It feels like we were just roaming Newbury Street on a hot summer day in Boston. You were interning for a wedding planner, I was acting in LA visiting. I remember the boy who broke your heart that summer, the same one you were there for. We spent that entire weekend with him eating famous clam chowders and watching Tom Brady play with the rest of the townies.
You were always the cooler one, turning me on to beer at a Celtics game. You promised it was an acquired taste. We danced the night away the night the Celtics won celebrating just because.
Fast forward to you, in Chicago, living your best life with the love of your life whom you met while pursuing a master’s degree in an entirely unrelated career. And here I am, writing in New York City, flying out with him to help surprise you.
Cheers to life not always turning out the way we want it, darling. Every turn leading us to our happiest ending.
I admit. I’m tired.
With the over-worked and over-connected world in which we live in, it’s no wonder more and more of us are seeking pause and refuge. And refuge as derived from the French word meaning “to flee.”
A busy and successful friend just introduced me to a Japanese act of purging she was trying. The practice challenges you to sit with what you own and determine whether or not you absolutely LOVE IT. If you don’t LOVE IT, it challenges you to purge instead.
I thought how fascinating it is that every culture has a practice to convey the same thing: the desire for less and meaning. In my pursuit of Danish hygge I am learning to embrace the idea that real wealth is not what we can accumulate over time but what we have to share with others, if we LOVE IT.
Life goes by so fast that, if we’re not careful, we miss it.
I had an opportunity a few weeks back to shut off and simply be with friends. Some of them I hadn’t seen in years.
I will never forget spending long days on the farm and eating from the land.
Feeling the mug in the air from an early summer coming.
Early evenings cooking food together and honoring their sources.
Laughing and playing until our eyes closed to open again at the smell of coffee brewing.
The taste of fresh milk.
The smell of crimson strawberries.
The sweetness of old memories.
The scare of ticks on our skin.
That weeping willow.
The looking forward’s
I was born to bright swirls of yellows and greens in the sky, blue bright waves crashing by, Brasil.
My mother remarried and we moved to the States. When we did, I wanted to be everything American too, like our adoptive grandmother Patsy. A beloved nurse, a wife to a war hero, a lover of film and dance.
My sister and I didn’t speak much English then, we sat enamored watching Patsy as she put on her drop earrings last.
I’ll never forget our summers spent with her in Texas at the lake. Red hot American days eating ice cream and renting VHS tapes from Patsy’s hideaway place, the local library.
I remember rushing home with her leading us to the den to watch Hepburn, Taylor, Vivien Leigh say things and feel things we couldn’t possibly understand then.
The only thing that quenched our thirst more: Patsy’s famous ice cold, pink lemonades.
Image from Pleasantville