Maybe it’s a kind of mid-life crisis, maybe it’s just the timely reboot of High Fidelity, but making playlists has become my latest grasp at journalism.

Life itself is the proper binge, said Julia Child, because of course she did.

There's a hole in my core that used to be filled with dough.

What’s the focus?

You're free to have a chuckle at my expense, but in a recent newsletter from The Numinous, my weekly 'Libra Rising' mantra was, "I am following whatever feels the most like fun to me."

Here’s to another 364 possibilities.

On special occasions, my grandma wore Chanel No. 5, the height of sophistication. When getting ready, she’d give me a tiny spritz “on my pulse points” that I would relish all day, sniffing at my wrists.

On this full moon morning, my open mind instead invited thoughts of self doubt and loneliness. Lying on my back in savasana, I get stuck in a dire loop of feeling lost and aimless, homesick for another time, or maybe another life.

There is almost never a time when I’m not reading and note-taking, day or night. Whether I’ve diving into sourdough or startups, I invent a curriculum for myself with a syllabus full of required reading. Is there, perhaps, a word out there that describes this sort of compulsive learning?

I was one of those rare teens who knew exactly what they wanted to become– a journalist- a music journalist, specifically- and when I got to college, I didn’t want to waste a minute forging that path.

Looking into the three-way mirror I was perplexed. Who is this person? Whose body is this? What even is this construction of fabric?

To be honest, a lot of things have come naturally to me, and I have taken it for granted. I’ve spent most of my time and effort focusing on my strengths and not on improving my weaknesses.

As the magic of flour, water, and the microflora of my neighborhood revealed itself to me, I was riveted. I studied like a monk, devoting hours to poring over the gospels of Chad and Jeffrey (Robertson and Hamelman, respectively).

Canceling and rescheduling is so commonplace. We're used to it, we all basically have a gentlewoman's agreement that releases us from feeling any guilt when we do, and we never call each other out on it, not really.

Is it possible to feel growing pains when you’re about to turn 40?

I think, "who is the loneliest monk," and I smile wryly to myself, wondering if it’s me.

Increasingly, what I'm coming to believe it means is that what I really want is to find a more permanent resting place for my stuff, all of the bits and bobs I've collected, and that no amount of Marie Kondo-ing will convince me to give up.

The Mary Tyler Moore Show ended its run the year I was born, 1977, and yet that image of Mary tossing her hat in the air has somehow always been with me, a vision and a spirit I've channeled in certain moments of girlboss* jubilation. Turns out I was not alone.

And here I go again…