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It took until the last day of August, but I have finally succumbed to the dreaded summer cold.

There’s something dispiriting about getting a cold when the sun is shining, the days are still long (but getting shorter), and everyone is still delighting in being outdoors in the heat. My heart tells me I should be gallivanting in a park, or reading by the riverside, or swimming in the backyard pool; my body (especially this headache, sore throat, and fever) reminds me that I should rest, drink lots of fluids, and recuperate. It is an unfair conflict: the aching body always wins.

Being sick on the last day of August is, however, and excellent moment for reflection upon the summer. (Of course, there is still about a month left in the summer; I am in no rush and have no haste to chase it away, and will relish the rest of it once I am well again.)

One of the biggest honors—and responsibilities—I’ve had in my life was to lead the naming of my brother.

I wasn’t quite eight years old when I found out he was on his way, and to be entrusted with coming up with his name was delightful but daunting. I knew my parents would veto anything that was too off the board, but they also knew that I would take this responsibility seriously. I dove into the task, deeply.

Our family name is ambiguous: Vasta isn’t immediately identified as South Asian, or Arab, or even “foreign” to many. I’ve met Vastas that are Portuguese, that are Finnish, that are Indian. It’s a name that has allowed me to sometimes coast by in a world that is quick to other people who may not have names that are recognizable.

When we moved to the United States, and after that, to Canada, we came almost empty-handed. We had left our home in East Africa with whatever we could fit into our suitcases, and we set up a new life in North America that was, at first, meagre and austere.

I didn’t realize it then, but my parents fought hard to make sure that our basic needs were met. When they said no to my requests—new shoes, new toys, new clothes, new things that all the other kids had—they weren’t saying it out of malice, but because their focus was on paying the rent and making sure we had enough food to eat.

We were lucky to have a community, religious and cultural, that supported us in the hard times; we didn’t live a lavish life, but I never felt like I needed to go hungry. There was always someone there to feed me and look after me when my parents had to work. We were blessed to be cared for by people who had more—but not much more—than we had.

Without a stream of links, shared by friends, appearing constantly on the phone screen, where do people find things to read and explore?

I deactivated my Twitter account last week—I have been grappling with an overwhelming cognitive load and removing that from my workflow has given me capacity to focus on other, more important things—and the thing I miss most about the platform is the easy access to ideas.

A carefully collected Twitter stream is a fount of thought-provocation. More than the pithy thoughts or conversations, I appreciated the links and recommendations: articles to peruse, books to read, recipes to try, places to visit, ideas upon which to ruminate. The grand majority of the links in this fortnightly (sometimes weekly) roundup came from twitter recommendations.

Last week, I spent a few days surrounded by people who care about and work in global human rights at the RightsCon conference in Toronto.

Being in direct contact and in conversation with people who are passionate about human rights—many of whom who have made human rights their life’s work— was inspiring and galvanizing. It reminded me that I have passions in this space too, and that I am luck to work in a profession where pursuing those passions is part of my work.

When is a good time to give up? When do you know it’s time to stop trying?

One of the things I learned very early in my economics education was the idea of the sunk cost fallacy. The general gist of the concept is that the more you invest in something the harder it becomes to abandon it. There’s a natural tendency to keep going just for a little longer, put in a little bit more work, to validate all the work and time you’ve already put into a situation.

This past week, I was able to attend two government conferences: one in Toronto focusing on the future of open government, and the second in Ottawa where I helped facilitate discussions about innovation in public policy.

Some nights this week, I have slept for more hours than I usually do, waking up late and feeling groggy for the rest of the day. Other nights, I have been unable to fall asleep, passing my sleepless hours playing Alto’s Odyssey or reading books.

Last week, I had the chance to drink hot chocolate and catch up with my friend Karen who made me start to question something I had taken as fact. Those, of course, are my favorite kinds of conversations.

Over the past two years, I’ve done a really good job of divorcing my self-worth and self-identification from my job. (Don’t get me wrong: I absolutely adore my job, and feel incredibly lucky and blessed to be able to do the work I do and to do it with such an amazing group of people.) Working in public service is part of who I am; working  is an even bigger part of who I am. When people ask me what I do, I’m very quick to say that I support people who do the work of making our city, our province, our country, and our world better; this just happens to be my day job as well, but it also guides everything I do in the community, in my family, and every other part of my life.

I’ve been thinking about city-building, again. At this point, it’s more remarkable when I’m not thinking about cities, I guess.

In light of the new investment by the provincial government in London’s proposed new rapid transit system, I’ve been reflecting upon how the transit systems have shaped my favourite cities in the world. It’s imminently clear to me that while a robust public transportation system is inherently good for mobility (physical, social, and economic) and growth, more than that, a true publictransit system does more than just move people and money around: it makes people collide (metaphorically, of course) with others.

It snowed here, in North Vancouver, earlier this week.

Our impression was that we would be leaving the snow behind when we traveled out west for the holidays, as the weather here is usually much milder—rainier, yes, but milder. We were mistaken.

By Tuesday night, there were at least four or five inches of snow on the ground; the hedges around the house were bending under the weight of the accumulation, and the roads remained uncleared, slick, somewhat treacherous.

(Originally published on inthemargins.ca)