Hands on Hips Season

Reflection as a form of celebration.

Dear Guest,

The house was in a state.

I’ve been unavoidably detained these past few weeks between life and travel.

Today, I returned to find dust an inch thick on the shelves and bunnies running amok underfoot. I’ve spent nearly the whole day tidying.

At last, the cushions are fluffed, a new pen pulled from the drawer.
The lamps are aglow, the kettle is on, and you’re most welcome here.

—The Twelfth House Caretaker

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This afternoon, I took one of my favorite walks through the city. Something I love about Atlanta’s older neighborhoods is that, unlike the suburbs, no two houses are ever the same. Each block is a patchwork of terrain, character, and color—a kind of living collage that keeps me turning corners the way a good book keeps you turning pages.

There’s always someone or something to encounter apart from my own unruly thoughts, and today was no different.

Halfway up a hill, I noticed a man outside, carefully draping a giant spider web made of white rope from his roof to the bushes near his front door. He worked with quiet determination, spreading the bottom of the web evenly across the yard. Then I heard him call a name.

A woman came running out the screen door—bare feet, mug in hand. Standing in the middle of the lawn, she tilted her head just slightly as she studied the scene. He hammered the last hook into the ground, then walked back to stand beside her. Their elbows brushed as they both put their hands on their hips—two artists evaluating their work.

After a moment, she nodded. He jogged back up the hill, shifted the web a few inches to the right.
“That’s it,” she said, satisfied. “It looks good.”

And there they stood, side by side, admiring what they’d made together.

It was such an ordinary, tender act. A kind of everyday poetry.

I laughed, thinking of my family at Christmas. Every year, my dad and I would haul in the live tree we’d picked at the local farm. My mom would hold the door open in her robe, coffee in hand, as we wrestled it through the doorway.

Once we stood it up in the living room, she’d step back, tilt her head, and take command—
“A little to the left,” she’d say.
“No, not straight at the top! Try another magazine under the base.”

When it was finally perfect, she’d smile and set down her coffee. My dad and I would join her on the other side of the room, hands on hips, taking in our work. Then we’d decorate it and do the same again—step back, admire, adjust, admire again.

A few blocks later, I passed another man standing at the edge of his yard, rake in hand, surveying a leafless lawn.
“It looks tidy,” I said.
“Until tomorrow,” he replied with a smile. “I’ll have to do it all again next week.”

I don’t think he minded either.

It’s a funny human impulse, isn’t it?
To step back.
To look at what we’ve made.
To measure the distance between vision and reality.

Lately, I’ve realized that reflection is my favorite form of celebration.

Maybe today’s small encounters were just that—a metaphor for a bigger truth. As the year winds down, it feels right to pause and take it all in—the work we’ve done, the beauty we’ve built, the people who’ve stood beside us through it all.

If ever there were a season that welcomes celebration, it’s this one. We decorate our homes for familiar traditions—or perhaps just our calendars, with bright new plans for the year ahead.

Either way, I feel compelled to stand in good company and reflect—whether in bare feet or raising a glass of champagne (probably both at once).

Here’s to a season of reflection—of hands on hips, heads tilted in gentle consideration—and to that deeply satisfying moment when you can finally say:

That’s it. It looks good.