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This post started out as a mental list of my not-so-favorite things: expensive airfare home for the holidays, homework, good-byes, poverty… Essentially, I was looking for an outlet in which to complain. But then it hit me. This isn’t that kind of blog, and I don’t particularly want to be that kind of girl. And amazingly, once I started focusing on what I love right now, my entire mood shifted. The mind is a funny thing.
Making me smile this morning:
Librarian necklace and Vote necklace from Brookadelphia. I’m not sure which one I love more!
The adorable handmade bag selection at madebyhank.
This outfit from the gap. Oh! And this one, too.
The books of Kate Atkinson.
Barlesque soap from Biggs & Featherbelle. The best possible way to start the day.
What is it about the arrival of fall fashion that reminds me how very much I love clothes? It’s not even Labor Day yet, and I’ve already been seduced by the color purple, my new moccasins, and the Wiksten fall line.
This year, the arrival of fall fashion is overlapping with a recent flurry of airline ticket purchasing that has left my bank account cowering in a corner in horror. And so I find myself seeking other outlets to fulfill my fashion craving, scanning stores and Web sites in a state very near what one way call desperation. I case my eyes about my room. They fall on my sewing machine…
My mom used to sew my dresses when I was little. I vividly remember two corduroy jumpers (one red, one light blue) that I wore religiously to kindergarten over various turtle neck shirts. It was always a grand adventure to go to the fabric store. I loved paging through the pages of the pattern catalogs: Butterick, McCalls, Vogue, Simplicity. It was so much better than flipping through the crowded racks of a store, because once you had the pattern in hand, you got to choose your own fabric–maybe a deep velvet for Christmas, or a bright floral for Easter. I’ve had puffed sleeves the likes of which would turn Anne Shirley green with envy. Although my favorite was less about the sleeves and more about the glorious fabric. It had a satin blue bodice attached to a satin plaid of many colors, a white ribbon around the waist. I would love to know what happened to that dress. All those dresses. I loved each of them because they were made with love and no one else had one…
Until I hit that age. You know the age. It’s the age when you start looking around and seeing what everyone else is wearing. Somewhere in that 11 to 13 bracket. The holidays would roll around and I started noticing that I was the only one at the Christmas pageant with the homemade dress. My dresses were cut a little differently, hung in a more-childlike manner on my awkward pre-teen body. And so I mutinied. I was done with the fabric store and its delights. It was time for a new era–that of the Store-Bought Dress.
As I scrape together my pennies, I understand why my mom sewed all those dresses and I wonder if I can do the same. Perhaps this fall signals the rebirth of something even bigger than purple in my life. Maybe it’s time to see if I have a bit of my mother’s skill in me. I’d love to have a corduroy jumper again.
I don’t remember when I began waging silent war on this color. It seems like ages ago. The most likely scapegoat is my February birthday (a source of much of my life’s unhappiness). I found the amethyst to be a rather disappointing birthstone (April’s diamond being wasted on my little brother). And after 3.5 years of Bulldog Purple Pride and the lavendar shades of Sigma Kappa, the fate of purple was sealed. The color was dead to me. My rainbow was that of Roy G. Bi.
And then last month there was a quiet yet sudden shift. Almost overnight purple seemed less the color of Barney and school spirit and more that of richness and royalty–two things that my life lacks currently. Were these the deep shades I had avoided for so long? Was I maturing? Or maybe, and more likely, I’m just a bandwagoner.
It started last month with a knit dress at Zara selected more or less because I already owned a knit dress in every other color (except the much coveted Kelly green after which I am still questing). Then it was a tank top from Old Navy to serve as a purple accent in layering this fall. And now this:
See the pattern developing? But let’s face it, how great would this look with my black skinny jeans? The Age of Violetphobia may be over for me. Will wonders never cease?
They look so peaceful, yes? Calmly grazing in the morning sun, enjoying a breakfast of green and more green. And, indeed, the wild horses of Assateague National Seashore hardly live up to their wild billing as they move quietly and inobtrusively through the camping area.
Until…
… you find yourself in the vulnerable position of laying in the ground in true camper fashion as the horses gallop and munch about your tent. Trampling was not a death to which I had ever before gave any serious consideration. My decidedly urban lifestyle didn’t cross paths with free roaming beasts very often. And while admittedly the metro can be a crowded, herd-esque nightmare somedays, I have always taken comfort in the relative sanity of my fellow travellers.
Not so with these four-legged fellows. In the glaring light of a full moon, they gathered around our tents, galloping in circles, whinnying and nipping at one another as if acting out some ancient animal lunar ritual. Their shadows danced against the thin fabric walls that spared us from mosquitoes but would be little protection against a wayward hoof. I squeezed my eyes closed, blocking out the sight and hopefully the intense fear that had taken hold of me.
With the arrival of dawn came the departure of my fear. Emerging from the tent, I was at once struck by the unfrightening scene around me, horses pastorally grazing, families gathered around picnic tables for breakfast, tents being disassembled. All was quiet and peaceful once more, but even the sun could not chase away the powerful reminder of the wild beauty of nature and its beasts.
[image from Washington Post]
Over the past 12 days I have watched a lot of Olympics. I have overrided the Tivo on many occasions, refusing to give up precious moments of competition to record another show. I have cheered and I have cried. I have vicariously experienced both victory and defeat. I have fallen in love with swimmers and gymnasts. But it wasn’t until last night that I found the hero of the Games for me.
We were watching the women’s 100 m hurdles. Based on the pre-race hype, I gather Lolo Jones was supposed to win the race. The announcers devoted all their time to her story (she lived in a church basement for a time), to the point you began to wonder if perhaps she was running unopposed. She appeared focused before the race. And she appeared nearly untouchable during the race. Until the 9th hurdle. When her foot hit the hurdle, we gasped. She was vulnerable. She was not going to medal. When she fell to the ground in shock after crossing the finish line, our hearts broke for her. But had that been that, I would have most likely forgotten her.
Heroes are born in the most unlikely of circumstances sometimes.
I’m not sure I would have been able to give an interview following such a dissapointment. To smile into the camera, to pause mid-sentence to congratulate one of the medalists (“Good job, sweetie.”), to carry oneself like a champion in the face of defeat–all this would have been beyond me were I in her golden shoes at that moment. But that is precisely what she did. It was perhaps the classiest moment of these Olympics. Maybe one of the classiest I’ve ever seen in sports.
Less than 24 hours later, I do not remember the name of the woman who won the gold medal. But I will not be forgetting Lolo Jones any time soon. She demonstrated how to be a champion even in defeat.
Remember this post? You probably rolled your eyes when you read it. Another project, Katie? You don’t complete half the projects you set out to do. We’ll believe it when we see it.
I understand. Really, I do. But look!
I did it! Granted I skipped the last step as I was crunched for time, but I rather think I like it without the ties as the prints are pretty busy without throwing anything else into the mix. I managed to complete it during stolen moments between BBQs and Olympic coverage–a quick, easy, and infinitely practical summer project.
Anyone for a picnic?
I’ve been here four years now. Three houses, three jobs, two cats, six credit hours of grad school, and two long-term relationships later, this part of my life has become a testament to the unexpected twists and turns life takes…
Love, love, love this wristlet from CrystalynKae.
The idea of a Yarn CSA [MVKnits]
The Laura Su Dress… [Minnie & James]
Hours upon hours of Olympic coverage.
New embroidery stitches to learn. [The Purl Bee]
End of summer ice cream [the kitchn] and sorbet [The Kitchen Sink] recipes.
I’ve always preferred novels to poetry. At the risk of sounding like the worst English literature major ever, I don’t necessarily get poetry most of the time. I faked my way through British Romantic Literature, expecting Austen and getting Blake and Byron. But occasionally, a poem resonates with me, moves stealthily around my mental blockade and touches a part of my heart or mind that is often ignored.
Mahmoud Darwish’s “Remainder of a Life” is one such poem. I keep it tacked up on my cubicle wall between a softball schedule and a colleague’s thank you note, a humble place for a powerful work. It is a poem about death, and perhaps an odd choice for daily reading. But I find his straightforward approach to both his subject matter and language comforting. It is beautiful in its simplicity and imagery.
And so, in light of Mr. Darwish’s own death this past weekend, I wanted to share this favorite poem of mine with you… a poem for those of us who don’t always get poetry.
Waking up at 4:30 am can lead to all sorts of deep thoughts and profound revelations. For me, that revelation on Friday was the slow pace of city life.
I know! I know! It sounds crazy. And it probably is… but hear me out, okay?
When I need to get to the airport in DC, I set aside one to two hours of travel time to the airport (depending on the time of day and the airport of departure). When I am in St. Louis, you can cut that time in half, maybe even quarter it. And therein lies the difference between driving a car everywhere and navigating the sidewalk/metro/bus system of a larger city. Life may seem faster here, but in reality everything moves a little slower, errands take a little longer, and dinners stretch out a little later.
Even with this slower pace, though, I still like to take time out. Since arriving in DC, I’ve been searching for that one urban escape, where I can take a book, find an empty chair, and feel my surroundings slip away. With this image of a pastoral ideal in mind, I avoided the nearby coffee shop Jolt n’ Bolt for months. Convenience be damned. The very name preached the opposite of what I was seeking. I was looking for Pay n’ Stay, no bolting permitted.
But on a cool, lazy Sunday, when my book and I were just looking for a change of scenery without a long walk, Jolt n’ Bolt is precisely where I ended up.
The first pleasant surprise was the iced Vietnamese coffee on their menu. The second was the inviting interior. And the third was how very peaceful the outdoor alley seating turned out to be: a slice of blue sky above, the soothing laughter of a small stone fountain muffling the sounds of the light traffic on the street only feet away, lights strung from building to building remincent of an Italian piazza above, and the stillness of others sitting, working, communing, and relaxing.
Book in hand but forgotten, I sat back that afternoon, soaked up the peaceful atmosphere–so perfect and unexpected, and lifted my cup of coffee to the slow pace of city life.
