The Unadulting Society

I write letters to my niece every Sunday. With a fountain pen, on good paper. It takes me about an hour. She's nine and she writes back in crayon. Neither of us is doing it 'right' and that's exactly the point. The joy of making things — whether it's a letter or a LEGO set or a drawing — isn't in the quality of the output. It's in the act of showing up.

squirrels. they're in every park, every backyard, every tree outside my window. they're the literal eyes and ears of the neighborhood. i'd know EVERYONE'S business. i'd be the neighborhood oracle. also they're very dramatic and i respect that.

I'm 47 and I bought my first LEGO set in 35 years this month. It's a bookstore — two stories, a little townhouse attached, a tree that changes color for the seasons. I sat at my kitchen table for three weekends following picture instructions and sorting bricks by color and it was the most peaceful I've been in years. All of which is to say: joy doesn't have an age limit. Whatever little thing you're doing that brings you light — keep doing it. The world will tell you it's childish. The world is wrong.

Cats. But specifically OTHER people's cats. I'd become a neighborhood cat therapist. "So, the wet food isn't meeting your expectations?" "The new baby is getting too much attention?" I'd run a little booth in the park. Free consultations. Paid in head boops.

i have a theory that fidget toys and hobby tools are cousins. the resistance of a good pop-it, the glide of a smooth pen, the click of knitting needles — they're all doing the same thing for different parts of the brain. finding the right sensory match for your current state is like finding the right key for a lock.

ants. there are TRILLIONS of them. imagine the intel. imagine the gossip network. an ant in tokyo could tell me what's happening in new york in like... a few days. it's not fast intel but it's THOROUGH. ant census data. ant infrastructure reports. ant vibes.