almost to the coast.

"On soft spring nights I'll stand in the yard under the stars - Something good will come out of all things yet - And it will be golden and eternal just like that - There's no need to say another word."

-Big Sur, Jack Kerouac

Sometimes I think I had things better figured out at 14 than I do now (though I'm certain I have a dozen family members who will assure you that's just not true). In either case, I'm delving back into my roots of Kerouac, Thoreau and, ahem, Incubus. Driving through Big Sur in September brought Kerouac's novel, named for the stunning coastline, to my mind. His writing is so organic, so alive. If you've never read On the Road, pick it up and experience my adolescent handbook (read: my personal Twilight).

We camped at Half Moon Bay on our way out of San Francisco, and our night went eerily well. We pulled up to our campsite, set up our tent and were roasting marshmallows within less than ten minutes. We slept like babies, woke up to a beautiful sunrise and some cookies saved from Tartine Bakery for breakfast, and began the drive down the coast. 

And it was gorgeous. All of it. Miles and winding miles of cliffs and blue ocean and sky.

To once again borrow the words of Jack Kerouac, I felt

"Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running--that's the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there."

I am landlocked in Utah and feeling homesick for the sea (I guess that's seasick for you). I've never craved salt water and salty skin as badly as I do now. 

I could write a book of love letters to the ocean.

let the century pass me by.

We left Hawaii at the beginning of the month for good. And we haven't spent much time being sad. Instead, we've been celebrating the upsides of leaving, like affordable groceries ($2.99 gallons of milk v. $9.99), seeing family, driving cars that pass safety inspection, and finally being able to buy "nice" things because we won't have to leave them behind when we move. We even ordered a Vitamix and had it shipped to Utah as a welcoming gift to ourselves.

But the other night before falling asleep, I thought about the small space we left behind, and for the first time I felt sad. Real honest sadness. Chase and I laid on our backs in the dark and took turns remembering out loud. I cried, thinking about the one-room apartment that we took over with our singing and our meals and our fights and our laughter; our pictures, homemade shelves and thrift store finds. I cried because the day we moved out, our apartment was a bare white box full of none of those things, and I wish I had taken more time to remember everything before it was emptied.

I can't find the right words to explain what I felt. But I mourned for my memory. For its patchiness. Because the things I remember will never be whole. My memory of our first home will never contain the myriad of emotions that I experienced there. I can't justly recreate it in my mind. I am three weeks out, and already I forget the color of our carpet and the contents of our fridge. 

And that's okay. I can't freeze time, and i'm coming to terms with that (although if I could, now wouldn't be a bad time to do it).

But sometimes, I think, it's okay to be sad for the places and people you've left behind.

let the wind take my body away.

Finally got some photos developed from our Maui trip in March.

I've never seen so many waterfalls in my life. Or eaten so many Krispy Kreme donuts in one weekend. 

Being married really is the sweetest thing. Having your best friend at your side all day everyday. Always having someone to laugh with and tell your secrets to. To split meals with. Someone to wink at you across the room. Never having to go home and be apart, because your home is their home.

Everything is just better with Chase.

something beautiful.

ocean of noise.

all those wasted lives in the wilderness downtown.