{these moments}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired again by SouleMama.

See more photos from our town's local fair here.

solo trip to the beach.

In that moment, it feels like little more than driving myself to the beach for the afternoon and sitting on an old yoga mat I found in my trunk since I forgot a blanket or towel and journalling and eating and having the day to myself.

But now I think it was about more, more about gifting my future self with that day, that sensation, and having it at times like these when it's gloomy and everything feels falling apart and I want nothing more than to cuddle in bed with my cancer-ridden cat and never get up.

Yes, I'm trying to remind myself that it was more.

my week away.

There was time for eating. Journalling. Sleeping in. Painting. Meandering to a beach alone, spirit-driven. Staring at the TV screen for hours on end, if I wanted. Doing nothing.

Housesitting for the week as my dear friends honeymooned was supposed to be filled with everything I ever wanted to do and never had the time for. Instead, I didn't do very much. At first feeling guilt-ridden and regretful, I decided to embrace it --

it was just enough time to stop trying to figure life out. And to just go along with it.

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

(Inspired by SouleMama)

apple picking.

It's a ritual, every year. We went early, for the galas. (Except this year we went the day after Lauren's wedding, so my exhaustion provided an unfortunate haze over my eyes.)

And now I secretly want to go back to the orchard, bringing a blanket and cheese while laying about for hours, picnicking and napping and dreaming of fall.

perhaps the most comforting words ever written.

You do not have to be good. 

You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. 

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

~from Mary Oliver's Wild Geese

the last window.

There's always that day, as March drips away and April shines in and the last window is OPENED, like that, when there's no more fear of snow blowing in, and winter is behind us and spring is bursting ahead and its fresh, glorious air is welcomed and ushered into the home through every last window, and the windows are not closed again until August slinks away and September slides in, and the last window is finally SHUT, like that, when the air becomes too cold and too harsh to be let indoors, and you realize summer is over and winter must be kept out, and all that remains are wafting images from warmer days that still seem to seep in, through the cracks in the glass, warming us through the brisk months ahead.