[Raindrops on my window, taken December 2011]

In

Old Friend from Far Away

, Natalie Goldberg talks about the worth of ordinary lives. How we don't have to be special and exciting people with extraordinary habits in order to write something of value. And, as usual, she says these things in a way that makes me subconsciously reach for a notebook and get started again with renewed hope.

"We need you--the ones who had a cough and your mother or grandfather was there to administer the syrup...

The important thing is to go below the cliches to

touch the texture of your experience

. Your mind is hungry to be alive. You give us that gift by laying down your true mind on the page. We read it and you open up fields of our own imagination." (OFFA, 121).

I'm only twenty-three years old, but I'm afraid of the dark. I love to read. I drink too much coffee. I do not skydive, have an exciting job, or make very much money. But I do have dreams and a lot of thoughts. These things are worth writing.

[Rose on Monument Avenue in Richmond, taken November 2011]

If you were with me almost a year ago, you might remember a goal I set to write something creative every weekend. Like I often do, I didn't really stick with it as long as I said I would. Things happen--migraines take hold, you have to go to work on a Saturday, there are no groceries in the house, there are episodes of television to watch and pages of books to be read. Life, as wonderful as it may be, can also get in the way sometimes.

A week ago, I wrote something that made me proud. It was one of those days where you feel something and the words come easily and those paragraphs that you write just plop into the world like they should have been there all along. No prompt, no nudge from anything but your brain and the words that fill it up and spill out onto the pages of your notebook and the screens of other people's computers.

But today was one of those days where you don't know what you're feeling. You wake up warm and happy, but as the morning nudges itself into afternoon, you confuse yourself with bills and holiday plans and what to make for dinner. You find yourself in bed at 3:30 PM and you don't know why you're crying.

When I first started blogging, I wrote all kinds of melancholy shit. No one was reading but my parents and my roommates. Now, if I have a bad day, I'm sometimes nervous to talk about it. I want you guys to think I have it all together. But that's a silly way to live. I don't have it all together. And sometimes I cry for no apparent reason. That's just me.

"Much of my crying is for joy and wonder rather than for pain. A trumpet's wailing, a wind's warm breath, the chink of a bell on an errant lamb, the smoke from a candle just spent, first light, twilight, firelight. Every day beauty. I cry for how life intoxicates. And maybe just a little for how swiftly it runs." --Marlena De Blasi, A Thousand Days in Venice

I opened my copy of Old Friend from Far Away this morning and it asked me, "What's in front of you?" and I wrote but didn't want to post because I was standing in my kitchen and that thing is too damn small. I hate our kitchen. It reminds me every day that I left a stainless steel refrigerator and huge windows and high ceilings and so much counter space and enough light so that I could live here for a year, in what's essentially student housing, surrounded by inconsiderate, loud neighbors who make me feel old.

But then Rob comes out of our bedroom with sleep in his eyes and a smile on his face and being in his arms feels right and I remember that this is worth it because we get to be together, and besides, you can't just stay in one place forever. One must be able to adapt. Like every other season of life we go through, this one will pass, and we'll look back on it one day and hopefully laugh about that tiny kitchen with no counter space.

There's a lot of stuff in front of me.

Sunday morning, rain is falling.

Steal some covers, share some skin.

Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable,

You twist to fit the mold that I am in.

--Maroon 5 

Last May, almost a year ago, Rob and I moved into an apartment. My graduation weekend had passed and friends had gone and we packed our cars to the brim with remnants of my life in college. That next week, we slowly unpacked boxes and found places for our things. It was summer, and neither of us had started our jobs yet; we had both just finished up semesters of work and we had nothing to do.

I delighted in waking up in the mornings and tiptoeing, barefoot, across the cool lacquered cement floor to the kitchen to make coffee and eggs. I'd throw on sports bras and tennis shoes and sneak out to run through the muggy morning. I felt completely free in the early mornings of this new place of mine, with my boyfriend sleeping so gently in the other room.

I remember the first time it rained at my new home.

I could hear it on the roof, and it was such an inviting noise that I couldn't seem to get out the door fast enough. My running shoes were on, and I hit the pavement eagerly and headed toward my favorite course. Running in the rain is beautiful because almost no one wants to do it with you, and you can't bring an iPod or a phone, so you're truly alone out there. You can't tell if you're sweating or just being washed clean.

I came back inside and Rob was awake. I took a bath because we didn't have a shower curtain yet. We got ready and walked the six or seven blocks downtown to our local coffee shop to have a relaxing breakfast and mugs of Mill Mountain Blend. We sat in the window and watched the warm rain come down, savoring the luxury of having nothing to do all day but walk home, holding hands, and venture out in search of shower curtains and bath mats.

I'm ready for more of that.