cooking with kayla (and the beauty of this week)

my friend kayla has been an angel this week (she is always beautiful, but this week I especially needed her kindness).

we have gone on outside runs almost every day, and then have come back to her apartment to cook some delicious dinners.

here are some good things about cooking with kayla:

- she laughs, always

- she plays good music (landon pigg, yes please)

- she always offers me tea or water before we start cooking

- she knows how to cook, and can thus cook me things (and teach me about food!)

- she always offers me more food before serving herself more (she is so kind, I tell you)

- she bakes a dessert with dinner because… well, dessert.

and so a great thanks goes out to her for encouraging me to exercise and eat well, especially during this crazy week.

swallowing weakness

I typed this with an unopened book on my lap.

my back resting tiredly against the wall heater that is not on.

cold air coming from the drafty windows, because that's what kind of windows old libraries have.

I have been struggling a lot lately to complete things.

to clean my closet. I throw the clothes in there and close the curtains.

to pack up the things in my apartment. books are still on the shelves and pencils are still in mugs.

to admit that things can end, to say,
I will not see my family or friends for five months,
I will not get to lay on my parents couch and sleep under their warm blankets
or sit with their garden in the morning
or walk to the beach and collect sea glass, in my father's wool sweater and my mother's running leggings. 
I will not see Emme -- she will be old when I see her again, old enough to count to ten in spanish if she wills herself to.
I will not walk across that beautiful, hogwarts campus in the rain and complain but secretly love sneaking back to my room to drink tea with the Seattle rain lulling my eyes closed. 

there are a lot of things that I will be able to do, but sometimes it takes a while to remember
I will learn about children and their love of fresh-air-life
I will drink chai tea in a foreign country
I will take a lot of airplanes and walk a lot of miles 
I will spend my holiday break in spain & france
and I will get to drink lots of european wine
and eat lots of baguettes
and wear only the most minimalist, comfortable clothes
and learn yoga,
and practice more and more breathing. 

but it is hard.

it is hard at eight at night when I know the night is approaching and I really, really want strong arms around me as I will myself to cry.

it is hard when I haven't cried in a long time, and I am now having trouble stopping the tears.

it is hard to exchange one desire for another,

it is hard to admit that in order for me to follow my dreams, to pursue five months of necessary content in my heart, I will also feel sadness.

a sweet sadness, it is, missing your home. missing the ones you love.

I anticipate it. I cry it.

and then I swallow it.

courage. strength. I am finding strength.

but oh, it is hard.

found in the library

from: stuart dybek - streets in their own ink

listening to: caitlin rose

image source, here

highlighting a song that I've been playing on repeat here at home.

it feels like a home; a home with a wood stove fire place and fresh garden vegetables in a pot and flower lace curtains that stand in for doors.

waitin' - caitlin rose: listen to, here.

thanks to NPR, for their highlight on the Newport Folk Festival (which one day, one day I will attend).

in acknowledgement of the past

there were days when we were really good together.
nights when we slept in the car, and I stared out the windows at the stars, waiting to hear his breathing grow deep.
hot days when we sat on the beach blanket, eating watermelons with a plastic spoon.
afternoons where we took naps in front of the window, only waking when the air grew cooler.

but there were days when we weren't in sync.
when my hand wanted to be held, and he pulled away.
when I needed to look into his eyes, and his eyes were focusing on anything but my own.

we looked away often.
walked away often, to take a break from the stress.
walked away and wouldn't talk about it later - just move on, without addressing the passive conflict.
we both did it.

and that was the most stressful.
because I would carry that conflict around, hold it in my fingertips, stuff it in my winter coat pockets.
and I would do anything to eradicate that stress.
make coffee that I didn't drink. make the bed so it was clean. make things, fix things -
fix everything except what needed to be acknowledged.

I wanted to look into his eyes and see it.
and I caught it once, I remember it once, in the heat of the night.

and a few months later, I would realize that I would not see it again.
not because he didn't love me - he certainly did. we loved each other.
but because things had changed.

because things change.
and you move on, up that mountain, and you keep going.

you take that stress in your winter coat pocket and you tuck it into the sole of your summer sandals.

and one day you wake up,
open your curtains to the sun,
and realize that stress is disappearing.
slowly being torn up by your heel.

because you don't need to take care of people, olivia.

you need to take care of you.

and when a relationship teaches you something, it was always good relationship.
and so I have learned

I cannot change the fundamentals of a relationship by fluffing pillows
by buying care packages
by pretending it's okay that there might be something missing.

and I can start new relationships, new foundations, knowing that
I need to be able to look into someone's eyes and acknowledge them in their entirety.
I need to be able to use the word "love" and not feel like I need to hear it back.

because I do love, I live with love in my heart,
and sending that love around is what pushes my stress away,
deeper down into the dirt.

another weekend

three photos that help explain the immense joy that I found this weekend.

a thunder-storm sunset over the olympics; sitting with em on the water, teaching her about lightning and listening to her name the colors in the sky / hydrangea bushes at my aunt's home / spending the early afternoon at the park with emme bear. 

and unpictured:

taking mid-day naps in front of fans that cool me off / sleeping in a different place each night, and sleeping so well / hiking to the top of tongue mountain to, climbing up rocks, and spinning around to see mt. st. helens, mt. rainier, and mt. adams all in one vicinity / eating french fries with ketchup, because of course / dropping my parents off at the airport and hugging them so tight / being loved and showing love.

this past weekend

a hiking trip to Silver Lake.

to escape the city.

to escape the crazy.

to enjoy outdoor time.

to enjoy time with a wonderful man, and his impressively well behaved and beautiful pup.

this was fourth of july weekend. this was the beauty I was privileged to experience.

fourth of july muffins

happy fourth of july! 

this year I woke up early, sat with the garden as the sun rose up behind the house, and then proceeded to make some banana berry muffins.

because I can't really stomach processed sugary things with egg yolks… I found this recipe.

I'm not a food blogger because I really just sound cliche describing food (and I almost always forget to take photos before I eat the food, remember that), so I'll be brief:

they are very sweet because of the berries, but also very banana-y because there are bananas in them, and that's why I like them. they're a good balance!

and they're healthy.

recipe found here.

this is my favorite meal right now

zucchini. rainbow chard. a brown rice medley.

oh and butter. 

all sautéed and mixed together.

no recipe needed, cook however you'd like. the combination is really delicious.

(but really, remember the butter)

july 2014

"july, julyyy. it never seemed so strange." the decemberists 

I found these to be sources of inspiration this month: 

growing my hair out to be at least this long (let's see how long I can go without cutting it) / blue, blue doors / lots of wood, and lots of drawing or painting white on wood / "remember that at any given moment, there are a thousand things you can love."