On the weight and lightness of life

In life, we spend a lot of time weighing.

We weigh ourselves on standard scales, and then we weigh our worth by means of that number. But I've noticed that we seem to weigh everything else, too. We weigh our lives by the size of the diamonds in our jewelry, by the amount of belongings in our homes, by our homes themselves. We weigh our lives by our friends, sometimes by their character but far too often, by how their lives and the weights within them stack up against our own. And far too often, we want to be sure that our lives weigh more.

In a world that is constantly pushing us (and by us I mean mostly women) to weigh less, we are strangely obsessed with having lives that are heavy. As if weight, the lightness of us or the heaviness of our stuff, is somehow indicative of identity.

Prospective partners have to have a certain amount of money, a certain set of traits, a certain level of aspiration. Our friends have to be similar enough that it's comfortable but different enough that it's interesting. We're supposed to be both trendy and individual, successful and selfless.

But truth be told, I think our lives would be more full (not necessarily easier, though the two are often confused) if they were lighter. If we unpacked our lives a little bit and allow ourselves to drop some of the weight. Because it was never about the weight.

I don't mean to say, lose weight and do it quickly. I mean to say, it was never supposed to be about the weight. I mean to say we spend our whole lives weighing, comparing, and trying desperately to figure out the best way to build higher and higher when, maybe, we'd be better served simply living. I mean to say all this focus on the weight of life takes away from the lightness of it. I believe, wholeheartedly and unashamedly, that our lives are meant to be elegant. That very few things we carry with us are actually necessary or beneficial, and that weight comes off most easily when we aren't guilted about keeping it.

Our worth is not measured in weight. Our worth is not measured by what a scale says, whether it's for our bodies or our jewelry or a cultural scale of comparison to the person across the table. There is freedom in choosing to cast off weight, or in keeping it, if keeping it can be done with the admittance that it doesn't make one's worth larger.

By what things are you weighing your life? And how great, or small, is the weight of them, really?

Stuff I've read

Stephen's and my apartment building has this excellent culture of putting unwanted, but still usable, things at the bottom of the main stairwell. Almost always, you can find an assortment of odds and ends, including books. It's become one of my favourite things about our new home; even though we've not met many of our neighbors, they're the sort of people that are happy to recycle good reading material, and I like that.

This month's book, Sea Glass, was a stairwell find. We were on our way out one Sunday morning when the author's name caught my eye. I've read novels by Anita Shreve previously, and I really enjoy how her writing resonates. So, I picked up Sea Glass, and that was that.

It's a really great book. Sea Glass is set on the cusp of the Great Depression, chronicling the successess and downfalls of a newlywed couple, a mill-worker leading a strike, a woman whose lover left her because he went broke, and a young boy who had to leave school to support his family. Each chapter is narrated by one of these characters, allowing the reader to watch the story take shape from numerous perspectives.

It's not a coming-of-age tale; it's something more like the rise and fall of life, the allure of the perfect love, be it romantic or otherwise, and the way the world caves in on itself when real tragedy darkens your doorstep. Almost Shakespearean in its sadness, Sea Glass is light and heavy at the same time. It's one of those stories where so much is said through the saying of so little, and when it was over, I actually cried.

He thinks that she is beautiful. She isn't classically beautiful and she isn't magazine beautiful either, but she is wife beautiful. 

She finds scraps of celadon and cucumber and jade, specks of pea and powder and acquamarine. She doesn't like the browns, but occasionally she collects a topaz or a tea.

You read a word like massacre and you think, I know what that means. It means the slaughter of innocent people...But then...when it happens to you, when you live the word, you realize that the word itself means nothing. It tells you nothing at all. It doesn't begin to convey the horror, does it?

The art of correction

We live in a society that is obsessed with perfection. From clothing to employment to social standing to social media, we are constantly comparing and judging and trying our hardest to climb just one rung higher on the proverbial ladder of success.

This is a hard thing to write about, because I want this space to help rather than hurt, to explore rather than exclude, and to give room for growth above everything else. But something I've learned in my short and oh-so-privileged life is that sometimes, helping, exploring, and growing come out of hurting. Sometimes, the only way for our lives to become better is to see the ways in which they're falling short.

How many times do we see on social media, our friends making mistakes? I don't mean engaging where they perhaps ought not to or posting controversial articles for the sake of controversy. I mean spelling and grammar, or the gross lack thereof. And nine times out of 10, we let these mistakes slide. We're quick to argue about religion or politics or popular culture but far to slow too say, Hey, that comma doesn't mean what you think it means.

I have a lot of intelligent friends. I think we all do. I think we all know people who are educated and well-spoken and thoughtful, but the outside world might not know it. I'm not saying we should value correctness over kindness or that every single error we see should be blatantly pointed out, regardless of etiquette, but I do find it curious that in a society so influenced by perfection, people are often unwilling to better themselves.

My dad once asked me to bring a dictionary to the dinner table when I got lost in the conversation. We diagrammed sentences in school, trying desperately to learn the difference between an adverb and an adjective. I remember learning about subject/verb agreement and the frustration of sitting in speech classes with people who had great ideas but no sense of how to convey them effectively.

I've been practicing lettering and calligraphy lately, and I recently worked on a piece that, when I finished, had a mistake. I'd been so focused on getting every tiny detail perfectly shaded and contoured, that I'd not paid attention to the actual letters. I'd misspelled a word, and even after posting it with a caption drawing attention to the mistake, not a single person pointed it out. I wondered, had they not seen it? Or had they considered it rude to say anything? Or had my own admittance of the mistake made it a non-issue? Who knows?

I want the people in my life to feel loved and valued. I don't want to ever be a person who makes people feel small, because I've been made to feel small countless times, and it's an emptying feeling. But I believe part of the love and value we show to the people around us is seen through guiding people to their full potential. And this will never happen if we can't learn to correct, however gently, our mistakes. In a society demanding perfection, we've somehow lost the ability to accept constructive criticism, and subsequently demanded that we be seen as perfect when we aren't.

Imperfections are unavoidable, and can be wonderful. They give the world color. But let's at least have the decency to call them what they are. I'm not arguing for the sake of creating a perfect world; I'm asserting that calling imperfect things perfect isn't helpful, and that when it comes to relationships of any kind, we should perhaps be more willing to offer and accept corrections. There's a fine line between wanting to see a society in which people care about how they're presenting themselves and ache for a more true representation, and callously demanding people do better. I hope we can stand firmly on the kind, true, helpful side of this line.

What do you think? Do you think we should be more open to feedback from our peers?


Let it be noted that I proofread this post four times, and each time I found small errors in spelling. I'm not perfect either! Sometimes I slip up and my husband texts me from his office to offer suggestions, and for that, I'm thankful.

Cup of joe

If you were to sit down with me for a cup of coffee today, I'd tell you all my favorite things about being a newlyed. How the turning of my husband in our bed, early every morning, gently shakes me from sleep. How the door opening each afternoon as he arrives home from work makes me giddy. How the simplicity of vinyls playing while we cook dinner together seems far more exciting than anything I ever did as a single woman.

If you were to sit down with me for a cup of coffee today, I'd tell you that I'm not reading this month as much as I should be, but the book is still good.

If you were to sit down with me for a cup of coffee today, I'd tell you that I've been practicing my hand-lettering and have found it to be totally thrilling. I'd tell you how refreshing it is to know that I am good at something new, to see a far-fetched hobby come into fruition.

If you were to sit down with me for a cup of coffee today, I'd tell you how I'm longing for picture frames. I'd tell you that the last final touches of this first round of new-home-decorating are almost complete, if only we could find picture frames to hang our favorite captures. I'd tell you that this process of settling and nesting has been a lesson in patience and contentment and boy, am I thankful for it.

If you were to sit down with me for a cup of coffee today, I'd tell you my plans for this space over this still new year. I'd tell you my ideas for monthly posts and new series and I'd tell you how excited I am to put new shape to this blog, even if it remains laregly unnoticed.

If you were to sit down with me for a cup of coffee today, I'd speak quietly, because I have lost my voice this week. I'd tell you that I'm enjoying sitting in my own silence and appreciating this month of stillness, because come March, my work rights will come through and life will be far busier than it is these days.

If you were to sit down with me for a cup of coffee today, I would thank you for sitting and listening, and I would ask with great interest, what's new with you?

How are you taking your coffee this morning, and what sorts of conversations are you having? 

Stuff I've read

Last year, I read a book each month (sometimes two if I was lucky), and made an effort to blog about each one - compiling  a list of "stuff I've read." I thought I'd continue the trend for 2015...even though the first book blogged this year was, in fact, read last year.

December's book - and consequently the last book I read in 2014, was The Girl in the Garden, by Kamala Nair. It's Nair's first novel, the violently moving and profound story of Rakhee, whose life has been peppered with unknowns for almost as long as she can remember. It's about learning to resolve unresolvable issues, and coming to a place of acceptance for what used to seem unacceptable. It's a romance, a tragedy, a mystery of the best kind.

I read it in less than a week, needing to know how it would end. I finished it needing to share the story with Stephen, realizing it's one of the few, great stories that demands to be carried by more than one person. The Girl in the Garden left me tired, in a good way, somehow more aware of the vastness of the world around me, and of the importance of giving merit to that which seems impossible.

Nair writes with the hand of someone who cannot be silent. This story, the story of the girl in the garden and everything around her, is both terrifying and comforting, and challenges its readers to seek the very best for their societies and cultures.

Read it.

It was a funny way to put it: Muthashi is not more. Death had gathered up what was left of her in his black satchel and wandered off into the night. Muthashi had been snatched from the face of the earth. She was no more.

2014 || What I've loved, what I've lost, + what I've learned

The end of a year is always a funny time. We use it as a means to measure success or lack, almost as if it's a literal pinpoint on the maps of our lives - a place from which to take off, a standard from which to grow, a thing from which to be released into some other thing that we expect to always hold more.

The new year.

The other thing that is supposed to sharpen our resolve, refine us into people so much better than the ones we were a mere 24 hours before. The elusive place that keeps all our dreams and plans safe for us until we arrive, sometimes bruised, sometimes beaten, almost always not quite ready, and not quite sure how we got there. This is the magic of New Year's Eve and New Year's Day, and this particular year, I'm ready and willing and glad that the waiting is over.

I entered 2014 as a girlfriend, an au pair, hardly able to center pictures posted on this space and writing with much less diligence. I made promises to myself to read more, to explore more, and the be more open to the world. This New Year's Eve, I'm a wife, currently unemployed due to the status of my visa but looking ahead to career opportunities for which, for the first time in my short but full life, I'm excited. I'm well on my way to residing permanently in Australia, and living in an apartment that has both my husband's and my name on its lease. This blog has grown into a small piece of my heart, unpopular in the grand scheme of the Internet, but special nonetheless. I read at least a dozen new books this year, and though I barely travelled, I found that my glass always seemed to be overflowing.

I count myself successful, but not because of these few, insignificant accolades. I count myself successful because this year gave me valuable, irreplaceable lessons that will not stay behind. I learned to find beauty in the world by seeing beauty in myself, and I learned to see beauty in myself without being told that it's there. I learned that dazzling words aren't always better than simple ones. I learned that things I used to see as weaknesses in my life are, in fact, great strengths. I learned that thinking you know things is different than really knowing things. I learned that I know more than I think and less than I ought to. I learned that the content of my character, the facets of my person, the worth of my identity are nowhere to be found on social media. I learned that I'm passionate and disciplined and ready. And I learned that the things that I've loved and the things that I've lost are all wrapped up in the things that I've learned.

Here's to 2014, the year that saw me refined far more than easy resolutions would have, the year that ushered me in with love and is ushering me out with nothing less, the year that was both everything I wanted and not quite what I expected, the year that was easy and impossible, the year that I saw God like never before. The year that I am ready to leave.

2015, we're ready for you. Ready, and willing, and not waiting.

What did you learn this year?

A wedding post

As most of you know, Stephen and I had the pleasure of getting married one month ago. And even though most of my readers will have seen pictures via Facebook, I couldn't resist using this week as an opportunity to celebrate one month of marriage, receiving our wedding pictures, and the best early Christmas gift I could have imagined - my husband.

I think in a lot of ways, one of my favorite parts of the day was how calm I was and how jittery Stephen was. See, I get overexcited easily, and it's always obvious. Stephen is nonchalant, always. The day we got engaged, he kept saying, "I'm excited," without even smiling, while I was a bundle of laughter. On our wedding day, I remember being more excited than I imagined, but also completely calm. That certainty of this is it and this is right kept me quiet and still, while people told me countless times how restless Stephen was. I love that image of him, pacing, lying down on the floor, fidgeting - so excited that he actually couldn't contain himself. And I loved being on the other side of the spectrum - excited to the point of stillness.

Call me crazy, but it was almost as if the first part of our wedding day was experiencing love the way the other person normally experiences it. Giving us both a never before had taste of each other.

We kept it small, with just under 70 guests, and it was absolutely perfect. A smaller guest list allowed Stephen and me to really celebrate with everyone and to enjoy to the fullest this day-of-all-days. It rained. It poured, and we learned that wet wedding days are considered good luck because wet knots are difficult to untie. We embraced the dreariness, knowing our venue offered the perfect indoor option, and that the sky would create a dreamy backdrop for pictures.

We danced (though we both wish we'd danced more), we ate delicious cake, and we had the time of our lives. I've always been a little iffy of brides who claim their wedding day was the best day of their life, because I feel like a life together should be filled with best days rather than limited to just one, but at least for the time being, this was the best day.

I became a wife. I gained a husband. We started a journey that is glorious and fulfilling in so many ways, both expected and unexpected, and I can't wait to see what other best days fill up our marriage.

All photos, except the very first, were taken by Candice Emerson, of C. Hope Photography.