A Philosophy as Delicious as its Scent

pure

grace

"philosophy: one of the best tools for longevity and good health is not just taking a walk outdoors but taking your walk while holding the hand of God. when we walk in gratitude for each and every moment, we empower ourselves by empowering our spirits. when we breathe in nature through our eyes, ears, and lips, we become certain that not only are our souls eternal, but that God knows how to manage our lives, our troubles, our worries and our days better than we do. so today and everyday 'let go and let God.' "

ROcKeR LoVe

rock·er noun \ˈrä-kər\

: a rock musician, song, or enthusiast

It was 1981 when Aldo Nova’s hit song Fantasy streamed through some small radio and into the life of a 7 year old boy with blond hair and freckles. Unlike other top hits that year- Devo’sWhip It, Neil Diamond’s America, and Sheena Easton’s For Your Eyes Only, to name just a few-Fantasy seeped into that part of him, that crevice of discovery that every child has, and shaped the boy and man he would become.

We were in junior high when I noticed him, his blond hair now long and his freckles slightly faded. Although he seemed shy, his eyes laughed deviously at the pubescent circus and authoritative attempts of teachers and a vice principal who didn’t like him. Was it the hair? But they all had long hair-his buddies and the girls that surrounded them. The boys wore it feathered and the girls wore it big. They walked down the halls in a group, some dude always playing air-guitar, some chick always ready to kick the ass of a girl like me. By the time we were in high school, our cliques were clearly separate and defined. But I still noticed him. I had a crush on this quiet rocker boy, although I am not sure if the two of us ever spoke.

Like any crush, it was soon forgotten. After high school he partied with the boys and hung posters of pantie or bikini clad women on the walls of their bachelor pad. He soon married his rocker girlfriend (later divorced) and raised two rocker sons. He went to heavy metal concerts and began collecting music and guitars. His sons grew their hair long, too, just like their dad and when they were small he held them on his shoulders at Kiss concerts and Rob Zombie shows. They are now 15 and 18 and tomorrow night the 3 of them are going with friends to see Slayer, Megadeth, and Anthrax.

Nearly 20 years after high school, the two of us celebrated his 37th birthday last week. First, by camping two nights in the brisk October mountains of Utah, followed by a weekend of CD and guitar collecting, Italian food eating, good book reading, True Blood and Prison Break watching, and cozy snuggling. It has been nearly six months since I bumped into him sitting on his motorcycle, bearded, tattooed and still rockin on. I asked for a ride, he said “let’s go” and he hasn’t left my side since. I know better than to speculate or imagine or define where or how our relationship will go, but I can say I do like having him around, that it has been easy, and I want him to stay. And while I was more inspired by the Go-Go’s Our Lips are Sealed in 1981, Aldo Nova’s Fantasy bore life to a rocker with blond hair and freckles. A true rocker. My rocker. Rocker Love.

Faceless

Several years ago I was given a final photography assignment: a faceless self portrait.

What?

A faceless self portrait.

This, in the excruciating growth and misunderstanding of my early twenties.

Who am I without face?

Who are you without face?

Like every assignment in college, I started it just a few days before it was due and I spontaneously drove 45 miles southeast from my apartment in Salt Lake City into the Heber Valley. It was spring, late April, so I dressed in my favorite long, green summer dress and I let my hair down. I did not consider why the assignment was compelling me to this area, I only knew I wanted to find a country road. The morning was quiet and the sun positioned perfectly at my back when I finally set up my tri-pod at the start of a dirt road. Still not certain of what I was trying to capture, I took several shots of the road and the fields and the cattle in the fields and then became frustrated as I was trying to realize myself through cows. Just walk. After setting the timer on my pre-digital Canon 300, I walked. I walked down the dirt road and continued to walk even after I heard the camera take the shot. 2 weeks later I moved from Salt Lake to Heber.

Naturally much has changed over the last 11 years and I think about how the faceless self portraits would have changed, too, had I taken one annually. They probably would have included elements of restlessness and travel and an urgency of experiencing something new, always. Surely there would be elements of loneliness and isolation and personal strength and fears of becoming the crazy dog lady by the end of winter. There would be the un-authentic portraits portraying me as a cowgirl or a slight red-neck, ha ha ha, hiding my city roots, as well as some very authentic portraits of an embrace and adjustment to small town life, activities, and people. One faceless self portrait would include a silence that is so loud it terrifies, and a good half-dozen would include a broken heart. As 2010 begins its end, I imagine this year's: Unlike the first photo that captured the back of a young woman walking down a dirt road toward her new life, this year's image shows her feet on the ground, not bare-foot and whimsical and ready to run....instead they are settled into the shoes of her roots on the landscape of her essence.

I hold onto the idea that if you allow it, life will just kind of lead you in the direction of your heart. That final photography assignment may have just been that, an assignment. But for me, it was God taking my hand.

See what you discover.
What is your image?

Who are you without face?

Blessed Be.

The best Grandma, EVER.

The most dynamic, strange, funny, loyal, intelligent, creative and wacked family.

BFFs.

A body that is free of pain and disease.

Gentle Jess tickles.

Jess' smile. His eyes change.

Lola love.

My home.

The view from my home.

The stillness of and connection to place.

The smell of a river.

Yoga.

Maple reds of September.

Sissy Love.

To live in a country where I can go wherever I want, be who I choose to be, and say what I want to say.

The abundance of all that is: Mother Nature, I notice you everyday; Life, sometimes you suck and you hurt, but it only makes the good so, so sweet.

Having learned.

Continuing to learn.

Heart

To refrain or receive? To constrict or create? To harbor or harvest? To rust or radiate?

My Fields

My Fields
I am in love with my fields. They are not really my fields, of course, they belong to my neighbors who bought them from Farmer Doyle who inherited them from his father who inherited them from his father whose father homesteaded the land. Or something like that. Farmer Doyle now leases the land from my neighbors and gets in three cuts a year-alfalfa. As Lola and I stroll the two dirt roads that cut through his crops, he waves and smiles from his tractor. These are his fields, connected and running through him in a way that most people will never understand. And yet he allows me to make them my own. I love my fields. Thank you, Farmer Doyle.

Just a Dog.

Hey, you are just a dog. How is it that you, the whole 10 lbs of you, could excavate this dormant capacity to grow? Two drifting spirits, somewhat broken and restless and curious, canine and human meet and begin the awkward adjustments of a new relationship. You needed me to trust, I needed you to care. You needed me to care, I needed you to trust. You, you can't even talk, and yet you pulled me from the sofa, pulled me from inside of myself and took me outside and taught me the delicacies of observation-the cycles of a crop, the very quiet shifts in the air, the families and behaviors of hawks, cranes, skunks, and foxes. You extract daily laughter and are made known in a once very still home. You let me hold you in a way I have needed to hold and love you in a way I have needed to love. You, all 10 lbs of you, have brought me to myself.