The Space Between in the Florida Keys

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Shopping in Old Town, kayaking the mangroves, and leaving room for the day to unfold The first thing I loved about our week in the Keys was the space between the things we did. We had ideas. We knew there were shops to explore, places to eat, and water to get out on. But most mornings began with sitting around, enjoying the slow pace, and eventually asking what everyone felt like doing. Sometimes the answer depended on whether we were hungry. Sometimes it depended on what we were making for dinner. Did we need groceries? How long would dinner take to cook? Should we save room for something delicious later? These were perfectly satisfactory matters around which to arrange a day. We had exchanged our usual responsibilities for the question of whether lunch might interfere with dinner. An excellent trade. Our one fixed appointment was Tuesday’s anniversary sail. Around it, the week had room to breathe. A starfish clip on Petronia Street One shopping wander took us to Petronia Street in Ba...
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Firelight & Late Summer Gratitude

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Friday evenings are sacred at our house.

By the time the workweek ends, Tom and I are ready to set everything down for a little while. No agenda. No errands. No pressure to be productive. Just the quiet comfort of coming home to each other and letting the week come to a close.

Tom lights a fire. I pour a glass of wine. We change into comfortable clothes and settle in for the evening.

At first, we talk. We trade stories from the week — the frustrations, the funny moments, the things that felt heavy and the things that made us laugh. It’s our way of unwinding, of letting the tension leave us a little at a time. Sometimes I think of it as sending the whole week up with the smoke, watching it rise and disappear into the evening sky.

And then, eventually, we grow quiet.

That’s my favorite part.

The pale aqua sky that held the day’s sunshine slowly deepens into inky blue. The orange glow of the fire grows brighter against the darkness gathering around us. The wind moves through the trees. Bees settle down in the garden. The birds grow quiet. And what remains is silence — the kind that feels full instead of empty.

Hazel begins the evening on alert, always ready to monitor the yard for anything suspicious. But before long, she curls into a small warm ball in my lap and drifts off to sleep. Somehow that always feels like confirmation that the tension is gone. The house is quiet. The week is over. We are safe, still, and at peace.

Friday night firelight is not elaborate. It’s not expensive. It’s not meant for show.

It is simply one of the rituals that helps shape a good life.


In late summer especially, when the evenings begin to hint at the season ahead, I feel the gratitude of it most deeply. A fire. A glass of wine. A husband beside me. A sleepy beagle in my lap. The last soft colors of the sky. A moment with no purpose except to be lived.

Some rituals aren’t productive.

They’re necessary.

And for me, Friday night firelight is one of them.

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