In style

shirt dress: perfect fall transition

The shirt dress is such a great transition piece from summer to fall. They look great on their own with a sandal or wedge, or perfect with a pair of tights and a bootie or chunky heel. This is one I wore the other day to work and it’s so easy on busy mornings to just throw on!
shirtdress_falltransition

Here are a few others I am loving.
shirtdressforfalltransition

one // two // three // four {only $10!} // five

I’ve officially diagnosed myself with OCD when it comes to having my bed every day so when I came across this poem by Peggy Freydberg I was elated. It’s a good reminder to appreciate the little accomplishments and that each day is a gift. She wrote Poems from the Pond between the ages of 90-106. Her work is truly beautiful and so inspirational.

Chorus of Cells
Excerpted from Poems from the Pond, by Peggy Freydberg

Every morning,
even being very old,
(or perhaps because of it),
I like to make my bed.
In fact, the starting of each day
unhelplessly,
is the biggest thing I ever do.
I smooth away the dreams disclosed by tangled sheets,
I smack the dented pillow’s revelations to oblivion,
I finish with the pattern of the spread exactly centered.
The night is won.
And now the day can open.
All this I like to do,
mastering the making of my bed
with hands that trust beginnings.
All this I need to do,
directed by the silent message
of the luxury of my breathing.
And every night,
I like to fold the covers back,
and get in bed,
and live the dark, wise poetry of the night’s dreaming,
dreading the extent of its improbabilities,
but surrendering to the truth it knows and I do not;
even though its technicolor cruelties,
or the music of its myths,
feels like someone else’s experience,
not mine.
I know that I could no more cease
to want to make my bed each morning,
and fold the covers back at night,
than I could cease
to want to put one foot before the other.
Being very old and so because of it,
all this I am compelled to do,
day after day,
night after night,
directed by the silent message
of the constancy of my breathing,
that bears the news I am alive.