The purpose of life, it seems abundantly clear, is to charge your devices.

Long after all the neighborhood lights dim and the city descends to a hush and there’s nothing but the slightest whisper of wind in the distance.

Even the smallest of steps point toward distant horizons.

There’s an assumption that today’s acclaim will never be esoteric or forgettable or even uninteresting to future generations.

To see someone perfect a craft or demonstrate a prowess for anything that’s difficult prods you to get closer, to see it better, to simply keep watching.

Even though I don’t speak Portuguese, I have the word golfinho seared into my memory, the sound clear and vivid and the pronunciation of each vowel flawless in my ear.

An incredible change in trajectory

And now we’ve reached the time of year when the weather acts like a jester, teasing us with hints of sun on still chilly days.

Nothing makes you doubt the merits of a music education more than a neighbor who takes up the violin.

Somewhere along the way—in a shift that began more than a decade ago—my thinking reversed.

A few years ago in Paris I heard a German man yell at his family in Italian.

Somewhere in the black and white portion of my mind is a memory that I occasionally question.

The first hints of dawn come with a soft violet color.

The spot where there begins because here has ended.

How does distance affect our perception of time?

In the São Paulo summer, the air is salty and thick and the rains are always just minutes away.

Here’s a useful reminder for when you’re on the cusp of speaking over a morning coffee.

Of course cities are quieter than the countryside.

How is the real map is a hidden network of relationships, memories, and associations?

What do the best storytellers know?