Love doesn't just sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new. —Ursula K. Le Guin
My little garden is always fledgling somewhere beween effortlessly thriving and potentially failing—DC weather, like the city itself, rewards the hardy and punishes the delicate.
I find myself gravitating away from writing deeply introspective and (let's be honest) morose blog posts—always questioning if I'm where I'm supposed to be or if my narrative is heading in the right direction.
Sometimes I just want to blog about the hummus I just made or the tomatoes I found in Eastern Market. Sometimes I want to blog fashion advice for women in D.C.
Life doesn't have to be so heavy. Not everything has to have an assigned value. Sometimes a Saturday afternoon on the lawn with girlfriends is just a Saturday afternoon on the lawn with girlfriends.
So let's talk about bicycles.
Before my bike was stolen, I was riding daily around the city—to happy hours in NoMa or meetings on the hill. Sure, I got weird looks as I pulled up to Heritage flush with color and my hair all over the place, but I saved $10 on cab fare and burned off my morning latte.
But I keep putting off buying a new bike.
And now it's autumn. Which means soon it will be winter. So I'll just have to buy a new bike later (and yes, this is how my brain works).
Summer lasted just as long as it was meant to.
I'm in love with this gradual season change—transitioning from iced to hot lattes and pulling on cardigans.
I hope I never forget the simple memories of walking to coffee every morning with Caroline before we drive to work with Chelsie. I love our little morning rituals.
There is talk that this will be a harsh winter. Loads of snow—Snowmageddon proportions—and months of bitter cold. I don't want to jump too far ahead of myself—I've got plenty of boots and hats and coats—for now I'll just enjoy the occasional chilly breeze and deeper shades of lipstick.
And of course, just before we plunge into the winter months, I'm going back to St. Thomas.