On Motherhood & Sanity


Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Tarifa - photo post

Greetings from the land were the sun doesn't set and the wind won't stop blowing





Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Update from the Asian Market series

in love with this fruit shot.
Greetings from East Timor















to see more shots of the Asian markets series click here

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Silent resilience and humble rebellion



“you fell!” I say worried.

“but I got to see the beauty in the ground up close. A myriad of tiny beings working hard without questioning the world and their role in it. Confident that their efforts will make a difference ” He responds.


“you lost” I say saddened.

“yes” he responds, “but I got to learn from my mistakes and that made me grow. Like a branch that finds a path out through a window. As a result of life's limitations I have grown unique”


“Your heart’s been broken” I say angry

“yes, but now I have many pieces that I can look after. Each of them will grow and learn to love in a different way” he smiles


“no matter how old you grow, you will never die” I say.

“ Your smile and your heart will continue to shine upon those fortunate to know you. The falls will be banished to oblivion, the bruises have made you better than what was lost. Silent resilience and humble rebellion. Your willingness to fall has made you invincible. All that you’ve selflessly shared will rise from the ashes and live on”


“I know” he responds

Monday, June 16, 2014

time slipping like sand through my hands.... May family self portrait

Cape Cod


Blow time capsules of grainy images
Into the winds of time. Disrupt the mind
From its binary tracks of habitual
Churning of rational reasons. Open
The heart to scents and sensational blues
Of stark northen oceans and frail whispy
Dunes. Remembrances of past vacations
Dislocated, rearranged as future
Forshadowings of sensuous freedom
In time. Breathe the pleasures of towering pines.

Squinting, staring up, and taking in space.
Cosmocologies of sand and water.
Our urbane nature disappearing in

The landscapes of the cape. Roll deep. Today.



***
The family self portrait  project started in January 2011. 
I take one portrait of the whole family, myself included, once a month.  
The poem is a 2013 addition by a "ghost" writer

Every family should do this. 

In late 2013 a "ghost" writer joined the initiative and now each photo is accompanied by a poem.

To see previous months click on the links below:


***

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Dreams of Africa



Zimbabwe



The earth here is not as red as in the East Africa I know, but it still rumbles under your feet, rebelling to preconceptions and to the meters turned into kilometers of telephone poles and cables I am not used to seeing in the “African landscape”.  Many things in Zimbabwe are not how I expected. But then again, I don’t know truly what I had expected. How could I draw a picture in my mind when all I knew was of politics and polemic?

I cannot, and I have no interest in trying. I am old enough to know my eyes can lie and seeing does not immediately mean I get to understand. My tale is another. One of a school bus filled with young and old, musicians, academics and other culture related practitioners charged with safeguarding the history, or rather, their story. As soon as we set off the mbira begun to weave us into it’s dreamy melody. Mild clapping came and went as did song, discreet, almost shy, with no defined end or beginning, just like a dream. As the bus moved on the earth around us was weaved into the story, reminding me of the innate human desire to create. The dream woke my dream up. That desire to grow roots from my groins, to nurture the seed that gives birth to the fruit. It made me want to sing and write. It made me see the light, the clouds, the colors and the sounds  around me with the other eye, the one that falls asleep when we are not paying attention. It brought me back to my own slumber and its dreams, usually kept hidden from me as secrets of the night, now laid bare under the African sun but still incomprehensible.

We danced and shared secrets like school children, while actual school children pointed and laughed at the color of my skin, calling me names that had no ill intentions. They told me of the rain maker that was able to stay dry, except for his feet, the clouds going out of their way to keep it that way. They told me of the ceramic pots left by no one, in the middle of nowhere, so that they could stop to eat during this long dry walk, and of stones that called out their names to share with them bits of their futures.  They told me of their childhoods immersed in instruments, and of early Sunday mornings when that child, now the community’s grandpa, is woken up by the children who try to steal his stories.  They sang about the white man and how his wagons brought with them an inexhaustible source of peanut butter.


They photographed me with as much curiosity as much as I did them. Then the bus stopped, the music stopped, I got off and we woke up.