Life has been very very full, chickadees. Full of solitude and dear friends, English gardens and Quebecois playgrounds, Pema Chodron and Colette, trucks and trains and buses and planes. A truly terrific little boy, a truly terrific full-time gig, and an existence as a 33-year-old single mom I’ve settled into nicely (not that you’d believe such a thing is possible from American media; hint: watch French films).

At home, in my treehouse, there are lots of things to love: The Scamp’s awesome nursery school; unexpected sweet things (so far, a ring, a butter dish, and a great dress) found at the Brooklyn Flea; Rice’s Thai coconut curry chicken over sticky rice; mint and basil plants from Root, Stock & Quade; Fresh Gardens’ nectarines and grapes; the underappreciated Threading Place; the Pratt Sculpture Park, always; fatoosh salad from Zaytoons; french fries and milkshakes from 67 Burger; interlibrary loans picked up from the Clinton Hill branch. Best of all, and the reason I moved here nearly a decade ago, are long, leafy walks — priceless.