I Hold You

Week 4: Feelin' It

2011-03-05T18:45:00.003-06:00

Reflections on the week, random and in no particular order.

This is getting more difficult. I may have shed some tears in the past few days.

Matt and I are finally finding that, despite how much we love and like each other, these quarters keep us a little too close for comfort. We’re bumping into one another a lot – figuratively and literally.

I had surprise encounters with one too many las cucarachas in the apartment this week. I am completely fixated. I am paranoid and anxiously scan the floor and walls every time I open a door or flip on a light. I am freaked out. Did I mention tears?

I want to hurl our Alvin & the Chipmunks DVD through the window, even though it makes Beckett giggle like nothing else. He’s deemed it the “not scary” movie and requests it daily. Although the performances by Jason Lee and David Cross are terribly scary, I give in because I am apparently not creative or resourceful enough to find something else for us to do in the apartment.

Rain, rain…GO AWAY.

I’ve run four times in seven days. It feels fantastic. And I’ve decided to run the Country Music Half-Marathon at the end of April. There. I’ve said it. Now I have to do it.

Old friends and new friends alike continue to rock my world.

Hot and Cold in Hillsboro Village is even better than the Katy Perry song by the same name. (…and in my book, and Beckett’s, that’s impressive)

Thistle Farms, a Nashville-based all-natural bath and body care product line run by women who have survived lives of violence, prostitution, and addiction, continues to inspire (and moisturize). Please learn more, try the Body Butter and, if you’re in the Nashville area, drop by the new Thistle Farms storefront and manufacturing center on Charlotte Pike.

The Patterson House is as amazing as ever. Last night was my first time back in a long time. The Clapless Belle, please? And a Pimm's Cup, thank you!

Oh yeah, the house – we’re looking at a closing date between March 15th and 20^th. All together now: “Rain, rain…GO AWAY!”

Here are the latest pics:

For My Mom, On Her Birthday

2011-02-24T23:42:00.005-06:00

Happy belated birthday to my beautiful mom. It just wouldn’t be right if I’d posted this on time. Here are tonight's Top Ten (ok, twelve) reasons I love her:

She gives love through food. And, my... does she love us very, very well.

She is a nervous passenger when riding shotgun with me, especially in the city, holding on to doors and closing her eyes as I weave in and out of traffic. Somehow this makes me feel like I’m a good driver.

Almost ten years ago, we spent a full week in New York City together and discovered shared passions for goat cheese tarts and Champagne (thank you, Balthazar), department store windows (sigh, Bergdorf) and brilliant performances on- and off-Broadway.

She gave me six brothers and sisters. I need say nothing more.

She still looks the same as she did when she was 35. And I look much like she did when she was 35. So, logic tells me that in 20 years I may look a lot like I do--and she does--now. Yes. I will take it.

As a young divorcee with two small children, she boldly and bravely (and blindly?) moved from the comforts of her college town hometown to a two-traffic light village of a thousand to marry a sweet young pig farmer/electrician. I don’t know what made her do it—his stunning blue eyes and curly blonde hair or if she just knew he would be a good father to Matthew and I? Regardless, she got it right.

She loves her friends with all of her being. She sacrificed time with them while raising us, but dammit if they aren’t raising hell now that we’re all grown.

She pushed me towards the right boys and pulled me away from the wrong ones. This usually had the opposite of the intended effect, until it really mattered.

She picks the best perfumes. Always has. Anything she wears becomes her signature fragrance.

Her strength is incalculable. Peerless. Defiant and graceful. Even after losing both father and son to the worst fate imaginable, she marched on. Head held high. Heart broken, but open and able to give seemingly endless love to her family and her friends.

She’s a sucker for grand gestures, tearjerker movies, dramatic love songs and romance novels. This woman loves love, and there isn’t a thing wrong with that.

She really does know best.

Shine On

2011-02-22T23:23:00.002-06:00

Geoffrey Rush in Shine (1996)

My friend GiGi often writes lists of the things she loves most about a friend on his or her birthday. She shares the list with a group of mutual friends (I'm talking about the Writing Mamas in our case), and she always nails it.

GiGi sums up what it is everyone loves about anyone, and tonight, as I'm settling in after spending a few hours with her and her son watching the brilliant Shine (see it if you haven't or if it's been awhile), I want to share what it is that I love about her. I hope these touch upon the things many others love about her, too. The list could go on and on.

And on.

I hope this may inspire anyone reading here to do little lists of your own about the GiGis in your life. I hope to do more such reflections in this space, as I am day-after-day overwhelmed by the number of incredible people in my life.

But up first, GiGi's top ten (er, eleven)...

She will guide me through the great Russian novels.

She will introduce me to classical music since I don’t know where to begin.

She loves my son and takes care of him so I can go on dates with my husband.

We love watching movies together and laugh at the same moments and cry in sync.

We both have deep appreciation (sure, that’s what we’ll call it…) for Javier Bardem and Colin Firth.

Her 11-year-old son brings me blankets and cuddles in tight against me on the sofa.

She gave up her bed and slept on the sofa when Matt, Beckett and I needed a place to crash.

She brings buckets full of chicken noodle soup when I am sick or sad.

Her son is sensitive, fair, just, kind, funny, irreverent and expressive. And there’s no denying where he got it all.

Her writing is rich, smart, playful, wry and honest.

She’s one of my best and most thoughtful readers, and one of my most enthusiastic supporters.

Love you, G.

Week 2: Progress

2011-02-21T20:33:00.002-06:00

It's a strange thing, standing on the sidelines while your new home is built. We walked through last Monday and didn't go back until today. Since we came in late in the process---and since we fully trust our builders---we know it's best if we just stay out of the way. We have made our contributions, from signing a contract to choosing paint colors, but there's little else we can do. But my, oh my: There is much the building crews can do -- and have done!

Week 2's progress includes: Exterior paint almost completed, bathrooms' floors and showers tiled, kitchen countertops and backsplash installed, trim/baseboards/doors painted and most fixtures and appliances delivered. I'm probably leaving out many important behind-the-scenes (or walls) accomplishments, but here are many of the things that caught my eye today:

Front Door

Many Doors

Kitchen

Living Room (looking from kitchen)

Ridiculous Master Shower

Master Vanity

Upstairs Bath

Side & Screened Porch (ahh...)

Room of your own?

2011-02-21T11:12:00.002-06:00

My last post left me wondering how many people are still able to go back to the room they grew up in.

I'd love to know:

Did your parents keep your bedroom intact after you left home? If so, for how long?

When you go home for visits, do you sleep in the room that was once yours? Or is that room now a sewing room or media room or something else?

Does the home you lived in for most of your childhood still belong to your family?

If you're a parent of teenagers or grown children, do you intend to leave their rooms as they are or have you already drawn up plans for something new? Has empty nest syndrome left you considering relocating to a smaller nest altogether?

Please, leave comments below!

Home Again

2011-02-21T10:37:00.001-06:00

We returned last night from a weekend spent at home in Ohio. My family’s house isn’t among my 27 total. The longest I lived there was one week at Christmas the year my brother died. And again another week sometime the summer after, still looking for reasons and a connection to home.

Built while I was away at college, that house never included a room for me.

No, my room is gone. The bedroom I occupied for more years than any other – from 6^th grade through 12^th – actually still stands, but a stranger inhabits it now. House #16 belongs to a family I do not know (uncommon in Anna, Ohio), but I drive past it every trip to Ohio and look up at that window on the second floor and wonder if its new occupant has taped magazine photos of movie stars all over the closet door, as I did. I wonder if he or she has replaced the mauve carpet I so proudly chose when we built the house in 1989. Please, God. I sure hope so.

Nowhere is there a room that still holds my trophies and framed high school snapshots, dried prom corsages and boxes of love notes. I carried most of those things with me from homes 17 to 26, where they drowned in the basement during the flood of May 2010.

Back to the weekend. It was good. Filled with an uncommon sense of nostalgia. I went back in time, cheering in the stands at two high school basketball games. I clapped along to the Anna Rockets’ fight song. I still know every word. I could likely still do a good bit of the 1995 cheer routine, minus the short pleated green and white skirt.

I drank beer at a local bar and shopped with girlfriends. I stayed in my pajamas until almost noon and ate biscuits and gravy and a jelly donut for Sunday breakfast.

It felt much like a regular weekend of nearly two decades ago. Siblings lounging all around me, sisters giggling and little brother watching basketball on TV. Just one brother missing. I felt Matthew’s absence, as I always do.

But it still felt like home. Even if I was sleeping in my sister’s bed with my husband in the matching twin bed across the room and my son on a pallet on the floor beside me.

It felt comfortable and easy. Much different than our current living situation. I didn’t want to leave. Nor did Matt (he stalled) or Beckett (he cried - photos below might suggest many of the reasons he wanted to stay).

But we did leave. We drove the long familiar road from Anna to Nashville, singing all the way with Huey Lewis and Chicago and Arcade Fire and The National. We ate Goo Goo Clusters. We napped. We made it home safely, and we slept well, the three of us in one small room together.

And as always, we were just happy to wake up with one another. In a few short (or long?) weeks, our house will be complete. We will have rooms of our own once more. We will have our own beds back. And we will have a stove on which I can attempt to recreate Mom’s Sunday breakfast.

And so the countdown continues and, until the big day, I’ll wish I could be closer to my Ohio home-that-is-home-even-if-it-never-really-was. In fact, I’ll wish we could just stay there for the next several weeks. That we could go to my little brother’s tournament basketball game on Saturday night and have some drinks with friends after. I’ll wish we could spend our Sunday mornings gathered ‘round the family table.

And that it wasn’t all so far away.

House Beautiful

2011-02-16T22:28:00.002-06:00

Earlier this week, Matt and I met Brett from Woodland Street Partners (have I mentioned how fantastic this group is?) for a walk through. We had not been inside the house in more than two weeks and, while we were expecting major progress, I don’t think I was prepared. I nearly cried. I nearly fell down and kissed the dust-covered oak floors. I could have curled up on the floor of the gigantic master shower to take a midday nap. I felt that happy and that comfortable inside those walls.

It is home.

Now, I could go on and on about our old home and why we decided to sell and why we decided to move to East Nashville and what we’ll miss about our old neighborhood and what we hope for in the new one. Some other day...

Tonight, here’s the short and sweet of it.

Our new home is a Victorian Craftsman with a modern interior and open floor plan of almost 2,000sf. It will be Energy Star rated and boasts green features throughout.

We will be in the Eastwood Neighbors area of East Nashville, just a few blocks from the delicious intersection of Chapel and Eastland.

And amazingly, the house is scheduled for completion in 3-5 weeks.

An incredibly talented and sweet interior designer, Peggy Newman, was involved from day one and is the mastermind behind the super-smart floor plan. She and the guys at WSP selected the finishes for the home before we discovered the property and, fortunately for all, we loved every single finish and fixture they had chosen.

Here’s a rundown on my favorite features:

Paint colors. Think light. Peaceful. Clean. The palette of white, gray, blue, green and natural wood calms me in an instant.

An all-in-one living room, dining room and kitchen. The space is big and bright and open. (see right)

And it is anchored by...

…a huge island with seating for four that will be covered in Carerra marble (see left). It's a risk, I know, but worth it!

Soaring vaulted ceilings in all upstairs rooms including the loft/playroom, three bedrooms and two bathrooms (see below).

Did you notice I said playroom? This is a huge deal for us. And for Beckett. And for any person who would like to cross our living room without impaling his or her foot with tiny toy weapons or hard plastic dinosaurs or Legos.

The master shower. It is ridiculous. I mean, two rain shower heads mounted over a space the size of a Cadillac. Seriously sick.

A screened-in side porch with an overhead fan. I am dreaming of the nights we will spend from April through October talking, eating, drinking and reading on this porch.

A covered front/side that overlooks a sizeable but manageable fenced yard, ideal for hosting cookouts and birthday parties, playing fetch with a new dog, chasing a new baby (someday…) and simply playing with family, friends and new neighbors.

Isn’t that what I said this was all about in the first place?

The next couple of weeks will be marked by many interior and exterior changes, so better and more interesting photos will come soon.

In the meantime, we are headed north for a long weekend. Home to Ohio.

Popping the Question

2011-02-15T10:30:00.002-06:00

Matt and I have no standing rule as to whether we do or do not celebrate Valentine's Day. We definitely did when we were dating. The first few years of marriage included some romantic but overpriced dinners. In more recent years, we have celebrated Beckett-style -- finding and signing cards to exchange at preschool, rationing out chocolates and pastel sugar hearts, eating casual dinners at home or at a local Mexican joint -- and that has been just fine with us. Better than fine.

Yesterday we made plans to meet after work for a family dinner at The Local Taco, away from the crowds of couplings, and we sent Beckett to school armed with a baggie of 3D dinosaur cards for his friends (only to discover he was once again the poor kid, as everyone else brought candy and stickers and treats, too). But he made out like a bandit, and dinner was good. Really good. It was Margarita Monday after all.

The highlight of my day, though, was a surprise visit from my sweet friend, Tara. She delivered a homemade cookie bouquet to my office, and we chatted and I shared all the latest exciting house plans. (My next post. Promise.) But back to those cookies. They were delicious, of course, but also carried a sweet message: Will U B My Bridesmaid. I first interpreted this as Will U B My Maid (the little white dress didn't register immediately), and thought to myself, "What the hell? Why would I clean her house? Why would she want me to clean her house?"

Then it clicked. I said "yes," of course, and am honored and excited to stand beside Tara when she marries Mr. Ben (as Beckett knows him) in the fall. I love them both and know they have many happy Valentine's Days ahead of them. Romantic dinners, cheap Margarita Mondays, tiny card exchanges and all.

Photo credit: Sarah B. Gilliam Photography

Week 1: Snowed

2011-02-12T22:17:00.001-06:00

One week down. We did it. We survived. In fact, we rocked it. We kept our patience in check, our showers brief and our food in a plastic tub just in case that scratching and crunching sound coming from the lower kitchen cabinets was indeed the buck-toothed attic neighbors we hoped never to meet.

The week’s major challenge was unrelated to our actual living quarters. As all of my Nashville readers know, Wednesday delivered upon us a complete whiteout. The snow’s accumulation was minimal, but it’s velocity was like nothing I’d seen before. The fury of white flakes came at 3:30pm or so, and any person not yet on the road home or already safely there was in for trouble. Big trouble. Self included.

The journey from my office to our makeshift home—a mere distance of 3.5 miles—lasted exactly two hours. My experience was no different or worse than most others', but it was possibly the worst car travel experience I have personally ever endured. I witnessed one car after another sliding backwards down hills, somehow avoiding other cars and usually settling into a ditch. Over and over I feared, “Now is it my turn. I’m next. I don't know what to do.” I ice skated in my weathered (but not all-weather) Frye boots to the small SUV spinning out in front of me and gave her a willful push, which, to my surprise, provided all she needed to get up and go. I inched my way up and down rolling hills and past abandoned cars and nearly cried when I finally pulled into the driveway.

(Photos courtesy: The Tennessean)

Beckett and Matt endured a long and occasionally frightening drive as well. We were shaken but relieved. And, no matter its size, shape or location, we were simply happy to be home.

The week's other nights included many commitments away from home, so we haven't yet spent much time simply hanging out in the apartment. Though this is disorienting and stressful, I doubt we will ever spend a full Saturday afternoon lounging about.

We are counting the days until we can settle completely into the comforts of our new home. We learned last night that the day may come sooner than expected. Our builders say we may only have three weeks left. Still, I remain skeptical and expect to wait at least four or five weeks more.

No matter, the day is not far off, and the journey there surely can't be as painful as the one so many of us experienced this week.

Will post details on the new hacienda (with photos from our upcoming walk-through!) on Monday.

Homeward Bound

2011-02-08T22:53:00.002-06:00

I once lived in a farmhouse on Hogpath Road.

I lived in a modern industrial loft on Peachtree Street, in a dorm room on Melrose Place and in my grandparents' 14th Street four-square after my parents' divorce.

And there was that two-story apartment with four bedrooms, a loft and cute neighbors on Grand Avenue, too, which actually wasn’t grand at all. The bedrooms had paper-thin walls, the creaky loft overlooked the living room’s built-in maroon vinyl sofa and wicker outdoor furniture set, and the cute boys next door included a pyromaniac, a drug dealer and, of course, a true heartbreaker.

I have lived in many homes. Twenty-seven and counting. The most recent was the first I owned. (Well, co-owned.) Five years into our marriage, Matt and I settled into a sweet Arts and Crafts cottage of brick and stone with a sprawling backyard and a good dose of character. We made improvements, and we made it our own. We brought Beckett home to this house on Mother’s Day weekend 2007, and we buried our young dog under a white-blossomed dogwood three years later. Also on Mother’s Day weekend.

I loved this home as much, or probably more, than any of the others. But last Thursday, we dashed out of there just in time for a new owner to enter for a final walk-through. He approved, signed some papers, wrote the bank a check. And now it is his. His office furniture likely occupies Beckett’s nursery. His dishes are by now displayed in the tall glass-paned cabinets I loved so much.

And he looks out the breakfast room picture window every morning and sees that dogwood, covered only in winter’s white dust and glassy ice.

Despite a sadness that is just starting to settle in today, I am thrilled about our next home (#28!). I look forward to welcoming you in, whether you enter through this site or through the actual front door. The house is being built now by an incredibly talented firm, Woodland Street Partners. (more on them and many design details and construction updates in coming posts)

We expect to move in mid- to late-March. In the meantime, I’d also like to share our adventures in a three-room upstairs apartment. This home is the smallest I have ever occupied. (Shall I say coziest?) Matt, Beckett and I are quickly learning lessons in shared personal space and creative microwave cooking. And I am introducing them to a concept I learned at a very young age and practiced my whole life: adaptability. Making one’s self at home no matter where you are.

While home is certainly about comfort and style and all the things that surround, I became cognizant perhaps earlier than most that, as trite as it may be to say, home is more so about the people with whom you live and eat and drink and sleep and play and love. (and argue… and steal the covers and hot water from…)

As I seek to keep family and friends posted—and perhaps to reach other readers contemplating issues of home, family, necessity, independence and, yes, fun stuff like style and design—I have decided now is a good time to return to this blog space. I hope you will join us on the journey from one home to another to another. And here’s hoping that this most recent “another” is the last for many years to come.

Spring Awakening

2010-04-10T14:19:00.001-05:00

April hath put a spirit of youth in everything. ~William Shakespeare

It’s been awhile, blogosphere. I’m thinking of coming back. As an easing in, I thought I’d share a few snapshots from this morning’s venture.

Just a mile or so from our house is the beginning of one of Nashville’s greenways, and so we headed there minus Sebastian (he’s still not able to walk) and plus one tricycle.

The greenway system is one of the many features of Nashville that I love and appreciate. Smack-dab in the middle of a large city, we have convenient access to wooded walking trails, wildlife, and wide, rambling streams.

Exploring with Beck today lifted my inexplicably dark mood and reminded me of many happy days from my youth, both in Ohio—riding my bike down never-ending country roads and spotting frogs and snakes alongside and in the creeks babbling beneath rickety bridges—and in Tennessee—hiking dirt trails with Dad and Matthew through the Great Smoky Mountains, skipping rocks in streams and scanning the surrounding woods for signs of animals, large and small.

We had incredible luck while wandering the urban retreat today. Although it was 70 degrees and sunny, the paths were strangely not all that crowded; however, the animals came out in droves to welcome their friend, Beck. So thank you to the long water snake, the BIG turtle at the water’s edge, the lone duck, the many fish, the butterflies, and the iridescent turquoise bugs that flittered at our feet (what were those?) for coming out to play.

Wish You Were Here

2010-02-23T11:11:00.000-06:00

During a quiet dinner at PM on Saturday night, Matt and I talked briefly of our regret for not traveling more during our twenties... when we had more disposable income and fewer responsibilities. Of course we did venture about quite a bit, but still, there were no overseas trips except our honeymoon. We should've crossed the ocean a few times before we had to haul along child safety seats and portable cribs.

Then I awoke Sunday to find this "postcard" from some beautiful Nashville ladies published on the Travel page of The Tennessean. Thank you to Ms. Susie McClure for giving me much-needed perspective.

(photo & story from The Tennessean)
WISH YOU WERE HERE - EUROPE
February 21, 2010

In mid-November, Annie Ruth Sadler, Susie McClure and Rosie Wilson of Nashville met up in Venice, Italy, with five friends from three different states and we set sail to the Greek Isles and a short stay in Venice.

Stops included the lush greenery of breathtaking Dubrovnik, Croatia, Corfu, Greece (Emerald Island), and Crete, Greece.

As Nashvillians, we were thrilled to see first-hand the original Parthenon, a part of the Acropolis, during our visit to Piraeus (Athens), Greece. Athens is truly a city where past and present coexist.

Travel to Kusadasi and particularly Ephesus, Turkey, was a somber and humbling experience as our tour guide covered the history surrounding the many historic buildings, statues, monuments and events that occurred thousands of years ago. The climax of the trip was a visit to the House of the Virgin Mary.

One of the highlights of the trip was celebrating the 94th birthday of Susie McClure in Greece. Our stamina was put to the test throughout the trip — many water taxis in Venice and endless walking in each of the cities visited. Susie McClure was ahead of the pack at every stop. "When we grow up we're going to be just like her."

There's a Light Inside of You

2010-01-27T09:56:00.003-06:00

This morning – a typical morning – found me brushing my teeth and hopping around looking for my boots and contemplating earrings and debating breakfast versus “coffee-with-lots-of-soy-milk-will-do”, all while Beckett scooted around me, barefoot in his faded Batman PJs, banging on the shower door, on the glass vanity, on the computer keyboard.

“I want to do this.” He picked up the large earphones that were plugged into the computer (my attempt to drown out his raucous bath time with Daddy a few nights ago so I could squeeze in 30 minutes of writing).

“You want to hear a song?”

“Yes.”

“How about ‘Lucy in the Sky’?”

“With diamonds?”

I searched for the song we both love, but realized it doesn’t live in that computer’s iTunes.

I spotted “Dancing Queen”. It seemed like a fun, get-your-groove-on-in-the-morning kind of tune. I hit play, he held the earphones on his head and bounced around for a few seconds.

I unplugged the earphones and turned up the volume because, really, I wanted to bounce around to “Dancing Queen” for a bit myself. I danced. He lost interest.

Somehow a few Wilco songs were next in the line-up, and I let it play on.

Beckett stopped, smiled.

“What this?”

“This is Wilco. Rock and roll. Called ‘Shouldn’t Be Ashamed’.”

Beckett spent the next three minutes strutting around the bedroom, gently strumming an air guitar, bobbing his head, occasionally stopping to drop the guitar and lay down a few chords on the footboard-turned-keyboard of our bed.

The next song played. “Should’ve Been in Love”. More strumming. More head bobbing. More liking of the Wilco.

I am excited. I'm a late passenger on the Wilco train. I somehow missed the first few boarding calls during my college days in Knoxville, where I think the Chicago-band was (is) quite popular.

But better late than never. I bought my ticket. I’m on board. And apparently Beckett is, too.

How nice to have such a sweet travel companion.

Can’t wait to play him this song:

WILCO - "What Light"

WILCO

MySpace Music Videos

Revival

2010-01-21T15:41:00.001-06:00

Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of the Inauguration of President Barack H. Obama. I have the inaugural poem, penned and delivered by Elizabeth Alexander, taped over my desk. I refer to it often, and offer it here as a reminder (indeed, an all-inclusive non-partisan one) that anything is possible. I think perhaps we need to hear it now more than we did even on that day one year ago.

"Praise Song for the Day"

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din,
each one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

Trite?

2010-01-20T18:34:00.001-06:00

Like most, I’ve thought a good bit about resolutions for 2010. Emphasis on thought. Considering I don’t much feel the need for further disappointment or guilt, though, I haven’t officially declared any. However, twenty days into the new year, here I go.

This blog is partly about holding myself accountable as I strive to realize one of my life-so-far’s most significant goals (yeah, remember that book thing?), although I prefer to think of it as sharing my travels (and looking for some travel companions) as I journey down that writer’s road.

Still, this seems as good a place as any to make public a few simple resolutions and thereby apply some pressure on myself to actually accomplish them. And again, I prefer to think of it as sharing… and making the journey down Resolution Road more hopeful, more joyful.

The first resolutions? More poetry. More music. For myself and my family and friends or anyone who finds himself or herself reading this blog.

Even as a near lifelong student and patron of the written word, I’ve never had enough poetry. It has intimidated me. Its elicit, curvy, slippery, threatening, intimate, seemingly confused but actually raw, Truthful, genuine words on the page. They’ve scared me. But a Christmas gift from Matt -- see photo below -- showed me the promise, comfort and clarity poetry can deliver. So I’ll try to read more and share more. (Notice, I didn’t say write more. One step at a time. Fiction first. Poetry? Maybe someday.)

And music, sweet music. There’s been a constant abundance of music in my life, but in recent years, I’ve filled my sonic library with songs and artists that I’ve happened to overhear, or bumped into, or stumbled upon thanks to other people – mostly my husband. And while he’s filled my ears with pretty wicked tunage, I also know that I’m relying on his taste, which is similar to, but not the same as, mine. I’ve limited what I know and what I love. So I’ll try to seek more, listen more and, again, share more.

My unofficial resolutions list goes on for a while. I hope to remember birthdays and anniversaries better – and not just to remember them, but also to take that inexplicably difficult step of applying a stamp and actually mailing the cards I buy in order to let those I love know that I did remember!

I hope to start exercising again. I feel weaker and older and less confident than I did even one year ago. But damn, I’m also so tired in the mornings, really the only time I have to get an hour of exercise in. (But today, step one: I bought five Barre Sculpt sessions – thanks to the awesome Groupon deal!)

And, of course, I hope to finish that pesky novel that I’ve mentioned once or twice or a hundred times… and to make a more concentrated effort to finally (f#$%&!@ finally!) to get other writing published. As in, in print. On paper (real or virtual). With a check in my name—no matter how small—to follow.

I send luck to all who have resolved to change or create, better or cease, anything in this new year. You can count on me for support if you need it! (...and not to judge if you've already given up)

Family Tradition

2010-01-02T11:36:00.003-06:00

The only regrettable thing about having a big family (we're talking grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins galore, all spread across the Midwest and South) is the inability to spend lots of time with all of them more often.

After Thanksgiving in Indiana, pre-Christmas in Ohio and Christmas at home in Nashville, we headed north to Lexington, KY, for post-Christmas with The McGraths. Lexington is a good central meeting place for everyone, and my long memory is full of many happy holidays spent there. We play games (refereed by Uncle "Gamemaster" Bob), we eat well, we watch football and movies, we visit local sites and we avoid talking politics. This year, we toured a firehouse and bowled, too.

Here are a few snapshots from the trip. Stay tuned for one last set of Christmas photos, after we celebrate Christmas #6 with Dad, Brigette, Gabriel and Isabelle in Atlanta next weekend.

Just One More Reason...

2009-12-29T09:55:00.000-06:00

...to love this man.

Home for the Holidays

2009-12-28T18:01:00.000-06:00

Because I know you want more cute kiddo photos, less "Deep Thoughts by Suzanne Nahay". Nothings says "Joy!" like the smile on Beck's face in some of these photos.

(above) High-fives to "HoHo" (his visit an annual tradition at the Gehret Family Christmas Party, which is held in the church basement because there are just shy of a million people in our family. Truly, it's so fun for all!). Hanging with Uncle Grant and his sweet girlfriend, Rebecca.

And tonight, on the piano, the one, the only, Beck Nahay.

Then... 'Twas the night before Christmas.

We took a spoonful of dirt from the flower beds because Beck insisted reindeer eat dirt, not carrots.

...and they apparently enjoy dog bones, too. Delicious bone for Rudolph courtesy of Sebastian.

Not your everyday cookies and milk: A green rocket in honor of my high school alma mater, of course, along with dark chocolate shortbread stars from Trader Joe's and some delicious soy milk. The note to Santa included one final plea for Beck's only wish: a "blue Mater" truck from the movie Cars. (see next photo)

This Christmas Day - one we'll never forget.

Ours was a happy little Christmas cottage, bursting at the seams with people, laughter, robots, puppies and good food (oh wait, the latter made ME burst at the seams).

What Joy! - Christmas Day

2009-12-25T21:11:00.002-06:00

She bore no more than other women bore,

but in her belly's globe that desert night the earth's

full burden swayed.

- From DESCENDING THEOLOGY: THE NATIVITY by Mary Karr

After a day full of noise -- the big, banging, beautiful noise of paper tearing, cars vrooming, blocks crashing, timers beeping, toddlers taunting and friends & family laughing -- the house is quiet. Save for the television and low grunts of the football players and occasional roars of the crowd gathered 'round, shivering and shaking against the biting night air.

I am filled with food and drink and the yearning for sleep. I am filled with gratitude. I am filled with pure, peaceful joy.

The spirit of Christmas has come upon me in so many ways this year. Through celebrations and connections with friends, old and new. In books, poetry and music. Through a renewed relationship with God and church, one that is quiet and intense, joyful and inspiring.

And through the constant love of -- and for -- husband and son. Today and everyday. What joy they give me. Our day has ended as it began. Quiet. Just the three of us. Hugging and laughing, telling stories and dreaming about what will come tomorrow.

Christmas Day may be flickering at its end, but my, the memories of my sweet son's third Christmas will endure. Photos will follow soon. Cannot wait to share the joy with you. Merry Christmas.

Last-minute Christmas list addition

2009-12-14T22:23:00.000-06:00

(Haiku tee - a $10 special on Threadless.com)

Always By My Side

2009-12-08T09:56:00.000-06:00

The Gift of Space, Time & Solitude

2009-12-06T21:21:00.015-06:00

Since I'd elected not to attend any of the orientation or meet-and-greet sessions at my writers’ retreat this weekend, when I finally decided—three-fourths of the way in—to attend a scheduled Q&A session, I happened upon an empty meeting room. The group had apparently changed the schedule at some point, and I'd had no way of knowing. A blessing in disguise, though?

I ended up sitting alone in the pale pink-walled reading room of the café and artists’ studio at Scarritt-Bennett, which is a beautiful old campus nestled smack dab in the middle of Nashville. In the middle of a city blanketed with friends and acquaintances and people I recognize around almost every corner. But there, in that solitary space, I was alone and anonymous.

Away from my computer but still inclined to write, here is what I recorded in my notebook as I sat in that space:

A man is playing piano in the next room. Just as I was sketching out the last five chapters of my book, the music started and my eyes welled with tears. Such a perfect sound, the piano played well.

I feel God in here today.

I just stood at the front window for a few minutes, holding my white coffee mug with both hands, looking out at the old stone and brick buildings across the way, the hand-painted multi-colored rocking chairs on the front porch just outside the window and at the bright crimson berries covering the shrub just beyond. The sky above is the lightest of blues, and suspended in it is a bright white sun.
The air is cold. But clean. Crisp.

And there is solitude. A solitude I embrace despite the occasional discomfort.

At times I am tempted to run to my car, drive straight home to Beckett, lift him from his nap and hold him tight for the remainder of the day.

But I stay. I feel the gift of this solitude and this time and space in which to write. It is a gift from God. Supported by Matt. Made possible by our moms (who chipped in for the registration fee as an early Christmas surprise). And today I was bolstered by words from my dad, in a simple text message that said “You were born to write.”

I don’t know if that is true, but I do know I’d not feel fully alive if I didn’t write. So that’s why I’ve locked myself up in a 10’ x 10’ room with nothing but a bed, desk and computer. I’ve got to finish this book. And I hope I get to say that about another book and another. But one at a time, right?

Yes, this one first. Now at a little over 26,000 words. A leap from the 9,000 I had in September. Eight of fifteen (I think) chapters complete. I may even finish this before my August deadline. I hope so. Then I’ll have more time to plan and save for that precious reward.

Mm hmm... I see London. I see France. Indeed, I do. I’ve got my mind set on you.

Here's wishing you the gift of space, time & solitude, to do with which whatever you need, whatever you dream.

Happy Birthday.

2009-11-25T10:59:00.001-06:00

Today would have been my little brother Matthew’s 30th birthday. I last saw him on another milestone birthday. His 21st. He died only two weeks later.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’ll share with you some of the things I loved most about him. Those things he brought to our lives that I’ll be forever thankful for.

His goofy, infectious laugh. It rolled from deep within his belly and made his nose crinkle and his shoulders shake.

His playful spirit and sense of fairness… always kind to little kids (ok, except when beating up on his little – and big – sisters), inclusive of new people and searching for friends.

And, on the other hand, his serious, thoughtful disposition. He liked to play grown-up. Even as a teenager, he liked to talk politics, to eat at 4-star restaurants, to linger at the dining room table with the adults after Thanksgiving dinner.

His trust in me to give him advice, to keep his secrets, to share his joy and his disappointment.

His handsome face, his lightning-fast feet, his sharp mind and his big arms that really knew how to give a hug.

And, of course, the millions of moments we shared as big sis and little brother. I can’t recall them all here, on this page… but I’ll be dwelling on them all today as I travel the long road north with my other beloved Matthews – husband and son – to the land of the Hoosiers. My birthplace, and his. Where we celebrated many holidays and regular days, happy ones and sad.

I hope this Thanksgiving is a happy one for you all, blessed with the celebratory spirit of gratitude for precious time spent with family, friends and loved ones.

Jokester

2009-11-16T16:27:00.000-06:00

I know I've done terribly at keeping up with my record of daily gratitude. Maybe I can at least commit to daily posts on this ten-day countdown to Thanksgiving Day.

So, today, amongst many, many other things, I am thankful that Beckett and I can share boots.

(Boot scootin' to Dinosaur Train our PJs Sunday morning.)

Seriously, I am thankful that he is so playful and funny. A gift from his daddy -- only encouraged by the fact that he can always count on getting a laugh from me.

(INSIDE a game at the bounce house bonanza we visited last weekend.)

We Love You So

2009-11-09T20:46:00.002-06:00

I am thankful for reminders – sometimes gentle, sometimes bold, sometimes funny, sometimes sad – that my son is a little human being who needs not just love and discipline, but room to run, be wild, be free. That he will fall down. And then learn to get up. That he will get confused and not understand. And then raise his hand to ask for help. That he will roam far and away. And then discover and grow and become who he is. (And hopefully miss me terribly.)

These reminders come from good friends, professionals who have seen and heard it all, creative geniuses and, lest I forget, my own experience.

I took some time last night to think about growing up in Anna, Ohio, where we walked several blocks to school unsupervised. Only once did our parents seem to reconsider this, for the couple of weeks following the murder of the 40-something female attendant at the Gas America a mile or so down the road from our K-12 school.

Where, as young teen girls, my best friends and I rode our bikes for miles and miles down back country roads. No cell phones. No houses within shouting distance.

Where adolescent boys drove their daddies’ pick-ups from farm to field and parents tended not to lose their minds if we had real Pop Tarts and 2% store brand milk for a bedtime snack while we watched Beverly Hills 90210 before we were yet in high school ourselves.

Did our parents live in fear of our getting fat or pregnant or kidnapped or killed? Maybe, but I don’t think they were consumed by fear in the way so many parents seem to be today. Did we get to experience a little danger and eat a little too much sugar? Yes. We experienced fear and bellyaches – and of course heartache. But we also learned how to look both ways before darting our bikes across the county highway and how to negotiate real life from fiction, how to face tragedy and loss and pull together with our neighbors. And how to drive a stick shift. Maybe at 16, maybe at 13…no matter. It’s a terribly useful skill regardless.

Two Days' (& Nine Years') Worth

2009-11-05T20:51:00.000-06:00

How thankful I am for…

…a thoughtful husband who brings me home vegan pumpkin cookies from Fido.

…a trooper daddy who voluntarily takes Beckett to the Health Dept. at 7am on a Tuesday and stands in line for full hour for the H1N1 vaccine.

…a roommate who does the dishes so I can read to my little guy after dinner, who gives him a bath so I can take ten minutes to change out of my work clothes, who remembers to feed the dog twice a day, and who takes out the trash when he comes home on his lunch break.

…a best friend who compliments me every morning (and noon… and night).

(I could add many more to this list, but he’s waiting for me to watch our Thursday night shows together … now that we’ve tag-teamed through an hour of toddler bedtime kicking and screaming.)

Kismet

2009-11-03T13:31:00.000-06:00

I'm totally geeking out. (See previous post.) I bought one of the few copies of Lit at Borders during my lunch break, AND caught the second half of Terry Gross's Fresh Air interview with Mary Karr while driving there. Fascinating to hear her take on why her son has not yet read any of her memoirs. Just another consideration those who write about their own lives must wrestle with...

An Early Christmas Present

2009-11-02T21:16:00.000-06:00

When I started unpacking my memory and sitting in the middle of it all day, I had the most bizarre experience – I’d write an hour and a half or two hours and then lie down on the floor of my study and sleep the sleep of the dead.
- Mary Karr, poet/author

I know this feeling. Writing your life can be physically painful and completely exhausting. As in, reducing-you-to-a-pile-of-nonsense-and-tears-in-the-middle-of-the-floor exhausting. Read Mary Karr's The Liars' Club, and you'll understand why.

How grateful I am, though, that writers like Karr give themselves over to it and endure the process. And how grateful I am that she's done it again! Tomorrow, she releases Lit, and today I send an advance "thank you!" to her and to HarperCollins. I have not been this excited about a book in, well, perhaps ever.

I predict I'll have it finished by the weekend. If her past works are any indication, Lit will be brutal and beautiful, heartbreaking and hilarious. I'll look forward to discussing it with any of you who heed my advice and get thee to your nearest bookseller bright and early tomorrow!

In gratitude for good lit, good friends, and good writing days that leave you in a heap on the floor,

Suzanne

With Thanks

2009-11-02T20:35:00.000-06:00

We set aside one month each year for giving thanks. Of course books have been written and blank journals sold with the sole purpose of facilitating daily thanks. And many of us were taught to say prayers of thanks alongside our everyday pleas for mercy and acts of contrition.

I'll admit: I've bought the gratitude journals and occasionally send up long (long) lists of all I'm grateful for; however, I never maintain a regular pace, and it's always as if I'm trying to make up for lost time. The journals get buried after a few weeks (or days?). And my evening prayers too often get preempted by sleep.

So here, during this great month of Thanksgiving, I'll give daily thanks. To you and to him and to her... to whomever is listening. Maybe I'll finally extend an overdue "thank you" to someone I should have said it to a long time ago. Maybe I'll remind others of some thing or some person, some place or some gift they're happy to have received in this life. I hope so.

What You Give Away

2009-10-20T20:53:00.003-05:00

Nothing is more genuinely, peacefully satisfying that putting my nose into the top of Beckett’s freshly washed and dried hair and watching his million-miles-long lashes flutter to sleep as I recite a convoluted version of Goldilocks & the Three Bears.

I hope he someday knows that I felt this way even though I didn’t get to say “good morning” to him before running out the door to work at 7:30 today. Even though I didn’t take him to the park to play in the afternoon sun. Even though I didn’t get home in time to make him dinner, which means he had turkey sandwiches for both lunch AND dinner today (although Target plus Jersey Mike’s Subs has become something of a fun boys’ night out tradition for him and Matt).

At least I made it home in time to read books and to pretend that I was swimming in the “ocean” of our living room and to rock my big sweet boy to sleep. “My best friend,” he said, hugging my neck as I put on his PJs. I hope that is what he remembers about today. It’s definitely what I will remember.

(Ok, ok – that and hearing (live!) Vince Gill do “What You Give Away” and Martina McBride belt out “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” at lunch and watching Titans Coach Jeff Fisher strip down to a #18 Peyton Manning jersey.)

(photo credit: cmt.com)

A Quiet House

2009-10-13T18:30:00.000-05:00

Beckett is spending this week with my family in Ohio. His Grandma Lisa, Grandpa Bill, his aunties and Uncle Grant. This has been a plan long in the making, and Matt and I are grateful to my family for wanting so badly to spend this one-on-one, quality time with Beckett. To make up for lost time, in a sense. To ensure that he not only knows the faces and names there, but that he builds meaningful relationships and lasting memories with them. And that he has a sense of the quality of life there – a quality forever engrained in me. One that’s centered around hard work, farming and the land, God, and community, family and friends.

In the meantime, Matt and I are having a little (pardon the term) “staycation” here in Nashville. We just couldn’t swing the little getaway to Chicago or New York like we’d hoped, and we still have to get up and go to work. But we do intend to enjoy some quiet quality time together. Our nine-year anniversary is tomorrow, and so we’ve declared the entire week a celebration of this quite impressive milestone (if I do say so myself).

Last night—the first of our nights without him—included a casual dinner at one of our old favorites, PM, a spot we used to walk to when we lived in the great little second story apartment on lovely Linden Avenue and I was a grad student at Belmont. Then we hit our favorite dessert spot, Fido, for cookies and coffee. I had a vegan Spicy Hot Chocolate cookie (cayenne pepper was the second ingredient!). Pure deliciousness as we sat at a sidewalk table in the slightly chilled October night air.

Then it was home for best-out-of-five rounds of Wii Tetris. I totally won. (A little fact about me: I’ve been highly skilled at and loved Tetris since junior high, when Matthew and I challenged each other to endless tournaments on our original Nintendo. Tournaments that usually ended with one of us trying to punch the other’s lights out while our little sisters looked on, dismayed…)

Tonight, just home from work on Day 2, we’re thinking about what to do. Looks like another night of restaurant dining. Probably a neighborhood joint – The Local Taco, perhaps? And no crayons! No wet wipes! No mysteriously sticky booster seats! Then it’s on to Rock & Roll Trivia at Mercy Lounge. I get to hang with Matt and Toddie and the boys, and hope that there’s at least one question about early 90s teen pop stars or 80s Chicago hits or movie soundtrack power ballads (see below). I really hope to contribute at least one right answer.

And somewhere in there, we’ll be sure to phone home to bid our little man sweet, sweet dreams. That is, if he’ll break away from banana splits and new puzzles and wrestling with Uncle Grant long enough to take our call.

Scarecrows on a Saturday

2009-10-10T10:31:00.000-05:00

Last weekend, we enjoyed a lovely family outing to Cheekwood's annual scarecrow exhibit. It was a perfect, sun-shiny Tennessee fall day. Beckett enjoyed running through the fields and exploring the wooded paths as much (or more) than the scarecrows. Matt and I simply enjoyed watching him, being together and taking pictures (here are several!).

Au revoir

2009-10-05T21:09:00.000-05:00

Sad news from Conde Nast today. Two of my favorite magazines, Gourmet and Cookie, are folding. Interestingly, since I started this blog, I've been eyeing the September '08 issue of Gourmet that still sits on my shelf and thinking I should snap a photo of it to share with you because it is just so incredibly delicious.

This issue will serve as one of my trusted food guides when we travel to Paris next fall. And within its pages lives a challenge nearly as daunting as my novel: a Chocolate-Glazed Chocolate Tart recipe. In Gourmet's singular words: "A triple layer of crumbly crust, a truffle-like interior, and an almost patent-leather-shiny glaze make this tart the chicest take on chocolate we've come across in a long time."

A Hard Day's Night

2009-09-29T22:12:00.000-05:00

I left for work this morning knowing I’d be rushing home eleven hours later just in time to kiss my baby goodnight.

What I should have known was that eleven hours would turn into more than twelve. This is a rare occasion in my current work life, so I won’t complain. I was sad not to find my boy waiting for me at the front door though. Instead, here are a few of the things I did find when I stepped into my house and slipped off my heels.

A baby sleeping soundly … apparently after a few minutes of reassuring himself that “it not scary, it not scary.” (He woke up crying last night and reported bad dreams about a “mobot” [i.e. robot].)

A husband rushing down the stairs, ready to run out the door to defend his Rock ‘n Roll Trivia title and help cash in his team’s $100 bar tab prize.

Half of a Jersey Mike’s sub in the fridge. Necessary. The Pumpkin Spice Moonshine I sampled earlier was delicious, but not a suitable dinner.

Last night’s The Rachel Zoe Project on the DVR.

Spiderman scaling the mantel.

Heeding His Advice

2009-09-29T09:50:00.000-05:00

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief.

(from Shakespeare's Hamlet)

Home

2009-09-28T22:44:00.000-05:00

In 33 years, I’ve lived in four states, nine towns, and twenty-five—count ‘em, 25—homes.

With all this wandering it’s no wonder my Grandma Jeanne called my brother and I her gypsies. Oh, how we wreaked havoc on the “M” page of so many address books. One scratched out entry after another. From Hogpath Road to Grand Avenue to Peachtree Street, I’ve lived in farmhouses, walk-up apartments, cottages and industrial lofts.

I’ve been in a little 1930s brick and stone bungalow on Utah Avenue for more than three years now. Almost a record! In fact, I’ve only lived in one of those other 24 homes for longer. Six years is my personal best. So this is progress. This is me making myself at home.

And I love it. Indeed, I love Nashville. I’ve been here for more than ten years now—minus a 4-month jaunt to Atlanta—and despite my occasional frustration with Tennessee politics and a certain air of Confederate nostalgia, I can’t imagine leaving. I’d consider New York City if The Daily Show or SNL wooed my husband (as they rightly should) or L.A. if Conan O’Brien came begging. Until then, this is home. And I’m thankful that this is so for many, many reasons. Here are a few – along with a few photos I snapped during my lunch break today.

- 70 degrees and sunny. Every day this week. I predict brilliantly happy people abound.

- I truly enjoy the eight-minute commute to my downtown office each morning.

- From hole-in-the-wall honky tonkin’ to blockbuster stadium shows, I get to on a regular basis see and hear more live music than I ever dreamt possible.

- The food (and drink). I devote way more of my meager income to good restaurants than a responsible adult should. But oh me, oh my – there’s some good eatin’ to be done in Nashville. I’ll share specifics in many posts to come.

- The friends and family who make Nashville home. After all, isn’t that what I learned as we blew from house to house, town to town in all these years past? It makes no matter what my bedroom looks like or how big my backyard is, so long as there are good friends at my kitchen table, neighbors gathered on the front porch and supportive family just a few miles (or a phone call) away.

- On that note – I’m less than six hours from my original home. While that often feels much too far away, I know on that a good day I can get there on one tank of gas. I can always make it just in time to celebrate a graduation, wish a happy birthday, cry at a wedding or hold a beautiful new baby.

Suspended Animation

2009-09-25T22:57:00.000-05:00

9,213 words on the page. I wonder, how many until the book is written and the story is told?

I began a novel six year ago. After two years and only two polished chapters, I stopped. Walked away. Took jobs getting paid to teach others to write (and rewriting what they wrote), then writing press releases and brochure copy, speeches and letters to the editor.

Then I ushered into the world something more astounding than any novel. My son, Matthew Beckett. Named for his father and for my little brother. (And for a wild-haired Irish playwright.)

During those magnificent yet dry four years, though, the story of a girl and the brother she could not save stayed with me. It shifted shape, changed direction, welcomed new characters and bid farewell to others. Its heart and the truth became clearer. And now it’s begging me to let it go. Apparently it’s ready. And I believe I am too.

So I am back at the keyboard, six years since I typed the original first sentence: “She woke that morning sprawled across the bed, face down into the mascara-streaked white pillow.”

The new lead sentence is better. I think. Do you?

“This morning, I said a prayer.”

I do not know how far into this great wide world my story will go. My husband, Matt, says if he can read it by August 12, 2010 (my 33rd birthday), we’ll go to Paris and London to celebrate. He may be the only person to ever read it. And that may be just fine with me, so long as I have the chance to thank God it’s finished down on my knees under the cathedral ceilings of St. Paul’s or to spend an afternoon drinking Côtes du Rhône and eating brown bags full of fromage and baguettes along the banks of the Seine or to kiss Oscar Wilde’s grave. That may indeed be all the reward I need.

The Writing Mamas – an incredible group of writers and friends I eat, drink, share and workshop with every third Thursday of the month – will also be my readers, I hope. They’ve convinced me to start this blog, and most importantly, they’ve convinced me in the short time that I’ve known them that I was ready to return to my book. (Working title? See the title of this entry.)

So here I go. I’ll keep you posted here. And, since this is my first entry, I suppose I should let you know I’ll be using this space to keep you posted on lots of other things as well. All the things I carry with me. The people I love. Places I go. Memories I keep. Questions I ponder. The fashion, food, film and other finds I just can’t keep to myself. I hope you enjoy.

And I hope to post lots and lots of photos from across the pond one year from now.