I used to claim that my feet would never leave the sidewalk. City girl. Through and through. Such pride in that. And it was fun. It was great. I loved that girl. Brisk steps. Heels on cement. Click, click, faster and faster. Starbuck’s in hand. Purse on shoulder. Phone in other hand. Grand.

I baked a cake in my French kitchen. Not just any cake. It was Italian, or maybe Spanish, or both… I don’t know, I’m an American in France now…it was something deliciously different. It was slow and deliberate. My phone doesn’t work in the kitchen, no need for that. No Starbuck’s across the street. Take the time and bake a cake. I do that now. And I love this girl too. 

I separated eggs, and creamed half and beat the others, and crushed the fresh picked almonds, and stirred, and folded and pre-heated, and waited. Patiently, almost. And I won’t claim I am only this girl — patient international cake girl — but I am this girl. And I can be. And I can still love New York, and Chicago, Paris even. And I can be fast. And I can be slow. And I love it all. 

I want to try new things and gather them up with the old and create fresh realities, every day. I don’t have to be one girl. And I won’t judge any other girls, or women, or mothers or workers or friends. Nor men either. We are put here to explore. Explore streets and forests and lives and kitchens and cultures and humanity. 

So I celebrate this girl. (Sometimes with cake!) I celebrate this day. This she. Knowing I am a part of it all. Learning, trying, becoming…forever on my way.