CLICK THROUGH FOR DISCOUNT CODE. Can we chat for a moment about tall girl problems? I realize it seems like a petty complaint, but man, there are so many cute clothes in the world that just don't come close to working for my 5'11" frame. Pants land in all kinds of strange places, jumpers and rompers - ha! - you can imagine how well that goes, crop tops really become something closer to long bras... the struggle.
That prideful will of ours? It will serve you and it will break you it. You will be its hostage as often as it will make you a hero. It is a wild and noble, terrible and destructive thing. It's the balance in you that will walk away from crippling shame and failure and turn right back to meet it the next day. It holds no weight and record of pain. It does not bruise or burn. The same core that allows you to risk crashing boldly into love a thousand times will also forget to remember the stove was hot when you touched it.
I think of the roundness of the word off my lips when whispered to Fable, the full-bodied us-ness that sweetens its core. I think of the history fluttering like photographs off the sound when I say it to my mother, the growing pains and old stories and raw holy knowns. I think of the lightness it carries offered like a balloon to a new friend on a dark day, the weight of it surrounded by weeping, the violent stubborn might of it when I am at the end of what I want to endure. I have used the word love as a weapon and balm, as a promise, a solution, a proposition, and a simple fact of my being.
I have owned love. Love has owned me.
There are two, currently, on the top bunk, reading aloud to each other in sister-hush whispers, and two, mother and son, curled somewhere dreaming below me on the bottom floor. There is a half-sick husband shuffling, and old dog attempting a nap, and somewhere, a mostly-owned puppy is chewing something she probably shouldn't.
There was a sunrise, once when I was young-flailing and sure of nothing, that began with fogged windows in a borrowed car. The sun rose, and we gathered ourselves and the scattered pieces of hope and failure, removed our bodies from their newest and only proximity, stole one last glance from angles we would never revisit, and drove with our faces to the rising and our backs to the ocean and the last time I knew what I wanted. And all the way home, you were holding my hand.
Dear Beautiful Girl -
Metaphor is the blessing and the curse of the writer. It's the tool that gives us the ability to voice the un-voiceable truths, open the doors inside of other humans and air out all the unspeakable things, and also the crutch that makes us insufferable in an argument and pretty much the worst when all you need is a straight answer......
Here is how to fall in love when your heart has been broken:
Begin with leaves. Crush just a little on the magic of a wildfire fall, the red and yellow swirling, the fluttering rush. Take long walks under sun-shadowed canopies and let the sound of them soothe you - trust them, even though you know they are only temporary. Let yourself rest in the beauty of leaves, and once you have loved them, just a little, just enough, love more.