There's a place that exists between fear and assurance, and I tend to dwell there. I want to be confident and enthusiastic about life and all of its possibilities, and most of the time I am. But sometimes I feel overwhelmed.

I panic about being far from my family and our friends. I miss my mom and my dad and my brother; and I am starting to yearn for warmer weather and a neighborhood full of friends. I want to be adventurous and free-spirited and easygoing, but often I am cautious and moody. We're nearing the time in Rob's career where talks about a new project are taking place. We might stay in Minneapolis, we might not. We might go back to Virginia, but we might not do that either. I would rather be the version of myself that asks, What's next? Let's do it! instead of the one who demands, What's next? I need to know now.

The more controlling side of myself has given way to the braver me plenty of times these past seven months. There have been countless opportunities for growth, and I am so grateful for them. But there's still a side of me that can make herself sick with worry. There's always a chance to let go a little more, and I try to do it every day.

I poured iced coffee into a jar yesterday afternoon and thought about Virginia.

It was 40 degrees and sunny outside, and my apartment was clean and I had fresh tulips sitting on the table, still waiting to fully bloom. I love living in Minneapolis, I really do. There's something about the city and the people and the food that makes me feel extremely understood.

But I don't have anyone to run with here, no one to drop by for tea on a random afternoon. These past six and a half months with Rob have truly felt like a blessing--like a chance to make up for the time we might have lost over the year that we were so far from one another--but there are days where I think we both would love to just have one or two of our best friends around for drinks or a laid-back weekend brunch.

I know that at some point, I will have to stop fantasizing about the time I spent as a student, because there is never going to be another time where all of my friends can drop what they're doing to just hang out. Shawna and I won't always just have an hour or two in the middle of the afternoon to meet for coffee, or decide to drink a pitcher of mimosas on a porch, or go on a quick run down our favorite trail in Charlottesville. There isn't a realistic new version of the story where Tina and her sister and I go to lunch and then spend the rest of the afternoon all cuddled up together in my bed, watching some episode of Grey's Anatomy.

But these are my favorite memories--the ones where I meet my mom for lunch every day and hang out with my dad on the lake every weekend; where almost all of the people I love are just an arm's reach away. I carry them with me everywhere I go, to every place I'll ever call home. And maybe one day, I can return to that world for good and put them down on a mantle somewhere, where they will be safe and I can start to make new ones.

Minneapolis might understand me, but Virginia knows me.


This post is in response to the following prompt: "What's been on your mind? What have you carried and gnawed over?" (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 154.) If you've written a response of your own, please share it below in the comments! 

When I was in college, writing was a dream that seemed attainable. I already did it every day--academic papers kept me sharp and well-read, and my creative writing minor had me pumping out quality personal essays on a regular basis. And then there was the feedback--the constructive criticism that made me better every time. I never knew what I was going to "do with my life" (sometimes I still don't), but I knew that I would always write.

This might sound ridiculous, but this blog doesn't always feel like a place where I write. I don't like that. It feels like I'm not being true to myself in some way. I love sharing my life with you guys, but I want 2014 to be the year I start writing more things I'm proud of--things that feel more like complete pieces than blog posts. And I want to start getting better again, because when I sit down to a blank Word document, I realize just how rusty I've gotten.

Back in 2011, I vowed to write a piece of creative nonfiction every week. It was obviously an ambitious goal, or else I would have done it. But I would like to try again.

These posts will be labeled "Old Friend from Far Away" (because the writing prompts are all taken from the book--get it here), and I'm not sure how I'm going to go about them. I once made a list that I think was easy to follow, so I'll go ahead and do that again. I've spoken with a few people who would like to follow the prompts and write along, and I'd love that.

02/17: What's been on your mind? What have you carried and gnawed over? (OFFA, 154)
02/24: Tell about periods when you haven't read. What were you doing? Where and when do you read best? (OFFA, 160)
03/03: Often we are pulled between two places...Tell us about them. Give us the pull, the conflict, the desire. (OFFA, 204)


Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing.

In Old Friend from Far Away, Natalie Goldberg talks about the worth of ordinary lives. How we don't have to be special and exciting people with extraordinary habits in order to write something of value. And, as usual, she says these things in a way that makes me subconsciously reach for a notebook and get started again with renewed hope.

If you were with me almost a year ago, you might remember a goal I set to write something creative every weekend. Like I often do, I didn't really stick with it as long as I said I would. Things happen--migraines take hold, you have to go to work on a Saturday, there are no groceries in the house, there are episodes of television to watch and pages of books to be read. Life, as wonderful as it may be, can also get in the way sometimes.

A week ago, I wrote something that made me proud. It was one of those days where you feel something and the words come easily and those paragraphs that you write just plop into the world like they should have been there all along. No prompt, no nudge from anything but your brain and the words that fill it up and spill out onto the pages of your notebook and the screens of other people's computers.

But today was one of those days where you don't know what you're feeling. You wake up warm and happy, but as the morning nudges itself into afternoon, you confuse yourself with bills and holiday plans and what to make for dinner. You find yourself in bed at 3:30 PM and you don't know why you're crying.

When I first started blogging, I wrote all kinds of melancholy shit. No one was reading but my parents and my roommates. Now, if I have a bad day, I'm sometimes nervous to talk about it. I want you guys to think I have it all together. But that's a silly way to live. I don't have it all together. And sometimes I cry for no apparent reason. That's just me.


I opened my copy of Old Friend from Far Away this morning and it asked me, "What's in front of you?" and I wrote but didn't want to post because I was standing in my kitchen and that thing is too damn small. I hate our kitchen. It reminds me every day that I left a stainless steel refrigerator and huge windows and high ceilings and so much counter space and enough light so that I could live here for a year, in what's essentially student housing, surrounded by inconsiderate, loud neighbors who make me feel old.

But then Rob comes out of our bedroom with sleep in his eyes and a smile on his face and being in his arms feels right and I remember that this is worth it because we get to be together, and besides, you can't just stay in one place forever. One must be able to adapt. Like every other season of life we go through, this one will pass, and we'll look back on it one day and hopefully laugh about that tiny kitchen with no counter space.

Last May, almost a year ago, Rob and I moved into an apartment. My graduation weekend had passed and friends had gone and we packed our cars to the brim with remnants of my life in college. That next week, we slowly unpacked boxes and found places for our things. It was summer, and neither of us had started our jobs yet; we had both just finished up semesters of work and we had nothing to do.

I delighted in waking up in the mornings and tiptoeing, barefoot, across the cool lacquered cement floor to the kitchen to make coffee and eggs. I'd throw on sports bras and tennis shoes and sneak out to run through the muggy morning. I felt completely free in the early mornings of this new place of mine, with my boyfriend sleeping so gently in the other room.

I remember the first time it rained at my new home.

I could hear it on the roof, and it was such an inviting noise that I couldn't seem to get out the door fast enough. My running shoes were on, and I hit the pavement eagerly and headed toward my favorite course. Running in the rain is beautiful because almost no one wants to do it with you, and you can't bring an iPod or a phone, so you're truly alone out there. You can't tell if you're sweating or just being washed clean.

I came back inside and Rob was awake. I took a bath because we didn't have a shower curtain yet. We got ready and walked the six or seven blocks downtown to our local coffee shop to have a relaxing breakfast and mugs of Mill Mountain Blend. We sat in the window and watched the warm rain come down, savoring the luxury of having nothing to do all day but walk home, holding hands, and venture out in search of shower curtains and bath mats.

My grandmother used to live in our backyard in California, in a little house of her own. There were rose bushes outside.



She came from Argentina and had broken English, but she taught me the magic of arroz con leche for breakfast, saltine crackers with butter and sugar as an after-school snack, and that if you pressed too hard with your pencil, you'd never be able to erase it completely.

We had ten nice years together. Sometimes I miss her more than I can remember her, but I know that one day we'll be seeing each other again.

It was a late night and I try to remember where I am. I reach across the air mattress and feel Rob's warm arm, and then I hear Shawna's voice from somewhere outside the open, once-dining room that has turned into a makeshift guest bedroom. I'm at Davidson College, in her house, and it's Spring Frolics weekend.

The running water of a shower cuts off with a squeak from the faucet and a hair dryer roars to life. Shawna's roommates chatter upstairs as they get ready for the day.

I can feel the sun, streaming in through the half-cracked mini blinds, on my face. I hear bare feet padding across the linoleum floor of the kitchen and country music blaring through a stereo in the living room. The coffee maker gurgles and drip drip drips. I finally open my eyes and follow my ears throughout the house to find Shawna, one of my very best friends.

"Let's try not to eat so much for breakfast today because we're going over to my tia's house for lunch later," my mom explained to us over her small cup of strong, sweet coffee. The hot Italian sun beat down on us despite the early hour. It was July.

We were in Avezzano, a small mountain town about an hour away from Rome, and we had just woken up and were eating breakfast outside on the patio of another cousin's home. Breads and cookies and chocolate and fruit were laid out on a tray before us and I remember thinking how much I preferred drinking coffee like an adult and being able to eat cookies for breakfast. I was eleven.

We spent the afternoon shopping and trying not to eat. I was amazed by how beautiful Italians make everything--an espresso becomes a work of art with crema, steaming in all its perfection in a tiny ceramic cup and saucer. My mother purchased a bracelet and I watched in awe as the saleswoman put it in a box and tied a gold ribbon around it, then placed it in a small shopping bag with purple tissue paper and handed it across the counter with a smile on her tan face. "Grazie, signora." Even their words are beautiful.

Later in the afternoon we drove closer to Rome to my great-aunt's house, and the lunch festivities began. My great-aunt, my mom's tia is a small, round woman who wears floral dresses and brought out plate after plate of delicious dishes. First, two kinds of pasta, then chicken, then beef. Lasagna and salads followed. We ate for two hours, and my younger brother and I stuffed ourselves until we could barely breathe.

My dad sat next to us, laughing and telling us about the first time he ever went to my mom's house when they were first dating. My grandpa Albino also had several dishes ready, but my dad filled himself up on the first pasta, unaware that there was more to come. Today, he only took a little of each course--he had remembered and he was prepared for the marathon lunch banquet.

My mom sat in the middle of the table, rapidly conversing with her family in Italian and sometimes turning to us to say something in English. She's trilingual but says Italian is the hardest. Without knowing for sure, it's impossible to tell which is her first language.

After all the plates were cleared, my great-aunt came out bearing dessert, and I somehow managed to sneak away from the table before tiramisu was forced upon me. I walked into the backyard and sat beneath a shady fig tree. The afternoon had edged into evening and it was finally a bit cooler, but I was uncomfortably full and told myself I wouldn't be able to eat again for days.

I laid myself down in the grass to take a nap, but there was a low-hanging branch and a dewy purple fig sat right before my face, so I picked it and ate it and then fell asleep.

I don't know if you missed it, but last week my Old Friend from Far Away post was about remembering.

I remember leaving for college.

I stood in my driveway with Emma's arms wrapped around my neck and thought, "Never." I would never find another friend like her, and I would never be the same because of it.
It was August and despite the early hour, the hot Virginia morning already fell, muggy on our bare shoulders. Thick brown ringlets and freckles merged as our embrace tightened.
My dad put the final box of my stuff into the back of our black Suburban. "I'll visit you every weekend," she sobbed into my ear. I let go of her and got in the car. I remember feeling like I'd never have another friend like Emma again.


I didn't realize at the time that I would meet amazing new friends in college, and that the circle I ran with in high school would only get closer as the years passed.


Emma didn't visit every weekend. How could she? She was still in high school with sports and homework and plans of her own. But she came when it was important.


I remember coming home to Roanoke and always meeting up with Emma immediately. Sometimes I'd just drive from Farmville straight to her house. We'd eat sushi for lunch or egg sandwiches and lattes for breakfast and go running and paint our nails and nap and read and eat again. We'd spend hours and cans of hairspray doing our makeup and curling our hair, going out on adventures and just laughing, laughing so much.  I remember one winter break, roasting marshmallows by the fire in her mom's house. We woke up much later, warm and full and confused and curled up on the floor together like kittens.

I remember driving to Richmond to get my left ear pierced and being so, so scared. I remember Emma pushing me along and then holding my sweaty hand when I was too scared to do anything by myself.


I remember planning house parties that were themed and had corresponding invitations. We'd plan a menu and invite our friends and wear dresses and really high heels. 



I remember her decision to transfer from Roanoke College to William and Mary, and how far away Williamsburg really is. I remember weekend visits to see her and how much fun we have together, no matter where we are.

I remember a lot of things from our long, eventful friendship.

This book is three hundred pages of writing prompts. It was a required text for one of my creative writing workshops at Longwood and we did a few as homeworks and in-class exercises, but we didn't really make a significant dent in the table of contents.