142/365

messages put in the plastic eggs today for the easter egg hunt:

"this is a magic egg, I'm serious"
"redeem this slip of paper for a magical penny from the magical jar of magical pennies"
"redeem this slip of paper for a magical condiment packet from the magical box of magical condiment packets"
"you are hereby required to give all your orange jelly beans to mom aka aunt andrea"
"hop like a bunny or forfeit your easter candy"
"if you are reading this slip of paper that means you are alive and that should be prize enough"
"for real though I will take you to sonic"

118/365

things seen on my walk yesterday:

bloom explosions like tiny lilac firecrackers
a tree stump the size of a small car
three little free libraries
one bright orange door
one pink plastic ribbon
folks on bikes, everywhere
swirls of pale yellow pollen in every puddle, every single one
and a cardinal, that swooped past at the very last minute

three years ago

march, three years ago (march, a lifetime ago)

110/365

things to do this spring:

open windows
hoard orange jelly beans
read books under exploding trees 
walk down streets in unknown neighborhoods
color easter eggs til fingers are sufficiently stained
defend marshmallow peeps
defend defend defend
buy records
pick strawberries
steam asparagus
shoot polaroids
share polaroids
pack up car
get out of town
plant things
plant things
I WILL PLANT THINGS

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)

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)

popcorn

the way I see it, spring is a wednesday. a thursday. summer is friday and saturday. fall is a saturday night, an all-day sunday affair. and, winter. I think we all know what winter is. winter is a monday. a tuesday, maybe. on a good day.

what I'm trying to say is, we're in wednesday territory, folks, almost to thursday. I can feel friday coming, I can feel it in my bones. the trees have all exploded, like popcorn on the side of the highway, in grocery store parking lots, in my front yard. tiny petals like white paper confetti, every time the wind blows. I find it in my hair, in the crook of my sleeve, the bottoms of my feet.

and I miss the two trees back in portland that used to explode with pink blooms every year, I really do, but now I have the popcorn tree in my front yard. I can watch it out my front window just like I did with the two trees back in portland. I can point my polaroid camera at things, try to hold onto it as long as I can, as I am wont to do, but the blooms are gone in a second.  it's the confetti it leaves behind on our driveway, though. I walk over it on my way to check the mailbox at the end of  our drive and I am reminded.

friday. friday is almost here.

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.

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.

sundays (13/52-17/52)

(13/52)

14/52

15/52

16/52

17/52

sunday, march the 31st: plaster easter eggs in baskets inherited from the great basket collector (aka my mother), daffodils plus ridiculous/golden/magic/buttery light, breakfast just before church and my friend julie with the most perfect easter dessert of all time, forever and ever amen.

sunday, april the 7th: decorated easter eggs, one week later. stinky. but sweet. but stinky.

sunday, april the 14th: freckles. my goodness with the freckles.

sunday, april the 21st: living room, rearranged. plus the day I wasn't feeling it.

sunday, april the 28th: magic park time, a sidewalk masterpiece, the cusp of thirteen and my favorite kind of shadow.

five sundays! five! bits and pieces all smooshed together in one big lovely jumble. and now I am almost caught up. almost.

spring, sort of

I have been in the land of lincoln, at my parent's home going through my mother's things. a type of sifting and sorting not recommended for the faint of heart. the truth is that my mother was a great collector of a good many things. I have spent the better part of nine days going through these things, going through and going through and going through. trying to decide what stays, what goes. because it cannot all stay. I wish that it could, but it cannot.

while I was here, spring came. sort of. my dad took me out of for a lemon ice cream cone and the sun was shining and I thought, this is one of those moments. one of those good moments that people always talk about. I should maybe file it away in that brain file we all have, you know the one. Good Moments For Remembering Always.

while I was here, sixteen inches of snow fell and covered the ground. the ultimate middle finger to spring lovers everywhere. this was a kind of snow that was not kidding around, not even a little bit and before we knew it we were snowed in with nothing in the pantry but spaghetti noodles and an almost-expired can of cherry pie filling. and here all this time I thought I wanted snow, have been begging for it every single day since the first of december. and then I got it. and wouldn't you know? I did not want it. this snow threw everything all off (including my flight home) and so I threw a little fit for about five minutes. and then I threw my hands up in the air and baked a cherry pie. because what I know now is that the best cherry pies are ones that are baked out of desperation.

I woke up this morning to the sound of birds. I am nowhere close to being finished with the sifting and the sorting of my mother's things and I miss my dad so much already. but I know pink blossoms and my people wait for me in portland.

(testing testing)

hey, how about a few test shots with the new PX680 color shade cool film? which I took a few weekends ago when that guy I like (yep, the one I'm married to) and I headed downtown for a night at the crystal hotel. that was a good weekend, people. I need a little time machine. is what I need. so I can revisit past adventures and getaways. please, someone invent that. 

(some necessary information, should you feel you need it: above images taken with the polaroid SX-70 and impossible project PX680 beta/test color shade cool film, no ND filter, exposure dial turned all the way dark, temperature in the 60s)

I'm blaming it on spring

I don't know what happened but something inside me snapped this week and now everything is everywhere. it started with a drawer filled with too many ridiculous things, which I promptly dumped, cleaned and sorted. and then once I started, I couldn't stop. bins, drawers, closets, shelves. I've upended the contents of this house. it's for the best, really. furniture has been rearranged, collections have been switched around and now there's an urge to paint, a really really strong urge to paint.

my desk is maybe the only uncluttered space in the house, which is funny since it's usually the other way around. you know what else? I've done some excellent thinking this week. creatively speaking, things were sort of off the charts there for a couple of days. ideas coming at me left and right, hovering and flashing around my head like lightning bugs. I couldn't write them all down fast enough.

there's still a mountain of work ahead but there's something to be said for momentum, something to be said for making space.

brand spanking new

this is the part where I tell you that I hoard paper. pretty paper, non-pretty paper, wall paper, wrapping paper, found paper. paper paper paper. there are rolls in the basement, scraps in boxes and folders and envelopes. occasionally, they make the pages of the moleskine but today they are front and center-- in the form of a happy new banner. if you are confused, look to the tip top of the page.

just seemed like it was time for a change. time for a pop of color. spring does that to me.

p.s. many many thanks to that guy I love for the help. the truth is that I'd be lost without him.

I am so ready

I don't know about you but I am ready for this month they call march. ready for the last day of winter, the first day of spring. ready for the beginnings of daffodils and tulips and ranunculus. ready for slightly longer days and just a little bit more light. ready for the two trees in the front yard to explode with pink blooms. ready to pretend like it's warm enough for sandals. ready to celebrate five years here in portland and seven years in this here hula seventy space. ready for the spring break rowdies. and adventure. I am totally ready for a little adventure.

so go ahead, march. work your magic, do your thing. I'm ready.

list thirty-four: things to do this spring

in no particular order:

1. break out the bike

2. keep the vases filled with ranunculus

3. teach a workshop

4. rearrange the collections

5. study portraits

6. watch the trees in the front yard explode with pink blooms

7. stand in the aftermath

8. bring out the mismatched yellow floral plates

9. celebrate four years of living in portland

10. paint a couple dozen eggs

11. lose self in tulip fields

12. revel in the extra hour of light

13. hoard marshmallow peeps

14. hoard orange jellybeans

15. shoot more rolls of film with the canon

16. paint with mati, cook with tracy

17. head downtown to the farmers market

18. revisit old family vacation photographs

19. watch for the poppies and the peonies

20. participate in spring color week

21. order saltwater sandals

22. plant seeds

23. prepare for this kid's seventh birthday

24. spend a day wandering

25. escape with friends

26. hang new string lights in the backyard

27. shoot more of the impossible project's glorious new PX 680 color film

28. plan the season's first picnic

29. find out what the center of the earth looks like

30. wear the edith piaf record out

31. take dance class

32. pray for sun

oh hi

where to start, where to begin? work my way backwards? or start with the beginning and work forward? it's possible I am overthinking it. over the last three weeks, there's been a shoot in cincinnati, a few visiting germans and an unexpected trip home. and probably a few other things. also? along the way, I missed three lists. THREE LISTS. so, you know. things are all off kilter here.

but it's friday, people. I don't know about you, but we're still on spring break. and, as it turns out, instant film is not dead. so, until further notice, we'll be jumping on hotel beds to celebrate. we'll be jumping until it's time to come home.

also

I've been eating peeps. happily, methodically.