Lavender

My head is pounding and the world has taken on a different sort of tincture.

Everything seems to be shaded in lavender tones- but not that pretty sort of lavender- the kind that goes along with summer dresses, and cotton pillowcases and mom hugs.

Instead it's the lavender that goes along with Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls.

The lavender that makes you want to sleep for the duration of 1000 sunsets, and 1000 moon falls.

The lavender that makes you feel everything and nothing all at once- and you feel like you've got those Breakfast at Tiffany's mean reds.

You're frightened and you don't know what you're frightened of- except in this case, you do. That's why it's lavender instead of red.

And what you're frightened of is beautiful, even in the wake of its unfamiliar terror. And even though you're frightened- you cannot look away.

That old devil feeling of forthcoming change is the only monkey on your back tonight.

Transitions are far more emotional than physical- change isn't half as upsetting as it's temporal lobe associations are.

It all kind of just hurts right now. Everything and nothing are welling up into an overwhelming tidal wave of what's to come.

And it's all lavender.

The knots in my stomach and the pounding in my head and the memories and the possibilities the exchanges and the unspoken promises and the music.

It's all a whirling spectacle of lavender lights and lavender smells and lavender memories.

"And I don't want the world to see me, 'cause I don't think that they'd understand.

When everything feels like it's broken, I just want you to know who I am."

Bells Will Be Ringing....

Lovers,

As I write this I'm still in my pajamas, with my hair tangled in extremely messy blonde knots (Yes.  I did.), sipping on a strong cup of Christmas Espresso roast, in my favorite Christmas mug, which is big and comfy and red and has a painting of Ebenezer Scrooge on it, his arms full of Christmas cheer and a stuffed goose,  with a banner overhead proclaiming "God Bless Us Every One."

Because, you know, every family should have themed A Christmas Carol mugs for the holiday season.

I don't even read Charles Dickens.  Except for A Christmas Carol.  That's the only one I could ever actually get through.

I digress.

So it's December 4th, which means there are 21 days left until Christmas- and the world is slowly turning into a flurrying spectacle of silver bells, fake snowflakes, Nativity scenes and overwhelming emotional nostalgia and regret and happiness mixed in with burdens and burdens of ancient traditions being jam-packed into a wild, crazy 3 week rush at the end of which I will probably have gained at least 5 pounds and will be extremely blessed and fatter and happier than normal.

Or so I dearly hope.

It's been an insane past month, my loves. I've been working like a dog and overdosing on sweet nephew and niece cuddles and missing everyone who is far away a lot more than normal.

I guess that's what happens during the Christmas season but it still seems difficult.

Starbucks has been such an amazing transition and such a welcoming place to end up in- but the work is long and exhausting sometimes and I seem to find myself falling asleep all over the place these days because my busy life has turned me into a hopeless old woman.

But that's not so bad, either. Catnaps are great, too.

Today is the last in a series of 3 consecutive days off and so far it has been the most relaxing.

The kiddos and company are off visiting some of their relatives today and so it's just me and mom at the house, putting around, watching Footloose and playing on our new iPhones.

Which, by the way, are phenomenal.

I discovered this new app last night that essentially lets me take university courses on my phone for free.

No required homework, no stress.

Just loads of lectures and videos and information to be had from Oxford and Yale and UC Berkeley. Which is right up my alley of nerddom.

Also WordsWithFriends.

That is sublime.

Mostly today I'm thinking of my sisters and their wee kidlets.

I love those children so much- sometimes I think that I cannot wait to fill my own house up to the brim with little ones... They bring so much joy and so much fruitfulness and meaning to your life.

Sometimes I realize I'm much closer to being ready for that than I think I am, and that scares me, because there is still a part of me who is seven years old and screaming: "travel the world and learn 7 languages and never get married!!!!"

But that seven year old is overpowered, thankfully, by the calm voice of reason that speaks: "but you were born for this."

And so even though it's unnerving, it's happy, too. And still a long way off, for those of you who are going to read this and then freak out. ;)

Which is what days like today are for: quiet bliss and contentment in the fact that someday I will have many littles of my own, but today I am still young enough and carefree enough to just be the auntie- so I can still go out at the end of the day and live my own life.

Family.

Having them around you always makes you realize stuff that you didn't foresee happening.

Blessing or curse?

Ask me again tomorrow, but today- today I feel it is a blessing through and through.

Love you, lovers.

Xx.
Hannah

Thankful

Lovers,

It is Thanksgiving.  Officially.  As of...... 51 minutes ago.

I just got home from working the closing shift at Starbucks, and even though we shut down the lobby and drive-through early, we still didn't get out of there until ten after midnight.

Something about Black Friday prep and the next 72 hours being absolute madness at our store.

Anyways, I'm sure you all know what's coming, so I'm not going to waste any more words on an  explanation.

I am thankful for:

• The fact that this year has been the best year of my life to date.
• Coastal wind storms.
• Rainy afternoons spent tucked up on a couch, reading my Bible, hearing people that I love laugh.
• Ecola Bible College
• All of the amazing, unique, inspiring, funny, beautiful people I met this year and all the many ways they impacted me.
• The overwhelming moments when my Savior brought me to my knees before Him in supplication, mercy and love this year, and for the beautiful and wholesome location for those moments to take place in.
• The way the Prom smells at midnight in the middle of Summer.
• Sam's Seaside Cafe and all of the countless dollars and hours spent there, in moments of weakness, exhaustion, togetherness, happiness, laughter, comfort, peace, eating homecooked food for unbeatable prices, listening to the greatest collection of 80s superhits nonstop, and surrounded by colorful walls and twinkle lights. 
• The way the ocean changes colors.
• My second mother, Vange Alderrman, whom I met early this year.  She became the best manager I've ever had, a dear friend, and someone who took extremely wonderful care of me every day this Summer- she nourished my dreams more than anyone else ever has in my life.  She used to tell me everyday that all she wanted was to see me get there someday- to Ireland, to culinary school.  Every single day she would tell me that. I miss her.
• The beautiful and rare collection of older ladies I worked alongside at Sesame and Lilies.  Not a day goes by when I don't think of something wonderful that they taught me about life, about housekeeping, about being fabulous.
• The glorious, challenging, sometimes exhausting gift that is working outside in the elements for a natural preservation program, and the way HRAP sharpened and nurtured my mind and thirst to learn new, fantastical things about our world.
• The way my loves smile at me after I have fed them.
• The fact that my boys used to bring food over to my house just so I could cook it for them. 
• The fact that everytime I bake cookies I am reminded of my Brooklyn, and how we would bake cookies together and watch Disney Movies, and how many wonderful times we went grocery shopping together. 
• The fact that my friend Zachary Matthew Ricks is the grandfather I've never actually had. 
• Nights spent sitting on the kitchen floor, drinking tea and talking about puffins and boys with my beautiful roommates, Nikki and Lynn. 
• Fridges that you can write messages on.
• How candles light the darkness.
• The gift of being taught by my favorite people how to do exciting and crazy new things like longboarding.
• Adventure Levels
• No-Maintenance-Mondays
• Falling in love.
• The 3 mile drive to Indian Beach, and the greatest selection of music that always played while rolling into the parking lot, surrounded by many beautiful, tan surfers who drove fantastic VW Buses and for the cheap thrill that that can bring to you when you're having a crappy day.
• Remnant bible study, and how it grew me and forced me into relationship with my most favorite people, and how it made me trust them- and depend on them. God is good.
• People in my life who love me enough to stay up until very late at night playing trivia with me. I'm always going to need those people.
• The way John Mayer sounds to my heart.
• My Wesley, my farmboy, and how he loves me so.  
• Roman Candle Fights on the Fourth of July with the happiest bunch of crazy people I know. Favorite memory.
• The way your feet ache after a long day, because it means you have worked hard.
• Burns and scrapes because they mean that you are getting your battle scars.
• My one and only Becca, because she always is there to laugh with me, to listen to me, and to remind me ever-so-sweetly that love is, indeed, patient.  And it is, indeed, kind.  And that no matter how rude the customers are to me: I can't send her mini-rants via text message describing in minute, expletive detail just where those nasty customers can stick their arrogance, because it's not right. God knew what He was doing when He gave her to me.  I couldn't live my life without her.
• Forgiveness of sins and wrongdoings
• The Cross
• My mother and the way she will continue to hold me until the very, very end.
• My father, and his emotional strength after many years of sitting solidly through..... silt and smudges and ungratefulness.
• My sisters and the woman they challenge and prepare me to be.
• My nieces, Lily and Allie, their difference in  size, age and personalities. Their existence blesses me daily. 
• My nephew, Aiden, and his inescapable smile.
• My soul family- my Raelyn, my Natalie, my Benjamin and my wee baby Keller.  The way they push me.  The way they accept my every flaw willingly and humbly. 
• My Lexis, and my Zoe- without them I would be lost, for they are my compass. 
• Funny, sweet coworkers who I can laugh with and who I can dance with, in the drive through window, and who will hug me and tell me everything is going to be okay when people get especially mean and the job gets especially exhausting. 
• For my Mi Famiglia family.  For Patty, and Lisa and for my Travis. All of whom I need.
• Tips, and how they pay for gas money.
• The ability to breathe.
• Excellent health which I do not  deserve- and a lifetime full of sweet, incredible, magical, priceless memories.  

I am an extremely blessed person.

There is so much more to be thankful for.  

Let us all rejoice and with gladness in our hearts give thanks for this day, which the Lord has made, for each and every one of us.

Blessings to all of you on this holiday.

I pray you stay safe and warm and happy and that you are loved by your earthly family as much as you are loved by your Heavenly family.

XoXo lovers,

-Hannah

All You Need Is Less

November, November.

I always say my favorite month is October, and then November sets in and I'm hard-pressed to find a more unrivalled beauty.

I was rereading the notebook I kept over the Summer last night, and it's strange, because it all feels so recent- like I've only left just yesterday- but the dates on the entries are from so many months ago.

I've been home for over 2 months now.

And as much as I would have hated to admit it when I first got here, I've started to settle in again.

Starbucks is going very, very well.  The people I'm working with there are unique and opposite and funny and I feel a wealth of inspiration to write about because of their quirks.

My boss calls me Lisa Loeb and I've already gained respect for my sharp tongue and quick sarcasm.

I started working again at Mi Famiglia, which has been more than enriching.

Going back there, to those faces that I love, and those people who brighten my life, felt more like coming home than coming home did, in some strange way.

Especially when one of them whom I hold very dear to me smiled when he saw me and said, "Oh, aren't you a sight for sore eyes." and then pulled me in for a great hug.

I'm always going to feel like I belong there- and in the middle of a strange upheaval and overwhelming change of scenery and feeling a strong sense of loss, I have something that is never, ever going to change. Mi Famiglia is family.  When I'm there, I need less from the rest of my life, because I feel like what I need is in front of me.  The people, the food, the atmosphere.  It's what I want out of life.

So I've been working a lot, lately- and I've been taking one day at a time.

Right now, my sister and her kids are in town for a month, and so I've been spending a lot of time with my family- which is good.

I've been thinking about dying my hair blonde- and trading in my hipster glasses for contacts and leather skinny jeans.

I just want to change a little bit.

Attraversiamo.

I'm ready to cross over.

Lovers, I miss you.

I hope all is well.

"No matter where you are, I can still hear you when you drown."

Sometimes when we meet people, we know within the first moments that someday they are going to break our hearts.

When you find yourself in this moment, the choice is yours to make of it what you will.

I've been writing a lot of really great pieces this month, and I owe pretty much all of it to these weekly writing sessions with Nat and Rae.

I've written pieces about sisterly betrayal, humorous post-death "second-world problems", books that changed my life, a woman who worshiped her own self-hatred, a man caught in the middle of practicing a cult sacrifice, a woman who is uncontrollably drawn to desiring a man whom she initially finds overwhelmingly repulsive, and poems built from uncomfortable and awkward phrase exercises.

I find myself building ludicrous and inescapable plot elements.

I want to write monologues about a doctor convicted of homicidal malpractice.

About how it really feels to be stuck in the frightening crime syndicate that is the Russian Mafia, as a hopeless  and helpless mobwife.

I want to write a drama scene about a man with early onset multiple personality disorder- where one actor portrays the man, and the other portrays his alter- and they must play two different sides of the same brain.

I want to write about Heathcliff and Catherine.  I want to be able to capture how I feel when I hear words quoted from Peter Pan.  I want to write step by step directions on how to make me fall in love with you the way I've fallen in love with Holden Caulfield.

I want to explain what it means to me to listen to Drown-Smashing Pumpkins on repeat.

Mostly I just want you to read the words I have written.  That's all I really want.

I want to know what you think.  What my writing brings out in your mind, in your soul.

Oh, but I am afraid.

The distance is long and the years are longer, still.

I want to give up, and run on to the next one, flighty whippoorwill, without looking back, but I am not allowed.  I am uninvited there.

Here is where I must stay.  Here is where I'm told things are waiting for me.

The back and forth is beginning to grow tiresome- but the writing, oh, the writing.  I have never been this liberated by my words.

Creatively, I have blossomed.  I have felt the depth of inspiration this month, and to tell the honest
truth about it, I think I like who I'm becoming as a writer.  Finally.

I don't feel confused, or guilty, or ashamed of my writing anymore.  I don't feel conflicted about it the way I used to.  I don't tell myself that my words try too hard, or that my words are a mindless imitation and shadow of the styles used by the great writers I have studied.  I feel  that they are real, and that they are my own.

Honestly, I don't question why tragedy moves me so heavily anymore.

I've always been  drawn to sad and dark things and for the first time in my life I'm not questioning why.

It's like this past month, through the words that I have crafted together, I've realized that tragedy, and the way I view it, is a gift.   A gift uniquely and passionately crafted for me, to me.

I found this quote the other day:

"Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.  It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift."

I thought about myself.  I thought about how I write.  I thought about what I dream of writing about.

And then the clouds parted a little bit, and something shifted within me.

And not to mention, I realized exactly why it is that I should never be allowed to write children's books.

Sarcasm aside.

In those moments where you know your heart is about to be broken by this perfect stranger, you have the same choice that you have when you are confronted with the realization that what you are about to write has the potential to break you or break someone else.

The possibility is humbling enough.

The choice is yours.

You can go, or you can stay.

You can do, or you can do not.

There is no try. There is no escape clause.

No matter what happens, I promise myself to write it down.

Whether it is for the purposes of being read by others, or only by myself, does not matter.  What matters is that those words, the ones floating like souls in the river Styx outside the realm of my conscious thought, are picked up by me- and that I breathe life into them once again.

This is what I have been given, this is who I am.

Slide.

Tonight was my weekly writing sesh with Nat and Rae.

We sit at Starbucks and we flail our hands wildly for hours, we talk and motion and laugh and dream and we practice writing with the arduous and exciting exercises found in the book The 3AM Epiphany.

Tonight, during one particularly involving exercise, which I'm not going to explain for my own reasons,  this came out.

 Not sure from where, not sure how, but I know that it's perfect to me and for me.

Moments like these, as a writer, mean the world to me.

And in a weak moment of pride, I will admit it's probably my favorite thing I've written.  Ever.

Lots to think about tonight.  Probably won't sleep a wink.







"Slide"

A glum chiasm-

All hail common lies-

Humming.  Slumming.

Sags his skin- sad his soul.

Hugs like a god.

Holds like a child.

Slug back gin.

Lack all sense.

Come, big dog.

Come, black cub.

Lay your head on me.

Sing, soul.

Sing, nickels.

Sing, dimes.

Sail on.

I'll come soon.

Dreams

I had a dream last night that my dad wanted to buy Rod Stewart's new Christmas album so badly, he went to stand in line waiting for its' midnight release.

My dad doesn't even like Rod Stewart.

I logged onto Facebook a few minutes ago to find out that there is now available a sneaky leak of one of the songs on the album.

Listening to it now.

Sometimes my dreams interact too closely with my everyday life.

Last night I also dreamed I got lost in a sudden snowstorm, on foot.  Last night I fell asleep reading Wuthering Heights.

Today I'm dreaming, too.

Not of Rod Stewart, though.  Instead, dreaming of memories, and favorite people, refurbished, restored barns at the end of quiet country lanes, snowflakes, rainfalls, pitfalls, and the liquidy, sticky, dreamy sequences brought on by the combination of homemade pancakes and Avett Brothers songs.

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered Am I.

Also, suddenly extremely tempted to cut my hair in this fashion, though I know that's a terrible, terrible idea.

Mostly I think I need to write.  Really write.  I need to walk and to write and to lock myself in that dangerous world of raw inspiration, and not come out for a very, very long time.  It is late October, and the familiar insomniac insanity is starting to settle in.

Po. Em.

I love the way we push and pull.

Did you hear me?

I love the way we push and pull.

We've pushed and pulled and poked and prodded and at the end of the day, the world owes us no favors.

And so we part.

And we disperse.

And suddenly we have fledged.

You go your way, and I invariably go mine.

There is no planet of regret on my shoulders- nothing I wish I could take back, no sight I wish I could forsake.

I carry nothing in my being but for the promise which has been given to me.

A promise to just keep treading the water.

And so, I promised back, I will.

This is how the world has been built, and this is how our people ignite.  How we burn.

I love the way we push and pull.

Did you hear me?

My Boys

Over the course of my life, I have been a collector of many things.

Hat pins, decorator spoons, buttons, converse shoes, concert tickets, picture albums, quote magnets.

And then around the time I turned fifteen, I started collecting them.  My most priceless.

My boys.

I grew up in a raging household of women.  It was glorious, and  dramatic, and louder than you would think. There were tears, so many tears, and so many batches of baked goods, and so many hours of long, whispered conversations about everything and nothing.

There was screaming.  And squealing.  And shouting. And fighting.  Over the bathroom.  Over the TV remote.  Over who's turn it was to do the dishes. Over who was the hottest boy at church.

It was perfect.

But when I got to my first year of outside school, in sixth grade, I was set free in an open world of male.

I was shy at first, nervous.  I of course, had practically grown up at my friend's house, with her brothers, but I wasn't shy around them because I'd known them as far back as I could remember.

These boys were new.  And loud.  And hopeless, as boys are wont to be in 6th grade.

I tried to ignore them.  It worked, from an outsider's perspective, I was always around my girlfriends giggling and whispering and performing as a class A professional at being a 6th grade girl. But what nobody knew was that secretly, fearfully, in the very deepest part of me, I loved the boys.  I loved them all.  I loved them because they made me laugh, and they were brazenly opposite to me. They were messy and deliberate and curious and funny and I was completely at a loss for how much they fascinated me.

I pondered this over the next few years.

Until I hit fifteen, and the shyness wore off.  I made new friends.  I engaged them in conversation.  I put myself out there.  I laughed at their stupid jokes.  And suddenly, they were mine.

They started adding up and I realized I had almost as many guy friends as I did girl friends.  Secretly I prided myself on this.

There is nothing that girls love more in this world than to be close with boys.  I don't mean that in a romantic sense, either.  Some of these boys I have fallen for.  Hopelessly and tragically.  Most of  them have become a deeper part of me than I realize, and we've made it through our friendships for years without either of us falling for the other. It is possible.  I've proven that.

I started to realize that not only did they fascinate me, but I felt like I understood them more than I could ever have understood my girlfriends.

You see, around the tender age of fifteen, girls turn into monsters.

I could never understand why.  So I hung out with the boys because life made more sense around them.  We laughed and called each other names and laughed some more and whenever I was upset, they just accepted it.  They never tried to change how I felt.

This is a priceless treasure that God has gifted the male race with.  I have seen this trait along the winding trail of boys  that have tumbled in and out of my life as I've grown up.

I've never once heard any of my boys say to me, "Don't be that way.  Don't feel like that."

It is a blessing to not be made guilty for your emotions.  Let this be a lesson.

Ever since fifteen, I have befriended and tended to and collected and kept and treasured the most beautiful, heartbreakingly precious group of boys whom I am intensely proud to call mine.  They make me feel full of worth, and they make me feel validated, and when I cook for them, they worship the ground I walk on.

They lift me up and they spur me forward.  They dare me to greatness.  They inspire me to courage.

They drive me to try new things, and they deliver me time and again to my Lord and Savior.

They have nurtured me.  They have held me. They have taken such beautiful care of me.

And I am so grateful for each one of them, because they are all so indescribably different.  And the relationship I have with each one is unique.  I communicate with one on a dramatically different level than I communicate with another.  And that's probably my favorite part.  I have things I need to say to all of them: "I miss you, I miss your hugs, I hope life is treating you well, etc."  and I can say all of those things in ten completely different ways, special to each individual person.

God has blessed me through these friends, these brothers, these boys.

And I am excited to grow my collection, everywhere I go with my life.  Because with everyday that passes, and in every new place I find myself in, I meet more and more incredible individuals worthy of possessing.

I'm a possessive person when it comes to relationships.

Protective is something I've never been able to pull off- I tend to think people can and will find ways to handle themselves and handle their lives and they don't need me trying to protect them.

However, I am intensely possessive with relationships.  If I love you, and you mean a lot to me, you are mine.  You belong to me.  If you love me, and I mean a lot to you, then I am yours.  I belong to you. This is how I feel about everyone in my life. Family, girl friends, guy friends, etc.

All of my girls, and each one of my boys, are mine because they have proven themselves worthy to me to own.  They have proven themselves worthy to me to give a piece of myself away to that I won't give to just anybody.  Possession is deeply personal.  And I'm happy to have a new, large collection of people in my life that I can be personal with.

A lot of that is new because it happened this summer.

So this post is for my boys, whom I am missing intensely this week.

I miss your hugs, and your spontaneity, and your music tastes and your adventuring, your wisdom, your insights and the way you all make me laugh, and laugh hard.

Thanks for loving me the way Christ loves me.

And thanks for letting me call you mine.

"Love you to pieces, distraction, etc."


-Hannah

Wishes

"These days we go to waste like wine that's turned to turpentine.
It's 6 am and I'm all messed up.
I didn't mean to waste your time, so I'll fall back in line,
but I'm warning you, we're growing up."

I woke up this morning on the couch, weak October sunlight filtering in through the clouded windows.

My bedroom gives me nightmares these days.  It's sort of a terrible way to live.

I wake up every night, three or four times, riddled with the sensation that something's watching me.

Mostly I just try not to think about it.  I always am able to turn over and fall back asleep after a few half-conscious prayers.

Still, I couldn't even fall asleep last night I had such an overwhelming sense of apprehension.  So I tumbled out of my warm, comfy bed and headed downstairs to a 2 am rerun of Fresh Prince of Bel Air.  Needless to say, I'm a little groggy today.

I was so groggy I almost missed the mass service at which my 'nephew' (I.e, best friend's baby) was being baptised.  Now that would have looked just great on my Favorite Auntie record.

Fortunately, God was on my side and I made it with about three minutes to spare before the Priest himself came walking down the aisle.  Always the epitome of class, am I.  Did I mention I was meeting my party at the very front of the church?

I also got nudged by the altar boy come communion time.  I was standing there, in my pew, observing and letting my mind wander absently, when I felt this arm nudge my own. I looked up and there he was.  Staring at me. Pointing at me to get in line.  I tried, and failed miserably, to communicate with my eyes that I wasn't actually Catholic, and then he just kind of turned around and walked away.

So I sat down.

I learned after the service from my dear friend Benjamin that everyone regardless of denominational affiliation is supposed to get in line, and if you're not Catholic, you simply cross your arms over your chest and instead of giving you communion they just bless you and wave you aside.  Pertinent information, that.

The baptism really was beautiful, though.  I got all teary eyed and emotional.  I'm excited to see what God has in store for this little blessing, Keller Benjamin October Trust.  It made me remember just how much I love the idea of infant baptisms, and how thankful I am to have grown up in a community where this thread of theology was prevalent.

After the service was over, I walked out into the cold, grey air and decided a vanilla soy latte was crucial in order to survive the rest of today.

So I went to Singer, and I got my handmade drink.  I drove home to haunting melodies, warmed by the drink in my hand and moved by the colors of the river and the rocks and the trees.

And so here I sit, in a big empty house, listening to Brandi Carlile and wishing tonight could be spent making tapioca pudding and watching Say Anything.  I wish I could nap on and off all day and read one thousand pages.  I wish I could spend some quality time with Sylvia Plath and drink 12 cups of earl gray tea.

I wish I could make the hour long river drive to my sister's house, and hold my baby niece for hours.

I wish I could go with Raelyn to the recording studio tonight and lay down a track that we wrote a long time ago.

I wish I could  do all of these things.

Instead I'm headed back towards Portland to make more lattes and to stumble through the drive-through training at Starbucks until late.

Wish me some strength, lovers.

I am tired today.

October

I'm so glad to live in a place where there are Octobers.

Morning walks underneath grey skies, dotted with fiery trees and wet sidewalks... It's like everywhere I go, I'm unwrapping God.

I see His face in the countless cups of green tea, the migrating swallows, the promise of an upcoming nephew baptism during my first mass service ever.

I see His face in the beautiful face of my 1 day old niece.

I see His face in the caramel drizzles of my first caramel macchiato as a bona fide Starbucks employee.

October is comforting, it's silencing, it's humbling and it's enveloping.

I find solace in the raindrops on my roof.

I feel safe in the arms of my October playlist:  Nat King Cole, Sarah McLachlan, Blue October and Bon Iver.

October is for morning walks, afternoon naps, movies on the couch, homemade batches of Tapioca pudding, skype dates, pumpkins, quietude, reflection, cinnamon, and praying.

I'm so glad to live in a place where there are Octobers.

One Day At A Time

I walked for three miles this morning.

If I could help it, I'd still be walking.  I wouldn't stop.  I can still feel the rhythm of the sidewalk underneath the soles of my shoes.

I had a lot to think about this morning.  I still have a lot to think about.  My brain uses the perpetual movement of walking in one direction as a backdrop in which to let go, and to roam freely.

I walk and I think and I don't get freaked out by my thoughts, because I am walking, and walking is a rhythm and rhythms are calming.

I listened to this playlist I made when I was 14 called Things I'll Never Say, about the first boy I ever loved.  A boy who has long since forgotten me, and except for passing moments of curiosity and nostalgia, I must admit I have forgotten too.

But the playlist remains as the single, solitary best combination of songs I have ever put together.

I walked and I crunched the leaves underneath my feet and I tried to avoid stepping on cracks because ever since I was a child I have been afraid of the responsibility of breaking my mother's back.

Summer is officially over.  Redundant, I know, because it's October 9th and you're all thinking, "Hello, Hannah, summer ended almost two months ago."

I didn't want it to end, though.  And so I held on to it.  But it ended this past weekend.  I went back to CB for 24 hours.  It was for Bek's birthday, and it had been on the calendar since we left the beach in September, so in that respect, I hadn't let go of everything because I knew I was going to be back in a few weeks.

Which was acceptable and I don't regret that.

But I'm home now, again, and I've grown a little bit sad because I've realized this time it really is goodbye.  It's not just goodbye because I don't have a set date to return and see everyone again, it goes beyond that.  It's goodbye because I have to let it all go, now.

It's goodbye because now it's time to move on.  I can't carry the life I had this summer over into the rest of this year.  The life I had this summer doesn't fit the life in front of me, here.  That's....  A little bit painful.

There are lessons I learned that I can use in my life now, undoubtedly.  There are people who will never leave me alone for long.  There are memories that I will never lose.

But the days and the moments are gone. The mindset has changed.  The worldview is shockingly different here, and so are the people.

Home is exhausting, but God has made me strong.

I must not let the will to experience wither.  The past nine months have been all about experiencing new things, conquering fears, feeling alive, breathing in and breathing out, staying active and achieving happiness.

Discontentment did not  exist when I lived there.

Here, that old frightful Devil whispers constantly in my ear about what I don't have, and how many things are happening that I don't want to happen.  His companionship seems omnipresent.

But what he always seems to forget, or just refuses to acknowledge, is that I have God.  And he can whisper all he wants, but that's all it ever is: whispering.  And even though I am tempted to fall into his trap of discontentment every now and then, I remember that I am  exactly where God wants me to be, and that He will not leave me here alone.

And He has proven that.  Yesterday I spent some time researching Ballymaloe again, with a concentrated tone of seriousness this time, and my eyes were opened.

I had forgotten my love of Ireland.  My love of food.  My love of gardens.  My love of sunny, yellow kitchens.

Lovers, I finally sucked it up and contacted them.

They called me back this morning, bright and early.  I didn't answer, because I was still asleep, but they assured me they would call back and if I had specific questions in the meantime to email them.

This was another reason I walked for such a long time this morning.  I needed to process.

I'm committing, lovers.  Next September, the 16th, in fact, is my first day of culinary school.

I'm not at the stage in my life where I can plan out the next 5-6 years.  Some people are. I don't know how to possibly understand where in life I will be when I'm 24, or who I will have in my life. I know who I want to be there, desperately, but how do I know for sure? Some people are lucky in the way they can do that, some people seem to have it all figured it out...

But I can only foresee about a year into my future right now, and even that seems like forever and a day away.

I remembered that I committed to Bible School a year in advance, though, while I was walking, and that put a lot of things into perspective, because I remembered that year going by insanely fast and this one is bound to go by even faster.  When I start to get overwhelmed just thinking about that, I remember that living at home again is simply about taking one day at a time.

But God is full of blessings, because I realized yesterday as I was falling back in love, He is answering my dreams.  2 years ago, I dreamed of living somewhere on the coast of Ireland, writing and cooking and basking.

So where does He send me, three years down the road from then?

He sends me to a place called Ballymaloe Cookery School, located in the county of Cork, minutes away from the eastern coastline of Ireland.  A place where I will cook with fresh ingredients grown, fed, and harvested there on the grounds.  A place where I can learn how to milk a Jersey cow, and churn my own butter.  (Which if you have learned nothing else about me from following this blog for the past few years, you should have picked up on at least one aspect of my character: this sort of thing appeals to me. Wildly.)

A place where I can roam, and explore and be touched by a race and a culture of people that I have always admired and longed for passionately.

A gentle, safe, encouraging place where I can learn and soar and expand my knowledge tenfold.

A place with roaring waves, towering cliffsides, thunderous caverns, rolling hills, green and purple and hazel and golden fields, quaint cottages, ancient history and country lanes- all of which inspire my writing to no end.

A place where I can wear wool sweaters and rainboots and scarves every single day and never get tired of them.

A place full of moments where life as I have always known it, ends, and something new begins.

So this morning I walked, and I walked, and I walked, and I thought, and I thought, and I thought.

In some ways, I'm still thinking and my spirit is still outside, walking on endlessly.

The leaves on the trees are red, and yellow, and so many shades of autumn that mirror the reflection of my golden soul.

Roman Candles

The way sunlight filters through maple trees in September.  Just before they turn yellow fully.

That liquid, listless ray of gold and the remnants of early morning's fog burning off to make way for the rest of the day...

Where does it go?  How does it burn?

These are the same questions I asked myself about you.

The way sunlight filters through maple trees in September reminds me of the way I ran as a child to the strong pillars of comfort in my family.

To my sister, calm and rooted in laughter.

To my parents, nurturing and smothering and rooted in worry but also love.

The way the sunlight heats the patch of denim exposed to its beam as I sit here by this window and it constricts and heats and begins to itch and burn the skin underneath reminds me of the way I'm running away from the over-arches and bridles of home.

Where do you go?  How do you burn?

Where do I go?  How do I ignite?

Nebulous expanses of time and gravity and single cells and shafts of flagrant, vagrant light whirl and blend in a spectacle of gypsy magic, tragedy, passion, first meals and last meals, first meetings and last meetings, first memories and final partings.... And I'm frozen in time.

I'm suspended in motion.

I'm caught in a crossfire.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I- I took the one with fewer trees.

Fewer shafts of glittering, laughing, filtering sunlight.

Less spectacle.  More deliberateness.

My road has taken me to the edge of a ravine.  I have reached my grand canyon of light and I catapult over the dizzying cliffside and explode into the air.

A magnificent Roman Candle, errupting violently into the starry night sky.

Come.

Burn with me.

Things I Need To Remember

Time heals.

Cells regenerate.

Stars are born.

The liquid gold scent of hayfields at dusk.

 God covers us when we step out in faith.

Puffins mate for life.

There will never actually be a day when the music dies.

Saltwater stings.

He is not my everything.

Soulmates are everywhere.

Driving calms.

My mother loves me unconditionally.

Shut windows can always be opened.

I inhale oxygen into my lungs and I exhale carbon dioxide.

Cuddling my 9 month old nephew is a small fulfillment of the desires of my heart.

I am worth all of it.

The sun is always shining, even behind the clouds.

Everyone has at least one guardian angel.

Compassion is everything.

Everything will be okay in the end, if it's not okay, it's not the end.

Sept 18th.

Lovers,

Happiest of September 18ths to you.

I'm currently sitting in front of a very large and intimidating macbook pro in my sister's cozy green office, in the middle of her colonial, New England-style home at her brand new Massachussetts address, and wondering just what it would take for me to get to this place in life someday.

Lovers, I have fallen in love with the East Coast.

I know I say the phrase "I have fallen in love" more than the average person should in their lifetime, but this time I really mean it.

The air here is thick with the desire to write.

Every single day I've been here my mind has been buzzing with overwhelming and distracting rabbit trails.

I was making cookies earlier this evening and I couldn't even do that without outlining a miniature sitcom-esque dialogue in my mind about a reunion and an argument and a pair of decadent brown eyes the same color of chocolate chips.

I halfway considered writing it down.

Luckily, I reconsidered.  It was cheesy with a side of nauseating. But still.  It was there, and I haven't been doing that sort of plot developing in years.

I even pulled out my notebook in a coffee shop, surrounded by my family members and wrote for a solid 10 minutes, completely ignoring their presence.

I've never had the balls to do that.  Even though I've had the desire to tune them all out and write down my thoughts more times than I can count.

I finally did it. Something about the way that even the sunlight filters through the trees here is different than the west coast, and it inspires me to no end.

The first thing I told my sister the morning after our plane landed was "Hallie, I could write here."

And she told me she felt the same way, for the first time in 6 years.

Not to mention the Atlantic Ocean is teeming with powerful reflection.

The Pacific Ocean captures my heart and my feelings and the way my blood coarses through my veins.

But the Atlantic Ocean captures and reflects all the shadows of my mind, and that is so much more important to a writer, because finding a place that mirrors your genius, your very psyche, is extremely rare.

I don't want to leave here.

I want to relocate here.  Semi-immediately.

Distractions, distractions, distractions.

God just keeps sending them full-throttle into my life.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever actually accomplish my original goal: Ballymaloe.

It's like, the road to get there has taken me through all of these random pit-stops, captured in essence by beach towns and memorable visitors, unforgettable locals, schools, vacations and now a writer's paradise.... I've gotten so lost in the moment I've forgotten where I'm going.

And yet there's still a small voice in the back of my mind whispering for me to stop worrying about it.

The road is long.  The journey is unwritten. I'm one of those people who needs distractions in order to passionately focus on the end goal.

And maybe the end goal isn't even the end goal.  Maybe the end goal is just a door through which to pass into my beautiful and distraction-laced future.

I could get used to that.

Who says I can't be free?

Goodnight, lovers-

Sweet dreams.

8 Days

I've been avoiding this post for awhile, mostly because I am stubborn and I hate to admit when I have been found wrong, or when my plans have changed, or when I have to face something new and unknown.

Here it is, though.

I don't want to make a huge to-do out of nothing, and I apologize in advance for this being more dramatic than it needs to be.

I have been told I have a flair for exaggeration.

Lovers,

I'm leaving Cannon Beach.

Trust me.  I don't really understand it either, and in light of a post I wrote a few months ago raving about how I never thought I'd leave, it may sound surprising.

It is a surprise, though.  It surprised me about three weeks ago, when I was sitting at Waves of Grain in Tolovana, sipping on a Cafe Au Lait and thinking about life as I knew it.

Thoughts pass in and out of our brains in an exceptionally unpredictable manner, you know?

One second I was thinking about how in that moment, at that little table, in that crowded coffee shop, I was a part of the happiest existence on earth.

The next second, I looked up at Becca and I frowned. "Bek....  I'm going to be in Ireland a lot sooner than I think I am, aren't I?"

"What do you mean?"

I paused.  I stopped.  I looked around me.  I felt an overwhelming sensation rise up. "I'm not supposed to stay here anymore."

Ever since that moment three weeks ago, life has been an insane whirling spectacle of apologies, love, seawater, goodbyes, and magic.

I'm tired.  I'm overworked.  I'm at a standstill and I have no plan to fall back on. I'm scared and excited and nostalgic at the thought of leaving Cannon Beach. Full of regret, full of acceptance.

I'm ready to move on, even if it means saying goodbye to the places and the people who suddenly mean the most to me.

I don't know how they've all done it.  I haven't put them in that place of supreme significance.  If it were up to my awful, selfish, small-minded self I wouldn't have let them touch me with a 10-foot-pole.  I don't make it a habit to trust people.  I don't let people in.

Yet here I am at the end of the summer, saying goodbye to a group of incredible individuals who, over the course of about 4 solid months,have completely changed my life.  They managed to work, and sneak, and weasel their way into the very depths of my cold, cold heart, and for that, I am eternally grateful, because from the inside out they have created heat and warmth and light and I value each and every one of them more than they know.

They are priceless treasures to me.  They have done more for me than most have in my life.

Some of them are responsible for that P.S. I Love You moment.  The one you have to look out for.  The one where suddenly, life as you know it changes, and your eyes are opened.

Some of them are responsible for my newly sharpened sense of adventure.

Most of them are responsible for the priceless gift of reminding me that when I am young, I am young, and there is life to be lived because of it.

All of them are responsible for making me feel loved, valued, cherished,  and because of that I am admittedly a lot less, well, bitchy.

Not that I didn't ever feel loved or cherished before, it's just different this time. I think mostly the whole experience of moving out and being self-dependent has mellowed me out a ton, and when you mix that with new relationships, you get a whole smorgasbord of love and happiness and good, fuzzy feelings.

And all I've got is 8 more days of this town and this lifestyle and these memories and these friends.

I guess I owe it to them to make the next 8 days count for all they're worth.

I'll be home soon, Portland.  And even though I'm going to miss my beach life, I'm excited to come home a new person with a new outlook and a new stockpile of memories to take forward with me.

Things are gonna be different, this time around, babe, and I'm looking forward to the opportunities this move is going to bring me.

I love you,

I love you,

I love you,


Goodbye. <3 br="br">

"You. Me. 5 bucks and good conversation."

Lovers,

Lately I have realized a series of facts that start off with the phrase "There is nothing quite like...." and usually end up with some obscure or obvious declaration on life. 

I would love to say that I've taken to writing them down.

I would also love to say that I recently won the lottery.

So here I am on this beautiful gift of a sunny day, thinking of all my "nothings" and ready and willing to compile them here. 

The most recent one I came up with was "There is nothing quite like watching the stars through a sunroof."

• There is nothing quite like coming home to a bouquet of fresh Sunflowers on your kitchen table.
• There is nothing quite like a morning routine of vanilla soy lattes and a fresh quiche of the day from a local coffee house.
• There is nothing quite like sitting on your new skateboards after a night of skating, quietly talking and rolling and watching the stars with your best friend. 
• There is nothing quite like awkward employee dance parties, in which your 40-something year old boss requests Raise Your Glass by P!nk and proceeds to jump across the dance floor, all by herself, singing all the words with all of her heart, and your spirits lifting at the sight and laughing because even though it's strange and awkward, you really, truly are having an amazing time with coworkers that suddenly turned into friends.
• There is nothing quite like being told that you've made someone proud.
• There is nothing quite like being loved enough to be missed when you're not around.
• There is nothing quite like the Oregon Coast when the sun is shining.
• There is nothing quite like being asked to dance by a 90 year old man named Jordan, when you're in a red HRAP jacket and rainboots, and then being swung around while he gracefully sings Isn't She Sweet just because he's happy to be alive and healthy. 
• There is nothing quite like hearing Hey Jude when you need it the most, when your day was stressful and you're at wits' end. 
• There is nothing quite like a text that says, "Come over to my house," from a friend when he just knows you're feeling sad. 
• There is nothing quite like the combination of sunny days and songs with "na na nas" in the chorus line.
• There is nothing quite like the sound barnacles make when they are circulating water within their tiny systems.
• There is nothing quite like the sound of the word 'enrichment' when you used to work at a zoo. Music to your conservational ears.
• There is nothing quite like receiving a book in the mail from a friend who just wants to share something new with you.
• There is nothing like living your life in the moment, unafraid to fall, unafraid to shame and unafraid to make mistakes. 

Life is full of little tragedies. 

Take them as they are.  Ride your melt. There is nothing quite like being alive.

Sorrow

Sorrow comes in waves.

Sometimes she slips in through the back door, with the barn cat, or with the pitter patter of little feet tracking mud all throughout the house.

In all of the commotion, she enters quietly, unnoticed, and slides deftly into the old walls, into the creak of the floor.

Sometimes I see her staring back at me through the eyes of a loved one.

I want to yell and scream and claw her out of her possession over the defenseless body, torn in pieces and weak from sleep-deprivation, but suddenly she's gone again.

And then I feel her in the thick, misty air that hovers over the sea.  As I walk, as I sit, as I look around me, I breathe her heaviness into my own lungs.

I am fighting a battle I cannot win.

Today, sorrow is everywhere my constant companion.

This morning I could taste her despair in my vanilla soy latte.

I sat in my car with my breakfast, overlooking cliffs and sea stacks and grey, grey ocean, and I saw her in the eyes and felt her in the hands of a beautiful friend who stumbled upon me.  I wanted to cry as I looked in his eyes and could see the fresh pain of a million looming goodbyes he'll have to make in a few short weeks.

I don't know when I'll see him again.

Again at work she struck me when I received a text from Becca, who is beginning to say her goodbyes to a beloved grandmother- a body riddled and racked with tumors.

The text read, "It is sad here."

I closed my eyes, and could feel sorrow's deathlike grip surrounding Bek and her family, leaking into the picture frames on their mantle, and flowing underneath the door frames into all the many rooms of that huge, empty house.

I felt sorrow creep into my own cancerous memories.

And now, I sit on a beach I never wanted, that has somehow become the only one that truly belongs to me, overlooking sand and stone and set after set of slate-colored waves.

The pelicans and the scoters and the gulls all fly in a frenzy, feeding and squawking and pressing their wings against the endless sky.

Sorrow sits next to me, compelling me to a time of pen-to-paper, a time of powerful reflection, a time of slowing down.

Goodbyes weigh down my heart and sit awkwardly in my chest cavity.

I lift my eyes and scan the beach up and down desperately, seeking something- anything- a familiar face or name to rescue me from this battleship destined to sink.

But there is no one.

I am alone.

And when I am alone, sorrow quietly grabs my hand and whispers in my ear:

"It's okay.  You and I will always be together."

I nod my head, no longer fighting back tears, and rest wearily on her shoulder.

Somewhere, a lonely, black-eyed gull tumbles into the pounding surge.

And sorrow smiles.

Dead.

Take my hand! She screamed.

I have to show you something!

We ran, thunderstruck and hellbent down the hallway and around the corner.

I'm not supposed to come back here! I tried to tell her as she pulled me into the backroom, behind the curtain, beyond the realm of the customer, into the magical behind-the-scenes.

I don't care.  She squeezed my hand and pointed to the floor.

Look what just came in today!

I followed her excited gaze to a shiny mass of white and jagged edges resting on the bamboo carpet.

What is it? I breathed.

An alligator skull.  She squealed.  A real alligator skull!

I got so excited when I unpacked it today.  I almost cried out- don't you love the shine of the bone? The threat of the bite, the menacing empty holes where eyes used to be? I want to take it home.  I want to take it home and I want to hold it and feel it and let it sit, heavy in my lap, while I close my eyes and imagine a different world.

A world of deep river, and muddy water, and prehistoric trees, riddled with roots and dangerous leaves.

It used to be alive, she said heavily, after a moment's dreamy pause.

It used to be alive, and now it's here, on my floor- detached, decomposed, derailed.

Dead.  She opened her eyes and looked me square in the face.

I like dead things.

The buoyancy in her voice was gone.  Deadpan, weighted, dangerous.

It makes me want to write.  She started to grin.  I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise.

It was a world only she understood, a world I could never cross into, no matter how tightly I shut my eyes and how hard I tried to imagine a dark bayou crowded with reptile and amphibian and voodoo priestess.

The answer was present in the statement.  The words rang out like a shot.  The room was a different realm.

I like dead things.

Ashes

Listening to Iron&Wine makes me feel like napping and crying, writing, drinking and creating all at the same time.

It also makes me think of my old boss at Mi Famiglia, Kyle, who used to put on Iron&Wine Pandora every Thursday night.

This alternately makes me miss the Spinach Chicken pizza -sub creamy garlic and add pepperoncinis- in an extremely unholy manner.

Funnily enough, listening to Iron&Wine also mostly just makes me angry that I'm not listening to Bon Iver.

Yeah, internal artist jealousy.  It happens.

Lovers, we have a problem.

I'm not writing as much as I should be writing.

I try not to think about it.  That makes it worse.

There is so much crap bouncing around in my thick, lethargic brain that I've completely given up.  The worst part is I'm over halfway through editing the first five chapters of Tulips.  I've only got two more chapters to edit before I can finally just clear the space and finish the damn book.

I'm so close.

But I can't do it.  This environment is extremely healthy for my soul, and my restoration, and my self-worth.

This environment is completely hostile for my writing.

And I'm absolutely split down the middle about which is more important to me.

All I can wrap my head around is the seasonal flight patterns of Puffins, the lifespans of sea anemones, how many more antique oyster forks need to be polished at work, Binocular inventories, imported tablecloth folding patterns, grocery lists, account balancing, gas budgets, Bible Study requirements and just how long I have been waiting to learn how to surf and how I'm still waiting for someone to teach me.

There's no room for creativity.

I haven't even been able to finish a single book this summer.

Writing needs to be a bigger priority in my life- I just never know how to make it one.

Life seems out of control, I don't have time to process all the good and the beautiful and the breath-taking, and the spontaneous and the bad and the heart-breaking and the confusing and the heart-pounding, and it's all so wonderful and exhilarating, and all so stunting to my discipline.

I feel at my wits' end sometimes.

And then I get texts like this from my soul sister-writer-friend-guru-guide-confidant  extroardinaire and then I don't feel so bad about my life.

"Spend it all.  Shoot it, play it, lose it all, right away, every time.  Do not hoard what seems good for a later place... Give it, give it all, give it now.  The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now.  Something more will arise for later, something better.  These things will fill from behind, from beneath, like water.  Similarly, the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive.  Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe to find ashes."
-Annie Dillard, The Writing Life.

"Something more will arise for later, something better."

This summer was given to me to learn and to love and to grow and to expand my world so that I can prepare for discipline in the future.

I may not be writing 1,000 words every day.  I may not reach my January 2014 deadline for Tulips.  But I'm changing the way I see the world every single day, and that puts me closer and closer to my own writing life.

It's a hard lesson to swallow, patience, but it's powerful.

Be gentle with the soul, lovers.

"Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe to find ashes."

Even time can be given freely and abundantly.  I don't want to lose my time.

I don't want my hours to turn to ashes.

And so, I begin again, quiet this time.  Ready to learn.  Ready to be filled.

Last Thursday

Last Thursday was my day off.

I spent it visiting Becca's sister Jessica down in Twin Rocks for the day, because she was in town for our old church Family Camp.

I drove the entire 45 minute trip along the coast with my windows rolled down and a playlist full of nostalgia to keep me company.

There are few things I love more in this world than driving up or down the Oregon coastline.  Every viewpoint is a must-see stop.  It's just breathtaking.

Between here and Rockaway, one drives through Manzanita, Wheeler, Nehalem and Arch Cape. Each is different and each is beautiful in their own way and I can't even begin to describe the smells or sounds, which is why it's vitally important to make the trip with the windows rolled down.

Jess and I spent time together eating ice cream, watching the ocean, talking about her adventures in Hawaii, spending time with her amazing family and laughing in the sand on the beach.

I left that afternoon feeling strangely settled in my life.  That was the first time I'd been to Family Camp in 4 years and definitely the first time I'd ever been solely on my own, and with the freedom to come and go as I please, driving myself to and from.

It was strange, but good.

Later that afternoon I was doing some writing back home on my beloved Cannon Beach when a stranger walked up to me and asked me if I was using the pile of driftwood I was sitting next to.

The conversation went as follows:

Him: "Are you using this firewood?"
Me: "No, go ahead and take it."
Him:  "Thanks.  What are you working on, there?"
Me: "Uhm, just reading over some stuff I've written."
Him: "Way cool! Are you a writer?"
Me: "Yes. Well. Sort of."
Him: "Me too. I love poetry and short stories."
Me: "Yeah, I kind of suck at poetry. I try to stay away from it."
Him: "Well at least with poetry you don't have to stick to the rules, you can do freeform and then it's not so hard."
Me: "Yeah, I guess so."
Him: "Hey, keep writing.  There's not enough writers out there in the world- not many with balls at least. Don't let your passion die- it's better to do what you love than nothing at all."
Me: "Thanks, I definitely will."
Him: "No problem.  There's  gonna be a fire over here later, if you're interested. You should come."
Me: "Uhh, okay thanks."

(Don't worry mom, I did not attend the bonfire with the friendly strange man)

That conversation honestly made my day, though.  I mean, what are the odds?

I felt like God was verifying everything I dream about in life.  It just felt good.

I love this town to no end.

I love my life.

My friends.

My boys.

My Brook, my Zach, my Wes, my Allen- all sweet, dear ones.

I love my girls.

My Lynn, my Angie, my Rachel, my LaChelle- all lovely, funny ones.

I love my jobs- my singing barnacles and my tufted puffins,  and my age-old linens, my perfume-scented tea towels and my beautiful bosses.

I love my house-ghetto and falling apart as it is.

I love my car- my sexy race-car driven Volvo wagon.  She's such a beast.

I love my secret spots.  My Ozzy B.  My cove.  My Guanos Tan spot.  My favorite lookout.

I love my community.  My local discount.  My quirky, fellow citizens.  My weekly burger nights at the local legion hall.

I love my experiences: latenight longboarding,  rainy days at the park, early morning beach exploration, bonfires, salsa dancing, crazy adventure hikes.

This is how my life should always be.

I love my Ocean.

I love my life.

Summer 2012

This might be my most favorite thing I've ever found in my notebook.  A recap of summer 2012 so far- and there's so much more to be added to this by September. :)

• Freckles
• Sunsets
• Burger nights
• No Maintenance Mondays
• Hiking...
• Trailer hitching
• Wet swingsets and slippery monkeybars
• Longboarding the promenade
• So many movie nights
• Vintage art posters
• Bible studies
• Black Oystercatcher nest watching
• Scented candles
• Bellydancing and yoga always!!!
• Flirting?
• Dinner parties
• Laughing with managers
• Tight, tight hugs
• Competitions
• Blue eyes, brown eyes, hazel eyes, green eyes
• Playing chalk
• Super burritos
• Dead sea mammal carcasses
• Writing at The Cove
• Costco buddies
• Disney movies
• Adventure levels

So many reasons to love my life.  

And the most recent is this:  Becca is officially moving to Cannon Beach today. 

That's right lovers, the best friend and I get to spend all summer together and this list will start growing ad infinitum as soon as she gets here!

Which should, hopefully, be in another hour and forty-five minutes or so.

Not like I'm counting or anything.

Summer wishes to you and yours.

Roll On Summer 2012!

May 28th Was A Bad Day

May 28th was a bad day so I wrote this to make it less bad.

Things To Be Thankful For:

• A  kitchen to bake banana bread in
• Blue Whale tea towels
• Sunshine on humiliation days
• Second mothers
• Movie recommendations
• Hazelnut flavored blended coffees
• Cute old men named Keith
• Empathy-minded girlfriends
• Laughing hysterically behind the counter with your crazy amazing boss
• Mermaid fingernail polish
• French music
• Tokyo Milk perfume scent "French Kiss" with mandarin, tuberose, gardenia and vetiver
• Candles lit at work called "Score from the End Credits" and "Summer of 1982"
• 40% discounts
• Wearing dresses and wedges to one job and wellies and windbreakers to the other
• Red rooibos tea
• Love

One Way Road

I saw your heart sitting on a one-way road
Tragic veins flowed through tragic arteries
I stopped to sit beside that trembling life-
I wanted to grab your hand
Don't forget to smile, love
We'll find some way to fix this, I know we can
Icy ventricles frozen to lethargic dust
Weakened atriums breathe rattled love
the blood has all but dried
I will wipe the tears from your cheeks
Let me kiss the rest back into your eyes
Clear the cobwebs from your empty lungs
A hand to resonate warmth back
Into your dry, agitated skin
One foot in front of the other, dear
Learn with me how to love again.

Rabbit Trails

The hair has been pulled back into a bun.  The legs are crossed Indian style and the headphones are in.

A few tell-tale signs to those that know me well enough.

I should wear a sign for those that don't:  Caution: Writing. Prone To Fits Of Rage If Interrupted. Especially Fond Of Throwing Objects To Accentuate Fury.

Where to begin?

It's been almost a month since my last real update.  I'm currently sitting in a new coffee shop in town called Insomnia.  A Portland-based company with cheap, good coffee, a staff and atmosphere absolutely dripping with Downtown P-Town attitude, and music that makes you cry it's so good all of the time.

In short, being here makes me feel like I'm back in Portland.  And on rainy days when it's coming down soft and slow, I love to tuck up in here with a good book, my Bible or my laptop. I can look out any one of the huge windows at the rain falling on the street outside and imagine I'm looking out at a busy one-way street filled to the brim with clunky subarus and volvo wagons, blaring their Keep Portland Weird! bumper stickers.

I don't often think about where I used to live, because let's be honest, it's hard to want to be somewhere else when you live on the coast, but every now and then when I start to miss somewhere, I miss my fair home city most of all.

I don't miss my small, hometown community of Canby at all.  Nor do I miss the suburb my parents live in.  Don't get me wrong, home is wonderful and I miss my family of course, but I'm having a seriously hard time associating 1355 SE 16th Ave with home anymore. It feels like a house I lived in once.

I have a bedroom there, with more of my things, but the last time I visited home for the weekend I didn't even feel at home in my own room.  I felt like a guest.  My bookshelves felt pretty homey, but that's just because I have an unhealthy, weird relationship with my personal library.

I mean, I've been here in Cannon Beach for almost 7 months already.  I've gone to school here, I've worked two jobs in this community now for almost 2 months, I've attended a City Council meeting,  I've met the City Manager, I get a local discount at restaurants and coffee shops, I go to weekly Burger Night on Mondays at the VFW Legion Hall, I know my fellow community members by name, I go to the local farmers' market on my lunchbreaks. I live here, I go to church here, I breathe here, I sleep here, I shop here, I write here, I skate here, I tan here, I work here, I hang out with friends here, I eat here, I love here.  I don't want to leave here.

It's my home now.

I don't like to think about leaving Cannon Beach, because I can tell you right now when that time comes it'll be one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

2012 has indeed been a year of freedom.  And with that freedom has come such a strong sense of ownership and pride in the place that I now live.  It's beautiful to feel like I belong to a place, and like a place belongs to me.  I think innocence and youth, amongst other such contributing factors, barred me from ever feeling like this about anywhere else I've lived in the past.

I have always loved where I've lived, I have always taken great joy in the places my family has found residence in, I have so many priceless memories from each location and house, I'm thankful for them all and how they've shaped me and I treasure them all deeply, but I've never been so involved in a municipal community before, and such involvement and active participation makes me feel truly alive to this town.  Like it's helping me to become who I am and giving me an opportunity to experience the essence of locality.

I can't think of any other way to describe what it means to me other than to say I love it.  I love it.

Not just in the way you love one paint swatch more than another, or the way you love one candy bar above all others, but I love it in a way that lives and breathes and moves and grows with each passing day.

I can't thank God enough for bringing me home this year and allowing me to blossom so fully under His grace and love in a place more precious than the finest gold in all of the world.

So on days like today, when I do start to miss my parents or that golden smell of Downtown Portland on a rainy afternoon, I think about where I've been blessed to live this year, and I smile.  I wish for everyone back home in Canby, and Oregon City, and Portland to know that I'm happy here- truly, madly, deeply happy, and to not be hurt that I have discovered a new home for myself or to wish too hastily upon my return.  I wouldn't be as happy there, and that would be ugly and unfair to everyone.

This is where God wants me right now, and I'm more than happy to serve Him here by the ocean.  Even if he requires me here the rest of my days.

I love you all deeply, and I want to thank you all for your prayers and avid support of my endeavors the past seven months.

Especially thank you to my mom and my dad.  I know for a fact sometimes it's hard on them to know how much I long to be here instead of there, even though they would never admit it. :) They are strong and beautiful and full of love to let me follow my desires and dreams and I can't thank them enough for this opportunity either, or for the trust they give to me so readily.

And even though I started this entry with no intention whatsoever to get emotional, I find myself here in the middle of this Portlandia coffee house, crying.

What a silly little mess I can be sometimes.

And a silly little mess is how I shall leave you, wishing you all the love and contentment and rainy-cafe-au-lait afternoons in the world.

Love,

Hannah

Pen and Ink.

Lovers,

I have not stopped writing in my month's absence from this blog, I promise. My notebooks are all beginning to swell happily with musings, like small, fat pregnant women, glowing with the presence of new life growing within them.

I have, however, returned from my blogger neglect and am determined to continue forward into summer with a stronger resolution not to fall out of touch with this platform of expression.

I have with me at this internet cafe a few notebook ramblings I meant to post as blogs but never followed through until now.  I have more back at the house, alas I forgot to bring them with me.

Here are a few to make up for lost time.

MAY 2012

Edith Piaf is possibly the most overwhelming, all-encompassing, emotionally baring experience one can put themselves through, audibly.

I am tempted to burst into tears. I'm not sad.  I don't even know what she's saying, but I don't have to.

Sometimes beauty is the only thing to be trusted.

When the world is topsy-turvy and you don't know where to turn, you can always trust in the beauty of a French lovesong. It will always envelop you, and soothe you, and amaze you with it's awe-inspiring beauty.

This music transports me somewhere otherworldly- a place bound in security.  A place full of wonder and twinklelights, late summer air, and the peace that comes with the knowledge that I'll never have to be alone again.

Someday that distant planet will be my own home of starry-eyed whimsy.

Until then I wander this town after dark, playing roulette with the night sky and my daring game of evading waves in the pitch black.

Until then I sit in the courtyard under the dogwood trees, sparkling with lights, and cry my loneliness out to God.

So is the plight of all women.

Until then, we waste our time falling in love with so many of the wrong boys-  we let them change us and shape us and woo us and every heartbreaking time we let them leave us, and we say nothing.

This is the business that we're in- it is solitary and heart and soul and misery and discontent and extreme curiosity all at once.

Which is why Edith is wonderful- because she captures the essence of women in a way that transcends the barrier of language.  She sings with the language of the heart, with a depth of emotion that inflects the very words all our female hearts carry.

One sister to another.  Beauty.

5.22.12


There's a moth throwing himself repeatedly against my window, trying desperately to reach the lights in my kitchen.

The storm will probably kill him.

So would the lights.

Go figure.

Well write about it!  She said.

No need I said.  Just an observation on life.

I am aware of my solitude.  An orange skittle in a bowl of green MnMs.

I always get into the most dangerous moods when I write.

I want to light the world on fire.


6.6.12.


Piping hot cup of orange spice tea and I feel happier than a clam singing at the bottom of the sea inside it's shell.

Skinny love on shuffle and a batch of oatcakes in the oven.

Stormclouds crying and wheezing rain and wind periodically outside my window.  I am more comfortable than ever in my harem pants and mismatched wool socks.

Bible opened to Psalm 45 and I think about the words in front of me.

"Deep calls to deep
at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves have gone over me."

Strong, pertinent words when the Pacific Ocean is your backyard playground.

I have fallen in love with this psalm and the clarity of the hope and assurance of trust in the words.

I love how in times of misery, David remembers his moments of worship in praise to lift his thoughts upwards again.

I miss  my Ocean.   I work down by the shore so many hours during the week, but I never spend enough downtime out there anymore.

I think this calls for a nice, long walk to North Beach.  To sit.  To marvel.  To pray.  To restore.

*also on 6.6.12*


There is an unrivalled beauty along the coastline on a stormy late spring day.

One half of the beach, to the south, is shrouded in a black cloud threatening rain and mist, and it mirrors its angry depth on the surface of a slate grey ocean.

And yet, tot he north, the sun beams through broken cumulous clouds of hope and color.

Far out at sea, its rays gleam shining and bright over the water, turning everything in view into a cream-colored white light of purity.

Mildly grey and green waves pound against shoreline and shrouded monoliths rise up like jagged dinosaurs out of the swells.

The rainclouds sit heavy and low.  The wind dies down and I feel a humid warmth creep over me.

I am very close to being caught in an impending heavy rainstorm, but I cannot pull myself away.

The colors, the sound, the sight, the smell, I want to stay here forever.

I feel so much peace and restoration.

I'm closest to the love I love the most when I come to the water's edge.

I can feel that heartbeat surging at the same rate as mine, in step with the swinging rhythm of the waves.

Nobody else shares my symmetry with it.

At times I feel so connected that I could just jump in and grow fins and gills and swim down, down, deep, far away from surface and sky and sound.

It is from the ocean I am sure that I have come, and it is the ocean where I desire to return.

Home.

My heart is here.

In the soft sand building up between rocks.

In the ebb and flow of the moon-guided tides.

In the song of the barnacles.

In the depth of the green-grey ocean.

Home.

Word. Play. WordPlay.

(Found this lying in my notebook. Wrote it quite awhile ago. Love every word of it.)


Sassy conservationalist nerdy girl writer with secret aspirations of a well-traveled history.

Looking for intertidal protection and creative excellence.

Fervently wishing upon stars and sand dollars for a life full not of love, but of romance.  Ready for loneliness, ready for heartbreak, full of passion and clarity, beauty and transcendence.

Stubborn and unmoving, unwilling to be broken, accepting of cracks and chips.

Constantly found with rings on her fingers and a pencil stuck inside a whispy, messy bun- she traverses these lands with fluidity and grace- a rhythmic sway to her undulating hips.  Toes always naked when playing in the sunshine.  Words tattooed beautifully all over her hands and feet.

In love with the ocean-  moved beyond words by the beating of drums, and the perseverance of the human heart, transfixed by the beauty of all free-thinking men, inspired by the gentle sound of butter sizzling in a pan.

Awestruck at the lifespan of caterpillars-  excited by the profundity of the entire insect world.

Spurred onward by the needs of nations, the scent of hydrangea blossoms and the woven rainbows of color and love in friendship bracelets.

Transformed through divinity, chasing after God like the parched man chases after a raincloud, informed through the medium of authorship, riveted by vintage bicycles and Goodwill coffee mug collections.

Shaped, but not controlled, by the social media generation.  Emotional at the sound of banjos and steel strings. Lifted up by discernment, ripped jeans and Italian espresso.

Avid supporter of:
 Banned books,
 Midnight beach walks
 Romantic poetry
 Naps taken lying in the grass
 Pepperoncinis on her pizza
Bearded dragons as pets
 Flags of other nationalities
Cultural melting pots
Kindness to strangers
Counting the licks to the inside of a Tootsie Pop
Movie nights
Head rubs
"Everything" kisses
Monkey bars
Closing your eyes while swinging
Flirty text messages
Giving your heart away to someone new all the time
Wooden picnic tables
Thankfulness
Feta cheese
Giggle fests
Childlike innocence
Spontaneous fits of shouting
Throwing things when angry
Cobbled streets
A cold, wet beer.

Romanced by Ocean Eyes, homecooked meals and Beatles songs.

Searching for sexy-cute Surfer boy with an affinity for cheesy movies and a thirst for adventure. Also: must love goldfish, long walks, going out to eat, and live music.

Inclined to live by the beach forever, blessed by God, through God, and incandescently happy just to be alive.

Just Call Me The Shrimp Girl

Hi, lovers.

Oy.

It's been a week.

You would not believe the force with which I almost shouted this morning in overwhelming dismay, "It's only WEDNESDAY?!"

Yes, self, it is only Wednesday.

So I'm throwing this dinner party tomorrow night at The Mansion.  (AKA: the place where I live).

It's turning into a weekly thing, where a few girls who live in another house on the other side of town, and myself trade off and on hosting the dinner.  Last week we had it at their house.  This week it's my turn.

Now, I'm not going to go into all the details of how this happened, but somehow this dinner got to be planned on a day which I work.

I meant it for my day off- somehow- I got confused.  Calendars have never been my strong suit.

So tomorrow I'm working from 11-4, and then coming home to cook the dinner for this party of people.  Which, I might add, I don't know the number of.

So all of last night (because I worked yesterday all day) I spent deep cleaning the house.  We're talking dusting window ledges, wiping down cabinets, and toasters, and scrubbing Comet all over the oven and microwave, mopping, etc. To get the house in order for this party.

Sidenote: I probably didn't have to actually do any of this in order to entertain these lovely friends, because, they are all young people and generally young people could care less if your oven is slightly sticky or your toaster is covered in finger prints.  However, these young people were not raised in my house, and I live with a constant hologram-like hallucination of my mother peering over my shoulder whenever I am away from home and in charge of some sort of get-together. Therefore, I cleaned.  Like a madwoman.

I collapsed into bed around 12am, exhausted and full of sore feet after a full day of working, cleaning, shopping (we were in dire need of toilet paper and paper towel) AND making dinner.

This morning, before I work, I've taken it upon myself to get all the final groceries so that I can spend my evening tonight after I work prepping the food so as to ease my transition from work to hostessing tomorrow as smoothly as possible.

This brings us to right now: where I am currently sitting, in the Coach house, furiously typing away on my keyboard, ignoring the groceries sitting on the backseat of my car and thinking about shrimp.

Shrimp.

I've prepared a great menu for tomorrow night: grilled lemon chicken, with a side of garlic bread, salad, and a delicious linguini with shrimp scampi that was going to be the star of the meal.

So after consulting with my boss, who used to be a private, live-in Beverly Hills 90210 chef, (... I know, right???) I decided to visit the local seafood market, because she said it's the best seafood market around and I'd be sure to find what I was looking for there.

So there I was, after checking and re-checking my recipe and having decided to double the size just to be safe, awaiting my opportunity to buy 4, yes, 4 lbs of cocktail shrimp.

I scanned the display case.  My eyes caught the sign of "FRESH SHRIMP. 7.99 per LB."

Okay. I thought. That's a wee bit more than I wanted to spend on four lbs of shrimp, but,  what the heck.  Good food costs good money.  Entertaining should always be an area in which you splurge.  Serve your guests only the best! Yadda yadda yadda.

That was when I realized that the sign was proclaiming bay shrimp for 7 bucks a lb. (Now THAT I wouldn't stand for.)

Bay shrimp. Okay. That's ridiculous.  Where is the normal shrimp?

I took a closer look. "JUMBO PRAWNS 13.99 per LB."

Jumbo prawns are gigantic.  Huge.  Monstrous.  I was fairly certain if I served those on the linguini, somebody would faint for fear of the prawn coming to life and eating them.

Finally it was my turn to be serviced.

I asked the lady for shrimp to be used in a pasta- she asked me if I wanted the bay shrimp meat.

"Er... No... "

"Oh so you want the prawns, then?"

"Well, no, actually, isn't there a size inbetween? You know... scampi sized, cocktail sized, bite sized sauteed shrimp sort of shrimp?"

"Nope.  All we got is the bay shrimp and the jumbo prawns.  The jumbo prawns come in raw or precooked."

"....... Okay. Well, thank you, but that's not what I'm looking for...."

So I left.  Defeated.  Best seafood market around?  Really?

Back to square one.  Now, I live in a very small beachtown, and this was, unfortunately, the only fish market in town. Either I go back to the tiny market where I had purchased my other ingredients, or get back in my car and travel ten miles down the road to Seaside to hunt around some other fish markets.

So I decided I'd try the market again, because I don't have time to go to Seaside and back before work.

In the market, they only had tiger prawns (like jumbo prawns, only slightly smaller, striped and more leggy).

They had frozen pre-cooked shrimp that were the perfect size, quantity, not to mention they were de-veined.

But I, tragically, needed raw shrimp.  Pre-cooked was not going to cut it.

Well, shoot.

Now I don't get off work until between 6:30 and 7.  Which means I have to go home, change my clothes, get back in my car, drive all the way to Seaside, hope that the fish markets aren't closed and try desperately to find some average sized dinner shrimp for hopefully less than 8 bucks per lb, come home, prep the dinner, clean my bathroom and collapse, again, exhausted into my bed before work tomorrow morning.

Luckily, Friday is my day off to recuperate.  In which I plan to do absolutely nothing but laze around like an opalescent nudibranch.  Or, sea slug.

If this shrimp thing doesn't work out- we're having chicken linguini.  Thank God for back-up plans.

Now I have to pull myself away from this comfy couch, change my clothes, and head on into work to tell small children all about intertidal life.

During which, I severely hope I won't get sidetracked by a sand shrimp, and turn my educational spiel into an economical, dinner-shrimp- fueled rant.

With love,

A very frustrated Shrimp Hunter.

Memories

"Winter didn't die, she was murdered and you are the culprit."


"Thirty days alone with the Savior, and an angel, and the devil, rapture and smoke- and I'm careful just not to say that I miss you, 'cause sometimes I guess I still miss myself."

This song, Pretty Girl From Locust, reminds me of the camping trip Beks and I went on last summer.

Something about the tinkering piano notes and the lulting guitar riffs cement the memories I have of those sleepy, early campground mornings.  It captures the quiet nature of the mountains, and glass-top lakes.

The lyrics are just haunting and mournful enough to tinge the memories with a pretty sort of sadness.  Which is what that trip truly meant to us- a pretty sort of sorrow.

So much happened that week-  I think there was a loss of life that greatly impacted us on that trip.

There was a loss of time- and a loss of connection to the outside world- that, when one is so unaccustomed to it, can bring insanity ever that much closer, making you feel even more vulnerable than you already are.

For me, there was a loss of denial about my mom's cancer- those walls I had spent seven years building were vigorously torn down within seven short days and I was left to pick up the ugly pieces and start over.  There was also a loss of distance for me- like the story of the prodigal son, I returned to my roots after a lifetime of being away and I had to face the god-awful person I had become, so far away from the beauty and love of the place that I had grown up in.

I had grown calloused, bitter, resentful and hardened to life at its' basest nature- like cement walls dividing a field, I had become a cold, hard exterior dividing my soul from my memories.

For both of us, I think, there was a loss of delusion, imagination and pretend.  As coping mechanisms for the normal drudgeries and complications of life, Becca and I had come up with this comforting, beautiful, but tragically made-up alternate version of reality.

It was a place we both loved beyond life, but as we braved the wilderness of the mountain, we had to realize it was stunting the growth, progression and natural beauty of our real lives.  That was scary and overwhelmingly hard to process when living in a tent in the middle of a forest hundreds of miles away from home with no, and I mean no connection to the outside world.

There was also a loss, almost, of determination as we realized we were in no way in control of our futures.

I felt like giving up entirely.  I think it's safe to say she did, too.

All of these losses were only solidified when the week was over and on the drive home we witnessed a sad scene- a terrible accident had occured between a motorcyclist and an SUV, and there was the motorcyclist, before any ambulance had arrived to cover him with a blanket and whisk him away, dead on the side of the road.

Neither of us have talked about that since.

It was a cold reminder after an insanely emotional week that life is incredibly short, and you never know when yours will end.

Now that almost a full year has gone by, and the wounds have mostly healed, and the processing has finally started to cease, I can confidently say that all of these little deaths add up to only make life more meaningful.

And even though, in some ways, it was the toughest week of my life, it was also the greatest.  Because of all that we overcame, all the new experiences we had, all of the tragedy that forced us to communicate and bond and rely on each other for survival, we became so much stronger as individuals and as friends, sisters.

Not to mention we did have some crazy good fun on that trip.

I'll never forget the yoga by the lake, the early morning fishing, the endless singing of "Just Around The Riverbend" whenever in the canoe, the splashing fights, the hiking, the endless eating, the day we spent driving all over the surrounding fields and towns and mountains, listening to the Beatles nonstop for six hours, exploring ghost towns and laughing.

The jokes, the notes, the pictures, the campfires, the dreaming.

Secret ceremonies by the lake at midnight- praying and holding hands and giving everything to God, together.

And so you see, now, what I mean by a pretty sort of sorrow.

Sometimes sorrow is God's most potent way of reading into our worlds, crushing everything with His hands, and then sending His Holy Spirit into the rubble to glue everything back together into something more beautiful than you could ever imagine.

And that, my lovers, is the most meaningful part of it all.