Today, I am nowhere near a Redwood. I am in the desert, surrounded by cacti—aloof, ancient, armored. They stand like silent elders, their wisdom carved into ridges, their defences sharp and unwavering. They do not beckon. They do not invite.

Still, I am drawn in…

The other night, I attended a fascinating AI discussion and was introduced to some incredible tools—things that spark creativity, streamline work, and expand possibilities in ways we’re just beginning to understand. But as much as I was excited by what I saw, I kept coming back to a single, pressing question: What responsibility do we hold in how we use these tools?

The other night, I attended a fascinating AI discussion and was introduced to some incredible tools—things that spark creativity, streamline work, and expand possibilities in ways we’re just beginning to understand. But as much as I was excited by what I saw, I kept coming back to a single, pressing question: What responsibility do we hold in how we use these tools?

…As the session continued, I felt an unexpected discomfort creeping in. Strangely, it wasn’t the AI itself that unsettled me—it was the way the facilitator was using it.

The Queen Anne is swallowed by a heavy Scottish fog. Thick and gray, it blurs the horizon and grounds the tenders that were supposed to take us ashore. Plans to celebrate Ann’s birthday over cobblestone streets and cafe terraces have been swept away, replaced by an endless stretch of “waiting for the weather to clear.”…

The Rose Bushes are Speaking - Are You Listening?

I expected the vintner to be watching the vines.

After all, they were the prize, weren’t they? The gnarled branches twisting in perfect rows, holding the weight of the future in clusters of green. I thought he’d be checking the leaves, the soil, maybe plucking a grape and rolling it between his fingers like some kind of ancient wisdom keeper.

Instead, he was looking at the roses…

We were comparing lifestyles—he is a homebody, and I am a nomad.

“Why do you travel so much?” he asked.

I paused.

I hadn’t reflected on that in a while. Travel has become my norm—months lived out of one bag, bouncing between cities, always packing, unpacking, leaving just as the familiar starts to take root.

But why do I do it?

Because I know of no better way to do what I love most: fall in love…

“At the brow of the hill, take the path to the left until you reach the gate at the far edge of the paddock.”

Simple, right? Or so I thought until I found myself standing on a hillside, squinting at a web of winding paths, none of which offered a clear invitation. I’d assumed the “brow” of a hill was obvious—a point near the top, naturally—but now, I wasn’t so sure.

I was sitting at my desk, staring down another New Year’s resolution. My journal was open, a pen in my hand, but I couldn’t figure out what to write. I kept thinking, What am I even trying to fix this time?

I reached for my coffee, thinking maybe another hit of caffeine would help, and as I stirred in more sugar, my hand froze.

The spoon I was holding—it was one of my favorites. I’d picked it up at an antique fair in England years ago. It used to shine so brightly, catching the light just so, but now… now it was dull, the once-ornate details blurred under a film of tarnish.

I decided to purchase a huge box of Santa chocolates. I was lost in my holiday planning lists, worrying about the forecast for freezing rain and the innumerable things that would need to align—three airport security lines, two connections, one passport control, and a midnight shuttle to the rental car agency—to get to my sister’s in California in the wee hours of Christmas morning…

The table was a mess. Not the kind of curated, artful mess you see on Instagram, but a chaotic jumble of half-used jars, crumpled paper towels, and a single onion rolling dangerously close to the edge. My plan for Christmas dinner had unravelled spectacularly—an ice storm had trapped me at home, and the intricate menu I’d spent hours crafting was suddenly irrelevant…

This summer, I found myself aboard the Queen Ann, and after dinner, I sought out the ship’s evening entertainment—a great ensemble playing old standards and new show tunes. I was a little out of my comfort zone on this ship—it is not my usual travel style—but I believe there is an adventure to be had in every experience, so I happily donned my gown and followed my friend Ann to the seats at the side of the dance floor…

I’m hanging in perfect stillness, caught between the point where I took off and wherever I’ll eventually land. There’s no rushing ahead. I’m at the mercy of the wind, the warmth of the sun, and the coolness of the air, realizing—again—that I’m not in control. My only job is to respond. To be present. To let myself be carried.

It feels shameful to confess I had been living in survival mode. It’s remarkable I didn’t notice, though I sensed something was off. The things I loved became scheduled impositions. I pushed to find ease in my relationship, never feeling it flow. I forgot the joy of reading every morning and replaced birdsong on my walks with Spotify. I was constantly hustling from one deadline to another…

It's so easy to get caught up in what goes wrong, isn't it? Like today, I just got home from the market and couldn't stop pouting because I forgot to grab some cherries. I completely overlooked the fact that I snagged the last strawberry rhubarb pie—my absolute favourite!

I'm strolling through the Lourmarin market, utterly captivated by this charming Provencal man I've been following. He's shopping, likely preparing for a delectable lunch later today, selecting the freshest, most in-season produce. He must be a regular; all the stall owners greet him with a warm familiarity. 

I can remember the mud pies. When did I stop standing on my tiptoes with pride beaming from my forehead, happy to be in my moment of contribution? 

As I stand here with my hands raised in the air, chin up, exclaiming, “I did it!!”, I can't help but feel the weight of awkwardness mingled with pride..

Though winter was unusually mild here in Canada, and we didn't experience the usual amount of snow or bone-chilling cold typical of our Canadian winters, I still find myself longing for signs of spring…

I am packing, headed down to the warmth of Baja for the next couple of months.

Remote working has been a part of my norm for the last 10 years and packing (CARRY ON ONLY!) is second nature. I grab the now-familiar combination of clothes and set them in the case. Then I reach for the new things I have picked up - a pair of silk pyjamas (my new work-from-home uniform), a splurge of a cashmere sweater that keeps me warm writing early in the morning, and it becomes clear that there is just not enough room for it all. 

I am fascinated by this new routine. 

A day measured in moon cycles instead of minutes. 

Who said one hour was the right amount of time for anything?

I’ve come to Provence to immerse myself in the study of "Joie de Vivre," a term synonymous with the French way of life. Yet, its embodiment eludes me.

So today, aware that the bank closes at 11:30 for lunch, I’ve ventured out early and happened upon the unfolding of a Joie de Vivre ritual…

The prospect of shifting 
from "Did I get it done?" to
"Did it make me happy?" intoxicates me.

I’m learning that Joie de Vivre is a practice. It is a collection of choices, a way of evaluating the importance of time, a renewed sense of my values and a commitment to a pace and direction that best suits me now.

How do you gauge your "best life" at day's end? What markers reveal a day filled with Joie de Vivre and a sense of thriving for you?