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I've outgrown a lot of things in my short life. 

Jumpsuits with hand painter flowers.

Pink high tops with Tweety Bird on the side.

Cheating at mancala.

Living at home.

And this blog.

Sixbeforebeakfast has been a lot of things to me and for the past three years I've loved coming here. Recently, however, I've felt like the pages are constraining me. Writing here has been hard--not because I don't want to write--because I feel like I have to maintain a style that is no longer me. 

So I've created a new home:

here.

I'd love it if you joined me.

sometimes i get dressed

Sometimes I take photos of it.

Mostly not though.

missing brighton

I read through my old London journal today. I'm so happy I kept one while I was abroad. It was wonderful to relive those experiences for an afternoon. One of my favorite days, which I don't think I ever shared, was my trip to Brighton Beach. I took a train down in the morning and spent the whole day wondering the beach, the pier, and through the town. It was the most romantic day and I so wish I could go back. Just for another day.

on the first day of spring

My best friend and I went down to the tidal basin and frolicked among the cherry blossoms. We picnicked and walked the entire basin and talked for hours and hours. There was baby kissing, fabulous dress wearing, and sorbet eating. Washington is kind of magical in the spring.

Last years blossoms.

fort building

I built a fort in my living room. We gathered all the pillows in the apartment and piled in on top of them; wine glasses in one hand and the puppy in the other. We snuggled in and sipped the red and watched funny movies until late in the evening/early in the morning when sleep stole us away. He woke me around four and we moved to the bed, which was much more comfortable for our old bones.

While he cooked breakfast the next morning I curled up in the pillow pile and read. Later, after errands, I came home and napped in the fort while the record player sang and the sun set. Almost exactly 24 hours after the fort was built, I returned the sheet to the closet and the chairs to the four sides of the table. The living room is now just a living room. Until next time.

Lately I have felt the urge to nest. Not for anyone else but for myself. Like a little bird I've found myself gathering bits of fluff and twigs to build a steady home with--a shelf at this thrift store, a glowing green vase at that one. This Wednesday I took nesting to the next level and caulked the crack in my bedroom wall and painted it pink. A girly, feminine, pale pink. It took me the afternoon and my hands were seizing at the end because I didn't use a caulk gun (don't ask) but I did it--all by myself. My room is still in progress--there are boxes stacked and clothing draped--but staring at my pretty pink wall as I go to sleep makes me very happy.

All stories begin with once upon a time, or they should. So here:

Once upon a time there was a girl who was afraid to grow up. She was afraid that growing up meant settling (down and for) and giving up her days of dress up and make believe. It was like she thought that one day someone would come and say, "you're a grown up now; give us your tutus and your glitter and your imagination."

So she made a promise to herself. To keep living in dreamland and dancing in public and painting each nail a different color. To be Peter Pan not Wendy Bird. To never grow up.

And she hasn't yet.