more perfect weekends, please

I went to work this morning still feeling the joy, and the jetlag, of the rush of forty-eight hours. It was the perfect weekend, in so many ways. These weekends are rare; I guess that's what makes them so special when they come. It was a completely out-of-the-ordinary set of days, half a world away, in the kind of place that I dream about when I close my eyes and let only my heart speak. Brick buildings and horse pastures and summer thunder storms with liquid sunshine. We honored a love story and danced in the rain; I ate pancakes bigger than my head and slept in fluffy white sheets at a fancy-shmancy hotel where shoes are always required. I took it all in. It was the most beautiful sight you ever did see.

travel socks

a dream

high school weddings

Now, I'm searching for more perfect weekends. Saving for red-eye flights across the country, stealing moments with the dreams that California can't offer. 

On my list: 

Chicago, Boston (kicking myself for canceling last year's weekend get-away), Nashville, New Orleans, Charleston, and more.

america the beautiful

happy birthday, mama!

I could tell you a billion things about my mama, and I'll start with a few:

She makes the best egg salad in town. My love of pancakes comes straight from her kitchen, and she made them perfectly golden and perfectly fluffy, every time. I'm hoping for her frame when I'm her age. She can do anything a guy can do, maybe better. Her house is immaculate and her constant request that I make my bed finally paid off.

The Friday song was our thing and it still brings me joy.

"Friday, Friday, Friday is my favorite day.
Monday is a bummer, Tuesday's only fair.
Wednesday's getting better, Thursday's almost there.
But Friday, Friday, Friday is my favorite...
Friday is my favorite...
Friday is my favorite daaaaayyyyy."

She woke me up with it every Friday morning, and I wouldn't get out of bed until we had perfectly harmonized (but what does an 11 year old know about perfect harmonies??...I'm sure it sounded awful) that last "day." Then I could wake up and start my day, and maybe even let her French braid my hair and crimp the bottoms.


She had this beautiful blue dress that I always asked her to wear. On Mother's Day, on her birthday, on my birthday, to my graduation. It was beautiful and she was beautiful in it. If she still had it, I'd ask her to wear it today.

But many things have changed between now and then.
I will say, in all honesty, that more than a billion wonderful memories, my favorite thing about my mama is who she is today. I've learned lessons in the last five years that were lost in translation when I lived down the hall. Now, she teaches me across state lines, on our Saturday morning phone calls or in forwarded emails, and through plenty of heartache. Lessons about generosity and love like only a mama can give. And it is a beautiful thing, a gift, to follow in her legacy of grace, to see what happens when a woman's heart is touched by God and a life is transformed. It was a beautiful thing to watch her bring our family back together and get the story she dreamed of.



Now, she is the consistent advocate for my heart and I could appreciate nothing more than the unwavering support that she gives, the confidence that she has in me and the love that she shows as we talk through life decisions and tell little stories and remember the past. She chooses encouragement over criticism, forgiveness over frustration, grace and generosity and adventure, over and over and over again.


Saturday morning, she's the first person I call and I hope it stays that way forever.

Happy Birthday Mama!
I love you!

I love my mother as the trees love water and sunshine -
she helps me grow, prosper, and reach great heights.

--Terri Guillemets

the madness of march

i've never been great at sports.
i played pickup soccer games on summer days at the local park
and went to school basketball games with paint on my face
i played tennis and learned to ski black-diamonds and had a brief stint with surfing
and of course, i was on the all-star softball team in 1993.
(and i looked good in my oversized purple jersey)
but mostly, with these few exceptions aside, i'm slightly uncoordinated and awkward so i took piano lessons and art classes instead.

the problem is that i'm competitive and empathetic.
a friend took me to a basketball game a few weeks ago
i half-jokingly promised: i will get emotionally invested in this team.
turns out: i keep my promises.


{via}

now, it's march madness and i've dedicated many hours of precious time
to bracket research and (friendly) trash talk and streaming live games on my work computer (shh, don't tell...)
i've found myself cheering loudly with friends and running around my house in excitement
you can call me a fair-weather fan and tell me that i've jumped on the bandwagon
and you wouldn't be completely wrong

but here's the thing(s):
it takes me approximately .42 seconds to get emotionally attached
(yes, even to basketball)
it doesn't help that 87% of my friends bleed red and black
it doesn't help that i want to see that 87% excited and celebrating
yes, i celebrate because i enjoy competition and a good game
i love bragging that i am part of the 4.5% who predicted a morehead state win
more than that, i love to celebrate alongside of the people that have come to mean so much to me, in the place that has come to mean so much to me
i love these joyful celebrations with friends
i love to see them celebrate their passions
because it brings me joy, too


march is about celebrating
{even amidst the madness}