The thermostat in my apartment reads 83 degrees when I walk in the door on Monday evening. My feet ache from walking around the city in the heat all afternoon. I drop my bags, strip off my clothes, and toss them in the washing machine before going upstairs to shower. Outside, all the sidewalk cafes are bustling and packed, as if the population has swelled to twice its regular size overnight.

If I have to do lengthy travel (a drive of more than three hours or a train ride further than a few stops), I like to do it on gray, drizzly days. This makes being tucked into a train seat or behind the wheel of a car feel cozy, rather than suffocating. On brilliantly sunny days, I just wish I could be outside breathing fresh air and walking barefoot in the grass. (Note: This does not apply to short drives in nice weather, which is actually one of life’s great pleasures and involves loud and enthusiastic car singing.)

It’s already Sunday but it feels like the weekend has stretched for a week, in the nicest way. The first few truly sunny days of summer are such a novelty still—each one has a delicious newness to it, which gives time an elasticity such that a single weekend feels like a week-long vacation. All the things that become routine once summer really sets in are still fresh. I haven’t gone swimming every morning yet, or had dozens of cold brew iced coffees, or gotten multiple sunburns from too many hours at the beach.

I’m not a big bourbon fan. Actually, I’ll go even further and say that brown liquor is not my drink of choice—be it rum or whisky or scotch. (Between you and me, I entered a tequila phase about five years ago and I don’t think I’ll ever go back. Because, margaritas.)

Most weekday afternoons, I take the subway down from my apartment to Soho. I get on the 2,3 express train, switching to the local at 14th Street, and exit at the Houston stop. I walk two blocks to the quiet block of Sullivan Street just north of Prince, which is shaded by trees and lined with brick apartment buildings, their exteriors ribboned with the iron grates of fire escapes, that wouldn’t look out of place in an episode of Friends. It’s a comforting snippet of the city, one that feels oddly neighborhood-like despite its proximity to the grit and noise of the NYU area.

The entire world seems to be glowing with green these days—there’s been so much rain everywhere. Central Park is a riot of vivid jewel-tones, between the grassy lawns and the stately canopy of trees that line the cobblestone sidewalk of Fifth Avenue. I went home to the farm for the weekend; as we turned down the long driveway, the rolling hills of the farm were laid out in front of us, in various shades of dark green, pale green, and bright green. The cow pasture, the tops of the trees in the woods beyond the stream, the high grass of the field above the ponds…all green. (This is the farm where I grew up—the namesake of this blog and where my parents still live, and I still—and forever—will call home no matter where I live.)

I worked on Block Island one summer, spending my days as an employee of the island’s Conservancy and my evenings bussing tables and hostessing at a beachside restaurant. My day job had all sorts of perks: I spent the summer outside, teaching little kids about ocean tides and island geography, or leading marsh walks, or overseeing beach cleanups. I got a killer tan and breathed fresh ocean air all day. One of my favorite parts of the job was assisting with weekly stargazing events. These were hugely popular with summer visitors—we called them “night sky viewings” and we held them in the big field at the Hodge Preserve near the northern tip of the island.

My routines ebb and flow regularly. You’ve heard that saying about change being the only constant? For me, I stick firmly to habits, repeating them again and again, until one day: poof! I switch them up entirely. (There is the exception of a few daily rhythms, in which I’ve rarely wavered over the years: I always exercise in the mornings (when possible). I always shower at night before putting on pajamas and having dinner (when possible). I read a book before falling asleep. I only stretch after a run, and never before.

Here is a nice way to have a nice day. First, get up and get out of bed. This is imperative to the plan—really, it just doesn’t work if you loll about reading old articles of Shouts & Murmurs on thenewyorker.com and wishing someone would bring you a plate of crispy bacon.

Okay, so you’re out of bed! Good! Well done! But that’s not going to be enough. Now listen carefully to this next part: tear through the “brush-teeth-wash-face-put-on-running-clothes-lace-up-sneakers” process. Under no circumstances are you to overthink this, or do it slowly, or put on your shoes but then instead of running shorts, try on a few nonsensical outfits like that ill-advised llama-print t-shirt you bought last spring from J.Crew with a long flowy silk skirt just to see if you can “pull off the high-low trend” (you can’t).

Let’s talk about your sense of adventure. How is it these days? Thriving? While I believe each of us to have our own innate level of comfort with adventure—that can certainly fluctuate throughout the years. I think of myself as a solid 8 out of 10 on the adventurous scale, but I’ve dipped down as far as a tentative, trembling 2 at times and sometimes soared high as a fearless 14 (yes, out of 10), craving all sorts of risk, seeking hits of adrenaline in far-flung places.