hello, goodbye

yesterday, for the first time in 4 years, i watched mum drive out the driveway without me on our yearly 'fall' trips to Ohio. the van packed, snacks and cds arranged conveniently, my suitcase brimming with long sleeve shirts and faded jeans, snuggled between the dinged guitar case and mom's suitcase. waiting for my arrival in 12 short days when dad and i fly out to meet her. the dog's head pressed firmly against my legs; a silent admission of relief as she realized that we were not all leaving her. she recognizes the promise of absence - sometimes more poignantly than we do, i think.

and today, i woke up to a broken pattern of lace, soft lines of pale yellow sunshine on my wall. the comforting scent of coffee hanging in the air, a promise heavy with remembrance and change. today feels like fall. the change has been sudden. just yesterday the heat clung to me like a heavy blanket, smothering all promises and discouraging any thoughts of golden leaves and knitted sweaters; refusing to acknowledge the fact that it's existence was almost over - that the life left in the golden sunbeams and yellow, tangled flowers had almost come to a close. summer is one of those seasons that seems endless to me. the lines between seasons are blurred, the transition just slow enough to escape notice until the earth has shed it's previous attire, and embraced the newness that appears without fail, year after year. an endless cycle of constancy. 

this year, the usual hesitation between seasons is absent. there is none of the familiar, gradual transition; fall didn't wait with bated breath for summer to give her last huzzah. goosebumps on arms, firelight flickering over chilled, freckled faces, and the shade that suddenly feels cold and unwelcoming. in an instant. overnight. without warning. it was like i woke up, and summer was over. it feels abrupt, harsh, shocking. but i know it's really not. after all, this transition happens every year. chills racing down my arms. cold (but familiar) fingers, chased by sputtering breaths of wind. fall brings change, they say, but really, it only brings what it has always brought; the reality of death with the promise of new life. maybe we're the ones who have changed. maybe what we see as change is only the difference in our perspective.

seasons waiting around just long enough for us to whisper "hello", before they're gone again, goodbyes cracking on our lips as we realize it's too late to bid farewell to the past. it's already gone.


snapshots //

snapshots from the 4th, and the first rain of our monsoon season

i'd almost forgotten what it feels like to sit down and write a blog post. it feels alien, actually. unusual. writing things up on this little corner of the web used to be a daily (or at least, weekly) occurrence, but lately, all my writing has been done on my novel. words. so many words. sentences re-written countless times, hours spent reading and re-reading. i've been taking a step back from the internet, and it's amazing what a little time away from all the "distractions" will do for a person.

the days have been a myriad of noises and faces and the same, unbroken pattern of life that somehow seems to be changing, little by little. i've hardly noticed. or maybe we're the ones who are changing. funny how that happens, isn't it? the world never changes. the earth is stuck in the same rotation, the seasons come and go according to schedule, the sun rises and sets, and still we say 'the world' is changing.

really, it's not. we're the ones changing. and as we do, we change our reality - we change our world. and sometimes, others change it for us; with, or without our consent. but when you really get down the point, the truth is, everything changes. everything has changed. it's frightening, it's intimidating. the future is unknown, the present is unstable, the past is unreachable. but it's all beautiful.

i've been enjoying life, rather than documenting it lately. but hey, that's alright. 

what's been up with you lately, lovelies? xx


once again, tomorrow


We leave Ohio tomorrow. It seems like we just arrived, and strange as it sounds, I miss it already. It's more than an enjoyment of the beauty, and the time spent with extended (but very dear) family that will be absent. It's almost like this magical, green place has cast a spell over me; one that won't be broken by the return to normalcy, or the simplicity of everyday life in Arizona. Ohio is home to me. It's where I was born, where my roots are planted firmly, amongst the thick roots of oak trees, and delicate stems of daisies and wild tangles of grapevines that are growing among the limbs of the maple trees. 

Ohio flows in my blood, and is tangled up in the curls of my humidity-saturated hair; it lives among the mosquito bites that freckle my arms and is wrapped tightly around the strings of my memory ridden heart. I remember living here. Some think that a two year old wouldn't remember a place so vast, especially when it dwells so far in the past of my mind; but colors, faces and shapes aren't the only things I remember from 15 years ago. I remember feelings, I remember sensations, I remember being home; I've never forgotten, and coming back here only reminds me again. 

You don't forget a place that is a part of you. It is stamped upon your skin, and written on the fragile, crumbling papers of your heart. You don't forget what it feels like to belong somewhere. You find you haven't forgotten the places of your childhood, even though you only recollect when you see them again. They cling tenaciously to your consciousness, and burn in the back of your mind, rising unbidden at the most unexpected moments.

There are always things you never forget.

And you never, ever, forget where home is. 


bits and pieces

I'm woken up by the sound of clattering directly beneath me; mom in the kitchen. Through the whir of the fan, I can hear birds singing. Bluebirds, cardinals, mockingbirds, all voices joined in a melody of joyful chaos, as they welcome the new day. There are baby birds on the front porch, above the light - five of them in one nest, and they're piled on top of each other; I'm surprised they all still fit. We're not sure what kind of birds they are, but we've watched them since there were only 5 tiny eggs in the nest. They'll be flying away soon.

It's quiet; aside from the chatter of birds, and the occasional sputtering of a passing car (or more often, truck or tractor), the rolling hills have a surreal hush spread over them, like a muffling blanket. It's peaceful, like a haven of solitude, and silence. We have no internet access at our little cabin, and the time away from all the statuses, and messages has been wonderful - I've had a lot of distraction-free-time, that I've put to use working on my novel. It's coming along, slowly but surely. Once it's finished, I'll start editing. Oh, joy. ;)

Not a whole lot to document, actually. Writing a blog post feels strange after 3 weeks without one. (How has it already been 3 weeks?!) I could get used to this kind of life, but we'll be heading home in a week and a half. The speed at which time is flying is dizzying - almost frightening. Ah, well. Enjoying the passing of time is important, I've realized, instead of worrying about it. Besides, our worry changes nothing; it only warps our view of beauty, and chases away contentment.

I'll be ready to get home, but for right now, I'm gathering all the bits and pieces of beauty around me, and storing them in my heart; not for documenting, or sharing, or tweeting, or updating my facebook status - just to hold; to carry, and to remember.