{Sponsored} Minted + Mexico: Paper, Paradise & Happily Ever After

Disclosure: This post was sponsored by Minted.com. 

It has been almost a week since I left Mexico, and I'm still experiencing a major case of the post-vacation blues. That's how you know you've been on a truly special trip; you wake in the middle of the night dreaming about sunshine, sangria and Sergio (not necessarily in that order). You convince yourself that if you can inhale deep enough, you'll catch a breath of that glorious ocean air. (You find yourself quietly checking flight schedules against your calendar at 2 a.m. as visions of Mexico 2.0 dance in your head...)

I'll be honest. Until this vacation, I'd never really given much thought to the notion of a destination wedding. But one afternoon we found ourselves lounging in the pool watching as the resort staff begin erecting an arch on the beach. Over the next several hours, they transformed a few boards and rolls of material into a site fit for a magical moment. As wafts of white tulle danced in the breeze in front of a stunningly aqua sea, I began to see the destination wedding appeal. But it wasn't just about the beautiful backdrop. 

Over the course of our stay, I heard several people refer to a "Mexico State of Mind." By the end of our trip, I wholly understood what they were talking about. It's a passion for the present moment. It's joy in being together with the people you love. It's finding beauty in everyone and everything. It's simply enjoying your life. There's something to be said for beginning your forever journey in a Mexico State of Mind and starting the clock on "happily ever after" with a major emphasis on the happy.

Though I did receive two marriage proposals while in Mexico, it's doubtful I'll be walking down the aisle anytime soon. Nonetheless, Minted.com's new Wedding Collection  has provided me with some visual eye candy and fodder for fantasy. These are just a few of the invites I have cast in my hypothetical destination Mexico wedding. Whether you're going sassy or simple, ritzy or rustic, when it comes to finding the perfect paper, Minted has got you covered. As for finding the perfect partner? That's up to you, my friend.

ps: If you're not in wedding mode, check out Minted's Art Marketplace to score yourself (or at least your walls) a little something pretty. I was originally introduced to Minted by way of The Homesteady, and have since formed something of an addiction. My collection of office "animal art" has benefited greatly with the addition of Runny Bunny and Swift Fox.

*pps: Sergio...call me, maybe.

Can't you almost smell the tropical flowers? This print reminds me of the gorgeous, hand-embroidered Mexican tapestries we saw in many of the local markets. Such pretty!Does this count as "something blue?" I think it does. There's something to be said for simple elegance. And gold. Love this pattern.

Disclosure: This is a sponsored post. In exchange for writing it, I received compensation from Minted.com. I only recommend products or services I personally use and believe offer benefits to my blog audience. All opinions are my own. 

Valentine's Day Infographic

The Power of Gratitude

“A letter is always better than a phone call. People write things in letters they would never say in person. They permit themselves to write down feelings and observations using emotional syntax far more intimate and powerful than speech will allow.” | Alice Steinbach Last night I stumbled across a powerful video. It begins with a researcher asking participants to write a letter of gratitude to a person who has greatly influenced them. Simple, right?

So they thought.

After the participants have fired off their letters, the researcher asks them to pick up the phone and call the person they’ve written about in order to read the letter aloud to the intended recipient. The immediate rise in anxiety is almost palpable. As each person lifts the receiver, you begin to see the walls of their everyday selves crumble. In this moment of unusually vulnerable truth-telling, viewers witness a transformation as each letter writer becomes a truer version of themselves. It quickly becomes apparent that this is a lesson in something much greater than letter writing; it’s a practice in expressing a deeper sense of gratitude most of us feel, but few of make a habit of regularly vocalizing to the people in our lives.

The video concludes with research findings. Participants who wrote letters, but were unable to call the recipient to share, experienced a small bump in happiness in the time between arriving at the lab and when they left. Participants who wrote a letter and made the phone call experienced a much bigger bump in happiness. Interestingly, the person who experienced the greatest bump was also the person who reported the lowest happiness score upon arrival at the lab.

The study got me thinking about relationships in general. What would happen if we made verbalizing gratitude a regular practice in our lives? How would our relationships with the people we love and the world around us begin to change? What would happen if companies put as much focus on expressing regular gratitude toward their employees and customers as they do on ROI and bottom lines?

We’d all be happier, apparently. You can’t argue with science.

Today I’m issuing a challenge to each of you reading this. (And I’m challenging myself to do the same.) In the words of wonderful Sara Bareilles, “Show me how big your brave is.” Don’t be embarrassed. Don’t be fearful. Be brave. Be happy. Be grateful.

Take a little time out to write a letter of gratitude to someone in your life today. Then pick up the phone. (And when you’re done be sure to loop back around and leave a comment below telling us how it went.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHv6vTKD6lg

This post first appeared on BrainsOnFire.com 

A Letter Unfurled

The medulla oblongata controls automatic functions of the body. Heartbeat. Breathing.

Long before we've even entered the world, before we understand what it even means to be alive, this little part of our brain is hard at work having already figured out what we need.

There are some things we, as a people, are meant to do. Without knowing how or when or why. These things have no beginning. No end. They just always are. We're never taught how to do them, somehow we just know. For me, loving you has been one of these things. It is as much a necessary part of my life as heartbeats. And breaths in. And breaths out. Nobody ever taught me how to love you, but I know without knowing how or when or why. I've been doing it all my life. I knew before I knew you. I knew before I met the world. I knew before I knew what it meant to be alive.

The Sidewalks of Chicago

There is a place in Chicago, high above the streets I can tell you about. I've only been there once.

There is a place in Chicago, high above the streets I can tell you about. I won't tell you the name, because it's not important. But it's there, believe me. High above the hustle and bustle of a street named after a state, some of the most world's most talented musicians have met their destiny.

It is more treasure chest than shop. A landing pad where string instruments arrive like long-awaited foreign dignitaries with names like Francois and Annalinda. Some of them are named after artists or constellations, others named after lovers lost between the pages of the world's greatest unwritten love stories. Each one has a history. Many of them, if not most, are centuries old. One sat in the corner, listening to gossip at Marie Antoinette's ball. Another recalls the first breath of fresh air after years passed hiding in Amsterdam. The youngest is rumored to have a distant cousin that continued playing that night as the ship went down.

When you meet the dignitaries your instinct is to hush. You want to believe they will whisper their stories if you listen closely enough.

There is a sadness to the dignitaries. They have lost-and survived-everyone they ever loved and every hand that ever loved them in return. They have lived a series of lives, a constant reincarnation marked by the passing of time and the ticking of t he clock. Dutifully, they have sung again and again under aging hands, having lost as soon as they are found. They serve faithfully. They endure knowing others cannot. The dignitaries mourn; you can hear it if you listen, like holding a seashell to your ear. Every last breath, ever final farewell and ever swan song remains in the and of their scrolls and the spaces in between.

The people who buy the dignitaries spend a small fortune; at times, the price of a modest home. It seems unfathomable, but once you've heard them sing, you understand they're not just buying an instrument, they're liberating legends and wrapping their fingers around a legacy.

There are families that bring small children to meet the dignitaries. And though the children do not yet know it, their families have also brought them to meet their destinies. The children politely bow and greet the dignitaries. One by one, down the line, they raise their tiny fingers and tiny hands until they stand before The One that sings out in their native tongue. In a split second a path is cleared and a golden light shines just a little bit brighter through 48,000 crystals dangling above the sacred hall on 7th Avenue.There is a place in Chicago, high above the streets, I can tell you about. You would never find it were you not looking. It's behind a door with a brass handle and across a marble floor to an ancient elevator, the kind you only see in old movies. A black man with kind eyes will help you now. He'll pull aside a brass gate with strong hands before asking you which floor you're headed to. Tell him the 6th floor or maybe the 8th. It could have even been the 9th, I can't quite recall. Pass down the short hallway, then a right down the long corridor. If you hit the water fountain you've gone too far.To your right you will see a series of leaded glass windows. Some will be propped open. Step toward them, take a deep breath and see-really see. In the middle of this building in the middle of all this concrete, nine stories below there is a garden thriving in a city. Almost nobody knows. But now you do.Take a seat on the old wooden bench worn from years of visitors coming and going. Close your eyes. Somewhere in the distance the click of a woman's high heeled shoes comes nearer, then further away from you.It's quiet now and you are aware of the sound of your breathing and heartbeating high above a city that does not know of courtyard gardens or dignitaries or of your existence.

At the end of the hall there is an arched doorway. You can see it from where you sit. A single, short step leads up to an old wooden door. Light escapes through a crack between the floor and the base of the door. Beyond the door you hear voices, muffled but jovial. Then the click of a door beyond the door.

And then the singing begins.

You are hearing a familiar song for the first time. Every memory rushes back to you. Discovering toes. The comfort of being tucked into bed as a child. The infinite weightlessness of soaring through the air on a tire swing. The touch of your grandfather's hand patting your back. The smell of July at 10:30 p.m. The feel of a paintbrush in your hand. The taste of vanilla ice cream and South Carolina peaches. The exquisite sensation of slipping beneath the surface of the water in a swimming pool. The exact moment a ride on a bike with no training wheels finally makes sense. The electricity of the first kiss. The rush and rebellion of your first beer. The people you know and knew are laughing and smiling and waving as they go sailing by on a brilliantly colored carousel. Every dream, every hope, every wish is coming back to you now, like lady bugs

Open your eyes.

Stand up.

Turn away from the arched doorway. Walk down the long corridor. Take your time. Turn left down the short hallway. You'll find the elevator and your friend waiting to return you to the lobby from the 6th or the 8th or the 9th floor. He's quieter this time.

When the elevator stops and the doors open, step out and cross the marble floor. Pull open the door and step outside. Let the sunlight envelope you as you squint upward seeing only white light.

To your left a yellow taxi pauses at a stoplight as a child passes through the crosswalk leading a yellow balloon.

High above a bow is lifted from strings as a familiar life begins again on the sidewalks of Chicago.

A Sixteenth Year: Life, Friendship and the Burnham Building

While I was home for Christmas vacation I found myself meandering down memory lane by way of old yearbooks, photos and a handful of notes my mother had pilfered from my backpack and carefully tucked away for the last 10+ years. Between the pages of smiling faces I rediscovered inside jokes (long-since forgotten) and summertime promises, dusty with the passing of time.

I'm a writer by trade, but every so often even I find myself flooded by an emotion that renders me speechless, leaving me grasping for the just-right words. Like the fringe between asleep and awake, it's a magical grey area; a combination of reality and fantasy, somewhere between a dream and a memory.

I had an amazing group of friends in high school. We were a ragtag team, our own little roving pack of misfits. We perfected the art of skipping school and had a thing for country drives. A tank of gas was the price of freedom, and ten dollars was all it took to feel invincible and impervious to the world. Truth be told, I don't know that I have ever felt more present in the moment than I did during those afternoons with the windows down, the radio up and the sun shining in on our little corner of the universe.

Sophomore year we made a group decision to participate in the school play. Not having a theater at our own at our high school meant passing a semester in a suspended state of hormone-infused, sugar-and-caffeine laden evenings in The Burnham Building, a practical, sturdy, brick building that had once served as the city's lone high school.

Night after night we showed up for rehearsals and reprimands from cranky directors and stage managers. Though the months felt infinite at the time, looking back, I now realize we were growing up and growing apart at the speed of life. Each day prepared us for the great unknown that lay ahead. We laughed hard and we crushed hard. We drove to Taco Bell to ponder the future over 7-layer burritos. We overanalyzed anything and everything anyone said or did. We complained about our parents, our part-time jobs, our age. We talked about the future like we had it all figured out.

Over the course of those few precious months of practices and rehearsals, I took my first (and only) sip of peach schnapps (just one capful). My first real crush grew into my first real love, (rather than bringing it to his attention I silently spent every night thereafter hoping he'd magically take note.) I discovered one of my closest friend was living a secret life, soon to surface (ultimately breaking the hearts of girls far and wide.) I tirelessly battled my parents when "everyone else" was allowed to do XYZ and I was not (and for each of those "grave injustices" when they stood their ground I don't think I'll ever be able to thank them enough.)

For all the time we spent at Burnham, I remember very little about the building. I can't recall if the seats were cushioned or wooden, painful or comfortable. I don't remember where the restrooms were located or what the dressing rooms looked like. My lingering memories are rooted in emotions and senses: the rush of sitting close, the scent of Abercombie cologne, cherry pie and Diet Dr. Pepper, awkwardly dancing between tape lines as Cake's "Going the Distance" blared from somewhere off in the distance.

As for the building, the one memory I have retained remains that of the backstage walls. Having been used for decades, the painted tiles of backstage Burnham were covered in messages from other plays, other people, other times. Decades of names and notes; a time capsule from the past to the present by all who had passed. Hidden away from the rest of the world, those walls were a place to make a mark and remind the future that we were here. My friends and I, like so many others before, left a legacy preserved for posterity in black Sharpie ink, and when we walked away from the building after our final curtain call that spring, I had no idea it would be for the last time.

Life changes us. It changes the way we think, the way we trust, the way we love. We not only grow older and wiser, we grow different. We begin to opt for the direct route home rather than the meandering country drive. A ten-dollar tank of gas becomes little more than a line item on a monthly budget, midnight swims no longer cross our minds. We  grow older and grow to accept certain inalienable truths: not all is possible, not all is infinite, so much is so very fragile. We move away, we move into new chapters and new lives, leaving our eternal autumn behind.

At 31 I now understand that the handful of friends with whom I roamed the backstage of Burnham were not just the people I spent my formative years with, they were the loves of my life. With each country drive, first cigarette and  Dr. Pepper toast, our lives were being inextricably intertwined. Like siblings, we grew up together. We became a family suspended in time.

Last week I had the opportunity to catch up with one of my dear high school friends. As we reminisced, I mentioned my intention to return to Burnham one day to revisit our wall. Turns out the city razed the building a few years ago. They put up something shiny and new in its place.

Author Richard Ford once said, "What was our life like? I almost don't remember now. Though I remember it, the space of time it occupied. And I remember it fondly." Stage lights may dim and buildings may crumble to the ground, but I like to think the ghost of my 16-year-old self is still happily sitting in the theater seats I cannot quite recall. Surrounded by the contents of her backpack, shoes strewn to the side, I like to imagine her putting off geometry homework for one hour more, head in the clouds as she makes makes a mental note to call her best friend about something "Carlos Juan."

I don't know that I will ever return to the site where Burnham once stood, it seems my mind has preserved it better than time. I'm sure that in a decade or two, the details of songs and snacks will have escaped my mind. But as for the space of time it occupied...that, I am certain, my heart will remember fondly.

An Old Letter: The Island

A note from the author: Old love letters are a bit like scars. You wish you didn't have them, but they are useful. They serve as a reminder that you made it through the wound. I survived with scars and old letters. Someone once told me you should burn old love letters, but I prefer to throw them out to sea. If you happen to find this in a moment of need, please remember: one day this will all be nothing more than a scar...and a faded memory. 

Sometimes I like to take drives to nowhere. Windows down, radio up, mind clear. I challenge myself to  get lost and then see if I can find my way back again. I assign bonus points if I stumble upon one of those little rural Main Street USA towns; the kind comprised primarily of a church and handful of century-old brick farmhouses with ample front porches. (The kinds of porches that undoubtedly display a jack-o-lanterns for every child in the house when halloween rolls around.) The kinds of towns and cities you'd miss if you glanced downward to adjust the radio while hitting the gas pedal. Those towns are some of my favorite country drive discoveries. They make me feel like I've been let in on a secret, a little roadside whisper that doesn't want the rest of the world to overhear.

Today I took a country drive. I made decisions about which turns to take based on things like which street name I liked better. If I saw a tree to the east with a prematurely orangey autumn leaf...I turned to the east. If a saw a jogger with an iPod or someone talking on a cell phone, I headed the opposite direction. I paid no attention to the course, I just went where my heart told me it wanted to go.

When I finally came back down to earth, I found myself on a road called Big Walnut. I was at a lake I didn't know existed, looking at the tiniest island I had ever seen.

I got out of the car to take a closer look. The only other person around was an old black man fishing. He had a white bucket, but I didn't look inside. He looked like something from a movie set in Mississippi; the kind of character that would have been listed as "Wise, Old Fisherman" in the credits (though I have no way of telling if he was really wise). Wise, Old Fisherman was curious about me, I could tell. Probably annoyed someone had found his secret shoreside hideaway, but I was quiet and he let me be. He just tipped his hat and cast his line. I wanted to ask if his name was Charlton.

Off in the distance sailboats were playing with one another. Back and forth, back and forth...as this little island shyly watched on.

Call it serendipity or happenstance or simply unconventional afternoon road trip unmapping, but here is what I know: following my heart lead me to a secret island today.

And every road I take leads me back to you.

Once upon a time, I didn't send love letters.

murmur.

“We were a murmuration in a past life,” you said. The moment you murmured, I recalled. The feel of a wild wind whipping through my feathers, a downward view of apricots and almendras, as we raced westward toward a setting sun. You and I drew an invisible line they still call Santiago.

The Lost Letter: The Story of Almost Us

[A letter: December 2010] The art of losing, they say, isn't very hard to master. And just like every person on this planet I have lost something; people and places and memories that certain smells and seasons and dates unexpectedly return to me. I traded and bartered parts of who I am and who I was for bits and pieces of the people and places and memories I wanted to keep. Just like every person on this planet I have been dented and dinged and bruised somehow. Smart enough to know better, but not smart enough to do better, because I believed and hoped and dreamed. And believers and hopers and dreamers are the exact kinds of people who push themselves too close to the edge of a high shelf just to take in the view. We're never concerned with the fall. We are reckless people, fearless in the face of fear. We gamble, punch drunkenly, and take chances despite the odds. We spin madly out of control with our heads thrown back, laughing wildly.

Just like every person on this planet I am learning how to forgive and remember that every person here has a heart and wishes and desires and wants, too.

There is a box on the shelf of me somewhere. Its contents? Nine yellow balloons. Two magnets. A field sunflowers happy anywhere but the vase. A once upon a time flying jellyfish waiting to transport us to lunch or float us away into outer space.

Today I have returned the pixie dust to the proper jar. The spines of books and thoughts color-coded and realigned. Bedtime precedes the lavender hour these days. Before voices soften and the first morning birds begin to sing.

If once upon a time, someone would have told me, in a certain tone of voice, "Some people will change you without your permission,"  I would still have done it all the same.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

No one lives (or loves) to tell the story of the almost us.