Why not be a potter? Pots can be used, they have a function. Even a bad pot has some use, but with a bad painting, there is nothing you can do with it except throw it away.

- Shoji Hamada

In our uber-busy, isolated, scheduled world, I love the smiles, strange looks, and community created by these improv events. Who’s with me?

This is one of my favorites:

“…neither good hearts nor good works can make a good book out of a very bad one…”

- Alan Jacobs, Wayfaring

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve had “adventure envy.” Simple definition: a craving for the excitement of a new life journey.

Last weekend we went to a lovely wedding of a 22 and 23-year old. They’re embarking on a new life together, traveling across country, starting graduate school, a new town, and a new marriage. I did that once. We were 27 and, if I remember correctly, we were mad at each other for about half the trip. Our first six months of marriage in a new town and no job, well, let’s just say it was pretty stressful.

Recently, I saw another young friend (via Facebook, that fertile breeding ground of envy) travel across the country to embark on film school in California. How cool is that? Way cool.

Part of my envy comes from their youthfulness. I have thought a lot lately about aging. I was at a women’s gathering for our church, and at 32, I was the oldest there. This probably says more about our church than the idea that I’m “old,” but it still sent a message. — As did the five pounds I’ve gained in the last six months. To combat such things, I started running more and bought blue nail polish.

It’s funny, because at the before-mentioned women’s gathering, I remember thinking I was glad that I wasn’t in the same place I was at 22. And yet, here I find myself envious of these youthful adventures. Embarking on the unknown! Exploring a new city! A new career! A new love!

When I get to the heart of things, going on a new adventure, starting over, means giving up the carefully tilled, composted, and seeded soil I’ve nurtured for a long time. There are plenty of weeds, but I know what kind and where and how to manage them. We may in fact be embarking on our own adventure next year, but only God knows if and when. But even if that comes, it won’t have the same feeling as the bright-eyed 18-year old going off to college or the change-the-world 22-year old going overseas. It will be the more jaded-perhaps-wiser, 32-year old me.

It’s not just the warm juiciness of fresh picked blueberries that warms my heart, but two distinct memories that go along with blueberry season. The first was in June of 2005 when Jeannie bravely invited someone  she barely knew (that would be me), to traipse out to Hillsborough and go blueberry picking. If you can believe it, the girls in this photo are now 16 and 14. Needless to say, it was the start of a beautiful friendship.

The second is remembering Andy telling me about his fondness for the children’s book Blueberries for Sal and enunciating the words: kuplink, kuplank, kuplunk to describe the sounds of blueberries in the pail. I thought of the story today as those same noises kurplunked their way into our plastic containers.

My hope is that wherever we buy our own home we can populate it with blueberry bushes.

While, it’s true that our best meal in England was a frozen lasagna we picked up at the grocery store, we thoroughly enjoyed high tea in Oxford.

Our first meal in France was fab-u-lous. For dessert I got “all you can eat profiterole rolls.” I only ate two and Andy ate the other.

Our favorite dessert of the trip? This mixture of pastry dough, cooked apples, caramel, and cream.

Picture perfect appetizer in Normandy: pancake, goat cheese, and some yummy orange sauce.

It didn’t take long for us to get into the habit of an after dinner espresso. Decaf, that is.

Last night in Paris? Escargot, of course! Yum! Basically, a tender muscle doused in a pesto-type sauce.

And you can’t forget the great baguette sandwiches, eclairs, strawberry tarts, and quiches!