A BFA Graduate from Michigan State University

Last weekend I graduated. It’s taken me so long to write this post, to tell you how it feels, to wrap up four years of incredible growth, to relive a day that happened in a blink yet carries so much gravity… 

So I started thinking about the everyday.

Parking on Orchard Street, and walking the rest of the way to campus.

The magnolias.

Having drawing class on the sprawling lawn.

Painting in the studio before sunrise.

Meeting friends for lunch.

My heart skipping over Marcel Breuer, Helen Levitt, Mark Rothko, and Alexey Brodovitch.

My wildly feminist art history professor. She was too much while I had her, but I admire her tenacity in hindsight, and her prowess has stayed with me.

Having a meltdown in my graphic design professor’s office, and for once hearing everything I needed to hear.

Those in-between moments made it for me. All the walks, all the coffee, all the crying and long hours and creative messes between deadlines. It was a taste of perfect.

Family had arrived a couple days prior and filled our tiny house with love, excitement, and muddy puppy paws. The day of my ceremony, I felt lighter than air. My heart was full and surprisingly (for me) at peace. I expected to be a ball of nerves and sobbing incessantly during the coronation speech. Accepting my diploma didn’t feel real, as anyone can tell you, but it happened. And I swear I floated all day.

After the ceremony we opted to bypass the crowds at the Spartan Statue and the Beaumont Tower for private photos at my building—a gorgeous, linear, mid-century modern art center. Far from the bustle of west campus, it was quiet here, and the occasional jogger would run by along the riverbank, smiling as she passed. I’d pause to return the look. To anyone who passed by, it was just another day, just a normal afternoon getting their run in. While they were comfortable in their routine, mine was rumbling towards a glorious, tectonic shift.

We slowly walked back to the car and headed for a luncheon at the The Creole, our favorite little place in Old Town, Lansing. We sipped on champagne and talked about life as George Lewis played overhead.

Now then. We are all wildly different and one woman’s challenge is another woman’s cake walk. I’m not claiming to be the end-all of late-in-lifers, and I’m certainly not the oldest to have graduated among twenty year-olds frequenting Tinder. But there’s a couple of things I bet we can universally agree on, and I lovingly pass this on to anyone on the fence about taking a defining leap:

Let’s stop measuring life by age. Reread that. Reread that, again. We live in an exciting time where advanced aged women are splashed across the screen, you can be a first-time mother at 50, and Eat Pray Love is real. You will get to it, on your own terms. This isn’t a suggestion to put things off, and yes, certain things are much more suitable for the spry, but it’s a valid way of shifting the way we think about longevity. It doesn’t matter if you’re 30 or 65—you’re still on this planet and still have a life to celebrate and dreams to fulfill.

Before the mic drops, I have one more pearl of wisdom to pass off onto you. 

When you get blackout mad, and so frustrated and so fed up and things are just way too hard in the moment… dance. And dance hard. The sensation will be elevated if you’re alone, it’s after dark, and you have an amplifier. Nothing else will matter, I promise. It’s the craziest sugar.

The Everyday

The Everyday is a discovery of beauty in the boring. Life is something to value and to celebrate, and I’d love to share in the beauty of your Everyday. Throw some my way by using the hashtag #BeautyInBoring on Instagram.

— Dusty miller is going in the flowerbeds this spring. I’m going to make that happen with a spiked lemonade beside me.

— Stretching—stretching always. I didn’t believe in its power until I felt myself unthaw for the first time after logging so many hours in front of the screen (which I do all day, every day). Awareness of your spine, your back, and your joints is an incredible gift that I encourage you to tap into, especially if you sit at a desk regularly.

— Cantaloupe! Guys! We went out for groceries the other night, and when I spotted these back in season, I danced all over inside. Summertime y’all.

— Shared lattes with my mother and uncle near their alma mater in one of my favorite spots of Ann Arbor, Mighty Good Coffee. Their concoctions never disappoint, and the vibe is perfect for relaxed conversation.

A Weekend Retreat in Alpena, Michigan

During the same trip as my time in Ossineke earlier this month, I spent most of my stay out around town with Chris and my parents. I had packed light, only bringing pieces I could walk in, lounge in, and shop in all on the same day. 

We spent our morning at the harbor. Among other favorite places around town, it’s become a given that we’ll wind up out on the breakwater any time I’m home. It’s one of those spots in a city everyone makes their own—dog owners, runners, boaters from the yacht club, angsty teens, and businessmen lunching from their cars. 

This time the lake was covered in ice, slowly thawing itself out, and in the coolest shades of slate and green, sometimes almost sea-glass green. Every once in a while we could hear the ice crackle apart and see tiny bubbles rising beneath the thin sheets of ice. 

I’ve been coming here since I was very little, climbing out over the rocks with my sister. Now that I think of that, good grief Mom! You must have been worried out of your mind!  But then again, maybe she had that mysterious mother’s sense and trust. Whatever it was, it taught me how to move on my feet and trust my footing, and connect with the earth beneath me. As a result, I grew up a little fearless around similar terrain. Several years ago while visiting my sister in Colorado, I decided to yolo and climb a waterfall barefoot, despite the explicit warning signs not to. Another time I took a series of photographs of my dress in the wind on the coastal breakwater in Southern France. When I got back down to the beach, one of the men we were traveling with was shocked at my gumption to climb up there, barefoot. I remember thinking, You kidding me? That was nothing. 

After a while we left for caffeine to Cabin Creek Coffee, which is my favorite coffee shop in the area. The menu is huge—HUGE—and they’ll still make you something you’re craving off-menu. Like a mocha chai. Which was out of this world. Thank you ladies. They also offer an original, full menu of Shakeology shakes. I immediately saw myself moving back, running every morning in some vibrant, kickass Nikes, and ending downtown for a protein shake. Dangerous, is what that is.

We ended up near the north end of town, taking a walk along the river where a brave soul was still ice fishing. The path takes you behind the old brewery, where I hold ten million and one memories. After things hit the fan in 2008, the brewery changed, and then eventually closed its doors. I can never walk past it without getting incredibly sappy and quiet and my heart just chokes itself out. You know something? And this is going to sound a little bit selfish, but, a part of me is at peace that it’s closed. Don’t get me wrong, the building is gorgeous and it’s on AMAZING real estate where tall ships dock, historic train tracks run through, and the summertime vibe has never been so killer… But it’s a place that was mine, and left when I left. It didn’t live on to become someone else’s, passing hands and bartenders and fresh 21-year-olds, then 22-year-olds… it closed. Sealing it’s last years inside that I was a part of. 

Anyway. 

I pulled myself away and after a couple of days we loaded up the car and headed back downstate. Looking around our home, I know now I'm ready to move. I'm ready for our next stop. I think I'm learning how restless my nature is, a bit rebellious and a bit headstrong. And until I find what's calling for me, we're ready to shake off the rugs, find new ground, see what else we're made of, and hit the road north whenever we feel like a Shakeology on the beach.

An Evening Walk in Ossineke

Last week we packed our suitcases and headed for my parents’ home up north. Ossineke (pronounced by locals, aw-seh-neek) is just south of Alpena, and holds some of my younger memories. As a family, we’d always drive through Ossineke en route to Harrisville to visit relatives—another northern village on the lake filled with charm (which I highly recommend you visiting for an ice cream and a trip to Modern Craft Winery’s tasting room).

I pulled a wool sweater from my mom’s drawer—something my grandmother gifted her when she was a teenager. It was the perfect layer for an evening on the beach. 

When we reached the water, the sand was dense from the rain and the air was filled with moisture. There was no longer an icy chill, and with the occasional light breeze, I was finally feeling spring. It was that feeling of everything slowly awakening and coming out from the heavy, cold winter, including our own senses.

We walked and combed the beach, and I found a shimmery, intact clam. One of my favorite things about beaches on the east side of the state is the color palette and textures found in the sand.

On our way back, we met a father who was out near the bank with his little girl. They were looking for minnows for her turtle who had slept all winter. Her dad said something like, “I’m not seeing any, babe,” and she shrieked in this tiny, adorable voice, “Where are all the minnows!?” I laughed right out loud. She’s going to be a good, concerned mama.