Here’s to another 364 possibilities.

I’ve never stopped thinking of this time of year as back-to-school, ideas and pencils sharpened and ready to get cracking with some new material. Unlike most, I’m unintimidated by a blank page; it’s an invitation, an offer I can’t refuse. 

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.

“A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future.”

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 mean, what else?

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?

You wanna pizza me?

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.

While I've certainly eaten many a sad lunch al desko, and occasionally been a woman laughing alone with salad, nothing disappoints me more than a wasted meal, and I believe that our daily lunches deserve more attention.

I know it’s global warming, but that sunshine sure feels good right now.

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.

For as much as I relish the quiet time to focus and the chance to avoid being tempted into eating cheeseburgers, the monotony of the aloneness is what wears me down and draws me too deeply inward. So during these times, I tend to invent little projects for myself, assignments with checklists to tackle and milestones to meet.

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.

An introvert’s quest for creative chemistry