—Jonathan Carroll (via andnobodyknowsmyname)
Vermont and New Hampshire, this past weekend, where I ate maple donuts and maple candy and watched the leaves outside her porch turn to yellow and the trees on the mountainside run from green to orange to red and back to green again like slow swipes of a paintbrush. Where we talked and talked and talked, late into the night, and through morning coffee, and up and down the store aisles, and perched on rocks in the dry river bed.
"We have to write our own chapters," she said, "and if we don’t like the one we’re writing right now, it’s up to us to change it." We joked, years ago, that we had to "turn the page" when one of us inevitably got stuck on a conversation the others had already breezed through, moved on from, left behind.
Turn the page. Write the next chapter. I tell her I don’t know what comes next. “Don’t over think it.”
On repeat, I have a spotify playlist: All Those Years Ago.
We could have, of course, spent the weekend reminiscing. We share twelve years and three states and too many experiences to count. But the present came pouring out instead. Vibrant with depth and energy. Bright colors and pockets of darkness, the leaves on the mountainside.
The future uncertain but refreshing in its freedom. A blank page, a blank canvas, ready for the next colors, the next chapter.
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Don’t || Ed Sheeran
Two years ago, I was performing at The Punchline in San Francisco, and Robin came to the show with our mutual friend, Dan Spencer.
This particular batch of material was the first time I had touched upon my then still-fresh divorce wounds, and big chunks of it were pretty dark. The next day, I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize. Whoever it was had obviously been to the show and knew my number, so I figured they would reveal themselves at some point and save me the embarrassment of asking who they were.
The Mystery Texter asked how I was REALLY doing. “You can’t fool me. Some of those ‘jokes’ aren’t ‘jokes.” By now I knew that whoever this was had been through what I was enduring, as no one else would know to ask, “What time of day is the hardest?”
He wanted to know how my kids were handling it, all the while assuring me that the storm, as bleak as it was, would one day pass and that I was not, as I was then convinced, a terrible father for visiting a broken home upon my children.
I am not rewriting this story in retrospect to make it dramatic. I did not know who I was texting with. Finally, my phone blipped, and I saw, in a little green square, “Okay, pal. You got my number. Call me. I’ve been there. You’re going to be okay. - Robin.”
That is what you call a human being.
Floor to ceiling doors coaxing the breeze off the Mississippi to join the dinner table, for morning coffee, an afternoon nap. Even closed and shuttered, hiding the modern convenience of air conditioning, still luring the same steady breeze from 1910, 1820, 1730, carrying history with it. Green, green plants thriving in the humidity so high even dry hair becomes always damp and always, always curly. Engulfed and damp and swamp, words that became of a singular meaning, worn as one wears a cloak, wears a rain cloud, wears a slight glow.
[New Orleans, June 2014]
(Source: Flickr / emilykatherine)
you’ll become known for doing what you do. it’s a simple saying, but it’s true…the only way to start being asked to do something you want to do is to start doing that thing on your own.
The Beautiful Flight Paths of Fireflies by Tsuneaki Hiramatsu
—Stacie Cassarino, Summer Solstice