The taxi driver and I spent the first 10 minutes of the drive trying to figure out if we had the correct flight information for the author we were due to pick up. There were two name placards flying loose on the front passenger seat with the same flight number mistakenly printed on both. Fumbling with his phone, the driver dodged a tuk tuk, and then nearly missed a red light.

I just sent the big, bad behemoth of a book off to press. The Ordinary Chaos of Being Human is…say it out loud with me now…FIVE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-EIGHT PAGES long. I can’t believe it. I’m still exhaling. And I’m so proud of this book that even this ugly barcode I made is looking sexy to me right now. Kind of punk rock though, no?

Names. Name calling. Nicknaming. A misspelled name, in print. Gasp! I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how what we call each other matters. Whether that's a proper name, a description, a pronoun, a term of endearment, or a not-so-endearing term, it's not really our choice to make.

Lately I've been going for late night walks in the dimly lit garden after my gremlins have gone to sleep. I talk to friends and family on the other side of the world and listen to books or podcasts, one earbud hanging loose to stay alert to the wild animals lurking in the foliage nearby.

I had both of my boys geared up for our Sunday morning park outing when it started to drizzle. Feeling the breeze on my skin, I let out an audible sigh. When suddenly – CRACK! A tree branch, 30-feet long, 20-inches in diameter, crashed onto the walkway right in front of us, bringing its sibling branches right along with it.

Sri Lanka is loud.

it’s the choon pan tuk tuk at 6 am playing Beethoven’s Für Elise on a megaphone

it’s the squawking crows, the twittering squirrels, the chirping geckos

it’s a nest of baby bats crying all night to be fed

it’s the king coconut vendor calling “Tamalee!”

At the café behind my office recently, they butchered the trumpet vines I love. The tuft of spade-shaped leaves and purple trombones that had once shaded the steady stream of sun had been razed to dust, leaving only their narrow, woody trunks. The place felt naked. And hot.

I could draw the whole world on your body

with my tongue and my teeth

and there just might be enough room for every country.

Like a baby, she said,

as she covered my head with a coarse towel

patting my hair dry

in the wet heat of the hammam.