Sitting on my back porch on a fall day, a ceramic lawn ornament framed by red leaves catches my eye. The pale gray rabbit, which I've have for years without paying it much attention, seems to have a spirit that its ceramic exterior can't contain. Maybe it's the childhood references: Peter Rabbit, the Velveteen Rabbit, and Alice and Wonderland. Or maybe it's the magic of the moment: a wet fall day, leaves turning gala apple red and yellow, the sun dropping into the mountains, a light, quick rain, and a double rainbow. And in the middle of all that, the small, still rabbit.

Ruins of Tulum

We arrived by bus. The heat and humidity immediately oppressed us. After visiting the expansive, air-conditioned gift shop, where we had a short break, we boarded a trailer to the Tulum ruins, which we entered through a doorway within the wall that surrounds them. First the bumpy trailer ride, then the narrow doorway, gave me the feeling of entering a place apart. As sweat formed on my forehead and ran down my face, I followed the guide from crumbling structure to crumbling structure along winding dirt paths lining cliffs. Our guide talked of frescoes, carvings, gods, and goddesses, of rituals and riches, of an observatory to track the movement of the stars and a window meticulously built to frame the sun at equinox. Nostalgia can trick us into thinking the past was somehow more special than the present, and it wasn't. The past was just different. But that difference hangs around the stone structures like an aura. It reaches out and brushes against you as you navigate the ruins, as real as the stone, as visceral as the heat.

Nights with Sebastian

In his brand new, tufted and skirted bassinet, all creme, taupe, and beige, my two-week-old sleeps next to me—fed, changed, and tightly swaddled. His eyes are shut, his body is still. If I kissed the top of his head, it would feel like a peach and smell like fresh laundry. He's so close to me but separate, too. At least for now, he doesn't need me to hold, feed, burp, or carry him. He could wake up in an hour, or even ten minutes, and every hour after that. But for now, everything is exactly how I imagined it would be; everything is perfect.

Boat on Water

At Fisherman's Village in Marina del Rey we ate calamari and drank cold white wine, bittersweet like grapefruit, and then walked along the stone pathway adjacent to the dock. The Village is years past its prime and in need of repairs, but its neglected look inspires nostalgia. To my right were a defunct lighthouse and quaint buildings painted burgundy, sky blue, and pale yellow, which housed a hodgepodge mix of restaurants and tourist shops. To my left were docked boats big and small and a collection of seabirds, like pelicans and seagulls, and the marina, where the sun glinted off the lapping waves.

Pointe du Raz

After a long bus ride, I stand at the apex of Pointe du Raz, one of the westernmost points in France. The strong winds blow in the crisp, salty smell of the Atlantic Ocean and whip against my hair, face, and clothes and the rocky cliffs. Waves thrash below. The Bretons borrowed the word "raz" from Norman, meaning, "strong current of water," and when you stand at the height of Pointe du Raz, the name feels both obvious and ominous. Before and below me are rock outcrops leading to Le Vieille lighthouse and, beyond that, the Atlantic. Looking in that direction, you sense the isolation that make this region feel like the end of the earth.

Duck on Water

On one of the first truly warm days of spring, I took my infant son for a walk around the neighborhood lake. We passed what I thought was a flock of common ducks. But on another look, my eye was drawn to the ducks' fanned hoods, black-and-white markings, and chestnut flanks. I approached them for a closer look, smelling the muddy ripeness of the water's edge. Soon the pair of Hooded Merganser and other ducks joined a flock of geese onshore, where we watched them until they waddled back into the water and swam away.

Chihuly in Wonderland

At the Dale Chihuly exhibition at the Denver Botanic Gardens, I walked from the Perennial Walk to the Monet Pool to the Japanese, Montane, Licac, and Rose gardens. In each, blown glass sculptures intermingled with the landscaping. Vermilion prongs rose up from a bed of basket-of-gold and lilies. Mauve prongs rose out of a lake. Spidery, succulent-like glass of every color grew out of water or among ferns or sage bushes. Royal blue spheres floated down a river and ones of bright yellow, orange, and blue piled into an abandoned boat. A Willy-Wonka, Alice-in-Wonderland fantasy world of nature and art.