Rainy September Days

Friday, September 21, 2018


It’s been a slew of rainy days here lately...and I couldn’t be happier. September is one of my favorite months, in a different way than October, the best autumn month of them all. November is too close to Christmas and festive cheer and October is the witching month, all blustery winds and chill air.

But September is the lovely prelude to that. A whimsical mixture of grey, rainy—humid, yes, but still cooler and slower— days and golden ones of breeze and delightful blue skies. September feels like snappish January’s older, calmer sister; less chaotic and mischievous than her younger, merry, arch cousin October who sweeps in rapidly with a impetuous toss of her head. A call to retreat within doors...to slow, open the window, light the candles. Play soft, rich, unwinding music while pottering around the apartment. Sitting on a rug, driving in the rain for dinner; exchanging a throw pillow for a warmer-toned one. Pulling a puzzle or board game off the shelf. 

It's not cool here yet, but there's a noticeable lift in the air from the usual heaviness and humidity on some days...today is Friday. While I don't have too many feelings, it's an overcast day with wet streets and sidewalks. I'm wearing dark green and blue flannel, a black cardigan, red rainboots, and a warm happiness for the weekend ahead.

I have some posts coming up with some of my favorite films, reads, and tunes for this season. I think most of us are hungry for the small, ordinary actions that can bring some joy to our day or soften the edge of a long, weary week. I know I am, at least. After all, who can help enjoying themselves when Bill Murray is being Bill Murray onscreen or Wes Anderson's cinematography is the backdrop for a folding laundry or Harry Connick Jr. croons during the steady chopping and stirring while making dinner or while pulling fall sugar cookies out of the oven?

Life, in all of its daily grind, goes on...but instead of the perfect moment to orchestrate a memory, I'm determined to make them on a small, daily basis.

In the meantime, here's one or two lovely things around the internet.

Emilio Estevez's film about a library and the people who inhabit it on one freezing winter night looks hopeful, unsettlingly truthful, and gentle.

These book anagrams made me smile...don't we all need more eggs on famous covers?

Rebecca from A Clothes Horse's delicious autumn moodboard gave me all the feels for rich, dark shades, berets and beanies, and thick sweaters.

I loved this post about having a hobby on Cup of Jo...I struggled with this over the summer and delved into list-making research. Forthcoming post soon.

Happy rainy weekend. It's good to be back!

All I know about love

Sunday, September 9, 2018



"This is everything I have to tell you about love: nothing
This is everything I have learned about marriage: nothing.

Only that the world out there is complicated, 
and there are beasts in the night, and delight and pain, 
and the only thing that makes it okay, sometimes, 
is to reach out a hand in the darkness and find another
hand to squeeze
and not be alone.

It's not the kisses, or never just the kisses: it's what they 
mean.
Somebody's got your back.
Somebody knows your worst self and somehow doesn't
want to rescue you
or send for the army to rescue them.

It's not two broken halves becoming one. 
It's light from a distant lighthouse bringing you both
safely home.
Because home is wherever you are both together. 

So this is everything I have to tell you about love and
marriage: nothing, 
like a book without pages or a forest without trees. 

Because there are some things you cannot know before you 
experience them.
Because no study can prepare you for the joys or trials.
Because nobody else's love, nobody else's marriage, is like
yours, 
and it's a road you can only learn by walking it, 
a dance that cannot be taught, 
a song that did not exist before you began, together, to
sing.

And because in the darkness you will reach out a hand, 
not knowing for certain if someone is even there.
And your hands will meet, 
and then neither of you will ever need to be alone again.

And that's all I know about love."      
    
                                                               ----Neil Gaiman

The space that is twenty-five

Sunday, April 8, 2018

I am often very glad that most of my early twenties does not exist on the internet--that the deep nights of loneliness, the most vulnerable bits of my soul-searching during college remain safely hidden in drafts and pen-and-paper notebooks.

Only now, breathing into this space that is twenty-five, do I begin to feel comfortable with sharing words and blurred images of this life I'm inhibiting.

I'm a firm believer that we all go through some form of shit--pardon the French--and even more so in not writing about said shit until coming out the other side. I look back on the past five years now with no small amount of awe that I have made it out of the end of a very long shit tunnel...to speak frankly, of course.

If you were to tell me at twenty that sociopaths exist, that people can inherently be not good by continuous choices and actions, that in contradiction some people can be good and lovely and mean well yet cause just as much damage as the not-good people, and that men will almost always let themselves be chased to no emotional distress on their part and all sorts of damage on yours...

Well, I'd say that was wrong.

I know better now. Thank God. There but for the grace of God--one of Ryan's favorite sayings. I am quietly reminded of it now and then.

I knelt in a hushed church today after Confession, the pews dim in the grey winter light, and gazed down the long isle. Thank Him for all your blessings, the priest told me in addition to my penance. Simple enough and yet I knelt, held in the silence of the moment, as I looked back five years and marveled at the things and people from which I'm now free. The men I could have ended up with. The futures I could have had.

It's humbling and inspiring, and I caught my breath with quiet, heartfelt gratitude.

There but for the grace of God. 

For the love of font

Wednesday, March 28, 2018


A little bit like spring

Monday, March 19, 2018

via
Tonight feels a little bit like spring...a little bit like summer and Paris and love wrapped all in one soft, balmy evening.

My heart feels full, and my body safe and warm in the circle of lamplight within. Outside are deepening shadows of nightfall and all the uncertainty of tomorrow and the days to come. But tonight...tonight is lovely and warm.

Ryan sits on the large plush white rug by my feet, laughing and talking to one of his groomsmen. Canned rose and cold sparkling water sit on his--soon to be our--coffee table. Small cheese pastries swell in the oven, savory and delicious. Golden light fills the apartment (my staunch refusal to use florescents), and soft saccharine strings vibrate the air.

I spent the evening talking and laughing and sighing--even crying--with one of my dear friends far away. We sipped (wine), and spoke of life's uncertainty, callings, faith, and growth. It was a wonderful few hours, so deeply needed, and so good for my soul. I miss my friends, especially this one, so. That's the hard part of life--saying au revoir to the people we love, not knowing when we'll meet in person again.

Thankfully, I know when I'll see her again, and come June, 'twill be a glorious reunion. But tonight, for one night, everything felt like a little bit of Paris's magic...that soft ease of walking outside in dusk, dwelling in a moment just on the outskirts of a tableaux: candlelit tables, lights strung in the air, bare feet, balmy air brushing against shoulders and cheeks, smiles and unending conversation over glasses of wine and plates heaped high with good food followed a deliciously bitter cappuccino, and endless wandering through the city beneath a canopy of leaves and iron grated windows.