Waves Come In Sets: On Life, Travel and the People We Meet In Between

A sample of Waves Come In Sets: On Life, Travel and the People We Meet In Between

Waves Come in Sets

On Life, Travel and the People We Meet in Between

Dani Kreeft

Thought Catalog Books

thoughtcatalog.com

Copyright © 2025 Dani Kreeft.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior written consent and permission from Thought Catalog.

Published by Thought Catalog Books, an imprint of Thought Catalog, a digital magazine owned and operated by The Thought & Expression Co. Inc., an independent media organization founded in 2010 and based in the United States of America. For stocking inquiries, contact stockists@shopcatalog.com.

Produced by Chris Lavergne and Noelle Beams

Art direction and design by KJ Parish

Circulation management by Isidoros Karamitopoulos

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First Edition, Limited Edition Print

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-949759-98-3

Contents

• Introduction — 7
• Stories on Life, Travel and the People We Meet in Between — 9–358
• Waves Come in Sets — 359
• Afterword — 361
• Acknowledgments — 362
• About the Author — 365

For Bert and Betty.

Introduction

I've always known that to write, I have to live.

At least that was the only way to get any good blood out of me. I couldn’t just sit at a desk and breathe prose. There had to be a point A to point B, some movement whether internationally or internally, but always intentionally. It could be within my own town or to another part of the planet or simply sitting across from a loved one or bumping into a stranger in line somewhere, but I knew life had to be happening.

So I sought out that life.

This is what I wrote along the way.

Till the Soil

I noticed a simple verse written on the dash of the Uber while on my way back from the social security office in North Hollywood. To strike up a conversation, I asked why he had it up. He started talking about how it reminds him to surrender to the Almighty and to be grateful. He had this gentle, patient cadence to him, with comforting eyes resting in the rearview mirror. I was envious of his confidence. I’d been spending a stretch of time that summer wondering what the hell I was doing in LA, so palming around for some existential answers was at the front of my mind in the backseat. He asked what I was up to which led to why I was in LA, so I mentioned what I was trying to do or, rather, all I was entirely unsure of in my doing. And he looked at me calmly, saying, “Just like when farmers get ready to plant, they till the soil so it’s rich and ready. It has to be prepared.” I could see softness smiling right through his eyes, and I smiled back. What he didn’t know was that a week earlier, I’d confided in a friend about my semi-lostness, and what came to her was, “Till the soil.” It’s like he knew.

You Could Be Waiting

You could be waiting for things to calm down or pick up or for everyone to get out of your way. You could be waiting for next month to hand you a clean slate or an uninterruptible studio space to savour your ideas or a weekend of time where you actually wake up early. You could be waiting for people to take you seriously or for you to take yourself seriously. You could be waiting to squirrel away enough money to buy yourself some time to create. You could be waiting for a podcast to say something, a city to mean something, a leader to do something, a cause to start something, a partner to feel something. You could be waiting for your future self to materialize or a time still ahead you idolize. You could be waiting for a second coffee to make something click in your spirit or a green light you already have. You could be waiting for the world to do something when it’s looking at you with the same “Do something!” expression you’re looking at it with.

Good Morning

He was walking straight into the morning sun outfitted in faded drawstring shorts and a college T-shirt, his sneakers probably as old as he was, all tied up tight. Wisps of white hair curved out from under his weathered ball cap bent sharply at the front framing a simple moustache and easy smile. I imagined this was his usual morning route, a routine walk he’s likely done for years. “Good morning!” I greeted, cycling by slowly, my oversized button-down flapping in the wind, shaking every palm tree off the Polynesian print. “Isn’t it?” he replied, meeting my eyes with his gratefulness as he stretched out his hand in a big thumbs up, a gesture of glad emphasis pointing to a perfectly cloudless sky. I smiled, my bare feet turning the bike pedals, my bathing suit dry for a few more minutes before a dunk in the lake. I could hear the waves already. Yeah, man. It’s such a good morning.

How do you get it all done?
You don’t. You pick and choose.
And surrender the rest. Actually,
you surrender all of it.

Heim Cafe

I ordered an americano and a turkish mood with smoked paprika oil while I scanned the French Embassy across the street. One bored policeman manned it in a tiny security box. “This is the Day” by The The was on while the cafe swam with expats. In my Dodgers cap, I shamelessly added to the pool. The guy next to me, a Tunisian DJ, was drinking cigarettes and white wine at 10 am. Perfect. When he picked up on what the Lebanese family next to us was saying, we started talking about languages. He can speak six, counting each one on his fingers. I tried to hand the waitress my plate with a solitary slice of toast remaining—I’m stuffed!—but she smiled and said I should try again. Standing at the register to pay, I noticed a guy who’d been looking my way was standing next to me in line, so I slid a brief conversational wedge in the door and asked how his breakfast was. He said, “Good!” and then nothing. I smiled and paid. Maybe he has a girlfriend.

Wallis

Wallis and I were ripping down the 10 towards the Pacific in LA a few years ago talking about ageing. I said I can’t wait to be 80 and not give a shit about all of it, to just finally be old and past it, to walk around bare-faced and poignantly belligerent towards the artifices of womanhood while wearing a blouse, drinking a coffee, finally fine with all of it, settled within myself. From the driver’s side and without looking over, she said, “Well, why don’t you just do that now? Embody that spirit now? Accept yourself now? Be 35 with the internal chutzpah of an 80-year-old and live the next 45 years differently.” In a few brief seconds, she managed to kindly turn my shoulders so that I’d be facing the direction I’d been wishing existed to show me that it actually does.