Sharing Behind The Curtain

 

I am not immune to the irony of the situation. I teach a class about waking up our truths and honoring ourselves. I value screen-free time and summer moments spent by the water, collecting memories and seashells with my beloved family.

And here I am, in the hospital, because of extreme stress and not respecting my own limits and boundaries.

For about a week my entire body has felt uncomfortable; like the muscle and joint pain you get with the flu. Everything, especially my back, ached from the moment I woke up to the second I fell asleep, and during the waking hours I was completely exhausted.

I blamed it on my unsupportive shoes, terrible tiny mattress, carrying the heavy bags of wet, lake-soaked clothes back and forth to the laundry room at the campground. These were all on-the-surface things that could be easily fixed, I told myself. Get some new sneakers, a good foam topper, a wheely-cart like the old ladies with curlers in their hair used to push back and forth from the grocery store in my neighborhood growing up.

And then yesterday, in one split second, it all came tumbling down.

I had just finished making breakfast for Lily, when I started to feel pangs of sharp pain in my guts. I put on a movie, hoping we could just relax and it would pass, but by the time Muppets reached their first song, I was sweating and clenching my fists. The pain was only getting worse.

I opened my computer to work and distract myself. (Hello! Red flag!!) By the third email the screen started getting fuzzy, and my eyes couldn't focus. My shirt was now soaking wet and my hair stuck to my damp forehead. I got up to go to the bathroom and splash water on my face but when I stood up everything started spinning. The pain was now shooting down my back and legs and I knew I was going to pass out. All I could think of was getting outside so that Lily wouldn't be stuck in the camper with me, lying on the floor unresponsive.

I opened the front door and let out the tiniest, wimpiest, "Help," and then the next thing I know I'm face down on the rocks and dirt.

The rest is a blur. I know that our camping neighbors rushed over. I know that Josh, one of the maintenance boys who has become like family to us, arrived within seconds. I remember everyone asking me if I wanted to move onto the picnic blanket instead of the ground, but all I wanted was to feel the cold Earth under my face. In those moments, in such pain, there was honestly no place that felt more comfortable, or comforting, to me.

They wanted to rush me off to the hospital, but I just kept begging them to give me a few more minutes in the dirt, under the canopy of trees. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I knew everything was about to change, and move quickly, and I just wanted a few moments to prepare myself. I cried. I sent prayers up to the treetops, and rooted my fingers deep down into the dirt. Soon enough I would surrender, and I just needed these moments to get my heart in the right place.

Kidney stones. Ulcers. Low body weight.

Those were the medical diagnostics, and I was given a long list of medications and follow-up tests and specialists.

But here I am. In the silence of a morning not yet greeted with sunlight. And I know the real truth and the real changes on the horizon.

Though I have kept it a very closely guarded secret, I have been camping with my two children completely alone this Spring and Summer. Thomas stayed back in Austin to work at his new job and take care of our house. I knew it was going to be a challenge. I knew it was going to be difficult. What I didn't know, or perhaps what I wasn't ready to admit, was that it would be the bravest and hardest adventure, yet.

I work full-time. I own a business (or two or three!) that I love and take very seriously, and the Spring and Summer months are my busiest, by far. So there I was, camping, CAMPING, in a 25-foot capsule, in the middle of the woods with no internet, no phone service, with two children aged 12 and 5, in the beautiful and reckless tornado of wedding season.

Alone.

I didn't want to tell anyone, quite honestly, because I was afraid of being murdered. I'm not sure I've ever felt so vulnerable for so long, sleeping night after night so open to the scary things in the world. With even the tiniest sound I'd sit up in  bed, and on my best nights I'd get maybe 3-4 hours sleep.

I cooked our meals from scratch. We joined a local CSA and ate wholesome, healthy meals. But let me tell you, the cooking and washing dishes (with such limited hot water supply) seemed endless most days.

Everything is extra work when you're camping. While it seems like a dedication to the simple life, the irony is, nothing feels simple. The 'simple' act of "going to bed" means transforming the kitchen into a bedroom. The 'simple' act of flushing the toilet means sometimes sticking branches foraged from surrounding trees 'down there' to unstick the messiest messes, and scheduling someone to come pump out your tank when it gets full. Showers, for me, were twice a week. After long days spent being feral, the children needed to be seriously scrubbed each night, and by the time that was finished, there was no hot water left for Mama.

Listen, I am not here to play a victim. I know it sounds like I am complaining, but I'm only trying to keep it real.

There were so many gorgeous moments. So many incredible memories I will forever cherish with my little ones. Not many Mothers can say they had such a rich journey with their children, and I promise I am grateful with every cell in my body.

I captured hundreds of private black and white images that will all be collected and bound in an Artifact Uprising book. The practice of capturing these images forced me to slow down and pay attention to the breathless beauty in the middle of the storm. The new freckles on their shoulders. The swimming-with-all-of-our-clothes-on sunsets at the lake.

The blessings were everywhere at every moment. But sometimes, it's also OK to get honest. To step passed the sun-soaked snaps, and share behind the curtain.

Our days were heavily structured. Braedon helped out, perhaps more than any 12 year old should, but he never complained. Not even once. He loved building our fires and checking on our propane levels, and even reading his sister bedtime stories while I finished the nightly chores. Lily, being her sweet Lily self, filled the atmosphere with light.

Most nights after they were sound asleep, I'd whisper tearful apologies into their hair. "I'm so sorry Mommy was so busy today. I'm so sorry this summer is so hard. I promise I am doing the best I can."

Working. Without internet.

This was a whole different ballgame. Thanks to a few helpers/angels I hired, Julia and Margit, my work never missed a beat. All of my clients received their images within my average 10-day turnaround time. I have a workflow and routine down pat, and once the editing was all complete, I'd drive, once a week, to my mom's house 45 minutes away to  send everything off, catch up on blogging, and update social media posts (always careful to schedule in photos of Thomas, to keep the creepy murderers away!).

There is just. so. much. to being a (temporary) single working Mama in the woods. I cannot tell you the new-found respect I have for single parents. While they might not be camping, they are still doing it all alone, and I hold them in the highest regard. I had a light at the end of the tunnel. Even on the worst days, I knew there was a loving husband and cozy home waiting for me. Not everyone has that and I seriously do not know how they do it.

Alone is no joke.

In all of this, there was so much that I let go of. Yoga. Twice-daily meditation. Smoothies. Al-anon meetings. Getting enough sunshine. Dancing in my underwear... The self-care things that, it turns out, I truly cannot live without. With my hospital bracelet still on, I now know that.

So, not even 24 hours since that time I so ungracefully got a reality check straight to the guts, I know it's time to make some serious changes. Time to reevaluate things and shift and recover.

Time to reflect.

This week I will begin packing up the Airstream (it's for sale by the way!) and getting ready to fly back to Austin. I'm sure as time passes, crazy amounts of wisdom will arrive, but for now I am grateful for this one indisputable truth:

I am strong. I am brave. But, I cannot do it all.

And my goodness it feels SO GOOD to finally admit that out loud.

The fog, is lifting.

Featured // Wolftree Magazine

A few months ago, I got a text from a good friend. She was out with a big group of photographers and one of them, out of the blue, brought up my name. "Michelle's just SO deep," this other photographer lamented. "She's so poetic and emotional about everything. It's like, enough already!"

I don't know why, but her criticism knocked me off my balance.

What if I was too deep? What if I was too emotionally invested in my photography and writing?

The truth is, I'm doing it all the time. Thinking deeply. Questioning intently. Tracing the outline of moments and memories with my mind, the way a lover might outline the silhouette of skin with his fingertip. It just never occurred to me that a person can be too much of that.

So I silenced myself. I stopped sharing heart-soaked imagery of my children. I stopped writing. Not really by choice, but because somewhere, there was a part of me that wanted to feel safe.

Then one morning in Mississippi, I went for a super early walk. The fog was blanketing the water and the midnight chill was still biting my bare feet when a voice behind me asked if he could sit with me. I was alone, on top of a picnic table, and the entire beach was wide open and empty. Clearly this elderly man wanted company, so of course I said yes.

"Only the deep thinkers look out at the water at sunrise," he said.

"Come on. Really?!" I thought. "Even completely silent and within two seconds, this total stranger is going to call me out?"

I didn't say anything. Just tried to smile . I think he could see by my forced expression that I didn't take it as a compliment.

"My wife used to always wake up before the world. She was such a romantic. Completely in love with being alive. That's all I meant. It's the people who really feel what it is to be alive, I suppose, who do this kind of thing."

For no reason, other than why not, I told him everything. He sat on the edge of the bench, one hand holding the end of his cane. His wedding ring had grown into the thick folds of his wrinkly knuckles, the way tree bark grows around objects long left in their creases.  He never looked at me, only squinted off in the distance. Once in a while he would nod and close his eyes.

Eventually I was done. I had said all that could be said. And he turned to face me and said, his southern accent making it sound like a song, "Listen young lady. I'm going to be real straight with you. You are being ridiculous." He was dead serious. "You were born a poet, just like my wife was, only thing is, she didn't give a damn. MmmHmm. In this life, I don't care what you are born as, it's your job to go and be that, and stop giving a damn."

He turned back to the lake.

"Fuck 'em," he said. "Excuse my French."

He laughed, and I could tell he was laughing with her.

I won't lie and say in that very instant I ran up to my camper writing for hours and hours, papers flying around my head like giant confetti. It wasn't that. But. When Wolftree Magazine (a website and publication that I totally believe in and LOVE) reached out and asked me to write a piece for Volume 3, I didn't say no.

Little by little, I'm sharing with abandon again. And while I wish I could give all credit to the straight-shooting man from Mississippi, it was actually the ghost of his wife who shook me awake.

She was sitting beside him the whole time, invisible but unquestionably visceral. As they laughed together, I wondered about the first time he danced with her. Were they alone in a dusty apartment, a record spinning in the corner? Or were they in the middle of a crowded southern bar, a band playing too loud, everyone's mouths smelling like alcohol when they sang along...  But more than that, I wondered how she died, and if, when she took her last breath, there were words locked in her throat. Songs that she was too afraid to sing, that died along with her.

To me, that must be the single greatest tragedy of them all.

And so, fuck 'em, I will write.

These  tearsheet images courtesy of Wolftree.

Silence Between the Notes

I've had this as my email auto-response for this week, but I think it also belongs here...

"Music is the silence between the notes"

 -Claude Debussy

I truly believe what sets me apart from the sea of other photographers is my ability to hear and capture stories that others miss. I teach international photography classes, and speak at conferences around the country, and truly, at the end of the day, the number one tool I encourage others to have is the ability to unplug, and just listen.

So often, though, in today's world, people live glued to their screens. For some, this works. But for me, it would be impossible to be the artist I am, and live in such a way.

In order to continue being the soul-filled storyteller that I am, I have to live a life filled with gorgeous mindfulness and awareness. Tucked in my Airstream in the woods, spending afternoons capturing snails at the lake with my little ones, or morning sunrise walks through path-less forests.

It may seem to have nothing to do with photography, but in truth, it is everything.

I promise that you and your email are important to me. I promise that I will sit down with my warm tea by the lake, and read your words and respond. It just might take a bit longer than someone who lives glued to their phone. My dedicated 'office' hours are Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and I answer all messages in the order they are received.

There are people in the industry who tell me I am crazy for running a successful business this way. They say I need to answer all messages within a few hours, and I understand where they are coming from. I do. But for me, the unplugged moments spent in deep and complete reverence of the world around me, are what make me, me. They foster my ability to hear the music between the notes. And I never want to lose that.

If you are looking for someone who is constantly going-going-going and lives on her computer day in and day out, I am not the girl for you. Thankfully, I believe there are no mistakes. That you reached out for a very beautiful reason. And, I am willing to bet, you're one of the ones who totally get it, too.

Him

WILDlife

I've been getting a lot of questions about our travel/living plans lately so I thought I'd clear it up a bit. I think by now everyone knows we lived in an Airstream for a long time, and traveled the country, and then arrived in Austin and felt it was time to take a breather.

For a while, it seemed like we'd sell the camper and settle down in this desert city hugged by the Colorado River.

But.

I simply cannot/will not extinguish the wildfire inside of me. I long for hair that smells like campfire and hanging clothes to dry on tree branches after long after dark lake swims. I long for road trips with the windows down, getting lost entirely on purpose. I long for 25-feet of living space, all cramped in and cozy, on rainy mornings. I am not ready to 'settle down.'

So here's the scoop.

In 10 days we will travel with our beloved Airstream up to New England. We will be there, exploring, camping and shooting, all Spring + Summer.

Then, we will come back to our sweet little bungalow in downtown Austin, TX and focus on watering our roots: hockey practices and ballet recitals and catching lightning bugs in jam jars under the front yard oak.

For inquiries:

2014 is booked completely, with a few Austin openings in November.

I am booking weddings, and River Story sessions,  for 2015 + 2016 in both locations.

Here's to answering the call of adventure, no matter what...