Detour : St. Joseph, MI.

On our way home from a family wedding this weekend [yay Whitney and Jon!] my husband and I took a detour and stopped in St. Joseph, Michigan. We spent our  honeymoon there two years ago and wanted to revisit Silver Beach, which holds a lot of happy memories for us. Sunday was gorgeous : 78 degrees and sunny. The clouds rolled in as the sun was setting, giving us a spectacular lake view that we couldn't help but capture with some snapshots. The first I took with my iPhone, the rest were taken by Matt with his Nikon D80. 

When I was young I didn't appreciate the natural beauty of Michigan. Then again, most of what I new of the state was southwest Michigan, which really isn't that spectacular away from the lake. Now though, I love that on our way home to Chicago we can stop and drink in a late summer evening, complete with Silver Beach Pizza and a GIANT waffle cone of Kilwin's pistachio ice cream :

The Rain.

Driving home from Michigan yesterday I finally found an exit that took me to the lake shore. I've tried before and gotten lost in loops of highway exits and side roads as my GPS chirps in the background, "recalculating, recalculating..." This time I muted the thing, took an exit I haven't taken before and discovered the road I remembered from our honeymoon to St. Joseph, Michigan. In my memory the water gleamed blue with sunshine as husband and I said good-bye to the only vacation we've taken since we married nearly two years ago.

I stopped and got out of the car, grateful to stretch my legs and let the breeze air out my shirt, drenched in sweat from a drive with no air-conditioning in 85 degree weather, and to reflect on my trip home and the road ahead of me - what I was returning to and what I was leaving behind.

The aquamarine waves lapped quietly, disappearing into a hazy sky. With the sun shining and calm winds, it was hard to fathom the ominous storm forecasted to strike the midwest. Supposedly I was headed straight into the thick of it, but from where I sat things looked peaceful and incapable of being disturbed. I wanted to sit there forever, the sun and I defiantly waiting for a sign from the darkening sky to prove the weatherman right or wrong. I know that meteorology is a science, but for how often they are wrong I wanted to believe that the storms wouldn't come.

I sweltered the whole way home, watching the sky grow darker and gray, fraught with clouds. In the distance I could see the slant sheet of rain spill over the southwest.

At long last I pulled into the lot of my apartment, and the sky, heavy with thunder, broke open in a downpour.

I stepped from the car, lifted my hands open-palmed to the sky.

For once it felt good to let the cold drops wash over me, engulf me in its soaking breeze, let the rumble of thunder ripple from my spine to my toes.

What else am I to do but welcome it now?

[Photo.]

Be Bold and Mighty Forces Will Come to Your Aid

How was your weekend, dear readers? My weekend was a flurry of travel and visits with family in my small Michigan hometown. I'm thankful that I live in Chicagoland where I can work and visit the wide-open arms of its sweeping skyline whenever I want, and that my rural roots are just across the lake. In 4.5 hours [I'm not speeding, I promise, Dad!] I'm able to make the trek home to say hello and spend time with my parents and two younger brothers.

250 miles seems so short when I compare it to being halfway across the world or when I think about how far-flung some of my other family has become. Yet, I sometimes wonder at how far one can get in less than a day's time. We left on a sunny Friday morning, and before I knew it, it was Sunday afternoon and my grandmother and I were driving the curve back around Lake Michigan to Chicago where I found myself sitting at a friend's bonfire eating brats and burgers as the sun slipped behind the trees. As with many Sunday nights after a weekend visit, How did I get here? was the singular thought floating around in my head as I crawl into bed.

I'll be headed back this weekend just to spend time with my mom for Mother's Day. As you go about your week, I encourage you to take a moment to give thanks for your mom, or any woman in your life that has nurtured you and encouraged your dreams. If she's here with you, healthy or fighting for her life, be sure to give thanks for the time you have together. If she's gone, my prayers are with you as you reflect on her legacy and wish that you could tell her thank you one more time. Write her a love letter, because you and I both know that the task of raising you, helping you grow, wasn't always a picnic, but she put her brave face on and taught you how to live life in this world anyway...

[Post title taken from Basil King, not Goethe as Frances McDormand says in the above clip.] 

Love List for Labor Day Weekend.

Inspired this weekend, I've made a list of love for my family and for our Labor Day weekend tradition. Cold and rainy or hot and sunny, it was wonderful.

I love :

Waking up and eating breakfast with our giant brood.

Eating with my family, period. SO. MUCH. FOOD. And ALL of it is good!

Laying in the hammock with my brother.

Thinking about past Labor Days on the lake and realizing how much we've all grown up.

Finding moments with each person to laugh and tell them I love them.

The peaceful, exclusive scenery of northern Michigan:

Hearing Sufjan Stevens' lyrics from "Say Yes! To M!ch!gan!" and remembering my roots :

"I was raised

In the place.

Still I often think of going back

To the farms, 

Golden arms. 

Tried to change the Made in Michigan

But I was raised

In the place, 

Part to remind me..."

I don't love the fact that living away from my family is hard. There are moments when I wonder how exactly life led me here, away from them. The truth is, that as much as I love them, Chicago is where I belong. This is where my dreams flourish and grow and connect. This is where my other family is: my husband, his family that has made me their own, the family I made with the people I met at college - my friends who have become my sisters and brothers in another sense.

Will I be here forever? I don't know. Will I ever go back to my small hometown in Michigan? I don't know.

But home is where my heart is, truly. And my heart, although I would not say it is divided, has many roots in many different places all over the globe.

Ultimately, my heart resides in me, with my memories and my thoughts and my endless gratitude for the people that have raised me. So they're in my heart, even when they're not here with me.

And my heart is with them, even when I'm not.