Seeking Benedick.

Last single girl standing.

It's a formidable idea, and a bit of a badge of honor, I should think.

I have a handful of girlfriends that have been confidants and lovely friends since we were children. Since kindergarten, and second grade, and third grade. You know those friendships that are changeless because they've been through so much change? Here's the wonderful thing: they're all matched up. Some are married, some are about to be, and some are maybe just in very wonderful committed relationships.

And then there's me.

I imagine it has something to do with fear. And something to do with the peripatetic nature of my life for the past few years. And also maybe something to do with the fact that I know what I don't want. The problem is: I really don't know what I DO want. From life. Not definitively.

Occasionally, I should imagine, people make a success out of living in perpetual limbo.

But when I am blue (and you may know this), I watch Much Ado About Nothing. And every single time I cry "heigh ho!" for Beatrice, my kindred spirit of merriment and mirth and wit and self-deception.

And every time, every single time, I fall in love with Benedick.

I am seeking Benedick. I am seeking a man's man who's tongue is quick. Who can wink back at me without looking like a child, nor like a creep. (I am, so my friends tell me, a first-class winker. Strange talent. But true!). I am seeking a man who, like me, doesn't know what he's looking for, but is waiting for it to break upon him.

My problem, my perpetual problem, is that I try to become what a man thinks he wants. And then I wake up one day and realize I'm misrepresenting myself and must cut and run.

Which is why I'm waiting for Benedick. Someone who cannot stomach a dependent woman. Someone who has fight in them, but also compassion. Someone who will push back when I push. Someone who is not easy to love for anyone but me.

Sometimes I think that's too much to ask. Most times I think it's worth it to wait. Wait for love to break upon me. My friends tell me I have too many expectations.

I just want someone who's stronger than me.

And dimples wouldn't hurt.... ;)

Battling the Mean Reds.

There are days, sometimes even entire stretches of days, when even Holly fails to Go Lightly.

You know that speech, my loves., when Holly explains the Mean Reds:

Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?

Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?

I find the Mean Reds descend with no rhyme or reason. Maybe it's a gray day, or one filled with sun. Maybe you've been holed up in your room alone for the day, or maybe you're surrounded by brilliant and sparkling and lovely people. And ZAP, like lightning straight out the clear blue sky, your soul turns Red. And not the lovely warm and vibrant red. But the infected and angry and hurt red.

I have learned that life is like a flowerbed of beautiful and various flowers. And each morning, the buds burst open to greet the sun, to greet the day, to greet the world. The lily of contentment, the daffodils of success, the snapdragons of sass, the magnolia of self-confidence, the spider mum of imagination, the peonies of wit, the gladiolas of wisdom, the lilacs of honest friendship, the rose of love; a bevvy of things that characterize your day, that, together, color your life. But maybe on one day - or maybe many days in a row - one of those buds stays closed tight. Amid the wash of color and scent and wonder of life, one quiet stubborn blossom stubbornly refuses to open, perhaps for fear of a cold-snap. But how to coax it open? How indeed.

How do you battle the mean reds? Clearly, I bury myself in some sort of beautiful metaphor. Or, even better, I find a theme song.

So here it is, my darling dears.

The song that I'm relying on to pull me out of the mean reds,

whether or not that shy blossom decides to bloom:

Hello you long shots,

You dark horse runners,

Hairbrush singers, dashboard drummers.

Hello you wild magnolias, just waiting to bloom.

There's a little bit of all that inside of me and you

Thank God even crazy dreams come true.

I stood at the bottom of some walls I thought I couldn't climb.

I felt like Cinderella at the ball, just running out of time.

So I know how it feels to be afraid.

Think that it's all gonna slip away?

Hold on. Hold on.

Here's to you free souls, you firefly chasers,

Tree climbers, porch swingers, air guitar players.

Here's to you fearless dancers, shaking walls in your bedroom.

There's a lot of wonder left inside of me and you.

Thank God even crazy dreams come true.

Never let a bad day be enough

To go and talk you into giving up.

Sometimes everybody feels like you.

Just like you.

Thank God even crazy dreams come true....

Swagger, Wit, True Love, True Friends, and 29.

I'm 29.

I realized this morning, as I cleaned the bathroom and imagined myself as Cinderella, scrubbing the walls and humming to imaginary bird friends and daydreaming of an as-yet-unmet handsome prince, that I'll never give it up.

I used to think that at some point, I'd snap out of it. That either gradually or all of a sudden, the stars and sparkles and delights of imagination and daydreaming and resolute belief in practical magic would slough off under the pressure of daily life, the wear of getting older.

And I have a horrible confession: in my somewhat cowardly fear of aging, in my discombobulated comparisons of Life-I-Thought-I'd-Have to Life-I've-Lived-And-Am-Living, in the past 1/2 month, I've tried very hard to ditch the old ideas. I tried, quite half-determinedly, to drop the impractical belief in a soul-mate, the impractical belief of every-day-magic, the impractical belief in All-Will-Be-Well, the impractical belief of It-Will-Work-Out-How-It's-Meant-To-Be. I tried to became a nihilist, in charge of my own life and quite unconcerned with magic and true love and bothersome things like that. Right up to my February 14th dinner with two marvelous friends (B&C, who tell their longtime boyfriends "February 14th belongs to Chesley. Deal with it." every year, and then sweep me off to dinner and a non-romantic movie to celebrate life and friendship and cinematography. Those precious girls...), I tried to give it up.

But magic doesn't slough off. Hope doesn't fall away like old scales to be shed. Faith may crack but it will not break. These things come from somewhere inside the heart. They're bred into the bone until they become part of the soul, existing in tandem with life.

After my Valentine's Day Birthday, I realized this. I cannot be practical when it comes to life. And to pull me out of those trenches of self-examination, friends appeared with unsolicited truisms about the Me I've always wanted to be, and sometimes forget I am.

One told me I had swagger. A funny complement? Maybe. "But it's not the type of swagger of someone with something to prove. You can put it on and take it off as you please. You have swagger when you want to, but you're still authentic. It's part of why you're so fun; It's part of why your friends love you." (I maintain that I get this quality from my mother- who will deny it if you ask her. She will swear up down and sideways that she has no "swagger." But when she needs to charge a party or direct an atmosphere, there's nobody like her. Sometimes she gets a sparkle in her eye, and there's no stopping her. I get that from her.)

Another told me I was witty. (Babes born on February 14th, so say the astrological books, are gifted with quick wit and clever quips. But I maintain that I get this from my father.)

Another told me a difficult truth: "You act like you've got all your shit together. This makes you very intimidating to men. But on the plus-side, you don't compromise yourself to live a life with a man you don't love, and you don't need to." That's a bittersweet realization.

And then M&J sent a birthday card- after treating me to a stunning night on the town. The card, which came when both girls were out of town, told me something these girls tell me constantly: "you are fabulous." But it's not a meaningless refrain. They're silly words, unless they come from people who truly know you, who speak of your life and your soul and your truth.

And B&C, my practical, no-nonsense, no-mushy-love-at-first-sight dears, sat across from me at a dinner table, their offerings of brilliant music and epic literature wrapped at my side, and said: "Listen, Turner. If you need to have a life crisis breakdown tonight, we are here for you. Go for it. But we know you don't believe in all this crap you're saying about growing up and giving up on Love and Life. So say it if you want to. But we don't believe you, and you're not going to convince us."

Sometimes- oftentimes- real gifts don't come wrapped in boxes or tied in bows. They come in words or looks or feelings from friends who tell you why you're wonderful, who tell you what you need to hear but make sure it's still true, who know you well enough to know when you're lying to yourself, and listen patiently while you do it, and then firmly point out that you're full of nonsense.

The sea of life has washed a 29th wave upon me. And for a while, I was afraid of what would be washed away while it ebbed. But it's slowly receding, and I still see sparkles, and magic, and gems and seashells, and hopes clinging fast, and faith resolute. And what is making it's way out to sea? Quiet insidious fears and uncertainties that have no place in a life like mine.

This post is dedicated to the dreamers, who still believe in Jiminy Cricket's song. And to true friends, who encourage you to live nobody's life but your own.

It's FEBRUARY!

Wait... when did that happen?

Y'all. January flew. FLEW. I'm starting a new project- a memory jar. (I'll show you a picture soon.) One of my brilliant new city friends found it on Pinterest (new obsession, and accessible via iPhone, therefore mobile). We're taking a memory, a quote, a moment, from each day, writing it down, and dropping it into a mason jar, to be dumped and read through on January 1, 2013.

I'm busy as bees in honey. New job, new apartment, new friends and old- there's hardly any time! Can I make blogging again my February resolution? I think that's allowed.

It's my birthday month- 29 glorious years of life, but more on that closer to the 14th, yes? I'm a little unsure about how I feel about this birthday... it has me perplexed.

Life is a funny and wonderful thing. There are a million people to meet and learn and love, and what a wonder it is to delve into someone's brain, to make friends with people who are different than you (because somewhere, really, we're all the same. And we all have something to give each other). I think as you lose the i-can-do-everything,-always idealism of the early twenties, you wrap up in this marvelously bittersweet realization that some things are meant to pass, so you take what you can from them, and you kiss them goodbye.

My latest favorite musician, Gotye, summed it up in this song: "Give away love. Give it. Give it for free. No strings attached. Just don't ask for it back. Learnalilgivinanlovin."

Go give, my friends. Go give and love.

Well. Shall we begin again?

Updates seem like silly things. Trying to cram a million moments, changes, and inspirations from months of The Whirlwind into a brief caption of relevant but un-overwhelming type is all but futile, more often than not.

So I'm not going to bore you with an update, except to say: I'm back. Back in Philadelphia, Back in employment, Back with friends, Back in fabulousness, and Back in Gloriosity. And I'm as full of hope as ever.

New Year's was like a jar filled with Christmas lights... coming off the high of a magical December and hurtling headlong and sparkling into a music-filled party at the Crystal Tea Room at the top of Philadelphia's Wannamaker Building. Just me, my Philly-ettes, and 1600 of our nearest and dearest.

After an unutterably wonderful evening (the details of which range from exciting to ridiculous to shocking to lovely to brilliant, and can only be summed up in the quite non-descriptive but ultimately perfectly useful punctuation: [...] - after all, the ellipsis says everything that words can't-) I woke on New Year's morn to find three resolutions nestled in my heart. 1) Start drawing again, because it makes me happy. 2) Start blogging again, because life is too glorious not to share. 3) Accept wonderful things as they come, and don't ask for more. Life, in all it's varied experiences, is meant to be organic. Hope so much, but love to let life happen.

It's good to be back.

Seek a Little Beauty.

One day, a few year's back, I was having one of those "desperate moments." You know the ones. When the Mean Reds sink into your being and compromise your soul.

I don't know that everyone experiences the Mean Reds. And I tend to think that people who find themselves running to an unknown in an attempt to escape yet another unknown, people like Miss Golightly, tend to encounter them more often.

Anyway, on this particular day, when the Mean Reds were lurking and leeching, I called my mother.

Now, mothers (the good ones, anyway), have this second sense about their children. They think about you 1o seconds before the phone rings with your call. They pick up the phone and before you've said a word, they know what your mood is- they've picked up your state of mind from the silent atmosphere that filters through the phone line when you're taking a breath to speak.

Well, she knew. And at conversation's end, she told me: "Do something absolutely beautiful tomorrow. It will make you feel better."

The next day I woke to torrents of rain. Don't get me wrong, I adore a rainstorm. But it severely limits your ability and motivation to seek what is Beautiful beyond your dripping threshold. So instead of channelling Gene Kelly,

I opened my little computer, and I Googled. Yes. I Googled "Something Absolutely Beautiful." It was a desperate attempt, and like most desperate attempts, it worked.

I found Absolutely Beautiful Things, the brilliant site of a marvelous Australian interior decorator, Anna Spiro. I wasn't big on blogs, and hadn't before found much merit in trolling through someone else's online whimsies. And this was the day it changed. Anna's rejuvinatingly pink site, packed full of simple, classic, individual design ideas was like an outlet to functional beauty. For this quirky beauty-obsessed girl, its discovery couldn't have come at a better time.

That's the beginning of a story, of how I started hesitantly seeking same-mindedness out there in the blog world, trying to eschew my distaste of the word "blog," and my dislike of passive-aggressive online journaling in the effort to find The Somethings Absolutely Beautiful with which to bolster my soul and spirit. It was about a year later that I started Gloriosity-

I don't know really why I started blogging, (yet another unknown in my life), but I'm sure it had something to do with effecting the Perpetuation of Beauty, just as much for myself as for anyone else who happens upon this page.

And a banner moment in my post-self-evincing blog life was stumbling onto Miss Caroline Cakewise and her life-giving Sparkles and Crumbs.

It may be a bit presumptuous to so adore a person whom one has never met, but this Glorious Lady's posts have been known to act as balloons to buoy, shovels to dig out, glitter to transform, and even balm to soothe.

Avail yourself of some SparkleCake. You won't be sorry.

Now, about those Mean Reds. Oh, they are back. How they return, incessantly. It's Springtime, my favorite season, budding promise bursting into blossoming reality all over the world.

Mother Nature speaks out unequivocally. Snows and ices and frigidity be damned. Beneath that frost-weary earth lies life and energy and possibility. And mirrored in my own life is possibility as well.

Too much of it.

Forgive me if this sounds ridiculous: I love so many things, I am good at so many things. How on God's Green Earth am I supposed to make a choice? Every year, I set forth a just-one-more-year plan. And as the plan nears expiration, the anxiety sinks back in. Whatever will be next?

Fickleness and changeability is in my genetic make-up, I think. What about for you, dear reader? Are you a magnificent tree, setting in roots, blooming in gorgeousness, growing and stretching and manifesting your brilliance in one well-loved place, providing shelter and shade and oxygen and boughs in which to climb to the heavens?

Or are you the lark in the branches, nesting for just a moment before riding the winds of change to the next far-off destination, soaring high and darting low, seeking protection in firm tree-like things when the rains come down, but preferring a glowing, luminous, sunny day to play fetch with Zephyrus, Notus, Eurus, and Boreas? Is your life a concise statement, deep and resonant, or is it a run-on sentence of multivalent contradictions?

Both are beautiful, I think. Both have their challenges. But I don't know that you can be one and the other.

For me, it is clear, flying has always been the only option.

But to where, and how, and for what purpose? Questions without answers bring Mean Red moments. And I know Paul's brilliant freedom speech, flung at poor Holly, backwards and forwards.

But does he think she has a choice? Does he think she can change the way she is?

George Axelrod, BaT's brilliant screenwriter, certainly thought so. But Capote? No, the equally brilliant Capote knew better.

Which brings me here. You know, red is my favorite color. Funny.

But when in the midst of the Mean Reds, one needs to seek a little Beauty. I just finished L.M.Montgomery's Emily series, a true testament to the power of Gloriosity. In it, a dispirited yet hopeful Emily quotes Wordsworth.

"After all, freedom is a matter of the soul. 'Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.'"

And it's true.

Though, with apologies to Mr. W,

I would replace "Nature" with "Beauty."

Beauty never did betray the heart that loved her.

For Holly, Beauty was at Tiffany's...

Seek a Little Beauty, darlings. Seek a Little Beauty and She will pull you through.