everything changes: in-home newborn session in Baltimore

Everything changes. And it’s mostly great.

The mornings take on a new importance. And days without plans feel thick with love and possibility, and days with plans feel like joyful respite from the boredom that sometimes creeps in. The boredom you never expected and try to ignore.

Most days you wake wake up hopeful. Tired. Yes. But hopeful too.

Everything is different. The coffee too.

Maybe because it’s colder now by the time you get to finish it.

You feel things deeper.

You get scared.

Your anxieties rear their ugly heads.

But you feel happiness in a way you never knew you could. A deep happiness that roots somewhere in what you think might be your DNA.

Nothing is the same.

It doesn’t need to be.

a poorly documented summer on film

I wanted to hold on to summer for longer.

Tomorrow I was trying to sneak the kids back to the ocean for a last taste of salt and sand, but Florence said no.

And so it feels like fall is coming before I’m ready to say good bye to long days and suntan lines.

Here are the too few shots when I managed to pull out a camera between the exhaustion and morning sickness that come along with the first trimester. Next summer there will be a new chubby legged, big headed child to photograph.

And maybe next summer, Gus will stop running off long enough that I actually get a picture of him too.

this is all i have

Where can we store these memories?

What card catalogue can we access to pull each moment back and hold it in our hands, shifting it in the light, inspecting it with eyes wrinkled from experience?

I want to go back to when they were each brand new. And to when they each crawled, padded butts skyward. I want to go back to the first words that I have forgotten. To the weight of smaller bodies with arms around my neck. I want to go back to the first time I smelled their hair straight from the ocean. I want to see their tear-streaked faces turn to smile upon seeing me at the doorway.

But this is all I have. This record of the way light hit chemicals and was then transferred to pixel.

It is a cold substitute for the feeling of soft, padded toes, or the way it feels to pull my fingers through their sun-streaked, tangled hair.

Here they are, running through the woods. Here they are walking along the water's edge. 

Here they are during the era of the fedora. Upon waking from a nap that will cease to exist soon enough. Here they are while they can still be held.

These are not enough.

These are all I have.

around here

I don't want to cook dinner.

Or fold laundry.

Or clean a single corner

I want to read books written in the South.

And take pictures of my kids standing in slants of morning light.

I want to listen to music.

And take walks.

And tickle the goodness out of little toddler armpits.

It is never quiet here.

They are jumping. They are fighting. They are singing Hamilton and Frozen and the Wheels on the Bus. And sometimes I'm singing too.

Alamae and Jettie are finally potty training.

And Gus and Sena seem to be nicer to each other.

It looks like we've survived the winter.

notes from a field trip

I've always been a student in my heart.

Those years as a teacher didn't sit well.

I like to learn things. To know things. To fill my head with sparks and starts.

And so I flew to the other coast for the very first time.

Met a stranger at the car rental desk, stayed up late telling her secrets and listening to some too.

Joined up with an LA local who showed us secret spots as we slowly drove north.

Made a home in a cabin with four other strangers. Told more secrets. Listened to more secrets.

Drank so much coffee. Drank so much beer. Drank a medium amount of tequila.

Learned about light.

Thought about breathe.

Confronted fears.

Asked questions.

Stared into someone's eyes for three long minutes.

Jumped into the Pacific.

Danced.

Cried. 

Laughed.

Made friends across the whole damn world.

Took far fewer photographs than one would expect when away at a photography workshop.

All photos by me except the one of me, which is by one of those new friends, Cathlin McClough

All film. All developed by Indie Film Lab