I read this morning it is chestnut season in Tuscany. I concentrated on the beauty of that sentence; there has been nothing but horror to visualize recently. I closed my eyes, saw fat brown nuts, the fingertips of broad leaves curling in the sun, woven baskets, my daughter’s favorite dessert marrons glacé — a feast of candied chestnuts, vanilla, whipped cream — piled on a china plate. A short respite.

To date in 2023: five memorials, a wedding and my niece expecting. I told the bride a few weeks ago she had no idea how bright and hopeful her wedding felt to me. I have already purchased and patterned a multitude of baby gifts months before the shower and due date. How do we find light when the world seems so dark, the bombs so thick, the death so unrelenting, the anger so hot?

I find I am very conscious of being alive.

I have mourned the lives of friends over and over this year, the next chapter feeling close and urgent and more worthy than before. How to spend it?

I would like more time with my family that makes us laugh. Books. Martinis. Published pieces. Walks in new green spaces. To see you all in person, face-to-face, and talk. To share meals and stories and ideas. A chance to practice kindness every day.

I waited an inordinately long time to curbside check a bag at the airport today, then let a woman go ahead of me as she arrived late and in a lather about her flight to LA. I had the time. I had the breath in my body. Letting her line hop just didn’t seem that big of a deal.

She explained she had been in the hospital for a week with her mother and it was hard to leave her. Her two bags turned out to be over-sized, each weighing more than fifty pounds. The baggage handler waived the fee.

Kindness feels good.

Pass it on.