Threading the needle

I found this journal prompt and decided (as I often do) to make a list. When I liked the list I made, I decided to share it with you! 🙂

  1. Relax.
  2. Breathe.
  3. Slow down.
  4. Practice patience–the things you seek are already on their way to you.
  5. Your life is okay as it is.
  6. Don’t postpone happiness–it’s yours today, if you want it.
  7. You are so loved! More than you probably know.
  8. You can still do more of the things you love.
  9. It’s okay to say no sometimes. Give yourself a break.
  10. Do at least one thing today that will help your “future self.”

Then I found this image on Pinterest when I searched “patience art.”


I was struck by its simplicity but also its message. Patience is threading the needle. You have to slow down! I drank too much coffee today–the caffeine is making me jittery and anxious. I can’t “thread my needle” when I’m like this! I’m going to practice 1-4 the rest of the day until I feel calm enough to try again.


summer’s end

I wish I wrote this. But I have no idea who did. Love.

This I did write.

I absently wonder who touched you,
the hands before, and departing rapture
the flush of skin and the fall of leaves
melting into the sunset at 7:38 pm.
now I welcome the stars
I welcome september

rainy heart.

I was talking with a friend who said that his best days, with euphoric highs, are met with rather grim and lonely days the day after. I believe this to be true. There was (is?) a certain man, with whom I spent an amazing 13 straight hours with on Saturday until 4:00 am on Sunday. In the monsoon, bunkered up, then out, then in. Reminiscing, reconnecting, rediscovering, and talking talking talking… The soul-bending kind you never want to end. Never boring. Never wanted to break the spell. Maybe he didn’t either. Was this beautiful man I’ve known for almost five years a kindred spirit who I’d somehow overlooked and relegated to friend territory? Or just another pal who happens to be fun to make out with? I’m terrified to think of anything else. After flirting coyly for ten hours he asked permission. He’s polite. One word only: ELECTRIC.

You know, when Rolfe gives Leisl her first kiss. In the rain. Of course. I fucking love that feeling. Anything is possible.

Today’s the antidote to that day. I discovered that my big-time ex has a new girlfriend or something similar, and also that my ex-best friend has unfriended me on Facebook (don’t know when she did). It’s also still raining – funny how the rain can be romantic and beautiful and somber the next day. My heart is full of gloom. I’m sentimental and embarrassed. That’s me – always breaking and mending. And I’m still waiting…

hey, you should grow a beard.

I love a nice beard more than I love most things. Always have, always will. It is probably my most favorite feature on a man. Oh, God. The bigger and bushier the better, a lot of times. Although these days, I’ll settle for what I can get. There’s a beard for almost every style. That beards are in right now works in my favor. I don’t get girls/women who like the clean-shaven military-style look. Beards are hot, historically speaking. Jesus had a beard. Abraham Lincoln. Aragorn. Let it Be-era Paul McCartney. I’m pretty sure Shakespeare had one. Lots of one-name basis dudes rocked major facial hair. Artists. Poets. Leaders. I Googled “beard porn” the other day. I’m disgusting. But I’m okay with it, as long as you are.

There are maybe three to five men in the entire world who look good and maybe even better clean-shaven. Hayden Christensen for example, should probably never grow a beard. He’s too damn pretty. Chace Crawford looks boyishly adorable when he’s only slightly scruffy. The prettier the boy the weirder a beard looks. I’ve examined my beard-lust scientifically and I hypothesize this: I’m super girly, therefore I have high levels of estrogen (oh do I!) – therefore, I seek a male counterpart with equally high levels of testosterone. Beard = manly and manly = testosterone. The juxtaposition of smooth soft girl skin and coarse man hair works out so well. It’s really the most flawless equation ever.

I love the pride that men take in their beards when they grow them “just for themselves.” What do women have that even rivals that? Take bubble baths? (Yes.) Now I’ve convinced a boyfriend or two to ditch the razor for a week, maybe two. The response they get in return makes it well worth their while, believe me. I’m always really perturbed when guys seem to honestly think that women want them to be smooth and hairless head to toe. No, lads, that’s womankind that’s been dealt the miserable hand of full-body hair removal. You go on, be hairy. The hairier the better. I’ll make myself a pillow on your chest hair and stroke your beard until I’m lulled softly to sleep. Thank you.

where HAVE all the cowboys gone?

This is a Facebook status update turned blog entry, which I’m writing because of myself but on behalf of womankind. It’s been another uneventful Friday night, just texting my BFF Molls about ex-boyfriends (which happens too much anyway) and I admitted that I still constantly wear one of my ex’s t-shirts that I “adopted” circa 2008. (Thank you M. Parsons.) The thing that got me going was not thinking oh, I really want this person back – per se – but more the wonderful, old-fashioned feeling of being cared for and adored. This was a man who drove to about 10 stores at 1 am to find duct tape for me on our first date…it was an emergency and it’s a long story, but he was/is a true boy scout/cowboy of our time. I remember our breakup like it was yesterday, vivid as can be. Unlike many of my other relationships, this one was clearly over when it was. I walked out the door and literally never looked back: No calls, no pleas…no bargaining or breakup sex. It was a clean, swift, machete-chop and he was gone from my life. We have kept in touch loosely over the years, but I’ve still never seen him since.

Now I’m twenty six and everything’s crazy and twisted, my expectations seem like they’re out in the solar system but all I really want is a guy who: 1) is interesting, 2) makes me feel special, and 3) is a good communicator. The reason I prioritize these is because lately I’m not getting any of that, or if I am, it’s sporadic and unpredictable and gives me ulcers. Being single is grand and glorious, I will rock out with my hall pass as long as that’s the Universe’s plan, and forgive me for being SUCH a fucking woman, but – dude, I want to know where it’s going. If you think I’m awesome, tell me. If you want to see me, make it happen. I guess it takes more than picking up the tab at dinner to impress me.

It’s cliche but I don’t care; I’m an old-fashioned romantic at heart. I long for the days of letter sweaters, or where men wore gloves…I want to “go steady” and hold hands under the stars.

And so I’ll end with Paula. Because girl — I finally get what you were saying back in 1996.


There is nothing quite like an Untitled document. It holds the endless promise of everything I could ever hope to say.

Meditation turns the volume up on my feelings. I cannot mute them now. Inevitably tears pour out. All that I keep locked away and secret reappears. I am burning with some hidden desire tonight.

What I want to say but cannot bring myself to is that you fascinate me. You are a boy-me. You are a mirror, man, and I look in you/at you and see me looking back. Something invisible is taking shape but I can taste it, light and frothy. I want to taste you. I want to take you in my mouth, consume you. I am curious to feel how another body responds, a thoughtful body when it boils down to base desires. I want to surprise you in ten million small ways, to memorize another face.

I am wondering when I will know. Perhaps there is a purpose in the elegant timing of it all. Eventually I will unravel myself from the shroud of lonely-grief and heartache tugging at me like a toddler on her mother’s leg – just long enough to peek out and see the bluest ever sky. No announcement will run in black and white. There is no flawless theatrical entrance or exit. All I have is now, the peace of very the sacred moment God himself has so thoughtfully lent.

a neighbor

I [almost] never go out of my way to talk to my neighbors. It’s forced awkwardness, you can’t really get away from each other anyway, and usually they’re people you wouldn’t normally associate with. I can’t imagine it any other way; you’d just be too lucky to move in next to people as rad as you. My downstairs neighbor told me yesterday she’s moving out in about a week. I’ve lost track of how long she’s been here; not as long as me, but she is the nicest neighbor I can remember having, and I have enjoyed the vague separate togetherness that comes with sharing adjacent apartments.

It’s interesting, in a voyeuristic, Rear Window kind of a way, all that your neighbors can find out about you, and you them, from only the outside in. I draw my shades almost all the way, but imagine, as my boyfriend does, that the moment we’re undressed, the folks in the house across the street are peering in, glimpsing skin, and settling in for a free peep show. People in their homes are so unguarded, so candid. In today’s world of reality TV and documentaries covering every dishy drama imaginable, one can’t help but wonder what’s really going on in these houses and apartments. 

In the past couple of years I’ve lived in this impossibly tiny, quaint, cozy little niche of an apartment, my love life has ebbed and flowed dramatically. All my neighbors saw was a series of assorted cars, parked or picking up, me leaving Friday nights schlepping home midday on Sunday in oversized t-shirts. Then the ordinary, lugging laundry baskets and environmentally-friendly totes filled with groceries. And then there’s what they’ve heard, or maybe what I hoped they didn’t…

Through the muck and mire, day-to-day, season-to-season, we learn about each other in indirect ways–in passing or emergency only. I learn she is in an abusive relationship. They have loud, frequent fights that devastate the buoyant karma of my living space. I wish all the time that she’d get out, because she’s been nothing but nice to me and I know how hard it must be. I wish for myself to find someone worthy of sticking around, at least for awhile. 

So in the end, we both have what we want. He is gone and mine is here. His head is resting on the small of my back, and he helps me clear my car off on snowy mornings before work. Neighbor notices this, remarks how special he must be if he’s won my affections. I say this is questionable since I’ve been a real handful, but he is pretty much amazing. She’s building up the confidence she’s lost from ten painful years, and starting a new life. She’s got a house on the lake and her dog for company. She’s taking the hope on her face with her, a priceless thing.