The Pond

When it hasn’t rained and the water is low, a white culvert pipe is visible jutting out from the earthen pond wall. Sometimes evaporation draws the veil back further, revealing errant plastic bags or trash discarded by humans into what is otherwise a patch of enchantment.

We are blind to it most of the time when there’s enough water to change the visual landscape. With some rain, we just see the pond face gleaming — her soul sending glints of glittering light into the break of day. Facets. Reflections of the trees and brush appear like a painting, a mottled mirrored version of the naked eye’s sharper image. Ducks and little birds dazzle with their airborne approach. Their flight, seemingly effortless. They land with elegance and seem giddy here, as though they’ve lost all track of time. Or is that us?

Even though it’s a suburban pond, to us it’s a magical nature colony. The dark, sometimes black water is surrounded by shaggy brush, yellow-green grass and fringed by straw-colored reeds. The flora is quiet and steady, springing to life with feathery youth playing on nature’s jungle gym.

Morning dew clings to blades of grass as we march up the small hillside to see if we can glimpse our friends — feathered and otherwise — from higher ground. I feel the cool dampness through my woven shoes as the blades shed their beads. Once we gain the tiniest bit of elevation, that’s when we gasp, point or whisper. “There!” That’s when this daily gift is fully revealed. 

On this day, when I haven't packed my phone or camera, there are two adult ducks and seven little ones, one great egret and one regal hawk. Just… splendor. We get lost in their graceful movements as we stand in awe, delighting at the smallest details. Then we spot a well-camouflaged heron too, blending into the blotted mix of water and earth. It’s our first time to see him this year. As we observe, a chorus is warming up all around us — countless red winged blackbirds, grackles, mockingbirds, bluejays, robins and cardinals. To the east, a creamsicle sky is melting into sunrise.

The early morning light is reflected in the pond now, along with the tree and leaves that twirl in shades of emerald and vanilla mint. We call this cottonwood “hawk tree” because that’s where we usually see hawk friend. He is not alone here anymore. Just the other day, we saw four hawks — diving, swooping, gliding, perching then even pecking the ground. One by one, they disappeared into denser woods. 

The yellow-crowned night heron who we’ve nicknamed Bandit for his eye patch makes a stealthy deliberate march deeper into the pond. He appears light as a feather atop this small patch of wetland. With each high step of his spindly legs, he advances in the direction of the ducks. Will the ducks mind? We wait. The adults don’t move at all and the ducklings are busy showing off their emerging swimming skills. Peaceful coexistence. A turtle head breaks the surface and creates a ripple, then disappears. The ripple remains. 

As we stand lost in wonder, a deep inhale is summoned, involuntary. Mother Nature has gently woven her golden threads through our eyes and perception and into our lungs. It’s so rare I can take a deep satisfying breath these days. Alchemy.

Replenished, we say thank you to the universe for her blessings, her treasures. Nature is life. She stirs our imaginations, our breath and our bodies. Our core and limbs and brain awaken, drawn forth by the pull of love found in the nature all around us and within us. From the hawk to the wildflower. Now I remember what I forgot for a moment. We are one.

A Simple Kindness

Have you ever noticed your shoulders drop after the din of an air conditioner clicks off? Or maybe you’ve been sitting in what you thought was silence, then some kind of far off machinery powers down and you realize there hadn’t been silence at all? We can function through layers of friction, but by definition, they don’t make a situation easier. Our brains and bodies compensate and absorb and rearrange for it, and often that all happens unconsciously.

Storytelling opportunities soldier on through every kind of friction — rain or shine. On this day, we were working at the Alpine venue in Cortina, Italy. It was the final days of the Paralympics in March of 2026, and we finally saw some real winter weather. We were glad for it. 

But what goes along with that are added layers of friction. It’s okay. We can handle friction. My career as a journalist has always been a prime training ground for meeting friction with grace, meeting resistance with calm and for building resilience. On this day, it looked like this: Working outside in snow mixed with rain. Bulky clothing. The fickleness of our comms. Standing right under a huge speaker. Trying desperately not to block anyone’s view. It was all going to be okay, but honestly, it was a little harder to move, a little harder to hear, and in a moment it would be a little harder for me to see too.

I heard my glasses hit the muddy metal bleachers. When I looked down, I noticed one lens had popped out, and my heart sank a little. There was a lot of day ahead of me, and I’d forgotten to pack a spare pair to the mountain that morning. I always joke that I can see Cleveland from just about anywhere, but to read something near or small, I need my readers. 

I stretched my leg out over the clear lens, kicking it out of the way with my boot. I bent to scoop up my frames and continued walking down the ramp to speak to a colleague. Onward. Moments later, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. I turned and looked up at a volunteer wearing a neon reflector vest. He’d been right next to me in the congested little bottleneck when my glasses fell. 

Tall and thin, he extended his hand down from the ramp above and practically whispered, “Give me your glasses. I try to fix.” I didn’t know anyone had noticed what happened let alone cared. I reached into my pocket and gave him a wan smile. I said thank you as I handed him my frames — my gaze holding an extra moment to express my appreciation for his optimism. My posture lifted a little as he turned away. If my thinking said Hm, I wonder…. my feeling was hope.

I carried on with my business and soon walked back up the ramp. As I approached the volunteer’s post, he was smiling a half smile as he handed me my glasses. He said no words. Two lenses back in place. The only evidence of the spectacle debacle was the scraped lens from using my foot to slide it out of the way. All that I had on me to give him — in addition to my words of thanks and gratitude — was a Paralympic pin. Hopefully it felt like a form of payment since pins are sort of a form of currency at events like this.

Despite the continued forms of friction I described above, in that moment, I felt my shoulders drop a little. I gently exhaled. And everything felt a little easier.

I’ll be keeping these glasses as a memory of the power of a simple kindness. And of the angels among us.

When I see something, I want to be quicker to ask myself, can I do something? 

Can I do something to make someone’s shoulders drop a little?

Paying Attention to Attention

As my friend scanned a display of handmade earrings, I turned to look out through the tiny pizza storefront window to catch the gaze of another friend who was saving our table outside. I held up a Coke in one hand then a Dolomiti beer in the other. He gestured to the Coke. Va bene. That makes three identical orders.

It was a dinner of kings and queens: Three coworker-friends demolishing three pizza pies and three Coke Zeros. One for each of us. It might sound ordinary, but it felt to me like an intoxicating blend of cool late winter air, savory sustenance and deep gratitude. It was so much more than fresh tomatoes, hand-tossed dough and fake sugars. This was a moment that felt like life. It was joy. It was a sense of being alive.

Just as we finished, we were joined by a fourth friend. 

Together, we set out into the Italian mountain village for a group gelato experience like an uneven string of fascinated distracted school kids. We trotted through cobblestoned streets with visions of pistachios and hazelnuts and maybe salted caramel coned treats. Anticipation was high after our carby culinary crusade, and I was already in an elevated state: Great company, delicious food, invigorating winter temps, the novelty of travel and the privilege of fulfilling work. Not only that, we had supportive and encouraging families back home. It was a rare bit of free time in our wall to wall work schedules, and I was one hundred percent on board to enjoy every second of it.

Day was turning into night when I noticed an illuminated shop window that was a jungle of plants and flowers. I followed my heart and walked through the portal into this floor-to-ceiling Eden with one intention: to inhale. I wanted to breathe in the green goodness I glimpsed through the window pane. And with one breath, I was transported. I called out to my friends through the rectangular portal, “Come in! Just come in and inhale.”

The four of us tucked into the tiny shop like cold travelers on a snowy evening. We weren’t cold, and it wasn’t snowing, but still, an enchanting mood burst from every plant and flower, swirling around us like benevolent spirits dressed as floral circus performers. Together it all felt as though we were Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening —  the Robert Frost poem that blends the contrasting energies of beauty and duty.

Inside, the shopkeeper welcomed each of us with a warm smile. Her associate  reminded me of skier Patrick Halgren. He entered and exited back and forth through the portal, each time nestling another potted plant into this enchanted space. 

Two Brits and two Americans, we were in Cortina, Italy, to work at the Milan-Cortina 2026 Winter Paralympics, so obviously athletes and their stories were front of mind even on an evening of exploration.

The windows we passed by before seeing this window featured mannequins sporting dreamy ski outfits and leathery luxury goods. Prada and Louis Vuitton. Fashion and effortless style were as all-encompassing here as the surrounding Dolomites. I’m telling you, no matter how well you dress, no matter your level of creativity and style, you would have been inspired by the sartorial state of this place. The price tags mostly matched the elevation. I know because I arrived without my luggage. (It arrived a few days later). Shopping for a few basics, I found a single pair of utilitarian underwear for $17 and a pair of brown and white striped socks for $9. A quick scan of the JC Penney website and I found a six pack of underwear for 12 bucks. 

Anyway, of all the tantalizing souvenirs I contemplated buying in this Aspen of Italy, it was inside this sweet merchant’s shop that I found an imperfect handcrafted metal ornament with the relief of a deer on it. I felt butterflies. No, seriously. Even more than the suede cowboy hats, the leather boots and the cream-colored wide-lined corduroy trousers I coveted in other storefront displays, it was this little piece of art that excited me most. I suppose it’s because it has a soul after being caringly crafted by someone’s hands. The irregular piece of thin square tin is no more than  2” x 2” and is broken only by a narrow leather cord for hanging it somewhere or maybe fastening it to a Christmas tree. I asked the merchant about the price for one piece. The answer: two Euros — a little more than two dollars.

This green vortex finally released us out onto the street and into the blissful destination of our gelato desserts. As we relaxed into the deer-adorned gelato shop benches, I was thinking about attention. About joy. About divine guidance.

My life would not be unfulfilling if I’d neglected the pull to enter the flower shop that night. But by following my joy, my curiosity, my attention, I found a little bit of magic. And my friends experienced a little magic too. I wouldn’t have wanted us to miss that. It was a reminder to me to pay attention to where your intuition leads you — especially when nature is involved. It may lead you into a moment of magic.

Your Love Is Your Legacy

I wrote a poem on love as legacy.

As we think about legacy may we know
it’s crafted in high times but more so in low
Legacy is built in our daily deeds
It’s a painting that’s uniquely you or me
Legacy is scripted each calendar day
in the way that we live and give love away
Legacy’s non-fiction, devoid of pretense
It’s real and raw, based on true life events
It’s not what we get, and it's not who we best
It’s how we live, what we give, and how we leave the rest
May your legacy include rising above
hate, division and fear
to be a life lived with love.

Thank One More

When you give thanks today, remember to put yourself on that list.

Today, give yourself thanks for all you carry and all you create — the visible, invisible and quiet work of your hands and heart.

Give yourself thanks for the way you offer love — like sunlight finding its way through the trees, steady and generous.

Give yourself thanks for the moments you’ve shown up for yourself — even when the path was uneven beneath your feet.

Give yourself thanks for the strength it took to rise after setbacks — like new growth pushing through stubborn soil.

When you speak words of gratitude today — remember to take one good box breath and say thank you to the child inside you too, for being resilient then and now.

Say thank you for the joy and the light that will shine a little brighter for the gratitude you show to yourself.

From me to you: Thank you for being you. May blessings find you today and always, the way morning light finds the sky.

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.

Severing My Grip On Seriousness

I love carbonated water — especially with grapefruit or lime flavors. For a long time, my choice was Bubly brand or La Croix. I drank those like an addict — sometimes guzzling a six-pack in a single day. Seriously.

But it’s hard to tune out information that something as innocuous as canned carbonated water could still be unhealthy for you, especially considering the volume of my consumption.  So I decided to cut back a little. Fewer six-pack days. But still… it was a problem. And I do value my health and I’m working hard to improve it. 

So, I decided I had to do something drastic. Quit, mostly. I’d let myself have a little of this thing I liked a lot. There would be no more bulk purchases. Cans only. I knew this would mean largely sacrificing my love for the cold feel of the can in my hand and the satisfying snap when cracking open the next one.

Liquid Death

Then along comes Liquid Death. I discovered the black can (sparkling water) and the white can (mountain water) and liked them both. But then I found the green can of Liquid Death Severed Lime, and I fell in love with this tall, green, velvety, citrus-flavored beverage packaged like a grassy Colt 45. 

Nowadays, four out of five times when I buy my lime drink, it’s at a gas station or convenience store. I grab one when I’m driving somewhere on a hot day. Okay, two. I get back in the car, crack one open, enjoy the cool, liquidy lime flavor, then take off with my tall green friend named Liquid Death riding in the cup holder next to me. This never held any symbolism for me.

Until One Day

Until one day, when I opened the convenience store glass cooler door, I noticed myself pause while reaching for the green can with the huge label reading “Liquid Death." My hand hovered near it, suspended, like still waters. I suddenly wondered if it was a bad omen to buy this when I was driving. 

I decided I’d still get it but I’d have to be extra vigilant on the road.  Now that this had hit a conscious level, I couldn’t un-think it. Was this mental hot box — buy it, don’t buy it, buy it — healthy? Life-saving? Or was it meaningless fear floating around? Whatever it was, it had my attention, and it was a barrier between me and the enjoyment of my beverage. This beverage and its name simultaneously brought joy and stirred thoughts of my end. All of this from a label? From words? Well, one word, really.

Eventually I created a mental workaround so I could still get my fix. 

I decided it’s an opportunity!

I decided it’s a moment for existential examination! 

It’s my memento mori!

The can with the edgy label allows me an opportunity to contemplate death, and by inversion, the beauty of life, each time I enjoy the product. I can savor the moment. I can remember life is finite.

Impermanence

Some folks visit cemeteries for this reason. I’ve done it too. Author Robin Sharma talks about this a lot. He’s one of many people who encourages thinking about death and in so doing we cultivate a gratitude and zest for life, for today. People of religions worldwide practice contemplating death to appreciate life and to remember its impermanence. Memento mori is universal.

I’ve intentionally walked through cemeteries filled with strangers whose stories I imagine are at once magical and common and beautiful. I've read headstone inscriptions and dreamed up tales of lives well lived. I’ve wondered what dreams these people still had inside of them when their body’s total running time on earth was up. I’ve cried thinking about all the people who are missing their loved ones.

I’ve interviewed people about their life stories, documenting slices of lives lived that amount to a personal legacy and collectively a family legacy. These are ways to keep the stories and memories alive long after we’re all gone. What I’m saying is I’ve made an effort to be mindful of death and made an effort to accept that it’s part of this earthly experience for all of us. “None of us is getting out alive.” 

So now when I reach for the occasional can of Liquid Death, I do so with intentionality and drink a toast to gratitude for another day. The edgy imagery reminds me to take more chances, live for today, forget the naysayers, jam the signal on the judges, block out the noise, embrace love, invite silence and art and music, and rejoice a little more!  I look fear in the eye and invisible wink.

The creepy label reminds me to have more fun, and to not take everything so dang seriously. It’s a nudge to liberate myself, unlock my whole authentic self, stop self-silencing and to be free in knowing my impermanence, my story, my voice and my life are good and enough and no less valuable than anyone else’s. 

I didn’t expect to loosen my grip on seriousness through a can of water let alone find some self-acceptance in it, but I think I did. I changed the ingredients label to read as follows:

Ingredients: Carbonated Mountain Water, Agave Nectar, Lime Extract, Citrus Acid, Natural Flavor, Natural Lime Flavor, Orange Extract, memento mori, self-acceptance, verve.

Every day that we dodge death is a chance to really live. Liquid Death Severed Lime means more to me than “murdering my thirst.” 

To me, it means living out loud, expressing myself, and practicing less self-silencing. I want to shout “just be kind” and I want to holler “love your neighbor!” More “live and let live” and less “my way or the highway.”

Sometimes I think my personal constitution has a governor on it — you can be this happy and this confident and this proud, but never more. So while I try to push the limit on my governor, I’ll never be able to shut out the world and its problems. And I don’t want to. I want to be here and well and engaged so I can make a difference. 

So maybe intentionally carving out a moment with a lime beverage that reminds me of life’s impermanence is one small way to keep going when the world seems so sour. A can of coping can’t hurt.

And it might even help me to show up in the world a little brighter, a little better and a little more equipped to pour another glass of sparkling love for the people of this planet.

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.