I poured iced coffee into a jar yesterday afternoon and thought about Virginia.

It was 40 degrees and sunny outside, and my apartment was clean and I had fresh tulips sitting on the table, still waiting to fully bloom. I love living in Minneapolis, I really do. There's something about the city and the people and the food that makes me feel extremely understood.

But I don't have anyone to run with here, no one to drop by for tea on a random afternoon. These past six and a half months with Rob have truly felt like a blessing--like a chance to make up for the time we might have lost over the year that we were so far from one another--but there are days where I think we both would love to just have one or two of our best friends around for drinks or a laid-back weekend brunch.

I know that at some point, I will have to stop fantasizing about the time I spent as a student, because there is never going to be another time where all of my friends can drop what they're doing to just hang out. Shawna and I won't always just have an hour or two in the middle of the afternoon to meet for coffee, or decide to drink a pitcher of mimosas on a porch, or go on a quick run down our favorite trail in Charlottesville. There isn't a realistic new version of the story where Tina and her sister and I go to lunch and then spend the rest of the afternoon all cuddled up together in my bed, watching some episode of Grey's Anatomy.

But these are my favorite memories--the ones where I meet my mom for lunch every day and hang out with my dad on the lake every weekend; where almost all of the people I love are just an arm's reach away. I carry them with me everywhere I go, to every place I'll ever call home. And maybe one day, I can return to that world for good and put them down on a mantle somewhere, where they will be safe and I can start to make new ones.

Minneapolis might understand me, but Virginia knows me.

This post is in response to the following prompt: "What's been on your mind? What have you carried and gnawed over?" (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 154.) If you've written a response of your own, please share it below in the comments! 

P.S. Visit this post for next week's prompt.

When I was in college, writing was a dream that seemed attainable. I already did it every day--academic papers kept me sharp and well-read, and my creative writing minor had me pumping out quality personal essays on a regular basis. And then there was the feedback--the constructive criticism that made me better every time. I never knew what I was going to "do with my life" (sometimes I still don't), but I knew that I would always write.

This might sound ridiculous, but this blog doesn't always feel like a place where I write. I don't like that. It feels like I'm not being true to myself in some way. I love sharing my life with you guys, but I want 2014 to be the year I start writing more things I'm proud of--things that feel more like complete pieces than blog posts. And I want to start getting better again, because when I sit down to a blank Word document, I realize just how rusty I've gotten.

Back in 2011, I vowed to write a piece of creative nonfiction every week. It was obviously an ambitious goal, or else I would have done it. But I would like to try again.

These posts will be labeled "Old Friend from Far Away" (because the writing prompts are all taken from the book--get it here), and I'm not sure how I'm going to go about them. I once made a list that I think was easy to follow, so I'll go ahead and do that again. I've spoken with a few people who would like to follow the prompts and write along, and I'd love that.

• 02/17: What's been on your mind? What have you carried and gnawed over? (OFFA, 154)
• 02/24: Tell about periods when you haven't read. What were you doing? Where and when do you read best? (OFFA, 160)
• 03/03: Often we are pulled between two places...Tell us about them. Give us the pull, the conflict, the desire. (OFFA, 204)
• 03/17: Write about your mother's jewelry. Write about her shoes. (OFFA, 153)
• 03/24: What is your anchor, what you trust and know and can come home to over and over in your writing? (OFFA, 238)
• 03/31: What is the third thing? There is you and there is writing. But you can't write about writing. It's ingrown. You and writing must gaze out at a third thing. Of course, a fourth, a fifth will appear, but for now the two of you look out together. What is there in this world? (OFFA, 42)
• 04/07: A lunch you loved. (OFFA, 209)
• 04/14: A memory of a Popsicle. (OFFA, 209)
• 04/21: A memory of sunscreen. (OFFA, 209)
• 06/23: A self-portrait in third person. (OFFA, 214)

Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing.

It's been a while since I picked up my copy of

Old Friend from Far Away

, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I moved. I guess it just took an uninspired afternoon for me to reach for it, hoping for some kind of serendipitous writing prompt to be waiting for me on whichever page I happened to open. Of course, I never like the first one, so I tried again until I came across a passage that spoke to me.

"In order to write we must have an awareness of who we are--and who we aren't. If you don't know either, writing can help teach it.

Know that writing is born from the ache of contraries, polarities in search of peace, of unity.

But not the unity of making mush. You want to live in the country. Your husband is an urban boy. You compromise and both live in the suburbs. What a squash of desire and energy.

Can you instead hold the tension until something fresh and howling results? You must find your way to this when you write.

What bold restless extremes do you carry inside?

"

Here are some of mine:

Coffee. Every day.

The best meals start with garlic and butter or olive oil.

I feel that there is no room in life for guilt or regret. Where do you go with either? I try to live each day well and if I make a mistake, I can say I'm sorry--fix it in some way--but then be done with it.

People deserve to be happy. Surprisingly, happiness doesn't always have room in it for everything you thought it might.

There was a time when I was insecure and unsure of myself in too many ways. It wasn't fun, and it wasn't good for me, and I'm glad that time has passed.

I want a big life full of good food and some kids and a dog and all the people I love near me more often than they're not.

When I read, write, run, pray--do whatever it is that makes me feel connected to myself and the Universe that surrounds me--I feel better. Because I am better.

I am often hard on myself and it's usually unfair.

I'm supposed to write. I just don't always know where to begin.

So, what bold restless extremes do you carry inside?

Photo credit: 

Winona Grey Photography