Thoughts on a Monday Morning

I'm awake at 4:29am eating raspberries from the carton, listening to the wind howl outside my window. We live in a tiny apartment in a big complex and the wind likes to whistle, loud, in the space between buildings. As it was waking me up tonight, in my dream it was a small boy wearing rolled up overalls, running with a pinwheel to the sky, somewhere far away like maybe France. 

I woke up and realized all of our patio chairs were knocked into a tangled heap in one corner. 

Sometimes I can go right back to sleep when I wake up, but usually my brain is too busy. Tonight I instantly began worrying about Lily and feeling horrible for not being enough like Martha Stewart or Joan Cleaver. They don't wear giant pilly sweatshirts with pajama pants when running to Target on Christmas Eve at 10:24pm. They don't say fuck or take naps. 

So, I began really beating myself up about this, and wondering how, in 2016, I could try and be 'better'. I could shower each morning and blow dry my hair. I could get jewelry to dress up my uniform white t-shirt over yoga pants. I could wear blush and mascara. I could bake more and whistle while I work. 

This isn't the first time I've tried to fit into this mold. After having Braedon almost 14 years ago, I bought pearl earrings and a pearl necklace and hung an apron beside the pantry. I've gotten a lot better since then with the whole self acceptance thing, but the Holidays always bring it all boiling right back up to the surface. 

Those moms don't read gossip blogs. Those moms can eat so much gluten. 

In these moments, where I'm alone and it's all whipping through me, there is only one thing that brings me back to center. 

In a society that would love to have me stand up straight and gloss my lips, instead, I am an artist. 

This means it makes sense that I am always hunched over the wheel covered in clay or my clothes smell like river mud or both. It makes sense that I feel all of the things all of the time and have ten (hundred) times more wrinkles framing my face than anyone else my age. It makes sense that my hair is always in a total shit show bun on top of my head and I can't be bothered with things like manicures or marzipan. 

I don't think there is only one way to be an artist, but I think I only make sense when I grant myself permission to be the artist that I am. I bet if we were living in the super olden days, in a tiny village where everyone has a role like in the movies, I'd be the one with a dusty face selling pottery at the market, writing invisible poems on my palm with my pointer finger between customers. I'd be the one bathing in the river with my family while the others are all at church wearing pantyhose, telling their children to hush.  

And that is OK. 

There isn't only one way to be a (successful) woman in this world. 

I have a daughter and I think because of that, I have a responsibility to love myself. And that's kind of the hardest thing ever, sometimes. But I'm finding my way. 

I've shared so many honest details of my journey on this blog since I began in 2008, and now, with only three days until 2016, it feels important to get this out, as clumsy and knobby-kneed though it might be. 

This is going to be the year, not that I finally get my act together and start applying expensive skin creams (because that's not me), but, the year when I dedicate my heart to self love each day. 

As I am.

Just as I am. 

Ghost words scribbled across my skin, and all. 

I think it's gong to be a lot like cleaning my home. I get it all tidy and vacuumed and looking great, knowing full well that it will all be messy again. But that's OK. I'll keep washing the dishes and picking up the socks. There's beauty in the work of things, too, I think. 

I don't know how to end this, except to say that this far into it I know for certain that words are medicine and it doesn't matter how good they taste or how lovely the packaging, so long as you just get them down. 

And the same is true for photographs and porcelain bowls; poems and pearl stitches. I've learned that it doesn't matter if it's all horrible, as long as you just keep showing up and making the art, even if it's at 4 o'clock on a Monday morning, it all will make sense. Little by little, bird by bird, the wind always carries us home.  

BRIDES Magazine Features

There are many places to be featured in the wedding world nowadays. It seems every minute there's a new blog popping up. But there is one publication that has truly stood the test of time, Conde Nast's BRIDES. 

I have been featured in their pages many times, and every single time it warms my soul. Not because of my ego getting a boost, but because my photography is not what you'd expect to see in such a mainstream place. Seeing my moody black and white river photos in the mix represents, to me, that I was right to not compromise my vision from the start. 

The longest feature I've had in their pages was a lesbian, biracial, Jewish wedding. And you have no idea how happy this makes me. Darn right those stories deserve to be shared. 

Anyhow, I think a lot of photographers believe there's a formula to follow to be recognized or successful. If I do x, and edit like y, then I'll end up at point A, where I dream of being. And I guess that might work for some people, and that's awesome. But these BRIDES features always remind me that it's also perfectly OK to take your own way, and dance to your own beat, too. 

It's just a moment of validation for me, which, as any artist can attest to, feels kind of lovely. 

Reflections from a Maker

My Grandmother knits, sews, cooks and bakes bread, daily. Her sister and mother did the same. My daughter sleeps warmed by a quilt that my Great, Great Grandmother stitched by hand out of discarded bed sheets and worn linens. 

My love for things handmade is unending. 

I am a feminist, and yet there is a very real part of myself that will never give up on preserving the hands-on nature of my inheritance. Each night I make a meal from scratch for my family. Each morning, after dropping off to school, I crochet. 

Sure I swear like a drunken sailor and run a successful business like a boss bitch, but there is a very real part of my heart that loves the feeling of an apron draped over my shoulders, and hands sore from throwing bowls at my pottery wheel. 

I am a maker. Born to make things with my hands and heart. Every damn day. 

This doesn't make me any less progressive, nor does it lessen the strength with which I stand firm on the Earth to declare my worth. 

And as I approach the Solstice next week, and the New Year ahead, I just thought I'd carve out a little space to declare this little truth of mine. 

My hope is that 2016 brings more unplugged, mindful moments, making things by hand with women from around the world at my River Retreats and River Story Sessions. I hope to increase my income in a way that honors my highest heart and potential. And, I hope to maybe, perhaps, finish a blanket that my great, great grandbaby can one day pull up under her chin, when the weight of the world telling her what she should be, just feels like too much. 

I am a strong, independent businesswoman AND I love to sit in serenity and stitch with the songs of my ancestors singing in my ear. I dream of log cabin writing nooks, tucked deep into forrest nests, and heart-to-heart conversations over tea, not text. And as I continue to evolve and find my way in this oh-so-confusing-internet-driven photography industry, I really want to remain true to what makes my heart beat the hardest. 

That's all.  

Absent to be Present

One of my students recently remarked at how open I am. She meant it as a compliment, and was asking for advice on how to be more this way, but for whatever reason, the word stopped me in my tracks. 

I think as a writer and artist you have to be able to show what lives beneath simply to survive. I don't argue with that. A lot of my most recent and current creative exploration exists much like so many of my childhood days: lifting up the rocks just to see what's living and squirming in the dark rich soil below. I love the real, the raw, the palpitating and visceral. I love the evidence that even in this sterilized technology soaked world, the muddy human condition still ives on.  I love to feel less alone in my own imperfections, collecting the slivers of beautiful humanity and humility I find along the way, like scant breadcrumbs leading toward Home. And I share what I love with the world through my art and my words. And so, yes, I am somewhat of an emotional exhibitionist, I suppose. 

But that word. Open. It made me so uncomfortable. I think mostly because I don't really want to be open. I don't really want to have a come-and-go-as-you-please policy when it comes to my life. That's never really been my thing. I married my second boyfriend ever. I've eaten the same breakfast every single day for five years. I know my mailman's first and last name and got him personalized dish towels for Christmas this year. I've always been a girl who'd rather dig deep wells than sow long, shallow fields. 

So yes, I need to be who I was born to be, and share what I was born to share. But I'm now exploring ways of doing so without feeling so one dimensional. 

One of those ways was changing my relationship with social media. 

I wasn't going to say anything. And then I was. And then I wasn't again. But then I keep getting emails and the most fascinating part about them is that they all seem to ask, "Did something happen? Are you OK?" As if disallowing the public an open ticket to my personal life could only happen under dire circumstances. Why else would someone choose not to have 10K followers? Why else would someone not care about hashtags?

I have drawn the conclusion that I am 99. I knit, I sew, I cook soups all day. I watch QVC, pinch kid's cheeks and for the life of me, no matter how hard I have tried, I just cannot feel fulfilled by the overflow of technology these days. 

But at the same time, I refuse to hide completely. 

So here is my plan. And I grant myself full and unconditional permission to change my mind at any time. But for today, my plan is to be absent from some forms of public sharing, so that I can be more present in others. My plan is to focus on being honest, but not necessarily wide open. I don't really want to show you every single sacred corner of my world. Some things are just for us. Just for my children. They deserve that, and I think I do, too. 

So, I promise. Nothing is wrong. Nothing happened. It's just that I'm trying my best to remain true to who I am, and not fall into the shoes of someone I am not. 

I hope you'll continue to enjoy the work and musings I do share. Because now I am putting these out there with deep reverence and intention. I am mindful, and that's the big shift.

I also really and truly hope that if you feel extra connected to me or my work, you'll come visit the rivers with me and become a real life friend.

I hope that you can understand. 

Maybe I'm not 100% exposed, but I am stubborn, and I'm determined to honor the voice in my heart that fights incessantly for the preservation of deep and meaningful well digging, even in the online world. And the art of holding the hands of a few really incredible friends, extra tight. 

I am grateful. Always. For all of it. And I am finding my way. One breadcrumb, at a time.