friendship

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Photography: Women Are…

“A winner is a loser who tried one more time.
Not the smartest.
Not the fastest.
Just the one who didn’t stop.”
—George M. Moore Jr.

For the month of March, my model was my dear friend Penny. I met her in 2013 at the table read for the Listen to Your Mother stage show. We locked eyes across the table, and instantly connected. She possesses a warmth and kindness that allows her to make people feel profoundly seen, a rare gift. She’s a singer, writer, storyteller, caregiver, and one of my favorite people on the planet.

We met last week at the beautiful St. Ignatius Loyola Catholic Church, where she sings as cantor. The space was gorgeous, and she was a natural at posing. We only had an hour to spend together because of our schedules, but we made the most of it. She trusted me fully, and I think it shows in the way she’s looking at the camera/me.

Penny normally doesn’t like her photo taken, but she said it was fun with me. And she loved the photos! That’s the whole point: helping my friend see her own beauty. Each time I do another shoot, my confidence grows and I’m learning more and more. I’m so grateful for this growth! Please, give her some love in the comments below and tell me what you think of this shoot. Do you have a favorite? Do you see improvement in the quality of these photos?

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What makes you proud?
For most of my life I have been able to do what I loved, what I was good at and things that made a difference on the planet. The fact that I usually also got paid was icing on the cake.

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What makes you feel brave?
I’ve been a family caregiver for over 30 years. If that didn’t break me, nothing will.

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What gives you hope?
Children. They are the future. The fact that God keeps sending them is a sign that He hasn’t given up on us yet. 

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Thank you to everyone who is cheering me on with my photography. I’ve been very focused on it lately, but I’m still writing. I’ll be sharing some words soon. Promise!

  • These were taken with my Olympus E-M1 MarkII, using a 14-150mm lens and edited with Lightroom Classic.
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Happy Birthday, Neil

birthday soon
leaves begin their autumn dress
eager wind rushes to receive
only in dreams, summer remains
—Neil, 2021

As many of you know, my dear friend and fellow blogger, Neil Reid, left us last November. Today would have been his 78th birthday. In honor of his kind heart and beautiful writing, I’d like to share with you two poems that will be in our poetry collection coming out next spring. The first one I wrote in honor of Neil, and the second is a favorite poem of his. He had a way of stringing together many different ideas to make you understand a deep truth. The photo above is of his beloved dragon statue which made it’s way to me. It’s magical, like him.

I miss him so much.

If you have a favorite Neil memory, please share it. Or, if his writing is new to you, read more and let me know what you think.

farewell

you are my moose
four legs rooted in soil
stars dancing in dark pupils
sniffing for ripe plums
running from wolves

you hand me threads
wrapped around words
unraveling big pills
not wooden, real live boy
feet kissing earth

you turn toward light
living moss-covered verbs
bowls of ocean water
melt like sugar does
children need sunlight

you wanted Neverland
stories told under willows
hunger turned into warmth
forgetting ancient lost faces
harvest moon dancing

you call me mother
as in honey comb
solid tree branches
bend into dream blossoms
nests, fragile eggs

you remain soft bear
flowing tidal kindness
snuggling soft memories
chocolate cake, closed eyes
embrace salty breath

you return home
tail, fin, gills, scales
shyness turned into galaxies
unafraid of unknown shapes

love is a bucket
we keep filling
forever

—Bridgette

tell me words

when I can’t quite see you.   unclear.   obstructed.
cluttered by stray thought.   sound but no sight.
although more than an arm’s length away.   or,
maybe it’s just smoke.   fine bits of something
recently burnt.   a particulate suspended mass.

     describe smoke


when I called, you came to me.   only a few steps
measured away, but it meant you had to get up,
get out of bed.   something in the dark looked
awry.   my height marked in pencil, ascending
on the doorway jam.   yours by a calming hand.

     describe mother


she was always there.   more than anyone.   her.
feeder of stray cats, any cats.   hands that held
no threats, not to anyone.   a gingham dress.
always.   at least my always.   memory bigger
than me.   mother of mother.

     describe Janet


you come from out of the ground.   you come
from mountaintops.   you come from high and
grey and green and white and dark, clouds we
say.   one drop at a time still makes an ocean
to waiting watchful acolytes.   thirst.   we drink.

     describe water


 check mark all of the above.   a first beginning,
eagerly.   tell me all the stars.   tell me all the
worlds.   tell me about me and about you.   I’m
all ears.   I’ll bring the old cooking pot.

     describe everything

 
you come from the ground when I call.   you answer thirst.
you bake bread.   I comb your hair.   cat’s asleep on the bed.
you are rolling brown grass hills.   my hand knows the curves.
you are a bowl of soup.   you are inside when outside is rain.

     describe loving

—Neil

You’ll forever be my water, Neil. Happy Birthday.

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Photography: Mountain Retreat

Last week I spent time recharging and writing in a beautiful house on Cobb Mountain. My creative, giving, and loving friends helped me figure out the title of the short story book I’ll be self-publishing in April. I wrote the introduction and edited several stories. They were invaluable in listening to me rattle on about my dreams and fears.

In this tumultuous time in America, it felt good to surround myself with strong women. We need each other more now than ever.

“They will want you seated, conformed, and quiet but don’t you dare fit in. Scream the house down if it’s what it will take to make your noise heard. The divine feminine has been shamed and shunned for self-expression for far too long, we aren’t here to silence ourselves anymore.”—Nikki Rowe

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As always, all photos were taken by me with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW. Let me know if you have a favorite and have a wonderful week.

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Photography: Hunter’s Moon

Forget about everything else and be right here. Look at the way the full moon rises, timid and then quickly. Bold. Look at the way the Joshua Trees grow. Each branch jutting off the main tree is from an injury. They make broken look beautiful. You do too.

Let’s remember this moment and make more. Many, many more.

“What draws people to be friends is that they see the same truth. They share it.”
—C.S. Lewis

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It’s not like me to be spontaneous. I like planning, making lists, and being as prepared as possible. Last week I decided at the last minute to visit my childhood best friend in Las Vegas for her birthday and got ready in three hours. It was a perfect, beautiful, enjoyable, and fully unplanned whirlwind of a few days capped off by the appearance of the Hunter’s supermoon. My heart is so full.

Most of these photos were taken at the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area. However, the last few photos were taken on the drive back in the morning. The last photo is the moon setting as the sun rose close to Newberry Springs, CA.

As always, all photos were taken by me with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW. Let me know if you have a favorite and have a wonderful week. Only two full moons left of the year. Wow.

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Poetry: Hidden

Beneath the painted trees
lives another world
tilted a little to the left

Open your eyes
walk two steps forward
feel the movement

You might hear raindrops
or the lake calling
don’t get distracted

Lean all the way in
watch as looping circles
turn into golden threads

Pull one

Become a magnet
draw others near
trust you won’t fall

You’re a warmth weaver
create a fireside nest
fill it with moonlight

Burrow deep inside
touch the fabric
tell yourself not to forget

This is dedicated to the lovely women I’m spending the weekend with in Tahoe.

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poetry: lunch with jenny

i am burning it down she says
while we eat meat and rice
in the afternoon. flames crackle 
between us scorching nearby tables 
and turning sorrys into ash. our 
daughters watch us shoot lasers 
from our eyes while holding 
hands. we laugh at time shedding
worn-out shadows until we sing
our siren call center stage. fire
leaps from our naked tired bodies
to transform old beliefs until 
they break free or bloom or evolve;
anything but stand still. wiggle
it loose until it snaps. forget
how it looks. our mothers didn’t
know but we do. we dare each other
to burn brighter and brighter. we
promise to not look away. hearts
can be soft and still rage. let’s
get together again soon, i say.

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poetry: not my cat

1/30

wandering quietly into morning sun
fluffy-puffed tail held high
he jumps, greeting my hand—
dear old stranger/neighbor cat

friends, I suppose, two strays
looking simply for some comfort
purring for a brief moment
before saying goodbye once more

Note: I’m accepting a challenge to write thirty short poems (not in a row, just as they come). I’m defining short as no more than two stanzas. I was inspired by the beautiful work of my friend Neil—check out his incredible 30 poems. I’m also inspired by sceadugenga who always amazes me with his genius brevity. Feel free to join the challenge if you like.

Edited: A brilliant poet, David, mentioned to me that stanzas can be very long and he’s correct. I’ve changed the guidelines to be under 60 words instead of two stanzas. I think word count is an excellent way to measure these tiny/short/micro/baby poems. Thanks!

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Poetry: First Friend

We don’t have an origin
story, for we met before
memories form. Two little girls
living across a curved court

named after a man. Pigtailed
dancing dolls, we played through
seasons until one day you
moved and I learned heart-

break. Although I saw your
plane fly away, I looked
in all our hiding places
for you. I’ve never stopped

looking. Time has brought us
together over and over—but
we always lose each other
in the mess. Will this 

time be different? I need
it to be. You see,
I’m tired of playing pretend—
saying I’m okay when broken

bits of me want only
to be seen. You hugged
me tighter this time—do
you need me too? Can

we take off our masks
and find our old hiding
places again? Can we swim
together in secrets and show

each other the magical ways
we have survived? Grab my
hand yet again and let’s
run toward the setting sun

together.

*This was written after seeing my childhood friend at a funeral last weekend and never wanting to let her go. Thank you for making sure we made a date to get together. I can’t wait.

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Can we talk?

Her bouncy blonde curls hang wildly down to a soft, mustard-colored sweatshirt. She is smiling, and her blue-green eyes, the light of her face, squint ever so slightly.

We lean close, trying hard to fill the space between us with all the things which have happened since we last sat here, our favorite table in the corner, drinking matching diet cokes and sharing popcorn from a red and white bag.

This is love.

The feeling is big, and yet so simple; connection, familiarity, safety.

Our friendship was forged years ago as young girls trying hard to be seen and heard in a sea of middle schoolers. Something drew us close then, but we seem to have forgotten it, or maybe it lay buried under all the things.

Nearly a year ago, while dodging post-hurricane waves in Florida, our hearts opened up and spilled out to one another. Forged in the powerful surf. Tougher than the wind. We remembered.

We used to borrow each other’s clothes, sing loudly in the car, skip arm and arm down the halls, stay up all night talking about everything and nothing.

I want more.

More of her. More of us. More of the space between women which is sacred and holy and fucking amazing. More time to see her fully, all her complexities and contradictions, hopes and fears, everything.

I want more.

A week ago, I left for a writing retreat to this hippie camp near the ocean and the redwoods. I wanted something to happen, sure, but I feared nothing would. Anxiety, like the proverbial devil on my shoulder, whispering all the ways I would fuck it up.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Magic became not only attainable, but real; with a fairy path leading to a yurt, a unicorn chef who cooked concoctions worthy of the Gods, and a bonfire where truth was spilled out and passed around from one to the other.

The whispers of the ancients, things I know to be true in my bones, rocked me as I stood every morning on the damp redwood deck in my wool socks, the cool wetness seeping in, a hot cup of coffee clutched tightly in my hands.

The breezes would carry bits of conversation from the women inside, voices of strength and of hope, gathered around a fireplace adorned with candles and trinkets from those who came before. A sense of divine connection filled my soul.

I want more.

Since my return, I’ve dealt with rotten jack-o-lanterns, sick kids spewing mucus and whining loudly, piles of laundry, seven million voices in the carpool van all talking at once; the layers of responsibility trying desperately to bury the ancient truth again under all the shit.

I’m terrified another five, ten, twenty years will pass in a blur before I have another moment of remembering.

I want more.

So, my friends, as I stare at you too long, hold you too tight, forgive me. I’m lost in the redwoods still.

I just want to talk.

 

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The Magical Place