I’m thinking about change. How it happens. The people it affects. What doesn’t change when everything else does. What small thing can be different when everything else looks the same.

I’m thinking about love and loss because that’s precisely what I’m writing a novel about. That and healing. And, eventually, change. And the people along the way. At the moment, I’m trying both to say all that in a one-sentence hook and condense 275 pages into a one-page synopsis. It’s taken me a month so far and I’m still not quite there.

Book stall in Barrio Italia. Inspiring in any language. The goal is still to publish one of these.

I’m thinking about names. The power of naming. The meaning we want to impart, whether it’s a character or a person or a pet.

I’m listening to Voxtrot and thinking about 2006 and San Francisco and the times we had and the friends and the songs that defined our days and nights as a collective, moving, vibrant gaggle of 26-year-olds.

Now I’m thinking about time differently. As something that is slowing down and tapping me on the shoulder, asking me to be present.

I’m thinking about the finish line. In high school it was so well defined. A chalky white line over the rust-orange track. Something to slam my sneaker just enough past in order to finally slow down and catch my breath. In college, it was the day an English paper was due. In work life, it was usually the copy deadline for the next issue. Today, it’s this summer. It’s when I want to dangle all these query letters out on a long line and see who bites. My book may not find representation, which might scoot the finish line that much farther ahead. I may not be able to see it when I gaze down at my feet, but I know it’s there somewhere. Then, there will be other stories to tell and other finish lines to reach with characters I haven’t met yet.

Lines and circles at my feet on the walk to school.

I’m thinking that so much just comes down to the wiring of our brains.

I’m thinking about control, or really the lack of it. That this life surprises. That we are never want for the miracle of life and surprise when all we have to do is stumble upon a 300-year-old redwood tree or really think about the universe (I mean, really think about it) or listen to someone else’s heartbeat or taste a ripe nectarine.

I’m thinking about cooking. That it doesn’t stress me out as much as it used to, but that I don’t know for sure what’s calming me down about it: getting some more dishes under my belt or the fact that the world doesn’t end when I burn the walnuts. You just start again. There’s still plenty to eat. These are good lessons.

I’m thinking about language. That more of the Spanish is coming. Not a lot more, but enough to not wither in confusion as often as I did nine months ago.

I’m reading about child soldiers in Sierra Leone and thinking that I’m not want for anything in this world.

The view right now.

I’m thinking about the view through the gauzy white drape as the fan blows the other buildings all blurry for a bit as the air rotates to and fro.

I’m thinking about saying goodbye. Friends I’ve made here are already heading back home, wherever that may be. The Chilean adventure is ending for them, and ours is still very much underway and beginning again all the time.

I’m thinking that I haven’t seen many of you in many months and it may be many months still before we meet again, but I feel such peace knowing you are there.

What are you thinking about?