These are the things I want to be doing:

: Having a glass of wine with Stephanie

: Learning to knit in the round

: Making kombucha with Dana

: Helping my mother learn to work with whole grains

: Warming my hands on a mug of tea

 : Painting boxes and filling them with treasures

: Biking

: Reading travel memoirs

: Sounding out French words with Matthias

: Taking photographs with you

: Studying bird skeletons

: Exploring abandoned buildings

: Making a mess

: Putting up photographs in my room

: Writing stories

: Cooking with wild mushrooms

: Getting callouses

: Listening to cello music

: Planning a trip

: Seeing magic

Too heavy and for too long

"Once upon a time, there was a boy. He lived in a village that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a field that no longer exists, where everything was discovered, and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword, a pebble could be a diamond, a tree, a castle. Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a house across the field, from a girl that no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was queen and he was king. In the autumn light her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfuls, and when the sky drew dark, they parted with leaves in their hair.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend the rest of his life answering."

Ten things in my life right now:

: A History of Love by Nicole Krauss

: Lonliness

: Bed bugs

: Cumin and paprika rubbed pork tacos with cilantro and sauteed portabellas

: Abandoned tea

: Worry

: Pressure behind my eyes

: Plastic

: Frustration

: Silence

Sometimes the Universe piles it on too heavy and for too long.

Dread.
This morning I woke up from a dream that involved an owl. It was flying through my home, not afraid of the cats or of being indoors. I remember letting it outside, and noticing that it didn't fly away, it simply followed us (the cats and I) out the door.
Cue several moments later, where I was trying make myself a cup of coffee, feed the cats and wake up all at once...daunting multitasking at it's finest. My internal dialogue stopped on this: "What if owls in dreams count, too?"
A few years ago, after seeing an owl up close in my own backyard, my life went through some major changes. Some of them I was ready for, others I was not. My mom loved owls, she collected glass figurines of them, and then I suppose because it is what people do, she started getting them as gifts. At that point in my life after seeing the owl, I thought maybe my mom was sending me a message, or that the owl is meant to be my animal in the same way that my neighbor Marcie says turtles are meant for her. And don't get me wrong, I love owls, very much. If it means that my mom is in touch, well, honestly, this is kind of cool too.
But, I am afraid. Even though I made a promise to the Universe that I won't go back on no matter what, there is this huge part of me playing possum in the road: stiffening up as if bright car lights (change) will kill me. Only I am less afraid of dying than I am of change.
The economy is bad, what if I lose my job? What if I am not smart enough to find another one? Everyone is hurting, why shouldn't I be hurting too? About the only fear that I find ridiculous is "I won't be able to feed the cats" because hey, I will do anything in the world to keep those monsters fed. But still. Here I am. Not where I thought I'd be. Not where I wanted to land. And I might not be keeping my promise because perhaps part of the promise was not to just stand here and wait for change. So maybe the Universe is going to step in again, and change things around me while I stand here, frozen.
I don't want to be afraid of seeing owls.

More Important than Fear

This morning all of the fear and the doubt I've tried to keep at bay landed on me with full force. 

"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear." 

-- James Neil Hollingworth.

This morning, my fear shut down the importance of any competing emotion or rationality. I am meeting with the aforementioned photographer in a little over a week. I want to bring her samples of my work. That I have. What I do not have are photographs taken since February. I haven't taken a single real photograph since February. I don't know what's wrong with me. I seem to have just Shut Down. I used to take my camera everywhere. Today I actually had to wipe the dust off my camera bag. It hasn't left the shelf more than twice since I moved here. That alone made me cringe, but was nothing compared to the weight and breathlessness to come.

Yesterday I stumbled upon the following self portrait of Erin Johnson, a local Minneapolis photographer that make my chest cavity clench with intrigue and excitement, and had therefore saved.

The color and the clarity in this shot make my skin prickle. After rediscovering it I spent the hours before work pouring over photography websites and the notebooks I keep ideas in, and resolved to spend my time before work today taking my camera out and photographing Something. Anything. Everything. 

I started out by attempting to take a photograph of myself just to remind myself that I Can Do This. Every click of the shutter revealed an old, tired, and stressed face. There were bags under my eyes and that prominent, unrelenting wrinkle sinking vertically between my eyebrows stared back cold and affronting. The camera felt heavy in my hands. The lenses were wrong, the lighting was off, the color was bland. But I decided to pull my face around to the side of the camera it belongs and go out anyway. 

I got one block away. Every step I took I felt weaker and weaker. The pressure to take just one photograph kept mounting and muting the voice in my head trying to shout: "It's okay! Take your time. Any photograph is a success; will feel better than not having taken even one. It will get better. You will find It again. This isn't paramount." Nothing resonated. Nothing resonated except the tingling in my lips and fingers, the weight of the camera, the increased gravity pushing on my shoulders and feet, the tightness in my throat. I felt nauseous and dizzy and terrified. I suddenly had a deafening urge to throw down my camera and run away from it. My hands actually shook as a put my camera in my bag and ran home, locked myself in my room, and cried.

What if I Don't Have It? What if I lost It? How can I meet with someone who I want to, need to, impress with empty hands and a face much older than my years? Today I feel as though I am in mourning. In mourning for a gift I only ever felt I had a tentative grasp on at the best of times. I don't know if I can do this. I don't know that I am strong enough to fight against gravity. Against doubt. Against The Dread. I can't freeze up like that if I want to do this in a meaningful way. I need to discover a new way to interpret a lexicon that is lost on me. I need to learn the language of light and of color. I need to speak with subtlety and lucidity. Through all I've read and listened to about lighting and aperture and shutter speed, so little of it has permeated though any membrane of understanding, and my best work is born out of luck and timing and the kind of curiosity that moves with blind reaching and missed steps along the stairwell. I need to learn to draw from the well when I need water as well as when the reflection of the ripples on the stone catches my eye. 

Another thing that worries me about my estranged relationship with my camera: Have I lost the ability to capture the inspiring things in my life, or is my life absent of inspiring things to capture? Perhaps a little of both.

And now begins the process of rediscovering that which is more important than fear.

Here are ten things:

: Passion

: Curiosity

: Knowledge

: Excitement

: Shallow depth of field

: Candid Moments

: The smell of developer and fix on my hands

: Victory

: Contrast

: Growth

Good morning, Big U and Little Sis.
It's 6:30 am and I've been spending some time downloading new fonts for a project I am working on. My fingers are cold because the cat demands that I keep letting her outside, and it's a bit nipply outdoors at this time of the day. My sunroom is drafty but I can keep watch for coyotes and fast cars - my job as a cat mom.
The rain came, along with a small group of men who call themselves landscapers, and washed/blew away most of the bright leaves. I was angry at the men, as I always am, for removing them so soon. The truth is that one of my favorite things is crunching through those leaves each morning on my way to work. More than the color or sound, is the scent of them - so earthy and pungent that I want to lie down like a golden retriever and roll in them, covering myself completely so I can breathe it in all day.  I managed to grab my camera and take a few photos from ground level before they were gone. Now I'm on to coffee steam - seriously addicted to taking these kinds of photos. I no longer care that people stare at me in coffee shops but I don't really think they do. I feel invisible at times. I rarely wear make up anymore (outside of work) or wash my hair on weekends.
I can't decide if this is a good or bad thing.
I keep waiting for some version of loneliness to wash over me, especially once the Christmas decorations start showing. But it doesn't come. I seem to be happy enough despite (or because) of the solitary life I am living. It's as if it is part of the promise: to focus on things other than worry and dread. Instead, I go to the gym in the mornings and focus on my work outs without speaking. (to be fair, none of the hardcore gym rats speak at 5 am. We manage a nod or two, occasionally a "congrats" if one of us completed a marathon or race of some kind.)
I took a part time gig for a friend who opened two restaurants. It's something I can do from home, using a program to log myself into his computer miles away to gather what I need. I don't charge him much, and he is grateful and sends me gift certificates. I hoard these so that I can use them on visiting family.
Today I have a photo project that involves going to Home Depot and begging someone in the lumber department to cut specific pieces of wood for me. These things seem to be more of an exercise in patience than art, but I figure it's a better way to bide my time than zoning out in front of the TV. I've turned off some of my cable and I am not going to lie: it kind of sucks balls. Mostly this is when I cannot find a book that draws me in. Cracked open a new one last night "Half Broke Horses" by Jeannette Walls. So far so good.

My ten things

Greetings, sister, Universe.

This is what I have been working on lately. Getting the new Minneapolis location of Vertical Endeavors open on time. It means 12-hour days on the lifts pictures above, or inside the walls in a harness with a drill, a bucket of T-nuts, a hardhat, and a headlamp. I am loving it. I come home late at night sore and covered in dust and sawdust and metal shavings. I get to watch welders and remember the days when I used to touch heat and electricity. I miss working with metal and... working.  I love making things with my hands, working with paper, and wood and stone and fabric. I must remember that I love to be a Maker of Things, whether they turn out well or not. 

My friend Nathan, freshly back from New Zealand and full of wonderful stories and new slang on his tongue, stayed with me for the past couple of days while he waited to get into his new apartment two blocks from mine. I missed him very much and am happy to have a friend whose company I enjoy so close. My roommates and myself are looking for a new person to live with us as another one leaves. We've met with two people so far, and finding a good fit has proven an interesting exercise in self-evaluation and the choices I make about who I want to be around. 

My friend on the mountain recently found out she is having serious health problems due to an ectopic pregnancy. I have been writing her letters and even going on facebook to check in with her and see how she's fairing. Last I heard, she needed surgery. So does my mother, for her hand. I am grateful for my health.

I am also writing my friend Matthias, who, after three seasons of hitchhiking, is wintering in New Orleans, a place I'd very much like to see. I am also scoping out a portrait lens, since the one I've used for years has returned to its rightful owner. This year may be the first year in many that I get something I want rather than something I need for Christmas. 

Here are 10 other things that have been in my life:

-The People of Paper

-Gabriel Garcia Marquez

-French Meadow Bakery 16 grain and seed sprouted bagels

-Hoch Organic Honeycrisp apple cider

-Overdue library books

-Bombay Black India Ink

-Margaritas with Nathan at Pancho Villa

-Latest episodes of Dexter

-Webster's Dictionary stamp set

-Embroidered boiled wool coat from Icelandic Design

...what are 10 things in yours?

This morning I woke up at 4 wide awake, heart pounding. I wanted to blame the tabby or the acorns falling on the roof in the heavy rain. But I know its something else. Today the contractors come to knock out my shower and begin a demo of my grungy, 25 year old bathroom. I haven't picked out tile, I don't know how to turn off the water, and when I think about the day ahead (cats and I huddled in my spare room, me trying to work while the walls come down around me), let's just say the anxiety is off the charts.


Then, I read my sister's post and some of it dissapates. We are worriers, it's what we do. Some of it is completely out of our control, which means that we can let it go and just focus on breathing through it all. I'm not going to say it doesn't suck ass, or that I don't lie awake some nights wishing I had this inner peace of someone born to a family that told them everything would be OK until they actually believed it. Instead, we have this. Why do we never feel good enough or brave enough?
I wish I were in a place to give advice to both of us. Feel the fear and do it anyway. When you are going through hell (or even just a little darkness because a contractor knocked out your lights, which is not really hell at all), keep going. Fear is a prison.
Knowing this, cool: applying it....whoa. Life is like a carnival ride but motion sickness comes to us as we grip too tight to the cold metal bars when the car starts making it's way down the track. We can't see the safety knobs.
Instead, we write. We take photos and make plans to go back to nature. It is the church given to us by our dad. We tell ourselves that everything is going to be OK, even if we might not really believe it.
And I can say that there is some success to this. A year ago my life was different.I had friends who didn't feed my soul, and I could tell you the names of the TV shows for each night of the week. I didn't keep my promise to the Universe, made on a running trail the prior year, until suddenly I had no choice.
This year I am calmer, surrounded my better friends and less cable channels. I notice things.
Right now I am sipping coffee and listening to a moth hit the sides of my paper lamp as a soft cat sleeps next to my laptop. The tabby jumps each time another acorn hits the side of the building. The paper man (remember when boys on bikes delivered papers?) drives up with his rap music blaring. The anxiety slows if I try to live in the moment, so I practice doing so.
Everything is going to be OK. Even when we don't believe this to be true.