It happens every year. On a fine spring morning, I feel surprised, even shocked, to see where the sun rises. ☀️ This - regardless of the fact that my daily walks afford me ample consistency to track this detail. Year after year, walking the same trails. 

Most weeks, my Tuesday writing group is where my words and thoughts coalesce for this Wednesday newsletter. I typically arrive with a partially marinated idea of what I want to share with you and in the course of an hour, a short essay is born. Not this week. 🥹

Last week, I gave a book reading in the sweetest cafe: Shipwrecked, on the shore of the Hudson River, two doors down from a restaurant run by a cultic group. I read a smattering of passages from my memoir, An Everyday Cult.