How To Ready A Small Apartment For Spring

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Spring In Brooklyn With Doen Collective

posted on: April 26, 2017

Collective, a word I read in my horoscope yesterday. A word I use when describing the women I am inspired by. A word I often use when describing things I want to embody. And yet, a word used by the Dôen ladies when pairing women they love with their designs. And as 5 am rolled around and I couldn't sleep, I found myself reading the words my friend Jess wrote on the Dôen journal about me. It was a complete surprise that made me cry in my bed way before the sun came up. To feel that collective and to be given the grace of Jess' words, moved me. 

A few looks I styled for the feature below

Spring Childhood Memories

posted on: April 25, 2017

Our stoop days have grown longer. Mornings strung into afternoons, afternoons tied into evenings. It has me wondering about the activities that take up our time. What will become of the stoop bubble chase when they were just 6 and not quite 3? Those evenings when my hair stayed curly and a bit maddening, their nails dirty, my stained dressed, the over-boiling pot of noodles, and the bully of a squirrel and those birds that just wouldn't quit. The quick and hilarious evenings right before the sun went down.

A few of my favorite spring and summer activities that I hope translate into motherhood:

Love Is A Gift | Nordstrom Campaign

posted on: April 21, 2017

I know it's a tad early, but I wanted to quickly share this campaign Oak and I did for Nordstrom! They are a series of videos that celebrate love and motherhood, and I am so honored to have been asked to do it with Oak. He is hilarious, sweet, loving, strong, absolutely crazy in the best kind of way. I don't think I've laughed so much in my entire laugh, his goal is to always pull a laugh out of someone.

Happy (early) Mother's Day!

A Book A Month: South And West

posted on: April 20, 2017

As a blogger, my world often revolves around finding new things that interest me and inspire me to share. Whether it is fashion, my children, a life event, a political matter, or the beautiful girl sitting at the cafe. So much of blogging for me is seeing a world through a certain lens. How do we connect what's soulful and sacred to a format that sometimes asks us to be surface? In a sense, my attempt at displaying this, remains my greatest pleasure.

As a writer, reading the words of others and dedicating time to be submerged in another life and set of characters that don't belong to me–but are strangely familiar–inspires me to continue to write my own stories. When it comes to bodies of works, Joan Didion's are so far from me, and yet, so tangible in the same. Have you ever felt like that while reading her work? I've attributed all of this to her impeccable note taking skills over the years. She also has this ability to share without truly revealing herself. There's always a perspective, facts (so many facts), feelings in that moment, but nothing too solid or self sacrificing. As a blogger and as a writer, this particular talent of her's has always intrigued and truly inspired me. From Blue Nights, Slouching Towards Bethlehem, to The Year Of Magical Thinking, I am transported in a time that I never experienced. So far beyond my understanding of living, and still, I feel as though I was... living. 

Two weeks ago I went and purchased South And West, immediately fascinated with the idea of reading notes from a time when my own mother was my daughter's age.

Here's my view....

What Does Home Mean?

posted on: April 18, 2017

Most days when I walk about our neighborhood, watching the way the trees bloom before me and leading the kids along our narrow sidewalk, I think of my own childhood. I am nostalgic; the blooms transport me. While the kids are looking up, begging for a lift to touch a petal, I remain in a memory of my own, the world dissolving into then and there. My grandmother shuffling from one end of her third floor apartment to the next to water her beloved window boxes. Looking down below the fire escape and groaning at the unkempt yard. That house, my mother purchased when I was a preteen. She spent hot afternoons digging in the red earth, my hands filthy, sweat dripping slowly down her high cheeks, the lovely stench and the ruffling of the black plastic laid before the plants were set into the dirt.

Our current apartment has this yard: well manicured and luscious, and every morning since the start of spring, the kids have thrown on their shoes and run out back to start the day.They gawk at the birds and marvel at the tiny ants overtaking the pavement. When I dream of more light, more space, more this and more that, I think of that morning jaunt to the back. What will they remember when they look up at the blooms with children of their own? What will home be to them? When they are older, what will home be to me? Is it where they are? Or will it remain consistent—blooms flowing about, shadowing my daily choices and haphazard events? The voices of little me and little them, echoing in the back of my head, comparing and contrasting in with who I am and who they are in this moment?

When it comes to motherhood and home, what is the memory that you hope they keep and associate with the term home? 

(Image via Gardenista)