Brewing Announcement!

What has been brewing? Drum roll please...hold your breath for the anticipation...put your mug down and get ready to cheer....announcing...My NEW Tumblr Site!

http://cupofcosmos.tumblr.com/

Just one more reason to brew up another cup, sit back, relax and enjoy.

This cup is for: Everyone.

An Intermission

Do you know that feeling when you have been sitting in a coffee shop all day, have ordered everything there is to order on the menu and still don’t want to leave? You slowly pack up your things one at a time, you tell yourself over and over that you have had enough caffeine to last you the entire month, but still, you wish you could just have one more cup.

You know that feeling that lingers at the end of a dinner party? Where everyone is moving all too slow to get their jackets because they wish that everything had lasted just a little bit longer, that the conversations could just keep rolling for hours–wishing that the candles on the table never ran down.

You know the feeling when you run out of pages in a notebook, and begin to squish words along the margins or add post it notes to the pages, and still, you know that one day you are going to need to start a new one, but you love the one you have so much? You think to yourself: a new one will never be the same.

Have you ever wished that you had cut more wood for the campfire, as you watch the logs slowly cinder, and the fire turn to a crackle? You wish the glow would keep glowing, but there is no turning back time as the fire burns down. Suddenly a chill replaces the warmth, signaling it is time to shake out the sandy blankets and find your flip-flops in the dark.

 You know when you finish a book and wish that it wasn’t over, wishing there was just one more chapter or that you hadn’t read it so fast? That is how I feel. This week is the end of what has been a big chapter–and I am not ready.

While everyone was rushing this week to finish pages, pack for adventures, cram and jam get-togethers, I found myself trying to slow things down. I thought if I just slept in a little while longer the mornings would linger. I thought if I just kept the coffee pot running, that breakfast conversations would never end. I thought if I just stayed in my slippers, leggings and fleece, the day would be forced to wait for me. But that never happened. Instead, the rest of the world was whizzing by all around me, friends coming and going, and a constant ebb and flow of hustle and bustle. It didn’t matter that I was moving slow. The rest of the world didn’t’ care. The rest of the world didn’t wait for me. Instead, it just kept moving faster and faster.

There are Hallmark cards that remind us to slow down. There are catchy quotes that remind us what is important, that you should not rush through life. There are advice givers that say that basking in the moment is the best thing you can do. But, after this week, I would have to ask, how? I tried to re-invent the system. I tried to slow down the ticking clock. For a split second, I was crazy enough to think that I could slow down Manhattan. It can’t be done (trust me). And then there is this saying that I absolutely hate that says all good things must come to an end. Who said this? I hate this saying. All good things ending–REALLY? Not true. I don’t believe it. I can’t. I won’t.

Last week our dining room table was filled with vases of fresh lilacs–the dining room smelled amazing. This week, the lilacs were all but wilted, tired, and eventually, tossed. But, I know that more are just around the corner. I know that next Monday, the farmers market will be full of purple, on sale, and ready to enjoy. I know that with all happy endings, there is a start to a new beginning that can be just as good, if not better.

For me, this week is not the end; this week is just the start to a very long intermission. My notebook isn’t filled yet (I just got a new one). My book isn’t finished, I am only on chapter 2 (and I read more than one book at a time in an effort to slow down the endings, to stagger them for peace of mind). My New York life will be put on hold (this is a good thing, a much needed break.) And the only ending in sight is the conclusion to my final paper (the last line) but everything else is just an intermission.

This cup is for: Alex, who met me late in the night for a long talk,

For Logan, who I can count on to pick up the phone at any hour,

And for Kelsey, who understands exactly what chapter I am talking about. 

I Am My Mother's Daughter

I am my mother’s daughter.

How many times have I said this out loud? How many times has someone else told me this? How many times have I felt this deep in my heart? Too many times to count. We look alike, we sound alike. We finish each other’s sentences. We share the same thoughts. If we butt heads, it is usually because we are arguing for the same thing, for the last line, for the last word. There is not enough space in the world to list all the reasons that I love my mom. It would be impossible for anyone to fully understand our relationship without being part of it, without being her or me. I am her mijita. I am her peach. I am her best friend–and she is mine.

If you are lucky enough to have a mom like mine, you talk to her everyday, or multiple times a day. If you are lucky enough to have a mom like mine you get care packages (no matter where you are in the world) that are filled to the brim with goodness. If you are lucky enough to have a mom like mine, you have someone who will happily be interrupted with a question, a cup of tea, or a trip to Nordstrom.

If you have a mom like mine you know it is a special occasion when she wears mascara. She only gets a manicure when you are gone, traveling outside the country or have moved out of state entirely. Don’t expect her to ever like cooking–she never has and she never will. Her house will always have rhododendrons, prayer flags and a Labrador to meet you at the door. Her office will always be a work in progress, be it a watercolor, a card to an old friend, or a manuscript. If you have a mom like mine she is a published author, a gifted poet, a charismatic speaker, a top-notch editor, and a creative writer. If you have a mom like mine, you know that she will always have an idea up her sleeve, she will always have characters chatting somewhere in the back of her head, and she will always have a cold cup of tea hidden somewhere in the house.

At times, she might go crazy. From the cords that clutter behind the TV, to dog hair that gathers in corners around the house, she might scream and yell–but who can blame her? She loves burnt toast, she loves walking on the beach in the rain, and she can read and type faster than anyone that I know.

My mom can fix anything from a broken door to a jammed zipper. She makes the best soup. She hosts the best dinner parties. My mom is the kind of friend everyone wishes they had–she is the one who will pick up the phone and call you out of the blue. My mom is the one who will send a post card to an old friend every Thursday. My mom is the one who has life long friends. My mom works hard. My mom is honest. My mom is funny. My mom is loyal. My mom is the one who you can always count on–my mom is the one who will always be there.

I love her laugh. I love her hands. I love the smell of her Jean Nate perfume when she pulls me into a hug.

My mom is a daughter, a sister, a wife, and a mother. My mom is Suz–and for me–everyday is mother’s day.

Carpe Carp Mom. I love you.

This cup is for all the moms out there–especially mine. 

Don't Rush Spring

I’m in the thick of it, where the to-do lists stack up so high I don’t know where to begin, where so many windows are open on my computer screen I can’t find the curser, where due dates feel so far away, and yet, are just around the corner. Every time I look at the clock it is always 11:25pm.

They don’t call it “spring forward” for nothing.

To be honest, I always have a difficult time transitioning from winter to (spring and) summer–to warm and warmer. I hate when it comes time to bag up my sweaters and push them deep into the back of my closet. I hate saying goodbye to my boots, putting them up on the high shelves that I can’t reach without a step stool. I hate boxing up my scarves and storing my down comforter. I hate having to think about summer shoes, stress about what SPF to put on my face, worry about mosquito bites, and fuss with having to shave my legs on a regular basis–don’t even get me started on having to (potentially) wear a bathing suit. Most people get grumpy and grouchy when they have to bundle up and layer, I get crabby and cranky when I am forced to give that up.

The responsible thing to do would be to bury myself in the thick of it. A typical student would brew espresso until their hands shook, cram and jam long into the night, walk around like a zombie by day and press the panic button. What do I do? I transform my windowsill into a desk, I move my chair so that I can watch the spring rain hit my window, I slip into my cozy socks, I sit with a cup of tea, and I flip through magazines that are months old, re-read short stories by Nora Ephron, catch up with old friends on the phone, and pull out my sketch books and drawing pens. 

Rushing does nothing. Worrying is a waste of time. Cramming is overrated. Busy is just an adjective. I am perfectly aware that I have fifty pages of writing that stand between me and summer, but I am certain, that without panic, it will all get done. 

This cup is for the rusher: slow down–sip slowly–enjoy. 

I am a Runner

The other night I was out with a friend who was referencing something else in our conversation when she said, “We (as humans) need to be loved. We need to be hugged and held and touched. We are a species that needs constant support from one another–both physical and emotional.” And she was exactly right. In the past week, this has been more apparent than ever.  In times of utter chaos, sadness, and loss, we find a way to come together, to reach out and hold onto one another, for support and reassurance that we are going to be okay.

I am a runner. When I think about whom I turn to, where my community is, and whom I can count on, it is often my running family. This is a family that meets rain or shine. Even when we have pulled an all nighter, we don’t sleep in to miss a run. Even when it is blowing horizontal sleet and rain, we don’t substitute the outdoors for a treadmill. We come together, unplugged from our phones and our computes, leaving the music behind, to talk, to listen and to share.

On bad days, we vent for miles, complaining of aches and pains, not just in our legs, but in our hearts and minds, our relationships, our work, and at home. We share the big news, the engagements, the new homes or apartments, the pregnancies, and the promotions. We log miles unloading our hopes and dreams, our fears and our worries. We have laughed until our lungs burn and our check bones hurt from smiling. We have stopped mid run to cry and hold one another. We push one another to be the best we can be. We leave no one behind and we celebrate every step, every milestone, every personal best.

I think of the countless times that I have gathered with dear friends and total strangers to take part in something that I love, that we love. Running is not just an exercise, a race shirt or a medal–it is a community, a network, and a family. All the miles that we log, pushing ourselves, enduring blisters, ugly toes, and sore muscles purely for the joy of being together, purely for the feeling that you can only understand if you, yourself, are a runner.

This week as I pulled an old race shirt over my head, slid into my running tights, and laced up my shoes, my heart felt heavy. As I made my way to the waterfront, dodging cars and pedestrians, I missed my running family back home. I felt a gaping hole in my chest, and I couldn’t catch my breath. Just when I wanted to stop and walk, just as I was about to turn around, just when I wanted to head for home, I saw them, my running community. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know a single runner on the bike path. We all felt a connection. Sporting our race shirts in solidarity for Boston, reflecting on this weeks past events, we all fell into stride. We didn’t exchange words, but instead, pounded the pavement knowing we were there for each other, knowing that we represented something bigger, knowing that we were thankful for every step, every mile, every memory. We are runners and nothing is ever going to change that.

This cup is for Boston

And my running family

(Because we never stop running.)

I have been stuck in a cubicle for too long, and in the last few months, I have come to a stark realization–a cubicle is not for me. I need more than a screensaver. I need more than a window. I need the outdoors. I need the trees. And so, all alone in my cubicle, this came to mind:

Deep in the Woods

I just want to walk into the woods.

I want to hear the branches of the trees dance in the wind.

I want the pine needles to find their way into my hair.

I want to feel the sticky sap between my fingers.

I want to find the perfect stump–a stump that is all my own.

I want to climb higher for a better view of the treetops.

I want to count the rings.

I want to hear the crunch of branches and needles beneath my feet.

I want to get lost in the shadows of the trees.

I long for muddy boots and splinters in my socks.

I dream of vast open sky and dark mossy corners.

I miss the smell of the dirt.

I miss the chill of an afternoon breeze on the back of my neck.

Dear Woods,

If I could stand up and start walking to you, I would.

I would run my hands over your hard edges.

I would lean into your out stretched arms.

I would swing on your branches.

I would sit in your quiet.

I want to walk into the woods.

And when I finally got lost, deep in the foliage,

That is when I would know –I was finally back where I belong.

-This cup is for Forest Park. I miss you more than you know.

Banana Gram

I was recently asked to talk about a travel memory. This is hard. My notebooks are filled to the brim, the corners bent down to easily access some of my very favorite days and some of my best memories, and yet, even with crumpled corners, I still end of re-reading my journals cover to cover. 

One bent corner talks about my time in Egypt. The page is dusty, the watercolor and ink bleeds through the paper onto the next page. Reading about that day brings me right back to that courtyard, right back to that heat reflecting off the pavement, right back to those kids with their arms outstretched wide. 

Enjoy!

August 2009

The sun was hot on my face as I waited in the courtyard behind the orphanage, a box of bananas at my feet, for the children to wake up from naptime. I could hear tiny voices inside, pulling on sandals, the pitter patter of small feet running down the stairs. Then, suddenly, the doors flew open and the children came running toward me. I had expected them to be timid and shy toward a new stranger, a tall blonde with a messy ponytail, and bright pink finger nail polish, I wasn’t sure what they would think. But they came running at me with open arms and smiles from ear to ear. Each little hand reached out to grab mine, run their fingers through my hair, take pictures with my camera, take turns wearing my sun glasses, reach out to be hugged and held. While I couldn’t speak their language and they couldn’t speak mine, we didn’t need words to communicate. We could show it with a quiet nod, a smile, a squeeze of the hand. Mushy banana’s coated their arms and hands, the smell of warm bananas filling the air. One little girl put the banana in her pocket, while another little girl offered up hers in exchange for mine. A little boy spent the entire snack time picking up everyone else’s banana peels and collecting them in a small red bucket, while another little boy sat next to me smiling as he ate. We spent the rest of the afternoon drawing with sidewalk chalk, and playing tag. Later that afternoon, as I made my way back to the ship, my heart felt heavy and it was then that I knew I wanted to work abroad. The banana has long since been washed from my hands, but years later, I still know that I want to work for organizations that make the world a better place. I know I want to work for the children playing in that courtyard, and for all the children who reach out to us with an open hand in hopes we will take it and guide them to a better future. I want them to know I am here and I am ready.

This cup is for all those little kids...I am still here.