At Sea
I live by the sea now. And mostly, I travel along one — up and down coastlines, both here in the US and abroad. It's a strange thing for someone who grew up entirely landlocked, in the flat, fertile northwest corner of Mississippi they call the Delta.
It was there, in a creative writing class taught by Mary Thompson, that I first found Ernest Hemingway. I fell for his clean, short, direct sentences — the way he could say so much by saying so little — and through him, for his adventures in the Caribbean and its waters. I didn't know it yet, but that class planted something. By the time I graduated from Ole Miss, also landlocked, I was already drawn toward the coast.
Starting Over, Stone by Stone
We all have to start over at some point. Some of what forces that on us is out of our control — a diagnosis, a storm, a door that closes without warning. Some of it we choose. But if we live long enough, the storm comes regardless. Finances shift. A friend betrays. A death occurs. Someone we love is gone, and the life we built around them has to be rebuilt around the shape of their absence.
I think about that a lot in terms of architecture — literally. How do you build something that can survive a disaster and time and still be standing, still be beautiful, centuries later?
Travel Light
After so much travel through the years, I've become a pro-packer despite varying climates and time zones. I've also become a packing minimalist with a capital M. I can pack a load of black clothes by rolling each garment then stacking the rolls like chopsticks. I can puzzle together necessary hygiene products with luxury beauty creams in one small cosmetic bag without much fuss. I've even mastered the art of accessorizing—necklaces, earrings, scarves and belts—so one black turtleneck transforms into ten different looks. And by default, every time I start packing for long trips with limited items, I think deeply about the things we carry in life. Why is editing out unnecessary people, places and things so trying, difficult and sometimes painful? Why does saying "no" seem like bad manners? And why can the weight of people's asks and expectations feel so overwhelming and disorienting? Why is it so tricky to travel light?
Stillness in Motion
A train journey is an open opportunity to see the world from a different window in a new way. Some of my favorite and most memorable travel experiences have been clunking along the Hudson (River) Line or gliding across a Euro rail, catching glimpses of countrysides while moving towards metropolitan destinations in the US and abroad, respectively. For example, I think fondly of boarding at Grand Central Station (New York, New York) among the hustle and bustle of daily commuters or curious, international travelers, then riding “up” the Hudson River on crisp fall days towards Boston or bright summer days on the way to the Saratoga horse races— all with space to dream, time to read and quiet to think about — and through — a lot of matters on the head and heart.