Sunday Morning Dreams :: This Time Around

I do my best dreaming in hooded sweatshirts with coffee in my hand. I do my best dreaming on Sunday mornings looking for places to live in cities far away. (Or not so far away, as it has turned out. Because it has turned out. Deep breaths and a reminder, it has turned out. It will turn out again.)

Soft melodies and bold beats as always, and this time around words, words, words. This time around more certainty that no matter what. This time around less of a dream, less disbelief, less uncertainty. And there is you and you and you. And you, who has always been there. Even before and ever after. We are. Dreaming and doing. And encouraging. You and you and you. Thank you.

I do my best dreaming in hooded sweatshirts with coffee in my hand. I do my best dreaming with you sitting next to me, far or near.

This time around there is you.

#Friday Follow

BROOKLYN THEORY

Vowing Small Steps and Big Goals

I am tiny. 

I am 5'1" and always need want ten more pounds on my bones. But. 

I don't often feel tiny.

[Let me clarify: When I look in the mirror with a critical eye, so different from the everyday glance to make sure I am wearing clothes and my shirt is not tucked into my underwear, so different from the intentional time spent re-cognizing my features after a harsh day - yes, I am still here, blue eyes and brown hair - when I look in the mirror with a critical eye, I see tiny. I am tiny. I see me. The height. The weight. My perception matches reality. I say that as a disclaimer, an important disclaimer, but not as the topic. An important topic, but not the topic.]

I don't often feel tiny. The coffee mugs stored on the top shelf of the cabinet means I hop on the counter before drinking my morning coffee. Store bought pants too long means a trip to the tailors. She, and oh so many shes over the years, asks me to open the jar with the stuck lid. A crowded venue means I make my way to the front. I am tiny. But I hardly ever feel tiny.

I curl up into the couch cushions and don't think twice before taking a seat in someone's lap. I launch myself into hugs and lean on him entirely when he's standing behind me. When right moments present themselves, I say yes to piggy-back rides. I adore being tiny. But I don't often feel tiny.

For too many hours this week, I have felt tiny. Small. Insignificant. Weak. Unable to master the hurdles or embrace the strengths, the parts I adore. Unable to reach the goal. It came quick and fast, knocked me off my feet. I'm having trouble standing back up.

This too shall pass. I'll get my feet under me, perhaps as quickly as I lost them. Hopefully as quickly as I lost them. But when I do, I'd like to take a step in another direction. Just a small step, even. That goal is a distance away, but this journey is more important, right? I'll take the step, because I don't often feel tiny. And I don't intend on feeling tiny for very long.

On Boots and Not Much Else

My closet erupted, spilling its contents onto my bedroom the floor and covering half of my bed. Fall sweaters and winter colors, cozy fabrics. The weekend colored itself a chilly gray, but my room holds a swirl of color and warmth. Sunday afternoon laziness creeps in – content and content and content.

Gratitude for the here and now has faded into this life here and now. Living it rather than just standing in gratitude for it. I complained too loudly yesterday that I needed a pair of new boots. A pair with less of a heel. I have to walk around a city during the fall now. Everyone is wearing boots. Don’t you get it? Fall has arrived and I have nothing to offer. I lugged my camera around and hopped on the metro but I didn’t travel more than one stop and didn’t take my camera out once, because I needed new boots. A pair with less of a heel.

I walked in and out of stores – high end to thrift shop – searching for the perfect pair of boots. So I could stand in front of them and lust, try them on and put them back on the shelf. I never had any intention of buying boots this weekend. For a thousand reasons, I knew I would never buy a pair of boots this weekend. But I searched anyway.

It’s not really about the boots. I’m not really sure what it is about. I could take a few guesses, but… For now, things here, life here, is good. I am good. I’ll let the boots be boots.

I finally went home and dove head first into my closet. I unpacked my life under the guise of fall and winter clothes. 

I spent this weekend with roommates turned friends, grabbed coffee a few doors down, and frozen yogurt a couple of blocks away. I danced to Jay-Z old and new and drank and didn’t drink and she knew. I’m falling in love with Joshua Radin circa 2007. Sipping coffee from Maine. I need to put the rest of my fall clothes away, but right now I’m enjoying the display of colors, my own peak-fall foliage.

My camera didn’t get enough use this weekend, I didn’t write enough or the way I intended to, I left a neighborhood unexplored. But for now, things here, life here, is good. I am good. I’ll let the weekend be the weekend.

I’ll light my apple pie candle when the sky grows darker and cuddle up with my journal or a book. Right now, the Sunday afternoon laziness creeps in – content and content and content.

[notes: the internet at my place is out (has been out since last thursday) and i’m not sure when we will get it back. posting may continue to be sporadic.

also, boots? for real, any suggestions? basically, i'm looking for frye boots with little to no heel minus about $400. simple to find, i know. so yeah, suggestions?

photo from last year, vermont.]

Honesty and Something More

I practiced smiling at my reflection in the store window before I walked through the doors. It looked strained and felt tight and I worried that it would never feel natural again. The night temperature dropped below seasonable; I assumed I looked ridiculous in a winter jacket on a mid October evening. I walked in that evening and watched the floor numbers rise without caring enough about the tight smile and the unseasonable winter coat and the sense that this evening mattered. I dismissed and dismissed and dismissed.

I knew his face, his stature before the elevator doors opened. His eyes met mine on a warm June night during a rare break in the summer rain. On the outside beer garden deck where I drank a glass of wine ordered by a man who didn't have to ask while I sat with my best and my best and my best and still had it all together. Together but restless. Ready to run, ready to break free. Ready for something else, something more. Before the rain stole the summer, before I learned to turn on the faucet to muffle sobs each afternoon, before I felt the sting of failure and dark nights of lost. Before the tight smile, before the cold October night, his eyes found mine on a June night from across the deck. I turned away and smiled. And sank gently into the warm night air.

I spotted him from across the room when I stepped out of the elevator and he confirmed when he stood up. I dropped my napkin right before or right in the middle or right after introductions. He quickly swiped it up for me and handed it across the table as I took a deep breath and quickly tried to assess whether or not I cared and how tight my smile felt. I didn't have the heart for any of it; I dismissed and dismissed and dismissed.

The minutes and the tightness melted away. I thought of my reflection in the dark window before I walked in the doors. The silhouette and stretched smile. What's really there now, below and below and below? I couldn't answer, so I talked about everything else. Honest with him, but hardly with myself. As shelled as I felt, he put me at ease. Calm and safe, despite and in spite - an admirable feat for that season.

When we looked over my shoulder at the empty room and realized it was time to leave, we made a detour from the elevator on the way down, stopping on a floor straight from a horror movie. I thought about running. Faster and faster down the long hall until we landed in a heap of laughter and hiccups at the end. Instead, I smiled quietly and dismissed the thought, that act of freedom. But the smile stayed, as I drove out of the parking garage that night and slipped quietly into bed.

And I went about my week.

The second night I wanted pull his sweatshirt over my head, still zipped up, and walk down by the pier. I wanted to jump into the water without feeling its chill and dunk myself under and under and under until I could breath again. I wanted to crawl into his car and blast the heat until I fell asleep with my hand over his heart. Instead we went to the quaint place I suggested for drinks and sat at a tiny table and looked everywhere but at each other and sighed and both went home and said that this probably wasn't going to work. I said it out loud and crawled into bed believing in nothing more than black nail polish and the sound of the pouring rain, but he said it directly to me shortly after. And I said, yes, that is fine, and I thought yes, that is fine.

And I got to work breathing life into my own lungs. (It has taken years.)

My junior year of college, a boy called me out on my beliefs not aligning with my heart. At that point in time, no one had navigated my heart better than he and somewhere, somehow he found a key, a door, and a lock that matched. It knocked the wind out of me, the fact that he was right.

Alignment has never been my specialty. (It has been years.)

I have done the work. I have cried the tears and written the words and unearthed the buried parts and healed the cuts and spent the time and asked the hard questions and packed the bags and danced the steps and sang the lyrics and took deep breaths and spoke honestly and honored my values and let go and held on tightly.

I know now.

I believe in hard work. I believe in kindness. I believe in words. I believe in plans and savings accounts. Emergency money in the glove compartment and checking twice to make sure the iron is off. I believe in saying thank you sincerely. I believe in health insurance and car insurance and any kind of insurance, really. I believe in the practical, the rational.

I believe in sunsets over the Pacific ocean. I believe in coffee each morning and in saying goodnight before bed. I believe in holding hands with my friends and writing emails at midnight. Hooded sweatshirts and maple candy. Full moons and wishes on shooting stars. I believe in tears, tears from laughter and tears from sorrow. I believe in the magic of everyday.

How easy it is to believe in the practical, rational, everyday. How easy it is for me to be honest about these beliefs. Honest to you. Honest to me.

After those chilly October nights, our paths crossed again not so long ago. I was surprised, and I got goose-bumps and tongue-tied and I grabbed her hand. Two years later, on a Saturday night with friends turned family, I had an easy smile, a light heart, and a sharp memory. I know now, what is below, and below, and below. And I wished I could have suggested a walk to the pier and a promise not to dive into the water. He would have said no. And I would have said that’s fine. I believe in the rational as much as I believe in the magic of everyday.

I found myself face-to-face with him the other night. In the corner of a dark, abandoned warehouse where he sat on an old, broken chair and I perched on the edge of a torn blue sofa. I believed it too late and inconsequential, but I took a deep breath and emptied honesty into the hopeless space. I started from the beginning and told him everything. And then I told him something more. Without hope, I released, my eyes on his hands until the words stopped and I looked up. His eyes met mine. Full of everything I hadn’t known to hope for.

I woke up.

I woke up uncertain of where I was. Certain I had been floating on a cloud of nirvana and uncertain of anything else. What had been a dream and what had been true? The sky grey, before the sun broke through.

There is something more. I believe in something more. I believe in June nights, when I find myself  smiling to myself and sinking softly into the warm night. I have to start being honest about that, if not with anyone else, then at least with myself. I have to align my heart with my beliefs. I have to be honest that I was not surprised our paths crossed again a few weeks ago. Perhaps that’s rational, perhaps that’s something more. And maybe, I don’t have to decide which.

I believe in more than black nail polish and pouring rain. I believe in the rational, I believe in the magic of everyday, and I believe in something more.

On The Ten Year Anniversary

I have been thinking about what to say on this day since September 11, 2002. I woke up that morning in the dorm room shared with the same friend I made on September 11, 2001 and sat in front of my laptop. I wanted to put up an AIM away message and didn't know what to write. Didn't know how to commemorate the one year anniversary in words. There weren't enough words or there were too many. I settled for "Give someone an extra hug today." I thought about the ten year anniversary (very honestly, I did) and wondered if I would find the words by then.

I still don't have the words. 

(I wonder if any of us do. John Stewart comes the closest, I think.)

I remember where I was that morning. I remember the feel of the metal chair under me as I watched. I remember the fear. (It was the second week of my first year of college. It was fear on top of fear.) But what I remember the most, what I feel the most, is what transpired after that morning. 

The curve of her hat brim as she sat afternoon after afternoon in the dorm lounge watching CNN. When she returned home for October break, her skyline would look entirely different. So quiet, but she told me that. She sat on that ugly, uncomfortable green couch that the boys floor would eventually steal, while the red-head, who lived one door down, perched on the arm rest. Red hair pulled back in a single elastic, with a few pieces falling out, and comfy black stretch pants, she would debate the commentators and curse out national policy. So loud, but she dripped silent tears with us also. These two, they made up most of my heart and soul those next four years. Quiet and loud, curved hat brims and wispy red-hair. The beginning of unconditional love, that's what I remember. That's what I remember the most. 

I remember classes canceled and the few hundred of us who made our way down to the quad to hold hands in a circle. I remember the stifled sobs and the terrified faces, but I what I remember more is feeling safe and cared for among faces I had never seen before. When classes resumed, we returned uncertain and unsteady. My professor brought us up to the performing arts gym where she put on quiet music for us to move to, to color to, to sit silently to. We didn't utter a single word the entire hour but left class in awe of each other, inspired by strength and compassion. 

That's what I remember. And someday, when I find the words, those are the stories I'll tell. Until I do, I'll just leave you with this: 

{photos are mine from around 2002 in lower manhattan. the ceramic pieces were made by people from across the US}

For My Twenty Eighth Year

My Twenty Eighth Year Shall Look Like This:

Tickets: tickets to board planes, trains, buses even; tickets to enter music venues, art venues, performance venues, sporting venues...

Packed bags: this is the year I demystify travel hacking.

Make writing a part of my daily life.

iPhone!

Meals focused on what I'm consuming rather than convenience.

More honesty and assertiveness about what and who I want in my life.

Music and movement: more, more, more...

Give life plans as much thought as I give career plans. (Bonus: more thought!)

Organization and schedules: make them and then break them

Do it. Do Something. Then Disregard "Ready" And Let It Happen.

It appears as though this list is now annual and also annually late. Both of which I love, actually. Twenty Eight, you're bold and strong, I can already tell. Welcome to my life. 

(Last year's list.)

Hoods and Pumpkin Spice

I stepped off the bus into a gust of cold air and rain. Ducked my head down in the absence of an umbrella and made my way to the Metro - slower than the rain fell. Closed my eyes the whole ride home and almost made it to the front porch before the skies opened entirely. Cold and drenched, I fumbled for my keys under the porch light. Crawled into bed and fell asleep to the cold rain, the covers tucked under my chin. 

The morning light fell blue grey and the puddles held ringlets. Dressed myself in clothes too warm for last week and grabbed my rain jacket from the closet. Mismatched attire but I wanted the hood, the casual comfort. The feel of wrapped up, held together, just held. 

I ran all summer. On adrenaline. On coffee. On musts and shoulds. Trying to stay ahead of the change. To beat change. To make it to higher ground before it washed ashore and stole the sand, wiped clean my footprints. Our footprints. I ran and didn't look back. 

I'm here now. 

Car lights illuminate the street before I've figured out what to have for dinner and I pull on a hooded sweatshirt to ward off chills even though the air conditioner doesn't hum. I take a sip of pumpkin spice and remind myself: I believe in the change of seasons 

and the seasons of change. 

Wanderlust Wednesday: Buenos Aires, Argentina

My wanderlust this Wednesday is inspired by Sonja from Big {Blue (print)} Ball. 

She has amazing photos of street art (love, love, love) from Buenos Aires and I think you should definitely hop over to her  site and take a look at her photos. The street art is amazing & awesome and I want to go to Buenos Aires so badly now. Sigh.

 Anyway.  

Check them out. 

Where would you like to be this Wednesday?

Share by linking up!

Those Summer Nights...

I had to bite my lip to keep the tears from falling as I watched the skyline disappear over my shoulder. The sky darkens and then lets go what I held back.  I feel every mile south tonight.

I walked through the city with a meander stronger than usual and found myself standing in Times Square among the tourists. Is this the New York I know? No. I know the smell of garbage on hot July nights and the wind rushing in the open cab window as we ride far, far uptown. I know bedrooms with four walls so close together I could rifle through the shirt drawer without rolling over more than once. I know how hard it is to find a bottle of water at 5am when the heat rises from the pavement and descends from above. I know the cracks in the sidewalks and the feel of certain buildings when I run my fingers across the corners.

But I always leave when it's time.  When it's time to put on the day's coffee and iron the shirts, I'm weaving through Grand Central, tripping on tourists and hoping for time to grab to-go coffee before the train departs. I don't receive the afternoon phone calls at the office to make dinner plans or ask to pick up the dry cleaning on the way home from work. I don't know where to find the reddest radishes or where to buy toilet paper in bulk. The everyday, the mid-afternoon view from the 23rd floor, the plans for next month, next year... I disappear.

I have only the pre-dawn heat, simmering under dark skies.

{ Photo of the Day }

Untitled, a photo by Emily_Katherine on Flickr.