from-home gigs is kind of like sharing a car. You communicate all the time, but about logistics and schedules and routines until one random Tuesday night, you pass each other in the hallway and you’re like, “Hey! How’ve you been?” It’s crazy, but the good kind. The