October 14th

October has hit the Northwest full-throttle.  The leaves have started turning, the sky is a constant shade of stormy blue-grey, and the rainstorms are magnificent.  On the days when the sun comes out, a beautiful fog seems to rest over the valley and the trees and houses shine with all glory.
I think Fall must be God's favorite season.  He's made it so beautiful, so much more beautiful than any other season.  Then again, I may be a little bit biased, having grown up in the most beautiful part of the country.  I can't help it.  Oregon is, in my fairly well-traveled opinion, unrivaled.

The month of October always makes me want to get up earlier, I want to catch the first rays of the Autumn sun as it peeks frail and golden over the roofs of the houses and distant mountains.  I want to cuddle up with a cup of tea as the day's first spell of rain comes rolling through.  I want to take a walk and breathe deeply in the crisp, cinnamon air and observe the first leaves that begin to fall from their treetop homes.  I want to spend the majority of my days reading, thinking, writing, and surviving solely on cups of tea and pieces of toast.  Candles are meant to be lit all day long during the month of October, they start in the morning and don't stop until late at night.  The music plays soft and soothing.  Nat King Cole and Linda Ronstadt make up my Autumn playlist, and Gillian Welch Pandora.

My hands smell like burnt matches.  God, I love this season.

October is also a good month for learning things.  I learned last week that witnessing one person's good deed can change your entire perspective on how your day has been.  I know, I know.  Story time.
I was at work one night, after a long day of feeling lowly and alone, miserable and so far from my dreams, that I could hardly even distract myself with the busy hustle and bustle at work.  I'm getting better at dealing with business on auto-pilot.
It was drawing near to the end of my shift, the rush had settled and there I was, standing at the counter, dappling in self-pity and contemplation.  I noticed a homeless man, or, I assumed he was homeless,  digging through the garbage can outside of the restaurant.  I felt some pity for the man, for whatever had driven him to such desperate ends.  I continued rolling my silverware.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my boss, Travis, was staring at the assumed-homeless man, too.  He looked like he was weighing something heavily on his mind.
Wordlessly, he turned around and grabbed a to-go bowl and filled it to the brim with fresh, hot soup.  After taking a lid, a napkin, and a plastic soup spoon with him, he ventured outside and handed it to the man.

I've never seen one act of such single, solitary kindness before in my life.  And I always thought I was a kind person, or that I've been surrounded by kind people.  I have, this is still true,  but I've still never seen such concentrated kindness in another person before.  I realized as I was going home that night, what I had witnessed completely changed my day.  It had become one of the best days I've ever lived, because my faith in the goodness of everyday people was restored.  I've always been an idealist, and I look for the good in people, and that day, I found it.  Or, it found me.   That was on October 2nd.

Amongst other things that I've been meaning to blog about but haven't really pinned down, Becca came into town this past weekend for her birthday.  She brought me a typewriter.  Becca is a sort of Garage Sale Goddess, and picked up a circa 1960 Olympia typewriter for fifteen bucks, because she knew about my lifelong desire to own one.  What a gal!  I've named my pretty new pet Athena, because she is the Olympian Goddess of Wisdom, and I like to think that wisdom and inspiration are pretty close to the same thing.  I've since cleaned, and scrubbed, and oiled Athena to the best of my typewriter-ignorant abilities, and she turned out to be a beautiful shade of aqua, instead of the seafoam-y green we thought she was.  Years of dirt and weathering in a barn will do that, I guess.  Still, she runs like a machine, and has hardly any signs of extreme wear and tear, which is impressive considering how old she is.  However, just to be sure,  I plan on taking her to a typewriter expert sometime soon, so he can look her over, give me the general history, model type, and cleaning and care information.   The ribbon she came with, who knows how old it is, works amazingly well, though, and I've already gotten a good hour and a half's worth of typing out of her.

Antiquity has an extreme sort of power over inspiration, I'm discovering.  I've been suffering from an unfortunate case of writer's block on my fairytale I started about a year ago, and as soon as I sat down to my typewriter, shut off my laptop and my music,  I pounded out a good 3 pages in an hour.  I was pretty excited about that.

A friend told me yesterday that she heard a story on the news about a young girl, who faked being pregnant for a high school project, is now in possession of a book deal, and a movie in the works on Lifetime.  I would just like to take the time right now and say: WHERE IS MY BOOK DEAL?? 
I did the same thing for my psychology case study project in high school two years ago.  I'd put money down on the fact that she's not half the writer I am, either, and I'm not a betting woman.  (Which is exactly what my friend said, too.  Although she's more of a betting woman than I am.)   I analyze risk too much.
One day, one of us will be recognized for our talents,  I'm sure of it.  And one day,  I told her,  Kate Winslet will play me on Broadway.

I've been attempting my second journey into Jane Austen, lately.  Sense and Sensibility, to be exact.  Everytime I venture into the realm of Austen, the desire to use words like 'rudimentary' and 'implicit' and 'asenine' in everyday conversation consumes me.  I think in a 19th century English accent.

Halloween is vastly approaching.  And once again,  I have no idea what I'm supposed to dress up as.  I've been invited to a Halloween Harvest Party thing, and even though I am really excited to go, my spirits dropped a little bit when I saw the "COSTUMES ARE REQUIRED" sign on the FB event.  Great.  Halloween is a fine enough Holiday to me,  I don't really mind it,  it's not my favorite,  but it doesn't really bother me either.  Except for this whole adults dressing up thing.  Let's leave it for the kids, shall we?   I mean, really.  So I've been trying to think of costume ideas that will take little or no effort on my part to contrive, and this is what I've come up with:

• A Lit Major-  this involves khakis, a button up blouse paired with argyle sweater, and TOMS.
• Barefoot and Pregnant- This is more involving than I'd like it to be.
• "Hopeless"- this involves my Star Wars shirt,  a pair of acid wash jeans from the nearest Goodwill, and if possible, a Mickey Mouse watch.  And probably tennishoes. 

Feeble and unstimulating, I know, but that is as far as my creative genius will go in order to match with my willingness of cooperation. 

Did you know that Esther had to wait one whole year before going before King Xerxes as a Queenly Prospect?

One whole year in complete and utter suspension.  I am amazed and inspired by her strength of character. 

Wishing you all the love, Fall Weather and chocolate chips in the world,

Hannah,

Xx

Beauty

I've been spending the last two hours reading, pajama-clad, in an armchair with multiple cups of tea, and I just came across a passage that must be shared.

A Year In Provence, "February."- Peter Mayle.
________________________________________________

An old man had emerged from the kitchen and was peering at us, screwing up his eyes against the light coming through the door.  We told him we'd made a reservation for lunch.
            "Sit down, then.  You can't eat standing up."  He waved airily at the empty tables.  We sat down obediently, and waited while he came slowly over with two menus.  He sat down with us.
             "American? German?"
              English.
              "Good," he said, "I was with the English in the war."
              We felt that we had passed the first test.  One more correct answer and we might be allowed to see the menus which the old man was keeping to himself.  I asked him what he would recommend.
              "Everything," he said. "My wife cooks everything well."
               He dealt the menus out and left us to greet another couple, and we dithered enjoyable between lamb stuffed with herbs, daube, veal with truffles, and an unexplained dish called the fantaisie du chef.  The old man came back and sat down, listened to the order, and nodded.
              "It's always the same," he said.  "It's the men who like the fantaisie."
I asked for a half bottle of white wine to go with the first course, and some red to follow.
              "No," he said, "you're wrong." He told us what to drink, and it was a red Cotes du Rhone from Visan.  Good wine and good women came from Visan, he said.  He got up and fetched a bottle from a vast, dark cupboard.
              "There. You'll like that."  (Later, we noticed that everybody had the same wine on their table.)
              He went off to the kitchen, the oldest head waiter in the world, to pass our order to perhaps the oldest practicing chef in France.  We thought we heard a third voice from the kitchen, but there were no other waiters, and we wondered how two people with a combined age of over 160 managed to cope with the long hours and hard work.  And yet, as the restaurant became busier, there were no delays, no neglected tables.  In his unhurried and stately way, the old man made his rounds, sitting down from time to time for a chat with his clients.  When an order was ready,  Madame would clang a bell in the kitchen and her husband would raise his eyebrows in pretend irritation.  If he continued talking, the bell would clang again, more insistently, and off he would go, muttering, "j'arrive, j'arrive."
               The food was everything the Gault-Millau guide had promised, and the old man had been right about the wine.  We did like it.  And by the time he served the tiny rounds of goat's cheese marinated in herbs and olive oil, we had finished it.  I asked for another half bottle, and he looked at me disapprovingly.
               "Who's driving?"
               "My wife."
                He went again to the dark cupboard.  "There are no half-bottles," he said,  "You can drink as far as here." He drew an imaginary line with his finger halfway down the new bottle.
              The kitchen bell had stopped clanging and Madame came out, smiling and rosy faced from the heat of the ovens, to ask us if we had eaten well.   She looked like a woman of sixty, not eighty.  The two of them stood together, his hand on her shoulder, while she talked about the antique furniture, which had been her dowry, and he interrupted.  They were happy with each other and they loved their work, and we left the restaurant feeling that old age might not be so bad after all.
________________________________________________

I could cry.

"It's not personal, Sonny, it's business."

"Forgive me lover
For I have sinned
For I have let you go

But this estranged organ in my chest
Still beats for you
It will not rest, so
Meet me in our secret place
When the time has come."


I have separation issues.

And I don't mean as in a separation of distance between myself and other people.

I mean as in a separation of necessary distance between aspects of my life.  Like reality, and fantasy.

Like letting go and bottling inside.

Like embitterment and acceptance.

Like letting go and saying goodbye.

Like learning how to say no after too many months of saying yes to something that does more harm than good.

Like learning how to leave the past in the past and letting the future stay unknown.

Like learning how to walk away from something you love because its the right thing to do.

I blur lines.  I distort boundaries. I mix and I muddle because inside I am a gluttonous child who thinks I can have a little bit of everything and eat the whole cake, too.

But this week I have learned my lesson.  And I've learned it hard.

Distinction is necessary.  Lines are drawn because they are meant to be drawn, and the separation of past, present and future is something that you cannot run away from. It's there for a good reason.

Sometimes we have to pick ourselves up and just move on, and it hurts.  It hurts like all hell.  But the past does hurt sometimes, that doesn't mean we shouldn't leave it behind us.

And the future is not for us to know.  It's untouchable because it's not meant to be touched.  It's unpredictable because it's not meant to be predicted.  And no matter how much I thought I could predict my future, I can't. No matter how much I want or will certain things in my life at a certain time, I can't make them happen.

I've never been able to separate letting go of something, and saying goodbye to it.  My best friend will tell you all about my fears and failures on the subject.

I don't know which is which.  For the first time, I can truly admit that.

Saying goodbye doesn't mean letting go.  But letting go doesn't mean saying goodbye either.

So what do they mean?

I still haven't the foggiest clue.

But I know that they're both necessary to moving on.  And moving on is necessary before you start something new in your life.  Things have been tumbling down, albeit slowly, around me for a month now, and I'm starting to realize it's because I'm moving on.  I have to before I move away to the beach.

God wants me to start with a clean slate.

You can't have baggage where I'm going.  Or, that's the opinion I'm starting to feel from The Man Upstairs.

So what have I realized today about blurring lines?

I've learned that what matters the most, is that I don't let them change me.  I can accept something, I can say goodbye, I can move on, and I can even let go, but I don't have to let it cut me down, nor do I have to cut it out forever.

It's not personal, Hannah, it's business.

It's the business of growing up, that's all.

So.

To all the things that I've let go this week, I want you to know from the bottom of my heart that I love you all deeply.  I will always love you deeply.  I will not cut out the beautiful memories I have with any of you.  I will not let this hurt you, or me, or anyone.
I wish you all the best of luck in life, and I want you to know that this goodbye is not forever.  I will always be here when you need me. I will always be here when you don't realize you need me.
And I am positive that we will meet again, someday.  Until then, know that I'm living my life the way it's supposed to be lived, finally.
I'm living right now, in the moment, in the present, and I'm letting the past stay behind me, and the future ahead of me.

Wishing you all the luck, love, and life in the world,

Hannah Xx

"Tear down the house that I grew up in, I'll never be the same as then."

I close my eyes for one whole minute.

As the seconds tick away, so do the four walls around me.   Gone are my laptop, desk, picture frames. Disappeared have my bed, dragonfly lights, guitars.  Replacing them is the warm rock gravel under my feet, the sweet smell of shaded grass in the afternoon.  High above me I hear the rustle of sunkissed evergreens as the river-wind caresses them back and forth. I open my mouth and breathe.  Earthy, mossy dampness collides with clean, fragrant dryness and I swallow big gulps of this unforgettable country air.

                                   Tear down the house that I grew up in
                                    I'll never be the same again

                                   Take everything that I've collected

                                    And throw it in a pile

I know by instinct that the river is in front of me.  Beyond the meticulously kept lawn and beautiful flowerbeds, after the lengthy driveway, across Starr Road, and beyond our unfriendly neighbor's houses.  There,the Clackamas carves its blood and life through rock and sand. Mighty river. I splashed in your shallows before I could talk.  I swam with your salmon and I floated your rapids and I learned from your watery peacefulness.  I learned also from your roaring anger. I remember being afraid of your green depths, and yet jealous of them also and the solitude they must afford some river creatures of the deep.

I know by memory that the woods are to my left, and also to my right.  To my left, they climb a high knoll that is shaded entirely during the morning and afternoon. But come sunset, as the sun descends low into the sky, suddenly the knoll is surged by light and the trees are blasted with warmth and virtue. Tangled knoll. Many times I tried to scale your height.  Many times I lost sight of the house whilst doing so.  No matter how high I climbed, I never could seem to reach your ridge.  Time and time again, I emerged at the bottom tired and battleworn with scars and scratches to prove my failure. Discouragement does not come easily to those who are very young, however.  And I never gave up trying. 

The woods to my right were mostly untouched, as they grew deeper than the ones on the knoll, and no amount of low sun could light their dark shadows.  But still, curiosity overwhelms a young spirit, and in the mindless hours of Summer afternoons, I did sally forth cautiously. The woods are silent with age and ripe with invisible life.  Many times did I hear, but never see, the scamper of rabbits and other forest creatures as they raced away from my tumbling footfalls.  Haunted woods.  I hated how I made myself go alone into your realm. I remember the campfire my sisters built on the outskirts of your treed soul.  A campfire outlined by smooth stones, and surrounded by chopped tree stumps for those delicious adolescent parties that you dream so hazily of when you are too young to witness them, too young to stay up past your bedtime, the same time that the fires are first lit. 

                                   Bulldoze the woods that I ran through

                                   Carry the pictures of me and you

                                   I have no memory of who I once was

                                   And I don't remember your name

                                  

I know by familiarity that the house stands directly behind me.  I dare not turn around.  All I wish is to open my eyes to see it standing in front of me, but instinctively I know if my eyes are opened, all of this beauty around me is lost. And so I keep them tightly shut.  Beloved home.  You bore me for my first nine years, and I have not forgotten your magic.  I feel the creak of the porchboards beneath my feet, and I almost smell the heavy, wet air in which we watched many thunderstorms from the safety of that covered, wraparound porch.

                                     Park the car that I love the best

                                     Inspection's due and it won't pass the test

                                     It's funny how I have to put it to rest

                                     And how one day, I will join it

Blue is the color of my childhood.  Blue was our beautiful front door.  Blue was the color of our wood stove.  Blue was the sky in those warm Summer months.  Blue was my childhood bedroom, my dresser.  Blue, the baseboards in Katie's room. Blue, speckled into the carpet in the upstairs living room. Blue, the beanbag chair in my cubby-hole. Blue, the cover of our trampoline.  Blue, the pots and dishes in our yellow kitchen. Blue, blue, blue.

Green was the grass, the pride of my father's midlife. Green was our family room carpet. Green were the countertops in mine and my sisters' bathroom. Green were the frogs that choired our fishpond.  Green, the evergreens and maples which fueled my love for nature. Green was our outdoor furniture. Green was my turtle-shaped sandbox. Green were the plants in our flowerbeds.  Green, the vegetables in our garden.

Yellow was our happy, laughter-filled kitchen.  Yellow was Hallie's bedroom across the hall from my own. Yellow, the leaves first turned in Fall.  Yellow were the snapdragons-turned-puppets by my sisters. Yellow were the swings my father swung me from every day. The first one small enough for a baby.  The last one for a little girl.  Faster, higher. 

                             I remember crying over you

                        And i don't mean like couple of tears and I'm blue

                     I'm talking about collapsing and screaming at the
                     moon

                      But I'm a better man for having gone through it

                       Yes I'm a better man for having gone through

There is so much to treasure, so much to share and make careful note of, and so little time and space to accomplish it all.

Brown is the dirt that surrounded my existence.  Brown, the squishy, freshly tilled dirt in our garden come planting time.  I used to follow behind my dad as he pushed the rototiller back and forth. I took so much pleasure in squishing the cool dirt between my tiny toes. Brown was the barkdust shoveled in piles year after year. "Barkstuff" as Katie said when she was younger. 

I remember the hammock and I remember the garage that stood apart from the house, in front of the woods on the right side. I remember the skunk that made its home underneath my Grandpa's Pontiac in our garage. I remember the bats that took refuge in the attic above my parents' bedroom.

I remember climbing the attic ladder in the garage.  Smell of mothballs and molding insulation, oh, I remember the excitement of finding something beautiful among all the old.  I remember the fear of falling straight through the ceiling. 

                                 Ever since I learned how to curse

                                 I've been using those sorry old words
                         But I'm talkin' to these children and I'm keeping it 
                              clean
                                 I don't need those words to say what I mean
                                No, I don't need those words to say what I mean

I remember the unit attached to the other side of the garage, where my Grandma Annie used to live.  I remember the exact way it smelled. I remember the spider I once found in her old bathroom, long after she died.

When she was alive, her apartment always smelled of cookies.  My cousin and I picked her flowers, and toddled over on our chubby, two-year-old legs to give them to her. She had coloring books and crayons in a basket underneath the TV. 

I remember the well-used bikes tucked up in the garage.  I remember the Thanksgiving that Katie found a strange black cat on the knoll.  I remember a year after, when she had her first batch of kittens. 

I remember the parties and the twinkle lights and the music that came from the series of outdoor speakers.  Oh, the pride my father took in those beauties.  I remember burning days, when my dad piled up everything he no longer needed and burned it in a huge pile.  I remember my mom worrying about the Fire Marshall and fines and words that I was too young to understand as I danced excitedly around the burn pile.  Burning days always meant fresh roasted hot dogs.  In the midst of her worrying, my mother would pile hot dogs,  buns, ketchup and potato chips in a basket and carry it down past the garage, past my grandmother's space, and to the border of the woods, where I sat in a green chair and chattered endless, mindless four-year old chatter while my dad burned and burned, and together, the two of us roasted hot dogs for lunch. 

I remember cutting days.  When entire weekends were taken up by the arduous task of cutting down trees.  What a smell. What a mess.  What a wondrous excuse to take a day off school.  We always had chili on cutting days.  

                                        Tear down the house that I grew up in
                                        I'll never be the same again

                                       Take everything that I used to own
                                       And burn it in a pile

I remember starry nights.  Us girls slept all night long on the trampoline many times. I slept in the middle. Hallie slept on the side closest to the forest, and Katie slept nearest the house. There were times when we had small fires and roasted marshmallows in the firepit on our driveway. Dad and Hallie built it themselves, laid stone after stone and mortared them together.  I helped carry the stones.  I sat on top of them in the wheelbarrow. 

The best nights were right before Fall, right as it starts to get chilly at night.  Hallie, Katie and Dad would shoot hoops and have long talks on those nights.  I sat on the back of the basketball hoop and dreamed of the day when I would be big enough to shoot hoops and talk about boys, too.

I remember during Fall and Winter, my one task was to run through all the house, and plug in all the candle-lights in each of the windows just as it was getting dark.  Driving up the driveway to that beautiful custom-built home, lit up by small candles in each window was one of the most breathtaking sights to ever behold.
Even more awe-inspiring were the Christmas lights that went up year after year. 

I remember the two staircases we had, one at each end of the house.  I used to think, "one for going up, and one for going down,"  and the idea had stuck.  I went up at one end of the house, and down at the other.

I remember my tree fort that my dad built me all by himself. The tree it wrapped around became infested with ants, and I never went up there after that. 

                                    And bulldoze the woods that I ran through

                                    Carry the pictures of me and you

                                    I have no memory of who I once was

                                    And I don't remember your name

Scraped knees, sunburns, watermelon stains, and dirty feet.  I remember them all. I remember the volleyball net, and I'll never forget playing on the scaffolding that was erected during the second addition onto the original garage: a storage unit for dad's work equipment. 

River, trees, house, dirt, I cannot count the ways in which I have been shaped by these elemental beings.

And after too many years of forgetting how to swim in a river, while pads of feet grow too soft and fleshy to walk barefoot on gravel,  and of growing wary and jumpy of unnamed and unforeseen insects, I'm finding myself again becoming lost in the flow of the country.  

Happy is the color of the memories I have collected; thankful, the color of the instincts I've reawakened. 

Alive is the color of my childhood. Wisdom, the color of all she has taught me. 

                                  Tear down the house that I grew up in

                                  I'll never be the same again

                                  Carry the pictures of me and you

                                  And throw it in a pile

Xx,

Hannah

La Belle France

I have recently fallen in love with France. 

It all started last month when in the middle of my Summer Reading Companion (I.e, A Year In the World by Frances Mayes) the author was spending a delicious vacation with her husband in the South of France. Nice, Provence, Saint-Saveur-En-Pusaiye.

It was there that I first came across Colette.

 Mayes had studied her extensively in college, and had read and re-read her works throughout her entire life, and in the period she spent in the South of France and Burgundy she interspersed a lot of Colette's words with her own.  Her and her husband took a pilgrimage to the childhood home of Colette.  The very same home she wrote about in one of her most cherished works, "My Mother's House and Sido."

Of course, after I finished my travel book, I ran to the library and picked up My Mother's House and began to fall deeper.  Around the same time, I finally got around to creating a La Vie En Rose playlist on Pandora. This is where I really toppled over the edge, as I became absolutely enchanted with France's most famous popular vocalist, Edith Piaf.

I first met Edith through a youtube video when I heard the French version of La Vie En Rose for the very first time.  This must have been almost 2 years ago.


But it was only last month that I really explored beyond that one song, and I'm completely addicted to what I've discovered.

As I was experiencing the region of Yonne through Colette, I also picked my copy of Julia Child's My Life In France which I started several years ago, but never finished.  Julia showed me Paris and all of it's rainy, rosy glory.

 I finished the book; I encourage anyone who's ever experienced sheer determination to pick it up.  It's a highly inspiring read.

Of course, I've decided that I must experience all of this beauty and taste and inspiration for myself.

I especially want to read more of Colette's books.  And I, too, want to travel to that small village and see Colette's childhood home for myself.

Doesn't that make you want to pick up all of your belongings and just move?


I don't mean move only as a sense of physical movement, as in moving houses, I mean it in a emotional and psychological sense, too.  To move something, to move someone, to be moved by a place, a person, a meal.   To be touched.  To touch others.  To inspire, to be inspired.  To change circumstances, to be changed.

For reasons like these alone, I live my life.

And all of these reasons surface when you listen to French music, or cook a French meal.  Or even read a book by a French author.

I believe that the French have figured out the secrets and eccentricities of life.  They know the way things work, and I willingly sign myself up to learn the same lessons as soon as possible.

de vous envoyer tout l'amour et de pépites de chocolat dans le monde,


Hannah Xx

A.H.D.S-O.

Avoidance:

In the month that has passed since I really last posted, I do regret to admit that I was avoiding you all.

I have been shamelessly avoiding my natural duty and outlet to write and release my thoughts because I was tormented by many things I wanted to say, but I could never quite find the words.

I also avoided updating because I knew the things I wanted to write about were sure to be emotional and full of memory.  Sometimes, I do admit, I am a coward when it comes to emotion.

Sometimes, in my darkest hours,  I repress things for the sake of avoiding pain.

It's stupid, really, repression is merely reverse psychology for such things as pain and regret, or frustration, or sadness.

And yet I still do it.   I am a self-diagnosed basket case at times, I will not deny.


Honesty:

A moment of honesty with you all, I now promise. Which, although I am not a truly dishonest person, I do admit is rare for me to share.

I was afraid to delve any further into my past over the last month.

The post about my mom's bout with cancer wore me out for weeks.  The seemingly-lifelong-journey I took through myself whilst camping in the wilderness wore me out for over a month.

I was too scared to write what I already knew.  Writing things down immortalizes them forever. It's one of the most exhilarating and exhausting aspects of being a writer. The process of writing also forces you to really explore your discovery.  Sometimes new treasures are unearthed, sometimes new tragedies take their place instead.


Desire:

There were so many things I wanted to write about the past month; I honestly did sit down several times to try my hand at one or the other, but I couldn't stomach it.  I caved to my fear.

I wanted to write about The Old House, and I wanted to write about The Beatles.  I wanted to write about my childhood, and I wanted to write about the music that moves me the most. I wanted to write more about my camping trip. I wanted to write about my mom.  I wanted to write about epiphanies and realizations and healing and moving on and all of them seemed so beautiful, so untouched.

As silly as it sounds, I wanted to write about me.

Not the things I love now, not the things I dream about in  the future.  Not the books I've read.

I wanted to write my history.  My childhood.  My journey.  My familiar and my unfamiliar. The entire process of my life.

Recently I finished reading My Mother's House and Sido by Colette, and I realized that an author's greatest work is undoubtedly their reflections on childhood.  Their greatest talent is to write where they came from, and their oldest memories, and to make you fall in love with the raw beauty of home and family and youth.

The age of innocence is the most impactful age of a writer's life.

And I wasted mine on trying to grow up too fast, and then trying to forget it all.

I succeeded, too.  Up until I went camping, when my childhood collided heavily with my present self, and refused to let me go.

Since that week when my 7 year old self told me to let all of my pain go, memories and feelings I've not thought of or felt in years have been flooding back to me.  And I wanted to write about all of them, but in truth, I had not given myself the proper time to process them.


Sworn Oath:


And so here we are.

I promise the period of withdrawal is over.

These things need to be written down, and they need to be immortalized.

And I want you all to be the first receivers of this sort of life-manuscript.

I'll try my very best to keep them from being long and wordy, but some will probably err on the side of longish with an accompaniment of nostalgia, served with a healthy sample of musical influence.

Thanks for your patience, and your support and understanding.

You are all brilliant stars. :)

Sending you all the chocolate chips in the world,

Hannah Xx

Defying Gravity

Do you remember a couple of months ago, I hinted at the possibility of living at the coast next year?

Last month, after a year of contemplating and gathering information, and not to mention intense amounts of praying, I mailed off my application to Ecola Bible College in Cannon Beach.

Today I got my acceptance letter.

In roughly three months and two weeks, I'll be moving out of the comforts of my own home and into a dorm room 21/2 hours away to spend six months studying the word of God.

I'll be one block from the ocean.

My ocean.

My favorite spot on the entire West Coast of America.

I'll have hours upon hours to write, and meditate on God's word, to take 6 AM walks along the coastline, to get involved in a community, to spread my knowledge and experiences all across a town that I have loved my entire life.

I don't know what God has in store for me there, but I do know that His presence has been more than gargantuan in this process, and I cannot thank Him enough for this opportunity to grow spiritually and to be a steady instrument in the furthering of His glorious Kingdom.

I've felt for a long time now that He has a lot in store for me in the next nine months.

I told Him last week, either it was this coming January or bust.  Now or never.  And a few days later, guess what I get in the mail?  January it is.  I got so incredibly excited today when I realized the depth of what He may bring into my life in this journey; these next nine months will be some of the most developmental months of my life, and I cannot wait to get started on this adventure!

I feel like I've been stagnant for so long, like I've had absolutely no direction for my life since I graduated high school.  Which is true, really.  All I knew when I graduated was that I wanted to take a year off.  Well, that year has come and gone, and I can honestly say it has been one of the most emotionally maturing years of my life. Here I am, now, after sixteen months of stagnation, almost ready to jump off the edge and to spread my wings. I'm about to try defying gravity, and I couldn't be more excited.

Lessons will be learned, mistakes will surely be made, and amazing, earth-shattering experiences will be had.  Friendships will be forged,  moments never forgotten will slip quietly into existence, and all along, the tide will continue to dance in, and sway back out.


So, here I go.

The final stage of my homelife is commencing.

There's no telling what will come after Bible School is over.

Maybe I'll be brought back home, maybe God has other plans for me elsewhere.

All that I know now is it's time to start saying goodbye to my home, to my friends, to my wonderful workplace, and to welcome with open arms the unknown, unpredictable and unstable future.

I'm off into the world, soon!
My dreams are coming true. :)

Sending you all the love, ocean waves, and chocolate chips in the world,

Hannah Xx

"Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game
Too late for second guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes and leap
It's time to try defying gravity
I think I'll try defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye, I'm defying gravity
And you won't bring me down."