Fire

On Monday, 4 weeks ago, my Aunt got a quick knock on the door from a panicked neighbor and her dog.  Due to record breaking winds, power lines were dropping like flies in their small community in Oregon, sparking, and sending flames jumping through trees and across rivers.  My Aunt calmed her neighbor, grabbed the dog and shoved a duffle in her hands.  ‘Go pack’.  She and my uncle did the same, filling small overnight duffles with nothing more than a change of clothes, some make-up and a toothbrush.  15 minutes later, they hopped in their truck together and drove out of their small woodsy neighborhood to spend the night with a friend.  

The next morning, the contents of those duffles were all they had left.  Literally.  Overnight, fire swept up the canyon, destroying 80% of the homes and businesses in their community of Gates, Oregon.  They called up friends 5 hours away and spent the next week wrapped in their goodness while also trying to wrap their heads around what just happened.

Fires continued to rage and access to their community was closed.  Their daughter in law scanned the internet for any information she could gather regarding their home; peoples videos, news segments, neighbors posts.  Slowly, info began to surface confirming the devastation they all feared.  Done.  Gone.  Literally burned down to the ground. 

“Words weren’t even there at that time”, my Aunt shared when I spent the morning with her 2 weeks ago.  “But, also, neither were tears.  It’s all felt very bizarre.”

And bizarre it is.  Bizarre that the entire contents of a house can be reduced to ash and debris and fit in the crawl space beneath the foundation. Bizarre that one needs rubber boots to walk on their carpet and tile.  Bizarre that one can step into their garage without actually stepping ‘into’ anything.  Bizarre that a spare key is still hiding under a rock on the front porch, while the door it unlocks no longer exists.  Bizarre that on the corner of the block there is a house standing, untouched by the disaster.  Bizarre.

And bizarre that, despite their loss, they have to spend hours and hours on the phone with insurance companies and managing government complexities.  They have to clear their own property and take care of all their own burnt trees.  They have to find new ‘temporary’ places to live with the added uncertainty of how much they can even spend on those ‘temporary’ places.  The amount of decisions that have to be made during this time is so astronomical they haven’t really even stopped to process the devastation.  

“I think I’m just too exhausted,” she sighs when asked if she’s cried, yet.  “And, I also realize we are far better off than those people right now,” she says as we pass by a burial service taking place outdoors in the rain at a roadside cemetery.  

And that mindset has blown me away; their honest assessment of how fortunate they are.  Their generosity in the midst of their own suffering is astounding.  They have offered to donate to others in their community and neighboring communities.  They have offered to pay for hot meals at restaurants while others are actually begging to pay for their meals.  But, that has also led to a realization of their own pride and the need to set that down.  “People want to help.  We’ve realized that despite how fortunate we are, we also need to allow people to respond however they see fit.  We need to just set down that pride and say, ‘Yes, thank you for buying me lunch’.  And as hard as that has been, we are kept afloat by the outpouring of that tangible type of love.”

Before traveling to see them, I was in a discussion with a friend, a firefighter, who said, “Yeah.  Seen it too many times.  But, it’s just stuff.  They’ll figure out what needs to be salvaged from their old life and move forward.”  Although not meant to be harsh, I can honestly say I was a bit irritated at that comment.  My aunts house burned down to the ground and all you can say is, ‘It’s just stuff’?  

But, she actually saw it that way, too, for the most part, and I’m more than impressed with her outlook.  Despite thinking about a few nostalgic things like years of intricate floral cross stitched art that decorated her kitchen, 25+ journals filled with travel stories, and the medals her father earned during the war, she confidently said, “These are only things, Sweetie, only things.  What we need, we have in us.”

It's not about the baby bird, y'all.

I posted this picture yesterday.

I’m fairly certain that 100% of the people that looked at it didn’t read the caption.  If they did read the caption, they didn’t notice the hashtags.  If they did see the picture, read the caption and notice the hashtags, why the hell are they feeling bad for that damn baby bird?  Did you miss the point completely?  Or are you refusing to see it?

Come on.  I’m floored.  But, seriously, this is social media at it’s finest.  Love hate relationship for sure.

And what floors me even more, is that if they did see the picture, read the caption, notice hashtags, and get the point, there should damn well be more than 20 people liking it.  Why are we avoiding the realities in our own white lives?  Why?

That post was not a ‘repost’.  That was not a screenshot of someone else’s post.  That was not ‘cool words on a black background’ that make you think for 30 seconds about something other than your own life.  That was a very real life integration of an effort to navigate the understanding of privilege.  A caught-you-off-guard-in-the-middle-of-your-day type of experience that basically punches you in the gut and says, ‘pay attention…this is woven into the fabric of your own life, too’.

Too many black 5 year old girls in this country are understanding death standing next to their brother’s casket, their daddy’s casket, their uncle’s casket.  They are learning about death from their best friends, their neighbors.  It is often part of their daily life.  And it’s not death from just dying.  It’s death from murder.  Death from crime.  Death from hate.  Death from injustice.     

We buried a bird today.  Big flippin’ deal.  We made a sign for it while simultaneously thinking what fun activiities we were going to do after that.  If that doesn’t make you sick to your stomach, I don’t know what does.

And it needs to be that.  It needs to be something that stops us cold with a deep realization that we are not ‘outside’ the realm of any of this.  I don’t love that.  I don’t like it.  In fact, it nauseates me to think that my life as a middle class white woman continues to perpetuate ideals that I don’t believe in.  I’m dominated by a system, like it or not.

So where is our fight?  Where is our power to use what we know and have and believe in?  Yesterday, it was there.  Over the 12 inch hole of dirt we dropped that bird in.  It was in the choice to pause and pay attention.  It was the choice to swallow my pride.  It was the choice to sit my kid down and tell her that people in this world are suffering unjustly.  Little girls just like you are having to bury their family members because we can’t see the value of humanity outside of the color of our skin.

She may have to grow up in a system of white privilege, like it or not.  But, she doesn’t have to be ignorant of it.  She can understand it exists and know that in learning and educating and paying attention and believing in humanity that she can make a change.  That she can be a change.  That her life  and friendships and choices can exist in a way that push against that system.  That make things better for black people, making things better for the world as a whole.     

More Imperfect Ramblings and the Invaluable Influence of Incredible People

My kids are watching Ratatouille.  I’m listening to India Arie and writing about race.  

Such is life in June 2020.  The mundane and the world changing happening all at the same time wether we want it to or not.  The constant internal ache of existing in the midst of a pandemic and an American race revolt we cannot and do not want to ignore.  The endless nostalgia of wanting things to go back to how they were 4 months ago and the insatiable desire for permanent and necessary change coexisting in some sacred and ancient melting pot of emotions and politics.  The two don’t mix well,  but here we are.

And in the midst of that, I am grateful for amazing friends.  Thoughtful, inspiring, educated, passionate, sensitive, empathetic, motivated, cutting edge, loyal, honest damn smart friends  who have opened up space in themselves to talk about pertinent issues regarding the current status of racism and privilege and policing with a no holds barred and zero judgement mentality.

I had a picnic in a van 2 days ago.  Eating Cubans, lounging on a blanket with the sliding door swung open wide enough to let in a breeze, but blocking the incessant and combatant Northern Nevada wind, which threatened the very existence of our conversation.  Dust blowing on the ridge, sagebrush bending, lake water white and choppy against the crusted shoreline.  Perfect weather for a discussion regarding childhood baggage, future professional desires and 311 new Instagram profile followings in the past 3 days.  He’s a photographer, which explains my connection.  He’s black, which more than likely explains the recent connection of the 311 others.  

“Meh” he answers with a shrug, when asked how he feels about the sudden interest of strangers.  And the conversation progresses into an invaluable discussion regarding race and art and the desire to be valued for his work as a photographer, not because he is black.  “If your work is good, it should be highlighted for being good. Black, white, female, male. No matter what.  You don’t have to be the best black photographer. Just be the best photographer. Period.”

 “How are people even finding this $hit,” I ask, inflamed by the idea that people are just randomly searching for black artists to feature on their social feed because it’s ‘cool’ and that’s what everyone else is doing.  Come on.  Are we in middle school, people?  Are we simply engaging the deep and multilayered issue of systemic racism by fleetingly posting a quick image of some artist we have no connection to but feel like we need to join the ranks of every other white person in America who feels it is their new passion and duty to say they know someone black even if they don’t?  I’m pissed, honestly.  

And part of the beauty of it all is that he isn’t.  He isn’t irrationally and emotionally reactive.  He is composed.  Thoughtful.  Gracious.  He is a critical and sensitive thinker. He values the artistry and hard work of humanity, in the midst of race and gender.  He isn’t complacent, but isn’t enraged.  He somehow deeply understands the pendulum.  It has been his life.  His experience.  To exist in the tension and realistic experience of being a black male in America, but not letting that define him.  He isn’t overreacting.  He isn’t under-reacting.  He understands the nature of the current situation and holds space for those who need to deal with it and figure it out on their own, even if it is messy and incongruent.  

And his very presence in that dynamic calms me; puts me in my place as a friend and fellow human, regardless of status, profession gender or race.  It is a necessary and profoundly impacting place to take up residence.

And on the heels of that, not even 24 hrs later, I’m standing in my driveway with jumper cables on my car battery.  My neighbor is over, car hoods pulled together, his Subaru engine revved, trying to spark a little something in the completely dead battery of my Dodge.  We tinker around a bit, hammering here and there on the car starter, but to no avail.  Dead.  We haven’t seen each other since last Summer, but no matter, we dive right into the depth of the current status of the world.  “How was protesting I ask?” making an educated assumption that he has been in the streets multiple times in the past 2 weeks.  He teaches economics at the collegiate level.  He’s been engaged in dialogue with students and colleagues and local politicians regarding issues of wealth disparity, race, gender equality, socioeconomic status, cultural development and more for 20+ years.  He has attended rallies and political demonstrations and vigils and proactively taken a stance on nearly every issue that has taken to the streets for years.  He’s white.

“Eh”, he responds with a similar shrug as my photographer friend.  “It is a necessary empowerment for people, for sure, but the extreme emotional reaction is a hard place to continue to exist for much longer.”  And thus ensues a longer strain of depth regarding emotional responses and significant policy changes and revolts and racial divides and privilege and the intricacies of education in regards to all that.  He is a critical thinker, sensitive but solid. He engages the current racial explosions with a clear head and commitment to the longevity of change.  

And within less than a 24 hr period, I realize how radically impacted I am by the thoughtful influence of the people in my life.  To have important discussions.  To be uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time.  To not gloss over or ignore the boiling racial tensions in our communities right now, but to also not be bowled over by the intensity of it all.  To not make fleeting, irrational decisions or spout out careless comments.  They don’t care about making a statement on social media or showing they have a particular stance on things in the public sphere.  Their words are calculated, thoughtful, spurring deeper conversations.  Their thoughts are more conducive to internal change and depth of understanding.  They are not putting on a face to be seen in a larger context.  They just want to have conversations that influence. 

These are the kind of people I want in my life.  These are the kind of people I’m grateful exist.  These are the kind of people I want to spend time with in deep discussions right now.  These are the kind of people I want to be surrounded by.  People who think critically, creatively and actively.

I may not ever put up a Black Lives Matter post.  But, I can make damn sure that I am surrounding myself with people who know they do. 

And that those people are rubbing off on me in ways I will never take for granted.  

Imperfect ramblings from a white mother

This blog is the result of imperfect thoughts and ramblings.  I hesitate to write about this topic because my narrative is lacking in so many ways.  It’s inconsistent and raw and, I’m sure, full of biases I don’t see.  It could benefit from a whole paragraph of disclaimers.  I hesitate to make disclaimers, because, well, I hate disclaimers.

So

You can look at my adoption experience through a different lens for sure.  And maybe this is just version 1.0.  A very tiny tidbit of version 1.0.  But, this is the lens and version I’m choosing now.  Because, now matters.  

I adopted two poor black kids from Africa.  Quite honestly, that whole concept is born out of white privilege in the first place.  And it sickens me;  the fact that my current family make-up was bred out of a broken system of racial prejudice and oppression.  A system in which I unwillingly participate in daily.  I didn’t choose to be white.  I didn’t choose to be born in middle class suburbia in western America.  I didn’t choose my parents or the values they raised me with, just as my children didn’t choose to be black or born in sub-saharan Africa or raised in poverty.  I didn’t know I was being raised with privilege.  I grew up in the life I did.  I was safe and healthy and provided for.  I felt no feelings of angst or maliciousness against anyone of color.  I felt no inflated feelings of arrogance or dominance against anyone of color.  By geography and demographics, I lived in a small white community in a predominantly white town.  

But, really, none of that background matters.  I live in a system that oppresses black people and has oppressed black people since the beginning of it’s existence.  What matters is what I do with it now.  

I am a white mother raising two black children in a bubble of white privilege.  That is my reality.  And there is an almost constant internal grappling with that.  I care about the racial tension of a white mom raising black kids.  I care about dissecting white privilege and my place in it.  I care about the future of my kids experience in this country as black people.  I care about the bigger picture of love.  My grappling is figuring out a healthy and redemptive way to do all that with the narrative I currently have in my family.  

I have never been naive.  But, I will readily admit, when I first brought my son home, I was more focused on his heritage than his race.  He is African.  His history is that of a Ugandan from the Buganda tribe.  There is tension and violence and oppression and pride and power struggles in that history, but it isn’t one that stems from race.  I wanted so badly for others to see the difference.  I wanted people not to see a white woman holding a black kid, but see the beauty of global unity; of humanity caring for eachother; of love.  But, without knowing his history and, quite honestly even in the midst of his history, he is still a black male growing up in America.  I didn’t recognize that.  I didn’t want to see that.  I fought with him about venturing into black American culture in dress and music and friends.  Not because I feared black people, but because I cared so much about his heritage.  I feared that he would no longer associate with being African.

And I have done him a huge disservice in that area.  I have failed to help him embrace his identity as a black American male.  He is not solely his race.  But, his race is part of who he is and collectively pulls him in to a bigger narrative and bigger history in this country.

And thus, being his mother, I am pulled into that also.  I fear for my teenage son in a way that white mothers with white sons do not.  Not because of his own choices, but because of a system that assumes; that assigns blame without merit because of what he looks like.  I am not even near prideful enough to put myself in the shoes of a black mother with black teenage sons, but, I will say that I am capable of beginning to see the difference.  Capable of feeling the difference.  Capable of allowing a black mother to say to me, ‘You have no idea what it feels like to raise a black son in this country.’  I am willing to acknowledge that truth, to let the power dynamic shift, to a take a different place in line.

And there is a difference.  And quite possibly choosing to acknowledge that difference and sit in the uncomfortable position that places one in, might be at least a start. 

Because, black lives matter.  If you are saying anything different than this right now, you are completely missing the point.

And you are completely missing out on a vital time in our country to stand for something that can bring change and vitality and redemption and reconciliation and a fullness to humanity that we have never experienced.  

And we so desperately need that.  Now. 

Photo Crush Friday #2

Girl In Dance

Gear: Nikon D600; Nikor 35mm f/1.4

Settings: ISO 200, 1/2500, f/4

Year: 2015

Central Square in Guatemala City was the civic and political center of the city until about 1985.  With a cathedral on the east side and the Royal Palace which housed the executive branches headquarters on the west, it is a dynamic plaza of full of everything Guatemala stands for.  Now, it is still a cultural hub.  From young children feeding pigeons to riotous political demonstrations and lenten parades, this is where it’s at most of the time.  Every day in the plaza is a new day for amazing cultural experiences.

Getting There:  I arrived in Guatemala City a day earlier than the rest of the crew.  Having been there before, I remembered my way to the plaza and headed there for a morning of shooting.  Unfortunately I took my time hanging out at the hotel (being 7 months pregnant demanded a little extra sleep) and ended up at the plaza at a time of day when every photographer knows they should be napping or hanging with friends inside over lunch or pretty much doing anything other than shooting outside under the glaring eye of the midday sun.  Regardless, I was there, sweating it out and was going to shoot what I could.  Luck would have it that there was a huge crowd of students doing a cultural demonstration for the Guatemalan Government.  It was packed full of dancers and bands and colorful costumes.

What this says:  Guatemalan culture is beautiful and vibrant and colorful!  The harsh light didn’t detract from the colors of the dress but only added to the brilliance and brightness of the dancers.  I had to lighten up the shadows in her face a bit in post, but the light only adds to the happy moment of the composition.  Who says I shouldn’t be shooting midday! 

Thought this might look good in a travel magazine for Central America.

What this doesn’t say:  It was hot.  The sweat coming from these girls in full costume was intense.  The sweat coming from myself as I weaved in and out of all this motion was intense.  A kind man standing on the edge of the groups of children got my attention and handed me a bottle of water.  He smiled, missing a few teeth and said in broken English, “You work hard.  You drink.”

What this also doesn’t say is that it is literally amazing that I can weave in and out of bands and dancers and all sorts of displays for the Guatemala government and not one person tells me I have to back up, or get out of the way or that I’m not allowed to be standing where I am.  They actually make room for me to pass through the crowd to get the shot.  I love that.

Not all the 'midday sun' shots worked out so well.  I had to do a little playing with shadows, which was fun, but probably shouldn't be attempted again.

Photo Crush Friday #1

COVID is crushing everyone’s dreams of getting back out into the world. Which means my Uganda photo workshop, originally planned for this October, will most likely be postponed (just like every single other thing in life right now…no surprises there).

However, I feel like I need a space to dish out some photography stuff. Important shots, tech tips, backstories, etc. It’s a chance for me to share and a chance for you to experience, learn and take whatever you can from each post.

This is for photographers, aspiring photographers, voyeuristic photographers or literally anyone who wants to look at pictures and read about them. Most often, a still photo has to do all the talking for itself. And if shot well, it can do that. But, half the fun in photography is all the stuff leading in and out of the shot.

So, here it is.

Taking a cue from a photographer friend of mine who does something similar, Fridays are now dedicated to digging deeper into the photography side of some of my favorite shots.  Each crush will be one ‘good shot’ and the specs behind that experience. The rest is just illustrated narrative.

If any of the 7 of you followers remember, I started this back in 2015, got 4 posts in, then had a baby. Well, my world fell apart at that time, for obvious reasons and I couldn’t get back in a groove. I’m going back to that first post from Guatemala and will be mixing it up moving forward from there.

So, without further ado, I give you…

Photo Crush Fridays: Girl In The Mercado

Gear: Nikon D600; Nikon 35mm f/1.8

Settings: ISO 320, 1/100, f/2.5

Getting There:  This trip to Guatemala began similar to the past one, with a few days in Guatemala City.  Guatemala City is what it is.  Like it or leave it.  It is a microcosm of the constant juxtapositions of the wealth and class disparities of it’s population.  Corrugated metal shacks cling to the hillsides just out of view of the decks of the $500,000 homes above them.  It is Central America’s largest city, home to nearly 4 million inhabitants.  It is broken up into 21 districts called ‘Zona’s’ (zones), each maintaining a unique vibe, some being quite a bit more dodgy or downright dangerous than others.  Guatemala City has the 3rd highest murder rate in the world and is home to shot-gun toting guards and extortionary kidnappers.  On a more positive note, however, it is also home to several million people living normal lives amidst the chaos of rumbling buses, exhaust, sky high modern buildings and hundred year old crumbling churches.

In the middle of this is the central mercado.  A photographic candy store, if you will.  Aisle upon crowded aisle of merchants displaying their wares and customers doing their daily shopping.  Outside bustles with fruits, vegetables, beans, corn, and a million different assortments of things to eat or cook with.  Inside is level upon dark-bunker-like level of stores packed to the ceiling with all kinds of goods.  A pick-pocket playhouse.  A friend of mine told me a story that if you are caught stealing in this place they take you out to the dark alley in back and shoot you.  No chance for due process.  Urban legend? Definitely keeps you on your toes.

What it says: This photo shows the daily life that takes place in this mercado.  Just a little girl out doing the daily shopping with her mother or auntie or grandma, disgusted at the fact that she is standing in the middle of a bunch of dead animals still half way bleeding and hanging from hooks.  The light coming in from an overhead skylight, the dress, the boots, the expression, the colors, it all comes together in this moment.

What is doesn’t say:  Is that I had precisely that, a moment.  Maybe a 30 second moment to see, evaluate, set and shoot.  We were all leaving this floor and walking up a staircase to the next one.  I turned around after shooting a counter full of dead fish to see this little girl, illuminated in light like a saint.  I ran down a few steps and took 4 shots from this side of her and ran around the other kiosks to get a quick 5th shot of her walking out of the market with the woman.  Honestly, it wasn’t enough.  At the time, I didn’t think I got anything.  Not what I was seeing in my head, anyway.  I smiled, nodded, and let them pass.  This image also doesn’t say that the stench of hundreds of pounds of raw meat packed into a hot, humid, maze of a warehouse buzzing with flies and people and carts of chickens on the way to slaughter, is much more nauseating than it sounds in writing.

I was enthralled with the raw meat floor of this market and engulfed with claustrophobia on the other floors.  After an hour or so of wandering, we managed to make our way back to where we could see the sky again.

Mosh pits + Mother's Day

I’m often paralyzed by emotion on this day.  Thinking about the stories of the kids lives who somehow bumped into mine and stepped me into this role.  Motherhood was never planned out for me, by me.  I’ve watched it unfold, at times only a voyeur into the grand orchestration of a passionate God.  Attempting so step into the dance when asked.  Each kids story is unique, stretching me and challenging me and bringing me to the end of myself time and time again.

I am not the only mother to 2 of my 3 kids.  And that fact alone has moved me into a realm of mothering I never knew existed.  To understand sacrifice and survival and opportunity and honor.  To feel the pull of pure, deep reckless love.  And they are not ‘mine’.  Not even the one from my body.  

It’s a role I don’t take lightly and precisely why this day stirs me up so much.

As much as I believe I am a good mom, I’m terrified at times that I’m not.  That I’m not fulfilling the shoes placed before me.  That with every raised voice, every stomped foot every slammed door I wonder how far I am from where I should be.  

I find myself caught up in deep conversations over photo albums filled with dark faces; memories saturated in earth and sugar cane and cook fires that well up inside them at unexpected times.  Questions of why and accusations of intent.  Mind games of ‘what if’.  Soulful desires to be part of a history that is fading and feels so far away.  

It is a constant interpretive dance to music I can’t always hear.

A life dance.  A ritual dance.  A drumbeat-fox-trot-running-man-mash-up of a dance.  A mosh pit of bodies and energy moving in and out of each other.  You get stepped on a million times.  And you step on everyone else, too.  And it’s hot and sweaty and loud and painful.

But, when the music stops, you grieve.  You realize that was the most vital part of the whole thing.  The constant movement of people bumping into each other.  The life of the dance only exists in the middle of it.  

And I’ve never been one to ‘sit this one out’, no matter how complex the steps are.

In an instant

My 4 year old daughter is currently throwing books around the house and screaming I hate you.  My 14 year old and 17 year old have locked themselves in their rooms for no other reason except that they like it better in there than being in the same room with me trying to control the book throwing, shouting 4 year old.  

A day ago someone asked me if I was a patient person.  I gave a vague yes, no, maybe so answer followed by a few ‘if/then’ scenarios only because the real answer doesn’t sound as good.  Having wiggle room and options and excuses for my bad behavior sounds better.  Or just straight up lying and saying yes.  I’m not always above that.   

The catalyst for the book throwing was a constant “Mom…Mom…Mom” diatribe without even a 1 second break between each mom.  Of which I responded to in haste and visual frustration, like every good parent does, “Be patient.”  Period.  

Hypocrite.

As much as I want to believe that patience is about endurance, about waiting, about a time span between one thing and the next.  It’s not.  Patience is completely 110% about gratification.  And I am no bigger, in that regard, than my 4 year old.  I am currently throwing books around my house and around my relationships and around my social sphere every day because they are not gratifying me in the way that I want them to or when I want them to.  I adult-temper-tantrum my way through life.  In my psyche there is a push, pull, drag mentality in my conversations and in my public posts of images that attempts to force gratification.  And the sadder thing is…it works.  I post.  You respond with a heart.  I ask.  You give an immediate, off the cuff, answer.  I  text.  You ping me back.  And all of that makes me feel good, productive, valued, heard, thought about.  I have lowered myself to feeling valued by how quickly someone responds to me, how instantly they can gratify my feelings.  

And I’m sitting here shaking my head thinking, how did I get to this place?  Knowing full well that the best work,  the deepest connections, the most important interactions, the most beautiful creativity are never instantaneous and never forced.  And it’s debilitating in so many ways.  And right now, I’m willing to raise my hand, willing to call myself out.

I don’t want to live in a house strewn with books; in a space filled with hastily flung intentions and haphazard emotions. Not now. Not anymore.

Raw + probably better left locked in a diary.

Michelle Obama begins her book, Becoming, with the sentence, “I spent much of my childhood listening to the sound of striving.”  Although her reference to striving was from young piano students in the apartment beneath hers, the thought of growing up to the sound of striving instantly pinched something deep inside me.  

I grew up listening to the sound of striving, too.  

An inward form of striving.  A hum at times.  A freight train roar and shake-the-rails rumble at others.  As a child it was balance beams of masking tape on the carpet in the hall to straighten out cartwheels.  In my teens it was mornings sideways in front of a mirror clumsily covered in a bra I was certain I would never fit into.  As a college student it was hours of index cards scrawled with every last bit of the DSM IV that would fit between 3 inches and 5 inches.  It was constant striving.  An incessant inner life game of tug-of-war that I could never seem to win, no matter which side of the mud pit I was on.  And it was exhausting.

And it is exhausting.

I recently turned 40.  And now, as a ‘mid-life’ adult, I find myself in a sound tunnel of striving that is even more paralyzing than the physical and mental spaces I found myself in as a kid.  Because, somehow, every relationship I lean into, I hear it.  Every relationship I pull away from, I hear it.  And the louder it gets, the more I realize I’ve never fully arrived at an absence of striving.  There have been moments at the tops of mountains, in the expanses of rocky deserts and surrounded by the deep blues of oceans that my striving has been an inaudible murmur, a baseline hum, proverbial white noise.  But, if I’m honest enough with myself, I struggle to pinpoint a time where my striving fell silent.  Where peace won.  Where contentment raised a victorious fist to the sky. 

I sat at the park today for 2 1/2 hours, eyes closed, face lifted toward the sun.  Zen-ing out?  No.  Not even close.  In fight mode, wrestling with emotions from a previous days’ interaction brought on by, none other than, my constant affair with striving.  Striving to be seen.  Striving to be noticed, loved, heard, thought about, wanted.  Striving to be better, stronger, smarter, happier, more resourceful.  Feel free to add your own fill in the blank here.  The list goes on and on.  I was thoroughly pissed at myself for not being able to deal with my $#!t..  And I want to say that by the end of this blog I will be able to happily tell you that after those 2 1/2 hours of vitamin D, I found  inner peace.  That I’ve silenced my lifetime of striving with a 3 step approach.  But, the fact is I haven’t.  

Peace isn’t a 3 step approach. 

And regardless of how many of you are now taking pity on me, wanting to help me overcome my baggage, or are just thoroughly over my whining, I’m not asking anyone to give me the path to inner peace.  I’m not asking anyone to tell me to read my bible more, or trust God more or allow myself more me time, or connect with a therapist, or tap out my stress, or eat more ice cream or eat less ice cream or make better friends or get more sleep or have more sex or soak up more sun or get a freakin’ long overdue massage that unexpectedly rebirths you into a realm of calm and serenity you never knew existed.  Although all of those are nice and very productive at creating corners of peace, I’m not asking for anyone’s advice.  In fact, I may not even be asking for anything from anyone.  

Except solidarity. 

Grace.  Humanness.  A commitment to lighting up our dark corners.  To allowing us all to be vulnerable in those spaces we find ourselves in and affirming that with a commitment to keep pursuing the truth regardless of how shameful or embarrassing or wrong or juvenile those spaces are.  No matter how many times we blow it with ourselves or with others.

Peace isn’t something we choose to do or be.  It’s a realm we are ushered into.  Something we are drawn by.  Something we are blessed with.  An unexplainable state given by the divine that literally transcends all understanding.  It isn’t an absence of chaos, it is an absence of striving.

It is breath and light and a recognition of our failures and an invitation to something far more fulfilling. 

And I don’t know what it looks like to have arrived.  

But, I definitely know what it feels like to be standing at the beginning. 

Noah Purifoy Museum Take 2

I’ve written about the desert plenty of times.  I’m thoroughly fascinated by it.  Not just that I think it’s cool, but that I have a metaphysical connection with it, which is often completely ludicrous because the desert is horrible.  

Two years back I took The Nugget out for an overnight.  My plan bonked big time and we ended up running around in an outdoor art museum for 30 minutes and driving the 3 hours back to SD.  You can read about that here.

I couldn’t resist that place, though.  So we went back.  Along with my fascination with the desert is my fascination with what the desert can do to things…or people for that matter.  And the Noah Purifoy Outdoor Desert Art Museum is just that. A 10 acre plot filled with stuff from the dump.  Broken toilets, broken electronics, broken glass (pretty much broken everything) assembled as sculptures and displaying the inner workings of a black man born in 1917 in Snow Hill, Alabama.  He lived the last 15 years of his life in a friends trailer in the Mohave desert assembling these large scale works of art from found objects. It is not for the masses.  It is wreckage formed into something resembling beauty and intrigue and laid out in the harshness of nature to see just what power nature has to act on it.  

And that’s totally the point. And it resonates so deeply within me.

Joshua Tree NP

If you have 825,000 acres of desert to explore, you better pop out of bed at 5:30am and be on the trail by 6…according to my 4 year old, that is.  Skull Rock couldn’t wait even one more hour to be climbed on.  With 36 hours in Joshua Tree, we spent probably 35.5 of them rock hopping, bouldering, running, jumping, sliding, scrambling, playing tag, hiking, etc.  It was an overnight with just the right amount of physical exertion that, when you finally lay down in your sleeping bag, your soul smiles and your body says thank you.  The things that happened in Joshua Tree this weekend go so much deeper than what actually happened.  But, for the record, I am floored by what this girl accomplished physically.  With the best example being the only one where I didn’t tote my camera.  

After a previous afternoon filled with a game we call rock monster, which involves a tag team/follow the leader effort of climbing to a high peak, pointing out another one from the top and then navigating to the next one…point it out, climb it, repeat.  We’re standing at the base of an exhibit called Hall of Horrors, looking up at a highline being stretched across the span of the ‘hall’ from one large rock formation to the other, at least 100+ ft in the air.   I’m explaining to her what’s about to happen and she puts her hand over my mouth, points to the top of the ginormous rock formation where they are securing one side and says, “That one.”  Which is rock monster lingo for, ‘we’re going up there’.  

Hall of Horrors from the parking lot. Like I said, I didn’t take my camera to the top. But, if you look close enough, you can see the line stretched across the valley. We were on the top of the rock pile on the right. Scale, as always with these types of things, is hard to understand. These are huge and high. Believe me.

She called it.  We climbed it.

And it was sketchy.  Scary-sketchy, actually.  It took our previous day of bouldering to a new level.  I’m gutsy when it comes to those kind of things, and definitely willing to push the envelope. I’m competent and capable and strong enough to climb carrying her, if need be.  But this put, even me, on edge, with my thoughts ranging from, ‘this is so much fun’ to ‘this is not our day to die’.  But we made it.  And we sat at the top for 20 minutes while 2 young studs made the final rope checks and tightened up the highline.  She was fascinated.  She couldn’t stop talking to them.  “Are you going to walk across that?  Wow.  I’m never going to do that,” she laughs.  “Never say never,” one of them says.  “You’re the first 4 year old I’ve seen up here, ever.  So, there’s always time for something big.” 

And he winked.  And she smiled.  A big smile.  A prideful smile.  One that hinted at something being built up inside of her.  And in that same moment, built up inside of me.  It was far less about watching some thrill seeker balance on a 2inch piece of fabric stretched taught across the desert sky (which, don’t get me wrong, was the gutsiest, most nerve wracking, awesome adventure thing I’ve seen with my own eyes) and far more about the desire and the process of getting there and the spark being fanned inside my little girl. 

And it made us fly.  Both of us.  

And, I suppose the whole trip was a selfish plight, to begin with; rendered in my journal that night in big, bold, underlined capitals, “I needed this so badly.”  

But, continuing on in that same entry, fueled by the days activities, the cold air, the warm fire, the sleeping child and maybe a little bourbon: “She did, DOES, too.  To sit calmly and quietly by a twinkling fire; to gaze up at freaking amazing star studded skies; to raise my daughter on rock jumping and exploring and adventuring and eating burnt, skinless hotdogs by hand from a tin mug filled with ketchup.  To jab ourselves on yucca and snag our skin on thorny bushes and split the seat of our pants sliding haphazardly down gigantic boulders.  To fling ourselves over cracks.  To watch her challenge herself and toughen up and go the distance and break her boxes apart…and laugh and run free and be silenced by the wonder and awe of her surroundings.  If I could leave anything with her, I’d want it to be that.  Get outside, Baby, get outside and just go with it.  Things start to work themselves into the puzzle after that and you will know who you are capable of being…and who you are.” 

Processing the after. The Falls.

There’s just something to be said about the term ‘worth it’.  It conjures up the philosophy of comparisons, of an equal share of risks and rewards, of something given for something gained. The troubling thing is that without an actual monetary exchange the concept is completely subjective.  

And there you find us, in the mix of this hot debate at the top of a 130ft waterfall in Uganda, Africa, where every second, 11,000 cubic ft of water violently fist fights it’s way through a gorge only 23ft wide.  There are very few railings and even fewer warning signs.  You can literally walk right into the falls if you want.  Which is kind of what I was hoping for, but with a little less ‘tumbling to our death’.  Needless to say, my model, Tessa, wasn’t quite as excited as I was about the photoshoot location choice.

We had attempted to shoot in a few other places on the hike up to the falls.  I wasn’t happy with those and was very obviously pouty about my own inadequacy in making a cool shot.  Tessa is the easiest person in the world to photograph and the skirts she designed with some local Ugandan seamstresses look amazing even waded up on the ground, so I couldn’t blame any of it on them.  So, after a cleansing soak of waterfall spray from a lookout platform a little lower on the falls, we made our way the remaining 10 minute climb to the top, hoping we could try again up there.  I’ve been to these falls before and knew there were some flat rocks at the top with the river in the background that, with the right light, could make a pretty cool backdrop.  At that point, with the remaining dark gray clouds of a recently passed rainstorm and no light rays filtering through, I figured we were going to have to take our chances with the flat rocks and the river being extra beautiful that day.

Turns out, days and days of rain had actually incorporated the flat rocks into the outlying edges of the falls themselves and water was streaming over them in a haphazard pattern of on again off again gushes.  Not exactly what I had hoped for.

Far better than I had ever envisioned.

A little spark ignited inside and I rock hopped my way quickly down onto the slippery rocks just in time for one of those gushes to completely soak the little channel I was standing in and catapult itself into the rest of the spitting whitewash.  Yes.  If you can’t have post raincloud sunbeams, then you definitely need violent waterfall spray.  I motioned for Tessa and pointed where I wanted her to stand.  She hesitated as another gush of water careened over the edge.  ‘Really?  Are you sure it’s worth it?  I mean, we can shoot on another day.’  

Is it worth it?  Worth the risk of falling to an untimely and watery death all for a shot that will last on peoples tech screens for less than 3 seconds?  

Worth that?  No.  But, worth the elevated heart rate?  Worth the smile of adventure?  Worth the lessons learned from the discomfort of doing something new?  Worth the story that will come from it after you don’t actually fall to your death?  Worth the necessary action to live up to our trip inspired mantra, ‘This Is Africa.  Do this’?

Just relax, my friend.  Yes, it’s totally, 110% worth it.

(And…a little marketing teaser: these skirts will be available a week before Christmas at The Nest in Reno in support of an ongoing program called Threads of Hope. Buy one.)

Lawrence.

This is Lawrence.  He’s 15.  I first met him when he was 6 years old and living with a local pastor in his village.  His father had recently died.  His mother was nowhere to be found.  The pastor found him living in an empty house caring for his 4 year old brother.  They hadn’t eaten in 3 days.  

Since then, Lawrence has lived in 6 different houses with close to 10 different caregivers.  Every single one of his family members has died.  He has been in and out of the hospital too many times to count and in and out of school so many times that he barely has a 6th grade reading level.

The single most important reason why this kid is still alive is because of his sponsor, my best friend.  When we first began the sponsor program back in 2007, my friend, Julie, jumped on board with the caveat, “I want the kid that no one else wants.”  At that time in the life of the program, we threw sponsorship events at people’s homes where we displayed beautiful portraits of each child with a quote and story about their life.  Potential sponsors could see the children, read their stories and hand pick the child they wanted to support.  All the cutest kids got selected first.  Always.  I’m not saying that’s how any of us want things to go down, but that was sadly, the reality.   

Now, I was taking all the photographs and, believe me, I did the best job I could and took as many photos as it took to get an amazing shot of each child, knowing that this might be their one chance at getting sponsored.  But, Lawrence was different.  I could never figure out just how to photograph him so that he looked ‘cute’.  You see, Lawrence has an eye problem.  To this day we have yet to have him diagnosed (which we are working on right now), but his eyes seem to be lazy, cross-eyed and never looking in the same direction, which made it highly difficult to photograph him. 

In 2007, Julie took one look at this picture and said a resounding, “Yes, that’s my kid.” 

Through her own ups and downs over the past 11 years and in and out of challenging financial situations, she has never stopped supporting him.  She has gone above and beyond to give extra during times of extreme need and has written him letters every year.  She was willing to do whatever it took to figure out her finances to help him transition to a new, more expensive boarding school 2 years ago so that we would be able to actually give him the help he so desperately needed.  That move, regardless of how financially draining it was to her, was life giving to him.

3 weeks ago, she met this kid face to face.  And the experience of that interaction is one I will never forget.  Over the course of a few days, she spent time with him in his classrooms, in his dormitory and even got to shoot hoops with him on the basketball court.  It was all seriously surreal.

In addition to watching my best friend experience the dream of meeting her sponsor child, the  feelings that rush through me when seeing him thrive are overwhelming.  Being part of his story in the past, hugging him year after year through a lifetime’s worth of struggles and now getting to put my arm around him as a young man who is moving forward into something good is beyond fulfilling.  This is why I do this.  For even one story of success.  For even one kid to have a chance at something better than what the world handed him from the get go.  

There are more struggles to come for him, I’m sure, poverty never seems to run out of those, but the beauty of his successes right now shines brighter than the noonday African sun. 

Processing the after. Eron's graduation.

In 2009, after 2 years of volunteering with Children’s Heritage Foundation we made the choice to sponsor 2 kids.  We weren’t really looking for any child specifically, but we just wanted to be able to have a connection with them.  A long term connection. 

Tragically, that long term connection only lasted with one of them.  In 2012, our sponsor son Kitenda fell from the back of a motorcycle taxi and was hit by another passing vehicle.  The accident was fatal.  He was 17.  I was told this news 72hrs after returning from a recent trip where I spent countless hours playing Uno with him in our rented apartment and drinking sodas and laughing at his jokes.  It left me feeling raw.  The reality of life in poverty slapping me in the face.  The realization that no matter how much money we put into this program and no matter how many kids we got sponsored, salvation from their circumstances wasn’t possible.  They were still going to die, sponsored or not.  

It was an internal war for me for many months and something that has shaped how I view our ‘work’ overseas.  There is no promise of a positive outcome.  There never is.  But, that doesn’t stop us from giving what we have and creating programs that inspire internal transformation, opening up opportunities through education and simply, tangibly loving people.  

And the heartbreak of that experience and the resonating feelings of loss that still fill me, makes this most recent trip all the more poignant.  Because our other connection is a long term one. 

On October 26th, I had the privilege of attending Nkumba University’s 2019 graduation.  My sponsor daughter, Eron, also had the privilege of attending; sitting in the student section in a cap and gown.  Now, university graduations in any country are not the most interesting or time-well-spent type of occasions.  Long speeches, long lists of names, lots of waiting for that one important name.  This ceremony was no different in that regard.  However, in Uganda, long speeches also means lots of waiting for the people giving the speeches to arrive.  Long lists of names also means giving a verbal description and special recognition to every doctoral and masters student and allowing them as much time as they would like to amble down the red carpet, receive their distinction, take photos with friends and family and amble back before moving onto the next name.  Lots of waiting for that one important name also means sitting in plastic lawn chairs with knees crammed all the way up to the chair in front of you in a sea of plastic lawn chairs and people huddled under white canopy tents.  Lots of waiting means 7hrs sitting in those chairs because once you are in, you literally can’t get out.  Lots of waiting means sitting through a 3 hour torrential downpour during which the previously grassy field in which your lawn chair was placed turned into a muddy lake and the already crowded tent somehow made room for hundreds of more people while the administration carried on not missing a beat.  It is fanatical and draining and the best and biggest dose of traditional Ugandan culture.  And I couldn’t have been happier to be there.

What ensued after that was, another expected dose of Ugandan culture.  A 2 hour turned 5 1/2 hour drive through the noisy and intoxicating traffic of Kampala, directly into another tent filled with flashing lights, swaths of fabric draped in banners around the perimeter and a PA system turned full blast.  Yips and hollers and lots of hugging and dancing and food and sodas and more and more speeches.  Greeting a graduate in her home town is seriously something.  Something so worth celebrating.

And the beauty of the whole thing is that this girl isn’t done.  She is so driven.  She’s already planning for her master’s degree and starting her own accounting business.  As for marriage?  ‘Not now.  It’s not that important to me.  I have my sights set on something else,’ she says.  We couldn’t be more proud of you, girl.  You are totally my inspiration.

Processing the after. Dubai.

Just returned from Uganda.  I’m breaking this trip into smaller chunks in hope that it will help me process it all in an organized fashion.  ‘Processing’ is a necessity no matter how many times I’ve travelled.  The world is big.  We are small.  Cultures are different.  Poverty is real.  I’ve found that every trip uniquely weaves these things together into a different canvas each go around and figuring out how this all plays itself out in the life I currently live is very important.  I do my best to journal while traveling so as to not miss out on ‘aha’ moments in real time and to help me remember exact interactions, events or feelings.  Still, so much of the processing comes when you re-integrate into daily life.  It isn’t abnormal for internal wars to be waged at this time.  Things that seemed so important before a trip, now don’t even make it on the priority list.  Relationships with those who didn’t go often seemed strained while you work through the highs and lows of 2 weeks of absence and often complete internal transformation.  Needless to say, ‘processing’ is essential to a healthy transition.

So, I’m going chronologically, starting with our departure. 

Heading from LA into a 16.5 hour flight  brings the full range of emotions from sheer excitement about the journey ahead to the dread of being stuck in the belly of a flying bird sucking processed air for almost a day.  The relational company made it worth it, though, and we were all able to get a good 6 hours sleep, which gave us enough energy for a night on the town when landing in Dubai.

No time to get your head on straight when you have less than 13 hours in a booming metropolis like Dubai.  You could call it a night and crash at the hotel, but that is a totally boring way to experience this city.  We scheduled an Uber ride and hit the Dubai mall at 9:30pm, having no clue what we were about to get ourselves into, except that fact that we wanted to see the world’s tallest building.   

Dubai is all about the wow factor.  They are overachievers in every aspect of the word.  Everything is shiny and glistening and huge, adorned with elegance and luxury and smelling of incense and expensive perfume.  It is seductive and sexy and lures people with it’s promises of Arab mysteries while at the same time dazzles them with light shows and glowing everything.  People are rendered as sheer forms of art.  The symmetry of their faces, the strong features, perfectly manicured beards that trace the lines of squared jaws, dark eyes holding the mysteries of something so foreign and enticing I find myself staring intently at every male figure that passes in his thawb and keffiyeh.

And there are lots of them.  Lots of everyone.  People crowded onto the plaza of the mall, a sea of humanity from every aspect of the globe moving in and out of one another.  Families with young children and people of every age mingling and moving tirelessly until close to 1am when we called it quits.  All amused by the gushing fountains and skyscrapers and all taking selfies with the backdrop of the Burj Khalifa in all it’s colorful nighttime glory.  It is a sight to see, no doubt, and an experience that landed my companions with the thought, “How is this my life right now?”   

Ironically, it’s opulence stands in the starkest contrast to the culture and landscape of the African region we were about to step into.  Knowing that full well, we finished up our Arab experience with a traditional desert called kunafeh and headed back to the hotel for a few hours of attempted rest before the next leg of the journey.  

Until we meet again, Dubai.  Expo2020 you are in my very near future.

From the Archives: The Journal

I spent most of the morning searching for something that’s lost.  It’s a terrible feeling, growing in intensity with each emptied drawer and overturned box.  The entire contents of my life lived in boxes is now living on my garage floor, splayed out in unadorned splendor.  A chaotic history lesson of tax documents and college essays and heirloom photographs.  But in the midst of all the things that are there, the thing I want most isn’t.  And it’s making me want to throw up.

Throughout my life I have been a journaler; one of those people who pour themselves into pages of lined books because it seems the best, safest place to put them.  And because it is the only way one can stay sane.  I made no exception during the adoption of my kids.  I wrote and wrote and wrote.  Sometimes just logistical details, sometimes heart wrenching emotions.  But, it is the bedrock of the ‘I Mother Broken’ project. 

And it’s lost.  

Currently, I’m a hot mess, trying to reassure myself that it will be found.  And most likely it will be.  But, the state of my emotions right now is evidence of the impact of becoming a mother to my son.  It is raw ache and anticipation and elation and uncertainty and insecurity and failure.  It’s a story of mercy and love and trust and mistrust and race and culture all bound in a white cover with a drawing of two little Dutch kids.  (Which is a story in and of itself that will be told once the said journal is acquired.  I’m too teary to work on that right now).

And it’s lost.  And accompanying the loss of the actual item is the feeling of time passing by; of kids growing up; of me growing forgetful and new memories taking place of the old.  

I don’t want to forget.  I don’t want to forget what it was like to meet my kid for the first time.  I don’t want to forget what it was like to hold his hand.  I don’t want to forget the sound of his voice when he spoke his native language.  I don’t want to forget.

But, I will.  And that is one of the most important aspects of my journals during this time.  To be the conduit for my memory when it fails.  To vent heated emotions that, with a return glance later in life, prove that time heals and that the past informs our future.  To learn from the musings of my young self and be reminded that life is beautiful even when I’m face down in the weeds.

And in an interesting turn of events, while taking a quick break and lamenting once again over the lost journal, I found an earlier one.  A journal from our very first trip to Uganda.  

The trip where we met our future son for the first time.  It’s not heartfelt or descriptive or poetic, but considering what I know now…it’s pure gold.

Shooting from the sidelines.

It’s not about the bike…or the gear.  Or is it?  When it comes to shooting sports, I could probably put up a fair argument for the latter.  I don’t shoot sports, except when my kids are on the team.  Being that I don’t shoot sports (or wildlife for that matter), I don’t own any lens longer than 200mm.  And that 200mm only fits on my old cropped sensor camera body which I only use as an extreme emergency back up.  It was a kit zoom lens and there is nothing more to say about it.  

Regardless, I’ve offered to cover games for my kids teams since he was in the 8th grade, so parents can watch and cheer and still be able to have pictures of their kids without the stress of taking them themselves.  There’s an easy science to it, for sure.  Wait until the ball is snapped, follow the progression of play, shoot the pass, the catch, the run or the big finale of a tackle, put your camera down and repeat on the next play.  But with crappy gear, this science seems to be far less scientific and far more fiddle-with-exposure-shutter-speed-focal-length until you miss the shot all together.  This year, though, there are 2 other parents with gear.  Real gear.  Real big, white, expensive gear that can see every little bit of action from the safety and comfortability of 20 feet outside the sidelines.  Their pictures are perfect, up close and stunning freeze frames of midair reaches and all star runs.  Really great work.  

As much as I just want to be relieved that we can cover every side of the field, I’m not.  I find the eneagram 4 inside of me starting to compare, starting to feel a twinge of jealousy.  That twinge of jealousy leading to insecurity and the feelings of not measuring up; wanting to just sit the game out all together.

But, something finally woke up in me this past Friday; something instructors and photographer friends have been trying to feed into me for years.  Shoot with what you have. Don’t wish you had other gear.  See the ‘field’ from the vantage point of what you do have and shoot the hell out of it.  Ask yourself the question ‘where are you?’.  Answer that physically, metaphorically, in the moment and shoot from that place.  And at the exact moment of that lightbulb over the head experience, I found myself standing in the middle of a testosterone infused team of grungy, sweaty, uniform clad high schoolers who were about to win their first game of the season against their rivals.  And wether or not I was able to get the details of each exact play caught on a zoom lens, the story itself mattered more to me. Just take out your trusty 35mm and make the most of it.  

I’m not a sideline shooter.  I’ve known that for years.  But, I’m finally feeling confident about that. Feeling amped and energized by that perspective.

And that is definitely not about the gear.

From the Archives: Excerpt 1

I’ve begun the arduous task of compiling images and words for ‘I Mother Broken’. It’s arduous for multiple reasons, the current dilemma being ‘where exactly are my old journals’ and ‘what was the password we used for our ‘blogspot’ I blogged on eons ago’ and ‘I know I kept online image galleries to go with those, but I can’t find that link anywhere’. Oy vey.

Aside from the logistical challenges, this is an emotional journey for sure. One I don’t take lightly. Even just a quick gloss over a few old blogs and I am a heap of mush inside. It’s peppered with humor here and there, but, there is also ALOT of pain. My older two kids were both adopted from Uganda, but with radically different upbringings and radically different ‘coming to America’ experiences.

I’m currently looking for things in the early days of bringing Maggie home. I don’t have any. And the raw and real truth of why I don’t have any is because it was the damn hardest time of my life thus far. Everything in our family collapsed. I was angry. I blamed her. I blamed me. We didn’t go even a few hours without some form of massive physical tantrum or borderline psychotic episode. I showered multiple times a day so that no one would hear me weeping or saying out loud, ‘what have I done to this family’. It. Was. Hard.

The process of re-engaging that pain is also hard. And even harder, is that we are still in the midst of so much of this. Not sure how to heal or mature or redeem things that have been said or left unsaid over the years. So, this whole thing isn’t just about compiling a photobook to sit glamorously on someone’s coffee table.

It’s about gluing broken things back together.

Excerpt #1 from an early blog dated Feb. 10th 2013, (7 months after Maggie’s move to America) from my old website that currently isn’t hosted or active so I can’t link the entire thing. An excerpt will have to do. We went to a fancy dinner with my parents and I ended up flipping out about my newly acclimating daughter’s table manners.

You’d think with all that background I would be a little more sensitive, right?  No.  You’re wrong.  Maybe some nights I feel a tinge of compassion, but not tonight.  I was out with a vengeance.  I just couldn’t swallow looking at my daughter in a nice restaurant with her knee up to the table, disregarding the people at the table and looking sideways in the direction of the TV on the wall while she inadvertently shoved bits of bun-less hamburger patty in her mouth with her hands, while also trying to grab some fries from the center of the table.

You’re all laughing right now because you think it’s funny.  It wasn’t funny.  It was the perfect kind of behavior to push a somewhat already-had-it-up-to-here mom over the edge.  I used every possible tactic nagging moms do, but to no avail.

The victory?  Somehow amidst all my horridness, we didn’t have a complete knock down drag em‘ out meltdown in the middle of Ruth’s Chris. 

The 2nd victory?  My Cucumber Collins was awesome.

The 3rd victory?  What you’re reading here.  An apology to my children for being a pain in the butt tonight.  They were themselves... and I was the overbearing, teeth-clenching mom I said I would never be.

Good thing my kids believe in 2nd chances.

And, good thing they believe in 16,943rd chances, too. Because Lawd knows what has happened since 2013.

Football

And the season starts anew.  And just when I finally get on board with his whole collegiate quarterback dream, it gets snatched right out from under him.  Athletics are confusing, political and not always chasing individual kids' dreams as much as they are creating a winning team.

My son is a stud of a quarterback.  Coaches agree, ‘best quarterback this school has had in 10 years’.  But, last Monday, the starting quarterback slot he has been fighting for since the end of the season last year was given to the Senior quarterback; the 2nd string position given to a Sophomore who they will train to be the starting varsity quarterback for the upcoming two years and the 3rd string to a Junior who will be the backup for the starter next year.  Essentially scooting my kid out of the QB position all together.

I have no hard feelings against his coaches or the decision they made.  They are great at what they do and believe in the potential of their players.  But, the fact that a position change decision in a pivotal year in a  high school athletes life determines the rest of his future in athletics, bothers me to no end.

But, the real feelings, the depth, come from watching my son let go of a dream he’s had for years and pulled us all into to root for.  It’s hard to be a part of that; hard to know how to parent through that; challenging to watch him struggle through learning all new plays only a week before games start, being lost and confused on the field and feeling at the bottom of his game when a week prior he was completely dialed in and pumped.

I feared we might lose him again.  Freshman year was so bad.  New school, bad coaches, no playing time, slumping into fatigue and depression and palling around with questionable friends.  The school changes made last year and the success he had in football and academics were life giving to him.  It’s an amazing thing to watch your kid thrive.  And, I seriously attribute a lot of that to him fully embodying the quarterback position on and off the field; taking initiative to lead and lead well.  

When he found out about his position change, his whole demeanor changed and fear rose up inside me.  Taking me back to times spent sulking in his room with little to no drive for anything.  

The beauty of the whole thing, though, is that fear didn’t rise up in him.  He was deflated, for sure, disappointed, yes.  But he has risen above that and chosen to take on his new role with every ounce of effort and positive energy that he has put into football thus far.

His collegiate dream remains intact, it’s just now seen from a different place on the line of scrimmage and combined with a heck of a lot more contact.  Cornerback doesn’t have the cool factor that quarterback does, but it can just as easily make or break a game…and adding a little running back action to his resume couldn’t possibly look bad, either.  And his determination to prove himself in any position he plays and be the most versatile and talented player he can, will bring him right back to the top of his game in no time at all. And though I cheer for the team as a whole, deep down, I’m cheering for the character inside my son; the collective character inside lots of peoples sons that makes athletics so much more than fields and uniforms and scoreboards.

And that makes me one proud mama. Go Eagles. 

(last photo credit: Tom Bennett. I don’t own anything ginormous + white + that can be used a million miles away from the field and still get this type of shot)

Going for it...whatever 'it' is.

I had an idea once, not too long ago.  An idea that seemed passionate and plausible.  The idea to take my 11 year documentary work as the mother in the midst of this family unit, my words and photographs of my family over the years, and compile them into a photo book worthy of every mother’s coffee table.  It was an idea born out of a mid-life crisis, but a good idea nonetheless. 

However, the second I sit down to actually do my homework on photo book publishing, I am filled with anxiety.  The task is daunting, derailing and far less than positive.  There are no rainbows and unicorns in this sky.  The initial ping of a vision and spark of passion that I want so badly to be fanned into something powerful is cornered by the pulsing, steroid infused Doubt in the corner who is growing and filling the entire house of my body with it’s flexing and sweat.  Whatever idea I had at one point has been thoroughly chased away by the monster of data on my computer screen telling me ‘what to do’ or ‘what not to do’.

And in the midst of all that, I am still here writing this.  And starting something.  Maybe a little something, maybe a big something, maybe something that I give up on or maybe something that ends up gluing me together a little bit more.  Regardless, it’s something. And if you are willing to join that something, show me a little love by following, liking, etc.  I’m not sure what will be posted in this process, probably a random assortment of all things related to this book and the process of putting it together as well as work that will make it in and work that will be cut out.  I’m not sure how long it will take or how many times I will quit; how many times I will restart; how many times I will go dark.  Not sure of anything.

But, if it doesn’t start as something now, it never has the chance to be anything later.

So, I’m going for it and with that, months ago, I put together this little blurb to help me understand what I was trying to do.  Maybe it will help you, too.

Working Title:  I Mother Broken

“A mid-life-crisis-of-a-memoir of one young woman’s journey into the depths of mothering.  Like the subconscious itself, this book is a chaotic and enlightening mix of well planned photographs, vintage snapshots and impromptu phone pics representing the stream of consciousness of a life lived mothering. Punctuated by poetry, narrative, journal entries and bits of inspiration scrawled on napkins in no-name locations, it is her raw embodiment of the struggle to overcome the past, inform the future and just survive the present without losing her mind completely.  It explores the realities of fighting for her kids while at the same time fighting for herself.  A mid life crisis lived in the vacuum of motherhood.  A work of utter beauty, eternally standing on the brink of something.”

I often need a little visual inspo…this is it today.

For now, all this process will live here on the blog and as excerpts on Instagram and FB, until I figure out a better way to organize it all.