in between

a few things happened since I last wrote in december.

ava dyed her hair bright pink. ezra grew a hundred inches and then, turned thirteen. 

I read seventeen books. sampled eggplant ice cream, took my first large format photograph, bumped into my modern dance hero on the new york subway and broke the hammock in the backyard, though not all necessarily in that order.

new people moved into the houses next door and across the street, a real coffee shop opened up in our neighborhood and the cherry red cardinal who regularly flits around the backyard was given a name. larry. his name is larry. 

I taught ezra how to determine perfect avocado ripeness, introduced ava to the goldfinch and made ward teach me how to make a good cup of coffee. I drink coffee now. one morning I just woke up and said, this is madness! give me coffee! true story.

I broke down and finally bought myself a proper bra. rearranged the bedroom furniture in a blind fury, road tripped to nashville for junk and funnel cakes, shot my first record album cover, participated in my fifteenth polaroid week, contemplated a job (once again) waitressing at waffle house and realized rage vacuuming is probably the only workout I'll ever really need.

ezra learned to hold his own in the basketball games that take place on the courts up at the park. ava went to her first prom, had a horrible time and my heart seized up and broke the way it always does when my kids hurt. I stood beneath a few trees-- the old angel oak in john's island, south carolina and a cherry blossom tree in brooklyn. both times, my knees went wobbly and I felt glad to be alive. 

I started to write here at least a dozen times, probably more, but the words turned soft, dissolved into nothing, always. this country unraveled in ways I (naively) thought not possible, and america repeatedly confirmed in horrific, heartbreaking new ways what I already knew to be true: it does not value the lives of black and brown people. I questioned the church. not my faith, not God, but the church. in the months that fell between december and june, I grappled, stumbled, felt hopeless.

to be clear, I continue to grapple, stumble, feel hopeless. but in between, God. avocados to check for ripeness. pink hair, subway magic, childhood milestones. red cardinals named larry, new neighbors who grow sunflowers and sit on front porches while children jump through sprinklers, new neighbors whose parents are from different countries. good trees to stand under, meaty books to read and, thank the good Lord, hot coffee in the morning. 

in between, privilege to check, again and again. conversations to have, hard conversations. learning to do, learning, learning, learning, always, reading, acknowledging, learning. in between, ways to give, work to do, a chorus to join, the great, unending push forward. 

in between, we have voices, we have hands, we can work. 

in between is when everything happens.

may's five

(one)

(two)

(three)

(four)

(five)

one: promising skies, folks. the promising skies of may.

two: well, they finally gave me the mother's day parade I've been teasing them about for years. and it was pretty much the best present ever.

three: just moments before ava took the stage (along with the other dancers from my class) at the big show down at the old rialto theatre.

four: the scent of honeysuckle means one thing and one thing only: summer. is. almost. here.

five: first honeysuckle, then the strawberries. THEN THE STRAWBERRIES.

(five favorite frames from may, five favorite frames each month) (many thanks to my friend xanthe for the inspiration)

summer manifesto

kids, it's officially the first day of summer. I do believe this calls for a manifesto. 

this summer, we will:

eat strawberry shortcake
made with strawberries we pick.

catch lightning bugs in jars,
then set them all free.

roll up to the starlight drive-in on a week night,
stay for the second feature.

add to our crazy pool float collection
with nary a thought to the practical.

celebrate ezra's twelfth birthday with go-kart races
and secret rainbow cakes.

visit the local farmers market,
refuse to buy even one tomato from the grocery store.

build complicated forts in the backyard
using only what we have on hand.

make ginormous bubbles from scratch,
bubbles that will impress even the teenagers.

spend a saturday morning at the yard sales, 
buy the weird things.

pick blackberries and blueberries 
til our fingers are way stained.

float on our backs in the ocean,
wish for it to last forever.

scour the beach for shells, 
glue them to bobby pins and wear them in our hair,
think we are really cool.

explore the old oakland cemetery at dusk,
be not afraid.

sit under bright-colored umbrellas at lotta frutta,
drink exotic fruity drinks.

watch old movies at the old fox theatre, 
sing along with mighty mo.

set fireworks off at the beach,
lament the state of our country.

start at least one giant water balloon fight, 
end it before it gets ugly. 

sample every single sonic slushie flavor,
you know, for science.

say hi to olga and her house of stuff,
eat lemon ice cream cones.

climb the tiovivo sculptures at the high,
snapchat from the insides.

look at all the things at the high
when it's too hot to climb inside the sculptures.

find the hidden falls, 
pat selves on back.

keep scissors in the glove compartment at all times
for the flowers that grow alongside the highway.

make cherry limeade popsicles from scratch,
make enough to share.

visit the ponce city market rooftop,
see what we can see.

celebrate ava's sweet sixteen with a pretty cake
and, an alien-shaped cake, per her request.

hit the road and drive south,
hop on the train and head north.

see a few new places,
revisit a handful of the old ones.

perfect all underwater handstands,
make time for night swimming.

stand in the middle of a sunflower field
for as long as they will let us.

stand at the base of toccoa falls
when it's too hot to stand anywhere else.

eat popsicles and read books
in great quantities.

lay in the hammock 
everyday.

everyday.

april's five

(one)

(two)

(three)

(four)

(five)

one: ava. plus wind plus ocean plus sun.

two: international pillow fight day means 150 people pillow fighting it out in a public park (still smiling).

three: purple rain at the old plaza theatre on ponce. (still crying).

four: southern live oaks, savannah, georgia.

five: ezra. plus wind plus ocean plus sun.

(five favorite frames from april, five favorite frames each month) (many thanks to my friend xanthe for the inspiration)

march's five

(one)

(two)

(three)

(four)

(five)
one: ezra. plus imagined wall of preteen brain circuitry. 

two: the yearly dying of the eggs. not pictured: the dying of the ends of their hair. 

three: popcorn, early stages. 

four: ava, bunny ears. killing me. 

five: easter sunday dinner. not pictured: a bucket of KFC but with homemade mashed potatoes on the side. we are not fancy. 

(five favorite frames from march, five favorite frames each month) (thanks for the inspiration, xanthe)

march's sixty seconds

well, more like 139 seconds. march in 139 seconds and it's warm enough to ride the bikes now and the trees are exploding with blooms and little green leaves and the sun hangs around a little longer and finally, I can see light at the end of the tunnel, the wonderful, proverbial light.

more march films over at the sixty second photograph, friends. I sat myself down this morning, fell into each one of those little films before I put on monday's armor.

february's five

five favorite frames from the month of february, idea totally stolen (with permission, natch) from my friend xanthe.

what I'm learning is that the frames I love most are not always my best photographs. they're the moments I love most, the ones I really want to remember. so I hover there, in that uncomfortable realization for a little while before I think, eff it. I'm sharing my true favorites.

february:

on a saturday afternoon with ava and the ukulele and the coat she won't take off.

on a monday morning because ezra loves gin rummy so much he somehow talked my dad into a few games before school.

on a thursday evening with the seagulls on sullivan island during a miraculous solo road trip to charleston, south carolina.

on a sunday evening with ava getting ready for her very first date.

on a saturday afternoon with ezra, who finally decided to get back on his bike and ride like the wind after something like a four year hiatus.

february's sixty seconds

sixty seconds of moving pictures shot in the city with my people on the greyest of february days, a dead grey, really. but that's february for you. month two of the sixty second photograph and I really struggled this go round. fumbled my way through the process, made a crap load of mistakes. but I'm letting go, folks. make and release, make and release. and hopefully, learn a little something in the process. this is my mantra.

p.s. more about the project here, and more lovely february films over on the site.

p.p.s. music by the incomparable nathan corrona aka dj dust.

january's five

five favorite frames from the month of january, idea totally stolen (with permission, natch) from my friend xanthe.

we ate a lot of monkey bread last month, folks. we drank a lot of coffee, a lot of tea, sometimes while sitting at old wooden tables in cute coffee houses. we watched ezra play a lot of basketball. a lot. of basketball. incidentally, I have watched a lot of basketball in my life. but that's another story for another time.

unbelievably, on the last day of january, it was warm enough for the first official backyard cookout of the year. but it was super cold before that weirdo january heat wave, cold enough to dig out all the old coats, which is when ava discovered the vintage leopard print coat I bought for myself back in 1998 at the 26th street fleamarket in new york. it looks better on her than it ever, ever did on me. 28 year-old andrea would never say it out loud but she would probably not be too happy about that. but 45 year-old andrea is pretty happy about it. because 45 year-old andrea sees the world with entirely different eyes now, including the month of january. which, really, is nothing short of miraculous.

motherhood with a camera

her hands are my hands are my daughter's hands.

strong, capable. veins like little green rivers, skin like butter and butcher paper. and that ring she wore, that sterling silver dogwood ring, the one I can't ever remember not on her middle left finger. on that day, she took the hands of her mother, my grandmother, and danced. grandma's cheeks pink with rouge, a creamy coral dabbed on just before mom slipped strands of plastic yellow beads around her neck. this was the ritual: rouge, necklaces, music, dancing. I watched from the edges, willed myself to ignore the scent of lysol and urine, concentrated instead on the faraway radio sounds of dolly parton and the two dancers in the room. they lit the place up, spilled light into dark nursing home corners for a few minutes, corners no one likes to talk about.

in just two short years, just one year after her own mother, she would be gone. how could I have known this? how could any of us have known this? in those last days, I held her hands in mine, sat by her bed while she slipped in and out of sleep, in and out of that deep, unknown place morphine takes people when the pain is too much, the world is too much and the cancer is about to swallow them whole. I sat by her bed and held her hands, tv flickering and murmuring in the background, toddlers and tiaras and wild gyspy teenagers on repeat while my worst nightmare played out in real time. I held her hands like she held mine on the first day of school, on the way to my first dance class, the first time I had my heart broken. I held her hands the way she held her own mother's hands the day they danced at the nursing home. I held them and I pleaded with her to live. quietly, desperately. please, please live. I pleaded with God for the miracle of all miracles, pleaded in shameless, messy ways, over and over and over again.

a few months after she died, I found her jewelry pouch. tucked beneath a tangle of polyester slips and snagged pairs of pantyhose, there it was. all my favorite pieces were there; the bracelet with the little silver charms she'd collected while traveling through europe when she was in college, the oval locket my dad had given her for christmas one year, the one that held the teeny tiny baby pictures of us inside, the collection of silver bangles with turquoise stones and the ring. good lord, the sterling silver dogwood ring, the one I can't ever remember her not wearing. as much a part of her appearance as the small, crescent-shaped scar on her cheekbone and the amber brown color of her eyes. I slipped it on my left middle finger and gasped. there she was. in the shape of my hand, in the color and texture of my skin, in the way her signature ring looked on my left middle finger. she was as close as my left hand, I could see her, feel her, any time I stopped to look down.

my own daughter's hands look nothing like mine. her fingers are long and slender, her skin noticeably smoother and fairer in complexion. hers are the hands of a possible concert pianist, an aristocrat, further proof of the mysteries of genetics. though once interlaced with mine, the differences mostly fall away. ava held my hand on some pretty unthinkable days, through some pretty unthinkable weeks and months, through the endless before and after. she held my hand when I shut down and pushed everyone else away, and then when I pretended I was fine. she was quiet but sure about it and acted with the same gentle tenacity as her grandmother, my mother, did for so many years.

her hands are my hands are my mother's hands.

she'll slip the sterling silver dogwood ring on her middle left finger one of these days and she'll see me, feel me. she'll remember her grandmother too. she'll look down when she needs to and know. we're as close as her left hand. closer, even. she'll know this. the ring on her hand will remind her.

(first written for motherhood with a camera, a space lovingly carved out by the luminous amy grace)

any minute now

I have not put up the first christmas decoration. not one. wait, I take that back-- last monday, I hung a wreath on the front door, the one my mom gave me nearly a decade ago, the one that reminds of the one she used to hang on her front door every single year. from the outside, we look pretty merry. on the inside, we are not. well, not yet.

it's not for lack of desire. the truth is I've been buried with work, which is not necessarily something to complain about when you're freelance. happy to have the work, begging for the work (always) but it's the middle of december and there's no tree in this here house. no sap to pinch off the ends of branches, no tangles of string lights. the christmas records haven't even been brought out, the little forest does not yet live on the mantle. in fact, the closest we've come to christmas spirit around here happened sunday night, when we finally told ezra the buzz lightyear story. I couldn't believe, he'd never heard it. and for the first time (maybe ever), I read something aloud from my blog to him-- a story I'd written about him. friends, it was a good moment, one I'll always remember. the way he smiled as I read it to him, the questions he asked afterwards, the way we laughed and laughed. frankly, I wonder what my kids will think about the things I've written about them here. I wonder what our conversations will sound like once they go digging through the archives, especially during those early years, when they were littles, when they were my entire world and I was theirs, when raising them absolutely consumed me. and it still does, but it's different now.

the shift is coming, I can feel it. the spirit is about to hit this house hard. the christmas records are calling, all the way from their musty corner in the garage, the little trees are crying for the mantle. our tree is out there somewhere, waiting for us to bring it home.

today. today is the day.

favorites

a few favorites from thanksgiving before the week starts, before the world shifts back into high gear and the magic wears off.

five senses friday

borrowed from my friend shari, who had the brilliant idea of documenting a week in this particular way and boy, was this a week for the senses:

seen: waves like sea glass, failed sandcastles, the whip of the kite in ezra's hands, the best thanksgiving movie ever, exactly four pink sunsets and one big crazy moon

heard: the birthday song (twice), a chorus of snores, a few human cannonballs, the begging of children (for night swimming), the quiet pop of cranberries cooking, the endless roar of the ocean

smelled: saltiest gulf air, secret coffee beans, melted birthday candle wax, elevator air freshener gone horribly wrong, turkey in the oven, coconut suntan lotion on my skin

tasted: stumptown coffee in the morning, leftover cranberry sauce on my toast, mashed potatoes and gravy, pie, pie, pie

felt: cold ocean water around my ankles, hot sunshine on the back of my neck, the weight of the SX-70 in my hands, a collection of shells in my pocket, sand (omg everywhere), thankfulness, thankfulness, thankfulness

file this under

file this under: photographs I wish could climb back inside, just for a little while. this time, this age, this street, this portland. this quiet, these colors. like butterscotch in my mouth, honey in my hand.

halloween

cousins and bonfires and pumpkin guts and hot cider and string lights. and aunts and uncles and charred marshmallows and ward's childhood monster record. and candy! and hippies and jawas.

and jawas!

full disclosure: I was hand-sewing that jawa business up until the very. last. minute.

double full disclosure: I consumed many, many bowls of count chocula.