Some weeks feel like they stretch into months; others fly by in an instant. The long ones require a little more patience, a little more effort—I have to stop and notice my impatience or mood, and recalibrate. I think about how nice it is to have the luxury of time at home without too many meetings or travel or appointments. I think about things I reliably like (cold cream poured over warm homemade chocolate pudding, the smell of shallots cooking in olive oil, showering with Molton Brown’s bergamot and orange body wash, listening to Sam Cooke when I prep dinner, putting on just-from-the-dryer socks) and I practice shifting my mindset from “what’s coming next” to “where am I right now”.

It’s a brighter day than yesterday—my mood is sunnier, but not light. Sometimes I’m struck by this particular sensation: Of being calm and content but having a gentle, insistent feeling of so many little anxieties hovering at the edges of your mind. They whisper quietly now and again, and aren’t loud enough that you can’t hush them, but they’re there.

Other days those shadows aren’t there; you’re unfettered in your happiness. Or you’re mired in a crisis—work stress or a fight with your sister or nerves over an impending trip—and that’s all you feel.

Viciously cold outside today. Winter is clinging to the city with a fierce grip. “Let go!” I want to shout at it. “My skin is cold! My hands are cold! Let go,” I silently plead to the sky above. On my walk home last night, I optimistically waltzed into the little ice cream shop on 81 and Amsterdam. I sampled the newest flavor (cherry heartbeet!) before realizing that I was in too wintry a mood even for ice cream. (I know! Who says that?)