I went on a run yesterday; the kind where it's muggy and hot outside and you think about huge things while you lose your breath and sweat quickly covers your body. I told myself to run twenty minutes, and I started fast, and then thirty minutes passed, and I told myself to run some more.

It was hot and the sky looked like thunder and my legs felt like bricks and I just kept going. I didn't start out with grand thoughts about life, because I started out with basic thoughts about running, but the former evolved from the latter because that tends to be the way it works when you're running.


I got so comfortable that I forgot what the edges of my comfort zone felt like. But I like being in that space. I need it.

There is a distinct feeling of weekend mornings, especially those in spring.

They are cool and wet, sometimes rainy, mostly smelling of sunscreen, and if you've ever spent a year or two living with a man who is now halfway across the country from you, then they can be lonely.

Spring comes back to me every year, carrying memories tied to scents and songs that remind me of some life I used to have. The most recent life that has been visiting me lately is the one last year where I hardly made enough money to pay my rent each month and daydreamed about a job with a desk and no beverage cooler to organize; one that wouldn't chip my nail polish every time I reached into the sink to get an espresso cup.

Two years ago (which is amazing to say, because that Christmas does not feel two years ago yet), I got a beautiful watch for Christmas, and I put it in its little box on my dresser and waited for the day that I could wear it to a job where I was neither a barista nor a graduate student, and could wear a watch that was not waterproof or a pretty shirt without fear of spilling something onto myself.

It's almost been a year since I moved back home, I thought yesterday as I drove away from the office that allows me to dress up and wear my watch without fear, the one that challenges me in a new way every day. A year ago, Rob and I were packing up the apartment we shared together in Charlottesville. We were going out for brunch and taking walks around our neighborhood together.

When I think about the distance to Minnesota, or even just to DC, I am amazed and sometimes appalled that at one time, I had Rob in the same city, living at the same address, eating dinner at the same table, falling asleep and waking up in the same bed as me, every day. I don't know if we realized, at the time, just how good it was. We definitely didn't realize, at the time, just how far away from each other we'd end up a year later.

Things then might have been simple and easy and full of love, but they weren't nearly as promising as the things we have now because of our sacrifices. Now things are complicated and hard, but still full of love, which is the thing that I am quickly realizing matters the most.

There is always something about this specific place in time, now, that is so difficult to grab onto with anything but impatience.

Here's to patience.