Barefoot Dreamer...

She wanted to be like that last stair on the front porch that creaks when you come home.

 For you to hear her and know you're almost there.

Barefoot Dreamer 

The Princess And The...

His name was Penn. Could've been his first or his last or none of the above and nowhere near the one on his birth certificate. But he said it was Penn and so what else could she call him? Besides. No other name fit.

He was a writer - of course - who left her notes signed to his Princess from her only P. Her bests swooned when she told them about their romance. "Ooh! A writer!" they gushed, and wanted to devour all he'd written so far.

But he hadn't written anything they could read besides those love letters. And those...well...those were hers. "Wait," she smiled. "Just wait. My Penn will write a masterpiece someday."

But he didn't. Sure, he wrote and submitted his share of short stories, but something was always missing from them. Like the one about a little boy's life ravaged by a war in Afghanistan; he'd never been there, so it lacked direction. The story about volunteer clowns lacked humor and color. His piece about heart transplants lacked soul. And on and on and on. The only thing he ever published was one vitriolic letter to the editor.

One morning after years and yet another rejection, she whispered a good morning to him and he whispered back that he was a failure. That he wasn't a writer. 

And his Princess just smiled. "Think of our love story, and tell me you're not a writer. Think of our babies and tell me you know nothing about adding gorgeous chapters that make a story even better. We've never had any edits. You've written our life so eloquently, I could read us over and over again."

That's all it took. That brilliant reminder...

We write our stories daily. Hourly. Minute to minute. We're all published authors. So tell me: what sort of story will you write today? 

This reminds me of the Princess and the Pea, doesn't it? Be sure to write a lovely weekend for yourselves!

She Knows Exactly Where She's Going...

Her coffee runs were notorious. She'd ask the entire office for their orders, grab her bag and keys and twice-check the pink of her lips in my mirror, and then she was off in a jingle and jangle of prayer beads wrapped around her ankles. She always said she needed the extra faith down low the most due to her six-inch Chloes.

We wouldn't see her for three days, at least. Good thing her dad owned the company.

Her sense of direction wasn't the greatest; she honestly rode those adventures with only a vintage globe to guide her, gifted by her great-grandfather. Most of Canada was faded right off, so she never went too far north. And when she was seventeen, she had her heart broken by a boy from New Mexico...which meant that entire state was covered in permanent black marker.

None of that really mattered in the end. Not for her. Because she wasn't afraid to ask for directions, she wasn't afraid of the dark or even directionless mornings, she could talk any policeman or woman out of a ticket, no matter how deserved it was, and she kind of loved getting lost for days.

Also the very reasons every last one of us wanted to be her lover.

Obsessed with this driver...can you imagine the truckers passing this girl?

Slow Down, Mister...

I had a coffee in one hand and a fat bouquet of blooms in my other, fast on my way to meet a client for a very special showing, when all of a sudden right smack in the middle of my path was a dad and his little boy. Stopped. Just looking in a bakery window. Taking their sweet time.

I twirled around them, my cup high over my head. "Whoops!" I said.

The two of them looked at me with that same look they'd been eying the sweets. Matching eyes. Matching everything. Amazing. Miniature versions get me every time.

"Whoops!" the little boy repeated, as if that was the first time he'd heard the word. "Slow down, mister."

The dad laughed and quickly corrected his son. "Baby, she's not a mister. She's a lady. Say 'Slow down, lady.'"

His little guy obliged. "Slow down, lady."

"Sorry," the dad said to me. "I'm sure you've never been called mister before!"

We all laughed together for a second before I continued on my way. I turned around when I got to my car, and they were still way back by the bakery. I have to tell you, I envied their pace.

It's a delicious reminder, don't you think? Stop and look in that bakery window. Gaze awhile. Think long and hard about what you want before you go and get it. Take a deep breath before you dive in. And then devour every last mouth-watering morsel. No regrets.

I guess that all applies even when we're not talking about a bakery, yes?

Yes. 

This looks like a gorgeous walk. Wishing you take a stroll this weekend, too. Tell me what you're planning on taking your own sweet time with, will you? I can't wait to hear...

Look Who's Coming To Dinner...

Her dinner parties were legend. At last count, they were credited with three marriages, one invention, two minor fires, at least four babies, and one and a half affairs. Don't even try to count the stolen kisses; she lost count in the late 90s.

The secret? Her dinner parties began long after dinner, her menus included a majority of foods that begged to be picked up and devoured and always elicited prolonged moans, and she rarely invited the same mix of people twice. Unless they begged and sent her blooms. A huge part of any brilliant dinner party is a guest list that's grateful to be there...

She also encouraged love. Insisted on it, even. If you're ever lucky enough to be invited to one of her dinners, you'll be expected to turn to your left and then your right at some point during the night, look another deep in the eyes, and find something to love. And then say it. Twice. It shocked her sometimes how difficult it seemed for people to love each other, and be proud to shout it from the rooftops. To her, love was something that should be shouted from the rooftops.

Truthfully, there were also whispers of magic and potions; the wine bottles were label-free with a hand-painted heart on them, and there was always at least one taste that perplexed even the fiercest foodie. Is it Pomegranate? No, wait. Garlic. No...Quinoa? Mmm...Persimmon? But she just smiled and giggled at their dizziness.

A little dizziness turns any conversation to dazzling.

Speaking of dazzling, she had something extra special planned for her next. She'd fallen in love so many times over the years and over the courses that she'd started wondering lately if she was doing it right. It was starting to feel somewhat ordinary. Wonderful, but ordinary.

So she'd invited a friend of a friend of a neighbor of a friend who she'd never, ever met. Arranged the seating accordingly. And mixed an even more special potion than usual. And let the butterflies play.

Oh, she couldn't wait to meet her.

Invite me to this party, will you?

That Girl...

I met someone a few days ago, and I simply can't get her out of my mind.

She's the type of woman you see from across any room. Any room. Her hair makes you want to grow yours long and wild or chop it all off. Something drastic. Her skin makes you want to drink double eight glasses a day and give up the occasional ciggie, until you see how she downs a Scotch and how often she sneaks away for a smoke. Her clothes are curated over time, her style timeless. She's surrounded by adoring men and absolutely zero women because none of them wants to look dull next to her. She was perfection. 

Until we spoke.

My heart is still kind of crushed. She's sad about something. So far lost that I don't even think she wants to be found. I can't explain it, yet it's really the only thing that's been in my mind for the past few days.

Have you ever met someone like this? Too big for their space? And all you can do is help them find a little opening so they can breathe easier? Girl trying to get out found among my pins.

Finding Your Way Back...

I just read a pretty fantastic article about exactly the kind of hiking that I'd adore...if I were in a very, very brave moment, that is!

Two friends set out on a hike, shedding articles of clothing along their path. One tee shirt, one scarf, one pair of shorts, and on and on and on until they were free of clothes and - imagine this! - all their fears.

It would be incredibly liberating, right?

There was another part of the story that stuck with me. The two friends left their trail of clothes...so they'd be sure to find their way back.

I don't know what it is about finding your way back that melts my heart, but it does. I feel like all the best fairy tales and love stories and friendships need it.

I'm going hiking this weekend. It's a promise I made to myself just this very minute. And while it may not be (but there's always a chance!) strip hiking, it will definitely feed my soul. It's funny; I have this little plaque down low in my mudroom by my big bad wolf Max's leash that reads "Angels whisper to a man when he goes for a walk."

I believe that.

Sending a hike your way for the weekend! I hope you carve out some time to listen to the angels...and maybe even a little to find your way back, too. Until next week...gorgeous hikers via my pins!

If You Could Fly Anywhere...

I've been asked a whole lot of brilliant questions lately. Ones that make me stop and wonder about my truth before I answer. Today's was "If you could fly anywhere in the world right now, where would you go and what would you do?"

It's strange. I'd been thinking of this very thing all week, ever since a good friend of mine posted a few photos of her latest adventure. Well...maybe adventure is the wrong word. She calls them jaunts. I call them rescue missions.

She works really, really hard to give most of it away, traveling to poor countries and helping make major improvements to orphanages around the world. She's sent pictures that have made me weep. Sent me little stories that make me want to cash out my accounts and catch the next plane.

She thinks I'm exactly what these babies are missing. She thinks I could rock the ones who've never known comfort, hold the ones who've never known touch. Kiss their un-kissed foreheads, sing them to sleep, and whisper all the hopes and dreams that should fill every baby's head.

I think I could could do that, too. So...that's where I'd go.

How about you? What's beckoning you closer lately? I love it when you leave me stories!

This photo sends me...

How's Your Heart...

Yesterday, right in the middle of a conversation about something completely unimportant and entirely unmemorable, someone asked me "How's your heart, Jamie?"

And in an instant, that conversation turned important and memorable.

I didn't know how to respond at first. I was so taken by surprise by the unexpected intimacy of the question, so it took me a minute or two to feel my answer.

I said my heart is good. Alive. Nourished. Awake. Full of amazing love and longing for more.

My heart does so much for me...it is me. It's my hour of hula hooping and long runs with my big bad wolf Max. It's my baked risotto no matter what time of night you beg me for it. It's my skyscraper-heel days and barefoot nights...but mostly my barefoot nights. It's flowers in my hair and sand in my car. It's my road trip on a whim and let's stay in tonight. It's a stray tendril and a nuzzle and a nibble. It's forgotten bikini tops and late hammock nights wondering if the birds in my backyard have always sung to me at midnight.

Yes. My heart is good. And it's getting better every day. How's yours?

Beautiful girl pinned here.

Drawing A Blank...

She collected white canvases in every size. So many that the art supply shop gave her an employee discount. They just added up her devil-may-care topknot, fringed bag overflowing with tubes of paint and brushes, colorful sundress slipping from her shoulders, and terrifyingly high wooden wedges, and concluded that she was most definitely an artist.

It must have been the terrifying wooden wedges. Artists like living on the edge, a fact that terrifies the rest of us.

Discounts aside, they were wrong. She wasn't an artist. Not at all. Because that would be impractical, you know. It would be impossible to live in the city in the manner she thought she most enjoyed living...on an artist's unlivable income, you see.

So she sold things and probably a little of herself, too, while she dreamed of someday not selling anything at all. In between, she dreamed up a thousand paintings while she actually worked on none at all. It would have been tragic if not for her dreams.

Those canvases stayed white, with just a light dust powdering their upper edges, lined up carefully just like her tint-coded tubes of acrylic in her studio. Studio. She never called it her office. Her dream just couldn't accept that reality. Studio, it was.

In her studio is where she sat, then, nodding along with everyone else on the conference call, letting her mind wander for just a second. Just one more dream about what she'd paint first. So so so many ideas...what to paint first?

She'd begin, she thought bravely, with her truth.

Painted beauties found here and here.

Check Yes...

I've always been that girl who passed the first note to the new kid in class. Definitely if the new kid happened to be a cute surfer boy from Santa Cruz! Let's hang out, I'd suggest. And they always said yes. Shy girls, tough girls, sweet boys...they all said yes.

I guess I'm a little bold when it comes to making new friendships. For as long as I can remember, I've always looked for a connection. Any connection. There just has to be one between each of us, right?

The older I get, the bolder I become. It's probably why I started writing. So glad I did because it led me to you.

These days, my friend requests are rarely scrawled on a little piece of scrap paper decorated by at least three or four hearts. But if I see you and feel your bliss and find myself unable to turn around and walk away from you, I will ask. Want to hang out? I've got to know you...

We could share a slice of red velvet cheesecake in the middle of the morning. Head up to the mountains as soon as the weatherman called for rain because when's the last time you danced in the rain? It's been too long, hasn't it? We could hit that hot springs you've always wanted to visit or enjoy some durian on a deserted beach because new friends make you want to try new things. Especially when there's a million stars in the sky to distract us. We could do everything or nothing at all because new friends usually don't have a lot of expectations.

So what do you say? Want to hang out? I've just got to know you...

Girls who could be friends found here and here. And please leave a comment if we haven't yet met! I'd love it.

A Girl and A Guitar...

She asked if she could borrow his guitar. Just for a week, and she promised to guard it with her life. They both smiled then - her brightly and him wryly - because they both knew she guarded everything with her life for the first hour or so. 

And then she lost interest. It had happened that way with his iPad, his tennis racquet from college, his love, and all of his Safran Foer books. One signed.

He didn't mind. Not really. She was a gypsy at heart who gave herself and all she owned straight from it. If your possessions were in the mix during her donations...well, then, her apologies were epic and hypnotic.

She made you forget all about what you once owned, and dream of owning what you couldn't have. She was priceless, that one.

So he said goodbye to his guitar and wondered where it would end up. Because he always gave in to her. Always. Even when she couldn't give back.

Exactly one week later, she showed up at the pub where he played once weekly for hours and tips and to remind himself of the artist he still was buried under all those hedge funds he managed. A few of her fingers were bandaged and her gaze flitted everywhere and nowhere nervously. 

He smiled, as he always did when he caught sight of her magic, and smiled wider when he saw his guitar on her back.

"How'd it go?" he asked, reaching for it and wishing he was reaching for her.

"Do you have a second?" she asked back, walking toward the corner of the bar where she knew he kept his things when he was there. Knowing he would follow her.

She sang softly but bravely - like her life depended on it - as those Hello Kitty'd fingers of hers strummed as best they could with only a week of practice but a lifetime of soul. 

I'm gonna wear you down
I'm gonna make you see
I'm gonna get to you
You're gonna give into me

I'm gonna start a fire
You're gonna feel the heat
I'm gonna burn for you
You're gonna melt for me

You're gonna take my hand
Whisper the sweetest words
And if you're ever sad
I'll make you laugh
I'll chase the hurt

My heart is set on you
I don't want no one else
And if you don't want me
I guess I'll be all by myself...

And then she took the guitar from around her neck and gave it back. Folded her hands in her lap and tried to breathe. Searched his face for an answer. For anything.

He couldn't move. He didn't want to move. Because if he moved and somehow broke this moment and lost her again...well, then, that would be his final loss.

He shifted closer to her, almost into her, and finished her song in that raspy whispering baritone that made her forget all about him being a hedge fund manager. And remember that he'd been hers forever.

I'll use my eyes to draw you in
Until I'm under your skin
I'll use my lips, I'll use my arms
Come on, come on, come on
Give into me...

She smiled. "You liked my song?"

He smiled back. "I like you."

And they went on giving into each other for the rest of their lives, singing each other awake and to sleep. And she went on losing things - his car keys, his replacement iPad, a very good watch - but this time, she guarded his love with her life. For the first hour and every single one after that.

Just felt like telling a story today! Have a blindingly beautiful weekend, my beautiful friends! You deserve it! If you'd like to hear the song I've played a million times, it's here. Art from here and here.

Italy...

I'm learning Italian. I really am. I listen to this at all hours of the day and night. When I'm working while planning a trip in my head to Italy or in the car dreaming about a life in Italy or cooking Italian and even when I'm dancing.

There's a lot of multi-tasking...and dancing...in Italy, I imagine, so I need to be ready.

Most times, I feel like life couldn't be more perfect. I have a blazing career, amazing clients, and a tribe that - depending on the the day - makes me feel braver that I really am, sillier than I should be, and loved. Really, really loved. 

But LA is a hard town in which to plant your roots; there are a whole lot of potted plants here! Oh, that sounds a little hippie, doesn't it? I hope you understand what I'm trying to say...

I guess there's a part in all of us that craves home. Some of us have found it, some of us are still searching, and some of us find homes for others on a daily basis! (I so love that part of my job. I'm addicted to it. You should have that experience of helping someone find a home once in your life, you know. You don't have to be a realtor! I've volunteered with Habitat for Humanity and it's the same feeling. Wonderful.)

And at least one of us wants to be that girl in Under the Tuscan Sun.

When I move to Italy, I will wear deliciously delicate frocks every day. That's a promise. Found here and here.

Lovely Little Messages...

I was waiting for a client yesterday and just spinning through my text messages. I was so glad she was late, because at least fifteen minutes later, I was still smiling at all my love letters.

My day is full of them. I swear, my BlackBerry is my little love machine...blowing me kisses with every text and email from my mom and sister, my dad and little brother, friends and colleagues and even one or two new friends who tend to get very fresh yet ever so delicious, too! You know I'm a fan of the bold text!

The funny thing about them all is that everyone calls me by another name besides Jamie. Actually, if I get a message from someone addressed to Jamie, it's usually someone who barely knows me.

I have a friend who I've known for years. Years! Her name is Mimi. Sometimes we call her Mims. I met her sister, who called her Philly. I just assumed it was a sister thing. Then she turned into a client, and all of a sudden I had paperwork with the name Philomina all over it! It was the strangest thing, but I love that her given name had been kind of a little secret.

At any given moment on any given day, I'm probably reading "Good Morning, Sunshine!" and "Call me right away, Muffin Love...I've got juicy news!" and "Jamie Michelle, This is your dad and I love you." and "Dear Auntie, Thank you for our Easter treat!" Oh, those sweet nephews of mine! And how cute is my dad texting? This is your dad. Could you die? I'm lucky.

It just sends me, knowing that there are people out there who care enough...to love me, I guess. To take their time and send me their love. It's incredible, if you really think about it. They're gifts, those lovely little messages. 

And I'm saving them all.

What do others call you? By your given name or by a special one? I'd love to know! Love letters from here and here!

Hidden...

A few days ago, I was listening to a conversation that made me feel so many emotions all at once. Three acquaintances were talking about a guy one of them had dated - a guy I knew, as well - in an awful way. Which would have been less offensive to me if he was as bad as they described him.

But he's not. He's just honest. And sometimes, that can be even more hurtful than hiding the truth.

It made me realize something about myself that I probably already knew, but was a sweet reminder anyway. I like imperfections. I'm drawn to them. I give extra credit for them.

There's a quote I've written down on at least five different pieces of paper or in journals that always makes me think of someone different each time I read it. "The pieces of ourselves we tend to hide are often the most beautiful." 

I wonder what I'm hiding. I hope not much. I try to be as authentic as possible, even when it hurts, but there must be something. I'm going to try to find it.

What about you? Do you think about things like this? What part of you are you hiding? I bet it's gorgeous. Masked beauties found here and here.