one last time

cold and wet but totally worth it.

homecoming

every year around this time, I sit at the little wooden desk by the window in the front room and I watch. I wait for the little explosions, for the tiny green buds on the two trees in the front yard to break open and scream pink. every year, I watch and I wait. and every year, when it finally happens, it reminds me. of that time we said yes, that time we closed our eyes and leaped into that place they call the unknown. or, in our case, the great pacific northwest. pink blooms remind me that we were brave once. they ceremoniously mark another year here for us in the city of portland, oregon.

I think about the first time we drove down our street. a knotty-headed two year-old ezra, a wide-eyed six year-old ava, a bewildered seventeen year-old cat and a thoroughly exhausted 36 year-old me and 38 year-old ward. we'd just finished driving across the country. seven days, eleven states. georgia into tennessee into kentucky into illinois into missouri into kansas into colorado into wyoming into utah into idaho. and then finally, oregon. oregon with its green green green everything everywhere, its commanding, unforgiving winds and magnificent vistas, its chartreuse moss quietly covering every surface in sight. and then we were driving across a bridge (who remembers which one) into a brand new city and then we were driving down our street for the very first time, beyond exhaustion but also wild with excitement and above all else, wildly hopeful. when we pulled up to our house for the first time, all we could see were the pink blooms and a spectacular mess of pink confetti on the front sidewalk. the trees have thrown us a little party, I thought. it's got to be a sign.

seven years later, here we are, exploding pink trees and all. when things started to bloom last week, all the old feelings came back again, just like they always do. I walked outside, camera in hand, just like I always do, tried (in vain) to shoot the exploding trees in a way that would tell the story, just like I always do. every year, I try. I always try. I pointed my SX-70 at those little pink guys and hoped for the best. last shot of the pack, last few days of the blooms. and the last time I will sit at the little wooden desk at the window in the front room of this house and wait, the last time I will watch the two trees in this front yard turn bubblegum pink, the last time I will point my camera up towards those bloom-covered branches. because in a few short months, we'll be making our way back home. we'll be moving back to atlanta, georgia.

there's a longer story, of course, but the short of it is that we miss family. we're tired of living so far from the people we love. we love portland, but we love our people more. that's what it comes down to, I guess. we're choosing the family we love over the city we love. is there any other way? any other choice? for us, there is not. most days, I vacillate between weepy and giddy-- weepy for everything and everyone we're leaving behind, giddy for the mountain of good that waits for us on the other side. I am a tangled, knotty mess of emotions. and I am currently up to my eyeballs in purging and packing, in list making and problem solving. I am swimming in change, paddling fast, struggling to keep my head above water. I can see the other side but just barely. there are still so many miles to go, so many miles. I find myself wishing the time away, begging for something like a giant fast forward button. and then I panic when I realize what that would actually mean. when we've finished with the move and we begin the big road trip home, this part of life will officially be over. portland, as we know it, will be over. a thing we will talk about, past tense. and I cannot imagine it. I want it to be over but I never want it to end. does that make any sense? probably not. but that's the sentence I find myself repeating over and over. I want it to be over but I never want it to end.

in the meantime, petals are falling. little papery bits of pink are beginning to carpet the front sidewalk. soon, the ground will be covered and I'll take my shoes off. I'll walk barefoot through the confetti, just like I always do. I will stand in it one last time. and I will remember that time we said yes, that time we jumped, that time we were brave.

blue

no words this week, just blue. and a thankfulness for friends with roomy blue floral couches and hidden blue vinyl, for blue skies and launderettes and back door color. for xanthe and this color collaboration and a brand new happy place.

orange

when I was little, orange was my favorite color. I liked the way the word sounded, the way it rolled around my mouth. I could almost taste it, I could smell it. it was the one word that actually sounded like the color that it was. I can remember thinking this, remember the moment. the brown vinyl interior of the station wagon, legs stuck to the seat, arms out the window, driving through town, running errands with my mom. orange, I thought to myself. orrrrrange, you sound good to me. you feel right. so funny, the things you remember from childhood, the things that stay with you. little clips that loop endlessly, fortuitously.

I have been saying the word inside my head all week. orange. I have been thinking about that seven year-old girl. I have been missing her.

(more orange over at color//colour lovers, over at xanthe's)

(and now we are swimming in blue)

purple

not pictured: the bundle of small purple mums I treated myself to, the little bottles of purple nail polish I never got around to using, the grape popsicle I wanted (and the purple tongue it would have surely given me), the handful of purple houses I passed while the running of the errands (similar to the running of the bulls though not nearly as exciting), the lost prince 45 that was, of course, purple.

I will not lie. purple is not my favorite. but after this week, I don't know. I'm starting to come around.

(more purple over at color//colourlovers and over at xanthe's spot)

(meanwhile, we are knee deep in juicy, juicy orange)

green

I'll tell you, I love this project. I really do. because the minute I focus on a particular color, I begin to see it everywhere. and I mean everywhere. in small places, hidden places, places it's probably always been but my eyes have glossed right over it. I never noticed that our paint brush handles are that lovely shade of green. and I am sorry to say, but I probably would have walked right by that green bicycle. I might've noticed it for a second but it would not have jumped out at me. it would not have commanded me to stop and inspect it, to point my camera at it. because that's what the color does, it screams out at me all week long. notice me! see me! here I am! no matter what I have going on in life (and friends, there are things, there are big things), the color is there. to remind me, to ground me. to root me squarely in that ever important little time period we like to call the present.

you know what else? I am loving co-collaborator xanthe's green balloons. I am loving her green fingertips. and I cannot wait to see the purples and violets this week brings. I am wondering what places I'll find them, where they will be hiding.

number twelve

number twelve off the list: own a pink ukulele.

because, january. because, february. because, I don't know. I just wanted one. it's a very twee sort of thing to want to own, I realize this. and I will admit to something else. I did not even think about actually learning how to play it. I just wanted it. I wanted to hold it. and look at it and take photographs of it. I wanted it like a kid wants candy. because it's sweet and pretty and good, because surely it would lead to happiness.

but when I got a little bit of birthday money (an amazon gift card, actually, thank you sweet in-laws), all I could think about were the practical things I needed. a new kitchen knife, for one, because I have been cutting fruits and vegetables with something akin to a butter knife. I have lost my mind over the cutting of pineapples, have thrown my fists up in the air over a pile of carrots. people, I need a new kitchen knife. desperately. and new sneakers. I have worn mine down to the nubs and my body has had it. she tells me this after every walk I take. I need new sneaks.

but I think you know how this story ends. to be fair, I researched the heck out of trainers and a most excellent kitchen knife sat in my little amazon cart for weeks. in the end, I went for the pink ukulele. because, of course I did. and when it finally arrived in the mail, it made me as happy as I thought it would. happier, even, because I've started to teach myself how to play. at night, of course, after everyone has gone to bed and the house is quiet. and you know what else? ava has started to play too. I hear her plink plink plinking away and it fills me with so much happy that it just spirals right out through the top of my head.

and we don't really know what we're doing, we're probably doing it all wrong but we're making up silly songs and we're learning chords and strum patterns and at least now there's a little bit more music floating around these parts. dang it if it hasn't been the best thing to happen to this house in months. also? favorite pink thing, ever. ever. of course, I still curse every time I cut into a pineapple and wince a little bit after a long walk but I'll take it. because I don't know what we did before this little pink ukulele. I really don't.

pink

friends, it's been a wild, wild week. still, I looked for pink. and found it, in both likely and unlikely places. not pictured: the seventeen shades of pink nail polish I wanted to buy at the drugstore, the old pink cadillac that lives in the neighborhood, the tiny pink paper umbrella I keep in my desk drawer, pink cheeks cold from the first big snow we've had here in portland in three years.

and there's one more pink thing. a special pink thing, my new favorite pink thing, maybe my favorite pink thing of all time. but I shall share that tomorrow.

(more pink over at color//colour lovers, a collaborative project with the spectacular ms. xanthe)

forty is the new forty

forty is not the new twenty. it's not even the new thirty. listen, forty is the new forty because forty is forty. forty is good, forty is great, forty doesn't need to pretend to be anything it isn't.

I did not always feel this way. what I mean is, I opened my arms to forty, or said I was going to, or something like that. I said I was ready, I said I wanted it but I didn't mean it, not really. I didn't want it, not for a second. I stood at forty's door, stared hopelessly through it and that cool woman I thought for sure I'd be, the one who'd embrace every wrinkle, every grey hair, every sagging, drooping bit, the one who'd unapologetically wear those imperfections like the aging champion she'd surely be, that woman was nowhere to be found. that woman was probably someone my twenty-something self foolishly invented back in the early nineties. and so I began to see myself in photographs and think, is that what I look like? what I really look like? and then, holy crap, am I actually that woman? who sees herself in photographs and asks questions like that?

then, vanity became the least of my worries. things fell apart. my mom got sick and I watched her die. I watched her die slowly, painfully.  some other sad things happened and I got tired. I blamed forty. I thought, if this is what it means to be forty, I want no part of it. if it means things only get harder, that the hill before me tilts impossibly upward, no thank you. if it means I will care (more than I'd like) about the kinds of clothes I should or should not wear, what shade of lipstick is age appropriate, where that one wrinkle came from or why I look so tired all the time, if this is what forty means, I don't want it. if it means wallowing in a tepid pool of nostalgia for the rest of my days, then you can have it. more importantly, if it means watching the people I love die then I DON'T WANT IT, OKAY. I DON'T WANT YOU, FORTY. I REJECT YOU.

so I rejected forty, I refused it. but, as you know, it does not work this way. as it turns out, this is not exactly possible and when things finally quieted down, so did the crazy talk. I cannot tell you when things changed for me but they did. somewhere along the way, I softened. there was no lightbulb moment, no woo-woo life altering experience, I just gradually found myself in that place, that good place you sometimes hear people talk about, that place you've earned simply because you have lived. and you love the way you look but you don't love the way you look and somehow, these feelings now co-exist in a way you never thought possible. you lose people you love and the heartbreak changes you so profoundly you cannot help but see your time in the world with new eyes, you cannot help but live with just a little bit of a lump in your throat. the thing is, this is what makes the living good-- better, even. the fragile, teetering part, the knowing part, the one that finally acknowledges that time is not infinite and you are not actually immortal. and when you see things with these eyes, the world around you changes. when you see forty with these eyes, forty is beautiful. because you are alive and you know what that means, what that really means. you are both flawed and flawless, broken but completely intact, imperfectly perfect. you are in your own skin, your own God-given skin. finally. and it feels good, even if it is changing, it feels right.

which is when you realize forty is not the new twenty, it is not the new thirty, it is not the new anything. forty is forty because calling it anything else would be an insult to the decade you've worked so hard to find your way into. pretending it's anything else means you've missed the point entirely. forty is forty and what you know now in your bones is that you would not have it any other way.

yellow

not pictured: the yellow tulips I bought, the spill of yellow paint on the sidewalk, the yellow balloons meant to attract potential apartment renters, the neon yellow straw I chose at the coffee shop, the old yellow cigar boxes stacked in the kitchen, the number 16 on the back of ezra's basketball jersey, the bag of lemons I brought home to photograph but forgot.

(for color//colour with xanthe)

(next up: pink)

red

red used to be my favorite color. or, one of my favorite colors. pink, orange, red, yellow, turquoise, it changes all the time. I can never really decide. but back in college, it was red and I had this friend who secretly collected red things for me-- a pack of big red gum, a red bottle cap, a red pencil, a red plastic bracelet, a stop sign, an actual stop sign. when he finally gave these things to me, I didn't know what to say. because, well, it was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me. it was simple and thoughtful and creative and absolutely romantic. my eighteen year-old self did not know how to receive such a gesture. my eighteen year-old self was overwhelmed with the implications. but lookit, here I am, still talking about it twenty years later. darren, I still have all those red things. I still treasure them. you should know that, wherever you are.

so I have sort of soft spot for red. which I've been thinking about all week long as I've been collecting it-- a set of red numbers here, a bright red door there. a street performer's old band uniform, a pile of favorite red things from around the house. the act of collecting has brought me as much joy as that sweet little collection of reds given to me twenty years ago. at the big downtown library, I spent an hour in the photography section selecting only books with red spines. I wore red on my fingertips, discovered at least a hundred red things in my neighborhood. I began to see little bits of red everywhere I went. red, red, red.

red, I still love you. I really really do.

(more over on color//colour lovers, more about the project and more over on fellow color collaborator xanthe's blog)

(next up:  y e l l o w)

COLOR//COLOUR

it was just about this time last year I went looking for color. portland's bleak brand of january left me no choice. I was parched, desperate for it. so I took matters into my own hands, went out looking for it and found it. I'll tell you, it made me pretty happy. so happy, in fact, I forgot how grey everything was, how many more grey months lay ahead of us. for a second, I forgot all about the january uphill. color as antidote, simple as that. the looking for it, the shooting of it, the bringing it home in intangible and tangible ways.

how about I went head to head with the grey and how about I won.

as it turned out, my friend xanthe had been doing the same. 4,910 miles away in london, xanthe was as fed up with the grey as I was and decided to make her own colour. so I pulled up a chair and I followed along. I drank in every colorful detail of every colour-drenched post. her images and films were like a shot in the arm. it was the mindset, though. the intention behind the images that hooked me. and so began a conversation. the turning of an idea over and over between us, the idea of a color collaboration. and then it was january. again. and then, of course, it was time. pleased to announce: 

COLOR//COLOUR:  seven weeks of the seeking and the capturing of color in photographs and films. 

RED: week one, mon 20th january

YELLOW: week two, mon 27th january

PINK: week three, mon 3rd february

GREEN: week four, mon 10th february

PURPLE: week five, mon 17th february

ORANGE: week six, mon 24th february

BLUE: week seven, mon 3rd march

we'll be hunting color on the streets of portland, oregon and london, england, we'll be looking for it in the corners of our homes and in the details of our neighborhoods. we'll be wearing it on our bodies and painting it on our fingers and toes. we'll be finding it in buckets of flowers and bins of produce at the market, in the aisles of party supply stores and on the shelves of thrift shops. we'll be finding new ways to flood our grey days with color and we'll be documenting and sharing, as much as we can. 

there'll be bits and pieces here on the blog and over at xanthe's and then over on instagram but the real party will be over on our new tumblr COLOR//COLOUR LOVERS, where our photographs and films will totally be color BFFs and live together forever and ever amen. play along, if you like. share wherever you are here on the world wide internets. find us over on instagram. there will be hashtags. the more color, the better, I say. more more more.

take that, winter.

68

today, she would have been 68. my mom would have been 68. two years ago today, she wore that little crown, blew that little party horn. I sent them in a package, gave her strict instructions, I made sure said instructions were followed. I couldn't be there to celebrate with her but I sent a box full of happy in my place. and I'm thankful that at least there was that. but oh to have hopped on a plane, to have been with her one last birthday.

today, I will buy her favorite flowers. listen to her favorite music, watch her favorite movies. I will wear her favorite silver dogwood ring, her favorite turquoise bracelets. I'll see her everywhere I look, in the shape of my hands, the color and texture of my skin, hear her in the way I speak, feel her in the way I stand at the kitchen sink, weight rested squarely in the left hip, right foot extended. I will see her light in the eyes of ezra and ava. there will be cake, there will be candles. I'll wear the crown she wore, blow the horn she blew that last birthday. then I'll slip them back into that soft yellow envelope, tuck it back into the suitcase that holds all the special things.

happy birthday, mom. I love you.

the year of

2013, the year of a thousand things. some of them good, really really good, some of them not.

it was the year of big things and small things. of spelling bee victories and shots scored at first basketball games. the year library books, floor picnics and record albums saved us. the year the jar of magical thinking kept us sane. the year of the return to modern dance class, the year my body returned in earnest. it was the year of the avocado, the year of the marionberry, the year of the clementine, the year of coconut oil, coconut oil for everyone, on everything, in everything, forever and ever amen. it was the year of the morning walk, the evening walk and all the walks in between. it was the year of the kind of firsts you don't really want to have: the first birthday she was not here in this world, the first mothers day she was not here in this world, the first summer without her. it was the year I realized I would always be motherless. always. it was the year of paris, the year of france. the year ava got her first passport and traveled with me across the ocean over a thousand little white puffy clouds to a foreign country for the very first time. the year of the mona lisa and the eiffel tower, the year of the parisian fleamarket and the croque-monsieur, of the accordion player and the almond croissant. the year of tiny pink forks and mysteriously wavy hair, of narrow cobblestone streets and dreamy crepes and candy-like strawberries. the year I fell head over heels crazy in love with the metro, the year I lost myself in a million metro stories. it was the year I said yes to big things, to scary things, the year of the happy frenzy with the french kids and the polaroids, the year of my sweet friend irene. it was the year I kept pinching myself to see if things were real. it was the year of broken friendships. of broken promises and heated arguments and words spoken too quickly, too carelessly. the year I let a few old friends go and welcomed some new ones. it was the year of the unorganized basement, the unorganized attic, the unorganized almost everything. the year I vowed to turn it all around. and failed, miserably. it was the year I stopped trying to do everything, be everything. the year I learned to do without, go without. the year I learned to let go.

it was the year of ava the skateboarder and the astronomer, of ezra the lego builder and the ball handler. it was the last year of the single digit birthday and the first year of the teenage birthday. the year ezra turned nine and ava turned thirteen. it was the year I fought the xbox. and lost. the year of six-second video vine-making and marathon minecraft-playing, of kite-flying and origami-folding, of lemonade stand-having and happy thing-making, of road-tripping and adventure-taking. of intricately-constructed backyard forts and first-time yurt camping. the year of sunflower fields and tide pools, of beach caves and concrete city slides, of pinball museums and drive-in movies, of boardwalks and sky candies. the year of astoria and port townsend, the year of santa cruz. the year I fell in love with the hills of butchertown and the streets of oakland. the year of jon and joy and eric and amanda, the year of bob and jen, of alix and greg and wolfie, of jenny and henry. it was the year of many, many humbling sorts of kindnesses, too many to mention here. it was the year of the feast, the year of the famine. the year work came in great fits and starts, the year we wondered how (if) we were going to make it. the year of portrait shoots and wedding shoots and uppercase magazine columns, the year of window-dressings and show-havings, the year of instant magic workshops with middle schoolers (and non-middle schoolers alike). the year of peel-apart film and the smell of fuji chemicals, the year of the zip and the whirrr of the polaroid camera. the year of the ingenious impossible project instant lab, of the weighty twin lens yashica and all those joyful little spools of 120 film. the year of fifty-two sundays and seventy things. it was the year of the photobooth. well, it is always the year of the photobooth. it was the year of the secret project, the secret wish, the secret hope, the secret handshake. the year I learned to say yes, the year I learned to say no. it was the year I walked through fire to get to the other side, the year I learned what it means to forgive, what it really and truly means to forgive. the year I leaned into the love of God and learned that it was (and is), indeed, infinite.