still.

That moment when you clutched my hand? It made my heart beat just a little faster. It made my soul soar just a little higher as we rattled down the dark interstate in the early hours of the morning. The darkness covered up the world, and a for a few hours it was just you and me, together. No one else existed. Time stood still.

I like making time stand still with you. In a blanket fort as the sun peeks through the curtains, in a book shop with cups of coffee, in caves with secret slides, in a tiny bluegrass-filled kitchen, in an old stick-shift car–these are my favorite moments. They make me want time to speed up just so we can stop it again.

Advertisements

Dreamin’

What does it say about you if you start having wedding nightmares….about your best friend’s wedding.

I’m no stranger to unpleasant dreams of the marital nature. No matter that I was obsessed with brides as a little girl, every dream I’ve had about walking down the aisle ends up the same – with a panicked wake up. So I guess I’m a fan of the party, just not the commitment.

So the best friend gets engaged. She eloped first–which brought on a whole slew of odd reactions (read: hyperventilation)–but decided to have a formal ceremony to truly celebrate. She hired a wedding planner, made a list, took care of business and has remained as cool as a cucumber could be.

But this girl? I seem to be subconsciously absorbing the wedding stress and it’s manifesting itself into weird dreams.

The latest involved arriving to the church the day-of (with no time for a rehearsal), the bridal party just hanging out at the altar (no processing) and the bride with no less than six purses on her arm. The groom decides to make a grand entrance with an elaborate slide show, music and dancing. And I’m just trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do with the train of her dress, which doesn’t exist anymore because the bride has decided to wear a nightgown. To her wedding.

So maybe this means that I hate change. Or that there’s some funky stuff brewing in the corners of my brain.

Lumps & Bumps

These are the months of the lumps and bumps. They are filled with the calls that you never want to get and the moments that take your breath away for a brief second. Moments that make time slow down or that cause you to wake up in the middle of the night, panicked and flustered with realization.

It makes me realize that we’re getting old. And that those things, these events that we would view through through the eyes of our parents, are ours now. Is this what being an adult means? Quiet tear-soaked phone calls?

But wait. There was this moment, in the midst of the confusion, sadness and hurt, that was great. Really really great. To begin, this was a physical lumps and bumps situation, which meant surgery, vagueness, and a scared friend. The morning of her surgery, our friends emailed each other, we called, we prayed, we stood strong, linking arms around her, ready to hear anything. Ready to do whatever it took.

And there was so much love. I think I said ‘I love you’ more times that day than I had in a while, to people I don’t say it to nearly enough. 20 years of friendship had formed an unbreakable bond, but with this, we were knitted together. A community of women ready to protect their own.

At the end of the day, the news was good! There were joyful, awkward tears (I was at a party, with lots of people when I heard the good word) and the feeling of  relief. It was going to be okay. She was going to be okay. Our tribe of women would remain whole for years to come.

That’s when I realized, on the other side of this whole messy thing, that I would never have to worry about being alone. Ever. These moments make you realize how very not-alone you are. And it’s beautiful.

Sweet summertime

There’s one thing you should know right away: my apartment doesn’t have airconditioning. It’s an old one-bedroom apartment in a very old building, in a very very old part of town. The red bricks have a way of holding the heat, and I’ve realized that this hot, sticky humidity that permeates my living space is just the calling card of summertime in ohio.

It’s a lethargic kind of heat. A lazy kind of heat. A move-slowly-too-hot-to-clean kind of heat. I perch in front of the open back door, hoping for a breeze, wondering if I’ll ever be cool again.

Today, with the gray overcast weather, the air moved quietly through my apartment. Like magic, I was motivated do all the things: clean the kitchen, sweep the bedroom, heck, even doing a little writing. It’s been, what, over a year since I’ve posted?

I’m telling you, a good cool breeze can work miracles.

And ice cold popsicles.