Yesterday, before a smoothie meeting at work (there are worse things than working someplace where the meetings are about coffee smoothies), I walked to State Street and treated myself to the perfume I’ve been dreaming after for about a year. It’s linden blossom perfume, sweet and old-fashioned. I’m sure the scent is out of style, and I’m not sure if anyone will like it but myself, but as I was doing dishes, I caught a whiff of it now and again. And I wondered where it came from. If a breeze was carrying in a bouquet of fragrant trees. And then I remembered that it was me. It was such a pleasure. Do you have any small luxuries that make you glad like that?

I took a few minutes away from Friday cleaning to sit in the garden and drink coffee. I wrote a real, raw list there that went something like this:

God, here is a list of the ugly, stupid lies I believe about myself:

It might sound lame, but it was honest. And by the time I got to lie number three, I felt so free, I couldn’t even remember any more of that bullshit. It all was so small. Sometimes I turn my head away from the ugly stuff I should face head on. Like that will make it disappear. But the freedom is in carrying it out into the light.

If you feel so inclined, give it a shot.

May is such a beautiful time of year. It’s nice to just be able to enjoy it, again, without stressing over finals or pining for summer break. This suits me.

(note: more on my latest writings to come.)

Dear winter,

March is less than a week away, and though you are a time period, not a conscious being, I want to be sure to say thank you before I get caught up in my excitement for spring.

You were so beautiful this year with your piles of snow, cold wind, and icy trees. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so stunning. It’s hasn’t been the best weather for sitting outside, but that’s part of why I like you so much. I like how the streets get quiet when you’re here. The introvert in me delights in the solitude you bring to this lively town. With you, there is always so much space to think and be quiet and alone. Thank you for that.

Thank you for turning my cheeks pinks when I walk to work and giving me the chance to bundle up in soft mittens and wool coats. I like how good warm things feel when you are around: fireplaces, heat vents, hot soup, and roasted winter vegetables. I like not having to wince about turning on the oven. If it wasn’t for you, my homemade bread wouldn’t have improved nearly as much as it did the last few months.

I am glad you exist, winter. I’ve enjoyed you so much this year, and I know that without you, spring wouldn’t taste nearly so sweet. I will drink up the last drops of you, and then see you next year.

Oh, and thank you for that soft pinkish blue light you have.

Always,
Lindsey

(Thank you, God, for wintertime)