The diagnosis came while we were living between coasts.

Our daughter and her family are in Los Angeles.
My husband is a university professor. During the school year, New York calibrates him — his identity, his love of learning, his writing, his students.

The event is the doorway, not the house.

I heard that once and it startled me. Not because it was clever — but because it felt uncomfortably accurate.

There are so many doorways in a life.

What armor will carry me through my day?

When my husband and I first met, he took me to Neiman’s in Cherry Creek, Denver.

It was early. We were still discovering each other. Still presenting polished versions.

Today I decided to embrace my anxiety.

Not conquer it.
Not silence it.
Rearrange it.

The world feels in such a state of rearranging that I assume the current is everywhere — humming through all of us. And after the heart flutter two months ago, I know I cannot ignore my own current anymore. I need to redirect it. I need to breathe.

I have dropped him at the curb at LAX hundreds of times.  

Thirty years of departures.  

Returns to New York after California visits.