Butter melts thickly in the saucepan as my Spotify playlist hot girl summer blasts in my ears through my headphones, the sweet aroma rising with the steam reaches my nose and my senses. The smell is comforting. I make new playlists during different seasons of my life and my current one mainly consists of Olivia Rodrigo’s new album—it’s funny how I didn’t relate to the breakup songs as much until a month ago.

Now I sing the cure as loudly as I can over my now foamy and browned butter. I take it off the heat to allow it to rest, or allow me to scream the main chorus with full focus. I can’t hear myself sing because my headphones are soundproof (lucky me) and only my sister in the other room can hear me (she’s good at tuning things out). Her and the floorboards are my only witness. They’re probably happy to hear me singing again after being in a state of numbness for the past month. I’ve slowly started to reemerge this early August.

To combat my ever-racing thoughts and anxiety of missing out on life instead of just relaxing, I’m making s’mores cookies using a sourdough recipe. Partly to finally celebrate summer in some form, but mostly to use up some of the extra discard I’ve been collecting since not having the energy to prepare and bake a loaf of sourdough in a few weeks.

I add the brown sugar and eggs to the saucepan after partly letting it cool for the designated time stated in the recipe. Sometimes I treat the recipe like one treats the instruction manual for building furniture which ends up in the trash: “Thanks for the tools and suggestions—I’ll take it from here.” That goes along with adding the dry ingredients to the wet ones a third at a time. I’m adding the wet ingredients to the dry all at once.

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The weather is overcast today like most days this summer. It’s been either suffocatingly humid and sunny or suffocatingly humid and cloudy all season. An occasional thunderstorm will pass through to cool off the concrete, but unfortunately makes it even harder to breathe with the extra moisture in the air.

When the wet and dry ingredients are just about completely mixed, I use a spatula to fold in the s’mores confetti: chopped graham crackers, mini marshmallows, and chunks of chocolate.

I’ve been trying to slow down when I bake. I attempt at enjoying the process rather than rushing it like usual. I’m really bad at hurrying things, anything. I try to multitask everything I do, and in turn, get overwhelmed for no good reason other than I feel the need to get stuff done as fast as possible. I never understood baking as a fun hobby. It’s always been sticky and flour-dusted messes for me. Until I learned to slow down.

I plop tablespoons of cookie dough on the baking sheet. The clumps are probably bigger than they should be, but I’m not aiming at perfection. I add on marshmallows and tiny pieces of graham crackers to the tops to make them even more s’more-looking. Extra details like that would be something old-baker-me would never have dreamed, but I’m changing bit by bit.

I place the pan inside the oven before I sit right next to its warmth on the cool tile floor and look through the sooty glass window. I watch my cookies bubble and rise on the other side. Some look to be stretching out to hold hands with the ones next to them. The marshmallows on the edges melt into a glaze while the ones on top roast to a light brown like they would near a summer campfire.

I shift my body to lean against the wall while still maintaining a good view of the cookies baking inside the oven. My hot girl summer playlist has ended and Spotify is now playing recommended songs. Noah Kahan’s End of August starts to play and some would believe this to be the perfect song to have on while watching s’mores cookies bake in the oven in the middle of summer—it’s the epitome of summer and nostalgia.

Music brings me back to different times in my life and I’m sure that happens to everyone. Having a dedicated playlist that I’ve listened to for months or years during separate eras of my life probably has much to do with it too. But as the tune of End of August starts with its twinkling sounds, my stomach drops as memory hits me. I remember what I’m trying to distract myself from thinking about. It’s gut-wrenching to have playing in my ears again—so close to me I can’t escape it. It’s so loud. I can feel it in my chest.

‘Cause we never do anythin’ real, we just talk about it

Endin of August, the bugs are just starting to die

I start to grow distant from my body and go back in time to the beginning of summer. I’m no longer sitting in my kitchen floor, but I’m in my car on a solo roadtrip. It’s where I was when I first heard this song. I remember listening to it for the first time and thought about where I’d be by the end of August this year: what I’ll be doing, who I’ll be spending time with, what will be different in my life, what will be the same? Who will I be in the not so distant future?

That girl who was driving five hours to see a boy in another state wondered that. She listened to this album two times on repeat on the way there. She thought those same questions twice and was sure of who would be in her life now, or sure of who she hoped would be at least.

And now I sit here knowing it didn’t happen like I imagined as the melody carries on through my head. I see myself, in her future, sitting down on the floor and baking so many cookies that I know I won’t be able to eat all alone. I listen to the same song that made her hopeful this summer would be everything she needed and laugh at the coincidence that it’s August and I’m baking summer-themed cookies for no other reason than I needed to use up my extra sourdough discard.

I don’t think she expected to be where she is now. But I don’t think she would be disappointed that I’m still trying. I’m still trying to enjoy summer even though I got my feelings hurt. I’m still trying to enjoy summer even though it’s raining nearly every day, and when it’s not, I can’t stand the heat. I’m still trying to do fun things this summer even when I don’t feel like it. I’m still trying to take it all in before I rush it away by buying pumpkin spice coffee creamer at the grocery store even though I really want to just move on the next season of the year, of my life. It seems silly to take a coffee creamer flavor so seriously, but I think the point is deeper than that.

And I thought getting older meant knowin’ it’s too late to try

And I tried getting sober, I swear I did better this time

Moving on to the next season feels like giving up on being present. It feels like giving up on the growth that comes with sitting in the hurt and the grief. Do I go ahead and start buying the pumpkin spice latte creamer to cover up the end of summer? To move on to what’s next and forget how I’m feeling during this era of my life? Or do I just sit in what’s left? To take a pause, to have a moment to myself before the sky starts going dark again. I feel the need to soak up the last bits of summer especially since I wait so impatiently every year for its return.

It’s been raining nearly every day this summer and I don’t remember that happening when I was younger. Maybe it’s because I was just a kid and I didn’t take rain checks. I didn’t let the gloom take over the day and I played outside despite the rain and squishy grass. But as I get older, it’s more difficult to force myself to have fun when the timing isn’t right.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in solitude lately, waiting for what’s next and wondering where my life will take me from here. Despite all that’s happened this year, it’s flown by so fast. And summer has passed by even faster, barely leaving me enough time to breathe. I feel like between all the bad, it’s been difficult for me to actually enjoy what’s supposed to be a fun and eventful season.

I imagined that I’d have more tan lines from sitting out in the sunshine. I thought I’d have more pictures with friends in my camera roll of summer nights and beach days. I hoped that I would have read more books and stayed more consistent with writing. But not much of that really came to be true.

Instead my summer consisted of slowing down and learning how to regulate my nervous system for the first time in my life. It’s been full of rest, therapy, and glimpsing sunsets through the window. I’m slowly rebuilding myself into who I want to be through tears, quiet moments to myself that come too often, and reflection. I’ve been feeling quite sad about that for some reason, like I’ve missed out on all the fun somehow. My summer has looked much different than others, but it hasn’t been wasted.

Everythin’ you see out here will die

Oh, it’s a matter of time ‘til it’s

Field of ice and reflector lights

I’m afraid to let go of what remains of summer. So I am waiting before I move on to fall. I don’t want to rush away August. I don’t want to rush away another end of summer or the heartache. I don’t want to rush away the experiences that come along with being alive—even the hard ones. I’m here to feel it all, so I let myself sit here on the floor a while longer and have the sense of knowing that good things are on the way without being sure of what those good things are yet. It feels powerful to grieve the endings, to sit in the hurt without anticipation. The beautiful transformation of autumn will come soon enough. And so will I.

The minute that September hits

I’m goin’ off my medicine

Late August angst, and a pointless night

Ooh, and the feeling of being alive

For the first time, in a long time

August is a waiting room for me, but I’m not exactly sure what to be expecting when my name is called by the end of the month. I always faintly hear the future calling out to me in the distance although I try to ignore it. There’s somehow always something to worry about, something to dream, someone to become, something to pull me from the now. I do feel a sense of coming out of the waiting room with a line drawn down the timeline of my life: the point of becoming—the before and now, who I was and who I am.

As I look back at that girl singing End of August and dreaming of a future that didn’t come to be, I try to stay in the present this time. I try to stay exactly where I am—watching my cookies rise and push into each other without ruminating what my summer did or did not become. This is my August and there’s no where else I’d rather be. It’s not a pointless night and it is a pointless night at the same time, except this time I’m here to experience it in full.

The timer goes off on the oven and I stand up to take the pan out, opening way for the heat and sweet campfire smell to rush into the kitchen. Turning out better than expected, the s’mores cookies are enjoyed along with what’s left of the summer evening. I try to find comfort in the not knowing of where it will lead me.

Everythin’ you see out here will die

Oh, it’s a matter of time ‘til it’s

Field of ice and reflector lights

‘Til it’s our town

And it’s ours now

‘Cause it’s ours now

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As I write this now, I sit outside on my porch for the first time in a while as yet another thunderstorm passes through. I’m proudly writing something with some form of creativity and patience which is slowly coming back to me.

It’s just about dark outside. The thunder and lightning have made their way through, leaving me with the sounds of late summer and the smell of electricity in the air.

Frogs and crickets sing along to the rhythm of my typing. I’m situated under the dim porch light casting my keyboard golden.

The new flowers I bought for my bare porch today bring a little life to the scene—some color and new beginnings although the prime time to buy flowers is long passed.

I’m not sure if I’m in denial that summer is coming to an end. I’m not sure if I should have gotten the pumpkin spice creamer instead. But the days are mine and they are what I make them. And I’ll hold on to August for a little while longer.

With love,

L.L.

Life is built on love. We’re constantly seeking love in people and places and things that cross our path every day. It’s one of our most unique and important instincts in the human realm. Our hearts are constantly searching for something to hold close with gentle hands and to nurture a feeling of an internal home in this world of uncertainty. We can’t go far without finding love—even when we try to avoid it.

I can’t finish my current romance novel read. I have less than one hundred pages left, but I can’t bring myself to read their happy ending. I started it because I needed something simple and sweet in between a fantasy series. During my time reading this romance novel, I have been growing close to someone where love could’ve been a possibility. Now that things are over and no longer being pursued at the moment, I can’t look at that romance novel without being reminded of my own failed attempt at love. I can’t read about someone’s picture perfect made up love story when I just lost something special myself.

I’ve had a few relationships over the past years, and I feel lucky to say that at the same time it hurts to look back at how many times I’ve had my heart broken. I’m no casual dater—I’m going all in. I fall hard. I’ve felt that feeling too many times of getting out of bed and remembering all over again that it’s over and I have to move on and face the day without them. I know too well that feeling of emptiness and the void that sits in my chest that can’t be filled by anyone else but myself when they’re gone.

When I’ve just had my heart broken, the word love makes me feel sick. Seeing happy couples breaks me a little. Reading sappy love poems and hearing songs on the radio about soulmates and second chances closes a dark cloak of grief and heaviness around me. When the love word comes up, I replay what I’ve lost again in my head and feel hopeless that I’ll find anything close to that feeling again. Each love is different and no relationship is the same, so deep down, I know that form and version of love is irreplaceable. And that’s what makes it hurt even more.

I’m back to reading my dense fantasy series again and I couldn’t be happier about it. I can’t bring myself to finish that romance novel right now, and I’m allowing myself to accept that it’s okay. I can’t get past the word “lover” in a substack post right now. I can’t watch a movie with a cute couple looking at each other with their eyes glazed over in affection. I can’t think about it right now, but I know that I’ll find that beautiful emotion of love to be acceptable soon enough. Because I do have the experience of putting myself back together after this period of grief, I know I’ll come back around. I can’t avoid the love word forever.

Because what is life without love? I can’t live without it and I won’t. Love is one of the greatest joys of living. No matter how difficult it is to think about love after heartbreak, I’d fall again and again. Although I find myself a bit more hesitant to jump into a relationship right now, I hope to never find myself fearing love.

The process of falling for someone is so sweet and such a deep feeling that overcomes all the sadness after heartbreak. It’s the butterflies of nervousness on first dates and the fireworks of joy when you’re truly having fun. It’s that first touch of grazed skin that turns into electricity. It’s the moment when you see the promise in their eyes and the sweet words that come from their lips to tell you it’s true.

Love is worth crying over. Love is worth the grief. Love is worth the pain.

The days will keep coming and the heartbreak will hurt less. I’m still searching for the day when I meet who one who stays—the one who makes the search worth the journey of pain it took to find them. That love will make it all worthwhile.

With love,

L.L.

don’t you love those honey drizzle days?

when the coffee is piping hot

and the steam turns sugar

into that golden glaze

on the honey drizzle spoon

those sun rays spilling honey puddles

across the sheets

the kind that pours like milky art over expresso

on the back wall—

sharp-edged shadow and sunlit stencil

sliding lower, slowly, like honey

and

the honey drizzles down

the trees outside

and

the grass floods

with a sticky sweetness

and

the water sparkles

through thick dollops of morning amber

don’t you love

those honey drizzle mornings

that steep into day

like hot afternoon tea?

those deep belly laughs

that feel like home;

that honey drizzle brew of your heart

melting into your soul

and you feel light as air

that honey drizzle golden 

glow of your skin

exposed outside the shade tree’s arms

that soften the sticky pool of light;

those salt beads—that run down

your temple like hot honey

when the sun’s at its height 

don’t you love

those honey drizzle evenings that pour

into night?

when you return to your honey pool bed

warmed by late afternoon light

and you fall asleep to that feeling

of sunshine lingering

in your veins

with your body so tired from a summer day

that you melt like honey into dreams

I miss writing. I’ve had my heart broken twice in less than six months. I go through waves of extreme happiness to be alive where I’m too happy to write (yes, it’s a thing) and feeling too heavy to face a new day where I don’t have the energy to write. This was a poem I wrote on a recent happy day when I could bring myself to write something. I sat outside in the morning sun and wrote about how the light shifts throughout the day. It felt like therapy.

Don’t be surprised if poetry is a new addition to my publication. I’ll write what my soul craves to write and I’ll share it because I’m a writer and that’s what we do—connect people through words of experience.

If the inspiration arises and my fingers can glide across a keyboard long enough to write an entire article, then I plan to share that too. I’ve been posting drafts from when I first started writing with passion on here and I had so much to say all at once, enough to have backups. Those are dwindling down, so poetry will be how I share myself in this era of my life.

I like writing poetry because it can express so many emotions in few words. And that’s what I need right now. I hope this closing did not take away from the happy poem above (go read it again). I used a poetry writing prompt from someone on Substack who posted a summer bucketlist, but I cannot remember that publication. If it was you that wrote “honey drizzle days” as a prompt or you know who it was, please let me know so I can tag them in my post.

Please write to me what you think about this piece. I am missing the community here on Substack. Share anything: what you love, what you hate, the typos or poor grammar, or what this poem made you feel. I will respond to the good and bad. I look forward to your reading of this and thank you all for being here.

With love,

L.L.

I arrived in Barcelona just before noon after a very early plane ride with a friend. I’m not usually a breakfast person, but after waking up at 3 a.m. to catch the bus to the airport, I was craving some pancakes and coffee. Luckily, Barcelona had the best food in Spain, at least that’s what I’ve heard.

It was my first time in the city and a very tired and hungry me was ready to walk the streets around my hotel and find a Friday morning breakfast. There were many restaurants around, but several were closed for the lunch hours. We walked around the block, glancing into cafes that weren’t quite what we were looking for.

It was a sunny November day and a bit crisp outside, not many people were around this quiet street of Barcelona. The restaurant I found was made for tourists like me who just wanted a nice American breakfast after being in Spain for months.

The Toast Maker led to a great experience and a full tummy. It wasn’t too busy when we arrived as it was most likely transitioning to lunch hours at that time. I chose to sit inside by the window overlooking the plaza. It was a nice, sunny spot. There were others eating outside in the plaza, but the warmed seats near the sun were calling my name. The waiter gave us one Spanish menu and one English menu (that’s when you know the food is going to be a bit pricey, but also the perfect cuisine that we were searching for). And then we proceeded to order nearly the entire menu: 2 orders of fruit pancakes, 2 orders of orange juice, 1 order of eggs on toast, 2 waters and 1 cappuccino please.

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We ate every bite. There is no food as good as the food you eat when you are actually hungry. The pancakes were piled with bananas, strawberries, and blueberries with a dash of powdered sugar and plops of whip cream around. It was a nice sweet balance between bites of perfectly salted scrambled eggs. The orange juice was freshly squeezed goodness. I still remember the first taste of my orange juice: fireworks of citrus brightened my tastebuds. I could feel my mood lift after a single sip. My cappuccino was fairly large for a coffee in Spain and tasted amazing, the perfect pick-me-up.

It’s not the experience that most people travel to Spain for, but it was exactly what we needed to fuel us for the busy day ahead.

The next morning, we ventured into Mercat de la Boqueria for breakfast. It is a very popular vendor’s market situated along the famous La Rambla boardwalk. The building is shaped like a very large tent with big opening on all four sides. Once you step in, the paths get a bit jumbled together and it’s easy to lose your bearings due to the sheer size of the place.

Market stalls line the pathways full of every food you can imagine. Along the entrance, the scent of chocolates, nuts, dried fruits, and other sweet delicacies from the stalls filled the air. The craftsmanship of the chocolates and candies were impressive as they came in different shapes and sizes, some decorated with other small colorful candy. The vendors gave out bags for customers to pick their own chocolates from the bottomless containers with tongs and small spoons.

The abundance of fruits seemed to go on forever, casting a rainbow of color across the shelves with some fruits that I had never even seen in a grocery store before. Dates, mangos, pomegranates, papayas, watermelons, dragonfruits, and pineapples all stand on the market counters, chilled on ice and decorated with foliage and florals.

As I walked a little further back in the market, the smell of seafood took over the senses. Crabs, fish, shrimp, oysters, octopi and other types of sea creatures lined the pathways. Some cooked and ready to eat, and others still alive and ready to be prepared. The stores in Europe are so drastically different when it comes to the protein sections. Where I come from, everything is prepackaged in a pretty little bag or styrofoam tray. It is so easy to forget where our food comes from and how it is made. At this point, I thought to myself: I’m too American for this. My friend, of course, wanted to try the octopus for breakfast. I tried not to watch.

The other parts of the market contained other ready to eat foods from a variety of cuisines like sandwiches, gyros, paella, and pastas. Some vendors were selling jars of fruits and jams of all kinds. Pastries and cakes were carefully placed on the counters by others. It was a great experience, but a bit crowded. We enjoyed it and I settled for pomegranate and mango for breakfast that day.

On the third day, we passed by a cafe near our hotel. Inside the window, pizza that looked so good it seemed to be sent from heaven caught our eye. We were coming back to the hotel after site seeing in the city early that morning. We planned to grab some breakfast and bring it back with us to the room to rest for a couple of hours.

Inside the cafe, there were more options at the counter to choose from—croissants, cookies, muffins, sandwiches, wraps, and other small goods. Everything looked amazing. My friend ordered the pizza and asked specifically for the pizza in the window counter—it looked that good. She happily selected the chosen one and warmed it to melt the cheese. I decided to go with an almond croissant, one of my favorites. Although I didn’t take pictures of our breakfast this day, it was still very good and filling. We even went back on the morning of our plane ride home to get some breakfast. I ordered what seemed to be a cookie, and later on I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was a brookie (a cookie baked on top of a brownie)!

On the last full day, we went to Dunkin Donuts for breakfast. I know what you’re thinking, but Dunkin is a rare find in Spain and we had one very close to our hotel. We ordered half a dozen as we had others on our trip to share with. Like most people who get to be around donuts all day, the workers were very nice.

Although it was quite busy, our wait wasn’t very long. I was responsible for picking out the flavors, and I think I did a fine job. We also got some pumpkin spice lattes and the barista told us it was much needed to add whip cream on top, so of course we did. Our breakfast at Dunkin is a very simple tale, but still cherished all the same.

Barcelona was one of my favorite places to visit in Spain and the food was truly amazing. Our trip was full of beautiful architecture (that I also plan to write about for a future post) and memorable breakfast outings. Thank you for reading an I hope you enjoyed this slightly different sort of post from me. Until next time.

With love,

L.L.

A week after summer solstice (June 29th), the strawberry moon will rise as the first full moon of the season. Although the moon probably won’t be pink (we can still dream), the strawberry moon tradition roots from Indigenous North American tribes marking the time of year when wild June-bearing strawberries are ripe and ready for harvest.

If you’re anything like me, strawberries are a staple of summer and vaguely bring a sense of nostalgia. I loved watching Strawberry Shortcake and dreaming of wearing her outfits in the summertime. We can all remember a time in the summer when we were kids eating strawberries, warm juice running down our chins, or a strawberry ice-cream cone melting into sticky-sweet fingertips. Strawberry lollipops turn into strawberry wine as we get older and we crave a sweet strawberry pastry every now and then to remind us of our childhood.

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Strawberries are sweet, familiar, and fit in with just about anything. I think strawberries deserve a bit a celebration all year round, but even more so during the strawberry moonrise. This year, I plan to have some sort of strawberry-themed activity to bring in the new moon and here’s a list of some ideas to celebrate:

plant strawberries seeds

It’s not too late to plant strawberries. Although some strawberry seedlings may need some extra help to survive the summer heat, it’s still possible to catch up on your strawberry sowing if you haven’t had the chance to do it yet this spring. I would like to think that strawberry seeds planted under the strawberry moon ripen even sweeter than normal.

bake a strawberry treat

As mentioned before, strawberries can fit into just about anything: breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. For breakfast, have a strawberry pop tart or a cinnamon roll with strawberry frosting. A summer salad with freshly sliced strawberries could be prepared for a sweet lunch. And for dinner, a grilled meat topped with strawberry-basil salsa. One of my favorite desserts is strawberry shortcake or strawberry cupcakes with cream cheese icing. It’s so easy to get creative with strawberries; maybe even make a new strawberry recipe of your own this day.

eat strawberries at sunset

A very simple idea with minimal planning is to buy some fresh strawberries at the market, wash and slice them (or don’t), and sit outside at sunset to watch the sky turn colors as you eat the entire crate of sweet goodness. It doesn’t have to be anything extra: just enjoying the present moment, eating strawberries under the sunset, and waiting for the strawberry moon to show herself.

make a wish with strawberry quartz crystal

If you’re manifesting something for the season of summer, make an intention or wish on a strawberry quartz crystal under the strawberry moon. Hold it between your palms and whisper to the moon. Maybe even hold a moment of silence for a strawberry moon meditation. Carry your strawberry quartz in your pocket or handbag for the entire summer and watch your dream come to reality through the strawberry moon magic.

paint strawberry rocks to leave around the garden

Find small stones around your yard or garden that look nearly strawberry-shaped and spend the evening painting them into the color of strawberries. Don’t forget the small details like the stem and seeds. Once dry, take the stones and place them around your garden, flower pots, or home to honor the strawberry moon. Throughout the summer, you will be reminded of the moon celebration, and also, have whimsy summer decoration for all your guests to fall in love with.

color a strawberry shortcake coloring sheet while waiting for the moonrise

Another activity with little planning could be doing something fun for your inner child. Print out a coloring sheet of something strawberry-themed; and my first thought would be Strawberry Shortcake for the simple fact that she’s adorable and a staple of summer. You might even see me watching the movies while I color under the strawberry moon.

make strawberry jam to give as gifts

Share the love of the strawberry moon by preparing a sweet treat to give to friends, family, or coworkers. Anyone would love to receive strawberry jam freshly prepared on the night of the strawberry moon (and by you). The process of jam making isn’t too complicated and if it’s your first time, why not do it by the light of the strawberry moon and stir in your wishes for the summer season?

date night under the strawberry moon

The thought of having a strawberry moon is so romantic and makes me want to write love poems all night. Any of these activities above could be done as a sweet date idea. But I would like to think if I had a date on the night of the strawberry moon, we would be outside on a red gingham blanket in the grass warmed by the summer day heat. There would be a picnic basket of strawberry wine, chocolate-covered strawberries, and a cute charcuterie. I’m thinking tea lights, pink flowers, and us laying on our backs under the strawberry moonlight.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this short and sweet post from me. This is my first time hearing about the concept of a strawberry moon and I instantly was inspired to write about it. Although I am posting a bit late due to a busy schedule lately, I’m happy to share something fun and light-hearted this week. Please let me know if you have any other ideas to celebrate the strawberry moon.

Don’t forget to go out and look at the sky on the night of June 29th. Thank you all for being here.

With love,

L.L.

It is so small a thing

To have enjoy’d the sun,

To have lived light in the spring,

To have loved, to have thought, to have done; // mathew arnold

Every year since I can remember, I’ve dreaded the month of May creeping in and the frightening day of my birthday that comes along with it. The days during this time of year last longer and the budding leaves begin to bloom by late spring. Everything around is green. Everything is renewing. I find it ironic that the world around me is once again capable of starting over again. But my life is slowly growing shorter.

I try to hold on to time and make it stop—finger nails digging into my palms as it slips down my hands. My grip never holds and the days keep coming. On the days leading up to my birthday, I stay up later in the night to make the time seem longer, anything to slow down the clock and postpone the day when I turn one year older. It’s only a reminder that I’m aging in a life where my days are numbered.

I loved being a kid. I realized from a young age how little responsibility I was expected to take on. I loved playing outside with the other neighborhood kids and having my mac and cheese for a daily afterschool snack. When we played pretend, we always made ourselves older than what we actually were. But never older than 17. That’s as old as we wanted to get. Anything above that number was ruin. Adult didn’t have fun like we did.

My biggest worries were making sure I had my homework done before my parents got home and ending the day by the glow of the streetlight. When I ventured from my world of barbie dolls and princess shoes into asking questions about adult things, my parents would always remind me to enjoy being young and not worry about such things. I would have my entire adult life to stress about bills and family drama.

I was told to enjoy my childhood while I was in it. I only get one and it goes by fast. I’m going to miss these days they said. I see my 5-year-old self sitting on my bed and crying to my mom that I didn’t want to grow up. I closed my eyes a few years later and wished: please let me turn 7 again instead of 8. I still remember when my grandfather told me that I would be double digits on my 10th birthday and how old I felt then.

Each year I blow out my birthday candles and look up to see the smiles on the faces of my family, I notice the lines around their eyes grow deeper and how more silver hair peppers in the darkness above their heads. My sister is growing to be nearly as tall as me. Family and friends move farther away each year and being the oldest means I’ll be the first one to leave. But I’m afraid and I don’t want to lose these moments to the inevitable coming of time. These were the thoughts I spent my younger birthdays thinking.

When the spring rain of May made its way back around like it always did, I knew another year of my life was finished and I was one step closer to becoming an adult. Life would get harder from here each time. Those who I love will keep growing older. School will become more difficult. One day, I’ll have to make big decisions that I can’t come back from.

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This year feels different on my birthday. I smile softly among family at the table for my birthday dinner inside a winery, and begin to feel the warmth of the sangria I’ve been sipping on. The sun sets behind me and a golden light catches on the faces of those who I love around me. For the last 25 years, they have been by my side and on my side. I feel safe. I feel seen. I feel loved here.

My mom asks me how it feels to be halfway through my 20s and I take a moment to think back on the last five years. I tell her that I’m not sure how the next five years will be, but I am satisfied and content with how I’ve chosen to live my life up to this point. I made a plan at the scary age of 18 after walking the stage at high school graduation. And I accomplished everything and more. I did big things, but also took time to appreciate the tiny things in between that made life worthwhile. Time didn’t slow down but neither did I.

After my mom encouraged me to reflect on my 20s so far, all I could think of was: I’ve lived, I’ve lived, I’ve lived. I’ve spent time laughing with friends until my face hurt and swimming in the ocean with my heart to the sky. I’ve cried and fought for myself and learned who I am. I’ve met friends who I’ve only known for a day and lost people who I thought would never walk away. I’ve traveled to more countries than some will ever see in their lifetime. I’ve ran through the rain often and also took moments to stand in it to feel the downpour wash away the unimportant worries of life.

I’ve fallen in love and had my soul shattered. I’ve witnessed thousands of sunsets and awoken to thousands of mornings full of birdsong and sunshine on my face. I’ve seen the clouds from below and flew among them as the sun rises more times than I can count. I’ve seen myself fall and get back up over and over again. I look back and feel grateful for taking advantage of this time and setting myself up for the future. But also, I trust more in myself to make mostly the right decisions and wonder why I ever doubted myself from the start.

Over the years, I’ve honored the older versions of myself who were afraid to grow up and become a serious adult. I recently painted by bedrooms walls pink for my 13-year-old self who once covered her hot pink walls with gray when she was told she was supposed to hate the color pink. Sometimes I eat cake for breakfast for the 11-year-old me who was told that she can do whatever she wants when she’s an adult but she’ll have some eggs for now. After over a decade of reading, I’ve obtained a small library’s worth of books to make a pretty cool bookshelf like my 15-year-old self always dreamed of.

I have mac and cheese as a meal sometimes for the 6-year-old me. I’ve collected an abundance of art materials for the 8-year-old me to play with paintbrushes and not care if she gets paint on her clothes this time. I smile at my 17-year-old self because she always wondered how to get out of this small town and discover the world and I did that for her too. I’ve never let those past versions of myself grow up. They live on with me and I continue having fun with life because of them. I don’t lose myself on my birthday—I grow into a more developed and refined version of myself.

I’ve loved being alive these past 25 years and discovering the layers of my soul. I look forward to each new breath I take and all the new versions of me left to become. I hope to continue falling in love with the tiny miracles that only mortals can experience. The fact that time does slip away is what makes it precious. I see time as a gift and an avenue to making more of myself each day—a way to take in this life as much as I can before it’s gone. Time is not something I have ever taken for granted and I never will. But I do not fear its passing quite as much knowing that there’s so much more life to live and dreams to fulfill.

This month of May has been different than all those before. Although it rains on my birthday every year, I feel like the luckiest person alive just for the simple fact that I am alive. The green reminds me that I too begin again each year. I am not saddened this birthday to grow older but I am grateful to be reborn each day I wake up and for being able to experience it all over again. As my family around me sings happy birthday this year, I look them each in the eye and smile. I don’t fear the passing of time in this moment like usual. I hold our memories close to my heart and grow excited for what’s to come.

I don’t fear the age of 25 any longer. A quarter of my life is completed if I am lucky enough to live long enough to be 100. And I feel fulfilled with my time here on earth so far. I take time between my hands once again, and hold it close but gently. I smile brightly into the face of the future. It’s been a sweet 25 years of existence. What more can this beautiful life give me?

With love,

L.L.

make peace with all the women you once were.

lay flowers at their feet.

offer them incense and honey and forgiveness.

honor them and give them your silence.

listen.

bless them and let them be.

for they are the bones of the temple you sit in now.

for they are the rivers of wisdom leading you torward the sea.

—i have been a thousand different women // emory hall

It’s midnight and the Eiffel Tower starts twinkling against the dark night sky. With a bottle of wine in hand, I’ve been watching her glow and sparkle for hours. Music, small chitchat from locals and tourists, and the voice of wine vendors fill the air. I can feel the cool earth below my blanket in the grass as the spring night grows longer. It’s my last night in Paris, and I’ve been sitting in this spot along the Seine since sunset, taking in all of the beauty for the last time.

Three days ago, I arrived in Paris. This city has been calling to me ever since I was a little girl. I remember standing in my childhood best friend’s bedroom and on her dresser, there was a mini Eiffel Tower. I gazed at it often and thought how big I was in comparison to the tiny figurine. It was a reminder that there’s so much to see out there in the world, and I couldn’t wait to grow up and go discover it all.

As I got older, the city of love never stopped calling my name. Although I knew that I would visit someday, I was fearful that ‘paris syndrome’ would be a possibility of disappointment. I decided to visit Paris anyway, and it was nothing short of amazing.

On my 24th birthday, I took a trip to see her at last. I arrived to Paris just before sunset. As the taxi driver drove me into the city, my eyes were focused on the horizon, waiting for my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I was full of anticipation and shifting around in my seat to scan around the obstacles of the headrests and between the windows to try and spot the iconic symbol of Paris. It was something that I wanted to see for so long, and here I was making that little girl’s dreams come true. This was that girl’s first time in Paris, and I was so excited for her.

As we arrived to the city center, my eyes drifted back down to the streets—I couldn’t see much of anything up high as the grand buildings of the city closed in around me. The Parisian apartments spanning above me gleam in the early light of the sunset with unique designs of delicately carved etchings around the abundance of windows. The dark blue roofs slant down over the balconies guarded by elegant railings and the lights from inside the apartments give off a faint glow to those observing from the streets below.

People were seated underneath at tables by the restaurants lining the road, all the chairs not in their typical restaurant arrangement with them facing each other, but they faced out to the streets. It was the perfect people-watching setup. The tables full of dishes leftover from conversations over afternoon coffee—ashtrays, flower vases, and empty wine glasses take over the remaining spots left on the tables. The people sit in their seats faced outwards and watch as the mopeds and taxis drive pass, cigarettes in hand and sunglasses on to block out the late sun rays. My mind was made, the locals of Paris were my kind of people: professional people-watchers.

The taxi driver turned down several more streets until we arrived at my accommodation, my eyes open in every direction taking in the beautiful scenery and waiting for the magical moment of seeing the tower. Some people walk aimlessly down the streets. Others ride on bikes carrying flowers and bread. The windowsills above hold an abundance of rosy florals creating hues of pinks and reds across the gray buildings.

My meeting point with the landlord was at a barbershop nearby the apartment. When the taxi driver dropped me off, I awkwardly stood on the side of the road, pink suitcase beside me. The people inside the barbershop stared at me but didn’t make me leave. The landlord arrived on a moped, saving me from the awkward moment, and took me inside the apartments across the street. He didn’t speak much English and I didn’t speak much French, so we mostly communicated through finger motions and smiles.

We walked down the path lading to the stairwell and took the elevator up to my floor. As we entered through the door of the apartment, I glimpsed the tower far in the distance through the small kitchen window. My heart was bursting with joy that I had a view from my accommodation, although it wasn’t perfect. I was still so happy to be able to finally see the Eiffel Tower for the first time and it was everything the little girl inside of me wanted. I gazed at its beauty from my window from afar until I decided it was time to go see it up close.

In typical Parisian fashion, I stopped by a local shop on the way to collect a baguette and some ingredients to make a quick sandwich. The shop was small and everything was in French, but I could find my way around the bread aisle in any language. I took my time in the chocolate section, taking a look at all the options I had never seen before—grocery shopping in a new country is always fun for me.

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The sun was finally setting as I arrived to the tower. I was awestruck by how much taller the tower was than I had imagined. I expected something grand, and my expectations were exceeded. It was truly amazing. I felt like I was in a dream and it was hard to believe that my feet shared the same grass as the Eiffel Tower. I found a spot in the back of the lawn where many others were already gathered to watch the tower, sprawled across blankets and eating their own dinner.

Drops of water slowing start to fall on my skin. It started raining, jut slightly. I was worried that this long-awaited moment was coming to an end as the rain would ruin this experience. But as the shadows arose following the sun’s descent, the tower began to glow. I forgot about the rain as she awoke and lit up like a beacon in the sky.

Although it was raining slightly, I just knew this moment couldn’t get any better. I had made it. There I sat on the grass in the light spring rain, and spent the early hours of the night watching the tower glow, and feeling my heart glow in return.

The following morning, I woke up and realized I was in the city of Paris and got excited all over again. I put on my outfit that I had been planning for the past week. Something about being in Paris made me feel even more beautiful and put together as I got dressed. I felt a Paris glow as I let down my overnight curls and worked pearly barrettes in my hair. My flats sat under my jeans so perfectly as to show the cute bows over my toes. I put on a silky button-down and painted my lips pink. Maybe I felt even more beautiful because I was in Paris, or maybe there’s just something in the air in the city of love.

I spent the morning walking the streets, passing by bread shops and cute cafes. The scent of flowers filled the streets along with pastries as I passed market stalls near the metro station. The beauty of Paris didn’t end above ground as the metro cars were the most beautiful I had seen in all of Europe. The vintage style of the cars seemed outdated compared to others I had seen before, but something about the old metro with shiny door handles and the slightly faded golden grab rails made me feel like I had gone back in time a few decades in the most beautiful way.

Being an English major, I knew I had to visit the Paris Shakespeare and Company bookshop. I made my way out of the metro station and through the streets to arrive at the shop a bit early as I had read before that the wait could be quite long later in the day. I waited in a short line for the store to open. On the sidewalk nearby, a local artist worked on a painting. His other bright art pieces of neons lined the sidewalk on the ground near his feet, leaning against the short stone wall separating the walkway from the small water canal of the Seine below. The paintings seemed to light up the cloudy morning. Across the water, the Notre Dame stood stark against the blue-gray sky.

I explored the bookshop, noting the scent of dust and that lovely fresh book smell. Books lined the walls and even expanded up above me to a second level. Some novels were written centuries ago and some were recently published. I appreciated how they equally shared the same space. After checking out with the cashier, I stepped back outside to a once again cloudy sky. The rain started soon after I came across a small plaza nearby to take a rest. I needed a moment of solitude after being around so many people. But the rain picked up, and I was forced to keep moving until I came across a cafe for breakfast.

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The waiters and staff at Cafe Panis were so kind and the food was delightful. It was a cozy spot to refuel and wait out the rain before crossing the bridge over the Seine to visit the Notre Dame. As the sun escaped from behind the clouds, the small water ripples of the Seine below the bridge caught light and began to sparkle beneath me. Small boats sat atop the water right outside of the cathedral, and many people were scattered across the cobblestones around the plaza.

The line at the Notre Dame was long which was expected. The downside of traveling to a city like Paris is that many others want to do the same thing. I try not to think about the amount of people as I take in the cathedral’s beauty from the outside. The abundance of arched windows lifted the eye to the heavens, and the one round window in the middle of them all seemed to look back at me like an eye of its own. The Notre Dame appeared to be alive in a way, watching over the people who watched it.

After filing through the front doors like a line of ants, we were funneled into the left aisle of the cathedral. The amount of people around was overwhelming and I often forgot to look up and see the cathedral from the inside. My focus stayed down to the back of heads, avoiding cell phones taking pictures, and trying not to trip over anyone’s feet. I felt overheated and trapped, and borderline claustrophobic. I tried to make my way to the edge of the crowd moving slowly through the aisle. I found a small pocket where few people stood on the edge of the wall, and took in some deep breaths trying to recenter myself.

That’s when I noticed that I had entered during mass. The organ sent vibrations of sound through the cathedral as the choir sung their own reverberations into my soul, starting at a low sound and rising to a pitch that made me feel like I was floating. I closed my eyes and let their song form as a hug around me, allowing them to hold me through the sound of god. I didn’t have to understand the words they were singing, but I knew how they saved me, easing my anxious soul in the sea of people.

I funneled through the cathedral’s doorway on the right side along with all the others when we reached the end. I walked along the Seine towards the Louvre. The main channel of the winding river through Paris stretched far between each side of the road. Some people were down below seated on the concrete, having an afternoon sip of wine and lunch along the Seine. Several vendors were stationed on the upper level by the road, artwork, knickknacks, and postcards covered their tables and shelves.

I stopped by one gentleman’s shop to look over the postcards. Using my fingertips and a bit of Spanglish, I asked him how much I owe him. He responded by holding up a hand and waving all five fingers. He packed up my new postcards in a paper envelope as I dug in my purse for five euros. I said thank you with a smile as we traded hands and he responded with something in French, stone-faced but warm. I always find it interesting how expressive Americans are in comparison to Europeans, but I think I also started to adopt their mannerisms eventually. Why should we fake being overly kind when being kind is just enough?

The Louvre was one of the largest buildings I had seen so far in Paris. It was absolutely gorgeous, but an introvert’s worst nightmare. Again the crowds seemed to swarm the plaza and the line appeared never ending. The art inside was lovely and I saw so many iconic pieces, but I found most solitude along the art that was deemed less significant by the masses. The quiet halls brought me peace in such a busy place, and I didn’t mind to see work that I didn’t know much about as long as it was silent for a moment.

After such a busy day, I spent a short time again sitting by the Eiffel Tower to watch her sparkle. As I sat down below, I wondered what it would be like to see the city from above. The little girl in me filled with joy as I bought tickets to climb the tower the following day. Little did I know, everyone else did, too.

I stood in line on every section of the Eiffel Tower the next day, people snaking around in circles as the line grew longer and longer. It felt like being constricted by a python when I arrived to the middle of the tower to ride the elevator up another level. It was nice seeing the view from above for the few minutes I did, until it was time to get back in the line and ride the elevator to go to another section. I climbed the stairs by foot back down to the bottom level just to find some peace and quiet. All 600 of them.

I spent the rest of the day walking around, exploring, and eating. I came across a cafe for coffee and sat down at the table near the window. I ate my pain au chocolat as I people-watched from inside. So many unique individuals who either lived in Paris or were also tourist like me strolled down the streets outside the window. I wondered how far away some of the people who walked past me lived in the world, where they came from, and how they ended up here. I thought about how they might have seen the Eiffel Tower for the first time like me and never looked back. I admired their outfits and observed how their clothes told a story of their personalities—so not afraid to be themselves. I wondered if they felt the Paris glow like me as they made their way down the cobblestone streets, continuing on with their lives and the day ahead.

I dined at a different restaurant a few hours later after walking around some more and visiting parks, seated outside on the terrace with a lemon spritz in hand. It was nice to have these last few hours of the day to be relaxing after the morning in the tower. I stopped here because I had to try the ratatouille and chocolate macaroons to fully experience Paris. The sun was setting and the street lights began to faintly glow. I knew the tower would start shining soon.

I sat there for a while thinking that I could live here. And if I didn’t, I could visit here one hundred more times and never get bored of Paris. My time spent in the city of love was delightful and my expectations were not only met time and time again, but exceeded. I can’t complain too much that so many others loved the city too and that the places I wanted to visit were full of excited people just like me to see it all. The walkways grew a bit more busy as the evening turned into night and I joined the crowd on my walk back across the Seine.

I found a spot once again next to the Eiffel Tower after stopping for some wine and chocolate to enjoy while I watched her one last time. I sat there for the rest of the night and experienced every sparkle on the hour. A musician was playing solo nearby, filling the air with the instrumental version of L-O-V-E, Bella Ciao, Skyfall, and La Vie en Rose. I gazed at the tower and watched the tiny silhouettes of people who climbed to the top.

I thought about the day before and how I wondered what it would be like to see the very spot I’m sitting in now from the top of the tower. Although I didn’t regret climbing the Eiffel Tower to see the city from above, I felt content to know that the best view is right where I’m sitting.

The tower went black and began to sparkle for its last show of the night, people started to cheer around me. I thought about that little girl who saw that mini figurine in her best friend’s bedroom so long ago and how she dreamed of seeing it in person. I thought about how she was watching it shine right before her now. I see that little girl and smile because her eyes are shining too.

With love,

L.L.

I hope you’ve made a mistake that you can’t come back from. I trust that you’ve awoken in a panic of regret—tear-stained cheeks, your rapid heartbeat as your alarm clock, and a long morning to yourself to think about what you’ve done.

I hope you’ve showed up for a date and they never came. I hope you saw something flash on their phone screen that you wish you didn’t. I hope you got on your hands and knees and begged and still was told no.

I hope you hear a song on the radio on a random day when you have almost forgot to think about them and feel a crack in your heart open back up. The one you’ve been trying so hard to glue back together.

I hope you still have their picture on your camera roll because you can’t bring yourself to delete their face. I hope you feel achy every time you scroll past their smile, that glow in their eyes when they used to look at you.

I hope you have their favorite book still sitting on your shelf collecting dust and unopened because you never took the time to read it. I hope you have a box tucked under your bed full of memories of them that you can’t throw away: old movie tickets, photo booth strips, and sweet love poems written on napkins.

I hope you’ve stayed up all night on the phone with them trying to convince them to change their mind. I hope you’ve waited the entire day the next day for a text back after you’ve spilled your heart through the last message you sent in a blue bubble at 4am.

I hope you know how hard love is. I hope you know the sacrifice and the hurt.

I hope you didn’t forget what it feels like to try and break down a wall so high that there’s no end in sight. I hope you’ve tried everything you can to climb to the top. I hope you’ve fallen down and finally learned when it’s time to give up.

This is not the unthinkable. This is love. This is hurt. This is growth.

I hope your mom has given you that look of disappointment after you told her that you broke that girl’s heart. I hope you’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong time and play that memory in your mind over and over again. I hope you’ve forgotten an important detail she told you like how she takes her coffee. I hope you’ve woken up on a Sunday morning to your entire life swept beneath your feet.

I hope she has looked at you with tears in her eyes and never looked at you the same again. I hope you’ve ran your fingers through their hair and they pulled away from your touch. I hope you’ve cried in the bathroom floor with them sitting silently in the other room.

I hope you’ve watched them leave down the same road they use to drive back home to you every day, knowing this is the last time you will see the shine of their tail lights glowing red across your skin. I hope you remember how it feels sleeping in a bed that’s half-empty and waking up to a ghost. I hope you’ve felt the cold that runs over your body and creeps in deeper than your bones.

I hope you’ve fallen in love. Time and time again. I hope you’ve had it all—the happy and the hurt.

I hope you learned your lesson, because I had to do it too.

I hope you’ve had your heart broken. I hope you have seen it shattered on the floor with you in the middle wondering where on earth you begin to start putting it back together.

This is not a scarlet letter. This is a plea that you have it all figured out before you find me.

I hope you’ve had your heart broken. I hope you’ve learned the lessons only love can teach.

Please don’t learn through me.

My heart can only break so much before it’s dust.

To my future lover:

I hope you know how to take my love. And hold it like no other.

With love,

L.L.

I took a picture of this moment because it was both comical and terrifying all at once. I had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow. There was no accessing the internet for answers. Nothing would connect and we were all left stranded from the rest of the world. Would the power come back on? When will I hear from my family again?

One year later on the same day, I’m scrolling though my camera roll trying to delete some old photos to make space for more. Clearing out my pictures gives some peace of mind. I’ve been trying to do this task for months, but deleting pictures is so hard.

I came across this photo of our sad dinner in my old apartment in Spain and looked at the date. The timestamp says that this moment happened on this exact same day today, one year ago and four minutes apart. As I stare through my phone screen at a memory lost to time, I think about how I wouldn’t recall this moment as vividly if I had never taken this picture, or found it again in this moment. I probably wouldn’t remember what I had for dinner that day at all or why. I wouldn’t recall the emotions that I felt that day or the laughter I had as I snapped that picture. It makes letting go of these frames very difficult.

My camera roll tells a silent story of my life and I try to pick and choose which moments are worth keeping. Which ones do I delete? Which ones hold the least amount of memory? Are they the ones with my eyes closed? The random moments I thought I wanted to keep, or the ones that I’m supposed to forget about and move on?

I don’t have a single picture of my high school boyfriend, but I wish I did. Not because I still have feelings for him, but because that was an entire year from my life that I can’t get back. I ignored my mom’s advice to keep photos of people I no longer talk to. She said otherwise is like deleting a moment from life and you can’t get them back. Only photos can transform vague memories from the past into vivid moments where I remember exactly what happened. I wonder how many other moments I have unknowingly deleted from my memory bank.

Photos can tell a story that we don’t want to read again. We can watch someone fall out of love through a camera roll. Some photos show tears in my eyes, smiles on my face, and time slipping through the in-betweens of crosswalks and car rides. I see late night dinners, art classes, plane tickets to send to my family so they know my flight number before I take off to another place far away, and the day that was supposed to be my happiest. Do I delete these? Is it the blurry ones I take away? Or the ones I want to forget but can’t?

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Some pictures are from days that I can still feel the mood and state of mind and days that feel vaguely familiar. Most have bad lighting and are out of focus, but this is my life looking back at me: my first time skiing and the bruise on my hip the next day, a friend’s trip to the beach when I had the time of my life with people I hardly knew, and the time my family came with me to Europe.

I watch my life in reverse as I scroll up on my phone screen as if a still image movie plays in my mind: the two weeks I came home for Christmas and the only two photos I have of my family were taken in the mall bathroom—my mom and sister, blurry and with bad angles of us smiling in the mirror. A few pictures show me after a first date with glowing eyes and I can still feel the remaining butterflies in my stomach when I see it now. There are photos of me looking out the bus window with the grand mountains of Chamonix, France standing behind me, and the person sitting in front of me no longer walks alongside me in my life. But the smile on my face shows that I was happy in that moment. Will that look in my eye always haunt me? Or will I look back one day and smile the same way?

Throughout my scrolling, there are slots in between time where I didn’t take a picture and I wish I had. And then it skips in time as two years of my life disappear before my eyes. One morning I woke up, and my phone didn’t—meaning all my photos not backed up were lost forever. All I have left is my memory of those moment as no photo evidence exists any longer. Is it enough?

The movie of my life continues: a series of pictures of me with a friend I had just met in Portugal and flat peaches in our hands and smiles so big we look like we’re crying. Birthday cakes and my family standing behind them on the day that I missed, the candles throwing off the light. My sister stooped down in a long blue dress, petting one of the many stray cats in the streets of Mykonos, Greece.

The best pasta I’ve ever eaten from Genova, Italy in an attic off a random side street and the pizza I had on a date with my boyfriend where all we did was argue. Me and my best friend hungover, but on the soccer field for the first time together since high school. Photos of my cats back at home where I cried because I was always terrified that they would forget who I was when I was away. The cruise I took with a girl I barely knew. The time I cut my hair by myself because I had no one else there to help me. I look awful in the picture. But is that a reason to delete it?

Sunsets, ancient buildings, desserts, flower stalls, cloudy days, stained glass windows, maps, quiet benches, and the trees up above. Coffee shops, gardens, cathedrals, bookstores, doors, and holding on to someone so tight. Crystal clear water, a full shopping cart, tears streaming down my cheeks, the blossoms on a tree passed by each day, snowy mountains, homemade dinner, and the awkward thumbs up. Sweaty clothes, dirty looks, Christmas lights, and that twinkle in their eyes. Hot chocolates, archways, soccer cleats, roses, and a plate of cheese. It doesn’t have to be a perfect frame—I hold each photo like a hug because it’s a moment I’ll never get back.

In this lifetime, we have access to so many more photos than those who came before us. With a simple click of a button using a device that never leaves our side, we can document everything from the most important moments in our lives to the most irrelevant ones. But they all mean the same. Each click tells a story, holds a memory, and reveals a moment in time that we could have forgotten. Or maybe some moments we want to forget. Pictures hold so much more than a nice addition to a wall—they’re a door to a different time in our lives. The door cannot exist if we don’t take the picture. The door is lost forever if we delete it.

I think about all the moments I have deleted or lost that will be gone from my memory or already are. Sometimes I wonder if we are hoarding photos. I’m not sure if having access to so many pictures from our lives is a blessing or a curse. Are we supposed to be this attached to a frame of time? Do we take too many pictures? Am I keeping more than I should? Are we supposed to remember our lives so vividly?

I’ve been trying to delete some photos for months. I still can’t decide if only the blurry ones are meant to go, or if it’s the ones that make my heart ache. Despite the memory being good or bad, I feel a sudden weight of grief when I hit the button to wipe them from my life entirely.

The photo of my living room table holding a sad dinner in a power outage is not aesthetic or pleasing to look at. But the photos that were taken in a flash just to document what was happening in my life at 9pm one year ago today are very special to me. These random pictures sometimes hold more emotion than words can. Some photos can’t even be described—just felt.

I’ve been trying to delete photos for a long time. I’ll give myself more time. Time is all we have, but it’s never enough.

Don’t delete the photos.

With love,

L.L.

It’s a typical morning during the week in Seville, Spain. We sit by the Canal de Alfonso, the stream of water that winds through the city, and we watch the ducks swim below. They paddle atop the water and dive down to try and catch breakfast. I giggle when their feet are left wiggling in the air as they dip their heads underwater. You smile as you look over at me.

We meet in this spot every morning before we make our long walk to class. We are situated on a ledge overlooking the canal, elbows propped on the cool concrete of the wall as we lean over the edge to look down. The orange trees to our backs leave a coolness on the ground beneath us, sending chills up my legs. It’s May and like back at home, the spring air shifts from cool to warm throughout the morning hours. The sun makes it way up in the sky, but not high enough to make me want to take off my sweater. The ducks swim past, drifting down the current and we watch them go by and circle about.

The sun glows on the yellow Spanish apartments behind us. The streets are quiet at this hour, but just beginning to stir as people make their way out of their homes and go off to work. The only people working now are the ones who sweep and scrub the roads clean from cigarette ash and fallen oranges from the previous day. By the early morning hours, the streets are littered with beer bottles left on benches, occasionally some wine glasses accompany them after being slipped from the restaurants lining the water. The Spanish are fond of late nights out on the town, even on the weekdays.

The streets are pristine at this time of day, glowing in the early morning sun and ready to be walked upon and dirtied up by the thousands of footsteps that pass by the water once again. Across the canal, the main part of Seville stands tall in the distance, palms and orange trees lining the road. Traffic begins to pick up as the locals start their day. The Torre de Oro shines in the morning sun as the golden tower catches the light.

I look over and your eyes meet mine. We talk about what we had for breakfast at our host home. Our accommodations are on opposite sides of the city and this is where we meet every morning, in this same spot, before we head off to Spanish class. When we first arrived and mapped out our best routes to the school, I asked you to meet me because I didn’t want to walk alone on the quiet streets. Mostly because my mom didn’t want me to—I feel completely safe on the quiet streets of Seville. You’re a gentleman and happy to do it. When I look at you, I see that you see more than just a friend in your eyes when you look at me. You wish for something more but never utter a word, at least not to me.

We only met each other a few months before, when we both decided that we wanted to travel abroad and study here in Spain for four weeks. Between you sitting in the library with me to “study” after we met and sharing your sweatshirt with me a few days ago, I know what a boy is thinking when he looks at me that way.

In the distance, a group of kayakers paddle by. We lift our chins and take our gaze from down below to the people across the water.

“Honey on toast,” I tell him as we watch the waves grow bigger and lap against the concrete wall below us—the ripple effect from the early morning exercise happening across the water.

This little ritual has become a daily occurrence as we take a rest from walking to class to sit by the water, taking it all in. Maybe we have become accustomed to the slow Spanish lifestyle and we’re learning how to appreciate the small moments of a simple life. I think there’s something about the water and the ducks and the quiet that reminds us of home, something to hold onto for just a moment before we remember where we are and how we need to get going. We meet here every morning—sometimes you arrive before me and other times I sit along the water watching the ducks alone and wait to hear your voice beside me.

The warmth of you lingers beyond the brisk spring mornings. Our shared duck-watching routine and the presence of someone who understands makes me feel like I’m closer to home. It’s scary being so far from where I belong for this long, but home doesn’t feel so far away when you’re near. So, yes, maybe I lean in a little more than I should on these chilly mornings and maybe wearing your sweatshirt the other night over my dress meant more because it was yours.

These moments are small in our busy days exploring a new city, but they add up to become a significant part of living abroad. We’ve spent late nights out, sipping sangria and dining with friends where Spanish men ask for my number and you always walking me back home in the dark. Every day we discover a new corner of the city and sometimes we venture outside to get a glimpse of something different. And you’re always there to sit close to me on the bus ride or one pace behind me as I walk down ancient cobblestone streets.

I tell you how I could live here for longer, hoping you’d say the same. You take your gaze from the water once again to look at me, the blue reflecting in your eyes and the morning sun casting a sparkle on them like the swells below us. You say you would love to come back and live here, but you have other responsibilities back at home that you can’t give up. I give you a knowing smile and turn my focus back to the water.

A cool breeze blows across the water and swirls my hair in a frenzy. The ducks have swam a good distance away and we have stayed as long as we can. We both feel it at the same time and turn to walk along the water and cross the bridge into the city.

With love,

L.L.

I catch myself daydreaming often. I love to sit outside and stare at the trees, the sky, the wildflowers, and wonder about their names, their stories, and how they make me who I am. I reflect on certain events in my life, or make up stories in my head. I ponder on books when I take a break from reading a beautiful scene and muse on what makes it so alluring for me.

I create poems in my head when I’m happy and I catch myself rambling on internally about unimportant details when I’m anxious. I open my senses and take in my surroundings of what I feel, smell, hear, and see around me as a form of meditation.

All of these daydreams have been a part of my life as long as I can remember because I love spending time with myself. I love my solitude and the reflection that comes along with the silence. Now that I started a commonplace journal, I reach out and catch my daydreams that float around in my mind, and place them down in my notebook as if it were a dreamcatcher.

My commonplace journal comes with me everywhere I go. It has become my emotional support much like my water bottle and chapstick which I make sure to have it in my bag before I leave the house.

Journaling has become a popular hobby for many recently and I think it’s a great way for writers to practice their craft without too much pressure. Although, I am happy with my decision to start a commonplace journal rather than other forms of journaling. I think it’s similar to having what’s known as a journal ecosystem (an increasingly popular form of journaling consisting of multiple notebooks with different purposes held together with an elastic band in a leather pouch).

But in a commonplace journal, everything is in one single notebook and easier to manage for me than three or four separate ones. I think having one notebook for everything keeps my mind less scattered and less worried about which notebook is the “right” one to write in. My single commonplace journal is like having a garden of everything I love in one place.

In January, I started a commonplace journal to not only stick to a writing routine, but also to document media (books, movies, tv shows, quotes, poems, etc.) that I come across physically or digitally. I wanted to have a place where I write down my own opinions and reflections on what I consume before taking in what others are saying about certain topics.

It has quickly become a journal that reflects my heart and soul. I believe the pages in my commonplace notebook know me better than most people in my life. I reach for it when I’m happy, sad, bored, overjoyed, relaxed, anxious, and inspired. To me, holding a commonplace journal is more than a hobby—it’s deep reflection, research, and records of my thoughts and memories. It’s something that I’ll have forever and can look back on in the future to remember everything I was consuming, thinking, and dreaming of at this time in my mid twenties.

I hit a rough patch in my life in early February where I lost a bit of creativity after my world turned upside down. I was fearful that I would lose my practice of commonplacing as I usually do with most hobbies I start. But even in one of the darkest moments in my life where I felt most alone and uninspired, my commonplace journal was there to listen and go with me always. It’s almost like having a friend by my side at all times, who doesn’t judge or ask too many questions. The pages just listen and accept me for who I am.

And I think it helps me to do the same with myself. I feel like I know myself better than I did three months ago when I started my commonplace journal. I have an entire collection of things that inspire, motivate, and remind me to love who I am and grow into who I am becoming. I know what interests me the most when it comes to writing because I find myself returning often to certain themes and topics, all side by side in my notebook.

I feel even more passionate about writing because I know this practice helps me to stay consistent and motivated. I can’t go anywhere without my little pink journal because I don’t want to miss an opportunity to write about what I might experience that day.

I also trust my own opinions more often than not after starting my journal. I try to write down my thoughts and reflections on media before I scroll and read what other people are saying about certain topics, movies, books, etc. Sometimes I feel like I did personally enjoy something, and then when I go on social media to see what others think, I lose my own identity of my likes and dislikes. If there are hundreds of people telling me that I shouldn’t like something and why, I forget that I even enjoyed it in the first place.

In my commonplace journal, I know that I have written about my own perspective on a topic when it comes to consuming media. I reflect on my own thoughts about specific themes and ideas before I rely on the opinion of others. I have my feelings written in stone before I take in what others want me to believe. After practicing this for a few months, I trust more that my opinion matters and is valid.

In the end, I trust that these things won’t leave the pages unless I allow it to be seen. I have the control over my deepest desires, thoughts, and dreams to be shared with who I choose or never shared at all. Some of my substack posts have been inspired from my writings in my commonplace notebook. I felt sure enough in myself to put my hand-written words into the world and hoped that someone else could reach out and grasp dreams for their own dreamcatcher after reading my posts.

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In a previous post, I have described how I divided my commonplace journal into different sections. If you have a commonplace notebook or plan to start one, my previous post is a humble place to start in the world of commonplacing and to understand what I mean by sections.

Here in this post, I would like to share 101 things that could be included in your journal to help gives ideas on what to write or create. Some of these ideas were shared in my previous commonplace journal newsletter, but many of these ideas are new and things that I have enjoyed adding to mine:

Books

1. book list — to be read

2. resonating quotes

3. favorite scenes

4. intentions/motives of a character

5. personal drawings of items described (sword, landscape, face, building)

6. photocopies of meaningful paragraphs

7. your preferred ending to the story

8. research on the timeframe/era

9. book synopsis and personal thoughts

10. genre/author/format/page count

    

Movies/T.V. Shows

1. to be watched list

2. pictures of characters or things

3. controversial opinions on the theme

4. least favorite episode/season and why

5. why the plot line does/doesn’t work

6. funny quotes

7. what you would include in the next season/film

8. how you resonate with a certain character

9. reasoning with the antagonist’s intentions

10. overall rating

Poems/Quotes

1. poems you write

2. annotated poems

3. blackout poetry / cut-out poetry

4. quotes from a friend or family member

5. tea tag messages

6. poems that represent your current life

7. fortune cookie quotes

8. top five poems from your favorite poet

9. poems that you don’t understand yet

10. quotes from pinterest

Research/Observations

1. scientific name of plants you come across

2. location of studying (on a hike, at the beach, in the back lawn)

3. drawings

4. most interesting facts

5. personal photos / printed photos

6. dried specimens (leaf, flower, petal, clay smudge)

7. types of clouds you see

8. what animals depend on certain plants

9. each type of bird you see that day/trip

10. describe the terrain: dry, swampy, mountainous, etc.

    

Mood Boards

1. monthly bucket list

2. holiday/seasonal

3. pinterest boards

4. outfit inspo

5. film/art/design

6. to showcase a trip/vacation

7. favorite book/tv show spread

8. vision board

9. collage of your recent baked goods/recipes

10. home inspo

Journaling Pages

1. daily recap

2. morning pages

3. train tickets

4. details from your recent date night

5. a special memory

6. dreams (daydreams, night dreams, dreams of the future)

7. a recent conversation

8. a letter to yourself

9. a story you wouldn’t share out loud

10. meditation of the senses (what you hear, smell, feel, and see around you in the moment)

    

11. receipts

12. an encounter you don’t want to forget

13. photos

14. a letter to a friend you don’t speak to anymore

15. special stickers that you don’t know where to put

16. advice someone gave you

17. movie tickets

18. description of a nice meal you had

19. details of a landscape

20. business cards from places you love

    

21. five things you’re grateful for

22. people watching details (outfits, habits, confidence, etc.)

23. something that made you smile that day

24. small map (drawing or cut out) from a recent tour

25. recent good news you’ve received

26. weekly/monthly favorites

27. things you do to fill your cup

28. reflection on youtube videos

29. a collection of digital media that inspires you and why

30. monthly recap

Other Tidbits

1. goals

2. notes to self

3. to do list

4. grocery list

5. recipes

6. paintings / zentangles

7. writing ideas

8. table of contents

9. personal vocabulary list (english/foreign language)

10. pros and cons lists

11. preplanning finances

12. appointment dates & times

13. junk journaling items (fruit stickers, tea tags, candy wrappers, paper bag cutouts)

14. song lyrics

15. magazine collaging

16. postcard collection

17. future room layout with dimensions

18. ins and outs

19. monthly calendar

20. “about me” page

21. stamp collection

    

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Read my previous newsletter on commonplace writing here:

Read some of my articles that were inspired from my commonplace writing here:

I hope you enjoyed this post and I invite you to start your own commonplace journal if you have not already. Please feel free to comment any other ideas to include in a commonplace notebook. I would love to hear what your favorite sections are in your own.

May we all catch our daydreams and create them into reality.

With love,

L.L.

Buy me a coffee

march 7 - my four-leaf clover

My sister calls over to me, “There’s supposed to be at least one four-leaf clover in every clover patch.”

She’s kneeling down in the grass, hands peeling back the layers of green and her hazel eyes focus on finding the rare good luck symbol in the clover patch beneath her feet. Her blonde hair is shining golden in the sunlight. The cat is nosing around her fingers thinking that she’s caught a bug like he always hopes to do.

I walk over and crouch down beside her next to the large patch of clover, “It’s a big area, maybe we can find more than one.”

I sift through the clovers, looking under the taller ones so that I don’t miss the ones underneath, my fingernails slightly scratch the earth below along the way. The late afternoon sunlight shines over the moist dirt beneath the clover patch that rarely sees the light of day.

As the robins sing their songs in the distance, I wonder if this patch is large enough for us to lay down in and fit us both while we listen to the peaceful sounds around us. Maybe when we were younger. I lower my body to sit on the ground after some moments as my knees begin to feel heavy. I don’t remember thinking about that when we were younger. We could spend a long while crouched down hunting for four-leaf clovers without our body ever showing signs of weakness back then.

I thought back to the last time we did this and I couldn’t remember. Now, here we are, both in our early twenties sitting in the grass looking through one of the many clover patches in our childhood front yard. She’s visiting from her house and I don’t get moments like this with her as much, raw and childlike. This is something that we haven’t done in years. The afternoon warmth fades away as a brisk spring breeze brushes against our skin, blowing her golden hair behind her shoulders.

“Look how big this one is,” she lifts the clover up slightly to show me the one she sees. I glance over and smile.

We didn’t find a four-leaf clover. I don’t think we have the same patience that we did back then. I still found joy in that rare moment, and felt lucky to share it with her.

march 15 - clouds

The sunshine fades in and out, leaving a crisp air behind when she goes behind a cloud. The gentle spring breeze catches beneath my sweater and brings chill bumps to my skin. It stays and lingers there for a long moment and I start to wonder if I should go back inside, maybe it’s too cold to sit outside today. Right before I make my mind, the warmth breaks its way back through the fluffy gas high in the sky. The rays shine again along my face and the chill disappears. It’s like a promise that she has not gone away. I think I’ll stay a little longer.

When I was younger, I didn’t understand the concept of clouds. When the world fell under shade and I watched the light on the ground slide away beneath my feet, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was the universe sending me a signal? Is this god trying to tell me something?

The clouds soon became a fortune-teller for me. I would ask questions and waited for a response based on the way the light shifted in the grass. Light for yes, shade for no. I made wishes to the sky because I knew it would always answer.

Now when I try to read in the sunshine, I curse at the clouds for covering up her warmth. And when I’m in an airplane, I pray everyone has the chance to fly in the sky and see the clouds up close—it’s magical and feels like an entire new world.

I see the faint light of the sun through the clouds, but she can’t escape through the cotton sheet across the sky. I’ll take it as a sign and go back inside for now.

march 5 - sounds at sunset

The days are lingering a bit longer now and I have a few minutes to relax outside before the sun makes her descent beyond the horizon. The pale blue sky acts as a canvas for the swirls of pink and purple chasing the golden sun. Her warmth still sticks to the air from the rays shining through the day.

I sit in silence and listen to the sound of birds. The vibrations of crickets fill my ears as they stand on the tops of grass blades and dance to the coming of night. Street lights slowly turn into a warm glow as they feel the darkness closing in around them. The trees in the distance begin to disappear into a black silhouette against the sky. These moments are sacred to me. I try to take them in through my lungs as I deeply breathe into relaxation.

They say your life adds up to be all the small things that you spend each day doing. I hope to be looking back on my life when I’m 80 and see these moments the most. I hope I live to be 80. I hope that I still can enjoy these moments then too.

march 14 - daydreams

It’s Saturday morning and I just had my cup of coffee. The golden morning sun is slowing drifting higher in the sky, casting a warm glow on the dew in the grass. The birds are chirping their morning tune as I sit outside and write.

My mom, who sits beside me, tells me how she had a bad dream last night, but can’t remember what happened. I tell her that it’s funny how our minds make up scenarios in our head and then try to make it seem like nothing happened. I don’t dream often at night. I guess I get all my dreaming in the day time.

march 16 - spring symphony

A storm is passing through early this morning. I wake up to the deep roar of thunder and my room fills with a flash of light as lightning strikes. Some cries of thunder seem to be far in the distance and others too close for comfort. Each boom and flash sound like a response to the other, like an argument between thunder and lightning to see which can be the loudest and most up close. Like two parents who can’t come to an agreement—clanging dishes and slamming doors.

The leaves in the trees blow fiercely in the wind, almost mimicking the sound of waves crashing on the ocean shore. Their windy whisper sounds calming in the wake of the storm’s anger, almost as if shushing the harsh roars. The rain doesn’t fall in its lovely pitter-patter tone of droplets hitting the tin roof above me that usually lulls me to sleep. The rain sounds like it’s trying to be a part of the argument, but it can’t keep up with the booms that send vibrations down my spine. It’s impossible to separate raindrop sound from another as the sky pours its own ocean upon the world.

The sounds do not mingle together like some sweet songs of nature do, but it bursts and booms in a random orchestra of anger. I try to close my eyes again to fall back asleep, but my mind can’t pull away from the unorganized chaos happening around me. The sounds of spring cause me to sleep with one eye open.

february 27 - fire and ice

I wake up to my 5:20 a.m. alarm. It’s cardio day. I reach over my body to grab my phone from my bedside table and turn off its ringing. I can hardly keep my eyes open to look at my phone. I have a bad habit of scrolling when I first wake up or at least that’s what the people on the internet say.

I tell myself there are worse habits to have and it’s too early in the morning to care about good and bad habits. Gazing my eyes into my phone screen until they burn from the light is the only way I can stay awake while I lay here. I scroll as my body slowly wakes up to the chilly morning. I switch which hand is holding my phone when one gets cold. I put the cold one back under the sheets next to my body. I’m exhausted, my room is cold, and my stomach hurts faintly from eating sweets too late last night.

I really don’t want to workout. I pull the sheets off and put my shoes on. I can’t miss another day. I struggle through the warmup in my living room and I regret putting on long pants for this intense workout. I only did it because I was freezing when I got out of bed. My body continues to wake up as I jog and jump around. I push myself to finish the minute. The room begins to warm up. I can feel my face turn red. My lungs feel on fire. My body feels heavy.

When the next minute ends, I step outside through the front door of my house. The temperature is below freezing which is uncommon where I live. The cold air rushes over my body and cools my face. The breeze blows around me and I feel like I’m drowning in ice. My lungs burn as I breathe in the air. I only have a few more seconds before the next minute of my workout begins.

I think about how I cursed the cold weather just moments after I woke up and thank it now as it saves my body from overheating. I take in a long breath once more and hold the cold air in my lungs this time. It’s what I needed to keep going and I return inside to finish what I started.

march 16 - winter war cry

A snowflake turns to a flurry. The wind picks up to bring down big fluffy bundles of snow. It was unexpected but expected all the same. The weather has been odd lately, like it can’t decide who it wants to be yet. The snowflakes swirl in heavy gusts of wind, almost simulating a blizzard that happened here many years ago, before I was alive. I just go by what I’m told.

It doesn’t snow here often and this is the most snow I’ve seen in years. It seems as though on the week leading up the the spring solstice, winter is sending one last final effort to keep the days cold. As I drive home from work, the small clumps of snow that have been collecting on my windshield for hours stir up and escape behind me as it finds the wind.

The trees lining the road have lines of snow clinging to the tops of their branches, the flower buds on their ends drooping beneath its weight. Hanging baskets full of fresh spring flowers were left out on porches over the weekend by those who got a little too excited about the warm change of weather. The yellow daffodils blooming along the edges of freshly mowed lawns smile under the frost as they try to brighten the white landscape around them.

Spring is on her way, but winter sends out her last remaining war cry before she surrenders for good. The flurries keep falling for a long while as she holds her sword high, screaming—she isn’t finished yet.

march 17 - ice dance

My car is covered in frost once again this morning after many warm days of hoping spring would finally arrive. The puddles from the rainstorm the previous night are now frozen over and cast a glowing reflection of the golden sun rising in the distance. The frozen water moves on itself as I walk past, creating a shift of light across its surface.

The ice on the grass glistens and twinkles under the sun as if the stars fell from the night sky and now lay here in the lawn before me. Wildflowers hold their heads high despite the layer of frost on top of them, they wave their leafy hands in the brisk morning wind. As I walk to my car, I notice all of the landscape dances in the light, welcoming the coming of day.

march 21 - the sweet return

It’s the first day of spring and I can feel me coming back to myself. I want to leave this winter and the darkness that it holds behind. It’s a beautiful sunny day and dirt still lingers on my hands from prepping the soil for my garden bed. I sit down to write and rest before I go inside to bake carrot cake, a celebration sweet for spring.

The wind blows and brings a cool kiss over my slightly sunburned skin. A yellow hue of pollen dropped by bees flows through the air, and catches a ride in the breeze. The trees in the distance show signs of tiny buds along the edges, the clear sky behind them is a soft blue. Down below the tree trunks waking back up from winter hibernation, small patches of deep green moss grow on the low points in the grass.

A single patch of clouds sits high above, almost like it was left behind after the storms from earlier this week. The sun warms my back as the sun escapes through the tree limbs behind me. There’s a smell in the air that I can’t quite describe except the scent of spring: freshly cut grass, wildflowers, moist earth, and a faint smell of sunscreen.

And spring has arrived at last.

With love,

L.L.

Heartbreak is not a stranger to me. Grief is a feeling I’ve lived with from a young age. Yet, saying goodbye is still the hardest chore.

Grief and a broken heart have a different feeling, a different weight. But they are similar in a way. The first time my heart was broken, I felt like it just wasn’t right. I held on to the idea that I was wronged by the universe. I didn’t feel that our story was finished, but the choice was out of our hands. Years passed, and more young loves held me for a time but no one compares to that first-love love.

When I thought about him in those years, I just knew he was living some grand and mysterious life without me. There was a poem that I would come back to often that reminded me of him about a boy leaving, jumping from clifftop to clifftop to see the stars. My favorite song, Drops of Jupiter turned into a gentle farewell to him. My vision would blur and my throat tightened up when I sang it in my car, trying to keep my eyes on the road. He was gone and living out the dreams we dreamed of together, and here I was missing out on in all.

I felt in my heart that he would return to my life. And I was right. Despite the distance, no contact, and other circumstances holding us apart, we found each other again. It felt like my life was coming back together.

We spent a short year of learning each other once more and we moved in to live together. Ups and downs are normal in any relationship. Crying and disagreements happen to everyone. Love is hard and what we had was worth fighting for. Until it wasn’t. We didn’t know what normal was because we were young and naive. Sometimes holding on too tight to someone we love makes them break in half. It was my first time seeing him cry when he told me he didn’t think we would work. I kept revisiting that poem that reminded me of him years before.

“You know, people love to say opposites attract. And maybe that’s why I tried so hard to make us work. The girl who measures two teaspoons of sugar to put in her tea and the boy with calloused palms, climbing every mountain he can because he likes the way the stars look when nothing is in their way.

Frothy milk and adrenaline. We looked like idiots together. You at my charity dinners. And me scaling the rock climbing wall with slippery hands. Two feet above ground. A loose cotton dress, but laughing. Both of us always laughing. At me and you and this stupid world for working in a way that let the two of us need each other so desperately.

But attraction and commitment were never the same thing. Maybe you always knew that. And that’s why you laughed. Because you knew one day your girl would stand on Everest. Scream to the stars. Drink her coffee black.

But me, I’m still learning. Learning as you tell me we want different things. Learning when you drop off every piece of myself I’ve left at your place, nothing folded. Learning while I sit here writing about the boy who bounced from clifftops to see the stars and the girl whose feet never left the ground, whose eyes only ever knew how to watch him walk into clouds and disappear altogether.” (author: yourhandwrittenletter)

That ship had sailed I told myself. He moved away. He’s out there on the horizon sailing into the sunset, into a better life, without me. I envisioned myself standing on the shore with my feet in the water. My toes slowly being buried with the sand as the waves crashed in and brushed against my legs. And then pulling away again, like everything was trying to escape me and tugging at me to follow him. I had been watching him leave for hours. For days. For months. My feet felt anchored to the seafloor, to an abandoned island with no hope. I spent so long watching him go, I forgot that I was standing still.

I had a panic attack for the first time in my life when he left me. It feels life being underwater for too long and aching for a breath of air. But no air is enough. I could have filled an ocean with my tears. Still to my core, I didn’t feel the path of us splitting ways was the right one. Back then I believed that healing takes time, and that’s all there was to it. Healing is just time. Simply putting distance between what happened before and who we are after is healing.

I wrote letters to him in my journal and I went on adventures that we had once dreamed about together because I wouldn’t be the girl whose feet never left the ground. I cried on my birthday in front of my friends when he didn’t text me. For two years, I waited for him to come back. I knew he would. I was swimming near the shore, wading through life. I kept my eye on the horizon waiting for his ship to sail back to me.

And he did.

I lost my dad when I was nine years old. I’ve grown up knowing what grief feels like and trying to learn nearly my entire life how to describe it. The difference between heartbreak and grief is a string. We have a string of connection to each person we love. When we lose someone between the veil of life and death, that string is cut and we have no choice in the matter. You can’t follow the string from your heart back to that person. Our hearts turn heavy because it knows we’ve lost something we can’t get back. That weight in our chest is grief.

Heartbreak is different because the string doesn’t break on its own. We have a choice to let go or hold on. Letting go and cutting the string is healing. Even if one person decides to move on, our string stays with us until we both break the knot. Years can go by following heartbreak, yet the string still stays, hearts try to find their way back to each other. A faint longing lingers in our chest, questions left unanswered swirl in our soul. I paced back and forth on the sand, wondering what if on that island for far too long. I couldn’t bring myself to cut the string.

He was the first person I gave my all to and I opened up to him in ways that I didn’t with anyone else. I cried into his chest with laughter and with sadness. We were two kids growing up together. He held my hand through many important moments in those early years of my twenties. And I held his. We learned what love is and what it isn’t together. We built our dream life in our minds together, what life would be like when we figured it all out. I cracked my heart open, my greatest desires and fears on display, and he saw all that was inside.

After nearly a decade of being attached to my first love, I still hadn’t cut that string. No matter how far we travel in opposite directions, how many miles or oceans span between us, the string doesn’t snap by itself. We have to do it on our own. But losing my first love is so hard. So when his sails arrived on the horizon once again and he came back into my life for the third time, I couldn’t say no even though my heart was unsteady.

I looked up into his sea-green eyes once more and couldn’t turn around. We had thought that we had life figured out at that point. We had matured in ways that allowed us to hold on without breaking. We thought it was our time to reunite forever. He got down on one knee overlooking the mediterranean sea and promised me just that—forever.

Ten years had passed since our first meeting and we thought our journey would finish with a happy ending. But when something is not meant to be, it can’t be forced no matter how hard we try. After a decade, our growth with and without each other led to the ultimate decision that we aren’t meant to be lovers forever. We had beautiful and cruel years. But it was finally time to let go. Those kids fought so hard to be together and it felt like giving up on them. I waited on that abandoned island for him for so long. But after some time, we realized the universe kept calling us back together for a reason. The reason was to learn how to cut the string. And it is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

I used to think that the saying that ship has sailed meant that I was stuck standing on the shore while watching my first love sailing into the distance. Our life plans and dreams sailed away with him. I was stuck forever watching his sails move on the horizon, so slow and dreadfully painful. My feet were stuck in the sand.

But now I see two ships, one with him and his plans for life and the other of mine. My life doesn’t end when he leaves. I will live on and continue to dream as I always have before. He will too, and neither of us will hold each other back any longer. No one is left behind and we both sail into the sunset. We both get a happy ending, just not the same one. Now I see two people who grew up together, two souls who savored reunion and suffered heartbreak many times, two first loves sailing in two opposite directions on the horizon.

The string breaks, but only because they were both ready to cut it this time. And only the footprints remain.

what is not meant for you will disappoint you a thousand times until you understand

I spill my heart across the page as I write to you about my darkest and brightest moments. I hope my posts can be a light for you to hold onto when you feel alone or out of place. I appreciate you being here and your support. I have turned on paid subscriptions for those who would like to support me and my dreams a bit more.

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I will be forever grateful if you do decide to upgrade your subscription, but I do not expect you to feel obligated to support me any more than just simply reading and enjoying my writing. I don’t plan to make posts for only paid subscribers as of right now. My work will remain accessible for everyone. Thank you for reading.

With love,

L.L.

Those with anxiety naturally carry more tension in our muscles and minds. We store trauma in our hips, anger in our jaw, and worry in our neck. Thoughts pile up so high inside our heads and begin to fall over to a point where we don’t even know where to begin dealing with them. Some of us have been holding tension inside our bodies for so long that we don’t even realize it’s there, and sadly we get used to it and forget how a flexible and relaxed body feels. Chronic stress can be dangerous to our overall health and I have found that stretching to release anxiety and tension has improved my wellbeing in so many ways.

I started my stretching routine about three years ago. After I had recently broken up with my boyfriend, I had too much time to think and nothing to do. I didn’t feel like doing anything. I had no creativity or motivation for my hobbies. I had no where to go but home and no one to really talk to. Every day seemed to be the same: wake up, work, go home, think. My mental health was not great at the time and my therapist was helping me through a hard time with anxiety. Meditation and yoga were some things she had wanted me to try months before but I never really stayed consistent. But during those days following a fresh breakup, I needed something, anything to distract me.

My stretching routine started with a video on youtube for releasing tension in the body through gentle yin yoga. I still remember those early days of stretching and feeling so good after. I remember following the instructor to give myself a hug and thanking myself for showing up for myself that day which made me tear up a bit because when do we ever do that? We may put in the effort sometimes, but do we ever acknowledge our hard work and take the time to hug ourselves? To thank ourselves for showing up? It feels so good and I believe we should be doing it more often.

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During this video, the instructor explains how to observe your body through stretching. She returns to the idea of finding the tension in your muscles during gentle movement and encourages you to hold in that spot of tension. She explains how to remove the tension from the body by taking the time to notice and release it through deep breaths. To really sink into a stretch feels uncomfortable at first and I was hesitant to remain in a position that didn’t feel so great. My body began to resist the movement at first by going rigid and stiff in order to avoid falling into that uncomfortable stretched-out position. I had such a hard time learning to let go and sink into the discomfort. But this process is so similar to how our bodies react in the face of fear and anxiety. We tense up and resist. We don’t push into discomfort and our bodies don’t know how to hold itself in uncomfortable positions. We avoid pain. We avoid unnerving situations and we crave safety. We search for an escape back to comfort.

We have to remind ourselves to breathe in order to let go. She tells you to push into the discomfort of releasing that tension through stretching and breathwork. After holding in this position and breathing deeply, I can feel my body loosen up and I slowly start to sink deeper into the stretch as my muscle lengthens little by little. My fear of staying in an uncomfortable position eases as I feel my body relaxing naturally. Stretch after stretch, I learned how to trust myself by letting go and my body does the rest. I relax my mind and remind myself that it’s okay to sit in this uncomfortable position because it will release soon enough. The pain isn’t permanent and my body has the power to release the discomfort. I just have to be patient and breathe. This is how stretching saves me. Learning to push past discomfort expands beyond stretching muscles in the body.

I definitely think this technique is what helps to stretch effectively, but it also helps to clear the mind by concentrating on that muscle being stretched. Deep breathing is known to calm the body and mind. This way of stretching began to work as a two in one for me: tension release in the body through stretching and stress relief in the mind through breathing. All of my focus was on my breath and my body. I had no other area in my mind to think about anything else. It was the perfect way for me to relax in body, mind, and soul. I would spend hours stretching in those early days.

After doing this so many times, it’s amazing how my mind starts to pick up on the tension in my body easier. I eventually learned where my usual tension spots are and how to target those areas a little bit more. Finding the tension becomes second nature and sitting in the uncomfortable position becomes less scary because I trust my body to let it go. I learned how to accept the discomfort in my muscles because I found that it would always lead to relaxation after a few rounds of deep breathing.

Stretching became a sacred ritual for me. I eventually shifted from guided videos to creating my own stretching routine. I started by doing the stretches I could remember from the original video and which ones felt the best for me. I added on other stretches that I did before during sports or that I’d seen online. My profession involves exercise and stretching so I already had some prior knowledge of what I could do. I researched stretches that would be good for certain parts of my body that hurt or felt more tense. I did them in an order that felt natural for me and flowed together in a meditative way.

I believe that having a stretching routine on its own is a powerful way to release stress, but here are some other things that I consider for my routine:

Comfort

I do not wear anything restricting when I stretch (tight clothing or sport bras) and I honestly prefer something comfortable and flowy like my pajamas or loose pants and a sweatshirt. I don’t want to fight my clothes while stretching or have my mind focused on how tight clothes are pulling on me. I use a comfortable and padded mat, yoga blocks, pillows, and sometimes even a blanket when it’s cold. I try to create the most comfortable area I can to encourage myself to relax. It doesn’t have to be a performance or aesthetically pleasing, just comfortable for you and your body.

Healing Frequencies

During my own stretching routine, I use headphones and listen to healing frequencies made for relaxing the mind and aligning my body with good vibrations. Great playlists are out there with common healing frequencies (432 hz, 528 hz, 111 hz) which are known to calm the nervous system and induce a meditative state. Listening to these sounds helps to relax me while I search for tension and hold the uncomfortable stretching positions. I recommend researching this type of music or other sounds to find frequencies best suited for your own routine. Stretching with a combination of listening to healing frequencies is my ideal routine to reduce anxiety and tension in my body.

Meditation

Another tool to add to your stretching routine could be a moment of meditation before or after stretching. To set the mood for yourself prior to stretching, you can spend some time meditating on the mat to release some tension from your mind before focusing on your muscles. Or you can use your stretching routine as a way to practice small moments of inner quiet to clear your mind for a full and focused meditation session after stretching. I personally like meditating after a full body stretch because it makes my mind feel like honey and I can completely sink into a deep state of meditation.

Environment

I normally stretch inside in a room that has a lot of space for moving my body without worrying about knocking into something or obstacles limiting my full stretch. I go to a place where I feel safe and know that I won’t be disturbed. Sometimes when the weather is nice, I go outside in the grass to stretch under the sun but still in a private area.

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Stretching saves me daily. When I’m feeling sad or anxious, I lean into my stretching routine to regulate my nervous system and return to a relaxed state of mind. Sometimes, I just stretch when I’m bored and have nothing else to do. I can still find tension in my body even when my mind is at ease so I don’t necessarily wait to feel anxious before I decide to stretch.

Stretching expands beyond the mat for me. The manner of letting go of stress through stretching eventually expands into other aspects of life. Learning to sink into discomfort because I trust myself enough to come back out of it is a great way to combat anxiety during my day to day. When something is about to happen in life where my body tenses up from fear, I know how to relax my body and mind in that moment from this learned behavior through stretching.

Plus after having a consistent stretching routine, my body feels great. I feel flexible and have way less aches and pains in my body. Although stretching provides an abundance of healing properties for me, to have a flexible body is a great feeling.

Links for mentioned topics in this post:

10 Min Yoga to Nourish the Mind Body and Spirit

Healing Frequency Playlist

6 Min Guided Meditation

15 Min Guided Meditation

Thank you for reading this post and for your love and support. It means a lot to me. I hope you get to read in the sunshine this week, bask in the early coming of spring, and stretch a little.

With love,

L.L.

Which is sad, really. I love nature and I crave to be in the sunshine—touching the grass, hearing the birds sing and the wind rushing through the leaves. I miss being a kid and building a clubhouse with siblings and neighbors out in the woods under the wisteria-covered trees, using fallen tree limbs and wildflowers to construct our secret hideout. The scent of damp earth after a fresh rain, the sensation of mud squishing between my toes, and the sight of water beading on the leaves makes me feel human and wonder about how it all works. We made mud pies and foraged for wild mushrooms and strawberries hidden in the lush grass of summer. The line of ants tracing their footsteps created shapes on the driveway while our own feet were warmed by the pavement through the afternoon sun.

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Now that I’m older, I don’t spend as much time outside absorbing nature’s scents and sensations. I don’t sit outside and just observe all the tiny miracles of life happening around me nearly as much as I used to. Even now in the wintertime, I avoid being outside due to the cold. I miss it dearly.

The first person at work to point out the mistletoe to me mentioned that the shape of mistletoe looked like lungs in the way it grows, expanding from one branch to another, much like the tree itself. She mentioned how it’s all connected or at least that’s what she said she believes. It’s interesting how their shape forms so similar to the shape of our lungs—what we use to absorb the air it transforms and provides for us.

Another person a few days later noticed the mistletoe and told me that it grows white berries (I had no idea!) which are highly poisonous. He said the birds eat the berries and spread them. Again, the birds connecting nature to itself as it goes about its life, much like we connect to the trees through the air. This made me realize that I do not pay enough attention to the natural elements around me. I wanted to learn more about it since my only knowledge of mistletoe was the traditional Christmas kiss.

I spent some time researching mistletoe afterwards in my commonplace journal. I recently made a new notebook where I included a section to write research about the nature I encounter in my every day life or when I travel. I want to feel more in tune with the natural elements around me as I believe in a spiritual connection between humans and nature. It’s also a form of meditation for me to be surrounded or focused on plants and animals, so this process was meant to be an unwinding activity for me as well. I want to take the time to sit and notice.

I found out there’s so much more to mistletoe than I originally thought. Apparently, the kissing under mistletoe tradition dates back to 2000 years ago likely from Celtic druids as they saw mistletoe as a symbol of life and fertility. Mistletoe can also be tied back to Norse mythology when the goddess Frigg made it a symbol of peace and love.

Although mistletoe has romantic roots of origin, it is a parasitic plant that feeds from its host, usually trees. As mistletoe relies on the host plant for water, it can be damaging to trees, especially those with large amounts. Mistletoe is hard to spot in trees unless in the wintertime when the leaves are bare so it might be too late to catch the overgrowth before it takes over the tree.

Mistletoe produces yellow flowers and small white berries made with a sticky consistency. The berries burst when ripe and attach onto fur and feathers of passing animals to be carried to other parts of the tree or region. The parasitic plant does benefit nature as it provides as a major food source for a number of birds and some mammals. The flowers feed bees and the twigs and leaves are used by hawks and owls for nesting habitats. Three butterfly species are completely dependent on mistletoe to complete their life cycles.

My research on mistletoe surprised me because I didn’t know of its parasitic nature. Although this plant is harmful in large amounts, it is still a critical part of life for many small insects and birds. The give and take of nature in its perfect balance always amazes me.

It’s unfortunate how nature works around us constantly and we are too busy to look up and notice. I rarely take the chance to sit down and learn about what’s growing and living alongside me. Now, when I look up in the trees at that mistletoe outside my work, I feel connected to it somehow. Because I know it, understand it, and appreciate what it does for the world around me.

My advice to you, as spring emerges, pay closer attention to that tree you pass by every day on your walk to school, or that climbing plant that grows outside your window at work. That bird you always see on your lunch break? She has a story too. Take back your childhood wonder and fascination of nature. Go get your hands dirty in the mud by planting a vegetable garden, feel the tree sap stick to the palms of your hands as you climb a tree, breathe in the scent of the new flowers blooming around you this spring. Take advantage of the sunshine and go outside as the days get warmer. Make a flower crown with the small yellow butterweeds, feel the cold water of the creek brush between your fingers, make a wish by blowing a dandelion into the promising wind of spring. There’s so much to learn and to bring us closer to nature. Don’t forget where you came from: the miracle of nature exists in you too. The natural world has always been magical and it will always be a gift to explore and cherish while we still have some time left here on this beautiful planet. Take some time this week to look up, around, and within.

With love,

L.L.

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During my normal daily morning ritual of silence, I was checking my email. Waiting for me was a letter sent to me from a master’s program in Spain that I had applied to months before. I found the words Congratulations… and felt a whirlwind of emotions spin inside me. Not all of the feelings were positive. I started crying, and still to this day, I’m not sure if my tears were of sadness or joy.

I would be leaving in a few months after receiving that letter and a long list of to dos followed the congratulations. Moving to study abroad consists of many appointments, legal documents, and of course, money. It’s a lot of hurry up and wait. It’s a lot of tears of frustration falling on the very important document that you are using to sign your current life away to move to the unknown. It’s a lot of rushed trips to the post office on your lunch breaks and reading confusing government websites that don’t usually help. It’s the notary being more confused about what you’re asking him to sign than you are. And all of this is even before the hard parts begin. I honestly think I deserve a degree after the tedious process of obtaining my visa.

Meanwhile, you are going on lunches with friends and family because this is the last time you will see them in a year. You’re trying to find out how you’re going to pack up your entire life in two suitcases. You wonder if your cats will forget about you and you savor those last bites of familiar food from home. Your mom is excited for you to live the life you have always dreamed, but you see the sadness in her eyes as the days go by and the time to leave draws closer. Your sister tries to act cool about it and says she will steal your clothes while you’re gone, but really she wears them because she misses you and wants to be near you somehow.

I love my family. Luckily, I have a loving family who I enjoy spending my time with. I love my front porch and the grass and the trees outside my house. I love how the sun shines on my face at any point of the day because of the open land of the country. I love the not-so-Mexican food from the restaurant down the road and knowing which stores have clothes that fit me just right. I love my morning coffee in my special mug. I love my bed that I have been sleeping on for half my life and my childhood bedroom that holds my life looking back at me. I knew how much I was going to miss it all.

At the time, I wasn’t sure if I was doing this to be performative. Was this really me, or was this idea put in my head from somewhere else? I did really have the dream to travel abroad since I was little. I remember seeing a miniature Eiffel Tower on my childhood bestfriend’s dresser in her bedroom and began to wonder what it would be like to see it in person. I loved watching movies and t.v. shows where the main character travels abroad and seems to have the time of their life. I loved and still do love to read books where a great adventure awaits in a foreign land.

But in recent years, it seems like traveling abroad is more of a trend than anything. Traveling seems to be less about culture and history and more about what I wore on my European summer trip or here’s my mile long carousel of pictures I took in Italy (mostly just photos of them). I thought maybe I was just traveling because it was trendy, or was I? Traveling is something I enjoyed even before having social media. Going on trips nourishes my soul and shows the world to me in ways that movies and books never will. I don’t believe my dream to travel was performative, but I was sure many people would think that way. And then again, who cares?

It’s funny how we have this idea of something that we want to do—a dream that we have always had—and with that, expectations put upon us to follow through with those plans. And we still have moments of indecision when the time comes. It almost feels like imposter syndrome. When the time comes, and the acceptance letter falls in your hands, you wonder if this is really what you want. Was this a fantasy? Is this a dream that I didn’t actually want to come true? Was this an imaginary idea of what my ideal future would be like? Did I really want to get on a plane and fly thousands of hours away from home to make this dream come true?

I was also considering the thought of sharing this great news with everyone. I was scared to tell everyone what my dreams were. The people who had no idea what my future could be. Honestly, I was fearful to share because I was afraid of failing. What if I got all the way there to realize that I am not cut out for the city life in Madrid or the courses in the master’s program were too hard for me to pass? I act brave in the front end, but when I arrive, how would I stay brave? I was unsure if I should even bring up my acceptance letter to the people at my job, to my family, to my friends. They would create this image of me in their heads and believe what I say I am, what I am capable of and then I might embarrass myself in the end. I was afraid to say my dreams out loud.

That’s why I was crying. I was giving up comfort for something that I knew would not always be comfortable. My normal daily routines would be turned upside down. My introverted-self wouldn’t have a car to escape from the world in. I would have to face it all up close and personal. To say yes would be letting go. To get on that plane would be walking into the unknown. I’m scared of the dark and I hate the unknown.

I have another post titled “how my mom pushed me out of the car” about how I try to not let anxiety define me or restrict me from living my life. I believe the message behind this article is the same one that helped me that day. I dried up my tears and got out of the car. I went in to work and told my boss that I would be leaving in a few months. I told him that I am going to live my dreams out loud.

If it’s your calling, it will keep calling.

With love,

L.L.

It’s the tale of Bilbo Baggins of course. I recently finished reading The Hobbit and it was my first time being transported to J.R.R. Tolkien’s world as I have not seen any of the movies yet. What a sweet surprise that awaited me. The world building, the characters, and the adventure itself was rich of detail and action. Tolkien writes beautifully about the changing of the seasons throughout the year-long journey and the imagery of the landscape had me daydreaming for some time. The opening chapter gave a cozy and proper introduction to the main character, Bilbo. As I read the story, I started to notice similarities between the shoeless hobbit and myself.

Keep in mind that The Hobbit was explained in the first chapter of the LOTR, and this post contains content from the book The Hobbit with intentions to not spoil the story. If you would like a subtle introduction to this tale prior to reading it yourself, please do read this post with caution.

“It seems to be late morning,” he said, “and I suppose it is more or less breakfast time—if there is any breakfast to have. But I don’t feel that Smaug’s front doorstep is the safest place for a meal. Do let’s go somewhere where we can sit quiet for a bit!”

Bilbo is always thinking about his next meal like myself. In the middle of the action, while stealing from trolls or while in hiding from a fire-breathing dragon on the loose, he is usually more concerned about where his next home-cooked meal is coming from than leaving there alive. And Bilbo Baggins loves his breakfast—the grand and proper kind. He doesn’t mind to wake up in the early hours of the morning before the sunrises through the bay windows of his hobbit hole kitchen to prepare a breakfast for his newly-found dwarvish friends. Although he did wake up late when the opportunity did come.

“So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings!” said Bilbo and he turned his back on his adventure. “I wish now only to be in my own armchair!” he said.

The curly-headed hobbit is a true homebody at heart. While on his adventure in far off lands, he craves the comfort of his home. And who wouldn’t? He has everything he needs in his hobbit hole: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothing), kitchens, dining-rooms, and all of which are on the same floor and indeed the same passage. He was proud to show his lovely carpets and polished chairs to his abundance of guests. The view? Undeniably picturesque: deep-set round windows overlooking his gardens, and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river. In the long and lonely nights spent in the caves of the goblins, Bilbo dreamed of being back home, having hot tea in his plush chair by the fire.

Speaking of, let’s move along to the kitchen to catch a glimpse of that view outside the bay windows while we eat our breakfast at the table. I’ll grab some honey and the raspberry jam for us from the pantry. Yes, the first room on the right. The hotcakes should still be steaming, warm in the middle and a bit crisp around the edges. And fruit, lots of fruit. Pile it all on top: blueberries, bananas, strawberries. There’s a big jug of coffee for us to share. Take a seed-cake or a buttered scone and dip it in! Please enjoy and don’t be shy for having seconds.

Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick.

Mr. Baggins has Tookish traits about him that he gets from his mother. The Tooks are adventurers at heart. In the past, one Took ancestor was even known to take a fairy wife. The neighborhood of The Hill found these facts to be embarrassing as hobbits do not do adventure. Bilbo tried desperately to hold onto the Baggins side of himself as to not cause any falling-out with his cousins. And why would he leave behind the comfort of his perfect home? But when the time came and the dwarves were in need of a nimble little hobbit, the wizard (Gandalf) convinced Bilbo to join them on their journey to take on the dragon who slept on top of centuries-old, stolen treasure. Like myself, Bilbo is an adventurer at heart but needs a little push to get himself out the door of his cozy little hobbit hole.

The year-long journey included all four seasons, and as a reader who loves the natural elements, Tolkien made the imagery of the shifting seasons magical. I noticed myself frequently going back to reread some of the scenes describing the spring rain and summer flowers and how the trees burned orange in autumn. Its a truly beautiful read, and here are some of my favorite seasonal quotes from the story:

It was flowing fast and noisily, as mountain-streams do of a summer evening, when the sun has been all day on the snow far up above.

“Merry is May-time!” said Bilbo, as rain beat into his face. “But our back is to legends and we are coming home.”

The next morning was a midsummer’s morning as fair and fresh as could be dreamed: blue sky and never a cloud, and the sun dancing on the water.

There far away was the Lonely Mountain on the edge of eyesight. On its highest peak snow yet unmelted was gleaming pale.

Bilbo and Gandalf took their leave at last of Beorn, and though he longed for home, Bilbo left with regret, for the flowers of the gardens of Beorn were in springtime no less marvellous than in high summer.

The sun is setting and I know it’s late now. If you don’t wish to stay in the guest room for the night, I’ll send you on your way with some snacks for the road: nuts, flour, meat pies, sealed jars of dried fruits, and red earthenware pots of honey, and twice-baked cakes that will keep good for a long time. Care for one more cup of hot tea before you go? Thank you for joining me in my little hobbit hole and I hope you enjoyed your stay.

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Writing this post was so much fun! I felt like I was reliving the book while creating this post. I know this is different from my usual writing, but now that I am getting back into my reading habits, I thought it would be fun to do a breakdown on my most recent read. I hope you enjoyed this style of writing and maybe I have inspired you to read The Hobbit if you haven’t already. I have bought The Lord of the Rings series and I’m so excited to start reading them. If I love them just as much, I may do something similar to this. Until next time.

With love,

L.L.

My favorite holiday is the day of love. It’s the time of year when everything is either pink, my favorite color, or has hearts all over. I think the theme of Valentine’s Day is very cute and it’s a nice day to look forward to in between the dreary months of January and February. I’m full of nostalgia every year because of how Valentine’s Day used to be when I was younger. Now that I’m older, I still love this holiday. Unfortunately, I think there are many people who don’t enjoy this day, mostly because there is a sense of needing to have someone, or being in a relationship, in order to celebrate. I celebrate every year, whether I am single or have someone to cherish it with. And I hope you all do too.

My first memories of Valentine’s Day were in primary school when everyone in the class would bring in candy with a to and from label, filled out with the very name of each student in the class. Heart-shaped lollipops, chocolates, sweetheart candies with cute messages on them, and occasionally, a superhero-themed fun dip (usually from the boys) were taken out of our backpacks and placed on our desks, ready to share. We would always take time before trading our valentine gifts to decorate our individual paper bags so we had a place to put the candy.

We were given markers for drawing and colorful construction paper to cut out heart shapes. Glitter, glue, and tiny scraps of red, pink, and purple paper littered our laps and the floor. We would take crayons and write our name in big letters at the top. I remember being so happy with my little paper bag and proudly called it mine. We would line up our bags on the counter behind us. The imperfectly-drawn hearts and crookedly-glued construction paper shining like a beam of light in the back of the classroom. Everyone lined up, bag of candy in hand, and dropped a valentine in each paper bag.

Every student, no matter if you were close friends or not, would write down your name on a piece of candy the day before school just to bring it and drop it in your crinkly paper bag. This is so deeply engraved in my memory because it was so heartwarming to share with your classmates and to know that they, in return, brought something just for you. Making our own valentine’s paper bag showed we were all deserving of the treats, deserving to be cherished on Valentine’s Day.

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Later on, that ritual stopped in school and Valentine’s Day was more so celebrated only by those with a significant other. Couples would bring in their stuffed animals holding a big, red heart with Be Mine sewn on. Heart-shaped chocolate boxes and small arrangements of flowers were passed around and traded. And for those who didn’t date in school know what those days felt like when you didn’t receive valentines from your classmates anymore. That would be weird. Although some girls would bring in a large bag of individually wrapped heart-shaped lollipops and hand them out to everyone they saw that day. They were always so nice and this gesture obviously meant a lot to me because I still remember it today. But, the days of paper bags with glued on hearts were long gone. If you wanted a big gift next year, it’s better to have a partner planned out.

When I got home from school though, my stepdad would have placed gifts on the counter for us to see when we walked though the door. In the center for my mom, a beautiful bouquet of flowers in a vase with a large box of chocolates. On both sides of that, smaller—but equally as special—boxes of chocolates for my sister and I waited for us.

Valentine’s Day is a day for love, any love. It’s about showing someone you care and that you took the time to make it special somehow. Taking care to show someone that they are loved makes you feel loved in return. It can also be a day that you show up for yourself and embrace self love. No one should be left out on Valentine’s Day, even if you do not have a relationship or someone close enough to “love”. Loving yourself on this day feels just as special. You deserve to be cherished too. I hope you bring some of your childhood magic back this year for Valentine’s Day.

I think everyone should celebrate Valentine’s Day and if you do not have a romantic partner, here are some ways to spread love on this day of love:

- buy yourself a nice lunch or dinner, something you don’t normally spend money on because you think it’s too expensive

- decorate your room or apartment with valentine’s day decor a few days before to set the mood—heart garlands, balloons, flowers, bows, tea candles

- plan a galentine’s date with your friends (or with yourself) whether it’s a meal, a craft night (maybe some cute valentine’s themed paper bags), or wine and a romcom

- bake or bring something (like heart-shaped lollipops) to work for your coworkers or classmates, this will brighten their day because you thought of them

- plan a self care evening and go all out—bubble baths, rose petals, chocolates, candles, a nice bottle of rosé

- make self-made flower arrangements and homemade chocolates for your sisters, daughters, mothers, grandmothers, aunts, best friends, yourself or any males in your family who would also enjoy some nice florals and a reminder that you thought of them on this day, show them that they do not need a partner to feel loved and a reason to celebrate valentine’s day

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This Valentine’s Day, I want to bring that little girl back, the one who loves crafting little hearts and sharing treats with people around her. The little girl who gets excited to see everything in pink, who has sparkles in her own eyes as she watches chocolates and heart-shaped lollipops plop into her crinkly paper bag, the one she’s so proud of. The girl who loves the day of love. If you have any other ideas on how to celebrate Valentine’s Day, please feel free to share.

With love,

L.L.

Christmas dances and proms were spent standing in a huddle with my friends. I remember when my mom would pick me up afterwards and would ask me if I danced, and in my head I thought: Yes, I really did dance. Swaying my hips counts, right? I told her I did, but I know that I didn’t make the most of it. Many years later, I had the opportunity to dance—like really dance my heart out—and I took it.

I had just finished eating dinner on a cruise (I am not very fond of cruises, but this one was free and provided by my job) and because our dinner was always super late, my friend and I usually went to bed right after. We were walking back to our cabin when we came across a table full of headphones and a sign: Silent Disco. I do not go to parties, and when I do, I don’t particularly enjoy them so that sign did not catch my attention. I turned to go upstairs, but my friend was so excited and asked me if I wanted to check it out. I was exhausted from the long day and full from dinner, but I told her we could because I could tell she really wanted to do it.

The man at the table gave us our headphones and explained how a silent disco works: everyone in the room is wearing headphones which have three different channels and each channel was playing a different song. The colorful lights on the headphones told everyone else which channel you are currently listening to, and with a switch of a button you can change the song and, therefore, the color of light on your headphones.

When we walked into the party, the room was silent, as the name goes. But everyone was dancing—on the dance floor, by the bar, near the tables spread across the room. The room was full of dancing people, some our age, some were younger and some were much older. We put on our headphones and made our way to the dance floor.

Mind you, we were completely sober and a bit tired but we danced, truly danced. I mean we were not dancing well, but we moved our bodies to the music, swayed our hands in the air, jumped to the beat, and laughed ‘til we cried. Most of the songs were early 2000’s pop which is my absolute favorite to dance to. When a song came on that we weren’t feeling, we switched to a new channel. We scanned around to see who was listening to the same song as us, and tried to match their dance moves. A group of older ladies were especially entertaining for us to watch and copy. They seemed like they knew what they were doing. It seemed like they had danced a lot in their lives. A younger man in a wheelchair was dancing along near us on the dance floor, bobbing his head and moving his body to the beat. I admired that he was also dancing his heart out with everyone else. Another older gentleman was dancing by himself, swinging his arms next to his body, doing a little side shuffle, and singing the lyrics to the sky. We tried to keep up with him as much as we could.

In that moment, I didn’t care to hide myself, to huddle, to be afraid of what others thought of me. Everyone was dancing, and I danced too and not with a care in the world. I put my hands in the air when Flo Rida said so and I broke a sweat on the floor when Pitbull came on. The fact that everyone around me was also enjoying the music and dancing with passion reminded me to appreciate being alive: having the legs to dance, the breath in my lungs, and the voice to sing along doesn’t last forever. I am only here once and I get to escape in the rhythm so many times before it’s all over. My mom introduced me to a song I Hope you Dance by Lee Ann Womack when I was younger and I thought about how I was truly living by her words in that moment.

When our bodies grew heavy and we were wanting something to quench our thirsts, we took a break from the dance floor and made a trip to the bar. Two virgin piña coladas were enjoyed as we perched on bar stools and watched the dancing from the sidelines. I kept my headphones on and listened along. I watched people go out the door when it was their time to leave, and other people walking in with a smile on their face to see what they just joined. It was nearly midnight, and although I was tired, I felt alive—electric. I was grateful in those moments to have had the opportunity to dance like this for the first time, to have a friend who convinced me to do it, and to have a story to tell about the time I truly danced.

With love,

L.L.

Although a digital garden is somewhat different from a commonplace journal, they are both the same in nature with one being mostly digital and the other a physical collection. A commonplace journal, the physical one, can be whatever you want it to be. For me, it’s a place to hold my collection of saved favorites: quotes, poems, words, books, movies, tv shows, etc. It’s a journal where I can reflect on ideas and information I am consuming. After watching a movie or reading a book, I can open up my commonplace journal and slow down and be with my thoughts before I move on to the next one. I can reflect on my feelings: what I liked or didn’t like, my favorite parts or characters, or other tidbits that I want to remember from the book or movie.

I do think many people misuse the term digital garden when they solely post screenshots of media they consumed that week/month without giving a proper reflection along with it. With an infinite amount of information at our fingertips, it’s easy to move on to the next thing over and over, consuming a new idea and hearing new opinions. With the pace that we move through content, we most likely will not remember what we just read or watched five minutes before, although maybe it was something we wanted to remember. We rarely take the time to sit with media before we pass along to the next thing. We often forget to say what we think about something before we consume what others are thinking. We don’t take the time to sit down with our own thoughts and feel, or understand from our own perspective, what we just consumed.

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After working in a commonplace journal for a while, or even finishing one by using up all the pages, we are left with an entire notebook full of things we love, our personal thoughts, and a memory bank of what we consumed during that period in our life. With that being said, if you struggle to keep a journal because you don’t know what to write, this is the perfect style of journal for you. Depending on how many sections you add, there is a possibility to have an abundance of options to write about or create in a commonplace journal.

Planning a commonplace journal:

I think starting clean with a new notebook is a good way to start a commonplace journal. It allows you to organize the pages in the way you want and to create a table of contents section at the front of the journal for easy navigation, but it’s not a necessity for everyone. For my own journal, I decided to not go for a super popular notebook brand, mostly because I couldn’t find the color I wanted. I settled for a lined PAPERAGE journal with 252 pages in the color raspberry. I think the more pages, the better, so I have plenty of room to space out my notebook. Also, this notebook came with two bookmark ribbons and two pages of tab stickers for organization which helps me so much with navigation.

Starting a commonplace notebook can be a bit daunting at first because it can hold a lot of sections and information. Preplanning will be your best friend. I recommend writing a list of everything you want to include in your commonplace notebook before you start, organizing them in a sense that works for you. Some ideas could be lists, poems, quotes, movies, books, research, field notes, etc.

Also, consider how many pages you might need for certain sections. For example, the table of contents page may be one page, but the section for reflecting on books may be 20-50 pages depending on how many books you read. I tried to plan mine so that I would run out of pages at about the same time in each section, so when I start fresh I will have finished my old one. I know I won’t perfectly complete this quest, but I may get close. This journey is supposed to be fun, so don’t get too caught up in the page spread. Just let the pages divide themselves if it takes the stress away. Here’s how I organized my commonplace notebook:

Page 1: There is a spot to put my name and I also put my phone number in case it gets lost (which would be the end of the world).

Page 2-3: (The first two lined pages next to each other): I left them blank because I want to create a mood board soon dedicated to the vibe of my journal.

Page 4: Table of contents - I filled this out last

Page 5: Goals page - goals I made for the new year in a spot I will see them often

Page 6-11: To do list - a simple list of tasks to check off for life, deadlines, etc. (I will probably need to expand this list further on in my journal at a later date when the space is full)

Page 12-19: Substack idea list - just simple titles or writing inspiration

Page 20-21: Spanish vocabulary list - a place to put useful words I learn or come across when studying

Page 22-23: Book list - my books to be read

Page 24-39: Books - where I will reflect on the books I read, keeping record of my reflections after or during my reads (themes, plot lines, favorite characters, mood boards)

Page 40-59: TV shows - I am including this because I watch far more television shows than movies (notice I am leaving large gaps between these sections so I have room to keep everything in its organized section)

Page 60-77: Movies - I don’t watch them very often, but just for when I do

Page 78-85: My book - a place for ideas for my own book I plan on writing

Page 86-109: Quotes and poems - I made this section large because I love collecting quotes from movies, books, tv shows, or even people (I may even write my own poem or two)

Page 110-150: Research/Observations - this can be for anything, but I want to start studying more about nature, specifically where I am from or places I travel. I want to be accustomed to the trees, plants, and animals that I come into contact with because nature brings me peace, and I am sure that taking the time to research and observe it will be a sort of meditation for me. I plan to keep field notes of things I find interesting in nature—photos, drawings, and spiritual meanings.

Page 111-252: Journal/Tidbits - this space is for everything else that doesn’t fit in the other sections. I don’t want to be too specific with this section so it allows me to be creative and add whatever I am feeling or most drawn to at the moment. I’m thinking: morning pages, affirmations, random thoughts, expanding essay ideas, daily encounters that I want to remember, reflections on other forms of media I consume, mood boards, junk journal boards, etc.

Although this is how I have my own commonplace journal set up, feel free to customize your own setup and use as many or more sections than what I have here. If you do create a system to your liking, you’re more likely to use it often. I wish you good luck on your commonplace notebook journey and I can’t wait to hear about yours and share our ideas together. I have been considering starting a subscriber chat for us, but didn’t know what about. Maybe we could use it to share our commonplace journals? Let me know what you think!

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Here is the YouTube video that I mentioned earlier in this post: creating a digital garden to end my doom scrolling - Anna talks about what a digital garden (or the digital form of a commonplace journal) is and why they are important for us to keep.

Also, I recently came across a Substack article by titled your pocket guide to starting a commonplace notebook and she lists some great ideas to include in your notebook. I recommend you to read her post next.

With love,

L.L.