Moon River Time Traveller

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When you get older ‘Moon River‘ is guaranteed to make you all kinds of messy emotional.

It’s one thing you can count on.

I don’t know if it matters if you’ve seen the movie ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,’ but yeah, every single damn iteration of that song, I can feel my cheeks get tingly and my throat dry, I get these pesky goosebumps on my arm, and my eyes get unusually water-y. I don’t usually cry, but dammit, it’s close.

Moon River, and the like, is a brief pause, a chance to observe your life from an elevated perspective. Like watching a river wind back and forth, flowing onward, from the comfort and safety of a mountain. The glorious thing about it? You can play the song(s) as many times as you like.

Nostalgia. It creeps up, grabs you, and momentarily shakes up and dumps out all of that petty human bullshit you’re clutching onto. It helps you see the forest through the trees. It helps you see the beauty and the best of our humanity. It sharpens the lines, if only momentarily; often, it’s enough.

Music can do that. It can show you the past and the future all at once. At it’s core and at it’s best, music has the power to transcend time and gives us, the listener, the ability to truly time travel.

I believe that if you lay still enough, in a place of happiness, and wear a pair of headphones, music can take you anyplace in the universe. Truly.

So go, go time traveling, venture across the universe, see what you see and hear what you hear. There is no limit to the madness and the magic. After all, that’s what being human is for.

While writing this, I listened to Yann Tiersen’s eloquent and whimsical score for the film, Amelie. I also listened Audrey Hepburn’s simple and touching recording of Henry Mancini’s, Moon River – and I listened to Hans Zimmer’s, ‘Time,’ from the film Inception.


Old Faded Photographs

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A vast and empty white space. So intimidating and so promising.

The emptiness, it’s a beginning. And beginnings are intimidating and promising.

Now, I consider myself an adult. I’m 31, I can fully comprehend (some) complicated processes and I take my car in to get the tires changed. I’m responsible for a child and a herd of fuzzy and adorable animals. By definition, I’d say I’m an adult.

But, when I sit down to write in this vast white space, I find myself wandering back to write about what I loved when I was 14.  My 14 year old self delighted in poetry, travel, and love. I fervently took images of clouds. I could feel time start and stop in the ocean, my body fully submerged. I gazed down from airplanes and knew that the open spaces of the world knew my name and I knew of their hidden depths and secret beauty. I understood the language of the lonely.

Granted, when I wander backwards in time, I now have this annoying adult perspective. I see things with different eyes. More empathetic and relaxed eyes. The world is now this big grey mass, where there is no firm yes or firm no to anything or anyone. Obviously, fanny packs are a firm no, but other more nebulous things, that to a 14 year old seemed abstract and definite, are no longer definite.

Now love, the glorious love like in movies, I still believe it exists. It’s no longer a game with end – no “happily ever after,” like I initially believed. Love is the entire game itself, whose moving parts are still baffling and beautiful. There are infinite ways to love another human being, and there is no knowing how long or with what intensity you will love that individual. The game of love is a frustrating dance that destroys us while it fulfills us.

I’ve always been fascinated by love. Not necessarily the pure and simple kind of love; the kind between family and friends and animals. That love is so true and fundamental. It rarely hurts, and it typically feeds us the way a fresh loaf of bread feeds us. Warmly and softly.

No, I’m intrigued by the love that burns swift and bright.

The kind of love that buries it’s blade so far into you, that the idea of ever living whole again is an alien notion.

The kind of love that feels like a mental illness – and might as well be.

The kind of love that feels like an ocean swelling right under your rib cage, not letting go, ebbing and splashing and making your mind a mess with debris that it leaves in its wake.

The kind of love that nourishes and starves you in the same helping. It’s electric and it knows it.

It ends. It transforms. It moves on. It leaves you as it found you or it leaves you broken or it leaves you more whole than you could have ever imagined.

This love, that is both infinite and fleeting, why does it feel like it knows all the secret’s to the universe and shows you in brief bursts?

I hate it and I adore it as it runs up and down my spine.

Is it merely a manifestation of self? Some bloated belief that our consciousness and subconscious needs to cope with existence?

Does it actually exist beyond our physical death, floating in space, cradling the souls of those we love with it’s light?

Do we remember the love we’ve felt before like an “I know you” sort of memory? Not a soul mate. A love that is less soul mate and more like an old faded photograph. Like a feeling that was felt on that distant shore of live’s long past.

I think so.

I try to remember these feelings, these faded photographs, and look past a person’s skin and bones and see them for what they have always been and what they will always be. Magic and stardust.

When you find those flecks of stardust, that you recognize as part of your galaxy, remember, they might not remember you, they might be searching for their own particular magic. Let them be. Love them. And know, that not all stars shine side by side – sometimes you must seek your light and they must seek theirs.

Love is never wasted. No matter how small or how grand. Love with all you have. For when you’re dust floating in space among the light and love of millenniums, you’ll know, that your love mattered.

…and these thoughts are what I’m filling this vast empty white space with today.



The Music I Make – I Write


I write.

I write to get the buzzing out of my head and stored somewhere other than my body. A tidy white place.

I write as a love letter to the spirits and souls whose connection(s) I crave; both known and unknown.

I write to have revelations noted. Usually, when I sit down to write, these revelations are long gone. So I write to dig them up and bring them to the foreground of consciousness.

I write because words are magic; man made magic. Thoughts that are given construct, stories that become guides, warnings, and dear friends.

I write to feel happiness in my stomach and in my eyes.

I write because there are things in my darkness that I want to poke and prod and shine light upon. Granted, it’s usually with shaky hands that I shine the flashlight on my dormant thoughts, but writing enables me to gradually see what lurks in my corners and crevices, and then ultimately, accept those notions or disregard them. Unrealized thoughts lingering in dark corners only decay; bring them to the light, and know you as you truly are and not as you perceive yourself to be.

I write to quiet all that I crave that is currently out of my grasp.

I write as a plan. To plan exactly how to acquire all that I crave that is currently out of my grasp.

I write because a little voice inside me says that I’m not bad at writing. A louder voice says I’m not exactly good at it, but that smaller voice is still there. So, I just say “whatever” to that louder rude voice. Ain’t nobody got time for rude voices. Write.

I write to feel sadness down to my bones. To feel my bones ache with a sorrow and stillness that is gently and deeply transformative. An acute stillness that can only be described as a black and warm loneliness. However, in that loneliness, I can clearly see the stars and my place among them.

I write because I can’t play music. Words that come from my soul and consciousness are the music I make. They always have been.


An Oregon Autumn in Images

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Chioggia beets.

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Varying tones of decay.

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Water levels rising.

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Water and dampness.

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Gazing downstream.

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Autumnal textures.

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Softness among the dampness.

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Catching light.

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Water beginning to rush.

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Itty bitty fern.

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Wildcrafting abunandance.

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Ever present and always special.

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Making sure to look down and look closely.

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Medicinal and prolific lungwort.

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Magic shadows and beams.

Time is a Flat Taco – An Excavation of Sorts

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What do you write about when you want your voice to be heard yet you don’t want your voice to completely define you?

I have a blog where I write about movies. I haven’t written there in a while. Writing about what other writers write about feels somewhat defeating. And while yes, criticism is important, and I love love love writing about movies and getting immersed in that world of storytelling, it never quite feels like “me.”

I can tell you about what isn’t “me,” but I’d have a much harder time explaining what IS “me.” I get frustrated that I can only define myself in the negative and not the positive. Then I get frustrated because maybe it isn’t actually negative to define yourself by what you are not instead of what you are? When do you dismiss society’s rules of governing your identity and just be “you.” Unless you’re a psychopath, does it matter?

I don’t think so.

So here I am, re-branding this blog a bit, tweaking it, and writing about what I want to most of the time – which is largely self examination – and food.

I recently watched a trailer for the movie ‘The Zookeeper’s Wife,’ and it was lovely and inspiring and had some of my favorite actors and the writing and cinematography looked breathtaking. It’s simply a story that needs to be told (especially in the political climate the US is facing right now). I just can’t bring myself to pore over the trailer and the movie in detail and produce a polished blog post. Maybe someone would read it, maybe not. So, instead I’m writing about not writing it. Probably WAY less useful.

So, I digress. What do you write about when you want to be honest and raw on an open platform, but you also want to keep some of your personal identity in tact?

Well, you probably just have a freakin’ journal at home and throw your laptop into the damn ocean.

I won’t do that. My hand cramps pretty quickly anymore holding a pen and the ocean is at least and hour’s drive away; so I’ll stay here and work through all of this.

I’d like to write about the processes of life. The good big ones. The exquisite little ones. The muddy ones. The ugly ones. The sad little asshole ones. And the just plain boring ones.

It would be nice to have one of those “mom” blogs that documents travel and life raising a small human alongside my husband. But that’s not me. I’m a mom, yes, but to write only about motherhood would be far from my truth. I’m a wife, yes, but I’d never put that on any kind of “bio.” Neither of those wonderful titles (wife, mom) define me at my core. And sometimes I feel guilty for that. Meh.


I’ll end this little excavation post (trying to dig stuff up and figure stuff out) here. Maybe next time I’ll talk about motherhood or wifedom or just simply, loving. Maybe I’ll talk about how I feel the head and the heart are too vast to love only one person at a time. Maybe I’ll talk about what I ate for lunch (hello, Thanksgiving is right around the corner!), or maybe I’ll just talk again about wanting to talk but not comprehending what to actually talk about.

Time is a flat circle and tacos are tasty.

The Most Vexing Season

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Autumn throws me into chaos.

I love it and at the same time I thoroughly dislike it. The quiet time to reflect is both a release that I relish and a burden I sometimes cannot bear.

There is freedom and a strange danger in realizing what you actually want out of life. You’re forced to either act, or, remain where you’re at. And that feeling is the most vexing feeling. If you act, you are a courageous warrior person who knows what they want and that’s amazing. But also terrifying. If you don’t act, you’re a coward and complacent and someone that is happy with possibly less than what you deserve. But you’re comfortable. And that’s terrifying.

Consciousness is the worst.

Summer comes along and brings with it this radiant glow. Plants are fruitful. Life feels abundant. Your soul is warm (or at least most of the time mine is). Colors are vibrant. The physical world is full of light.

And then autumn comes along and reminds us that winter and it’s darkness is slowly approaching (a subtle death analogy). Plants gradually start to transform. The air gets a chill that is initially a welcome event, but then turns too cold for comfort. Thoughts start directing inward instead of outward towards the sun. And with this inward glance, the spirit is once again called on to ask the questions:

“Is this the life I want?”

“Am I the person I want to be?”

Whether you are a complacent comfy person or a courageous warrior, or rather, a bit of both like I am, you still must answer the questions. If your answer is leaning more towards “no,”, well, then you must re-evaluate. This reevaluation is both exciting and a huge mountain of self to climb; daunting in it’s scope.

Lately, in the past couple seasons of life I have been answering “no” to both questions. Ugh.

And so the work begins.

But lets talk more another time. It’s 5pm and I need another coffee.


Words Matter | A Sea of Creativity

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It’s easy to marginalize our lives.

Before writing anything, I typically convince myself that my writing, in a sea of other amazing writers and creators, is, ultimately meaningless. And while I’m still on the fence regarding whether or not my writing and opinions and feelings are meaningless in the vast ocean of creativity, I personally have to draw a line and say, “this,” “this right here is where I stand and where I am and where I exist.”

For my own sanity.

For my own individual heart and soul’s journey.

For that voice inside me that says over and over “your experience is unique and it matters.”

Collective energy counts.

My voice might be distant and isolated where it projects. But that breath of thought and creation still leaves my body. I’m projecting it away and around me.

Be it in a journal, on the internet, in a published book, or a scrap of paper you leave in a rubbish bin, your words matter. And if I believe your words matter, I should believe mine do, too.

Minimalist Baker’s Pumpkin Crumb Muffins | Quick and Tasty Success

Minimalist Baker's Pumpkin Crumb Muffins

Minimalist Baker’s ‘Pumpkin Crumb Muffins’

When you live thirty minutes from town and your kiddo begged you to get her a “treat” for when they get back from school, but you just can’t get motivated enough to actually change out of your comfy clothes and scoot into town for groceries…

You search the internet for SOMETHING to make/bake with what you have in your pantry, right?


…and finding a recipe that is also applicable to the season you’re currently residing in? Super duper bonus!

Enter one of my favorite food blogger’s recipe for vegan/gluten free, pumpkin crumb muffins!

These suckers were quick and easy. One bowl for the muffins, wash, and one bowl for the crumb topping. I mean, if you really wanted to be a rebel you could use two bowls. Either way these muffins brought a heavenly aroma to the house, and were perfect with just a dob of butter (I used Earth Balance), and were just what the kiddo ordered. Make sure to not be a slacker and make the crumb topping; that little bit of extra crunch is the perfect addition.

*Note: like with most gluten free baked items, the next day isn’t always magic and rainbows. These muffins, they’re some dense puppies the next day. My kiddo didn’t seem to mind the texture, but for me, I’d definitely heat these suckers up for maximum textural enjoyment.

Tomatillo Season | Salsa Verde and More!


Tomatillos and how to grow them // HERE //

If I wander out into my garden, in my backyard that also happens to be my front yard, I can see a robust pair of tomatillo plants going bonkers with fruit. I can also see a few tomatillos plants that just randomly sprouted up from last year’s compost.

Summer is crazy like that. Nothing one minute, and then the next, well, let’s just say your basket will be full!

While tomatillos are for sure adorable, and are for sure bountiful when they chose to be, but, what can you make with them?

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