Over-brimmed with spring

elizabethmichelle snowflake mitten

♥ Some old things can be a good idea. Postcards are one of those things. – Just Grace, Charise Mericle Harper
♥ In the shadows that she paints
  Lie the stories she can’t tell
♥ short stories
♥ walks in the city
She will raise the windows high
Let the light come streaming in
And though the wind will burn her eyes
She will learn to breathe again

♥ studying maps
♥ letters in the mail
♥ new babies
♥ the last of the frosty sunrises
Here in the moving shadows
I catch my breath and sing—
My heart is fresh and fearless
And over-brimmed with spring.
– Sara Teasdale

Birthday Love

♥ basketball game noise
♥ chocolate mousse cake
♥ rain on fallen leaves
♥ long, afternoon naps
♥ “When you carried her…you used to look at me like that. I’d forgotten how much you loved me. I’d forgotten how much I loved being her.” — Doctor Who, 6.10 “The Girl Who Waited”
♥ a warm puppy snuggled up next to me
♥ lunch plans with friends
♥ It was not an act of love, but one of necessity, as though we knew that left alone, neither of us could stand. — Diana Gabaldon, Outlander
♥ peppermint…anything
♥ fluffy scrambled eggs
♥ phone calls from loved ones
♥ surprise birthday cards
♥ little Doctor Who marathons

Some Things Stay

June 14, 2004

Wherever I am, there will always be breakfast. Whether we wake up at seven or two. I’ll make it. I hope you don’t mind that I’m worthless at making eggs. Bright pinky-red strawberries in shiny silver bowls. Sweet smells drifting upstairs. A little dog content under the table and my daffodils in a vase. Coffee. An open window letting in the morning breeze. Shelves lined with my teapots. Sitting at the table cross-legged. Making every day last a year.

Earlier today I was digging through my old journal, the one I started in the early part of 2001 and that I kept regularly for most of the next 10 years, only slowing down with posts a few years ago. It is odd, being able to look back in time like that. The things I worried about seemed so big then. Now, looking back, distance and maturity makes them appear much smaller.

It’s less the events and more the person writing them that interests me. She seems so different. I wonder, if I could tell her anything, would I? I’ve watched enough movies about time travel to know how much havoc that can wreak. It’s probably best that space and time keep me from communicating with my younger self.

In spite of all the differences, there’s something about reading those words and finding in them something that is still true. So little about my life looks the same as it did back then. But there are parts of it that I can trace from the beginning of that journal, clear through today, a few true, steady things that remain.

When he started to speak, I couldn’t concentrate. I was sure he had spotted me in the audience, and I was trying to guess what he was thinking. How did I look to him? How different was the woman of twenty-nine from the girl of seventeen? — Paulo Coelho, By The River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

I am a quarter inch taller. I have mastered most of the ways an egg can be prepared (still rotten at poaching). If you look closely, you may spot a snow white hair or two peeking through my black roots. There are fewer questions in my eyes and, I think, a touch more confidence.

Really though, looking past external, circumstantial changes and the sometimes naive tone I had, so much of it is the same. A few years ago someone asked me if I felt I had changed much in the last decade of my life and upon examining where my head and heart were about things, I concluded that I didn’t feel I had changed much at all. Not at the core of my being.

Maybe it’s a flaw, looking back as I do, like Lot’s wife. I am not convinced. There is something steadying about turning and seeing who you were and knowing that many of the things you have faith in, hope for, and love remain the same.

As it happens, this 2000 page anchor of a journal once bore a title that makes more sense to me now than it did when I plucked the words from the pages of a book…

Some things stay.