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

It's that time of year when I wake up with a shiver, giddy over the chill in the air and that smell of autumn that may or may not exist outside of my own imagination. I put on a scarf or a sweater, make coffee, and proceed to ignore the afternoon as it warms up, because it's still summer, but I'm ready for it to be fall.

I was running this morning and it was a damp and comfortable 60 degrees, but the sun was shining on parts of the sidewalk and I thought about how amazing it is that I could be running in Virginia (in Farmville or Roanoke or Charlottesville), or I could be running in Minneapolis, and although I am not the same person I was seven years ago, I can feel almost exactly the same at this moment that I did at that moment.

I made a turn on a new loop and was surprised by the smell of coffee coming from a shop on the corner. The coffee shop is right by our apartment building, but looking at it from a different angle; coming at it from a different street, startled me. It looked different, and I felt disoriented. I'm still getting to know my new neighborhood.

It reminded me of the time my old roommate Caroline, our friend Maggie, and I sat on the steps of a building on Longwood's campus before classes started our freshman year. I remember the cold roughness of the cement steps and the sort of horizontal platforms that jutted out on either side, and how later, one afternoon, I walked past that building on my way to something like I always did and realized that it was the same place we had sat that late summers night, weeks before.

I have moved almost every year since starting college in 2006, and each time, it has been at the end of a summer. August awakens a nostalgia in me, and I want to start over in some way every time autumn nears.

The promise of unfamiliar corners becoming ordinary fixtures is something I like. Settling in feels good.

When I first started my job last year, I impulsively bought a little potted succulent to place on my desk at work. I was standing in Kroger, and I don't remember what I had actually popped in to buy, but I remember that on the way to my car, I got caught in one of those torrential rain storms that seem to come out of nowhere from April until July in Virginia.

The succulent looked like a dinosaur. I'm not one to see a plant and think I have to have that, but I picked it up because it reminded me of a stegosaurus and made me smile, and because I was feeling really hopeful. It was summer, and Rob was home, and I was feeling less like a student and more like an adult (and enjoying the transition).

After about six months and too much watering and not enough natural sunlight, the soggy little succulent died. I took it from my office and stuck it in that magical windowsill, vowing never to water it again. The plant continued to die, but not before sprouting a hard, purple-ish little bud in between two grey leaves. I picked it off, abandoned the old plant, and placed the baby one onto new soil.

Lots of things have changed this year. I don't know if the new plant will thrive or struggle or walk the line between the two, but it's beginning to put down roots, and it's good.