“One day you will look at those photos with much kinder eyes, and say, ‘dear God, I was a beautiful thing!'”—Catherine O’Hara as Moira Rose
Today, I’m starting a new series where I photograph the amazing women in my life. I’m hoping to improve my photography skills while at the same time honoring those who make my life so beautiful.
My daughter, Lola, agreed to be my first model. I’m grateful for her creative spirit, willingness to try new things, trust in my abilities, and endearing vulnerability.
Let me know if you have a favorite and have a great weekend.
#1#2#3
What makes you proud? Pushing through things and still being here.
#4#5#6
What makes you feel brave? Sharing my art and performing music.
#7#8
#9
What gives you hope? The kind, beautiful people in my family and life.
#10#11#12
These were taken with my Olympus E-M1 MarkII, using a 50mm lens and edited with Lightroom Classic.
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 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.
After the tremendous high of self-publishing my book in April, I’ve spiraled into a funk so deep I’m hesitant to even speak about it. I’ve resisted naming it or giving it power, but the truth is as plain as the sweatpants I’ve been wearing for days.
I’m not doing great.
While I can rally when my friends and family need me, it takes everything out of me. My default Pollyanna attitude, always seeing the joy and wonder in everything, is slowly fading away. It’s harder and harder to put a positive spin on things, and as a result, I’m dissociating more and more. I check out for hours and days at a time by playing on my phone or binge watching TV, often doing both at the same time.
The creative spark I had just months ago seems lost.
Yesterday I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I’m picking fights with my family, crying easily, and my body hurts all the time. I feel myself stiffening in all ways. It could be stress in my life, the state of the world, perimenopause, or most likely, all of those things combined.
It’s time to seek help. Again.
Sigh.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, I think part of getting through this is going to be recommitting to blogging again. Reaching out to this beautiful community as my whole broken self and saying, hey, I sort of need a hug right now and maybe you do too, so how about we hug each other with words? That sounds weird, but you know what I mean. We aren’t alone. None of us.
So, yeah. I’m here.
How are you? I seriously want to know. Good? Bad? Tired? Energized? Did you get a new dog? Your cat do something funny? What projects are you working on? Tell me all the things.
I might not be doing great, but I’m going to show up. I’ve taken a ton of photos lately and it’s time to edit them and share them with you. Maybe the joy of the tiny details will help me in my recovery, and who knows, maybe you’ll find something about them to love too.
I’ll leave you with this photo my daughter took of me in Washington earlier this month. I remember thinking in a world where an artist creates something this magical, anything is possible. I’m holding onto that feeling, even if it’s tiny.
some say we return to stars light returning to source but I won’t say it to you as your child left too soon
instead I’ll focus on moonlight grief rippling across the land a sliver of silver beside Venus how small words feel now
once he pulled my giggly son across a green lawn over and over “you can stop anytime,” I said he shrugged, “but he’s so happy”
some say we will meet again across the rainbow bridge but I won’t say it to you as your boy left too soon *Dedicated to my aunty Nel and my cousin Josh. I wish I could be there today to celebrate his life with you. He will be greatly missed. I love you all.
It can be hard right now to think about light streaming through ribbons, flowers, and youthful hearts, but the world still contains all the beautiful things it always has. Let me take you away from the news for a moment as we dance around the May pole and celebrate the spirit of spring. Let me know if you have a favorite photo and have a wonderful day.
“It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.” —Rainer Maria Rilke
Mom said she wanted witchy photos in the woods. She wanted to dance in the moonlight and howl. She wanted pointy hats and dark makeup. She wanted her vision of us to be captured forever.
What she didn’t say is generational pain lives in our bones and she wants us to be free. She didn’t say mortality knocks and time moves oh so quickly. She didn’t say let’s be stronger, my dearies, and stop letting others control our happiness. She didn’t have to.
Mom said she wanted witchy photos in the woods. I gave them to her, minus the hats.
This is for you Mom, the one who gives and loves so big, who taught me to be strong, and who carries so much and still laughs. I hope you like the photos and know how much you are loved.
“You’re breaking generational curses. That’s why this doesn’t come easy for you. You’re who your bloodline has been waiting for.” —unknown
These photos are of my mom, my daughter, and me. All photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW, except the last one and it’s a screenshot from a small video I took on my iPhone 13. My talented daughter took the photos I’m in.
find me where winter waters flow honey thick. where ferns weave baskets cradling colored stones. listen for songs dripping down cave walls, tiny fairy feet dancing delicately on crushed shells, soft foamy voices calling your name. follow them. do not despair as earthen gravity releases you. let go. reach through murky darkness until our fingertips merge. hold tight as our toes taste stars. I’m beside you watching our bubbly breath connect inside and outside. beautifully untethered.
When children are small you can sprinkle nutritional yeast on millet and tell them it’s fairy dust. With a word, it becomes so. Such is the power of language. What if we could do the same with our dreams? Here’s a poem and flash fiction rambling on about such things. Let me know what you think.
little shadow
perched on a purple wall staring at my sleeping child
what do you see shadow bird?
do you see. see like me?
my grandfather became cloud grandmother became butterfly.
I sit in her chair. I sing with his voice.
what will be left for her when I,transform?
maybe I become you. maybe I watch from a wall.
flying with one word. staying with another. word.
dream me alive. over and over and over. clove and nutmeg. owl spreading wings.
forest hears, nothing.
another dream
Transform
One night during a dream of chaos and war a woman gives birth to a baby with hair the color of fresh snow. The baby blinks at the woman with eyes as green as ancient ferns and coos like a dove. What if instead of forgetting the baby when she woke the woman decides to name her Mabel and she becomes as real as coffee.
The woman dresses the dream baby in clothes the color of fresh marigolds and wears her close to her chest in a carrier woven of the softest wool. She takes the baby out into the rain and her laugh becomes lightning. The world sparks around them and glows brighter.
The plants in the woman’s house grow with the baby—greener and taller, greener and taller until the woman is forced to cut through them with a large knife, like an explorer in a jungle. She and the baby laugh at the silliness of it as birds make nests in her living room and a family of rabbits discovers the perfect place to live within her closet.
They spend most days outdoors so Mabel can make the grass thicker, the trees taller, and the flowers bolder. The neighbors don’t know what’s making their gardens grow and the woman decides not to tell them. Not everyone believes as strongly as she does and she fears their disbelief will pull the child away.
When Mabel starts walking the woman takes her outside in the middle of the night and upon seeing the full moon the child begins to sing. The tiny lilting notes cause the stars to dance and the moon to move closer and closer to the Earth. The woman knows this won’t go unnoticed and will have terrible consequences, but she hesitates to act because love defies logic and gravity. Love defies most things.
Mabel however makes the choice for her, wiggling out of her grasp and floating toward the moon. The baby with hair as white as snow returns back into the dream where she was born and the woman walks home alone. Her house feels different but she smiles the same because Mabel is as real as coffee and her physical absence changes nothing. She wraps herself in wool and dream walks to visit her child.
Bridgette Tales 