I came across five or six of these little old soup cans situated on a table on our back porch the other day and I've found myself mindlessly visiting, touching, and photographing them ever since. The plants are small and soft, the cans tall and slim, but rusted and much older. 

There's something about them that I like--maybe it's their size, but there's something resilient about them and the way they are sprouting up even though we sometimes over-water them and then leave them out all day in the blazing Virginia heat.

Rosemary, parsley, basil, oregano, some peppers, and thyme.

Plants simply growing where they are planted is not nearly a work of magic, I know, but it's little tiny things like this that make me stop and feel thankful to be part of this world. To feel the sun beat down on me, to walk barefoot in the grass. To appreciate the texture and color of an old can. To find hope in tiny roots and warm, wet soil--little pots of potential.

[Lime, cilantro, and habaneros: the start of a damn good summer salsa, taken May 2012.]

Memorial Day weekend at the lake is the start of a wonderful thing.

Margaritas are shaken and poured into frosty glasses, barbecue and fresh salads are piled high onto paper plates, fireflies glitter as the sun goes down, and marshmallows are roasted for s'mores over camp fires in the backyard. 

Here's what I've been up to already:

--a lot of walking around barefoot

--wearing sunscreen, not makeup

--a long bike ride and an omelet for breakfast

--sitting in our home office with a stack of books

--drinking icy water from big jars with lemon

At the risk of boring some of my old friends, I thought I'd share some recent posts that mostly sum up this journey so far:

That day I quit my job.

Some thoughts on moving again. 

On finding one's way home.

Rob made it safely to China and I'm here for the summer with my family, feeling very well-fed, extra-freckled, and thankful.

I never really got attached to Charlottesville because, while here, I constantly reminded myself that it was simply a temporary home for us. It was just another stop on our nomadic path to a one-day life of permanent, domestic bliss. Stay a year, move along.

So, when people were snobby or things didn't go smoothly for me, I said, "Whatever, that's just Charlottesville." The restaurants were good. It was nice to be able to walk wherever I wanted. But it never felt like the city in which I lived. Rob was a student, and I was almost a tourist; his live-in girlfriend, along for the ride.

I surprised myself on Thursday when I started feeling sad on my walk to get some coffee. Rob and I were only in town long enough to spend the night, pack a few things, and get brunch with some friends before heading to DC. It was early and it had rained all night, so the ground was damp and the air was cool. I would miss this place, I realized. I walked out the door and took a few steps before turning back for a scarf. The streets were quiet. The walk from apartment to coffee shop felt final.

I love Charlottesville, and I love my friends here, but I hadn't planned to feel bad about moving away.

I got to Para and ordered a latte, chatted with the barista, and took a seat at the bar to write a couple things down in a notebook. "Alright," I thought a few minutes later, "time for me to get back home." Home. I use the word loosely, and then I confuse myself with my many homes.

I walked back to the apartment, feeling a little down. There were things to pack, and the weekend would begin with Rob catching a flight to the other side of the world. But then I walked into our bedroom and crawled into the familiar arms of my still sleeping and scruffy-faced boyriend, and I felt at home, realizing that the great restaurants and that library and the coffee shop with homemade pistachio milk certainly help, but in the end, it doesn't matter if it's Charlottesville or Charlotte or Roanoke or China, because home is about who you find when you get there.