3.31.2011
3.29.2011
random act of bravery
First (assisted) forearm stand in yoga.
Take that, utter lack of upper body strength.
Take that, utter lack of upper body strength.
3.25.2011
on bravery, identity crises, and mormons
So I used to have a blog.
I blogged about pretty things, things which made me happy. I blogged about purses. Sometimes I blogged about more important things, politics and literature and the whys and wherefores of being a 20-something. Mostly I blogged about love. About being in love. About my love.
When that love collapsed, I shut the blog down. In a lot of ways it felt like the blog was mocking me. It was a permanent record of how foolish I had been, and how happy, and how radically different my life had become. To be honest: Everything reminded me of my former life. The bed. The spoons. Asparagus. Snow. Guitars and books and chairs. But seeing it in print, albeit virtual, was too much.
But it has been growing, recently. The desire to write again. Write something new, share a space. I've thought a lot about how honest to be here. I thought a lot about how honest to be there. Ultimately I want to be honest, because the blog, for me, has to be a representation of something authentic, something genuine, or else it is simply another way I am falsifying an identity to please others or to hide the truth from myself, disguise it, pretty it up. I'm not interested in doing that - in life, yes, but more directly in writing.
I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I want this space to be. It is hard for me to justify having a blog unless it has a purpose. Otherwise I'd just throw it all in the journal. And I read a lot of blogs. A lot.
Here is a list of things my blog is not:
A fashion blog. I like clothes, but I cannot afford them, nor do I have a sense of style that would justify me taking awkward photographs of myself each day in order that other people may covet my look.
A food blog. I love food, and I love to cook, and it was food blogging that made me fall in love with this whole weird world, but I don't cook enough, or with enough skill, to make that this the next Orangette. (Dear Orangette, I love you. I think we should be best friends.)
A writing blog. I am not a writer. Not yet.
A sex blog. Because...just no.
A "look-how-gorgeous-my-house/apartment/barn conversion is" blog. Look at these $300 throw pillows. Look at the heirloom bow-and-arrow set resting casually in the corner. Look at these Eames chairs I dug out of my grandmother's basement and refurbished with spray paint and bunting.
A mormon blog. I'm not blonde, a mother, or a delightful virgin. I also think that gays should be married chop chop, quick quick. And I'm pretty sure god is on my side for that.
What I do know is that on New Years Eve, at a speakeasy with my best friend of almost 20 years (egads), with my life in a wild shambles, the bartender took our photo with a polaroid and on the bottom of the grainy image we wrote: BE BRAVE. It was the only resolution I felt comfortable making. It felt necessary. So this space, if nothing else, will be a reminder of that. Awkward middle ground, here I am. We're going to take this thing slow for a while, kittens. We're going to test the waters.
In church a few weeks ago, our reverend said this: "Courage is hearing a calling greater than fear, and following it." I would hope, at least, we can all agree to that.
I blogged about pretty things, things which made me happy. I blogged about purses. Sometimes I blogged about more important things, politics and literature and the whys and wherefores of being a 20-something. Mostly I blogged about love. About being in love. About my love.
When that love collapsed, I shut the blog down. In a lot of ways it felt like the blog was mocking me. It was a permanent record of how foolish I had been, and how happy, and how radically different my life had become. To be honest: Everything reminded me of my former life. The bed. The spoons. Asparagus. Snow. Guitars and books and chairs. But seeing it in print, albeit virtual, was too much.
But it has been growing, recently. The desire to write again. Write something new, share a space. I've thought a lot about how honest to be here. I thought a lot about how honest to be there. Ultimately I want to be honest, because the blog, for me, has to be a representation of something authentic, something genuine, or else it is simply another way I am falsifying an identity to please others or to hide the truth from myself, disguise it, pretty it up. I'm not interested in doing that - in life, yes, but more directly in writing.
I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I want this space to be. It is hard for me to justify having a blog unless it has a purpose. Otherwise I'd just throw it all in the journal. And I read a lot of blogs. A lot.
Here is a list of things my blog is not:
A fashion blog. I like clothes, but I cannot afford them, nor do I have a sense of style that would justify me taking awkward photographs of myself each day in order that other people may covet my look.
A food blog. I love food, and I love to cook, and it was food blogging that made me fall in love with this whole weird world, but I don't cook enough, or with enough skill, to make that this the next Orangette. (Dear Orangette, I love you. I think we should be best friends.)
A writing blog. I am not a writer. Not yet.
A sex blog. Because...just no.
A "look-how-gorgeous-my-house/apartment/barn conversion is" blog. Look at these $300 throw pillows. Look at the heirloom bow-and-arrow set resting casually in the corner. Look at these Eames chairs I dug out of my grandmother's basement and refurbished with spray paint and bunting.
A mormon blog. I'm not blonde, a mother, or a delightful virgin. I also think that gays should be married chop chop, quick quick. And I'm pretty sure god is on my side for that.
What I do know is that on New Years Eve, at a speakeasy with my best friend of almost 20 years (egads), with my life in a wild shambles, the bartender took our photo with a polaroid and on the bottom of the grainy image we wrote: BE BRAVE. It was the only resolution I felt comfortable making. It felt necessary. So this space, if nothing else, will be a reminder of that. Awkward middle ground, here I am. We're going to take this thing slow for a while, kittens. We're going to test the waters.
In church a few weeks ago, our reverend said this: "Courage is hearing a calling greater than fear, and following it." I would hope, at least, we can all agree to that.
3.22.2011
ocean liners
It's time to gather. Gather up.
Today is my birthday. I read somewhere that it is good to treat your birthday like a farewell party, as though you are saying goodbye to your former self. I like this idea. I like how kind it seems. I like that while it involves shrugging off a layer of self, it also implies a sort of embracing of the old, thanking it for what it has given up. Like a good pat on the back. Well done, 26-year-old me. You deserve a pedicure and some ice cream. You've been good company, champ.
I imagine my 26-year-old self on the deck of some great ship. She waves to me, I wave back. She deserves a serious vacation.
I try to take the time each year to reflect. I don't feel particularly inclined to do that this year. Perhaps it is feeling as though I am still transitioning, and trying to fathom myself in any kind of static state is simply impossible. Perhaps I'm still coming to terms with this past year.
This is not where I thought I would be. Every day I wake up and have to take a breath to reacquaint myself with this life. It still feels unfamiliar. I am becoming okay with this feeling, with the hole at my side, but when I think about it too hard, or try to hold visions of these two lives at once -
All of which is to say that there will be no deep thoughts this year. Instead: house-made spaghetti with ricotta and an egg yolk; gothic romance on the moors; driving through Baltimore with the doors locked; smart people reading their smart books; chips & salsa; root beer float cupcakes; a turntable; bowling shoes; berry pound cake; thrifting; NoVa's entire selection of classic musicals on vinyl; pho; Katy Perry; getting lost, being found.
She's sipping champagne on the upper deck. She's casting off the coil. But the wealth of life and love around me is overwhelming. There is nowhere else I would rather be.
Today is my birthday. I read somewhere that it is good to treat your birthday like a farewell party, as though you are saying goodbye to your former self. I like this idea. I like how kind it seems. I like that while it involves shrugging off a layer of self, it also implies a sort of embracing of the old, thanking it for what it has given up. Like a good pat on the back. Well done, 26-year-old me. You deserve a pedicure and some ice cream. You've been good company, champ.
I imagine my 26-year-old self on the deck of some great ship. She waves to me, I wave back. She deserves a serious vacation.
I try to take the time each year to reflect. I don't feel particularly inclined to do that this year. Perhaps it is feeling as though I am still transitioning, and trying to fathom myself in any kind of static state is simply impossible. Perhaps I'm still coming to terms with this past year.
This is not where I thought I would be. Every day I wake up and have to take a breath to reacquaint myself with this life. It still feels unfamiliar. I am becoming okay with this feeling, with the hole at my side, but when I think about it too hard, or try to hold visions of these two lives at once -
All of which is to say that there will be no deep thoughts this year. Instead: house-made spaghetti with ricotta and an egg yolk; gothic romance on the moors; driving through Baltimore with the doors locked; smart people reading their smart books; chips & salsa; root beer float cupcakes; a turntable; bowling shoes; berry pound cake; thrifting; NoVa's entire selection of classic musicals on vinyl; pho; Katy Perry; getting lost, being found.
She's sipping champagne on the upper deck. She's casting off the coil. But the wealth of life and love around me is overwhelming. There is nowhere else I would rather be.
3.16.2011
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