How is it possible to share a home with someone, see them every dawn and dusk, cook every dinner together, spend hours next to each other on the couch, fall asleep legs intertwined—and yet it only takes a beer together on a sunny Saturday afternoon for it to feel like the first date?
(Oct. 31)

It’s not that I ever particularly want to exchange the warmth of bed for the shock of 7° at 7am, but here is this furry creature breathing in my sleepy face, begging me to do the one small thing that will make her day, frantically following me from bedroom to bathroom to back door, hopping in small circles as I pull on my boots, her tail beating small puffs of dust as she sits for me to clip on her leash. I have much to learn from this floppy-eared, four-legged being—she knows the power of nature first thing in the morning, needs no caffeine to be invigorated. She has taught me how to weather any kind of weather, and if it weren’t for her I wouldn’t know the stillness of a sleepy neighborhood, the acrid chimney smoke from the house down on California, the plump pumpkins still clinging to their vines, the lone bird call, the gardens bedded down for winter, the quiver of a rabbit’s nose before she realizes a threat is near, the three lone snowballs of a deconstructed snowman, the quiet shift in seasons. Indigo, why don’t you ever bug your father to take you out, I sometimes complain, but she and I both know that this is our gift to each other.

(Oct. 30)

Mary Oliver says that wonder has to be earned, and certainly it is earned through the full harvest moon, a trick of the atmosphere but I prefer to think of it as magic, hanging low and buttery in a velvet sky over this sleepy town, watching over us tiny creatures flying down streets littered with crackling brown leaves, hands stiff and slow-moving from the cold, eyes glittering from behind our wind-chapped faces—the moon, there for all of it, and still so intangible—I wish I could cup it in my palm, run my fingertip over its craggy landscape, pocket a smooth white stone as a keepsake and brush the moon dust onto the sides of my jeans. If I were an astronaut, I think I’d be far too distracted to do my job.

(Oct. 29)

Tuesdays kind of feel like the worst day of the week. There isn’t any of the fresh-week-energy of Monday, and the weekend’s not anywhere in sight. Tuesdays are just…there. At best, they’re boring. At worst, they make you want to pack everything up and move to Denmark (where there are shorter work weeks, and more vacation time, and good pastries, and tiny children that go to forest school, and bikes as the main form of transportation—just follow my girl Ashlyn if you need more convincing and/or a daily dose of pure charm). Anyway, in the midst of this lackluster Tuesday, you are my unexpected delight. I haven’t written this consistently in close to a decade, but all of a sudden you lovely people (some of which have been around since the beginning!) are welcoming me back with such kind, open arms. It’s been so special to hear from you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you—for listening to what I have to say, and for allowing me to listen back, and for being the reason that I didn’t move to Denmark today.

(Oct. 27)