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7 years later

finding all of these posts about my old life in asheville is unreal. for some reason i look back on those times as not being the best, but i’m reading words about sunny, breezy afternoons spent sipping beers with sweet girls i seldom talk to now. driving out to the countryside to cook meals and have bonfires with people who are now strangers. i’m reading about how much i loved my boyfriend, who i’m now married to. confusion over whether to teach in korea for a year, or to make the trip to oregon. things seemed so innocent and sweet back then. i wanted simple things: a garden, a nice-ish apartment for lee and me, a dog. it feels like all my priorities have totally changed and i’m not sure how i feel. i miss that life, in some ways. what could i be doing now to get back to that feeling?

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A woman’s first blood doesn’t come from between her legs but from biting her tongue.

Meggie Royer, The No You Never Listened To (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

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How I feel all the time

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Day 2

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mood: a wealthy 18th century woman who needs to lie down for hours after anything remotely distressing happens

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Norway, September 2016

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We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other.

Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast  (via karibu-nyumbani)

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I am a half full jar of honey on a sunlit kitchen shelf

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Mornings In The Faroe Islands

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i wrote a poem thing for the first time in 5ish years. i’m in a writing group now and tonight is my night to present (eeeeeeeek!) i’m nervous because i procrastinated and stressed about it too much and only have an unfinished rough draft to show, but here it is!

On the sun-white porch, it is snowing honeybees. I listen for their hum and hear nothing. They are quiet in their activity, brushing my arms as mindlessly as dust motes. It is here that the ache returns, like stretching the tautness from an unused muscle. Is there a name for this brand of self-sabotage? A nostalgia for somewhere unfamiliar laced with the need to pull myself away from the familiarity of the cherry tree, the wooden table that you made, the soap in our clawfoot tub.

“You have gypsy blood,” said my mother once, I cannot remember when; maybe after the empty threat of a master’s degree in Norway, or of stumbling through English with Busan’s schoolchildren, or of going barefoot, bottling chai tea in Saskatchewan— but the moving trucks of my childhood were always brimmed with too many plastic playthings and were southbound for somewhere nicer; somewhere warmer.

(In the winters, bees do not migrate. While her colony dies, the queen sleeps beneath the ground.)

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Old Harry Rocks

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Remember when Netflix and Tumblr didn’t exist and you read like 10 books a week? Good times.

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High Desert, Utah

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(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Q-3ico4QTg)

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