The Bare Branch.

A movement of leaves, a watercolor of wing, and then the branch left bouncing —

a testament to what was once there.

I was sitting on the top step of our patio, determinedly watching for birds, and still I missed it.

How often do I miss what is at eye level? I wondered. Then, more piercingly: How often am I one turn of the kaleidoscope away from insight, or joy?

But, no, I interrupted myself. I am allergic to this kind of thinking. I believe that what is meant for you will not miss you. True in love, true in business, true in the way you will see, one day, the sheer improbability that every little thing you’ve done in your life has prepared you for this exact moment. I am thinking of the time I split my head open in my Central Park West apartment, and my neighbor — by chance an ER doctor — stitched me up on my couch. I knocked on the door, and she answered with perfect readiness. I am thinking of the meandering, squiggly path that drew me from gawky poetry readings and short story competitions at the age of 10 to writing for a living at 40. I am thinking of the dozens of times I’ve called my sisters in hiccupy tears, and they’ve known just what to do, as if life pre-ordained them for that exact ministry. I am even thinking of losing my friend Elizabeth — how I did not feel prepared for it at the time, God no!, but how it has drawn me to a place of understanding and even communion with life’s inevitable losses. How her passing has helped me value what I have, and stand shoulder to shoulder with others in grief, and hold a tender, informed perspective on how to support my own children as they navigate their first encounters with death (losing Tilly). I am thinking of standing in my best friend’s home on the eve of leaving for the University of Virginia, 18 and all awkward angles and nervous laughter, and being introduced to a sandy-haired boy who was already a third-year there. Of running into him at a football game weeks later and feeling as though I was standing on Mars, a heart on stilts, while my girlfriends were obliviously atwitter about mud on their shoes and bows in their hair. Of inveigling my sorority big sister to “casually” invite him to a date function on my behalf, of writing “I’m going to marry this third-year e-schooler” — and then promptly bungling my way through other relationships for a year and a half — poorly-crafted, indolent feints. Of standing on the top brick step of the ramshackle Gordon Street house I lived in with nine other girls that year, and looking straight into his hazel eyes, and thinking this is the moment, the twilight in which he would lean in and we would pair off forever. And of the abrupt turn of his cheek, the five o’clock shadow on his chin, the curl of hair at the nape of his neck, beneath his Virginia hat, and the way he looked down at his feet, and moved the dirt, and I knew it was because I was dating someone else and he was too honorable for such indiscretions. Of the way this, too, endeared him to me even as I stormed into my room, a riot of heartbreak and wanting. Oh and now I stand starry-eyed in our story — I hope you’ll forgive me — and in the way it followed its own slow but inexorable path deep into the heart of my life. How could it be that life gave me him when I was 18? Too young to know anything about the widths of love, and its profligate bestowals. I was just bare feet on his dashboard, an outstretched palm into which he traced “ILY,” blue eyes memorizing his chiseled silhouette against the Appalachian stars, a tiny form disappearing into his tattered VIRGINIA hoodie, and reclaimed by his hands. How absurd that life gave him to me at 18 — this person who would stand at my life’s very center? And yet it did, and early, because I would need to lean on him at 22, adrift in my own career ambitions, and 25, when Elizabeth died, and 31, mourning a lost pregnancy, and 32, when our daughter was born, and 33, shuttering our business, and oh all the years and happinesses and sadnesses in between, for which he was forged as my partner and I his.

There is no call to hurry. There is no need to stamp our feet in indignation, or impatience. There are no missed crossings.

What is meant for us will not miss us.

Even the bare branch, this morning: its own cipher. I’d wanted the bird, and what I got was this:

Everything happens in its own perfect time.

Post-Scripts.

+More on my love story with Mr. Magpie. (Also here.) I have a whole series of musings called “The M Series” that capture the magic of falling in love with him in more detail, too.

+My attempts at fiction are deeply inspired by our love story.

+A related theme: things take how long they take.

Shopping Break.

The following content may contain affiliate links. If you make a purchase through the links below, I may receive compensation.

+I took my mom to the pop-up shop in Georgetown last Friday and she picked out this and this for herself! I am OBSESSED with the skirt and would have bought it for myself, too, but they were sold out in my size.

+Speaking of Sezane, I’ve had good luck finding summer clothes for Mr. Magpie there the past few months. You can see him in one outfit here; I also just ordered him these seersucker pants to wear with this navy button down. I feel like it’s hard to find interesting clothes for men! Sezane colors outside the lines just enough.

+Did you get anything from the Maryam Nassir Zadeh x J. Crew collection that launched last week? The Internet (and especially Substack fashion world) was atwitter about it. I loved the styling from afar (and generally LOVE when brands collab like this) but nothing really fit my personal style profile. Please share if you did! Meanwhile, I did notice this raffia hobo bag. So cute. Simon Miller vibes — and love that leather strap detail at the top!

+I have heard from several trustworthy sources that these cz studs pass as real.

+Been picking up where I left off with working on my hair health — I like to layer this Anablue (15% off with JEN15) with this inexpensive rosemary-mint oil. I think the combo of these two products yields instant shiny, healthy results, but especially if you use consistently over the course of a few weeks (which I was doing in the winter and then sort of fell out the habit!). I learned these from Julia Amory, queen of great hair. It is rare I let my hair air-dry, so trying to nourish it when I can. Vegamour also has a hair repair oil that I’d contemplate testing in this travel size — as you know, I love their dry shampoo, so I’d consider using other products in their line!

+This travel makeup kit looks more expensive than it is, and I LOVE the lay-flat-when-open design!

+I mentioned last week that La Ligne restocked its wildly popular Colby pant last week — colors/sizes selling fast. I am currently sitting with them in my cart. I love the idea of pairing these with a chunky knit for fall. J. Crew has a look for less option here.

+A great wardrobe basic in either black or white. Pair with a simple tank and some gold-embellished sandals (look for less here). (Chef’s kiss.)

+Another great wardrobe basic: Rag & Bone’s Maxine shirt. I have in blue and she is perfection; on sale (as of time of writing this) in a few colors here. A really thin, almost silky material that is easy to tuck.

+The Internet is freaking out of these mini miracle balms from Jones Road Beauty. I’ve heard mixed reviews about them from some Magpies — people seem to love them or hate them — but if you’re in the pro camp, die hards are obsessed with these minis for travel, and as a way to try multiple colors without having to buy each individually.

+As you may have noticed, I’ve “freed the knee” this summer and have been wearing a lot of shorts after probably a decade of avoiding them. I currently have my sights set on this pair, which feels very Cara Cara and could even be carried into early fall paired with a chic knit. (PS – No one does a fall print like Cara Cara, and this dress is at the pinnacle. Also love it in skirt form – so chic with a brown suede boot.)

+Have heard this thriller is super fun! Adding to my TBR. I was disappointed in Ruth Ware’s latest — otherwise, I think she’s the best of the genre’s authors.