HOME | Katie Calautti | Writer

top of page

Katie Home New-01.png

Writer, Editor, Enthusiast

Energy is so fascinating. As I’ve worked on my second novel, which involves Irish folklore, my Irish ancestors have made themselves known in various ways—through dreams and intuitions, during acupuncture session meditations, and by connecting me with vestiges of our past. Take these glass milk bottles, for instance.

My matrilineal ancestors immigrated from County Kerry, Ireland to Upstate New York in the late 1800s, and worked as dairy farmers in the tiny town of Little Falls (swipe for a circa-1900 image of my great great grandfather Bartholomew “Bart” Carrig and his horse-drawn milk delivery wagon—my great grandfather John Carrig, born in 1895 and about five years old here, is pictured sitting on the milk can). Their farm is long gone, but according to family lore, sometimes old milk bottles from their creamery—Hillsdale Dairy—surface on eBay or in a vintage market. I’ve had a keyword alert set up for over a decade, and have fruitlessly scoured shops online and in person, hoping to own a piece of family history.

Just after my birthday in May, for the first time ever, there were two accurate keyword hits for milk bottles in the space of a week, for this pint from 1927 and this quart from after 1934 (dated thanks to the orange pyroglazing and larger size, which signals a time when refrigeration became more common). These long-coveted presents from the past ushered joy, but their sudden emergence didn’t feel coincidental. Through my writing, I’ve inadvertently accessed the channel by which to call them forth—this is a theme and driving force of my work.

Just as energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only transfer or transform, we carry within us the emotions of everyone in our lineage. All their dreams, fears, triumphs, and traumas are in our blood and ligament and bone. Sometimes we don’t even have to tap in to feel them, which can be comforting and chilling in equal measure. We talk a lot about being good ancestors these days, and part of it is understanding and accepting the thread that can be tugged, twisted, knotted…but, for better or worse, never cut.

Energy is so fascinating. As I’ve worked on my second novel, which involves Irish folklore, my Irish ancestors have made themselves known in various ways—through dreams and intuitions, during acupuncture session meditations, and by connecting me with vestiges of our past. Take these glass milk bottles, for instance.

My matrilineal ancestors immigrated from County Kerry, Ireland to Upstate New York in the late 1800s, and worked as dairy farmers in the tiny town of Little Falls (swipe for a circa-1900 image of my great great grandfather Bartholomew “Bart” Carrig and his horse-drawn milk delivery wagon—my great grandfather John Carrig, born in 1895 and about five years old here, is pictured sitting on the milk can). Their farm is long gone, but according to family lore, sometimes old milk bottles from their creamery—Hillsdale Dairy—surface on eBay or in a vintage market. I’ve had a keyword alert set up for over a decade, and have fruitlessly scoured shops online and in person, hoping to own a piece of family history.

Just after my birthday in May, for the first time ever, there were two accurate keyword hits for milk bottles in the space of a week, for this pint from 1927 and this quart from after 1934 (dated thanks to the orange pyroglazing and larger size, which signals a time when refrigeration became more common). These long-coveted presents from the past ushered joy, but their sudden emergence didn’t feel coincidental. Through my writing, I’ve inadvertently accessed the channel by which to call them forth—this is a theme and driving force of my work.

Just as energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only transfer or transform, we carry within us the emotions of everyone in our lineage. All their dreams, fears, triumphs, and traumas are in our blood and ligament and bone. Sometimes we don’t even have to tap in to feel them, which can be comforting and chilling in equal measure. We talk a lot about being good ancestors these days, and part of it is understanding and accepting the thread that can be tugged, twisted, knotted…but, for better or worse, never cut.

Left a July 4th gathering the second I started to get sleepy, heard fireworks while heading to my car, hiked through the woods toward the bursts of light illuminating the enshrouding dark, happened upon something close to a holy moment, just me and the mosquitos, buzzing.

Left a July 4th gathering the second I started to get sleepy, heard fireworks while heading to my car, hiked through the woods toward the bursts of light illuminating the enshrouding dark, happened upon something close to a holy moment, just me and the mosquitos, buzzing.

This past Friday, I drove out to York, PA to attend a day of the annual @assocgravestonestudies conference. It was such a thrill to sit in on lectures by experts in the field, hang with fellow taphophiles, and see so many of my mentors in person. While there, I also stole away to visit two notable nearby sites:

🪦1-3: York’s circa 1849 Prospect Hill Cemetery, a beautiful example of a mid-19th Century rural cemetery (up there with Easton, Green-Wood, and Albany Rural!) Photo two shows a lovingly-maintained cradle grave in its intended presentation—the flowers are supposed to look like a blanket.
🪦4-5: The State of Pennsylvania monument at the Gettysburg battlefield, and the view from the top.
🪦6: The scene of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, beside the Soldiers’ National Cemetery.

This past Friday, I drove out to York, PA to attend a day of the annual @assocgravestonestudies conference. It was such a thrill to sit in on lectures by experts in the field, hang with fellow taphophiles, and see so many of my mentors in person. While there, I also stole away to visit two notable nearby sites:

🪦1-3: York’s circa 1849 Prospect Hill Cemetery, a beautiful example of a mid-19th Century rural cemetery (up there with Easton, Green-Wood, and Albany Rural!) Photo two shows a lovingly-maintained cradle grave in its intended presentation—the flowers are supposed to look like a blanket.
🪦4-5: The State of Pennsylvania monument at the Gettysburg battlefield, and the view from the top.
🪦6: The scene of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, beside the Soldiers’ National Cemetery.

Some slices of life, lately:

1-2: Peony and wisteria season were, as always, glorious and ephemeral.
3-4: The cottage herb garden now boasts several beauties from the best of the best, @wellsweepherbfarm.
5: A favorite new bouquet transportation technique (bonus mock orange bush view through the window—the most intoxicating scent!)
6: Foxgloves standing stalwart in the south-facing kitchen garden.
7: A sheep’s-eye-view of the long barn, from the perspective of their favorite back pasture.
8: A pre-birthday cupcake delivery at work, care of my beloved @honeymoonnj.
9: Wild yellow flag irises on the nearby creek trail path.
10-13: Scenes from two NYC days with my favorite co-flâneuse @dianadaviscreative… A Jersey City-based view, dinner at @commerceinn, drinks at @barpisellino, and a sweet little verdant West Village entrance.
14: The season’s final blousy, bold-hued peonies basking in the lovely summer evening light.

Some slices of life, lately:

1-2: Peony and wisteria season were, as always, glorious and ephemeral.
3-4: The cottage herb garden now boasts several beauties from the best of the best, @wellsweepherbfarm.
5: A favorite new bouquet transportation technique (bonus mock orange bush view through the window—the most intoxicating scent!)
6: Foxgloves standing stalwart in the south-facing kitchen garden.
7: A sheep’s-eye-view of the long barn, from the perspective of their favorite back pasture.
8: A pre-birthday cupcake delivery at work, care of my beloved @honeymoonnj.
9: Wild yellow flag irises on the nearby creek trail path.
10-13: Scenes from two NYC days with my favorite co-flâneuse @dianadaviscreative… A Jersey City-based view, dinner at @commerceinn, drinks at @barpisellino, and a sweet little verdant West Village entrance.
14: The season’s final blousy, bold-hued peonies basking in the lovely summer evening light.

A few of my favorite tympanum carvings from my visit to Portland, Maine’s est. 1668 Eastern Cemetery—they’re an enduring reminder that headstone symbology is folk art. My full visit is up on Substack, under “Pastries With the💀” in my bio link.

A few of my favorite tympanum carvings from my visit to Portland, Maine’s est. 1668 Eastern Cemetery—they’re an enduring reminder that headstone symbology is folk art. My full visit is up on Substack, under “Pastries With the💀” in my bio link.

I tend to delay experiences until timing or funding is just right, so, as an act of rebellion against the “if, then” of it all, I’m turning 44 today in Maine—a place I’ve always dreamed of visiting. Not long ago, I wouldn’t have been able to afford the gas for this road trip, let alone the accommodations for the stay, so I know all too well that it’s a privilege to rail against a conditional existence in this manner. But when I shut off the brain chatter and just stand here inside my desire made manifest? Pure joy.

I tend to delay experiences until timing or funding is just right, so, as an act of rebellion against the “if, then” of it all, I’m turning 44 today in Maine—a place I’ve always dreamed of visiting. Not long ago, I wouldn’t have been able to afford the gas for this road trip, let alone the accommodations for the stay, so I know all too well that it’s a privilege to rail against a conditional existence in this manner. But when I shut off the brain chatter and just stand here inside my desire made manifest? Pure joy.

We have the absolute best customers at @frenchtown_bookshop, one of whom is the wonderfully smart and talented @stan.kornak.art. The first time we were introduced, we seamlessly launched into a conversation about Caravaggio’s aesthetics and themes in the new Ripley series, and it was clear I’d met a kindred spirit. When Stan walks in the door, I know I’m about to be taken to art church—a service wherein we mutually evangelize our favorites (don’t even get us started on the Spanish masters) and he imparts some new and fascinating fact that not even my most enthusiastic college professors touched upon.

Stan is also a self-taught artist, and his work is humbly perceptive—just like him. His ability to capture the expressions of his subjects is nothing short of sorcery—he tells me it’s “all in the eyes and lips” but I think, like the very best artists and creatives, Stan is someone who sees deeply, considers thoughtfully, and empathetically reflects his impressions back to us. Last week he stopped by with this portrait he made of me, and I was floored. The experience of being drawn is both flattering and uncanny—I can tell you exactly what I’m thinking in this rendering, and it’s incredibly moving to hold the intangible made so beautifully tactile. Thank you, Stan, for giving me this priceless keepsake and for sharing your gifts with the world!

We have the absolute best customers at @frenchtown_bookshop, one of whom is the wonderfully smart and talented @stan.kornak.art. The first time we were introduced, we seamlessly launched into a conversation about Caravaggio’s aesthetics and themes in the new Ripley series, and it was clear I’d met a kindred spirit. When Stan walks in the door, I know I’m about to be taken to art church—a service wherein we mutually evangelize our favorites (don’t even get us started on the Spanish masters) and he imparts some new and fascinating fact that not even my most enthusiastic college professors touched upon.

Stan is also a self-taught artist, and his work is humbly perceptive—just like him. His ability to capture the expressions of his subjects is nothing short of sorcery—he tells me it’s “all in the eyes and lips” but I think, like the very best artists and creatives, Stan is someone who sees deeply, considers thoughtfully, and empathetically reflects his impressions back to us. Last week he stopped by with this portrait he made of me, and I was floored. The experience of being drawn is both flattering and uncanny—I can tell you exactly what I’m thinking in this rendering, and it’s incredibly moving to hold the intangible made so beautifully tactile. Thank you, Stan, for giving me this priceless keepsake and for sharing your gifts with the world!

She’s heeeeeeere! Happy flowers-in-every-room season, y’all!

She’s heeeeeeere! Happy flowers-in-every-room season, y’all!

Post-rain foggy dusk, or: a snapshot of my skull’s insides.

Post-rain foggy dusk, or: a snapshot of my skull’s insides.

I could set a clock to spring’s whites and purples. On the wind, the earthy-sweet perfume of forthcoming yellows and greens. The peepers are serenading tonight; yesterday I was buzz-clipped by a pollen-drunk bee. She is arisen (me, I am she).

I could set a clock to spring’s whites and purples. On the wind, the earthy-sweet perfume of forthcoming yellows and greens. The peepers are serenading tonight; yesterday I was buzz-clipped by a pollen-drunk bee. She is arisen (me, I am she).

I’m focusing my attention very narrowly these days, and right now it’s firmly aimed at the spot by the stone wall where the season’s first snowdrops spring from the frozen earth. Soon...

I’m focusing my attention very narrowly these days, and right now it’s firmly aimed at the spot by the stone wall where the season’s first snowdrops spring from the frozen earth. Soon...

Some snow day softness before things get really hard.

Some snow day softness before things get really hard.

I wish I could bottle the season’s first snow feeling to use as sensory smelling salts throughout the grey doldrums of January and February. For now, I suppose this photo will have to do.

I wish I could bottle the season’s first snow feeling to use as sensory smelling salts throughout the grey doldrums of January and February. For now, I suppose this photo will have to do.

I spent a magical Christmas Eve at @lunaluna among rides and attractions created by iconic artists including Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Salvador Dalí, and Roy Lichtenstein, soundtracked to original scores by David Byrne, Philip Glass, Thom Yorke, and more. It was a surprisingly moving experience—a straight shot of wonder, pure ambient music and vibes. Yet somehow, it left me melancholic—the idea that this circa-1987 amusement park could be devised today feels idealistic, to say the least. Perhaps it’s more a call to remember that creative processes and their products must remain fluid; that they must take on unconventional forms and delivery channels in order to find their audience. Luna Luna stands in brilliant, technicolor testament to play as an integral part of that practice.

I spent a magical Christmas Eve at @lunaluna among rides and attractions created by iconic artists including Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Salvador Dalí, and Roy Lichtenstein, soundtracked to original scores by David Byrne, Philip Glass, Thom Yorke, and more. It was a surprisingly moving experience—a straight shot of wonder, pure ambient music and vibes. Yet somehow, it left me melancholic—the idea that this circa-1987 amusement park could be devised today feels idealistic, to say the least. Perhaps it’s more a call to remember that creative processes and their products must remain fluid; that they must take on unconventional forms and delivery channels in order to find their audience. Luna Luna stands in brilliant, technicolor testament to play as an integral part of that practice.

Ya girl just found out she’s a @jamespattersonbooks and @americanbooksellers Holiday Bookstore Bonus recipient—what a thrill! I was chosen as one of 600 booksellers out of over 5,000 entrants, which is holy moly flattering. Boundless gratitude to my @frenchtown_bookshop team for nominating me.

My role as a bookseller has enriched my life in so many ways—from teaching me about the business of books to helping me directly support authors to providing me a safe space to wax bibliophilic with equally enthusiastic customers. Through this job, I’ve learned that the pursuits in life that are perfectly aligned are the ones that *give* you energy. Evangelizing books is one of my favorite things ever and this honor makes me feel like the work loves me just as fiercely.

I’ve always been a big believer in giving back, and Mr. Patterson is such an inspiration—pledging so much to those who helped him become a success is a deeply noble commitment, and I hope every person his generosity touches is able to thrive and eventually pay it forward. Thank you to Mr. Patterson, the ABA, and my Frenchtown Bookshop beloveds!

Ya girl just found out she’s a @jamespattersonbooks and @americanbooksellers Holiday Bookstore Bonus recipient—what a thrill! I was chosen as one of 600 booksellers out of over 5,000 entrants, which is holy moly flattering. Boundless gratitude to my @frenchtown_bookshop team for nominating me.

My role as a bookseller has enriched my life in so many ways—from teaching me about the business of books to helping me directly support authors to providing me a safe space to wax bibliophilic with equally enthusiastic customers. Through this job, I’ve learned that the pursuits in life that are perfectly aligned are the ones that *give* you energy. Evangelizing books is one of my favorite things ever and this honor makes me feel like the work loves me just as fiercely.

I’ve always been a big believer in giving back, and Mr. Patterson is such an inspiration—pledging so much to those who helped him become a success is a deeply noble commitment, and I hope every person his generosity touches is able to thrive and eventually pay it forward. Thank you to Mr. Patterson, the ABA, and my Frenchtown Bookshop beloveds!

I grew up obsessively watching Bob Ross on PBS and I just know he’d be tickled that I live in a place where I get to walk through one of his paintings several nights a week.

I grew up obsessively watching Bob Ross on PBS and I just know he’d be tickled that I live in a place where I get to walk through one of his paintings several nights a week.

Dad passed on 20 years ago today. My feelings about his presence and absence are ever-shifting. Our relationship didn’t die with him, it just became a one-sided conversation; an endlessly-looping reviewing and reckoning rendered in poor pantomime. All grief is complicated, and I won’t presume mine is any more or less so. Time both softens and supplants, which can be a mercy or a tragedy—sometimes it’s a relief to draw blood on the sharp edge of a memory.

Dad passed on 20 years ago today. My feelings about his presence and absence are ever-shifting. Our relationship didn’t die with him, it just became a one-sided conversation; an endlessly-looping reviewing and reckoning rendered in poor pantomime. All grief is complicated, and I won’t presume mine is any more or less so. Time both softens and supplants, which can be a mercy or a tragedy—sometimes it’s a relief to draw blood on the sharp edge of a memory.

I had to drag myself to the bookshop on Wednesday. The last thing I wanted to do was plaster on a friendly smile or entertain conversations about “it”. I wanted a sleeping pill and my bed, rinse repeat, until I could process the shock and fear. I got to town early and walked on the nearby towpath, steeling myself with nature’s stillness.

But over the course of that day, and the next, regulars trickled in to do wellness checks, taking coffee orders and giving hugs. Their care, along with the revolving door of customers clutching books to their chests like life jackets, made me realize that—in direct opposition to my instinct to isolate—it was the act of sharing a welcoming space and warm kindnesses that truly helped me reembody.

I feel such gratitude to work at the bookshop—a tiny island filled with escape pods to every conceivable foreign land. I’ve met so many like-minded travelers in my year there, and I feel more embraced and supported than in any other moment of my life.

On Thursday, Anne—a neighbor and friend of the shop—chatted with me as I scanned new stock. I confessed that I’d been despairing about selling my novel and writing my second book in this current and future climate. The pursuit seemed trivial compared to what we’d be up against. “I can’t think of one good reason to keep going with it all,” I lamented.

“Because you deserve to,” Anne said, in her decisive and wise way. “Because it’s what you’re here to do, and so you must do it without hesitation.”

She’s right, of course. In the months and years to come, art and connection are what will save us. Now is the time to gather your people, comfort and support each other, and extend your services to your respective communities in every way possible. Eventually, we must pull ourselves out of anguish and bravely venture forth with the creative work that calls to us. No doubt, it is going to be hard to laugh, to hope, to dream—but “in spite of” is yet another form of our resistance.

I had to drag myself to the bookshop on Wednesday. The last thing I wanted to do was plaster on a friendly smile or entertain conversations about “it”. I wanted a sleeping pill and my bed, rinse repeat, until I could process the shock and fear. I got to town early and walked on the nearby towpath, steeling myself with nature’s stillness.

But over the course of that day, and the next, regulars trickled in to do wellness checks, taking coffee orders and giving hugs. Their care, along with the revolving door of customers clutching books to their chests like life jackets, made me realize that—in direct opposition to my instinct to isolate—it was the act of sharing a welcoming space and warm kindnesses that truly helped me reembody.

I feel such gratitude to work at the bookshop—a tiny island filled with escape pods to every conceivable foreign land. I’ve met so many like-minded travelers in my year there, and I feel more embraced and supported than in any other moment of my life.

On Thursday, Anne—a neighbor and friend of the shop—chatted with me as I scanned new stock. I confessed that I’d been despairing about selling my novel and writing my second book in this current and future climate. The pursuit seemed trivial compared to what we’d be up against. “I can’t think of one good reason to keep going with it all,” I lamented.

“Because you deserve to,” Anne said, in her decisive and wise way. “Because it’s what you’re here to do, and so you must do it without hesitation.”

She’s right, of course. In the months and years to come, art and connection are what will save us. Now is the time to gather your people, comfort and support each other, and extend your services to your respective communities in every way possible. Eventually, we must pull ourselves out of anguish and bravely venture forth with the creative work that calls to us. No doubt, it is going to be hard to laugh, to hope, to dream—but “in spite of” is yet another form of our resistance.

Adding my perspective to the prolific aurora borealis content! I wandered the farm several times Thursday night to track the northern lights—scroll to see a full progression as the activity flares and fades. To me, each stage is equally beautiful—the silver pinprick sprays of stars, the melding pinks and blues, the spindly silhouettes of trunks and branches.

It’s interesting to me that many folks lamented the difference between seeing and photographing the event, since the sky appeared only faintly-colored until viewed through a longer-exposure lens. If anything, the experience should convince people of what spirit workers already know: there’s so very much more going on beneath the surface of what our eyes perceive.

Adding my perspective to the prolific aurora borealis content! I wandered the farm several times Thursday night to track the northern lights—scroll to see a full progression as the activity flares and fades. To me, each stage is equally beautiful—the silver pinprick sprays of stars, the melding pinks and blues, the spindly silhouettes of trunks and branches.

It’s interesting to me that many folks lamented the difference between seeing and photographing the event, since the sky appeared only faintly-colored until viewed through a longer-exposure lens. If anything, the experience should convince people of what spirit workers already know: there’s so very much more going on beneath the surface of what our eyes perceive.

A kitchen window-framed portrait of the garden’s last brilliant breath. I’m particularly enamored with the slumping blooms—I think we can all relate!

A kitchen window-framed portrait of the garden’s last brilliant breath. I’m particularly enamored with the slumping blooms—I think we can all relate!

Just in time for spooky season, fellow New Jerseyans can find a feature about me and my cemetery work in the October issue of @njmonthly, on newsstands now (also at the link in my bio). This is, remarkably, the second time one of my self-portraits has made it into a print publication. Swipe to rewind three years back, when what I thought was a casual interview resulted in an above-the-fold photo on the front page of the @washingtonpost’s Style section. I’ll never stop saying, “Who, ME?!” when these opportunities come knocking—I remain flabbergasted and grateful that my various pursuits inspire interest!

Just in time for spooky season, fellow New Jerseyans can find a feature about me and my cemetery work in the October issue of @njmonthly, on newsstands now (also at the link in my bio). This is, remarkably, the second time one of my self-portraits has made it into a print publication. Swipe to rewind three years back, when what I thought was a casual interview resulted in an above-the-fold photo on the front page of the @washingtonpost’s Style section. I’ll never stop saying, “Who, ME?!” when these opportunities come knocking—I remain flabbergasted and grateful that my various pursuits inspire interest!

Gonna assume that stumbling upon this magical scene portends miracles on the horizon…

Gonna assume that stumbling upon this magical scene portends miracles on the horizon…

As of today, my novel is officially out on submission to publishers. Once Bri sent me the news, I let it sink in on a lengthy walk along a favorite stretch of country road. The excitement of reaching this milestone comes with a heaping dose of fear. Relinquishing control is tough; exposing your creative project to wider scrutiny and opinion is far, far tougher. Whenever I start worrying five steps ahead, I remind myself how grateful I am to be having this experience. That I’m a student of the process. That I’m on magical bonus time, now—already in the territory of more than I expected. That everything I’ve faced up to this point has made me the person I need to be to meet this moment, and the next one, and the next one…

As of today, my novel is officially out on submission to publishers. Once Bri sent me the news, I let it sink in on a lengthy walk along a favorite stretch of country road. The excitement of reaching this milestone comes with a heaping dose of fear. Relinquishing control is tough; exposing your creative project to wider scrutiny and opinion is far, far tougher. Whenever I start worrying five steps ahead, I remind myself how grateful I am to be having this experience. That I’m a student of the process. That I’m on magical bonus time, now—already in the territory of more than I expected. That everything I’ve faced up to this point has made me the person I need to be to meet this moment, and the next one, and the next one…

It’s WILD to me that I’m posting this. I’m elated to share that I’ve signed with a literary agent, the incredible Brianne Johnson at HG Literary. Bri has an undeniable personal connection to my manuscript, and I know she’ll champion the hell out of it—see the next slide for her first-read reaction, which rendered me speechless (a real feat!) She’s also the great @heather_fawcett’s agent. Nbd.

I began querying my debut novel in December 2021, and spent 2.5 years fielding rejections, close calls, and deep edits (🫶 @lidijahilje). Only 1% of queriers land an agent, so I shelved the book in January to focus on my next project. It felt like courting heartbreak, but I write because I can’t not, and I had to keep going.

Then in mid-July, out of the blue, someone I’d queried in November 2023 offered me representation. It kicked off a whirlwind of emails and calls with agents that resulted in three (!!!) offers of rep. I feel so much gratitude for that first yes—it led to others prioritizing and connecting with my work. Every author’s journey to representation is different, and mine is particularly twisty and thorn-covered, but the old adage stands: you just need one yes.

This has been a true exercise in detachment. I clung so tightly to this novel for so long, held close my assumptions and expectations, struggled to control a deeply uncontrollable situation. And then, the moment I let go of needing an outcome, the desired one arrived. I wish the experience was as easy as summarizing it is.

It’s only fitting that I make this announcement with a cake from my beloved Beth at @honeymoonnj. She’s been by my side (literally next to me while I whisked pastry cream) as I’ve endured rejection after rejection, and she’s never stopped believing in me. Telling my loved ones this news means everything. They’ve supported me through some messy, ugly years, and all I want is to make them proud. If this accomplishes that, then I’m already a success.

Now, Bri and I will polish the manuscript together, then it goes out on submission to publishers. I hope someday you’ll get to hold my book in your hands. Thank you for reading my work and making me an author in my heart all this time.

It’s WILD to me that I’m posting this. I’m elated to share that I’ve signed with a literary agent, the incredible Brianne Johnson at HG Literary. Bri has an undeniable personal connection to my manuscript, and I know she’ll champion the hell out of it—see the next slide for her first-read reaction, which rendered me speechless (a real feat!) She’s also the great @heather_fawcett’s agent. Nbd.

I began querying my debut novel in December 2021, and spent 2.5 years fielding rejections, close calls, and deep edits (🫶 @lidijahilje). Only 1% of queriers land an agent, so I shelved the book in January to focus on my next project. It felt like courting heartbreak, but I write because I can’t not, and I had to keep going.

Then in mid-July, out of the blue, someone I’d queried in November 2023 offered me representation. It kicked off a whirlwind of emails and calls with agents that resulted in three (!!!) offers of rep. I feel so much gratitude for that first yes—it led to others prioritizing and connecting with my work. Every author’s journey to representation is different, and mine is particularly twisty and thorn-covered, but the old adage stands: you just need one yes.

This has been a true exercise in detachment. I clung so tightly to this novel for so long, held close my assumptions and expectations, struggled to control a deeply uncontrollable situation. And then, the moment I let go of needing an outcome, the desired one arrived. I wish the experience was as easy as summarizing it is.

It’s only fitting that I make this announcement with a cake from my beloved Beth at @honeymoonnj. She’s been by my side (literally next to me while I whisked pastry cream) as I’ve endured rejection after rejection, and she’s never stopped believing in me. Telling my loved ones this news means everything. They’ve supported me through some messy, ugly years, and all I want is to make them proud. If this accomplishes that, then I’m already a success.

Now, Bri and I will polish the manuscript together, then it goes out on submission to publishers. I hope someday you’ll get to hold my book in your hands. Thank you for reading my work and making me an author in my heart all this time.

Open the lovely little gem that is the @frenchtown_bookshop with me (yes, sometimes my life is a movie).

Open the lovely little gem that is the @frenchtown_bookshop with me (yes, sometimes my life is a movie).

A band of strong storms knocked out power on the farm three times in under a week (twice for longer than 24 hours), so I turned to a low-tech obsession to occupy my time: charting the growth of the wrens nesting in the light fixture outside my kitchen door. I haven’t managed an accurate chick head count, but there are at least seven—I’m particularly enamored by their floofy feather “antlers” and the fact that tufts of our sheep flock’s wool were used by their enterprising momma to build the nest. Swipe for an uninterrupted three minutes of hatchling bliss (come at me, @natgeo!)

A band of strong storms knocked out power on the farm three times in under a week (twice for longer than 24 hours), so I turned to a low-tech obsession to occupy my time: charting the growth of the wrens nesting in the light fixture outside my kitchen door. I haven’t managed an accurate chick head count, but there are at least seven—I’m particularly enamored by their floofy feather “antlers” and the fact that tufts of our sheep flock’s wool were used by their enterprising momma to build the nest. Swipe for an uninterrupted three minutes of hatchling bliss (come at me, @natgeo!)

I recently learned that stressed plants are more nutritious because they create beneficial antimicrobial substances to fight off aggressors—which means that bunch of kale with the holes in its leaves and the rainbow chard that’s got a few brown edges contain more antioxidants than their pristine counterparts. So not only will I solely be choosing battered produce from here on out, but I also more than qualify to identify as a nutrient-dense plant. I’m gonna live forever!!

I recently learned that stressed plants are more nutritious because they create beneficial antimicrobial substances to fight off aggressors—which means that bunch of kale with the holes in its leaves and the rainbow chard that’s got a few brown edges contain more antioxidants than their pristine counterparts. So not only will I solely be choosing battered produce from here on out, but I also more than qualify to identify as a nutrient-dense plant. I’m gonna live forever!!

I found this fascinating @river_harvest black walnut watercolor ink at the farmstand up the road, and it’s been sitting in my fridge for over a month, mocking my inability to make space for creative play. Today, during a sticky bout of writer’s block, I gave in and carved out time to experiment with it. And wouldn’t you know…in the wake of a quarter hour coaxing the sepia-toned liquid into layers, the words flowed.

I found this fascinating @river_harvest black walnut watercolor ink at the farmstand up the road, and it’s been sitting in my fridge for over a month, mocking my inability to make space for creative play. Today, during a sticky bout of writer’s block, I gave in and carved out time to experiment with it. And wouldn’t you know…in the wake of a quarter hour coaxing the sepia-toned liquid into layers, the words flowed.

43, I made it. I made it…

🪦 🪦 🪦

The full-bloom azalea bush is what drew me to this birthday self portrait setting, though I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that dear Mary, who is interred beneath the ledger stone I’m leaning on, died on this day 108 years ago. Intuition guides inspiration, after all.

43, I made it. I made it…

🪦 🪦 🪦

The full-bloom azalea bush is what drew me to this birthday self portrait setting, though I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that dear Mary, who is interred beneath the ledger stone I’m leaning on, died on this day 108 years ago. Intuition guides inspiration, after all.

Spring evening walks are unmatched.

Spring evening walks are unmatched.

I’ve always loved how gloom highlights the beauty of nature. (That goes for plants *and* people.)

I’ve always loved how gloom highlights the beauty of nature. (That goes for plants *and* people.)

The six new members of our flock only care about napping in a patch of sun, indulging random fits of the zoomies, wreaking havoc in roving groups, and snacking every 15 minutes. Forget meditation or spiritual enlightenment—just look to lambs for all your meaning-of-life needs.

The six new members of our flock only care about napping in a patch of sun, indulging random fits of the zoomies, wreaking havoc in roving groups, and snacking every 15 minutes. Forget meditation or spiritual enlightenment—just look to lambs for all your meaning-of-life needs.

A magical glimmer I love about early spring is the cheerful bursts of daffodils lining roadsides. They aren’t native flowers here in North America, which means their bulbs must be purposefully planted in the fall. I think it’s so beautiful that several someones migrated the joy from their gardens and yards to these publicly-trafficked places, for no reason other than to make us smile as we drive by the bright yellow blooms bowing in the wind and winking in the sun. More premeditated acts of public service, please!

A magical glimmer I love about early spring is the cheerful bursts of daffodils lining roadsides. They aren’t native flowers here in North America, which means their bulbs must be purposefully planted in the fall. I think it’s so beautiful that several someones migrated the joy from their gardens and yards to these publicly-trafficked places, for no reason other than to make us smile as we drive by the bright yellow blooms bowing in the wind and winking in the sun. More premeditated acts of public service, please!

Springing forth from an inadvertent months-long social media hibernation. This season has been a hard one in all the ways, and I just…stopped knowing how to show up. Or wanting to, really. So I didn’t. Anyway. Here’s my attempt at a return(ish) to form. Thank you for your sweet check-in messages. I’m grateful I’m here, and that you’re here with me.

Springing forth from an inadvertent months-long social media hibernation. This season has been a hard one in all the ways, and I just…stopped knowing how to show up. Or wanting to, really. So I didn’t. Anyway. Here’s my attempt at a return(ish) to form. Thank you for your sweet check-in messages. I’m grateful I’m here, and that you’re here with me.

In the wake of a year that was all hard edges, it felt important to greet the next one by gifting myself 24 hours of softness. I drove deep into Pennsylvania to stay at this incredible circa-1800 cabin for New Year’s Eve, where I curled up and read surrounded by gorgeous pine log walls and spent more time in the vintage clawfoot bathtub than I care to admit.

I’m deeply averse to disappointing people (boundaries are *hard*, y’all), and lately I’ve lost myself a bit because of it. This was an excellent reminder to show myself the same commitment and care that I extend to others. After all, we’re the architects of our own happiness—may we continue to conjure beautiful plans for ourselves! 🥂✨

In the wake of a year that was all hard edges, it felt important to greet the next one by gifting myself 24 hours of softness. I drove deep into Pennsylvania to stay at this incredible circa-1800 cabin for New Year’s Eve, where I curled up and read surrounded by gorgeous pine log walls and spent more time in the vintage clawfoot bathtub than I care to admit.

I’m deeply averse to disappointing people (boundaries are *hard*, y’all), and lately I’ve lost myself a bit because of it. This was an excellent reminder to show myself the same commitment and care that I extend to others. After all, we’re the architects of our own happiness—may we continue to conjure beautiful plans for ourselves! 🥂✨

Here’s to 2023 in the rearview and all the beauty that got me through…

Here’s to 2023 in the rearview and all the beauty that got me through…

I spent my Christmas day by the sea. I’ve always been drawn to the beach in winter—it’s so lovely, still and desolate. Quiet, save the roaring waves. Even the gulls observe the silence. There’s something otherworldly, holy about it; the lace of foam separating two bodies, the bare hills of wind-smoothed sand, the icy water finding its way into my boots—sacrament through salinity.

I walked with my gaze on the fog-dusted horizon, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand shipwrecks, who whispered, “Life is a footprint on the shore before the tide.”

I spent my Christmas day by the sea. I’ve always been drawn to the beach in winter—it’s so lovely, still and desolate. Quiet, save the roaring waves. Even the gulls observe the silence. There’s something otherworldly, holy about it; the lace of foam separating two bodies, the bare hills of wind-smoothed sand, the icy water finding its way into my boots—sacrament through salinity.

I walked with my gaze on the fog-dusted horizon, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand shipwrecks, who whispered, “Life is a footprint on the shore before the tide.”

There are *many* moments when I pause before sharing something here and think, “Hmm…too much?” But then that little kid inside nudges me with a reminder of how isolating it feels not to share what you love and be seen for who you truly are. The double-bind of desperately wanting to be understood: vulnerability! Speaking the truth is a scary practice, but ohhh is the risk worth it.

Case in point: this painting. Over two years ago, a sticky bout of depression compelled me to discuss my mental health struggles through explorations of local cemeteries, which eventually turned into my Sunday Pastries With the Dead series. And, because I’ve chronicled it all here, the generous and talented @tracypollockart felt I’d give the perfect home to this piece by local artist Lee Hughes, a beloved family connection of Tracy’s who inspired her own painting journey. It rendered me speechless when I first saw it; I cried on the drive home from picking it up, in gratitude for all the incredible people and magical things this community has brought me.

It’s wild, just absolutely wild, what rushes in when you open the door to something that calls to you. Because of my once-casual graveyard wanderings, I’ve studied cemetery history with a Harvard professor, been invited to join discussions with academics in the field, and even trained in the art of letter carving on slate. And now I have this piece, which I love so much it actually hurts. Maybe someday I’ll host a Sunday Pastries at the Maine cemetery where it was painted en plein air.

Say the things, show the struggles, and follow whatever makes you feel warm, friends.

There are *many* moments when I pause before sharing something here and think, “Hmm…too much?” But then that little kid inside nudges me with a reminder of how isolating it feels not to share what you love and be seen for who you truly are. The double-bind of desperately wanting to be understood: vulnerability! Speaking the truth is a scary practice, but ohhh is the risk worth it.

Case in point: this painting. Over two years ago, a sticky bout of depression compelled me to discuss my mental health struggles through explorations of local cemeteries, which eventually turned into my Sunday Pastries With the Dead series. And, because I’ve chronicled it all here, the generous and talented @tracypollockart felt I’d give the perfect home to this piece by local artist Lee Hughes, a beloved family connection of Tracy’s who inspired her own painting journey. It rendered me speechless when I first saw it; I cried on the drive home from picking it up, in gratitude for all the incredible people and magical things this community has brought me.

It’s wild, just absolutely wild, what rushes in when you open the door to something that calls to you. Because of my once-casual graveyard wanderings, I’ve studied cemetery history with a Harvard professor, been invited to join discussions with academics in the field, and even trained in the art of letter carving on slate. And now I have this piece, which I love so much it actually hurts. Maybe someday I’ll host a Sunday Pastries at the Maine cemetery where it was painted en plein air.

Say the things, show the struggles, and follow whatever makes you feel warm, friends.

I generally delight in existing outside the accepted narrative—but damn, do the holidays test my resolve. Every year they creep up on me; the full-body exposed nerve of it all, the sticky grief-thickness. In my experience, the only thing that matters is granting yourself permission to honor your feelings and needs through these months, independent of what others may think or what social programming portrays. Go to the seasonal gatherings or don’t. Enjoy solo festivities or hide under the covers indefinitely. The endeavor to hold and own all the complicated, uncomfortable, erratic emotions without self-judgement is what’s worth celebrating.

I generally delight in existing outside the accepted narrative—but damn, do the holidays test my resolve. Every year they creep up on me; the full-body exposed nerve of it all, the sticky grief-thickness. In my experience, the only thing that matters is granting yourself permission to honor your feelings and needs through these months, independent of what others may think or what social programming portrays. Go to the seasonal gatherings or don’t. Enjoy solo festivities or hide under the covers indefinitely. The endeavor to hold and own all the complicated, uncomfortable, erratic emotions without self-judgement is what’s worth celebrating.

Back in November 2017, when I was cloistered in my Brooklyn apartment and so depressed I could barely function, I answered a stranger’s ad to farmsit in the Catskills. I agreed to do it on a whim—I had no livestock experience, had never met the farm owners or been to that part of New York. And yet, the opportunity felt like a spark amid the muted grey sameness of my life. Something that might make me stay.

I remember my first night alone in their cavernous, cold 1830s farmhouse—the surrounding pin-drop silence that made me feel like my ears had been boxed, the mournful wail of coyotes emanating from the blackness beyond the cylinder glass windows, the moon eyes of the resident English Shepherd observing me as I attempted to build my first fire, and failed. How I cursed and kicked wood into splinters and spent the rest of the week frustrated and shivering, glaring at the charred logs; scorching proof of my inadequacy. It took a few more caretaking stints upstate for me to figure fires out—through trial and error, I learned to cut kindling and stack it for optimal airflow, to layer lighter logs first until there are enough coals to sustain larger pieces, to identify the types of wood that burn faster or slower.

My time in the Catskills eventually inspired me to make a permanent move to the country, and now I have a wood stove of my own that I use daily from November to March. Without fail, every time I build a fire I think of that first blundered attempt. I’m still amazed that something I once toiled over is now second nature. That I saw the spark and survived to fan it into flames.

Back in November 2017, when I was cloistered in my Brooklyn apartment and so depressed I could barely function, I answered a stranger’s ad to farmsit in the Catskills. I agreed to do it on a whim—I had no livestock experience, had never met the farm owners or been to that part of New York. And yet, the opportunity felt like a spark amid the muted grey sameness of my life. Something that might make me stay.

I remember my first night alone in their cavernous, cold 1830s farmhouse—the surrounding pin-drop silence that made me feel like my ears had been boxed, the mournful wail of coyotes emanating from the blackness beyond the cylinder glass windows, the moon eyes of the resident English Shepherd observing me as I attempted to build my first fire, and failed. How I cursed and kicked wood into splinters and spent the rest of the week frustrated and shivering, glaring at the charred logs; scorching proof of my inadequacy. It took a few more caretaking stints upstate for me to figure fires out—through trial and error, I learned to cut kindling and stack it for optimal airflow, to layer lighter logs first until there are enough coals to sustain larger pieces, to identify the types of wood that burn faster or slower.

My time in the Catskills eventually inspired me to make a permanent move to the country, and now I have a wood stove of my own that I use daily from November to March. Without fail, every time I build a fire I think of that first blundered attempt. I’m still amazed that something I once toiled over is now second nature. That I saw the spark and survived to fan it into flames.

“You can't take a picture of this, it's already gone."

“You can't take a picture of this, it's already gone."

Gomez, Morticia, Wednesday, Pugsley, Uncle Fester, Thing, and the rest of the Addams Family gang may hail from Cemetery Ridge, but their roots run deep in Westfield, New Jersey; it’s where their creator Charles Addams grew up. As a pre-teen in the 1920s, Charles spent almost every day in the town’s est. 1720 Presbyterian Church Burial Grounds. He said he thought often about what it was like to be dead when he sat among the almost 1,500 memorials, and one trip through the cemetery makes it easy to see why. Common 1700s memento mori headstone symbols abound, as do design flourishes that carried over into his illustration aesthetic. Come take a walk in Charles’ shoes with me and experience the inspiration for what started as a single-panel comic series in The New Yorker and became a pop culture juggernaut. If you’d like to read more on the subject and see photos of Charles’ home and the dwelling that inspired the Addams family residence, head to the link in my bio and click the Substack button to find my full post.

Gomez, Morticia, Wednesday, Pugsley, Uncle Fester, Thing, and the rest of the Addams Family gang may hail from Cemetery Ridge, but their roots run deep in Westfield, New Jersey; it’s where their creator Charles Addams grew up. As a pre-teen in the 1920s, Charles spent almost every day in the town’s est. 1720 Presbyterian Church Burial Grounds. He said he thought often about what it was like to be dead when he sat among the almost 1,500 memorials, and one trip through the cemetery makes it easy to see why. Common 1700s memento mori headstone symbols abound, as do design flourishes that carried over into his illustration aesthetic. Come take a walk in Charles’ shoes with me and experience the inspiration for what started as a single-panel comic series in The New Yorker and became a pop culture juggernaut. If you’d like to read more on the subject and see photos of Charles’ home and the dwelling that inspired the Addams family residence, head to the link in my bio and click the Substack button to find my full post.

Perhaps many of us prefer fall because it’s an unabashedly tempestuous time of year. The changeable moods of the weather, dramatically slanting light, and ostentatious displays of foliage—who wouldn’t admire and aspire to the gobsmacking audacity? It’s all so very eat, drink, and be merry before the proverbial death of winter.

Perhaps many of us prefer fall because it’s an unabashedly tempestuous time of year. The changeable moods of the weather, dramatically slanting light, and ostentatious displays of foliage—who wouldn’t admire and aspire to the gobsmacking audacity? It’s all so very eat, drink, and be merry before the proverbial death of winter.

Once upon a time, you could send greetings from your local graveyard. In America, the Golden Age of Postcards began in 1898, and “real photo” postcards took off during its 1907-1915 period. This coincided with a time when rural cemeteries with manicured, mapped-out family plots were on the rise—so, to entice customers, cemeteries distributed photo postcards of their grounds. It was commonplace to send this unconventional intersection of advertising and correspondence to friends and family. Some may find it morbid now, but back then cemeteries were treated as parks—they were considered calming and aesthetically pleasing. Pictured in this video alongside their present-day equivalents are six vintage cemetery postcards from locales in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, all dating between 1901 and 1915. For more on the subject, head to the link in my bio and click the Substack button to read my full post.

Once upon a time, you could send greetings from your local graveyard. In America, the Golden Age of Postcards began in 1898, and “real photo” postcards took off during its 1907-1915 period. This coincided with a time when rural cemeteries with manicured, mapped-out family plots were on the rise—so, to entice customers, cemeteries distributed photo postcards of their grounds. It was commonplace to send this unconventional intersection of advertising and correspondence to friends and family. Some may find it morbid now, but back then cemeteries were treated as parks—they were considered calming and aesthetically pleasing. Pictured in this video alongside their present-day equivalents are six vintage cemetery postcards from locales in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, all dating between 1901 and 1915. For more on the subject, head to the link in my bio and click the Substack button to read my full post.

To all the wildflower and garden bouquets I’ve loved this past spring and summer…

To all the wildflower and garden bouquets I’ve loved this past spring and summer…

Still reeling from a transformative weekend in Vermont—studying iconic New England carvers in the colonial cemetery where Robert Frost is buried, paying homage to my lord and savior Shirley Jackson outside the home where she wrote The Haunting of Hill House, walking the grounds of @atbennington, which alumni Jonathan Lethem, Bret Easton Ellis, and Donna Tartt have all fictionalized in their work, waking up every day to a lake view, having several Moments in front of @benningtonmuseum’s Grandma Moses collection (no photos of her work allowed but those whimsical brush strokes live on in my heart), visiting the grave of Manchester’s “demon vampire” (that story’s on my Substack, link in bio)…

…and, of course, the main event: learning how to hand-carve letters on slate from @kofurlani at @the_carving_studio, which deserves its own post (soon!) Gratitude, gratitude, gratitude!

Still reeling from a transformative weekend in Vermont—studying iconic New England carvers in the colonial cemetery where Robert Frost is buried, paying homage to my lord and savior Shirley Jackson outside the home where she wrote The Haunting of Hill House, walking the grounds of @atbennington, which alumni Jonathan Lethem, Bret Easton Ellis, and Donna Tartt have all fictionalized in their work, waking up every day to a lake view, having several Moments in front of @benningtonmuseum’s Grandma Moses collection (no photos of her work allowed but those whimsical brush strokes live on in my heart), visiting the grave of Manchester’s “demon vampire” (that story’s on my Substack, link in bio)…

…and, of course, the main event: learning how to hand-carve letters on slate from @kofurlani at @the_carving_studio, which deserves its own post (soon!) Gratitude, gratitude, gratitude!

TW: Infant and child mortality. These haunting images are headstone photo ceramics from the early 1900s, immortalizing the deceased as they appeared around the time of their death. The treatment was patented in 1854 and popularized in the late 1800s—the technique involved firing a photograph transfer onto porcelain or enamel. Though they were advertised as nearly indestructible, many have cracked and chipped, giving the likenesses an even more ghostly effect. The last image in the reel is the oldest photo on a headstone in New Jersey. Hester Warne’s photograph dates to 1857, and it’s a slight twist on the trend—it involves a photo negative printed on glass. How would you feel about staring into the eyes of the interred while standing atop their grave? For more about photo ceramics, head to the link in my bio and click the Substack button to read my full post. This is just the first of the special extra-spooky programming I have planned for October!

TW: Infant and child mortality. These haunting images are headstone photo ceramics from the early 1900s, immortalizing the deceased as they appeared around the time of their death. The treatment was patented in 1854 and popularized in the late 1800s—the technique involved firing a photograph transfer onto porcelain or enamel. Though they were advertised as nearly indestructible, many have cracked and chipped, giving the likenesses an even more ghostly effect. The last image in the reel is the oldest photo on a headstone in New Jersey. Hester Warne’s photograph dates to 1857, and it’s a slight twist on the trend—it involves a photo negative printed on glass. How would you feel about staring into the eyes of the interred while standing atop their grave? For more about photo ceramics, head to the link in my bio and click the Substack button to read my full post. This is just the first of the special extra-spooky programming I have planned for October!

When I’m in a creative rut, I like to spark inspiration by visiting the workspaces of other creatives. So I recently road-tripped out to @brandywinemuseum in Chadds Ford, PA to tour the studios of famed American painter Andrew Wyeth and his father, illustrator N.C. Wyeth. I’ve shared many of my adventures here, but my story about this visit was by far one of the most popular I’ve ever posted—a sign, certainly, of why the Wyeth works have such a timeless hold on our imaginations, but also indicative of our fascination with peeling back the curtain to glimpse the unique ways that others compose. Some of us are Andrew in our sparse, pragmatic spaces, others are N.C. in their grand, highly-curated rooms, and many land somewhere in the middle. We all tend ideas to being in a vacuum, to some degree, but what a gift to receive vicarious permission to do so in the ways that feel most authentic. Gratitude to those before us who generated ripples in the creative waters, and to those that we initiate in turn once touched; a collective of ever-expanding circles overlapping…

When I’m in a creative rut, I like to spark inspiration by visiting the workspaces of other creatives. So I recently road-tripped out to @brandywinemuseum in Chadds Ford, PA to tour the studios of famed American painter Andrew Wyeth and his father, illustrator N.C. Wyeth. I’ve shared many of my adventures here, but my story about this visit was by far one of the most popular I’ve ever posted—a sign, certainly, of why the Wyeth works have such a timeless hold on our imaginations, but also indicative of our fascination with peeling back the curtain to glimpse the unique ways that others compose. Some of us are Andrew in our sparse, pragmatic spaces, others are N.C. in their grand, highly-curated rooms, and many land somewhere in the middle. We all tend ideas to being in a vacuum, to some degree, but what a gift to receive vicarious permission to do so in the ways that feel most authentic. Gratitude to those before us who generated ripples in the creative waters, and to those that we initiate in turn once touched; a collective of ever-expanding circles overlapping…

The farm was without power this weekend after a storm-felled tree took down the lines beside the far pasture. On the upside, once the rain cleared, nature rolled out a pretty stellar conciliatory double rainbow red carpet. There’s something to be pondered here about divine balance, but I’m still too busy cackling in gratitude while turning on my taps, heating food on my stove, and basking in the chill of my fridge. Let’s all reserve a moment to marvel at a common convenience we take for granted…

The farm was without power this weekend after a storm-felled tree took down the lines beside the far pasture. On the upside, once the rain cleared, nature rolled out a pretty stellar conciliatory double rainbow red carpet. There’s something to be pondered here about divine balance, but I’m still too busy cackling in gratitude while turning on my taps, heating food on my stove, and basking in the chill of my fridge. Let’s all reserve a moment to marvel at a common convenience we take for granted…

.pro-gallery-wix-wrapper {display: block !important;} .pro-gallery-wix-wrapper .gallery-item-container {opacity: 1 !important; display: block !important;}

bottom of page