a few weeks ago while i was in austin, i got my hands on a Hasselblad 500 series from 1978. (note the green grass of austin! i took that shot with my iPhone)

the deep breath, the pause, the act of slowing down that you discover with film photography is exactly what i need to embrace in my life these days. i hemmed and hawed over this decision (because i often don’t know what is best for me, a good friend of mine gave me a not so gentle nudge) so, there she is. she’s mine. and i’ve shown her a lot of my world so far. i’m excited to think of all the places we’ll go together, all the things we’ll see. i do believe she makes magic.

i’ve run a few rolls of film through her so far and i couldn’t be more pleased. i am totally smitten. she makes me dizzy and giddy. she makes me laugh and wish i could always see the world as it appears through her viewfinder. she causes me to slow my step, to practice mindfulness before thinking of pressing the shutter.

our most recent adventure happened just before sunset on a grey overcast day. we ventured down to the river, and i am happy with how the film really represents the feeling from that evening. (you can see the difference in sunshine and daylight with the images she produced here from a different day) sometimes venturing into the woods feels like going back in time. sometimes the river and a roll of film is exactly what i need. thank you, universe.

i was pretty thrilled to hear the news that Ariel Gore was returning as the Editor of Hip Mama Magazine… and that they were relaunching for their 20 year anniversary! i’m partial to this publication for many reasons, and not just because it was the very first time i had a piece of mine published in a print magazine … way back in 2007! Hip Mama issue #38. Nikki McClure was on the cover of this labor issue. Nikki is also the cover artist for Taproot Magazine for 2013. six years later… i’m still writing and forging a career out of art and soul and believing wholeheartedly in independent publications. i love when life comes full circle, and when creative circles cross paths again. i had fun digging up this back issue and remembering the thrill of it all those years ago.

i’m partial to this magazine for my early writing beginnings, but also because of what the magazine means to so many women and men out there. in a time when print magazines are seen as a dying breed, it’s important to keep our voices strong. we want more independent, like-minded, radical magazines to counter the culture that is often shoved down our throats in the grocery store checkout line. this is the reminder that we are not alone in our parenting, in our beliefs, in our political mind, in our gender, in our choice of marriages, and in our art.

to help with their relaunch, Hip Mama has a kickstarter page for backers to show their support. You should check out the video and show your support, every dollar helps this cause!

In my heart there lays hidden the absurd and bitter mix of sweat, beach sand, and salty tears. In my heart there’s a wail of melancholic verse sung with head thrown back. It’s the stifled sob cried softly into deep pillows while the dark swallows us up from the outside in. Somewhere deep down there is a whisper and an image of figures walking on the beach at low tide. Somewhere deep down there’s an ache and a longing for something lost and something found.

You can’t deny the rip tide. It’s the siren song that pulls you in.

This is where she came to be. This is where she grew. And grew up. Where she fell in love and lost her own mother. This is where she found comfort in the dunes, in the wind, in the sea. A life lived well, through tears and love. This is where she will always be. This is where we come full circle.

Single file, we walked. The sand was cold and the ocean was playful. It was joyous and beautiful and everything she would have loved. The waves chased with us, nibbling at our toes, swallowing our laughter whole and tossing it back to us again. I blew kisses to the wind as we scattered her sea glass. I gave her back to the sea. Ashes to ashes, I hope you come visit me in my dreams.  Welcome home, mom.

i need to spend more time in nature conversing with the trees. that’s where her faith is stored. he reminds me of this, and that i can tap into it outside with my eyes and my camera and my heart.

“i’ll still believe. though there’s cracks, you’ll see. when i’m on my knees i’ll still believe. when i’ve hit the ground. neither lost nor found. if you believe in me, i’ll still believe.”

there’s something about motherless that leaves you feeling unseen. a mother’s eye sees all. and part of me wishes she’d give her spirit back to the air around us so we can take from it when we need it. that mother love… i need it.

i’m six years old in my black patent leather mary janes and ruffled anklet socks, on the way to sunday school. i’m eight years old in ripped jeans and red keds, kicking at the dirt around me. my stubbornness stirs up a dust cloud. i don’t want to write my mother’s obituary. i’m cursed with the words. her superstitions are my own. and i push away the pen and paper, worrying that they hold too much power. i don’t want to write my mother’s obituary… i want to go outside and play.  i’m eight years old, i want to climb trees and laugh with my friends. i want to go bike riding  just to harness that freedom of wind in tangled uncombed hair.

i speak to her hospice nurse on the phone, 670 miles away. “comfort and dignity” she tells me. it’s what this life has come to.  i repeat it like a mantra. like a final goodbye.

i wonder what her spirit will feel like when her body releases her back to the universe.

a pause.

a photo walk.

a date night.

and it is most welcome.

this middle place is not mid-life. it is merely space in time, a mathematical equation of birth-life-death. we spin in orbit in this middle place. we spin out beyond ourselves, past freedom and invincible youth, but not yet to a place of rest.

this place is churning, it is frenzy. it is anything but slowing down. with one hand on a child and one hand on a parent we (those of us who find ourselves in this middle place) are metaphorically stuck. we are the balance, the weight centered on the rope in this tug of war. not yet ready to let go of either side. child or parent.

i sit wide-eyed with a nervous stomach because there’s nothing else to do but wait. and so i busy myself with tedious nearly manic cleaning, meaningless moments, i procrastinate real work and deadlines and clients.

it shifts so quickly, this space between. and it hits hard when i am alone. when he is at school and i have those few minutes between drop of and work and pick up again.

it shifts quickly. the focus of health, the teetering of test results and news of something new, something old, something different, something quite possibly sadder slipping from view. mother, father, child. i will always be your baby.

i have moments of great strength.
i have hours of great weakness.

will we never know our parents grief? what we remember is how they moved slow in the evening. how they rose early in the morning. how we always ate the same dinner on sundays after a day at the beach or an afternoon in the garden. will we never know that spark of person from their youth? it leaves us before we are ever ready. here we are again, always missing what we don’t have.

“oh dear” he says. then instantly there’s silence over the phone. i can feel it, i know his face is screwed up with tears, then sobbing like i’ve never heard in my life. my heart is breaking and it sounds like his sobbing.

and what comes out of my mouth is compassion. i’m surprised by my own strength. here, get on my back and i’ll carry you and this weight we feel. it’s come full circle now, for me to carry you. i am your baby but i’m stronger than you now. this i don’t tell him. but this he knows. this is where i am, welcome to the middle place.

there is so much empathy it hurts. i can feel his sadness with every molecule of my body. it is nearly too much, nearly.

hello! it’s officially mud season here in new england, our driveway and walkway is a sloppy mess of mud and yet there’s still three foot banks of snow in the yard perfect for snow fort making. ah, the confusion of seasons. it’s welcome, all this mud, because it only means one thing… spring is near! when i noticed the maple trees being tapped a week ago and buckets hanging like the sweetness collectors that they are… it made my heart leap with recognition of spring. there’s no denying the weather (even when it’s snowing outside) spring will be here before we know it!

and with spring comes registration for NOW YOU Workshops! kristin and i are offering our beginning class again for anyone who missed it last year. this is the introductory class that will get your feet wet with self portraits. Now You :: The Beginning is our first in a series of self portraiture classes provided online. it’s a 6 week introductory e-course that will turn your camera lens inward as we explore the everyday beauty of self portraits. The NOW YOU community is one of support and guidance, it’s a great place to explore yourself and your place in the world through photography.

we opened registration last friday to celebrate the first day of March and there’s already a great gathering of NOW YOU’ers! it’s going to be a fantastic springtime. will you be joining us for six weeks of community, conversation, and collaboration? for those of you new to NOW YOU, you can read about our eCourses here and for those of you ready to jump in this spring, you can register for Now You :: The Beginning here. registration runs March 1st – 29th and class begins April 1, 2013!

this is how i remember… and why i document with photography.

the day: epic
the moment: fleeting

the bedspread, the new sheets
my need to start over
a do-over

this is the letting go
the letting in
the seeing

the remembering i’m still right here,
even when pieces of me are out in the world

and so this is born: this image.
and it gives me new eyes.

it’s a note to self:
to stop and smell the flowers
to let the stress release its grip from my neck
to feel the wind in my hair
and the sun on my skin
even if only in my imagination.

this is how i remember.

in life, we are all these pieces. sewn together with time and memory and personalities and temperaments born to us… carried with us, shared between us. witnessed by those who truly see us and allow us to be who we really are.

this is a birthday. his. eight years.

his joy in celebration. his overwhelm of love. being surrounded by so many hearts that carry him, it gives him pause in the middle of it. and he finds retreat along the wall to take it all in. to process. i see it, because i feel it. sometimes too closely, i was this kid and i’m still feeling it now as an adult. i want to sit next to him and feel eight years old again.

this is his story. this is my story. this is where our stories intersect. this is the birth day.

this, this i see here is my sweet river. the interior he readily lets out for others to see. his expression, his ability to express. his joy. his rage. his sorrow. his contagious laughter. he is all boy. and he is so much more than that. he is sympathy, empathy, compassion, intensity, wonder, weakness and strength. he is power. he is vulnerability. he is confusion. he is clarity.

this, this is beauty. in a boy. in a child. in all the pieces of him that he’ll carry inside as he grows into the man he will become one day. “today i am eight!” he says to no one in particular, while looking out the window as the snow falls heavily outside. he is smitten with life, he is burdened with life. he is reality, he is truth. all the pieces tied together with bits of twine and birthday ribbons.

we are sewn together with love.

it’s snowing outside today. funny, how our bodies remember more than we acknowledge. my head is some place else while the birthday party swirls around. i’m eight years ago, in a different life: living through a story that no one here shares. no one but my son. and it’s locked somewhere deep in his subconscious. these are the invisible strings that connect us through the bodies at this party. those moments just after birth… it leaves me overwhelmed with love and joy and sadness and melancholy. the trauma, the relief, the life, the life, the life. thank you thank you thank you.

this is why mothers cry when they are happy.

happy birthday, river. i’m so lucky to be your momma.

roaring applause for the shortest month! this is the lingering winter we’ve almost beat now with hopes of spring and the renewal it brings. these are the final days counted down until birthdays and birthdays (again) and sweet valentines and winter break! i’m certainly not wishing time away, but it’s just that we’ve been looking forward to february with all our might… since the days got short and dark, february was my glimmer of hope.

and now? well, here it is.

to celebrate the first day of february i’m sharing a visual hour from my day. my world. my life. my camera. my world again. it spins round and round. easy to think of this tedium as nonsensical, easy to brush it off as routine, easy to push on through life without truly seeing any of it. i find that when i pause even if briefly throughout my day to document my surroundings (me in my world) it gives me a certain perspective that would otherwise go missing.

inside. outside. inside again.

(party socks and raindrops)

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my view from the daily commute

(boots and puddles)

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the view to start my workday

(meow)

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happy february everyone!