We took a 5-hour drive to the high desert, where the views feel endless and the sun lingers a little longer than you expect.

I don’t love saying we “need a vacation”, because it implies we have a created a life we need to escape.I But what last week gave us was something different—a chance to be still, to move slower, and to be together without the constant pull of schedules, errands, and the never-ending to-do list.

Our mornings settled into a rhythm almost immediately. We made breakfast without rushing, sat down together, and then naturally drifted outside. The kids each found their own pace—throwing a ball, working on a word search, reading—and no one was in a hurry to move on to the next thing.

As I wrote this, I was sitting on a bed outside, looking out toward the mountains with nothing but the sound of birds around me. Later that night, my husband and I stepped into the quiet and dark again—the kind we rarely experience at home. There was no sound but nature. That kind of quiet resonates with me.

What surprised me most is that this feeling isn’t tied to this place as much as I thought it would be. I’ve had moments at home—on an ordinary Saturday morning, coffee in hand—where I’ve had the same thought: this feels like a vacation. Not because of anything new or special, but because of the pace and the way I chose to be in it.

On the drive to Taos, I was listening to a book about joy, and one idea stayed with me: joy is less about what we have and more about how things make us feel. It lives in the details. And once I started noticing, it was everywhere—the warmth of the adobe walls, the textures, the fun colors, the quiet, the way the space itself seemed to invite us to slow down.

It made me think about our homes and the things we choose to fill them with. Not in a way that adds more, but in a way that shifts how a space feels, even in the middle of real life—laundry on the floor, dishes in the sink, kids moving in and out.

That’s what I come back to when I think about the collection I am about to release into the world. It’s not about creating a perfect space or a different life. It’s about small, thoughtful pieces that quietly change how you move through your day. A book you pick up and read a few lines from. Paper you actually want to sit down and write on. Objects that don’t rush you, but instead invite you to stay a little longer.

Even something as simple as washing dishes here—without a dishwasher—gave my mind space to wander in a way it usually doesn’t. I found myself thinking about how people used to move through their days before everything was designed for speed and convenience. Life wasn’t as hurried. It required more attention, more intention, and more grit.

That’s really the heart behind this collection. Not going backward, but choosing a slower rhythm where we can. Choosing things that bring a sense of calm and meaning into the everyday.

Before this trip, I happened to thrift a book called Woven in the Wind, a collection of poems and stories from women in the sagebrush west. I packed it without thinking much about it, and then found myself reading it here, surrounded by that same landscape.

Some things just have a way of lining up like that. And sometimes, it’s only when we slow down that we’re able to notice.