This past Spring, I wrote about walking with ease. Unbeknownst to me, that post turned out to be a prescient message to myself. In April, I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis (RA). RA is an autoimmune disease fueled by inflammation. It can affect your joints, heart, lungs, fascia, blood vessels, vocal cords, and it can create fatigue like nobody’s business. I felt relief in having answers to my body’s aching questions; however, new fears surfaced, creating a new bout of uncertainty. This time, it didn’t look like war in another country, or my mother’s death. This time, uncertainty came cloaked as a threat to my health and well-being.

This past fall, I embarked on a journey with my mindfulness center to create a space for people in the community to talk about death. We borrowed some concepts from the traditional death cafe format and supplemented it with mindful practices.

At the end of 2023, I basked in the glory of printing my mindfulness certificate after completing my last module in The Power of Awareness training. My assignment was a half-day mindfulness session, which included a walking meditation. I eyed a path from my kitchen to my front door for the 30-step, 10 minute assignment.

“You have to slow down to speed up.” My friend, Adrianne MacDonald offered this advice in a recent episode of her Source Code podcast. It caught my attention because I realized I had fallen into my old habit of fabricating deadlines.

Years ago, I visited my favorite art gallery to check out a series of paintings before the opening exhibition. As I entered the gallery, my eyes scanned the room and I saw 12 white monochromatic panels. Over coffee and conversation, my eyes adjusted to the indoor light and the seemingly white panels transformed into varying textures of silver and white, with tiny clouds of color bursting through the layers of paint and pumice. As each panel revealed its unique personality, my eyes continued to soak up the colors and texture, until I staked my claim with a tiny, red dot.

I discovered Marjorie Eliot’s Parlor Jazz when my jewelry instructor’s friend came from Sweden to visit New York City. He was a jazz aficionado and made the trip to scout out jazz venues for his tourist groups. How did I not know about this? Curious, I met him at 555 Edgecombe Avenue, the landmark building known as the “Triple Nickel.”

The woman next to me said, “I decided it’s not my time.” I nodded in agreement and we struck up a conversation. Bundled in a puffy coat and hat, she pushed a cart filled with toilet paper, paper towels, and other pantry goods.

A year before I moved to New York City, I crammed my curiosities into a tiny suitcase and headed to Manhattan for a long weekend. Did I really want to live in New York City? My three-day reconnaissance mission was intended to answer this burning question.