snapshots //

snapshots from the 4th, and the first rain of our monsoon season

i'd almost forgotten what it feels like to sit down and write a blog post. it feels alien, actually. unusual. writing things up on this little corner of the web used to be a daily (or at least, weekly) occurrence, but lately, all my writing has been done on my novel. words. so many words. sentences re-written countless times, hours spent reading and re-reading. i've been taking a step back from the internet, and it's amazing what a little time away from all the "distractions" will do for a person.

the days have been a myriad of noises and faces and the same, unbroken pattern of life that somehow seems to be changing, little by little. i've hardly noticed. or maybe we're the ones who are changing. funny how that happens, isn't it? the world never changes. the earth is stuck in the same rotation, the seasons come and go according to schedule, the sun rises and sets, and still we say 'the world' is changing.

really, it's not. we're the ones changing. and as we do, we change our reality - we change our world. and sometimes, others change it for us; with, or without our consent. but when you really get down the point, the truth is, everything changes. everything has changed. it's frightening, it's intimidating. the future is unknown, the present is unstable, the past is unreachable. but it's all beautiful.

i've been enjoying life, rather than documenting it lately. but hey, that's alright. 

what's been up with you lately, lovelies? xx


once again, tomorrow


We leave Ohio tomorrow. It seems like we just arrived, and strange as it sounds, I miss it already. It's more than an enjoyment of the beauty, and the time spent with extended (but very dear) family that will be absent. It's almost like this magical, green place has cast a spell over me; one that won't be broken by the return to normalcy, or the simplicity of everyday life in Arizona. Ohio is home to me. It's where I was born, where my roots are planted firmly, amongst the thick roots of oak trees, and delicate stems of daisies and wild tangles of grapevines that are growing among the limbs of the maple trees. 

Ohio flows in my blood, and is tangled up in the curls of my humidity-saturated hair; it lives among the mosquito bites that freckle my arms and is wrapped tightly around the strings of my memory ridden heart. I remember living here. Some think that a two year old wouldn't remember a place so vast, especially when it dwells so far in the past of my mind; but colors, faces and shapes aren't the only things I remember from 15 years ago. I remember feelings, I remember sensations, I remember being home; I've never forgotten, and coming back here only reminds me again. 

You don't forget a place that is a part of you. It is stamped upon your skin, and written on the fragile, crumbling papers of your heart. You don't forget what it feels like to belong somewhere. You find you haven't forgotten the places of your childhood, even though you only recollect when you see them again. They cling tenaciously to your consciousness, and burn in the back of your mind, rising unbidden at the most unexpected moments.

There are always things you never forget.

And you never, ever, forget where home is. 


bits and pieces

I'm woken up by the sound of clattering directly beneath me; mom in the kitchen. Through the whir of the fan, I can hear birds singing. Bluebirds, cardinals, mockingbirds, all voices joined in a melody of joyful chaos, as they welcome the new day. There are baby birds on the front porch, above the light - five of them in one nest, and they're piled on top of each other; I'm surprised they all still fit. We're not sure what kind of birds they are, but we've watched them since there were only 5 tiny eggs in the nest. They'll be flying away soon.

It's quiet; aside from the chatter of birds, and the occasional sputtering of a passing car (or more often, truck or tractor), the rolling hills have a surreal hush spread over them, like a muffling blanket. It's peaceful, like a haven of solitude, and silence. We have no internet access at our little cabin, and the time away from all the statuses, and messages has been wonderful - I've had a lot of distraction-free-time, that I've put to use working on my novel. It's coming along, slowly but surely. Once it's finished, I'll start editing. Oh, joy. ;)

Not a whole lot to document, actually. Writing a blog post feels strange after 3 weeks without one. (How has it already been 3 weeks?!) I could get used to this kind of life, but we'll be heading home in a week and a half. The speed at which time is flying is dizzying - almost frightening. Ah, well. Enjoying the passing of time is important, I've realized, instead of worrying about it. Besides, our worry changes nothing; it only warps our view of beauty, and chases away contentment.

I'll be ready to get home, but for right now, I'm gathering all the bits and pieces of beauty around me, and storing them in my heart; not for documenting, or sharing, or tweeting, or updating my facebook status - just to hold; to carry, and to remember.



Packing. There are suitcases piled by the front door, and clothes scattered across the floor of my bedroom. Thrown over the back of chairs. Wrinkling in the dryer. Tripping over toys, stepping on legos, packing the back of the van, loading instruments, suitcases packed with books (that one is mine), tubs of food, and craft supplies. This trip has been planned for months, but it seems like it has been dragged forward, ripped off the calendar, and thrown in my lap. Time has paused, and rushed forward at the same time. Nothing happens, but my days are busy, busy. Full of light flares, patches of broken sunlight on the carpet, songs hummed under my breath, laughter, stressed voices, the strumming of guitar strings, and the noise of life. Oh yes. Life has a noise. A vast, resplendent, whispering, flowing, wrinkled and mysterious noise.


Little hands on my leg, damp hair tickling my cheek as Sydney climbs into my lap, eyes watching my fingers raptly as they clatter softly across the keyboard. A kiss on her head. She climbs out of my lap, and wanders into the kitchen, feet echoing. A memory. Anayah is asking her mommy for food. It's 9:32 pm. Their minds keep pace with their appetites, asking questions, learning silently, forever curious. It reminds me of yesterday, when I was the same way. I remember the way I felt when I look into their eyes. Little disappointments are devastating. Small things are exciting. Their minds know nothing more than the present. They don't worry. In a way, adults could learn many things from the innocence and simplicity of children.


Split. Torn. Wondering. Dreaming. Wrinkled. Folded. Overlapping, intermingling. My brain attempts to reason with my heart, without success. Traveling. An adventure. It always is. Family. Challenging, tiring, rewarding. It always is. Leaving. Difficult, tearing, stirring, inspiring. But hard. My heart still lies in the rolling green hills of the East. It is wrapped around the thick trunks of oak trees, and pieces of it are sown alongside flower seeds that land in the rich hollows of land. But my home has always been in Arizona. In this house. In my room, with the white paint, and the knots falling out of wooden walls. In the words spoken around the table, woven in between the dusky grasses, golden yellow. It is heavy in the silent evenings, the wordless conversations. Home. I remind myself that home isn't a place. Home is found in the people that surround you; the ones you love.

Life is an voyage, friends. If we recognize the little things as adventures, learn to release the past without forgetting, and embrace the future (and change) with joy. So, here's to wrinkled clothes, and sunrises viewed through windshields. To cracker crumbs, and earplugs, and daisy chains, and books read 5 times over. I'm always open for adventures.

{all images freelensed. ;) oh, and posts will be intermittent for a while; i'll post when i can.}