I recently scrolled through the pictures I took in 2022. Here’s what I saw:
Food. So. Much. Food. From summer salads with ruby red grapefruit and watermelon radishes, to Japanese breakfasts with miso soup, rice, grilled fish, and veggies on tiny dishes, and slow-cooked roasts at Christmas, our family served and ate meals made with tender love and care, all year round. (Here I am making fried rice.)
Drinks. Pomegranate iced tea with a sprig of rosemary. A Meyer lemon cocktail with frothy egg white. Milk oolong tea served in a pot with a matching cup. Yum.
Home. The cozy built-in reading nook we constructed, complete with a tailored linen day bed cover I ordered from a craftsperson in Ukraine. Fresh paint in our bedroom. Also, twice as many indoor plants as the year before, some of which I propagated.
Hikes. Leaves, sky, clouds, paths, sunlight, raindrops, mountains, water, berries, tree branches, bunnies, birds, and later, our new dog, recorded almost daily from summer to early fall. Ahh.
Cat. With a new bowtie every quarter.
Projects. The websites and the card deck I built, the book manuscript I edited, and yes, drafts of this newsletter. These were on the computer monitor behind the cat I photographed. (She blocks my view while I work.)
People. Most notably, my parents in matching robes at an onsen ryokan we almost didn’t make it to, walking arm in arm.
If you’re so inspired, I encourage you to look at your own pictures (or 2022 calendar) and notice what shows up. You can even do it right now and come back to the rest of this newsletter so we can compare notes :)
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Now, there are some photos I wished I’d see that I didn’t. Like screenshots of the journal slash workshop based on my book I’d planned to launch. And things I saw that were a tad distressing (that many QR codes for Amazon returns?)
But still.
The life captured in those photographs is achingly beautiful to me.
All day long, a story of lack plays out in my head. I lack answers to pressing questions (who am I, what do I do, how do I parent and partner and take care of myself without anyone getting shortchanged or the house smelling foul, and can I be myself and make a good living?)
And that makes me feel small. Underwhelmed and overwhelmed. Un-confident.
Meanwhile, my lived life, the part you and I can see, hear, and touch, it’s full. Whole. Complete onto itself. And holy.
Thank you for reading this issue of Nudge. In doing so, you’re walking beside me on this paradoxical path, one of yearning and gratitude, ache and awe.
Your company is the most important gift you could possibly offer me. And I hope that in some small way, Nudge offers you this same gift of companionship, a fresh perspective, a bit of inspiration, and the strength to take the next best step.
Nudge is near and dear to my heart, and I have a vision of it growing and expanding in 2023. I hope you’ll ride this wave with me.
