life after the white routine

We shared this hollowed cove of a room. Dimly lit by the last of our functioning bulbs, fractured by the buzz of air that was kept constant and steady. Nightly, we'd shield ourselves under caves of white blankets - she would be on her bed, I'd be on mine - hidden deep in the cocoon of cloth. We'd laugh until two in the morning, tipsy from sleeplessness. Fifteen years spent waking and falling into sleep to the same face.
The room is quieter now. Dust has coated many of the surfaces, and the books that once lined every shelf and filled every drawer are now sparser than before. The white blankets still top each bed, but one will go unused from now on. The stairs below my doorway will no longer hear the familiar footsteps they once did. Pieces of laundry and clutter have been left behind without intent to be washed or straightened up.
We used to fight over who would move out first. We'd argue over our brother's and sister's rooms. Years would escape us, and those rooms would never know us as their residents, still. Nights spent arguing and words used to intentionally damage the other's self-worth. Days spent in silence and petty quarrels concerning unasked for borrowed t-shirts and skirts returned with stains from slips and spills. Living in such close proximity breeds a type of closeness that can't be found elsewhere. We learned each other this way. I know her because of years spent analyzing how she lived, what she threw away and how she managed to fall asleep following break-ups and newly said I love you-s.
She's moved out now. I'm left throwing away old picture frames and unintentionally salvaged price tags and gum wrappers. Now a man will learn her. He'll know her far better than I ever could, even. He'll watch her in ways I never had the ability to, in a manner that was never intended for me. I'd just like to tell him how to fold her clothes and in what way to dress himself in the morning as to keep her from waking.
And now I sit on the floor, barer than it's ever been and marked with messes from projects gone wrong and mud-caked shoes. I'm sad for the days that are escaping. I'm sad for the time we spent idly. I'm sad for the distance that will be felt over the course of our lives. But I'm also anticipating my own move. I'm anticipating the day a man will ask to be the one to learn my ways of sleeping and making messes and cleaning them up again.
This transition pushes us all one step further. Where to is still unknown. I'm beginning to see that just as the burnt out bulbs on my dresser have been replaced anew, my life, too, will again be illuminated.

down the yellow brick road

Looking back, I wish I had come here more often. This rustic, underground hub of a Starbucks that is tucked under the Maryland Inn off Main Street--so unassuming and calm. The walls echo with thoughts, ideas conjured up by the articulate and unpretentious. A true Annapolitan, gilded in the signature Polo outfit so many boater-town patrons wear, sits barefoot atop the worn leather couch to my left, reminding me I'm back on the Chesapeake. The hum of an acoustic guitar sings through the speaker, and fading snapshots of often forgotten celebrities line the charred brick walls. I almost want to kick myself for not coming more often while I had lived here permanently.
When I recall how I had spent my years in Annapolis, I often think of sitting dockside on humid July nights or acting out in moments of ignorance in some classmate's basement. There are occasional recollections of hours spent with my fingers plucking away at the keyboard, composing thoughts and creating habits. I also remember April evenings spent in bed, listening to thunderstorms as candle-glow flit about my shadow painted walls, drowning in some story that grew my ambition for writing and now elicits nostalgia of such a night.
It's easy to peer in on this past of mine and resolve that much of it was filled with wasted time. I hadn't involved myself with certain occupations that I now define myself by, and in analyzing time by that standard, much of it was spent idly. But I have to remember that I have grown into this person--with each step of my past, the future drew in closer, awakening new dimensions of who I am.
Perhaps I hadn't had time to visit this Starbucks. Perhaps it was yet to have such an influx of customers, which would have left me unknowing of its existence. Either way, I never visited. I never soaked in my precious time here or utilized one of the hidden gems I now frequent upon returning home.
These things combined is why I am so intrigued and drawn in by the charm of this little coffee cove. Knowing now where my life would lead, I want to go back to the young Rebekah and tell her who she would be, what she would enjoy. I would urge her to take certain chances, and let others pass her by. I would encourage her to speak more freely, but also to enjoy the silence more peacefully. But this would all be in vain, I very well know. Though I'm at a place in life where sitting quietly underground, listening to my mind and enjoying the silent presence of fellow coffee consumers brings me joy and contentment, there was a point in life where this would have merely been white noise. I can only fully enjoy all of this now because of every road I took to get here, though many were uncharacteristic of this place. The absence of such a satisfaction is what makes its sudden presence so beguiling. The former, "bleak" roads offer me insight into the fullness of the roads I now travel, filled with a new, complete richness. I was unknowingly relying on those former roads to bring me here, to a place of appreciation of simplicity and the scent of brass instruments sitting on pedestals that seem to thrill my soul.
It's actually quite reassuring to know that it wasn't coming into this cafe that made me who I am. It was staying out.

Remember that period of life when we were all young and had gigantic dreams that were so plausible, and could stay in bed forever and stay out all night... doing non-sketchy things?
Looking back will be filled with goodies.
Somehow that's the most tragic, yet wonderful feeling in the world.

In case you didn't know, I'm semi-obsessed with these two. And will be progressively cataloging their engagement. So, I guess this would be the second step in three documented moments of their life together. Enjoy!

                                          chris & ash

Seven Years After Freshmen Year: a poem about courtney ferracane

Valentine's Day was the night that we met 

You get so self-conscious when your hair appears wet

You like making bracelets and sending out cards, 

You lived in a tent in Indie Brown's yard

You're deep and you're shallow, whichever is needed

And just so you know, you're never conceited 

Elderly sickies call you at work 

But you dislike your job 'cause your boss is a jerk 

Twilight and R-pats, they make you so giddy 

But you don't like K-stew since she isn't that pretty

You stand up on tables and yell people's names 

Your favorite sport teams are the SEU Flames

Sarcasm's your humor and maps, your profession 

When telling a story, you use no discretion

We kid and we joke and misspeak very often, 

But when you're around, all our hearts soften

You're one of a kind and ever-so dear 

We'll always be "girlz", from far or from near 

A Whole Lot of B.S.: a poem about becca strang

Now sugar's my weakness because of you

Starbursts and Reese's, just to name two

But it brings me joy to nosh with you so

To talk about boys and hear what you know

To bike around town and jog by the lake

To laugh at each other and faux pas that we make

Oh, where had you been for twenty-plus years,

Hiding in hay-stacks and absent of tears?

Searching in mountains for men with red cheeks

Or living out stories of which you now speak?

And now we're together, and again we will be

Many more days to enjoy, you and me

For now let's remember the times that we've shared

And hold on tightly to the dreams we've compared

We drank our tea and whistled our tunes

We've shared our cake, but never our spoons

Good-byes are for wusses, and we aren't such twits

In matter of fact, we're proud of our wits

So this is my poem for Becca, my boo

Now sugar's my weakness, because you are too. 

"Pack up all my cares and woes. Here I go, swingin' low."

This season, I've seen it before. But it's also new. It's also alive with something very different than when I've experienced it in the past.

If I could write down all of the memories I have from hearing springtime nostalgic songs, the list would seem endless--in my mind, at least. And now new memories are forming to different songs. Memories that will largely shape who I am, just as all the past moments shaped who I am today. It's scary and thrilling to acknowledge the power of Now to determine who the future you will be. But I'm embracing it. 

I'm embracing a God who is good. Who calls us into so many seasons and allows us to choose joy for each. I'm trusting my faith to see me into the next season and show me who I want to be even further. 

So on and on I'll travel, remembering and living, but always moving to the next spot. I'll evaluate, but also let much of my living be spontaneous and unquestioned. We're all just mid-flight, anyway. One day we'll arrive, but it won't necessarily be the place we thought we were going. It'll be the right place, though.