Story Potluck – Page 2 – The Wobbly Table Blog

100 DAYS TILL HALLOWEEN

Anyone who knows me, knows that Halloween is my favorite holiday. In our household, the celebrations begin in early September and stretch until mid-November (on more than a few occasions I’ve kept up decorations year round). So it should come as no surprise that my preparation starts early. Now that we’ve entered the middle of summer, and the 100 day mark before Halloween, costume planning is in full force. The growing anticipation of pumpkin seeds, cooler weather, cozy sweaters and my favorite selection of scented candles makes me feel like a kid again– it’s a soft place for young Amanda and current Amanda to meet.

My love of Halloween has grown with age thanks to a location that’s been nothing but nurturing of it.

When we first arrived in the Santa Cruz area, I remember trying to nest with what little we brought from our previous home in North Carolina. We didn’t have the means to decorate right away. Our cabin had character and good bones, but it was nearly empty. With October around the corner, I happened upon a Goodwill that was dedicated to Halloween decorations. Who knew that even existed? What made it better was a lot of the products were still in their vintage packaging as though it was coming from a warehouse from the 70’s/80’s. I was in heaven. With a shoestring budget I was able to fill the void space with enough skeletons, pumpkins and bat decals till my hearts content. Oddly enough, the cheeky décor was responsible for turning our house into a home.

From there, I found my community. Every year local store fronts decorate their windows, drink menus get a festive flair, and the art-deco theater offers a line up of midnight horror films throughout the month. The modern art museum throws parties and fun demonstrations in celebration. Residents join the fun and bring out the spooky animatronics, giant inflatables and projector screens that play Halloween classics on the side of their home. Families know the neighborhood spots to trick or treat. It didn’t take long for me to catch on too. Seeing the blocks of old Victorian homes I enjoy strolling by in the Spring and Summer months all dressed up for Fall instantly transports me on the set of Halloween Town. Lest I not forget, the Thriller Flash Mob dancing up and down the street in full garb and make up. There’s something for everyone. Our quirky forest-meets-beach town is the life of the party come October.

While not a lot can pull me away from my local Halloween Town, this year will look different. I’ll be landing in Asheville for a dear friend’s wedding. It’ll be a homecoming of sorts. I lived in North Carolina for a few years and got to experience my first true fall in the mountains. I was never the same after. Folks call it the “Portland of the East Coast.” A sentiment I’ve always loved. I also see Asheville with a similar offbeat energy as Santa Cruz. Uniqueness is celebrated in cities like these, and in turn holidays are that much more enjoyable. Just add deeper Fall colors and a cooler chill in the air. If they take Halloween half as seriously as they do in Santa Cruz, I’ll be one happy pumpkin.

BUY YOURSELF THE FLOWERS

During our last grocery shop, I waffled back and forth in the Trader Joe’s flower section. I’d suss out the happiest looking bouquet and be met with a judgmental voice in my head on cue asking, “Do you *really* need them?”, “What’s the occasion?”, “Is this going to become a habit?”. I can recount at least a dozen instances where I’d remove a bouquet from my cart and place them back where I found them.

These nagging thoughts convinced me that I was being frivolous or worse, selfish.

I don’t know where my reluctance stems from. I grew up with fresh flowers in the house courtesy of my mom. We’d watch HGTV together before it was cool. She especially took to a show called Surprise Garden where they’d makeover a neglected backyard or garden while the owner was away. Growing up I would whine up and down the garden section of Home Depot. Little did I know, it would become a beloved adult past time. As basic as it may sound, I enjoy receiving flowers every now and then. Years ago, Jordan made a ritual of greeting me at the airport with a bouquet of yellow wildflowers. It’s our thing.

I’m weird when it comes to shopping for myself in general.

I feel easily overwhelmed by too many options. When I bring something new home, I feel the need to purge something so it can take its place. But flowers are different. For all the hemming and hawing that goes into picking them out, once I get a bouquet past the checkout line, my familiar buyer’s remorse is nonexistent.

I’m drawn to timeless dainty varieties like Chamomile and Baby’s Breath. The understated white blooms put me at ease. When I’m in the mood for fun pops of yellow I seek out Craspedia, also known as “Billy Balls”. I keep a dried handful from my wedding bouquet on our mantle. They look just as pretty as the day I walked with them down the aisle.

If I had to pick, the quirky and joyful Matilijia Poppy is my favorite flower. They’re native to California and are often referred to as the fried egg plant. Like most poppies, they’re incredibly delicate. Since they don’t transport well, I never take for granted seeing them out in the wild. Up close their petals look and move like the tissue paper you’d craft with in art class. I can relate with their sensitivity.

There’s a place for flowers beyond romantic and sympathetic gestures.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that they belong in window sills on an ordinary Sunday afternoon just as much as they do at weddings and beside hospital beds. A bouquet of Chamomile is currently keeping me company as I type on the wobbly table. A gift to me, from me. They’re one of the simplest ways to practice self love.

I tend to divy up my bouquets into halves or thirds, filling makeshift vases of brown glass bottles and mason jars for maximal joy. The tiny bundles get tucked away next to my feather and pinecone collections and other corners of the cabin that make me smile.

Don’t do as I would and waste precious moments of your life in deliberation at a flower stand.

Buy the damn flowers. At Trader Joe’s you can get them for as little as five bucks. Let this be the summer of casting aside doubtfulness and investing in soul-giving moments. The “just cause” flowers tend to be the sweetest kind.

A LIFE BAGGY ENOUGH TO LIVE IN

The illusion of control is shimmery and somewhere off in the distance, but there was a small period of my life when it felt within arms reach.

For every journal I owned I had a planner close beside it. I wasn’t the most studious student in school but carrying one around gave me confidence that I could be. They were synonymous with potential, and when paired with multicolored highlighters I was ready to take on the world one day at a time. The pattern was a familiar one. I’d enthusiastically mark it up at the start of a fresh calendar year or new job. I was hellbent on keeping up with it only to lose or stop using it all together within months.

Those close to me know I’m forgetful. A colleague joked I would lose my head if it wasn’t attached. It was especially bad when I was younger. I’d lose a brand new cell phone within a week of having it, a shopping bag would go missing before even making it home, any ring I’ve ever owned slipped off my finger and is likely now on someone else’s (my wedding ring is intentionally a smidge too tight in hopes it won’t budge). Perhaps my favorite example of my absent mind, my dad kept my Social Security card filed away for 18 years. When I moved out, he gave it to me pleading to keep it somewhere safe. Apparently I took that advice as “hide it somewhere so good, you won’t be able to find it again.” All my life he carefully held onto it. I had it in my possession for a year and a part of my identity vanishes. Good thing you’re allotted a certain number of replacements in a lifetime.

It wasn’t until I used a planner as more of a personal tool that our relationship became more consistent. It helped me remember. My method was simple: jot everything down with the reasoning that if I take notes and plan ahead then I’d be better equipped at life. It’s what adults do when they have their shit together. Or something like that.

So began my love of to do lists.

From mundane chores to weekend activities, I mapped out my days. The details would become more and more granular with each page, and, before I knew it, I was planning out a life that left little room for surprises.

When Jordan and I were in a stretch of long distance, I developed an obsession with itineraries. Every pitstop, restaurant, and tourist attraction would be planned well in advance. Granted, this is perfectly normal when you’re on vacation. However I would do this with cities we frequented.

The overplanning was robbing myself of the potential I was trying to grasp onto in the first place. I was missing out on the kind of magic that tends to show up when you least expect it to. The kind that catches you off guard and takes your breath away.

The perpetual rush of ticking boxes gave me more anxiety than joy. I was a slave to it. Of course it wasn’t the planners fault.

It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly I loosened my grip. Perhaps with age came experience to lean into the unknown. I can better appreciate the nuance and change in directions that life inevitably takes.

Maybe the tendencies of my laid back partner rubbed off on me (although it could’ve caused me to overcompensate in the beginning). Geography played a part. I adopted the slower living from the Carolinas and the chillness of the mountains of Northern California. Turns out when people around you aren’t in a rush, you tend to slow down too. Now especially with a job as an Event Planner, weighing out any logistics off the clock feels like work.

While watching the documentary 180 Degrees South, American rock climber and environmentalist Yvon Chouinard said “It’s not an adventure until something goes wrong. Otherwise it’s just a trip.”

Together Jordan and I have had our share of adventures. In our dozen years together we experienced missed flights, lost luggage, flat tires, traveling during a snowstorm, reservation-less camping trips during peak season, lost rental car keys, taking the wrong train from London to Scotland on the last day of our honeymoon, etc etc. The two of us have funny luck. Regardless of how much or how little is planned ahead something interesting always happens to us. We hang onto the fact that it’ll make for a good story. And sometimes Plan B or C ends up being way better.

A whole gambit of road bumps may have derailed me years ago, but I now catch myself smirking as I think “old Amanda would have crumbled and handled this so differently.”

Control doesn’t hold as much value for me as it used to.

By shifting expectations and remaining flexible, I’ve evolved. I gave up the tedious task of researching every restaurant or movie or book review and let my mood or gut do the decision making. I turn to the knowledge of friends or locals for suggestions when I’m somewhere unfamiliar. I avoid the temptation of looking up photos because I know seeing it in person for the first time will be way better. I jump into most weekends without knowing where they’ll take me. Between my current self and my easy-going partner our weekend conversations often go something like: “I don’t know, it’s up to you. I’m down for anything. How about we go for a drive and see where it takes us?” Some of the most memorable pit stops, meals, and films I’ve experienced came to be without having any expectations prior. I let life surprise me.

I’ve since stopped buying into planners (although the notes app and moleskins are a handy alternative when needed). With them came too many expectations. Whether I put them on myself or on other people, they usually ended up in disappointment. I rather go where the wind takes me without the rush of dates and time and a specific order of operations looming over me. There’s freedom in letting go. This isn’t to say, I gave up all control. I still enjoy a good list from time to time and my morning ritual is sacred to me. But they no longer serve as a metric for my value. There’s so much potential in between. Half the fun is in discovering what that potential is as the day unravels naturally.

In place of a detailed planner I keep a tattered up post it note that reads “Get a routine baggy enough to live in.” –Matt Haig.

The world is a lot softer that way.

PARTY OF ONE, PT. 2

Disney became my playground later in life. I established a lay of the land in my early-mid twenties. There was an overlapping period while Jordan’s family were members of the Disney Vacation Club and I was an intern for their College Program. What I lovingly refer to as my Disney Renaissance marked a making up for lost time.

As Disney Resorts guests return to the lobby, staff greet them with “Welcome Home!”. I had the unique opportunity to both say and hear the phrase often. To this day, I’ll whisper the words to myself whenever I drive through the main Walt Disney World entrance.

There’s no better place to people-watch than Disneyworld.

The energy of newcomers radiated as bright as the Florida sun. To see the parks through fresh eyes helped dust off my nostalgic and familiar perspective.

The free park access was one of the best perks of the Disney College Program. With the wave of a pass, I got to bring along friends and family. I’d coordinate trips with my new intern friends. It was simple enough in the beginning but once orientation and training were behind us, we were handed feverish schedules. Back then, the parks were open 365 days a year rain or shine. Similar to most jobs in Hospitality, it required working on holidays and pulling overtime. Many students were juggling fulltime work with online college classes.

I tried my best to treat my limited free time wisely, although it was seldom shared. In an apartment of four interns we were rarely all home at the same time. The expiration date of my five month program prompted me to do something I would’ve never imagined doing prior to my internship.

With my familiarity of the parks, I was well equipped to make the experience of going alone as enjoyable and efficient as possible.

I knew which restaurants and food stalls had the quickest service and at what times; I could decipher the “good bathrooms” from the ones to avoid (the more hidden they were the better), and I perfected my fast pass strategy to a tee. Perhaps the biggest game changer was the single rider line option. It allowed us independent folks to surpass the sometimes hour long waits and jump on a ride in a fraction of the time. I would’nt have been afforded a quick ride or two before a shift without it.

Don’t get me wrong, there were days off I spent moseying in the park without an agenda. When the mood would strike, I’d find a shady spot to settle into with a book and kick my feet up while everyone else was shuffling around me.

Animal Kingdom was where I’d find myself going solo most often.

The massive Tree of Life was the centerpiece of the park. I looked to it as a symbol of comfort. I’m not sure how the square footage shakes out but out of all the parks it felt the most spacious. It was also the easiest to get to, unlike the journey it takes to get to Magic Kingdom which requires a train, a tram or a ferry to arrive at the front gates.

The biggest draw of Animal Kingdom was it being home to Dinosaur. I stand by my claim that it’s the most underrated Disney ride. Based on the animated film, the ride took you through the late Cretaceous period minutes before extinction in a turbulent time-traveling car. I frequented it so often I could recite the cheesy onboarding video by heart. It was fun and silly but failed to give a clear depiction of what riders were in for.

Majority of the ride is shrouded in loud noises and darkness. The Time Rover whips passengers around in all directions where you’re met with prehistoric animatronics both big and small. It was like a simulated museum exhibit in the best way. The nuanced speed and hydraulic system is something I learned to appreciate after my dozenth time on the ride. It kept me on my toes.

For the grand finale, riders are dramatically met with the meat-eating Carnotaurus just inches away from the Time Rover. The vehicle then plummets into a mild drop back to current day. Had the drop been steeper, it would classify as a perfect ride. The demographic of passengers under the age of seven however would adamantly disagree. Without fail, there would be at least one meltdown per vehicle. Photos capturing the sheer terror of unsuspecting faces were blown up on a screen as guests exited through the giftshop. The fact that parents chuckle at them too made me feel justified in my entertainment.

Disney spends the biggest portion of their budget on the nightly fireworks show. The music and lights projected on the castle are married together in a whimsical and impressive arrangement. There was little I loved more than to watch strangers watch the fireworks for what could be their first time. The sweet energy that hung over thousands of strangers melted away my anxiety of big crowds. It’s what kept me coming back with or without company.

On my twenty first birthday, Jordan and I were fresh into dating. Before becoming a regular, he took me to Magic Kingdom for my first time in over a decade. The visit was made bittersweet by the fact it was our first out of town trip together. It also marked our last hurrah before what would be the start of a long distance relationship. We spent weeks anticipating the trip like kids on Christmas. The day of celebrating was perfect. But the further we got into the night, the heavier our looming goodbye felt. As the lights dimmed, I tried to hold back tears as the first firework shot through the sky. I failed miserably.

My guess is Disney’s fireworks evoke a lot of bittersweet memories for people.

I can’t help but imagine the other endings and beginnings the show has witnessed. There had to be others holding back tears too. Parents pour into their savings to create family experiences, children in their blue Make-a-Wish Foundation t-shirts get their dreams granted, Grandparents could relive their childhood and feel young again. Countless celebrations and milestones happen around the castle under the glowing sky, it’s nice to feel like the fireworks are especially for you.

Despite seeing behind the curtain, the Disney magic was never lost on me. It can be found in the eyes of other people if I ever need a reminder.

PARTY OF ONE

The gift I look forward to most will come in the form of the second COVID vaccine a few days following my birthday.

I’m relieved and anxious about reentering society. I’ve always been a homebody, but the switch to remote work made clear to me the full extent of my homebody-ness. During the course of the pandemic, a single day out has been all I need to offset any slight twinge of cabin fever. After a few hours, I’d happily retreat from the world again until the next week rolled around, even as the county cautiously reopens. Slow living out in the woods just suits me.

I won’t be diving into summer gatherings or indoor activities. I prefer to dip my toes in instead.

And that’s okay. The truth is, there’s a number of pre-pandemic activities that I look forward to catching up on in my own company.

Nothing says Summer to me like a farmer’s market.

From May through August, neighboring mountain towns have a busy line up; Felton on Tuesday’s, Santa Cruz on Wednesday’s & Saturday’s and Scotts Valley on Sunday’s. The energy of locals supporting locals is something I love to bear witness to and be an active part of. I most enjoy browsing farmer’s market’s slowly. I’ll make two or three rounds at the booths as though I’m at a buffet with one plate to fill. I notice going alone makes me more susceptible to chatting with vendors, staying long enough to enjoy the live music and it tends to increase my sample consumption (when that was still a thing). Shopping is so much more intentional when you can meet the folks who’s heart and hands went into their goods.

Coffee shop visits are another intentional activity I miss.

I would go more to unwind than for a buzz. I’m in the “caffeine gives me jitters” camp. To reconcile our fragile relationship, I don’t dare drink it on an empty stomach or after 2pm. Caffeine acts as more of a special treat or early travel companion whereas tea is what I normally reach for. I appreciate how it’s meant to be nursed over a long period. Coffee shops to me are completely experiential. Just the thought of sinking into a corner armchair with a chai latte and a book releases dopamine to my system. It’s a safe space, like an extension of the cabin. My senses are alert to decadent aromas and the cacophony of espresso machines whirring, milk steaming, mugs clinking, and indistinct chatter to eavesdrops to. What was once familiar now seems like such a novelty. I admit to Youtubing “coffee shop ambiance” on numerous occasions to help fill a void.

After moving to a new town amidst a long distance relationship years ago, I became good friends with my own company.

It was my peak of dining out alone. I admit I still cherish taking myself on a date from time to time. I have some catching up to do.

The Delmarette is a tiny local cafe beside an old timey theatre with more tables outside than in. In the heart of downtown, it’s perfectly set up for people-watching. I’d imagine being in the streets of Paris in a decade I didn’t belong in but wanted to. With nowhere to be and no distractions besides the people and dogs casually strolling by, time slows down. Eating out alone is like being on vacation without the rush or the itinerary. It’s where I become a very present version of myself. Followed up with a thrifting session, it’s one of my favorite ways to spend “me time.”

My first and only time in New York was on a work trip. For whatever reason it wasn’t high on my travel list. All it took was the initial drive in from the airport that made me feel immediately silly for not having gone sooner.

One night I opted out of pizza with colleagues to try the infamous Momofoku Noodle Bar. Yes, New York pizza is as good as they say it is but in my defense, I enjoyed it on three separate occasions prior. NYC is the ultimate foodie city and I would be dammed if I didn’t take advantage. David Chang is the renowned owner and food/travel personality of Momofoku. It came as no surprise to overhear the hostess mention a three hour wait to the group ahead of me.

A major perk of being a party of one: snagging a coveted seat up at the bar with ease.

She didn’t even need to put my name down. I had front row to chefs plating up heaping bowl of noodles with artful garnishes. It was mesmerizing. There I was, buzzing from the energy of being somewhere I saw on tv when all of a sudden I heard a friendly voice over my shoulder. The middle aged solo patron asked if it was my first time. My wide eyed expression must have given it away. As someone who lived and breathed the city, he wasn’t short of local recommendations. Restaurants and museums were added to my growing list filled with insider information far more valuable than an internet search could provide. In that moment it was as though the city wrapped me up in a big hug. I took up his suggestion of their green tea and honey ice cream for dessert which was one the best decisions I made on that trip. The last bit of local wisdom he gifted me with were directions back to the subway. With happy stomachs we wished each other well before disappearing in opposite directions into the crowd.

A party of one is a title I hold proudly.

It means I can move at my own pace and often times notice things I wouldn’t have otherwise. There’s independence to watching a movie alone at a theatre or going to an art exhibit on a whim. With age I gained the confidence to not wait around to do things I wanted even if it meant doing them alone. My mom is that way. I always loved that about her.

There’s no doubt being alone in a crowd can feel, well, lonely. But it doesn’t discount the times when being alone in a crowd can feel like community. As the saying goes, “we’re all just walking each other home.”

THE MIRACLE LIP BALM YOU NEVER HEARD OF

I’m a minimalist when it comes to most things but lip balm is not one of them.

They’ve infiltrated every corner of my life. I have one designated for each handbag, my desk, nightstand, and makeup bag. As if that wasn’t enough, I keep a back-stock in my medicine cabinet. Being that they’re the easiest thing to lose on the planet, I get a rare satisfaction from getting all the way to the bottom of a tube.

While I can’t offer much when it comes to the latest make up trends or tips, I do have some background when it comes to a good lip moisturizer. I’m as adventurous as you can get in that particular section of a beauty aisle. Enter my lip toolbox:

I’ve tried the usual suspects:

ChapStick – The OG of lip products. Cherry Red is the nostalgic choice but I prefer the original blue variety with SPF. Even though the brand is easily one of the most recognizable, I would select most brands over their trademark (2.5/5 stars)
Vaseline – a moisturizer that I used exclusively for years although not as much anymore. I’m a sucker for the cute miniature pot made specifically for lips which may be partly why it scored so high (4/5 stars)
Aquaphor – a similar formula to Vaseline but a touch thicker. I much prefer using it for tattoo maintenance over my pout (3/5 stars)
Burt’s Bees Tinted Formula – perfect for lazy make up days (most days in my case) offering a natural pop of color (4.0/5 stars)
Nivea – the brand I reached for most consistently. The reliable formula is emollient and packed with nourishing hydration. The downside is consistent reapplication is needed for benefits (4.5/5 stars)

Honorable and perhaps lesser known mentions include:

Weleda Lip Balm – An equally rich formula to Weleda’s Skin Food, I prefer using it solely at night. It’s become a nightstand essential next to my lava lamp and glass of water (4.75/5 stars)
Cocokind’s Mymatcha Stick – It contains cleaner ingredients than it’s popular counterparts and has a subtle scent of matcha tea which I love. The quantity will last a lifetime (4.75/5 stars)

All of the previously mentioned varieties do a fair enough job although a missing element left me in a constant search of the next best thing. Because lip balm is a fairly small investment, it was easy to keep sinking money into them without much thought over the years.

The hunt seemed endless. Until…

My search for the perfect lip balm ended in late December of 2020. Truth is, I can’t even take credit for this find. A friend and colleague gifted it to me in a Secret Santa exchange along with some other thoughtful goodies. He’s a musician and Quality Assurance Audio Engineer. Admittingly the discovery came from an unlikely place. Somehow that makes me even more grateful.

The magic lip moisturizer I’ve been alluding to is called Booda Butter Naked Lip Balm. It was love from the moment I spread it across my thirsty lips. The small oval shaped tube has brought me so much usage. Not too thin, not too thick- the formula glides on effortlessly for supple hydrated lips.

My biggest pet peeve is when a layer of sticky residue is left behind giving off an unsightly white cast (why I purchased Carmax only once in my life. Stay away from ingredients like menthol and salicylic acid at all costs).

But what makes it so special??

As the name suggests, the Naked Lip Balm instantly melts giving off a healthy velvet-y sheen. The nourishing moisture is long lasting so no need to obsessively reapply. It’s what my lip toolbox was missing.

Upon researching the holy grail of lip balm, I’ve come to find even more reason to fall in love. The family owned Washington based business is home to vegan, sustainable, gluten free and cruelty free products made with natural raw ingredients. I feel good anytime I whip it out. It’s also really hard not to smile over the happy teal and yellow packaging.

With only a few swipes and plenty of water, my lips are the happiest they’ve ever been.

The upward trend towards clean and ethically made beauty products has become more accessible in recent years. While finances and brand loyalties may prevent some people from making the switch in their make up bags, I think choosing a clean lip product is a great place to start.

Their product line also includes body moisturizer, deodorant and laundry soap with several gift sets that would make a wonderful Mother’s Day present (and it’ll wow your Secret Santa during the holidays too).

To my surprise, Booda Butter is carried at a wide number of local health markets throughout the U.S as well as being available online. Best part is it’s only $4 bucks a pop! I just finished my first tube and immediately ran to New Leaf to stock up on a few more. You know, for emergencies.

To be clear this post is NOT sponsored.

I just wanted to share an honest review of my new favorite product. The Naked Lip Balm is a gamechanger. If you’ve tried Booda Butter products before, I would love to hear what you think!

THE OUTDOORS AND I

My relationship with nature has evolved.

At a young age it began at recess and stopped at P.E. I graduated from metal jungle gyms to kickball fields and, eventually, to an asphalt track. In high school, I often ate lunch in the outside courtyard. At the time, that was my idea of picnicking. There’s nothing about these memories that are particularly special or formative. Being outdoors meant taking a break from school’s concrete walls. Sure, I had dreamt of far away places to add to my bucket list. But I lacked the urgency to get moving.

It wasn’t until I reached college and lived closer to the water that I started taking advantage of the ocean. It’s where friends wanted to rush-to between classes and on weekends. Out of my friends’ cars, my Honda CRV was the roomiest, and it would often be elected for transporting.

I started seeking out nature preserves and trails in my area. I found solace in the quiet. I chose to visit gardens and go on tours of historic homes over bars and clubs. The moment I took my first kayak out at Hugh Taylor Birch State Park, I saw parts of Florida I hadn’t known existed. In the mangroves my curiosity for the outdoors grew exponentially.

Shortly after dating Jordan, he invited me on a family camping trip at a K.O.A. in Saint Augustine. What was normal to him was the equivalent to an exotic vacation for me. It was the first time I set up a tent and enjoyed grilled cheese and tomato soup by a fire. I couldn’t remembered the last time I had that much fun. It was like relieving some missing part of my childhood. The seeds were planted on these nature walks and nights sleeping under stars. I was hooked.

By the time our lease in Miami was almost up, Jordan and I craved more.

We weren’t married to the idea of staying in Florida but we didn’t want to move too far away from our family and friends. On a whim we landed on North Carolina, where the opportunities for outdoor recreation seemed limitless and we’d still be close enough to visit home with ease. While we didn’t know a soul, the comfort of being welcomed by mountains was enough.

We loaded up our cars with my pet lizard, Harrison, in tow and caravanned to our new home. A blue apartment building with a brick fireplace was where we settled for the next two years. We had a big open field for our future dogs to run around in and we were within miles of greenways tucked within Charlotte. They became an oasis of lush life to escape to that made me feel miles and miles away from a bustling financial district.

Before even unpacking, we hiked the top of Crowder’s mountain. Despite wearing inappropriate shoes, I felt invigorated by the change of scenery. I knew we made the right move.

Jordan got a part time job at REI which had a big impact on the friend group we made and the kinds of outdoor activities we were introduced to. It’s why we were able to slowly grow our camping/hiking/climbing gear to what it is now. We were becoming properly equipped with the tools and knowledge that we were naïve to just a year prior.

As the shiny newness of our relocation started to wear off, reality began to set in. I was homesick and dealing with a toxic work environment that knocked me off my feet for a short time. The transitionary period left me unsettled. All I wanted was to adopt a dog to accompany me on adventures and help me forget about the anxieties I had swirling in my brain.

In 2014, a visit up to Linville Falls changed me. We had only been in North Carolina for a short number of months and I was still finding my footing. I can easily pinpoint the moment I met the Blue Ridge Mountains as being one of the happiest of my life. Despite my restless heart, when I stepped out of the car and started the hike I felt at complete ease. At our elevation the thick southern humidity vanished and I vividly remember the fresh crisp air that jolted me with endorphins. We followed the sound of rushing water to the most beautiful view I had ever seen. Each waterfall was more grand than the one before. The sweeping view of the Blue Ridge met us at the very top and brought me to tears. Up until that point I could only compare the backdrop to nature documentaries or stock desktop wallpaper. All my worries melted away.

Coming off the heels of euphoria, I prioritized my time in nature from that moment on.

I’ve been making up for lost time ever since. My inner child will jump at the chance to play in dirt and skips stones and dip toes in cold water. I can set up a tent solo in record time. My relationship with the outdoors is what it is today because of Linville Falls. It was the turning point where I began to view nature as more than a pretty change of scenery or a place to to get adrenaline pumping. It became medicinal. A place to lose yourself and find yourself too. In that moment seven years ago, the mountains became home.

ON DISTANCE

We all remember them. The defining moments that change the course of a relationship. One moment it’s smooth sailing and the next you’re weathering the storm. Oftentimes the shift happens under uncomfortable circumstances: your first big fight, the loss of a loved one, a deeply buried secret, health scares, etc. A lot rides on the way we handle our growing pains early on.

For us, the defining tide was distance.

Geography slipped between us once I moved off campus to the other coast. Soon after Jordan began a Master’s program that relocated him up north. Suddenly, a few hours drive from each other grew into seven.

Most would agree that distance generally sucks at any stage. It’s especially challenging early on in a relationship when all you want to do is spend every waking moment with a person. You’re still studying each other’s quirks and routines, and so desperately want to be woven into them, as opposed to imagining them on the other end of a text.

To be perfectly candid, it was grueling in the beginning.

Every sad love song seemed ten times sadder. Holidays and celebrations would come and go. We’d plan our visits around them far in advance, but sometimes we’d have to postpone. And every once in a while we’d have to cancel them all together. Gone were the days of spontaneity. I mourned the memories we didn’t get to have.

The missed Skype connections or cancelled plans began wearing me thin. A perfectly reasonable missed phone call was hard not to take personal. The combination of modest bank accounts, Jordan’s finicky Jeep and my demanding (and temporary) nursing program stint were a recipe for the perfect storm.

I just really missed my best friend.

Whenever things got murky, our focus was redirected on the bigger picture. One day we’d live in the same zip code under the same roof. We even purchased a set of fancy Crate & Barrel tea towels that became symbolic of our future. A glimmer of the home we’d create back on shore.

The choppy waters strengthened our trust in one another and made us value our independence. Space gave us room to flourish so we could as a pair (I’ll dedicate a whole post on that in the future).

For those first few years, we grew together while being apart in the best way we knew how: words of affirmation. We spoke and wrote them freely, the state of our hearts were always in check.

We weren’t afforded the luxury to beat around the bush. We couldn’t rely on body language or be comforted by each other’s presence after a short round of the silent treatment. In a way we were lucky to omit those tactics all together. Distance handed us a crash course on emotional maturity and clear communication.

Although we didn’t pass the first couple go arounds, we were earnest about making it work. I’m really proud of the twenty year old versions of us.

One of the first things we unpacked at our new home were the fancy tea towels. Till this day they hang in our kitchen like badges of honor.

What I found especially valuable during those challenging times was learning the art of writing a damn good love letter.

Back in December 2016, I wrote an anniversary post on our way to celebrate in San Francisco. Romance is amplified in a city of lights. If you’ve been following along for a while, this story may be familiar to you. If not, here is more of my heart.

A LOVE LETTER TO THE POST OFFICE

Jordan used to joke that the mailperson was reading our love letters.

If they did, they’d learn that for the first part of our relationship, we were two broke college kids who saved our pennies all month so we could “meet each other halfway.” Or that our go-to date looked like making dinner and watching the same movie over the phone. They’d see the bucket list that gave us something to look forward to in our stretches of absence.

When you go weeks-sometimes months without seeing each other, it makes every day you do get together your favorite day.

Even after being roommates for three times the length of our time apart, we never lost that. I can’t help but be reminded of how lucky we are to do all the wonderfully mundane things together; like grocery shopping as a team; or ending the night in a car going the same direction.

I’d also like to think it indirectly made everyday these past nine years feel like the honeymoon phase.

If I can go back and tell that postal worker anything, I’d thank them- over and over again.

THE UNICORN OF WOOL KNITS

There’s something nostalgic about being in the presence of a quaint mountain town. A landscape of tall trees and rolling hills hug the cluster of local mom and pop shops. As a visitor passing through or a resident running errands, the charm still catches me off guard from both perspectives. Like many small towns, our downtown is only made up of one street. An absence of big box stores and chain restaurants makes the area feel frozen in time.

The local thrift shop is one of the most easily identifiable places in Felton. It’s difficult to miss a big red barn with a banner of flags wrapped around the marquee. Childhood flashbacks of a carnival attraction come rushing back whenever I pull into the parking lot.

Abbot’s Thrift is my North Star. It’s situated within walking distance from the post office and library. In the summertime the Farmer’s Market is sandwiched in the heart of everything much like Stars Hollow. I’d make a whole afternoon of it.

I’ve come to count on the familiarity of being greeted by the sleepy resident cat and quirky employee working the register as you walk in. As much as I appreciate the occasional Goodwill and Sunday flea market, they can’t compare to the cozy shopping experience of Abbot’s. It keeps me coming back time and time again.

What stands out most in the organized clutter is their extensive library nook. Multiple shelves are catalogued by genre and alphabetized by author’s last name. Rumor has it they have a librarian on staff. Unexpected categories dedicated to crafting, sports, and parenting put even some bookshops to shame. I like to think locals share a similar pride in keeping it tidy as our small way of preserving the town’s crown jewel.

Aside from books, I usually keep an eye out for interesting mugs and jackets- particularly from the 60’s-70’s.

While perusing Abbot’s something is bound to catch my eye. On my last visit, I had taken only a few steps from the entrance when a Southwestern pattern woven in earthy tones was screaming out to me from the rack. Immediately upon grabbing the cardigan off the hanger I felt the weight of the wool- the sturdiness proved to be far more than pretty looks. It would properly keep the cold at bay and last years of wear fully equipped with roomy hand pockets to properly dig into and a hem falling perfectly above the knee. We hit it off immediately. I held on tightly and proudly as I roamed the other aisles as if hanging onto a secret. Jordan was the one who noticed it was from Pendleton which simultaneously excited me and made my stomach drop.

The price tag was missing. My gut told me it was well above the frugal thirty dollar budget I allotted myself. Pendleton is known for their quality textiles with jackets and blankets priced upwards $200. I was convinced I’d lose her as quickly as I found her.

To my surprise the unicorn of wool knits came out to SIX BUCKS. Less than the cost of a carton of berries from the farmer’s market next door. Thrift hobbyists can understand the natural high of a price slashed down to a quarter of what was expected.

The cardigan and I met just in time to enjoy the last few months of Winter. She fits in perfectly with my closet, like she was here all along – somehow even complimenting the multiple patterned rugs in our cabin. While flowy dresses and short sleeves will be on heavy rotation these days I patiently await the adventures we’ll pick back up come October.

I often imagine what kind of life thrifted items had before crossing their path. Part of the fun is digging up clues from their past to give more context. Unfortunately the sewn in tags didn’t supply the year or style number. I couldn’t find it on their website either. Naturally I gave it a story of my own: The wool knit lived out it’s golden years with a painter who drew inspiration from their worldly travels. When not getting lost in far away places, Felton was home base. They referred to Abbot’s as their North Star too. In another life we would’ve been fast friends.

LIFE LESSONS FROM THE WOODS

I didn’t always have an untraditional backyard.

In fact up until the age of eighteen, the majority of my life was spent within a few miles radius of a middle class Florida suburb. My bubble was safe albeit incredibly small. I held onto a tender dream of seeing the Redwoods in person one day. I didn’t imagine life would eventually find me on top of a mountain surrounded by an overgrown forest. Living in a cabin between hundred-year-old trees goes far beyond the pipe dream I had sitting in my childhood bedroom.

There’s a richness in being off the beaten path. An abundance in lush greenery provides me a calmness that a major city or a perfectly manicured lawn never could. Out here bustling life doesn’t come from the humming of wheels or indistinct neighborhood chatter but more often from the sound of deer tramping across our hillside or roosters cawing in the morning.

Every walk outside my doorstep presents a slightly different show. My attention went from solely mountains and big trees to a more narrow focus. I appreciate the smaller details; the life cycle of flowers and mushrooms. A dance of blooming and decaying side by side. Both are necessary. I can now successfully identify the difference between poison oak and blueberry bushes. The rhythm of the woods is one I’ve become more in tune with over the years. Our tangled roots are deeply intertwined.

While I will always have a fondness for living front row to nature’s beauty, I’ve also witnessed firsthand it’s ability to shake, rip and burn through the land we love. Climate change hit California especially hard in the past year.

For an unnerving two weeks we evacuated home due to wildfires without knowing if there’d be anything left to return to. From our deck we can see the scorched trees burned into the earth. Brown patches in the distance remind us of the neighboring towns that weren’t as lucky.

Within the same week in January, a 4.5 magnitude earthquake got overshadowed by a wild windstorm. Hurricane-like gusts blew through the forest in the middle of the night. The sound of waves crashing in the sky kept me up for hours. I’d subconsciously hold my breath anytime a branch would snap or debris would scrape against the roof. Forest and Hunter were as restless as we were. While laying in bed grasped onto Jordan my mind raced with unsettling thoughts—the kind that accompanies you at four in the morning. Will our creaky old cabin make it in one piece? Can the redwoods survive this? Will we?

My heightened anxiety of strong winds was a result of a tragic accident several years ago. At the tail end of winter a small group of friends and I went on a camping trip to Yosemite. A pouring of four-five inches of snow covered the park overnight. Since we based our adventure around snowshoeing we were stoked. But barely a mile into our hike came the sound of an ambulance echoing through the canyon. Park Rangers announced through their vehicle speakers to seek shelter immediately in the mess hall. Tourists, campers, hikers, and climbers from around the park filed inside. Then came the news. A tree fell on top of a young women’s cabin—an awful freak accident due to the snowfall and heavy winds. She was staying at the neighboring campground beside ours. Rangers escorted one party at a time to our campsites. We packed quickly and left the park in a haze.

Moments like that stay with you. Something that never crossed my mind now takes up space in the back corners. I recognize trees for their power; a massive force and wisdom that comes from decades or centuries of existence.

Since that day, I find myself paying more attention to loose branches hanging precariously over structures. I take note of the proximity of crooked trees surrounding our cabin like a mental map. Extremely windy days sends an alert to my nervous system.

The night of the recent windstorm stirred up a lot of anxiety in me. When morning came and the dust settled, I felt a rush of relief. The creaky cabin made it. Looking outside my window I was reassured to see the old growths standing tall. Aside from debris spilled across the road and some downed power lines, the damage was minimal in the grand scheme of things. Lucky for us it was nowhere near my worried thoughts at four a.m.

Season after season the woods have taught me lessons on resiliency.

While we were rattled without sleep or power, the birds kept singing and the dogs seemed to have forgotten it happened at all. I’m continually in awe of nature’s ability to adapt.

Ninety percent of the time living in a forest is magic. While there is absolutely romance to living out amongst it there is also a vulnerability tied at the other end. What I want to remind people of is this: wild beauty and fragile unpredictability are a packaged deal.

Now my bubble is much more vast. Regardless of zip code we’re all at the whim of Mother Nature. For right now I choose to set roots where I feel most alive. When our address eventually changes, I’ll think back fondly of this golden time in the wild. To love where you live despite the elements means something, don’t you think?

WELCOME TO MY WRITING CORNER

I’m typing on an old wobbly table facing a window to a green hillside. From the day we first brought the IKEA box home, one of the legs didn’t screw on properly. While it may have driven some people crazy we never cared enough to do anything about it. In fact what began as sheer laziness grew into a growing affection. The pre-mature weathering gives it character.

True to form, I am a person who gets sentimental about a mass manufactured piece of furniture. But it’s not any piece of furniture. You see, it’s the same table my partner and I purchased on a shoestring budget for our first place together. I’m fine pairing down our belongings during seasonal declutterings. Relived in fact. Little did we know our little starter table would be one of the few things to follow us from Florida to North Carolina and eventually California traveling across the country strapped to the roof of my car.

The table was always more than a place to gather for meals. The old reliable block of wood is home to daydreams, it’s where handwritten letters are kept alive and well and where projects are born into existence. Over the last year of the pandemic, it’s been an anchor for growth and creativity serving as my make-shift desk. Whether it’s a steady crawl or a magnetic pull, my writing corner has been my crutch gently coaxing me out of dark days when I would rather stay in bed. Beneath the unassuming surface is almost a decade’s worth of stories like initials etched in wet cement.

I flirted with idea of creating a blog for some time now. Long enough to stop before I started on multiple occasions. A paid domain name coupled with a partner rooting for me on the sidelines helped turn it into a breathing thing.

Writing is the way I best express myself. While I perpetually feel like a professional beginner in other areas of life, story-telling is something that comes more naturally. Someday I’ll return to my very first post and pinpoint the moment I gave my words the permission to stretch beyond my journal and Instagram captions. Here they have an intentional space to take root.

My favorite author, Mari Andrew offered readers a valuable life tip that I keep in my back pocket, “Go somewhere you may not fit in and take notes.” She taught me the art of becoming an observer and a historian of your own life. I think my fondest memories are directly correlated with how well I’m paying attention.

Welcome to the home of my ramblings; a place I draw stories from life’s simple pleasures and the big feelings I attach to them. The cabin door is open. Grab a mug and have a seat, just don’t mind the wobbly side of the table.