I often daydream about seasons long before they ever show up.

I wish the last few weeks of summer away with dreams of crunchy leaves and woolen socks. The day after Thanksgiving, I'm consumed with thoughts of twinkly lights and a cozy white Christmas spent by the fireplace.

And now we're in February, where I've already ordered several iced coffees; finding myself so incredibly ready for spring. I could try to blame this on the extra long and extra cold winters here in Minneapolis, but I've done this my whole life.

I love looking forward to things. My brother arrived late last night and I've been looking forward to his trip for months. I have a lot to look forward to, but even the most routine of things--autumn, winter, spring, summer--cause me to create countdowns and celebrate every little day we get closer to the goal. Maybe it's good, to be so enthusiastic about the future, but a lot of the time, I feel like I'm missing out on what's directly surrounding me.

So this season, I will try to sit in the present without wishing it away. I want to do more than accept what is in front of me--I want to be thankful for it. For extra snow and a new experience. For this long winter before Rob and I begin our marriage and start figuring out what's next for us. This most likely could be my last Minnesota winter, so I want to hold on to it. My brother is here for five days and there are hot beverages to drink and frozen waterfalls to see.

These winters are long, but they're good. My sundresses can wait.

It was this year that I finally stopped measuring my life by semester.

Do grown people still do that? For so long, my year began in the fall, took a break around Christmas, and began again in January before ending in the spring. It was Freshman Year and The Summer Of, over and over again, I guess until recently, when I started running out of things to call them. I finished graduate school in October of 2012, and then it was 2013.

Recently, I've been thinking about the years that passed by not so long ago, the ones I always refer to by name--those years that made me into who I am today. I look back and am often slightly embarrassed by the girl who was there at the time, living out the scenarios that are now my memories. Those last years of high school seemed so crucial, and yet today I look back and say "how stupid," even though I needed them.

Junior Year of High School is when I started dating the boy who, five or six whole months later would be the first guy to break my heart. He taught me how to get over something and be stronger for it at the end of the day. I was really into my running and my school and my friends and my religion and I never anticipated a day when things would be different. I applied to colleges and went on visits and tried to picture a day where things might change, but I just couldn't see it yet.

Senior Year of High School was dramatic and life-changing in the way that high school is. New boyfriend, new heartbreak, except that this one taught me how not to get over something, and all the ways you could be regretful at the end of the day. I graduated and went to college, convinced that I would never change, that I would keep all the friends I had left back home, that this must be what growing up felt like.

Freshman and Sophomore Years of College were full of new people and self-discovery; a psychology major and a Spanish major and a whole lot of intro classes before I finally declared an English major. I learned that just because someone is handsome and nice doesn't mean he is sent to you from heaven above or something, and that notion was challenged at the beginning of Junior Year when the boy I believed to be my soul mate sat down on my bed and broke up with me. He was everything I thought I ever wanted, and for a year I had ignored how hard I needed to try to be everything he thought he ever wanted. Real love is work sometimes, but it isn't hard, and I hadn't learned that yet. He taught me to love myself and be happier for it at the end of the day.

The rest of Junior Year and the following Senior Year was what I suspect college is really supposed to be--I spent time making awesome memories with my friends. I was deeply engrossed in my courses, and read hundreds of pages a day in between classes. I started feeling like William Shakespeare and I knew each other well. I stayed out too late, often drank too much, and wore ridiculous outfits to theme parties with my roommates. We got in stupid fights and never really learned how to communicate until much later, but they were my best friends and we loved each other. We ate chips and queso dip almost every afternoon in our living room. I got a tattoo, wrote every day, could barely picture a life where I wasn't a student, and met the man that, five and a half years later, I'm about to marry.

My life has been so blessed. As I grow older I am learning to be so thankful for everyone whose path has crossed mine; for everything that has gotten me to where I am today. When I was in Virginia for Thanksgiving, my old roommates and I got together for a weekend and we picked up right where we left off and had a great time, but we still all seemed so much different--the better, adult versions of ourselves. Life happens and you lose track of time. Earlier this week, Rob and I were driving to dinner together, bundled up in our coats and scarves and I almost laughed looking out the snowy window thinking about winter in Minnesota--this random possibility that has become a reality for us. We live here now--we're done with school and we're working and this is our home now. I love it. I wouldn't change a thing.

Maybe as we grow older, we encounter fewer defining moments and feel less inclined to identify years in a special way. But maybe that's not true, either, because in 2013 I got engaged to the love of my life and moved to a new part of the country. I started blogging full time and challenged myself to write more and cook more and let go of the things that scare me. I'll never forget this year--it has been one of the best. Losing my dog has made it bittersweet, missing him so much and knowing that none of us will live forever, but hoping that we'll all be reunited in some way in the future.

And with 2014 looking at us from the last page of our calendars, I know that this new year will also be life-changing as I walk down the aisle and get a new last name and will probably move again (this time with my husband) and try to find more ways to push myself and get better and feel even more thankful for this life we're living.

All of these years are special, no matter how we refer to them when we look back.

It's that time of year when I wake up with a shiver, giddy over the chill in the air and that smell of autumn that may or may not exist outside of my own imagination. I put on a scarf or a sweater, make coffee, and proceed to ignore the afternoon as it warms up, because it's still summer, but I'm ready for it to be fall.

I was running this morning and it was a damp and comfortable 60 degrees, but the sun was shining on parts of the sidewalk and I thought about how amazing it is that I could be running in Virginia (in Farmville or Roanoke or Charlottesville), or I could be running in Minneapolis, and although I am not the same person I was seven years ago, I can feel almost exactly the same at this moment that I did at that moment.

I made a turn on a new loop and was surprised by the smell of coffee coming from a shop on the corner. The coffee shop is right by our apartment building, but looking at it from a different angle; coming at it from a different street, startled me. It looked different, and I felt disoriented. I'm still getting to know my new neighborhood.

It reminded me of the time my old roommate Caroline, our friend Maggie, and I sat on the steps of a building on Longwood's campus before classes started our freshman year. I remember the cold roughness of the cement steps and the sort of horizontal platforms that jutted out on either side, and how later, one afternoon, I walked past that building on my way to something like I always did and realized that it was the same place we had sat that late summers night, weeks before.

I have moved almost every year since starting college in 2006, and each time, it has been at the end of a summer. August awakens a nostalgia in me, and I want to start over in some way every time autumn nears.

The promise of unfamiliar corners becoming ordinary fixtures is something I like. Settling in feels good.

When I first started my job last year, I impulsively bought a little potted succulent to place on my desk at work. I was standing in Kroger, and I don't remember what I had actually popped in to buy, but I remember that on the way to my car, I got caught in one of those torrential rain storms that seem to come out of nowhere from April until July in Virginia.

The succulent looked like a dinosaur. I'm not one to see a plant and think I have to have that, but I picked it up because it reminded me of a stegosaurus and made me smile, and because I was feeling really hopeful. It was summer, and Rob was home, and I was feeling less like a student and more like an adult (and enjoying the transition).

After about six months and too much watering and not enough natural sunlight, the soggy little succulent died. I took it from my office and stuck it in that magical windowsill, vowing never to water it again. The plant continued to die, but not before sprouting a hard, purple-ish little bud in between two grey leaves. I picked it off, abandoned the old plant, and placed the baby one onto new soil.

Lots of things have changed this year. I don't know if the new plant will thrive or struggle or walk the line between the two, but it's beginning to put down roots, and it's good.

I was thinking about love the other day--the non-glamorous, difficult side of things that is so far removed from the weddings we love and re-post photos from on Pinterest. 

I thought about how simple, good communication is worth its weight in gold, and I thought about the nights that you will cry about bathroom rugs or furniture, or maybe go to bed angry but hold hands anyway because you love each other even when one of you is being an asshole, and the promise that's there even when the passion maybe won't be. 

And it's this--navigating the hard stuff and making it through not-so-glamorous times--that actually feels more magical to me than a bouquet of peach roses with baby's breath poking out, or mason jars wrapped in lace.

I'm finally at the point where I'm done with writing and editing, and all that's left of my master's thesis is printing, binding, and signing. I've had several people ask for a little insight into what exactly I've been working on for the past year, and so now I'm sharing a few bits and pieces from an introductory document--my bibliographic essay. If I jumped from one section to another, I separated it with a little manual page break [--]. This means so much to me; I hope you enjoy.

Currently, there are several empty corners in my apartment.

The space where a coffee table used to be. The old home of a lamp. An empty bookshelf in the corner of the office.

There was a time in my life when these empty spaces would have been a cause of anxiety and sadness. Now I look at them with joy and see how full of hope they really are. As I pack things slowly into boxes and send furniture away, I am simplifying my life.

There's something very attractive to me about doing things that aren't easy. Maybe it's the runner in me.

Go the distance. Throw things away. Make life better.

I remember a very specific moment from when Rob and I were leaving Roanoke to move here for the year. I was emptying the refrigerator in an apartment that no longer held any of our things. A broom sat, propped against another empty corner and dust covered the floor of what used to be our living room. The muggy August heat of southwest Virginia crept through the old warehouse windows of the apartment, and in that empty space, Rob pushed the hair from my sticky neck and said "I love you." That apartment wasn't empty as long as we were in it.

I have learned that an empty corner is just the beginning of something new and better.

It happened that winter of her senior year of high school as she sat on the couch, unsuccessfully trying to knit a scarf. She manipulated the needles through dark blue yarn, but there were knots and holes and she was getting frustrated. She was never very crafty, but she was trying to learn. She stopped to take a break and decided to play a song from an album she hadn't listened to yet.



She wasn't someone who knew how to knit. She wasn't sure yet, didn't know exactly what kind of person she was, but as she sat there in the dark, just listening, she could finally hear the kind of person that she had always wanted to be.

I like to go to coffee shops by myself.

I like to order a drink, find a place, set my stuff up, and sit. Then I like to see how long I can go without connecting to the shop's wireless internet. I sip. Look around. Write a few real lines in a notebook. Read a few real pages in a book. Sip.

Sometimes I feel too connected. I get headaches from my computer. I sit in front of a screen for a few too many hours each day. I check my phone obsessively. I find myself turning the thing over every now and then so I can't see the green notification light, just to prove to myself that I don't need to know whether I have an email or not.

This weekend, I'm staying put for once in what feels like a very long time. I'm going to have lunch with friends, and write things down on paper, and sleep in on Sunday and make a big breakfast. And maybe see how long I can stay away from my computer.

Wishing you some of the same. See you Monday.

This weekend, I had to work. I didn't take pictures. I didn't go running. I was tired, and I started having weird pain in my left shin in the exact place where I once had a stress fracture and once broke it for real, so I spent some time being worried about that. I got mad at Rob for stupid things. Friday was the birthday of a friend who died last summer, and I cried. It was just one of those days where you say "It's been one of those days," but it wasn't one day, it was three.

I was reminded of this quote that I read and wrote down on a piece of paper and have held on to for almost four years:
"So this is why I write. Because most times, your life isn't funny the first time through. Most times, you can hardly stand it."
--Chuck Palahniuk, Almost California 

Sometimes, things are hard. And yet, I can always feel that there's hope just around the corner. I am reassured in the fact that I can sit here at my computer and tell you the truth. Because sometimes, people feel a little bit beat up by life, and it's not pretty, but it's okay. Because it's life and even when it's hard, it's good, and we're all in it together. Keep going.

They have always meant something. Years ago, Sundays were for family--for 11:30 mass and breakfast right after. They were for Catholic friends and parents and nice talks over hot mugs and scrambled eggs. Sundays were for an afternoon walk through Barnes & Noble and for you to peek your head into Ann Taylor LOFT, "just in case."

In college, Sunday was for being homesick. It was for disliking the church in your new town and slowly ceasing to show up there, and for calling your parents to catch up. There were still eggs and coffee, though, as you sat in the dining hall with your friends and ate and laughed. After your first year at school, your new Sunday became normal and you looked forward to that omelet and those potatoes and the never ending coffee with your beautiful roommates and some other people who would become your family away from home.

Then you graduated. Maybe you went back home for some time. You could have your original Sundays back--just reach out and take them--but you've changed. You might still go to church sometimes. You might still spend the day with your parents sometimes. You might go back to college to spend the weekend with your boyfriend sometimes, letting Sundays continue with friends and a dining hall. The Sundays have evolved, and life and your very self feel different.

Another year later, Sunday was for working. It was for serving coffee, but no eggs, to people from 10:30 AM to 5:00 PM and wishing you had time to write. It was for thinking about your thesis and dreaming of a job you would love. It was for being a little bit sad, and wishing to be spending the day with a book and your parents or roommates from college or your brother or boyfriend--anyone you love.

And now, just a few months later, that coffee shop has hired a new person and you have Sundays off again, and this time they are so that you can write. So you can tip-toe into the living room for an old Moleskine and actually put a pen to paper because people are asleep in the guest room where you keep your computer. Sundays are for reading and working on your dreams and deciding where to go later for eggs and coffee.

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.