The Creative Nest

We all have that one neighbor. You know the one. He’s out in the yard at exactly 9:02 a.m., armed with tools, determination, and just enough energy to make the rest of us feel like we should probably be doing more with our lives. There’s trimming, edging, blowing, sweeping… and then, just when you think he’s finished, he finds something else. A leaf. A corner. A patch that already looked perfectly fine. But here’s the part that really stands out—he’s not just working. He’s checking . Every few minutes, there’s a glance over the shoulder. A subtle pause. A moment where it almost feels like he’s waiting… not for the yard to be done, but for someone to notice that it is being done. And honestly? It’s kind of human. Because if we’re being real, a lot of us have a little bit of that in us. Maybe we’re not out there power-washing the driveway for the third time this week, but we’ve all had moments where we hope someone sees what we’re doing. The effort. The care. The trying. “Did you...

There’s a certain kind of fantasy we all have at some point—the “run away from everything” kind. You know the one. It usually shows up on a Tuesday when your email won’t stop pinging, your laundry is judging you from across the room, and you briefly consider becoming someone who lives in a tiny coastal town where no one knows your name and your biggest responsibility is deciding between coffee or tea. It feels freeing just thinking about it. Romantic, even. Like maybe if we could just step out of our lives for a bit, everything would reset and fall into place. But here’s the thing—running away, in real life, doesn’t always come from a place of choice. Sometimes, for people living with dementia, there’s this very real pull to “go home”… even when they are home. It’s not a dramatic escape or a whimsical fresh start. It’s a deep, internal sense that where they are doesn’t quite match what they feel. Their reality is shifting, and in that space, the need to go—somewhere that feels right...

There was a time—long, long ago—when eating was an elegant affair. People sat up straight, napkins gently placed across their laps, and took delicate, civilized bites as if someone important might be watching. Forks were used properly, elbows stayed off the table, and chewing? Oh, chewing was done quietly, with dignity. It was less about eating and more about performing. And then… somewhere along the way… we evolved. Or maybe devolved . Depends on who you ask. Because now? Now we enter what I like to call the “modern caveman era” of eating. The fork is still technically involved, sure—but the posture? Gone. The grace? Missing. Instead, we find ourselves hunched over our plates like we’re protecting our meal from imaginary competitors, shoveling food in with the intensity of someone who hasn’t eaten in three business days. Let’s be honest. There’s a very specific moment this transformation happens. It starts off normal—you sit down, take a proper bite, maybe even sip your drink like a w...