Ten.Seventy-Three

1. This shade of pale pink rose in the sky.  

2. The tomatoes. I don't know what to do with this last bunch. I may need to move the pot to another spot in the yard where the sun will hit it sooner in the day. I forgot about the shift in the light.  

3. I have to untangle the hoses and attach spray nozzle before I can wash it off. But first I take a picture, realize that the "y" in You is written backward. Yes. This must have been a child. No, it doesn't really make me feel any better. 

4. I am grateful and surprised by the support and shock and anger. I wonder if maybe I made too big a deal about it. But then remember that my writing is about my truth. And the truth was/is that it still bothers me that someone, even a child who is incapable of writing their "y" the correct way, would write something like that on my driveway. I just hope I never have to see something like that again.  

5. Once, in middle school we got off the bus to see portions of the sidewalks and windows covered in brown kraft paper. Overnight, someone had vandalized the school. It had been covered in swastikas and racial slurs. This would have been in 1997 or 1998 in the small, but growing, tobacco town of Kernersville, North Carolina. 

6. Which makes me think of the young boy in New Hampshire with rope burns around his neck.

7. Which makes me think of the fact that I'll be driving through New Hampshire alone. Which makes me also think about the other articles I've seen lately about racism in the northeast.  

8. Which makes me wonder how one is supposed to feel safe.  

9. He keeps asking me what's wrong. I say nothing.  

10. I play soccer with him as the sun goes down. Try to look at his face instead of the glowing orange sun as it sets behind the berm. Try to focus on this smile and the roundness of his cheeks. 

Ten.Seventy-Two

1. I wish I had a better plan for breakfast this morning. 

2. Not cranes, but herons. I think.  

3. The sun at this time of morning is low and this strange pink-orange.  

4. Coffee cake from a box. He tells me that the morning before he saw the deer, both of them. I haven't seen them since before we left for California.  

5. California. I think back to the morning the girl with the dark curly hair at Mini Model assumed that we were locals. And it was the way it made me feel—like anything and everything was possible, even my wildest dreams. 

6. I need to hold on to this.  

7. Peach pie two Sundays in a row. This time I make the lattice with thick ribbons that turn golden brown.  

8. I manage to take a 2-hour nap, so deep that I dream nonsensical dreams of football and children and cakes and faces I want to kiss.  

9. Twice in two days someone has written "I will kill you" on my driveway. It is most likely some child's prank. She confirms that yesterday someone admitted to doing it. But no one knows who wrote it today. It's hard not to take it personal. If it happens again...  

10. Three more mornings until Squam.  

Ten.Seventy-One

1. The coolness of the morning still catches me off guard. Every day feels new again. And I guess that's a good thing.  

2. I make a batch of plain granola and top it with pecans and dried cranberries and fresh blueberries. Settle on making a large pot of coffee. There are two birthday parties today.  

3. The strangeness of familiar faces.  

4. I head to the consignment shop and try on 5 pairs of jeans and only one manages to slide comfortably over my thighs. I go back and get 5 more, this time in the next size up. I buy 3 pairs in total.  

5. She asks me if everyone where I live now is more normal. I don't really know what she means by this. 

6. I gather a few more poetry and writing books. Find a selection in Women Who Run With the Wolves that illustrates one of my points perfectly. There are so many things this book illustrates perfectly.  

7. The second party is more tame. I eat some mac and cheese and watch the reporters on MSNBC talk about Irma. Her husband is down there to work on the power lines. I think of Mr. Claude.  

8. I'm too full from life today to eat my dinner and just clean and take a long shower instead.  

9. Back to 7:30 bed time for the kids.  

10. "...the body is a living record of life given, life taken, life hoped for, life healed." 

Ten.Seventy

1. I wake up before the alarm and then stay in bed after it goes off. The sickness has traveled from the nose into the throat and chest.  

2. This morning is layers and light foam and staring out the window over the kitchen sink waiting for the sun to turn the grass gold-green. 

3. I complain a lot but really I do prefer the spaciousness of our mornings. 

4. I wonder why I care so much about certain things and yet not enough about others. Is it really true that how you do one thing is how you do everything? I don't think it is.

5. I find a spot underneath the tent where I can see all three kids. I am sweating and my nose is still running and occasionally I get up to give a few kids a high five. I'm glad I get to do these kinds of things. I don't want to give up this freedom. 

6. I prepare the pot roast for dinner. Her recipe never fails. Brown the onions and the the carrots. Sear the meat on all sides and then deglaze the pan with red wine. (Tonight it's a bottle of Primitivo.) Put everything back into the pan with beef stock and fresh herbs. (I cut generous amounts of rosemary and oregano from the bushes out back.) Stick it in the oven.  

7. I play with him in the backyard,  a badminton type of game. He keeps asking me to play. I keep saying yes. I keep enjoying it more than I think I will. 

8. I want to rest my eyes before dinner but I just keep rehearsing phrases for the workshop. 

9. Honey to coat the throat.  

10. Who am I? 

Ten.Sixty-Nine

1. Sometime around 3:30 am my sinuses open up and I get 2 good hours of sleep.  

2. I look for the moon through the bathroom curtains but the sky is too overcast to see it.  

3. I squeeze into this one pair of jeans, the most comfortable pair of jeans I have, and it's hard to quiet the disappointment. I tell myself that my body is just changing and that this kind of changing is okay.  

4. I roll the oil blend under my nose and around my chest and throat and remember the old days of vapo-rub. How it was the cure of so many things. Which makes me think of my grandmother who would make us go to sleep with plastic bags on our feet to sweat out the sickness. 

5. I love seeing her face on my phone. The return of the school year means the return of our almost weekly chats. I miss my best friend.  

6. More mucinex and nose spray and wishing I had a mother close by to take care of me.  

7. Soup for lunch.  

8. There's a big pile of dirt in the middle of the cul-de-sac. 

9. I read her email aloud to him and tell him that Teri told me to always accept the gifts. And don't feel guilty about it. Just be grateful. I said this year I wanted to go to the desert. 

10. "What needs to be counted on to have a voice? Courage. Anger. Love. Something to say; someone to speak to; someone to listen."

Ten.Sixty-Eight

1. When the moon is full it illuminates the bathroom and this morning it is so dark and the moon is so brighf. 

2. Maybe it's because it's sitting so close to the hill that it looks so big. But from the kitchen, the moon looks close enough for me to pluck it out of the sky with my fingertips. I look east and see the coming of dawn. I spend twenty minutes watching the moon sink and the sun rise.  

3. Bacon and frozen waffles and a small pot of coffee. I feel a cold coming on. 

4. I'm rereading The Memoir Project by Marion Roach and she reminds me that my morning pages are not the real work. That the real work comes from dedicated time with my words, telling the stories. 

5. Seven days until I leave for Boston and then make my way to New Hampshire. I am trying to envision myself making this journey with more peace and less anxiety. 

6. I take off the jeans that feel too tight and put on my pajama pants, bring a mason jar of warm water with lemon and honey to ease my throat, and curl up under the covers.  

7. I can't be sick.  

8. I look out to the clouds and notice how the bottoms are gray and the tops are bright from the light of the sun. My arms are pressed against the glass and my eyes begin to swell with tears and I know that feeling this is what makes life worth living.  

9. I can't be sick.  

10. This is the first bath I've ever taken in this house. The tub is deep and the warmth of the water is making me sweat. I watch my arms float in the water and the dirt of the day rise up from my body and cling to the sides of the tub. 

Ten.Sixty-Seven

1. I can tell the seasons are changing. The low light and the coolness outside of the sheets. I let myself lay for just a little longer while I run through the refrigerator contents in my head.

2. I step out onto the back stoop and the cool air blows against my bare leg and even though I really just came down to preheat the oven I am transfixed by the shifting location of the sunrise.

3. Cinnamon and sugar croissants. 

4. The gladiolas are drying out and I don't want to replace them just yet. Sometimes I'm not good at letting things go.

5. I've listened to this episode with Marie Howe six or seven times now and it never loses its enchantment. I love the tone of her voice and the way she speaks of family. And that poem about Mary Magdalene makes me hold my breath every time.  

6. These morning with them. How they reconstitute my spirit. I've missed these women and their hearts and am so grateful for our reunification this season.

7. All of the laundry. I make myself some tea and turn on Bleak House. This sometime doesn't feel like enough.

8. Taco Tuesday. Beef. Homemade tortilla chips.

9. I'm getting back into the habit of lighting candles at dinner again. I like the little flickers of light and the way it makes this very ordinary day a little more beautiful. 

10. Tomorrow makes 7 days until New Hampshire.

Ten.Sixty-Six

1. First one up. The light this morning is so orange. I'm fascinated.

2. Bacon, hash browns, scrambled eggs, coffee, orange juice. This Monday feels like Sunday. 

3. I follow the orange light around the house. It starts in the office and then moves into the corner at the base of the stairs before floating up the wall and then disappearing behind the cloud cover.

4. The warmth of this floor.

5. We've decided that today we'll just lay in bed and watch wine documentaries all day: A Year in Burgundy, Somm: Into the Bottle, A Year in Port. 

6. "History gives wine heart and soul."

7. We drink a few glasses of Savenniers while we watch.

8. I'm daydreaming about working a harvest when we move to California. About getting my feet wet with grapes. I'll learn how to prune leaves or maybe just bend them down to an elevated wire like Lalou does with her vines. And French. I'm going to learn French.

9. Leftovers for dinner. Ribs and baked potatoes and green beans.

10. I stand at the window and watch the limbs sway. The sun is pulsating, haunting. I don't even know why I'm so fascinated with the light today. Maybe it was just that the day was so deliciously slow and quiet that this one thing, the pink-orange sun and it's oddly colored light, made me feel like a child again.

Ten.Sixty-Five

1. The morning light is bright. They've all been awake for some time. 

2. I make myself a bowl of lucky charms for breakfast. The level of joy this gives me is almost silly. But sometimes we need things like this to bring us back down again.

3. We head out to the farmer's market for two things: fruit for a pie and some local honey. We settle on these big peaches the color of sunset and I grab a jar with a tiny bit of comb inside it to use in my tea.

4. I begin to prep the chickens. First I line the pans with parchment paper and then add the racks. Then I cut out the backs, lay them flat onto the racks and cover them in a generous amount of kosher salt before I stick them into the fridge. While I'm doing that he chops the herbs for the butter rub and then peels and slices the peaches. I take off the latex gloves and wash my hands and make the lattice for the pie while he polishes the wine glasses.  We are quiet and methodical.

5. There's enough time for me to play soccer in the yard with him again and we take a short scooter ride around the neighborhood. I am sweaty and tired but I'm trying to make time for this.

6. We begin with water and Gouguenhiem Sparkling Malbec. Dinner is the Pinot Noir. After dinner we drink some late harvest Riesling. 

7. We speak the ways friends who've known one another for a long time speak. It's conversations full of ease and laughter and sometimes hard stuff. It's just nice when you speak the same heart language.

8. He's had way too many Manhattans to wake up at a reasonable time tomorrow morning.

9. It's almost 11 when they leave. I am tired, full of roasted chicken and peach pie and probably too much wine. 

10. I pray that the kids sleep in tomorrow. And that they won't be mad about having to eat lucky charms again for breakfast.

Ten.Sixty-Four

1. I wake up after 8.  

2. I think they ate the rest of the banana bread for breakfast. I make myself a cappuccino and clean up the dishes from the night before. I'm running out of pages in my journal. 

3. On 5th Street I swerve to avoid the hawk. It's carrying a fat mouse. 

4. The familiarity of these streets. Yet so much is changing.  

5. I'm just going through the motions of getting it all done today.  

6. I snip them some sage and rosemary and oregano to take home. 

7. Blue Melosa.  

8. Grateful I didn't have to make dinner today. He tells me that when I'm in a funk it comes out in my food. He's right.  

9. I didn't make her cherry handpies this morning or this afternoon because I had to do the grocery shopping and then the cleaning and then play soccer with him again because I said I would be done with everything by 4:45.  

10. I think of the woman bagging my groceries and how she talked of her two boys, one in Austin and one in St. Louis. How much she misses them. How, even though the plan was for them to be independent and gone, it still makes her ache in a way she hadn't imagined. I know I will ache in the same way sometime in the future. I'll maker her the handpies tomorrow. 

Ten.Sixty-Three

1. The air this morning. And the sky—how it had layers of lavender in it. 

2. I show a picture of my face today. Because I too need to work on being seen. I think of all the ways in which I hide.  

3. He helps me secure my rental car. I tell him that sometimes I still feel like a child. 

4. I ride with him to the city to pick up some wine for work. The 40-something miles there and back are mostly quiet. It's not that o have nothing to say, it's just that sometimes there's too much.  

5. I make the chicken noodle soup early. Sweat the onions in a little bit of olive oil and butter, add the garlic, then toss in the celery and carrots. Snip a few sprigs from the rosemary bush and strip some oregano, toss those into the pot. Everything is so fragrant.  

6. The best thing about going down to one cup of coffee a day is that I no longer have that hard crash in the afternoon. I tell him that it's nice to be able to still do a little work, to not feel like I can't stand on my own feet. Overall, my mind does feel as though it moves more slowly. I think I can be okay with that.  

7. We shoot some hoops and play a little soccer in the backyard. I thank him for playing with me. This little one. He tells me he sometimes gets lonely because he doesn't have as many play dates as his older siblings.

8. Her friend joins us for dinner. It's so odd to see the sixth chair occupied but she is good company.   

9. My face feels heavy. Allergies. 

10. We sit them, and some others I have yet to meet, around the fire pit. We missed the sunset but there's still this creamsicle-colored glow coming from behind the bern.

Ten.Sixty-Two

1. The tomatoes are stalling. I think the night time temps are getting too cool. 

2. Still in my pajamas.  

3. This morning feels softer than the others.

4. I sit down and get over myself and just write it out. Sometimes it's just so much easier to just say the thing and get it out. 

5. I pick a Soave for lunch.  

6. It's almost too cold to sit on the patio. But there's a pergola and it's covered in vines and I think that maybe he brought me here because he was trying to feed me. 

7. Stillness.  

8. I like it when they get in the car and there are smiles. The energy is just so different and it's easier to breathe. But I'm still glad it's Thursday and that this week is almost over. 

9. I'm still not convinced.  

10. All this newness. 

Being Seen

Several months ago I removed "photographer" from my Instagram profile, suddenly subconscious and afraid of using that word because, well, who am I to call myself a photographer? I am merely a woman with a camera and I take pictures that people sometimes think are very beautiful. I don't know (yet) how to use off-camera flash, I don't own any reflectors, or have a studio space. I'm self-taught. My mentors are other young photographers and one kind soul way out east who used to be an actor and a fashion photographer in New York City. 

But I know that I want to grow. I trust that I am capable of creating even more beauty. I believe that I see things in a way that no one else does. Kevin told me a long time ago that I have vision—and that vision is something you can't teach. And if I am going to speak to you on the importance of honoring your gifts, then I ought to honor my own. 

Last fall I threw out there that I wanted to practice more portraits and offered free sessions to any woman who was local and interested. (It's something people often ask me to do but I usually end up referring them elsewhere, unsure of my abilities to do them justice.) Two beautiful humans raised their hands and when I asked them what made them say yes, they both said the same thing, "I need to practice being seen."

I hope that what Kendra, Jen, and I created is the intersection of vision and authenticity, courage and trust, beauty and illumination. And I left both days feeling more assured that I can do this, that maybe I'm meant to do this—to offer safe space for women to step into their own light and to be seen.

An immensely heartfelt thank you to Kendra and Jen for choosing to push their own boundaries so that I could push my own. I hope to offer some more of these soon. Please feel free to get in touch with me if you're interested.

Ten.Sixty-One

1. I didn't really sleep last night. Tossing and turning since 4:30 AM. 

2. I like to be down here alone in the dark. Back to three lunches and three snacks today. Bacon and toast and fruit. One cappuccino. I think I can handle just this little bit of caffeine.

3. I am trying to listen to myself and cringing at every "like" and "um." Critiquing my silence and the tone of my voice. Why did I talk about a fur coat? I mean, it drove home a point, but still. A fur coat? And I remember why I never go back to listen to my interviews. 

4. I like this little spot and I sit in the sun while I wait for her because I need to feel the heat on my skin. Wooden gliders. 

5. We walk down to the river and find a bench that looks out onto the water. Ducks, cranes, ripples from someone skipping rocks a little ways away. 

6. We talk about the beauty of the morning; children and their friends; how to stay out of the entrepreneurial slump and addressing fears; ways in which we can build a network of black women way out here in the suburbs; how to take care of ourselves when people that look like your neighbors carry tiki torches and try to start race wars.

7. Grenache for lunch.

8. I sit out on the back porch and listen to the ping of golf balls. I need to harvest all of these herbs and hang them to dry. 

9. We make dinner together tonight. I do the risotto and he does the salmon. I like it when we dance in this space together. 

10. I finally sign them up for something. Basketball for the boys and gymnastics for the girl. I jokingly say that now I feel like a good mother. But I'm not really joking. It's interesting the way we cut our own selves over these kinds of things.

Ten.Sixty

1. It's still so dark.  

2. The thickness of the fog reminds me of somewhere that's not where I am. The landscape and the weather is so different here. What a difference 12 miles can make.  

3. Frozen waffles for them. Fruit for me plus one cappuccino and lots of warm lemon water and kombucha.  

4. I know how to work through this. I shake out the rugs and clean the bathrooms. Light candles. Reorganize my drawers. Dust the baseboards and the dressers. This kind of attention to the home breeds gratitude.  

5. Morning pages in the afternoon.  

6. Just him and me today. I always joke that he would have been happier as an only child. 

7.  I write my husband a letter. He likes these. Plus there are things to say, like "thank you." 

8. Malbec. 

9. He asks me to lay down with him. Reminds me that I used to do this at the old house.  

10. Is it possible to clean your way out of sadness? I'm not sad. Really I am just worried. Worried that I'm not doing enough. Worried about my parents and the failing pumps in their city. Worried about getting a flat tire with a car full of children. I'm not worried. I'm afraid. So many fears. I want to remember what it was like to not be afraid.  

Ten.Fifty-Nine

1. I want to make an apple crisp because it's a Monday and I think we need comfort food to start the day.  

2. I break my no-caffeine streak and make myself a cappuccino. I still have two lunches and two snacks to pack, 7 loads of laundry to fold, and a meeting with a teacher. 

3. The one who threw up the night before is still in pajamas and the oldest one is still coughing and wheezing and looks pained. Two kids home sick. I have to take the girl with me to the teacher meeting.  

4. I hate to compare, but it's so different. I need to let it be different. I will only make myself more upset by listing all the ways in which it's different, instead of appreciating what's here in front of me. But it's still so different.  

5. Errands.  

6. I start in on the seven loads and watch last night's Love & Hip-Hop and then The Conjuring. It takes me 2.5 hours to fold it and put it all away. 

7. I haven't met her yet but she offers me medicine and I need it, and so I take it and remember that this just might be everything I need it to be if I let it.  

8. I'm in the middle of making Chicken Parmesan and the oldest comes down to tell us he doesn't feel well. That he's going to throw up. I pull the trash bin out of the drawer and bring it to his chin just in time, dusting the underside of his face with flour. 

9. Sick day number two tomorrow. 

10. This is all that got done today. I am salty because I didn't even get to eat any of the apple crisp. I didn't get to edit the photos. Which means I didn't write the blog post. In my down time I ate leftover Greek salad and pita chips, drank tea and water, rubbed essential oils on my chest and took a mucinex, wondered how we're supposed to do all of this. Wondered how I get to do all of this. 

10.1 I am out of sleepy time tea and settle instead for very-hot-water with lemon and honey. I catch the last bits of sunset. Orange and gray and faded blue denim. I sometimes cannot handle all of the beauty and the pain. 

Ten.Fifty-Eight

1. Late. 

2. He came in and out of the room so many times that I lost count. And now he's sitting here with his head resting in his hand telling me that he kept coming in because his belly hurt. I recommend an apple and a glass of water. 

3. The list of what is left to be done is still so long and I am tired. I lay with them in the bed and watch Jurassic Park for maybe the 63rd time. 

4. I drive him to see an old friend. He notices that they've stuck in new flowers beside the hydrangeas I planted last spring. He also says there's a playground back there now. They must have little, little kids. My heart cracks a tiny bit. I want it back. 

5. I stop at Trader Joe's and buy three bunches of gladiolas because I love the way they look in our kitchen. Deep purple. They always look so grand and gentle.  

6. I drink another cup of tea and journal. I write to myself that I think maybe I am depressed. I list all the things that it could also be: the lack of caffeine, my anxiety surrounding my upcoming workshop, the laundry that still needs to folded, the fatigue, my cycle, that I've been down those streets too many times these last two days.  

7. I wanted salmon with burre rouge but nothing today is going as planned and so it's chicken fried rice and potstickers instead. But I burn the potstickers. 

8. I make him drink a little bit of tea to settle his tummy.  

9. He throws up on my feet. How he managed to make it all the way downstairs into the kitchen, I do not know. What I do know is that he'll be home with me tomorrow. And that I'm grateful that I have the luxury of tending to him. I need to tend to myself.

10. I still have the roller of essential oils she gave me from the last time I was sick and so I roll it around my neck and chest and count my blessings as the rain taps against the windows.  

Ten.Fifty-Seven

1. Still the first one awake. Making pancakes in my pajamas. Day two without coffee. 

2. Back here with the red brick. 

3. It feels good to see these faces. Good and also sad. The way the tops of the trees meet. How you have to kind of gun it up the hill.  

4. New glasses. New Me.

5. Trying to think of the ways I can make it all make sense.  

6. I tell her that, yeah, I feel like I need a year before I say "yes" to anything else.  

7. I slice the tomatoes and chop the tops off the garlic and place them on a baking sheet. Slide them into the oven to roast. I shift around the baskets, load, and unload. I am finding comfort in domesticity. 

8. Light candles, pour a glass of wine—Argentinian Cabernet, write a newsletter in which I talk about recent failures. It feels good to get it off my chest.

9. Sugar cookies. 

10. I want to not feel this way anymore when they ask me these questions. 

Ten.Fifty-Six

1. The way the mist is rising up from the wetlands out back. I am instantly taken to the foggy mornings in Yountville.  

2. I post a picture of The French Laundry's culinary gardens. They were so lush, saturated in color. What were those tall stalk way in the back? Oh yes, Sunchokes.   

3. I have decided to abstain from coffee and caffeine and see if my body with catch up with it's own natural rhythms. I drink water with a little apple cider vinegar and then my oat straw and nettle leaf infusions. I need to remember that I know how to heal myself.  

4. We meet in downtown Geneva. I am so I love with its old houses and brick storefronts. I am sad for a moment even though I'm with my best friend. But the weather is perfect, truly: sunny and breezy and no humidity. 

5. I decide that this weekend will be for restoring my self and for making spaces in my home. In the last house I had my corners and my rooms where I felt at ease. I'm struggling to recreate this. Maybe it's not the house. Maybe it's just Me. 

6. Head hurts.  

7. I clean the kitchen and then order pizza for dinner because the withdrawal headache is too much and I just need to rest.  

8. We eat our pizza and talk a little about the school day and the plans for the weekend and video games.  

9. The way the light is setting behind me. The house is glowing orange and gold.  

10. Someone I follow on Instagram uses the hashtag #thereistimeforthis. And there is. There is time for choosing less or more or different or better. There is time to change your mind. There is time for stillness and presence and for sitting in the orange glow.

Ten.Fifty-Five

1. The light is changing. 

2. I'm moving with more grace, pulling the containers and the boxes and the slices of salami.  

3. He asks me to make my bed so that we can lay down together before school. Runs to his room to make his own bed and cleans up all the toys. So proud of himself that he calls us back upstairs to see how well he did. And then we throw ourselves onto the bed and watch cartoons together for these spare 15 minutes.  

4. Back home and down to the basement to edit photos. Looking at the photos of the two of them brings me back to those early morning. And I'm proud of her and her and myself for stepping into the light.  

5. Leftover pot pie for lunch.  

6. I keep crashing mid-day. I am certain that this means I need to adjust my diet again. Clear myself of the caffeine for awhile, drink my nettle and oat straw infusions, cut back on the dairy and the wheat.  

7. In the pick-up lane I scribble down words. Trying to finish out the line "...beyond the control of humans" before the tail lights fade out. 

8. Home isn't feeling like home. What is home? Why am I always asking this question? 

9. Why am I so uncomfortable? But the weather today is so beautiful. And I keep touching the leaves of the trees as I pass by. I like the sound of my heels on the sidewalk.  

10. Too many sugar cookies.