The author and her father circa 1998

Lately I’ve been trying to write in the early evening, but I should know better. Come 5pm my brain isn't much more than a squishy paperweight, and therefore a hinderance rather than a help in the writing process. Like it or not, I inherited my dad’s early bird clarity. As far back as I can remember, he’s started his day somewhere in the ungodly hour of 5am. When we were little, getting up early was a necessity for him before we came romping into the kitchen demanding attention. Now he just has the most robust morning routine of anyone I know, with a level of consistency and self-discipline I can only admire. His two-plus hours of morning quiet are a large part of completing a masters, then a doctorate in a handful of years, translating countless books and articles, reading his Bible I don’t know how many times through, and maintaining a consistent diary practice for over forty years. That’s just the beginning—he even squeezes in a morning walk. As for me, it’s a good day if I can manage to get out of bed before seven, and I might not have quite the measure of self-discipline that my dad has, but he’s living proof of the life-changing magic of a morning routine. So back to morning writing it is—I’ve got a legacy to live up to.

(Nov. 11)

It’s true—art is essential. It’s easy to forget how essential until you find yourself after a full year finally, finally standing in front of a painting. No photograph can replicate the feeling of standing so close to a painting that brushstrokes are all that fills your periphery. Some days I can feel the weight of all the lives left unlived, clamoring loudly, demanding to be given a chance. Maybe that’s why art makes me feel so at home. How delightfully anonymous you can become in a gallery, how easily you can shed the weights of your life and become transformed by the genius of those before you. Standing in front of a painting or photograph or textile or ceramic or mural you could be…anyone.

(Nov. 10)

Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll run out of things to write about. Maybe one day I will. But today is the kind of cold, gray November day I oddly love, the clouds pregnant with precipitation, and I feel it my duty to appreciate it, to light candles and put on Nat King Cole and think of Christmas. Right now I’m reading Fanny Singer’s book Always Home, a memoir-cum-cookbook by famed chef Alice Waters’ daughter (and whose Berkeley home kitchen is the absolute dream; it even has a fireplace!). Anyway, on this blue-tinged day tucking into the book by candlelight feels apropos—it’s a cozy, delightful read and makes me want to be a more thoughtful home cook. It’s nice to dream about alternative lives, or at least scheme ways to absorb into your own life aspects from others. 

(Nov. 9)

It feels hard to focus or make anything worthwhile right now. Do you feel it too? In one of the latest episodes of Hurry Slowly, podcast host Jocelyn K. Glei guesses that most of us are depleted right now. Between all that’s happened this year, it would be unnatural if we weren’t—and yet we’re still expecting ourselves to be just as (if not more) productive and put together as we were pre-2020, despite having significantly less bandwidth. The answer, Glei suggests, is more tenderness towards ourselves and daily habits (how calm might life be if our inner critics’ constant chatter could become a little softer?). Maybe tenderness can be as simple tailoring your day to your circadian rhythm, or as tremendous as separating our productivity from our inherent worth (hi, it’s me). Anyway, take heart and chill out. It is in your self-interest to find a way to be very tender (J. Holzer).

(Nov. 5)