One week ago I returned from the trip of a lifetime to Paris with my mother, Nana, and daughter, Stella. After securing the flights and the dreamiest Airbnb, adding a detour from Paris to Zurich to see Sabrina Carpenter (mom of the year, that’s me), booking restaurants and museum tickets, curating a Chat-GPT-approved itinerary, and anticipating the trip for months, we got to live a literal dream. Eight days of ease, boundless energy, endless inspiration, guilt-free indulgences, and oh so much more. Although I’m usually one to wing it on vacation (and in life), flying by the seat of my pants from whim to whim and necessity to necessity, this time was different. I curated the perfect plan, and everything and everyone — including the weather — cooperated. Late March in Paris can be tricky, with a near-constant risk of rain. And yet, rain only fell while we slept, as though it was washing the city so it would sparkle anew for us every dawn.
And then I came back to Los Angeles, and resumed my usual grind — a life confined to a three-mile radius where a trip to Trader Joe’s is as close as I get to going to the Louvre. I came back, my body came back, but I fear something got left behind: the pleasure that most of us feel during vacation. I was shiny and happy and completely willing to live — fully, deeply, and in a completely new way. Back here at home, where the routines are entrenched, comfortable and familiar, new remains elusive, and pleasure ….well, I only experience pleasure for maybe an hour or two a week, depending on how many times I get myself to The Class.
I would say that my normal life at home is erasing Paris from my memory almost as quickly as it happened, except for one thing: my weather app still thinks I’m in Paris. I’ve tried everything: deleting Paris as a city from my weather app, restarting my phone, asking Siri to confirm where I am (lest I’m still in Paris and now my normal life is the illusion). Nonetheless, my phone continues to insist: Paris. You are in Paris.
Rather than seeing this as the technological glitch it likely is, I’m taking it as a sign. (Have you read my books? Could I honestly take it any other way?) I think my phone wants me to remember that Los Angeles — my home — can be Paris, too. That for every time I go to Starbucks, there’s a charming mom-and-pop bakery I could try instead. That instead of Trader Joe’s, I could visit different local markets like the Persian market with the best fresh herbs, or Eataly if I want take myself back to Le Grand Épicerie in Paris, where I spotted Jen Garner (of course). I can find my own Tuileries Garden if I’m willing to venture beyond my three-mile radius. I can even go to a museum — which is exactly what I did on Sunday.
Despite deep protest from my preteen who would rather be at home, I made it to the Hammer Museum to see the Alice Coltrane exhibit. Alice Coltrane, who was a renowned musician and spiritual leader, is deeply linked to my city — her once home and ashram were in the hills of Malibu just Northwest of my own home. She dedicated her life to transcendent music and spiritual devotion — the kind of presence and pleasure that doesn’t require a passport.
I’ve been getting pings about Alice Coltrane from the universe for months, and on Sunday I finally made my way to her. Her exhibit was a reminder that pleasure and presence are not frivolous; they’re sacred. Her music was a portal to something higher — just like the gardens in Paris, or a perfect croissant, or a spontaneous moment of joy. It reminded me that I don’t need to escape to experience magic. I just need to attune to it. The Hammer is an incredibly lovely place to visit. It’s free, it’s centrally located in Westwood, and it constantly has new exhibits. Despite being so lovely, the last time I visited was in June of 2024. I remember feeling then, the way I felt Sunday: why don’t I do this more often? Why don’t I bring the pleasures reserved for vacation into my daily life? Well my friends: this spring and summer, I pledge to you that I will.
A poem from my upcoming book, Moon Garden. Preorder your copy here.
Even though Paris was the ultimate privilege and luxury, and probably is literally the once-in-a-lifetime experience everyone keeps calling it, pleasure is not a privilege. Pleasure is not a luxury. It is simply waiting for us to choose it over the mundane, the comfortable, the familiar, the safe, the known. I equate pleasure with aliveness — because it can only be experienced right here, right now.
So today, I want you to ask yourself: how can I be on vacation, at home? How can I make pleasure part of my daily existence? How alive am I willing to be?
Here’s some of my favorite Alice Coltrane songs to get you in the right mood as you find your own Paris, right here at home.
This newsletter is inspired by my upcoming book, Moon Garden: Poetry for Manifestation. Moon by moon and poem by poem, nurture your journey of self discovery and co-creation in alignment with the universe. As you embrace nature’s rhythm, you will unlock your deepest desires, truths, and purpose. By honoring your intuition, setting intentions, and taking daily action, manifestation—the realization of your dreams—will naturally follow.
Why preorder? Because that’s what tells bookstores that this is going to be a hot book and inspires them to order copies for their stores. Preorders can make or break a book. Thank you for making Moon Garden a success and making it possible for me to keep writing.