Where Strategy Meets Inspiration
A collection of the books, places, people, and objects that continue to shape how I see the world.
Jupiter Artland, Scotland: Just outside Edinburgh is 100 acres that have been alive in my mind since we walked its paths in 2023. A magical place where nature meets art meets your wonder.
Psychiatrist and author, Phil Stutz is well known for The Tools. I have found his writing, commentary, and tools not only insightful but helpful. What I love most is Stutz’s willingness to fully claim that “the universe contains three unavoidable domains: uncertainty, pain, and the need for constant work.” Life is uncomfortable and in that discomfort is our greatest opportunity. I have found this to be true personally—and professionally. The best breakthroughs are almost always preceded by a breakdown and it is our willingness to wade into the ambiguity that makes us stronger.
The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin: “Creativity is something you are, not only something you do. It’s a way of moving through the world, every minute, every day.”
The Rothko Chapel, Houston" Pause. Breathe. Wonder. Repeat. The intentionality of this place speaks to me. Nothing unnecessary. Perspective shifts with the light. I still wish we’d gotten married here.
Our evening at The Lost Kitchen was magical—Erin French has thought of every detail, curated every moment, and garnished it all with edible flowers. Her food and the experience was impeccable in every way. She is the embodiment of one of my mantras—everything is a communication. And it was unforgettable.
A palm reader once told me that Janis Joplin and I had the same fingertips. I don’t remember what that meant, but her raw emotion gets to me.
Chris Roberts-Antieau, Ghosts of Birds: We liked this piece so much in 2014 that we put it on our wedding registry. But we love everything she does. Thought-provoking, spiritual, entertaining, and beautiful. Her galleries are a must explore in New Orleans and Santa Fe.
Georges Seurat, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte: On a 6th grade school trip from Lafayette, Louisiana, we visited the Art Institute of Chicago. And I was forever changed. The magnitude and vibrancy of this painting cracked something open inside me. Pointillism is a metaphor for life. Thousands of contrasting and complimentary distinct points side by side blend together to make something beautifully cohesive. One dot, or even twenty, does not the full picture make.
Methodical Coffee Methodical Coffee: The Greenville, SC coffee shop is a treat, but their beans are on repeat in our espresso machine at home.
Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família: To me, there is no better place to experience God than in nature. But Sagrada Familia would be a close second.
My husband David says he fell in love with me because I’m a truth-teller. It’s true (see what I did there?).
We spent a memorable Thanksgiving one year having enchiladas by candlelight with old and new friends in Marfa, Texas. Marfa is one of those places that you can’t believe really exists—mysterious and magical yet completely intentional.
My husband said he went on a date with a woman one time who mentioned over appetizers that she wasn’t really into TexMex. They didn’t make it to the main course. Respect.
I enjoy a good mobile. And not just because ceiling art is largely underrated. I love that a mobile begins to move when the room seems perfectly still and the music starts. We are like that. Connected. Introduce a small shift, and eventually everything else responds. The movement isn't always immediate, but it is always shared.
I love Mike the Tiger. The real Bengal tiger that lives on LSU's campus and the mascot that struts through Tiger Stadium. I went to mascot tryouts as a student. But I got intimidated and left. It's one of my life's great regrets—not because I wanted to spend Saturdays in a giant tiger suit (although, maybe a little), but because it reminds me how often the things we don't do stay with us longer than the things we do. I still think I’d make an excellent Mike.
My grandmother always played Cajun music in her kitchen on Sundays while she cooked. And when Don’t Mess With My Toot Toot by Rockin’ Sidney came on, we couldn’t help but dance. Jon Batiste is my go-to Sunday music in this season of my life.
I did a LSU summer study abroad session in London in 1997 and consistently return to two things vividly from that experience: 1- We experienced a theatrical production on a playground 2- The tube announcements to ‘Mind the Gap’ That play demonstrated the space between what is expected, accepted and what is possible. The opportunity to find and create magic in unexpected places and ways. For me, that is the gap. And the work of this lifetime for me is to pay attention to the space between potential and possibility, between accepted wisdom and better questions, between seeing a some thing or place for what it is and imagining what it might become. That's where most of my best work begins.
When I was an undergrad, I had the good fortune to live just an hour away from both of my grandmothers. Many weekends found me driving over the Atchafalaya to get a little R&R, homecooked food, and comfort away from college life. Granny and I shared a love of K&B ice milk, but by the late 90s, we’d also fallen in love with these delightful mint ice cream popsicles. We sat in her living room one evening having them and chatting. Then she looked at me, eyes twinkling, and said, “Do you want another one?” Of course I did. More minty goodness. More time with Granny. More comfort. Sometimes you just need more.
I believe that all colors go together if you love them. When we moved back to Baton Rouge in 2024, no one influenced my house wish list more than Gray Benko. I knew I wanted to create a space of whimsical curiosity and every day since has been an opportunity to add a little layer of joy and surprise. Gray didn't teach me to love color. She reminded me that beautiful spaces, like beautiful lives, don't require perfect coordination. They require confidence. And wonder.
My parents instilled in us the importance of hard work. And working hard. We did a lot of chores—not in the Cinderella way, but in the find productivity and make things better way. My brother and I are still those people—we have two modes: all the way on, or asleep. I’m forever thankful for this work ethic. It has given me a lot of satisfaction and even more opportunity. And today, I’m learning that the doing of this chapter is to work on my being. Someone recently asked me how I was feeling in my body that day. I didn’t stop to check in. I thought about it. I guess I have some more (or less?!) work to do.
I'm not known for going slow. So why the fascination with the abacus in today's world of calculators and AI? An abacus is beautifully honest. Every movement is visible. Nothing is hidden inside an algorithm. Complexity doesn't appear magically—it is built, one deliberate movement at a time. I think that's what draws me to it. It reminds me that understanding is different from knowing. A calculator gives you an answer. An abacus shows you how the answer comes to be. Whether I'm thinking about organizations, communities, or my own life, I find myself trusting processes that reveal their logic over those that simply produce a result.
My high school besties were all in choir—and their voices are pretty incredible. I’m tone deaf. Except I also fancy myself an honorary member of the Highwomen. My harmonies sound pretty fantastic (at least to my own ears). Their music stirs something in me. “I want a house with a crowded table, And a place by the fire for everyone… Everyone's a little broken, And everyone belongs”
There is something about the redwoods in Muir Woods that inspires a holy moment. Heck, there’s even a Cathedral Grove. A Bohemian Grove too. The majesty of these trees—their size, their age, their collective strength—both fills my lungs and takes my breath away. I know that I’m not alone in this experience. Somehow it still feels completely mine.
While I’ve read and re-read every one of her novels, Song of Solomon is my favorite of Toni Morrison’s works. There is something about the musicality of this story that moves me. “The fathers may soar/And the children may know their names.” Beautiful. A conundrum. An aspiration. I’m endlessly fascinated by the idea that our memories are not just our lived experience—but that we inherit them as individuals and communities just like our DNA. Zora Neale Hurston writes that “like the dead-seeming cold rocks, I have memories within that came out of the material that went to make me.”
I’m mostly a little scared of birds. Primarily ducks and geese, thanks Gary Larson. Perhaps subconsciously, I’ve chosen to subject myself to exposure therapy—sometimes many times over—in our house. There is even wallpaper of birds on our bedroom ceiling. David recently called our home ‘the nest.’ Touche, David, touche.
What was your first concert? Great icebreaker question. Mine was Barbara Mandrell at the Lafayette Cajun Dome in March of 1986. Yes, Barbara Mandrell. Most Saturday nights of my childhood were spent on a rural road either at my grandmother’s or great-aunt’s house eating pizza topped with cubes of pepperoni during Hee Haw, waiting for Barbara, Louise, and Irlene to shine. While I never put peanuts in my Coke and certainly wasn’t eating crackers in bed, I will forever be a little country, even when country wasn’t cool.
A quick google search will tell you that outside of the physical science definitions, the figurative meaning of friction is “clashing personalities, disagreements, or tense interactions.” But true to itself, friction is a lot more, well, two-sided. In urban design, there is a concept known as ‘productive friction.” In the article “The Logic of Friction,” architect Kivi Sotamaa writes: “In our work friction is always a positive force and a facilitator of change: Contrary to conventional thinking, friction in design acts as a force that awakens, increases the ability to see wider, encourages the search for new knowledge, encourages active citizenship, and enhances interaction with diverse people.” I believe this is true in the social fabric as well. I've become increasingly suspicious of environments that pride themselves on having no conflict. The question isn't whether friction exists. Every meaningful endeavor creates it. Transformation requires it. The question is whether the friction leaves us worn down or better formed.
I consider The New Localism by Bruce Katz and Jeremy Nowak essential reading for anyone working to improve places for people. This book, more than any other, has influenced my thinking about systems, community, and governance. “Placemaking in the twenty-first century must have as its intentional focus the reassertion of shared community and prosperity. This affects every institution, from how museums and orchestras open their doors to public school students to how new immigrants find a public voice for cultural expression to how schooling and lifelong learning become second nature to civil society and the public sector.” Enough said.