1,700 miles

joni mitchell said her heart cried out for it. the mamas & the papas dreamt about it.

and...i'd never seen it. 

never even been close. california was unreal to me-a glittery dreamscape of imagery that i could only think about, but never truly touch. even now, home from my trip armed with a suitcase full of memories, i don't think i really touched it. there was no way to. no way to wrap my mind around the beauty and savor it.

robert and i are from the south. and in north carolina, if you're vacationing, chances are you're headed south to myrtle beach. though there's something to be said of the fabulous kitsch that has permeated those shores, we wanted -- dreamed of--something more. we have a tradition of taking one big vacation a year before children come to bless our lives. last year-the hot air ballon festival in albuquerque, new mexico. this was something else. it was here i fell in love with green chile sauce, old churches bursting at the seams with history, and adobe architecture.

 albuquerque hot air balloon fiesta-2009

this trip was special. we started in seattle, washington and drove to los angeles, california. 1,700 miles, all along the pacific coast highway. when i wasn't gripping the sterring wheel out of sheer fear of falling off the edge of the cliffs, it was a sight to behold. 

mountains married to the sea-what an idea.

 

but you know what? home is equally as lovely. because it's just  that-home. and traveling is fabulous. truly one of the most wonderful things in the world. but nothing beats sleeping in your own bed.

a grateful heart

today i am thankful for…


Priscilla Ahn - A Good Day 2010 MILENA from Rafał Krzeczkowski on Vimeo.
 
this song. positive reinforcement in a beautifully haunting melody. you just keep dreaming because i can tell it’s going to be a good day.

the burnt orange, ruby red and marigold yellow leaves piling up outside my front door. reminding me that seasons change. times change. people change. and sometimes it’s so beautiful.

my family’s twice-weekly tradition of eating supper with my grandfather. there is something so special about sitting around a round formica table, bowls of food between you and your loved ones. warmth creeping through floor vents. i have watched every single tuesday/thursday episode of wheel of fortune and jeopardy. and I wouldn’t change a thing.

living close enough to my family that robert and i can walk to our meals with my grandfather. over the course of that half mile, one hand interlaced with his, the other walking pablo, i feel love. i see the tips of his ears turn pink with chill, and i see our breath in the air. the fields around us are golden with the sunset, and the world is as it should be.

that we traded our tract home in the city, with a walk-in closet the size of an executive's office, for a little cottage in the country with only one shower and two closets with sliding doors. it has taught me to appreciate simplicity, and to see exactly how much (how little) we really need in our lives to be 100% content and happy.

caramel vanilla latte creamer. “corporate” coffee from the break room tastes better with a little infusion of grocery store luxe.

that E! news has changed to an hour-long time slot. thirty minutes just wasn’t enough time for me to get my daily dose of drama-a little joy ride for a life that is decidedly, purposefully, undramatic.

and finally,

the chance to wrap my hands around a warm mug of coffee and breathe up a prayer of thanksgiving for this beautiful life i've been given.

 

 images found at weheartit

smudges

The Dalmatian woman

Bathed in evening

Walked the dusty back lanes of Poughkeepsie

And watched enviously from the corner

As women with tight dresses hung clothes on their

Tight lines

She dropped her first spot in a yard full of rose petals

Believing the opal would blend with the crimson

Rather than stand out

Like a sore green thumb

A bearded, shirtless man

Splashed stagnant rainwater on her dress

As he spun past

On his bicycle with bells and a basket

One spot lost

Many gained

She shook off her apron in an alley

Behind a restaurant that smelled of

Sirloin and supercilious

Folk

And thus it continued

Until she was almost home

All the wetness that once soaked her

The spots that once marred her

Were slowly drying, fading, dying away

And she walked into her tiny house

The paltriest one on the block

Ran a bath and washed away the last remnants of

Her soul

She drudgingly walked toward bed

Pure

Clean

Ordinary

But before climbing into the cool, pressed sheets

She reached into the nightstand and felt around in the dark for her marker

Gingerly she drew

In her inner elbow crease

The smallest imaginable dot

No larger than a needlepoint

And fell back onto the overstuffed pillows

Content, assured in the fact that

She still had

An identity

A spot

A smudge

Of character.

source one  source two

salt-rose or topaz

"in the gardens of exile"

this is one of my favorite pictures of all time. awkward hand placement on nymph statue aside, this image stirs in me such delight and happiness. on the left is gabriel garcia marquez, author of such life-changing reads as one hundred years of solitude and love in the time of cholera (though my favorite work by him is the much shorter, poignant short story "no one writes to the colonel.") then. there on the right. with his beret tipped just so, is pablo neruda. i was first introduced to neruda in my senior year of high school. nestled between passages from lord of the flies and the joy luck club in my world lit textbook was his sonnet xvii, which begins with this unforgettable killer of an opening line:

i do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrows of carnations the fire shoots off.

i love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

with that, i was hooked. volumes upon volumes of neruda poetry line my bookshelves at home. each different translation seems to bring out another side of his intellect, his wit and, of course, his incredibly amorous spirit. 

and i could talk about marquez for days. i affectionately refer to him as gabo, as do his close friends. and shakira. behold this delicious tidbit from love in the time of cholera:

to him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as distracted as he by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones, why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils, why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid, the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter. he had not missed a single one of her gestures, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her for fear of destroying the spell.

gorgeous, no? and now,-this black and white, tiny print. these two were friends! perhaps not best friends, but close enough to take a picture with a nymph, which says a lot. i love the idea that my two favorite authors not only knew each other, but spent time in each other's company. isn't that the making of any great friendship? that learning from and growing with each other that only strengthens the other person? 

it is with this introduction i present to you, 

our dog, pablo myers, named after neruda. 

not quite as fluent in spanish, but i assure you--every bit as handsome. and sexy.

run like a race for family

do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? run in such a way as to get the prize. -1 corinthians 9:24

some run for the freedom-that delicious feeling of wind through hair, air ripping against clothing, brush tickling shins.

some run for the social aspect-that intimate feeling of being healthy with friends.

many run for the sheer glory of victory. that heightened feeling of euphoria that can only come when ripping through a finish line banner. for many, that feeling comes from simply finishing.

then there is robert, who runs for all of the above reasons, and more. we're off to raleigh today to watch him run in the city of oaks marathon. and i'm so proud of him.

robert, though it wasn't written into our vows, i promise you this. i will be there as you cross the finish line.

robert at the 2009 high point marathon last spring

source one   source two  source three 

on sharing a bedroom

if during your lifetime you find yourself blessed with two daughters, even if you live in a house the size of hearst castle, let them share a bedroom. those four walls will serve as a fortress, a refuge, and yes, a war zone at times, for your girls. when they’re young, they’ll sneak into each other’s beds and talk until midnight, making up songs and stories. they’ll set up a makeshift classroom and play school during the summer. when high school comes and things get hard, they’ll lie in the dark on their backs, talking to each other into the blackness. and it won’t always be easy. far from it. there will be times when they’ll want to be on separate continents and sharing a room sounds awful. but don’t let them separate. there is something powerful and special about sharing such a close space. 
 

i know. i shared a room with my sister carly growing up, though a guest room sat not three feet away, vacant the entire year except when relatives came to visit on the holidays. her first big girl bed was my twin one that we shared, and I still remember the night she moved into her own tiny bed right next to it. my entire body shook with sadness as I cried to my mom to let her stay. what followed were years of blasting our favorite CDs from our stereos, eavesdropping on each other talking on the phone in the closet, sharing clothes and secrets along the way.

she went off to college this fall and though i put on a brave face when we dropped her off, as we drove away on the highway i cried again-the same gut wrenching emotion as when she was first taken out of my bed. let them share. they’ll thank you for it. 

this is for you, carly-remember that christmas eve we were hungry and i went and got the fruit basket from under the tree?