Stuck inside

It's a rain all day kinda day, and since no one is around, I'm at a bit of a loss. I already went into town for chocolate and other necessary provisions, I've written a few pages, it's too rainy to go out and shoot. I guess next on tap is to finish watching the movie I started last night, clean up the cottage a bit, read, go for a run in the rain, make a salad for dinner, try to rope a friend into skyping or facetiming with me. There's only so much I can talk to the dog before even she walks away.

Waiting for the water to rise

This lovely little turquoise building is actually a boathouse. It, and this deck, is suspended over a marshy section of land in Lake Erie Metropark, south of where I live. I know it's a boathouse because I have pressed my face up against that little window because I really had to know what was in there. And there are some old wooden canoes in there, that's what. I can only assume that at one time this marshy span was more a river... I mean, why else would a boat house be here? Still, I want the back story. I am a journalist by nature.

But beyond that, I feel like I'm waiting lately. Waiting for something good to happen. Waiting for the right project to hit me over the head. Waiting for everything to be okay. Waiting for summer. Waiting for the perfect time to open that $100 bottle of wine I was gifted during an outrageously fun evening earlier this spring (a story best told over wine--but maybe not that $100 bottle). Waiting to have enough money. Waiting to feel really comfortable with myself. Waiting for the lock on that boathouse door to be mysteriously gone, or broken, or just unlocked, so I can get a better look at what's inside. Waiting for a stroke of creative genius.

Jane wrote about feeling restless some posts ago, and I so hear that call. I am restless. I want a change. I'm ready for a surprise.

Bring on the waters.

Working Hands

I have noticed the past few years that the elasticity in my skin has decreased. I can pinch the skin on the tops of my hands and it will take a few seconds for it to return back down. Age spots, wrinkles, all the signs of aging are showing on my hands. I see them in this photo and I could dwell on the imperfections I see in them. But I won't.

Instead, I will dwell on what these hands do. They create and sooth. They caress and clap. They get dirty. They turn my ideas into realities. They hold on. They grab and don't let go very easily.

These hands work. Somedays they work hard. Somedays they don't. Every wrinkle and line on them has been earned. From washing dishes to squeezing my babies. From every mundane or exciting thing I have ever done.

They are my mother's and my grandmother's hands. They are my children's hands.

They are mine.

They are aging as I am aging. Yet here they are, working just as hard for me as they ever did. I look at these hands and I see growth and seasons changing and life continuing. There is beauty in that. Such miraculous beauty.

I am this

Here's that second post for the week.

This is what I am. I grew up on this beach. This sand, the sky here, the churning (or gentle) great Lake Michigan is in my skin, my bones, my hair, the very fiber of my being. It's my right arm, my heart and my soul. A separation would be an end.

Today the lake was gentle and the fog rolled in and out in some cosmic rhythm to which I was not privy. I was only here for the day, checking on the house and readying it for the season. I had to commune with the sand, I just had to. And the lack of contrast due to the fog begged for black and white treatment for this photo.

Anyway, this is truly me, wind blown and sand covered, part of the earth.

Tell me you're with me

That I'm not the only who gets so far behind she can't even fathom a way to catch up?

I missed my self portrait last week, so I'm committing to two this week. And the week is very nearly over. And I'm trying not to panic!

So, last week I was in the throes of an important work project, plus trying to prepare to take Friday and Monday off of work so I could spend a long weekend in Manhattan with my daughter in celebration of her 21st birthday (which I can still hardly believe--I don't feel old enough to have a 21-year-old!). I thought I would be oh-so-inspired to take amazing photos in New York, and I thought for sure I'd do some fantastic self portrait. Maybe me dwarfed by the Manhattan skyline, or me, frozen on a busy street while crowds swarmed around me. Even without a tripod. I'd shed any self-consciousness and be a daring photographer. Oh the ideas I had.

Only none of that happened. I had a great weekend doing all sorts of things I wanted to do and really enjoying the time with my daughter. Experiencing more, documenting less. And then when I got back late Monday night I had to play catch up starting bright and early Tuesday morning, and after that the week got even more busy.

But tonight Jane and I went out to that excellent marsh that we both can't get enough of, and I breathed and remembered the things that really inspire me, photographically, that is. I do love the city. I love the buildings and the noise and the different languages and colors and backgrounds of all the people, but I want to be in that more than documenting it. I want to soak it up and roll around in it and feel all of it. I'm not sure I know how to photograph that kind of experience, I guess. So again, another shot from the marsh. I am unapologetic (I'm also working on my unapologeticness. Just sayin'.)

But back to tonight. And the first of two self portraits this week, you know, to catch up. The bugs tonight were relentless. I noticed that the longer I stood still, the larger the swarm around me got. I'm running from the swarm, but maybe also running from my regrets (over not being daring enough to do a self portrait in New York), and maybe also running toward the me I am starting to accept more--the one who is unapologetic, the one who knows that she loves the city but really thrives in open spaces, the one who is accepting of her faults and weirdness, the one who is learning new things every day.

Stripes and Shadows

Last week I wanted to look pretty, this week I just wanted to take a photograph of myself. The light in our front room was making some lovely stripes through our blinds so I sat down in the right spot, picked up my camera and shot a few. Hair uncombed, no makeup. Not even any coffee yet.
Today I wasn't thinking about how I looked, I was thinking about how even when I don't feel like taking yet another photo of myself I still adore this project. I love what it is creating for me. I love that I get feedback for my work. I love discussing it with Lisa. I love that this project is touching people. I love that I am doing something that feels worthwhile.

And I love this woman right here. With all her foibles, flaws, and quirks, I still think she's damn cool.

Who Are You Calling Unworthy?

I decided I wanted a "pretty" picture today. I've been feeling down the last few days, with migraines and other stressors making me say nasty things to myself. I thought I'd put on some make up, do my hair, give myself a good angle, and when I sat in front of the camera I'd like what I saw.

Well, it didn't work. I thought every shot I took was terrible. I didn't like the way I looked, or it was boring, or out of focus. All at once, I decided that pretty was not the way to go today. I'm going with fed up.

Fed up that being pretty means so much to me.
Fed up that I cannot seem to accept my flabby arms or double chin.
Fed up that I think that those so-called flaws of mine matter.

They don't matter.

But guess what? I cropped this photo so my flabby arm wouldn't show. I edited it to smooth out my skin. That's the truth.

I started this project to be more accepting of me. To be honest with myself about what I have prioritized in my life. Do I really want to keep measuring my worth by how "pretty" I look? By what size dress I wear? I think I have made some progress in shedding those unfair ideals.

Those ridiculous, shallow, and unimportant  ideals.

But some days.

Some days I forget. Some days I get fed up.
Some days I raise my hand and tell myself "Enough, already!"
Some days are hard.

But not all days. Not every day. In fact, today is a good day to be real. So here.

The original shot, with splotchy, shiny skin, and flabby arm. That wasn't so hard, was it?
Both of these photographs are me. I may not always like what I see when I take a picture of myself, but I still like what's there. I really do.

I am flabby, talented, fat, creative, loving, out of shape, moody, emotional, smart, and a whole slew of other things. Not one of them makes me unworthy. Not one.

Some days are hard. But I know how to make them easier. I can choose to make them easier.
So I will.

I need a vacation

I feel like I'm constantly busy and rarely actually wrapping anything up. One step forward, another step back. All the time.

I just wasn't inspired this week, so I figured I would see if any opportunities came up while on a photography tour of the historical Packard proving ground and offices. There was gorgeous light and yummy peeling paint in this bathroom, and there you have it.

But back to that vacation thing. This coming week my daughter and I are headed to Manhattan for a long weekend. It can't come soon enough. I need this diversion like I need air.