The Ophelia Dress - Collaboration with Son de Flor

My mid-20s have been shaped by a pursuit of authentic creative expression, and defining a personal style has been a significant part of that journey. Over the years, I’ve learned that I value pieces that carry with them a sense of place and timelessness. When I wear Son de Flor’s Ophelia Dress, I think of walking at dusk, loose leaf tea on the porch, and a breezy evening by the sea. This dress has truly surprised me with its versatility and ease. Made from OEKO-TEX® certified natural linen, it is airy and light, elegant and grounded.

Thank you Son de Flor! This dress was an absolute dream to photograph. It was such a pleasure to collaborate with you.

If you are interested in supporting this wonderful brand and my creative pursuits, you can find the dress and many other stunning pieces here: https://sondeflor.com/?a=graciburdick

Social Links
Graci Burdick: https://www.instagram.com/graciburdick/
Son de Flor: https://www.instagram.com/sondeflor/

returning

Should I go back?

Return the way I came?

If to complacency,

If to fear of the unknown,

Then I say, no.

Thank you.

There is nothing for me there.

But if to joy -

Ah, the fullness of that word,

The possibility 

In its reality. 

Joy, I would take 

The road that lead me

Away from you.

Slowly, maybe,

Anxiously, at times.

But forward

Or backwards, 

Whatever it meant

To find it 

Once again. 

harvest poem

Dripping juice of peaches

gulps of lemonade, after heat 

drenched our hair and body.

This is the taste of abundance - 

sweeter because of the lack

fuller because of the wait.

August has left us

yearning for crisp autumn,

for yellows in squash and leaves,

for warmth in sweaters - 

the absence of sweat. 

For awhile, joy was in 

the heat, the work necessary 

to settle in, make tidy a room 

meant for tea and 

the words of great minds. 

Joy was in the plowing,

the sowing, the waiting, 

as humidity consumed our clothes

and water was our relief.

Now fall is our hope for repose. 

What we sowed in August, 

we will steward well

in the loveliness of September - 

eat slowly what was

put into and pulled from 

the rich ground. 

Tuesdays

I’ve been thinking about Tuesdays. 

As a kid, Tuesday was a dreadful & insignificant day. It was a day after a full day of school & followed by another full day of school. 

Wake up. 

Breakfast.

Two lessons of Saxon math, half an hour of reading. 

Lunch.

One chapter of Science, memorize a poem. Read some more. 

Maybe we would play outside before dinner. Maybe an hour of computer time. 

(Did we have ballet on Tuesdays? Maybe that was Thursdays.)

Dinner.

Bed. 

Boring. Tuesdays were more terrible than the “Terrible Twos” mom’s always talk about. 

(Don’t quote me on that.)

But now, in the years of young adulthood, Tuesdays are sometimes Fridays. Or Saturdays. Sometimes they aren’t filled with classes, sometimes they are the only day we get to sleep in. 

On Tuesday nights, there are concerts. We get drinks. Throw a Harry Potter marathon. Cook a feast for friends. 

As time goes by & we grow up, Tuesdays change from the terrible toddler to the 13-year-old you can have a conversation with & take out for coffee. (We started young.)

Our monday-friday school week has changed to a schedule that changes every week, every semester. Some days we are dreading Saturday. Some days we are looking forward to Monday. Even when our schedule is the generic 5 day, 40 hour work week, Tuesdays are days we can reason with. 

Tuesdays are the days we can feel most alive. 

I guess this makes me think that everyday we can feel alive. Maybe it just depends on what we do & how we choose to do it. 

But that’s something for another time.

to be

He spoke to me

the kind words of grace

that all my days can be lived

without a single word written

& my life will still be shrouded in purpose

because I learned to rest,

to wait, to listen, to give -

to be.

I met myself today

I met myself today. Conversation was light and weighty all at once. We finished the day weary, our smiling eyes brimmed over with tears.

As I walked home, images came to mind that felt like heavy weights on my shoulders. I used to yell at her, quietly but angrily at small mishaps and overly emotional moments. 

At times I would slap her stomach, scrunch it between my fingers, make her bend and move from side to side, just to see the full view. “Not acceptable,” I would say, restricting her from banana bread and warm cups of coffee.

Sometimes I found her on the floor, her back in aching from the strain of exercise. My face would grow hot and I would picture all she wasn’t and all that put her in this place. “You’re hopeless,” were the words I left her with, pulsing with apathy. 

A combination of chocolate and dry weather cause her face to peel and break out in red blotches. I bought moisturizer after cream after medication but it all came to nothing. No improvement was made. “You’re on your own,” I would say and scoff everytime she looked in the mirror. 

Still she would come to me with the flavorful and delicious meals, enough to satisfy a queen. She crafted cookies with rosemary and pies with thyme. She stubbornly enjoyed her coffee mid-morning, another in the evening. 

And yet, her greatest offerings of peace, her petitions for hope were flung aside by my ruthless desires for perfection.

Today I met myself again. She’s been busy in the kitchen, apron stained by chocolate and hands tired from kneading. She makes it outside often, her breathing growing easy, her muscles loosening as she runs the neighborhood streets. 

As we spoke, her eyes implored for approval, a simple word of affection. I smiled, “There must be purpose in your joys and grace in the process.”

I smiled as her eyes sparkled, hopeful, and wondered if I could believe it too. 

“To be resilient, we need to face our shame. shame shuts us down. It prevents us from receiving and giving. Shame causes distance. But we have to see our need for help amidst the shame. I believe resilience comes from facing our weakness and our need and working through our shame. Resilience comes through trusting that redemption and restoration is possible. Resilience relies on the hope that change is possible.” - Edith Reitsema

hurry up & slow down

A poem(?) inspired by John Mark Comer’s sermon series & book, The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry.

We never begin 

We never rest 

We never sit, 

Ponder the sky

Understand the trees.

Because time is precious,

Too precious to invest in 

What stands through the years,

What is valuable 

At the end of our existence. 

We invest in momentary satisfaction,

What gives us worth 

For a moment.

The truth is,

The elimination

Takes the most time,

To settle,

To break from the hurry,

The motion,

The noise. 

Yet the first part of the process

Of the elimination 

Is most necessary. 

Soon, 

In a week

In a year, 

After a month of up & downs, 

Soon the smallest trace of hurry 

Will taste sour in your mouth 

Will shake your bones

And you will say

“Never again.”

Soon.

Today, you begin.

You begin by

Sleeping ten minutes longer.

Tomorrow, you begin again. 

And this time

You’ll read ten minutes later. 

And the next day,

You will find

Time in the day to walk. 

But today,

As many times as is necessary,

You begin again and again.

This is why 

They call it ruthless.

There can be no mercy 

For the hurry that takes from life,

That robs love,

That stunts creativity. 

For it has no mercy on you. 

So today, 

Walk, don’t run, 

And begin the elimination

One steady step at a time.

“Rest is the conversation between what we love to do & how we love to be... Rest is the essence of giving and receiving; an act of remembering, imaginatively and intellectually but also physiologically and physically… To rest is to give up on worrying and fretting and the sense that there is something wrong with the world unless we are there to put it right; to rest is to fall back literally or figuratively from outer targets and shift the goal not to an inner static bull’s eye, an imagined state of perfect stillness, but to an inner state of natural exchange.
Rested, we are ready for the world but not held hostage by it, rested we care again for the right things and the right people in the right way. In rest we reestablish the goals that make us more generous, more courageous, more of an invitation, someone we want to remember, and someone others would want to remember too.”

— Consolations, David Whyte

open space & discipline

As children, we thought discipline to be a negative thing. 8pm bedtime, ice cream on special occasions only, one hour of computer time a day. Even as young adults, we often shrink away from discipline or any authoritative voice. 

As we grow older, as we build our lives and have children of our own, we can’t deny that discipline is necessary. Without it, we could not maintain a job, relationships, or overall health. 

Within the last month, many lives have come to an abrupt halt. Daily tasks, places to be, people to see - everything that was once filled is now empty. What is left is a lingering, taunting space, wondering how we will choose to use it.

In this open-ended space, I’ve come to question why it is so difficult to be disciplined in my writing and general creativity. I’ve waiting for this space for over a year now, so why do I only feel anxiety?

After a few wasted mornings, anxiety-filled afternoons, the answer became clear. I could not find rest because my worth depended on the accomplishments (or lack-there-of) of my day. I built my perspective around how I felt about myself  instead of the truth that I was made to rule over my emotions, over my body, over my time. 

 If I am to bring healing to my mind and to my heart, I must rethink my habits and expectations for a day and replace them with new disciplines which bring an abundance of peace and joy each day. 

Many know that writing is a great love of mine. It is what I want to do the rest of my life, in many different ways. I am created to tell stories, to understand lives I’ve never lived, and share the words that have taken me from very dark places. 

In order to do that well, I’ve realized that my craft shouldn’t fit into my life. Instead, my life should be structured in such a way that I as a creative can thrive and my craft can develop along with it. 

Discipline helps to rebuild a crumbling structure, to set a new framework so that thoughts can seek out new pathways into lighted spaces and grow daisies instead of weeds. 

When this is all said and done, our lives will not return to the way it was once this is all over. But this time, this open space is an opportunity. Though not without difficulty, it is a time with purpose. To rethink and rebuild. To delve deeper. To rest and heal.