Sometimes Sundays are the nicest, slowest days.  I accidentally slept in this morning, so I showered, put on a flowered dress, and came with Marshall down to the coffee shop.  I had a bad dream last night, about my brother being in trouble, so the Radiohead they were playing here was sad and troubling.  Thankfully the sun has moved into the windows and has lazily washed the floor.  The music is younger, more cheerful, with lots of major chords.  I saw a few friends coming by after church.  The paintings up on the walls here are youthful and hipster and cheery.

Marshall turned 32 on Friday, and we celebrated his birthday yesterday by driving up to the Roan Highlands with his brother and sister-in-law.  We forgot to check the weather, somehow, and found the highlands covered in wet, fast-moving clouds, and a little rain falling.  So we canned the highlands trail—Taylor didn’t want us to see this majesterial chain of balds on a bad day, since they are his absolute most favorite part of the AT, and ought to be seen (on our first hike there) in all their glory.  I understand that thoroughly.  We did hike to a bluff and stand looking into a white cloud for 20 minutes, and then it blew partly away, and we looked down 4,000 feet into green treetops.  We could hear the stream beneath them.  We say a tiny gray bird, with white outer tail feathers.  We saw Tennessee rolling away forever, beautiful and young.

Funny, being 27.  I’m slowly detaching from my idea of myself as a “girl.”  I’m a woman, now, for sure.  Got my first facial wrinkles this year, which is sobering.  I’m close to understanding lots of things that happened to me in my young-adulthood, I’m finally leaving behind that dazed sense that fills adolescence and makes it magical.