ten good things

I had a day to myself in Old Town Alexandria a week or two ago and was mesmerized by the windows and the colored brick walls. This was one of my favorites. I think there should be more yellow in the world.

And some good things, because all is grace:

01. tonight: peas in teacups and red wine and the opening ceremony with d+a
02. the best best best package in the mail from emma
03. cappuccino and conversation on a sunny day with brie at st. peter's
04. jumping in puddles with mr. colin this morning
05. the most restful weekend away in alexandria + arlington with the sister
06. reading in bed each night (currently this, and re-reading this)
07. the barnes foundation, the rodin museum, and sigur ros (!) onnnnn monday
08. long walks with megan at dusk
09. a dinner date with just grandmother and me planned for next week
10. sketchbooks and watercolors and a quiet morning in a house all to myself

Also: these pictures of Iceland (gracious me), these illustrations by anna emelia, and this tattoo.
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breakfast in berkeley [part two]

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Something about breakfast with this girl. My mornings aren't the same without her, or her beautiful creations. This day it was coconut creme with banana-mango puree and granola. In the garden, of course.

"To make art is to affirm meaning," says Madeline L'Engle. Me thinks to make breakfast is to affirm meaning too.
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on prayer | 5

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"Before I can listen to God in prayer, I must fumble through the prayers of words, of willful demands, the prayers of childish 'Gimmes,' of 'Help mes,' of 'I want . . . ' Until I tell God what I want, I have no way of knowing whether or not I truly want it. Unless I ask God for something, I do not know whether or not it is something for which I ought to ask, and I cannot add, 'But if this is not your will for me, than your will is what I want, not mine.' The prayer of words cannot be eliminated. And I must pray them daily, whether I feel like praying or not. Otherwise, when God has something to say to me, I will not know how to listen. Until I have worked through self, I will not be enabled to get out of the way."

[Madeline L'Engle, Walking on Water]
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backpacking and last things

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Last month Jess and I went backpacking at Point Reyes. We left behind cell phones and clocks and found ourselves on deserted beaches with time to spare for once. We napped in the sun until our skin was hot to touch. We sat in the bluffs and listened to the wind bickering with the grass. We went sprinting in the ankle-deep foam. We read Jack Kerouac aloud to each other as we ate nectarines. We stopped to look at the goggly-eyes of a crab. We made a campfire on the dark beach and wrapped a blanket around our two bodies as we watched the moon in its massive silence. We laughed about our idiosyncrasies and spurted our favorite words, one after the other, as we climbed up into the pine-laden hills. We did a lot of things, and a lot of nothings, and it was perfect.

"And I said, 'That last thing is what you can't get, Carlo. Nobody can get to that last thing. We keep on living on hopes of catching it once and for all.'"
(Jack Kerouac, On The Road)

[all film photos from a disposable camera]
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