I’ve been forgetting how old I actually am lately. I keep having moments where I go, “well, I am thirty.” And then remember that I’m still twenty-nine years old. Or if I were even younger, I’d say I’m twenty-nine and a half years old. Squeezing every inch out of these accumulated days I can.

When I was in my teens, I always imagined I was a year or two ahead of where I actually was (warranted or not). But during my early twenties that mind set fell away. Especially once I hit twenty one and all the great milestones had seemingly been achieved.

Now I’m standing in my tiny kitchen cooking chicken and wondering the optimal method for delivering the best tasting chicken breast. I’m sipping cheap Chilean white wine out of a green sake glass with cranes on it and laughing about how I’m finally in the overseas adventure I always imagined, but here I am poking at this chicken wondering which other ways I could cook it. A wonderful dose of the mundane in the midst of an experience that stands apart from everything else I’ve ever done.

I got to talk with two of my favorite people today and it was a blue bird day with the sun setting high up like a regent at court.

I’ve been listening to soul music all day and twice I’ve had to stop and think about the tragic demise of both Otis Redding and Sam Cooke. You hear their voices and imagine they sang forever. An endless catalogue of music to accompany those incredible talents. But it’s not the case. Twenty four years old for Sam Cooke and Twenty seven years old for Otis Redding. It makes me wonder if their families and friends listen to their music to preserve their legacies, or if it’s too hard to bear. Even after all this time.