for molly and summer

A long time ago, a friend and I were walking home at dusk along College Avenue in Berkeley and she asked me what I thought were the essential things in life, those things that made life worth living. We started making a list, framing it as what we would tell our daughters someday. It has been a long while since I have looked back at it –

We will use cloth napkins.
We will have compost piles.
We will make love to good men.
We will pray for peace in the world.
We will try and be peacemakers in our own world.
We will go by ourselves to fancy restaurants.
We will not make excuses for spontaneity.
We will have slow meals late into the evening.
We will have open doors to friends and strangers alike.
We will try new recipes often.
We will have successful careers.
We will be willing to give those up to be mothers.
We will not let the allure of success control our lives.
We will be bold when love requires boldness.
We will be meek when love requires meekness.
We will see everything as an opportunity to practice virtue.
We will have art on our walls.
We will stop during the day to sit and stare at it.
We will make our own art for our walls.
We will write long letters to far away friends.
We will hum as we wash the dishes.
We will say yes as often as possible.
We will say no when necessary.
We will go to the ballet in the city on a whim.
We will wear lumpy sweaters and red lipstick when we're old.
We will be sexy mothers before we grow old.
We will live in a place where we can walk to the grocery store.
We will walk or bike instead of drive as often as possible.
We will take care of our bodies.
We will not be ashamed of our bodies.
We will grow large gardens.
We will bring our children to museums.
We will never be too old to keep learning.
We will have front porches and sit on them often.
We will teach our children to love traveling.
We will teach our children to love rootedness.
We will make eye contact with the world.
We will learn new skills with each year's coming.
We will dance in the kitchen.
We will stop the car to pick flowers on the side of the road.
We will drop to our knees, everyday.
We will listen to our mothers with patience.
We will give grace to ourselves, and grace to others.
We will choose others before ourselves, without forsaking ourselves.
We will come into the peace of wild things as often as possible.

the air is light blue today

Listening to this song all day long.

I really love this bag.

And Sarah Coakley:

"What also follows is that the silence of contemplation is of a particular sui generis form: it is not the silence of being silenced. Rather, it is the voluntary silence of attention, transformation, mysterious interconnection and (in violent, abusive, or oppressive contexts) rightful and divinely empowered resistance: it is a special 'power-in-vulnerability,' as I have elsewhere called it. Contemplation engenders courage to give voice, but in a changed, prophetic key."

(God, Sexuality, and the Self)

[Joshua Tree, January 2017, 35mm]

the good flesh continuing

Some disposable camera images from our honeymoon in Joshua Tree, something like six months ago now.

Also, lately:

Listening to Quilt. And Strange Bedfellows! Very proud of A. & friends.

Meditation at Lagunitas by Robert Hass, which is probably one of my top five favorite poems ever, and reading it is the quickest way to transport myself back to that perfect Berkeley summer.

Consuming a lot of strawberries with homemade basil-infused whipped cream. Nothing better.

Crossing build a raised bed off my list of goals this week, after A. and I hauled pounds and pounds of topsoil, shovel by shovel, into our little 8x4 bed. I planted purple cherokee tomatoes, green arrow shelling peas, broccoli di cecco, leeks, and bell peppers! Now to prevent the cabbage worms and bunnies from consuming it all.

h-mooning

We settled on going to Joshua Tree for our honeymoon back in May, and I honestly don't think we even considered any other option. It was always: "Let's go to Joshua Tree."

We stayed in the Saguaro Hideaway Guesthouse, which was located five-minutes from the entrance to the park, and five-minutes from the one-block town of Joshua Tree. You can only access the house by dirt roads, which take you up and out of the valley a bit, to a secluded spot overlooking the mountains. The sun would rise around 5am each morning and strike pink light across the horizon and through the large windows into our house. We somehow never really changed time-zones, and ended up going to bed at 8pm and waking up at 5am with the sun. I wish we could do that every day.

We didn't really do all that much, in the best sense; we were usually either eating, sleeping, or hiking. We drank a lot of Joshua Tree Coffee Company's coffee, and ate the most satisfying cheese and egg bagels from Natural Sisters Café. Joshua Tree is sort of a quirky place: lots of climbers and hiker-types traveling through, and a handful of hippies who have settled there for good. It's quiet, especially in November, I'm guessing.

Our longest hike, along the Willow Hole Trail, took us deep into the strange silence of the rock formations. There is, of course, not a lot of visible life in the desert, or at least, that which would be apparent on the surface. So, it was always surprising to be walking along and suddenly hear a few birds chirping in a juniper bush, or see a handful of ants making their way into a hole, or catch a glimpse of a coyote far and away up a rock formation. Something about the desert landscape forces attentiveness, and maybe that's why I like it so much.

On our last day, we travelled back to Los Angeles. We splurged and stayed at the Ace Hotel, and all I can think about is the shampoo and the drinks we shared on the rooftop bar and how ridiculous it was that every person that worked there looked like an Urban Outfitters model, even (especially) the bell boy who took us to our room.

Our favorite places in Los Angeles: The Last Bookstore (huge, wonderful bookstore with a great art books section, just a few blocks from the Ace Hotel), Sqirl (long lines and sorrel pesto rice bowls for breakfast, which were so good we went twice), and lots of home goods stores, including: General Store, Individual Medley, and Reform School. I don't think we actually bought anything, but just perused around all the pretty things. And at Proof Bakery we shared the best earl gray tea cakes.

A honeymoon is such a particular time: the sudden quietness in the wake of the wedding, and the expectancy of a whole life together in front of you. There's so much to take in. And there is something, too, about the realization that you are about to spend a life with another person, and suddenly your love feels small, insignificant, as if it has much growing to do. Which it does, and that growing is demanding and magnificent all at once.

[all Honeywell Pentax, 35mm film]

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rebekah & jeff

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A few images from a dear friend's California wedding last October. I brought my camera along as some of the girls prepared for the day. All Honeywell Pentax / 35mm film.
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blue

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Upon Running to the Sea

It happened as I ran towards the Pacific, like one of those moments you imagine
will flash by like a news reel when you first arrive in heaven, surreal patches of colors,
sunspots, children let loose to run, running, running, running towards the cool blue

submersion, then splashing and letting loose the fear in an involuntary forgetfulness,
and then this—in a stand still moment—the imperceptible reality of the greater certainty
surrounding all my uncertainties, which have, anyhow, dissipated in the sand, swallowed

whole like the snail I feed to the sea anemone, and I find myself attempting to convince
myself of doubt to convince myself of faith, until I just stop it all, and believe—
for once in my life faith is effortless, sweet like the juice of a nectarine in my mouth.

[disposable camera, sky and ocean off the coast of pt. reyes, california]
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if you just untie the sun

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I don't have much to say except that spring break in Santa Cruz with some dear friends was one of the best weeks of my life. I think Hafiz is right, that if you just untie the sun, some of — not all, as he would say — your problems will be solved.

[pictures courtesy of my holga - all crops done mistakenly] 
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breakfast in berkeley [part two]

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Something about breakfast with this girl. My mornings aren't the same without her, or her beautiful creations. This day it was coconut creme with banana-mango puree and granola. In the garden, of course.

"To make art is to affirm meaning," says Madeline L'Engle. Me thinks to make breakfast is to affirm meaning too.
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backpacking and last things

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Last month Jess and I went backpacking at Point Reyes. We left behind cell phones and clocks and found ourselves on deserted beaches with time to spare for once. We napped in the sun until our skin was hot to touch. We sat in the bluffs and listened to the wind bickering with the grass. We went sprinting in the ankle-deep foam. We read Jack Kerouac aloud to each other as we ate nectarines. We stopped to look at the goggly-eyes of a crab. We made a campfire on the dark beach and wrapped a blanket around our two bodies as we watched the moon in its massive silence. We laughed about our idiosyncrasies and spurted our favorite words, one after the other, as we climbed up into the pine-laden hills. We did a lot of things, and a lot of nothings, and it was perfect.

"And I said, 'That last thing is what you can't get, Carlo. Nobody can get to that last thing. We keep on living on hopes of catching it once and for all.'"
(Jack Kerouac, On The Road)

[all film photos from a disposable camera]
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