Marcie Scudder - writing portfolio

CREATIVE WRITINGS:

The muscles of writing are not so visible, but they are just as powerful: determination, attention, curiosity, a passionate heart.- Natalie Goldberg

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On these pages can be found a collection of 'blog posts' written as both a contributor and collaborator on various sites here on the web. More than a few short sentences...less than a short story - they each represent nothing other than the moment. Short little musings. Another 'practice' and meditation in mindfulness.

Welcome..and please - feel free to peruse at your leisure.

Enjoy!

Because I Have A Voice

By the time you read this – the Oscars will have been handed out…the red carpet will have been rolled away..and it will be just a day like any other.

Altho I’ve seen only a few of the movies that are up for the big awards – it is The King’s Speech that I most loved. The rendering of royalty as merely human – somehow surprised me. That simply being born into it..does not make one a ‘monarch’ or ‘a leader’..and that for those who are – it is not a life of choice..but one of duty and obligation.

This humble prince’s struggle to find himself and his voice..and to speak his words clearly and without hesitation somehow resonated with me. With a path and road laid out for him..without any question as to whether that sort of a life might fit his internal parts and pieces..he was pushed and forced to rise to the occasion. To be – who we know as – King George VI of England.

On some level – I’d like to believe that it’s a universal struggle..one each and every one of us bumps up against day after day. Or – perhaps – it’s just my own?

It wasn’t that long ago – it seems – when I first set out to find a ‘voice’. Although I never had any sort of speech impediment or difficulties – in my own way – I stammered..and stuttered…and struggled with forming my thoughts and ideas. Of expressing myself in a way that was uniquely mine. I knew what the path was that I was supposed to follow..but I couldn’t find the one that was true to my heart.

Set your intention

The energy will follow.

The quest for this ‘voice’ has become a big part of an ongoing conversation with myself. In my personal journaling..in my daily practice..in my life.

Like the Prince – I am lucky enough to have someone who walks beside me on this quest and journey. A trusted guide. A faithful witness. A someone who sits with my insecurities and fears…and who repeats and echos back at me my reluctant words. A one who listens and hears things that I’d rather not hear myself. Who sees me for who I am. A friend who often believes more in myself than I’ll ever.

It was in the last dialogue exchange between Colin Firth (the prince and reluctant King) and Geoffrey Rush (his speech therapist) – that I most remember. Angry at himself..frustrated..terrified..and needing to make his very first speech – the newly crowned ‘King’ challenged the credibility of his ordinary ‘teacher’…testing their relationship and trust. It was a back and forth conversation between two men who were being pushed to their emotional edge. To that – the teacher wondered and asked why it is that he should waste any more of his precious time listening to his friend and ‘King’. To which – the King replied – without hesitation or stammer or slightest hint of stutter:

“Because I have a voice.”

It was heroic..really. It was – in a man’s life – a transformative moment. To acknowledge to himself and discover that he does have a voice..and the inner strength and will to express it. I do believe – it’s universal. It’s not just he..or me..but something that each and every one of us struggles with at one point of another throughout life.

Lucky for me and for most - I’ll never have to appear in public..or make any sort of monumental speeches. I can stammer and stutter and bump my way along without anyone taking much notice. But – like the regal king – I wrestle with my voice. What it is..if I and it have anything worthwhile to say..and how that voice – if it were to actually speak out loud – might be received by its audience.

Quietly..on careful tiptoes and in soft whispers – I am finding my way. With stops and starts and long and deep and slow breaths. With exercises in proper elocution and execution. With practice. I can now say without so much question or self-doubt.

I do. I too. I have a voice.

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Vision and Verb (28 February 2011)

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Imagining Wishes

Yes – it’s Valentine’s Day.

Never have I been a believer in holidays that are marked with consumerism. Holidays from which corporate entities may profit from our need to buy into the mentality of ‘spending’ as a way of demonstrating our thoughts..our feelings.

So often I find myself the cynic…the nay-sayer..the dis-believer..when all I really want is to believe. Always needing to explore …to question…to pull things apart and look at them from the inside and then the out. Impossible to simply accept it for what it is. A holiday. A hallmark one. A one that is about nothing other than expressing one’s love.

My first – in kindergarten. A boy with whom I walked to and from school with. We often stopped and picked flowers out of other people’s gardens. Young. Innocent.

My second – in elementary school. Another young lad who shared after-school ice cream at the corner malt shop. Sweet.

My third – in those days of pre and early adolescence. A ski buddy. A boy without whom skiing would never have been the same. We were inseparable. Attached at the hip. Best of boy/girl friends.

And then followed those emotionally charged…hormone-infested…roller-coaster years of adolescence. A time when it all seemed to take on such weight and enormous measure. ‘Love’ and its pursuit – became my greatest fantasy and dream..as well as my most dreaded nightmare. Turbulent.. exuberant..joyous..hot and heavy..sweet and light. .. and sadly and always ending in heartbreak. Mine or his.

Love.

The love that – perhaps – surprised me the most was ‘mother-love’. The fierce..passionate….undying love I had for my babies. From the moment of each of their births – I felt it as something different than anything I’d ever known before. A love that was and is to this day – unconditional. A love that carries with it all of life’s greatest lessons. A love that questions and stretches and pushes and pulls me in every direction imaginable….but a one that endures and never ends. A powerful love. A one that puts their lives – always – ahead of mine.

The man to whom I’m married. Over twenty-eight years of time-tested love. Often taken for granted and sometimes unnoticed..but ever-present and strong. Another which has sustained the trials of life – the ups and downs..the gains and losses…the busy years of raising babies…the tumultuous ones of herding adolescents. And now – a quieter…more comfortable..settled kind of love. Like the oldest and softest of favorite worn shoes.

What is love?

Little red hearts don’t define it. Chocolates can’t possibly sweeten it. Roses are nothing other than an ornamentation of it.

What I most struggle with is this concept of self-‘love’. Of this looking and really seeing myself each day for exactly who I am..accepting and embracing. The bad. The good. The ugly. Of speaking to myself in a way and tone in which I might converse with a friend. Softly. Gently. Kindly. Supporting. Encouraging. In comparison – all other ’loves’ come easy. I have known to be my very own worst enemy….and I’d like to think and imagine and hope that someday I might learn to be my bestest of best friends. My own greatest love. Not a love for self that outshines all others..but a one that might be offered up and shared. A reflective and complimentary kind of love.

Yes- its Valentine’s Day.

A day that is marked with little red hearts and roses..and hallmark words that are nothing other than sugar-coated candy to the heart and soul.

To my mother – elegant roses.

To my children – sweet chocolate and kisses.

To my husband – romance and a dinner that is candle-lit.

And to myself – a little..and just for this one day – some kind words..and a fistful of heartfelt ‘love’.

Vision and Verb (14 February 2011)

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Careful What You Wish For

Winter.

A one single word. Evocative..powerful…visual. I don’t think there is any other season that suggests such dark and desperate emotion.

Winter.

That single word made up the first sentence of a short story I once studied written by Sholom Aleichem. Immediately – one could see..feel..hear..and almost taste the harsh barren coldness of life in the distant northeastern European shtetls. Women wrapped up in old rags. Men in their heavy coats. Merchant carts overloaded with their wares..being pushed and pulled thru the snow.

It brings to mind dark Dickensian scenes. Of beggar children in the streets of pre-Industrial-age London. Hungry. Cold. Pleading for food to nourish their bodies. The glow of the gas lamps thru the ever-falling snow. Hardship.

Romantic images from Dr. Zhivago and the cold hard struggle for both love and survival. Of Ayn Rand and her vivid descriptions of the harsh Siberian landscape. Howling winds. Drifting snow. Bone-chilling cold.

Winter.

A season when the days are short..the nights long. When the temperatures often drop to well-below zero. When the snow often blows cold and angry. When the winds cut right thru to the bone. A season when – often – daily life is a struggle. To stay warm. To stay energized. To maintain hope when all seems so dark and endlessly hopeless.

It’s a season that is hard for many. Never-ending. Rendered in shades of only grey and white. Void of color. Void of nature’s energy and life. It can be so easy to lose a sense of perspective. That this – this beautiful cold white moment – is all we get. It’s all there is. In a few short months – it will be history.

No denying it. This winter – here in the northeast – has been like no other I can remember. One snowfall following another. Bitter cold. Icey clear. A pure white blanket covering the ground. Skies – that are either monochromatic grey - filled with falling snow..or blindingly bright winter blue.

And – I am loving it. All of it. Every windswept..snow blown..frosty minute.

Winter.

For me – it represents a certain comfort. A familiarity. A warmth. A coming home.

As a northern girl growing up in Montreal we lived with this season. We dressed for it. We ate for it. We learned how to be outdoors in it. We skied. We skated. We spent long afternoons on our toboggans and sleds. We walked to and from school in it. Never a question of it being too cold..too wet..too windy. We embraced it…perhaps because we had no choice..or perhaps because the only way to the other side..is through.

And – I’ve missed that. All of these years – living in a more temperate..easier to navigate climate – I’ve missed those childhood winters…when all was perpetually white. When – in some ways – life was harder than it is easier…but so much more fun.

I wished for this winter. I hoped for it. I celebrated the first snow..and each one that followed. One ‘storm’ after another. Deip shnay. Belle neige. Snow that is so thick that if we get much more it will soon be covering our first floor windows.

I’m like a child again. Playful. Energized. Throwing myself down into its powdery softness..feeling its cold and wet against my face. Wrestling and playing with my dog. Watching and wishing to – once again – spend carefree days sledding at the park. Knowing that home was always within reach..and that there – I would be greeted with hot cocoa and cookies and love.

Winter.

For some – I know – it’s a difficult season. A dark one. A hard one to embrace. But for me – winter is the season of light. Of bright white snow reflecting. Of knowing that what we have today..won’t be here tomorrow. This winter – for me – has been like wishing upon a star..and having that wish come true.

Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes – wishes DO come true!

Vision and Verb (31 January 2011)

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We Write

Overnite – the world has transformed itself from shades of winter grey..to the purest and whitest of whites. A warm winter blanket has wrapped itself around the sleeping earth..enveloping and embracing it..keeping it safe and warm. Awaiting spring. When life will re-awaken and emerge again. Anew.

Silence.

The wind in the trees. The song of an occasional bird who – I imagine – to have gotten itself lost and left behind. Forgotten. Nothing but the sound of my breath..the steady rhythm of my heart softly beating.

I write.

It was one year ago today – that I first made that declaration. That affirmation. That promise to myself..and to all of us others – that this would be a journey worth taking. Without any sort of pre-planned destination. Without knowing anything about one another. From all parts of the globe – we had only one thing in common – and that was our apparent love of photography and image-making. We – on this day – signed an unwritten pledge to travel this particular road together…wherever this road may go.

While walking in the newly fallen snow – I thought about the metaphors. That we were once silent…buried beneath this heavy blanket….awaiting our spring. It was from there that we each found ourselves our voices. At first – hesitant…anxious…worried that we had nothing relevant to say..to contribute..to write. What might others think? What might others – in this world of constant comments – say? How might we be ‘regarded’? How might we measure-up and be ‘graded’ for our efforts..for the choices we’ve made..for the lives that we are living?

As the winter ice and snow melted…and the earth began to warm – we each emerged stronger and clearer and more confident in our self-expressions. We dared to share our thoughts..our opinions and points-of-view. Some shared bits and pieces of past lives and childhoods..while others have shared their hopes and future dreams. Some write poetry. Others – prose.

We write…each in a style and voice and expression that was and is uniquely our own.

And throughout it all – we’ve supported one another. We’ve cheered each other on. We’ve encouraged. We’ve applauded. We’ve discovered that we are all one and the same. Altho we’d never met..we began conversations that were truly personal. We dared to speak…to crack ourselves open..to reveal parts of ourselves that we never thought we ever would. We found the extraordinariness in each of our ordinary days. We found new inner strengths. In one another and ourselves.

Some of us have been together since the very beginning. That first day. That first post. That first seed..emerging from its long winter rest. Others have joined us along the journey..jumping right in and meeting us all along our way. We’ve grown. In strength. In numbers. In our collective voices. In our visions and our verbs.

Today – in spite of the blanket of white that is silencing the world..we speak loudly and clearly. No longer waiting for the right time..the right place..the right season to emerge. Right here..right now – it is springtime. Our time.

From the big cities..to the smallest of small rural towns. From the plains of Africa to the suburbs here in the United States. Daughters and sisters and mothers and wives and now – friends. Thus far – it’s been an amazing journey…a road less-travelled…unexpected.

Together – we write.

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Vision and Verb (17 January 2011)

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Paper and String

It arrived on a warm winter’s day. A box simply wrapped. Something exciting – I thought…I hoped – as I rushed to open it in great anticipation and expectation of its precious contents. What a surprise to find nothing other than a long spool of thread-like string and a cut-out paper shape attached to its end. I looked for the cable connector..an attachment that would connect to the Wii or TV. I searched for its purpose and meaning..but it appeared that it was nothing other than what it revealed itself to be. Simple paper and simple string.

The recent snow we’d received was slowly melting. The sun was shining. The sandy beach was beckoning. It seemed the perfect time and space to see what this new ‘toy’ might be. This gift.

Carefully – I laid it on the ground..my hands holding tight to the string. When all of a sudden with a burst of unexpected wind…the paper took flight. Up and up..higher and higher. It floated. It soared. It sailed.

As it dipped and swirled and whirled in the wind..I began to imagine myself perched on its wings. There – far and above the world where there is nothing but blue skies and clouds and birds flying. I imagined looking down at the little people..all of them wishing to be up here with me. Flying free. What fun – I thought – that would be.

No school. No rules. No expectations. I could – on the wings of my kite – be anyone I dreamed I might be. A heroic knight(ess)…flying in to rescue her dame in distress. A magical floating fairy princess…in search of her dream. A bird..graceful and strong..with its great wings flapping silently. Or perhaps – I could be an astronaut..one of the first girls to fly herself to the moon. Or – at the very least – the first one to fly across the ocean on nothing other than wishes and paper strings. Up there – where the air was bright - the question of what I might ‘do’ with my life held no meaning. All that mattered was that I could ‘be’ anything I dared.

I laughed at the kite. It laughed right back at me. Beckoning me to join it in its wild adventure. A free spirit and soul. It had a heart and a mind of its own. One minute..flying so high I was afraid it might disappear. The next..plunging itself nose first …sometimes skimming and oftentimes bumping along the ground before carrying itself up and away. Such an exciting ride – the ups and downs and all of those in betweens that have no words to descibe them.

In my mind – I go back to that day often. That day that was filled with wonderment and awe and joy and dreaming. That day when it felt as if anything was possible. That day that I learned that life is nothing other than a ride on the wings of a kite. One minute up..the next minute down..never quite knowing where the winds might take me. Bumpy. Unpredictable. Falling and hitting that ground may sting and hurt..but that I can always pick ourselves up and catch the next bit of wind that might carry me. Not always the ride I expect or wish for..but always the ride that is mine.

A day _ as I recall - when all of life’s lessons arrived in one very unimportant-looking little box. A little paper. A little string. A little imagination and a lot of wild dreams. I could go anywhere my heart might take me.

I CAN FLY!

Vision and Verb (3 January 2011)

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New Big Shoes

I suppose when I think about it..it makes perfectly good sense.

Line. Shape. Form. Color. Balance. Order.

Trained as an architect – I often think of myself as a one who has been condemned to a life of visual dissatisfaction. A constant need to arrange and re-arrange..to make order out of disorder..to create aesthetically pleasing and balanced space. A never-ending quest for that perfect orchestration of individual elements that when combined together create symphonic harmonies.

It’s almost visceral. A physical feeling that comes from within. When it’s right..it’s so very right. A static ballet. Every object planned and placed so as to balance out another.

It’s that time of year. To pause. To reflect. To look back at what was..and look forward as to what this next year might be. It’s been a year of change..of stretching and growing in ways and directions I never would have imagined. Old shoes..sitting idly..waiting to be worn again. New ones..to try on and wear. The titles ‘daughter’..’mother’…’sister’…’wife’ and ‘friend’. Still hold true. ‘Architect’…’swimmer’…’yogini’..and ‘dog-lover’. All mine to own. And with a recent invitation to be represented by a gallery – I am trying on new shoes. Big ones. These ones entitled ‘artist’.

Without any credentials..experience or higher academic degrees – I find myself wondering how it is that I’m going to fill such great big new shoes. What is an ‘artist’? What are the requirements? How is it that I’m supposed to ‘be’??

The dictionaries say: An ‘artist’ is one who creates art…whose creative work shows sensitivity and imagination…who is a follower of a pursuit in which skill comes by study or practice.

And I say back: Is that really me?

Never have I been one to make New Year’s resolutions..to use that defining moment as one to institute change. For me – those kinds of absolutions are bound to fail. Change happens when it’s ready. When I’m ready to take that leap. To jump. To fall. To pick myself up again and again. To re-create. There is no time like the present..and now seems like the best time of all.

Here I am – finding myself entranced and intrigued by the arrangement of simple objects. Suspended in space. Of color. Of light. Of balance and form. It began as an experiment. Having been gifted 2-dozen pears..and unable to possibly eat them all – I thought I’d set them up and photograph. See where it may lead..and where I might go. It’s a different sort of meditation. Mindfulness. Careful placement and organization. Combining colors and shapes and forms. Balance. The permutations and combinations are endless..and that pursuit of perfect dance of elements both stops me dead in my tracks..and propels me forwards. More..more..more. It’s not yet ‘there’. Not just yet.

As I enter into this new year – I am finding myself surprised by how the oh-so-familiar..has transformed itself into something different and new. The same words..but a new language. A new vision…and an old voice.

In the end – it’s what I believe it’s about. Recycling ourselves. Discovering how the different parts and pieces and lifelong passions – can be re-ordered..re-combined..re-formulated into something unexpected..yet something that is really so obvious and predictable and so much the same. That same passion and energy I’ve thrown into my ‘work’ for so many years..is now showing itself up differently in this.

In one little ‘still life’ project. I’m studying. I’m practicing. I have new big shoes …and a whole new year up and coming to fill them.

Vision and Verb (20 December 2010)

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From One Generation to Another

With them they carried candlesticks..kiddush cups…prayer books and shawls. They brought covers for their Friday night bread..and cloths to cover their tables. They took their menorahs…and seder plates. They brought with them only what was most precious and valued..and what would remind them of who they are. Time after time – as Jews throughout history were forced to leave their eastern European shtetls..their towns..their cities in which they’d lived and loved and called home – it was to these ritual ‘objects’ that they held on most tight.

They hid them in bales of hay…in feather mattresses..in hidden pockets of coats and jackets. They sewed them into the heels of worn boots and shoes. Some – if time allowed – buried these ritualistic treasures in their backyards. Hoping that – someday – they would return to their homes..and that these would be there waiting for them. Not confiscated and destroyed by those who wished for every trace and sign of them and their people to disappear…but kept safe beneath the good earth.

They were the ‘things’ that identified them as a religion..as a culture..as a people. They were ‘things’ that tied them to God…connected them to their past..and would bring them together into their future.

Today is the 5^th day of Chanukah…an 8-day festival of light and celebration of a miracle that happened centuries ago. It dates back to Alexander the Great and his successors and their attempt to desecrate their temple and massacre the Jews. The story – as I know it – is about Judah Maccabee who led the Hasmonim in a revolt that saved the temple and its people from destruction. The miracle is in the single drop of oil that – by all measures – shouldn’t have lasted for more than one day…but kept the candles burning brightly for an entire eight. Eight days of fighting for the right to survive. Eight days from revolution to resolution and victory.

It’s not a particularly religious holiday..nor one that carries any real great significance and weight. It is a joyous holiday….filled with spinning dreidles and latkes and applesauce. The words inscribed on the dreidles remind us that a great miracle did – indeed – happen there. The potatoes fried in oil.. remind us that it was that one drop that kept the flames afire. It is one in which we honor the light. On each of the eight nights – we add one more candle until the entire menorah is filled and burning bright.

Like all rituals and traditions..it is one that is passed on from one generation to the next.

The menorah I light..comes from my mother..who was given it by hers..and hers given by hers before that. I imagine it was packed in haste during one of the pogroms in Eastern Europe. That a great..great..great grandmother – thought to hide it in a straw mattress they loaded onto their wooden cart. A cart that was one of many …a part of a forced mass exodus from their little shtetl. I imagine that – once settled and safe in a more western European country – she one day gave it to her daughter…who passed it along and thru the generations from one to the next. I like to think that it traveled on an old steamer ship – secretly and securely hidden – as it crossed the Atlantic and landed on these shores. I like to imagine the lives it’s led..the lives it’s seen…the family that it has loved and those who have loved it back.

Eight little candle holders..and a crooked six-pointed star (magen david) marking center. Its imperfection is a perfect testament to its journeys. Both from where it came..and where it will go. It’s a reminder of what it is they carried..and why. And – that someday I will pass this menorah on to children of mine. One more miracle..in a long long line.

Vision and Verb (6 December 2010)

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Snapshots

An elderly man – stooped and grey – bent over to unhitch his dog from the post to which he was tethered. The dog – an aging chocolate lab whose whiskers had faded– struggled to get himself to his feet. To please his master. To accompany and escort him. I watched as the two of them hobbled and limped and leaned into one another…ever-so-slowly making their way. Each – dependant on the other – to get safely back home. I wondered which of the two would be the first to go..and for whom the loss will be greater. The possibility of the sweet loyal pup out-living his mate..was as difficult a thought to bear as was the one of the old man remaining. They were clearly a pair.

That will someday be me..I thought. But – not yet.

With three young kids in tow – a young…worn out and very tired looking woman made her way thru the aisles of the supermarket. The infant was held safe and secure and asleep in her snugli. The baby was doing his best to climb out of his seat..screaming in frustration at the straps that were holding him. The toddler was running up and down the aisles pulling things off shelves..faster than his mother could possibly keep up. I couldn’t help but be struck by her patience..her calm…her love – in spite of her obvious exhaustion.

That was once me…I thought. But – not now.

Snapshots. Little things that – over this past week – I picked up along my way. Moments- of seeming unimportance – that might otherwise pass me right by. If I didn’t stop. If I didn’t look. If I didn’t see.

Having just recently celebrated a birthday – today – I am happily to be found somewhere in between. To the young mother..I might appear old..perhaps even old enough to be her childrens’ grandmother. From where sits the elderly gent..I must look very young with a whole lifetime to live. Here I am. Too young to be old. Too old to be young. Relieved of the daily pleasures and perils and endless responsibilities of young kids and family. Not yet weighed down and slowed by a feeble body and failing mind. There are mountains to climb and oceans to cross before any of that. It’s a good place to be – this ‘middle’. With so much still ahead and to look forward to..and with so much now left behind.

A conversation I had with a woman who I’ve known for years – now 96-years-young – sticks with me. Now legally blind and unable to drive or navigate the world without support..and with shoulder and knee cartilage so worn away that movement is often painful. She was getting herself dressed and ready for her daily early morning swim. We talked small talk. Nothing of great importance or seeming relevance to anything at all. It was somewhere between the review of the day’s weather report and the latest Hollywood scut that she slipped it in. When she gets truly old – she said – is when she’ll start sleeping late in the morning. Until then – she added – she’ll continue to get herself up early and do what she does. Because each new day is awaiting. A beautiful gift.

That’s it….I thought. That’s who I need to be. Not tomorrow..but today. If that’s not inspiring..what is?

At times I’m grateful that I record these moments. Nothing but snapshots…passing images…seemingly unimportant snippets and parts and pieces of my life. Always – with a camera over one shoulder and a pen and paper in hand. It’s these little things that keep me present. It’s the tiniest of pearls that make it all real.

Vision and Verb (20 December 2010)

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Left Behind

Left behind…once again.

She – and that alpha male. The one who insists – still – in laying his head on MY pillow in HER bed. Off again and together. Only two days – she assured me. Two morning bowls..and two evening. Food – is my only way of keeping good track.

To her – it’s not very long…but to me – it’s an eternity.

Once again..and here I am.

The only lucky thing is – is that she said I could write. Last time was such fun. For months I’ve been asking.. anxiously waiting for the chance to once more have my little bark heard above all others.

Thing is – I’m small when you compare me with most. I have no tail – to wiggle and wag…to let you know that I’m happy or scared or sad. The games I like to play are not the same ones that engage them. They like to fetch and retrieve and bring back the ball. I like only to chase it down and run with it..in hopes that someone might run with me. Whereas they love to let loose and run wild and free..I’m always working at keeping everyone in their right places and perfect lines.

Always working. That’s me. I’m super-fast..and I’m really smart. There’s not a trick..nor a treat..nor any stray sheep that will get past me. It’s my job – that I am doing.

I’m…well….I’m ‘different’ than the others. They tell me that that’s good and that that’s okay and that that’s what makes me uniquely me – but at times I just wish I was just like the rest. ’Accepted’ and ‘fitting-in’…and a part of the bunch.

All the way to the left – that’s Flora. Not one bit shy. She - more than anyone else I’ve ever met – knows how to work a room. When she enters..all heads are up. Her energy and charismatic style always gets a quiet party going.

Then there’s Jazz – right next to her. If there was a contest for the most popular – the award would be hers. Impeccably groomed..long shapely legs that stretch and extend forever..and a lovely tail that gestates wildly. It is she who decides who is ‘in’ and who is ‘out’.

Next to her is Milo. Mr. Prince Charming. Makes sense that he’d find himself a spot right beside the ‘Princess’. The most handsome and endearing of all the boys…with a proud prance and dance. A one that makes my heart skip a happy beat and do its own leap for joy. Oh..how I wish he might notice me. But alaas…he has eyes – only for she.

And then there’s Kulu. Sweet..lovable Kulu – who is often the butt of their cruel jokes. Never does he fight back or stand up for himself. Simply happy to be a part of the popular pack. One of these days – I’m hoping – he’ll get it. He’s not one who easily catches on to these complexities.

After that is Ziggy. Last but never least. Easy-going…but no push-over. Always a happy and willing participant…but one who can be just as content and focused on simply fetching his ball. A rock solid guy. One who knows who he is..and what he’s about…and one who is always included.

Sigh…

Now – don’t go feeling sorry for me. It’s not that bad..really. I’m alright. In fact – I’m good…and perfectly fine with being just who I am..not always needing to be in the company of others. But there are times when I do so wish to be someone different..a one who has longer legs and a tail and a bark that might get me their respect and attention. I’d rather work..than play. I’d rather herd..than fetch. I’d rather write..than be lying lazily on the couch.

Waiting….

Waiting for her to return….

Waiting for what’s seeming like an eternity.

Waiting..and counting.

Two morning bowls..and two night.

Waiting for her to remind me that I’m deserving of her love..as perfectly imperfect as I am.

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For those of you who don’t know me and if we haven’t previously met..my name is Sami..and I’m writing on behalf of my master and best friend while she’s away.

Vision and Verb (8 November 2010)

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Having It All

It was another in a long list of ‘lasts’. She – being my youngest my three – is always the one I seem to ‘end’ with. Senior year…and parents weekend. A rite of passage..a part of the fall semester and college life. Altho there is some relief in knowing that this is my ‘last’ call-to-duty …it is also hugely bittersweet. A beginning of an end. An end of a beginning. Either way – it is.

She is living – this year – with 5 other young women in a house of their own. Beautiful girls. Smart. Strong. Talented. Ambitious. Socially conscious. Politically savvy. Aware of where they sit in the global community. They have the world in the palm of their hands. Anything and everything is open and available to them. Professions that were once nothing more than impossible dreams for women..are now very possible and real. There is nothing they can do that any man can do better.

As I walked around the ivy-covered campus….I couldn’t help think back to my college years..to this age and stage of my life. How different the world is for the young women of today. At the college I attended – us women – were few and far between. We were studying and training for professional careers that had been traditionally dominated by men. Tests and scores indicated that we were certainly as smart and capable..but there was always a sense of needing to prove ourselves better. To work harder…longer..more. A constant undercurrent of needing to excel and exceed in order to survive on a playing field that was dominated by men.

Of course – without the generation of women who preceded..the possibilities open and available to us would never have been. They – the few brave and bold – were the first to squeeze their way thru doors that had previously been barred and locked. I know many sacrificed much..in order to achieve the professional status for which they worked. It is to them I bow in gratitude..for without them we – our generation – never could.

Betwixt and between. At that age where my memory is good enough to recall a different time and day..and my vision is clear enough to see the the vast world of possibility and future these young women of my daughter’s generation have before them. Where we had to push our way thru those doors that were just beginning to open..they are walking right thru. There is no longer a thought to having to prove themselves better..or stronger..or smarter. This new world is gender-blind and neutral. These young women are equal to any young man. Not for an instant do any of them believe it to be any other way.

Of course – their journeys are just beginning. Hard to know how it is that they’ll put it all together. The professional careers..the marriages..the families. We know now – that it wasn’t always easy. But somehow – I like to believe that they’ll do it with a little more ease and grace..and a lot less struggle than we. These beautiful..strong..smart..talented young women appear to be more balanced. They’ve learned from the generation before them that they can have it all. They can be smart and pretty and athletic. They can be doctors and lawyers and architects and investment bankers and artists and musicians and more. They can be wives and mothers and sisters and daughters.

They can have it all..and I’m betting that – they will.

Vision and Verb (25 October 2010)

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Come…walk with me.

Don’t hold my hand.

Don’t say a word.

Just be.

Listen – to the silence of the forest. To the soft crunch of pine needles. To the birds as they sing to us their autumn song. To the squirrels as they chatter busily amongst themselves….gathering…stocking their winter stores. To the bubble of the brook. To the trees and the restless rustle of their leaves. They whisper.

See – the colors as they fade and change and transform from deep green to another. The trees’ roots as they sprawl like spidery webs of tangled veins. The shadows and how they dance themselves around the light. The golden leaves as they fall..drifting softly..sometimes swirling and spiraling….landing silently on the forest floor. The water’s reflections..twinkling. The tiniest of mushrooms as they pop their short-lived heads.

Feel – the cool air..the warm sun..the unevenness of the ground on which we walk. Step lightly.

Taste – the apples ripe and ready. The acorns and chestnuts roasting. The nutmeg and ginger and cinnamon and spice.

Smell – the dampness of the cool earth. The autumn leaves as they burning somewhere in the far off distance. The sweet scent of this season. Just as it is. Today.

There are days – when the thoughts..the ideas.. the words – come easily. They flow. Almost and as if..they were coming thru me. Effortless. Like the sweet sound of soft music.

And then – there are those others. When I find myself stuck..and uninspired. When words elude me..and creative thoughts have all but disappeared. When my own voice can’t drown out those of the merciless internal judges and critics. When I just can’t.

It is on those days – that I find myself needing to turn it all off..to walk away…to disappear between the trunks of tall trees. To feel my small-ness among them..to be reminded of how broad and vast the universe truly is. To be renewed..restored..replenished.

It is there – where it is me who is asking the questions..and not them – that I can hush those innermost voices. Those howling demons. Those ones that criticize and doubt and ask more questions than for which I have answers. It is there that I find the space for the words..for the thoughts..for the creative imaginings.

Walking along a path..on a life’s journey..without any destination. Just walking. Nowhere to go..nowhere to be. Just here and now and completely present.

Come…walk with me.

Don’t hold my hand.

Don’t say a word.

Just be.

Vision and Verb (11 October 2010)

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Why Photography

It’s something I’ve thought a lot about…so when asked to write about photography…and what it is…and why I practice it daily – I jumped at the opportunity.

Why photography?

A very good question.

I could go back in time and tell you about my very first Kodak instamatic camera..and how I carried it with me everywhere capturing life as I saw it from my knee-high point-of-view. My first ‘real’ camera – I received as a gift from my father while still in high school. It wasn’t long before I went about catching all of my moments of great significance and importance, and before I fell in love with the process of developing and printing in a darkroom. Watching the black and white prints emerge, as if almost by magic. Time taking on a whole new rhythm and beat.

Fast forward.

College…marriage…a career…kids.

Not for a moment did I stop recording my ever-changing life and especially that of my childrens’. It wasn’t until more recently that my passion was re-ignited, this time with a new and different focus.

This more recent story began with an unlikely pair of Pekin ducks, who were intended to live a domestic life, but were abandoned by their owners in a pond not far from my home. It was they who sparked my interest and prompted me to pick up my camera and record – not just my children’s world – but that of the world around me.

I’d been walking the same path, always in a hurry get to wherever it was I thought I might be going. There was always somewhere I needed to be, someone I needed to see, something I needed to do. So focused on the destination, I was missing out on the journey. It was on this path that these ducks magically appeared. They – the pair of them together – became my daily muse…my inspiration and focus. White beauties in an ever-changing landscape on this singular quiet pond in the heart of the suburban town in which I live.

Quickly – this became not only about the ducks…but a daily exercise in recording the world as I viewed it through my camera lens. The ducks – sadly – met their untimely demise at the first of winter. With wings clipped and unable to fly…they froze in the first of the storms. But – I persevered and continued onwards. There was more – I was certain – yet to be found.

The ‘practice’, as I have come to know it, is about finding the new and extraordinary in the everyday ordinary. It is about nurturing presence and awareness, and recording what is. It is not necessarily about perfection. It reminds me that there is hidden magic in the details, if I actually stop and take the time to look and see what it is I’m looking at.

But then – why photography…and not some other creative form of self-expression?

Photography focuses and grounds me. It forces me to pay the closest attention to detail. To shadow and light. To composition. To figure and ground. To balance. It acts as a quiet meditation. When looking thru my camera’s lens..the world stops. There is calm centered peace within. With my feet on the ground..and my eye to the camera’s lens – I see all…and only what it is that I am looking at. There is only me. The sound of my breath…my heart beating…an internal quiet where there is nothing other than this day.

Photography acts as a teacher. Through it – I’ve learned to identify flora and fauna and avians that I previously knew nothing about. I’ve learned that by sitting quietly and observing, I can anticipate and thus capture the behavior or movement that might come next. I’ve learned patience and persistence and perseverance. I’ve cultivated a sense of gratitude for whatever opportunity is presented, and an appreciation for that day.

I like to believe that I ‘practice’ photography, that with my camera-in-hand, I enter a place of surrender and acceptance. Never controlling or contriving or manipulating a situation to suit my imaginary needs. This is what ‘is’. Today. This moment will never happen in quite the same way ever again. Simply observing and capturing ‘it’ as ‘it’ presents itself before me, is what it is all about for me.

It’s a ‘practice’ that is – at times – as much about looking inwards as it is about looking out at the world. It passes through me. It’s not something that is tangible or teachable or easy to explain. It’s something that is felt somewhere deep within and beneath my core. It’s at the moment of perfect synchronicity – that I cock and click my shutter’s lens. That instant I’ve then captured and recorded for all of eternity and longer than that.

Photography challenges me. It pushes me to change and grow…to adapt…to learn new computer languages and skills…to keep on top of this ever evolving world of technology. It provides me an opportunity to play..to go out in the world and have fun with my camera. To create humor in a humorless situation…or to ‘render’ my world differently from the one in which I live. By shifting my perspective and changing my point-of-view..I can transform a scene from one to another.

There are all sorts of other reasons to have chosen to embrace this ‘craft’..and not some other. These – that I’ve mentioned - are just a few.

Thank-you for asking…for joining me here in my answer. This too has been one other exercise in exploring what photography is all about.

For me.

Seeded Earth (1 October 2010)

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Ma'am

‘Ma’am’– he asked – ‘one bag..or two?’

I looked behind me hoping to hear the next-in-line respond. The next in line was an elderly man. Hardly – anyone who might be referred to as ma’am.

‘Ma’am???’
I looked in front of me..thinking that he must be addressing another. Before me was a young girl..a mere child. She had already moved on and out carrying with her her many bags of groceries and more.

A pause. To think. To process. To take it all in and understand. He was – of course – talking to me.

‘Ma’am’???

One bag.. I said. One bag..is all I need.

Just another ordinary day. An everyday passing remark. A simple question…asking for nothing more than an answer.

Ma’am.

An abbreviation for the French title ‘madame’. Like Mrs. is to Miss..in our Anglo-American culture. …Madame is to Mademoiselle. It’s offered up out of respect and honor. It – implies ‘lady’…’gentlewoman’..on occasion even – ‘grand dame’. It may be used kindly in reference to ‘mistress and head of the household’..or not quite so kindly as a one who ‘runs and manages a brothel or house of ill-repute’. It is a word that has been adapted into our language for use when there is no other appropriate word to address. It is said politely and with much respect. No harm intended.

Ma’am.

What happened to ‘miss’? It wasn’t so long ago that the person checking-me-out..might have addressed me as such. When did it happen that I crossed this indefinable and rather obscure line..over to the other side..and into this?? I look in the mirror and I see me. That same girl who always was..and still is inside me. I see no signs or any other visible indication that I should have entered this new world that commands this kind of attention. I am – am I not? – still that little miss? That sweet mademoiselle? That girl..and not this formidable woman?

Mistaken always – for younger than I actually am…asked for photo I.D. long beyond the age of majority – I once looked forward to this day. Reading glasses – I hoped would make me look wiser..more distinguished. A little salt and pepper and sprinkling of grey..might add dignity..grace..admiration – perhaps.

And then – there’s this.

A child..a mere boy – addressed me as ‘madame’. He sees what I cannot. What I have been steadfastly refusing to look at. He sees a woman of my age..instead of another. How DID this happen?..and WHEN??

Still – full of energy and life. My body – perhaps a little softer…..but still strong..still able. My head – still filled with childish dreams and wild imagination. My heart – still beating strongly in my chest..alive and well. It’s certainly not the picture of ‘ma’am’ I’d considered. I don’t seem like a ‘ma’am’ to me. I don’t feel like one. I certainly – wouldn’t mistake myself as one. Why did he???

Faded flowers. Leaves changing and falling. Full-bodied fruit..ripening. Some might mistake that as the season of ‘madame’…and no longer that of the beautiful…sweet…young…budding ‘mademoiselle’.

I gaze into that mirror and look and really see with new and more-critical eyes. This is who and where I am. I’ve earned this honorary right-of-passage and degree. From here on in – I’ll wear my new title proudly.

One bag..or two?

Two bags – I’ll say.

With my newly adopted title..I’m learning that less is often more. I can distribute the load. I can take my time. I can rest a little easier in this new place and time.

‘Ma’am’ I am.

Vision and Verb (27 September 2010)

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In my Judaic religion - it is that time of year known as the high holy days. It begins with Rosh Hashanah – the Jewish new year..and ends 10 days later with Yom Kippur – the day of atonement.

Altho I would not consider myself to be religious by any stretch of anyone’s imagination..I did grow up in a family and community where tradition reigned and ruled. These holidays were marked both by prayer and by large family gatherings all centered around the meal. Apples were passed around the table and dipped in honey. The apple – a symbol of life’s endless cycle and nature’s ability to renew and restore. The honey – a part of the wish for a sweet new year. My grandmother’s house - where we all convened - filled my senses. The sound of family. The comforting and familiar tastes and smells of chicken soup and brisket… fresh baked challah …and always of sweet wine.

On Rosh Hashanah we eat and celebrate. On Yom Kippur we fast and atone. On Rosh Hashanah we go to synagogue and pray for our names to be inscribed in a book that will determine our destiny. Who will live. Who will die. Who will suffer. And who will not. On Yom Kippur we return to synagogue and make our final plea for forgiveness for all of our human transgressions and sins. It is on this day – the solemnest of all days – that the book is said to be sealed..our fate determined and fixed.

As a child – I celebrated these holidays as a part of my family. It’s what we all did in our community…at this time of year. Altho the hours spent in synagogue were trying for an impatient young child..they held a certain sense of security..in their familiar annual ritual and rite. Generations of families – year after year – seated together. Women on the right. Men on the left. Babies grew into children..children into adults..adults returning with children of their own…and sadly and always – the empty chairs.

As a questioning adolescent – I began to challenge the beliefs and what they were about. Hours spent in prayer..listening and partaking in the ancient melodies – lost their place for me in my world.

As a skeptical young adult – I found myself with no need for such kind of ‘organization’. Without it all – the world would be a happier place.

With the arrival of my own children – I returned. Upholding the traditions – both religious and familial. Offering them up what I had experienced. Perhaps – providing a foundation from which they might someday choose. Perhaps – hoping that by doing so..I would be somehow anchoring them in this faith and assuring myself and my forebearers of the continuation of our people.

Now at this certainly uncertain age – I find myself looking inwards..asking what it means to me. No longer that good obedient child..nor that rebellious teenager and cynical young adult. No longer needing to do it for my children. It’s time now – to choose for myself…to decide what parts I want to keep and what parts I need to discard.

Recently – I came upon the concept of these days being ‘Days of Awe’. Perhaps it is an ancient concept..but it is one that is new to me. Days of introspection..of looking inwards. Days of re-assesement and re-evaluation. Who do I want to be? What? And how do I want to spend my days? What kinds of relationships do I want..do I need? And – how is it that I can make them happen? And more importantly – how do I stay true to myself…my own journey and path and direction?

I arrive here with no good answers. Only questions. At this age sandwiched between the generation that came before me..and the one that follows – I am faced with defining my life..my beliefs..and my own personal spirituality in my own way. And I suppose when I think about it – acknowledging the ‘not knowing’ is a first step..and a big one.

For now and today – I simply look to the light….and trust and believe that whatever it’ll be…it’ll be my own..and perfectly all right.

Vision and Verb (13 September 2010)

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The Apparition

Blanketed in thick fog and mist..the world was silent.

Motionless.

Not a bird singing..nor even the sound of scampering squirrel’s feet. Everything – in that moment – was standing perfectly still. Immovable. As if nothing could ever..or would ever change.

The sun had not yet fully risen.

In the beginning it was just the faintest hint. An outline. A bird – perhaps – camouflaged and hidden. The fog rolled in…and rolled out. It swirled itself around her…dancing shadows. She sat. Perched and poised. Focused…with an almost drishti-like motionless gaze. Her eyes were on the prize..and nothing was going to distract her.

As I watched and observed and hoped to preserve this precise moment thru my camera’s lens. …I began to think about how impermanent everything that appears to be truly permanent is. In one moment – I couldn’t see. In the next – I could. As I knelt at the water’s edge..my vision and view changed and evolved. She appeared – at first – only a fantasy…an apparition…a dream. And then – as the sun began to have its way - she became so very real.

The seasons – I can see and feel – are transforming themselves before me. The days are shrinking..growing perceptibly shorter. The sunlit hours are diminishing. The sun’s rise is a full hour later than it was just yesterday..or so it seems. And it’s setting now happens long before anyone is ready to even think about going to bed. What was once a beautiful lush green..is too quickly fading. The first of the summer leaves are falling…a forewarning of what’s to come.

It’s all so fleeting. Blink for an instant..and it’ll pass you right by. This exact moment…just as it is. It will never happen quite like it ever again. This light. This bird. This fog and this mist. My happening to be here on this particular morning in this quiet with my dog at my feet. It’s all so transient. We are.

Great thinkers and philosophers have written volumes about this subject. This one of impermanence..of change..of the ebb and flow and natural tides of life. No feeling is final. Nothing lasts forever. Everything exists in a complete state of incompleteness. We all change. We all grow. Life happens. People come..and people go. And yet – in it there is a continuity that anchors and grounds. Things – on which we can always count and depend. That – for centuries – birds like this have perched themselves – rooted and unwavering – hunting down their morning meal. That – succulent green summers transpose themselves into golden autumns…. then fade into silvery winter…. which always melt into soft springs. That - we turn around..time after time…and over..and begin again.

People die. Babies are born. Life’s cycles continue.

What is it – I wondered – that I am doing here…on this morning with my camera-in-hand and dog-at-my feet? Am I simply bearing witness to this particular moment? Or – am I preserving it and recording it for all of time – past and present and for what’s to come? I wondered if this practice of photography is one of distant observation and non-attachment..or if it’s one of deep and meaningful connection? To the universe? To all of man and animal-kind? All this – I thought – as I sat…as I watched. The rolling fog playing tricks with my mind’s eyes.

And – like that blue heron taking shape before me..I sat perched…poised…focused on that prize. Taking it all in..but seeing only thru the lens of my camera. In complete peace – with myself and the world. Determined to make permanent the impermanence of this moment..to hold on to and preserve it..and never let it go.

With one easy click – it was done.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Vision and Verb (30 August 2010)

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Look Up

One big bird..in one big tree..with her five little baby ones peeking out from under.

A fierce mama warrior.

A brave and powerful one.

A one whose purpose at that particular moment was nothing other than to protect her brood. A mother hen and her poults.

Altho they were all safely tucked beneath her feather skirt..their curiosity got the better of them. First one..then another..until all five of them were seen looking down over the precipitous edge. Timid at first…sweet…curious..and terrified of what lurked beneath. They clung to the safety security and warmth of their feathered nest.

So basic. So simple. So easy.

We give life to our babies. We nourish and protect. We teach them right from wrong and how to defend themselves from potential predators. We harbor great hopes and big dreams. And we love them. More than anything else – we do that. And then – as their chubby little legs grow into long strong adult ones – we watch..as they walk away. Into their own lives. As they should.

It’s all a part of some big master plan. A story about life’s cycles and nature’s ability to renew and restore. To reproduce more of the same and of our own. To ensure the longevity and continuation of the species. To pass from one generation to another. A promise that one small part of us will continue on and forever after. The questions and answers were all sitting up there precariously perched in a one big tree.

Altho it is the male who spreads his seed..it’s the female who carries life forwards. Mothers are mothers are mothers. Everywhere. They cross all geographic lines..and all species. They will do anything and everything to save their children..to ensure that the life they have brought into this world succeeds them. They’ll attack at the slightest provocation. They’ll fight for the right of their offspring to be free. They’ll risk life and limb and valuable feathers for those that they’ve brought into this world. Those that they love. Those that come thru them.

In the kingdom of birds – letting go – is all a part of the process. There is no adolescent struggle and rebellion. There is no tug-of-war..no fight for autonomy and independence. When these babies are able to feed themselves and fly..they will be set free. It’s what’s expected. This mother’s job is complete. There will be a new brood in the next year..for which she will rise and do again.

As I looked up.. as they looked down at me – I couldn’t help but think of my own three. How I – once – was their center. How – they too…like the birds in the tree – preferred the softness of their mother’s warm nest to the excitement of the world beyond. And how they were once mine to feed..to nurture..to protect..to teach…and always – to love. I was a fierce mama warrior. A brave and powerful one. I was.

With some relief – I can say that that part of my job is now almost done. We’ve survived the push/pull of tumultuous adolescence. I waved the white flag. I surrendered. In the end..and as they should – they were victorious. They won the fight…we all won the war. They’ve grown their own wings and long strong legs. No longer am I needed in the way I once was. They’ve stepped themselves out into the world. For me – there’ll be no second brood or a chance to ‘do over’. As much as I’d like to take the lessons I’ve learned and apply them..I’m glad that that opportunity won’t knock on this door again.

Over and over I’m reminded that they are not ours to own. They come thru us. We hold them and hug them and love them. And then – like all other species..and is nature’s way – we must let them go.

Look up.

My babies are flying strong and free.

Look up.

They are grown..but they are not gone.

Look up.

They are circling round and round now in their own lives..happy..strong..free.

Look up.

Vision and Verb (16 August 2010)

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No Matter Where

At times it’s the sheer vastness of it all that stops me in my tracks..brings me to my knees…reduces me to inexplicable tears. That the sun rises in the east..sets in the west. That it happens like this no matter what… no matter where. That there are billions and trillions of people in this world who experience it… most who never really stop to look and to see.

The layers of light.

The strata of rock formations.

The distant mountains.

The oceans.

The magnitude and the beauty of this earth on which we all live.

It struck me – at 4 a.m. one morning – while sitting atop a mountain in what’s known as ‘down east’ Maine. In that early morning stillness and silence. In that anticipation of the sun’s rise. In that internal quiet and peace. It struck me that this is really all there is. Nothing more. Nothing less. The sun rises and it sets. It illuminates and defines our days. Without it…there would be no sustaining. There would be no life.

Often I’ve stopped myself while brushing my teeth. A daily routine and ritual. I’ve wondered how many people in the world at this very moment are doing the exact same thing as this. How many people are getting themselves up..throwing cold water on their face..cleaning and flossing..and beginning their day? There is no quantifiable number..no way of really knowing. But there is something about thinking about the billions of those who might be. A common bond. Something we all do and share no matter what…no matter where.

When I roll out my yoga mat and begin with the ritual ohm – again – I find myself wondering. How many in the universe are doing just as I am…right now..in this exact same way? And how empowering it is to think of all of the potential millions of ordinary people chanting these words all at once and together. All scattered. Everywhere. Throughout the great world wide stratosphere.

We are all one.

We are all the same.

I think that’s what’s most striking. Altho we each have our own unique ways of ‘being’ on this earth…we all breathe in..and we breathe out. We feel. We hurt. We love. We laugh. We bleed. We cry. The earth that we all share – grounds us. The endless sky – carries us. No matter what..no matter where.

There – in the early morning chill..sitting on top of Cadillac Mountain..looking out over the endless ocean – it was as if I could hear the world whispering. Nothing new was going to happen. Nothing different..or particularly exciting. The big event that I had gotten my sleepy body up and out of bed for – was really no big deal. In truth what was about to unfold has been unfolding and unfurling itself for longer than anyone has ever known. For lifetimes and centuries before that.

No fanfare or publicity.

No big press releases.

No news – really.

It happens. Just like that. No matter what…no matter where. Every day. It’s the same practiced ritual and routine. Most – don’t even have the opportunity notice. Most – don’t care. But on this particular summer morning – I was one of the lucky ones who actually did.

Vision and Verb (2 August 2010)

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The Summer Apprentice

She flew in on wings of white feathers. Her childhood joys and toys left and behind her. Her future hopes and dreams to help her take flight. Laughter and light. A breath of fresh air and a touch of magic…all landing at my front door and safe harbor.

She – this magical sprite of a girl – was to be my summer intern. A someone who would watch..observe..learn from me. Me – being the experienced sage. She – being the novice. Me – being the teacher. She – the student..poised and ready.

Altho I can’t honestly say that I’ve come to the place in my life where I might consider myself ‘experienced’..I suppose that I am. That I actually have something to offer..has come as somewhat of a revelation. Me? When was it that I crossed the line between not-knowing..and knowing? When was it that I became old enough to be considered practiced..and no longer the one who still has so much to learn? When is it that I became a ripened professional..and not a one that is still very green? And – do I really have anything to offer this mere child who is so eager to grow herself up and be a part of this adult world?

So many questions. How – I wondered – am I going to meet her in her time and space? How – I worried – will she meet me in mine?

A new adventure. A new chapter. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I sat in her chair..while another patiently sat here in mine? Someone who held my dreams..my hopes…my magical plans in the palms of their hands?? Wasn’t it just yesterday that it was me looking over someone else’s shoulder…soaking all of their experience in like a dry and hungry sponge???

Cautiously..slowly – we began. I’d made lists of tasks I thought she could attend to. My agenda. But – what was hers? Surely – any good teacher would take that into account as well as all else?

It’s been almost two months since she began. I’ve had to adjust how I work in my small space. Whereas I am at my best first thing in the morning..she is never quite awake. As I fade in the late of day..she comes alive. Slowly – I’d like to believe that we’ve learned to respect each other’s natural rhythms..and to know when to step in and or away.

At this age and stage of my game, the solutions to design problems come relatively easily. I’ve been doing what I do for too many years. The answers seem obvious…the options fewer and farther between. I tend to take the road that is tried and true and oh-so-familiar..instead of the one that is not. Budgets rule. Practicality. I’d almost forgotten how it is to dream. She- on the other hand – sees thru young eyes. Possibility. And nothing much else. Yes – she is learning from me..but I – in turn – am learning so much from she.

Under her breath I hear her occasional mumbling and grumbling about the latest quick sketch. A rough idea. A sketch that was ‘imperfect’. One that I intended for her to make ‘real’. Silently – I chuckle to myself. Oh – how I remember when those who once taught and mentored me would provide me a doodle done on the back of a lunch napkin. A quick and seemingly random thought. An unformed concept. One that I was expected to transform into something else. I’d forgotten. So much does get forgotten along life’s way.

Still – I see myself as that young girl on the precipice of adulthood. Innocent and naïve. Always seeking and searching for something more. Imagining myself someday to be ‘this’. The wise one. The experienced. The one who has something to offer others who still have so much to learn.

How it happened that I am now in this chair..and no longer in that – is somewhat of a mystery. Days and months become years. Years become decades. And – here I am. I’ve arrived at my chosen destination…in this place..at this time.

She bows deeply in respect for her elders..for all of us women who have opened up doors. She is ready to listen..to learn…to absorb and to see. And to her – I bow even more deeply right back. For reminding me from whence and where I came..and that I am no longer there…but here and now today.

Vision and Verb (19 July 2010)

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Working Girl

Sit – she says..and I sit.

Down – she tells me..and my belly sinks to the floor.

Wait – she said…and I am.

Waiting. Patiently. Counting.

Five whole days.

At the top of the very long list she left….it says ‘WRITE’. So – I’m writing. I’ve never written before. I’m not sure I know what to say.

Five whole days.

Five morning bowls..and five evening ones. Food. How else might I measure a day other than what and when it is that I’m fed?

She said something about it having been a long time since they’ve taken a vacation… that she needed it and was looking forward. I understand. I watched as she and that alpha male – the one who sleeps on MY pillow in HER bed – packed up the car and drove away. Without me.

He’s not a bad guy. I actually like him – a lot. On most days he leaves after my morning walk and returns soon after I’ve eaten my evening bowl..but sometimes he surprises me and gets home before. When I hear his car..I like to sit at attention and wait to greet him. Altho he always seems pleased to see me – he doesn’t like when I jump on his nice clothes.

I just want to play. It’s not that I mean to get him wet or dirty. Sometimes I have to remind myself that he is only a mere man.

But then – he goes up those stairs and into that room - y’know the one where MY pillow lies next to HERS - and returns in different attire. Then..and only then –he tells me – it’s okay to jump..and we can play. And that’s good. And I like that.

The truth is? I’d rather have her alone. It could be ME sleeping on MY pillow…all curled up and snuggled in close. Because it’s always he who claims that warm spot as his own..I’m forced to sleep at her feet. Happy that – at least – I’m welcome there instead of that hard floor…but still wishing for that soft spot beside her.

On some mornings she takes me with her. We walk to the nearby pond. I sometimes chase geese…while she chases us all with that little black box thing that she looks thru. I heard her once calling it a cam-e-ra…but I’m not sure what it’s for. She says it helps her see. But I think she sees just fine without it. I like sitting quietly next to her. Just listening to her breathe.

Oh..she didn’t leave me alone. She left me with the other one who walks on two legs instead of four. The one who I wonder and worry that she may love even more than she loves me. She calls her – her daughter. I like her a lot. Better than the alpha male. At least SHE doesn’t sleep on MY pillow. They smell alike – she and the daughter. They talk alike They even somewhat look alike..only the daughter is a little taller.

Five long and lonely days.

Oh..how I miss her.

My favorite days are the ones where I can lazily lie at her feet..while she does all of the things she does in this crate of hers. At least my crate had bars thru which I could see and hear and touch. The crate she seems to like – has solid walls..with a door and a couple of windows. She can enter or leave anytime she wants…which is better than what I did in those days when I had to be in there instead of roaming freely. But – I’m not sure otherwise what is the difference.

And I live for those late afternoons when she’s finished all she does..and we go out together. Most of the time she takes me to the park where I can be with my friends. Or some days – we go into the woods and it’s just me and she and we walk and listen and smell all the good things that are for smelling.

I’m a working girl.

My job is to always keep everyone in order and in line. Thankless sometimes. Other times..and when the job is well done..so rewarding. The other dogs – especially the white fluffy ones that remind me of sheep – don’t always like me bossing them around. They don’t understand. I’m just doing my job. I’m always working.

I’m a good girl..really. I do what I’m told…even when I’m not sure why it is I’m doing it. Without her – things are feeling out of their right order and place..and there is nothing I can do to make things straight.

At least she didn’t leave without a long list ‘to do’. She told me to write. So – I did.

Two more morning bowls..and three nights. And she’ll be back again.

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For those of you who don’t know me..my name is Sami..and I’m writing for my master and best friend while she’s away.

Vision and Verb (5 July 2010)

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Out of the Box

After all of these years – I didn’t think that I’d actually kept it. The evidence. The stuff of life that gives rhyme and reason to who I once was..who I am today..and who I might still someday be. A snapshot of a younger girl and life.

Because she’s in the process of creating her own portfolio of work done in college, my daughter asked to see mine. For a moment – I didn’t think I dared to go back to that place in time..afraid of what might be long forgotten and buried..afraid to be reminded…afraid of all I might find. Dreams – fulfilled? Or dreams – abandoned and forgotten? So much of life spent looking forwards – reaching..stretching..growing. So little time spent looking back.

What might I find..if I dared to open this particular box?? Right here..right now..and with my daughter?

There it sits collecting dust on a very high shelf. Above and beyond anyone’s reach or wandering questioning gaze. In a place that is safe, but not forgotten. A place that still exists inside of me..but nowhere else. How could I tell her that I no longer had it when it is so clearly marked ‘School Portfolio’? How could I answer her searching questions without giving myself away?

Together – we pulled it out from among the cobwebs and brushed away the years of dust. Knowing that what lay within held fragile bits that might easily break, we carefully removed the cover and opened it all up. And together – we took a ride back in time. She – getting a picture of who I was before I was her mother. Me - looking backwards at my younger self from my younger days.

I’d forgotten. Wherever you go there you always are. I like to think that who and what I am is constantly evolving and changing, so it came as somewhat of a surprise to me to find that I’m the same as I’ve always been. Perhaps it’s been the years of raising children..the juggling..the building of a professional practice…the meeting of everyone else’s needs long before my own. Perhaps it’s what life does..when life does happens Or perhaps – it’s something much more than that..or something much less. Perhaps I’d gotten myself lost along the way..and am now very slowly finding an older and more evolved, but oh-so-familiar version of who I once was. Comfortable in a skin that I’ve always worn..but one that I’d shed for so many years in exchange for a safe other.

There they were. Drawing after drawing. Carefully rendered plans and elevations…all done in pen and ink. Well thought out solutions to the hypothetical studio design problems that were never intended to see the light of day. Artwork. Sketches. Photographs. Brochures and other graphic design work done along the way. Caligraphed invitations and announcements. Something I did to earn some extra money in those days when I had nothing else. All done by hand long before the days of technology and computers.

She wanted to see each and every piece…each and every illustration. She went thru things carefully..trying to absorb and take it all in along the way.

‘So –this WAS my mother? This IS?’
‘This is what she did..when she was my age? Before she was married? Before she had me?’
I could hear the wheels of her mind turning..asking questions that she’d never thought or dared before to ask.

She got what she came looking for. Answers to her questions. An example of a portfolio put together long before this digital age. A direction – perhaps? – as to where it is she might be going, if she chooses to follow this similar path. A little more insight and knowledge as to who this woman was and is. The one who she only knows as ‘mom’. Her mother. She thanked me – for letting her in..for letting her see.

And I – in turn – had to thank her for being she. Grateful for the gift and opportunity to have opened up and looked inside a box that I otherwise never would. Grateful to have done this together. Not nearly as scarey nor as disappointing as I had anticipated it to be. There – sitting high up amidst the cobwebs and dust is just plain ol’…same ol’…simple ol’ me.

Vision and Verb (21 June 2010)

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To Life

Recently and with my daughter – I went to see the second of the series of Sex and the City movies. Yes – I’d read the reviews. No – I wasn’t expecting anything intellectually stimulating. But – I was hoping to perhaps find a more evolved and matured version of these four single women who I’d laughed with and at for so many years.

A softer one. A wiser one.A one that had weathered and greyed and rusted with a subdued and graceful patina. A version that I thought might mirror the image I have of myself as I – along with these women – have grown into themselves.

As I stopped to photograph these chairs gazing so longingly at the water’s edge..I began to imagine.

Four women.

A mother. A daughter. A sister. A wife.

Four friends.

Glasses raised in unison. A first toast to their past reflections. A second to the rest of their lives.

They met when they were still girls. Innocent. Naïve. Not knowing the adventures that lay ahead nor what opportunities life had to offer. They dreamed big dreams. Together. They explored the bright lights..the big cities. They travelled to distant and faraway lands and tasted lives that were as tantalizing as they were exotic. Passed down from generations before them, they were well aware of its fragility, it’s unpredictability, how fleeting it can be. They carried their brave new world with great caution and care, gently in the palms of their hands. Theirs for the taking.

Once mere acquaintances and passers-by..they have grown into friends of the true heart. With time they’ve stretched and grown and mellowed. Life’s circumstances and experiences have taken each on their own individual paths and journeys. And yet – today – they sit. They celebrate. They reminisce. They share. And – of course – they dream. Because what would life be without ?

Four inseparable friends.

They know each other from the inside out. Better – sometimes – than they know even themselves. Together. They have pushed and pulled each other thru the muck and mire. To one another they have been soft shoulders to lay their weary heads ….warm open hearts to share and embrace …stern and solemn warnings when the forecasted weather indicated that the seas might be too rough on which to set sail. They have been each other’s silent supporters as well as their loudest of fans. They have climbed un-climbable mountains.. crossed un-crossable oceans..and navigated the darkest of dark forests. Together. Sturdy and reassuring and forever present. Strong in their collective strength. They have seen the eyes of the tigers and stared them down. They have celebrated unspeakable joy and mourned unbearable loss. They have danced together on the brightest of days..and held each other’s tears in the darkest of nights. They’ve celebrated triumphs and successes. They’ve mourned the failures – each as if it was their own.

To one another they’d always turned, sharing their deepest and darkest of fears as well as their most magical of wild fantasies. They were safe. Secrets were kept sacred and whole. They trusted one another to be honest and forever true. To be the harshest of all critics without ever passing judgement. To offer a deep and unyielding acceptance for who they are and never for who they would never be. Their friendship was never unconditional, but always laced with love.

They’ve watched..waited..and born witness to each other’s lives and their unfolding. Each in its own time and way. As each should. As each was meant to happen. Filled with unexpected twists and turns with many de-railings and surprises – both good and oftentimes bad. They were and are for each other – forever present..immovable pillars of fortitude and strength. When one jumped off their collective bed..the other three bounced until they all regained their precarious balance. When one took flight..the others buckled their seatbelts and settled in for the bumpy ride without ever asking where it was that they were going…or when they might arrive.

Filled with laughter and light…and tears…and a joy and a comfort that only comes with knowing. Together. They have been there. They have done that. And they will be there for the future and whatever it holds.

Four women.

Four friends.

They fill their well-worn chairs and lift their glasses.

To friendship.

To life.

Vision and Verb (7 June 2010)

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My Space

The ground sits solid and firm beneath my feet. The sky stretches limitless before me. The birds sing to me their morning song. As I reach towards it, the sun meets and greets and starts my day. My dog lies quietly at my feet..the rhythm of my steady breath softly soothing.

My space. My practice. Whether it be on my mat..or behind my camera’s lens – it’s something I do every day. It’s what grounds and inspires. It’s what takes me out of my thinking mind..and into the quiet of my body.

After a weekend of ‘showing’ my ‘work’ and being on exhibition – I find comfort in the familiarity of my solitary routines. It’s over. I can return and retreat to my internal life…where there is nothing and no one to please or impress…no great stories I need to tell….no people wanting entertaining. Altho I enjoy the company of others..I revel in my time alone.

Sitting here at my computer – I am surrounded by the show’s remains. Photographs – carefully printed and mounted. Notecards – most of which were sold. A sign-in/guest book where visitors wherein visitors were invited to write and comment in. By all counts and measures – my participation in this year’s Open Studios was a huge success. And yet – I’m left worn out and depleted. Practice is one thing. Performance is something else.

For some – an event such as this is invigorating..stimulating..energizing. For me – a someone who prefers to remain hidden behind my camera’s lens – I find ‘coming out’ and ‘being seen’ overwhelming and exhausting. I’m not a one who thrives on being that leading lady. I’m much more at ease in that supporting role…the one who sits behind the camera….the one who gets to show up without having to stand up and take that final bow. My camera excuses me from all of the necessary and obligatory social graces. It legitimizes and gives reason to my disappearing. It allows me to observe from a distance..to witness and record…to be entirely present without having to say a single word. Putting myself out in those bright lights can be more than a little daunting. In fact – it can be downright intimidating and often scary.

I did do it…which is something. I managed to show up at my own party..as challenging as it was. Every once in awhile I have to push myself above and beyond my comfort zone..and out of my oh-so-comfortable chair. Each time I put my pictures on parade and exhibition it gets a little easier. Every time I put myself out there like this the internal self-doubt and questioning lessens itself and quiets down.

I’m sure I’ll do it again. Like so many of the other things I do in life – each time is easier than the last. The lessons I learn on my mat..I apply to my life. To find that sacred space and hold it- sometimes in a new and somewhat uncomfortable position or pose. I’ve taught myself to breathe thru it. Slow. Steady. Even. My mind is not my body. It’s not ‘me’ that’s up for ‘view’ and ‘critique’ ..but my ‘work’. They are one and the same…and yet – they can be totally and completely separate.

Day after day – I roll out my mat..reach for my camera and its trusty lens. In those single solitary moments – I feel what I feel..I see what I see. It is within that quiet and silent space that I find myself. Free to be.

Vision and Verb (24 May 2010)

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Doodles and Daydreams

A closet full of clothes..and not a single thing to wear.

A refrigerator full of food..and nothing at all good to eat.

A life of experiences..and not anything at all to say.

A blank page staring back at me…awaiting my words to fill it. With something. With a story. With my truth. With my ‘art’. Dare I say it out loud? Dare I whisper? Dare – I do.

It was during a recent visit to my local art store that I found myself surprisingly lost in a maze of endless possibility.

Oil paints to my right..acrylics to my left. Paintbrushes at the end of the long aisle. Beautiful textured..patterned papers. Clay and glass and yarn. Sketchbooks. Soft charcoal pencils and colored pens. Pastels and crayons..and more.

Like a kid finding herself in a candy shop for the very first time, I found myself seduced by its promise of creativity. Mesmerized by the unknown prospects and all of that untapped potential..I walked each aisle.

A new journey. A new imagining.

Dreaming of what I might do..who I might be – if I only dared to try. Minutes became hours. I gently caressed each of the soft brushes..tasted the colors..smelled the oil paint…and began to see where I might begin and how.

Beginning. We were all beginners once. We all have a first time. A first start. A defining moment when we take that first step. Now would be as good a time as any. To begin with a beginner’s mind..to know for certain that I know nothing at all.

A blank canvas beckons. Perhaps a wash of color..followed by layers of textured papers..and then a splash of brightly colored paint? Perhaps – a few words? Perhaps – no words at all? My hands would find themselves covered in paint and glue. A sticky..colorful mess. Perhaps - a handmade book? Perhaps – a hand-painted photograph? Perhaps an abstract piece that was created for no good reason at all? With no agenda. With no rules. With nothing other to do..than this.

I wander. I wonder. I question those self-defeating thoughts….those voices that echo repeatedly in my head.

I’m not an ‘artist’. How dare I be so bold and so brazen as to even think of myself as such. What would make me even consider such a possibility?

And then –what iff I did? What iff I dared to wear that crown..the one that I have so convinced myself is not for me? And– what iff my canvas is the world around me..my camera the brushes with which I paint? Or what iff I dipped my fingers and heart and soul into something totally new?

Who would I be?

What is it that defines and labels me? And – who is to say what makes an artist..and what an artist makes? And – what iff I fail? Or – even worse – what iff I succeed? And then – who is it who is grading me pass/fail? Only me. The sound of my own voice limiting me..telling me what I can and cannot do…dictating who I can and cannot be

At times – it’s the decision making and permission granting that is the hardest part. Someone tell me what. Someone tell me who. Someone tell me when and where. If I knew which clothes – today – were the right ones..I’d surely find them in my closet to wear. If I knew what food it is I’m craving.. I’d no doubt find it to eat.

It’s never-ending. This journey and process of re-assessing. Just when I think I’ve got it figured out ..I find that I really haven’t.

The blank page beckons. Lost in the aisles..and found.

With my camera swinging from my shoulder…I looked down at my cart – now loaded with textured linen papers, paints, pens and pastels. And the blank page that was so eagerly staring back at me is now filled with my doodles and dreams.

Vision and Verb (10 May 2010)

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The Long Road Home

An ordinary image…of an ordinary house..on an ordinary street..in a place that was – for me – really quite extra-ordinary.

My home town. My big city…that was oftentimes much too small.

It was picture perfect – that life and that family. Three children and a dog. A father who went to work each morning and returned home every night. A mother who raised the children and tended the nest. A house with a yard and a white picket fence. A life that was predictable , safe, sheltered and protected. Although we knew nothing of the world, we did know this.

Before even reaching that oh-so-critical age-of-majority, I left. Following my dream, perhaps. Pursuing an education and a profession, for sure. Too young to understand the life-consequences of my decisions and choices. In a big hurry to grow up and into me. I never intended for it to be this way, but this way it definitely was.

Life happened. Opportunity knocked. Choices were made. It was what it was and I did what I did. There was no turning back.

It takes a village, and we were that. With grandparents who lived a mere stone’s throw away and other extended family just around the corner, we were never alone or lonely. Visiting was as easy as simple knock on the door. A cup of hot tea. Fresh home-baked cookies. A warm welcoming hug. A soft shoulder to cry on. Another home away from ours.

Our lives were infused with a comforting rhythm and routine. Daily breakfasts at 7 a.m., suppers served promptly at 6 every night. On Fridays, the entire extended family joined together and gathered around our grandmother’s table. We lit candles. We broke bread. We shared in each others’ lives and stories. We knew what was expected, and learned to expect exactly that.

Time is like that. It has its way of slipping thru our fingers and passing us by. One year to the next. Sometimes slowly, and always too fast. I can now see more clearly what it is that I’d walked away from, and all that I so desperately missed.

Family. Community. Tradition. What was familiar, and what was safe.

My children don’t know any differently. Their childhoods did not include extended family who lived nearby. They did not have the pleasure of stopping in to visit grandparents randomly, daily, on a moment’s notice. And they didn’t grow up with extended family who just happened to drop-in on them at any time for no apparent occasion or special reason. They rarely experienced the family gathering, the fighting, and more importantly – the love.

Scattered. Sisters and brothers and parents and grandparents. We are all in different cities. Geographically separated. We are dependent on planes, trains and automobiles as a means and a ways for us to be physically together. We stay closely tied and connected with our cell phones and emails and other technological wonders. But – it’s not the same.

It’s the simple pleasures. The daily routines. The things that memories are made of that I am mostly missing. So often I find myself wishing for those days when we were just one small village within that big bright city. When life was simpler. When ritual ruled and family reigned. When conversations happened around kitchen tables. When everyone who was truly important was physically present and all together at one time and in one space.

With time and distance and (dare I say it) age, I find myself searching for that childhood home. Seeking out that family, that village, that life that was once so picture perfect and safe and secure. Hoping to find some of what I walked away from and creating it anew. Yearning for those family relationships that were once so powerful and grounding and strong. Sometimes wondering how the me that I was, has become the me that I am now.

Returning to that place and time. Looking and really seeing, maybe for the first time. It’s been a long and winding road, and there’s no place like home.

An ordinary image…of an ordinary house..on an ordinary street..in a place that was – for me – really quite extra-ordinary.

My home town. My big city…that was oftentimes much too small.

Life happened. Opportunity knocked. Choices were made. It was what it was and I did what I did. There was no turning back.

Family. Community. Tradition. What was familiar, and what was safe.

Returning to that place and time. Looking and really seeing, maybe for the first time. It’s been a long and winding road, and there’s no place like home.

Vision and Verb (26 April 2010)

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Begin Again

I awake to the morning. Not yet light…but no longer dark. And I think – just this once – it would be so good to simply pull those covers up and over my head..to wish that world away. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is right. Nothing is just simply nothing.

Finally..and at last – it’s that spring on which I’ve been waiting. It makes no sense. I’ve soldiered my way thru the cold dark winter…only to find myself stuck here in this new day.

Without direction.

A little unsure.

A lot uncertain.

Soft around those edges that were once so sharp and clear.

Just when I thought I’d figured it all out..I’ve come to realize that I haven’t. I really haven’t. There are no answers…only questions. What has kept me grounded and glued to this ground for so long..is no longer. The kids grown. The work in hiatus. A whole world of possibility awaiting…doors wide open. And yet – here I am. In the same place..in the same bed with the same man sleeping next to me…waking to the same morning I’ve awoken to for so many years.

And yet – it’s different.

I worry.

About my grown children..and if and how they’ll make it in this brave new world. About my mother..and her health. About the state of the economy…the wars being fought overseas..the miners who died in the coal mines..the suffering in Haiti..the homeless person who I see walking down the street.

I wonder.

About how I’m going to recreate myself…who I’m going to be…what…and always when. When will I know that I’ve arrived in this place..at this destination that remains one foggy mystery?

I think.

About the future..about the past…and not about this moment and this day.

Bravely – I pull myself out of that safe but somewhat dark morning space to greet this new day. My eyes blink to meet the world..and the world winks right back at me. As if acknowledging… of gently telling me that it understands. The rain is gently falling..enveloping me in its mist. The air is cool and damp. The birds are filling the silence with their habitual morning song. The trees whose branches have been stripped bare by winter’s bite are returning to their green glory by the kiss of first spring. It is a time of re-growth..re-birth..re-newal. Perhaps – it is as simple as that?

If only..it were that easy. To one day wake up and find onself anew?

Still fuzzy and lacking clarity and direction. Still unsure. Pushing my way thru this muck and mire. Still not knowing – who..or what..or where.

Within the silence I find comfort …. a bit of certainty in all of this uncertainty and pain. Hard winter has melted into soft spring. A quiet whisper. An emerging. The ground that’s carried me for so many years..still sits solid and secure beneath me. I walk. I breathe. I get lost in the hazey splendor. The world rests and remains the same. Only I emerge – a new person..on this new day.

Whatever rises..falls.

This too…shall pass.

I return time after time..day after day.

And tomorrow – I’ll rise to greet the sun and begin again.

Vision and Verb (12 April 2010)

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To Chose or Not To Chose

Nothing other than sweet child’s play. Innocent schoolyard games. Remember them? How could any of us ever forget.

Wishing to be Simon and the one who says. Or the chosen goose when playing ‘duck duck’. And the then there was that thrill when called out as the one that red rover called over. Each and every game was different..and yet their themes were all the same. To be the one who is sought after..the object of choice.. who is picked out of preference…who is selected.

To be ‘The Chosen’.

The games were harmless..meaningless..all in good fun and humor. Out of the mouths of babes. They were meant to be nothing other than that.

There was – in nursery school – always that someone who was crowned for the day…an appointed King or Queen of the classroom domain. Later – there was the teacher’s pet….the class monitor…the captain of the team. Into those formulative high school years…and there was the elected class president. After that there was the hope of being chosen by a certain university…selected out of a pool of applicants for a coveted job…and then to be awarded ‘employee of the month’. The list is endless. It goes on..and on.

To be honored. To be rewarded. To be the one who is picked out from amidst the oh-so-everyday-ordinary..and labeled as something else.

To be asked to be someone’s ‘best’ friend. Wasn’t that the most coveted award of all?

Such an honor..such a prestigious and somehow ambiguous prize. One more means of self-assessment and measurement. An excuse – maybe? – to be less than we might otherwise be. One more way where we grade ourselves thru the eyes of others..instead of eyes that are our own. What is it that drives this? Is it the wishing to be that special ‘someone’..or is it something else? If not ‘The Chosen’..then who other might one be? Or – perhaps – it is quite simply a fear of rejection..and nothing more or other than that.

Those oh-so-sweet games of childhood…that carry lessons and labels we carry with us to today.

To be ‘The Chosen’ …or to choose? The roots and meanings of these words are basically the same..but their significance is so vastly different. To be ‘The Chosen’..is to passively wait for another to determine one’s fate. It’s to allow someone else’s choices to define…to dictate where one fits..and – perhaps even – who one might aspire to become. To ‘choose’ – on the other hand – is both active and deliberate. It’s to decide for oneself a life that is best..that works. To choose to reject those roads and paths that might have been previously been chosen by another. To choose whether you want to be that person’s friend..not only because they are choosing you..but because you are doing that choosing for yourself.

Yes..we’re getting older. I am. More and more I find myself pondering and musing over these sorts of things. Maybe – it’s a rite of passage…or maybe something else. A sense of ground. A sense of earth. A subtle shift in awareness and perception. It happens slowly and almost without notice. A letting go of this need to forever be that one who is ‘ The Chosen’. A clearing and finding space for free-choice of my own.

To create…without anyone else’s voice in my head. To write…because words are powerful. And because they carry a weight and intention all unto their own. And because by quite simply putting these thoughts to paper..by actually writing them down and sharing them out loud – I know that I can put that sweet child’s play and those innocent games behind ..and now choose to be me.

Vision and Verb (29 March 2010)

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Of That...I'm Sure

There are times when I quite simply can’t remember. Any of it. As if it never happened. One big whirling blur of passing time. Too slowly and now much much too fast. Children growing and changing. From diapers thru adolescence and into their grown-up worlds. Life. I look to the old photo albums to remind me. Thankful for the snapshots…the documented memory.

It DID happen. Of that – I am absolutely sure.

It’s an annual rite of spring..maybe. A cleaning. A cleansing. A peeling away of the old layers and making space for the new.

Every year – it’s the same. My intention is always to sift and sort thru..to eliminate that which is no longer used and useful….and this year to finally conquer these last remnants of those very old toys. The ones that I haven’t been able to part with. The ones that remain. Now outdated. Now sitting un-used and un-wanted. Once – I thought I’d save them for those sometime grandchildren that may someday be. Now – I find myself wondering what it is I’ve held on to and why. No one will want these. They’ll be considered ancient relics and the leftover fragments of another day and time. Their parents – MY children – will scratch their heads and ask what it was that their mother was thinking and why she held onto these last scraps for so many years.

An over-sized bucket of legos…now collecting dust. Plastic..multi-colored interlocking blocks. I’ve been holding tight. My little boys’ and their precious games. A reminder of the hours we spent sitting on this very floor. Building up and tearing down and re-building. Fortresses and castles. Cowboys and Indians. Dungeons and Dragons. Battles fought – sometimes lost and sometimes won. Victory and defeat…and empires that rose and fell.

It DID happen. Of that – I’m sure.

A riding helmet. A one that is covered in that old black velvet with the button on top. Another piece I’ve been holding near. Little girl imaginings of running free in the saddle…of horses and stables and the smell of raw hay. So much time spent in that riding ring. Practicing. Watching and cheering her on. My little girl’s dreams. Or were those mine?

Old books..old videos and games. Favorite dolls..still perfectly adorned in their little doll clothes. Softly faded and worn-out stuffed animals and teddy bears. Baseballs and bats. Plastic guitars. Memory. The one that has gotten itself lost in the passage of time..and life’s smudges and smear.

The house now sits too big…to silent..too empty. Once – overfilled with their laughter.. and their tears..with their chaos..and their noise. Now - all but forgotten. There was joy. There was heartbreak. There was love. I dare not sugar-coat..or romanticize …or make it into something it never was. It wasn’t always easy. And it certainly wasn’t always fun. It was my daily landscape… my daily life…but not really mine. It belonged to my children and their childhoods. It was theirs and theirs alone.

My little boys who once reached upwards to grab hold of my hand now tower tall above me. Men. They now bow themselves downwards as I now stretch myself up to them. And my girl now stands taller at one half-a-head higher than I ever was. A young woman all unto her own. When did this all happen? There are times when I can no longer remember.

To those old photo albums I go to remind me. I hold tight to these remnants and old toys. And I think that in spite of all my good intentions..that I’m not yet ready. I will hold on to these last remains for yet just one more year. The documented memory. The evidence and proof.

It DID happen. Of that – I am absolutely sure.

Vision and Verb (15 March 2010)

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I Look. I Focus. I See.

Slowly..I raise my camera. I look. I focus. I see.

Vermont’s green mountains rendered in winter’s greys and whites. A hint of a village and its church steeple tucked into the distant valley below. With one click – this vision..this moment is captured and preserved by my camera’s lens. Forever.

And – I think about my father. And – I wonder what he would see today if he were here with me. I hear his voice. I feel his presence. This was his landscape..his world that he embraced and loved.

It was in these mountains that I learned to ski. My father the teacher. Me the ever-willing student by his side. It was his lead that I followed. One turn after another. One bump. One mogul. One impossibly freezing cold day..followed by a warm spring one. In snow..in wind..in fog so dense we could hardly see our hands when held in front of us..in sunshine so bright and penetrating it almost hurt our eyes. We skied.

I grew up in these mountains. I grew from being one of a pack of boys..to wanting desperately to be a girl. I experienced my first love..and my first heartbreak. And it was here that I suffered my life’s greatest loss – my father.

It was in these mountains that he learned to see. It was here that he practiced his craft of photography…capturing this vast and beautiful landscape with his camera lens. Always in search of perfection – that perfect light..that perfect composition…that perfect vantage point from which to paint his picture. Rising before dawn..he’d be out seeking that first hint of magical light…that instant when the world is sleepily awaiting for the sun’s rise to start the day. He had a vision. And like any man on a mission..he pursued that vision passionately.

Slowly..I raise my camera. I look. I focus. I see.

So much alike..and yet so different. Without any particular vision in mind..I practice my craft daily. I see what I see. I capture the moment for what it is and what it offers..and not necessarily what I would like or hope it to be. No pre-planning. No orchestration. No particular thought to the composition or vantage point from where I might be shooting..or even what that subject matter might be. Rising often before dawn..I too am out seeking that same magical light. Without any particular goal in mind…I’m simply cultivating awareness and appreciation for whatever it is. A mindful meditation. The perfectly crafted image is not my intention. It’s in the unexpected and the spaces in between that I find myself and my vision.

I look like him. I share his familiar bouncing gait. Some have told me that I even remind them of him. And – I wear all of these badges proudly. He was my father.

As I return and return again to this landscape..to these mountains that he loved..I’m often caught off guard by their power and their grace. They remain forever present..immovable..solid and strong. The snow that blankets them in winter white melts into spring. The frozen rivers and streams begin again to freely flow. Grass grows. Flowers bloom. Trees sprout tiny buds that blossom into green leaves. The seasons go round and round endlessly repeating. Nature’s power to renew and restore is everlasting. Life’s cycle is forever re-born.

And – I think about my father. And – I wonder what he would say today if he were here with me.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Vision and Verb (1 March 2010)

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Una Festa delle Madri

We come thru them. We bond. We attach. We connect. In our rocky adolescence we fight against their old-fashioned and outdated beliefs. We differentiate and separate. We resent them for who they are..and always love them for being exactly that. We dream of becoming just like them..and fear that that’s exactly who we’ve become. Once we were daughters only. Now we are mothers to those daughters we once were.

As our mothers’ daughters we were raised to be seen and not heard. As our daughters’ mothers we are – perhaps – to be heard, but rarely to be seen. Not with them in their lives. Not in public for certain. After a lifetime of being the drivers of their cars, we find ourselves relegated to the back seat. We learn to speak only when spoken to, and offer our sage advice only when asked. We learn to tread softly, to wear beige, to blend into the backgrounds of our daughters’ days.

We find ourselves, surprisingly and unexpectedly, slipping and sliding into our mother’s well-worn shoes. We begin to see and understand from the other side.

‘Questa è la mia mamma’ – my daughter said in her impeccable Italian as she introduced me to her new friends. ‘This is my mom.’ Instinctively, my first thoughts were to apologize for intruding in their lives and upon their space. My intention was not to call any sort attention to myself, but to simply and silently observe. From where I came, being someone’s mother was worthy only of a polite and respectful handshake and certainly nothing more. My experiences taught me that mothers were all fine and good as long as they weren’t too much in their daughter’s faces. Imagine my surprise when I was greeted with embraces that were warm and genuine, with kisses planted one to each cheek , and a heartfelt ‘welcome to our humble abode’.

‘La nostra casa è la sua.’ Our house is yours. Come in..come in. Please..please – make yourself at home. This was so different from how I’d been greeted in my world and life. Such a wonderful surprise.

‘La mia mamma sta qui per vedermi’ – my daughter explained as the owner and chef of the restaurant presented the day’s extraordinary offerings. I looked bewildered and puzzled, unable to make sense of what he was saying. ‘My mother is visiting me and doesn’t understand’ – she explained.

He nodded his head in acknowledgement with a new found appreciation. ‘La tua mamma!!!’ And with those words disappeared only to return with a single pink rose. ‘Per Lei‘. For you – he offered. In honor and celebration of being a mother, and for no better or other reason than that.

Aaah Italy…

A land whose customs and traditions are so different from the ones that I know. La dolce vita. A sweet life. A simple life. One that moves at a slower pace. Where people take their time to savor the ordinary and everyday.. Good food…good wine..good company. A country that is rooted in the riches of the fertile soil and its religious tradition, and decorated in ancient art. Colors that take your breath away. A people and culture that celebrate the mother figure, just because she is who she is. A woman. One who bears and raises the children..who feeds..who nurtures…who gives life.

There are moments that shift. Experiences that change and transform, that find you suddenly seeing yourself and your relationships in another light. It doesn’t change the century’s old dance – the push/pull…the battle for both intimacy and autonomy..the desperate need to be connected and separate all at once and the same time. As both my mother’s daughter and my daughter’s mother – I was reminded that all mothers everywhere are to be honored.

Una fest delle Madri. A celebration of mothers. For no particular reason. Just because…

Vision and Verb (15 February 2010)

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Forever Seventeen

With nothing but a backpack over her shoulder and a pocket full of plans. A moment captured. Somewhere between the dreamy innocence of childhood and the harsh truths of a grown up life. Knowing nothing. Not who she is..or who she will be. Searching. For her self ..her voice… her becoming. Setting off on her own journey. She begins.

Just seventeen.

A carefully crafted blueprint is what she carries. A constructed plan. A book of instructions. A map of straight and narrow roads to follow. A compass to put her back on track in the event that she might find herself turned in the wrong direction. The voices of others repeating themselves in her head. And a single simple mirror to reflect back and to remind her.

Timetables….schedules….deadlines. Always something important to do..somewhere urgent to go…someplace elsewhere to be. Forever in search of the pot of gold at the end of that rainbow. Forever in search of she.

A world holding its breath. A life waiting. The college degree..the profession..the marriage..the kids. A life fulfilled…and fulfilling. Time passing. A few wrong turns..a couple of detours..and an occasional dead-end. That road map is no use to her now. Life’s instructions are nothing other than words that fill a tired old book. And that carefully crafted blueprint is – right before her very eyes – slowly fading. There is no pot of gold at the end of each rainbow…and no one else’s voice ringing in her head. The mirror is all that she still carries. It’s all that remains.

No longer seventeen.

With an empty backpack and pockets without plans. Caught. Somewhere in the middle of her very adult-world responsibilities and still wishing on her childhood star. A found inner compass. A new sense of self. A growing strength. With only her mirror’s reflection answering her questioning gaze. A quiet whisper..almost inaudible to those passing by. She begins again.

Filled with questions…with self-doubt..with fear that sometimes paralyzes. She is learning to breathe..to sit with the discomfort..to believe. Often confusing and always a surprise…her inner compass has became her eternal companion and guide. Altho not the paths she imagined she’d follow..the crooked ones have become her new friends.

A trail of new dreams. Without any real goals or absolute destinations. In this moment. No longer needing to know where it is she is going…and yet knowing that she must go. Learning to trust in herself and her voice. Learning to listen. Daring to be heard… and to be seen. The mirror’s ever-changing reflection a constant reminder of who she is. Always becoming.

Forever seventeen.

Vision and Verb (1 February 2010)

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I Write

A blank page..a clean slate..a fresh start and new beginning.

I write.

Feeling this enormous pressure..this sense of urgency..this need to succeed..to exceed..to do it right. Struggling with the expectation of being the first to post on this blog…the first contributor..the first to put words to image. Believing that I need to produce something that is both awesome and inspiring…and that will both please and impress this audience that I only know from the trail of comments they may choose to leave. Needing to be ‘good’. Needing to be ‘perfect’. My mind plays funny tricks on me. I remind myself to trust in my heart…to trust in what I know…to breathe long and deep and slow.

I write.

I think back to where and when it all started. My creative ‘beginnings’. That first coloring book and crayons that arrived with that unwritten directive to ‘color within the lines’..that to do anything else – would be wrong. It was followed thereafter with my first set of ‘oil’ paints accompanied by a canvas dotted with tiny numbers. 2 – green for the grass. 5 – blue for the sky. 1,3,4,6 – the colors of the dappled pony sitting in the meadow. There were no instructions. No one had to tell me to match the colors to the numbers indicated. What was never said aloud..was understood. And – later..much later – I learned that a proper sentence – was made up of a subject and predicate..a noun and a verb. Without them – a thought and composition could never be correctly written.

Too quickly I learned about expectation and perfection. How to color inside the lines…how to paint by someone else’s numbers..how to put the right words to paper… how to be the apple of everyone’s eye. Those perfectly painted canvases were displayed proudly for approval and praise. Those more perfectly structured sentences received bright gold starred stickers and A+ letter grades. I was a ‘good’ girl. I was a ‘smart’ girl. I understood what was ‘expected’. I aimed to ‘please’.

With my first camera came ‘lessons’ in shutter speeds…in aperture openings..in rules of thirds..in correct composition. I learned to focus. I learned that rules obeyed received recognition and applause…whereas those rules broken were granted no attention at all. There was always a ‘right’…and always a ‘wrong’…and never any space or room for anything in between or ‘different’.

It’s no mystery or surprise as to why it is I’m feeling this need to do this perfectly..this almost paralyzing fear that it may not be just ‘so’. Staring that fear down…confronting the eye of that tiger.. I’m doing it anyway. I’m on to my mind and its funny tricks. I’m no longer interested in playing those childhood games. I know from where I began. I know now from where I am.

I write.

This time around – there are no coloring books with lines in which to color..and to no one else’s numbers must I paint. No letter grades are being handed out…and the perfectly ‘crafted’ image is all in the eyes of the beholder. Letting go of those rules that guided..that bound..that sometimes gagged. Both lost and found..I am free.

Not quite old enough to be truly wise..but no longer young enough to be that innocent and naïve. I return..and begin again.

I write.

Vision and Verb (18 January 2010)

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Of A Certain Age

It was a time of hope and innocence. A time when the cries of love and peace rang louder than the thunder of distant war. We wore bell-bottom jeans and mini-skirts and long strings of beads. We rocked to the music of The Beatles, the Grateful Dead, the Rolling Stones and rapped to the rhythm of the Motown beat. We ate cheeseburgers and fries and malt shakes. For under $1.00 we got to experience Mary Poppins in the big screen theater. We were Sesame Street’s first audience, and loved Mr. Rogers. We adored the Brady Bunch and dreamed of being as strong and independent as Mary Tyler Moore. We played hopscotch and four-square and ran free as can be. When the first giant step for mankind was taken on the moon, we cheered. We cried when John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated. We were champions of equal rights. We were daughters of the feminist and sexual revolution. We believed that we could pursue our dreams and become whoever we wished and hoped to be.

We talked on hard-wired telephones with old-fashioned rings and busy signals. We listened to music that was recorded on long-playing records. Mail was delivered by our local mailmen and dropped in boxes by our front door. Dinner left over from the previous night was reheated in a conventional oven. The television that we watched was restricted to three local channels and rendered only in black and white. The ‘Land of Oz’ what we knew, wasn’t brought to us in Technicolor.

We were girls of the 60’s. We knew only what we knew and never imagined how the world might change.

Some went to college, and pursued their professional dreams. Some got married. Some did not. Some had children. Others never had the desire or the need. Children grew. Marriages changed. Professions that once looked so glamorous and exciting turn out to be not quite as they’d initially appeared. That single solitary bar to which we’d clung so tight no longer felt quite as solid nor as secure. What we believed would fill and fulfill didn’t quite.

We are now of ‘that’ age. Not quite old enough to be truly wise, not young enough to be that innocent and naïve. Each on our own creative path and journey we stretch, we reach out, we look up to the sky in hopes for some sort of divine intervention and inspiration. Searching for our creative voice and style and coming from all parts of the world we bravely put ourselves out there on this great world wide web, where anything and everything is possible. A universe that was once confined to our immediate surrounds opened itself to our searching fingertips. We believed.

Found through our shared but unique histories and our creative passions we connected. We’ve never met or talked live or in person. We know nothing about each other’s daily lives. We join our collaborative and collective forces and find a shared canvas on which to paint. Each in her own voice. Each in her own authentic style. We write. We photograph. We make sense and stories out of our lives.

We talk by email. Our music comes to us on MP3’s. We re-heat last night’s dinners in microwave ovens. And the television we watch is in full color and broadcast worldwide. The children we once were, we are no longer. The world that once was, has changed. The bar we now swing from is longer and more far-reaching. We’ve grown. We’ve evolved. We have come to believe that we are better versions of ourselves than the ones we once were.

Still full of hope. Still believing that the sounds of peace and love will drown out those rumbles of distant war.

We are women of a 'certain age'. Reconnected.

Guest post written at Shutter Sisters (22 January 2010)

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The Gift of Italian Laundry

I expected to fall in love with the language..the culture..the history..the food. I expected to be romanced by the ancient religious stone, and inspired by its accompanying Renaissance art. In Venice – I expected that the winding canals would sweep me away and that the colors and light would bedazzle. I was not disappointed. It was everything I expected..and so much more.

It wasn’t the picture-postcard views and sights that captivated and caught my attention. As so often happens with me, it was the art of the everyday ordinary that most intrigued me..and that I most loved. In every corner and alley, I found lines of colorful laundry softly blowing in the autumn wind. Across canals, tthe lines appeared to lace and hold old buildings together. Between balconies, these same laundry lines tied neighbors into a community of intimate friends.

Soon, I began to make up stories about the invisible people who lived behind the hanging wash. I’d heard of the Venetian ‘casalinghe’ – the traditional housewife – who raised the children and ruled the home. It was clear to me as to how this century’s old ritual and tradition had begun, but I did wonder why it is still practiced in these days of such modern convenience and amenity. There had to be more to this than what caught my eye. I imagined - perhaps - it to be some sort of ‘art’ form passed on from one generation to the next. I thought that – perhaps – it was something that daughters learned from their mothers… who learned from their mothers before them..and those before that. It was not an ‘art’ that was studied, but one that was learned thru observation and osmosis, much like ‘mother tongue’.

And – I thought about my daughter, and what it is she’d observed and absorbed along her journey. As a young child, she was often found perched on a stool beside me, assisting and helping with daily dinners. In the afternoons when she returned home from school, she’d sit in the chair next to mine in my office, imitating my drawing with drawings of her own. She watched..she listened..she learned. Now 20-years old and living her own adventure and semester abroad, it was my turn to visit and follow her in her life. Studying in a language that I have never mastered, and living in a country and world that is foreign and new, I expected to learn as much from she as she’d learned from me.

It was my chance to observe..to look..to see. I was curious to discover what it is she’d held on to…and what it is she’d let go. I thought of the centuries old traditions of the casalinghe – how each and every one had had their own language of ritual and routine. Some – I imagined - liked to put their clothes out to dry sorting them by color… others by order of size. Some hung in the sunshine..others in the shade. Some – I was quite convinced – hung their clothes out in the light of day..whereas others did it secretly in the darkest hours of the night. I thought about all of the unspoken little things and day’s rituals daughters learn from their mothers. I wondered what mine had learned from me…and hoped that just a little piece of whatever it was, was good enough to take with her as she embarked upon her adult life.

Without question, Italy is magical. My travels and time there met and exceeded all my wildest dreams and expectations. The little girl who once clung to me…who cried when I left the house…who shadowed me wherever I went – had found wings and learned to fly. She’d grown up and into a more adult version of her childhood self. From that little girl, a young woman is emerging. One who is beautiful, strong, self-aware and self-assured…and is very slowly finding her own voice and means of self-expression. In our very last moments together I glanced out her window, and noticed the line of hanging clothes suspended there. It bore a familiar resemblance, yet – it was a creation and ‘art’ form that was all her own.

That was the best gift of all.

Guest post written at Shutter Sisters (31 January 2009)

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Practice

I’m often asked about this ‘exercise in mindfulness’ that I practice daily. What is it about? How did it begin? When and where? And more importantly- how do I continue to do what I do day-after-day?

It began with an unlikely pair of domesticated Pekin ducks that found themselves living in the wild on a small pond not too far from where I live. It was the summer of 2004. Although photography had always been an interest and a passion, it was rekindled when these white ducks miraculously appeared and crossed my path. They quickly became my morning muse, my focus, my reason for once again picking up my camera and looking at the world through its lens. As the greens of summer turned into the rich warm hues of autumn and as those faded into wiinter whites, I continued to photograph this pair until their disappearance and ultimate sad demise.

Funny how ‘endings’ can so often be ‘beginnings’ in disguise. Their disappearance forced me to look at the world around me; to search the everyday ordinary and find the extraordinary in each and every new day. Without them as my guide and muse I had a chance to start once again from the beginning; to seize the opportunity to see the world in a whole new way.

As an avid yoga practitioner, I study the power of presence, the strength of acceptance, and the grace of embracing what ‘is’. This ‘practice’ of photographing the world as I see it has become no different than that of stepping on my mat, feeling the ground solidly beneath my feet, opening my heart and my eyes to the world as it unfolds around me. It is a union of body and mind and the click of the shutter’s lens. Day after day, week after week and month after month after that, no matter what the forecasted weather I get up before the sun rise and walk my morning walk. With my camera over my shoulder and in my hand, I ‘practice’recording the world as I see it. I never know in advance what it was I might find. The perfect scene, the perfect moment, the perfect light are allinconsequential and often elusive. There is always something new to see and be seen; something to be captured from a different point-of-view and in a whole new way.The morning light, the weather, the mood, the seasons are ever changing and evolving along with my vision.

Looking thru my lens I often find myself totally immersed in the moment and what it has to offer. My ‘practice’ has become a daily reminder that there is hidden magic in thedetails if we actually stop and breathe and look and listen.

Am curious to hear how you do what you do? What inspires and motivates? What gets you up in the morning??? What is your muse? And how do you keep that passion going?

Guest post written at Shutter Sisters (31 January 2009)