Some disposable photos from my last visit to North Lake Tahoe.
I've been listening to spoken poetry these days. I downloaded the iF Poems and The Love Book app on my phone so I can listen to classic poetry whenever I want to. The selection of poems in these apps are great, some are read by well-known British actors, and you can even record your own voice reading poetry.
And let's face it, how can one not help but swoon over John Keats' Bright Star? Especially if it's read by the oh-so-dashing Tom Hiddleston? I certainly can't. In fact, I can probably recite this one in my sleep by now. Have a listen here.
Heima means "home" or "at home" in Icelandic.
I've been thinking a lot about home lately. In my mind, it exists in two places at the same time, the country and the culture where I grew up that I'll always carry with me, and the spaces I've created for myself that makes me feel most at home. Often, these spaces have something to do with the ocean and being out in nature, or spending time with people who share my passion for movies and books.
A couple of days ago, I drove to the East Bay to attend a gathering of writers and readers. I was stuck in traffic and arrived 30 minutes late and when I entered the bookstore, I was surprised that it was an intimate event of less than 20 people. Everyone was already engaged in a discussion with the panel of authors and if it had been anywhere else, I probably would have turned around and said forget it, especially since I didn't know anyone there. But for some reason, being around people who love books was enough to make me feel welcomed, so I stayed and introduced myself.
I ended up meeting one of my favorite YA authors who also happened to love Melina Marchetta and before you know it, we were both gushing about On the Jellicoe Road and Jonah Griggs. I had such a great time that afterwards I just walked around seemingly in a daze, skimming book spines inside the shop. They had closed early for the event and it felt like a gift to be there.
This weekend, my friends from D.C. came to visit and we drove north to Point Reyes. It's been a year since my last trip and as soon as we got there, I immediately felt my entire being relax. This place always feels like coming home to me, with its unspoiled beauty and sprawling landscapes. We walked along the shore for awhile, took some pictures, and battled with the wind. When we came back near the entrance, we saw a family setting up a picnic. They had a barbeque grill, a picnic basket, tons of cozy blankets, and colorful kites. Despite the cold, I had the feeling that those kids will remember that day for the rest of their lives.
I'm listening to Sigur Rós (and dreaming of Iceland) while I'm typing this, hence the title. Have a listen to this song. I think it's one of the most beautiful and moving pieces I've ever heard.
All photos taken by me. See previous posts about Point Reyes here.
Our little beach corner, taken during one of the warmest weekends in October. We hiked from the Presidio to the ocean and spent an afternoon here, all the way until sundown. Afterwards, we climbed up a lot of stairs to reach a vista point so we can see the entire bay, walking along a group of guys who happened to play one of my favorite songs on a portable music player. I squinted at the setting sun, then closed my eyes, letting the familiar lyrics wash over me: "It's been a long time, long time now, since I've seen you smile." (listen here)
Last week, I was put through an emotional wringer when I saw the news that our island in the Philippines had a massive 7.2 magnitude earthquake. I had a hard time contacting my family because the phone lines were dead and it's always like this, your mind goes through all the worst case scenario first, you feel a deep panic inside your chest, then you try to console yourself the only way you know how. I finally heard from my brother and felt such gratitude when he confirmed that everyone I know is safe and well. That night, I couldn't fall asleep so I picked up a book of poems, snatching words and phrases to fill my dreams.
And you, how are you? I hope autumn (or spring) is treating you well.