What a weekend it was!

Friday night found me walking through the park at night with the Soulmate.

In an effort to push aside my fear of the dark, my fear of the noises my mind conjures and my fear of how many other women the Soulmate has on speed dial, I pushed my side against his side and linked my arm with his.

Extra benefit: sexiness!

My fingers lightly cupped his arm, just underneath the hem of his short-sleeved shirt.

Maybe we were chatting idly about nothing at all or maybe we weren't chatting at all. I can't remember anymore. All I remember are the visceral feelings and sensations I experienced from being so close to him.

Whichever it was, chatting or silence, my mind wandered and I stopped walking. He stopped when his arm in motion strained against my arm in rest.

An object in motion will come to rest, if the object in rest is stubborn enough!

"Don't you feel like we're in high school?" I asked.

I had suddenly recalled nights spent just like that Friday night - arms linked with a boy -- only with a crown of flowers in my hair and the remnants of a shared bottle of white zin fueling our skips down a path made of crushed stone.

More than 10 years later: the Soulmate's fingers idly tangling and disentangling in my hair instead of flowers and my lips parting when I spoke, letting out coffee-scented breaths into the soon-to-be autumnal air.

Where did that girl from high school go?

Fun and frolicking gave way to responsibility and reality.

[Side note: I love that this post isn't all about the Soulmate anymore.]

The changing of the seasons thrills me this year, but the changing of the self that happened when I wasn't looking? I'm not so thrilled about that change. I know the freeness of high school days can never completely be regained, nor should it, because student loan bills wait for no woman.

But there are some things I want to bring back.

Skipping. Even if it's only to the loo.

Flower power. It's a lot harder to be bogged down by bullshit when there are yellow daffodils by your side.

Lastly, high school was all about recreating yourself and moving on with nary a look back. There's something to be said for that.

It didn't work out with a boy?

Move along.

It can't work out with the Soulmate?

Move along.


© Coffee Fairy

A Place of My Own

Four years ago, I bought a calendar called "A Place of My Own." Each month featured delightful drawings of cluttered homes, porches and yards, complete with lazy cats.

My clutterbug nature understands clutter and cats completely!

I half-joked to my friend that I got the calendar until I could get a real place of my own. Since then, I've stayed in places, but they just haven't felt like my own.

What makes a house a home? What makes a place a place of my own? I've got a list of 'feels like home' necessities. Books, seashells, candles, incense and teacups make up part of the list. And even though the places I've lived have contained many of the items in my 'feels like home' list, they haven't felt like a place of my own.

I'm not sure what ingredients are missing, but I'm not going to worry about it. I figure, when I find that right mix, I'll know that I've found a place of my own.

Until then, there's a lot of hominess out there that will tide me over until I do find the right mix! One such 'tide me over' tidbit is a blog I've loved since I first read it some months ago: "My Shabby Streamside Studio," by Sandy Foster.

The blog's author has a haven from the outside world, a tiny Victorian cottage that truly is a place of her own. Beauty abounds in the shabby-chic oasis and is inspirational. It nourishes the soul. Enjoy!


© Coffee Fairy