Pasolini, La Ricotta, 1962

on prayer | 21

 from Ordet, Carl Theodor Dreyer, 1955

bests of the summer

a weird, terrible, no-good summer, the worst of my life, and yet there was still much to be thankful for:

lincolnville motel, what a dream // birthday wine from drifter's wife // homemade sourdough bagels // just the very fact of getting a dream job, even if i couldn't accept it // WALDEN POND, over and over and over // melissa & travis // charcuterie on our cabin porch in maine // reverse pull-ups // pizza pizza pizza // kate zambreno // peckhams' greenhouse in little compton // my geranium plant, a real joy // last days with the coyles // a rhode island summer, just what i wanted // my first NYC exhibit // rachel cusk // floating in the pool // a bouquet for graduation // washing the new car in the driveway with mom and dad, a deeply familiar task // our own hatchback // a spontaneous nc trip // jean & rosie // madness, rack and honey // chase's daily, three days in a row // LIME ROCK, a refuge // a surprise birthday hike // oyster river winegrowers // my desk overlooking sheldon st. // fulbright miracles, julia bee // michael and mirjiam's backyard on the fourth of july // moving the mattress into our living room on the hottest nights to be near the ac unit, like a slumber party // a banner for maya // burnt honey ice cream // all the ice cream from big feeling // pozole // tamales from dolores // derek in pvd, at last // homemade waffles // sachuest point nature preserve // jane & ernie's back porch on a sunday afternoon // running again // a text from nick, that bit of hope at the end after all

[austin at walden pond, our first trip]

bests of the summer

the loops // PROCIDA // gianna // accidentally biking the entire east bay bike path // homemade sourdough pizza // rosemary tornelli with apertivo // bolsena, again // spike ball with teigue and john at india point park // india point park every single day // mark doty // cape cod // biking with heather // the ripest cantaloupe // go-karting for dad's 60th // grad formal // fleabag // alligator anxiety // craigslist rug // thunder in florida, that deeply familiar sound // briley's enthusiastic sea turtle lecture // sea turtles in the moonlight on the beach // aly & shona, their laughter // manatees and green flies // heavy palms, almost as heavy as the air itself // homemade strawberry granita // "the heart is a repository of vanished things" // the scent of orvieto – old stone, jasmine and overly-perfumed italians // my tower apartment, all to myself // un cappuccino e due biscotti // catherine's head at san domenico // focaccia con pomodoro in foligno // breakfast with emma in munich // HELFTA // sister pauline and sister christiane // els' eyes, the spirit of god // bored afternoon trips to intimissimi // frantumaglia in one weekend alone // "to tolerate existence we lie, and we lie above all to ourselves" // evenings at barcaro with austin // prosciutto tortellini with arugula made on our hotplate, over and over again // discovering the upstairs patio at febo // meeting austin at the orvieto train station // getting to share somewhere i love with someone i love // how i always feel most beautiful in italy, sun-kissed and sweaty // the nuns outside of buon gésu: your face, a sacrament // the patio at freni e frizioni in trastevere and all the free food // and rome, a city i barely know and deeply love // the blue glasses at cassetta nonna maria in procida // aperol spritz // the velvet green of the ocean in procida // riding the waves // cat's eye blue // ludovica and insalata di limone // seeing donato sarratore // a carafe of rosé with melissa // scraping together coins for the church carnival down the street // train to philly // jia tolentino // buck meek // how this could go on and on

such a strange summer of such overwhelming joy and also a turn of despair – but it's too much, all of this. i do not know where it ends. i could keep listing good things – and keep thinking: it's too much.

[our kitchen at cassetta nonna maria, mamiya 7]

nel limoneto

I'm still convinced blogs are the best form of social media – if they count? – despite my lack of presence here. 

I am back from several weeks abroad and filled with gratitude. I turned twenty-seven, an otherwise odd and boring age, on an island off the coast of Naples. There are too many good things to write about, so I will just write about one, which A. and I keep referring to as "the loops." On our bike ride home from dinner on my birthday, we decided we wanted to bike a little further and so turned right instead of left back to the cottage where we were staying. We headed up a quiet hill and kept going before realizing it made one big loop before sending us down the hill again. When we got to the bottom, I said, "let's do it again," which we did, and then another time too. A. says he was whooping with joy. We had the streets entirely to ourselves and it felt like we were navigating a race course, following the curves of those narrow streets on our speedy bikes. It was the simple joy of childhood, that sense of freedom, of warm wind passing over your hands and up your arms, of the focused attention required to avoid potholes and take each curve, of the silence of the night air and the awareness that your companion is right behind you.

For these moments, small as they are, I am full.

[pictured: a stop on our bike ride, earlier in the day, overlooking the porto]

bests of the summer

Because I am woman of habit, I have to keep these things up, even when it's months late –

bear island, nothing better // meeting rosie // lemongrass cider at surf club with amber d., over and over // and having a female friend to talk to about politics // SIMON // franny's poetry reading // mepkin abbey, always // you are a god of seeing // sunrise walk on the beach with a. // jamila woods in person // breakfast tacos with derek // alexandra's birthday party // a day in durham with elsa, soren, + torunn // walking home drunk with tor // all my best lady pals together on a blanket // margaret's fairy houses // lazy sunday afternoons at bobbit's hole // my native flower garden (ugh, I miss it) // brewery bhahavana + banana walnut cake with a. // murakami for the first time // the ymca pool // a grocery store cake "in the colors of RISD" from holy family folks // cajun dance in a furniture-maker's barn // jean's baptism // whale-watching in maine with my family // that early, early morning alone watching the sunrise in portland // ACADIA // strawberry granita // touring apartments in providence with mom // sweetest gift + note from max // sitting on the rocks on belle isle in richmond // tea parties with margaret // best, best durham birthday party // penland, a gift // the clientele // living with kendra, ryan, langdon, and elias for two weeks // mary karr // birthday rosemary grapefruit drinking vinegar + morning buns // best birthday overall with the best people // getting back in the darkroom and remembering why I love photography // grilled cheese with tomato jam // our backyard picnic table, even if short-lived (v. worth it) // new swimsuit, first bikini // mornings with amber j. at penland // just amber in general // pizza + whiskey with frank // by each try to simply merit the fitness of a lone occasion // things coming to an end, things coming toward a beginning

[pictured: flowers from my garden <3]

I always found you there

 

So, I made it to Rhode Island – now trying to make stuff, the reason that I'm here! Before I left, I met with one of my mentors for coffee to say thank you (something I'm trying to do better and more often, saying thank you) and she told me when I get to my new studio to leave all the walls blank. Don't put up any of my old work or pictures that I 'succeeded' with before or felt good about. Don't even look at them. If you look at them, she said, you'll be tempted to just go back to what worked before and be less likely to take creative risks. So that's what I'm doing and I'm f*ing scared that everything I'm making is really stupid but I am trying to stick with it, keep moving forward, ask the questions later and just play with materials and make images that I like. Here's to reminding myself of that here, permanently.

twenty-six

Here I am, twenty-six years old, for some reason still posting pictures and writing in this space, one of the many ways I journal and log and record – maybe the reason I am into photography in the first place, because memory fascinates me. But, here I am, at such a different place than I was last year, more sure of myself than I have ever been before, more grateful too, more certain of God's faithfulness: less so from the good things that this year has brought and more because it was the hard year before it that brought the good things. To stay on this side of anger and the other side of sadness, that is what I keep coming back to – tough spirit, tender heart.

with you nothing is simple yet nothing is simpler

A few weekends back, in Asheville, with some of the people I love most in the world. I feel so lucky to get to live life with these folks – and their children!

It is a Sunday night. A. and I had frozen pizza, greens, and margaritas for dinner, then he went on solo bike ride and I took a long bath and walked to the co-op for frozen yogurt. As I think about moving at the end of the summer, one thing I will miss is that walk – a brief hello to Charles, checking in on the garden at the one house at the corner of Burch and Exum, the magnolia tree at the corner of Wilkerson, pausing to cross Chapel Hill Street. And then, of course, there is the sweet comfort of grocery shopping, something I'll never quite be able to explain. I love it – seeing what's new, comparing prices, lifting each grapefruit to see which one is the heaviest and juiciest. Do the radishes look good today? Is the ice cream on sale? Should I get the chocolate with cacao nibs or almonds? Unlike so many of life's questions, these are questions I can always answer.

[all 35mm, Asheville, NC]

bear island

We booked a camping site a month or so ahead of time, hoping that we could take a day off work and go to the beach – so glad we made it happen. We had the whole island to ourselves, the best mac and cheese made over a camp stove, and a long, long morning walk on the beach. I am dreaming of getting back here before we move.

[Bear Island, Hammocks Beach State Park, all 35mm]

two years

We spent three glorious fall days in Portland, Maine last October, a tag-on anniversary celebration after spending a few days in Boston visiting grad schools.

And, two years of marriage! (Two years and four months, now.) I tried to write about marriage so much in our first six months being married before realizing I had absolutely nothing to say. It was all so new, so unknown, and there was so much to process and try to understand about myself, much less another human being. I just didn't know how to think about it yet. When people asked me how married life was going, I found I just told them made-up things to assuage their questioning.

But, maybe, now – I'd like to think – I'm coming into it. I know I can say this, at least: marriage has been a safe place for me to grow in confidence in myself, and for that I am grateful. I think that is what marriage should be – not your everything, but the most safe kind of love, along with being a marked reminder of dying to yourself anew every day. I think of this line from Auden: "Afraid of our living task, the dying / which the coming day will ask." Marriage is a risk, a stepping boldly into that fear, into that risk of dying to self, even still as you grow more deeply into yourself. (Of course, there are plenty of ways to do that besides marriage – but it is one way.)

That's my two cents for two years, anyhow. Mainly, I like being married to Austin.

[all 35mm from Portland and some surrounding islands]

put a fence around it

This article, and the listed photographers, especially Graciela Iturbine. I should make my own list of photographers who have shaped my vision.

This jumper – what a dream.

These words, which I have been thinking about all week:

"Now it seemed so horrible to me. And didn’t it explain everything? But I had never wanted to be one person, or even believed that I was one, so I had never considered the true singularity of anyone else. I said to myself, You are only given one. The one you are given is the one to put a fence around. Life is not a harvest. Just because you have an apple doesn’t mean you have an orchard. You have an apple. Put a fence around it. Once you have put a fence around everything you value, then you have the total circle of your heart.”

– Sheila Heti, How Should A Person Be?

I witnessed a birth for the first time last week, and I am still putting my mind around it – and yet, how different it is to witness than experience yourself! But LIFE, BIRTH, wow, it's so crazy. A human inside of another human, life in life, life from life.

[Hamilton, ON, 35mm]

just this side of anger, and on the other side of sadness

Somewhere near San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome on one of the most recent happiest days of my life – I was traveling alone, so this is the only picture I have of myself from that day of wandering.

I am particularly grateful today for mentors and friends who speak so clearly into my life, just when I need it. If you saw me weeping yesterday, it was probably because I just received this:

Prayer for Jessina

Father, I pray for Your child, as if she were my child: but I dare to ask - that if I am actually addressing her - through You - that You are the One doing the talking. Or at least getting a Word in.

And so I ask this:
That You not set her faithfulness against her hopes.
That - in Your very gentle way - You are unsparing in Your claim - on her - 

on all the things You’ve given her; to attend to.
That’s a hard prayer. And You are not a hard master.
She knows - better than I - what those things are.
So may she find, in her circumstances, en famille, in the Circle of her loves - and Yours: 

may she find support: not that support that shuts down, that “pacifies," that places her at the bottom of a deep, dark pool: but the support that stirs up, like the salt spray, the tang and the splash of her deepest yearnings.

Those desires are there for a purpose: not just to anchor her: but to set her free.

It is has been a strange new season of life these past few months – I hate using the word 'season,' and always have, as it seems to indicate some sense of 'this is what was meant to be,' or waiting circumstances out rather than taking active steps or problem-solving – but I can't think of a more fitting word right now. I feel like I am coming into myself, that for so long I talked up a big game – told myself that I was strong and intelligent and beautiful, etc. – without actually believing it. 

I think we all do that in our own way, hoping that if we say it enough maybe we'll inch towards believing it. It seems like in any career you have to be able talk bigger about yourself in order to get anywhere. It is that sense of talking 'bigger,' but more than that, not only taking up space but feeling like it is your space, that you belong there – that is what I am trying to get at. 

That I belong here – I know it more now than I ever have before.

There is a new expression on your face: more determined, but not (yet?) hard. I pray you can stay there, just this side of anger, and on the other side of sadness: and right in the middle of strength: real strength.

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.

bests of the summer

though this has been a pretty shitty summer, there's still much to be grateful for:

blackberry shrub // our five-year old neighbor, jésus // walking downtown // winning the co-op's grocery giveaway // BOBBIT HOLE // tacos in philly with derek // birthday kayaking + rosé // twin peaks // fireworks on every street in chicago // lula's in logan square, twice // going back to where we had our first kiss // cardamom-sugared churros // the best kitchen sink // that perfect salad at the bread bar in hamilton // learning to like olives // jason molina reunion show // that bun at fika // the bright yellow walls of kira's room // ed ruscha at the nasher // and afternoon walks to the nasher // walking to rose's // LADIES' WEEKEND // spontaneously stopping at the botanical gardens in richmond for the solar eclipse // charcuterie boards for dinner // mark jarman and marie howe // kensington market in toronto // bar brunello with amy when she came to visit // working hard // max in town // valley forge with mom and dad // big thief // driving to charlottesville // niagara falls // "work harder, don't complain, spend more time alone" // mepkin abbey, where i am at peace // mossy banners // biking more // talking about pictures with fred, jaheim, jonathan and julian // how our new street looks like that one gordon parks photograph // drinking wine and reading that one night while amy cooked dinner for us // joan didion and marilynne robinson // singing the sanctus at holy family

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]

eleven zero one

We are moving into a new home this week and leaving behind our yellow house, a space that (minus the cockroaches) has been comfort and safety to me these past two years. I slipped on my wedding dress for the very first time in the bedroom, and a few months later put it on with my mother and sister by my side in that same room. It is the home Austin and I first came home to after our honeymoon, and the place where we have grown in love and understanding for one another. We have argued in this house, planted rosemary and lavender and mint in the front yard, built a raised bed with our own hands, strung lights in our backyard, hosted any number of bonfires and parties. We have filled this space with friends, over and over again, on air mattresses and at the dinner table, the leaves extended to fit as many people as possible.

I rode my bike by the yellow house a random hot spring afternoon in 2015, and thought, I want to live there. I memorized the address and looked it up online when I got home, and found out that it was a rental property, and due to be up for lease come the month that I needed to move. But, the realty company wasn't sure the current tenants would be moving. I spent that next month praying and riding my bike by it almost every day. I called the realty company every week to see if there were any updates, and finally heard word that it would actually be up for rent. It was a little more expensive than we anticipated, but a friend told us to go for it, that the first house that you live in as a married couple carries deep and meaningful memories, and that it would be worth it. So we did.

It wasn't until later that I noticed that the address 1101 was also our wedding date, November 1st—a silly coincidence, but one that makes me happy, and makes it seem fitting that it has been our first married house.

april + may books

1. Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez

In the span of a month, I had three people (two strangers!) tell me this was their favorite book, so I took that as a sign I should read it. The novel chronicles the forbidden young love of Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza, the latter whom eventually marries another man, a doctor, after much persuasion from her father. Márquez contrasts Dr. Urbino—a modern, rational man—with the wild and emotional love of Florentino Ariza, who remains devoted (albeit with quite a number of trysts) to Fermina Daza, even into old age. I don't know if I would say Love in the Time of Cholera is my favorite book, but definitely worth the read.

2. Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination by Toni Morrison

I'll let Toni Morrison sum it up: "These speculations have led me to wonder whether the major and championed characteristics of our national literature—individualism; masculinity; social engagement vs. historical isolation; acute and ambiguous moral problematics; the thematics of innocence coupled with an obsession with figurations of death and hell—are not in fact responses to a dark, abiding signing Africanist presence. It has occurred to me that the very manner by which American literature distinguishes itself as a coherent entity exists because of this unsettled and unsettling population."

3. Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. by Edward Snow

It has been awhile since I carried around Rilke (Book of Hours) in my bag everywhere I went, and I thought I had 'outgrown' him, worn him out along with every other like-minded student at my college. Duino Elegies reminded me that I will never outgrow Rilke. I keep coming back to these words, especially: "Here is the time for the sayable, here is its home. / Speak and attest."

4.  Putting Art (Back) In Its Place by John Skillen

I was glad to read this delightful and necessary book by a friend and mentor. Focusing on the visual culture of medieval and Renaissance Italy, Skillen argues how art in lived spaces guides communities together into their shared calling. With ample examples and a call for the contemporary Church to return to this model, Skillen evades falling into nostalgia—though at times it seems his target audience is a first-year college student with little understanding of liturgy or history.

5. The Sabbath by Abraham Joshua Heschel

A quick, simple read—Heschel writes like a poet: "The meaning of the Sabbath is to celebrate time rather than space. Six days a week we live under the tyranny of things of space; on the Sabbath we try to become attuned to holiness in time. It is a day on which we are called upon to share in what is eternal in time, to turn from the results of creation to the mystery of creation; from the world of creation to the creation of the world."

on prayer | 20

"Such a deepening of vision will eventually also involve at some point a profound sense of the mind's darkening, and of a disconcerting reorientation of the senses - these being inescapable fallouts from the commitment to prayer that sustains such a view of the theological enterprise. The willingness to endure a form of naked dispossession before God; the willingness to surrender control (not to any human power, but solely to God's power); the willingness to accept the arid vacancy of simple waiting on God in prayer; the willingness at the same time to accept disconcerting bombardments from the realm of the 'unconscious;' all these are ascetical tests of contemplation without which no epistemic or spiritual deepening can start to occur. What distinguishes this position, then, from an array of other 'post-foundationalist' options that currently present themselves in theology is the commitment to the discipline of particular graced bodily practices which, over the long haul, afford certain distinctive ways of knowing."

(Sarah Coakley, God, Sexuality, and the Self)

our dark greens of meaning

"What if we're here just for saying: house,

bridge, fountain, gate, jug, fruit tree, window, —

at most: column, tower . . . but for saying, understand,

oh for such saying as the things themselves

never hoped so intensely to be. Isn't this the sly purpose

of the taciturn earth, when it urges lovers on:

that in their passion each single thing should find ecstasy?"

—

"How we waste our afflictions!

We study them, stare out beyond them into bleak continuance,

hoping to glimpse some end. Whereas they're really

our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one

of the seasons of the clandestine year—; not only

a season—: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode."

R.M. Rilke, Duino Elegies

[New Orleans, disposable film, 2014]