“Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry.” 

(Jack Kerouac, Desolation Angels)

I copied this line with a bold black marker on its own page in my journal so I would be reminded of it often. I especially love the imperative to bless—to shed a benediction on the things and people we love. To sanctify everyday life. When I set my little prayer wheel whirling, it’s a kind of blessing. When my wet brush licks the watercolor cakes—crimson, azure, orange--I’m blessing the image that might emerge. When I go outside to yearn up at the moon, I’m blessing the music of the spheres that is our celestial playlist as we spin and spin. And when I lie in bed and send my thoughts out to friends and family who need help or strength or just some fucking tenderness in this hard world, it’s a silent, long-distance blessing trying to make contact. I’m not religious, but sometimes I swear I can feel that thought make a landing. I often see people write #blessed on social media, and it seems to imply receiving a special high-five from the universe. I understand that gratitude, but I’m trying to practice #blessing rather than #blessed, sending instead of receiving. I’m such a monster of ordinary selfishness that I have to remind myself to think that way, to rein in the wild horse of my ego. Because usually I’m all about gimme and help me and me, me, me. But I take heart that the quote above was written not by a saint, but by someone who was as broken and beautiful and contradictory as a human can be. I think we're all  “desolation angels” in some way, just trying to fly. Amen, Jack.

During the worst of the pandemic, I looked forward to the most mundane things…clean pajamas, grocery deliveries, the next installment of a Netflix series, daily phone calls from friends, the woodpecker that frequented my kitchen-window feeder. But lately, I’ve been lamenting the lack of big shiny things to look forward to and envying friends who are planning exotic trips or exciting projects. When I discovered Sophie Blackall’s book, Things to Look Forward To, it reminded me that the world is still crammed with tiny possibilities and pleasures that can make my life richer. 

During the pandemic, I did a lot of yoga at home at first and continued to take regular walks, but I stopped going to the gym and getting back into an exercise routine has been hard. I'd love to have a room big enough to hold a Concept 2 rower, but I'm afraid I'd like the concept of rowing more than the actuality. Do any of you have rowing machines, and if so, have you stuck with it or is it now propped up in a corner somewhere like a coat rack?

This summer I’ve developed a sudden craving for gin martinis. My usual hot-weather drink is a gin and tonic with lots of ice and lime, but there’s something so crisp and intense about a martini. And of course, there’s the classic shape of the glass and the feeling that you should be sipping it in a Manhattan bar in the 1950s, wearing a little black cocktail hat with a veil and waiting for a completely disreputable lover to arrive. Here’s Stanley Tucci’s recipe for the perfect martini at home, lover not included.

The last thriller I got as wrapped up in as Two Nights in Lisbon by Chris Pavone was The Last Thing He Told Me, and like that book, it’s all about how well you know the people you love. High stakes, an exotic setting, and layers upon layers to unpeel made me ignore real life for a couple of days. I thought I'd guessed the key to the mystery halfway through, but, nope! I started it one evening and finished it the next day. It’s that good! Now I’m going back to read his other novels.