I’m writing this from a cozy corner of a historic hotel in Riga, sipping tea and reflecting on the past few days. My daughter and nieces just flew back to the U.S. earlier today, and now, for the first time in a while, I find myself alone. It’s a quiet moment—one I’ve tried to cushion with a little luxury as I navigate not just solitude, but a stubborn knee injury and the thoughts that tend to follow when you’re finally still.

Just yesterday, I met with the Communications Director of the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia. We talked about the Storytelling for Peace project—an initiative close to my heart. He seemed particularly interested in two components: the youth engagement aspect and the curriculum design built around the Inzovu Curve. There’s a sense of possibility here, though the project hinges on two key pieces—a letter of support from HRI or another NGO, and the involvement of a professional historian. If those come through, I’d say our chances are even. 50/50. Still, hope is alive.

And then—there’s the pirts.

If you’ve never experienced a traditional Latvian pirts, let me try to bring you into that world. Imagine a rustic wooden cabin, its interior blackened from years of steam and smoke. Round, smooth logs form the walls, sealed with rich, oiled chinking. Inside, simple slatted benches and tables, rows of buckets, and the heart of it all—a stone stove that heats water through a network of pipes, powered by a wood fire. It’s elemental, and it’s incredibly familiar. In fact, it reminded me of my childhood home in Westwood, where my parents designed our winter water system to be warmed by our living room fireplace, and in the summer, by solar-heated tanks in the greenhouse. These systems feel like second nature to me—of course they’re built this way.

But the pirts isn’t just a building. It’s an experience. A ritual. A return.

All four elements are present in their raw, unfiltered beauty—earth (through the use of plants, salts, honey), fire, water, and air, made tangible as steam. The experience is deeply grounding. Soothing. Stripped of pretense and clothing, you’re left with only yourself and the heat, the quiet, and the power of touch.

On my final day in the countryside, I received a healing session from Aija, my amazing teacher for that week. I let myself sink fully into the experience—no analysis, no questions—just trust. Her hands moved with intention, sometimes pressing into energy points in ways that mirrored Māori techniques I’ve encountered. One point in particular, on my left thigh, triggered such a reaction in my body that I found myself weeping. The pain surged all the way to my right wrist—I had to shake it out, over and over.

Time slipped away inside the pirts—it always does. But when the session finally ended and I stepped outside, pushing aside the heavy woolen blanket that covered the door, the sunlight stunned me. I felt… reborn. As though I had crossed a threshold I’d been waiting for my whole life. Every anxious thought dissolved in that moment. All that remained was the wild Latvian summer—the wind howling through the birch trees, maple and oak leaves dancing to the earth.

I wrapped myself in an orange-and-brown wool blanket and, with the help of my crutch, lay down in the grass. The sky above me felt vast. The wind stirred the branches, the leaves spun and cartwheeled around me, and in that space I knew something profound had happened.

The parts of me that once felt broken, scattered, or unreachable—had been carried away. I wasn’t lost anymore.

I was found.