summer.

 

The days have been hot. In fact, as I write this, I'm camped out in front of our portable air conditioner and it's still not enough. Our apartment isn't perched in the best spot to take on days such as these and the forecast says we're looking at temperatures in the 100s over the next week. Whew.

I've written about six or seven posts here; they're sitting in a draft folder and not a single one of them has felt ready for publishing. The last several months have been about coming back to myself, about finding new ways to settle into my skin and feel content there.

We've done a lot this summer: a trip to Sauvie Island for berry picking, a trip to Mt. Hood to see Umbrella Falls, a trip to Salmon River to go swimming, a trip to Florida, walks around the neighborhood, family dinners, Peninsula Park with the roses fully in bloom, a trip to Smith Rock State Park, and tons of relaxing and resting in between.

Summer has been so, so good to me, and we're still squeezing in a few more fun trips to cap it all off. I have used this blog for so many different purposes, and it's changed and shifted more times than I can count. Sometimes I've been really sad when I've written here. Sometimes I've been confused or scared or anxious or happy. Sometimes I've documented every square inch of my life and sometimes I've let long stretches pass with nothing.

I'd like to try and share more pictures here, to write things down, to remember. I'd also like to spend more time in my kitchen and read more books. And I'd like to spend more time taking Woody on nice long walks. These are small goals that will make my happy, full life feel happier and fuller. I've waited to feel this way, I've worked hard to get here. Time to bask in it.

(Photos 1 & 2: strawberry picking at Sauvie Island; Photos 3 & 4: Umbrella Falls trail; Photos 5-9: Old Salmon River)

*Also, I have no earthly clue why the vertical images are so pixelated, but after nearly an hour of troubleshooting, I give up! :)

a working definition of success.

 

 The other night Jeffrey and I were talking and he said something about how I'm always overworking myself, and for one second my brain computed that as a COMPLIMENT. The intent of his message was for me to slow down, but for a fraction of a moment I was proud that someone I love thought I was overworked. I feel like the amount of time one spends working is a common measure of success. Like, if you don't have time for leisurely, pleasant things then you're probably really successful. But why?

Running myself ragged doesn't make me a better or more dynamic or kinder human being. In fact, I'm pretty sure it does the exact opposite. I'd like for success to be measured in the number of times I laugh in a day. In how many times Woody wags his tail. In a home glowing with candles. In warmth and breeze and freckles on my shoulders. In flowers and walks with my nieces and in mundane trips to Target with people I love. In pie shared with friends. In phone calls home. In making cookies on a Friday night.

When I was teaching and I wanted to leave work on time, I remember sneaking out (sneaking! out!) of the building because I was so worried that my colleagues would see me and silently judge me for not staying beyond my contractual obligation (just to be clear, this had everything to do with my own insecurities and nothing to do with my actual colleagues). When I left teaching it was partially because the overworked part of my brain was falling apart into three million pieces and I could no longer stand the thought of my tired, broken body bending down to collect them.

I've done the work to get to a place where overworking myself is no longer a priority and I've determined where I want to expend my energy. But there's still a piece of me that feels guilty for taking the lunch break or for walking out the door when my work day is technically done and others still sit at their computers.

But I'll tell you one thing: on Saturday, as we walked down to the waterfront to see the cherry blossoms in bloom and talked about our plans to enjoy falafel in a tiny, bustling restaurant, my heart was full and I felt nothing but happiness and gratitude and love and maybe even a little bit of success.

when it all stands still.

The longer days have been a gift. It is such a happy thing to be able to walk outside at 4:30 in the afternoon and not be met with total darkness. And the sun here has been a welcome change. Now I just ache for the warmer days. It’ll be such a relief when I no longer have to wear layer after layer just to feel remotely comfortable, or sink into a bathtub to try and take the chill away.

But I must admit that when I actively choose to have a positive attitude, it’s amazing how quickly the small things add up into big things, and my entire perspective can shift. A moment to acknowledge a bloom forcing its way through the packed earth. The sun streaming through the window. An unexpected latte from Jeffrey. Late night TV marathons and Thai food. A new plant for the house. Sitting here and giving myself the time to write about precisely nothing. It all feels so good.

Sometimes it feels good to have nothing of real note to write about. Sometimes it's enough just to talk about a shift in the weather and to share some pictures from a spontaneous trip to the coast. Sometimes it feels right that my only dream for the foreseeable future is to have a tan of some kind.

To be at peace is a special kind of feeling. To close my eyes and feel that my insides are still. That I am completely whole as I am right now. And even when I change tomorrow, I will still be whole. I had forgotten that the stillness can feel so incredibly good. My brain hardly ever allows for it, but this reprieve; I will soak it all in.

thoughts for a sunday.

It's 11:37 AM on a Sunday. It's 40º outside, but I've forced our window open and I'm parked in front of the (nearly) unbearable chill. Because it's the beginning of March and for most of my life that's been open window weather. Woody's snout has made its way to the stream of cold air and he has fully leaned into it, eyes closed, fur blowing. There's a cupcake next to me and now he's hopped up (still in the perfect position to get the breeze) on the couch, dutifully ignoring said cupcake (because cupcakes aren't for dogs and he somehow knows it?).

I called my mom from this morning's walk and our hour-long conversation felt like 15 minutes (as it often does). And even though I'd like nothing more than for us to be in the same city again, we've gotten pretty good at the long distance thing, and I'm a little bit proud of that because I didn't always think I'd get there.

The dishes are washed and the bed is made and the apartment is tidy. And I'm here. On this couch. Writing about practically nothing because sometimes that feels good.

For the first time in a long time, I actually feel my age. It's weird to be 27 and to think about what I thought my life would be like by the time I got here. It probably involved children. It probably involved a career that made my heart sing. It probably involved many things I don't have. And coming to terms with that can be a little strange. The more adult I become, the more I realize that I know almost nothing about actually being an adult. And the more I realize that that's probably what it means to be an adult. We're all just mostly walking through the dark, looking for the light switch, and only finding it about 50% of the time (if we're lucky).

I just read this article about a woman who has cancer and is hoping her (phenomenal-sounding) husband will find love again after she's gone. It's a sad article, but it's also pretty dang beautiful. Why is it that we shy away from writing beautiful things about our partners? I can't tell you the number of times I've written something lovely and truthful about Jeffrey and then hit delete. Better not gush, I tell myself. No one wants to hear about that, I tell myself. But, why not? Jeffrey is a truly delightful person. And he chose to marry me. Me! From now on, I'm just gonna go ahead and hit publish when I feel compelled. Love is worth celebrating. And real, lasting love? It's rare and it's precious. It deserves to be memorialized (along with all the times I've written about the sad things while I wallowed in the depths of my own despair).

Sometimes I'd like to turn the worrying part of my brain off. It is so exhausting. Why is it that I can know that worrying serves me no purpose, and I just do it anyway? How many times have I worried and nothing has ever come from it (the answer is almost every time.)? How many worry stones have been made completely smooth by my mind? I recently started going to a Pilates class once a week. My instructor is also an energy healer. Energy work is something I've never really given much thought to, but she and I were talking about it anyway and she was like, "I feel like you're carrying some burdens for other people, and the problem is that they decided to set them down long ago, but you're still holding onto them." And it was like she smacked me in the face with my own truth because if that isn't just exactly who I am. But why am I doing it?

The truth is that for all the times I feel like I'm falling apart, there's a time where I feel like I've just grasped a moment of clarity, and I'm so aware of it. I want to imprint it in my mind so that I never forget the true fortune I feel when the door bursts wide open and for one single moment, I glimpse something so sharply and so clearly it can almost take my breath away. I can feel myself growing and changing and it makes me feel like I'm doing the work that needs to be done. There was a time in my life where I believed that progress was meant to be linear. And I can't tell you how thankful I am to now know that that just is not even a little bit true. My progress isn't linear in any sense of the word and isn't that the whole point? The twists and turns? That's where the beauty is. The real, painful, heartbreaking, heart-mending, full, whole beauty.

the post I never wanted to write: or, why i left my teaching job.

Deep breath. Lean in. Spread your message (it could help someone else). Here goes.

I never planned to write this post. In fact, my plan was to not write this post because writing it down in words made it really real and that was scary. But, here it is anyway, because, as with most things, it's best to face them head on. So: at the end of last school year, I made the incredibly difficult decision to leave my teaching job.

The truth is that it hadn't been right since the beginning, but I was committed to making it work because teaching has been my dream for a very long time and I devoted a significant portion of my life to making it happen. The first year was a lot of tears and late nights and a giant caseload that felt way beyond my capacity. The second year was better and the third year was a big class size and a new district and more stress than I ever could've imagined.

And my gut was telling me over and over and over to walk away, but my brain was telling me something different, and it all comes from this: in our society, it is a common practice to tie our worth to a career. And teaching was worthy. It's the kind of job that takes every little thing out of you, but you allow it to happen because you're making a difference and doing real good in the world. And that was enough to sustain me, until it wasn't. Because in the process of helping others, I had forgotten to help myself. And I had become a shell of a person, and when I really sat down and forced myself to think about that, it was terrifying.

I'm sure many people can relate to this, but I am ridiculously hard on myself. I hold myself to an impossible standard; the kind of standard that I would never expect or want a loved one to meet. And while I was throwing myself at my job, I had forgotten that in order to be an effective human being, you absolutely must take care of yourself. And you can live within the cycle of putting yourself on the back burner and putting all of your energy into only taking care of others, but that will eventually come back to bite you in an ugly way. For me, it was crippling anxiety. Living inside my head was so incredibly exhausting. It was draining and it was dark.

And when I admitted to myself that it wasn't working, even after years of trying, it was the most freeing moment. And it wasn’t freeing in the sense that I immediately felt one hundred times lighter (that came later, and still only in waves), but freeing in the sense that I found the courage to listen to my gut and that’s a good and strong feeling.

Teaching has been an incredibly important part of my life. I miss it often and feel an ache when I think about former students whose lives I had the privilege of knowing for a year or so. I think that any time you let go of something that holds meaning for you, it’ll be a battle, and while it might get easier, that battle might not ever fully disappear from your life. And that’s okay. Teaching is a thread that will likely weave its way in and out of my every day for years to come. While I am no longer a teacher as a job, I still consider a piece of my identity to be that of an educator. I studied the subject with great love and devotion throughout college. Over the course of my three years as a classroom teacher, I worked to improve my craft and hone my skills and be the best I could possibly be. While I was in it, there was never a single piece of me that gave up. And I’m really proud of that and that’s what I choose to hang onto.

As a side note, this is probably the scariest and most personal thing I’ve ever published on this blog. In writing in this space, I only have two goals: (1) to reflect on my own life, and (2) to potentially help someone else by sharing my personal experiences. Maybe there will be a message here that helps and resonates with you.

For whatever reason, this favorite and beautiful quote from You've Got Mail popped into my head while I wrote this essay. At best, it's only loosely related to anything here, but I'm sharing it anyway to remember that, for whatever reason, I found connection:

"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So good night, dear void." -Kathleen Kelly, You've Got Mail

2017.

It's a cold day here in Portland. That's what I'm told; I haven't actually gone outside yet. The bed has been made, a fresh cup of tea is steaming on the coffee table, and my favorite candle is lit. Our tree is still up and we are very seriously contemplating the idea of leaving our Christmas lights up year round. Elliott Smith is coming through the speakers and the heater just clicked on.

In 2016, I got more comfortable with change. I learned to make decisions with my well being at the forefront of my mind. I started complimenting strangers. I made a real effort to cook more. I took my vitamins. I made a small difference in the lives of 24 students. I decided to leave my teaching career (after finishing out the school year). I read about pinning down my desires. I tried growing out my hair (still working on this one). I cared a little bit less about adult acne. I spent time watching my nieces grow and flourish. I took my dog for walks around our new neighborhood. I got more involved in politics. I tuned into the news more. I decided to be vocal about the things that matter to me. I went to the chiropractor and got acupuncture, and said goodbye to my chronic neck pain (which I never thought would disappear). I went to physical therapy. I spoke to my doctor about my anxiety. I took mental health seriously and made it a priority in my own life. I ate a lot of pie. I bought more goods from companies who make and produce in the USA. I donated to lots of causes (more than I ever have in the past). I went to Point Reyes, San Francisco, the Redwoods, Cave Springs, Florida, Mt. Hood, and the Oregon coast.

In 2017, I have a few small resolutions that I hope to carry through the year. For the most part, they're rooted in seeking joy and empowerment by lifting up others and staying engaged in our nation's politics.

It was incredibly helpful and uplifting for me to write down a big list of what I did and learned in 2016. It's so easy to be hard on oneself and feel like not enough was accomplished or crossed off the bucket list, but I'm proud of the work I did to better myself and help others in some small way.

Here's to a 2017 that's filled with love and light! Thank you, as always, for continuing to read and engage in this space. I am grateful to you. xo

to my sweet girls.

Dear T and NL,

At this very moment it is flurrying outside. Your mom just sent me a video of the two of you in your big ol' puffer coats, playing in your backyard. Never mind that it's actually FREEZING outside, you don't care one bit. I hope you never lose that adventurous spirit. I have a feeling you won't: you are part of a family that lives for the everyday adventure.

When your mom and dad told me that your mom was pregnant, I screamed louder than I have in years (I used to use my high-pitched scream to my advantage — remember this when you need a secret weapon of some kind), and then when we found out you were twins?! Suffice it to say we were surprised and absolutely joyful that you were coming in a pair.

You're lucky because you have the most incredible parents, the very best grandparents, and I'd like to think your aunts and uncles are pretty fabulous, too. But what's best is that you are going to carve your very own space for yourself in this big, beautiful world. And you'll light it up with your essence because that's what you already do.

And I hope you always, always remember to look to that light within when you need a little boost or peace of mind or bravery or courage or confidence to get a job done. See, in this world, as a girl or woman, it is a radical act to love yourself unapologetically. And I hope you'll always choose to be radical. I hope you'll always remember that your light within is literally inextinguishable. You'll use it to guide yourself and sometimes you'll use it to guide your sister and sometimes you'll even use it to guide people you hardly know. It's the most powerful tool you possess. And it's been yours from the very beginning.

I love you so much more than I could ever possibly say. I cannot wait to see where your light will take you — to incredible, beautiful, unimaginable heights, of that I am sure.

Love forever and even after that,
Aunt RaRa

giving a face to obamacare.

 

Today, I want to give a face to the Affordable Care Act. As a teacher, I was always pretty well taken care of when it came to health insurance and we were fortunate enough to use my coverage for both myself and for Jeffrey.

At the end of last school year, I decided not to return to my teaching career for the 2016-2017 school year. This is something that I haven’t really mentioned here, mostly because it was an incredibly difficult decision — one that was ultimately the right choice for my mental health and well being, but still broke my heart.

Because Jeffrey is self-employed, we didn’t have his benefits to fall back on. I soon became self-employed as well and so we had to enroll in ObamaCare. The ACA is an imperfect system with many kinks that need to be worked out and changes that need to be made — I am not disputing that — but Jeffrey and I rely on this system in order to ensure that we have the health coverage that we need and deserve as hardworking Americans.

Our insurance isn’t cheap. We pay a monthly premium based on our income bracket and we chose from lots of different plans, many of which offered coverages that were actually sadly laughable.

I can’t pretend to understand why so many Americans would actively fight to dismantle this act. It allows millions of people to feel safe and secure and confident that, should something tragic or devastating (or otherwise health-related) happen to themselves or a loved one, they won’t be left high and dry. Jeffrey and I work hard and we pay a steep premium to make sure we have decent care.

(As a disclaimer, this post is written with nothing but love and also concern for my little family and other friends I hold dear who rely on the ACA. My intention isn’t to start a battle, but rather to share my experience and hopefully shed light on why the ACA  is, in my opinion, an essential piece of American legislation that deserves to stay put.)

for the ones who raised me.

 

Dear Mom & Dad,

I remember how we sat at the dinner table together every single night. I remember playing in the front yard. Filling a big Rubbermaid container with water for our toys' community pool. Playing baseball. Playing basketball. The time we put all our Furry Families on the van and Dad accidentally drove off, they all fell off, and we scoured his entire driving path until we found nearly every last one.

I remember conversations about being kind. Sticking by your friends. Sitting next to someone who might be alone at school. I remember the times we talked about respecting everyone. I remember dancing to this song on birthday mornings.  Eskimo kisses. Ice cream sundaes with peanuts. Singing prayers together at the dinner table. I remember Sanibel Island and the Smoky Mountains. I remember Maine and New York City. I remember camping in the middle of Point Reyes and hearing coyotes cackling to one another. I remember learning about acceptance and empathy.

And what I mostly remember is you leading by example. Living out the example you hoped we would someday carry on. Laughing in darkness. Standing brave during hard times. Tucking us in at night. Telling us you love us after every single phone call. I remember the love radiating from our home. Palpable.

Thank you.

Thank you for giving me the courage to find beauty in the many rich differences of the human experience. You are the hope and the fire and the light that I carry in my heart every single day. You are why I believe that people are mostly good and could always use a little bit more love. My gratitude to you is endless. It goes on forever and ever.

Love,
Rox

when the colors change.

 

The other morning I was driving to work. It was overcast, as it usually is this time of year in Portland. I drive through the heart of the city on my commute and am met with many, many shades of gray. This song was playing. I had just enough time to swing by a drive-thru and get a cup of coffee. The best part of my commute is that I can see the southwest hills in a sweeping landscape as I cross over the Ross Island Bridge. Jeffrey is constantly telling me to look at the hills, to take it all in.

It was the sort of morning where I was just feeling thankful for so many things. It was a welcome feeling after what has been many, many mornings of feeling pretty lost, confused, and uncertain about many, many things. But on this particular morning, I could recognize the beauty and fullness of my life so clearly and so perfectly that I almost could've cried.

As I crossed over the bridge and wondered — audibly — at my great fortune, I noticed (reallllllly noticed) the southwest hills. It would have been impossible to miss them. The trees were bursting with autumnal colors. The gray Portland sky was the perfect backdrop for really capturing and amplifying the bright, vivid colors of the leaves. And I couldn't believe it.

I thought of all the times Jeffrey has told me to look at the hills, to take them in, to immerse myself in the beauty of the city where we live and I have been stubborn. I haven't done it. I've pretended not to care or not to be in awe of it or to find more beauty and joy elsewhere. And it's because I've stiff armed Portland for so long. Moving here brought all my insecurities right to the surface and I was forced to acknowledge them and challenge my best self to do the work of walking through the dark parts to get to where the light is.

There are still so many moments when I feel lost or question my purpose or wonder what I'm doing in this rainy city or feel thoroughly confused and uncertain and foggy, but those moments make way for the moments when I see everything clearly and can glimpse the light and recognize the sheer beauty that is the life I'm building. And a life needs the dark and the light. The confusion and the clarity. That's what makes it whole and rich and vibrant and beautiful.

dear love of my life,

We've been you and me for a long time. We've moved in the muggy Florida heat together. We've trekked across the country together. We've perched in the middle of Mt. Hood and watched the sun stretch over the peak together. We've walked down Charleston streets in the muggy midnight together. We've hiked through Cataloochee in 19º mornings together. We've found treasures in middle-of-nowhere antique stores together. We've rescued a dog together. We've planned a wedding together. We've rearranged furniture together. We've made meals together. We've been happy together and sad together and we've changed together. 

I've spent a large part of my life with you by my side. How lucky that is. We all find love in different ways, and it can look different for so many different people. And that's lucky, too. It's lucky that we can all arrive at love in different ways. You and me, we have had the immense fortune of literally growing up together. And we'll continue to grow up together for the rest of our lives.

You have been my very best friend through so many different parts of my life — parts where I felt strong and capable and parts where I felt really small and like I needed some help pulling myself up from whatever struggle I was wallowing in. Parts where I felt sure of myself and ready for the next challenge and parts where I felt confused and terrified. And through all of that, we've counted on one another: to be the voice of reason, to be the one who was strong and willing, to be the one who found the words when the other could not, to be the one who could find clarity in a murky situation, to be the one who reassured, to be the one who comforted, and loved, and cared.

This is what it means to love someone. It means finding the beautiful parts and lifting them up and reveling in them and being so very thankful that those parts exist. It also means staring the ugly parts in the face and claiming them and loving those and being so very thankful that those parts also exist. It means recognizing that both beautiful and ugly are necessary to make a human being whole. And I am so grateful to love the whole you because I wouldn't be the whole me without the whole you.

I love you more today than I ever thought I could. More than the teenage girl who found the daisies on her doorstep. More than the 22-year-old who found post-it notes littered around the apartment after you left for a two-month residency in Montana. More than the 23-year-old who stood and said the vows that so many other beautiful people have said long before we said them. And I will love you more tomorrow and the day after that and forever and ever after that because that's what it means to find the love of your life. Thanks for being mine.

XOXO,
Rox

reclaiming this space.

I'm sitting in our studio apartment next to a sleepy dog, box fan shoved into an open window, 6 o'clock and no sign that the sun will go down anytime soon. It's a peaceful scene. I've been working on my intentional breathing, which sounds absolutely bizarre and over-the-top pretentious, but is actually incredibly helpful. My physical therapist described my intentional breathing practice like this: first, check in with all corners of your body (especially the achy ones); try and send your breath to those achy places; inhale deeeeeeply through the nose, and then produce an audible, strong exhale through the mouth. Repeat that as many times as you can muster. For me, that's about 10 times and then I'm bored.

I've tried to write this very blog post so many times. What do you write in a little white box that hasn't been touched in months? How do you unpack what that silence has meant while still keeping the personal parts of that silence to yourself? Well, for one thing, you just start writing and see what comes of it.

In many ways, I haven't known what to do with this space. There was a time when I wanted nothing more than for this little blog to take off and become a career. I posted the beautiful pictures, wrote very few words, and talked about pleasant, unremarkable things. This is what I saw other successful bloggers doing. They all said you couldn't have a "career blog" without pictures. Every post needed pictures. Readers would stop reading if the content wasn't saturated with pictures. Dutifully, I took my camera everywhere -- took close up pictures of random things, blurring out the background. It was fun, until it wasn't.

Truth is, I'm a writer. It's the written word that's always interested me. That's where I feel compelled creatively. That's the part I want to push into and explore. I recently listened to Amy Poehler's book and there were about one million pieces that stuck with me (Side Note: I think every woman should read/hear her chapter about your inner demon. That was completely illuminating to me. Not illuminating because I haven't dealt with an inner demon, but illuminating because I've never had anyone quite so accurately put words to that particular struggle.), but one thing I really latched onto was a part where she spoke about how fortunate she is that her career and passion overlap seamlessly and how that isn't the case for everyone. That potential overlap is a great joy and a stroke of luck, but it isn't always a given. You can love and enjoy and even be passionate about your career, and still your deep, deep creative passion can lay elsewhere. And for me that passion is writing. It's the one thing I've always come back to over and over again. It's the way I can best express myself and share the innermost workings of my brain.

So I'm gonna write. And if no one else reads it, then it will be for me.

I put a lot of pressure on myself for things to be just so. I've got a lot of thoughts and feelings about how my life should look, and if it doesn't look just like that just when I think it should, then I am immediately going into a tailspin. An exhausting way to live, I think. And it's not like I can just will myself to walk away from that way of thinking on a random Tuesday evening, but I can be intentional about trying to really just be happy (and sometimes unhappy [that's okay, too!]) in the way my life looks right now.

What does that mean currently? Well, it means my husband is on the floor trying to clean out our portable air conditioning. It means I'm worrying about our dog and his separation anxiety, which has recently manifested itself as a loud, excessive bark-howl hybrid that disrupts our neighbors. It means I'm thinking about the giant share of CSA veggies we just got and how we'll manage to put ANOTHER summer squash to good use. It also means that I don't have to share every! single! thing! about my life in this space. Ha! What a revelation.

It means that I'm reclaiming this space, and it might look a lot like a rambling essay (such as this one) without much of a common thread because at the end of the day, if I use this space to flex my creative passion then I am using this space for good. And it will be a bright, warm, happy space simply because it's housing thoughts that I felt were worth sharing at some moment in my life. Love, love, love. Be back soon. (Thanks for reading. Mean it. Xoxoxoxo.)

the year of fun.

Jeffrey and I moved to Portland in the dead of summer. I remember standing in my parents' front yard, saying goodbye to my in-laws and my mom (my dad took the cross country trip with us, bless him) in the sweltering Florida heat. I've never minded the heat, although my husband would say otherwise. He says that I've complained about it countless times, and perhaps I have, so I guess you could say that I've generally never minded the heat. When we moved to Portland, the heat was oppressive and there was no escaping it. Our house doesn't have air. I remember laying in bed with little more than a sheet, cursing the fact that I couldn't sleep with the weight of a comforter. The temperature on our thermostat (which we have for heat only), rose up and up and up, and I couldn't believe how hot is was.

2015 was a challenging year for me. Dealing with the difficulty and hardship that comes with a move across the country was unexpected and knocked the wind out of me for several months. There's also the challenge of taking on a new job and trying to fit in with a new place and new people. There's the longing for the school I left behind, the familiarity of the people and the location of simple things like the copy machine. Change isn't bad, it's just different. I lost the physical closeness of friends and family and found it overwhelmingly hard to make new bonds and form new relationships.

I spent a lot of time dwelling in that lost and sad place. It was a cycle of wake up, feel sorry for myself, go to work, feel sorry for myself, repeat. It was a cycle I didn't enjoy, but from which I couldn't break away. It was suffocating and terrible. As someone who has experienced little loss in her life, I was shocked by how deeply I grieved a loss of place.

Eventually, it wasn't hot anymore. In fact, it became unbelievably cold. Both Jeffrey and I remarked over the fact that we didn't experience many "open window" days here. It was really, really hot and then it was really, really cold. The sun started going down at 4 in the afternoon. At first, I found myself in a mess of emotions. Blue ones. About two weeks into the dark and cold winter, the fog in my mind lifted. I have no idea why or how. I'd like to believe that it was because I willed it away. It's probably much more likely that something else (something like divine intervention) shooed it into oblivion. Either way, I was grateful.

All this to say that my word for 2016 is fun. Jeffrey and I explored Portland for our honeymoon almost three years ago. We were enamored by its richness and fullness — the city felt alive and bursting with energy. I remember feeling so much love for this city, even though I had hardly spent any time here. In the midst of moving and dealing with big emotions, I forgot to enjoy this city again. I forgot to love it the way I had when we visited here, newlyweds with stars in our eyes. We're still newlyweds and we still have stars in our eyes. I want to squeeze the joy out of this place, experience my life instead of watching it pass me by. There is a time to be sad, but there is also a time to take back happiness, to feel proud of myself for making leaps and embracing change and reveling in the fact that I can do hard things. So here's to 2016, my year of fun!

(Taking back the fun in my life may or may not include documenting some of that here. Thanks for my small but devoted readership, who continues to visit this space, even when postings are sporadic and wordy and not filled with pictures. You are appreciated! xo)

on moving across the country.

I moved across the country this summer.

This is something that most people would likely label as uncharacteristic of me.

I was born and raised in Florida, have loved it my entire life, and most of my family still resides there today. I had a great life there — childhood friends, a strong, loving support system, a job I had grown to love, and plenty to do and see all within driving distance.

However, Jeffrey and I have discussed moving across the country for the past several years of our relationship. Something about the fascination with a place and lifestyle different than ours, a window of opportunity in which we are young and relatively carefree, and the desire to stretch ourselves and grow and collect new memories to store away for a lifetime.

I knew it would be hard. In fact, I dreaded how difficult it would be. I imagined myself ripping up my roots that had been planted and harvested and tended with great care. I imagined what it might feel like to live thousands of miles from people who are incredibly important to me. I imagined starting my career over, making new friends, finding new places to frequent on Saturday mornings. I imagined the difficulty of navigating new roads (I am a notoriously terrible navigator). I imagined putting myself out there in ways I had never done before. It was terrifying. And it still is.

The truth is that I am not an adventurous person. For a long time, I masqueraded as someone who was. I loved the idea of being a free spirit. Easy going. Laid back. And in some arenas, I might be. But not in the arena that involves letting go of everything I've ever known in life and trading it in for something completely brand new.

And that's precisely why I had to do this.

If I want to grow and challenge myself and be someone who is brave, then I must do things that terrify me. If I am to stand in front of students I love and care for and tell them to take a giant leap of faith, then I must also take leaps.

If I want to (someday) raise children who take risks and make mistakes and create their own new and unique path, then I must also be willing to do those things. I must also be willing to be bold and to do things that might be a little scary. Might be a little terrifying.

And today when I walked into a teacher orientation filled with a sea of new faces, my heart ached for the comfort of the school I left. When I went shopping and needed a second opinion, I actively missed my mom sitting in the dressing room with me. When I needed to sit with someone and say nothing (but really say everything), I longed for a coffee with my dad. And I will continue to miss these things. I will long for these things forever. And that's how it should be. When someone lives a full, happy life somewhere and decides to leave parts of that life in pursuit of something different, the components of that full, happy life will leave a big impression. I'm better for that impression. Happier for it.

That impression is the only reason I'm able to move across country. That impression is the whisper that tells me I can do this. It's the thing that keeps me moving. It's the confidence to keep going. To take that leap. To be bold and brave and courageous. To step outside my comfortable box and make a new box. To continue a story which deserves to be continued.

monday thoughts.

I woke up the other morning morning with a pit in my stomach. I wanted to cry. I went through the motions of my work week routine and I felt pretty sorry for myself. I wake up so early. I work so hard. I'm always so tired. These thoughts live in my brain a lot of the time -- more often than they should, I think. I ended my morning in tears. This also happens more often than it should. Truthfully, sometimes life is hard. Really, really hard. Like, a lot harder than I ever imagined it would be. Please hear me out: this is not a complaint, it's a wake up call.

As I walked out the door, streets empty, not another soul in sight, dark as the night, it all felt a little unfair. I wanted to scream. And then, it hit me like a ton of bricks. (This is how it commonly happens.) A frying pan over the head, a punch to the gut, all those others sayings about the wind getting knocked out of you. I sometimes get into the habit of wishing away my perfectly beautiful life. I get caught up in all the  runs in the fabric and I forget to step back and take a look at the incredible, detailed, unbelievable tapestry of my human experience. Please understand that I am not shooing away the feelings I feel. It's important to have them, to evaluate them, and work toward having less not-so-good feelings and more really-great feelings.

In the meantime, I must stop waiting for what's around the bend, and I must take advantage of my life. In this moment. Happy Monday, sweet friends.

(P.S. Other posts about feelings: transitions, fueling a life, trusting your decisions, and beauty in chaos.)

what i know at 25.

Settle into your natural inclination toward being a homebody, but don't forget to sneak adventure in there for good measure.

Candy is bad for your body, but every now and then it will be acceptable and necessary to enjoy a piece completely guilt free (for your soul, of course).

At some point, you will realize that all the truths you held in your hands and heart for so long will no longer be concrete, but malleable instead. While this will scare you and make certain pieces of life unclear, don't forget how exciting and freeing this can be.

The excitement that comes with a Starbucks barista knowing your name should also be approached with a certain amount of caution (re: you're visiting Starbucks too much).

Sometimes things will feel heavy in an uncomfortable way. In those moments, remember the image of Woody at the dog park, running toward you full force with a neon tennis ball in his mouth, carefree and utterly joyful. Remember the sparkle in his eyes and the strength in his legs. Try to embody that more often.

Give yourself permission to listen to your gut.

When the power goes out for one hour, you will realize that you are actually an adult. Small moments can do that to you.

In the truly, truly difficult moments, you will be reminded that somewhere, someone has gone through this same thing and come out the other side in one, imperfect piece. There's a certain amount of comfort in that.

Most often, people are genuinely good.



P.S. What I knew at 24.

it's all beautiful.

Sometimes feelings are hard to put into words. I guess that's why they're feelings. There are people in our lives who don't need us to explain our feelings because they just get it. Those people are called kindred spirits. I hope you have one. Or two. Or three. If you don't, I'll be yours today.

Now and then, it all becomes a bit too much. You feel like you're at the bottom of a well that has a busted pulley system. And you need someone to tell you that it's okay to feel crappy. It's okay to feel like throwing the towel in. It's okay to breathe out all those negative feelings and say, "That's enough for today."

Friends, you can't fix it all. You just can't.

In the age of the Internet, we have the freedom to share whatever we want to share. Often times, it's the greatest triumphs in our life that we choose to parade on social media. And why shouldn't we? Shouldn't this life have more things to celebrate? More people to feel happy for? More pride for our fellow human beings? I think it should, and I'm sure you do, too.

But sometimes, you can look at everyone else's bright spots, and your bottom-of-the-well spot seems that much worse. You look around and you think, "Really?" And there are truly no other words to mutter.

It's okay. It's real and it's honest to feel a bit sad inside. It's even a little bit brave.

Today, I felt it. I felt sad and I felt like I was at the bottom of a well. I wished for nothing more than the feelings to just disappear. I wanted up and out of that well quickly and without damage, please. But I listened to the quietness in my heart and the twisted up feelings in my soul, and I reminded myself that it's all beautiful. Even those bottom-of-the-well moments.

// Above: pictures that make me feel happy.
1 || Glorious blooms. I thank God for them.
2 || Woody's fur in the breeze.
3 || Celebratory selfies.
4 || A peering elk.

10 lessons learned from a first year teacher.

1. When you feel like giving up, remember the student who told you he believed in his reading abilities because you believed first. Remember the student who called you her sunshine on a regular basis. Remember all the times you laughed at something together, or hung your Earth Day posters out in the hallway. Remember when they begged you to read outside, or eat with you, or hug you, or know more about you. Then ask yourself if you still feel like giving up.

2. In many ways, Wag! by Patrick McDonnell is the most perfect read aloud. It teaches a most profound lesson in the simplest, most beautiful way (we read it no less than 5 times).

3. Talk about your family and they will hinge upon your every word.

4. When comparing yourself to other teachers, don't.

5. Hold onto that one time you were all walking up the stairs after lunch and their eyes sparkled with anticipation over the next chapter of Matilda you were about to savor together.

6. Kids still truly love Reading Rainbow.

7. When you are thrilled to teach something, students will often be thrilled to learn about it.

8. In some cases, your classroom might be the most comforting safe haven a student has in his or her life. Therefore, please remember to tell each student how glad you are to see him or her every single day.

9. Don't forget to do something for yourself every now and then. Find a hobby that makes your heart sing. Do something that doesn't have any relation to the teaching profession. Bask in a life outside of your classroom, full of richness and love so that you can return to your classroom each and every single week day with enthusiasm in your heart and joy in your soul.

10. When you feel knocked down or low (which will happen more frequently than you'd care to admit), please know that you are doing one of the most important jobs, and serving in a way that is profound and meaningful. Know that the work you do has a great impact and that you matter to someone (a class full of someones, in fact). Tell yourself that you are important and wonderful and heroic, because you are. And when none of that works, give your students a hug, and you will feel the results of your work come flooding back to you in an avalanche of love and adoration.

Bonus (11.): Cherish the moments spent within the four walls of that first classroom. Hold onto them and keep them for later. When the door begins to close on that first year, you will feel simultaneously relieved, shocked (by how unbelievably quickly time passed), and deeply saddened. The mountain you chose to summit will be nearly behind you. You enjoyed the view and the fruits of your labor, and now you must hold it tight in your heart and never let it go. You did it! Congratulations. :)

the dynamics of a classroom.

My students walk in the door in the morning and this is playing. Expectantly, my students start humming the tune before they've even hit the entry to our classroom. Most of them have breakfast trays, meticulously curated to meet their unique tastes: one has Cinnamon Toast Crunch and OJ and another has grits and toast. Without thinking, they pass the OJ to one of my students who has taken a particular liking to it. He has a pile of it on his desk (there's no way he could ever drink all of it, it's a gesture of kindness). Desks don't belong to individuals, but to groups of people. Papers are sprawled across the desks, a sea of homework congregating in the middle of the group.

"Did you turn in your homework yet?" A helpful reminder from one student to another. "Are you going to science night?" Conversation begins to spring up around the classroom until the humming, pleasant sound of kid voices harmonizes with the background music. The soundtrack has now moved to this.

Slowly and steadily, my students come streaming in, leaving their home baggage at the door and stepping into our cozy, supportive, welcoming classroom. We are a well-oiled machine, connected by the triumphs and obstacles we face everyday. Post-it notes are slam dunked into the green basket in the front of the room. Today's sticky note job: Write one interesting fact about the state you're researching. I hear murmurs, "What's your interesting fact? Did you remember to write your name on the back?" I hear helpers, I hear supporters, I hear genuine interest.

For a moment I sit back and marvel at this. How did we get here? How did we come to the place where we have learned to accept the differences of one another and the sameness we all share in some small way? I can tell you that it has not always been this way — still isn't always this way.

But on days when our little world is running in content and perfect harmony, my heart is full of pure love for the students that have learned, cried, laughed, cheered, smiled, worked, persevered, given up (plenty of times), tried again, disrespected, apologized, lived, loved, and created together in room 06-222.

We have built a world just for us, and it's a good one. And so, to my students of 2013-2014 (who will never read this), I am so very proud of you — your heart and your mind. Go move mountains.

back in the saddle.

Hi, Friends!

It's been awhile, hasn't it?

My blogging hiatus and time away from this space was completely unexpected and unplanned. I've loved blogging from the moment I started nearly 6 years ago (back when I still blogged at this space).

I've been pretty open about the struggles I experienced when I entered the working world at the end of Augut 2013. I wrote about it here, too. I think the newness of all of that kind of made me resistant, but the truth is that writing soothes my soul, whether I'm rambling on about our wedding (and how to get married on a very small budget) or sharing the shocking truth about what's in our makeup. I've been constantly pulled back to this space, and yet I've been hesitant to write anything here. Why? It's my space and I make the rules here! :)

With that said, I've got some ideas for this blog and I hope you'll join me in this imperfect journey of fun and honesty. I'll continue to write about the things that matter to me most, which might be a trip to a local burger joint or an honest post about my simple (but difficult) new year's resolution. I hope you'll stick around! xo