Last night, I nearly stumbled into bed. I remember uttering the words as I crawled under the white blanket, "Oh my goodness." I wanted to blog and have those sweet movie-like moments where the writer sits up in bed, her hair all twisted in a perfect knot on top of her head, her trendy glasses sliding down her nose. But not me. No. My movie-like moments are in my dreams and to those dreams I slipped quickly and easily.
A friend from Texas flew into town this weekend and the north welcomed her in fanfare. The leaves dropped slowly down East Ave, red and gold, yellow and blush. We succumbed to guilty pleasures like ravioli with vodka cream sauce and watched more movies than seems probable.
And she happened to be in town for the sort of weekend I'd like to repeat over and over and over again.
Good food. The best sort of people.
Memorable conversations on couches, in cars, at dawn.
Walks in parks, to coffee, in bookstores, around waterfalls.
Laughter split and doubled and loud in passenger seats, in movie theaters, on sidewalks, on the phone.
Winter is dancing her wild way toward us, and we are letting Autumn woo us and draw us in a few more times with her ravishing colors, warm days, and dark evenings.
The Texan in this home says to me today, "I am so glad you are here..." and something in me breathes a sigh of relief. I love that larger-than-life state, and more so, all of you beautiful people who I genuinely, truly love.
But be it God, or whim, or wanderlust, I am here now and I feel at home in this small one-bedroom apartment. Madeleine and I are settling in as I hoped in between these Mary Poppins-esque rooftops and New York neighbors.
I realize that for however long, here is good. However deep our roots should or shouldn't go, the soil will be exactly what we need. I pulled out the old letters from my great-great-aunt and she told of our Irish family, disputed the suggestion that we have any Scottish in us — how "we're Irish, and have been for centuries." But what struck me most was to hear her write of capturing beauty in stories. I read these words and realized I have a heritage of this:
"...I do not know what kind of stories you mean when you say your father told you stories, but I imagine they were like I used to tell my boys. I took the little every day things of life and wove them into a glamorous interesting tale. That afterall is what makes life worth while, to sort out the good and see beauty in every little event."
November captured my heart this weekend and I captured as much of it as I could.
|flower city's own flour city bread co. and perfect weathered days.|
|sweet daughter, autumn leaves.|
|saturday morning lattes, sticky toddler fingers and bakery visits|
|sunday morning park visits.|
|fresh bread, old lace, late night music|
|meg ryan was perfectly young and beautiful in 1989.|
|a whole city to discover.|