Abandoned

A few weeks ago while the hubs and I were in Detroit, we took a walk down the street to check on an old house that had been foreclosed upon last Thanksgiving. We had discovered it while talking a post-feast stroll, and I haven't been able to entirely forget it since then. It ignited my curiosity and my daydreaming ways, and it was calling me to come back.

The house is still empty. It used to belong to a preacher's wife who was unable to care for the home after his death, and the house fell into a bit of a ruin before the foreclosure. The hubs and I tiptoed around the front windows and peeked in, and I felt my breath catch in my throat as I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed my nose to the glass. This house was alive.

I could imagine family gatherings taking place in the living room, quiet nights reading on the couch in front of the fireplace, sweeping entrances made at the top of the grand staircase. I could smell the scent of cut grass from the balcony out back, taste the barbeque out on the patio, and hear the laughter of kids running around the backyard and out into the golf course.

This house had probably seen all of that, been a part of all of that, and yet it was so still on that day. Shutters partially drawn, leaves strewn about the bricks, and paint peeling inside. It had been left all alone.

It was sad to see such a place so empty, but at the same time, it really did feel as though the memories of all it had seen were still drifting along quietly inside.

It's a beautiful home. It needs love, and I just know that it's waiting and humming until the right family comes along. I wish so badly that we were that family because I had goosebumps and chills and dreams, and doesn't that mean something? I don't know what will happen to it, but I do know that when we go back for Christmas, I'm going to visit my house down the street. I need to know how it's doing.

Twitter  *  Bloglovin  *  Google+  *  Instagram *  Tumblr

Anything

Day 2: If you could take three months off from your current life and do anything in the world, what would you do?

As I ponder the prompt for Day 2 of Blogtember, I am sitting at the kitchen table after a long day at work, made longer, of course, by my inability to leave work on time and my penchant for creating more work for myself. My knees hurt, my head hurts, I am dehydrated, and the only reason the hubs hasn't thrown a pan at my head after the 34th time I have whined, "I am soooo tiiiiiiiired!!!" (besides the fact that he isn't the sort of guy to throw pans at people's heads) is because he is diligently frying up some homemade falafel.

Life, I suppose, could be worse. But right now, as I wearily and dazedly try not to take a nap under the table, it could also be a liiiiiiitle bit sweeter. Just a little bit.

I would love to explore the streets of a city I don't know yet, and I would love to sprawl in the sand of some far-flung beach that hasn't made it into the guidebooks. I would love to slip away from the demands of adult life and spend my weeks sleeping late, sipping cappuccinos in café-lined plazas, and losing myself in the murmurs of foreign tongues. I would love to gaze upward at the sun and at the impossibly beautiful buildings of some new land, absorbing the details that the locals don't see anymore, feeling awestruck at how much this world has to offer.

I would want to snuggle with my cats and dangle ribbons in front of them so that they dance and race around the room. I would want to listen to the birds chirp in the morning and let the grass tickle my ankles as I dig in the garden. I would walk the downtown streets of DC in silence, taking a visit to see Mr. Lincoln and letting my eyes tear up a bit as I pay tribute to freedom and all that is good in this country.

I would have brunches with friends who I don't see enough and watch movies I keep meaning to see. I would call my grandmother more. I would read some really good books. I would read some not-really-great books. I would collect seashells and white stones from my hometown beaches. I would reminisce.

Essentially, I would savor. I would slow down and drink in every moment, doing the things I most enjoy with the people I most love. I know that it's possible to do just that within my current life, and I certainly do it as much as I can... but there's something nice about living without alarm clocks and responsibilities. There's something sweet about escaping into the best parts of my life and lingering there for a while.

Twitter  *  Bloglovin  *  Google+  *  Instagram *  Tumblr

Empire State

I was in New York a few weeks ago, and I stayed with a dear friend at her lovely apartment. After the gossip and the wine, the lights were eventually turned out, and I tiptoed over to the window to peek through the blinds at the world below.

New York, New York. The city that never sleeps. I don't know if I will ever call it "home" again, but it will always feel like a mix of familiarity and strangeness. I've seen it all before, yet I still get that shivering thrill when the lights glow against the night sky, and the buildings soar up in the sky in ways that shock me. We don't have that in DC. Life is closer to the ground, slower. I feel smaller in the city, humbled by the skyscrapers, the languages, the rush, the importance. It might be lonely to some, but I feel surrounded by stories and the lives of many, and together they weave around me and sweep me into the fabric of New York. It's okay, they say, we'll take care of you here... as long as you don't block the sidewalk. Just keep moving.

If it's not home, then I don't quite know what it is. Maybe it's a dream. Maybe it's a fantasy. But as I pressed my fingers to the window, trying to reach out to the Empire State Building, maybe it didn't really matter. Maybe it's just the New Yorker in me. 

Six

Oh, to be a child again. When Betsy announced that she and her sponsors would be hosting a link-up based around the question of how we would spend our day if we were six years old again, my imagination started to run wild. Would I be a six year-old with the knowledge and experience of my twenty-seven years? Would I be transported back in time? My thoughts started to tumble over one another, and I quickly realized that this question was more complex than I first realized.

But that doesn't seem right, does it? Being six isn't about over-thinking questions, and it's certainly not about planning multiple scenarios to a benign situation. That tendency is one I've cultivated through adulthood, and it doesn't fit into my imaginary escape to childhood.

No, being six is all about running around outdoors through the dandelions, trying not to step on bees. It's about tromping through the garden, marveling at how the vegetables grow above my head. It's about crawling up into the hammock and being a little afraid of rocking too hard and flipping over onto the ground. It's about stumbling over a rock and getting dirt on my knees, then laughing and getting back up to run over to the swingset.

Being six is all about hugging my stuffed animals as tight as possible before lining them up on my bed to teach them a lesson from school. It's about skipping through the house and talking to myself without self-consciousness, completely wrapped up in my imaginary world of play. It's about trying to dress up the cat in baby clothes and put him in the wicker doll carriage in my bedroom. It's about sitting underneath the piano, singing songs, and being tucked away from the grown-ups. 

Being six is about being my mom's shadow, never more than a footstep away. It's about gazing up at my dad as he plays the guitar and squealing for him to sing some more. It's about bouncing into my sister's room when her friends are over and smiling up at them expectantly as they play with my unruly hair. It's about curling into my grandmother's lap and being swung around by my uncles at weekend BBQs. It's about being so excited to jump from the tree stump in front of my grandfather's house.

Being six is about being six. It's about living in the present moment, taking a break to disappear into daydream worlds, and then coming back to eat chicken nuggets. It's about hearing grown-ups talk about being adults and telling my mom that I don't want to ever go to college, that I want to live at home forever. It's about coloring, dancing, wondering, napping, loving, laughing, and being. It's about being six forever and letting the days melt into each other until they all become one wavy line of being six. I will be six today and the day after and the day before, and so on. I will be six forever and always and never and maybe. Seven is so very far away.

Twitter  *  Bloglovin  *  Google+  *  Instagram *  Tumblr

To Fire Island

 I am a child of the ocean. Arms outstretched in the sun, I let my fingers dangle over the railing. The ferry glides along the bay, and the spray from the surf below catches on my skin and clings in fine salty droplets, the wind slowly guiding them up my arm in tiny streams. I let the crash of water against the rudder wash away my thoughts, and I sit there, quiet and peaceful, as the waves cleanse me of my worries. For now, my mind is quiet, soaking in the bay waters, pure at last. The sun is warm and everywhere, and it wraps around me like an old friend, hugging me, soothing me, comforting me. Rest, it says. Be at peace. We will keep you safe. I am a child of the ocean, and this ferry is my vessel, guiding me everywhere and nowhere. I know this journey well, every bump of the wave, every seagull's cry, every gust of salt air. Take me, save me, nourish me, replenish me. My destination awaits, but for now we have this, these precious moments on water, floating, racing, waiting, being. Let me stay here for just one moment more. I am a child of the ocean.

Twitter  *  Bloglovin  *  Google+  *  Pinterest  *  Tumblr

Brooklyn Daydreams

I just haven't had it in me to blog this week. Things at work were extra busy this week, and the combination of too many nights getting home after 9 or 10 in the evening was taking a toll. Last night I wearily thought of a post for today, but then I started to melt into the couch, buried my face in my cat's tail, and decided I was just too tired.

The good thing about being tired, though, is that it brings vivid, wild dreams. Lately those dreams have been about Brooklyn. My sister has lived there for a couple of years after over a decade in Manhattan, and I love the charm and quiet of her neighborhood. I'm headed up that way next weekend for Easter, and I can't wait to stroll along the Promenade and meander through the quaint streets. This might be my last time to do this, at least in a way that includes my sister's home, as she and her family might be moving to Westchester. I'm excited for them, but I'm also sad to think that the days of NYC adventures with my sister are changing-- not truly ending, but definitely changing.

This, of course, made me feel nostalgic for Brooklyn before it's even gone, and I found myself flipping through the engagement photos that the hubs and I did there last summer. Oh, BK, you have my heart (so does the hubs). So, if you'd like, let's take a little stroll down Memory Lane.

Le sigh. Cobblestone streets, brick buildings, and bright sunlight bouncing off the water... these are some of the things that are weaving through my daydreams.

Any other daydreamers out there today? Where are your daydreams taking you?

Photo Credit: Julian Ribinik Photography