oh amy jane

photo credits: segarphotography I'm learning how to say, I need help.  During the first couple months of our marriage, I ran into overwhelming health issues. We spent hours in hospitals, emergency rooms, and private clinics. I'd wake up exhausted from a difficult night fighting pain and fear, and feel completely alone, something which was my own fault. I've always moved at a fast clip. I need to be doing something, achieving goals, otherwise I feel restless. So, on my bad days, instead of taking time to rest, I'd do things like clean the house, sort out our closet, scrub the bathroom, finish a freelance project, do all the laundry, and plan out the next six years of my life. Gio would come home from work to find a shell, but hey... at least I could report that I'd done something, right? Yet my inability to ask for help wasn't the only problem. I also didn't know how because I knew that if I pushed myself hard enough, I could do it. That&#

to listen as you read A sacred thread wound tightly into our days, I'm sure of it. Beginning yesterday as we slipped into the back of a chapel with its coffee stained floors and elderly gentleman in scarves and sunlight slicing through the room and a wee one smiling his way through the service. Reminders to come with our questions, shame, and tangle of stories. Then, today. Waking to an ordinary sun and my husband hovering over me to kiss me good morning. His voice, still deep and throaty from being sick. After a breakfast of french press and eggs, we linger over goodbyes. Soon, I am on the road to the small town where my parents live. I'm singing at the top of my lungs and there's snow capped mountains in the distance and flowers lifting their heads in the fields. My prayers feel different these days—  Mom and I settle into a cafe: one mimosa, hot tea, and scone, please. Just because. She reads my stories and I'm leaning over a notebook pulling out wor

I've been thinking a lot about home. About how you and I search these city streets for something we can hold on to. I don't know if you just arrived for the semester or if you've wandered these shops from the day you were born, but I do know you're on the lookout. Just waiting for something to come alive; waiting for your name to appear on the walls, on the cement you walk across, for it to say: I WAS HERE. Searching from the beginning, I've crawled my way across countries. Standing toe to toe with strangers and studying their eyes for something that will allow me to set down my bags. I want to sit across from every person I've ever met and ask them where they put their grief. How does the color of their world change when hope no longer feels like a sweater too big? I want to know, for me, for you. We're in this together, see. Pain from one heart is a ripple that is felt throughout generations. Meaning: please be kind , but also, please be brave with yo

from September: i.  A lone bus rattles it way up a winding hill that leads to our home for the next couple of days. As I can see it rounding the bend and passing an ancient cathedral about two miles from here, I settle down to write a few more words. My fellow is already tying his shoes, eager to explore. I'm still wading through jet lag, a blur of new sights and a language already pulling its bow tightly around my heart.  Buongiorno, our neighbors call up to us. Up here, the air is clean and soft. Portofino hugs the coastline which I can see from our bedroom window, pine green shutters pressed against the house to let in the whisper of a breeze. Outside, a silvery cat plays with grape vines, tossing the stems back and forth, as if they were strings. Our host has left us some white clusters to try and the fruit is heavy with sweetness and sun. ii. Everything seems to move at its own pace in this fishing village. Shop owners sit outside of their establishments, chatti

I remember when I held my first journal in my hands. I was eight years old and my parents had gifted a floral notebook to me in hopes that I would busy myself. My first entries were graced with curt descriptions of my day, mom and I went to the store today or, there was a football game tonight and I couldn't sleep. I remember writing being a chore that I could live with. A dedication I begrudgingly thought worth pursuing. Discovering true devotion is a long road for most of us. Whether you've known what you wanted to do since you were a child, or if it was something that came to you halfway through college, it's still a question that looms over us as we pick a path and wonder if this is something we truly want to do for the rest of our lives. Does your path make you fall in love with life again and again? Yes, there are moments when you can't imagine sitting at the desk and writing, or whatever it is you do, but if you keep at it because you must, because th

"Come on, kid." Dad would sigh, "Clean under your bed. Pull out everything and put it away ." From house to house, country to country, we always had the same conversation.     "You’re messy ! " Mom would comment. My child-long defense: "It’s just underneath the bed ." I knew it frustrated them because our house was always clean. Every night, all the dishes in the sink were cleared away, my hamster got new wood shavings in his cage, and the cat’s litter boxes were emptied out and refilled. Yet underneath my bed, there were always treasures. Vacuuming was dangerous if you went in blindly, and you would have to first pull back the bed skirt and lift everything off the ground to ensure doll hair not being torn off or marbles disappearing in the vacuum bag with a clattering scream. Still, I liked storing things in the darkness beneath my mattress, I liked knowing that if something was taking up the emptiness, then fear or