You know that feeling when your mind finally lets go of something it's been chewing on for hours? The thought that wouldn't unhook, the rerun of a conversation, the worry that wouldn't quit…

I grew up outside a small university town in Connecticut, on a dead-end road far from any traffic. Our yard had trees, a vegetable garden, and a river running through the back. In summer the leaves were thick enough that we couldn't see the neighbors' houses — we were inside nature, not beside it. The sounds were birds and water.

I've been finding my way back to that ever since. Time present in nature is a cure — it soothes what aches in the soul. It's also prevention: real, measurable, physical change in the brain and body.

Since having children — and then watching them move out into their own lives — the first time I really noticed I was on vacation, it was day two…

We were sitting on a hillside in the Atlas Mountains sharing a meal after a long day of hiking, The conversation had turned to weddings, and our guide was describing how Amazigh weddings in his region are three-day festivals. Entire surrounding villages come. The men do the cooking and serve the feasts — enormous spreads for enormous crowds.

I asked why the men cooked for the wedding when, on a daily basis at home, it’s usually the women cooking in Morocco.

His answer floored me.

In October 2023, my Morocco retreat group was set to arrive less than two weeks after a devastating earthquake. Friends and family were worried. A few people asked if we should cancel. Canceling never crossed my mind—but changing our approach did.
The first thing I did was reach out to my friends in Morocco—people I’ve known for years through decades of performing and from traveling there—and ask the only question that mattered…