1. The words I plant don’t blossom into full sentences.

2. Instead, life arranges itself in lists—numbers: Take one dose every three days. 80 degrees is this week’s average high. 15 years since one chapter ended and another began.

3. On some level, both my mind and body know to save any creative reserves for my draft (which finally seems to be nearing completion).

4. Despite this creative block, I need to, as the kids say, lock in.

5. Speaking of which: Earlier this month, after a few attempts to turn the handle of the door in my entryway, I craned my neck to look through the windowpane into the vestibule, where I noticed my keys dangling on the other side.

6. In case it’s not clear: I was already at home (alone) when this mishap occurred. I somehow literally locked myself inside the apartment—but I didn’t throw away the key. My ticket to the world was still in sight, just beyond a thick layer of chipped wood and glass.

7. A couple of weeks later, after attempting to get out of the city for a weekend (our first trip since last fall), John and I barely made it to our destination thanks to a flat tire.

8. There could be a more incisive way to connect these ordinary (and somewhat humbling) events, but mostly they just embody how it’s felt to sustain momentum lately.

9. Closer to home, my drive has been eclipsed by a few instances of creative discouragement—unexpected discoveries that felt like losses. I recognize it’s normal to feel this way, but luckily, May proved to be a month of reawakening. However slowly.

10. Instead of forcing myself to make new and do more, I kept returning to the source: old journals and letters, articles of clothing, photographs from other lives, paintings on the walls I know and love. By people I know and love.

11. “As I left the house, I heard myself say, ‘Be right back,’” Han Kang writes in Light and Thread, “The house feels like a friend.”

12. From my journal: It’s a choice to live closer to the memory than face feeling far away in the present moment.

13. I know the tone of these monthly dispatches can veer into melancholic territory, but in addition to the links and recommendations and pretty photos, I want to create space for sentences that remind me how hard—and ultimately how worth it—it is to hold everything at once in this tangled world.

14. But I need time to share them in a way that feels meaningful for both you and me—in a landscape that continues to prioritize volume and optimization.

15. As learns in Famesick, “Time takes time.”

16. I’m getting there. For now, I want to keep showing up here. Saying some of the less palatable things out loud—right next to what offers us joy: roses and dresses and moments when light hits the trees in a way that makes you literally stop and smile.

May Essentials

The style staples and stories that were on rotation and my mind…

Style

Aesther Ekme Classic Hobo Bag - Aperçu Alyssa Sunglasses in Vintage Tort - Donni Pop Drawstring Cargo Pants - DL1961 Shrunken Tee - Emma Rothkopf Patty Pants - Emma Rothkopf Cedar Swing Jacket - Everlane Day Glove Flats - Jamie Haller Ballet Flats - Jamie Haller Bit Loafers - J.Crew Cosmo Shorts - J.Crew Garçon Classic Shirt - J.Crew 6” Harbor Linen Short - Janessa Leoné Felix Bucket Hat - Loeffler Randall Leonie Wine Woven Ballet Flat - Madewell Greta Ballet Flats - Madewell Easy Shirt - Madewell Signature Woven Tote -Rosae Paris Le Doyle Jacket - Rouje Ilaria Skirt - Sézane Justine Basket Bag (Natural Perforated Raffia) -Sézane Jina T-Shirt* - Sézane Low Ninon Ballet Flats* - Sézane Zelira Dress - Warby Parker Carmel Sunglasses

Stories

Famesick by Lena Dunham - Light and Thread by Han Kang - Collapse by Édouard Louis* - One Moment by Luis Muñoz*

*KINDLY GIFTED THIS MONTH

May Details

A few scenes that especially slowed me down this month…

〰️ Touring the incredible Pollock-Krasner House & Studio

💌 Staying at The Maidstone for our third anniversary

🟡 “Suspending Time: Jess Allen” on view at Nino Mier Gallery (through June 13th)

🪑“Fancy & Flourish” on view at Jacqueline Sullivan Gallery (through June 20th)

💡“Library Collection: Grace Prince” on view at Jacqueline Sullivan Gallery (through June 20th)

🍃 Exploring Grace Farms

May Prompts

A few creative prompts for you to consider as the month comes to a close…

🔓 What parts of yourself have you locked away that you hope to retrieve or reclaim this summer?

🛞 What’s driving you forward lately?

⁉️ What’s the matter with you? What matters to you?

🖼️ What painting, drawing, or visual work best describes your current state of mind?

💭 What questions have helped unlock previous creative blocks?

For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…

No day is ever the same, but there are seasons that make you wonder if you’ve been here before—and why you’ve returned.

Once again, on a train ride home from the city, I encountered someone pointing a large camera at anything and everything. This time, I was by myself standing in the corner of the car as the man with the DSLR tried to get my attention. He smiled, an opal earring dangling from his left ear. His focus shifted from what was right in front of him (me) to any signs movement happening at each stop. He’d carefully lift his camera, only breaking concentration whenever the train swerved roughly through the tunnels.

Unlike the woman from the winter who was consumed in her own creative bubble, there was a clear difference in mood—and a distinct awareness between me and this person. But I was tired. So tired. I kept my gaze firmly on my book, rereading the same sentences as I glanced his way every so often. When I took a seat a few stops later, it wasn’t long before he began gesturing in my direction. I froze, wondering how to respond until another man appeared where I’d previously been standing. He and the photographer, likely friends, started chatting. “I wanted to shoot that woman, but she’s all wired up,” he said at one point, feigning defeat. It was true. I’d been wearing tangled earphones for the entire ride, though nothing was playing. It’s a defense mechanism that I’ve only adopted in the last few years.

I wanted to shoot that woman, but she’s all wired up. Removed from the original context, the statement embodies so much of what it’s like to be alive in 2026. I recently (cynically) joked that in an age of malicious technology running rampant, that we are actually the paranormal activity. That human needs have become deprioritized. Our impulses are difficult to trust—trusting others is even harder. Writing this makes me sad, and it also brings to mind a passage from my essay “Spring” in Slowing, “I only have enough energy to make sure that what’s in front of me is real—and that makes sense right? There is so much about modern life that makes us doubt our decisions. Our innocence gets swallowed up.”

Despite all of the doubt and horror, I’ve never felt more grateful for the fact that seasons clearly mark time. They show us that we’ve made it through yet another period of chaos—that there’s so much more we can make: art, choices, connections. And this is the time to do it: Spring reanimates and it also revives. It’s a season of newness, but moreover, it’s a season that extracts what we’ve buried deep inside—placing it in our hand again before taking the other and leading us onward.

These recent seasonal encounters with creative strangers have reminded me that while we may not always talk, we can still connect with others in the most unexpected places. That a moment can capture us just as much as we try to capture it. And we should let it. Again, I refer to my essay in Slowing, “I think that’s the true beauty of spring: taking stock of the present while hunting for small miracles or moments, and in turn, the questions we forgot to ask along the way. What would happen if we looked a little further than what’s in front of us? What would we find if we dreamed toward the sky?”

Later, and just like the woman from this winter, the photographer and his friend exited the same subway station as I did. I looked a little further than what was in front of me, but didn’t see them again. The April sun hugged my back as I committed the moment to memory and a pile of petal confetti gathered at my feet.

SLOWLY ENJOY SPRING

Enjoy solitude

It’s one thing to embrace solitude on dark days, it’s another thing entirely when the sun is dialed up all the way up. If winter is about accepting the unknown, spring is about enjoying the moment of arrival; meeting yourself where you are—sometimes alone, on a walk through the park, remembering how it feels to move and be moved by the littlest things.

Spring clean your books

I’m having one of those seasons where I’m collecting books more than reading them, but their presence is always so welcome (even when the piles take up every available space in my apartment).

As I’ve made way for new additions to my personal library, I’ve realized spring cleaning your books is akin to reorganizing your mind. Dedicate a room or area of your home to a different genre. Put the books you’ve been putting off at the forefront. Curate a TBR table! Then open your window and settle into a story (or two).

Repurpose with purpose

Spring gives us so much sensory pleasure that the world often feels new again after winter. That might be why I’ve been less interested in creating more on top of this and more interested in breathing new life into what already exists in my little corner of the universe—both online and off. Even when spring feels fleeting, it’s a lesson in longevity.

Blossom hunt

As I wrote in Slowing: “Unlike viewing fall foliage, blossom hunting feels more urgent—even predatorial. I’m starved for sensation. Finding and harnessing this natural magic is the only way I can sustain myself after many colorless months.”

By the time this letter reaches your inbox, blossom season will likely be over in many places, but the same idea still applies. Notice garden beds in bloom or lush plants spilling out of open windows, be awed by verdant greens and vibrant flora. Hunt for beauty in these dark times. Gather it for your loved ones—and for yourself, too.

A SEASONAL SYLLABUS

Here in New York, spring’s arrival has felt particularly slow—almost tedious. I keep thinking of this line from Rosalind Brown’s incredible novel, Practice, “The arrival of spring hurts: those newly invented whites greens yellows against the dark wet soil, everything seems to strain and push.”

And yet, sinking into stories that move you—even if not as quickly as the changing trees outside your window—is a welcome distraction from the strain of fluctuating temperatures, and days that feel like forever while the year pushes ahead at warp speed. With that said, I’ve put together a few books on my current TBR: stories set in, published in, or inspired by the season (or ones that I’m simply drawn to when springtime finally rolls around).

SEASONAL REMINDERS

I’ve been working on an essay about this current phase of my writing life, and asked a couple of writers I admire (and who I also had the honor of speaking with for the Slow Stories podcast) to share how spring can reignite our creative lives. Keep their words close as we head into the final weeks of the season…

“Take a walk. Step away from the desk—which is to say the beehive of your mind—and leave your notes, your plans, your outline, and thoughts behind. Step out into the springtime light and feel the new warmth of the air and the fresh sense of new beginnings. Amble around the neighborhood, without agenda or direction, and let things come to you, rather than pushing to come to them. Give your music a pause so that it has more shape and resonance when you return to it.

Yesterday, here in Japan, I stepped out from my two-room apartment and went to the center of our city, where 1,200 deer roam wild around downtown. I saw the first cherry blossoms mingling with the last of the plum blossoms and heard a small doe crying out for its mother. I rejoiced in the fact that it stayed light till later than 5:00 p.m. and that many were wearing t-shirts. By the time I returned to my desk, it would be hard not to be filled with clarity and light that then I could work to try to bring to the page.” - Pico Iyer

“I spend winters feeling perpetually cold, summers forgetting how to be warm, and the seasons in between can pass too quickly if I let them. But spring is insistent: you wake up one March day and everything feels vital again. The exact hour in late spring when the first swift returns from Africa can, in some years, feel like the moment when my more creative self at last wants to come out of hibernation.

No matter where in the world a person may live, no matter how minimal or marked the seasonal changes in that place might be, we are powerfully bound as creatures to those shifts in ways that have, for the most part, been forgotten, dismissed. We don’t know how to smell soft rain coming or which trees hold on to their leaves the longest, and the paying of close attention to small changes in one’s surroundings is, I believe, wholly needed when gathering up the energy we need for green ideas, fresh narratives.” - via her beautiful new book, Words to Love a Planet

SPRING STROLLS

A look at what I’ve captured—and what’s been capturing my attention—this season.

SPRING STYLE DIARY

I’ve hit my sartorial stride this season with trench coats, button-downs, and standout accessories. You can follow my style updates in real-time on Instagram (and shop some of these looks on ShopMy).

For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…

Every (life) chapter has at least one memorable moment, sentence, or story. What are yours? In Chapters, I ask creative people to reflect on the stories of their lives and respond to any of the below prompts (in whatever way they wish).

In the latest installment, we hear from —style and culture writer and the creator of Liminal Space—who shares her career journey, editorial highlights, and travel memories.

Slow Story

My career is a slow story. Like a massive boat turning, I have inched my way to becoming the person I always wanted to be, which is a writer. That said, I took a very roundabout way of getting where I wanted to go. Three years at Goldman Sachs, four years at a tech company, two years in Barcelona, two in Edinburgh, all to end up writing in New York City—which is probably what I would have told you in high school was the dream of my life.

It will come as no surprise to most that working full-time as a writer is becoming less financially viable for many people. I was lucky in that way, that I learned to juggle my money-making bits with my writing from the very beginning, as I have always done freelance writing alongside a full-time job.

I think my delayed entrance to writing was two thirds sound financial thinking and one third self-doubt. When I was graduating college, I went and did absolutely every hard thing other than trying to be a writer. Perhaps, I thought it would be less painful to work at Goldman Sachs or be the COO of a crypto start-up, because if I was bad at it, that didn’t affect the idea I had of myself. If I had tried to be a writer and failed, maybe it would have wrecked me.

But eventually not writing, or not at least trying to do the thing I thought I was put on earth to do, wrecked me. So I stopped being afraid. What did I have to lose? Nothing. What did I have to gain? Everything. And so I did.

Summer Story

When I was a nineteen year-old PR summer intern, I sublet what was essentially a closet in Tribeca on Lispenard Street in an apartment with four twenty-five year old boys who all worked in finance and had gone to UVA (I’m sorry but what was I thinking?!). It was giving New Girl meets A Little Life. Luckily, one of their girlfriends moved in (Charlotte Cruze of Alice Chocolate), I found an amazing yoga studio (what is now Vera Yoga) and worked for brilliant women who I consider friends today (Hilliary Latham, ). Sometimes it all works out and you don’t realize until years later just how much it all had to happen that way.

Scary Story

That summer when I was a PR intern, my first-ever in New York, was eye-opening in every single way. My boss then called me “the little elf” because each day I’d come into the office with some new discovery and revelation about all that you can do in New York City. “Did you know you can order food, and it shows up at your house?” That sort of stuff. They’d ask me what I did on the weekend and, because I didn’t really have any friends, I’d reply with the truth: “I walked to the Upper West Side.” Which would have been a fine answer except that I lived in Tribeca and they knew that I spent the entire day walking because I didn’t have any friends.

Anyways, this is all to say that I truly was a little elf and everything was very new to me in New York, even simple things like ordering food, taking the subway, or dropping off dry cleaning.

The latter I was asked to do for the president of the brand I was working for, and I was very happy to do so because it felt very Devil Wear’s Prada, which is exactly what I had hoped my summer internship would be like. Honestly, they’d been too nice to me so far. But this was my first Andie-like task so I was very excited. I met him, the president, at the American Express building and retrieved his suit, which needed to be pressed and then returned to his hotel room that day for an award show.

This might have been a good time to tell my boss that my dry cleaning experience consisted of watching my father drop off his dry cleaning at Snedicor’s in Brighton, Michigan. Doing my best to be resourceful, I Googled a dry cleaner and walked to it. I handed over the suit bag and left. But this was my error. Never having dropped off dry cleaning before, I didn’t know you are supposed to count the items you drop off. Or at least have some idea of what you’re dropping off. No. I, thinking I was so wise and using good judgment to never invade the president of the company’s privacy, never thought to open the suit bag and confirm what was in there.

Later that day, I got a text from my boss. The pressed suit had arrived in the hotel room, no problem there, but the two very fancy Italian shirts that went under the suit were not there. “Did you see them when you dropped it off?” Asked my boss. “No,” I said. “I didn’t open the bag.” That’s when I learned I should have opened the bag.

To her credit, my boss defended me until the cows came home. I’m sure the shirts were never there in the first place, she said. And I’ll never forget that. Because it would have been so easy to throw me under the bus. And she didn’t.

And to answer your question, I don’t actually know what ever happened to the shirts. I went back to the dry cleaning and crawled on the floor, flipping through every single white button down shirt in the entire place. Perhaps someone got a very nice Italian dress shirt in exchange for the Zara shirt they had dropped off, or maybe the shirts were never really there. But what I know now is to work for people who have your back. And of course, I always, always count my dry cleaning.

Your Story

My very first story I ever published was “I Don’t Want to Talk About Why I Don’t Drink” in The Cut and it changed my life. I’m forever indebted to The Cut for taking that story because it started everything that has become now.

Travel Story

When I graduated college, I went to Thailand and sat for a ten-day silent Vipassana meditation retreat in my pursuit of being better on my own. Eleven hours of meditation—no talking, writing, reading, exercising, using technology, or even making eye contact with the people around me. Anyone who knows me might find it hard to believe that I ever thought that was something I’d be able to do.

I’m always moving, talking, spinning around at a million miles per hour of chaos. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d be able to do it. Not because I doubted my persistence (I knew I was stubborn enough to stick with it), but because I was afraid. I was afraid of what was inside me. How much I might loathe myself. How I might talk to myself when I was all alone with myself. To my surprise, I was glad with what I found within me. Not only could I tolerate being alone, I enjoyed being with myself.

Funny Story

When I went on my first press trip, I was so nervous and self-conscious. I would have hardly called myself a writer at that point, having just written my first few pieces, including my first-ever one for Vogue. In celebration of that milestone, my then-boyfriend-now-husband, Gustavo, had given me the Anna Wintour biography for my birthday, you know the one, with the huge picture of Anna’s face in the glasses. Well, I had brought it to read on my trip and I hadn’t thought about how obviously cringe it would be to read this in public, and worse, sitting next to a person sitting next to me who I suspected was the very cool London-based journalist who was also attending the trip. I had to, without alerting her to any of this, make it look like I didn’t know who she was and slip off the book cover without her noticing what I was doing.

After thirty seconds of intense focus and mindful breathing, the mission was accomplished. I drew no attention to the book and swapped it for a magazine—and within hours she and I became fast friends. I recently told her this story, two years later, and we were in fits laughing. She said she wouldn’t have judged me for reading that book, but I’m not so sure. I’m just glad to not have botched the first impression because my friendship with Florence is one that I absolutely treasure.

Love Story

My first date with my Gustavo was to get coffee in Barcelona—he lived in Madrid and made a trip to visit a friend in Barcelona when we started chatting on Bumble. Our second date was the day after, to get coffee and walk to the train station. Our third date was in Paris, where I was speaking at a conference and he met me for the weekend. At this point, halfway through the weekend, he hadn’t kissed me and I was going crazy trying to figure out if he actually liked me. I mean, he had to, right? Why else fly to Paris to hang out with someone?

In the afternoon, he came over to my Airbnb to finish up some work and I had Zoom therapy in the other room and didn’t want him to overhear me waxing about no-kiss-gate, so I conducted the whole therapy session typing my anxieties in the Zoom chat to my therapist while she answered out loud in my headphones.

Once I had finished therapy, we decided to go out for a hot chocolate, at which point it was revealed he did not actually like coffee. It was raining and we took an umbrella. After he enjoyed a whipped cream topped, sundae-looking hot chocolate, we headed back home, with both of our hands holding the umbrella and overlapping just the tiniest bit, which sent an electric shock through my veins that could have powered the Eiffel Tower. The rain dwindled and the umbrella came down, and still he held onto my hand which—a heart-palpitating victory and a confirmation that he did in fact like me (maybe even like-liked me). The confirmation of my deepest hope was so joyful but it also made me so incredibly nervous, that I couldn’t turn my head even the slightest bit to the left because I was afraid to make eye contact with him. Neck stiff and without breathing, I continued the walk home, all the while ignoring the centrifuge of energy pulsating through our interlocked hands. That, or my palms were just sweating.

It went like this all the way back, my eyes fixed just ahead of myself to the right and nervously babbling about just about anything, the weather, etc. because I could not believe it was actually happening. I thought he was going to kiss me and all of a sudden I was absolutely petrified.

When we got back to the apartment he walked in first and set down the umbrella. I turned around to lock the door and when I turned back around, there he was, with nowhere for my eyes to go but into his, the chocolate brown depths I had been so afraid to fall into but it was too late, of course, I had fallen. I was falling. I will always be falling. He pulled me in and kissed me, his mouth melting into mine as colors exploded across my line of vision and I think I separated from my body for a moment. There it was, the sweetest, softest first kiss ever. The one worth waiting for. My last first kiss ever.

Our Story

The first story I wrote about Gustavo.

Thank you, Sarah!

Photos courtesy of .

In the spirit of slow storytelling, I’m (still) taking a little break and resharing an excerpt from the first installment of my series, Slow Goings, (slightly edited), which I published last April. Enjoy—and thanks for your patience! 🐌

Over a decade ago, my now-husband and I fulfilled an ambitious New Year’s resolution: visiting a new city in the U.S. each month. The experience brought us closer together as we journeyed across the country and eventually around the globe. However, in recent years, the joy of travel has felt further away than ever—at least for me.

As I wrote in Slowing, anxiety has always pervaded my life. Yet, the early days of the pandemic upended how I think about moving through the world, both on an individual and collective level. I’ve been working to return to a place where travel is something I embrace rather than fear. The process has been long and arduous, but it’s shaped my perspective in unexpected and—no pun intended—moving ways. (I’ll let you read the book to find out how!) And whenever I’m in doubt, John shares this calming reminder: with each destination comes an opportunity to visit a new bookstore. Who could argue with that?

Quiet, rustling pages, a soft brush from a store cat or dog winding through the aisles, passionate discussions between two friends: No matter where you are in the world, bookstores offer a place for shared experiences—and curiosity—that transcend borders and reinforce our humanity. All of this to say, I’m thrilled to introduce Slow Goings, a series about the places that slow me down—and the memories attached to them. The first edition features the independent bookstores that feel like home (and a few trips down memory lane).

Paid subscribers can access the full guide here and my recently published art edition here.

April Essentials

The style staples and stories that were on rotation and my mind…

Style

Aesther Ekme Classic Hobo Bag - Alex Mill Nico Cardigan - Aperçu Alyssa Sunglasses in Vintage Tort - DL1961 Shrunken Tee - Emma Rothkopf Patty Pants* - Emma Rothkopf Cedar Swing Jacket* - Jamie Haller Ballet Flats - Jamie Haller Bit Loafers - KREWE Lucy Sunglasses - Madewell Chino Pant - Madewell Double-Breasted Suede Blazer - Madewell Greta Ballet Flats - Madewell Easy Shirt - Madewell Signature Woven Tote -Rouje Ilaria Skirt* - Sézane Clyde Coat - Sézane Sally Skirt* - Sézane Vicky Loafers - Warby Parker Carmel Sunglasses

Stories

The Mother Code by * - Strangers by Belle Burden - Monique Escapes by Édouard Louis* - Wifehouse by Sonya Walger

*KINDLY GIFTED THIS MONTH

April Details

A few scenes that especially slowed me down this month…

🌸 Brooklyn in full bloom

▪️ “Noguchi’s New York” on view at The Noguchi Museum (through September 13th)

🐌 David Smalling’s “Elizabethan Collar” on view at TEMPLON Gallery (closed on April 25th)

🟥 “COLOR/FORM” on view at Susan Sheehan Gallery (closed on April 28th)

April Prompts

A few creative prompts for you to consider as the month comes to a close…

❔Reflect on why you are working towards a particular creative goal at this moment in time.

📖 Curate a mid-season reading list inspired by the senses.

🌱 Ask yourself: How can you turn hope into action?

🖼️ Look at your favorite artwork and write down the first thing that comes to mind—then write a story with that statement as the first sentence.

🐌 Reflect on what’s slowing you down in the most nourishing ways.

For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…

Every (life) chapter has at least one memorable moment, sentence, or story. What are yours? In Chapters, I ask creative people to reflect on the stories of their lives and respond to any of the below prompts (in whatever way they wish).

In the latest installment, we hear from Erin Pollard—founder of Underwater Weaving and creator of —who shares familial history, artful musings, and a reverence for the past.

Slow Story

Preserving Stillness

I grew up in Maine. I arrived in the early ‘80s and experienced the world in a tight-knit community, inland, defined by hard work and making things from scratch. I was raised in a sort of bustling orbit of entrepreneurialism through my family’s established diner (it opened in 1952) and my mother’s craft practice. I learned early on the inherent value of lineage, labor, and taking the time to make something real. I threw myself into the dance lessons. I was a “hard worker.” In retrospect, I never stopped moving, but times were different. Quieter… slower still.

I was lucky enough to witness a golden era of Maine craftsmanship firsthand. I watched my mother cultivate a small collective of weavers and make a basket tote for L.L.Bean. She taught workshops in our basement. We attended craft fairs and collected Americana. Her friends gathered to make things. Using our hands was a common language. But over time, I also watched the cultural shift away from those tactile traditions, replaced by that sound of dial-up, the car phone, MTV!

Through my weaving, writing and work at the studio, I think that’s what I’m working to preserve most: the slowness I recall from childhood; exploring the tension between modern “progress” and heritage preservation.

People often ask about the name of the studio. “Underwater Weaving” takes its title from the literal, necessary process of soaking natural materials to make them supple enough to shape. It’s also a nod to the cultural idiom so often used to dismiss domestic labor, women’s work, and vocational learning. How appropriate that men would find feminine nurturing so threatening to discard it as useless. Underwater Basket Weaving became shorthand for “not smart.” I chose to embrace the phrase to turn a joke into a statement. I believe deeply that softness, slowness, and beauty are sources of immense power. I feel liberation in my choice to gather, make, nurture, and give.

If I’m doing it right, the work becomes a constant dialogue with the past. I’m in a constant battle with convenience. We’ve made everything so easy. I try to draw on Maine’s Wabanaki and Shaker legacies and my mother’s practice, but I can’t help but filter those histories through a contemporary lens shaped by my own background and lived experiences because it’s what I know.

Sob Story

“Cry” written by my son, August, when he was six years old

Once, there was an onion named Cry. Cry went to school with his friend Butter. Everyone called him Butterscotch because he’s good at “hot-scotch!” Cry and Butterscotch had a playdate, and they peeled back and chilled in the fridge. Then, Cry went to the barber to shed his onion skin and his house at (!!!) Pot Avenue! When he went to bed... it was on a plate. He got eaten!!!!! His friend melted with tears. The end.

Short Story

An passage from Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction

“If it is a human thing to do to put something you want, because it’s useful, edible, or beautiful, into a bag, or a basket, or a bit of rolled bark or leaf, or a net woven of your own hair, or what have you, and then take it home with you, home being another, larger kind of pouch or bag, a container for people, and then later on you take it out and eat it or share it or store it up for winter in a solider container or put it in the medicine bundle or the shrine or on the museum shelf, the holy place, the area that contains what is sacred, and then next day you probably do much the same again—if to do that is human, if that’s what it takes, then I am a human being after all. Fully, freely, gladly, for the first time.”

Their Story

An excerpt from my post, “The Basket as Hero: The quest for kind history”

I recently saw The Testament of Ann Lee, directed by Mona Fastvold.

As it pertains to our work at the studio, I am a fan of the Shaker aesthetic and was excited to see the film for this reason, as well as to learn about Ann Lee, whom I simply thought to be an early feminist. Because our studio in Maine is part farmhouse and barn built in 1789—just 10 minutes from The Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village, established in the same decade—the style’s influence on our work has been a consistent presence.

The Testament of Ann Lee is an otherworldly genre-bending film about a woman who rejected a patriarchal society, believed in utopia, and brought a movement to America that celebrated dance, song, and the creation of useful things in the late 18th century. Through beautiful, dramatic postmodern choreography by Celia Rowlson-Hall and melodic reinterpretations of Shaker hymns by Daniel Blumberg, the film depicts work as nothing short of ecstasy, reached through washing, gardening, weaving, building, making, and craft.

Of course, I left longing for a craft and community-led daily life. Bond, substance, and discovery through the work of our hands? I’m in. I openly suspect the disintegration of these skills over the centuries has left us disconnected from the world and ourselves. But seeing the film also hit another nerve I’ve been trying to name. I find myself desperate for “good” stories about our history.

So many of the stories of our past are heavy. Patriarchal—timelines of conquest and division. I carry the weight of these stories in daily interactions. I think we’re feeling the negative effects of these stories on our culture. I long to find narratives where we were gentler. I’m on a desperate search for a kinder story.

While I don’t subscribe to a particular religion, Ann Lee and the Shakers have some redeeming qualities. It’s easy to be drawn in by their chairs and baskets, but perhaps it is possible to feel okay with the intention behind them.

The era when the Shakers arrived in America was defined by slavery and hierarchy, yet they were inclusive. They opened their doors to everyone—Indigenous, Black, white, orphans, and the destitute—declaring them equal. Ann Lee also equalized women. It’s worth noting that at the time, childbirth was the leading cause of death, and she had lost four children before the age of one (it’s horrifically shown in the film). It is not out of the realm of possibility that celibacy was a form of gender preservation. That said, the film implies that Mother Ann considered herself the female version of God, but according to practicing Shaker Brother Arnold, she saw herself as a disciple, not the female version of Him, which feels a bit more digestible.

So, while others were writing pamphlets about equality, Ann Lee practiced a world where women were actually equal. If I am to be in a constant dialogue between the past and the present, this is chat I’m receptive to.

Perhaps the most comforting part is the living connection to this history through our local village. It’s bucolic landscape intact, the sheep, gardens, structures, and humans living and working there. It’s a real place I can visit.

I guess these are the themes that tether me now. The idea that maybe when we weave, we are doing more than making an object; that maybe we can participate and preserve a lineage of kind history. We can use our hands to create something that holds, gathers, and generously offers. Objects with a kind soul.

Love Story

Craft Pair

If you were around in the ‘80s and ‘90s, you likely recall a distinct, Americana-infused interiors aesthetic. A cozy, “country” look marked by a palette of mauve, dusty blue, forest green, and burgundy. This was the era of rustic, stenciled motifs, decorative wooden cut-outs, quilted pillows, wholesome repeating wallpaper, baskets, and dried floral wreaths. The aesthetic was a stark contrast to the minimalism of Mid-Century Modern design and its rise was, in retrospect, fueled by the 1976 Bicentennial.

As a child, my portal to craft was the annual Cumberland Craft Fair. Every August, my family would spend a week there, immersed in a world of artisans making things with this exact country aesthetic. Although the Cumberland Fairgrounds had been operating since 1870, the craft fair, started by the United Maine Craftsmen in 1969, was perfectly positioned for the Folk Art revival and the newfound appetite for handmade Americana.

One might expect my time there was driven by my mom’s basket making, but she never entered the Cumberland Craft Fair.

As diehard entrepreneurs, my parents always sought the most lucrative opportunities, and a basket stall wasn’t the leading idea—a lobster roll booth was. My parents had taken over Cole Farms, a family-owned diner established in 1952, and they brought its reputation for simple, home-style food to the fairgrounds. In a sea of hot, battered, and fried options, our booth stood out, and it turned out to be a great idea. Long lines formed as early as 11 a.m. for fresh Maine lobster and crabmeat rolls, chef’s salads, and coleslaw made with my dad’s grocery store-distributed dressing.

The Cole Farms booth also pioneered a food delivery service for the vendors, with the kids taking charge. As early as ages seven and eight, my siblings, cousins, and I became food runners for the vendors. We’d roam the sheep stalls and exhibition tents, singing songs and taking orders. As a family of pragmatists, our success measured in rolls sold. I admired the artisans. I understood our own family’s approach to survival and opportunity, and with my hard-earned cash, I bought their homemade fudge, handmade dolls, and handmade hats.

One of my favorite booths offered snacks. The booth was Mother’s Mountain Mustard, founded in 1982 by Carol Tanner and Dennis Proctor. They started in their small home kitchen in Falmouth, Maine. Carol began making mustard for friends and family using a recipe from her mother. Encouraged by the response, Carol and Dennis turned the recipe into a business. During this time, they were a big part of the artisan food movement, attending the Maine Fair circuit.

That circuit also included the Common Ground Fair, which I vividly recall visiting in 1990 with my best friend and her family. If Cumberland was a bustling, stencil trend-driven marketplace, Common Ground felt like a utopian world. First held in 1977, it was a true “harvest celebration” that championed organic living and handcraft, a direct counterpoint to commercial fairs. It hummed with a different energy—not just of commerce, but of mission! We danced to bluegrass music, jumped from pen to pen to see the heritage-breed animals, and ate delicious, homemade food.

They say history repeats itself, and it seems the ethos of “Maine-made” and this country aesthetic is seeing a resurgence. Is it America’s upcoming birthday? A new wave of nostalgia, driven by a generation that recalls visiting country fairs, waiting for things, mauve, and a life pre-internet, suggests that the desire for a slower, community-centered life is upon us. That friend who’s moving to Maine? They, and so many others, are the beneficiaries of a culture built by Maine folks like Carol and Dennis. With the infrastructure of farmers’ markets and craft guilds now firmly in place, the new guard can arrive with the same back-to-the-land mentality. Still, with a modern advantage: they can spend their morning in the garden, weaving, stenciling, or painting, and freshen up for a 12 o’clock Zoom meeting.

The Cumberland Craft Fair, did not maintain its magic. But the Common Ground Fair, like many others rooted in mission, now draws over 60,000 visitors a year, having transformed into a major Maine event. It stands as a testament to its founders’ vision, proving that a fair can be a powerful force for change. And it’s why fairs across Maine are experiencing a resurgence—no longer a necessity for commerce, they have become an intentional act of rebellion against the digital world we’ve created.

This year at 93, Carol entered the annual tee-shirt art contest to promote the Common Ground Fair. They are still very much a part of the world they helped to build.

Thank you, Erin!

All other photos courtesy of Erin Pollard unless credited otherwise.

In the spirit of slow storytelling, I’m taking a little break and resharing an excerpt (slightly edited) from my letter “Imagine That,” which I published last March. Enjoy—and stay tuned for new stories in April!

“How do you keep going?” an artist friend muses as we wander Prospect Park. I squint thoughtfully under the late morning sun and share a few generalizations until she stops me. “I mean, how do you keep going?”

In so many words, I tell her that obligation and responsibility keep me going. There is no other choice day to day, which is the case for most of us. But what I don’t say is that imagination keeps me going, too—that it’s something I’ll always choose to value even if it’s deemed frivolous or “distracting.”

Think about what you have to focus on versus what you naturally daydream about. Then go one step further: What is imagination? What does it demand creatively—energetically? It takes a different kind of stamina to endure life’s physicality—making money, cultivating a home, maintaining our health—versus the space for imagining something bigger than ourselves. Some people call it art; others call it love.

A season synonymous with renewal, spring is the time to pay attention to and follow these imaginative threads. But isn’t its arrival always a little tiring? That sudden rush of life we have to get used to again. Over the years, I’ve found beauty in the exhaustion—a reminder that blooming doesn’t (need to) happen all at once.

I appreciate how Katherine May described spring’s nuances in one of her letters:

“Most of all, spring feels like a season of immanence, like held breath. I spend the whole time waiting for something to happen.”

Lately, many of us are waiting for something to happen, both good and bad. In art and life. And with each disquieting feeling that we’re not doing enough to meet the moment, Mother Nature shows her hand: We need spring’s damp, temperamental days to remind us of all we can withstand—because it’s only going to get harder. Yet that hardness is a testament to our strength. It offers a firm foundation to stand strong and imagine a better world.

On our way out of the park, my friend and I spot a small, vibrant flower amid the earthen palette. Its home looks tough and moist and alive. It looks out of place, yet it’s right where it belongs. “I’m so glad you notice these things,” she says after a moment. And I smile because I can’t imagine not acknowledging these small bursts of life.

Neither of us touches the flower, though it touches something inside us, and I suppose that is one thing that keeps me going.

March Essentials

The style staples and stories that were on rotation and my mind…

Style

Aesther Ekme Classic Hobo Bag* - Alex Mill Garcon Tee - babaa Cardigan No 22 - Aperçu Alyssa Sunglasses in Vintage Tort - EILEEN FISHER Light Cotton Nylon Stand Collar Coat* - J.Crew Garçon Classic Shirt - KREWE Lucy Sunglasses - Madewell Chino Pant* - Madewell Double-Breasted Suede Blazer* - Madewell Easy Shirt* -Madewell Logan Aviator Sunglasses* - Madewell Signature Woven Tote* - Nikki Chasin Sheba Cardigan Sweater* - Pacific Books Cap - Sézane Clyde Coat* - Sézane Vicky Loafers - Veja Rio Bronco II Sneaker - Warby Parker Carmel Sunglasses*

Stories

Tree of Knowledge by Victoria Chang* - Down Time by Andrew Martin* - Harmless by Miranda Shulman*

*KINDLY GIFTED THIS MONTH

March Details

A few scenes that especially slowed me down this month…

▪️ “The Adventure of Domenico Gnoli” on view at Lévy Gorvy Dayan (through May 23rd)

🌼 Early blooms in Prospect Park!

👡 “We are Parts” on view at TURN Gallery (through April 25th)

🐇 Matching with my favorite bun

March Prompts

A few creative prompts for you to consider as the month comes to a close…

🌱 What are you (re)imagining this season?

🌸 Which of the five senses does spring activate the most for you?

🧥 What is your spring uniform?

📖 What line, title, or sentence is currently lingering in your mind?

💭 What question are you going to ask yourself less in the coming weeks?

For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…

Every (life) chapter has at least one memorable moment, sentence, or story. What are yours? In Chapters, I ask creative people to reflect on the stories of their lives and respond to any of the below prompts (in whatever way they wish).

In the latest installment, we hear from —co-founder of CASA Angulo and creator of Open Studio—who shares familial musings, journal entries, and travelogues.

Slow Story

Several years ago, upon news that our flight had been canceled, my husband and I decided to drive to Miami, planning a road trip of “firsts” along the way. We visited places like Charleston and Savannah, and sought-after historical home tours throughout the architecturally prominent cities. During our stop in Georgia, we checked into The Gastonian, a bed & breakfast set in two adjoining Regency-Italianate mansions built in 1868. We decided to take a historic house tour at the Mercer-Williams House—an 1800s home designed by New York architect John S. Norris for General Hugh W. Mercer. The home was later residence to James A. Williams, one of Savannah’s earliest private preservationists.

Walking through the rooms hosting 18th and 19th century furniture and portraiture, collections of Chinese export porcelain that had been found preserved at the bottom of the ocean in a shipwreck and curiosities and objects (like a Jade horse resting on a fireplace mantel that I still think about) from all over the world awakened a dormant creativity in me. This historic house tour would eventually be a contributing influence that pivoted my entire career.

The next morning we awoke around 4 a.m. to get on the road. The B&B host met us (sleepily) in the kitchen with baked provisions in a brown paper bag for our trip, as we were leaving before breakfast would be served. For some time, we drove under the canopies of Southern live oak trees and the veil of the inkiest, black sky. Everything felt still. Silent. I vowed to Albe that I would stay up with him until the sun came up, creating soft conversation to keep us both awake until Savannah was ready to wake up, too. I found this journal entry from that morning in the car: The Southern Georgia sky, 4:00 a.m. Her heavy eyelids, freckled with stars. Waiting for the inky veil to lift, welcoming warm embers of daylight, so that when the sky decides to open her eyes, I could close mine.

Love Story

My husband Adalberto, was born and raised in Havana, Cuba, before moving to Venice, Italy to study architecture at the Università Iuav di Venezia. We met while I was studying abroad in Florence, Italy. When the semester was over, I returned home to New York, graduated, and worked in corporate fashion for a year before deciding to move to Milan, where I worked as a fashion editor for nearly two and a half years. Just a few short months after moving to Italy, Albe entered an Erasmus program in Portugal, once more creating a level of distance—albeit shorter than New York to Europe—to overcome within our relationship.

We were twenty-three years old, trying to navigate an international relationship with a myriad of obstacles before us. During that period, while visiting Albe in Portugal, I wrote a journal entry that would come to be one I revisit and read over and over again. It reminds me of how little I knew of what our life would become together and reaffirms the notion of trusting the process.

Eventually, Albe would return to Venice. I would leave my apartment in Milan and spend a summer in Venice at his father’s house. He would propose to me in Piazza San Marco, during a visit when my parents were in town. We’d travel to Napoli to get permission for him to come to the United States. Marry downtown in City Hall, followed by a perfect evening celebrating with friends and family on Grand and Mulberry St. We’d move into a tiny Greenwich Village apartment. Get a dog. We’d move to Brooklyn Heights. Start a business together. We’d welcome a beautiful daughter into the world, followed two years later by the most joyful son.

When I reread this entry, I wish I could insert myself at that table at the pastelaria in Portugal and tell these two twenty-three year olds not to worry so much. That their love would carry them through the obstacles. That together they would design a life that is fuller than they could imagine:

An argument led me to leave Adalberto’s apartment to take a walk alone. Unfamiliar to the city, I walked along the rocky, cobblestoned streets of Évora. It was Sunday. The sound of rest echoed throughout the quiet city, disrupted only by cheers of victory provoked by a goal every so often.

As I passed the homes lining the streets, I could see small televisions aglow with the vibrancy of turf. A soccer match played on every screen in every home, bar, and cafe. I walked quite a bit before stopping at a pastelaria atop a steep hill for an espresso and a cigarette. I pulled an iron chair across the limestone and basalt hand-laid cobblestones, sitting at a small table outside. I watched the scenes of our argument in my mind once more and debated whether we were fighting too much these days. I wondered if what we were becoming was inevitable and not due to our own faults, but due to the heavy fault of distance.

As I sat there, washed by the afternoon sun, I saw Albe’s figure in the distance ascending the steep climb towards the cafe. He took a seat next to me. We sat in silence for a while. Another hour passed as we argued, defended, and compromised, with momentary pauses of tiresome surrender. Just as the strength of our adoration conquered the threat of our faults, the entire city erupted into a euphoric, harmonious cheer. Lisbon had won the match. In that moment, we were victorious. The city had won their match, and we had won ours.

Our Story

On reflecting on the birth of our first-born on her second birthday:

We named you Alba because the news of you felt as though the sun had risen after a long night. Alba: the first light of the day. A name you would not only live up to, but exceed, reminding me that there will always be joy in the morning.

Their Story

My husband is still very close with his childhood friends. They all attended boarding school in Havana together and have since remained in touch daily. Today, they’ve all left Cuba and live in different cities: New York, Berlin, Barcelona, Valencia.

When one of his best friends got married a couple of years ago, we traveled to Brazil for the wedding. It was the first time I saw them all together as a group. I spent a week on the beaches of Brazil observing them. A display of male friendship I don’t think I’ve ever been exposed to before. Their relationships are so deeply rooted and connected, with emotion, with love and affection, with warmth and humor.

Culturally, male friendships can often appear in the parallel form—men sitting alongside each other watching a game. With my husband’s friendships I noticed a deeper connection, not parallel, but a kind with confrontational attention and incomparable history. It’s beautiful to see. And they’re so very lucky.

Color Story

A few years ago, while working as a creative director, I was conceptualizing a campaign shoot along with my art director, Cienna. We landed on Luis Barragan’s Cuadra San Cristobal in Mexico City as a location. At the time a private residence, the location did not ordinarily offer itself as a location for shoots and was not very accessible. Through will and persistence, we somehow managed to secure the location.

A few days before the shoot, I met the owner to discuss the day’s run of show, as she walked me through the property, giving me a private tour of Cuadra San Cristobal. She was so gracious to welcome me inside her home, too. The location held an overwhelming spirit of inspiration, as if the bones of the house whispered the nuances of a great, and the soil of the grounds were permeated with Barragan’s creativity.

The shoot was a single day, dawn to dusk style shoot. We gathered before sunrise and departed after sunset. There was a morning chill in the air that later turned to intense heat under the Mexican sun. Bearing witness to Luis Barragan’s intentionality with color, throughout the ever-changing natural light of an entire day was really moving.

Spring Story

I’ve been thinking a lot about the season of spring. The sun is setting later through our Southern-facing windows and the pink light that bounces through to the kitchen, just before the sun tucks itself in feels familiar.

My sisters and I have also been talking a lot about spring lately. How spring is the actual marker of the new year. Not the first of January. Not winter. Winter is for hibernating. It’s for working quietly and consistently. Spring is really the start forward. The moment when the seeds that were hopefully planted can begin to finally bloom.

Summer Story

When our daughter turned one, we decided to celebrate her birthday in Italy with family and friends who live there. Upon arriving in Milan, we rented a car and drove along the coast of Tuscany, passing the mountains of Carrara, to the little town of Pietrasanta. We stayed in an agricole that sat on acres of a sustainable, organic farm, producing the tastiest olive oil I’ve ever tried.

Following our brief stay in Pietrasanta, we continued driving to Capalbio, a rural coastal town in Tuscany that is equal parts horses grazing in reeded fields and the sun setting behind shadowed mountains on black sand beaches. Eventually we made our way to Florence, before continuing on driving to see family in Venice.

Florence in general, carries a weighted prominence in my life. It is the city where Adalberto and I met at just twenty-one years old, at a karaoke bar in front of Santa Croce. We stopped for lunch. It was our wedding anniversary, and our daughter would be turning one just four days later. I lunched with sunglasses on because I could not control the faucet of tears that turned on the moment I arrived in the city.

Atop Piazzale Michelangelo, with Alba on my hip, I overlooked the red-tiled terracotta roofs that puzzled to form an architectural aerial of Florence. I wept while showing her the city that quietly, unassumingly harbored the soft pages of the story that would eventually lead to her.

Thank you, Jennifer!

All other photos courtesy of Jennifer Paccione Angulo unless credited otherwise.

In the spirit of slow storytelling, I’m taking a little break and resharing an excerpt (slightly edited) from my essay “Reading Room,” which I published last February. Enjoy!

February is the shortest month with the longest memory. It’s a time we love to hate. It’s also a time when we think about time because it’s too cold to do anything else.

Two Februarys ago, my husband John and I stood in the middle of Paula Cooper Gallery on the final day of the group exhibition, “Books.” I was drawn to the show’s premise, a “[demonstration of] the many ways in which contemporary artists have engaged with the book as surface, structure, found object, and philosophical guide.”

There is a difference between looking at books and reading them, but each act offers unique pleasures. From the gallery’s website:

“Reading, collecting, and fabricating books informs a particular way of creative thinking, in which a double-page spread, a fabric-bound volume, or an illustrious typeface become crucial components of works of art. … There will be books on shelves, indicating how intensely revelatory a library can be about its owner, and sculptures incorporating books as found objects will embrace the book as a talisman, gesturing to the acute historical specificity of a volume that originated in a particular place and time.”

I was struck by the phrasing—how intensely revelatory a library can be about its owner—as if the books are creating the person and not the other way around.

Books have always been a big part of my life, but I can identify the difference between who I was before I started reading (again, in adulthood) and who I was after.

My previous creative pursuits were story-centric and filled with beauty and opportunity. They helped me cultivate my taste and aesthetic interests. I was never more attuned to my body (for better and for worse) than mid-pirouette or trying on a well-tailored coat. But for a long time, I couldn’t go as deeply as I wanted. While those endeavors got me into the world and out of my head, I forgot how to come home to myself.

I’ve carried some qualities from these past chapters into my current reading/writing life—particularly when it comes to body language and the senses: sighing from the day’s disappointments—or delights—before pulling a book off the shelf, smiling at the first page as if it’s going to return the gesture.

There is a physicality to reading, a subtle exchange. In The Beauty of Light, Etel Adnan remarks to Laure Adler about talking to flowers (and giving them agency to speak back). In Shifting the Silence, she suggests that other humans aren’t the only beings that can be one’s friends.

For many, books are friends with distinct voices and demeanors. They slouch over—pages to the floor, spine to the sky. Other times, they stand tall, sandwiched between forests of potted plants and flickering candles. They aren’t sentient but can instill a level of consciousness. Pick up a book and pick up a life. As , author of We Were the Universe and Black Light, shared: “Reading is a meditative, relaxing act that slows me down, but sometimes I find scanning [or] touching the spines of my books to be blissfully invigorating too, almost like I can hear little snippets of voice from each author as I touch them.”

In the presence of books, we aren’t as alone as we might think—a chorus of voices rushes to fill our hearts and homes. To that end, I like how Alina Grabowski, author of Women and Children First, described the singular joy of reading at home: “I love to lie, I love to flop, I love to lounge. If I’m reading in public, I still feel a need to be respectable. I can’t flick my shoes off, take up an entire couch, or just generally forget about the amount of space I’m occupying and how I’m occupying it. There’s this pleasurable lack of self-awareness that comes with reading at home. Plus, I can have one of our cats on my lap.”

Last February, a sleek black cat circled my feet as John and I perused the shelves inside High Valley Books, a parlor and basement-level bookstore run by Bill Hall out of his house in Greenpoint. Sounds of rustling papers and soft chatter drifted throughout the halls. It was clear that everyone here held storytelling in high regard.

Usually, I would have spent several hours surveying Hall’s incredible collection, but in the presence of someone else’s home—glimpsing mail in the vestibule, a stray coat draped on the banister—I suddenly wanted nothing more than to return to mine. I left empty-handed, burning with a desire for something I couldn’t quite name: Something between reading and living.

Lately, I’ve been stalled by other modes of being: Maybe wintering or languishing. For some reason, the word visiting comes to mind, too.

February Essentials

The style staples and stories that were on rotation and my mind…

Style

Alex Mill Lakeside Tee - babaa No23 Cardigan in Mist - EILEEN FISHER Cashmere Silk Boucle Bliss Crew Neck Top - EILEEN FISHER Cashmere Fluff Crew Neck Top - EILEEN FISHER Cotton Stretch Denim Lantern Jean - KREWE Zander Sunglasses - Loeffler Randall Dina Travel Tote - Madewell Skinny Oval Sunglasses - Rita Row Cedar Coat - Sandy Liang Satin Mary Jane Flats - Sézane Côme Hooded Scarf* - Sézane Eli Scarf - Sézane Gabin Bag in Camel - Sézane Jayden Coat - Sézane Johanne Ankle Boots - Sézane Vicky Loafers - Sézane Will Leather Jacket - Unpublished RUMI High-Rise Stacked Leg in Highland - Veja Rio Bronco II Sneaker

Stories

A Very Cold Winter by Fausta Cialente* - Mare by Emily Haworth-Booth* - The Writing Life by Annie Dillard

*KINDLY GIFTED THIS MONTH

February Details

A few scenes that especially slowed me down this month…

🃏 “Play!” at Jacqueline Sullivan Gallery (on view through March 21st)

▪️ Leanne Shapton’s “In Cars: On Diana” at Dashwood Projects (on view through March 14th)

🦢 Stephanie Hemma Tier’s “Swan Song” at Anton Kern Gallery (which closed on February 21st)

🩶 Vincenzo De Cotiis’ “Je Marchais Pieds Nus Dans L’Étang” at Carpenters Workshop Gallery (on view through March 30th)

💛 Sol LeWitt’s “Work from the 1960s” at Paula Cooper Gallery (on view through tomorrow—February 28th)

February Prompts

A few creative prompts for you to consider as the month comes to a close…

❔What are you taking care of and what is taking care of you?

❤️ What have you added to your definition of love this year?

🎨 What art are you making—and living with?

💡 What memories are you making—and living with?

💭 What has this winter taught you about yourself?

For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…

Field Trip

Notes from the sixth floor of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art

2025

It made sense to stop by the museum. John and I had some time to explore the city before heading back to Oakland to see my father and grandmother. Though it was the beginning of the week, we’d reached the end of a supercharged trip: An upcoming move signaled big changes for my family. The concept of a home base increasingly felt like a thing of the past. Seeing art would be a welcome balm.

At first, we slowly walked through SF MoMA, though our pace was punctuated by the shrieks of children on various field trips. A particularly large group from a music academy added their own soundtrack to the space. I grew up in New York, but was born in San Francisco and briefly imagined the students as tiny, moving postcards, showing me what life might have looked like had my parents stayed in this city. The kids and these musings seemed to trail behind us until we reached the sixth floor, where Ragnar Kjartansson’s The Visitors was on view.

Displayed across nine screens, viewers are transported by Kjartansson and his musician friends as they perform in different rooms throughout a historic mansion in upstate New York. Though simple in premise, I was mesmerized by the visuals, music, and unexpected camaraderie with strangers who, like me, slowed down to forget their troubles—and remember themselves. Even if only momentarily.

It’s been almost a year since my encounter with Kjartansson’s piece, but lately I’ve been thinking about what qualities in art fuel memory—what shapes it and reshapes it. In my case, environment seems to be key. There’s something to be said for standing in a sun-laden space versus a black box, a historic institution versus a modern renovation, a gallery versus a home: What we look at takes on a whole new meaning depending on where we are and what else is (and has been) in the room with us. As Kjartansson remarked in an interview with The Guardian: “[The Visitors] is really an ode to this house and the life that’s lived there. … I don’t think I’d make a piece like this now because we live in much darker times.”

For the duration of that trip out west, I contended with the “darker times,” not only in the context of the world, but in an inner and somewhat unreachable landscape. Like many others, my family’s environment has become fragmented in recent years, and the distance we share continues expanding. It’s difficult to face in some ways—yet the melodic drawl of Kjartansson’s players showed me something true: Each musician appears isolated in their respective screen, and the wall space between them gives us, as viewers, a chance to pause before turning our attention to the next scene. Yet in reality, the group is closer than we think: in different rooms of the same house, not always together, but instilling a closeness that transcends space, time, discipline, geography.

From my journal: We’re all visitors. We’ve all got somewhere to be. Art and memories to make. Choices and memories to live with.

I’d like to think I’m getting closer to writing about what I keep circling in these letters, but I’m still not there yet. Instead, I’m visiting museums and galleries, seeking refuge in art, learning how one captures a moment when words are not enough.

Before we get into the guide, here are some art and design books/journals I’ve revisited over the years…

New York (City + State)

February 2026

Some of my most formative memories involve concert halls, studios, or galleries—from dancing at Lincoln Center to volunteering at a revered modern art museum. These memories continue to envelop, move, and open me up to new mediums. To other ways of seeing the world.

Storm King Art Center

2021-Present

Funnily enough, I’ve only been to Storm King twice. Each visit has marked two very different seasons of life: First, a return to the world after quarantine. The sprawling, green grounds beneath an overcast sky represented the duality that many of us were feeling then: cautious optimism. Spring into summer.

More recently, a trip during peak fall foliage that took my breath away—and reminded me to take a deep breath all at once.

Jacqueline Sullivan Gallery

2024-Present

To spend time in Jacqueline Sullivan’s world is to learn the meaning of creative care. When I first stumbled upon the show “In Praise of Shadows,” I knew there was more I wanted to learn about Sullivan. In 2025, I had the pleasure of interviewing her for TOAST ahead of the opening of “The Loving Cup” (which remains a personal favorite). But with each exhibit, I return to JSG eagerly, knowing I’ll walk away feeling inspired to make something with my hands and heart.

Picture Room

2022-Present

I’ve been a longtime fan of Sandeep Salter’s work. (She was actually one of the first creative professionals I ever interviewed.) Her sensibility continues to show up through Salter House and in her curation at Picture Room.

If we’re talking about the importance of environment: There’s nothing like viewing the stylish paintings of Leanne Shapton or lighting from Analuisa Corrigan while sun casts dramatic shadows through the two front windows and the whine of the wide-plank floorboards reminds you to feel the ground beneath your feet—and to pay attention to the art on the walls.

Magazzino Italian Art

September 2025

On our many trips out of the city, John and I considered the possibility of what life could look like beyond Brooklyn. By that point in the season, I was growing tired of our constant drives and wasn’t initially up for exploring this research center and museum. But some places give you what you need just as much as what you want.

In addition to the incredible art and landscape, I was delighted by Magazzino’s lovely cafe and stable of Sardinian donkeys(!), who come from the same island as the museum’s co-founder. Moral of this slow story: Art opens you up, but only if you remain open to anything and everything.

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Every (life) chapter has at least one memorable moment, sentence, or story. What are yours? In Chapters, I ask creative people to reflect on the stories of their lives and respond to any of the below prompts (in whatever way they wish).

In the latest installment, we hear from —founder of Flowers by Ford and creator of Molly Ford’s Floral & Finds—who shares seasonal musings, cherished memories, and slow moments.

Slow Story

This winter may be the first I’ve truly loved, even with the bitter cold. I’m taking my time by slowing down, sleeping in, reading, lighting candles, journaling, and processing. I want to be intentional with my time—something the slower, colder months allow us to do. My goal is to winter slowly, making sure I face myself in order to stay soft.

Love Story

Every time I think about love, I find myself returning to this definition:

Love is patient, kind, and humble. It honors, protects, trusts, hopes, and perseveres. In my marriage, friendships and work, I strive for my love to be rooted in these qualities, to have this kind of foundation. When it does, there’s always room for forgiveness, understanding, communication, and acceptance. It’s a beautiful standard for love, and one I hope to carry with me.

True Story

My family moved to Arkansas from California when I was two years old. My parents are artists, and they made all of our furniture out of necessity, which I believe often makes the best art. My mom looked at our Arkansas backyard and saw vines covering the trees. I love her mind, because where others might have seen overgrowth, she saw furniture.

From that moment on, they grew their art into a business that took them all over the country for art shows which led to a feature in Southern Living. All the while, my parents also managed a twelve-step nonprofit, helping individuals struggling with addiction. My after school hours were spent in their furniture shop, doing homework surrounded by paint and sawdust. I think that’s why I feel so at home in my flower studio now; it reminds me of my childhood: a space full of creativity, hard work, and intuition.

I once heard a quote that children stand on the shoulders of their parents, that their ceiling becomes our foundation. I have seen that to be true in my own life. I am forever thankful for the foundation my parents gave me: a deep love for nature, art, people, and hard work.

Your Story

All my life, I’ve dreamed big. I was, and still am, audacious with my goals. My parents didn’t have an abundance of monetary resources, yet I never felt the lack. They worked hard to protect me and provide for me. They never suppressed even my wildest dreams, always encouraging me to find a way.

During my sophomore year of high school, I had the opportunity to travel to Australia. I’d never been out of the country, and I knew I couldn’t ask my parents to fund it. So I worked all year at Sonic, earning an extra dollar an hour when I was on rollerblades (yes I had the pink ones, duh). I worked, saved, and somehow came up with enough money to go.

From that moment, my world expanded. I wanted to see more, do more, and take advantage of every opportunity. I became the first person in my family to graduate from university, a decision that changed my life through relationships, exposure, and learning. I traveled the world, got married, moved to New York, and started a floral company.

I’ve built a big life, and it’s only getting larger.

Spring Story

When I think about spring, I think of the warm morning sun on my face, Hudson bringing out a cup of coffee, and me sitting in the backyard in a cozy sweater. We call these “California mornings” because they feel like a crisp California day, cold air combined with the beaming sun. It’s my favorite way to slowly crawl out of winter and into spring. I literally watch my garden come back to life, measuring its new growth each day.

Color Story

My childhood bedroom was painted with a garden mural that flowed from the ceiling all the way down across the hardwood floors. Every room in my home on Maple Street was a different color. The dining room was lilac to match the wild wisteria in our backyard. The kitchen had a watermelon theme at one point, which always floats back into my memory when I eat at JG Melon on the Upper East Side.

That bedroom mural was filled with deep greens and soft pinks, and it’s something that still translates into how I design my home today. While I love simplicity and plenty of white space, I’m always drawn to the warmth of maximalism and color. Our living room has two baby-blue rugs pushed together to create an extra-large rug, which is one of my most asked-about pieces. It creates the most beautiful balance against our crown-molded white walls.

You’ll always find my home and floral designs full of intentional color.

Summer Story

As we read through this Substack letter, I find myself journeying through the seasons. Feeling grateful for the slowness and intentionality of winter. Then a spark of hope and joy when thinking about our spring “California mornings.” And now, when I think about summer, I can truly feel its warmth.

For the last few years, Hudson and I have traveled to Maine each summer with friends. It’s become a tradition we all plan our summers around. One year, it was just us and another couple. We went to a small island and stayed at an inn perched on a hill. Its restaurant overlooked the water, where we watched the sunset each night with a cocktail in hand. After a few drinks, a perfect sunset dinner on the lawn, and endless conversations, we ran down the hill to the dock. We wanted to see the stars while lying above the water.

Those summer nights are such a gift. I will remember them for the rest of my life.

I want to live a big life full of slow seasons by being intentional with my decisions and moving with a love that is patient, hopeful, and trusting.

Thank you, Molly!

All photos courtesy of Molly Ford unless credited otherwise.

Relentless. One word to describe one world enduring relentless violence, cruelty, apathy. It’s all-consuming until you remember compassion still exists just beyond the corners of our screens. But this month always seems to be a test of endurance. In fact, I was just saying to someone that I can’t remember a January untouched by total chaos. If we think about time in the linear sense, then we’re stuck in a cycle where the year’s beginnings are immediately frayed at the edges. The day starts and we wake up with sobering clarity—and uncertainty: What is it now? Has anything changed? Will it ever?

These questions call to mind my ongoing experience with Solvej Balle’s On the Calculation of Volume. It’s November 18th when we meet our heroine Tara Selter, an antiquarian bookseller who’s traveled to Paris to source objects for her business, T.&T. Selter. After visiting her friend Philip (and his girlfriend Marie) at his shop, Tara returns to her hotel—only to wake up to the same day the next morning. She eventually goes home, yet time doesn’t go with her. She explains the situation to her partner and husband, Thomas, repeating the process again and again. Together, they search for a way out of November 18th, but these efforts can only last so long. After a year, Tara comes to terms with her present reality (or unreality), ultimately leaving Thomas behind to return to the source of her transformation.

The second book in this captivating, seven-part story plunges us into movement: Back to Paris and then on to Denmark, Sweden, Germany and more, Tara travels in search of seasons—forward trajectory. “If I am to have a future I must have years, and if I am to have years, I must have seasons,” Tara tells us. “Without seasons, no time. If I want seasons, I will have to build them myself. If I am to have a future, I will have to build it myself.”

A woman may be stuck in time, but no person is an island. For Tara, building that future begins in connection: a heartbroken girl on a train establishes a sense of intimacy; a meteorologist maps weather patterns so Tara can experience the sensorial pleasures she desperately craves; a car accident with another acquaintance reinforces the fragility of Tara’s situation, and also of life itself. All the while, snow falls and Tara is “searching for the heart of winter, consummate winter, concentrated winter.”

In one of these interactions, Tara visits her parents for “Christmas.” They acknowledge her unexplainable circumstances, hopeful she’ll find her way back into the fold. “I was sure there would be an answer,” she reiterates. “Out there somewhere there would be a solution. And I would find it. I would keep traveling, I would keep my eyes open, I would listen to people’s conversations. … The world is full of good advice if you listen.” Her mother isn’t so sure what can be learned from eavesdropping on strangers, but Tara continues on: “I was sure that through careful listening you could solve any problem that might arise. If you really listened. The great questions in life. Everything. And if you couldn’t find it in people’s conversations you could try listening to birdsong. Or the sound of the wind. You will always find your way to something.”

Off the page, I listen to people much smarter than me organizing, activating, creating. I listen for winter’s call, embracing the season with the respect it deserves. I know the stakes are higher than ever. It’s cold out there. Chilling. The ice isn’t melting fast enough. It’s gathering in shards with unchecked, brute force. My beloved winter is overrun with ugliness. Time feels like an accumulation of losses. This season already asks for so much and provides little room for comfort—unless we accept the hard work of humanity. The hard work of living among hate and, more importantly, living to spite it.

It makes sense to me that Tara finds comfort and agency in “building seasons,” though it’s no easy feat. Along the way, she navigates material interventions, too: She hurts her ankle and grieves the theft of a bag containing her cherished seasons notebook. Internet history is erased and gifts disappear at the start of yet another November 18th. A Roman coin from Philip’s shop serves as an “emblem of the past” and an unlikely companion while she claws her way towards an uncertain future.

Despite her line of work, Tara admits she wasn’t always interested in history. Rather she’s interested in “everything dropped outside of history.” But the sestertius coin invites deeper inquiry. She begins studying the Romans, discovering parallels between the empire they built and the life she’s constructing within her current limitations. “Maybe they didn’t want to go on,” Tara suggests. “They stopped and built a wall. Because they didn’t want to go any further. Maybe they simply wanted to live in a container with a view of the sky and clouds. But I will not be halted, now I want to move on.”

Tara contends that the Roman Empire has “become her mirror.” That “time is a container.” That like the coin, the Romans, she is fixed. Stopped. In a similar vein, if the American Empire is our mirror, what do we see? Simultaneous destruction and the construction of a sinister container being painted red in every way possible.

But, like Tara, I keep my eyes open. I try to see backward and look forward. “I wake up and roam around history. I feel my brain growing. It grows through remembering and it grows through all the things I find. It grows through forgetting, it lets go, it leaves spaces to stand empty and the next day I search for new knowledge to fill the empty spaces.”

Though her story is still unfolding, it has become my mirror, offering incisive observations and beautiful sentences that help me overcome my own paralysis: I will not be halted. I want to move on. I want all people to move safely and freely (a conviction that stretches long before and long after this current moment). I want to see children walking hand in hand to school with their parents. I want parents to feel at home in their bodies and minds. I want us to learn from the stories we keep telling each other—I want to keep telling myself that we will.

By the end of book two, Tara reveals she’s not alone in her unending November 18th. There is someone else who might understand the singular pain and nuance of being frozen in a particular time with no control and seemingly no way forward. At this point, readers haven’t officially met this character, and I haven’t started the third volume, so I can’t say I know where the story is heading next. Still, it helps to sit with Tara before crossing another threshold. It helps to read fiction that shines a light on the fact that it’s Groundhog Day, relentless, unending, whatever you want to call it. Yet for as isolated as we may feel, we are bound together by history—a collective understanding that what we share is now. And now is not the time to look away.

January Essentials

The style staples and stories that were on rotation and my mind…

Style

babaa No 17 Jumper - Cawley Studios Chocolate Leather Back Straight Hair Trapper Hat - EILEEN FISHER Cashmere Silk Boucle Bliss Crew Neck Top* -EILEEN FISHER Cashmere Fluff Crew Neck Top - EILEEN FISHER Cotton Stretch Denim Lantern Jean* - Jamie Haller Beatnik Boot - KREWE Lucy Sunglasses - Loeffler Randall Landon Espresso Ballet Flat - Lauren Manoogian Double Face Long Coat - Madewell Skinny Oval Sunglasses - Maria Stanley Plaid Beanie - Rita Row Cedar Coat - Sézane Johanne Ankle Boots* - Sézane Eli Scarf* -Sézane Vicky Loafers - Sézane Will Leather Jacket

Stories

Lost Lambs by Madeline Cash* - On the Calculation of Volume (Book II) by Solvej Balle - Sisters in Yellow by Mieko Kawakami*

*KINDLY GIFTED THIS MONTH

*It feels strange to follow my essay with this section, but I hope you can appreciate a little levity

January Details

A few things that especially slowed me down this month…

🐇 Quality time with my darling Pepper

❄️ Witnessing magic right outside my window

▪️ A studio visit with LES Collection

✨ Writing from home with golden hour light as inspiration—and company

January Prompts

A few creative prompts for you to consider as the month comes to a close…

⚪ What can be learned through sameness or repetition?

❓ What can you build to create a sense of momentum when feeling stalled?

🙂 Reflect on your “January joys.” How do you plan to build on them—or that feeling—moving forward?

📕 What books inspire you to recalibrate your relationship with time, creativity, and pace?

💭 What question do you want—need—to ask yourself more this year?

For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…

“The Analog Bag” by Lauren Sands—featuring yours truly

Every (life) chapter has at least one memorable moment, sentence, or story. What are yours? In Chapters, I ask creative people to reflect on the stories of their lives and respond to any of the below prompts (in whatever way they wish).

In the latest installment, we hear from Lauren Sands—founder of LES Collection and creator of —who shares literary recommendations, daily delights, and familial reflections.

Slow Story

All the delights of life—when you slow down and pay attention. I keep a list:

Short Story

What would happen to a person if they were planted in rich, well-fertilized soil? In a vegetable patch showered by the sun’s generosity and radiance? This is the premise of “Plants, Stones, Dirt, and Sky” by Yan Lianke, translated from Chinese by Jeremy Tiang. In this delightful short story, the narrator, Grandpa Liu, asks questions about life. Obvious questions, but those that most people don’t ask. Questions that arrive when you slow down, when you have lived life without spending it distracted. Questions like, “How come every flower has its own fragrance, but the grit and pebbles on the street smell of nothing?” There is a patient, stubborn curiosity at the heart of the narrative.

It’s also a powerful love story—one built on shared time, routine, and a stubborn refusal to imagine life without each other. It’s unsentimental and practical, and deeply moving because of that restraint. This story made me feel good about life, love, and even death. It’s one I will pick up again and again—when I need a reminder to slow down, ask questions, to appreciate my partner, and to not take life so seriously.

Inside Story

I was around eight months pregnant with my second child when the pandemic struck. I was gripped with anxiety. Questions like What would it look like to give birth into a world plunged in illness? and What would that mean for this new life? churned relentlessly in my mind. I started painting as a way to quiet the noise.

As I embarked on a series for my son’s nursery, I documented the creative process on social media (the birth of @les.collection). To my surprise, it quickly gained traction, and I found myself enveloped in the warmth of new creative friendships. This community was a constant source of joy amid the shadows.

What began as a remedy for anxiety blossomed into an unforeseen romance with artistic expression. I found boundless energy in discovering and sharing the stories of artists who inspired me. Collecting became a celebration of community and story. From this, the vision for LES Collection emerged. A place where I could curate and design strange, serious, and whimsical objects, and a platform to share the stories of the very cool artists and creatives I met along the way.

Color Story

My introduction to design began with swaths of color. My first apartment was the second floor of a late 19th-century Tudor in my hometown in Western New York. The living room was painted mustard yellow, the dining room was a rich ruby red, and the office and bedroom were cornflower blue. The kitchen had teal tile, amber walls with a thick black line, and rich walnut cabinets.

I was in college, and painting was out of the question; I didn’t even consider it. Nor did I yearn for white walls. Of course, I would live in this kaleidoscope of color. I filled each vibrant room with hand-me-downs from my parents and vintage finds from a dusty local warehouse—a jumble of periods, textures, and tones. Each piece had character. There was not a sliver of beige in sight.

I often think about that apartment. I only lived there for a year, from 2007 to 2008—pre-Instagram, pre-Pinterest. Finding photos is challenging, but thanks to some friends and a party I definitely don’t remember, I have a few. When I moved out, I left color behind. My next apartments got progressively grayer. My own flattening of style mirrored a larger shift: a creeping sameness that swept through design, turning everything beige and boucle in its wake. Homes began to look like pale reflections of personality. I got swept up in that downward spiral for a time, but lately I have been trying to claw my way back to color. I wrote more about the flattening of design here.

Scary Story

I slid onto my board, ribs bruised and burning, and started paddling across the river. The water was thick and warm, and I dug my arms in hard, pushing my lungs, adrenaline already high. My muscles ached as they warmed up, still sore from the days before. I told myself I wasn’t afraid of the crocodiles—but I also wasn’t not afraid. The threat was there, lurking, pushing me forward. The waves on the other side of the river were worth it.

It’s hard to explain the reasons I love to surf. Part of it is the focus, the incredible attention it requires. Out there, everything narrows to the essentials: paddle, breath, timing. As I sit on my board and watch the horizon, I am fully present. Totally engrossed in the act of reading the water. Waiting for that subtle telltale sign of a wave rising in the distance, building as it approaches, ready to join with the momentum of my paddle and carry me forward.

Fear is part of it, too. Essential to the joy in a way I’ve never fully been able to articulate, even to myself. The ocean is a massive, powerful force—one that demands respect, fear, and awe. It can be relentless. A wall of water strong enough to hold you under, to push you back toward shore again and again. But when that same force lines up just right, when I catch that wave, turn and descend down its slope, it feels like the universe is shining its light directly on me. It feels like magic.

Fear is a vital part of life. Surfing is one of the few places where I meet it head-on, in a way that feels honest and open. I bring my skill, my understanding of the ocean and its patterns, and I push just beyond where I’m comfortable—not recklessly, but deliberately, with respect. Fear is my trusted ally, keeping me aware, sharp, present, lending me strength.

On a somewhat unrelated note, I got really into Gothic literature this past fall. Reading stories where fear is a character, constantly present. Some of my favorites are: We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson, Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier, The Monk by Matthew Lewis, and Fledgling by Octavia Butler.

Bedtime Story

I wrote this about a year ago and never did anything with it. It just sat in my Google Docs. At the time, I thought I might write an essay about the experience of motherhood, but I didn’t. Instead, I worked through my feelings privately, in therapy, and with my husband. I revisited the doc recently and decided to include the first few paragraphs here:

Have you ever experienced a gratitude so large it’s crushing? The kind that threatens to overwhelm and completely consume you?

I lay in my daughter’s bed with a book on my chest. It was bedtime, and she had run out of her room to see what her brother was screaming about. I picked up her stuffed bunny, rubbing my thumb over the coarse material worn down from years of her love, when it hit me: the image of myself picking up that bunny with my daughter dead, my grief all-consuming. I imagined myself clinging to it as I cried uncontrollably. How it would be all that was left and never enough. I spiraled deeper into the story, convincing myself I would never recover from that kind of loss.

I took a deep breath and repeated a mantra a therapist had given me as a way to think about my anxiety: “That’s Cheetos. Put it on the shelf.” I pictured placing the thought on a pantry shelf, in the back, and out of sight. I focused on how grateful I am for my two delightful children, my supportive husband, my big, wonderful life. It helped... sort of.

She came back in, dancing around. We laughed together, and I began reading again. I forced myself to focus my full attention on the mythical world of Percy Jackson and the feeling of her warm body lying next to mine.

Later, my husband and I switched, and I went into my son’s room. It was dark, so I felt around the bed for his feet, but instead, my hand landed on his face. He burst into uncontrollable laughter—that laughter that lights up my world. I crawled into bed, holding him in my arms as his laughter turned into yawns and deep breaths. I rubbed his warm, clammy hand and listened to his heartbeat and the rhythmic waves of his sound machine. My own heart started to slow, my anxiety melting little by little, but that tight ball in my chest—the one that makes it hard to get enough air into my lungs—didn’t quite disappear.

Lately, my gratitude has become tinged with something more sinister, lurking just under the surface. Its opposite. Loss. Grief. A life not worth living. These are the thoughts that haunt me.

For beautiful writing on motherhood I recommend Nicole Lipson’s Mothers and Other Fictional Characters. Lipson’s portrayal of motherhood is incredibly intense because being a mother is intense. Lipson sees that. She sees how it breaks and builds you at the same time. She captures that impossible feeling of mourning a childless past while being swallowed whole by a love so enormous, so cellular, it makes you dizzy with gratitude and fear.

Summer Story

I inherited my very first plant last February. I say inherited because the plant, a lemon tree, was a Valentine’s Day gift from my mother to my four-year-old son. As any parent can imagine, he became immediately attached with a burning intensity that only kids have with inanimate objects. The lemon tree was now part of his posse, right up there with his blanket and beloved stuffies. Keeping this lemon tree alive became a parenting imperative.

At the time, my thumb was the color of skin, never having the opportunity to take on the ubiquitous green or black shades associated with one’s ability to keep plants alive. I had no idea what to do with this little lemon tree, but I was determined to figure it out. The truth is, I had been dreaming of gardening and the dream felt urgent. Like something that would transform me from the person I was to the person I wanted to be.

This craving to garden seemed to come out of nowhere, but it also made sense. It was wrapped up in my love for design, for home, for the act of gathering friends and family around a table. It soothed my constant need for a new challenge, something to learn. It fit within my daydreams of a slower, analog life, one that is more connected to nature and less connected to my devices.

So last summer, I embarked on my first gardening adventure. And true to my nature, I didn’t just dabble, I fully invested. It was frustrating, sweaty, time-consuming, and so very rewarding. I am already dreaming of what I will do next summer. More on my first summer of gardening here.

Their Story

I’ve been thinking a lot about how children will suddenly start running. I watch as my kids take off, my daughter’s blonde hair whipping behind her like liquid gold. My son skips a few times, then bounds after, always trying to keep up. What is it that makes kids run for no reason at all? It is as if their bodies have more excitement than they know what to do with. An excess of joy that needs to be expressed physically. At what point do we stop doing that? When does running become something reserved for exercise? I keep wondering where that line is, the moment we trade joy for purpose. How can I help my kids hold on to that spirit for as long as possible? How can I channel that for myself?

Thank you, Lauren!

LES Collection studio visit photos by Rachel Schwartzmann.

All other photos courtesy of Lauren Sands unless credited otherwise.

I noticed her sunglasses first: oval, burgundy, reminiscent of another time. Her black wool coat delicately dusted the floor of the subway car. She tucked her gray, shoulder-length hair behind her ears and lifted an enormous Hasselblad camera in our direction, but not at us. In between shots, she rubbed her partner’s arm affectionately as the train swerved beneath the city.

The shoot progressed across multiple stops. I quietly asked John if he knew anything about the camera, and he shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that it’s mainly used for major productions, not casual subway photography.” We spent the rest of the ride trying to figure out who the woman might be: a famous street photographer collecting images for an upcoming show, a mother who’d inherited a family heirloom, a person who didn’t know much about the equipment in their hands (but didn’t let that stop her), a stranger whose story we’d never know but were fascinated by nonetheless.

More than the size of the lens, I was curious about the lens through which she was seeing the world. Even on a Saturday afternoon in the New York City subway, the sights were arguably unremarkable—though I always appreciate someone taking the opportunity to transform the mundane into something magical, or at the very least, find a new way of seeing.

In winter, there’s less to look at and more to consider. Sometimes it’s disorienting to find that my view is unobstructed. Yet whenever I glimpse what’s left of the trees quivering in the wind, I feel comforted by their silent resolve—and, just beyond them, amazed at the people making their way in the world, without a canopy of leaves to rest under when things are hard. And things are exceedingly hard as we continue navigating the horrors unfolding across the globe. It certainly doesn’t help that winter has a reputation for emphasizing any trace of pain or discomfort. Still, I believe something generative lives in this tension: If we let it, winter becomes an intimate companion. A period of both learning and unlearning. A process of recognition—and reckoning. A call to capture the moment—a feeling. An invitation to slow down and bear witness.

Towards the end of our ride, the woman switched to flash photography, which drew attention from the entire car. Before I could work up the courage to ask her any questions, I found myself ascending the stairs up to 8th Avenue, where a sharp gust of wind greeted us upon exiting the station. After running some errands in the neighborhood, we headed home, and seemingly out of nowhere, two familiar outlines materialized across the street: the woman and her person, walking arm in arm. It had been almost an hour since our initial encounter. We hadn’t seen them leave the train. They looked cold, but still happy, strolling in golden hour light, camera at the ready.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence when we run into strangers on multiple occasions—especially if their energy lingers in such a way that you want to commit their personhood to paper, even as you’re trying to maintain your own.

I watched their figures grow smaller, and then turned to John. “Maybe that’s us from the future.”

He smiled and glanced at them again. “They do kind of look like us from a distance.”

To and from. Back and forth. History repeats itself. Seasons come and go.

From a distance, I try to tell you this story, and instead, remember all the ways winter has simultaneously let me down and let me know it’s okay to be an imperfect person in a world that’s stripping us of our humanity. From a distance, I see words becoming sentences—and then stories—that I carry with me, in the same way you might carry a camera around your neck. From a distance, so much remains unknown, and yet I try to believe that no matter what direction we’re coming from or moving toward, all of us are closer than we think: to hope, to peace, to each other. From a distance, I think about the stranger we saw on the train, capturing photos of who knows what—smiling—as we barreled towards some kind of light at the end of the tunnel.

WAYS TO WINTER

Respect the season

As I’ve said before, I like winter, but more than that, I respect it. I initially wrote this line a few years ago and am only just realizing how deeply ingrained the sentiment has become. While we’re often asked what we like or dislike about certain seasons, consider this your invitation to go one layer deeper: What do you respect about winter? For me, it’s the alluring strangeness that comes in a season marking both a beginning and an end. The inevitable darkness. The hidden possibility.

Start a sensorial diary

We feel everything in winter. It’s a time of celebration, illness, rebirth, reflection, hibernation. It’s also the perfect time to take note of textures, scents, sights, sounds, or whatever senses speak most to you. What you pay attention to may offer unexpected surprises, and at the very least, help you come to terms with the nuances of the season.

Work near a window

I’ve always loved watching light, and winter is my favorite season for studying how it shapes our inner and outer worlds. On the days when it’s simply too cold to venture outside, I always make it a point to read, write, or work near a window. In doing so, I’m drawn to the elements in new ways and from a different vantage point.

Cultivate festivity all season long

The holidays are behind us, but that doesn’t mean you have to stop finding moments of celebration. Reimagine this time and take a (prompt) page from my book, Slowing:

A SEASONAL SYLLABUS

This season is often one of my most nourishing reading periods, simply for its permission to slow down and stay in with a good book. Admittedly, I’ve struggled a bit with my pace in recent months, but looking at my library, I’m delighted by all that awaits. In that spirit, here’s a list of titles inspired by/set in/best read in winter (and yes, some of them are still in my TBR… slow and steady!).

HONORABLE MENTIONS: SUBSTACK EDITION

“How to Fall in Love with Winter” by of Small Pleasures

“Taking to Bed + A Winter-Break Reading Guide” by of A Whimsical World

“The quiet language of snow” by of Everything is Liminal

“The soft week” by Emma Leokadia Walkiewicz of

“What About Winter?” by yours truly for Coveteur

STYLE THE SEASON

If you’ve followed my work, you know that storytelling and style are deeply intertwined. A couple of years ago, I wrote an ode to winter hats for Coveteur, and I've continued growing my collection since then. Here’s a look at some of my favorites.

ENJOY THE SIGHTS

A look at what I’ve captured (and what’s been capturing my attention) this season—so far.

For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…

1. This year, I felt unmoored. It’s a different terrain than anxiety. Smoother, almost soft.

2. Each season has reinforced what I need to let go of to get a grip on the big picture.

3. From my conversation with : “I don’t want to try to have control because there’s no point to that. It’s just not real. [While] awareness isn’t control, it is a reflection.”

4. A physical reflection: I don’t entirely recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.

5. A creative reflection: I have to consider my limitations. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.

6. A general reflection: I still haven’t arrived at a place of understanding. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.

7. Luckily winter is grounding. You feel every bit of it until you’re red and numb. It’s only when you acknowledge that bit of pain—your own humanity—you start moving again. Slowly. Warming up to something like possibility as the days go dark and your eyes grow wide.

8. From my conversation with Caleb Femi: “I’ll ask myself: How do you want to dress? What else is possible? What else would you love to pull off? In every aspect of what I'm directly involved in on an artistic level—or just the mundanity of life—that question is what keeps me excited about existing. What is possible? That question is the first step you take in yielding magic.”

9. What I would love to ask myself: When does acceptance turn into embrace?

10. What I would love to pull off: Swallowing the alphabet and spitting out sentences that make my heart race.

11. What I believe is possible: Everything. Truly.

12. Yielding magic starts with asking questions. Good ones.

13. From my conversation with Pico Iyer: “How awake are you? Everything is always alive with possibility. It's just that I'm sometimes too distracted or blurry, or tired, or lost to see it. … So I hope that more or less everything is alive with that—if only I can see it.”

14. I love a season you can see.

15. I like winter, but more than that, I respect it.

16. I write forward and think backward.

17. I try to just be—and I think that’s a good place to be. At least for now.

18. From my conversation with : “It's funny how sometimes some of the things that might have been framed as negatives—that we might even still think of as not wholly positive traits—actually serve us really well when we're making things. Frankly, I think stubbornness—a balance between stubbornness and openness—is really important.”

19. Opening a window and slamming a door are more similar than we think.

20. Opening a book and slamming a laptop ignite shared feeling of relief.

21. From my conversation with : “We all are capable of talking to ourselves gently. It really does change the home we have inside ourselves and allows an openness that, at least for me, was difficult to access before.”

22. The voice inside and in my journal: Another year lost to history—but our pasts never really leave us. We revive them again in unexpected ways. In unexpected people.

23. What fuels you doesn’t always fix you.

24. I like saying the word cliché, which might just make me one.

25. A final sentence/cliché/reflection/possibility for the year: We forget that sometimes starting over is really just starting again.

December Essentials

The style staples and stories that were on rotation and my mind…

Style

Cawley Studios Chocolate Leather Back Straight Hair Trapper Hat - Lauren Manoogian Double Face Long Coat - EILEEN FISHER Cashmere Fluff Crew Neck Top* - EILEEN FISHER Mélange Boiled Wool Jersey Lantern Regenerative Wool Pants* - Paper Republic Grand Voyageur Leather Journal in Chestnut* (You can use the code RACHELSPR30 for 30% off) - Madewell Skinny Oval Sunglasses - Mansur Gavriel Trifold Wallet -Rita Row Cedar Coat* - Sézane Jayden Coat* - Sézane Irma Charm - Sézane Vicky Loafers* - Sézane Will Leather Jacket* - Vasic New York Bond Mini Bag - Tio Lee Fargo Hat

Stories

On the Calculation of Volume (Book I) by Solvej Balle - On the Other Side Is March by Sólrún Michelsen* - A Truce That Is Not Peace by Miriam Toews - The Coin by Yasmin Zaher

*KINDLY GIFTED THIS MONTH

December Details

A few things that especially slowed me down this month…

📕 Reflecting on this year’s creative milestones—like having my essay and prompt included in ’s The Book of Alchemy

🌲 Decorating our Christmas tree

❄️ Enjoying the first snow of the season

🎩 Wearing fun (and functional) winter hats

🕊️ Checking out “Frances Featherstone: From the Perspective of Angels” at Arcadia Contemporary (on view through January 4th)

December Prompts

A few creative prompts for you to consider as the year comes to a close…

☁️ What do you notice more often on overcast days?

🧣 Define what layering means in your life and style.

✨ Reflect on a positive ending and how it helped redefine your relationship with endings overall.

🌚 Consider your relationship with winter in daylight versus darkness.

💭 How do you want to change your relationship with time, creativity, and pace going into the new year?

For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…

Have you seen the moon? What do you want from this provincial life? How much risk can we allow in this careless, rotten world? These are just a few of the many questions readers will encounter in celebrated poet ’s new book, How About Now.

As the bestselling author of What Kind of Woman, And Yet, and I Hope This Finds You Well, Kate’s latest collection continues her thoughtful explorations of modern womanhood. She comments on the ever-present tension between the body and the mind. She celebrates relationships with love and loved ones. She ruminates on the growth of her children—and herself. Each poem is a tiny mirror made of ink and promise, asking to be engaged and looked at with curiosity—and asking us to find the courage to ask questions ourselves, perhaps most prominently, how about now?

In this interview, Kate shared more about her relationship with time, the importance of plugging into our communities, poetry as a vehicle for growth, and the ongoing journey of learning to let go.…

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“The girl in the picture is a stranger who imparted her memory to me,” writes Annie Ernaux in A Girl’s Story. The sentence greets me just as my phone flashes familiar scenes: Memories from one year ago; though I set the book down and go back even further—three years ago, five, eight. Photos of a much younger person smile at me from the other side of the screen: babyfaced in more colorful clothing with the same tired eyes. She’s no longer a girl, but not quite fully formed. She’s working hard, energized by her own exhaustion because she still believes any movement equates to forward trajectory.

When I turned thirty, my dad remarked that I was getting to the age where I was really starting to “accumulate history.” Fast forward a few years, and this sentiment has never felt more true. Today is my thirty-third birthday, though I’ve given more headspace to every age other than my own (especially on the page).

Twenty in a designer’s Lower East Side studio. Fifteen at dusk in Astor Place. Ten on a scorching hot day at the Dallas Zoo. Four by the water in the quaint town of Benicia. Sometimes you have to count down to look forward. I remember the past in acute detail, and it’s always been a personal and creative preoccupation. Yet for the last twelve months, it’s absorbed me in a way where life has felt smaller rather than slower. Confined rather than intentional. Instead of asking why that is, I’ve been trying to work out who that is—and why she’s taking up so much emotional real estate.

I don’t have all the answers for you here, and although Ernaux and I are looking back from vastly different vantage points, she aptly captures the tension of attempting to construct a narrative of who one used to be:

“I am overwhelmed by apathy, often a sign that I am about to abandon my writing in the face of difficulties I cannot clearly define. It has nothing to do with a shortage of memories. In fact, I must hold myself back to keep the images from linking up with each other—an image of a room with an image of a dress and a tube of red Email Diamant toothpaste (memory is a lunatic props-mistress), reducing me to the state of a spellbound viewer of a film utterly devoid of meaning.”

Still, if history accumulates and ultimately repeats itself, then the images that rise from the digital shadows remind me there is meaning—most often found just beyond the edges of the frame. Felt differently with distance and time. This year alone: genuine happiness walking along the canals of Amsterdam, crying for an entire day missing a feeling I can’t quite name, making strides in my novel draft, grappling with saying goodbye to a parent who moved across the world, finding solace in daily rituals close to home. Most of it photographed as evidence of a life lived by a woman who will inevitably become a stranger to herself again, no matter how tightly she holds on. As Ernaux also writes:

“I wonder if, perhaps, by gazing interminably at this photo, I did not so much wish to become the girl of 1959 again as to capture the very peculiar sensation of a present that is different from the one I am truly living, sitting at my desk by the window. A present anterior, a fragile, maybe pointless triumph, but one which seems to me an extension of our powers of thought and mastery of our lives.”

Part of me is sad that aging and growth can’t always look and feel the same. Yet therein lies the beauty of the former: recognizing certain moments are gifts we either keep or throw away, but the memories that inevitably follow are heirlooms—passed down, preserved, and revered through the actions we subsequently take in their honor.

For that reason, I resolve to ground myself in not only curiosity but courage. I want question marks to feel exciting again. I want to look back on this day X years from now and keep doing right by that person who lives in my memory—the one who sometimes visits me in photos or language, so I don’t lose myself in her ghost.

33 questions I’m keeping close this year—and beyond

1. What history do you think you’ll accumulate this year?

2. What feels true?

3. What is true?

4. Do you (want to) remember how to be bored?

5. What about the past is keeping you there?

6. Would you rather live in this memory or make new memories by living?

7. What are you making and making up?

8. How are you nurturing your creativity online and offline?

9. Are you creating content or creating contentment?

10. Why did you let their call go to voicemail?

11. Are you ready to get over yourself?

12. Do you believe in yourself?

13. Are you coming from a place of being reactive or proactive?

14. Are you ready to let this become a memory?

15. Is it worth making a statement or asking a question?

16. Why aren’t you writing—and can you forgive yourself for that?

17. Is timing everything—or just something?

18. How can you turn hope into action?

19. What’s more daunting: an empty page or an empty promise?

20. When does acceptance turn into an embrace?

21. What do you want to add to your definition of slowness?

22. Is there another way to think about this?

23. Where does your energy come from—and where will you put it?

24. Should you move forward or move on?

25. When do you feel most like yourself?

26. Can you (try to) imagine living anywhere else?

27. Do you believe in something bigger than yourself?

28. Do you believe in yourself?

29. What aren’t you saying out loud—and why?

30. Is there anything else you can replace sweet treats with?

31. What’s one question you hope people will ask you more often?

32. What’s one question you know you need to ask yourself more often?

33. Why?

November Essentials

The style staples and stories that were on rotation and my mind…

Style

babaà No 17 Jumper in Earth - Catbird Tiniest Heart Charm - EILEEN FISHER Classic Corduroy Jacket - EILEEN FISHER Felted Wool Jersey Lantern Pant in Regenerative Wool - EILEEN FISHER Textured Italian Leather Shopper Tote - EITHER/OR Vintage Pull-On Boot* - Jamie Haller Beatnik Boot - KREWE Lucy Sunglasses* - KREWE Zander Sunglasses* - Lauren Manoogian Double Face Long Coat - LORE Fragrance Discovery Set* - Rita Row Cedar Checkered Coat - Sézane Albane Loafers - Sézane Amy Loafers - Shaina Mote Lune Pants in Washed Black

Stories

How About Now by Kate Baer* - A Girl’s Story by Annie Ernaux - Happiness & Love by Zoe Dubno - It Girl: The Life and Legacy of Jane Birkin by Marisa Meltzer*

*KINDLY GIFTED THIS MONTH

November Details

A few things that especially slowed me down this month…

🍂 Enjoying peak fall foliage in Prospect Park

📕 Spotting—and signing—Slowing for the first time at the iconic Strand

🩶 Perusing “Gathering Wool: Louise Bourgeois” at Hauser & Wirth (on view through April 18, 2026)

☕ Indulging in Un Posto Italiano’s delicious coffee and hot chocolate (during a lovely afternoon with )

November Prompts

A few creative prompts for you to consider as the month comes to a close…

🙃 Make a list of everything you said no to this month—and reflect on how it made you feel.

✉️ Write a card to yourself and revisit it on your birthday.

⭐ Reflect on how the concept of gratitude has changed for you over the years.

📔 Read a story, text, or poem that puts you in a festive spirit.

💭 What questions do you want to ask more of this holiday season?

For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…

I’ve noticed a TikTok trend about the different ways people “visualize” the year. Some group the months by quarter (January, February, March), others by seasons. A select few share a very specific perspective (January and February followed by March, April, and May with June as its own moment). Debates and curiosity flood the comment threads, and it’s funny to watch all of this unfold in a space where time is lost in an infinite scroll. It’s made me think about a line from Etel Adnan’s Seasons: Time passes from right to left.

This may feel true depending on where you are in the world, though I typically envision the months moving from left to right—the way I’d write a sentence or how I would look before crossing the street. Yet I haven’t been able to grasp the outline of 2025. Still, with the holidays just around the corner (and my birthday even closer behind), I’ve been trying to create s…

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Every (life) chapter has at least one memorable moment, sentence, or story. What are yours? In Chapters, I ask creative people to reflect on the stories of their lives and respond to any of the below prompts (in whatever way they wish).

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1. I start the day with a good cry, which is the worst way to begin a month, but maybe the best way to begin a story.

2. Some days, it feels impossible to put a sentence down about an experience (yes, even a single sentence), because everything I need to say the sky has already said for me. It’s blue, and so am I.

3. Like many others, I’m consumed with worry about the world, but then I wonder how worry would look if it assumed a natural form. I think it would most resemble a sun shower: rays flitting through droplets; a blend of paralysis and attention; of light and dark.

4. I think of this poem from ’s forthcoming collection, How About Now:

Read more

Every (life) chapter has at least one memorable moment, sentence, or story. What are yours? In Chapters, I ask creative people to reflect on the stories of their lives and respond to any of the below prompts (in whatever way they wish).

Read more