Field notes from the Four Seasons

Hello Reader,

I used to believe in perpetual summers like love in romcoms and LED face masks.

Especially as entrepreneurs and creatives, we’re taught ideas are always in bloom and business grows exponentially, daisies running rampant in a field of dreams.

That’s, of course, a myth. Life is cyclical. Seasons change. The moon wanes and waxes. Nothing in our world stays the same. So why would our business or art be any different?

Since I’m notorious for manufacturing summers - UV light and Monsteras in my apartment, pushing when it's time to rest, planting seeds and expecting tulips to immediately break soil, I’m now mindful of what season I’m in.

Usually my body tells me (if I get still and listen).

Lately, flowers have been blooming, and I find myself thinking I should be cozying up to a fireplace with a cup of Pumpkin Chai.

I get nervous that I’m slipping back into old New York City habits. Pulling out my superhero latex Speed Queen suit, ignoring signs that my body needs something else.

Growing up in Manhattan is like being a steel ball in a pinball machine. A flipper sends me flying to the next experience, lights flashing, then the next, chimes ringing, Dolly Parton winking. There’s always something to do, somewhere I could be - an endless selection of oysters to shuck at Grand Central.

I’m afraid of trapping myself in an endless summer with no sunscreen. A weird, hot, and not very entertaining Black Mirror episode. My own simulation. I've done it before — moving beyond my borders, disconnecting from my body, sometimes even holding my breath while I type, not feeling the fatigue because I've pushed past it.

I get a flash of the past: steam rising from subway grates, sirens wailing. Hotdog steam wafting incense for the streets. People dodging and weaving crowds. Horns honking, rush hour constant. Commuters stuffed in subway cars like the cannolis I filled with ricotta in the Italian restaurant I used to work in when I was a teenager.

I tell my husband, Teddy, “I need to slow down.”

His response stops me from pouring hot water in my mug.

“You seem to want to be where you’re not. When you’re resting, you feel anxious about not doing more, and when you’re busy, you yearn for stillness,” he runs his hand through his newly clipped blond hair. “What if this is just the season you’re in?”

He has a point. Instead of vilifying myself for being hyperactive, maybe it really is summer - the sun blazing, my yellow roses fragrant as fuck.

All I need to do is accept the season I’m in.

Something shifted after that conversation and realization.

I didn’t need to Jewish guilt-trip myself to death (those are killer) for running around watering my business and my art.

This letting go feels good. It allows me to appreciate where I am, knowing this too will pass.

I feel summer in my body now. I am pulled to do, to create, to move. It doesn’t feel exhausting or draining. My mind, body, and energy are in sync, being drawn to passionate, focused work, hips swaying to merengue.

Since I’ve accepted the season I’m in, I’m more careful with my energy, because I’m directing and using a lot of it. I surround myself with electrolyte people who replenish me and block energy leakages.

I see what I need more clearly because I am not wishing it was different or thinking I’m doing something wrong because I’m busy.

I take extra special care of myself. She’s in bloom. I prioritize grounding practices that keep me tethered and connected: meditation, movement, and journaling.

Soon, I’ll be in a different type of summer. The kind filled with page-turners, lounging in linen, and spaciousness. I’ll be heading to Bali (bucket list desire) for my birthday in May.

I’ll treat myself to an experience.

An experience beats my honey Hermès every time.

When in Bali, I’ll allow myself to languish in a different kind of summer. I’ll be where I am. I’ll listen to my body, follow my desires, and drop the idea that it needs to be any other way. If the desire to work rises from within, I’ll do it. If I want to stare at monkeys, I’ll do that. I’ll allow myself to be and I’ll trust it.

That’s dropping weight right there *sigh*.

So recognize what season you're in: when you’re in summer, slather on coconut sunscreen. When you’re in winter, sip on hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows and curl up on the couch with a plaid wool throw. When it’s spring, buy tulips the color of Aperol Spritz, and in fall, watch the leaves change into the colors of a sunset.

What season are you in right now? Or are you living in the myth of perpetual summer?

Feel into your body. Do you sense a push or pull? Or stagnation, flies hovering overhead? How can you pack for this weather? Give yourself what you need in this season. Create your own myth.

Leave the guilt trips, pressure, inherited myths, and artificial flowers at home.

Venture into the land of milk and honey - an experience you treat yourself to by recognizing where you are and what you need in this space (I'm passing you a Mai Tai).

Keep creating,