1. “Plant Medicine” appears in The Ekphrastic Review today! My short piece on grief was inspired by Rita Kernn-Larsen’s painting Self-Portrait (Know Thyself). Yesterday marked the first anniversary of my father’s passing, so the timing of the publication is poignant.
2. In January 2025, my sister kindly passed on a portion of her sourdough starter. I have since baked dozens of loaves, many of them failures. Always anxious to experiment with different flours and inclusions, I have yet to master a single recipe. I have consumed many lumpy boules, not wanting anything to go to waste.
I have recently been focused on rye bread and dazzled by the forms of the grain that recipes call for: pumpernickel flour, rye flour, rye berries, cracked rye… I even built a 100% rye sourdough starter, which was much easier than I anticipated.
My buttermilk rye loaf was stiff and borderline unpalatable. I tried my hand at a recipe that calls for baking the bread for 24 hours at a low temperature. Little did I know that an oven safety feature would shut off my oven after twelve hours. I couldn’t salvage that one. In the midst of some remarkable rye failures, I’ve delighted in a few satisfactory loaves. I continue to immerse myself in the wild world of rye and dream of the day when I’ll be able to reliably bake stunning, toothsome bread.
3. I used to jog. I had no training plan, no notion of recovery, and no clue about eating in a way that would support my sport. I would just pop out and run two miles or five miles, then do the same thing the next day. When I started experiencing back pain in my mid-twenties, I shifted to walking and yoga.
This year, with encouragement from my runner-brother, I started jogging again. At first, it was a slog. I told myself I was running for my cardiovascular health and didn’t feel miserable, but runs weren’t fun. I did an independent 5k in August and was quietly proud of myself for finishing without walking. Then, at the end of September, my runs started feeling joyful. The sensation crept in little by little. I wondered if the cooler weather was the reason. That was surely part of it. But also… my ankles were stronger, my calves taut, and my lungs slightly more expansive. I was running better and faster. Running had become pleasurable.
A few days ago, I squeezed in a quick run on the track at lunchtime. This made me feel like a true runner. I looked forward to the run, it wasn’t a burden, and even in the spitting rain, I felt happy.
Back in June, my prose poem 
“Valérie? Stéphane here. I’ll be bringing a VIP to the Queen’s Private Apartment. Just ignore the alarms.”
I’ve dated a few men who lied about their age, which makes for a curious and unsteady start to a relationship. We meet on an app. His profile says that he’s in his 40s, and he looks a little rough around the edges, but I tell myself that life takes a toll. Maybe he is in his 40s, like he claims. When we meet, he not only looks like he is well into his 50s, but he acts like an older man. He’s calmer than my peers. He’s more poised, and he seems to be moving toward retirement—selling his business, purchasing a condo on Hilton Head, helping his adult children get settled in their careers. I think to myself, “Has he shaved 6 years off his age? 8 years? 10 years?”
About a year ago, I heard the term “grace note” for the first time, and I was enchanted. My homespun definition of grace note sprouted up immediately: an after-the-fact recognition or insight that brings peace. Looking back and understanding that being denied a certain job or that suffering a breakup was in your best interest because your career subsequently took an interesting turn or a better partner came your way. Seeing that a house you bid on and lost was a blessing because you eventually bought a house that is lighter, brighter, and prettier.