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Living a life of hope & wholeness and sometimes writing about it.
Let’s just say 2023 was not my year of reading. The goal was the same as the past five years—to read fifty books. Alas, I read twenty-six. Quarter-life angst aside, I did manage to read a few stellar ones. Here are the top ten with sporadic, contextless comments sprinkled throughout.
Read MoreLiturgies for longing, curiosity, finding, and joy.
Read MoreWhat an honor it is to be awake,
to behold this living landscape,
this blending of sky-colors in real time.
Today is ever so soft around the edges, ripe with possibility, quiet with gifts, rich with wealth I will never touch. I am glad to know what makes me alive.
Read MoreA few weeks ago, Audrey, Charissa, Corinne, and I spent a weekend writing in Vermont. We tucked ourselves into a white wooden cottage on the side of a highway, and surrounded ourselves with a solace so personal we could reach out and touch it.
Read MoreLast week, I had a meltdown in Central Park. The great and depressing thing about this city is its anonymity, its generous allowance to cry in public. Weeping among strangers feels like a rite of passage, like a necessary part of being a New Yorker. For better or worse, New York gives you the utmost freedom to shed a tear in the Shakespeare Garden or to walk, sobbing, across the Bow Bridge.
Read MoreOverall, this week has been a bitter blend, like sipping from a martini glass of vinegar with a sugary rim. I’ve tasted the sweetness of drawing near to friends in pain, of taking the next step in a writing career, and of going for a walk with my dear neighbor and her eight-month-old baby girl. But I’ve also tasted the acridity of Friday night when I said something racist and didn’t realize it until it was out of my mouth, or Wednesday night when I ignored a trans woman on the subway and neglected to treat her with dignity.
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