Subscribe now

Years, ago — decades, actually — when our family was still living in Trinidad, I commissioned a work from an artist friend. She created this large multimedia piece made of a reclaimed 100-year-old window, an antique key, paint, pencil, wire — a lovely, tactile piece that over the years traveled to the States with us, survived floodwaters, and moved homes quite a few times.

For this move to the UK, we decided the piece — which, by this point, had become really fragile — wasn’t in any shape to make the transatlantic trip. But before we disposed of it, Marcus salvaged the key from the rickety window frame.

The key was rusty and old, and a quick google search revealed that the key is from the late 1700s, or what’s called the Georgian Era.

As it happens, Bath, England, where we’ve moved, is famous for its buildings representing the best examples of Georgian architecture in England. Isn’t that something? We were in possession of a 200+-year-old key from an English colony, and were about to move to a part of England whose architecture is famous from the same time period. It felt weirdly important that I preserve this key, this relic of an incredibly fraught time of my ancestors, both enslavers and the enslaved.

So I had the key framed. And last week, I picked it up. I love it so much, this memento from my homeland. It feels somehow symbolic.

After I hung the key on my wall, I decided to confirm if there was any symbolism associated with keys. There is: apparently, keys symbolize new beginnings and transitions, authority, and knowledge.

This week, Europe is going to experience a solar eclipse. England isn’t in the path of totality, but Bath is slated to experience 93% “obscuration.” Because blue skies are forecast (we haven’t seen a drop of rain since June) (!!), I’m hoping the effect from the phenomenon will be noticeable.

I decided to look up the historical symbolism behind solar eclipses, and apparently, they signify change and transformation.

I’ve decided to use all these little karmic new-beginnings-and-transformation signs as a reminder to keep focused on change. On hope. Because while yes, my life is deep in a state of flux, the word at large feels like it’s in the throes of tumult, as well.

And so, if you’re reading these words, I invite you to join me in holding faith in transformation and new beginnings in your own lives, and for the world at large — as long as that faith is rooted in kindness and light. In hope. Because as the inimitable author Arundhati Roy has written:

If you enjoyed this post, feel free to share it with friends who you think might enjoy it. It’s a quick, easy way to support my work, and I’d be deeply grateful.

Share

As many of you know by now, I’m in the middle of writing my next book, all about how to access communal compassion. I’m currently writing a chapter on what I call “passion collectives”: groups of people who connect over a shared hobby or passion. And I’m looking for folks to interview about this topic: how they came to find the other people who they connect with over their passion, how the group meets and practices their passion, why the group is important to them. The passion can be cooking. Or pottery. Or crocheting. Or woodworking. Or motorcycles. Or cold-water-swimming. Or whatever. But the point is that these people have found each other, and are committed to practicing their passion together.

Does this sound like you? If so, please email me or leave a comment below and let me know what you and your posse are into — I might just reach out and feature you in my book!

Thanks in advance, lovelies!

It’s my birth month, so grab your gift: if you’re not a paid subscriber, for the month of July, I’m offering 25% off annual subscriptions. I hope you join me!

get 25% off!

As I write this, I’m sitting in a little restaurant in my neighbourhood having a cappuccino, a detour on my way back home after spending a few hours writing at a new-to-me coworking space. Alex is home having a Zoom session with her voice coach, and I don’t want to disturb them.

Also as I write this, it dawns on me that I’m approaching two months since I’ve been in the UK full time. In some ways, it already feels like home: I know where everything is in my local grocery store. The dog has settled into her routine. And, well, I have a new-to-me coworking space to which I commute every day to write. So yes, I’m home. And it’s amazing that I’m feeling this way in such as short time.

Except.

Except we’re still in the process of purchasing a bigger space, which means that poor Alex is sleeping on a mattress on the floor of the living room of our 1-bedroom flat. Most of our things remain in storage, and Marcus is still in Houston, organizing their shipment, and trying to figure out how to time it so that it arrives around the same time that we get the keys to the house — which, if you’ve ever purchased property in England, you know is a roller-coaster of an uncertain ride. And then — perhaps most alarmingly — since we’ve been here the weather has been hot and dry, two adjectives I would’ve never bet on using to describe life in England. Don’t get me wrong, it makes for amazing sightseeing days, so I definitely shouldn’t complain, but … it’s weird, is what I’m saying. England is supposed to be cold and rainy, I don’t make the rules. The sunny hot weather whispers things like “global warming” and “climate change,” and can I really say that I’m feeling “at home,” when the weather isn’t doing “at home” sorts of things?”

Anyway, all this to say that when I’m asked how I’m settling in, it’s a hard question to answer. Settling in is … well, unsettling. I mean, I’m definitely so glad I’m here. I remain stunned at how beautiful this city is. And I’m excited about all the potential of our future life. But “settling in” is a slow process. It happens in its own time. And it’s best done methodically.

I’m a champion worrier, but the other morning, I came across these words from Instagrammer James Pyke:

worrying is one of the worst ways to use our imagination.

This simple sentence sort of jolted me awake: our family as been in limbo for a while now (really, about 18 months now, while making these moves across the pond), but honestly, I’m just so tired of worrying. I’m bored with all my worrying.

So I realize I need to use my imagination differently. I should imagine what it will feel like to turn in my manuscript later this year. I’ll imagine what Alex’s life looks like when she finds her own place — to live, to work, and to create her own community. I need to imagine our new home.

Because I think using my imagination well might just be the key to settling in.

If you enjoyed this post, feel free to share it with friends who you think might enjoy it. It’s a quick, easy way to support my work, and I’d be deeply grateful.

Share

It’s my birth month, so grab your gift: if you’re not a paid subscriber, for the month of July, I’m offering 25% off annual subscriptions. I hope you join me!

get 25% off!

today is my 59th birthday.

And so begins the last year of my second act.

In storytelling’s three-act structure, the second act is about the protagonist learning the skills and awareness of who they are and what they’re capable of, before facing the final conflict and resolution of the third act. That’s not to say there aren’t learnings in the third act, but in general, the second act is when the protagonist’s character becomes fully developed.

Assuming a lifespan of 90-or-so years, it feels like this year is the year to make my learnings, skills and awareness concrete, in preparation for my third act. To make these learnings and skills second-nature. To make them superpowers.

(As I write the above, it sounds like a lot of pressure, but to be certain, it doesn’t feel that way. It actually feels sort of exciting. Because the best part of viewing my life this way is remembering that I get to be the author of my own story.)

And so, here are things that I want to fully incorporate into who I am this year, as I get ready for Act 3:

1. I want to embody the phrase “kindness is a power move.” I’ve said this phrase over and over again, and I mean it, but I want to live it. I want kindness to become my superpower (emphasis on “power.”) I want to be more discerning about the difference between “being nice,” and “being kind,” and be braver about saying the difficult things, even if it makes me unpopular: as long as I’m rooted in kindness and empathy, then I’m good to go. But I want to be covertly kind, in addition to overtly kind. For example, we sold 80% of our belongings to make this move overseas, which means that we’ll be building a whole new home here: this is an amazing opportunity to have our new home communicate kindness. What does it mean to outfit a home that feels kind the moment a stranger walks in? Similarly, I’m living in a brand new climate: what does it mean to dress in a way that communicates kindness to strangers at first glance? What does it mean to brandish kindness?

2. As much as I want to be compassionate, I want to also welcome the compassion of others. In a three-act story, the protagonist doesn’t usually figure out their skills without the mentorship of others. I’m not great about accepting help, and as I finish writing this book on communal compassion, I’m realizing how much accepting help is an art and a skill that should be practiced, just as much as offering help is. It is possible that for compassion to be truly communal, we might have to accept kindnesses as much as we offer them. I’m still learning the truth in this, and I want to believe this statement in my heart as much as I do in my head.

3. I want to learn what “legacy” means. I’m still mulling this over, but I suspect that “legacy” means more than simply leaving behind money or a body of work. I do know that I want to live my life in a way that people younger than me get excited about getting older. I suspect legacy might have something to do with intentional joy, as well as meaning, and purpose, but it’s all still a bit amorphous in my head. I want to get clearer on this.

Anyway, I have a year to figure this all out, right? In the meantime, happy birthday to me! I’m going to take a couple of weeks off to celebrate, but in the meantime, here’s my birthday wish: in honour of my birthday, please delight yourself today. It doesn’t have to be big — treating yourself to an ice cream cone, or something similarly delightful, works. I’d just love to spend the day thinking that if you’ve read my words today, you’re inspired to make your day happier.

If you enjoyed this post, feel free to share it with friends who you think might enjoy it. It’s a quick, easy way to support my work, and I’d be deeply grateful.

Share

It’s my birth month, so grab your gift: if you’re not a paid subscriber, for the month of July, I’m offering 25% off annual subscriptions. I hope you join me!

get 25% off!

Marcus was in town last week, and as I writing this post, Marcus, Alex and I were in sunny Cornwall, visiting his family. Marcus grew up in the the tiny village of St. Day, once a prosperous mining town, but has since been on the decline since 1870, when the mining industry dwindled. From what I gather, it’s not much different today than it was when Marcus was a teenager. Just a tiny little utilitarian English coastal village of about 2000 inhabitants.

Back when Marcus and I got engaged (almost 25 years ago!), a woman he knew unabashedly expressed her skepticism. “I just don’t think it will last,” she said, frankly. “I mean, you’re a small-country-village-boy, and she’s a big-city girl. It’s never going to work.”

Needless to say, Marcus lost touch with her pretty soon after.

What’s so insane about what she said (aside from the fact that no one had asked her opinion) was that I’ve never, not even back then when I was living in London, considered myself a “big-city girl.” In fact, I spent my formative years in Guayaguayare (pronounced “GW-eye-uh-gw-eye-AR-ee”), a small village in the southeasternmost point of Trinidad, known for petroleum production. While I haven’t been back in a while, the last time I visited about 15 years ago, it wasn’t much different then than when I was a teenager. Just a tiny little Trinidadian coast village of about 2000 inhabitants.

Not unlike St. Day.

This move to the UK is likely the last international move I’ll ever make. And while we live in a considerably larger city (Bath has close to 100,000 inhabitants), while I was walking around St. Day this weekend, I couldn’t help think of Guayaguayare. Big moves are daunting; still, this little village reminded me that no matter how far from home I go, I can always find something that feels familiar. It’s a reminder that even if you’re not home, you can make home.

If you enjoyed this post, feel free to share it with friends who you think might enjoy it. It’s a quick, easy way to support my work, and I’d be deeply grateful.

Share

It’s my birth month, so grab your gift: if you’re not a paid subscriber, for the month of July, I’m offering 25% off annual subscriptions. I hope you join me!

get 25% off!

Last week, I decided to explore a park not far from where we’re currently living. It’s a beautiful space, donated to the city almost 90 years ago by a wealthy man in honour of his wife, which is sweet enough; but also, there’s a charming café at the entrance. So, I sat with my dog and enjoyed my cappuccino on a pretty perfect English summer day.

Delight.

This is my birth month. As I was writing this post, I remembered that for my birth month last year, I celebrated with A Month of Daily Delights (you can see some of them here) — it began with getting my first tattoo, and included everything from ice cream cones to beach vacations. It was such a lovely practice of noticing and creating a good life that I vowed to do it every year. I was a little late this year in remembering this promise to myself; nonetheless, July began with a friend coming into town and I showed her around the city, so the month is already looking promising.

Delight.

This upcoming birthday will be the last of my 50s, which means that this is the year I get to really focus on what it means to set myself up well for my third act. In storytelling, the third act is when the climax happens: the protagonist takes everything she’s learned in the previous two acts and, in a last gambit, throws everything at the conflict’s resolution. It’s Dorothy finally getting the determination and confidence she needed to stand up to and throw water at the Wicked Witch. It’s Luke pushing the scope away and trusting The Force before firing the guns on his X-wing fighter to take down the Death Star. It’s the moment where the hero finally comes into their full power. So as I celebrate this month, I’m also thinking: what do I need to do this year to meet my birthday next year ready to come into my full power?

It’s a pretty exciting thought.

Something I’ve been mulling over is this wonderful piece by about “giving yourself permission” versus “choosing.” Like her, I’ve always felt a bit uneasy with the phrasing “give yourself permission.” At my grown age, and as long as I’m rooted in integrity and kindness. I don’t feel like I need anyone’s permission to do anything, including my own. Like Jenna, I’m going to choose.

In fact, maybe that’s what this next year will be about. Choosing.

So on that note, just as I’ll be choosing delight this month, I’ll be choosing more of my life going forward. It’s pretty serendipitous that I’m in a new country and entering a new life on this last year of my 50s. What freedom. What potential.

What delight.

Happy summer, everyone.

P.S. If daily delights enchant you, I cannot recommend The Book of Delights by enough. It might be my favourite book I’ve enjoyed this decade, and it’s the perfect summer read.

If you enjoyed this post, feel free to share it with friends who you think might enjoy it. It’s a quick, easy way to support my work, and I’d be deeply grateful.

Share

Subscribe now

Read more

Subscribe now

Read more

Subscribe now

Read more

Subscribe now

Read more

Subscribe now

Read more

Subscribe now

Read more

Subscribe now

Over the weekend, I spent a considerable amount of time cleaning out my bedroom closet. I’m vaguely embarrassed by this: those of you who’ve been reading my words for a while now know that we lost 99% of everything we owned in the floodwaters of Hurricane Harvey. This means that the shameful amount of clothing and other belongings that I’m currently culling were accumulated only in the last 9 years. But we’re officially in the throes of downsizing: I leave for the UK a month from tomorrow. So as I placed clothing in large donation bags and helped load furniture into the car trunks of folks who will be taking what we won’t be shipping, I couldn’t help but feel a little wistful. Our home might only be 8 years old, but we’ve spent the last twenty years living on this land. We raised our daughter Alex here. An era is coming to an end.

It feels serendipitous that this move is happening during graduation season. There’s obviously a lot of nostalgia associated with graduating, but I’m always struck by the fact that graduation ceremonies are also called “commencements.” There’s no denying that underpinning all the congratulations-for-accomplishing-so-much celebration, there’s also the keen anticipation of what’s to come. Of the start of new adventures. It’s like, welcome to the rest of your life, kids. Nothing but wide open spaces ahead.

Several folks have asked me recently how I feel about this impending move, and while excitement is certainly part of it, I’m also a bit anxious. I’m nervouscited, as Alex would say. It’s not lost on me that I’m about to make a huge, international move on the cusp of starting the third act of my life. I’m going to be learning a new culture, figuring out new ways of making a living … even the way I dress will have to change, given the completely different climate I’ll be living in. In almost every meaningful way, I’ll be starting from scratch. It’s a little scary, but there’s also no denying how massive the potential is.

I can’t help but think to myself, welcome to the rest of my life, kid. Nothing but wide open spaces ahead.

Anyway, not long now. But speaking of Alex and commencements: we’re headed to Boulder this week to attend Alex’s commencement ceremony at the University of Colorado. She’ll be receiving her Bachelor of Science in Strategic Communication with a minor in Media Studies. As you can imagine, we’re extremely proud of her and plan on celebrating her accordingly. So please pardon my absence — I’ll be back once we return from Colorado, hopefully with tons of photos and memories to share.

(And because it’s been a minute, here are some fun links, as well as a peek into a few recent journal pages, to hold you while I’m gone.)

Read more

Subscribe now

Read more

Subscribe now

After a picture-perfect splashdown, the crew of the Artemis II mission to the moon is safe, back on terra firma. What a triumph.

I’m not going to write about the mission — I’ve done that enough already, I think — except to say that for the ten days of the mission, my social media feeds were a delight. I’m pretty good at training the Instagram algorithm to feed me only uplifting content, but the barrage of moon joy over the last couple of weeks has been particularly encouraging. More, please.

Among all the feel-good posts, I came across this one from one of my favourite online writers, :

I loved this so much: “stay human” feels like a more realistic, more imperative goal; more than “stay calm,” far more than “stay positive.” It feels like what the Artemis II astronauts were reminding us to do. And it feels … I dunno, doable.

So here’s to staying human, friends, and staying kind.

In other news, here are a few peeks in my journal. Making these recent entries helped me meditate on the importance of staying human. Maybe they’ll help you, too.

Read more

Subscribe now

Read more

Subscribe now

Hello again! A quick heads up, about two things:

1. I’ve opened up office hours for April! Every now and then, I like to open up my schedule for 50-minute slots, in case you’d like to talk to me about something that’s on your mind. This isn’t coaching (although I’m available for that, too, if you’re interested!) -- this is more of a “pick your brain” session of chatting about whatever’s on your mind. Want to talk about writing? Thinking about moving overseas? Want to talk about activism? Consider booking a session! (If it doesn’t show up for you, just refresh the page.)

2. I’m currently in the throes of book writing, with a deadline coming in hot. So I’ll be reverting to a once-a-week cadence of publishing this Substack for the foreseeable future. However, as part of my enduring gratitude to those of you who are kind enough to be paid subscribers, you’ll still be seeing peeks into my personal journals (in addition to continued access to all of the archives).

And as always, thanks for continuing to support my work, friends. I’m so grateful to you.

About a year ago, I stumbled across this article about the way that Gen Z is prioritizing a healthy work-life balance. One of the ways they’re doing this is by having “micro-retirements”: unlike full retirements, this sometimes means taking some extended time off between jobs; often, it just means taking a couple of weeks off to travel, or take up a new hobby, or otherwise rest and recreate (or re-create), before returning to work.

You know … like a vacation.

After I read that article, I saw a lot of folks online mocking the term "micro-retirement.” Many of the ones poking fun were Gen X or older; a considerable number were people living outside of America, in more time-off-friendly cultures. But mostly, I remember feeling mildly horrified that vacations had apparently become so rare that Gen Z found the concept revolutionary. As artist and author Tricia Hersey often says, rest is our birthright; as I often say, rest is part of the natural cycle of nature, and a key component of how we optimize living. And so, without any snark whatsoever, it’s good to see that Gen Z is realizing this.

A couple of weeks ago, Marcus Alex and I went on a micro-retirement (ahem) to Barbados.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. In full transparency, this wasn’t an ordinary beach vacation, marked by all-inclusive resorts or cocktails with little umbrellas in them. In fact, my parents recently bought a place there, a sort of homecoming: a return to our beloved Caribbean roots. My family, along with my sister’s family, traveled to Barbados over spring break to see how our parents were settling in. So, while there were certainly some mornings spent at the beach, our time together was mostly about scoping out grocery stores, and hardware stores, and making family-cooked meals — the kinds of things you do when you’re learning a new community and creating a home. It was lovely, and a really bonding week.

Read more

Subscribe now

Read more

Subscribe now

When I was a kid, I had two favourite days of the school year. I loved the first day, because of all the potential: the new clothes my mom bought me for the school year. The new classes and teachers. The new extracurriculars. So much new to look forward to.

But then, I also loved the last day of school: the summer of relaxation ahead. The feeling of accomplishment. The closing of a chapter before beginning a new one.

I miss those, man. The closest thing I get to that feeling these days is completing a journal and beginning another. Even though I never, ever revisit them once they’re done. I just like beginning them and starting them.

About a week ago, I finished a journal. And I started a new one. So satisfying.

Here’s what the new one looks like so far:

Read more

Subscribe now

Read more