Someone asked me recently how you know when it’s time to begin again.

I’ve been thinking about this because it’s January, and January asks. The decorations come down, the noise quiets, and what’s left is just the day itself and what you’ll make of it.

My third book comes out in March. Begin Again, and Again, and Again. I wrote it before, and now I’m living it again. The title, it turns out, isn’t metaphorical. You don’t learn this once. You practice it. Over and over. That’s the work.

This year I’m painting fruit. Small things. A pear, a lemon, whatever’s in front of me. Not because they’re profound but because they’re present. I like the simplicity of it—sitting down, noticing, making something that asks nothing back. Just attention paid to what’s ordinary and real.

Maybe beginning again isn’t about knowing when. Maybe it’s about recognizing you’re already in it—showing up to the practice, another day, still here. If that’s where you are—tired, showing up anyway—this is for you.

A Practice

I’ve been thinking about what anchors us when everything else is shifting. What we can hold onto that doesn’t change.

Trace your hand. Write one truth in each finger. In the palm, what steadies you when everything else is moving.