It's also this

I recently completed reiki level 1 training and have now added that to my morning routine, which is already lengthy (meditation, reiki, journal, light yoga flow/stretch session), and also which I love and feels supportive and fun. Yesterday after I finished, I noticed the thought pop up: “OK, now my day starts.”

And I was like, wait. My day has already started. That was part of my day, and this is all part of my day. My day is not just work, turning on a computer, plugging into the “productive” side of society. (Also, rest is “productive.”) It’s also this, and this is also mine.

That slight reframe, a soft zoom out, felt so nice as soon as I noticed it. Even in the past day, it’s already helped give me more perspective with myself (or, helped me give myself more perspective, you know!) in relation to work, and my job. It’s part of my day, and it’s part of my life, yes. And there’s so much more. The same could be, can be, said for any role and any identity we hold, too.

I remembered the thought again when I was biking home from Pilates later that day. I was waiting at a traffic light, eager to push out and pedal home, and looked around. I came to present on that corner, under the palm trees, in the summer nightfall. This moment was also my day—and my evening—my life. And it was a beautiful one, and I wanted to be with it.

It’s also this. It’s all of this.

I can choose fear, or I can choose trust

Yesterday, after I finished lunch, my mind started to take me to a place of potential future outcomes that very immediately felt scary. It pertained to something I was processing into a new understanding, a new reality, the other week. Through the waves, I had found—I have found—a wider stability, a deeper capacity to be in the now, rather than what if’s. Still, there are moments, and that’s OK. The voice that settled me as those frightening possibilities began to form as thoughts in my head, said, “You can choose fear, or you can choose trust.”

I choose trust. I chose trust in that moment, and I choose trust in writing right now. The reality is what it is; the rest, and me, is whatever I choose for it to be.

Grow curiously

I bought a Monstera at the Mar Vista Farmers Market not long after moving to Los Angeles. I was with my friend Katie, and I named the plant Moana. It had had already nearly outgrown its farmers market pot, and the nice people there repotted it for me, and I took it home to put on my dresser in my bedroom, where stretches awake to reach the morning sun and cranes to see the sunset color Century City and the Hills in the distance a gentle pink.

A week into settling into her new home, both pot and place, Moana was reaching in new directions, taller than before, splaying out, welcoming it all in. I sent a photo to Katie and she responded with emoji smiles, admiring comments and said, “I love how they grow, so curious.”

To grow curiously; what a beautiful, playful concept. How much more enjoyable, fun, easeful, experimental and gracious is all growth, all learning, all possibility, when rooted in curiosity? So much more, I feel.

May we all always grow curiously.

For Katie, with whom curious growth led us to life abroad in Buenos Aires and on many beautiful trips, from Japan to Santa Barbara, and I’m sure more to come

Sierra's pace

Back when I was marathon training, I shared some runs long runs, medium runs and stops under the Venice sign with my friend Sierra, who I met through Venice Run Club. I loved her energy, grit, spirit and sweetness (still do!). She, as a seasoned competitor, helped me prepare for a lot of the not-just-running parts of race prep, like logistics with fueling (“You need to bring water on these long runs!”) and being with it, better with it, even when it felt hard. (“Just don’t think about it,” she said on that infamous 18-mile run day in 88 degree heat under the open sun. We cried in gratitude looking out at the ocean along Manhattan Beach, and also probably from delirium. We made it.)

One Wednesday a few weeks before the marathon, we set out on our weekly 4.5-mile group loop. Everyone was clicking their smart watches and Strava apps on to start, timing it all, calculating. I saw her start and called out, “What pace are you going today?” to see if we’d run together. She turned back and smiled, responding across a few rows of people. “Sierra’s pace!” she said, shrugging her shoulders and continuing to run. Which meant, whatever felt right that day, in that moment, for her. Sierra’s pace. We say it often now, as do others who heard her response that night and, like me, loved it. Sierra’s pace. Your pace. Whatever that is.

For Sierra, who runs, swims, bikes, rests, resets and lives her own way, at her own pace, through life.

If it's never enough, then it's always enough

I used to be an “inbox zero” person. I felt the compulsive need to clear my emails every day, the red bubbles a constant reminder of what I was missing, didn’t do, needed to do, the lack.

I got so tired. I was doing this, it felt like, in every aspect of life. It was never enough; it couldn’t end, it wouldn’t end. And then I realized, I decided, I didn’t want to do it anymore. And the choice had been mine the whole time. To decide what was enough, and when was enough. Because if it was never enough, then it was also always enough. It was all for me for to decide. And it’s also yours.

(More than a year into turning off red notification bubbles, opting out when it feels most supportive, unsubscribing from many emails and doing large-scale deletes, it really feels so good, and I highly recommend it. I recently cleared out 150 emails, mostly newsletters I just wasn’t going to get to, and I had so much more mental clarity afterward. I decided I’m OK with what’s left unread.")

Miracles happen all the time

When I was sick in January, I started watching episodes of the well-being and sustainable living docuseries “Down to Earth with Zac Efron,” (super recommend it). The second episode centers on water. In it, they travel to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes in France, which is believed to have healing waters. They meet the resident doctor, who is on staff to verify pilgrims’ claims of miracle healings. It’s really incredible to see the exchange and explanations, to see the medical doctor show X-ray, scans, documented evidence of healings that occurred after people visited the site, inexplicable by scientific medical knowledge. Since 1862, the Church has recognized 70 cases as “miraculous.”

Last week I reached out to a close friend when I was needing to process in relation to someone who knows me well, and she also happens to know a particular area of medicine well in which I was seeking solace. (A miracle.) She said many beautiful, helpful, truthful things to me in that conversation. She said, “Miracles happen all the time.” She’s right. They do. They really do.

A couple days later I was walking along the Venice Beach boardwalk with another friend, and we shared a moment of appreciation for the ocean, just over there, shimmering in the late afternoon sun. “The ocean is such a miracle,” she said, apropos of nothing but being in that moment. And in that, I was in awe.

Miracles happen all the time.

For Micha, a miracle of a friend with whom 16 years has been full of miracles, from a sorority to a move to Buenos Aires, a Sullivan Street psychic and everything in between, including (soon!) Ibiza

It's a blessing to have it around me

My friend Ryan is someone who has the incredible ability to get as excited about wonderful things happening in her loved ones’ lives as she is in her own. And she’s made a practice of it, too. She’s supported me in celebrating big moments, helping me to see and celebrate them even more than I would have—as much as she’s been there for me during difficult ones. I think there’s something so special, selfless and beautifully abundant about that.

One time when I was on the phone with her, I shared some good news about another good friend, someone she’s never met. She took it in, appreciating it with an “mmm,” and then said something I think of often and repeat, years later. “I remind myself it’s a blessing to have it around me.” I’d never heard anyone express appreciation in such a wide way, two connections away.

We can often get so caught up in how something is showing up for us, especially when it’s something we really want. That thing, just for us, only for us and not to be shared. We’re so focused on that, that we miss all the ways and forms in which it’s so present in our lives already. I think there’s a lot of culture-of-the-individual and competitive programming around this, but (and) it can be peeled back. Because when it’s around us, these good, desired, beautiful things, these blessings, we share in it, too. It’s also ours to appreciate, ours to celebrate.

For Rainbow Ryan, who is as incredible a healer as she is a friend, and who truly is a blessing to have around me, even though we’ve yet to meet in person!