To Fly.

Back in the planning stages for the great Austin adventure of July 2014, my anchor G went into our group text and asked for a reaction to us getting tattooed while there. For a long time, I thought that something I have planned for New York would be the last tattoo for me, but her words reignited the impulsive spark in my head that generally rules any important decision-making I have to do. I said to give me 24 hours, and if I thought of anything, I’d be down. For a few years I’d been playing around with the notion of an owl tattooed somewhere, so I started looking into some old ideas I’d saved, but I didn’t get that “YES” feeling that made me want to get inked again. I left the office that evening, and walked along thinking it how it would be such a great experience to get tattooed with G, our soul sister E there for support, as she’s been for tattoos for us in the past; if only I could come up with an idea, something with meaning and heart that represented the lightspeed journey I’ve been on for almost a year. As I stopped on the sidewalk to wait for the light, I saw a feather floating behind the tail wind of a speeding cab, and the gears in my head started turning.

If you’ve met me in person, you’re probably giving me some serious side-eye at the predictability of the above inspiration, the almost-flower child who wanders around in a hippie daze, jewelry on her face and feathers in her hair. Maybe it’s not the most inspired idea for a tattoo, or the most original, but that wasn’t where I was going with this idea necessarily. Meaning, as cliched as it might seem, or as predictable as it might be, I thought and planned enough about what this tattoo would mean to me, and how feathers go so far beyond a silly fashion trend or an impulse decision; I found inspiration in that little feather, floating on the street corner, maybe from a flea-ridden pigeon or maybe something beautiful, lost over the city grid. In the minute between staring at the floating feather and crossing the street, I finally made a decision, and texted G and E back right away. In the end, everything, from the size of the final product to the location on my body, brings me the inspiration I need sometimes, a small reminder of a very important lesson: To fly.

Now obviously I don’t mean that literally. Much as I love a good airplane or would probably trade part of my soul for the mutant ability to fly for real, I don’t have the money for a trip and haven’t had the opportunity for such a trade (yet…). When I say To Fly, I mean to take a deep breath and take a leap. Flying for me means letting go of inhibitions and insecurities; flying is calming my over-analytical brain for a minute and believing in myself first. Flying is independence, a solid foundation of just me, knowing myself and my instincts above everyone and everything else. To Fly means I’m not waiting for someone to give me a boost, a lift, or anything else to help me achieve something I should be able to do on my own. To Fly is to trust willingly, love freely, and sometimes let your mind run wild with possibilities, as small as the chance of a maybe-FaceTime chat or as big as the next tattoo.

There’s an old Sex and the City episode where one of the men makes a point that once you see something you’ve never noticed before, like an old playing card on the sidewalk, you’ll start seeing that thing everywhere. I have absolutely noticed that with feathers in the city: they line the subway steps into my morning station, float outside the coffee shop on Bedford, blow into the streets while I’m walking home from yoga. Big feathers, small ones, gray ones, white ones, brown ones. I couldn’t recall a single instance of seeing a feather in the city prior to July and now they’re everywhere. I’ve said before that I find tattoos have more meaning once you’re removed from the original idea, but I think this one has evolved into my hastily-formed thought on the street that warm June night. This tiny tattoo hiding behind my ear is a rarely-seen reminder of Austin, absolutely the time of my life; the tiny feathers littering the streets of the city are reminders every single day why I got a feather in the first place. Little and little-seen reminders to always, always fly.

Buckle Up

“Buckle up, B. It’s gonna be a wild ride.”

My father is a man of few words, but the ones he saves for special occasions are never anything less than spot-on. The words above were his toast to my soon-to-be brother-in-law, as we welcomed him into our crazy family with a beach party this past Saturday, the first time the whole family has been together since Christmas. Mama B outdid herself planning the weekend, one of the best I’ve had all summer. Saturday started with drinks at the house while lounging over burgers and hot dogs, and segued into an afternoon and evening at the town beach, all family and close friends, a veritable buffet of everything from 20 lobsters, to figs with lavender honey, to fresh tomatoes picked in the backyard and more, all accompanied by a whole lot of wine. My lovely friend M joined me in Connecticut this weekend, and gets full credit for convincing a very tired and slightly tipsy me to join my brother and a few friends at the one bar in town after the sun went down at the beach. She made the point later that night, while we all drank the ever-symbolic first pumpkin beer of the season, that the holiday weekend didn’t feel like we were mourning the end of summer this year. Instead, we were celebrating the beginning of fall.

Yeah, growing up here didn't suck.

Yeah, growing up here didn’t suck.

The weekend really did feel like a celebration of new beginnings rather than conclusions. Sunday was a lazy morning with just the family, the whole family and spouses-to-be, sharing the best pastries (ones that required me to stand in line at 7:30 a.m. after getting home at midnight, I’m just saying) and omelettes with leftover lobster. Mama B, T, our grandmother and I went to get our nails done before I got on the train, and I spent the rest of the day lounging on my couch, renting movies just for fun and munching on whatever I could find in my bare cabinets. Monday was a morning adventure to Whole Foods and a yoga class with M, into a champagne brunch at Paradou with my fashionista C, partner-in-crime R and her Scot H. I made it home around 6 and spent two hours prepping food all week before collapsing into bed at 8:30, exhausted from the general spirit of a day off. This weekend we celebrated T and her fiance, we celebrated our family, and we celebrated $4,99/lb lobsters for sure. I celebrated time to myself at home to relax and reflect, celebrated the simple luxury of a friend living so close when you need motivation to get to the grocery store on a Monday morning. I celebrated the first of the month, counting down the days till my birthday and toasted all of that at brunch with some of my favorite people in the world.

This fall is going to be another crazy season, I just know it. I’ll have cross-state wedding planing for T, a wedding for another childhood friend, a trip to M’s family house in Maine, a trip to Boston for a few days, and a few other exciting changes coming my way. It’s football games and apple-picking adventures, and I’m finally picking up my apartment redecoration, so weekends of furniture shopping and wall-painting loom in between all of those. Post fall, there’s holidays and a long winter with plans just waiting to be made, more crazy times, more crazy adventures. Papa B’s advice above is great advice for T’s fiance, as he faces a lifetime with a family that celebrates life milestones by busting out the beer at noon and then throwing a party on the public beach. But I think I might take it with me in the next few months, as I buckle up and get ready for my very own wild, wild ride.