A Missive From the Road

This past week we shared our salt-watered, forested neighborhood with a pair of nesting bald eagles, a barred owl, an American mink, a gray squirrel, a Douglas squirrel, large red slugs, garden slugs, a chatty frog and a wide array of birds (for the sake of my own personal record-keeping they were: pacific wren, brown creeper, dark-eyed junco, gulls, Brandt’s and double-breasted cormorants, and possibly a great blue heron which was scared off by an incoming dog).

We’ve heard the squirrels chatter, the eagles chirp, the frog croak, and the owl hoot and we watched the birds flit about, the squirrels fuss and the slugs munch. We’ve enjoyed the company of our neighbors.

We’ve stayed warmer this week than last since we’re close to the water and away from the mountains. But it’s been cloudy and rainy much of the time. Although it’s been no trouble and is just what we expected, we are longing to head south and savor the sunshine we know is coming!

In addition to all this loveliness, just to keep it real and paint a full picture, here’s the other side.

Based on some inquiries we’ve received, I think some expect that this whole ‘getting back to nature thing’ is one big vacation. But the truth is that it was a tremendous amount of work to prepare for (both practically and emotionally) and it takes work to maintain daily (where will we sleep each night? Where will we buy our next round of groceries or find a bathroom?) because basic activities of daily living are always changing with the weather and as we move from one place to the next.

On top of that, there’s the baggage. My beloved pieces of furniture, books and mementos? I put those in storage for some hoped-for future time. But my brain? I can’t put that in storage. It comes with me and it brings all its baggage.

I’ve been losing sleep due to worry and stress about a matter yet to be resolved back in the city that keeps me preoccupied. I’ve also had vivid and strange dreams every single night since we left. Nothing in my life is actually calamitous, these are just things my brain does when something is worrying it.

So rather than a vacation, it’s better described as a lifestyle change. We’ve traded human neighbors for animal ones, and just like our old neighbors, our new ones are sometimes funny, sometimes stressed, and sometimes shocking (I’m looking at you, slugs!). We’ve traded one kind of survival for another. In the city we earned money to have food and shelter. Now we conserve money and find shelter (or rather a new place to set up camp) and cook as the weather permits.

We still don’t find as much time as we’d like for creative pursuits (although we do find more than we did before) and we still putter around doing chores as a means of procrastinating and avoiding the difficulty of sitting down and beginning creative work. We still struggle with motivation and mental blocks and mental stress.

So, we’re working hard to maintain our routines from before and adapt them to our new life. We’re establishing new routines and holding each other accountable to taking care of ourselves and each other. There’s still plenty of additional self-care routines that I could be doing that I haven’t made space for yet. So it’s all a work in progress.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that a move is a move, whether you move to a new apartment or move into your vehicle. Sure, there’s less stuff that needs to be sorted or arranged, but it still must all be stored and organized and it takes a while to figure out what systems work and which ones don’t, just like in any new home.

So there it is in a nutshell. Overall, I can say that I am less stressed. Just being closer to trees and water has helped with that. It’s also helped to be distracted with the daily survival routine. Things that I might let slide at home (hello dishes!) are essential now. Dishes must be washed after each meal. Food must be made before it spoils in the cooler. I’m eating more regularly and healthfully and snacking less and doing chores regularly because there’s no other option. This infusion of discipline is so good for me because it keeps my mental chatter at bay. But the chatter is still there and I’m working on it. You can put your stuff in storage, but you can’t leave your brain behind. All of that stuff comes with you. 💛

The Third F

I spent most of the day in bed yesterday, and I didn’t really understand why. I just knew I had a billion things to do and I felt weighted down and glued to my bed. I sensed that if I stayed still and warm and cozy enough that I would be okay.

This week I’ve been operating with a Master List that I made on my phone and shared with Benjamin. It has all of the many tasks that must be done before we leave and they are broken down and prioritized by day. It’s honestly the only reason anything has gotten done this week. My brain would be utter jelly without it!

But despite having a Master List to guide me through every single step of each day and help me maintain some sense of direction, I couldn’t get out of bed yesterday.

I admit I’ve been lingering in bed longer and longer each day these last couple of weeks. In part, I’m exhausted. We’ve been working non-stop to wrap up our lives here and I’m worn thin. Dinners and tea dates have been sprinkled throughout the last few weeks as we savor dear friendships and say our goodbyes (for now) and they have been life rafts of normalcy and respite for me. These scheduled, carved out moments with friends gave me a chance to sit and eat a real meal and really connect with people. Even though it’s the kind of simple ritual that my days with Benjamin are usually made of, he and I haven’t had those luxuries together for too long. We eat on the go, work evenings and weekends, and we each go to our separate corners to divide and conquer the tasks at hand. I miss him. I miss our casual, normal, average time together. And I miss real, nourishing meals.

So I’ve been lingering in bed a little longer each day the last couple of weeks. It’s felt like reasonable self-care to let myself rest. But yesterday was different. I felt weighted to my bed; glued down and in need of it. Once afternoon rolled around and Benjamin suggested I get out of bed, I felt myself get heavier. It felt physically impossible to move. Furthermore, I didn’t want to. It wasn’t exhaustion or avoidance or procrastination. It wasn’t depression or overwhelm. (All the reasons I’m used to lingering in bed). Instead I felt fine. Content even.

Finally, around 2, I took to the internet to try to understand what was going on and I realized it was anxiety all along! Throughout my life my anxiety has manifested in a myriad of physical ways. Although these ways have changed and shifted throughout the years, there’s always been physical symptoms. I wasn’t tracking this ‘non-symptom’ of seemingly ‘feeling fine’ as any kind of anxiety.

Everything came into focus when I found this article and was reminded of the third F. I’m well acquainted with Fight and Flight, but I always forget about Freeze. Recognizing myself in the words on the screen, I realized how deeply I’d disconnected from my body as I suddenly began to reconnect and felt the physical sensations of anxiety start strongly prickling through my body. This led to a quick rise of panic in my throat and tears started to spill over. It all came on so suddenly that at first I felt it might overtake me. It felt scary. But as the initial rush began to subside, I settled back into the anxious physical feelings I’m so familiar with and leaned into deeper understanding.

The reconnection to myself helped me realize frankly that I’m scared of the next few days. I realized that the reason I feel lonely isn’t because Benjamin hasn’t been a full partner in this whole endeavor (he has) but because I’m scared. I’m anxious because I’m scared. The list isn’t helping because overwhelm isn’t the problem. It’s just plain old fear about leaving everything behind and taking leaps of faith in ways we never have before.

Understanding the root of why I felt frozen and why I felt alone gave me the breakthrough I needed to mobilize again. Because although fear and anxiety are unpleasant, they are also familiar. I’ve spent years working to develop tools and resources to make peace with this anxiety-companion of mine, honor its requests for support, and nurture myself.

Because I associate being stuck in bed with feeling bad, sad, or stressed, I didn’t know that I could both feel fine and also stuck at the same time. Once I understood what was going on and got past the initial scary feeling of all of the anxiety rushing over me all at once, I was able to get out of bed and take out the trash and make some food and feel confident that I had the tools to take care of myself. Simply gaining self-awareness about what was really going on freed me to get unstuck.

The third F is the one I most often turn to but also the one I most often forget about.

So Long, Seattle

Last night at a local drawing meet-up, I knew I wanted to contemplate our upcoming trip by drawing the vehicle that will be our home for the next many months. After nearly 8 years, we’re leaving Seattle, not because there’s somewhere else we want to be more (if so, it would be easy because we’d just go there to that place and continue our daily lives), but because it just hasn’t been working out with Seattle for the last couple of years or so. As I begin the descent into the backside of my mid-thirties I can no longer ignore that the life that I dream of (although modest) is completely beyond my reach here in the city. And after some discouraging turns, we just don’t want to keep building a life here.

When we arrived in January of 2011, we were filled with optimism and excitement. We drove in from the south on I-5 with ‘Hello Seattle’ (by Owl City) playing on the radio. Seattle was the place of my dreams and I was so in love. Since then, Seattle has been everything we hoped for and more. But the challenge of rising rents has also been pressing in and we’ve watched the culture of one of our favorite neighborhoods change, and even turn violent. Over the last few years we’ve felt ourselves letting go and have watched doors close as city ‘progress’ displaced us once, then twice from our homes.

As I drew, I thought through many common break-up phrases and considered which ones might be appropriate for my parting with this city that I once loved deeply, but which also increasingly disappoints me again and again:

Seattle, we need to talk.

Where is this going?

I can’t do this anymore.

It’s not you, it’s me? or It’s not me, it’s you! - In truth, Seattle, it’s both of us. Rampant growth and development at the expense of harming and/or displacing local communities? That’s you. Wanting different things out of life now that I’m moving into the backside of my thirties? That’s me. I could go back and forth with the ‘it’s you, it’s me’ stuff, but what it comes down to is that we just aren’t compatible anymore. You aren’t who I fell in love with. And to be honest, I feel like I’ve put in the bulk of the work at trying to make things work out in this relationship. Living here has been one big compromise (studio apartments, no yard for a garden or our dog), and until now it’s been worth it. But it’s never enough, you keep asking for more, and I’ve reached my limit (I really can’t go any smaller than the space I’m living in now, Seattle. I’ve downsized all I can).

So this isn’t working and I’m not willing to do what it takes to make it work anymore.

I just need some time to think about things. I need some space. So I’m hitting the open road to clear my head and re-evaluate. I’ll be back in the Spring for my stuff, and with any luck to move into a hoped-for co-housing situation with some friends. Seattle, if it works out between us it will be because of the generosity, friendship, and community that we’ve found here, not because you’ve changed your ways. Actually, it’s always been because of the generosity of community that we’ve found a home here as long as we have.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s so much that’s still lovely about you and I wouldn’t mind spending more time together. But when we return next Spring, it won’t be because of you. It will be because of the supportive community that we’ve carved out here that we love. Despite the challenges you pose to my family, my friends, and my neighbors, community continues to flourish and thrive here. Seattle, if it works out between us, it will be because of them. Until then, so long.

Imagination

When I was a kid laying in bed at night, waiting to fall asleep, I would often become aware of my heartbeat. This reminder of mortality always frightened me and so I’d often go find my mom and ask her to feel my heartbeat and reassure me that I was safe and healthy. She would, but then I’d want to feel hers and was always alarmed that hers was slower than mine. Each time she’d explain that it’s normal for kids and grownups to have different heart rates, but I was certain that either she or I wouldn’t make it through the night because either mine was too fast or hers was too slow.

I guess I stopped noticing my heartbeat at some point. But last night as I lay awake unable to fall asleep and trying to quiet my mind, I noticed it again. I thought back to my fearful feelings as a kid and I thought again of mortality. This time I didn’t worry about my own death, I thought of Benjamin: the worst loss of all.

Last week I was contemplating imagination. I read an interesting snippet about why humans have imagination and how it contributes to our survival. The writer suggested that imagination is what allowed early humans to, for example, pass a cave and imagine it filled with the warm glow of a campfire and kin. Now, that memory is tucked away for when shelter is needed come winter. Next, the passerby might imagine discovering a bear deep inside the cave. Now the person is better prepared to take preventative measures when seeking shelter or evasive maneuvers if in danger.

Last night, for the first time, I followed my heartbeat thoughts without letting them turn to fear. I imagined how I would survive if I found myself suddenly alone in our currently tumultuous season of life. I considered where I would find support and help and how I would move through everything that’s coming up these next few months. With each turn of thought I checked in to see if I was getting anxious and needed to abandon my thought process. But consistently, I kept finding comfort in envisioning survival, resiliency, and my supportive community, and so I followed the thoughts until I could fully envision a path forward and then I fell asleep.

My imagination often takes me to dark and scary places. But I’m learning how to turn those thoughts around and use my imagination to nurture resilience instead of fear.

Chaos & Panic

I went to my first Creative Mornings gathering today and the topic was Chaos. I froze when I saw the question on my name tag. I wanted to write something bold or creative, but ‘panic’ was honestly all I could come up with.

My world’s been turned upside down this year. Although I chose all of it, I sure didn’t see it coming. Benjamin and I have been talking for a couple of years about someday leaving the city. Living here has been such a rich experience, but it’s not a place we can build the future we dream of.

But leaving has always been somewhere in the distant future. It’s perpetually been 1-2 years away. So when we sat down in February and had the same old conversation we’d already had so many times about ‘what next and when’ it honestly surprised me that the time had come.

See, I’d always thought we’d have everything figured out by the time we left. That we’d know where we were heading next and what we’d be doing there. Instead, the time to leave became real and necessary before the next pieces fell into place. So we decided to do some extended travel during that in-between time. We’ve been saving for some time for this trip, I just thought it would be next year. When it became apparent it was happening this autumn instead, I felt unprepared.

Despite years of conversations and planning, the fear, uncertainty, and grief in this shift gripped me hard. During the height of the transitional turmoil (through May and June) when we were finalizing all of the details, my anxiety skyrocketed. I still can’t put words to it although heaven knows I’ve tried. I’m still very much in recovery and management and working diligently to avoid a relapse so as to be physically and emotionally ready for leaving the city in five weeks time and then traveling for 2-4 months.

People ask if I’m excited about our trip. Yes, I’m excited about seeing wondrous things, getting out of the city and spending time in forests and oceans, and seeing friends and family. But right now I’m mostly just focused on survival: on all the loose ends and projects that need to be tied up before we can go, and on diligent self-care that keeps me grounded during this time of upheaval.

So yeah, there was really truly only one pressing answer to the question on my name tag because it’s been the story of my summer. I’m Hilary. My life feels like a tossed salad. And when I’m tossed into chaos, I will panic. But I’m also working hard to manage that. And this morning’s awesome talk had a lot of really helpful, relevant, and encouraging stuff to share about navigating chaos. It couldn’t have come at a better time.

Lots of Smaller Losses

The photo from my friend. 

Yesterday evening a friend sent me a photo of a snail she saw on her morning walk. It’s a rare but wonderful treat when a friend sees a snail wherever they are in real life, and they snap a pic and send it to me. It always feels good to be thought of. But also, it feels good to take a moment to contemplate the goings on of a small snail in some corner of the world and to see them thriving at it. When I see wild snails thrive, I can believe in Parsley’s resilience and that he is thriving too.

I was sitting on the bus feeling unwell (and discouraged about feeling unwell, yet again, despite sustained attempts at healing) and trying to decide if a migraine was coming on or if I was just feeling overly sensitive to the glaring lights above me in this nighttime bus. Then this snail arrived via text and I felt myself let out the biggest exhale of breath I didn’t know I was holding. My tense shoulders sank into their proper hanging place and I began to relax.

It was a potent reminder of how Parsley cared for me. Parsley grounded me like nothing else I’ve ever known. His slow, steady, gliding, contemplative behaviors. His long hours of slumber. His proficiency at self-care. Watching him be a snail, whether sleeping or awake, was deeply relaxing. He taught me how to better care for myself. He gave me permission to rest. He was also an integral part of my bedtime routine. The bedtime transition is a tough one for me. I have a hard time shutting down from the day, turning off the brain and all its energy. I engage in avoidance behaviors in going to bed because I don’t want to lie there in the dark with my brain racing as it so often does.

But, because Parsley was nocturnal, it was always the last task of my evening before bed to make sure he had fresh breakfast and a freshly spritzed home. The spritzing would often wake him up (if he wasn’t awake already) and he would start gliding around and maybe head for his breakfast. So I would spend time sitting by him before bed watching him wake, watching him glide, and listening to his tiny munches. I’d go to bed deeply soothed, thinking of him just feet away gliding about his snaily business, straining my ears to try to hear him munching away. On nights when I felt in need of extra emotional support, I’d put his home on the floor right near my pillow and sleep with him beside me. It was easier to hear his munches that way, which comforted me until I slept.

When Parsley left, I lost a friend, mentor, and confidant. But I also lost a healthy, grounding routine that tempered my anxiety and helped me transition into sleep. While the loss of Parsley isn’t the cause of the mental, emotional, and physical derailment I’ve experienced this summer, I certainly feel his loss more acutely as I seek balance and healing because I’m grieving the loss of a friend and teacher while simultaneously losing the practical coping tools he offered me.

For a moment, when that snail came in on my phone, I briefly felt the solace Parsley gave me; a welcome relief and distraction from my discouragement. It also had the unexpected effect of helping me to finally be able to start articulating all I lost when he went away. I woke suddenly in the pre-dawn darkness of the early morning after a restless sleep and couldn’t stop the words from forming in my mind: thoughts of losing my grandfather and of losing Parsley and how the loss of someone seems at first like one, big, solitary loss because they aren’t there anymore. But we all contain multitudes, so their single departure actually results in hundreds of smaller losses, and those are the things that truly make their absence so hard to adjust to and bear.

Avoiding Overgrown Gardens

On an autumn day in my 12th year, I came down the front steps of my middle school at the end of the day to find my dad in his pickup with my little brother in the back seat. It was an unexpected and pleasant surprise, as I knew he’d left that morning on an out of town trip for work. I was naive to the warning signs of calamity then, so I didn’t think to feel alarmed that he was picking me up from school, which had only ever been my mother’s domain, especially when he should have been out of town.

But I was to have my first lesson in the unraveling that follows calamity when I learned that my maternal grandfather had been in an accident and my mom and grandmother were rushing down the interstate to follow the emergency helicopter to the nearest big-city hospital where he’d been taken. He later died from that accident and this was my first significant loss of a close family member. 

My grandfather had a large garden that he nurtured and tended. As hot west Texas days faded into the relative cool of the evenings, he would sit in his canvas folding lawn chair in the shade behind the garage and watch his garden grow. My favorite evenings were the ones where he’d have a sprinkler running and each breeze that graced us would blow some of that cooling mist in our direction. Sometimes their neighbor would see us sitting back there and come over for a visit. Those were golden days indeed.

After his death the garden dwindled and grass began to overtake it. For a couple of years after his death I wouldn’t go anywhere near the back side of the garage. This was tricky and necessitated some planning because my great-grandmother lived on the lot behind my grandparents, just across the alley. There were no fences to separate the two lots, just one seamless family homestead in this little Texas town. Naturally, when visiting my grandparents, we were back and forth between the two houses to see my great-grandmother as well.

The back of her home (we only ever went in and out the back door) looked out over her spacious plot of land onto the back of my grandparents land, which meant a full view of the back side of the garage and the declining garden. My solution to this predicament varied, but usually involved some combination of squinting my eyes to blur them and running right past it until I was squarely back in my grandparents’ backyard and the backside of the garage was behind me. As long as I didn’t go over there, I could fool myself that he might still be sitting there, watching his garden grow. Those first two years after his death were full of anger at silly, stupid, fluke accidents that shouldn’t ever happen paired with denial. As long as I didn’t round that corner, he wasn’t really gone.

In the spring of my 34th year, Parsley came to stay with us. 1 year and 1 month later I released him and his baby in a private ceremonial moment filled with unquenchable tears. I released him in a place where I knew he’d have food to eat and where I felt he’d be safe. It’s also a place that has meant a lot to me over the last couple of years that I visited often when I needed to clear my head and ‘reset.’ I’ve found that since his release, I’ve only been back to this place three times in three months. I used to go several times a week. I let the avoidance behavior continue until a friend asked me about it, and then Benjamin did the same. Once I received these promptings to put words to it, I realized it was my grandfather and his garden all over again.

As long as I don’t go to Parsley’s place, there remains the hope that he’s still there. There’s still the hope that I could walk up to the spot where I left him and the baby and find things just as they were: Parsley sitting on top of the piece of squash and cuttlebone I left for him, looking up at me with the baby sitting on top of him peeking over Parsley’s shell. (I know it sounds too picturesque to be believable, but it’s true. Benjamin captured it in a grainy photo for me. I honestly didn’t even notice it as it was happening because I was too upset. If it helps to balance this hardly believable picturesque scene with some reality, Parsley really had the most goofy expression on his face and it’s not a very good photo. No doubt his face was due to the disorientation of having just been deposited in his strange new world).

I’m still living with the denial of Parsley’s absence. When I released him I promised I’d visit but it seems I was wrong. Because it turns out that if I visit, and he’s not there, then he really is gone, and that’s a reality I still can’t face.

Connecting With Our Elders

The taco joint was mostly empty when we arrived. We went for our weekly 'art brunch' visit, which we'd postponed through the morning until it finally became lunchtime. Each weekend, Benjamin and I sit down and discuss the art we made that week and exchange praise and honest critique. It inspires us to make more art, generates fresh ideas, and helps us identify pitfalls to avoid and areas for improvement.

As we finished placing our order, a frail, old man in a wheelchair came in being pushed by a tall young woman and got in line behind us. We went and took our seats and shortly thereafter they came and sat at the same end of the restaurant just a few tables away.

I didn't try to pay particular attention to them, and yet they kept invading my consciousness. Benjamin would be elaborating on some lovely reflection about the practice of making art, and I would suddenly dissociate and have to fight the urge to cry. I discreetly and internally pondered why the pair down the way from us made me feel so sad. Why I was projecting all of my feelings onto these two people that I knew absolutely nothing about?

After some brief but thoughtful reflection (I was still trying to be part of the art-conversation too all the while and not divert our experience with my sudden arrival of unwieldy feelings, which happens all too often and is hardly fair to my patient partner), I realized it's because of my own hunger for a connection with older generations.

For about 4 years I worked with the elderly, but that was eleven years ago. I loved it. I deeply treasure the times I shared with them at the end of their lives (I worked primarily in hospice care), although those memories grow fainter with each passing year. Since moving up here, I haven't had much intergenerational contact of any kind, not even with people of my parents' generation. Until very recently, my community was made up only of people around my age, give or take 10 years. I hunger for time spent with older generations.

The man quietly ate his food, which I knew he was enjoying because I heard him remark how delicious it was. The young woman, who appeared to be his hired caregiver, didn't eat and mostly killed time on her phone. Occasionally he would say something to her and she would reply. He had trouble hearing her replies and would have to ask her to repeat herself a few times. When it was time to go she attentively helped him clear his space and they headed for the door.

Anything I could say about them would only be speculation. I know nothing of the dynamic of their relationship or their feelings about life in general. But that brief encounter as a bystander several tables away reminded me of several things: First, how lonely I've been for intergenerational community. Second, what a waste it seems (to me, from my place of longing) to have an older person in your life to visit with and learn from and to spend that time on your phone instead. Third, what a missed opportunity to be a real bright spot in an elderly person's day... a segment of the population that is often isolated and has little opportunity for social interaction. Fourth, and most of all, that the ability to comfortably sit with an elderly person and to know how to converse with them when they can't hear, or they mumble, or you feel you have nothing in common is a learned skill, and one that is especially lacking in one's youth.

My mom took us to nursing homes when we were kids and it was awkward and wildly uncomfortable for me. Despite that exposure from a young age, I carried that discomfort into my young-adulthood. I consider myself very fortunate to have developed those skills in a professional context as part of my college education. I don't fault the young woman for her behavior. I saw my younger self in her because I realized that I would have done the exact same thing had I not benefitted from repeated educational and professional opportunities to practice being comfortable in similar situations.

This explained the root of my sadness to me: generalized sadness at an isolated elderly population paired with lack of know-how for the non-elderly (whether youth or upper-middle-aged) to bridge that gap. Everyone misses out all the way around when we don't know how to connect with our elders. It's got me thinking about what I can do on a community level, but it's also got me thinking that I'm way overdue in writing a letter to my grandmother. I'll start with that and work my way forward from there.

Portrait of a Photographer

I started with my first camera around age 8 and was quite a shutterbug! I shot with that same Kodak 35mm kid-camera all the way through high school, mostly photos of people and places. I left for college just as digital cameras were still taking flight and before smart-phone cameras. I mistakenly thought I'd outgrown my kid-camera, but didn't yet have a great solution for replacing it.

During college I met the one who would become both my life-partner and a talented professional photographer: Benjamin. He got me started with my first digital camera in 2006, a compact little pearly pink point and shoot. Having a camera in hand that provided real-time feedback via the display screen accelerated my learning dramatically and helped me further develop my eye for composition.

In 2011, I graduated to a micro 4/3 Olympus, my first camera with exchangeable lenses! It was compact and lightweight, but allowed me to experiment with the building blocks of photography: shutter speed, aperture, ISO and varied focal lengths. This helped me grow my technical skill.

In 2016 I graduated to a Nikon DSLR. I inherited it from Benjamin on 'manual' and didn't know how to change the settings to cheat with auto-settings (and didn't bother looking it up), so I finally forced myself to learn how to shoot manually! This was just the push I needed to help me understand shutter-speed, aperture, and ISO even better.

But the one part of digital photography that I never grew to like was the editing. I've developed a great eye as an editing assistant and can scan through several hundred photos in no time, weeding out the great from the lackluster. But I never developed the skills, confidence, (or more accurately the patience) for taking my photos all the way to completion. It was cumbersome.

By the end of 2016, I was confidently shooting manually with the DSLR, but noticed that I'd started thinking about and really missing my old kid-camera and all the simplicity and joy of it. I looked around at my parents house, but already knew it was long gone. 

Then 2017 rolled around and film cameras just started popping up! First a Nikon SLR was gifted to me by my brother who hadn't used it in years, then I stumbled upon a basic point and shoot in a junk pile at a local camera shop. By autumn, I met the Holga, and this past Spring the Kodak Hawkeye. All the while, as these cameras kept showing up, I started shooting film again.

I love it. After being dialed in to tech-based photography for so long, I was astounded to (re)discover that these old cameras require no electricity whatsoever!  They're purely mechanical.

Shooting with film is a slow and mindful process. Because I pay for every shot I take (for developing and printing, neither of which I currently have the set-up to do myself), I take more care in deciding on each shot and I shoot more sparingly. I also shoot with different cameras and film depending on the style of shot that I want. So it can take me a while to make it through one role of film, since I’m shooting sparingly across 3-4 different cameras.

I love that it takes so long to get my photos back and that each one is a surprise. I’m still getting to know each of these cameras and how they shoot. I’m also still growing in my skill as a photographer, especially with film. Right now, I’m shooting on vintage film, which lends another unknown quality to how they might turn out.

Film is slow, unknown, surprising, simple, and fun. Film photography gave me my start and digital photography gave me technique and skill. Film gave me back my love of photography and, strangely, led me back to digital, since there are some things I will always turn to digital for (including my awesome macro lens) and instant-feedback for developing my eye.

So, now I do both.

• I shoot with the equipment that will yield the result I’m seeking.

• I shoot with the mindfulness of film regardless of which camera I have in hand…

• …and I treat my finished photo more like film in that I only do basic necessary color correction instead of trying to make it ‘perfect.’

• I use my smartphone with a black-and-white filter turned on to help me walk through the world and examine how texture, contrast and tone translates into a film medium that I have no experience with, but want to learn. With digital tech, I can learn how to compose my b&w film shots with real-time feedback and increase my rate of success as I’m learning.

It’s been the best journey. I love photography so much. Having married a talented and skillful professional photographer and artist, I spent many years only seeing my lack of photographic skill in comparison. But returning to film and finding a whole wide world of vintage cameras has reminded me that among other things, I am also a photographer.

My path is different: it’s not professional and it’s not formally trained. But it’s the earliest art form (besides music) that I adopted and one I absolutely can't give up. My path’s been circuitous and I haven’t done it alone (props to my mom, the original shutter-bug! and to Benjamin who’s taught me most everything I know, and continues to repeat himself again and again when I can’t remember technique or terminology). But it’s been unwavering in that I always want a camera within arm’s reach and I love the challenge that comes from practicing this craft.

Campfire Breakfast

Steam of tea from forest garden

Grown and gathered, gifted.

Smoke of fire curling high

Mingling together with birdsong

Forest-dappled morning sun

At rolling water’s edge

Shells

Increasingly, I can't stop thinking about shells and our complex relationship with them.

This first started last August when I was in a curiosity shop admiring rocks and minerals, bones, and shells. I was drawn to the lovely shells but conflicted about what had become of their inhabitants. When I asked, the shopkeepers were transparent about their principles for acquiring the bones they sell, but they admitted that they didn't know about the snails. Wanting to give them the benefit of the doubt, and trusting their purchasing procedures for the other animals in question, I got a few small snail shells.

But it still didn't sit right with me. I still had unanswered questions. So I started digging deeper and confirmed that the shells we find in shops: those beautiful, pristine specimens... most certainly come from the demise of the inhabitant occupying it. So I no longer buy 'new' (ie: harvested-for-sale) shells in shops. I bring home shells that wind up in thrift stores and such. Giving a reverent second-life to shells that have been cast off after someone grew tired of them feels like a worthy thing to do.

When a shell shares my living space, I think of the life that lived in it and wonder about them. Who were they and what did they look like? Where did they live and what did they eat? I like that shells are a gateway to curiosity about these mystery critters.

Yesterday I was at the senior center rummage sale and there was a whole pile of shell necklaces on the jewelry table. They were visibly cheap souvenirs, but I was drawn to them. These necklaces stir up so much in me. Thoughts and feelings about human ancestors who lived with the land and respected it and used shells in their handcrafts for intentional purposes and with respect and without over-harvesting. There's so much beauty in a strand of shells: in the way the colors and patterns alternate, in the many ways they can be clumped in artistic groups along the strand of shells, in the sound they make as they rustle together. There's no doubt that shells are a beautiful component in art and creative expression.

But they are also the lives of social animals. And the commodification of these artistic traditions means that shells are needed quickly and cheaply, in mass quantities, for sale to tourists in souvenir shops. The balance between harvesting what is needed for specific and respectful use is put completely out of whack. And so snails are killed for their shells because people want to wear them or collect them or set them on a bookshelf. As I sorted through the pile of necklaces, some of them still with their gaudy gold Hawaiian sales tag on them, I thought of the many lives it took to get enough shells to make those necklaces.

So I brought some home with me. Because, even as cheap, mass-produced souvenirs, they are still beautiful and reminiscent of a more ancient craft, when our global ancestors knew more of balance and living in harmony with the earth. They're also a reminder of the commodification of lives and practices that weren't meant to be mass produced. (I mean, mass-production in general is problematic on many levels, not just in this specific case).

So these necklaces all at once make me think about the snails, the ancestors, the beauty of true craft, the sorrow of commodification and mass-production. They make me sad, they make me remember the beauty of true art. The remembering of it all feels like a gift and a weight all at the same time.

So it's complex, and I'm still sorting it out. I haven't yet started learning about the old-ways of harvesting and crafting with shells. I don't claim to know anything about the cultures that crafted and bartered with shells, and my personal ancestors don't come from cultures who did.

But I do know that there was a time when Hawaiian tree snails sang from the leaves of the trees and were an integral part of the maintaining healthy forests. Now, over 90% of Hawaii's land-snail population is gone. While these aren't the same snails used to make tourist necklaces en-masse, the attitudes that justify killing snails to re-sell their shells most certainly shape the landscape that we all share. 

Old Friends in the Rock Pile

This messy pile may not look like much, but I know these faces and they hold a lot of meaning for me. I can’t believe I never made the connection before, but during this trip home, it hit me: both sets of my grandparents collected large and interesting rocks and fossils and kept them in a rock pile in their respective yards. As a kid I played in these well-appointed and well-maintained rock-piles and knew many of these rocks as individuals with distinct personalities.

My maternal grandfather died more than 20 years ago, and it changed the landscape. No one could care for that land like he did. As I grew older and stopped playing in the rocks, and the land was managed less meticulously, the rocks were buried under years of leaves-turned-to-soil and the grasses that came to grow there.

After the death of my paternal grandmother, just about 4 years back, some of her rocks came to live on this land in their own small pile. Perhaps it was seeing them there, a novel recent addition to the landscape, that reawakened my interest in the old rock-pile and helped me realize that my connection to rocks comes from both sides of my family tree.

So I dug out one earthy side of the rock pile and was surprised to see old friends looking back at me. Rocks that I used to know as singular individuals by their shape, texture, and markings were still there waiting for me to find after all these years.

There wasn’t time to clean out the whole rock pile on this trip, but I don’t know that that’s what was most needed right now. I think, more importantly, my work was to reconnect to treasured things forgotten and realize that the love of rocks I’ve had since childhood wasn’t born in a vacuum, but that I come from a line of ancestors who also found wonder and awe in noticing rocks and loved to bring them home to live with and appreciate.

Meanwhile, these rocks still lay under years of plant-matter. They are no longer forgotten, just waiting in slumber until it’s time to wake them up again.

Finding My Bark

I have a long history of letting fear and mistrust overtake me. When I am hurt by someone’s words or flying emotions in a sudden and strong way, I physically feel the penetration. I can have chest pains for days or weeks. It’s such a visceral experience for me that my response was always to just build a wall and to not let them inside my inner realm again. I would make pleasantries to keep the peace, but never again let them close enough to really know me. Suspicion, distrust, and fear ruled supreme and I could hold that distrust for years. It was never in the spirit of pettiness or entitlement like I deserved better or ‘I can’t believe they…’, but was instead a very real fear that said ‘trusting this person is an actively unsafe thing to do! Danger, danger! Abort, abort!’

Today I was on the receiving end of a totally unexpected and sudden reactive outburst. As soon as it happened, I felt hurt and panicky. My chest constricted and I felt like fire inside. I was absolutely electric with firing nerve endings. I was completely unprepared for it and didn’t respond with grace. I raised my voice and told the other person that they don’t get to talk to me like that. That was the whole of the altercation, but the energy of the exchange hung in the air.

I found myself immediately looking outside of myself for someone to make it better. Someone to make those very physical sensations and feelings go away. But there wasn’t anyone to turn to this time and I had to look inside myself instead.

I had a lot of time alone to process it afterwards. I practiced letting go of the fiery emotions inside of me: fear and hurt and anger. I breathed deep, cleansing breaths. I didn’t give my brain space to replay it over and over again and I worked on letting it go. I denied the urge to decide that this person was now irredeemably untrustworthy and dangerous to engage with. I worked on forgiveness. I thought about what I wish I’d said instead of my ungracious retort.

It wasn’t until the end of my day, when I was reviewing my day in whole that I realized just how much transpired this morning. I’ve actively been creating space for my spiritual learning and practices to grow and flourish. Many of the practices that I used today to help dissipate the chest-pains, the electric charge in my body, the fiery heat in my chest were all a direct result of this practice! I was able to sit with the discomfort acknowledging the fear and panic as an awful wave that would crash over me but then subside. The fear and electricity and tension wouldn’t last forever. The breathing, the active pursuit of forgiveness, the meditative techniques, and my refusal to feed the fear were all a direct result of the time I’ve spent engaging with spiritual knowledge and practice.

I’m so grateful for the many firsts I had today. It was my first time to actively turn inside of myself instead of looking to someone else (and an encouraging surprise to then find I was sufficiently able to weather the storm!). It was my first time accepting the panic and helping myself move through it instead of it causing me to seize.

But it wasn’t until the end of the day that I realized that although I’m not proud that I reflected the same energy back that was fired at me, I am SO proud that I stood up for myself. I’ve always absorbed aggression that’s directed at me. All of the huge feels that conflict manifests in my physical and emotional body have always been absorbed in silence and passivity, too afraid to speak up. (No doubt this is why it can take me weeks to physically recover.)

I realized today that the reason I felt clumsy and juvenile in my retort is because I have zero history of standing up for myself. This gives me great courage. It reframed my response from ‘I wish I’d handled this better’ to ‘Holy moly, I actually stood up for myself! This gives me something to work with and improve upon!’ With practice, I can refine my words and responses under pressure. My awkward reaction today came from a place of panicked fear, but I celebrate that I used my voice. Someday I hope it will come from a place of grounded love, but until then, I just have to keep practicing using it in tough situations, always aiming towards kindness.

I’m feeling so proud and hopeful about all of this that I’m even considering ways to engage with conflict more readily. I’ve been a fearful wallflower all my life and have worked so hard to keep myself hidden. I think it’s time to get out and start talking to people about the current events that I worry about but don’t engage with. It’s time to stop silently learning and listening from the sidelines and to start showing up. It’s time to start speaking up with love.

What spiritual practices give you support for navigating life's crashing waves? How do you speak up with love? I'd love to hear your thoughts over on Instagram (just look for the matching photo!).

Natural Movement

Yes, that's right folks, I was once a bonafide all-city tennis champion. 1996 was also the last time in my life that I had any form of regular movement in it.

Here's how I feel about exercise: I truly hate it. I associate it with pain and punishment and lack of agency. I'm not athletic, nor do I care to be. I hated conditioning in junior high sports. I can't see why making myself suffer through regimented sequences of difficult exercises should be prioritized. The thought of going to a gym or having a trainer telling me what I have to do makes me feel angry and stubborn. So suffice it to say: I've never been an exerciser, a runner, or much of a sports player.

But, I do like hiking and riding my bike and walking through the city for hours. I like things that get me outside and don't involve complicated machinery or the right equipment or a decoder-ring to understand work-out-speak. I like things that are fun and take me places and let me explore the world. So I don't mind movement, I just need it to make sense and have a softness about it and to integrate my heart and spirit. Exercise always felt rough and hard and like the anthesis of softness and spirituality.

In my early 20s, I started having lower back pain, which I finally figured out (10 years later) was actually due to a chronic hip problem. For years I've had chronic pain in my hip, which radiates up into my lower back and down my left leg. I also routinely have persistent pain in my neck and shoulders.

By the end of my 20s I noticed that I'd lost not only strength and flexibility but (most frighteningly) I'd lost trust in my body to do what I asked of it. I wouldn't try things (like jumping, climbing, hanging, etc.) that as a kid I wouldn't have even thought twice about. This made me afraid for my future. I don't want to be a brittle, stiff, frail older woman like my great grandmother was. I don't want the pain and disease that my mother and grandmother struggle with. I want my body to be able to do more for me when I'm 40-50-60-70-80 than I've seen my family members be able to do.

Because of the loss of trust in my body combined with chronic pain I've coped by decreasing my movement, trying not to exacerbate pain or suffer any additional harm. Thirty-four is way too young to be feeling this way, if you ask me. Fortuitously, I learned about "natural movement" on Instagram, and after quietly observing some amazing leaders in the community for a while, I became curious enough to give it a try. I saw it as potentially the biggest hope I could have towards achieving my goal of aging more ably than previous generations in my family, and signed up for a one-day Movnat workshop.

I brought all of these complex feelings and experiences with me to the workshop yesterday and was unsure what to expect. It was my first time in a private gym and I admit I was fearful that I wouldn't be up to the challenge. But our instructor was amazing. There were no rules, no 'have-to's', no yelling, no shame, no wrong bodies, and no one single right-way to do anything. I wasn't a body full of liabilities to overcome. I wasn't broken or in need of modifying before I could begin. I was just me, and I was accepted. ME was everything I needed to be there to learn. That was it.

It was hard work (it's hard work to exercise for 6 hours when your last championship performance was in 1996) but it was so rewarding and lots of fun. I never once felt even a tiny bit angry or stubborn and felt like I was in complete control over my experience at all times. I never felt pressured to do anything that I was afraid of or incapable of and was always able to decide how I felt I could best participate without feeling ashamed or weak. It was okay to sit out when I needed to rest or stretch and I also overcame some major mental fears and grew in confidence thanks to gentle and positive encouragement.

Throughout the day, I learned practical and playful movement that I can use to strengthen my body and increase flexibility. I learned things like how to lift and carry properly, how to jump up and down off of things, how to get up and down off of the floor, all sorts of things that will serve me well and keep me safe from injury for the rest of my life! But even more wonderfully, I learned that my physical body is trustworthy and capable of way more than I realized or give it credit for. I learned that I can integrate play, creativity, and attentiveness, appreciation, and compassion for nature into my movement practice.

Today of course my body hurts all over (ALL OVER) from so much movement that it's not used to. But I've decided I'd way rather be in pain like this because I DID something than in my usual pain because I didn't. This pain at least has purpose and hope and faith behind it.

I'm sharing this here now for a couple of reasons. Firstly, because I am helluh proud of myself. I reclaimed so much faith and confidence in myself yesterday. I also made a big move in declaring that I will put in the work to age differently than my foremothers. I am now stronger in both my confidence and my resolve.

I also wanted to share this with any of you who, like me, felt like exercise isn't for you because it's insufferable, angering, and awful. Don't give up. Maybe you just haven't found the right thing yet. Maybe you need movement that is integrated into your spiritual love of nature and gets you outdoors or that feels spritely and creative and fun. I get it! Me too! I hope this gives you hope and agency for crafting your own aging process so that it can be one of health and vibrancy and supple movement. I'm going to be working on it too, so definitely hit me up if you want to talk more about natural movement (or if you want to go out adventuring and wiggling and playing with me too!)

Worth the Work & Worth the Wait.

Pepper is my most beloved and cherished dog. He's been a member of our family for 11 years and he'll be 12 this November. It's been a joy and a privilege to share life with him. As it happens with those we spend our days with, there are a lot of things I know from spending time with him over the years.

He loooooooves food and enjoys opportunities to earn it by performing certain behaviors that he knows will yield rewards. He loves sharing our bed with us, but does it on his own terms. He's so visibly delighted that it's finally springtime. He loves pets and scratches and lap time with people who pet and scratch. Lap time with mom (me) is accepted if necessary but not preferred, as there runs too high a risk of being hugged and Pepper does not like hugs! He also doesn't like baths, loud sudden noises, strange noises of any kind, general kitchen noises, other dogs, haircuts, and toenail trims.

Because of the aforementioned eagerness to work for food, he will pose for the camera which makes photographing him a real treat. We've taught him to "Wait" for camera clicks, for his meal to be served, for us to leave the house, and for all other sorts of things. "Wait" is our biggest calming word around here and he's super responsive to it. As many good tricks and behaviors do, they started practically. Wait for us to open and get out the door so we aren't tripping over you and stepping on you. Wait for us to serve your food so you aren't all up in our face and we're spilling it everywhere. Wait for us to take the picture... umm, well just because you're so darn cute. It's a helpful cue to let him know that we're not quite finished, not quite there yet, but that relief is coming soon: the door will open, the food will be served, the camera will click and he can run freely on his way.

The biggest thing we've been working on lately is toenail trims. They're a stressful event for the whole family. Recently, I decided to redouble my efforts in helping all of us feel more comfortable and confident about nail trims. They've been going super well. With me treating him abundantly between each nail trim, and clipping only the tiniest portion off so that he acclimates to the sound and feeling and pressure without any risk of pain, we've seen steady progress. He still doesn't like them, but it's no longer like trying to contain a wild animal fearful for his life. There's no clawing, there's no immediate growling and I've gotten him to a place where he tolerates it as he tolerates haircuts: he doesn't like them, but he'll put up with them.

It's my job to keep carefully appraised of his body language to know when I can push him a little further and clip one more thing or when it's time to call it a day, let meaty treats rain down from the heavens, and watch his gleeful, bouncy body and smiling face bound joyfully out of the room to savor his freedom and his tasty morsels. If I misread his body language, or (more likely) get distracted by the task at hand and miss his nonverbal body language cues as they progress... then a small, quiet growl gets the job done. He has politely made his needs known and we wrap things up and go about our day.

So this morning it was time to work on the back paws. He went into it with all of the confidence of delicious food about to come. I went into it with all the confidence of several good sessions under our belt. And then, only two nails in and without any verbal input from him to let me know that something was wrong on the previous clip, the floodgates opened and I suddenly found myself staring at a very convincing murder scene. Of course he was just happy to get the treats and oblivious to the blood he was trailing EVERYWHERE. So I scrambled to get him treated (because he earned his payoff and I certainly won't be the one to deny him that reward!) and then to get him quarantined. I got him his breakfast and made him a bandage for his paw and started cleaning up the bloody mess. In the living room. In the closet. In the bathroom. All the places he excitedly ran after earning his treat and before I could get him tucked away and bandaged.

All of this stirred up so many thoughts and feelings as I cleaned the house, myself, and the dog through all of this. First, it reminded me of just how delicate and bloody we all are. When I cut myself I know to apply pressure and lift my hand above my head and to wash it carefully and bandage it. I watch the blood go down the drain as I wash it. It's all very safe and sanitary. Pepper doesn't know to do any of those things and so he just ran around on his paw, tracking blood everywhere, and it reminded me how fleshy and tender we are. We're all just blood and bone and muscle.

But in addition to feeling existential and life-pondering I was feeling the weight of my responsibility to this creature I invited to share life with me and grateful for how it was all playing out. We trained Pepper to 'Wait' because it makes for nicer manners day in and day out. It also makes for a plethora of wonderful photographs we'll treasure forever. So rarely do we ever think of how our training 'Wait' or 'Come' could help us when we really need it to. Today I made a typical Wait request to Pepper so I could trim his nails. When that didn't go quite as planned, I got him quarantined and asked him to Wait there while I started triaging the situation. I asked him to Wait while I checked his tender paw and to Wait again when I knelt next to him and made his bandage and fitted it to him. I reiterated my request when the tape made scary noises and he wasn't amused. He Waited even when I accidentally caught some fur in the tape and it tugged on it. He jumped and made a move to get away from the tape, but I asked him again to Wait. He Waited the whole time.

With him bandaged, I moved on to clean up. I put him in the bathroom and asked him to Wait as I scrubbed the living room and closet floors. When I came to release him from the bathroom I saw his bandage was leaking through, so I asked him to Wait as I added more tape to the bottom of the bandage. Then I scrubbed some more floors. He was rewarded after every one of these periods of Waiting for a job well done, which is also why he coped so well with the whole ordeal and was so patient with playing along. (It's also why I couldn't get him to settle down and get off his paw, because there was too much excitement in the hoped for payoff of playing the Waiting Game!)

Once he calmed and got a period of rest off his feet, I came back to remove his bandage and check his paw. He was still bleeding steadily although it had slowed. After every hated thing I asked of him this morning, he wound up in one of his least favorite places in the house: the bathtub. I got his paw properly washed and cleaned. Then started fashioning him a new bandage, with the tape that makes scary noises, as he sat in the unfriendly bathtub. All the while, as I washed and dried and popped into the kitchen for more paper towels and some flour (to help with clotting), and folded and taped, and bandaged I asked him to Wait. And he did.

We have a responsibility to our furry loved ones to give them the best care that we can. And training good manners should never be a thing we underestimate. With consistent teaching and expectations and reward, not only do we promote a healthy relationship of respect in the day-to-day, but we have it in our back-pocket when we really need it. After all of the time that Pepper and I have spent investing in our relationship and our training, we have a trust that allows me to say "Wait a little longer. Now please just wait some more. I know this is all of your top 3 least favorite things all at once right now, but trust me. I wouldn't ask if it weren't needed. And you know I'm good at keeping my word... you will get paid for your hard work and your patience. Just hang in there a little longer."

Today I'm grateful of the relationship that I have with my dog. Of the work we've put into it together. Of the trust and bond that we have. That when things get messy or scary or overwhelming that we are both better at coping with it because we know how to work together. I hope that in reading this you go hug someone you love and cherish that you share a bond that y'all have worked on and built together. And if you have a pet, I hope you'll think about what fun activities you can do to get to know each other better, to enjoy each other's company more, and to build even more trust in your shared relationship. They need us, they rely on us. By inviting them into a life of domesticity it is our responsibility to take care of their full well-being, which is so much more than food and shelter; it's a commitment to their hearts and minds as well. ❤️

Output, Input, Noput

After a particularly productive (and therefore draining) morning of creativity, I was considering all of the other creative projects that I wanted to make progress on today and remembered, once again, my propensity towards burnout. I am an all-or-nothing kind of gal. Only a month ago, as I was finally near-ready to launch into this new creative phase of my life as a full-time artist, it was a struggle to find the motivation to show up for even 3 hours a day. I was in the discouragement of a 'nothing' phase.

But I committed to those three hours each day, hard as they were to get through, and by the end of 2 weeks I was brimming with so many creative ideas that my brain couldn't contain them all. I've been in an 'all' phase ever since. I have scraps of notes in journals and on notecards and all over the place documenting all sorts of seeds of ideas. Now the struggle is remembering to set caps for my work day and my work week. I have to schedule my days off and set an established time to 'clock-out' otherwise I'll work straight through.

So this morning, after a compelling few hours of creativity, in assessing all the other stuff that I thought I'd be getting done today, I reminded myself to take a step back and assess what my true needs were. I realized I was feeling frazzled and frayed. That I'd given enough of myself away this morning that an immediate continued pursuit would likely make me edgy and impatient with others. A break from social media for a few hours was definitely called for. But surely I could still sit down and enjoy a quiet afternoon of painting, couldn't I? Maybe put a favorite movie on to listen to?

I started thinking about input and output. I considered all of the ways that I output this morning: a couple of carefully crafted social media posts, making direct connections with other professionals online, practicing with my new digital illustration tools to create a finished illustration, and editing a blog entry for posting. I rolled out of bed this morning, hit the ground running without even meaning to, and 4.5 hours later when these projects wrapped up, I woke up from a creative haze and realized I was still in bed and hadn't showered or eaten a thing all day, despite it now being well past lunch time.

Once I realized all of the output I managed, I wondered what input I might consider to fill me back up. I thought of books, music, podcasts... the things that fill my heart and mind with delicious tidbits to nurture me and empower my creativity. And I realized that I wasn't interested in any of them. So I wondered about going to the library and sitting amongst the stacks of picture books to peruse beautiful illustrations instead of putting effort into reading and retention, and that didn't resonate either. That's when I realized that what I was truly craving was 'noput.' No input, no output, just a neutral status.

What I wanted was to get outside and just be in the outdoors... not photographing, or drawing, or writing about it. Not questioning or trying to explain what I'm observing around me. Just simply being in it. Existing. Soaking. Even a trip to the grocery store (desperately needed at this point) sounded like exactly what I wanted to do. To strap on my backpack, my favorite pair of shoes, and walk to the store, carrying my food home on my back.

So it turns out that noput, for me, is the act of shutting off my brain. I'm always intellectualizing, analyzing, thinking, innovating, dreaming, planning... it's exhausting. I am more apt to read a book for research than for pleasure. And even when I sit down to read for pleasure, I keep a pencil and pad at hand to jot down anything that resonates creatively with me. I struggle to just let it wash over me and soak in.

It turns out that noput, in my book, means shutting off my brain and mobilizing my body. Remembering that I am embodied... being present with my body. Using it to move, to carry, to just plain BE. That is what I'm craving from this afternoon. This is how I will shape my next steps.

I've burned out of every new venture I've ever started. Sure, it usually takes a couple of years each time, but it's always been inevitable. Now that I'm starting the chapter of my life that I feel like I've been waiting for over the last 10 years, I am determined to learn from those past experiences and pay close attention to my inner barometer in the day-to-day and in the week-to-week. I want to learn when to walk away on a moment-to-moment basis so that I don't have to walk away sometime in the future after a heated run because I've backed myself into a corner with no way out but to go up in smoke.

Vibrant Mortality

On the way home from a quick photoshoot, this beauty stopped me in my tracks! Nestled at the very bottom of the shrub, on the side of the building, tucked back from the street and right under my own window, it was looking out at me. Staring intensely. Despite its nearness to me it had gone entirely unnoticed due to its discreet placement. It took a change in perspective, approaching my home from a less traversed route, for me to see it there.

It was love at first sight. Those gorgeous veins, that rusty color. I knew I was looking at the beauty and juxtaposition of life and death. The camellia, its petals still plump and firm, its face uplifted for display from its leafy perch, all very much alive. But its pearly white now a rusty brown. Its veins unnaturally pronounced. It is dying but not yet dead. It is not yet so far gone that it has lost its youth.

Now that I know it's living far beneath my window I watch it from my desk. I look to see how it's changing, if it's still hanging on, if it's still vibrant or if it's fading. I struggled to capture it with either my Nikon or my phone, and then to get the edits just right. It seemed an utter impossibility to capture in a mere photo how much it made me feel when we first met. I'm feeling equally inadequate in writing about it now.

When I explained my frustration to Benjamin and asked for his help with the edits he asked me to describe how it made me feel, what I was trying to capture. As he edited, I went on a lengthy and passionate discourse about life and death and the beauty in holding both, simultaneously, all at once. I talked of Miss Havisham, the very definition of that frozen moment in time where the once hoped for blossom of youth and possibility and dreams is held suspended as dying and decay take hold.

I know living. What it looks like and what it feels like. And I know dying. What it looks like and what it feels like. But just how often do we really have the opportunity for the two to coexist in our hearts and minds so strongly that the scales are evenly weighted and they are both/and all at once?

This flower is vibrant life and beauty and mortality all at once. And so are we.

Observations from my Bicycle

It's the first ride of the season. It's Spring! The sun's bright and water wildly bumps against parking lots. City and lake meet with no shore to transition between them. The wind makes choppy waves and tosses me about on my bike. Parking lots are full of deep puddles from the rain making vast lakes upon the pavement.

A sun dappled trail. The smell of damp earth. A squirrel digs in the dark brown soil, then startles and scampers off as I cycle by. Wild daisies and dandelions grow in the tall green grass beside the trail.

Cyclists pass, straight faced and unseeing of one another. Are they missing all that is around them? I see each one, their solemn faces, but they don't seem to see me. Perhaps I, too, appear solemn to them in their quickly stolen glances of me, catching me in contemplation of these and other things. But the truth is, it is spring and I feel like skipping, crying out, and dancing with glee!

Traffic moves slowly on the interstate beyond. High in the sky, vehicles crawl across the bridge as if one. A long caterpillar with shiny sunlight glints reflecting off its back.

The clouds are gray and cover the eastern sky, moving quickly in the breeze. The sunlight is bright beside me. Hidden by clouds only briefly then shining warmth in a chill wind.

Coming under the bridge now, the caterpillar above me roars. I cannot hear my thoughts. Thunk-thunk. Thunk-thunk. Rhythmically it passes overhead as I dart by unnoticed beneath its belly.

Coming around a hairpin curve, I'm greeted by a small boy in galoshes & a brightly colored raincoat splashing in puddles on the lawn, grinning.

Turning a corner, I'm suddenly enveloped by a cotton-candy cloud of cherry blossoms a whole block long. Left side, right side, above. Backlit by the low-hanging sun and glowing bright pink and gold. I wonder if this is what a unicorn feels like prancing in celestial fields of fluffy pink clouds.

Speeding down a hill at full throttle now, pell-mell, the wind whipping at my face. It's gusty and threatens to blow me off my course, but my downhill momentum holds steady and I outpace the wind and arrive safely at the bottom.

A speckled, long-legged puppy: pointy ears, smiling mouth. Passing from behind on my left: dark blonde curls spill out from under your helmet. Hairy, muscular legs. Mismatched socks.

A golden retriever smiles at me as we pass each other. A smile ever-present and worn for everyone, but no less lovely to receive.

A couple stands kissing in the park. The setting sun illuminates them from behind and sets them all aglow, as if they're poised and ready for a camera that isn't there.

An alarm sounds and the drawbridge slowly stirs, rising up into the sky. It briefly provides my eyes with respite from the fiery sun on its descent to the horizon.

Puddles of all sizes dot the sidewalks, roadways and parking lots. Mirrors of glowing sunset color and telephone wire stripes.

The path before me curves sharply and only for a moment. Just long enough to carry me safely over the abandoned train tracks. Keeping me perpendicular so as not to be caught in them and thrown from my seat.

Coming into my neighborhood the sustained squeal of the train is carried to my ears as it moves slowly over the bridge along the tracks beyond the trees. The Locks are also just beyond the trees and I wonder about the tugboat that I passed earlier as my route carried me along the channel. Has it reached the Locks yet? If I crossed through the trees and waited would I later see it pass? Or has it already gone on to larger waters?

I am home and there is birdsong. The sun is no longer high enough to gleam and glint off the surroundings but the sky is still bright with ambient light. The songbird is close and sings loudly.

I am learning to be fearless to not be ruled by fear and self-doubt. Today I readied my bike for her first ride after her long winter slumber. I dusted her. I filled her tires. I did it all myself. I am practicing self-reliance and it leaves me feeling powerful.

I am living life more fully than I have ever known. I am learning that the purpose of life is to find one's way back to oneself. It's a journey of self-responsibility. No one can do it for you.