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After a crazy May-beginning-of-June, things are beginning to settle. The past week, the second week into my move to the UK, has been all about getting my bearings. It’s true that we’ve been coming back and forth frequently to the UK, so we’ve already spent the past 2-1/2 years learning our neighbourhood; however, this is the first time I’m here with no real plans for returning to the US anytime soon.

the time has come to find community, baby.

Normally, this would make me nervous: anyone who knows me knows that I’m a deeply introverted person, and my inclination to simply hole up in the house is real. But there’s something pretty serendipitous about making a big move to a new culture while in the throes of writing a book about communal compassion: after all, the whole premise of the book is that compassion and kinship will change the world. In other words, if this isn’t a physician-heal-thyself moment, then I don’t know what is.

Luckily, this place has a lot of charm to entice me outside.

Anyway, I’ve been trying out various community events. Marcus found a flyer for a neighbourhood meeting, and I went: it was tiny and hilarious and I’ll be writing more about it in the book, so you’ll have to wait a minute before you hear about it. I also went to a Silent Book Club meeting at a local coffeehouse — where everyone brings their own book to the shop and reads silently for an hour, or what I like to call Introvert Nirvana. (And get this, there are Silent Book Clubs all over the world, so if this appeals, I strongly recommend finding one near you!) As you might expect, I’ve been desperately looking for a community pottery — I figured that a community pottery would give me the most potential for finding organic community, what with this ceramics addiction passion that I’ve cultivated — but unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be one in Bath. I did find one in Bristol, which is only a 15-minute train ride from Bath; but on top of that rail journey, it’s a 10,000 step commute from my house, taking far too much time out of my day to make going a regular thing. Still, it’s lovely, and I did manage to throw two small planters that are now awaiting their first bisque firing.

I’ve also been to our local pub (characterful locals!) and a beautiful museum (amazing art!), so it’s been a joy. I’m not sure I’m quite yet finding kinship, however. So I’ll keep trying.

But this also seems like the perfect opportunity to learn from you, as well: how have you found kinship and communal compassion in your own communities? Was it serendipitous, or intentional? What would be your best advice to someone who was new to your neighbourhood?

Please share in the comments — this has become such a lovely community here on Make Light, I’m sure your wisdom would be invaluable to others who, like me, are looking for their own people!

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Thanks so much for all your kind words on my last post. Sweet Anne was officially laid to rest at a lovely crematorium in the Forest of Dean, in a ceremony that featured beautiful words from her son, and music from both Leonard Cohen and Thin Lizzy — so you know it was good. There was a large turnout of people who loved Anne and who wanted to comfort her family, and they did so in all the best ways that people attending a celebration of life can. May Anne rest in eternal peace.

You know how sometimes you come across a quote that punches you in the gut? A couple of weeks before I left the US, I came across this:

When I saw it, I didn’t think I’d ever read anything truer in my life. I’ve done huge international moves before, obviously — I was an immigrant to the United States, after all, and my previous emigration to the UK a couple of decades ago is how I ended up with my English husband — and every single move begins the same:

you’re not only navigating a new culture, but also navigating who you’re going to be in the new culture.

And honestly, I think the latter is more of challenge. It’s easier, I think, to figure out which local brand of honey will please you as much as the brand you used to buy where you came from. Or to discover a new coffeeshop that has the perfect vibe for writing. Or to nail down which pub is ideal for watching the World Cup. What’s harder is determining which of your shoes you need — for casual events as well as dressy ones — that will help you navigate treacherous and ubiquitous cobblestone streets, and which ones will no longer serve. Or identifying which raincoats are best for warm days and which are best for cool ones and that fit your style (preferably not in a boring black or grey, but also in a colour that nonetheless keeps you from looking too much like Paddington Bear). Or even learning how wear your hair, given the incessant rain, not to mention that the hardness of the water in a city known for its limestone has rendered your tried-and-true haircare products completely useless.

This, of course, is all on top of figuring out how to access community, when you don’t have a nine-to-five to help grease the way.

Not that I’m complaining, truly. In fact, it’s exactly the opposite. While there are aspects of my former Houstonian life that I’ll miss (and certainly, I’ll miss the people), the truth is that figuring out a new life is pretty exhilarating.

After all, how often do we get the opportunity to craft an entirely new existence from scratch?

And so, now that the intensity of the past month is largely behind me, I’m looking ahead with some curiosity. I’m slowly beginning to write again. Marcus and I have been planning what our new, tiny, yet-to-be-purchased forever-home might look like. I’ve attended a couple of events in town. I’m even going to try out a community pottery this week, one located in the next town over.

And in doing all of these things, I’ve noticed signs of serendipity all around. Like when I wore my cowboy boots — for the first time ever, I’m apparently a person who wears cowboy boots now — to an event, and a young woman approached me:

“Excuse me,” she said, in her charming English accent, “are those Ariat cowboy boots?”

“They are!” I said, surprised. My boots aren’t particularly extraordinary. “How did you …”

“Oh, I love those boots,” she said. “In fact …” here, she rolled up the sleeve of her dress to reveal an intricate, fine-line image of a boot on her bicep, “… I have the exact brand and style of that boot tattooed on my arm.”

What. Are. The. Odds.

Later, after I walked home and entered our flat, Marcus met me at the door. “You won’t believe the photographs I took out of the window an hour ago,” he said. Then he showed me these images on his phone.

I’m taking them all as good signs. My life might not be what it was before, but I think it has all the potential of being something lovely now.

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Hello! Hi! How are you?

Sweet Mary Margaret, May was a helluva month over here. I sincerely hope yours was calmer.

When last we met, our family was celebrating Alex’s commencement from university. What I hadn’t yet shared was that we’d finally accepted an offer on our house … after fifteen months of being on the market. To say that we were relieved would be a profound understatement. But it also induced a mild sense of panic: we had already bought airline tickets to move me and our dog, Soca, to England, and closing was scheduled for the day before we left. This meant we had to clean out our house so that it was spotless, get rid of about 80% of our belongings (to reduce the cost of shipping), figure out how we could get the dog relocated to the UK and pack my own bags for England. By the time Marcus and I were having our final dinner in Boulder, with only three weeks remaining on the clock before we had to be out of the house and without yet having packed a single box, I admitted out loud that I was feeling pretty overwhelmed.

“Don’t worry,” said the always-imperturbable Marcus. “We have time.”

Then — what’s the saying: man plans, God laughs? — two days later, at five in the morning, we woke to the news that Marcus’s stepmum, Anne, had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away.

We were absolutely stunned: Annie had been in Marcus’s life since he was a teenager. She was relatively young — just shy of her 71st birthday — so no one saw this coming. For days, Marcus and I walked around in a dream state, not quite believing what had just happened. Annie was preternaturally warm and welcoming, always ready with a hug, a cuppa, and an encouraging word. When I met her almost twenty-five years ago, she embraced me as family on the spot. We are so, so sad she’s gone.

Obviously, the urgency we felt to get to the UK was cranked up to eleven. The last few weeks were all about packing, cleaning, dozens and dozens of trips to donation centres, meeting with transatlantic shippers and pet relocation companies, all while ensuring we stayed connected to our family across the pond, and composing and practicing eulogies. It was a lot.

But finally, this past Friday, Soca, Marcus and I landed at Heathrow airport, our house packed up, sanitized clean, and sold a mere twenty-four hours before we flew. So with a dog crate and eight pieces of luggage in tow, we drove the 90-minute journey to Bath.

Since we arrived, jet lag has been a beast — even more intense than usual — but perhaps it’s because of the intensity of the past three weeks. Perhaps it’s just the concept of changing our entire lives. Perhaps it’s the appearance of this brand, spanking new web page on the official White House website while we were in transit, clarifying once again in the most disheartening way that regardless of how we came to the United States, people like me and my family are not welcome, and it was time for me to go. Perhaps it’s just grief. Whatever the reason, we’re trying to be gentle with ourselves, even as we prep for a pretty intense week ahead.

Soca seems to be liking her new surroundings, though.

Of course, what’s not to like?

Anne’s funeral is this week. Please keep us in your thoughts, friends. More to share on the other side.

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I had grand plans of putting together a video of the entire University of Colorado Boulder weekend, complete with hat tosses and celebratory meals, but since we’ve returned, life has been life-ing even more than usual.* So I’m afraid my amateur filmmaking skills will have to be shared another time. Instead, here are some of the official graduation pictures I took of Alex in the shadow of Boulder’s stunning Flatirons, as well as a few places around campus.

Suffice it to say that Marcus and I are beyond thrilled for Alex: she worked her tail off this semester (21 hours!). She still has a few more hours to complete before she receives her diploma, but she’s loved her major and has earned great grades thus far, so we have no doubt that by the end of June, she’ll officially have her Bachelor of Science in Strategic Communications. Not bad for someone who transferred universities, switched majors, and even moved states during her sophomore year — yet still managed to cross the stage on time.

That’s my girl.

* Life-ing life: in the next 3 weeks, I’ll be cleaning up and moving out of my house and getting ready for my last keynote (join me!), before a full relocation to the UK. To say I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed would be an understatement. So please excuse my absence during the coming weeks, friends — I’ll see you next time from Bath, United Kingdom!

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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.)

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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.

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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.

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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:

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My friend A’Driane, who lives in the northeastern part of the country, sends me photographs of her front garden on instant messenger. “Look at this,” she writes, as I look at the images of towering drifts and trees bending under the weight of the snow, unrelenting flakes still coming down. “We’re going to be hunkered down for a few days.”

I stare at the images and my throat clenches a bit. It’s not the photographs themselves that bother me — as someone who has rarely experienced snow, the images actually seem quite beautiful — it’s the idea of being there, unable to leave the house, uncertain about when I would be able to move about freely again. That idea, right now, seems deeply familiar.

We’ve been in a state of limbo for about a year now — in ways that I’m not ready to share on the internet quite yet — and last week, after it looked like there would be some movement, there was a setback that shook me. While I’m generally great with handling change, handling limbo? Not so much. It’s been very hard to keep from sliding into despair.

But Marcus returned from England this week, and he told me that despite the cold and the rain, the daffodils and the snowdrops are starting to appear all around, a sure sign that spring is around the corner. Here in Houston, the redbuds are starting to emerge — our first sign of spring. I’m choosing to take these flowers as a sign that things are going to shift for us, as well.

Fingers crossed.

Anyway, here’s how I’ve been processing these feelings in my journal:

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Back in ye olden blogging days, I’m talking the early aughts, there was a blogger who would occasionally write single-sentence blog posts — no images or anything — entitled “how to charm me.” She would share little snippets of her life without any context, like “how to charm me: say ‘here you go, sweetie,’ while placing my coffee in front of me, and then squeezing my shoulder as you walk away to take care of another customer.” Things like that. This blogger was an incredible writer — in fact, if I were to tell you that she was “queen of the mommybloggers,” and you were reading anything online during the early aughts, you’d know exactly who I was talking about — and she was known for her long-form, often irreverent posts, things she began writing years before she ever became pregnant with her first child. I loved her writing, but none so much as her little one-sentence posts.

How to charm me, indeed.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about those old posts, and it occurs to me that it would do me well to occasionally make a note of when I’m charmed. Like when my little dog asks for belly rubs by running full tilt at someone, and then sliding on her back for the last 3 feet or so. Or when Marcus gets as excited at a Great Pottery Throw-Down binge session as I do. Or my daughter bursts into a rendition of the entire opening number from Hamilton for no damned reason.

It would do us all well.

And on that note, here’s what I doodled in my journal this week:

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The trait I most admire in a person is patience — and it is a trait that I absolutely, completely don’t have. Marcus is patient, God bless him, and I try his patience just about every opportunity I can. In return, he is … well, patient … damn near without exception. (For my part, I’m a really good cheerleader and I make great rum punch, so hopefully that repays him, in part.) But boy, do I wish I were patient, I really do.

Which is why, I think, I’m so taken with pottery: it is an exercise in patience if ever there was one. First, you have to throw the pot — but you have to do it slowly; rush, and the whole thing collapses. Then you have let what you’ve made dry to “leather hard” state — firm, but pliable — at which point you have to put the pot back on the wheel and trim the pot. This, of course, is risky, because at any moment the pot can go flying off the wheel. Then you have to let the pot dry completely, and pray that during drying, no cracks form. Then you have to have the pot “bisque” fired, which is a process that also brings cracking risks, or — here’s something fun — the pot could explode. If the pot survives, once it’s cooled from the kiln, then you have to glaze the pot, and fire it again — where it might crack again, or the glaze might run.

Then it’s done.

I don’t know that my pottery practice is making me more patient, but I’m certainly far more aware of my impatience — and that’s something, right?

Let’s hope for Marcus’s sake it is. 😬

Anyway. Here’s what else I made this week — in my journal:

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I’ve been deep in the throes of writing my next book, and it feels like the looming deadline to turn in my manuscript is accelerating. On top of this, we’re in the process of trying to sell our home (anyone want a house in Houston?), which means frequent house viewings disrupt my days. It’s a weird time.

And yet, I’m okay with it. (Not so much the house-selling thing — selling a house is a lot.) But there’s something grounding about having a project that needs tending to. And writing the book — this book that is exciting me, that is making me explore topics like belonging and community and compassion — well, I’m just grateful to have this task to focus me.

Anyway. Here’s what my downtime looked like this week:

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