slamming doors

Never burn bridges.

One door closes for another door to open.

Approaching a crossroad.

Thus far, I've excelled specifically at one characteristic in life: leaving doors open. Setting myself in a position to proceed in any direction. Leaving the exit door of the past ajar has kept my mind at ease and emotions at bay. Saying goodbye has never been pretty when I'm involved. This reassurance has been created as a coping mechanism. Cracked doors mean I posses the ability to sneak back into the past and act as though I never left-- if desire one day strikes.

Neutrals and vintage and pearls and lace; never go out of style. Comforting knowing that my favorite black dress with matching lace pumps won't ever be considered last season. Worse comes to worse I find myself in a bind, that outfit is tucked safely in my closet. Familiar combination of lace and bows and neutrals and pumps never let down; never underdressed. Holding sentimental value, my precious outfit is becoming tattered and torn and quickly approaching the moment where we must part. Representing key moments of the past, people, places, emotions, decisions, priorities-- all which have altered over time. Begging for one more memory. It has served its purpose. The end is near. The time is now.

Certainly, I'll encounter this seasons lace and pearls and bows and pumps that leap off the hanger to share more of life's memories with. Surely this new dress will become tattered and old and eventually hold heart filled and heartrending emotions. In order to arrive safely at these unknown destinations, one must let go of familiar and dependable and recognizable and safe.

Doors must be closed completely; slam if necessary. Emotions will whirl and tears will fall and occasionally, smiles and giggles and sighs of relief accompany these moments. Decisions and doors unique to their own; the prize is reaching forward to the next door handle. Promise, the other side holds hope and adventure and new black lace pumps with bows.

Sometimes, there is no going back.

burnt muffins

Set the fire alarm off and burnt the muffins. They came from a box; I added three ingredients and poured the goopy batter into muffin molds. The timer beeped at fifteen; below the minimum requirement. They’re sitting on my stove, black as the night sky. Yeah, I burnt muffins out of a box. It’s been one of those days.

I need to write as much as ever tonight. This here, a moment where I question just how honest I’m willing to be, I’m reminded of a little promise made to my inner self about honesty. Honesty means vulnerability and vulnerability is not exactly my favorite concept—unfortunately, the intelligent side of my subconscious is firm on improvement. Vulnerability means improvement; vulnerability is necessary. This post will be different. Thoughts are spinning and whirling a jumbled mess inside my head. My subconscious is rolling her eyes mumbling "drama queen" while my inner self is screaming a girly scream and holding on for dear life. This is all I've got.

o   "We left their mark on California." It’s a labor of love; raw passion to the bone. He’s embarking on the same adventure I set out on at nineteen-years-old. There are only two reasons young adults are drawn to this lifestyle like a moth to a flame: 1, internal obligation for first or 2, absolute loathe of second. I beam with pride when I talk about him; he is living out his dream, passion paving the road but inside, it tears me apart. Parental instincts boil in my blood; I've never experienced the stir of untainted joy towards someone else’s happiness and accomplishments. With this come unsolicited, soaked tears. Convinced most people live entire lives without experiencing the need for something which evokes passion. Intense crave running below skins surface; barely touching heaven—it’s about coming alive. Oh, am I thankful for it all. Aches and pains and pops of my knees are all reminders of what once was. Absence of desire never gets easier. This here and now, this is my life. Attempting to help my ‘baby’ brother grasp just how special this feeling is. To treasure playing music in the clouds, on cloud nine, encouraging him to take big bites of out heaven. Let the feeling of coming alive burn into his soul and mind and heart and every part of him. Suck it up; let it cut deep and scab and eventually, scar. Leaving fragments and memories to guzzle later in life. To never forget what coming alive feels like.

o   Unpredictability has recently pitched a tent in my life and I have a suspicious feeling that it may be consulting a local Realtor. There should really be permit requirement for purchases of that nature. I've watched seventeen episodes of Pretty Little Liars, since Thursday, in a desperate attempt to create consistency and predictability. I have no appetite what-so-ever; not even for Wynn’s chunky chicken salad and ‘everything’ pretzel chips. My bedroom floor is scattered with piles of clean clothes, dirty clothes, bottles of nail polish and purses and shoes; it's all piling up. Constant eye rolls as I continuously step trip over the growing piles. Haven't thought twice about actually tidying up. Feeling as though I’m being left behind; an old soul who occasionally fails to remember my age.  Drowning in the brilliance of others is where I've been finding comfort in the chaos. Constantly overcompensating a forward motion, suffering a debilitating fear of regression. Rubbing my eyes, anxious for resolution, for peace, for a sound mind and improvement. With time, it will happen. With time.

This is all I've got. For now.

Pink flowers down Caxambas Court

Sweet, sweet summertime.

Ridiculous amount of emotions and experiences must be documented from the last two weeks. With time, they will. Tonight, I'm in the here and now. Soaking in the warmth of my Shabby Chic bedding as if it were an overflowing bubble bath, enjoying heaping spoonfuls of double dark chocolate gelato and fresh memories of adventure.

Sunday nights are reserved for family dinners and giggles and wine and stories. Old friends and new friends are welcome with open arms. Tonight, three-year-old Avery and I walked hand-in-hand picking pink flowers down Caxambas Court. Consuming hearty helpings of pasta and shrimp and lobster, we ended the night with bowls of fruit piled high with whipped cream. My belly and heart are full at the thought of it all. Watching Avery enjoy a Florida summer sunset over fruit salad, she would mumble, night night strawberry, right before she would sink her teeth into the juicy seasonal fruit. Intelligent beyond her years, she identified every fruit. I had to giggle when I heard, night night cucumber. I thought, for sure cucumbers had no place in a fruit salad. Avery learned tonight that kiwis and cucumbers are extremely similar in appearance. I basked in the presence of this free-spirit. Oh did I enjoy this summer night.

The sun sank below the horizon line as cars and trucks and boat engines roared and we departed our separate ways. Refreshed and prepared to conquer the week ahead. Behind the wheel of my brother's silver two-door Honda, I drowned thoughts and worries in my sixteen-year-old self's summer playlist, breathing in cool, humid Florida air. Oh, did I feel full and blessed and free and whole.

Welcome back sweet, sweet summertime.