I talk to God still. Here and there, you know. When I do, I never call them God. I call them the universe. Not because I don’t believe their name is God, but because I don’t think they ever told us their name. And if they did, we would find a way to minimize it. Humanize it. Give it rules and restrictions. Make it exclusive. So when I say, “Hey universe, help me,” or “show me,” or “listen to this,” it feels all-inclusive. Like anyone can access it, deny it, question it, wrestle with it,...

I often think about writing to you. Then the thoughts, the stories, the words escape me all at once. Then it almost feels like I’ve forgotten how to create. That feeling is akin to death for me. This season, I’m talking. Meeting. Thinking. Planning. For decades, I made something new every day. That was my rhythm. That was how I knew myself. This isn’t bad news. Maybe it’s a reminder. I still need to create. Even now. Maybe especially now. When I can, I need to create with everything I have....

Nique, Last summer I wrote you a letter. You know the one. This one is different. I can already see you rolling your eyes. Here he goes. The self-described introvert getting dragged into her brother's shenanigans again. Just sit with me for a minute. You know what I admire about you most. It's not something I've said out loud, at least not the way I mean it. You uplift your friends with reckless abandon. You believe in people before they believe in themselves. I saw you do it at that dinner...