days of may on the coldest afternoon of winter

The rug was a dollar and the house sits right on the river.

I wish I owned every book on their shelf. Every oil portrait hanging on the wall or resting on the midcentury buffet.

They offer French pressed coffee and we talk about what it means to be outside of the cities, on the fringe.

They look perfect in their space. But then again they are the type of people who I suspect would look perfect just about anywhere.  A black-tie fundraiser or around a campfire. Equally at ease.

She owns a floral studio, and every picture from every event I've ever seen is a work of art. It transcends bouquets and centerpieces.

Their lives feel deliberate and thoughtful. It made me want to be the same, though I know there will always be an apple with two bites taken out of it thrown back into my fruit bowls. And the pictures on my walls are all kaddywonk. And the sound of Youtube toy videos punctuates in the background. 

But maybe they'll invite me back. I'll wear matching socks without any holes, and I'll get to finish that cup of coffee before it gets cold.

This is my first time shooting on a mix of film and digital, the perfect creative antidote for the slow season.

If you're in need of some inspiration, check out Michaela's website Days of May Florals or her Instagram. And obviously, if you're looking for flowers at your wedding to stop guests in their tracks, get in touch with her.

before eight

The light steams in. 

I sip coffee Tom made me.

And listen for feet to hit the floor in the rooms above me.

I look out to see the shape of naked trees, showing off the curves of their limbs covered from view more than half the year.

Our big, one-eyed dog snores at my feet.

I hear the sound of trash trucks storming the neighborhood, and I run outside in bare feet and pajamas to pull the evidence of our twenty first century life to the edge of the road just in time.

this is where


This is where you live.

Where you make meals and change diapers.

Where the laundry piles up and the dust collects in corners.

It's where tentative first steps are taken and where new words are discovered.

This is where you tuck your children in for the night.

Where you wake up to a pot of coffee.

It is comfort and responsibility. 

A refuge and an offering.


My plan was to write a post about my friends' wedding from this summer. Or finish editing up a family session from the weekend. I had all sorts of goals.

But instead, I watched as these two slowly found their way into the morning, with fuzzy heads and tired eyes. 

where the watermelons grow

John and Kelly graduated from the same college as me, but a year or two before I got there.  Sometimes John's band would come back down to play, and my significantly older boyfriend would take me to the house right house party, and I would dance and dance feeling slightly self-conscious because most people were older and cooler. But, nevertheless, I persisted, because very little kept me from dancing back then.

Another college friend, Kenna,  moved back to Maryland after living ten years abroad, and we were talking about things that had changed in our social group in her absence. Just little things, she said. "Like you hang out with John and Kelly now, and they were always the 'cool' kids."

I reassured my ego that it was fine that people should be surprised that the cool friends are, in fact, my friends now.

And as you can see, they are cool, with their beautiful exotic breakfast, their waterfront house in a community that feels something like a Wes Anderson movie with a touch of John Waters. Their daughter just a little younger than mine who boasts a vocabulary nearly as impressive as her dance moves. 

And if anyone is to be blamed for me venturing into professional photography, it's Kelly, who once suggested I could have a successful business, and maybe, because, despite our friendship now, her unflappable air made me think, hope, maybe she was right.