studying the seasons.

it has been suggested to me that there are seasons to these lives we live. and that they aren't always clear and summer doesn't always follow spring and every once and again winter will yield more winter will yield more winter will yield more.

so i've been giving some thought to this season, to this season i'm in now. it's not clear whether it's winter or spring, summer or fall. but this i do know:

it is a season of strong women. a season in which i've been blessed by tremendously strong women. women who model friendship for me, who are driven, who take no prisoners, who laugh freely, and demand the very best. women who actually listen. intelligent, feminine, no-nonsense women.  i'd met women of this ilk before. in passing i'd met them, but suddenly i am surrounded by them. suddenly i have collected a whole group of them and few things in this life have felt so important (so totally and truly lucky) as that.

this is the season in which i crave simplicity. in which i long for clean lines and uncluttered floors. in which i, unfortunately, feel a half-stranger in my own home (but know {humbly and with gratitude} that feeling will pass).

this is the season in which an unexpected october snow-fall awakened something within. demanded i order a chai latte and watch the white accumulate while standing in the warm light of the corner's coffee shop. there's something to seeing and studying and loving that cold and that dark and that dim from under the subtle yellow lights of familiarity.

this is the season i dared leave the light for the snow. into the white.

this is the season i am surrounded by, swathed in, ambivalence.

this is the season i find solace in a cabinet stocked with spices.

this is the season in which i attempt forgiveness. of myself. for the past. for my mistakes. for all that abandoned, lost time.

this is a season of reckoning. of acceptance. of remembrance. oh yes, that's who i am. oh yes, for better or worse that's what i'm made of. oh right, that's a part of my story. still.





image by Carol Reed.

i'm back.

just about two weeks after getting a brand-spankin-new-macbook pro last july there was an incident.

it involved an eight a.m. skype date to australia, a wee bit of coffee, a spill, and then a hairdryer.

the computer came out okay (or so i thought). the loss of the caps-lock key and sticky shift seemed manageable.

but then the trackpad stopped working just about a week ago. so into the store we went. i copped to the water damage, batted my eyes, and begged for mercy.

the genius kindly obliged. checked it in under tier-four damage and waved the fee (water damage is not covered under warranty).

but in helping this working-girl out, the genius did so with a caveat:  it was incumbent on me to get a protective case and a silicone cover for the keys.

he fixed this lovey of mine. and i obliged. case and cover procured.

we're back in business, baby.



(though, can i admit something? a week with no computer? no endless surfing, beholden to no one and no thing...it was nice. i'm not gonna lie. it was really nice).

the swell and the breath.

i've never really been of the belief that happiness is a choice.

there was that one summer i went around paying lip-service to it--to the belief. that one summer i wanted so desperately for it to be true that need eclipsed sense and i wore the phrase heavy around my neck.

i should clarify.

it's not that i don't think happiness a choice, it's that i think the choosing only goes so far.

it's part choice, part fight,  part smidge of luck, some indeterminate amount of divinity, a hell-of-a-lot of hard work, part ritual, part mystery, part getting out of bed in the morning. and when all is said and done, you offer those things up. like a prayer, you offer them up. and then you wait. you wait to see if they're enough.

because the blue is big and the blue is deep.

and some days, some weeks, some indeterminate stretches of time, they're not .

and sadness swells and breathes like an out-of-tune accordion.

i watched it approach this go round. watched as it appeared on the lip of the horizon. watched as it slowly, steadily, hurtled toward me. and i got out of bed each morning, and i payed homage to the ritual and the mystery, and i had my morning coffee, but the sadness took hold.

that hauntingly familiar sadness filled and unfurled. settled in.

both hollowing and hallowing is that blue.

and in the space it created, i with flailing arms and pitiable grace, groped for meaning.

two days ago, on the train, i began to cry. while reading a short essay about a father's love for his son, i wept.

i wept not because i was sad but because the words were beautiful and simple and wholly solvent.

and in doing so, in weeping, there was a thought:

here i am.

here i am, the girl moved to tears by the love a father not even my own.

and the meaning--the reason for this stretch of time--while still unknown, is somewhere in there--there, in that moment.

that is what is known, the boundaries of this swath: the reading of an essay on a train. and the human response.

and for now that is solace enough. for now, that is the salve that will heal.

this week's absence.

my computer is with those wily geniuses at the mac store.

yes, i know it's brand new computer. yes, i realize not much time has passed for it have already gone kaput. yes, i recognize that the whole thing is a comment on me (in some--if not many ways).

yes, i know i should not be allowed to drink coffee near the device. i know now, okay!

this is all to say, i am computer-less.

and really, really exhausted so maybe for the best that i take a bit of a break.

see you in a few.

thought you might like to see (what's above my desk):

i had two goals this week. 

1. to exercise

2. to sit down and write

i did neither. 

i did however, attempt to create a better work space--one conducive to writing. this involved switching desks, trading my stool for a left-behind-chair, turning my bookcase to create a faux-wall and thus sectioned-off-office (yes, my manhattan dwelling room is that big). 

the picture is of what's above this new desk, in this new "writing" office: a reminder of past and present and the tether along which both run and change and meet. 

so that's something. this next week: the actual writing. 

at some point, a few weeks ago...

in a moment of sentience, i logged onto amazon.com and ordered the books i've been wanting and needing (books i've been thinking about for months). there is a book on the mechanics of writing, jonathan safran foer's first work--a collection of works inspired by joseph cornell (which i had misread as joseph campbell and thus expected something all together {and yet, not}). there is brian andreas' story people and at the last moment, i included in my bundle, leaping: revelations & epiphanies (having only just discovered this brian doyle character).

two days ago mr. doyle's work arrived in the mail, an answer to a prayer i hardly knew i had.

one of the first pieces is an essay on writing--on why he writes, on why anyone writes, really.

i often tell people i'm a writer. and feel fraudulent as i do so. what do you write, they ask? and i hardly know how to answer that. but this term "writer" it covers all manners of sins, no? and perhaps one day, i will be and i will claim the title with some authority, having actually written something that wings beyond this little corner of the internet. and because i intend to one day actually be such--a writer--i found the essay particularly important and meaningful. so indulge me, will you? allow me to share bits and pieces of it here?

(bits and pieces of ) WHY I WRITE |  BRIAN DOYLE


I look over the essays I have published over the course of twenty years of diligent scribbling and am astonished at their riotous incoherence...If there is a theme in all this it completely eludes the author, who feels that he has wandered into a pathless forest and is thrashing his way home armed with only a pen.


Which is sort of the point. Thrashing toward the light with a sharp pen is what writers do.


Why? [why write]

Because, as the fine essayist E. M. Forster said, "How can I know what I think until I see what I say?"


Because there have been times in my life when the only way I could handle rage and horror and fear was to write it down and thus fend it off, fight it, force it to retreat, understand it, hurt it. 


Because writing is a form of contemplation and a form of prayer.


Because writing occasionally leads to rapture. 


Because writing is a way to connect electrically and directly with other people, which we crave, while generally preserving privacy, which we also crave. ("Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself," wrote Walt Whitman.)


Because writing is a form of performance that does not demand physical grace or youth, and writers, despite their craving for privacy, like to be the center of attention, usually intermittently, rather than continually like film stars and Bill Clinton.


Because writers are, deep in their souls, didacts who itch to deliver the Unvarnished Truth and cannot help but unburden themselves of that which burns in their hearts. Writers are preachers. 

...It's what I do, and what I love to do, and no one else can do it quite like I do.


Better, perhaps--but not with my particular flavor and music, and somehow, in a way I do not wholly understand, that is important, and in a very real sense miraculous, and necessary. 




image
via.

May I never be complete.
May I never be content.
May I never be perfect.

Chuck Palahniuk

fear and new york {and Portugal. The Man}

i followed a twitter feed yesterday. (when did twitter get to be the most helpful and exciting social media app?) and found myself rsvp-ing to see Portugal. The Man at the lomography store on west eighth street here in new york. i sent the email off with no real hope of anything. 

and then today, just hours before the event, while at work, i got an email confirming my ticket and my +1. so in a mad rush i went about finding said +1. this is what i learned/realized: many of my friends (and people i'd most like to go with) do not live in new york. many, many more of my friends are successful and have jobs that don't allow for such off-the-cuff planning. 

so i started to waver: should i go. should i not go. i'm meant to see the band in boston on saturday. i got two tickets (one for me, one for my brother) as a birthday gift to myself, from him (smooth, no?). only i didn't run the date by him first so...i'm headed to boston. to see Portugal. The Man by myself  (really, really smooth).

anywhoo, to go or not to go. 

i was tired today. i'm always tired nowadays. and i've been feeling low and blue. i wanted nothing more than to come home take a nap, run some errands, do the laundry (and let's be honest...hide from the world).

and i was afraid. afraid to go by myself. 

but if i'm living in new york, if i'm going to live here, in new york, hell...isn't this precisely why people love the city--where exposure to these sorts of things is prevalent and everyone is alway rubbing elbows with someone exciting and story-worthy. 

three months ago i would've gone. no questions asked. three months ago i felt bold and confident, three months ago i didn't care if it meant standing by myself in a corner for two hours sipping white wine while waiting for the event to begin.

but today i felt fearful. and lacking. and because i was so afraid, because fear was dictating, i knew i had to go. 

so i did. and i did stand for two hours. by myself. in my stodgy, black work-clothes and my tried and true blue rain slicker. (let's just say i was not in my hipster-best). 

but i was so proud of myself for going. for reclaiming some of that girl i tapped into mere months ago.

and it was so great. the music was so great. they are so great. they were the last band i saw at lolla this summer. and as their set progressed, all of us there in grant park watched as a massive rain storm rolled in. and just as they began the last song, the sky opened, and lord did we dance and slice and get a little muddy that day. so it seemed fitting that sky deluged new york today. 

Portugal. The Man is my rain dance music. my be-brave, get-wet, dance music. and don't think i don't have a thing for every single one of the guys in the band. 

on a separate note: there was this brief moment, when, before they had opened the upstairs to the public, i somehow wandered up there (no security) and found myself face-to-face with the band's drummer and a gaggle of others only to turn right around on my heel and high-tail it back downstairs. no one stopped me. no one said you can't come up here. i should've sauntered right in and started talking to everyone as though of course i'm meant to be here. but, that's a level of bold i'm still working on.

hey boys, saturday night. in boston. be there, be square. 

life slice #4.

when just the right guy happens to smile at
just the right moment and
it just so happens he's smiling at you and
he's caught you mid-laugh
and all of it,
all of it is just enough
to keep you going.

me too.

today it's raining in new york and i'm so thankful for it. for the gray and the clouds and the little bit of gloom. something magical about a rainy day, i say. and while i'd like to stay in bed all day, it's not in the cards. 

turns out the cards today herald day-old-dirty-hair and a laundry list of things i've been putting off--a laundry list of things i need to do to keep myself afloat--like head to the bank and head to the gym (goodness, can't tell you how long that's been) and maybe head to the kitchen tonight, too. to actually make myself something--to nourish the body and the mind and give that stove-top a workout. 

so off i go. to smile in the rain. 

via. 

"something 'bout the quiet surprise in darkness"

i have a list of people i want to see live: mayer hawthorne, fitz and the tantrums, portugal. the man, the avett brothers, laura marling, but there's something about this guy...

that puts him at the top of the list.

no question.

"Last night, as I was sleeping" by Antonio Machado {and happy monday}

Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt -- marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

     Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt -- marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

     Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt -- marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

     Last night, as I slept,
I dreamt -- marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.






(a very kind reader sent this my way and i can hardly read it without crying. so true and beautiful and needed is it this week--may it be a good week for us all--full of light and marvelous errors and honey made from sweet failures and divinity, above all else).




image
via.

"Why am I afraid to dance, I who love 
music and rhythm and grace and song 
and laughter? Why am I afraid to live, 
I who love life and the beauty of the flesh 
and the living colors of the earth and sky 
and sea? Why am I afraid to love, I who 
love love love?"


Eugene O'Neill

claiming the land.

i hated new york this week.

hated the long subway rides. the assault of smells. the brush-bys by men who should not be. that. close.  

hated that i've taken to hiding in the stairwell when i see that one particular neighbor waiting for the elevator. (26 brings maturity, don't let anyone tell you different). 

hated that the guy at the corner store knows me. has for near two years now. hated that he knows when i'm eating well. and when i'm not. hated how his hand always brushes against mine when he hands me the change. no matter how i place my hand--inviting the dropping of the coins, he brushes up against it.  and since i have this theory (or strong-held-personal belief) that all intimacy begins and ends in the hands i find this action invasive, intrusive. 

and yet. he knows me. let's me cut the line when i'm just getting my chocolate covered pretzel. i hand him the dollar and he gives me a wink and a smile. he knows my name. always offers kindness, even when i don't deserve it. 

but this week. oh this week. 

this week i was lonely. 

seems to me as i cycle through emotions some, at certain times, are harder to admit than others. and why is that? sometimes i can't admit sadness. i'll claim everything else, but don't ask me to reveal the underside of that cloak that falls heavy on the shoulders.

this week loneliness sat heavy and oppressive on my chest. this week loneliness curled up under the two highest rib bones, wrapped itself there and clung.

and i considered writing about it. but upon the realization that somebody might actually read these words--oh god, people actually see this?--i evaded, ducked and missed the words all together, which was the first real mistake i made.

it's been harder to write, lately. as though it costs more. takes something from me. a wise friend suggested it's because my life has more value now--or i value it more, so yes, writing from this place is quite literally (metaphysically) more expensive. a side effect of getting better i did not anticipate and certainly do not welcome.

loneliness.

i thought about giving it all up this week. my lease ends in six months. i could sell my furniture. or put it in storage. take three weeks to travel around europe (because it's been suggested to me that three months would not be financially sound) and then move to seattle. or portland. and no i've never been to either of those places but i've  just this sense that i was meant for the pacific northwest. for the gray skies and massive pines and the water. for a pace of life that differs and bends.

i think i would thrive there. i have not reason to think this, no basis for this thought, other than it seems many a good musician is there now and some damn, fine writers as well, so maybe there's something in that water? and maybe that something would do me some good.

if i'm going to be lonely, might as well really be.

might as well go to a place where no one can ask me if i'm acting--if i'll ever, because no one will know me as such, as an actor, as a person who used to act. i hardly know myself as such. no one will know me at all. blank slate. fresh page. page turn.

and just as i'm having all these thoughts, just after having gotten off the train, and having passed quickly through the corner store, i look down at the bottle of sparkling water in one hand and the yam in the other. and the lack of bag, this quick purchase on the way home--it seems so very new york to me. and i love it. and i love new york for it. and just as soon as that thought passes, i pass the local restaurant and wave at my good friend from college who's perched at the end of the bar. and there is a love for that moment.

i'm trying, god help me, i'm trying to feel it all: the dislike and discomfort. the loneliness and wanderlust. the snippets of love i feel for this corner, this home. the in between-ness of this time in my life. because i know it will pass. i know this time, too, is sacred and important. i am changing now, becoming the grown-up version of myself. but oh, how the pushes and pulls make me sick to my stomach.

but again there comes that call--that push: remember this. remember this.

that's the great comfort: all things pass. sadness and loneliness. seasons of our life and slivers of time. and happiness too. and it cycles back only to move on again.

so, okay, before i rid my apartment of all my things, before i take off for europe, i'll enjoy this--this latter  half of october, when, heaven help me, i'll feel loneliness, really feel it. i'll live with it and study it and know it. i'll stake claim to it, plant flags in it, delineate territories and identify tributaries. and make it mine.

if only for a time, if only for a time...


image
via.

linking up.

the coolest thing since sliced bread: laura marling in concert recorded by npr. {damn, that girl is good}.

notes on writing. (i certainly, somewhat sheepishly, identify with that last one). {and lord help me, i hope my husband one day calls me a supernova of a human being}.

putting raw hemp on a salad the other day, i decided to google just why it was good for me. i found this. if half of this stuff is true, well then it's time for a new industrial revolution...hemp may just save the world!

i always thought ambivalence meant not caring. i had the meaning wrong. was i the only one? it means caring in two directions...two contradictory directions. i find ambivalence exhausting, but this essay exhilarating.

pumpkin oatmeal? 'tis the season.

the next cake i'll attempt to make.

definitely the kind of woman i wanna be.



image
via.

life slice #3.

via.

love of an...

sometimes i wish i could go back to that first night at the bowery ballroom.

take in the dark wood floor for the first time. the vaulted ceilings and small stage.  the space as an ode to a different time: a simple, uncluttered, unfettered time.

i didn't know that night would be transformative. didn't know charlie fink had been reading bukowski as he wrote the third album. didn't know he was attempting to tell stories about the outliers--a move away from the deeply personal narrative of the first days of spring.

the music that night felt redemptive. holy. a controlled bubbling of euphoria. it filled me, washed over me, touched some part of me i didn't quite understand.

and so when the night ended, i went back to the band's previous work. i listened again to the first two albums groping for that greater meaning. why was the night transformative--for me, what made the experience transcendental?




bereft.





i think bereft may well be one of the greatest words the english language has yet produced. bereft: lacking, without. the word itself is an expulsion of air. just to say it requires something, demands something.

that's the word that comes to mind when thinking of the first days of spring: bereft. a man bereft. abandoned, bereaved, utterly without.

with songs entitled "i have nothing" and "my broken heart" it's fair to say i'm not hitting on anything revolutionary here, just stating the obvious.

the thing about the second album that's so interesting is the progression of it. because smack dab, middle of the thing comes "love of an orchestra" and with it, these brilliant words:

I know I'll never be lonely/ I've got songs in my blood/ I'm carrying all the love of an orchestra/ gimme the love of an orchestra

and if that isn't a breath of air returned to the body, i don't know what is.

empty of everything else--love and happiness and hope, even--there is the music. the resurgent, hypnotic melodies that drop down, invited or not.

and so the third album, last night on earth, well, it's that love of an orchestra made manifest. it is an album about the return of joy.

in fink telling stories about those that ring the outskirts, those who live on the fringe, he unwittingly reveals the very axis on which much of humanity balances, himself included.

when things get tricky on my end, when upheaval reigns, and nothing is clearer than murky, when i feel most alone--most bereft, i remember i am filled with words. gimme the love of the english cannon, or the library, or...well, i'm not sure what the equivalent is, but you see where i'm going with this, don't you?

when all else fails i am left with words and their endless, malleable patterns. they are my music, or my attempt at such. and i am never without.

there is bereft. and there is life after. and the life after, it's just so much better. and no one tells you that, and no one prepares you for that, and those on the other side of it just don't understand. but it's just so much better. you grow up and you find balance and you feel happiness in a way you didn't even know to be possible: there is more in this world to be found/ than dreams.


and you wake one morning to find you're a better person. filled with the love of an orchestra or the love of small, tangible, wriggly words--and those words open worlds and life thrums along. only different, better. and you live your life as though it is the last night on earth because you already lost everything once and you came back from it so fear doesn't have the same hold. and we're all living on some line, some edge, some axis anyway--might as well enjoy our own precarious placement in the universe.

that night, for me, was both explanation of the past and road map for the future. and touchstone, too. reminder of where to look when even hope evades: the words. always, the words.

For our hearts are not pure; our hearts are filled with need and greed as much as with love and grace; and we wrestle with our hearts all the time. The wrestling is who we are. How we wrestle is who we are. What we want to be is never what we are. Not yet. Maybe that's why we have these relentless engines in our chests, driving us toward what we might be.

Brian Doyle

life slice #2

she'd been feeling like she couldn't rub two good days together to save here life.

there'd be one--one good, passable, livable day.

followed by a rush in of three or four others. days that recalled an older time. a time well-passed, once-lived, and tremulously difficult.

but then there'd be another good one.

and so the cycle went.

and there were just enough good ones to make it all survivable, bearable, perfectly withstand-able.

but there was a sense of treading water. and while the pull of the waves seemed gentle and harmless with her head above peek-a-boo caps, she knew the rhythmic bob belied the actual pull.

the difficulty was, to keep her eyes on the horizon? or to give in?  was there redemption to be found in surrendering to the undertow--would the very thing she feared get her to where she most needed to go?

life slice #1

everyone kept telling her to be more careful this go round.
she kept telling them she wasn't the same person.

I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable,
but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive
is a grand thing.

Agatha Christie

travel light.

"I would have actual troubles & fewer imaginary ones."

the whole thing makes my heart swell to such an extent that it actually hurts. to make more mistakes. to fail more often. to go barefoot.

it all makes such good sense.

the gorgeous sarah posted this yesterday 

and i just had to share. 

if only for myself. so i might remember.

my mantra for this new age...

found here.

recognize the words?

celebrating the next year. (my manhattan: the birthday edition).

having been in new york for so long now i feel extremely lucky to have so many friends from so many different parts of my life: childhood friends, school friends, work friends, happenstance friends. on monday night several of them came over to help me ring in the new year (new to me, so to speak). with plenty of wine, noah & the whale carrying through the speakers, and such good people around me, i felt so very lucky--so very happy and humbled to know such kind and generous people.

i wore fake eyelashes, my most comfortable dress, and padded round the apartment barefoot. i only broke one champagne glass (and that's on me, i was drinking diet coke from it while baking the cake), but i did manage to land a fair amount of bubbly all over the wood floor (those old school champagne glasses have too much exposed surface area).

all in all it was simply a lovely evening.




































ps: i must thank you all--you who come to this wee-here-blog-of-mine--for sharing in my birthday yesterday. your kind words of encouragement never cease to inspire and fill me.
i am in your debt, truly.

linking up.

{so w're gonna have to just accept that while i like making these link lists the chances of them happening at the same time every week (friday)...slim to none. so it'll be like a little surprise each week}.

surprise!!

a lovely discourse on the power of touch.

considering it was the most powerful book i've ever read (yes, i'm saying that), i know the movie will disappoint. and yet, i began sobbing about thirty seconds into the trailer.

seriously, what is it about ryan gosling?

love that this man claims to be the product of a conspiracy of love. what a powerful thought.

the democratization of energy? now that's an idea.

these pictures of rome have undone me. can we say wanderlust?

not so lucky as to get to see the head and the heart in concert anytime soon? the next best thing.

in light of the occupy wall street protest that is snowballing in new york, i found rolling stone's article on the security exchange commission nothing short of enlightening. (this one's mostly for my dad).

amy poehler / leslie knope. huzzah.

really gives one something to think about in light of the upcoming election. doesn't hurt that it's one of the best movies ever--and always good to watch when the weather turns cool.

photo: kate murphy

photography

who i am at 26.

i woke this morning exhausted and not feeling terribly well. something about too much bubbly and too much cake last night.

and not enough sleep.

but the incessant call of the buzzer roused me from my warm bed--me cursing whoever thought it appropriate to make deliveries at seven-thirty in the morning, all the while.

flowers. 

flowers at the door. a beautiful fall bouquet. 

a birthday.

i tried to climb back into bed, reappropriate sleep for myself, but there is something so holy about the quiet and early morning hours in new york (anywhere for that matter) that once up i am helpless against its pull, tired as i may be.

and so i made my way to the kitchen, surveying the empty wine bottles and glasses along the way, brewed a pot of coffee, and pulled from the cabinet a green mug--the plant-potter mug. 

morning ritual.

bare feet on wood. cool tin of coffee grounds. the hiss and spit of the coffeemaker. the selection of the mug. the settling into my chair just in front of the window. and all the moments between. the connect-the-dots.

i am both the ritual and the departure from it. 

that's what i came to this morning, thinking about who i am now, at 26. 

i am the product of 25 and 24 and all the years before. i am the rituals i have made my own. and i am the departures. 

the air is getting cooler now. brisk and breezy. and i have this suspicion it won't be long before  the people across the street who take their morning coffee on the fire escape disappear inside for the long winter months. already i am wistful for that image, sorry for the loss of their presence. but this weather--oh how this weather heralds a hope like no other. how the cool air carries on its back a sense of possibility and precipice and great joy--old joy.

today i am the girl who is better than okay. the girl with a flirting, passing love-affair with happiness.

sometimes i can feel the thing--that joy, that happiness--just beneath my tongue, or behind my eyes. sometimes it's right there where my ear meets my neck and every once in a while, when i least expect it, it is everywhere all at once. it is profound and all-encompassing--swaddling and lifting.

i am the girl who is just now realizing some things must be fought for. happiness, yes, and courage yes, and people, too. and that pride isn't too tremendously helpful. 

i'm pretty good at giving up. at giving in. at letting fear dictate. but i'm working on that. i'm learning to fight for myself. learning to fight for the chance to suss out who i love and what i love and what i'm meant to do. learning to fight for the right words in this world. and the courage to say them, aloud. not to write them, but to form my lips around them and feel them as they move up and out of me, physically. this is the world of light and speech. right? isn't that what george elliot said? this is the world of light and speech--i'm just now coming into that, owning that. 

just the other night my father told me that when i was a wee of a thing he'd arrive home from work and my brother would run hollering at the door, daddy, daddy! and as he did so, i'd run to the furthest room in the house, silently, and wait for my father to come find me. 

only now at 26 am i learning one can't always wait to be found. endearing as that hunt was, my brother kind of had it right. sometimes you have to run headlong and fearless into the arms of the thing.

so here i am attempting to make my way down. coming from that back room, down the staircase. welcoming myself. my arrival. my decision to finally show up--to become an active participant in creating a life in this world of light and speech and the space between. 

coffee photo

found via

this gorgeous blog.

reflecting back. (25).

i've been thinking a lot about what i would--what i should--write for this.

and the thing is, well, i haven't come up with much.

other than...

i'm okay.

here i am. 25. and i'm okay.

thrilling, right?

well, for me, it is. okay is nothing short of utterly and completely thrilling.

because for so long i was not. okay.

and then i was not quite.

i have moments. all the time. moments where i feel like i should have done more. been more. said more. moments where i feel so far behind. hell, i'm 25 already. this is it? this is all i've accomplished? but then i quietly remind myself that we all have different paths. different life trajectories. our stories vary. and my accomplishments, my multitudinous (yup, i just used that word) victories are mostly private. things that others might never understand. but for me those victories are the difference between not okay. not quite. and just fine.

and just fine, okay, whatever-you-want-to-call-it is the beginning. the beginning of everything. the part of my story where my successes become (i hope) a bit more public.

so who am i at 25?

i'm someone who believes that unsolicited smiles by strangers are one of the most profound acts of kindness possible.

i still use the crabtree and evelyn room spray that my mother gifted me for my 19th birthday. it immediately brings me back to a time of naivete and endless possibility.

i find the music of florence + the machine to solicit more sock-to-wood-floor dancing than is proper or appropriate or even becoming of a lady of my pedigree (and now) age.

the quote that makes the most sense to me right now--right at this very moment: "sometimes i can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives i'm not living" (jonathan safran foer {of course}).

if i could go anywhere tomorrow i'd hop on a boat and sail up the dalmatian coast. or i'd return to rome. and sit in church after church after church. saturating myself in beauty and history. satiating myself with prayer (and a lot, a lot of gelato).

i don't know where life goes from here. but i'm so excited to go boldly into the unknown. to try. and to fail a little, as inevitably i will. but also to start gathering successes. collecting them one by one in the cradle of my arms so i can lay them on the alter of this life as my humble (and multitudinous) thanks.

i am so thankful to be 25. to be 25 and just fine.

see last year's who i am at 24.

image via.

reflecting back. (24).

tomorrow is my birthday.

i'm sitting in bed this morning contemplating that notion. drinking my coffee from a mug my father picked out when i turned twenty-three. it has a quote by thoreau emblazoned on the front of it.

i'm sitting here looking out at the river--the bare rock of the palisades and the green of the trees that will soon turn orange and red before fading away.

and i'm thinking how i'm not the same person i was three years ago, just after beginning this blog. and i'm not the same person i was at twenty-four. or at twenty-five. hell, i'm not the same person i was six months ago.

and i feel so fortunate. to have this. this blogspot-lover-of-mine. because it helps me keep track. chart the progress and the difference and the space between.

so will you indulge me today? tomorrow i'll post who i am at 26. but today i want to take stock of who i was at 24 and who i was at 25 (i didn't write one for 23). my hope is that reflecting on the past two years will help give meaning to this year.

let's travel back in time, shall we? or, at least, bear with me as i do?

who i am at 24...

this morning i woke up to a new year. 

i buttoned up my brand new, crisp-as-they-come, white blouse, took a good long look in the mirror and decided that yes, 24 felt different in the best possible way. i was different. better. immediately, i knew.

then i gave one squirt of smashbox foundation into my waiting hand and ended up with five gloriously large makeup blobs all over my brand new shirt--my never-been-worn shirt. and i was brought back to reality. this would not be the year of the immaculately clean white blouse. a new year, a new day does not a different person make. i am still the girl who gets make-up on her shirt (or food--more often food), stumbles over her words, and does not realize that the restaurant has not been serving broccoli now for a full 34 days (as my boss so kindly pointed out). 

and you know what? thank God above for my persistent little foibles. they're glorious. and i love them.

my girlfriend from high school and i were speaking on the phone today. about boys. (what all young, twenty-something women most love to discuss). and she mentioned a boy she had dated several years ago that she would be meeting up with soon. she expressed trepidation about the time elapsed and said, i'm not same person i was at fifteen. to which i replied, thank God,  whitney. thank God we're not the same people. 

okay, so i am different today. and i'll be different tomorrow. each day brings a new and exciting adventure. 

i may not be so young as i was last year. but i have a year's worth of knowledge along with a new number. and for the first time in my life i feel like i am on the precipice of... everything. 

so 24. who am i. well, here goes.

if i could have a constant supply of anything for the rest of my life it would be flowers and paper toweling. 

at the grocery store, i most love coming away with the tall, slender bottles of pellegrino. it makes me feel...french.

i hiccup any time i've had too much food or eaten too quickly. so... often. very, very often. 

there is a direct correlation between the quality of my mood and the cleanliness of my home.

laughter. above all, i need laughter. small hiccups of laughs and roaring guffaws. when i think of the man i'll marry there is so much i dream of. but the only thing i know--i mean really know--is that he'll laugh at my jokes and my constant mistakes. and himself. oh for a man who can laugh at himself! he'll make me laugh and for this i'll love him as though our lives depend on it. 

i'd like to tell you that ned isn't following me into this new year. but he is. two weeks ago i would have said, no, no way. but with the onset of bed bugs and thus a disrupted sleep cycle, he has taken taken this opportunity to creep back in. when i am healthy it's as though i've found a little pocket of air in which to breathe--and i ride it for as long as i can. it's a sweet spot where ned can't touch me. and i know that in the process of recovering it's important to fall out of the pocket so that i can figure out how to get back to it quickly. so i'm trying to give thanks for the fall out. but giving thanks isn't always so easy. nor is finding my way back in. 

back in april i gave myself a year to fail, to fall on my ass again and again. and i'm doing it and loving it. and i've still got a good six months. 

i promised myself that come 24 i would take pictures. all the time. every day. it would take work and practice, but i would make it a habit. and it would be a crushing blow to ned. but i'm not feeling very picture pretty today. so i make this promise. it will be a week late, but come this weekend i will post some photos. full length photos. photos that pretty or not will show you who i am in a way that my words cannot. 

i feel good about this age. this 24 number will be a good one. ned will end. and i will fall in love. (that's my divination for the future...i guess we'll see if my predictions are on point!). 

ps: i have a crush on a man who snaps his fingers. and when he does it's strong and clear and reminds me of my father and this inspires great confidence. 

photo via sabino.








25 coming this afternoon. 

sunday mornings meet fall.

somedays i wake up and life is just easier.
and i think of course i am beautiful.
and of course i am happy.
and of course i am filled by the love of those around me.
i am not lonely or alone.
and of course i'll figure out the path.
and of course i'll find success.
and of course, of course i'll fall in love.



usually, on days like this, the weather is really damn nice.

photo via one of 

my very favorite blogs.