Inspirations from East town, Grand Rapids:
Residential: Imagine a place that has twisting, hilly streets laid with cobbles and lined with aging trees. These trees watch while children play hopscotch on the sidewalk below and, if the knobby oaks are lucky, an adventurous child (away from parental view) may make their way up the old yet sturdy pulp. The wonder of the shade comes close only to the wonder of an orange popsicle on these hot summer days, but the possibilities of this tree reach much further than the sticky mess of a frozen treat. The joy of a popsicle lasts only until ingestion, but the trees will stand there, day after day, ready to make a pirate ship out of a large limb or a wood world known only to those who have the right password and the right currency.
Restaurant(al): A few blocks from this place, a couple eats breakfast that looks like sunshine. Simple ingredients are fine for most restaurants, but this one uses something out of the ordinary to feed its guests. This place creates dishes (not bakes or broils or fries, but creates) not for the love of money but for the love of food and community. Over their last sips of hazelnut coffee, tastes of a magical breakfast dance in the bellies of the young lovers as ease dances in their hearts.
Fundamental: Just a skip away from the laundromat (which is equipped with giant rotating fans that could provide an airplane with lift-off and an oversized black labrador with the nicest disposition in all of Grand Rapids) is the local Farmer's Market. Inhabitants of the area flock here, finding gems as small as blueberries and as bright as sunflowers and, knowing they've helped their neighbors, leave with smiles and satisfaction and baskets full of goods.
Essential: In this moment, I find myself enjoying my umpteenth cup of magnificent coffee with the sounds of motown wafting through the bean-filled air. This tea/coffeehouse is hipster heaven, with racks of off-the-beaten-path periodicals and enough lit-up Macbook apples to light a small home. Two men sit to my left wearing wingtip shoes and bowler hats but they only have enough money to drink the free cups of water. I feel oddly at home here, with the poor yet fashionable outcasts, willing to invest more in art and music than in food (which is why so many of us are vegetarians). And, when we do find some spare change, we spend it on coffee, the perfect appetite suppressant and bitter yet smooth, just the oxymoron we were looking for.
Conclusion(al): The truth is, I've felt at home in all of the places I've described above, a rarity for a Traverse City native (one who has felt out of place since she left for college three years ago). I suppose it is a rarity for anyone to start to feel at home any place that isn't where they grew up. But, I am growing accustomed to these uneven roads, the cobbles concaving and convexing alongside my feelings of displacement yet comfort...
...just the oxymoron I was looking for.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
life and coffee houses
Here's a post from my new blog! Enjoy :)
I am stuck in a rut, unable to conjure the words, unwilling to submit my mind solely to writing for one class, or studying for one exam, or preparing for one presentation. The walls that inclose me in my small place usually allows me to organize my thoughts better, to compartmentalize them to fit neatly into the space I have. But I have barely enough room to flip a pancake without bumping my elbow into the sink faucet, let alone organize my each and every worry, let alone lay out the load of school work I have for the week, let alone fold and make compact all of my belongings. Sometimes, no amount of planning or organizing can get me in the mood for homework, or make me feel free of the storm of responsibilities raining on my life.
I am stuck in a rut, unable to conjure the words, unwilling to submit my mind solely to writing for one class, or studying for one exam, or preparing for one presentation. The walls that inclose me in my small place usually allows me to organize my thoughts better, to compartmentalize them to fit neatly into the space I have. But I have barely enough room to flip a pancake without bumping my elbow into the sink faucet, let alone organize my each and every worry, let alone lay out the load of school work I have for the week, let alone fold and make compact all of my belongings. Sometimes, no amount of planning or organizing can get me in the mood for homework, or make me feel free of the storm of responsibilities raining on my life.
Pay bills, stop bills, move out, move in, pack, unpack, backpack full, backpack emptied on the desk the floor the bed, sleep three hours maybe four, backpack back partially packed with my mind packed of information to gather-remember-regurgitate-write-rewrite for class, class then work, work then homework, homework then sleep, packing and unpacking and packing and unpacking and packing again. And then, when I have dealt with the happenings of today, I unpack my thoughts about the future, give them a moment, give them some respect and tears and admit my fear of the years ahead, and then I pack them back up. Start again.
And where is my release from this rain? Where is the umbrella that keeps me dry, lets me hear the pitter-patter of life, but shields me from the pangs of the tear, I mean rain, drops?
I've found a release, my friends, I've found a release in coffee houses. It is here that I can produce as a student, a thinker, a human.
It's not just the caffeine, though the bitterly dark and smoothly hot drink does lull me so. Rather, it's the hum of the espresso grinder, the softness of the eclectic music, the smell of the coffee bean and the hue of the lighting. The atmosphere, the looks of contemplation, the hugs from old friends. Here I can focus my energy on one project and then the next, here I am free to think.
This is my happy place; somehow it makes me feel like I can handle, at least partially, what it is that I need to do. Call me crazy, but when I make it through life's current messes and move onto the next set of messes, I will thank (at least in part) my various coffee places. Then I will pack up, and with coffee in hand, start again.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
death and rebirth
Spring is rebirth. After a winter of gray and cold and barren trees, the sounds of the snowplow are replaced with ruffling leaves and chirping birds in the dewey mornings. Lilacs bloom alongside the recovering grass and rain falls - sometimes heavily and thunderously, and sometimes lightly and beautifully - but no matter how it falls, it enlivens everything and every being. Humans become happier, plants become colorful, and animals come out from the covers they took all winter. Spring is beautiful. I never appreciate nature more than when it is spring.
_______________________________
_______________________________
This spring has been special for a multitude of reasons, its specialty both beautiful and tragic. Early in May a bird began building a nest right outside my door. Every day I watched as the nest grew deeper, wider, and taller. Twigs too tough to tangle into a home fell to my porch below, and I welcomed the remnants of nature's construction site with cheer.
Though I had been witness to the growing structure, I did not see the bird until after the project's finish. A robin, red breasted and strong from weeks of hard labor, nestled sweetly into her home. I wondered if she'd built it as a cozy place for her eggs? She couldn't have chosen a better spot, I thought: under the cover of a porch yet feet from a field full of fresh worms and growth.
Days after sighting Robin, I peeked into her nest (after being prompted by Elliot's picture message) to find one brightly turquoised egg. My soul filled with happiness. Life was developing right at my doorstep, and I would be witness to the miracle of birdy birth.
Then, tragedy. As I was fumbling for my keys to unlock the apartment door, Robin (unprepared for my disturbance) took off from her nestled position and kicked her egg, flying away too quickly to see it fall to the cold pavement below. There it was, a dense yellow yolk littered with shattered turquoise shell, a baby bird, dead on my doorstep. I stood, jaw ajar, eyes unmoving, heart aching, mind frozen.
After being guided inside by Elliot and Mark, I - guilt stricken - watched outside the kitchen window for Robin's return. Would she realize her loss? Would she build a new home out of tainted memory of this one? She flew back in almost immediately, burrowing her large body back where it belonged. Elliot tried convincing me that she didn't realize what happened, but I could see the loss in her eyes. She wasn't holding her head as high as before, she wasn't as alert as normal. To me, she was a mother grieving the miscarriage of her child. How heartbreaking, I thought.
Days went by and Robin remained in her nest. She became more and more comfortable with persons entering and leaving the apartment, staying put with each slamming of the door. It was my fear that she lost her only offspring, but I found relief when Elliot sent me another picture message, this time with three eggs snug against the twigs.
_______________________________
The beauty and tragedy of this spring has made me reflect on death and rebirth. Where do humans lie in the circle of life? What do we contribute to the world around us? When we take our own falls to the pavement, we stick ourselves in wooden boxes or makes ashes from our flesh and do nothing to give back to the earth that has nurtured us, sustained us while hungry and enlightened us in its beauty.
And, in turn, do we do enough to celebrate birth? Do we ensure that, in life as well as in death, we are nurturing nature as nature nurtures us?
What if, with each birth, we planted a fruit tree with the placentas of our children? What if, with each death, we planted oaks using the seeds in bio urns? Sure, we would lose the sentiment of tombstones (we'd also lose the waste of tombstones). But how lovely would it be to visit a forest, map in hand, and find the birth and death tree of your late grandparents? How beautiful the idea of your child eating from a pear tree that was nourished by the very substance that nourished them in the womb? And how accurate, perhaps, if you could bury your parents next to their trees of life, if you could celebrate at the funeral their growth and their contribution to the world with something so tangible - something that will continue to grow even after they are gone. And then you would plant their tree of death, the tree existing as their memory, their memory giving on, living on.
How beautiful would that be, that forrest of life and death? How lovely.
With sincerity,
SSB
_______________________________
Listen: Regina Spektor - Wallet
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
finding inspiration to keep going.
I have barely enough time to update this blog! So I will make this short and sweet (maybe... no promises).
My life has been insanity lately. Three classes, working, moving, summer-ing. And now, blogging. The past two days show precisely what I mean.
Sunday morning I worked at the beautifully early hour of 7:30am, after working the night before until 11pm and not falling asleep until after 2am. Work was busy as usual, and as much as I did not want to be working, I did not want to get out of work perhaps even more. After work merely meant more work, as I had the task of taking all of my notes and outlines of a needs statement for my Grant Writing class and turning them into a cohesive needs statement. On my 4.5 hours of sleep, I forged ahead with the writing. But first, of course, I wanted to buy a desk from Target so that I could have a surface to write on. And I couldn't just buy it - I had to transport it to my new apartment (more information to come on the new place) and then build it. An easy distraction from the paper I was supposed to be writing. But I totally justified it by the fact that it would "help" me write, by creating a place specifically FOR writing.
Desk built and coffee brewing for the long night ahead, I hunkered down to find that I completely forgot how to write. I guess more accurately, I just forgot how to use words. It's ok, my writer's block was interrupted by the blown fuse in my kitchen. Apparently I cannot run the microwave and coffee maker at the same time - it's just too much for my new and small place to handle. So I repositioned my coffee maker to the bathroom (just like in a hotel, right?), because ensuring that coffee was made was more important than ensuring the refrigerator was running, and found my way to the basement to reset the breaker. Oh, did I mention that to get to the breaker I have to go through the main house (which I do not live in)? My neighbors have so far answered the door 3 times so that I could reset a breaker. Thank goodness they're nice!
So, I wrote and wrote and wrote, which consisted of a lot of NOT writing and a lot of frustration, and finally found my pillow at 2am. The pillow was so beautifully comfortable on my aching head. It welcomed me with warm and billowy arms. It hugged the contours of my cheek bones perfectly. (I just bought these awesome, new pillows from TJ Maxx, by the way). And, as comfortable as it was, I was faced with two obstacles to sleep. 1. I was attempting sleep on an air mattress, and 2. There was a raging thunderstorm outside and I was in a new place (but an old house), alone. And I love thunderstorms! Something made the experience very scary that night, though. Finally I drifted to a very apprehensive slumber at 3am. And then woke up 3 hours later.
I had a needs statement to finish and revise! Also, I had Marketing Management class at 8:30. And we were sure to have a quiz. Write, drink coffee, study, brush teeth, drink coffee, go. Drink coffee. Amazingly I was alert in class. I was actually quite terrified by how awake I was.
So I get to Grant Writing class at noon. I felt pretty confident in my writing at this point. I knew I had a lot of revising to do - this was my rough draft after all - but for the most part I thought I did a good job.
Wrong.
Writing was torn apart by peer/professor editing. Oh, and then... my group decided/my professor strongly urged us to change our funder.
Guess what that meant? Complete re-write.
Another night of working until 2am, another morning of edits, and here I am now. Running fully on coffee and fearing a normal sleep schedule will not happen for another 4 weeks (when the first half of summer classes ends).
My life is insanity. How did I find the inspiration to keep going? Ms. Ella Baker. Wikipedia can tell you all about her. If you're interested in a really great account of the civil rights era, read Freedom's Daughters. Through all of my insanity, the strength of women like Ella Baker pushed me to continue.
If Ella could change the course of history (which, she truly did), I could surely make it through this.
SSB
My life has been insanity lately. Three classes, working, moving, summer-ing. And now, blogging. The past two days show precisely what I mean.
Sunday morning I worked at the beautifully early hour of 7:30am, after working the night before until 11pm and not falling asleep until after 2am. Work was busy as usual, and as much as I did not want to be working, I did not want to get out of work perhaps even more. After work merely meant more work, as I had the task of taking all of my notes and outlines of a needs statement for my Grant Writing class and turning them into a cohesive needs statement. On my 4.5 hours of sleep, I forged ahead with the writing. But first, of course, I wanted to buy a desk from Target so that I could have a surface to write on. And I couldn't just buy it - I had to transport it to my new apartment (more information to come on the new place) and then build it. An easy distraction from the paper I was supposed to be writing. But I totally justified it by the fact that it would "help" me write, by creating a place specifically FOR writing.
Desk built and coffee brewing for the long night ahead, I hunkered down to find that I completely forgot how to write. I guess more accurately, I just forgot how to use words. It's ok, my writer's block was interrupted by the blown fuse in my kitchen. Apparently I cannot run the microwave and coffee maker at the same time - it's just too much for my new and small place to handle. So I repositioned my coffee maker to the bathroom (just like in a hotel, right?), because ensuring that coffee was made was more important than ensuring the refrigerator was running, and found my way to the basement to reset the breaker. Oh, did I mention that to get to the breaker I have to go through the main house (which I do not live in)? My neighbors have so far answered the door 3 times so that I could reset a breaker. Thank goodness they're nice!
So, I wrote and wrote and wrote, which consisted of a lot of NOT writing and a lot of frustration, and finally found my pillow at 2am. The pillow was so beautifully comfortable on my aching head. It welcomed me with warm and billowy arms. It hugged the contours of my cheek bones perfectly. (I just bought these awesome, new pillows from TJ Maxx, by the way). And, as comfortable as it was, I was faced with two obstacles to sleep. 1. I was attempting sleep on an air mattress, and 2. There was a raging thunderstorm outside and I was in a new place (but an old house), alone. And I love thunderstorms! Something made the experience very scary that night, though. Finally I drifted to a very apprehensive slumber at 3am. And then woke up 3 hours later.
I had a needs statement to finish and revise! Also, I had Marketing Management class at 8:30. And we were sure to have a quiz. Write, drink coffee, study, brush teeth, drink coffee, go. Drink coffee. Amazingly I was alert in class. I was actually quite terrified by how awake I was.
So I get to Grant Writing class at noon. I felt pretty confident in my writing at this point. I knew I had a lot of revising to do - this was my rough draft after all - but for the most part I thought I did a good job.
Wrong.
Writing was torn apart by peer/professor editing. Oh, and then... my group decided/my professor strongly urged us to change our funder.
Guess what that meant? Complete re-write.
Another night of working until 2am, another morning of edits, and here I am now. Running fully on coffee and fearing a normal sleep schedule will not happen for another 4 weeks (when the first half of summer classes ends).
My life is insanity. How did I find the inspiration to keep going? Ms. Ella Baker. Wikipedia can tell you all about her. If you're interested in a really great account of the civil rights era, read Freedom's Daughters. Through all of my insanity, the strength of women like Ella Baker pushed me to continue.
If Ella could change the course of history (which, she truly did), I could surely make it through this.
SSB
Friday, May 13, 2011
one big congratulations.
My dear friend, Katherine Krueger, has graduated from college. And, I'm really not surprised she did it by the age of 20 AND secured a job before even graduating.
She's talented.
But, she has so much more talent than her eye for design and her superb managing skills (which allowed her to rock at being E-I-C of Hope's yearbook). Katie is a great, great friend.
She's talented.
But, she has so much more talent than her eye for design and her superb managing skills (which allowed her to rock at being E-I-C of Hope's yearbook). Katie is a great, great friend.
I'm so happy for you, Katie. I wish you luck on your career endeavors, and happiness with each passing day. You've worked so hard to get to where you are, and you deserve all that life is offering you right now :)
On that cheesy and sentimental note, goodnight world.
SSB
Saturday, April 30, 2011
pretty patterned and painted things
I took notice recently of how many awesomely patterned things I own! And how much I am instantly attracted to things that are patterned and painted otherwise... Here's a small sample:
Hope you enjoyed my ridiculousness!
Love,
SSB
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| Three pack of patterned journals? Duh. |
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| Pretty box the journals came in? Awesome. |
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| Ridiculous patterned chairs found at Salvation Army? Great, except used furniture freaks me out. |
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| Pretty mug :) only $0.69! |
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| The cutest patterned gift bag (compliments of Elliot's mom) and a red patterned scarf? Yes please! (I never pass up a pretty scarf, pretty much ever) |
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| Placemat holding my TV... and I'm pretty sure I found this at Meijer. |
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| Painted tin from my friend Winter :) Love it! |
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| Two fake flowers, one holds a candle and the other is made from tissue paper. Now that I think about it, I probably shouldn't put these next to each other! (Ok, so these aren't patterned, but they're textured! Close enough). |
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| My make-up bag has to look cute, too! |
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| A painting! |
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| The inside of my coat! That's right, the patterns continue even on the inside. |
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| My favorite seat in the house, which just so happens to sport a patterned pillow. |
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| Three favorite cups! Tea cup, recycled green glass, and a deep blue coffee mug :) |
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| Well I mean, I need a place to store my tea bags! |
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| Because bills aren't fun unless they're in an adorable mail sorter. Oh wait, even then they aren't fun. |
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| Peaceful and serene :) |
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| I buy books based on how they look. They just also happen to be good books. |
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| Night stand! Gotta love jade trinket holders! |
Hope you enjoyed my ridiculousness!
Love,
SSB
Friday, April 29, 2011
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