I remember it like it was yesterday.

Just a few weeks into the fall term, my 8th-grade English teacher returned my first attempt at a proper essay. I grabbed my handwritten soliloquy as I exited class, eager to read the feedback. Across the top of the first page she had scrawled just three words.

"Queen of Gobbledegook."

There was more of course. Along with her rebuke of my overly flowery prose were comments about punctuation, vocabulary choice, and the occasional dangling participle. But it was the trinitarian declaration that stuck with me, splashed across the page in bold red ink.

This past weekend I discovered the American Writers Museum. Tucked inside a nondescript skyscraper on Chicago's Michigan Avenue, this jewel box is a love letter to both the craft of writing and to those who have spent their lives in its pursuit. Surrounded by the words of so many of my muses, I was reminded of the teacher who first inspired me to take my writing seriously.

Tough love. But love nonetheless.

"Write. Rewrite. When not writing or rewriting, read. I know of no shortcuts." - Larry L. King

Let's chat LA landmarks, shall we?

Serving southern California's sweet tooth since 1920, Hansen's Cakes has been creating sugary concoctions under the family moniker for the past seven generations.

A recent stop at their Fairfax location brought me face-to-face with a wall of celebrity photographs. The owner, known for personally delivering his creations to the Playboy Mansion, now courts celebrity clients like Tori Spelling and the Kardashian clan. And, apparently, me.

As I waited for my order, I strolled underneath a panoply of yellowing tributes penned by Johnny Carson, Bob Hope, John Wayne, and more. Star power not withstanding, I was already a convert. They had me at buttercream frosting...

"Let them eat cake." - attributed, however unlikely, to Marie Antoinette (Qu'ils magnent de la brioche.)

Am I the last to get on the Daisy Jones & the Six train? Yep, I thought so.

Released in March of 2023, this limited series follows the turbulent rise and fall of a fictional 1970's rock and roll band, based loosely on the legendary group, Fleetwood Mac.

As someone who spent their teenage years in the 1970's, this show provides a visual and auditory walk down memory lane. The hair styles, the fashion, along with an inside peek at the boozy, drug-riddled life of rock stars living in Laurel Canyon during the swell of its creative genius.

The show's concert footage pulses with energy. And at its center, actress/musician Riley Keough, the real-life daughter of Lisa Marie Presley.

Not surprisingly, as the granddaughter of the "King of Rock 'n Roll," Keough's performance is both believable and heart wrenching. The soundtrack of my youth clearly came at a price....

"Rock and roll is a contact sport." - Richie Sambora (lead guitarist, Bon Jovi)

This past summer I spent many a night on my brother-in-law's porch in North Carolina.

As day turned into dusk, the soft humid air grew still. And then on cue, the creatures of the night began to stir. Cicadas vibrated. Tree frogs croaked. And fireflies danced.

Every night I would squint into the black, searching for the next burst of light. I later learned each firefly has its own unique pattern of flashing. Through this staccato Morse code they mark territory, ward off challengers, and attract mates. Light is their "love language" it appears.

But this trademark bioluminescence is fleeting, disappearing almost as quickly as it appears. As do the fireflies. A reminder to all of us to cherish every breath, twinkling with promise.

"All the moments that might add up to God." - Rick Commons

My Mom was a chemist by trade.

Over the course of her career she designed hundreds of experiments, some of which were quite elaborate, to provoke the smallest of molecular changes. Then one day, in a fit of suburban housewife frustration, she decided it was time to make her children the object of her research. As you might imagine, the results were less than stellar.

Early one Monday morning, she left a pencil on the edge of the dining room carpet. How long, she wondered, before someone noticed the stray Ticonderoga, bent over, and picked it up. She was careful not to place it in an area of heavy foot traffic. After all, the pencil wasn't meant to be a hazard. Just a bellwether of our observational skills and/or indolence.

On Friday afternoon, the pencil was still there.

For years and years, my mother would reference the "pencil experiment" as a reminder to her brood of just how little effort it takes to be helpful. Oh the irony that it took an implement known for its eraser to get us to see something so very obvious.

"Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. The third is to be kind." - Henry James

The day I turned 16, I got my driver's license.

The person who administered my road test that day had a terrible hangover. Ashen and covered in a sheen of sweat, he slid into the passenger seat and instructed me to make three right turns. My "once around the block" exam seemed paltry given what was at stake. But I didn't care.

I was officially a licensed driver.

Where I come from, this upcoming holiday stretch is referred to as "Cape Weekend, " as in Cape Cod. Considered the opening salvo of summer, teenagers flock to the Cape on Memorial Day weekend. So much so that the road leading to the Sagamore Bridge is filled with newly-minted drivers, many of whom are making their very first long-distance trip behind the wheel.

Oh to be 16 again, doused in suntan lotion and racing toward the future.

"Patience is something you admire in the driver behind you and scorn in the one ahead." - Mac McCleary

Slán leat or Slán agat. For the Irish, two different ways to say goodbye.

The first (leat) is used when someone departs, leaving you behind. The second, for when you yourself are leaving (agat). Two different actions. Provoking two different emotions. Expressed in two different ways.

This week I discovered a third variation, something nicknamed the "Irish exit." I was introduced to this term while watching the latest episode of Blue Bloods (yes, I still watch network television. It's Tom Selleck after all!).

A quick Google search revealed this term signified someone who slipped away without telling anyone. Like ducking out the side entrance at church or disappearing from a party without alerting the host.

With graduation on the horizon, the topic of goodbyes has been on my mind of late. So whether you are leaving or being left behind, try and stand firm in the moment. In sidestepping the messiness of goodbyes, you risk losing their powerful grace.

"Sadly enough, the most painful goodbyes are the ones left unsaid." - Jonathan Harnisch

The lanyard. There is nothing that says "conference attendee" quite like a lanyard.

This past week, as I wandered the hotel hosting our annual clergy conference, I kept an eye out for my fellow lanyards. We moved like schools of fish through the maze of hallways, intermittently veering left or right as our schedules dictated. But all the while, silently attached by our lanyards.

I crafted my very first lanyard while still in the Girl Scouts, weaving long, flat pieces of plastic together until the box-stitch pattern grew long enough to wear. As a teenager, I wore that lanyard while working as a life guard, a silver whistle dangling from its metal claw fastener. So many summer days spent twirling, twirling, twirling....

I have since graduated to my adult lanyard phase, when plastic badges and meal tickets replaced my beloved whistle. But every time I slip a lanyard over my head, I can still smell a hint of zinc oxide.

"A life guard doesn't wait for her ship to come in. She swims to it." - Anonymous

Birds are now using FaceTime. Yes, birds.

While listening to talk radio on my drive to work on Thursday, I heard about a research project developed by Northeastern University designed to alleviate the boredom, loneliness, and lack of something called "species identity," of pet birds.

Isolated from their flock, tame birds are particularly susceptible to such emotional crises. And thus, this unusual experiment was hatched.

Parrots were first trained to ring a bell, summoning a handler carrying an iPad. On the screen, images of various birds appeared. With the tap of a beak, a video call to the chosen fowl was triggered. In an interesting twist, the bird on the other end was given the choice as to whether or not to "answer." With a reciprocal tap, the two birds were connected, free to chat, pose, and preen.

I also learned parrots are neophobic, meaning they are often reluctant to try new things. So while some birds took easily to their new social landscape, others did not.

Sound familiar? Proving, once again, we are all birds of a feather.

"Loneliness is my least favorite thing. I worry about being alone, without anyone to care for or anyone who will care for me." - Anne Hathaway

In 1970, thanks to the vision of a Wisconsin senator, a nationwide demonstration was held calling for more stringent environmental protections. The first ever Earth Day.

Not a day goes by when our newspapers and televisions don't sound the alert regarding the countless ways climate change is wreaking havoc on our globe. If we're not at the tipping point yet, we are frighteningly close.

As a kid, I spent the majority of my time outside. One summer, after pleading endlessly with my Dad, he finally agreed to drive me to the trail made famous by Paul Revere. This 45-mile loop between Concord and Boston's Old North Church has remained largely unchanged since Revere's ride on April 18, 1775.

I walked alone on the shaded dirt path, buoyed by tunafish sandwiches and a small Polaroid camera. It took a number of Saturdays to cover the path in its entirety. But for the first time in my life, I experienced nature through the lens of time. A landscape still unspoiled, I was able to feel our nation's history through the soles of my sneakers.

Prior generations, thankfully, paying it forward.

"The greatest threat to our planet is the belief that someone else will save it." - Robert Swan

I grew up in a house that both revered and weaponized silence.

Half of us were quiet by nature, comfortable without the constant buzz of conversation and unnerved when the pitch of another's voice reached an agitated apex. The others drew energy from boisterous revelry. And when hurt or challenged, responded with more never less.

In 1996, a group of students at the University of Virginia organized a protest now known as the "Day of Silence." Hoping to draw attention to the harassment and bullying experienced by many in the LGBTQ+ community, participants spend the day without voice. This wordless effort "speaks" to the silence so many encounter when targeted. It is a clarion call designed to be deafening.

Today, so many decades later, the "Day of Silence" continues. What will it take, I wonder, for the silence to finally be heard?

"Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?" - Lawrence Durrell

True confessions. I’m a bit of a recycling maniac.

I'm not above swiping things out of the kitchen trash that have mistakenly been discarded. I'm perfectly content to wash out even the stickiest of plastic containers in an effort to lessen the landfill. And don't even get me started on drink bottles. My recycling bin runneth over.

As we near the end of Women's History Month, it feels like the right moment to tip my hat to fellow recycling maven Liz Pinfield-Wells. Featured this week in The Washington Post, Pinfield-Wells placed recycling bins at the end of her driveway to collect items refused by her township's curbside pick-up. Over the course of the last four years, two additional tons of material were diverted for reuse. And as if that weren't enough, all of the money she was paid by various recycling centers has been donated to charity.

Here's to you Liz. You've taken the phrase "Mother Earth" to an entirely new level.

"The greatest threat to our planet is the belief that someone else will save it." - Robert Swan

Dead last.

36 of 36 to be exact. My fate in this year's office Academy Awards pool.

Despite loving to go to the movies, I somehow rarely find myself actually in a theater. If it hadn't been for a few recent plane rides, I would have entered the competition not having seen any of the nominees for Best Picture. It's no wonder my batting average is so low.

With little to no experience on which to rely, my ballot choices were both random and sentimental (read here any movie set in Ireland or featuring an Irish actor or theme got my vote...) Perhaps not the most strategic, but a heartfelt effort nonetheless.

So here's to the gowns, the glitz, and the glamour. Here's to Jaime Lee Curtis, arms finally raised in triumph. Here's to Gaga's emotion-packed vocals. Here's to the makers of The Elephant Whisperers, reminding us of the sacredness of our created world. Here's to the jaunty Naatu Naatu, the tenacity of Maya Yeoh, and John Travolta's tearful tribute to former co-star Olivia Newton-John.

Remember, it's an honor just to be nominated...

"Stars are rare creatures and not everyone can be one. But there isn't anyone on earth - not you, not me, not the girl next door - who wouldn't like to be a movie star holding up a golden statuette on Academy Award night." - Sue Mengers

I must have missed the message. Apparently knee socks are back in fashion.

My first pair of knee socks came as part of my Brownie uniform. Monochrome and on the thin side, those socks were the finishing touch of an outfit classic.

As the years went by, countless others followed suit; the argyles I wore underneath my 1970's collection of corduroys, dingy tube socks I donned as part of my gym uniform, and of course, scads of team-colored socks made tight by their shin guard inserts. Thinking back on it, my lower legs barely saw the light of day for the duration of my childhood.

But the tides eventually turned. Socks lost favor with the gods of fashion and bare ankles dominated the new hosiery-free landscape. It was every foot for themselves.

With daylight savings time now on the horizon, it appears the clocks have spun once more, bringing an old fashion favorite back.

Knee socks anyone?

"I am, and ever will be, a white socks, pocket protector, nerdy engineer." - Neil Armstrong

The featured speaker at the conference I attended this week was political commentator, author, activist, and frequent CNN contributor Van Jones.

Of the many offerings listed on the program's schedule, this was the one that held the most appeal for me. His story is a compelling one. Raised in poverty just east of Memphis. A public school kid who didn't speak for much of his time in grade school due to a speech impediment. Both a rebellious teen and self-proclaimed nerd, Jones raced up the educational ladder, eventually receiving his Juris Doctor from Yale Law School. Jones spoke eloquently of the influence his parents had on his trajectory; his mother a high school teacher and his father a middle school principal.

Armed with knowledge and savvy, Jones has made a significant impact on our political landscape, including an unexpected pairing with Jared Kushner to help pass criminal justice reform measures. As he remarked during his speech, "a bird can't fly with only a left wing...."

"Outliers are those who have been given opportunities and who have had the strength and presence of mind to seize them." – Malcolm Gladwell

I don't often find myself inside the four walls of a dance studio. But Tuesday I took a walk on the wild side, lured by a pulsating beat and the chance to experience the highly stylized movements of voguing.

Spins and dips, hand performance, the duckwalk, the catwalk. I lustily breathed it all in.

Voguing requires a sense of swagger and fashion I don't possess. Even more importantly, it demands thighs of steel and youthful knees. Strikes 1, 2, and 3 for this would be dancer.

With roots in the Harlem Renaissance, voguing gained much of its popularity during the 1960's-80's, as drag competitions morphed into "vogue battles," primarily featuring members of black and Latino LGBTQ+ communities.

While I appreciate the athleticism and creativity required by voguing, I am even more grateful for the sense of home and family the "Houses" that host these events provide. A valentine of a different sort during this chocolate and flower-filled month of February.

"Ballroom has something to say to the world, about self-worth, self-expression, gender, sexuality, art, design, performance, healing, and justice." - Twiggy