Tag Archives: our life

We really didn’t know what to say this February 4th. We tried to say all those things you should – I love you, I can’t believe it’s been three years, I can’t believe the things we’ve done, I can’t believe we moved across a country, travelled across borders, I can’t believe we haven’t killed, maimed or blinded each other, intentionally or accidentally….

A good friend and I spoke yesterday of  the pictures that we paint of ourselves here, how they are sometimes so perfect and sweet that even our failures are brush stroked into rosy hued optimism and funny quips. How in blog land we rarely talk about the rages, the betrayals, the pain, the heartache and the strife that evades even the most skilled writer or narrator. Sometimes, there are not enough words (or there are too many) that could protect the careful identity that we craft here for ourselves and still reveal our true lives and loves and pains.

So while Jared and I tried to say the things we should on the fourth, we found ourselves more aware of the things we don’t. The things we don’t talk about – the fights, the gulps, the vomit, the spit and the anger, the sulks, the exhaustion, the tears, the screams and the slams. They are the things that we quash under our “funny couple” routine, the things we wrestle with across the dinner table, the things that three years sometimes resolve and sometimes fortify. Yet amidst all the things we don’t say here and all the things we don’t say in our lives, there lives a space between fights and slams where we learned to stop saying another thing this February 4th.

We stopped saying “I don’t believe…”

Because we do.



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things unsaid.

20090703165219{via catherine kennedy garrett}

I really did have full intentions of posting about our trip, about our adventures. I wanted an excited three part story that detailed the fun, the restaurants, the mishaps. But the farther away it got, the longer I waited to write about it.. the less I wanted to. 

Once when I was little, really young, I found a black triangle shaped rock in the playground. I was convinced that it was an arrowhead and I carried it around all morning in my pocket until lunch when I unveiled it to a circle of friends who promptly told me that it was definately a triangle shaped rock, and not an arrowhead at all. I was crushed. 

Sometimes I think that I need to keep more in my pocket. The hope that this vacation would reconnect me with a man that I love so much, the ridiculous laughter in a bar in the middle of Maine, the hilarity of J. getting all kissy when I order coffee in French in Quebec.. They seem so much more precious, so much more.. more.. when I don’t struggle to put them in the right words or find the right pictures to go with them. 

So suffice to say, it was beautiful. It wasn’t perfect, it may not have been what I envisioned months ago, but it was exactly and surprisingly what should have been, tears and laughter included. I will keep it in my pocket, and hope you understand. xo


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And on the 6th Day


Darlings, you must have been praying/drinking extra hard, because we have internet. Given, we still don’t have stuff, heat, food, and I’m still going to bed fully dressed to stay warm during the night – but we have internet. Which makes me feel just a little more connected and a titch bit happier. I start my couple classes tomorrow on the new (and beautiful) campus, so in light of the fact that the first class is near the frat house with a banner that reads “Stud Farm”, I offer you this scholastic site: “What’s for School Lunch?” discovered via the NYTimes this morning. On the internet. That I’m on. Hallelujah.



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Picking Up Sticks

DSC_0574{miel et cannelle}

I admire mountaineers. People who hike the Appalachian Trail. Hobos. There is a certain abject necessity to everything that they have and carry, each piece distilled down to only it’s utmost functionality. I used to question the  sanity to having a 100gram sleeping bag and matchbook sized camping stove.

However, as I stood in my spare bedroom last night holding a bag of over 100 drumsticks of varying sizes, I thought that perhaps a tent that folded into a twinkie wrapper wasn’t such a bad idea at all.

Everything that you own contains significantly more or less meaning as you consider schlepping it across 5000km to an apartment you’ve never seen, into a town you’re not sure actually has door to door mail delivery. This meaning never actually appears to relate directly to the object and it’s functionality at all… I have a million woolen caps that will no doubt be useful in a place that can get feet of snow in a day, but have given the majority away instead of move them. The three stone Buddha heads that I lugged around the mountains in India after buying them on my first stop and surely developing a hump, that most definately won’t keep me warm in the middle of the night (the heads, not the hump)? Yeah, they’re all coming with me. Wrapped in bubble paper no doubt.

As I was holding bags of drumsticks in my spare room last night, memories of J flooded forth… Him tapping on my leg on the bus, playing in front of 100 people, 10 people, lightly playing “Seven Steps to Heaven” on my back as I fell asleep at night. I pulled out a couple of pairs of shoes I rarely wear and slipped the bags in. There are some things you just can’t leave behind, no matter their weight. Or maybe, because of it.



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