My fragrant hot-pink roses have exploded, thousands of Yves Piagets blooming to heartbreak. Some roses end up scooped into my tousled updo or tucked behind my ear. They are scattered about the house, spilling out of vintage vessels on tables and toilet tanks.

Serving homemade pasta drenched in my infamous “dirty rose” tomato sauce with a kick—canned tomatoes with a hot pepper, mixed with rose petals plucked straight from the garden.

I just knew I needed to work hard. I may not have been blessed with much natural talent—a lot of people have it—but it’s work ethic that separates people. Artists or athletes.

Like in years past, I walked the trails around Pepperdine and went to my old Pilates studio. I was determined to connect to my body again—it felt so far away. Secret layers.

There are multiple layers to a free spirit. It’s not just about being aimless and mindless—it’s a pure connection, it’s flow. It’s an adventure. Intelligence doesn’t look like any one thing. It’s a best-kept secret, it’s mysterious. For me, it’s Singing from the Well by Reinaldo Arenas, it’s the author Nicolas Bouvier’s The Way of the World, it’s F

Syncretism. A statue of Kuan Yin, the goddess of compassion, sits meaningfully on my desk.

My ranch on the water is a vortex, pot-stirring, volcanic, a powerful healing energy. It brings everything to the surface; you can’t help but be inspired. And dream vividly.

overflowing with lettuces, cucamelons, zucchini, and pumpkin flowers ready for their warm vegan ricotta. Heirloom tomatoes await my famous French tarts, which I learned to make in the south of France. The sting of herbs so fresh that when touched, they scent your fingers and bite your nose, tempting a sneeze.

I’ve never felt driven by money— yet— Somehow, I stay above water “I am provided for” is my mantra. Pure trust.