To Real Love

John Lennon once said, "love is real, real is love." This week I understood exactly what he was saying. Before a backdrop of blue on blue, with a saltwater sea breeze, the sun hitting my face, I watched two friends define real love. 

Not only are these two the definition of real love, they turn dreams into reality. Never could I have ever imagined standing on a volcanic island, champagne in hand, baby's breath in my hair dancing to "You and I" with my best friend. Everything about it was real. 

I will be the first to admit there have been times in my life where I forget "real love" exists or what it looks like. The kind of love that stops you in your tracks. The kind of love that shakes you to your core, pumps through your veins, fills your chest with butterflies, pushes and pulls you in all directions and overwhelms your head and heart. This kind of love can only be felt when you find the perfect match, your other half, your companion... your forever person. But this week I remembered what "real love" looks like because I saw it, I felt it, and was fortunate enough to be part of the definition of "real" in the context of the week (which was all love). And so to this real love, I would like to give a toast. 

To real love. To Emma and Sammy. You inspire me everyday to live life to the fullest. You remind me to slow down and live in the moment. You are the energy that I hope to channel everyday. You are the creativity, the wanderlust, the warmth that I want to emulate. You are the partnership that I hope to find someday. You are the laughter, the stories, the beach walks, the sandy dogs, the saltwater, the meals, and the adventures that I will remember and cherish forever. You are the happily ever after. You are the definition of "real love." Here's to you.

Stomp. Stomp. Clap! This cup is for you! 

Mixing Bowls

We shared a single mixing bowl of fresh pasta, ripe cherry tomatoes and greens, with two forks and a bottle of wine. In the midst of major transitions, it almost felt like a normal mid summer evening. 

We had spent weeks wining and dining in some of New Yorks finest hotspots. We had our fair share of the pricy, the chefs choice and tasted the latest in review. All to say that I think my favorite meal took place on my back patio, barefoot, messy and tired, eating al dente out of a Costco Tupperware.

This week I'm thinking about France. Hunched over boxes and throwing away papers I'm imagining a green landscape. Bubble wrapping prints I'm thinking of inky fingers and transparent creations hot off the press. Lugging bags to and fro I stay cool remembering long afternoons lingering over gelato, wine and cheese. This month I am sending a slew of messengers to France while I make my way to the Greek Islands. 

I am looking forward to the Mediterranean. I am hopeful that the salty air will clear my head. I can't wait to celebrate two amazing friends. I am ready for an escape to calm and quiet. 

Summer is the time to reboot, to soak up some much needed vitamin D and gather. It's a time to explore, adventure and collect your thoughts. Summer is the chance to throw together a meal in a mixing bowl, get your arms sticky with peach juice and smell fresh cut grass. 

These are the things I have to remember as I complain of having to wear shorts, wait on humid subway platforms, slather on sunscreen or endure spaceship sized mosquitos. 

This summer I am going to make time for picnics, read good books, journal, and roam the farmers market. This summer I am going to make a point of slowing down, breathing and checking in with my head and my heart. This summer is a clean, white page of new beginnings and more mixing bowls filled with goodness. 

Make a Mixing Bowl of Goodness:

Gluten free pasta

Olive oil

Fresh sliced cherry tomatoes 

Fresh Arugula 

Feta cheese 

Salt and Pepper

Cook pasta to al dente  

Toss with olive oil, tomatoes and arugula

Add a generous amount of feta 

Serve in a mixing bowl with two forks

Grab a friend, a mom, a roommate, or a neighbor, a patio and a bottle of wine 

Enjoy slowly

This cup is for my mom, aunt Nancy and Chris-- thinking of France with love. 

On the Move

a year from now we'll all be gone


all our friends will move away


and they're going to better places


but our friends will be gone away

nothing is as it has been


and i miss your face like hell


and i guess it's just as well


but i miss your face like hell

been talking bout the way things change


and my family lives in a different state


and if you don't know what to make of this


then we will not relate


so if you don't know what to make of this


then we will not relate

rivers and roads


rivers and roads


rivers 'til i reach you

                                    –The Head and the Heart

As I peel the photos off the wall and put books into boxes I can’t help but play this song over and over to fill the empty space that was my home for the past two years. This month, we are all moving on… to better places, new chapters, new zip codes and new horizons. As recent graduates, some of us are growing up, signing leases, getting engaged, and investing in house plants (the ultimate sign of nesting) and settling down.  Others (like myself) are floating, becoming nomadic, carrying the weight of multiple zip codes and trying to keep track of where all the boxes are stacking up before finding the perfect landing.

The current issue of Kinfolk talked about nesting and home, something that I have always cherished and find to be one of the most important cornerstones of life. For the past 15 weeks I have had three different zip codes, four different rooms, and have made a home in a suburb, a city, a downstairs, an upstairs, a cubby hole and a couch. These various homes I have shared alone, with a family, with a friend, with a roommate or with 25 other roommates. And this has been the month of homes and moving. 

This has been the month of closing chapters, turning new pages, and gathering. This month I sent out a change of address, which has already expired and will no longer apply by the time you read this post. As the last post card went out the door I decided to move (again). This week I am packing up my little nook on East 15^th street and heading (hopefully) uptown to quieter corners. This week I am packing up my home in DC and coming back to the island that I am not quite done with. This week I am taking down two years of postcards and pictures and boxing up books from graduate school that I will fondly flip through once in a blue moon and keep on a coffee table someday.

For East 15th I will miss most:

• My window that looked out onto the street, where I curled up to watch the snowfall and the blossoms bloom
• Cider on the stove on chilly fall nights
• Late night cups of tea with friends gathered around the table
• The rooftop and all the conversations that took place there (the Empire State Building lit at night)
• The countless friends who were always up for an adventure (Nemo will always be a favorite)
• My creaky hardwood floors and my built–in bookshelves
• My late night walks down East 15th
• My running route to the Westside Hwy.

For DC I will miss most:

• My roommate (who finds beauty in every found treasure and cooks me amazing food)
• My backyard, where I could sit on the sunny top stoop and sip a cup of fresh brewed coffee
• The space to host, where I could gather all my friends
• The proximity to the mall, where I could run happily for hours
• The quiet of a neighborhood and knowing your neighbors

This week I am thinking about new chapters. This week I am thinking about change. This week I am nostalgic. 

I am now officially a graduate who has yet to find a zip code, but has a master’s and is extremely excited to be back on this crazy island with all my people. New York City, you pulled me back.

This cup is for my MILANO family, with whom I share it all 
And for every home who has opened its doors to me–thank you. 

Marching Forward

'

This evening, as I walked home, it was light for the first time in months. The sky was robin's egg blue and it was finally warm enough to shed a scarf and feel the breeze on the back of my neck. It was perfect.

Just like the cherry blossoms, I am not yet ready to burst out and face the changing of the season, but I know that I am on the cusp of change, a new chapter and a new time. My corner has been a place of hurrying quiet. The kind of hurrying that happens when you take up a third zip code, sign on to a new job, close one chapter before realizing that a new one is unfolding right before your very eyes and fall quiet amidst the chaos. I have been so fortunate to have a supportive team to wake up to every morning with a cup of coffee, that welcomes me home at the end of each day with a hug and a home cooked meal and has made me a part of their family.

I am so lucky to have found a new home, one that I fell in love with at first sight. Before a single box had been unpacked, I knew that it was the space where I wanted to spend lazy weekends reading the newspaper, where I wanted to host cook–outs in the backyard, where all my friends could gather around the living room and take part in long dinner parties. And in the midst of all this I turned a year older.

Such Singing in the Wild Branches (2003)

It was spring
 and finally I heard him among the first leaves—
then I saw him clutching the limb



in an island of shade 
with his red-brown feathers
 all trim and neat for the new year.
 First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
 

Then I began to listen.
 Then I was filled with gladness—
and that's when it happened,



when I seemed to float,
 to be, myself, a wing or a tree—

and I began to understand


what the bird was saying,



and the sands in the glass


stopped


for a pure white moment


while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,


and in fact

it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing—


it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed



not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,


and also the trees around them,


as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds


in the perfectly blue sky— all, all of them

were singing.


And, of course, yes, so it seemed,


so was I.


Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last



for more than a few moments.


It's one of those magical places wise people

like to talk about.

One of the things they say about it, that is true,



is that, once you've been there,


you're there forever.

Listen, everyone has a chance.

Is it spring, is it morning?



Are there trees near you,

and does your own soul need comforting?

Quick, then— open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song


may already be drifting away.



— Mary Oliver

This cup is for my DC family

And for Stephanie

Half Baked

Time is more valuable than money. Take it from me.

This week I am moving away from one of the most expensive cities on earth and what I will tell you (as I am packing) is that time is something I hope to gain in my next spot and money is something that I hope to use less. After a week at the beach, I found that I never looked at my watch. It helped that I never had a place I needed to be, but still, even with my own body clock screaming coffee every few hours, I didn’t look down at my wrist, not once. I rarely pulled out my phone and I practically forgot the password to my email. In just one week you say, with your eyebrows arching like the manhattan bridge—impossible. But it’s true. Time is a precious thing and for the week, finding a broken sand dollar was a nice change from handing everyone around me a crisp twenty dollar bill, and not once did I care what time it was.

As it turns out, finding time to do nothing is exactly what we need. To this day I am convinced that the west coast gets just as much done as the east coast. When did the human race start racing? Some may argue that rushing gets more done, but I disagree. New York is an island of rushers. I can tell because they are rarely looking up, they step out into the street long before the walk signal emerges, and they run for cabs like their lives depend on it. Oregon is a rainforest of calm, cool and collected. With coffee shops that let you sit idle for hours, with cashiers that want to discuss much more than the weather, but want to dig deep asking about family trees and yearly traditions (even in the express line) and cars that stop for every pedestrian they see (even the ones that are a mile away). We are an oasis of waiters and drifters.

Personally, I would rather linger and meander then push, rush and hastily get things done. I would rather sip than slug. I would rather hold the door behind me than let it slam shut on someone else. I could argue that rushing is a sign of being disorganized, or only giving a small part of yourself to every task–what my mom terms–half baked. I’m certain that if you never worry and never hurry, you will amount to much more than you would have had you been rushing. After all, time is time. What will you really gain from rushing? What will you gain from pushing? Is it really worth the money? Is it really worth saving a few extra lousy minutes to rush? You will lose those minutes and you will never get them back, not for all the money in the world.

For some, it can be hard to take time to slow down. At times, I have been known to schedule myself into my own schedule. A block of time will simply say RJS and this is a time where I know I can catch up on anything from notes to friends, sleep, a long run, reading or just simply wandering, finding a new coffee shop.

I have noticed a new trend in 2014–the urge to set aside time. Blogs, magazines, books, and articles all supply tips and tricks to set aside time for long dinners, slow walks, and ideas for slowing down. My philosophy–make it a lifestyle–not a time slot. Unplug, unwind, breathe. There are only 24 hours in a day. Slowing down doesn’t mean it won’t get done, it means prioritizing, and making the most of the busy time so that you have extra time to linger and wait around the edges, because at the end of the day, time is priceless.

This New Year, I challenge you to linger.

This cup is for Charly–because you decided to stay

And for Alix, who is happy to make hanging out and lingering a lifestyle 

(note: I had the best time with you girls). 

Roots

It’s a new year, but I haven’t felt it yet. Maybe it is on account that I went sans sparkle this New Year’s eve and rang in 2014 from the quiet corners of my home. Tucked in the folds of my family with a glass of bubbly before crawling under the covers long before the New Year reached my time zone.

The start of a new year is like a fresh pad of paper. Clean white pages, wrinkle free, and no rough edges. The possibilities are endless. Hopes. Dreams. Goals. Desires. Schemes. Grand plans. Where to begin? Sharpen your pencils folks.

I started the New Year thinking about lists. As I scribbled down resolutions, plans, notes, books to read, and recipes to try, I took some time to think about my roots. The other night I sat under (an almost full) moon in the car with my mom talking with my aunt. By blood, she is not my aunt, and when I ask my mom who her cousin is to me, she responds, “Who knows, some stuff is really complicated.” The truth is, I don’t care where our family ties cross and connect, we are related. As I huddled over the speaker with my mom, I watched our words form into small cold clouds. Our conversation led to family ties and stories that arched over long spans of time, covering generations, pulling in women I will never get the chance to know.

Hanging up the phone, I felt lucky. There are so many women in my life who have taken on the role of aunts, grandmothers, cousins and best friends. The stories of my genetic ties live on through these women, and regardless of bloodlines, I am forever tied to them. They have taught me everything from my grandmother’s favorite flower, to the importance of applying mascara before leaving the house.

This week I lunched with a woman whom I closely identify as an honorary grandmother. She is effortlessly classy, from her thank you cards to her jewels. She is gracious, thoughtful and warm. She is one of the few women that I know that was close friends with grandmother, and I can’t help but feel deeply connected as I pull her into a hug. She is my link to the past, my grandmother connecting us, and regardless of genes, she is and always will be a part of my family tree.  

This year, my 2014 list is short. I am working on it little by little. The truth is, I don’t make plans, I wait for them. Not a day goes by that I am not dreaming of something or someone, but I can’t get too wrapped up in plans. I like keeping my pages clean, crisp, and plan free, so that when something comes along, there is a place for it. If you end up planning everything there will be no room for the surprise houseguest, the recipe that you clipped out of an airline magazine and wanted to try, the friend that calls to invite you on a trip through South America, or the beach house that becomes available you’ve had your heart set on for years. Most of the time I am happy to be plan free so that I can make time for those extra links in my family tree, those spur of the moment phone calls in the dark, and a reason to keep listing, logging and wondering what tomorrow will bring.

                                                           

 Beginnings of 2014

1.     Reading

a.     Nelson Mandela-A Long Walk to Freedom

b.     Into the Wild by John Krakauer

c.      A Living History by Hilary Clinton

d.     Aimless Love by Billy Collins

2.     Listening

a.     Head and The Heart

3.     Running

a.     In the trees, on the trails, through the woods

b.     With friends

c.      Alone

4.     Sleeping

a.     In

b.     Early

c.      Often

5.     Cooking from:

a.     The Kinfolk Table

b.     Vegetable Literacy

c.      Plenty

 This cup is for (Aunt) Gina, and (Honorary Grandmothers) Bernice, Gaye, Barbara, Caroline, and Mary.

Eye Spy

Curled up in my window seat I watched the world from cruising altitude, the lights of the cities below twinkling bright white and gold, and I couldn’t help but think how quickly the landscape turns into a starry night sky from above. My window was foggy, my face pressed up against the glass as I descended towards the west coast. I was home. There is always a wave of relief when I touch down on home turf. Heels are replaced with Danskos; fitted blouses are traded for polar fleece, and messy hair and black down jackets are accepted at all high-end restaurants.

A close family friend once told me that our eye color is based off the places that we love most–places we are meant to be. For example, if your eyes are a deep forest green, you long for long walks on muddy trails, sticky pinesap between your fingers, and twigs in your hair. If your eyes are amber brown, you yearn for arid desert trails, chasing rattlesnakes high into the mountains, the warm sun hitting your face. For those crystal icy blue eyes, you prefer flying down the side of a mountain, thrive off speed you can only get on the slopes, and look forward to gathering around a campfire to warm frozen fingers and toes.

As for me, my blue-green eyes dream of deep blue oceans, sea green waves crashing against the shore, a cold tide filled with plenty of kelp. My happiest place is walking along the edge of the ocean, with my yellow lab. With each step the sea foam washes up under my feet, my jeans soggy around the edges of my ankles, the salty air leaving tangles in my hair. The dark grey clouds clear the people off the beach and I am the only one for miles, wandering through the fog.

What is it about the ocean that can cure the head and the heart? Is it the wide-open horizon, a clean slate that calms the mind? It is the air? The salty, sandy, cold wind that clears the head. Is it the rhythm of the waves? The tide washing in and out that assures you there is something out there bigger than you–bigger than all of us. Is it soaking wet (happy as can be) Labradors that greet you here and there? Is it the small fires that dot the beach at night, huddled with friends, family, and strangers alike? Is it the loss of time? The days that last forever, from long walks, to endless cups of coffee, the movies and board games that last long into the night.

The year is coming to a close. It’s a time for reflection, a time for gathering and a time to be thankful. It’s a time to be home, in the eye of your perfect place. Here at the beach I am able to simplify my whole world into a long walk.  After a day wandering along the edge of the ocean, I sit and look out over the waves, the blue green of the ocean looking back at me, I breathe deep and take it all in.

 This cup is for Suzzie: What a tradition this has become, so lucky to run into you year after year

And Emma, Sammy and Theo: because you know exactly why this is my favorite place on earth