The Proofreader

Imagine a scene from a movie opening montage. Cafe. Wide shot dissolve day after day after day. Mixed in with baristas and new customer faces, repeat customers switch scene to scene in their different clothes, different seats, different hair styles and jackets as seasons change. One of these people is a writer. Another is a proofreader.

Yesterday I met the proofreader.  

I go to the cafe to work. It’s a focused bunker for me. I usually don’t talk with anyone except the baristas. The proofreader goes there to read. Not proofread. Just read. I’ve seen him many times before, but we’d never met. Until yesterday.

After our conversation and before returning to my work, I quickly wrote this: 

What am I to learn from the man, 88, who I met today at the coffee shop?

Ace proofreader.

Interested in spirituality. 

Educating himself on what happens to a soul when we die.

As I wrote the sentence above, he leaned over for an oh-by-the-way afterthought to say, “This meeting is not by chance. It’s meant to be.”

He has a childlike excitement about him, but he’s also poised and unassuming. His eyes twinkle behind their shy veneer.

Our conversation started when I sat down and beamed, “What are you reading?”

He lit up and told me all about his book, that it’s the third in a trilogy about the soul’s journey. It’s about the afterlife, and past lives. He said, “Read this, and you will not fear death.”

He said he was a teacher for 30 years, and after that, a proofreader for the courts.

“I can’t fix anything, I’m not a DIY home project guy. I’m not worth a darn at anything — except — proofreading. I am an excellent proofreader! It’s an important job. But it's a low-paying job.”

He said he recently realized he’s been afraid of success. All his life, afraid of success. He showed me a section he’d underlined in his book that says as much, and he said, “That’s me. That’s my life. I’ve never earned a lot of money. I’ve always done low-paying jobs.” 

He searched my eyes for a reaction.

Then his index finger traced another section, lower on the page. Looking up from the passage, he was showing me something else he underlined: “That doesn’t mean my life is without purpose.” 

He appeared sad at first, but then restored. Even energized. He said he's always struggled with confidence.

It seems like something he's addressing now. 

It's never too late. 

I had a hit of intuition that he was a spirit teacher.

Lesson: Don't wait to believe in yourself.

I couldn't help but be energized by our conversation. He didn't know it, but the word "proofreader" has been floating like a typewriter ribbon through my mind these past few weeks... wondering if I might look into finding proofreaders for current or future projects.

He told me spirits visit us at specific moments in our lives. And this was a spiritual meeting.

I agree.

We exchanged numbers, and I’m going to interview him. Would you like to hear more about the proofreader and his life and lessons?

To Live A Life

I recently heard an interview with singer songwriter Miranda Lambert, and she said you can’t write if you don’t live a life. I’m paraphrasing here, but she said you have to get out in the world and see and experience things to have something to say.

I agree.

While each person’s world varies in size at different times in our lives, we can endeavor to live a life today. Maybe the whole world is within reach for you. Or maybe you have an illness and your whole world is a triangle of bedroom to living room to kitchen.

Whatever your world looks like, I’m reminded that what matters is that we connect with each other and the world around us. It’s important that we seek, we open our eyes, we imagine distant horizons and then we lean in to look and listen closely to what is right here in front of us. To really observe. To really care. And to really feel something. When your phone dings mid-conversation, can you resist breaking eye contact with the person in front of you? Maybe that’s the place to start. Presence.

I told a friend recently that I hesitate to hit “send” when I write these notes to you, wondering if anything I could say here is worth a darn. She told me to “keep hitting send.”

Today is my birthday. We get a little extra reflective around birthdays, don’t we? I’m thinking about all of the people and moments in my life that I’m grateful for — you, my family, and my friends around the world. I’ve moved a lot in my adult life — Minnesota, Hong Kong, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami and now the Austin area. Because of that, I don’t really have friends in my immediate location. Being new, we don’t yet have friendships with proximity. A friend reminded me that that’s okay too. While we continue to work on this, today I’ll focus on how fortunate I am to have friends in many places. I won’t allow myself to feel without… because I’m not, we’re not.

I’m grateful for the love, for the helpers, for the work I’ve been given and for the opportunity to create. I'm grateful for simplicity. I’m grateful for the people who let me be my imperfect well-meaning self and the people who believe in me when I don’t believe in myself. I’m grateful for the ones who give me strength and at the same time the benefit of the doubt.

Author Joan Didion is quoted saying, “I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means.”

What I’m thinking is I’m feeling grateful today. The past couple years have had their challenges. But all is well. And as I find my way forward, I wanted to write you and say thank you for being here. And hit send.

A Poem: Nonpareil

Perched low on a reed in blades of grass

A pond, and red-winged blackbirds en masse  

The air moves through on the warm spring breeze

Amidst the birdsongs, a feeling of ease

Just then, I see you

And I’m caught in your gaze

You’re so tiny, and your coat is ablaze 

Your hat is regal in midnight blue

Your shoulders of green are resplendent too

Your feathery breast, red and rotund

Your wings, burnt orange like the setting sun

What a marvel you are

What’s your name?

I’ll find it I know but … (from electronics, can I refrain?)

Painted Bunting

That’s who you are

Oh, your name in French is spectacular

nonpareil 

“without equal” it means

for your dazzling plumage is unmatched it seems

You are a miracle, little winged one

You are the rainbow — without rain, just sun

If tomorrow I do not see you about

I’ll remember you with awe and reverence, no doubt

I really do want to see you again

But in case I don’t, I’ve reached for a pen


NOTE: No AI was used in the creation of this poem.

What If You Just Stopped?

When you're working and going and not letting up, slowing down feels impossible. Stopping? Unthinkable. But sometimes, that's exactly what you need.

Almost a year ago, someone I love dearly was witnessing my relentlessness and asked me a question that caught my attention: “What if you just stopped? What if you did things that felt healthy? That made you feel good? That felt novel? That felt fun?”

As a non-stop doer, I knew with every cell of my being that that was exactly what I needed. 

I know how hard it is to slow down, let alone stop. But I gave myself permission to do that. I will admit: It hadn’t even occurred to me that I could.

So, the very next day, I grabbed a beach towel, found a grassy spot in the park, took off my shoes, grounded, and I watched the solar eclipse.

I squinted my eyes to shadows falling in curious ways.

I eavesdropped on kids giggling in delight.

I noticed my mouth stretching into a smile.

I looked on, (like the old Liberty Mutual Insurance commercial to the song Half Acre by Hem), as strangers did random acts of kindness for other strangers.

I marveled at the majesty of the black bird, and my heart jumped a little when the street lights flickered on in the middle of the day.

I wasn’t scrolling job boards, networking, inviting anyone for coffee or taking an online course. I simply woke up, worked out, and planned a day that felt enjoyable. A day that felt like living.

The hardest part? Giving myself permission to stop. But once I did, something shifted. 

I’m about to mix metaphors. Grinding and grinding only leaves you with dust. But stopping—even just for a day—can put the wind back in your sails. It did mine.

If you’ve been going non-stop, consider that this might be right for you: Stop the burnout. Stop the shoulds. 

Give yourself permission to get out of your head and into the magnificence of the moment. 

Sometimes stopping is exactly what you need to replenish your energy, to spark creativity and to ‘remember the sun.’ (Remember the Sun is the title of a Pieta Brown track I’ve long adored.) Look it up. Then look up.

How a Starbucks Mix-up Sparked My Alter Ego

I’m at Starbucks placing my order. 

When the barista asks my name, I say it, but their repetition tells me they’ve heard it wrong.

Somewhere between my voice and their register, something gets lost—or perhaps something magical emerges.

Maybe it’s the Norah Jones or Aretha Franklin vibes in the air that transform “Stephanie” into “Mazda.”

Yes, Mazda.

I immediately think of Beyoncé’s Sasha Fierce. Might Mazda be my own alter ego?

For a fleeting moment, I adore it—then, I crave an upgrade. Still, Mazda has a Z in it, and I like that.

When I share this with my friend, Naoko, she says, “It’s kind of a low-key power name.”

I agree.

About a month later, I return to the same Starbucks. It's colder now, and I’m wearing a green-and-white hand-knit beanie that my friend Melissa made for me. I may look different.

I greet the barista by name and ask if they remember me—Mazda. I catch a swirl of recognition—almond milk and coffee mixed with curiosity.

I remind them of our first Mazda moment. The lights flicker on and they remember.

They ask if I want “Stephanie” or “Mazda” on my cup. 

I do not dislike this question. So, I stay silent and smile conspiratorially.

See the photo reveal: they chose perfectly.

This got me thinking…

What if Starbucks' name-on-cup tradition evolved? What if baristas offered a choice: your real name or a superhero alter ego?

What name would you choose—or what name might choose you?

I know the idea has holes—go ahead, poke away. 

Maybe it’s been done. 

But imagine the fun.

A Short (Bittersweet) Love Story

She is petite, with bangs and a gray bob.  He’s tall, slim and gentlemanly.

They’re both attentive listeners. Eyes sparkling. Sincere. Curious.

One orders shrimp, the other chicken, as they sit close to one another.

“I’m 83,” she says. “I’m 85,” he adds. 

They’ve been together for about 10 years. 

“We met in the ICU waiting room,” she says.

 “Our spouses were both being cared for there,” he says.

“They died within three days of one another,” she says.

“Yes, three days,” he says.

"We bonded in our grief,” she says. “We’d get pizza and cry."

They both give a wan smile.

"And we’d share the stories of our departed,” he says.

“We both know everything about the other…”

She nods affirmatively, then her eyes are shining.

"Stories are a wonderful thing,” she says.