the gold trimmed box

just there rests a broken mason jar of stones

the sort of stones you collect as they’ve washed up on the shore of a beloved beach in the pacific northwest.

the sort of stones you’ve kept in a jar on your bedside dresser since childhood (as if in some attempt to hold onto your innocence- a time capsule of rock and tide)

until one day a rush of force and the unwanted tilt of life sends them flying to the floor

you watch as glass becomes fragments around you.

and just there is a ukulele which hasn’t seen the light outside its case for nearly two months, though in your mind you play him daily

though others may not pay admission, the concerts are nightly,
the music incandescent

around the corner sits an old black and white photo of the people you miss; whose smiles sing the virulent melody of inevitability

yet they are beautiful.

juxtaposed against a house made of gingerbread nestled amongst a forest of portraits.
snapshots of a life she would never want to discount.

but just there under the desk where she wrote as a little girl, a simple brown box fixes itself.
Plain and ordinary on the surface, this box perhaps contains every decent memory she’s retained

of the man with chestnut eyes and architect hands.
a boyish charm and a grownup’s discipline.

The gruff of a Mr. Darcy.

any physical piece of his retrospect lies there, in the four walls of paper vessel, taking respite on the robin’s egg floor of an attic protecting her most animate heart.

while she, perched on the mattress, fills that gold trimmed box with letters.

(a time capsule of rock and tide)

moonbeams kiss the sea

Ever since I was little I’ve believed in fairy tales and romance and magic. I’ve disappeared into worlds of glass slippers, horse drawn carriages, and poetic declarations of affection delivered by men who were once too proud to speak. These fictional places have brought me comfort, given me hope, and taught me to believe in the impossible. And the impractical. And the unbelievable. They’ve made me an eternal optimist, one who perpetually wears rose colored glasses, and the kind of woman who, most days, still feels like that little girl.

I’d come to believe that I’d been ruined by the likes of Jane Austen, Hemingway, and E.E. Cummings. I’d come to believe that I’d created an unattainable ideal for love- that no man would ever have a chance of being the prince, the white knight, the Mr. Darcy-like dream I thought I needed to be happy.

And then you showed up.

You came into my life like a whirlwind, like a living, breathing, Shakespearean sonnet. I remember quoting Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley in my mind on one of our first dates. That night we went bowling; do you remember? And in a moment, riding in your car, listening to Harry Potter, Shelley’s words hit me like flash:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

And I just knew that there was no one else I wanted to be kissing, let alone falling in love with.

Taking back Sunday.

I struggle to remember a time when Sundays weren't occupied by homework or studying, being holed up on the 6th floor of McKeldin Library reviewing anatomical structures or attempts at deciphering what Shakespeare and Bronte were trying to get across. When mornings and early afternoons weren't defined by rehearsals and matinee performances and the carpeted corners of the Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center. When days weren't consumed by working full 8 hour days and missing out on much needed additional sleep. When spare moments weren't spent buying groceries, filling the gas tank, cleaning out dresser drawers, and catching up on phone calls and e-mails. Okay, well, maybe the latter still occurs, but these days, on any given Sunday, I have the pleasure of waking up (without alarm) and tackling the delicious task of choosing how I'd like to spend the day. I am officially taking back Sundays.

For the religious, Sunday is the Sabbath, a day of rest, of worship, a day 'without acts,' or work. For the sports fanatics, Sunday is more so about football, couches, and bowls of chips. For students, it's a day for homework, projects, studying and libraries. And I suppose for the grand masses, Sundays are defined by the necessary acts we neglect throughout the week: yard work, laundry, dishes, cleaning, errands, and catching up with those we miss. In my attempt to take back Sundays, I've aimed to eliminate anything that is not relaxing, pleasurable, or fun from the agenda.

Some favorite things I've been doing these Sundays?

Brunch. One of the greatest creations of life. I'll eat banana pancakes with cinnamon butter any Sunday, thank you. And if you're looking for a lovely breakfast spot, try Grump's Cafe. You won't be disappointed.

Walks. I love to walk. Especially this time of year. In Autumn, as colors change and temperatures drop, there's nothing more enjoyable than a leisurely bimble around town. I recommend strolling hand in hand with someone you love, having a 'walk and talk' with your best girlfriend, or even getting out with a sweet dog at the end of your leash. And I have to say, downtown Annapolis offers the perfect collection of sidewalks, allowing one to pop in and out of pubs, shops, and of course, local bookstores.

Sleep. I said it before and I'll say it again. Sleep has become a novelty as my work weeks stretch from 40 to 60 hours. Sunday rolls around and I let myself stay between the sheets for as long as my little heart desires. I wear cozy pajamas, fuzzy socks, and snuggle up. Let us never underestimate the power of sleep to rejuvenate, empower, and satisfy.

Vegging out. So, I'm a little out of practice here, but I'm getting better. Let's just say, some times, there's nothing nicer than curling up on the couch, perhaps with a cup of tea, a friend to cuddle with, and some Modern Family or a classic movie marathon on TV. When our minds are running a mile a minute throughout the week, sometimes it's all you can do to just engage in something mindless.

Reading. I can never get enough of devouring paperbacks, but lately I find my eyelids win the battle when I try to escape at the end of a weeknight. So I welcome Sunday with its swinging benches and backyards and lovely boyfriends who let me sit and read for as long as I like. I'm currently working on The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. Check it out!

Enjoying a home cooked meal. I used to love Sunday night dinners with my family- my mother's expert cooking, spending quality time with loved ones, and the ritual of it all. Scott is a great cook and I have to say I've been quite lucky to enjoy some delicious dinners prepared with love. There's nothing nicer on a Sunday evening. Oh, and don't forget the wine!

So, here's to Sundays. And taking them back. Here's to giving ourselves permission to slow down, recharge, and relish in the simple things that make us oh so happy.

Looking forward to tomorrow!

Til next time,

L.

the light.

It's one of those cold, rainy, early Fall evenings...ideal for updating a blog that's been far too long neglected. And yet I'm lying in bed, towel on head, procrastinating drying my hair because really, as it gets longer, so does the drying process. And in this moment, I simply can't be bothered. Although, I really should be getting ready and heading over to Scott's as he's so kindly offered (once again!) to make us dinner and will undoubtedly make some comment about the growing predictability of my tardiness. I of course got sucked into the magical land of I-Tunes and You Tube, scoping out some new tunes and relishing in old favorites. Tonight I come to you with this:



And as always, the promise of more lengthy, wordy, and legitimate posts to come. Soon.

Happy October!

my thoughts go out to you

Though still in bed, my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us ...

Yes, I am resolved to wander so long away from you until I can fly to your arms and say that I am really at home with you, and can send my soul enwrapped in you into the land of spirits ...

No one else can ever possess my heart - never - never - Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves ... Your love makes me at once the happiest and the unhappiest of men ...

My angel, I have just been told that the mailcoach goes every day - therefore I must close at once so that you may receive the letter at once ...

Be calm - love me - today - yesterday - what tearful longings for you - you - you - my life - my all - farewell. Oh continue to love me - never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved.

Ever thine,

Ever mine,

Ever ours.

... The Immortal Beloved Letters, Ludwig van Beethoven

I would drink an ocean for you.

My lovely friend Katie shared this with me today. I love everything about it.

Listen and enjoy!

And thanks, KT!

this love will change you.

In just one short week my sweetheart returns from England and I could not be happier. Suffice it to say, being apart for a mere two and a half weeks has been far more difficult than I even imagined. Truly, I don't know how people in long distance relationships or military families do it. You are amazingly strong, but I can safely say that I could never be in those kinds of relationships. That aching feeling would just be too much. Not to mention, despite my best efforts, I seriously pine. I am a terrible piner (not really a word, I know). So. I've officially started the countdown. One week from today I'll get to pull into the Arrivals at BWI and wrap these arms around my favorite person. That will be a lovely feeling. So for tonight, at less than 7 days to go (wow am I pathetic!), I'm listening to this one on repeat:

The Weepies, "Same Changes"

Gone In The Morning

So I just discovered this guy. Newton Faulkner. And there's something about his music that just makes me smile. It feels effortless and light. His melodies and lyrics are poppy and catchy, yet there's this whole acoustic/folk/blues/slap bass thing happening that I completely dig. Anyway, my students will probably have to watch out for a piece undoubtedly choreographed to his quirky tunes. Perhaps this one.

Take a listen and enjoy!

the other shoe.

There is a beautiful kindness in the crux of your smile, and I am defenseless against its delightful mischief.

There is a perpetual patience filling the lines of your face, and I am lightened by such sweet embellishments.

There is a placid perception in the warm chestnut of your eyes, and I watch as all threads of fear fade.

There is a carefully calculated inclination of your head; it lets me know you're truly listening.


You are the unbroken book binding.

The silver thimble delicately passing Go.

The carefully placed socks on the bottom of the laundry basket.

My midnight in Paris.

And I love,
I love,
I love you.

A Case of You

A friend recently asked me what song I would choose if I could only listen to one thing for the rest of my life. A challenging question for sure, but without hesitation I immediately responded with this. It is the voice, the melody, and the collection of words that continually resonates in all its pensive smoky sadness. What song would you choose?

Heaped-Up Heart

I'm currently reading two books:

1. she walks in beauty: A Woman's Journey Through Poems by Caroline Kennedy

and

2. I'm a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America After Twenty Years Away by Bill Bryson

The first was a birthday gift from my mother, well knowing my love of poetry. Kennedy's collection of poems covers all of life's bases from love and sex to marriage, work, friendship, death, growing up and the more tangible of things.

The second was a birthday gift from my boyfriend, well knowing my love of travel and Bill Bryson. And he, being British himself, thought it might help me to better understand him.

Daily I flip through these pages, and today I share with you an excerpt from each.

First, a poem by Roy Croft entitled Love

I love you,
Not only for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.

I love you,
Not only for what
You have made of yourself,
But for what
You are making of me.

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out;
I love you
For putting your hand
Into my heaped-up heart
And passing over
All the foolish, weak things
That you can't help
Dimly seeing there,
And for drawing out
Into the light
All the beautiful belongings
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find.

I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple;
Out of the works
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song.

I love you
Because you have done
More than any creed
Could have done
To make me good,
And more than any fate
Could have done
To make me happy.

You have done it
Without a touch,
Without a word,
Without a sign.
You have done it
By being yourself.
Perhaps that is what
Being a friend means,
After all.

And second, a rather fitting quote from Bryson's work has made every frustration and challenge and struggle of young adulthood seem trivial. Well, at least for today.

"Take a moment from time to time to remember that you are alive. I know this sounds a trifle obvious, but it is amazing how little time we take to remark upon this singular and gratifying fact. By the most astounding stroke of luck an infinitesimal portion of all the matter in the universe came together to create you and for the tiniest moment in the great span of eternity you have the incomparable privilege to exist."

And with that I wish you all a happy Friday and a lovely weekend.
Until next time, let us not forget that the perfect collection of words at the most ideal moments has the remarkable power to completely change everything.

Sampled Room

A bit of nostalgia hit today as I sifted through old journals. I stumbled upon a small red spiral notebook from a series of Choreography classes in college and got lost for an hour or so. There's something about revisiting creative thought, once you've had the opportunity to step away and come back, noticing how different your own voice and insight can feel. I had written an entry about the difficulties faced in finding/creating intriguing sound scores to compliment physical vocabulary. And then later I stumbled upon this video and had to share. If only I'd known about Vimeo when I was a Freshman. One can only imagine how many more hours I would have spent locked in a studio on a Friday night.


http://www.vimeo.com/18929809

"so yes."

I’d pull down the moon for you if I could.

I’d unravel the ribbon you’ve wrapped around my heart, lasso and anchor the moon.

I’d bottle up the seemingly simple pieces of delight throughout a day, so that I might share with you an inch more of my happiness.

And in a mason jar I’d leave:

earmarked corners of a coffee stained Jane Austen paperback

sun soaked jeans left to dry on a porch’s ledge

the smell of fresh laundry and vanilla and the hollow of your neck

melodies of cheesy pop songs hummed under streaming water

proper cups of tea sipped in pajamas while snuggled up in couch corners

ink stained sheets of graph paper and recycled receipts and edges of napkins

I’d leave a Patty Griffin sound score to cookie baking in a candlelit kitchen

words and tangents and nibbling sunflower seeds in a tree’s shade on a Friday afternoon

permission to simply be

Christmas mugs of coffee and the New York Time’s Art Section

Harry Potter at midnight

I’d leave my blue butterfly pin
I’d leave a family dinner on Charles Street
I’d leave the sound of your voice in the dark
And the blush in my cheeks, the tingling of fingertips, the glow of contentment

I’d draw you a map with the lines of my face to better help navigate.

I’d connect these freckles to every breath of a word if it meant steering you closer.

And I’d take a cue from George Bailey if it meant offering you a hatful of wishes so that I’d have but a dozen more chances to be the something desired in the shattered glass of the old Granville House.

I Don't Know

Remember that time I said I would stop posting music and videos and actually get back to writing? Well, I kind of fibbed. But it's a beautiful Friday morning and I absolutely had to share this with you! So for now, sink into the beautiful melodies and perfectly crafted paper architecture of Lisa Hannigan. And know that more superfluous wordy posts are on their way. Soon.

My roots are grown.

Sometimes it only takes a few hours sleep to wake up feeling refreshed. Sometimes a home cooked meal, freshly baked cookies, and a glass of wine given ample time to breathe can soothe the roughest of days. And sometimes, delicious tunes, the promise of sunshine and a sea of fellow music fanatics, and the company of beloved friends are all you need.

Heading out for a weekend getaway featuring the musical stylings of countless brilliant folks including these kids:

Happy Friday, friends!

profound reinvention

If you've not yet seen this you must watch Conan O'Brien's 2011 Dartmouth College Commencement Address:

the feeling.

The feeling is still the same: standing backstage in the dark, behind thick velveteen curtains, pacing back and forth barefoot on creaking wooden floors. There is nothing to guide one’s way but the glow of neon green tape along the floor’s edge and the varied hues of stage lights hitting black marley and smiling faces. The feeling is still the same, looking on from the wings, feeling the warm heat of huddled, nervous bodies, then a rush of cool breeze from an opened door off stage. It’s a little bit anxious, a little excited, and a little bit magic. Yes, magic.

And I can’t say it’s about performing. I can’t say it’s all wrapped up in whatever it is to step on stage and into a costume and partly outside of ourselves. But there is something about standing backstage. There is something about being a small part of this grand experience that is still the same, whether you are the dancer or the choreographer or the teacher standing on the sidelines letting a class of 5 year olds see how proud you are.

The picture may look a little different now. Now, moments of elation are wrapped up in small ballerinas saying they love you more than the universe, tossing glitter in your face, telling you you’re the best dance teacher in the world. It's pinning broken straps and tossing hair into perfect buns moments before the lights come up. It's reminders of smiles and energy and fun. It's leading a warm up for a bunch of young performers thinking you're out of your mind crazy as you scream about sending positive energy into the space and leading with the pelvis.

And it’s nothing profound. It’s not changing the world or altering life as we know it. It’s small. It’s just enough to put in your pocket and hold onto. It’s a precious reminder that even as things change, they remain exactly the same. And some experiences, some moments, even as we grow, still offer just as much delight and joy and wonder as ever. The feeling is still the same.

i'm getting close.

I know that lately most of my posts have been nothing more than me sharing music. In a way I feel like this is a bit of a cop out. At the same time, I genuinely love all of these tunes and want you to know about them! That being said, I'm also in the midst of a pretty grand writing project for the summer. I fear it's stealing most of my literary/typing attention. For that, I apologize, though I'm sure few of you out there truly care. So, for now, another girl I'm newly obsessed with. I heard this track while writing in a little coffee shop on Saturday and I'm hooked.

Enjoy!

And I promise, soon to come: more posts with more words. Truly, I promise.

Sleepless Nights

I am newly obsessed with Eddie Vedder's solo album entitled Ukulele Songs . The uke more than suits him, and this collection of original and cover songs is pretty fantastic.

Here's a favorite, a lovely duet with Swell Season's Glen Hansard:

the chatter

These days I am sick of my voice. I have grown tired and displeased with the voice in my head, the one with me at all hours: in bed in the morning, at work through the day, in the car, in the shower, on my runs, in the studio, and again in bed at night.

It's there.

It's loud.

It repeats similar thoughts and questions and conundrums at near nauseum. These days, I am sick of my voice.

I feel trapped inside a tar bubble that will not free this heart and mind so consumed, and manifested here in this little soprano pitch. She just keeps pontificating and talking through the same circuitous dialogues... well, monologues. There seems to be no current escape.

And nothing I write can be committed to substantially. I cannot finish a piece of prose to save my life and it's driving me nearly mad. I am conflicted it seems. Words are failing again and again. And sadly, it seems I've lost trust in them. I've misplaced the great value I once bestowed upon words as they keep getting abused in the world around me. The words keep getting tossed around like mere playthings. As if they hardly matter. As if we can all say whatever we want without consequence. Not so.

I've been making attempts for the past few hours at a blog entry and some work in my journals... seemingly futile. Or maybe I'm just overly critical in my own analysis tonight. Thankfully, as I sought true inspiration in Lamott's Bird by Bird, I came upon this:


"Sometimes this human stuff is slimy and pathetic... but better to feel it and talk about it and walk through it than to spend a lifetime being silently poisoned."


The voice is still there. And the words, still slightly infuriating. But I'll take the frustrating chatter over silence any day. Because at least then, I know I'm really living. Feeling something. Making an attempt at this whole human experience thing.

So there's that.

the magic realm

Last night I had a dream. I was sitting in a large meadow of tall grass and sunflowers piling stacks of books into wooden boxes. I flipped through pages of Whitman and Dickens, recalling favorite passages, reading aloud into the great sun filled expanse. A young boy came and sat beside me, smiling, presenting a basket of paper cranes. The little birds were strung together with a piece of gray thread, and the little boy told me, "they're connected by silver filaments of chance and circumstance... like you and me." The boy then walked away. And I woke up.

It wasn't until tonight that I could recall where those words came from.

Connected by silver filaments of chance and circumstance

I can't quite place the moment I came across Robert McCammon's work Boy's Life. At some point in this life of wandering my way through library's and book stores I sifted through it and stored a particular passage in the deep recesses of memory. Now it's literally come to me in a dream and I've been thinking that it's no coincidence. It goes something like this:

You know, I do believe in magic. I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic town, among magicians. Oh, most everybody else didn’t realize we lived in that web of magic, connected by silver filaments of chance and circumstance. But I knew it all along. When I was twelve years old, the world was my magic lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the past, the present and into the future. You probably did too; you just don’t recall it. See, this is my opinion: we all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God’s sake. And you know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad of what they’d allowed to wither in themselves.

After you go so far away from it, though, you can’t really get it back. You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When people get weepy at movies, it’s because in that dark theater the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they’re left feeling a little heartsad and not knowing why. When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust turning in a shaft of light takes your attention from the world, when you listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are. For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm.

That’s what I believe.

The truth of life is that every year we get farther away from the essence that is born within us. We get shouldered with burdens, some of them good, some of them not so good. Things happen to us. Loved ones die. People get in wrecks and get crippled. People lose their way, for one reason or another. It’s not hard to do, in this world of crazy mazes. Life itself does its best to take that memory of magic away from us. You don’t know it’s happening until one day you feel you’ve lost something but you’re not sure what it is. It’s like smiling at a pretty girl and she calls you “sir.” It just happens.

These memories of who I was and where I lived are important to me. They make up a large part of who I’m going to be when my journey winds down. I need the memory of magic if I am ever going to conjure magic again. I need to know and remember, and I want to tell you.

i have found what you are like - e.e. cummings

i have found what you are like
the rain

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned

newfragile yellows

lurch and.press

-in the woods

which
stutter
and
sing

And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss

World Spins Madly On

Day 7.

It's the Weepies.

Ocean

Day 6 pretty much speaks for itself.

I saw this played live years ago and it's still one of my favorites. It just feels like delicious Springtime.

And a quote for the day thanks to the ever brilliant Emily Dickinson:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.

mmmbop

I greeted this beautiful Spring morning with running shoes, a cup of coffee, and some much needed catching up with my mom and our sweet pup Noel. One long walk, two cups, and a tour of all things renovated at my parent's new house later, I had successfully welcomed Friday. On my way home I passed a group of girls playing four square outside school and smiled at their innocent joy. I waved to a group of boaters as I crossed the bridge, and exchanged pleasantries with our neighbor Gary as he headed out for the day. And now, reading the paper and munching on granola and clementines I finally flashed on the perfect tune for Day 5. A song that has lifted my spirits since I was a kid. Maybe it's something to do with the ridiculous simplicity of lyrics, the foot tapping beat, or the all together 90's hunky-ness that was this band of young boys. Regardless, it's just one of those completely cheesy songs that makes me smile, and reminds me that sometimes it's okay to unleash the inner child (even if that means having a spontaneous solo dance party in an empty house on a Friday morning).

I've only got one word: Mmmbop.

Chin up, friends. And happy Friday:
(the video itself is also just all kinds of fantastic. seriously. judge not.)

Rivers and Roads

I so wish that I could talk to you. And tell you about my day. About how I rolled over this morning, hitting the snooze button, choosing the warmth of my bed, listening to the rain, rather than going for my run. About how I got the chance to enjoy a cup of coffee with a dear friend before heading into work. Something about the ritual of coffee and talking makes me feel a little more centered. About how I met a young man with the same profound love of E.E. Cummings. He had a small collection of his work hidden in a messenger bag which was only made visible as he fumbled searching for his wallet. He smiled as I quoted "here's to opening and upward," and even finished my sentence. What a sweet, lovely moment. About how I thought of you as a man passed wearing an East of Maui sweatshirt, another with an orange baseball cap spelling out A Prairie Home Companion. I then watched an entire flat cart I had somewhat precariously stacked, come tumbling down. I held back tears standing in a sea of blueberries and strawberries and cucumbers. Luckily laughter followed and the help of countless crew members reminding me that I rarely have such bad luck. Oh, and I wore my red rain boots today, yet sadly there was no puddle jumping to be had. Hopefully next time.

I so wish that I could talk to you. And tell you that I miss you. About how this time of day, when the distractions of work and the details of other people's lives aren't present, is the hardest part. About how my thoughts turn to you and wishing you were beside me. How I'm hoping you're okay.

And how I have to believe that words still count for something. So I'll keep writing. And hope that somewhere out there, you're reading. And maybe, eventually, it will be enough.

And it's a bit early, but I can't stay up tonight.
For day 4: The Head and the Heart.

Songbird

Day 3: Eva Cassidy.

I woke up with this song in my head.

Turning Tables

Last night after teaching classes I stayed behind in the empty studio to play around with some movement. I had a rather cathartic "dance it out" moment to this jam. Day two I bring you more Adele. After all, I love her.

Rain

It's already May 2nd. I'm not quite sure how that happened. Seems every year I make the same comments about how quickly time passes. And I just wish I could slow everything down. I'm struggling with transition lately too. Currently I'm at a loss for words and find myself playing a game of wastebasket toss with everything I write. So, for this first week of May I come to you with a series of musical selections. One song for each day...a living soundtrack of sorts of where I am in life at this moment. Today I come to you with Patty Griffin. It's a sad song, yes. But sometimes you have to sit inside the sadness before you can do anything else.

180

Sometimes there are just no words, so we must borrow from others.

together on that ship

I spent the past week in the Pacific Northwest, visiting my friend Shea and some family living in Washington. I don't think I realized just how much my mind and spirit needed not only a vacation, but some beautifully isolated time with nature, my thoughts, and people I love. I found myself reminded of some of Robert Pirsig's thoughts from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a fantastic book which truly altered the course of my life and I encourage any and all to read. At any rate. He says, " The only Zen you can find on the tops of mountains is the Zen you bring up there." Suffice it to say, I uncovered plenty of zen this trip, looking out onto still blue water and clear mountains, San Juan Islands, and strips of sand filled with shards of beach glass for Shea to collect.

While on Orcas Island Shea took me into Darvill's, her favorite bookstore. We spent a lot of time in book stores. I am truly weak in the presence of those things. I picked up a copy of Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I'd heard various reports of the book over the years and while in college a professor recommended the work on several occasions. The book is about writing and being a successful writer; we all know I struggle with even calling myself such a thing and I think for years I'd felt like I wasn't allowed to read Lamott's work. Because I didn't consider myself a writer. What a fool I was. I purchased the book at Darvill's, the quaint local book store, which in itself is an act I can feel good about. And I began reading a work that has come to me at the most ideal moment in my life... as I'm caught up with my own words, sorting out thoughts and ideals and my own book (If I can really call it that). Yet Lamott's instructions are not merely ones for writing but for life as well.

I came across this passage the other day and had to share:

"Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship."


And while I'm slightly saddened to be back East and back home, I'm happy to have found my zen and found these words. Maybe now I can take a few literary steps forward, with a little more confidence and a little more calm.

Musical Aside:

A friend introduced me to Blitzen Trapper. If you take a road trip through the fields and farms and mountains of the San Juans, you must play this song with the windows down. And if not, you must still play it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqtlcHiSHTE

twelve Ethiopian goats

I first discovered Jack Gilbert my sophmore year of college. My friend Yoko was enrolled in a Poetry Workshop and I had the delightful privilege of sitting in the hallway of the performing arts center, listening to poetry read aloud each week. Among the many poems we dissected and pondered together was this one. I re-read it now and remember my dear friend. I remember falling in love with Jack Gilbert. And I remember sitting barefoot in the dancer's hallway feeling at ease with poetry. With words. I am in love with words. They have this power to which I am completely vulnerable. After all, as Confucius said, "words are the voice of the heart."

The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

The Tallest Man

A sweet and gentle soul has introduced me to The Tallest Man on Earth. For the past hour I've been curled up with a cup of tea floating through lyrics that feel as though they've been borrowed from the deep recesses of my mind, early Bob Dylan, and a few E.E. Cummings poems. It is truly a wonder when another's words allow you to feel a little more at home in the world. A little more nestled inside the comfort of a safe space. This feels like a musical sanctuary of sorts. "The Gardener" in particular has been running through my head much of the day. And how appropriate that this version be recorded for a Seattle radio station since I'm heading west on Wednesday! But even more so, it feels like a kind welcome to Spring. So friends, please listen and enjoy. And to that kind soul who got the Tallest Man and I acquainted, I thank you.

"Paper Airplane"

It's a rainy Saturday and I'm sitting on the floor of my living room working on other blog posts. But I can't seem to get my mind to settle or nestle into the thoughts fluttering about. And then I discover this song, which seems kind of fitting given the rain. And it's a post I can feel good about in the moment. This music video is a little much, even for me, but I think the song is quite lovely. So I thought I'd share.

Thank You

Today a co-worker said, "You're a writer."

And somewhere in between my severe blushing and awkward, embarrassed mumblings of a response, I thought to myself, 'well, I guess I am.'

This co-worker hardly knew me, beyond what he could see or perhaps discern from a couple dozen conversations spread over a couple dozen days. Yet there he was, calling me this thing. A writer.

He had looked me up. Read my blog. And I was in awe.

That anyone would take the time to explore what I had to say is a concept far beyond me. It's incredible.

And I guess as a blogger you go into this thing knowing that the grand aim is for other people, somewhere out in the ether, to read what you write (well, type). But it never seems to change the fact that somewhere inside you think, maybe no one actually is.

And then someone you know, someone who's perhaps closer to you than you might have originally thought, goes and does this. They go and read your blog. And then call you a writer. To your face!

(I typically say, 'sometimes I write things,' but rarely do I call myself a writer.)

You almost have no choice but to accept the label they've placed upon you. You have no choice but to agree, because well, they're right.

So, thank you, you sweet few sitting at your computers reading my words. I don't know what I did to deserve your following or precious attention. But for as long as you're willing to read, I'll be here to write.

And let us remember what William Faulkner said:

Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it's the only way you can do anything really good.

Irrelevant Aside: I officially hear an ice cream truck outside my door and want nothing more than to rush outside with a handful of coins to buy one of those striped rocket shaped Popsicles! Amazing.

The Peanut Butter Sandwich Years

I call these the peanut butter sandwich years.

These are the years in which peanut butter is a staple in one’s diet. It’s about convenience. Taste. And funds.

It’s also partly about reconnecting to one’s youth. About not wanting to fully embrace adulthood. Maybe it’s Peter Pan syndrome.

These are the years of living in little houses, in little cities by the water, in attics transformed into bedrooms. And the squeaky floors. And loud radiators. And furry friends living in your kitchen cabinets. That all go along with it.

These are the years of driving your grandmother’s car. Of being thankful you even have a car to get you from place to place. So that you can take that spontaneous road trip for the weekend. So that you can have a space to sit and cry at the end of a really long day. So that you can roll the windows down and have a dance party on your way to work in the summer.

These are the years of attempting to give up one’s vices. It’s about taking control. A healthy life change. And funds.

(And also attempting to not be a caffeine addict.)

These are the years of getting all dressed up to go out with your girlfriends on a Saturday night, even when you have to work early on Sunday. These are the years of having to work on Sundays.

And so it goes that these are the years.

Of.

Creating recipes with the 4 or 5 ingredients mustered from the fridge since you can’t go to the grocery store (These are the years of working in a grocery store.).

Imaginary shopping online at places like Pottery Barn and Anthropologie, while actually acquiring items via Craigslist and Goodwill… and your parents.

Sitting in eccentric coffee shops drinking chai lattes while listening to folksy musicians sing songs about love and war and what’s wrong with people today.

Trying to live simply. Or. Simply trying to figure out life. As if life truly is a thing to be figured out. Or. Perhaps. Being obsessed with this quest of trying to figure it all out, all the while knowing that it’s somewhat futile. That maybe it doesn’t actually work this way.

Teaching kids.
And realizing that you’re probably learning far more from them than they from you.

These are the years of falling in love again and again. Of trusting and giving and opening up without hesitation. Of picking up the pieces of a broken heart time after time. But never giving up. And never giving up hope.

These are the years of late night conversations about the very state of our existence. About men and women and relationships. About negotiating growing up. All while sipping wine from mismatched glasses. Standing in the kitchen. Lying on the living room floor. Sitting on porch steps.

These are the years of writing and remembering. Of mental pictures and embracing moments as fully and honestly as one possibly can. Doing what you want. When you want. And feeling good about it (or at the very least, trying as best you can).

These are the years of watching others around you get promoted. And engaged. Have their dream weddings. And babies. And reminding yourself that you too will get all of these things. One day.

These are the years of knowing that nothing is permanent. That life is a gift. And you’re pretty lucky to be so hyper aware. Even if at times, it all feels like too much.

That we’re all just in the midst.
And it’s confusing. Terrifying. Hilarious. Exhilarating.

These are the years of adventure.

These are the peanut butter sandwich years.

Of that I am completely certain.

Rolling In The Deep

My current obsession.

This video is filled with so many gorgeous images.

Love.

the safety of objects

Lately I've been giving a bit of thought to the objects we acquire over time. It is seemingly inevitable that with every birthday celebrated, life experiences embraced, and relationships cultivated, we are bound to acquire, well, stuff.

With every dorm room and apartment and house we seek to make a home. With every Christmas, wedding, baby shower, graduation and promotion. Every trip, move, spontaneous adventure, or regimented routine. With each broken heart. Every success. Every need to acknowledge the profound moments of our human existence no matter how minute or grandiose.

We collect, acquire, receive, inherit, and purchase the necessary objects of our lives.

There will inevitably be furniture and appliances. There will be light fixtures and mismatched dishware. Stacks of books beneath picture frames of familiar loving faces. There will be tapestries and wall hangings of Monet and Picasso prints. There will be instruments and grandmother's knick knacks and shaggy carpets (ideal for standing upon barefoot at the end of a long day).

Recently I spoke with a friend about the rediscovery of acquired things. How certain items find their relevance or importance over time, as if we know they'll accumulate pertinance after a while. And we come back to these things at the right moment in our lives. When we're finally ready to receive them. Other pieces find their way to us with more precise timing, not needing so long to marinate in our possession before we're ready. Years ago my friend had received a book of poetry as a gift. At the time is seemed, not unfit, just not as well received as she's found the gift to be recently. When quoting a poem from the book just weeks ago, we both acknowledged its relevance and truth and expert timing...now. She (and I too, it seems) needed that poetry at this juncture in her life. At this moment, that exact collection and combination of words held more resonance than ever before. And it got me thinking about all the things I've gathered throughout my life. Each item a living, breathing artifact of all I am, all I believe in or stand for, and perhaps how others perceive me.

My parents recently moved, which means, not so much an of obtaining things, but a purge there of. There's something about packing up all that stuff that makes one choose to divide their life in threes: keep, donate, and trash. Needless to say, I had dibs on a number of those 'donate' and 'trash' items. And while I admit I came home with a car full of new acquisitions, there was only one thing I really wanted. My mom's Kitchenaid Mixer. A cream colored wonder with its fair share of nicks and scrapes. The beater attachment is worn and chipped. The color has faded over time and the lock sometimes sticks. This is not the most glamorous kitchen accessory one has ever seen. But this is an object my mother has had for nearly 30 years. This is the physical manifestation of nearly 30 years of my mother's culinary creations.

I can only begin to estimate the number of chocolate chip cookies batches, banana birthday cakes, or gingerbread house molds that came from this appliance. Homemade Foccacia or my Aunt Laurie's rolls. Grandma's banana bread. Frosting for the infamous graham cracker cookies that could surprisingly fill the freezer. Countless evenings sitting at the counter watching my mother dig through a box of recipes to find the perfect creation. Most of the time there were no detailed descriptions or well marked names of dishes, as to be sure of what she was preparing. She could decipher with only a few measurements of 4 or 5 ingredients scribbled onto the back of a 3x5 index card.

I suppose you could say I christened the mixer as my own by making a loaf of my Grandmother's Banana Bread (minus the walnuts). And I think my roommates can attest that it was in fact delicious. All I know is that this object has successfully made the transition into my kitchen, and my life, when I was ready to receive it. And now for perhaps another 30 years it will continue preparing countless recipes scribbled on the backs of 3 x 5 index cards if for nothing more than to add to the quality and beauty of my life. Every time I use it I'll think of my mom and the memories attached to every recipe she prepared with that mixer.

So here's to the acquisition of objects. Or rather, here's to the realization that in collecting these things, we're really just holding onto the sentiments and memories or reflections of other people we've attached to them. It's not really about stuff at all. It's about the history these things have accumulated. It's about a physical manifestation of all we've done and felt in a lifetime. And I'm reminded of a quote from "The Safety of Objects:"

"When you start collecting things, you start thinking you care about stuff. And when they're gone; when they break or someone steals them, you feel like a part of you is gone, too. When you have things and suddenly you don't, it feels like you disappeared. Nothing should make you feel that way... Except when you lose a person"

the world is too full to talk about

My friend Shea is always sharing with me. Sharing the latest book she's reading, music she's listening to, recipe she's cooking. She shares the details of her day, the challenges of work, the joys of new relationships and explorations and places. She shares ideas and philosophies, hopes and plans, quotes and you tube links, videos, and poetry. I love her for this endless sharing. For this giving. She gives without hesitation or prompting or promise of the returned gesture. She fills my life with happiness, laughter, joy, and a never ending curiosity of all we've yet to share with one another.

The other night I found myself listening to her speak about a film she recently saw that had clearly been moving. There's something pretty awesome about feeling the transformation someone has experienced because of a work of art. And so I listened to my friend whose thoughts were rather expertly timed as I was in a state of feeling rather low. And she brought me back up. We continued to exchange ideas and thoughts and questions about life and the world, as we always seem to do, wondering if other people are as self aware as we. And I just thought, how lucky am I to have such kind of friends? Well, pretty lucky.

This week she shared this:

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.

-Rumi

WILLIAM FITZSIMMONS

So I bought myself some tickets and officially get to see this guy perform live in April. So excited. Please check out his mad ear snacks. Beautiful melancholy:

my first instagr.am

Morning Coffee with friends:

instagr.am

the game

We all play it. Whether or not we'd like to admit it. Whether or not we in fact realize we are. But there it is. When it comes to relationships we are forced to pick up our pawns and play the game.

For the record, I hate the game. It has come to my attention, not so subtly in recent days, that for the last 23 years of life, I have been losing terribly. And if you should know anything about a Dawson, it's that we hate to lose. I mean, really, we refuse. It seems the game has gotten the better of me.

So I refuse to continue seeing myself on the weaker end of this epic battle. Yet I just don't see how I can give up all that I am and how I perceive the world in order to play at something I don't even fully comprehend. I mean after all, what's so wrong with just being yourself?

This is what I do know.

Sometimes I talk too much. Yes, I do realize this. I like to ask questions and pontificate and address the grander life topics. Once I get started, it's often difficult to shut up. I also ramble when I'm nervous.

I am a hopeless romantic and an eternal optimist. Please believe these are traits I have desperately tried to alter over the course of my existence, but it's proven impossible. There are those elements of who we are that are simply inescapable. No matter how hard we try.

I am nice to a fault. I am eager to please. I will almost always be kind and sweet and often don't take action out of fear... fear of crossing boundaries, fear of getting hurt, fear of revealing too much, or worst of all, fear of rejection. But please know this is not out of lack of wanting. I probably feel exactly what you feel... unless I really just don't want to kiss you.

And while yes, I am old fashioned in ways: I like to be courted, to be chased, to have an occasional door opened, to be kissed first... though sometimes I see moments where all of this is far too irrelevant.

I am in fact spontaneous and unpredictable. I don't always say or do what's expected. I am an adventurer. I like to try new things. I am, contrary to popular belief, open to change. I like a challenge. I don't like to be whom everyone else expects.

I am stubborn as all hell.

I hate being wrong.

And I hate to lose.

I am cerebral and complex and typically dwell or fixate far too much. I over analyze and agonize- for this, I blame my mother.

I want an emotional and mental connection. Though I want the physical too. I am innocent, yes, but not completely. Please know there's depth here. Please realize I am, after all, human.

I'm independent. I don't like asking for help though sometimes I need it. I enjoy having time to myself, though typically, I hate being alone. And I don't need you to always be around, or calling, or doing things for me. I actually am pretty low key and laid back. It's the game that's got me jilted.

And I don't understand why we all just can't say what we mean exactly how we mean it. Why are we doomed to spend our days decoding subtext and giving our friends and roommates the never ending play by plays to dissect? We're all just people, ultimately wanting other people, to some degree. In some capacity.

So if you could just be honest and tell me what you want and need, maybe I could find a way to give it to you. At least I know I can give you that. And if I could be allowed to care, instead of having to pretend that I don't, well that would be ideal.

I also know that I'm apparently incapable of translating spoken words, physical gestures, and passive aggressive text messages. Herein lies the problem. This is the game. I don't know the rules. I'm unsure of the objective. And more than anything, I just don't want to play. Kudos to those of you who can and do. I sure hope you're winning.

For now, I forfeit.

the first spring day is another...

Well this was just too amazing for words. My roommate sent me this from her work the other day to appropriately express how she felt about being locked up in the office:



And I suppose this is how I feel today about having the morning off and it feeling like Spring outside:

basket case.

Sometimes something weighs so heavily on your heart you actually feel like you're sinking. And all the things that used to keep you afloat, gliding through your sunny little life, find themselves stuck in giant tar bubbles. Impenetrable. Toxic. Sometimes the world seems to grind to a halt while you're sitting in your car. Savoring the last five minutes before you have to go into work, sipping hot Chai, windows down, you close your eyes.

Of course the one thing that should flash before you is the one thing you shouldn't be imagining at all. But there it is. This blinking reminder that you are in fact human. You're vulnerable, emotional, complex. You crave connection. You are human. Yet all you want in this moment and in every collection of moments to follow throughout the day, is to feel anything but this. To think of anything but... this thing.

Why do we dwell? Is this a female thing? Or a human being thing? Why do we fixate on people or situations or circumstances we cannot change? That ultimately leave us feeling the dark pieces: the sadness, the anger, the disappointment. Why is that easier to embrace and sit with than the good stuff? Or maybe it's just our heightened awareness being forced to face what's left after the good goes awry. After we find ourselves holding the pieces of our hearts like a broken mirror, unable to properly reflect.

You sit there, staring into empty hands, feeling like you're not even allowed to be here. You're not allowed to grieve the loss of something you never really had to begin with. And then you snap out of it and think, 'why the hell am I so upset?'

I cried this morning. I mean, really cried. The kind of cry I'd been holding onto for months. It was building upon missing loved ones, the illness of a dear friend, the stress of my life, and my disappointed little heart. I cried. And I mean sobbed. The kind of cry that spanned a significant amount of the morning, enough to ruin my coveted cup of coffee and a hot shower. I'm not embarrassed or ashamed. I'm vulnerable and sensitive. I am a Cancer after all. And sometimes you need to cry. Sometimes you need to feel to the depths and allow yourself to be where ever you are.

Sometimes you get to mourn the loss of the thing you nearly had. Of the thing you want. Because at least there, you know you've found something of worth. That thing you shouldn't be thinking about is clearly significant and beautiful. And maybe in time it will get a little easier to be without it. Or maybe in time, you'll find a way to have it.

Either way, you'll eventually let yourself believe that being vulnerable and putting yourself out there wasn't for nothing. It was worth it just to know you were capable of feeling something real. Something reciprocated. Even if unattainable. Even if only wrapped up in a collections of hours, of conversations and exchanged smiles, of feeling connected, and understood, and appreciated in the simplest of ways... at least that was real.

I know it's vague and highly internal. But there it is. At least this time I put it down here. I let it be real. I didn't bury it deep or attempt to hide the true feelings. Maybe that's a step in the right direction. And maybe if you're out there reading this, you can know that I think there's something here. And maybe if we're both lucky, we can get that illusive thing everyone's searching for. Because as far as I'm concerned, it's been right in front of me for some time. I found it. Now I just have to wait until the universe will let me have it.

So until then, I'll sip Chai, roll the windows down, sob from time to time, and keep on living my little life. I think that's the best chance I've got.

(Side Note)

A few weeks back my friend Shea shared this video of a talk with researcher Brene Brown. She's an amazing woman with a beautiful take on vulnerability and our need for human connection. I think this is an appropriate post in which to share. Check it out if you haven't already:

http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html

where our heads lived and were

I must admit I was fully prepared to jump on the bandwagon of countless single women who hate Valentine's Day. And I had every intention of writing some dribble about how a holiday stemming back centuries, to a time when the true Valentine risked his life in the name of love, has become nothing more than a consumerist driven Hallmark scheme. But last night I got a glorious evening of sleep. I had a delightful morning at work watching men of all ages purchase bouquets of roses for their sweethearts. I went running on a lovely Spring day that seems to have gotten lost in February. I watched my roommate get a Valentine's surprise and respond with such pure joy. And as I sat sipping tea, leafing through my collection of poetry, I stumbled upon an old favorite. While not overtly romantic or love infused, this spoke to me once again. And lucky for me, even on Valentine's Day, my heart was open enough to hear it:

in spite of everything
which breathes and moves,since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds

-before leaving my room
i turn,and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow,dear
where our heads lived and were.

-e.e. cummings

Happy Valentine's Day, loves. Here's to celebrating not only love, but each other, and this beautifully complicated thing they call life.

Be mine?

I know it's not Valentine's Day yet. And truth be told, I'm not the biggest fan of the holiday ( though that's another post for another week). But, in the spirit of all things truly romantic and heartfelt, I had to share this Bryan Adams tune. The roommates and I recently saw his concert at the Hippodrome in Baltimore. Let's just say, amazing. Well, amazing and sexy. I am currently obsessed with this song.

Bryan Adams, cheesy as it may be, will you be my valentine?

Enjoy.

Paint me one

One of my father's favorite questions is, "What's your vision?" Now maybe out of fear, or uncertainty, or dare I say, resentment, I've sat on the receiving end of an interrogation to which I never seem able to respond. Needless to say I've spent the better majority of my life hating it. I guess I simply don't understand how one can choose or even paint their "vision." As human beings, are we even wired to have such intelligent foresight? To know or perhaps predict what the grand course of our lives will look like? And can't we only presume some degree of imminent danger must ensue when fixating on some great mental image of our future selves? That's not to say that I haven't had my fair share of plans, ideas of what I might like to pursue or explore, and goals I've written down on pieces of paper to be filed away. But how are we supposed to choose? How are we supposed to paint the image: begin, cultivate, and then cease, until we're left with nothing but this one concrete vision?

The past year of my life I've attempted to live simply, honestly, and purely in the moment. The primary goal?

Joy. Wonder. Fulfillment. Complete satisfaction.

This is a conceivable way of life for me. My mind can grasp the needs, wants, and desires of my heart and spirit in a given moment. What indications or repercussions a mentality such as this may have on the future? Or 'the vision'? Well, I have no real idea. All I know is this: if you can listen to that inner voice, that voice in the back of your mind challenging you to live by impulse and intuition and even spontaneity, then you've got as good a chance as anyone of figuring this whole thing out.

But then I got to thinking, wasn't it this way when we were kids? Life was simpler then. We were literally free of responsibility, and thus we knew how to live in the moment. Our primary goal?

Joy. Wonder. Fulfillment. Complete satisfaction.

Granted this was all on more elementary terms: our days filled with play dates, school lessons, and the epic choice between Legos and Candyland, broccoli or green beans, Nancy Drew or.... well, Nancy Drew. As children we had no concept of 'the vision.' Aside from the notions of wanting to be firemen and teachers and painters when we grew up, we had no real idea of what it meant to think about, let alone for the future.

And now I'm here. I've clearly acquired a number of responsibilities to accompany my growing adulthood. I have this question hanging overhead daily. Yet all I know is this desire- this need to live in the moment, with purpose, and integrity, and appetite. It's not about looking so far ahead and drawing a picture within the unknown, but rather, allowing the obscure and mysterious to reveal themselves through a focus honed in 'the now.'

So, my vision? I can't really say I have one...at least not in the way my father means when he asks the question. I'd like to think that within this life I will learn what it is to love and be loved, I will travel, meet new people, share experiences, teach others while also learning from them, make a contribution to the world, find that which sets my heart on fire, and never lose the essential hunger. My vision? It would be easy to say Grad School, Peace Corps, move to a new city, start a family, etc. etc. etc. But it's more appropriate to say: cultivate a life which yields at least four necessary pieces:

Joy. Wonder. Fulfillment. Complete Satisfaction.

Buddha said, "we are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think. When the mind is pure, joy follows like a shadow that never leaves." And I mean, come on, he knew what was up.

the art of observation

Ansel Adams said:

“When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.”

As of late, my discontent with words has sent me searching for other forms of inspiration. So this morning I stumbled upon some images which I find truly fulfilling in this realm.


Now that's what I call a library.


Mark Jenkins Art Installation: Tudela, Spain


Tallest Tree House in the World


Now that's Zen.