Louis Comfort Tiffany's work is synonymous with the Gilded Age. You can't imagine the time period without his intricate lamps, colorful glass, and explorations of the world. I've been to so many different places that celebrate his legacy and work including the Preston Bradley Hall Tiffany Dome in Chicago, The Dream Garden in Philadelphia, The Neustadt Gallery at Queens Museum, the Driehaus Museum in Chicago, and the Gallery of Tiffany Lamps at The New York Historical Society. The Nassau County Museum of Art has always celebrated Tiffany's work even before his exhibition, and it was my first introduction to more than just glass. 

We’re all shapeshifters, bending ourselves to belong, whether that be to someone, something, or someplace. 

My therapist asked me whose voice was in my head whenever I felt a rush of adrenaline and urgency, and without hesitation, I said, “It sounds like an angry man.”
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I’m pretty new to this whole existence thing, and it was a profound moment to recognize that my anxiety had a different voice from me. This entire time, my anxiety and I cohabitated without any boundaries. I took its word as prophecy, as truth, as law, without even questioning where it was coming from.

I did not know what to expect when choosing to read this book. I’ve been interested in better understanding the tapestry of women’s lives throughout history, and this seemed like an interesting place to start. Elinore Pruitt Stewart was born in 1876 and had a challenging start in life. She was orphaned young and grew up largely fending for herself. She was first married; however, her husband died in a railroad accident. In an effort to change her life, she took herself and her daughter to Wyoming to work on a homestead with Henry Clyde Stewart, whom she later married and had children with.

Elinore’s story is touching, and it’s inspiring to see a woman of that time take charge of her life. However, as a woman of color, there were certain nuances in her story that stood out to me. She is a glass-half-full kind of woman who truly counts her blessings and takes joy in the life she has built largely with her own two hands. The book unfolds as a series of letters she writes to a friend of hers from Denver. 

Playful by Cas Holman was a book I didn’t know I needed. As someone on the threshold of adulthood at the ripe age of 25, I’ve been asking myself a lot of questions about what it means to get older. As a socially constructed consequence of aging, we are told to shake off our curiosity in place of stability and responsibility. Somewhere along the way, I internalized that adulthood meant sacrificing joy and, for some reason, suppressing yourself in an effort to look like you have your life together.

It’s interesting what we consider “together”: someone who has figured it all out and appears to know the secret sauce to surviving this wild existence. Unless you’re aware of your own reincarnation, we’re all kind of winging it, trying to figure out something that doesn’t really need to be solved. Adulthood feels like a performance to me — one I’m carefully, almost stubbornly, trying not to take part in.