Wishes

We went around in a circle - counterclockwise, not that it matters, but maybe one day it will. There was no hesitation. No blatantly avoiding eye contact and waiting to see who goes first. We took turns. By some unspoken agreement, we went round our three-person circle, in between bites of onion rings and brownies because really what else do you eat at a 24 hour diner on New Year's Day, and we made wishes.

I am a firm believer in the power of wishes. I cried for hours when I realized I'd forgotten to make a wish before blowing out the candles on my seventh ever birthday cake. Because there are only so many moments in this life when you take the time to stop, cross your fingers, and wish for something big. Only so many days that are special, circled on the calendar, glitter-and-gold enough to make you feel like anything is possible.

And the start of a new year has got to be one of them.

So there we were, 11pm, a basket of assorted fried foods already half eaten between the three of us. And we started to make wishes for the new year. Not resolutions, because those sound so negative and serious and like problems to be fixed rather than shooting stars to be blessed with a few magic words.

By the end of the night, our list included big things like honesty, health, understanding, confidence, and the biggest of them all: happiness.

The start of the new year has always felt like a big deal to me. I know it's just another day, that a date on the calendar doesn't make things happen, that wishes and wanting and dreaming are never the same as doing. But some nights, you just need a list of pretty words to keep you moving forward. And I want to move forward, into the days and weeks and months ahead. Into the blank space with nothing but a "2015" scribbled in the margins to be known for sure.

We went home, after tipping the waitress and turning the radio up for one last drive before I left town and we drifted our separate ways into the new year. We fogged up the window with our voices - voices that sound so familiar, sometimes we forget that every word we speak is a promise.

So here's me, curled up inside on a rainy day, wishing you big things for the new year. Wishing you all the wishes you can fit in your heart - birthday candles, eyelashes and shooting stars no longer needed.

Prague Snapshots #3

Well, my plane landed a couple days ago and, as sweet as it is to see old friends and family after six weeks abroad, my heart is aching for Prague. All the beautiful people I met and things I saw - I can't wait to bore my family with a never-ending slideshow. But for now, a couple of snapshots that remind me not only of what I'm missing, but how good life can be, if you just give it a chance. I can't wait to go back, but I'll always carry with me the knowledge that there are other options out there. There's a whole world of ancient cities and bright city lights, just waiting for you to buy a ticket and give it a shot.

Prague is real pretty. I hope we've established that.

I swear I tried to wait to take a picture first, but I couldn't resist velký čokoladový dort (literally 'big chocolate cake').

Rainy day view from the back of the tram. Best seat in the city.

Farmers' Market decisions. 

I hope I'm cool enough to go on ice cream dates when I'm their age.

Woke up at 4am to watch the city come to life. Good morning, Prague.

I am beyond terrified of heights. But sometimes climbing a dozen flights of steep, rickety wooden steps, with shaking legs and a Tesco bag full of Czech chocolate (didn't really think that one through) is worth it. Sometimes everything is worth it.

Dĕkuji za vše - thank you for everything.

Missing this.

Prague Snapshots #2

This time tomorrow, four weeks of summer school and Czech language and new skies will have past. I never dreamed my life could be this beautiful. Well, that's not true - I did dream. And I wished and hoped and regretted and cried about things that had never happened and, I thought, never would. 

But these four weeks have been full of all sorts of realizations. The kind that come to you suddenly, in the shower after walking along the river in the sticky summer heat, or while stirring your ice coffee and watching the way a new friend's eyes crinkle at the corners as he tells a story. 

I want more moments like these. More pictures. More nights when I don't want to sleep because this city and this life and this adventure are just so good that I don't want to miss a thing. But at the same time, more days when I don't feel like I'm missing out. Like whatever I do is exactly that I'm meant to do that everything will be okay.

I've done a whole lot of thinking - and a whole lot of picture-taking. Because the biggest realization of all came the other day while I was digging around in my bag for sunglasses and waiting for my tram to come:

You will only ever live this life once. You only ever get to be you. 

So you'd better give it your best.

Give it your everything. Give it your nine-hour-flights and jet-lag-mornings. Give it your birthday-cake-wishes and favorite rubber boots. Jealousy and regret have no place in this life I want to live, this person I want to be.

Just some thoughts and love from one girl, far, far away from home.

I do love this city at sunset.

Just a lonely bicycle, looking for a friend.

Things I didn't think would become a common sighting: peacocks, tourists carrying ice cream, and human statues.

I will always and forever love taking the train.

Still haven't totally decided whether I love swans, or I'm terrified of them. Still, they look pretty and they like bread so I think we'll get along just fine.

My new shoes smell like lemonade and are making tracks on these old stones.

Went for coffee in a room that looks like a palace. I am always surprised and delighted by this love story we call Prague.

I'm on a strictly ice cream diet, thank you very much.

Just another sunset picture. 

I'm half in love with every busker that I meet (old men with accordions included). But come on - he was cute and he smiled at me when I gave him some coins. The John Lennon wall is the place to be.

The Postcard Game

I just spent the past two hours sitting in the sun, writing postcards to my friends, family and familiar little world back home. I picked out the prettiest pictures, the best sunsets and the oldest buildings. I got out my good pen, the one I use for taking notes in class, blew the ants off of my lap and got started.

And I lied. Because that's what postcards do.

I love getting postcards in the mail. I love seeing where my friends have been, reading their words living vicariously through their precious moments. I hang them above my bed and I'm instantly there. But I know that a postcard is like a Polaroid: it's one second in time. It's edited and concise and has no return address. Because you can't write back to a postcard - you can't go back to that moment in time, but you try to make it as beautiful as possible so that someone, somewhere, can hold it close to their heart and read happiness between the lines.

No one wants to put a bad day in the mail. No one writes a postcard full of worries or fears. We have long, angsty letters for that - the kind where the receiver can sense, by the weight of the envelope and the sender's hurried handwriting, that this is not just a letter, it's an afternoon, a white flag, arms opened wide, desperate for a familiar embrace. We don't put that kind of thing on a postcard.

So my postcards are fragments. Not lies, just half-truths. I include the good: the sunsets, the old buildings, the slippery cobblestones after a freak thunderstorm.

But I leave some things out, too. I don't write to my friends about the blisters, the anxiety, the occasional bouts of loneliness. If I'm putting it into writing, I want it to be good.

Everyone plays the postcard game. On Facebook, on Instagram, in the mail - we all want to appear happy and fulfilled. And maybe we are. Or maybe we're not. But that doesn't really matter - what matters is that we choose the parts of ourselves that we put out into the world. Today I chose my best handwriting, tiny hearts in the margin, and words like "unbelievable" and "true."

And I told the truth. In that moment, on this hot and sticky, never-ending Sunday afternoon, I was happy. I had sand between my toes and the sun on my face. I wrote about challenges and adventures and signed them all "love from Prague" because in the end, that's the truest thing of all: I am here. I am here and what matters most isn't that I smiled despite my sun-burnt cheeks, that I eat lunch alone sometimes or that I always sleep through the alarm in the mornings.

What matters most is what every postcards says but what is rarely written: I am here. I am here and I wish you were too.

Love from Prague.

Prague Snapshots #1

I've been in Prague for two days now. And in that time, I've collected a couple hundred pictures, a huge blister on my left heel and some major realizations: Being here, living this, the smell of sweat-and-sunscreen under the hot July sun is nothing like I imagined it. Because dreams don't come true. What lives in your head and your heart is something secret, something sweet, something too delicate to survive the outside world. But that doesn't make this whole Real Life thing anything less incredible. See exhibit A:

The welcoming committee at Prague Castle.

Oh, the windows. All the windows in this pretty little city are wearing the best summer blooms and I just can't get enough.

Changing of the guard at Prague Castle. Baby blue never looked so serious.

Just John and I at the John Lennon Wall (there was also a portrait of Yoko but no one wanted a picture with her - I got one anyways, because who really knows why the Beatles broke up?).

Everybody wants to get some of that Astronomical Clock (because, to be honest, it is really really cool).

 I needed to share because that? On the right? Best chocolate cake ever. From a posh little place called Cafe Cafe (because all the other names were taken). Ten out of ten.

The original St. Wenceslas (good guy).

Spent my Saturday morning at a market down by the river, checking out the pretty flowers.

Swimming Testing the Vltava with my toes. It was cold. And fabulous, on a hot day, but definitely cold. Next time I'll bring my flippers.

Swans, glaring at me because I don't have anything to feed them (besides my flesh, which I saw a few eyeing up earlier. They're a bloodthirsty breed).

Fingers crossed your summer is full of adventure! More pictures soon (because I take about a million every single day). Take care.

Before

I'm sitting in the International Departures wing of the Vancouver airport (Gate D67 if you must know - nice gate, comfy seats, stylish jet setters reading People magazine, as stylish jet setters do) thinking about how much of life can be divided along the sharp, straight, fold-and-cut-along-the-dotted- lines of Before and After.

Before is the anticipation, the sweaty palms and racing hearts. After is the rush. After is all adrenaline and release. After is sitting back and looking through memories like photo albums in your mind, smiling a little at the tattered corners because you were there and you did something and it mattered. In this world of consequences and results, it's so easy to lose sight of Before.

But - passport tucked safely in my pocket (because I already lost it once today), Starbucks ice tea in the cup holder to my left - I am knee-deep in before. My carry-on bag is stuffed with travel guides, restaurant recommendations, money to be exchanged, plans to be made. Before looks like the departures area of an airport. People twiddling their thumbs, flipping half-heartedly through glossy magazines, replaying top rated songs on their iPods but not really hearing the lyrics because their minds are somewhere else. No matter where we are or what we're doing, it is so easy to get lost in the sweet promise of After.

Afters are the big guns. After the breakup. After school. The morning after. Thinking about them is pulling an Emily Dickinson and dwelling in that pretty little thing we call possibility. After means moving on. Picking up the pieces or sweeping them off to the side. After is the border guards at the edge of the great nation of Getting Stuff Done. But you need a Before to get there.

My Before feels a little bit like getting my stomach repeatedly jumped on by an African elephant. Or like swallowing a bucket of live eels. My Before is not a pleasant thing. And that's because Before is one of the scariest things in the world. Before is the absolute and all-encompassing truth that you don't know what's going to happen next. Your After is still undetermined. And there's nothing you can do about it.

But that's not entirely true - there is something I can do about it. I can sit in the waiting area in front of the door labeled D67 (double and triple checking my boarding pass to make sure I'm in the right place). I can sip my passion fruit ice tea and think about how Starbucks has officially managed to put summer in a glass and shake until it's pink like a sunset and oh so sweet. I can think about how it's a little ridiculous to think so highly of a coffee company. I can think about the books and boarding passes jammed inelegantly into my backpack and how one day - one day real soon - I'll be unpacking them and settling into my new home for the next six weeks.

Today is Before. Today is one of the biggest Befores of my whole life. And nothing makes my chest as tight or my heart as heavy as that one single word.

But Afters, as they have the uncanny knack of doing, will always come. In six weeks, in six months, a lifetime from now. Maybe there are no dotted lines. Maybe there is no black and white. Maybe Before and After are like the blurry lights of dawn or dusk, not quite one thing and not quite the other.

In all your Befores and all your Afters, I wish you beating hearts and smiling faces and fingers shaking as they reach for something that you really truly cannot believe is real.

Dear One Direction

Over the past two months, I've had the pleasure of working with an amazing group of kids at my summer job as a special education tutor. Sure, some of them mumble curse words under their breath when I ask them to get to work or prefer digging in their heels than their pencils - but these kids are brave and kind and true. On my first day, I found myself in a room full of blank faces, not sure where to turn. But as soon the girls discovered that I knew that "One Direction" meant something more than a point on a compass, I knew what I had to do.

Driving to work on my second morning, I was prepared: my iPhone was full of every album One Direction has ever released, my mug full of thick, black coffee and my heart itching to make a difference.

Over the past two months, I've learned so much. I've learned that being a teacher is both the most difficult and most rewarding job I can imagine. I've learned all the lyrics to Story of My Life and how to dance in the driver's seat without running someone over. And I've learned that when you care about something, when something makes your eyes light up and your pen move faster, you have to hold on tight until your whole world is made of that feeling. Even if that something is a British boy band.

Especially if that something is a British boy band.

I asked five students - five girls who are at once precious and determined and made of tougher stuff than I've ever seen - to write a letter to their idols. They looked at me like I was crazy. And then they got to work.

I've never seen these girls care so much about something as small as a sheet of paper. They practiced their handwriting for days. They researched fan-mail addresses and quotes from their favorite songs. They taught me how to spell the names of their heroes (Harry, Liam, Niall, Zayn and Louis, by the way). And they wrote.

Their letters went way beyond "Dear One Direction." Yes, they mentioned their favorite songs. And yes, the words "hot" and "cute" and the more ambiguous "good looking" may have been thrown around on loose-leaf paper and pencil crayon. But they also wrote about themselves.

One wrote about her alcoholic mother, another about her struggles with bullying. Their lives have never been easy and they've never had anyone to share them with - until now. They put their gratitude on the page, thanking complete strangers for making them feel strong and good and beautiful. Their post-scripts were full of promises that five British lads (yes, lads) halfway across the world and busy with their own lives and dreams coming true may never be able to keep:

PS I'd love to see you in concert one day.
PS Please come to Canada soon!
PS Don't ever change.
PS I love you.
PS Please write back.

Today I'm putting these words and more in the mail. The girls decorated a manila envelope with hearts and swirls and the number one. I've included six copies of pictures, self-address envelopes and international postage coupons. I don't expect the girls to hold their breath. I know that when you're eleven or seventeen, your life moves quickly and in a year's time they may have trashed their CDs and moved on. But none of that matters, not really.

Sometimes the most important thing is putting this excitement, this thrill, this love into words and sharing them with the world.

Dear One Direction,

Thank you for these and all your little things.

Love, Erika

Queen of the Daisy Chains

You can call me a lot of things, but a predictable driver probably wouldn't make the list. That's because I have this nasty habit of doing things like, I don't know, pulling over to the side of the highway with no warning because I saw a pretty patch of wildflowers on the side of the road.

But don't worry - I used my turning signal.

Making a daisy chain on the side of the road, waving at confused drivers that passed and choking on highway dust, made me realize something: Life is like a daisy chain.

It takes time to pick out the brightest blooms and the prettiest petals, just like choosing your friends, your passions, your dreams. You choose who and what you're going to weave the tightest, and those that you're going to throw back onto the grass.

Sure, not everything is as easy as picking wildflowers on the side of the road. Your daisy chain needs a back bone, a couple of strong stems to hold up the others. Your family. Your home. There are some things that you don't get to pick. But every flower on your daisy chain is there for a reason. And if it isn't, if it doesn't look right or it's crawling with those weird, black bugs that look like leeches, you can take it out and move on.

So I'm trying to choose carefully. I'm picking friends I can depend on and following dreams that make my heart pound. You choose what goes into your daisy chain - which flowers will catch someone's eye, which blossoms you'll show the world and which you'll hang above your bed to dry and keep safe for years - and you wear it with pride.

With the first day of summer come and gone and the prettiest wildflowers out to play, here's a quick guide to make your own daisy chain (the metaphor and the flower crown. But mostly the flower crown):

1. Find a patch of daisies - be it the middle of the woods or the side of the road. Go on a hunt. If it ends in flowers, it's been a good day.

2. Pick a daisy, leaving about ten centimeters of stem. Use your thumb nail to make a little slit at the end and thread another daisy (stem first) through the hole.

3. Repeat the process until your chain fits your head. Too small is better than too big - that way it'll sit on top of your head without slipping.

4. Once your chain is the length you're looking for, finish it up by linking the first and last flowers. Make a slit in the stem of the last daisy and threat the first daisy (flower first) through it.

5. Crown yourself queen of summer nights, big decisions and daisy chains, and be happy with your choices. Things don't always work out on the first try. Sometimes you have to toss a few flowers away, bend a few petals or just scrap the whole thing. But you get to choose. You get to choose who and what and where is worthy of a place in your daisy chain. And you weave them real close.

Made with ♥ Monday: Rhubarb Crisp

This weekend was full of good things. To name a few: friends in matching dresses, crowded coffee shops, sleeping in, pouring rain, farmers' markets and birthday cake. But tucked in between the pages are the beautiful bits that can't be described in words. Not exactly the things that happened - the way the air felt hot on your skin or his hair fell in front of his eyes - the things that you felt more deeply than anything. You know what I mean, those seconds that your heart graciously and without question catalogs. Because even if you don't realize it at the time, your heart knows that you are will look back and be struck by the overwhelming fact that this is your life and that it is so so good. Like sitting in the sweet spring sun and eating a bowl of rhubarb crisp.

When my mama made rhubarb crisp, I scraped the golden brown oats and sugar off the top and left the rhubarb at the bottom of my bowl. When my dad made rhubarb crisp, I balanced a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of my slice and licked my sticky fingers for hours afterwards. When I make rhubarb crisp, I do it quietly.

There doesn't have to be any ceremony. No flashing lights. No background music. Just me, chopping farmers' market rhubarb, mixing oats and butter, and remembering those seconds that I was unaware of at the time.

Rhubarb Crisp

You'll need:

4 cups rhubarb, cut into little 2cm pieces

1 cup sugar

1/4 cup flour

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1 cup flour

1 cup brown sugar

1/2 cup oats

1/2 cup melted butter

In a medium bowl, combine your rhubarb, sugar, flour and cinnamon. Pour them into a greased baking dish (preferably 8" x 8" but I used a charming circular ceramic dish, pictured below. Anything works) and let them get to know each other while you move on to sweeter things.

Mix together the rest of your flour, brown sugar, oats and butter, then sprinkle the mixture over your rhubarb.

Bake at 375F for 35 minutes.

Sweet and simple and undeniably summer. Serve in a bowl with a splash of cream and a moment of quiet. This is one of my favorite things.

French Macarons & Old Friends

Last night, one of my sweetest, oldest friends and I decided to make macarons - those beautiful, un-pronounceable French pastries that can't be that hard, right?

No. Wrong. Dead wrong.

We haven't spent much time together since I left to university and she spent the year in our hometown, working and taking classes at the local college. But thousands of kilometres don't mean much when it comes to zesting a lemon and measuring out flour. We spent hours in the kitchen, getting to know the different people we've both become after a year apart.

I estimate. I measure in pinches and handfuls and feelings. I never sift my flour and I've learned to live with the results. I am trying every day to be more spontaneous and flexible. But I always end up coming home to tried and true recipes that I know by heart. I am emotional and chaotic and I bake for comfort rather than accomplishment.

My dear friend, she makes bold choices. She spends hours researching recipes and always chooses the most complicated one. She is calculated, leveling and sifting (and re-sifting, I was told, because anyone who doesn't is basically a caveman. Oops!) and weighing ingredients, and if she doesn't get the result she wants, she goes back and does it again.

We are different. I love nothing more than deep, rich, chocolate cake. She prefers chiffon. She avidly reads baking blogs, while I keep a collection of stained and tattered thrift store cookbooks. We are different, but after two and a half hours attempting what looked like a straightforward recipe for lemon macarons, we were both laughing until our sides ached when our finished product turned out a little more like this:

I love old friends. The kind with whom you can sink into conversation so rich and powerful that you don't even realize your eyes are brimming with tears until the person sitting next to you asks for a tissue. The kind where you can start any sentence with "Remember that time" and finish it with a collection of memories, coming into focus in your mind like a Polaroid picture. These things aren't instant. It takes time (in our case, about fourteen years - something that still feels unbelievable but true) to find the people that will hold fast in your heart.

We've changed. We are no more the same people we were when we first met - all pig-tails and pencil crayons on the school yard - than those yellow blobs up there are French macarons. But I am so grateful for sweet and tangy, lick-the-spoon nights like last night.

Some days my heart beats out reassurances like: You need to accept these changes. You need to remember that no one stands still, that a year from now life won't look like it does in that Polaroid picture. That your macarons won't always rise and your friends won't always see the world in the same way that you do.

I need to remind myself that change is good and Thursday nights are sweet and if you ever need to talk, just say the word and I'll curl up on the couch next to you, with a glass of milk and a plate of dessert and my eyes wide open, trying to memorize your face like a photograph. I will be there for your joys and your failures, and one day we'll try again - macarons round two - and laugh and cry and whisper "Remember that time" when we did this all before.

If you're interested in more daring baking and picture taking, you can find my friend Kennix's blog right here.

Beta Reading and Big Things

Once upon a time, I signed up as a beta reader on an online writing forum. I love editing. It makes me feel like I should wear cat's eye glasses, drink black coffee and walk around New York City in pointy black heels. I dream about riding the subway with a red pen and half finished manuscript in my perfectly manicured hands.

Yes, I think about this a lot.

A couple years ago, my dream came true. (Well, minus the NYC bit - and the heels, I can barely hobble in those.) A lovely woman named Alison Kemper emailed me her YA zombie novel, Donna of the Dead, and I got to live out my wildest fantasies in red ink. Donna of the Dead is about a girl who hears voices, a high school crush, and, naturally, a zombie apocalypse.

Two months ago, I got another email from Alison - the first time we'd spoken in far too long - and some exciting news. Her novel, the one that I'd poured over on my laptop before bed, is published.

Alison is such a friendly and open person. She welcomed new ideas and criticism - not that I had much, her novel is as funny and fast-paced as she is. I cannot believe that someone I know - and a novel I've read - is published. This is unreal.

See that up there? That's an acknowledgements page. Scroll down a little to the fourth paragraph, last name. That's me. Little old me, Erika Loggin, has officially joined "the legion of super smart beta readers."

Excuse me while I scream and dance around the living room because someone I know has just done something incredible.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Okay, we're good.

I'm crossing my fingers so tight they've gone numb that one day, one day soon, the publishing world will be full of more familiar names. That more friends will see their dreams come true, and that I'll see my name in print again.

PS: You can put your name forward as a potential beta reader on the absolutewrite.com forums here and read more about Alison's novel on goodreads.com here.

I'll Be Your Travel Guide

Here is all the Czech that I know:

Ahoj - Hello/goodbye

Dobrý den - Good day

Děkuju - Thank you

Je to pravda - It's true

Je to v pořádku - It's okay

Jsem Kanaďanka - I'm Canadian

Nerozumím - I don't understand

Jahoda - Strawberry

I'll be honest here: It isn't a lot to go off of.

My mom moved to Canada from the Czech Republic after marrying my dad. He was a forester, she was a university student – they were both on exchange in Finland and, a couple years later, he whisked her away to the middle of nowhere. It's always struck me as an achingly romantic story. Giving up your family, your culture and your home to live in a small town in northern British Columbia.

Not to mention your language.

My mom tried teaching us bits and pieces of Czech when we were younger. My brother and I are fluent in please and thank you, but you're welcome is a hard one. We can say hello, goodnight and goodbye, but I've never been able to wrap my tongue around the rolling Rs in good morning. We are, by all accounts, completely hopeless.

I guess that could explain why, all my life, I've dreamed of learning Czech. I wanted to speak the language of cobblestone streets and red brick roofs, the crooked syllables that seemed like the gatekeepers of another world. A world that was exciting and adventurous and, most of all, far, far from home.

I’ve spent so many years wanting – wanting until my lips are cracked and my voice is hoarse from sounding out words in a language that has never seemed to belong to me. Until I decided, just for the heck of it, to apply for a Czech summer school in Prague. And then, why not, book my flights. And gosh, while I'm at it, might as well pay for tuition and accommodation in the sweetest little apartment building with a bright red door, within walking distance of some of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. Sure, that seems like a good idea.

Exactly one month from today, I'll be hopping on a plane to spend my July studying and exploring and walking the footsteps of my forever dream. I'm bringing my trusty Fodor's travel guide, my phrase book (apparently a very good choice), my most chic, European clothes (not that I have any) and a ball of wonder so heavy I'll probably be stuck with an extra baggage fee for my wide eyes and thundering heart.

I'm a beginner at this. At Czech, at solo-travel, at the kind of summer that can change your life. I'm a beginner at this whole "When life gives you lemons," say no thanks and make yourself a banana split, instead. Or some potato pancakes. When in Prague, right?

One month to go. I feel like, in some small way, I've always been counting down the days. Every step I take has been leading me in this direction. Every deep breath has been my lungs reminding me to be patient. One month until this crazy thing comes true.

Book of the Month: Lost Lake

Suley, Georgia, is home to Lost Lake Cottages and not much else. Which is why it's the perfect place for newly-widowed Kate and her eccentric eight-year-old daughter Devin to heal. 

Kate spent one memorable childhood summer at Lost Lake, had her first almost-kiss at Lost Lake, and met a boy named Wes at Lost Lake. It was a place for dreaming. But Kate doesn't believe in dreams anymore, and her Aunt Eby, Lost Lake's owner, wants to sell the place and move on. 

Lost Lake's magic is gone. As Kate discovers that time has a way of standing still at Lost Lake can she bring the cottages—and her heart—back to life? Because sometimes the things you love have a funny way of turning up again. And sometimes you never even know they were lost . . . until they are found.

_________________________________________________________________________

Sarah Addison Allen writes the kind of books you want to keep in your mind and your heart long after they're done, just because sometimes it's painful to let beautiful things slip away. She caught my attention with two of her earlier books, Garden Spells and The Peach Keeper, but I fell completely head over heels for The Girl Who Chase the Moon. Allen's novels are strong but tender stories of women who refuse to abandon the pursuit of magic in their lives.

Lost Lake follows Kate, a recently widowed mother who wakes up after a year of living beneath the haze of grief. Kate is the youngest in a long line of Morris women who fall apart after losing their husbands, but she refuses to let her future be defined by her past. Kate's "awakening" is utterly relatable. Who hasn't experienced the desire to be better, the craving to be more. The sudden realization that the person you have been is no longer the person you want to be.

The pages of Allen's novels are museums of wonder. You think you're reading a book when a word or phrase sneaks up on you and changes your life.

I have to admit, I looked forward to Lost Lake for a long time and some of the plot lines just weren't what I was hoping for. Allen explores the back stories of at least a handful of characters, both major and minor, and while all are carefully crafted portraits of multifaceted people, the plot sometimes gets lost in all the voices. But if you're willing to be patient, Allen is a pro at tying together seemingly unrelated story lines into something cohesive and profound.

I'd recommend Lost Lake and Sarah Addison Allen in general to anyone who turns to books for comfort. Lost Lake is like a hug, hot and sticky in the Florida heat, that you don't want to let go of when it ends.

Like Riding a Bike

Today, as part of Bike to Work Week, I biked 7.3 km both ways and realized a couple of unnerving truths.

I'm working as a Special Education Assistant, helping students who are funny and brilliant and ready to put up a fight. And this afternoon, with legs still shaking like saplings in the wind (no, shockingly, I am not a professional cyclist), we went for a run. Well, "run" might not be the appropriate word.

I was told to bring up the rear. Teachers are very strategic - preparing for class feels like drafting a battle plan. We split into three groups, the runners and the walkers - and, as soon as the other teachers were out of sight, the leftovers. After thirty seconds, one girl made it very clear that she wasn't going anywhere - and if she wasn't moving, neither was I. She sat down in the middle of the trail, refusing to move or speak or make eye contact. So I started talking.

I remember being that girl. I remember watching other kids - the ones who grew up playing soccer and could lap me without breaking a sweat - go on up ahead. I remember the ache, when your lungs feel like they're going to explode and your heart is stammering empty excuses: "I'm not feeling well. I got lost. I didn't want to do it, anyways." Or the truth, words that catch on your breath with every pant:

I am trying.

I am trying so hard that my ribs are being forced apart by this swollen heart that just won't let me quit, won't let me stop caring, won't let me walk away.

I sat down on the trail, the black asphalt hot from the sun, and remembered.

I hated running. I hated the taste of metal in my mouth, the smell of sweat, the way every ragged breath seemed to say, "You are not good enough." I heard the words so often, echoing through my sore muscles and pounding heart, it took me a long time to think believe anything else about myself.

Self doubt is like riding a bike - once you learn, you never forget how to tear yourself apart.

I sat down on the trail and spilled my guts to a girl I barely know. To myself, years ago and every day. To each and every inch of skin and bone that has been pounded against the pavement in my mind, or yours, or by this sweet, sweet girl whose head jerked up at a kind word because she will never be used to being told she's good enough.

You are strong, my girl. You are strong enough to stand up, to walk, to run or even crawl. That doesn't matter. You are strong enough to finish this thing.

We stood, shadows falling as the sun rose and warmed the backs of our trembling legs. We got up. We kept going.

Today, as part of Bike to Work Week, I biked 7.3 km both ways and realized a couple of unnerving truths:

I am no Usain Bolt or Lance Armstrong (drugs or not, he could lap me without blinking).

Drinking three cups of coffee is probably not the best way to re-hydrate after a half hour ride to work.

Self-doubt is like riding a bike. Once you've mastered it, it's impossible to forget. And that should be terrifying - it should make you want to sit down in the middle of the road and refuse to move an inch. Getting back up is hard, but that doesn't matter. You are strong enough to finish this thing.

#currentlyreading The 100

In the future, humans live in city-like spaceships orbiting far above Earth's toxic atmosphere. No one knows when, or even if, the long-abandoned planet will be habitable again. But faced with dwindling resources and a growing populace, government leaders know they must reclaim their homeland... before it's too late.

Now, one hundred juvenile delinquents are being sent on a high-stakes mission to recolonize Earth. After a brutal crash landing, the teens arrive on a savagely beautiful planet they've only seen from space. Confronting the dangers of this rugged new world, they struggle to form a tentative community. But they're haunted by their past and uncertain about the future. To survive, they must learn to trust - and even love - again.

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If you're reading this, stop immediately. Grab your wallet, your library card, your best lock pick (well I don't know) and get your hands on a copy of The 100 as soon as possible. Then, if possible, whip up a blueberry smoothie (pictured above) and get reading, because  it might be a few hours before you're able to put it down. With a novel like The 100, it's best to be prepared.

I can't remember the last time I read a book in a single day. The last time I was halfway through the first chapter before I realized how hooked I was. The last time my heart was pounding all the way up to the last page.

The 100 follows four main characters - Wells, Clarke, Glass and Bellamy - with graphic histories, under painful circumstances and clutching secrets close to their chests. Each character shows a different side of their futuristic world, a universe of airlocks and executions that is completely alien and yet unbelievably easy to sink in to. Their stories are full of bravery, longing and fear. All four characters are put in impossible situations over and over again, and the choices they make will make you question your own humanity.

The 100 is fast-paced and original. Kass Morgan jumps back and forth between the past and present, using a different font to signal a time shift. I can't say it's the smoothest transition, and the repeated flashbacks could've felt like an info-dump, but Morgan makes all four stories intriguing and engaging. I cared about each character - I still do, and the sequel Day 21 doesn't come out until September! I'm not a huge sci-fi person, but The 100 is the type of book that I'm still thinking about, days later.

There's also a Netflix series based on The 100, but a quick look at the trailer doesn't seem like it follows the book all that closely (unfortunately), but I've heard good things. Let me know what you think!

What are you #currentlyreading? I love checking the hashtag on instagram. Book lovers take such lovely pictures.

Made with ♥ Monday: Honey Date Scones

Spending the evening curled up on the couch, watching Downton Abbey with my mom. I want to live in a house that's big enough to get lost in, with gold trim on all the doorways and rolling gardens that go on for acres. More than anything, though, I want a British accent. And what goes best with British historical drama? Tea and scones, of course.

These scones are dotted with dates and kissed with honey and oats. That, and they only took me ten minutes to get in the oven. Just enough time to catch the next episode.

Honey & Date Scones

Original recipe here.

You'll need:

2 cups flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 1/2 teaspoons brown sugar

1/4 cup chilled butter

1 cup pitted dates, finely chopped

3/4 cup milk

2 tablespoons warmed honey

3 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1/2 oats

Combine flour, baking powder and sugar in a large bowl, then cut in the butter until it's all crumbly and soft. Once, when I was way too caffeinated for my own good and wandering around the kitchen in the middle of the night, I realized how soft flour feels when you mix things with your hands. Like silk against calloused fingertips. Then I figured that, if I was spending five minutes playing with flour, I should probably go to bed. Sorry my story telling skills aren't all that great - not when all my attention is focused on the world of Downton. The end.

But not quite - stir in the dates, then add milk and honey. Mix everything until it's just combined. The original recipe suggests scooping the batter into a paper-lined muffin tin. It's the perfect cross between muffins and scones. "Scuffins," I'd say, because "mones" don't sound very appetizing.

Next up, work together the remaining butter, sugar and oats. Divide it between your muffins and sprinkle on top. Bake at 400F for twenty minutes.

The scones are light as air and crumble in your hands. Take with hot tea and anything British and they'll taste twice as sweet.

Rainy Day Rock & Roll

Today the sky was charcoal grey and alive with rumbling clouds. The only way to drown out the sound of rain was to blast my favorite album until the sun came out to dance.

My mom used to make the house shake, playing A Hard Day's Night until we knew all the songs by heart. I proudly told anyone who bothered to ask (and quite a few who didn't) that the Beatles were my favorite band. I wore my faded T-shirt until it was fraying at the seams. And I still tear up every time I watch John, Paul, George and Ringo, black and white and barely older than I am now, running around a field while Can't By Me Love plays in the background. The Beatles' early years, their tongue-in-cheek-and-screaming-fans pop music that makes you tap your feet like a metronome, are the mental soundtrack of my childhood.

Which is why I was so surprised when my brother admitted that he didn't know how to flip a record. If the music didn't bug the neighbours, I'm pretty sure my yelling "WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S A BASIC LIFE SKILL HOW ARE YOU ALMOST TWENTY ONE YEARS OLD" repeatedly down the hall did the trick. Then I cradled the record, turned it over, and softly touched down the needle... and proceeded to dance around the living room, barefoot and skirt twirling, and it was his turn to be embarrassed.

This is something a little new - an outfit of the day (or ootd as the kids are calling it) - because red lipstick, circle skirts and my four favorite British lads never fail to make a rainy day absolutely rock. Happy Saturday!

Dress / Forever 21

Hat / Thrifted

Ode to Pretty Words

I remember being taught how to write in cursive. We were given stacks of worksheets, one after another crammed with loops and bumps and letters that my teacher tried in vain to convince us were actually English. First grade was rough, that's for sure.

Today, handwriting is one of my very favorite things. I love how the letters flow together, creating a constant stream of thoughts and ideas. There's something romantic about cursive that print or type will never match. Handwritten notes from faraway lovers. Handwritten initials spelled out in the sand. Whispers, I do believe, must escape from our mouths in delicate swirls and spindly handwriting.

Typography - art made from words - has been my obsession for the past few weeks. Combine that with watercolour pastels and you have my first attempt some word art of my own. Emily Dickinson + hand painted coffee stains. I am painfully amateur, but if feels good to give my handwriting room to play.

Jasmine Dowling, on the other hand, is the queen of cursive. Graphic designer, artist, and style blogger extraordinaire, she told Cupcake, an Australian women's fashion blog, that her love of handwriting started young. Powerful wisdom pours from her hands in thick black strokes, complete with all the loops and curves that I do so adore. She can transform a simple design from pencil to paint to print in an hour and a half. And she spends her free time exploring Brisbane and dressing like a freaking model. If you aren't in awe yet, visit her instagram at @jasminedowling and you will be.

Check out her shop and designs here and enjoy your weekend with five simple words at your back:

Made with ♥ Monday: Blueberry Muffins

Last week was rough. I came home after work and all I wanted to do was whip up something sweet. Stress baking is absolutely real, people. It's sweeping the nation, causing devastation and mass consumption in its wake. So next time your blood is boiling and your fists are clenched, grab some flour, some sugar and a couple of eggs. These muffins are a quick and easy way to make the hardest days sugary sweet.

Blueberry Muffins

Ingredients:

2 eggs

1 cup milk

1 teaspoon vanilla

3 cups flour

1 cup white sugar

2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 pinch of cinnamon (if you're feeling particularly daring)

1/2 cup butter + 2 tablespoons

2 cups fresh or frozen blueberries

Whisk eggs, milk and vanilla together in a medium bowl. Whip in your wishes for the days to come. Soft whispers and good things make the fluffiest muffins.

In a larger bowl, mix together your flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Cut in the butter with your fingers until it looks like breadcrumbs. Set aside one cup in a smaller bowl to sprinkle on top. Add your wet ingredients and blueberries and fold everything together until it's well combined. At this point, you might be tempted to work out your frustrations and biceps by mixing these like crazy. But don't. Stop, step back, breathe, and be gentle.

Fill your muffin tins 3/4 of the way and sprinkle with the crumble topping. Bake at 350F for 20 minutes.

It's been a week full of sunshine and this was my view on the way to work the other day. Bright blue skies make the hard things worth it.

Book Crushes + Sneak Peaks

I am not ashamed to admit the fact that I've had more than a few literary crushes in my day. Who didn't find Fred and George Weasley's witty conversations completely adorable, or feel their heart beat a little bit faster at Mr Darcy's aloofness and hidden affection. The list is infinitely long, thanks to writers who continue to skew my real world expectations by creating characters that are flawed, funny, and completely irresistible.

Sometimes an author weaves their words together so seamlessly that you can't help but fall in love with a name on the page. You find characters you want to have as your new BFF and boys that are worth drooling over (but not if it's a library book. Come on, guys). And, if that author is Stephanie Perkins, you get to read a love story so sweet and so funny and so true that you want to curl up inside it and live between the pages for the rest of your days.

Three times.

Stephanie Perkin's first book, Anna and the French Kiss, follows a slightly neurotic, artsy and hilarious American girl at a boarding school in Paris. Come on. That, in itself, should be enough to send you flying to the closest bookstore - not to mention her classmate Etienne St Clair who says things like "Oh pants" and speaks with an English accent. Next up we journeyed to San Francisco in Lola and the Boy Next Door to get to know an eccentric dressing clothing designer and her neighbor, Cricket, who is absurdly tall and stays up late working on his latest inventions.

Stephanie Perkins writes characters that I wish I knew. They are such exciting, enthralling and everyday people that I want to go watch a trashy movie with Anna and hear her review it while Etienne smiles fondly and eats buttery popcorn. I want to explore thrift stores with Lola and see what kind of crazy outfit she puts together, then sample her dads' homemade pies with Cricket.

This is a world that seems so utterly tangible that I want to hold it close and never let it go.

Perkins's third book, Isla and the Happily Ever After, is coming out in August this year but you can read the first two chapters online right here. They involve coffee shops and long time crushes and being slightly high on painkillers after having your wisdom teeth removed. Third time's the charm, and I can't wait to stay up late getting to know Stephanie Perkins's latest love story.