This blog is an experiment in savoring life, collecting beautiful things, celebrating the things worth celebrating, actively remembering and doing good work. I’m Amy Bornman, I’m twenty-three, and I’ve just moved to Chicago with my husband. I’m a theater artist and writer, or at least I say I am (being an artist only works if you make art). Blogging is part of my attempt at making some sort of art, practicing creativity, getting fingers to keys and saying something, anything.
And I’m so glad you’re here.
Life has changed a lot in recent seasons. I graduated from undergrad and found myself in an apartment in the city with a husband and a lot of time. I have a barista job and some freelance work in theater. In spare times and busy times, I’m a lover of tiny things, vanilla, blankets, babies, Isaiah, Barbra Streisand, wildflowers, and lakes. I adore Salinger and pizza, and I have watched When Harry Met Sally probably 75 times in the past four years, mostly while I did my homework. I love tea lattes and dancing with friends and podcasts. Psalm 137 makes me weep. I can’t play the piano. Most of my clothing items feature stripes. I have very small feet. I am married to Isaiah Bornman, who I met at college and thought was cool. I still think he is cool. Also, I’m usually cold and hungry for something sweet, and sometimes it takes me a long time to get out of the car because I get really tired as soon as the engine shuts off. These things all smooshed together with some other stuff too make me into me. I’m figuring it out!
If you have questions or want to talk about whatever I write on the blog or whatnot, EMAIL ME! Please! I’ll be pumped to talk with you and get to know you. I like emails very much.
Again, I’m so happy you’re here. Thank you for reading my life.
P. S. If you’re feeling curious about the name of my blog, go ahead and check out Zechariah 1. Possibly some of the most vivid and beautiful writing I’ve ever encountered, and from my favorite book too. When the world starts to feel too grim, I remember that once there was once seen or imagined a multitude of red, speckled and white horses in a low place filled with myrtle trees, and the world doesn’t feel so grim anymore.