Fall has arrived, and I am happy. We went south to North Carolina yesterday; the leaves are almost done here in Blacksburg, and we hadn’t gone for a single hike yet. We didn’t want to miss our chance to soak up the warm glow of a jewel toned forest.
We arrived at noon, which is much later than we typically hike, and the parking lot at Hanging Rock State Park was full. Cars circled at a crawl, rolling down windows to ask anyone on foot and near a parked car, “Are you leaving?” We joined the circling line, eventually found a spot, then got in another line to use the bathroom before heading to the trails.
Once we were in the forest, leaves crunched underfoot. My chest swelled with contentment as I listened to them scrape and scuttle. In a sunny spot near the lake, the air bloomed with the aroma of warm pine straw. I inhaled deeply to take in the scent. Here, the trail felt soft with the fallen needles of evergreens, now golden brown.
The light was strong and contrasty, and I wasn’t confident I’d be able to get any good photographs. It occurred to me that maybe black and white would work well in these conditions, so I had fun breaking out of my regular habits to try to look for light rather than color. Instead of looking for red maple leaves or golden beeches, I found myself examining stone instead, and how pretty it looked in the light.
The stone looked pretty in color, too, especially covered in lichen, coppery leaves, and golden November sun, or set against the colorful autumn treetops beneath it.
On our way down from one of the peaks, two outdoorsy college-aged women with braids down their backs passed us on their way up. They looked happy and healthy, one with her knee taped from athletic strain. In their wake, I smelled coconut, like summer at the beach. Like our daughter’s favorite sunscreen. My heart swelled again as I thought of her away in college in Florida, having fun with her friends, even if their activities are swimming and river-tubing instead of hiking.
The trails were more crowded than we’re used to — we forgot it’d be crowded midday, we’re so used to hiking right after the sun comes up and nobody is around — but I liked to see so many people out enjoying nature. I think I’ll go for another walk now while the sky is blue and a few remaining trees gleam ruby.
Last week was A Week at work. My husband and I had a getaway on the calendar that we’d scheduled back in August, and I was grateful for the chance to put our everyday lives away for a couple of days. After riding hills and mountains all the time here at home, we wanted to see what it felt like to ride flat roads. And we both were craving the coast.
We put our bikes on the roof rack and headed to a little bed and breakfast we’d visited back in 2021. When the innkeeper asked what time to expect us for breakfast, Brian and I looked at each other — do we want to eat before we ride, or after? The whole reason I exercise is so I can eat. I wanted the anticipation of breakfast while we rode.
“Food is my reward. I want to eat after we ride,” I said. We told the innkeeper 9:30. We got up early Saturday morning, before the sun, and rode out as soon as it was light.
We rode close to 30 miles and it felt great. It was so easy compared to the hills back home. The roads were quiet, and the sunlight glowed on the marsh. When we returned for breakfast, the coffee, fruit, oat pancakes, sausage patties, and baked egg with cheese and dill were deeply satisfying.
We didn’t have anything else to do, so we went for another 30 miles after breakfast, this time to several of the nearby beaches.
We showered, got lunch at a Mexican restaurant, where I ate all the guacamole I could bear, got a coffee and walked around the quaint little town of Gloucester, and then went back to our room, where we collapsed into a deep and beautiful afternoon nap.
Besides eating, weekend naps in daylight, where your mind and body stop with the mania — no more thinking, no more doing, just blissful surrender to daytime drowsiness — are one of my favorite things in life.
Sunday morning, we rode again before another delectable breakfast, this time of spinach, egg, and cheese casserole, fruit, bacon, asparagus, and lemon panna cotta with honey and toasted almonds. In all, we rode close to 90 miles over the weekend. It’s probably been 20 years since I rode that much in that condensed a time. It felt great to empty my mind and my body, and to come back home refreshed.
This morning, my husband headed out for a bike ride. I stayed home. I had work to do.
I didn’t love working on a Saturday morning. I regretted pitching the talk I now had to prepare for. Why did I sign up for something that adds more work for myself?
When I finished my slide deck, though, I felt an enormous sense of satisfaction. Then, especially since it was Saturday and I’d finished my most important To Do, I felt a release, and an enormous sense of freedom.
The sky I saw through the window was a brilliant blue with crisp white clouds. I had errands to run, so I grabbed my purse, threw on sunglasses and a driving hat to keep my hair out of my eyes, and tucked into our little Mazda Miata. I queued up R.E.M. on the stereo and cranked the engine.
When I pulled out of the neighborhood, felt the sun and wind on my skin, and heard the first song of the Green album start playing, I felt a surge of joy. What a reward after working this morning! I zipped through the gears, the round knob of the gearshift smooth in my hand. I sang all the songs — Pop Song 89, You Are The Everything, World Leader Pretend — and thought fondly of my 13 year old self with my besties when we saw R.E.M. on their Green tour.
The blushing pink cheeks of maples contrasted against blue sky. VT game day flags flapped from car windows. I don’t care about football, but I love game day in a college town. The air is full of excitement and smiles, and the sidewalks are full of garish collegiate colors.
I drove with the top down, happy that my work was done, energized by the reward of feeling the wind and listening to R.E.M. in a zippy car under a September sky.
It took me a good 15 minutes of staring at the ceiling tiles from the dentist chair before I realized I was staring at ceiling tiles. I had completely zoned out. When I zoned back in, I noticed the patterns of holes on the tiles and the flat metal grid.
Then I realized I was laying back in the chair with my eyes open. I wondered, wow, is that creepy to the hygienist, for someone to lay there just staring up the whole time? Do I usually lay here with my eyes open? I think I usually close them.
So I closed my eyes. That felt weird, too. I thought, what must it be like to be a hygienist, hovering above people’s mouths all day, dealing with whatever they’re doing with their eyes?
Curiosity flooded me. I had so many things I wondered. Was it satisfying to clean teeth? It must be. They come in all crusty and plaqued, and you get to make them all smooth and shiny. Like watching crumbs and pet hair disappear when you vacuum.
I desperately wanted to ask about the eye thing. What do people usually do? Did she have a preference? Is it weird for me to ask? I thought about this for a good ten minutes as I alternated between staring at the ceiling tiles, then thinking that was creepy and closing my eyes, but then knowing my eyes were jumping behind my lids because I was so restless in my wondering, so I opened them again.
When her hands came out of my mouth, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I asked, “Do most patients lie here with their eyes open or shut?”
She laughed and pointed to the loupes on her glasses. “It’s about 50/50, but luckily with these things on my glasses, I can’t see anymore what people are doing with their eyes — I just see the area of the mouth I’m working on. I always wanted to tell people, you are welcome to close your eyes! Think of this as a rest time. I felt funny about them staring at my forehead. In my old office I had a poster on the ceiling so patients had something to look at.”
She said sometimes people become so relaxed with their eyes closed that they actually fall asleep. “I’ve even had snorers! The only problem with falling asleep is that then their mouths tend to relax so much that they don’t stay open for me to get in there and clean.”
I felt much better after asking. Satisfied. I closed my eyes while she finished up, and they no longer jumped behind my lids.
Ten years ago today, on my fortieth birthday, I began a new life. On that day, after ten years of working in ecology labs and non-profits, then another ten years of staying home with our children, I logged in for my first day of work as a Happiness Engineer at Automattic, the makers of WordPress.com.
My life is forever changed because of this work with Automattic. I’ve met and worked with people from all over the world, many of whom are now dear friends. I’ve worked from home all this time and was able to model at-home productivity for our kids when their schooling moved online during the pandemic. I’ve supported customers, led teams, built training academies, left to help others build careers in customer support, returned to my home at Automattic, managed programs, directed support operations, and written over a million words at work. I’ve discovered myself.
When I started my life as a Happiness Engineer on my fortieth birthday, I felt like the luckiest woman alive. Ten years later, I feel the same way. I am surrounded by people who inspire me, who make me laugh, who are wildly intelligent. Happiness Engineer is the greatest job title I think I’ll ever have, and I’ve absorbed the ethos to my core. In every role I’m in, I aspire to engineer happiness for the people I serve.
Thank you to Automattic and to all of my colleagues there ♥️.
I’m sitting in the window seat in our hotel room in old Montreal. A dog bark echoes off the building walls. I hear the hum of delivery trucks, gritty footsteps on the cobbles below, a man’s low voice on the quiet morning street. A breeze lifts the gauzy curtains. I’ve always wanted a window seat, to read in, to write in. For the moment, I have one.
I have a milestone birthday coming up. I told my husband I didn’t want to spend it in an empty house with both kids newly gone away for college. He planned a trip away to Montreal for us, and I am so happy. I have drunk in tremendous art in our days here. Along the cobbled street outside our hotel, we’ve ducked into several small galleries. Hanging in the window of one, Espace Langlois, is a pencil sketch of a solemn-faced boy. He wears a flamboyant, drapey yellow bow tie.
The painting is arresting. I love this little boy. I love him so much. Every time we walk down that street, I tell Brian, “I want to go see my little guy.” He reminds me of both my dad and my son. He looks wise, serious, super intelligent, and witty. If I won the lottery, that painting would be the first thing I’d buy.
The painter is Louis Boudreault, and I am captivated by his art. The mandarins. The blue pigments. After my tenth or twelfth visit to the window, I finally investigated to see whose portrait I admired. It is Albert Einstein.
We walked to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts Saturday. Once in the museum, I used the tactic I learned in Bianca Bosker’s Get the Picture to get the most out of our visit: when I walked into a gallery room, I found the one artwork that sang to me, and I stood in front of it to drink it in. I looked at it from different angles and distances. I spent time with it. I noticed five things. I paid attention to the choices the artist made. I sat with whatever responses happened inside of me; I paid attention to how it made me feel. I did not read plaques. Afterwards, I regretted that I didn’t at least photograph the descriptions so I’d know who the artists were, especially since the gift shop didn’t have postcards of any of the ones I loved. Thankfully, the internet delivered; the museum has a digital gallery so I could find my favorites and sit with them some more.
The exhibit of Flemish and Dutch art hung in galleries whose walls were painted nearly black. The darkened galleries created the perfect backdrop for the bloom of light in the paintings. Most were deep tones with a glow of warm light that shone on silk garments, forest scenes, or still lifes. Brian pointed out a still life he liked. He said he doesn’t usually care for still lifes, but he liked that one. I said, I love still lifes, they’re my favorite.
And then we walked into a whole room of them, and I gasped with pleasure. One was a scene of wreckage on a table, the aftermath of a wild party filled with seafood and meat pies. A pitcher is overturned. A lemon peel hangs from a lamp. In the background is lobster who sneaks from one level to another. It looks to me like the lobster caused the mischief. This painting delights me. The shining nautilus. The rich blue riboon.
Christian Luycks (1623-1670), Banquet Still Life with Silver and Gilt Vessels, a Nautilus Shell, Porcelain, Food and Other Items on a Draped Table, ca. 1650. Montreal Museum of Fine Arts
From the museum, which itself is a work of art with its open spaces, clean lines, and satisfyingly sturdy, rectangular handrails, we looked out and saw the mural of Leonard Cohen as part of the Montreal cityscape. I felt bathed in goodness.
Leonard Cohen, Montreal
Saturday night, we went to the Upstairs jazz club in an underground, exposed brick room. We had tickets for the Taurey Butler Trio. I leaned my head against the bricks at one point and closed my eyes to focus on the music. I’ve started meditating recently, and I emptied myself like I try to do when I meditate. The music filled the openness inside me.
I listened and was in awe that humans have created things like pianos. It struck me that everything in that room was miraculous. How wondrous that our ancient ancestor humans cared enough about creating music that they figured out how to strike strings to make sounds, and then made strings of different lengths or thicknesses to enable different sounds, and developed instruments so that they could create music with those sounds. And then spent hundreds of years refining those instruments to refine the sounds, and put all those sounds together to make music that doesn’t just touch our ears, but touches our souls. I thought about the building, the tables, the glassware, the cocktail shaker I heard, the electricity that created the light in the room, the thousands of human creations all around us. I was in awe of us as I often am, that we exist and have made all of these things.
On Sunday, we visited the Botanical Garden, where humans design beautiful spaces in harmony with nature. The tresses of a weeping willow swayed in a gentle breeze in the Chinese garden. A tiny tree hugged a boulder. Another stood strong atop its rock. We walked a winding path among conifers, and another among ponds and lilies. I stopped and smelled roses.
Weeping willow in wind, Montreal Botanical Gardentrees, boulders, roses
And I haven’t even talked about the food! Sauces and soups like velvet. Blistered peppers, fresh salads, watermelon and feta. Breads! Cheeses! Pastries! Or the cathedral, which made my eyes prick with tears when I walked inside and saw the wonder of the space.
My soul feels full. I am in awe of the excellence humanity strives for. I am deeply grateful for the beauty people create and share with the world.
Butterfly Mind 