A few belated pieces of August

It has been a very busy year, and I haven’t shared much here.

Suffice to say that August in particular was a very busy month.

















* Thanks to my sister for the photo of us (and the rest of the dancers.)


In Waiting

The final weeks of the school year were a frenzy of busy-ness that almost broke me. The “coming up soon” preparations for a looming wedding and an even more immediately looming photo show were competing with a thousand other “right here, right now, or else” things involved in ending a school year.

Now the end of the school year has left me with a sudden stillness that is somehow full of motion. My life is full of preparations.

I feel that I always write the most when I am periods of transition. This is a time of transition, and there is a lot to say. I’m waiting for that space for a breath, where perhaps the words will come out. Right now I am not teaching, and there are spaces, but the spaces are full of many, many other things. I stop to breathe and become paralyzed.

Soon. Soon. Soon.

2013 june 7

2013 june 5

2013 june 6




Went to look at some invitation ideas today. A certain matron-of-honor head bride’s-chick got sucked into the world of TINY THINGS. Tiny topiary trees. Tiny tin pails. Tiny glass bottles with tiny corks.




Some friends threw a wonderful engagement dinner for us… including sangria, good company, tiny sandwich erasers (an essential component) and all of this delicious food.



Santiago to Finisterre. (By bus – our walk is done.)

Today we took the bus to the coast, to Finisterre, where many finish their Camino after passing through Santiago. Once we got there I understood why. After the crowds and the vague feeling of disillusionment upon reaching Santiago, I didn’t want my journey to end there. This – the misty coast – felt like the end of a journey.

The Romans believed that this was more than that – Finisterre, or Fisterra, was considered to be the end of the world. We felt it, walking out onto the narrow strip of land reaching out through the mist and into the Atlantic ocean beyond it. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking into nothingness.

We didn’t check into an albergue. Instead we found a ledge halfway down the steep slope at the very tip of the peninsula, with an overhanging boulder to protect us from the wind and keep us from falling off the cliff, and mountain goats clambering around on nearby rocks. My boyscout boyfriend built a fire for us to burn our hats and walking sticks.

Except at that point he wasn’t my boyfriend, because he used a daisy as a ring and asked me to marry him while we watched the sun set over the Atlantic.

(Perhaps because he knows me and knows what to do when I am distressed, and in this case I needed something to be excited about in the future once I cross that ocean again, instead of just feeling melancholy about what I’m leaving behind me. Maybe it was the only way he could get me back home.)

So we got engaged, watched the fire, watched the stars (thousands of them, incredibly bright), ate cheese and fruit (sliced up with a pocketknife), drank wine right from the bottle, listened to the waves crashing on the rocks beneath us, and slept wedged between the rocks that kept our slick sleeping bags from sliding us right off the cliff. A good end and a good beginning.

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