9 posts tagged “inspiration”
At last, on Thursday, I rise before the sun. Lisa stumbles down with coffee in hand and drags me out of bed. Together we pull the kayaks into the water, though first we inspect them thoroughly with flashlights, making sure there are no sleeping spiders to tickle our feet. And then with few words we push off onto an ocean of glass and mist.
The lake is still. Only one lone bird is awake and singing. Fog hangs down silent and heavy over the pines—the distant shore but a watercolor—an idea of a forest—a memory of one long ago.
As I move silently I half expect the Arthurian lady of the lake to appear and whisper something wise, perhaps ancient mother secrets of creation. My paddle dips into the water. But the ripples disappear almost instantly as we glide glide glide along the lake, paddling to the middle. The eastern sky is becoming blue now and then from behind the Monet pines fingers of orange reach up, like a hand offering hope. Then the great globe rises brilliant and true—a drop of primary color oil paint on a watercolor masterpiece: brilliant, garish, warm.
We sigh, Lisa and I. We break our silence to talk of metaphors of God and sun. I point out that every ancient culture worships the sun in one way or another because of moments just like these when a dark night instantly becomes day. More birds are in the sky and trees now waking their children and their neighbors with hymns to this hope—this promise that we have one more chance to live. The mist is fading fast, giving way to a brilliant day of blue skies.
I breathe in the smell of pine and cedar and whisper thank you. It is late before we beach the boats. Activity has broken out now on shore. I enter the cabin to see my child raise his head and smile—“Good morning, mama!” I pick him up and wrap him in his blankets, snuggling him in my lap. “Yes,” I breathe into his little ear. “it is”
I have been so grumpy lately. I have been banging-around-the-house grumpy. I think if only he knew how to spell, Max would be hanging out signs--WANTED: NICE MOM- interviewing for my replacement.
Getting rid of the foul odor in the house helped alot. Lighting my candle has helped too. Waking up to find that the couple of flies that had gotten in through the hole in the screen door had had wild nights of love that led to babies did not help. I am sick of being a nursemaid to the natural world. I grabbed the vacuum and the Raid.
After vacuuming up the wormy pre-flies and dropping Max off at the babysitter I drove directly to Pat's. It was time for an emergency intervention. I had the morning off. I hadn't seen Pat in a long while and had been feeling a need to seek her wisdom, hear about her new projects, soak up some of what she has learned. She is wise and kind and exudes love and acceptance. And she is fun to boot!
There is nothing like being nourished to soothe a grouchy soul. She made delicious green tea, a juicy fruit salad and homemade lemonade with crushed mint. We talked for hours about feng shui, Myers Briggs, the Enneagram. She told me about her latest class with Joey Yap. We dissected a project I had worked on, talked about science and spirituality, Chinese metaphysics. We pulled out books and papers and poured over them together. Compared notes, nodded alot, furrowed our brows and then said "Aha!". Sitting with Pat it all seemed to be true and real and of course! and why not?
And then the big OF COURSE hit me. I am happiest when I am being nourished in community. A big long table loaded with potluck foods. A lovely community loaded with ideas and concepts to share. Working together with someone wise on something mutually loved is nothing short of bliss.
I left feeling energized. Something in my soul shifted a little and made room for possibilities and for hope. I realized what I been seeking all these days that I have been mopey. I am in need of the company of wise women & conspirators in creativity. I have been going at my projects alone these days, trying to figure it out on my own. Its become a way of life really, proving to myself that I can do it all my own. I know I can now but I don't always need to do so. The self sufficiency and independence I have achieved is rewarding but as Winnie the Pooh says, "Its so much friendlier with two".
So much friendlier with two indeed!
Last night I got a letter from Anne.
I heart real letters. Not all letters-just the ones that I get in my mailbox from someone who doesn't want money from me. From someone who actually has news or something wise to say. From someone who is thinking of me.
There is something about actually holding a piece of paper, the heft of it adding weight to the importance of the communication. The permanence of it.
I relish the fact that the letter was once actually held in the hands of the person writing to me. The author's joy, sadness, boredom, yearning all imprinted into the paper like little energy fingerprints. I love that a dear one put it in an envelope and selected a stamp, walked to a mailbox and remembered to send it off and that ultimately some kind mailcarrier placed it in a pile just for me. A long chain of tiny acts of deliberate intention.
I appreciate all the clues on a letter that set the prose into context. The coffee stain on the back that tells me it was morning (or maybe late at night) when the thoughts tumbled out...the handwriting so small and intense or loopy and hopeful, the bored doodles in the margins. A series of crossed out thoughts that reveal a distracted mind. Are those tears that smudged the ink? Sometimes the paper is smooth and perfect--the letter carefully written with no mistakes. A finished product with a rough draft crumbled up in the trash. Perhaps if I am lucky I can catch a whiff of familiar perfume.
You can take email, with its showy instantaneousness. I'll take a letter any day.
Last December I was cleaning out a closet in the room that is now my office. It's what a real estate agent might call a bonus closet--the deep dark extra closet that becomes a catch all for life's baggage. Ten years ago when we moved into this house I used it as a place to park the countless boxes of memoirs I have dragged around with me all my life. After so many years, so little attention, and a new-found disdain for clutter, I tackled the closet expecting to be able to throw away whole piles quite quickly. Instead I found myself seated in the midde of the room surrounded by pages of others' lives captured in pen--secret confessions, mundane news whispered to me on paper. There was the card, scribbled quickly with a bright colored pen to ease the loneliness of life after college, the long letter from a friend in the Navy--out to sea and pensive. The newsy letters from girlfriends, recounting dates gone bad, weekend plans and new jobs, new homes, new love.
And among all these gems, some written over 20 years ago, was a long letter full of poetry. It was from the guy I had dated the summer between my freshman and sophmore years of college, a summer that was purely magical - a bridge between innocence and maturity. That summer was a time before I knew about real heartache and crushed dreams, when life seemed like one long infinite stretch of nothing but possibility. I was head over heels not only with him but with life and all that the future could hold. We kept in touch for a few months once back in school, before life took us in different directions. His letters were some of the best I ever received.
Holding that paper in my hands again, rereading those bold, sweet, vulnerable words only a 19 year old could pen, my heart sang just as it had half a lifetime away. For a brief moment I was back sitting on the floor of the hallway of my dorm, reading those words for the first time, all giddy and sparkly.
I have to admit that this January I carried that particular letter around with me for a couple of days tucked safely into my notebook. The hopefulness and warmth that it represented to me seemed like a perfect talisman for the coming new year. When I was at last ready to put it down I pulled out a pen and some notebook paper and wrote him a long letter with blessings and warm wishes for his older, less innocent, self and the family that I was sure he must have. I googled him and found an address for his oncology practice, put a stamp on it and sent it on its way. I giggled when I thought of the many different ways it could be received. Would he be shocked? Thrilled? Terrified? Call for a restraining order?
Last March, on a miserable dark night I went to my mailbox and pulled out the bills and circulars. I sifted through and found a heavy envelope, the handwriting eerily familiar but a return address I could not quite place. I went inside, made some tea and opened it curiously. It was a most lovely four page letter, handwritten on a legal pad, slightly torn at the top, a chronicle of 4 precious children, an amazing wife, a busy medical practice and happiness found in the midwest. The best kind of news...A shot of sunshine loaded with humor. His voice the same, just wiser. I couldn't have asked for a more glorious response. It too made me feel sparkly but in a grown-up, more settled and less naive kind of way.
Letters can do that in a way no other form of communication can.
Sure I enjoy the spontaneity of email--how it makes you feel so close to someone so far away. I appreciate the convenience of text messages too. And I have been known to spend a late night here or there whispering on the phone for hours, hearing the voice of someone who makes me smile.
But letters, letters are works of art.
I love letters.
everyone I know read this post by Jen Lemen, picked something on it and did it by Saturday next. I think the world would shift in small but amazing ways...I double dog dare ya...
I have always been blessed with nightimes full of lush rich dreams. For as long as I can remember I have had an imaginary world that I visit on many a night, a magnificent and magical place as familiar to me as my own home town, populated by friends from the real world as well as reoccuring characters I meet only at night. The colors in this world glisten, pop and shine. In fact the streets and storefronts often shimmer as though a rainstorm had just passed and the sun (or moon) is now breaking through. The narratives in these dreams are complex and long. While not always pleasant, and frequently trippy and surreal, my dreamworld is the place I go to listen to my heart and restore my soul.
But lately, my dreams have more resembled grainy, badly lit B-movies. I have dreamt in shades of gray and mud. The scenes are short and clipped--stark. The dialogue is bad. I have frequently awakened and wished not to dream again.
And this has made me sad. So very sad and desperate that this weekend I ordered Clarissa
Pinkola Estes'
audio CD called Bedtime Stories. The subtitle "a unique guided relaxation program for falling asleep and entering the world of dreams seemed like "just the ticket" and I figured it anyone's voice would carry me back to my beloved world, the lovely Pinkola Estes would.
It arrived on my doorstep last night and after I put Max to sleep I too climbed into bed and popped it in to my trusty CD player. To be honest I can't give a complete and honest review--I was asleep a good 35 minutes into it but I am certain that it is as precious as diamonds.
For last night for the first time in weeks, I had the most amazing technicolor dream. It went like this:
I am supposed to go out to dinner with a long-time crush--a once upon a time guy who always made my heart just go a pitter patter. Its not a date or anything but I want it to go well so he will notice me, think I am special. Unfortunately as I am getting ready everything starts to go wrong. The beautiful outfit that I put on is ruined. I must run back and change. Each time I dress myself in less chic and flattering clothes, each time they are ruined and I am forced to try and put something together. He arrives and we attempt (for what seems like painfully long hours) to get to dinner but we cannot get there. Extreme personally embarrasing incident after incident keeps us from getting to the perfect restaurant--the one that serves the food I know he will love. I am feeling frustrated and a failure. And then as I teeter on the verge of giving up and going home this long-time Crush reaches out and kisses me--passionately. The rest of the dream is for me alone...
I wish I could say that I woke up certain that my long-time crush would walk into my life and sweep me off my feet, but the reality is I did not. I know that my dreams are not premonitions or foretellings. They are not clarivoyant. The Medium I am not. No, my dreams at best are whispered messages from my inner soul to myself. And last night this is what she said:
No matter how much it all falls apart, you are wrapped in an intimate and passionate embrace, held gently by something greater. No matter what you do, what you look like, how you unravel and mess up, you are loved--deeply in the way you want to be loved.
This is the most hopeful dream I have had in a long time. I am going to go put that CD on again.
Blessings to you all this night.
And sweet, sweet dreams.
On Wednesday night, I went out to dinner with my boss and some other colleagues at Morton's steak house. Thats the place where they don't give you a menu, they just wheel in a cart loaded up with steaks as big as your head. While it oozed testosterone and had the air of backroom deals and macho power lunches (not really my kind of place), I was so happy to be there that I practically glowed every single second. I didn't even mind that my car got locked into the office garage and that I had to take a $25 dollar taxi ride home. I got to have wine and chocolate cake for dessert.
There are many days that I regret having to work outside the home. On a beautiful summer morning, when many friends are gearing up to take the kids to the pool, I grouchily struggle into hose and heels and head into the office. In the evenings, it can be stressful to mentally transition from the "shark-eat-shark"-ish Washington job to the gentler land of playmobil, playdates and parks. Most days I really struggle to go from patient, loving and infinitely curious to efficient and curt, and back again in the space of 10 hours. I long to live in just one world where it would be so much simpler. And since I know I couldn't live without my Maxidoodle, I long to be a work-at-home Mom.
But tonight I relish having my foot squarely planted in two worlds.
For one, there are all those cliches that are actually true about the advantages of working outside the home: You get to stretch your mind, have 8 hours of grown-up time, wear pretty clothes without vomit on them. After a long days work at the office I can often measure progress concretely: a polished memo, a well-run meeting, a decision that's been made. After a long day's work at home the results are less concrete: the house is just as messy (even though I spent all day picking up), the boy is just as messy (despite 2 baths), and all the love and attention I have poured out leaving me drained is still sinking into his little heart with few visible side effects. The victories at home are smaller and can be missed if you blink. No communications expert will broadcast to the world "Max used kind words 8 out of 10 times today. Mom making progress on teaching compassion" the way my team's successes might be touted by press release.
But I am not writing all of this to convince anyone that it's good to be a mom who works outside the house. That's not my point. Not at all. In fact, I love being with my son and in our home so fiercely I would give it all up without looking back if only I could. But tonight as I think about the steak I had at Morton's, I find myself thinking that sometimes the universe puts me exactly where I need to be to learn exactly what I need to know. And lately thats been in this crazy duality called "working mom".
Me, I have been known to be a "grass-is always-greener" girl. Its not unusual for me to realize I have spent whole minutes, hours, even days yearning to be somewhere different than where I am. This situation I am in--this living in two worlds--can bring out the best of that "grass is greener" thinking. As I rush out the door on a sunny morning--I wistfully watch the stay at home mom load her kids in the car and remember the joy of splashing in the pool or running in the park with Max. However, staying home from work with my little guy, picking up dirty socks for the fifth time in 3 hours, I find myself thinking about being at the top of my DC game, productive and making stuff happen.
Sometimes when I notice that I am doing this I get really really mad at myself and this silly way I torture myself. My inner critic joins in the fun. "What's wrong with you woman? Can't you be satifsfied?" If I am lucky I remind myself to breathe.
But lately, sometimes, with a little bit of grace something else may happen. I ignore my inner critic and simply make a note to self. On a lovely summer workday not that long ago, as I dragged the briefcase to the car I found myself wistfuly dreaming of the look of pure joy on my son's face when I tell him we are pool bound. Instead of indulging in the drama of "Oh why can't I be doing that? Its not fair!" and then "What's wrong with you? Many women would kill for your job" that morning I simply smiled and filed it away. Later that week when I was up to my ears in dirty dishes and dreaming of being fabulous in a meeting I did the same thing. Notice. Sigh. File.
I have to say this has been much more pleasant than beating myself up. But its not the end of the story. For the universe had a few tricks up her sleeve these days. Sometimes she mixed up my files.
It went something like this. I am telling Max to put on his shoes for the 29th time. With great tension in my voice I say "If you want to get to the pool before it closes we need to go NOW". I instinctively reach for the file--the one that tells me I would rather be at work being smart,well-dressed and listened to. But instead, the picture I take out is the one I filed a few mornings before--the one that reminds me how much I want to be in this spot. How fabulous it is to take Max swimming. How much joy it gives the both of us. How there is no other place I want to be in the world than exactly where I am. The reminder I never would have filed unless I had to go to work. I sigh...the edge falls out of my voice and I relax into the moment.
And then there I am on Wednesday night, a little bit grouchy that I am missing my baby's bedtime to go to a stuffy restaurant with a bunch of men. I go to pull out the yearning for my boy's sweet smell but again I grab the wrong file. I pull out the one I filed at the kid-friendly restaurant where I said "Sit down and eat" for the 14th time. The one where I told myself how much I wish I could be at a grown-up restaurant with people who ask me any question but "Can I please please please have soda?". And then something shifted. Suddenly there was nowhere else I wanted to be than Mortons. Yes, there I was, enjoying every single bite, laughing at the guy I didn't know was funny, basking in the fun of the work dinner at the steak place with the guys. Its a miracle of sorts. A funny sweet joke. A knock me over with a feather life lesson.
It seems that all the while that I had been whining about my two worlds, I was really building up a catalogue of all I love about my life. A catalogue I had simply been accessing all wrong until a little bit of grace set me right.
I am trying to figure out how to wrap this post up. How to summarize this insight in a clever way. But I am still giddy with the miracle of figuring it out and therefor not feeling pithy or clever. Instead of mourning this reality I will just giggle and enjoy the gifts of this moment and spare you a conclusion. I will simply smile and just enjoy being exactly where I am right now.
Blessings to you this night. May you find yourself a gift in every minute of this weekend no matter where you are.
When I was a little girl, I would spend hour after hour composing elaborate stories. The stories were little more than a record of each and every little detail of a fantasy world I had just created: the yellow French dot cotton dress that my heroine was wearing--her strawberry blond hair plaited neatly into two braids tied with grossgrain ribbon, the sun falling just so on her basket of flowers that contained roses (pink and yellow), daisies and sunflowers. The details I described were always so over the top idyllic. There was never anything dark, dreary or tense in these stories. The were simply descriptions of a beautiful life.
As an adolescent I hated those stories. They seemed to me to be just childish lists of details--the stories had little if any plots now matter how well the scenes had been set. In fact, looking back, it was when I read my plotless stories with a cynical teenage eye that I started to tell myself I had no talent for writing.
Every now and then when I am talking I revert to my childhood love of detail. I set up the points I am trying to make with elaborate metaphors and delight as much in creating the color in the comparisons as I do in conveying my thought. Sometimes my oh-so-patient friends have to gently ask me to get to the point. I have spent many years apologizing for my "circumloquation". But now I am starting to embrace it. Because living with such detail requires that I pay attention--whether its to the here and now or the dream in my head. And paying attention means drinking in life. And that is a good thing. It will be what saves me.
Somewhere along the path to adulthood I lost my ability or rather my willingness to pay attention. Being a productive and successful somebody in Washington DC means walking quickly while on the cellphone, composing memos on the metro, working in a taxi, reading your email, making a decision, running a meeting all while walking to dentist. By age 30 I could have competed in the ultimate Multitasking Olympics. When Max was a toddler I could read whole stories to him (with feeling no less! ) and realize as we closed the book that I hadn't taken in the story--at all. Even if pressed with my son's life on the line, I couldn't tell you what the story was about. I had read the story while all the while working out a sticky work problem in my head. I felt madly productive, if a little bit empty.
When my marriage went south, the inner dialogue became about that. These, however, were problems I couldn't solve. And as my inner announcer indulged in instant replay after instant replay I started to drown. It was 24/7--all day, every day. Suddenly my ability to multitask became a liability.
And then, as if by divine intervention, I realized that the only way to survive, to stay sane, would be to pay attention to what I was doing at that exact moment. If that chatterbox inside my head was going to do a play by play it would have to focus on what was happening at that exact moment.
My inner dialogue went something like this:
I am reading a story about a bear to my son.
The book feels heavy in my hands.
Max smells like soap (or dirt). Breathe in.
Pay attention to the words.
This is a lovely story.
The colors in this book are really rich.
or
I am walking to the coffee place.
I am feeling really stressed.
I am feeling really tired.
The sun is shining--it must be 86 degrees out.
That lady is wearing a hideous blue suit.
At first it felt odd and stilted and a complete waste of time. And then after awhile I noticed the inner dialoge would slow down when I was caring for Max, engrossed in a book, or gardening. It stayed focused on I was doing, accept to tell me how I was feeling or to get a glass of water.
About 8 months after Juan left me I was wandering around Rio de Janiero by myself in the rain. (I had gone there for work). Drinking in the sights and smells so rich and luscious I suddenly I realized I hadn't been talking to myself at all for over an hour-maybe two. I had just been moving silently through the day paying attention to each and every thing I saw, heard, or smelled-without comment!. When I met my friend Eddie later I was so excited to share my realization with him but I didn't even know how to begin talking about a concept so deeply personal. I kept the secret to myself but bubbled all night from the joy of it.
I have to admit, the productivity that I had prided myself on dropped substantially when I relearned to pay attention. Frankly it has never really recovered, not to the level it once was at least. When I take a taxi, I look out the window or talk to the driver or listen to what he has playing on the radio. When I walk to the dentist I watch the people on the street. I get a lot less done, however I feel a tiny ounce more connected with the world around me and a bit more nourished, more alive--and that is worth a thousand things crossed off my to do list.
Still, now that the drama of my life has returned to the more mundane I find myself slipping into my old bad habit again. My inner voice has begun to build grocery lists while I am gardening, obsess about a deadline while putting Max to sleep. I miss the light change on the sofa, the sound of the water fountain, the squeal of the bats in my yard as they set out for the night while I play a scene with my boss over in my mind. I have been complaining lately of how exhausted I feel. I wonder if it is because I am ignoring my need to pay attention and take in every glorious detail of the world around me while I obsess over the things that bother me. I miss the glorious moment I am in while staying stuck in the bad ones that already have passed. I need to gently remind myself to pay attention. .
Max has just awoken from his nap. He stretches one little hand into my line of view. A songbird is chirping in the distance. My right foot has fallen asleep and my calf is tense. I am feeling chilly. Breathe in. Breathe out. Write.
Today is May 4, the day my dear friend Anne was born. Break out the fireworks people--its practically a national holiday in my book.
I feel truly blessed to have a friend like her. I honestly believe that this world would be a little bit more sane if only everyone knew and listened to Annie. Here are just a few of the millions of reasons why I love her so.
Anne wraps up chocolate bars, tea bags, soap and hair clips in very pretty paper and sends them priority mail to mark special events.
When Maxidoodle went through his jigsaw puzzle phase she wrote him letters on blank puzzles and sent them in the mail all broken up.
She calls to reminds me when it is free cone day at Ben and Jerry's.
When Juan left me, Anne planned a trip to fly down from Boston by herself with an infant in tow. She planned it two weeks out so that I would have something to look forward to. Knowing she was coming allowed me to put one foot in front of the other during those lonely two weeks.
Anne is the strongest person I know. Six weeks after the death of her infant son she held my newborn and told me he was beautiful.
Anne was my first grown-up friend who "got me"--took me for face value without an ounce of judgement. No matter how kooky I am it doesn't phase her--she understands.
Anne has known me at my most irresponsible, my most childish, my most hateful, my most selfish and my saddest hours and has continued to love me without a second thought.
Anne is never afraid to ask questions. Her curiousity about the smallest of details delights me. For nearly twenty years she has forced me to slow down and really look and attempt to answer why.
Anne is honest with herself about her feelings, no matter how ugly or scary they may be. She expects the same of me too.
She writes letters longhand.
Anne knows how to laugh. She and I can laugh for hours. Her laughter is like music to me--a deep Buddha like sound. A prayer. We laugh about everything--the hysterically funny, the absurd, the joyful and the sad.
She knows where all the good bargains are. She shares that information with me.
She sang"Me and Bobby McGee" to a packed house and would have made Janis herself proud.
She uses perfect grammar. I don't and she never ever makes me feel bad about it.
She listens with a big wide open compassionate heart to everyone she talks to.
She has tutored adults who don't know how to read.
She goes to dances with her uncle-in-law Leo.
She taught me about Trader Joes, rooibus tea, non-toxic cleaning products, Garcia-Marquez, Madrid, Irish immigration French cooking, copper pots and countless other topics.
She has spent hours with me wandering around bookstores.
She loves the library and the beach and The New Yorker and Brainchild Magazine as much as I do.
She says "I love you" without fear.
Annie with her precious daughter Isabel two years ago on a rescue mission to Maryland.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANNIE! May your year be full of abundance and joy!
My friend Jen Lemen recently posted on her blog her list of her 50 most favoritest things. I have been singing the lyrics from the Sound of Music (raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...) all day as I tried to shake the Monday (end of beautiful weekend) blues. As an exercise in focusing on the positive I decided to compose my very own list right here...right now to help me smile my way into Tuesday...
1. Maxidoodle and friends deep in conversation or in the throngs of imaginary play.
2. Taking a long quiet walk through the woods.
3. Baking bread and then eating it.
4. Armfuls of fresh cut flowers.
5. Musicals of any kind, shape or variety but especially this one.
6. Black tea with milk and sugar made for me by my father (no one makes tea like dad).
7. The smell of hyacith.
8. A fresh breeze blowing through the house.
9. The sound of a wooden screen door closing.
10. The Rhode Island shore-any month of the year.
11. The sound of my mom and aunt singing together.
13. Stationary, ribbons, stickers, journals.
14. Office supplies (I know that's wierd but I love them, especially little flags that you can put on things to mark them as significant) and the office supply stores where you buy them.
15. A new notebook--preferably a college-rule composition book.
16. Uniball Impact RT gel pens--in black.
17. Music drifting in or out windows.
18. Wandering around a city with Anne.
19. Reading aloud and being read to.
20. Staying up really late talking.
21. First snowfalls.
22. Dancing with Max to music cranked up WAY loud.
23. The month of May.
24. Yarn stores.
25. Silk and bamboo.
26. A week at the lake in Maine.
27. Getting presents (just because). Giving presents (just because).
28. Spontaneous neighborhood get togethers.
29. Friends who show up unannounced.
30. Handwritten letters.
31. Following a stream.
32. Silence.
33. Getting up early before the world is awake.
34. Grace O'Malley
35. Bellydancing (in my kitchen or at class)
36. The moment when the phone rings and the person you were just thinking about calls you.
37. Cheese--especially gorgonzola.
38. The Enneagram
39. The library and used bookstores
40. The sound of bells.
41. Chai tea with steamed milk.
42. Drinking tea (or wine) from those wonderful cups Jackie makes that fit perfectly in your hands.
43. Dark chocolate with chili peppers and Oaxacan hot chocolate
44. Ikea and anything Swedish
45. Knitting, knitting and knitting
46. Waking up to find Rosie the cat asleep on top of me
47. Neighborhood cats and dogs who come by to say hello.
48. Sitting on the beach with Erica.
49. A good tough hike.
50. Watching Max sleep
What do you love? What warms your soul and brightens your day? If your life was a musical and you had to sing about your favorite things what would they be?
