30 June 2019


things I want to remember about june:

strawberry picking on the very first day 
the cutting of roadside flowers, the dancing as cars flew past
the first bright red cherry tomato 
the first tiny chamomile flower blooms
the standing in the backyard with a bowl of ice cream and strawberries, the blink of lightning bugs all around
the feeling in that moment that nothing else really mattered
the way I could not stop laughing at the spinning woman
the discovery of blackberry bushes along the back edges of the yard 
the discovery of a secret magic lightning bug place
the walks I took with lucy
ice cream cones in the car in the rain
ezras's fifteenth birthday and the junk food sleepover
sitting in the backyard in the dark with God
the cutting of the strawberries, fingers stained pink, kitchen filled with the scent 
the organizing of four summers worth of collected seashells
the putting up of that tent, looking out through the top at the night sky
dinners outside on the patio with the little red and white checked tablecloth
the butterfly that kept visiting my garden
the black-eyed susans that lasted forever
the walk to the park, the time we spent on the swings
strawberry paletas from the ice cream truck, the long shadows of skateboarders
the film the last black man in san francisco, three times, three times I went
cut lemon balm in a jar next to my bed
the baking of a strawberry cake (with strawberries picked) from scratch
the hour I spent at the book store 
the jolts of color that are the marigolds, the dahlias, the zinnias
the promise of the cosmos, of leggy sunflowers
topo chico bottles lining my kitchen windowsill
ava's unexpected bubble habit
the dragging of ava's mattress into ezra's room for adventure time marathons
the time I cut all the sleeves off of all my shirts and felt free for a second
the moment ava and I discovered the camping lantern also functioned as a disco light
the night we spent in the tent, disco lantern flashing
ava, nervous and excited at orientation
ezra, in late afternoon light, magic, honeyed light 
the violent rush of the chattahoochee beneath me
barbeque sandwiches and lemon merinque pie on an old greyhound bus
colors and pattern and infinite quiet at st. EOM's pasaquan
the traveling down the back roads of georgia
the standing beneath a three hundred year-old oak
the sky wild with pinks and oranges on our first night in florida
my feet in the ocean on the very last day

29 June 2019


things seen today:

old school pool umbrellas
a three hundred year-old live oak
a giant wooden milk carton in the middle of a field
wildflowers run riot along the side of the highway
two billboards for machine gun america
an elegant live oak heavy with spanish moss next door to a gas station
a billboard boasting 'live baby gators and florida tee-shirts'
a billboard boasting a country radio station that plays 'no rap and no crap' 
(in comic sans font no less, as if that no rap/no crap bit wasn't laughable and/or offensive enough)
a cloud clearly shaped like the letter L
a colossal confederate flag, large enough to cover a parking lot
(what I wouldn't give to burn it)
an endless, hopeful expanse of water the color of slate
a dozen gleaming airstream trailers
a slew of pink-tipped clouds
the bottom end of a double rainbow
bubbles in the car

america is nothing if not an endless, maddening contradiction.

28 June 2019


things seen today:

a giant smiling peanut
the inside of an old greyhound bus
lemon meringue pie like a cloud
a mammoth yellow moth at the gas station
a pick-up truck graveyard
burning bales of hay
magic pasaquan color and pattern
hand-painted produce signs
roadside swamps and white egrets
joseph and the technicolor pool noodles
an entire field of sunflowers, all turned toward the sun
railroad ties stacked like lincoln logs
a thrift store called THANK GOD
bubbles in the motel room

27 June 2019


things seen today:

sidewalks littered with pink petals
a man in a dark suit and charcoal fedora feeding birds at the bus stop
victorian homes like complicated, sugary cakes
a taco bell marquee that read 'nacho fries missed you' 
a man cutting another man's hair on the bridge at sunset
a neon pink sky, serrated

26 June 2019



three things I always bring on the road with me:

my favorite cotton beach blanket 
empty bonne maman jars 
instant film 

25 June 2019


things I feel I simply must do the day before a big trip:

pull out entire contents of bathroom
organize said contents, particularly the travel size toiletries 
fall down sunscreen research rabbit hole
test all nail polish colors
test all lipstick colors
make packing list
re-write list two, maybe three times
re-write list until in perfect order
spend inordinate amount of time on list
deep clean entire house

24 June 2019


things I spent way too much time doing today:

finishing that savannah list

23 June 2019


day three//01

the walk we take every time we visit savannah-- people, places, things-- the exact route, we are nothing if not predictable:

we start at foxy loxy, always
we order coffee and churro muffins, always
and sometimes also tacos and chipotle pimiento cheese and bottles of mexican coke
we sit upstairs, out on the porch, or in the courtyard in back, we discuss the day at hand
we walk north on bull street for several blocks, stopping whenever we feel like it
sometimes this means a stop at the sacred heart church, sometimes not
we walk until bull street dead ends into forsyth park
we marvel over the long tree-lined corridor ahead
we marvel over live oaks, hectic with spanish moss
inevitably, comparisons are made between the moss and ward's beard
inevitably, photographs are taken of said comparison
we continue on towards the fountain, we can't see it yet but we know it's there
we pass by a confederate statue, we do not like it, we talk loudly about how we do not like it, we consider vandalism
once we pass the statue, we look for forsyth fountain in the distance
we walk past the big playground chimes on the left, we always stop to play them
we make a beeline for the swings, also on the left, we always stop for the swings
we swing for a little while, I mean, we have the whole day ahead of us
we wander over to the garden of fragrance which is indeed fragrant
we continue on towards the fountain, which is in full view now and makes us all feel very european
we reach the fountain and do all the fountain things-- toss pennies in, close eyes, make wishes, feel fountain mist on our skin
we find benches in which to sit and watch the people 
we wander deeper into the park on paths that veer to the right, towards drayton street
we cross drayton to stand beneath the mammoth 300 year-old candler oak 
we make our way back through the park to the fountain, then back on the path towards bull street
we leave the park, cross over gaston street and continue on bull
we stop at alex raskin antiques, which is really more like a museum than anything
we walk past the mercer williams house, through monterey square, back onto bull
meanwhile, we pass stairways that feel otherworldly, like this one and this one and this one 
we cross jones street, contemplate a turn right or left here, as the houses that line it are so pretty it hurts
we think about stopping at the gryphon for tea and pimiento sandwiches, we think about it but we never do it
we stop in at the SCAD shop and pretend we might buy art
we cut through madison square over to e. shaver books
we look in the side window for the cat that lives there
we type out cryptic messages on the old typewriter provided and leave them behind
we dream of buying a stack of books but leave with maybe one or two
we continue on bull street towards liberty
we look for the book lady shop's small cherry red awning and make a beeline for it
we step down into the shop, which feels like a little world tucked beneath another more obvious world
we squeeze through narrow nooks and aisles stacked neatly, if not a bit precariously, with used books
we find a spot on the cracked brown leather sofa, look through books piled in a suitcase that always seems to be there
we want to buy all the old books here too, always, but never leave with more than one or two
we continue on bull, walk through chippewa square, also known as the place forrest gump sat while he waited for that bus
we find a bench of our own, where we can sit and rest and watch the people
we look to the right of the square for the old savannah theatre
we continue on bull, make a right on york and head towards a tiny gem of a place called zunzi's 
we order the best sandwich in the world, the conquistador
we eat this extraordinary sandwich on a patio underneath rainbow umbrellas
we head back towards bull, through wright square over to wright street antiques
we spend a little time here, at this wright street antiques place
we sift through record albums and old photographs, we hope for a little something to bring home
we head on towards broughton street, where we also spend a little time
we visit the paris market for various curiosities and pretend we are going to buy all the things
then my people hit the comic book shop while I wander back alleys
we contemplate ice cream at leopald's, home of the original tutti frutti, but the line is always stupid
instead, we continue on bull, past the old lucas theatre, through johnson square, towards the riverfront
while on river street, we consider the free ferry ride across the river, but we never do it, I don't know why
we sit there for a little while, we wave at boats, feel like tourists
inevitably, we visit the candy shop, spend a stupid amount of money on paltry bags of saltwater taffy and slivers of fudge
we eat said overpriced candy immediately, as we desperately need the sugar high for the long trek back to the car
we begin to snake our way back, which nows feels like a hundred million miles away
we begin to have some regrets
we wander through colonial park cemetery along the way, which is really only slightly off the beaten path 
we're practically delirious now with exhaustion, sugar high wearing off, not thinking clearly
but the light is usually golden by the time we reach it, shadows long, perfect for cemetery wandering
we consider the history, which is a wild one, we discuss it in hushed tones
we look for signs of ghosts, vow to come back after dark
we meander back towards the forsyth park fountain, which, at this point, feels like a mother scratching beacon of hope
we take a little break at the dueling oaks
we are tired, but we soldier on
we are tired, but also, happy



bull street



colonial (one)

colonial (two)

on a wednesday

lesser known


post post













savannah, georgia back in april and additionally, here are the lists I made during my time there: 

124/365 (portraits I wanted to make)
125/365 (things found)
126/365 (things we stopped for)

22 June 2019


other things done on the first day of summer:

followed a butterfly around the garden for a few minutes
inspected the cherry tomatoes, noticed spots
googled said spots
rubbed a few mint leaves between my fingers, inhaled
contemplated sprinklers
contemplated how good it might feel to run through one
contemplated water balloons
contemplated, that is all
purchased a small watermelon
purchased a quart of ice cream, rainbow jimmies
called my dad, sang happy birthday
celebrated my parents 50th wedding anniversary in my own small way
baked a strawberry cake with strawberries I picked myself
thought about how much my mom would have loved that
ate dinner outside
ate strawberry cake
set up that tent

(the rest, of course, you already know)

21 June 2019


done on the first day of summer:

bought a tent, on a whim
put up said tent in the backyard
marveled at the beauty and wonder of this tent
wondered why we have lived a tentless life for so many years
spread a plethora of sheets and pillows inside
ran a cord from the house to the tent for the small lamp I felt I simply must have
laid down inside with the kids, stared up at the sky
watched lightning bugs and the occasional airplane overhead 
then, miraculously, a shooting star
listened to the sound of cicadas and crickets and frogs, an impossible chorus
consumed sweet and sour twizzlers 
drank ice water out of jam jars
brought in air mattresses, blankets, more pillows
contemplated movies for watching
settled in for the night
saw flashes of heat lightning in the distance 
saw flashes of regular lightning even closer, heard thunder
felt the wind pick up, the beginnings of a storm
made a run for the house

(happy summer solstice, friends)

20 June 2019


unlikely places

forever inspiration:

the walk as the work
a friendship that is wholly gorgeous and tender and real

19 June 2019


things I do when things are too much and the world is too much and I can't breathe, part two:

walk to the park
make a beeline for the swings
listen to stevie wonder 
stand in the backyard
look up

(seriously though stevie wonder for whatever ails you)

18 June 2019


spotted recently:

gulf fritillary, like royalty, in my little garden
a woodpecker at work on a nearby tree
a neon green lizard, resting in the shade of lettuce leaves
a young praying mantis wobbling her way up the back door
a large swooping owl, black snake dangling from his mouth (not kidding)
two deer, sprinting from the road to the woods behind our house
three rabbits, white cottontails and all, along the back edges of the yard
three bats, looping and diving for mosquitos at dusk
more lightning bugs than I could ever count

17 June 2019


mistakes I keep making:

scrolling instead of reading
saying things I shouldn't when I'm angry
waiting until 11:30 at night to make these lists

16 June 2019


photobooth friday

things my dad taught me:

how to be goofy
how to be generous
how to have fun, how to have so much fun
how to shoot a basketball
how to root for the underdog
how to be passionate
how make people feel like they belong
how to ride a bicycle
how to dance
how to tell a story
how to listen
how to be humble
how to persevere
how to drive a stick shift
how to roadtrip on a shoestring budget
how to clean a house (or, how to rage vacuum)
how to build a fire pit
how to do a lot with a little
how to believe in myself, really believe in myself
how to push myself
how to do hard things
how to serve others
how to have compassion
how to love God
how to be thankful
how to laugh
how to cry

15 June 2019


saturday night:

barbeque sandwiches
the sounds of cicadas
the hum of the air conditioner
strawberries, fresh whipped cream
lightning bugs, again
the moon, again

14 June 2019


friday night:

photographs of bubbles
lamentations over the last of the gooey butter cake
the last black man in san francisco
backyard moonlight bathing
a lightning bug, inside our house

(oh my goodness run run run to see the last black man in san francisco)

13 June 2019


things I can't bring myself to throw out, part one:

strawberry-stained paper towels
empty topo chico bottles
film cannisters

12 June 2019


things that comfort me, part one:

sitcom reruns
stacks of books next to the bed
my coffee in the same cup every morning

11 June 2019


folly beach, part two

things I genuinely love about ezra:

appreciates a perfectly ripe avocado as much as a fresh bag of hot chili pepper takis
toggles between intense bursts of video game-playing and book-reading with enviable ease 
gets as excited as I do about lightning bugs *and* lightning whelks
gets why bottle rocket is clearly wes anderson's best film and can now insert the lil banana quote into any given conversation
keeps jars of old skeleton keys and vintage watch parts and various found objects in his room
never met a toddler (or cat) who did not absolutely love him
actually reads books I recommend (and then lets me tell him why they're important)
knows when to put the controller down and get on his bike and ride
often carries a small black backpack he refers to as his 'adventure sack'
has pretty exceptional observational skills
sincerely appreciates a good road trip
is diligently working on folding a thousand paper cranes
shares his favorite songs with me at the end of long days when I just can't with people and the world anymore
makes a mean turkey avocado sandwich
will watch episodes of seinfeld and the office and parks and rec over and over and over again with me
takes the art he makes seriously
once declined an opportunity visit the city where he grew up (portland) because he wanted to 'remember it the way it was'
brings me things like tiny flowers and paint palettes from art class
has a writer in him fighting to get out
has recently taken up whittling
is not stingy with hugs

(happy 15th birthday to my favorite boy in the world and someday when you are reading through my old blog posts, I hope you find this and I hope it brings you so much joy)

10 June 2019


junk food purchased today for a birthday junk food sleepover tonight:

gummy worms
sour gummy worms
so much chocolate
and lots of orange food
like cheetos
and takis
and bacon-flavored cheezits
last but not least:
birthday cake oreos

you only turn fifteen once.

though admittedly, I did feel as if I needed to explain myself to the target cashier.

09 June 2019



small pleasures, part eight:

fortune cookies
airplane window seats
the first five minutes of a hot bath
freshly sharpened pencils
the smell of rain
fake accents

08 June 2019


the week in wonders:

ladybug swarms
public punching bags
fruit sticker artistry
furry neon caves
bread cameras

07 June 2019


it's in our future


photobooth friday

plus milk



totally lickable

excuses I have made (and will probably continue to make) to eat donuts:

it's the first day of school
it's the last day of school
it's my birthday
it's your birthday
it's been a hard day
it's been a good day
it's monday
it's tuesday
it's wednesday
it's thursday
it's friday
it's saturday
it's sunday
it's national donut day

(happy national donut day, lovers)

06 June 2019


nary a shade in sight

personal quirks, part one:

I sometimes travel with (small) lamps
I sometimes travel with (soft white) light bulbs 
I sometimes (discreetly) rearrange lamps in places I stay, in order to optimize atmosphere

you know, it's really too bad I can't find a job as a lamp whisperer.

05 June 2019


words I had to look up in the dictionary in may:


04 June 2019


circa 1981

things I do when I feel tired and old, part one:

ride bikes
turn cartwheels
look at old photographs of my younger child self
try to remember she's still in there, somewhere

03 June 2019


summer twenty seventeen//1

things I do when things are too much and the world is too much and I can't breathe, part one:

mend things
plan an imaginary trip
cook something that requires garlic and onions and butter
get in the car and drive
walk to the library
collect clouds

02 June 2019


books I read in may:

the great believers (rebecca makkai)
where the crawdads sing (delia owens)
big magic (elizabeth gilbert)
the interestings (meg wolitzer)
I dreamed I had a girl in my pocket (wendy ewald)

01 June 2019


on this first day of june:

strawberries, picked
strawberries, rinsed
strawberries, eaten