I used to think of myself as a patient person; I was a patient person. I'm not so much anymore. My personality has changed a lot in the past couple of years, hardened, really, in many of my own ways. I'm usually very prompt now, fairly tight with my finances, and serious about my work. But these changes are welcome, and no one has ever ever accused me of being uptight. (Friends! Imagine? Sam scolded me just the other day for trying to sneak my glass of wine out on an evening walk. "Jessica only follows laws she agrees with." Exactly.)

I share all of this because it brings me to last night. Last night, after multiple failures at finding last year's stockings, I decided I needed to make a new pair—and I needed to make a new pair right then, because that's how I feel these days. Patience is lost, and creative impulse takes hold—and I'm not really talking stockings anymore. There's a certain intensity here, in me, that I've never owned before, something that scares me a little but makes me feel very capable.

Back to the photos: I used some ticking stripe linen I had lying around (seen here and here) and decided the fabric would be better suited to pouches than a sock shape. For a drawstring, then, I sewed in a length of canvas ribbon (from one of these). Also, it should be noted that this is only the second sewing project I've ever finished, and all of my skills—or lack thereof, at this point—come from YouTube tutorials. But, with a little problem solving, I spent no money and received the satisfaction of creating.

I was struck by a bowl of pomanders when I toured a historic home last week, by their smell and severe looks. So, with eagerness to participate in any sort of merry making, I came home lugging a bag of oranges.

A toothpick or skewer can be used to poke through the peel of the orange (in an effort to avoid sore thumbs) and then cloves placed in each wound, making whatever pattern you choose, and smelling the house of citrus and spice. The whole process is quite enjoyable.

I like the idea of these journey posts. So, here—the journey of my first live Christmas tree, everyone.

P.S. Yes, that's a vehicle. And, yes, that's ours. After over six years without one, Sam's parents—thank you, thank you, thank you—passed this truck down to us. I still bike or take public transit daily, but once a week or so this old guy gives us a lot of freedom.

I've been enjoying green juice in the morning, pouring myself a glass and taking the rest to work. I get a mix of reactions, from That's disgusting to That smells great! And, what a pretty color.

GREEN JUICE
1 green apple
1-inch ginger
5 celery stalks
1 cucumber
parsley to taste

I've always used leafy greens (mostly kale and spinach) in the past, but they wilt so quickly in my refrigerator. This recipe is quicker and cleaner.

I took the bus to St. Louis last week, only to meet and hitch a ride from Ashlee on her drive back to Missouri from Louisville. We spent the night in a high-rise hotel, ordered room service (!!) early the next morning, and made it out of the parking garage just as the streets were being closed for the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

This is everything to me.

Long before the first of my visual memories, there was the sound of Patsy Cline.

I'll be seeing Parker tomorrow, filling our bellies and playing outside. I've got the eccentric aunt role covered.

Glimpses at a few small projects I've finished for friends and family lately—business cards for Ashlee's OT conference, send-offs for Molly's farewell party, and invites for Danielle's baby shower.

I'm having homemade granola and chai this morning, on the floor, where I've been spending more time lately. I'm settled down with the paper for a couple hours and then we're going to walk a few neighborhoods over for the last performance of a play. Maybe I'll roast a chicken tonight, if I can find a good source. Maybe I'll just eat leftover lentils. Maybe I'll continue with my Willa Cather kick. Or, maybe I'll listen to Radiolab instead.

The Chicago wind is the only thing moving quickly today.

And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, 
and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 
"If this isn't nice, I don't know what is."

- Kurt Vonnegut

We spent a night camping in the redwoods, cooking meals on the fire and propane stove, drinking pumpkin cider and California beer. I pulled some beets from Molly and Steve's garden before we left, which we roasted with sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, and a big hunk of butter. We wrapped it all up in foil and threw it right on the coals, a little nervous about the technique, but so pleased with the outcome.

It quickly became dark and I had to put on extra layer, digging into my clothing reserve, which was running low. We ate s'mores next to the fire, surrounded by all of that black, all of that silence and one owl. I got too cold, as I do, and retired to the tent to read a little by the lantern. Sam watched the fire die down, and we both fell asleep to falling redwood needles on the tarp—just like those on the table above. It sounded just like rain.

The next morning, Sam fried up eggs and bacon in the cast iron—which he's so good at—while I walked around the park drinking my coffee. We ate breakfast sandwiches, packed up, hiked a six mile trail, and then headed toward the coast.

Tea dying linen, with the sun shining and windows open. Looks as if these are going to be the last of the warm days. The feeling of the changing air already has me excited for the first of spring, but my mind tends to skip ahead like that.

I love to see how other people live. It pulls me back, reflecting on my day-to-day, making me conscious. What makes me happy? What do I find rewarding? Challenging? Important?

After a week in California, I return feeling inspired (to the extent of avoiding sleep, currently), drawing from new sources. And, if this trip was a story—which it was, really—the moral would be one on the importance of conscious living. Every minute deserves the weight of being labeled "a choice."

I am my day. I am the decisions I make. I am how I spend my time.

[A digital shot from Sam until my film's developed.]

I've been turning to my 2012 goals lately, reflecting on the past nine months and getting to work on a few things I've yet to tackle—one of which, until a couple of weeks ago, was to create more of a morning routine. No rush. No set plans. Just a bit of structure that I weave my mornings around.

It's sometimes a tight knit and other times a loose web, but always with similar elements—a hot drink, a bit of exercise, a few pages of a book, breakfast, some tidying. I allow myself the fascination of changing light; I sit there and get goosebumps watching it, thinking about it. I can't believe this happens! Every morning I think: I can't believe this happens.

P.S. Mary Oliver on the morning.

(I used this recipe, above. Next time I'll split the flour, since I found the sole use of whole wheat, in this instance, a little too pungent for my liking.)

We spent the morning at our favorite spot on the river, drinking coffee and giving into a shiver every so often. It's a chilly 54°F outside and I'm enjoying the change. I layered on some denim and these strange mustard-colored knit harem pants, which I found at the thrift store (along with Sam's L.L.Bean wool shirt, above).

Sitting there, with cold ears, Sam and I each described the hat we want to wear this autumn, and it turns out to be the same one—this one, really.

"We can't have the same hat!"

"Well, only one of us knows how to knit."

She reads anything and everything and even now hates to be disturbed and above all however often she has read a book and however foolish the book may be no one must make fun of it or tell her how it goes on. It is still as it always was real to her. 

- Gertrude Stein, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, 1933

Coffee, slept-in braids, wet shoes (from getting caught in a storm on our ride back from this), and one messy kitchen, with five jars of pickled beets—and five more of okra, now—to show for it.

I took a series of Polaroids during a road trip to/through Yellowstone two years ago, and just finally got around to framing and hanging them. They were always beautiful to me, but now they really mean something—those two weeks were two of my best.

Pitching tents in the Iowa dark, Amish picnic lunches in South Dakota, swing dancing into the morning in Wyoming, and then white water rafting in Montana just hours later, up into Canada for 36 hours without sleep, before crossing the North Dakota border and giving into a truck stop nap—all of that hanging there in three little squares beside my front door.

I followed this tutorial for French framing, using this mat cutter and 8" x 10" pre-cut glass and backing.

Hello, Saturday. Hello, summer. Hello, autumn. Hello, all.

I worked on the batter this morning while Sam ran an errand. Zesting lemons, beating egg whites, and then I thought, "I know what I'm missing!" I called Sam and asked if he could pickup the newest Tallest Man on Earth album, very casually, as if it were a grocery item, something small that I needed to complete a task.

This seems like the perfect time to do something like this, since it's all so tangible:
LISTENING The Tallest Man on Earth and (his wife) Idiot Wind (Thanks, Molly!)
WATCHING Sleepwalk with Me and The Imposter
EATING Sprouted Kitchen's Lemon Pancakes
READING The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas by Gertrude Stein

Now we've moved on to a sultry Julie London record. Things are moving very slowly around here today, and that—that feels fine.

So long, so long.

[PHOTOS BY SAMUEL, TAKEN DURING THIS TRIP]