I’ve got a bit of a thing with the moon. I couldn’t sleep last night with her hanging up there all bright and almost full, so I walked outside, intent on drawing her down and swallowing her whole. When I reached a place to sit, I decided not to eat her (as if I had a choice!), but to breathe her in. And out. And it was delicious.
See what I did there? That was me, attempting to be clever. I have tried this a few times, this wisconZEN joke, and nobody has laughed. Nobody has acknowledged it, even. So, you know. If someone could please just take note of it? Even, like, with a roll of the eyes? That would be great. Thank you.
Now, listen, you Wisconsinites. And even you Minnesotans and Illinoisians (how do you way that? Illini?) I want you to drop everything and get thee to YogAsylum in Brookfield on Saturday, August 21st from 2-4 pm. Karen Maezen Miller is going to be there (see? she said so herself.), and this is a woman that you do not want to miss encountering. Believe me. She is a Buddhist priest, mother, author of the books Hand Wash Cold and Momma Zen, and the blog Cheerio Road. If you have read either, you are likely dying to find the link to register for the program. Well, breathe, for goodness’ sake. Then click HERE! HERE IT IS! (scroll to the bottom, click on the link below “Extraordinary Ordinary.”) Send me an email if you have questions.
Why in the world is she coming here? Because we asked. That’s why.
No one else but you can make your marks. Listen to your bones. Speak with your spirit. Edit with your head. Live with your heart. (Susan Holland)
Someone asked, and I said “yes.” And then I remembered how much I love to photograph seniors.
So, who else wants to do some senior portraits this summer? Call me. Or, wait. What do the kids say these days? Something about digits?
No, no. This is it: txt me. 262.818.6097
c u l8r
This is worth pondering. Does nature in her wisdom intentionally produce nonconformists, or find a use for them, enlisting their disparate talents in her service. Is there a place for everybody, a reason for everything, and we fail to understand some underlying cosmic logic?
Do acts that appear the most senseless to us have a rationale that we fail to appreciate? Are what we consider errors and mistakes really part of the grand design? How encompassing and integrated is the mosaic of life? Just how big and complex is this world that we define so freely and understand so poorly?
The Queen Must Die, And Other Affairs of Bees and Man – William Longgood
(thanks for the words, Lisa, and for the model, Julie!)
saturday / sunday
how was yours?
This is something i am not good at: being nice.
This is something i am good at: taking pictures.
This is a daughter of a new friend. (And who does not want a new friend that makes stove-top lattes with pure maple syrup and has loads of fresh kale growing in her backyard?) When I met this little girl I cried—literally had tears stream down my cheeks—because of her beautiful face. That was a little bit embarrassing.
This little session has inspired me. And so I’ve decided that if I do not introduce my new session offerings by next week, you have the right to punish me in any way you see fit. Ideas for consequences? I could probably use the motivation.
(This is something I am not good at: marketing.)
We were lagging, and as I snapped this picture, Mowgli said, “Oh no, Mom! We have to catch up! We are so far behind!”
I turned the camera off and hoisted Shortcake to my hip.
“And it’s all my fault!” he cried. “Because I keep doing things!”
“Like this!” He stabbed his walking stick into a patch of mud.
“And this!” He crouched down to pet the soft moss on a large rock.
“And this!” Exasperated, he hopped onto a fallen log and balanced along its length. Then he looked up at me, his hands upturned, with pleading and helplessness in his eyes.
“I know, babe.” I said, understanding perfectly. “I know.”
i am
sandwiches on plates
milk in cups
I wrote a poem the other night that started like this. Except, I don’t actually know what “poem” means. And so I won’t share it with you as such. I will, maybe, make the words lyrics someday.
>>>digression. I listened to the very end of an interview with Anais Mitchell this weekend on NPR. I turned on the radio, on my way to my beachy solitary-ing, intent on remaining open to signs and natural instinct. Of course, then, she was being interviewed for her new folk drama, Hadestown. Hades! Persephone! Orpheus! Eurydice! Alright, already. I get it. It is time to focus on that damn novel again, apparently. (ha, ha! damn! underworld! get it? is this thing on?) But I bring it up, because she said something like this: ”If you want to be a poet nowadays, you’d better learn how to play the guitar.” end digression<<<
Essentially, the ”poem” was a list of all the pointless, meaningless things I am to them, these kids. I realized recently, or remembered, that I am not as important to them as I think I am. This is both heartbreaking and liberating. I am the biology that got them here, the biology that facilitates their continued living. But beyond that, they are independent little bodies, free little spirits. Usually, I am just getting in their way. The “poem” ends:
and i can’t help but consider
sea turtles
You know, sea turtles. Because the mothers abandon their children, as eggs, on the beach. (tap, tap. is this thing on?) I mean, no. I’m not planning on deserting my babies. But, really. Those little hatchlings are perfectly capable. The species still survives, right? (Okay. I just looked this up. And there are a few different species of sea turtles. And most of them are endangered. So nevermind. Forget the sea turtle thing. Just forget it.)
And so guess what. Now Dimples is really sick. And he needs me. Go figure. All lies, these epiphanies. All lies!
This is the photo that started all of this “independent children” thinking in the first place:
and another, for good measure:
tri-x in mamiya 645af pushed a stop. shortcake in a friend's playroom (best playroom ever!)
My brain is an absolute mess.
The kind of mess where you don’t even know where to start. Not that I’ve ever been any good at cleaning. Not that I intend to declutter this cranial disaster. I’m just letting you know, in case you don’t just automatically default to that assumption.
And so besides showing you this (awesome, if I do say so myself) photo, I defer you to Shel. No, really. I want you to seek out The Missing Piece, even if you’ve read it a million times before. And read it. Aloud. And maybe even sing the singing parts.
I like books with lots of big words. But this truly is one of my favorites. I get something different from it every time I read it. Ahem. I mean, read it to the kids.
