The island is alive, and the drumbeats carry all the way to our wraparound porch on 33rd, steady and insistent, only a few short blocks from the parade route lined thick along 25th. Mardi Gras has arrived, and with it Galveston braces for a weekend of unabashed celebration. Sirens from fire engines slice through the rhythm of a normally peaceful Saturday morning, signaling the commencement of revelry. Golf carts weave through traffic with reckless joy, and the whole island seems to pulse with permission to celebrate, to drink, and to partake in what would be considered forbidden at almost any other time of year.
Celebration hangs in the air like humidity before a storm, heavy and expectant. Those who spend the year measured and composed now rise to the occasion, loosening collars and laughter alike, throwing caution aside as if it were a coat no longer needed. Spring is beckoning, and the island is beginning to stir in response.
In the right hands, food becomes more than nourishment. It turns into an art form that asks you to slow down and surrender to it. This artichoke rests in a tangy sauce that brightens every bite and lingers just long enough to make you close your eyes. I remember reading My Life in France by Julia Child one winter and losing myself in her Paris kitchens and crowded markets. After that season, food stopped being routine and became a doorway to joy, a reminder that pleasure can be sacred when received with gratitude.
Adi and I shared this artichoke at Gonzolo’s American Bistro on the island as our Valentine’s date, seated across from one another with nowhere else to be. We have grown close to the owners, and each visit feels like stepping into our own small corner of France. For a moment the noise of the world softened and the experience of life shone brighter. Love was not declared in grand gestures but in shared bites and lingering glances. What if the truest romance is found in being fully present to what is set before you and to the one who sits across the table?
I’ve spent most of my life onstage, telling stories for laughs and feeling a room shift in real time. For twenty five years I hosted an improvisational show called Four Day Weekend, and that stage felt like home. In 2020 the world shifted, and so did I. The questions of the world began to matter more to me than comedy, and I turned toward writing about life's greater mysteries, finishing We’ll Always Have Paris and later Quietude, which became a quiet turning point in my life. Exploring The 12 Universal Laws widened the lens even more. Now the island reflections and everyday synchronicities I share carry one intention, which is to help you awaken to your highest potential. I am not here to convince or impress you. I simply hope to brighten your day, invite you to question what you have been told, and remind you of what you already know. Each morning I return to the same ground. I am awake. I am aware. I am able. I remember. Everything I share grows from there.