tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62915545434952364862024-02-07T14:24:48.949-05:00Ninacarrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-50483835747856644602016-02-09T21:59:00.000-05:002016-02-09T21:59:01.259-05:00Keep Dreaming<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For a long time, I imagined that if I could just leave behind the day job and focus only on my own business then I would gain some new level of clarity and creative genius I hadn’t been able to reach with the obstacles that having a “regular job” created. I envisioned time to delve deeply into personal projects, never again getting behind on editing, time to write and create freely, and a muse that was always within reach and readily available. There would be hardships and setbacks, of course. There would be worry, too - but I had been a worrier back when I had a regular paycheck as well. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYuvo-msX2A5Ebs-qQyyouAfm_p6_3IgYf1IvrX9lYAqRkwc6ZPHK925CjXXz-pUITQj-BjuiLR-23Nesz7sDbEQPXYBQX2nHRBVR8tM25zvaCQ5QWBl5wlAmPohQXJuz97pSS5jaQpZ8g/s1600/DSC_8723.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYuvo-msX2A5Ebs-qQyyouAfm_p6_3IgYf1IvrX9lYAqRkwc6ZPHK925CjXXz-pUITQj-BjuiLR-23Nesz7sDbEQPXYBQX2nHRBVR8tM25zvaCQ5QWBl5wlAmPohQXJuz97pSS5jaQpZ8g/s640/DSC_8723.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The truth is, running your own business is a lot like having children - as much as you read about it, study it, and believe in your readiness for it, you just can’t know until you’re really there. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t really know. I knew it would be great, but I didn’t really know that, either. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Working alone every day is lonely. Funneling everything you have into your creativity is exhausting, and often leaves you with more questions than answers. There isn't time to delve deeply into personal projects, or to gleefully watch as your creativity expands to fill the entire universe. After the kids are in bed, you are back at it, because you have to be. No one encourages your quest for personal wellness - it only happens when you make sure to make time for it. The muse is absolutely not within reach and readily available. She shows up much more like a comet or a shooting star, where you catch a fleeting glimpse and then wonder if that’s really what you saw. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpsY0PzdY4kzzA7zgTDjlwKNTj7_xaV98TLg6B3UA_YflnkgOQtqIo4yMDu1BTYr8E3PaaHRNEPE4zhEM7NKkqPbMY8JisVD8yUqa_DHUF15-8bS8f0Or2u4zUzihVDWw80-wWTXkqBtP/s1600/DSC_8731.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpsY0PzdY4kzzA7zgTDjlwKNTj7_xaV98TLg6B3UA_YflnkgOQtqIo4yMDu1BTYr8E3PaaHRNEPE4zhEM7NKkqPbMY8JisVD8yUqa_DHUF15-8bS8f0Or2u4zUzihVDWw80-wWTXkqBtP/s640/DSC_8731.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">All of this is not to say that I’m not happy to be where I am, because believe me, I am overjoyed. I know with every fiber of my being and every gray hair taking its place on my temples that I’m on the right path. I’m happier and more “in my own skin” in this job than I ever was in any previous place of employment. I’m who I say I am and who I want to be, more or less. I can’t believe this is my life. But not in the pure, black and white way you hear other people say it. It’s way more of a gray area than I ever thought possible. A gray area where I belong, for sure, but still gray. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It’s winter. My office is too cold in the morning because there’s no one here to put the heat on other than me. My main task right now is number management, in preparation for taxes. Did I mention I am not an accountant? Not my favorite thing. My muse is elusive right now. I see fleeting glimpses but I just don’t even know if it’s really her. I suppose if my life was pure black and white I could be looking for my muse in some exotic place, or on some snow-capped mountaintop. Instead, I look for her right where I am, right where I can be right now whilst juggling all the plates I am currently spinning. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So here is my day, my life I can’t believe is mine: numbers, emails, phone calls. Homework, yoga, pancakes for dinner, making homemade Valentine’s. Writing and photo editing after the kids go to bed. More of the same tomorrow. Imperfect, but perfectly mine, the gray area I choose to inhabit with the trust that the muse will keep showing up, and I’ll keep catching enough of a glimpse out of the corner of my eye to keep dreaming. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Namaste. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thanks to Dora for being my photo assistant today. All photos including me were taken by her. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-90357287162490869002015-04-02T15:53:00.000-04:002015-04-02T15:53:18.258-04:00Please, let me remember <div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oscar likes to put goggles on in the tub. He calls them his “gobbles”. He pronounces r, l, and w as “w”, so he’ll say, “I wuv you Dowa” or “woki” (for his friend Loki at school). He uses m at the beginning of many words that begin with a hard consonant sound, like “mestruction” for construction, or “paw matrol” for Paw Patrol (a show he likes to watch). He replaces the “g” at the start of gymnastics with a “t” - tynastics! Breakfast is “bressie”. Watermelon is “memo”. Lighting McQueen (and all cars) used to be “Aye-Rum-Rums” and then he was “Lightning Taqueen”. Oscar snuggles up to me and says “I want to be “ta-next” to you”. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I pray that I can remember every one of these little speech impediments and quirks as they slowly disappear. Recently I found video of Dora before kindergarten, talking about how excited she was to go to “kindewgawden”. All of that baby voice and baby pronunciation is now gone from her speech. Some of our favorite things she used to say - “lalybugs” (ladybugs), “montey” (monkey), and “furfy” (Murphy)….these are gone. It is a heartbreaking thing that these little signposts of infancy slowly disappear. I know my kids can’t go on to successful careers in business, medicine, or the arts using a “t” where a “k” is needed…but I can barely stand to see these markers of early childhood slowly fade. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was gone all day yesterday and when I arrived home Oscar greeted me excitedly. “How was your trip, mommy!?” It sounded so exceedingly grown up, even though he was watching Finding Nemo and eating macaroni and cheese shaped like pirates and ships. I put him in his footie pajamas with sharks (his request) and snuggled up with him on the couch, watching the last half hour or so of Nemo. At the end, when Marlin and Nemo are reunited, I started to cry…thinking of both my precious kids and the way they are slowly, surely growing up and pulling away from me. I cried more as I put Oscar to bed, burying my face in his sweet smelling hair, tears rolling down my cheeks and onto his pillow. </span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The irony of this is that I have more time with my kids now than I ever had. When Dora was a baby I was working away from her 40 hours a week, driving down terrifyingly unsafe Leicester Highway every day to my job, frozen solid with anxiety and fear, wondering if the way the sun reflected so brightly off the other cars was a sign of me losing my mind completely. I traveled and, when she refused a bottle, Dora came with me..hauled from unknown babysitter to unfamiliar daycare in every corner of North Carolina, snuggling together in some unknown hotel room after a day of work and separation. Once, a caretaker tried to feed her before she was old enough for solids, and I cringed in my hotel room alone with her that night as I scrubbed dried cereal from her baby face and hair. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The further irony is that instead of weeping over the fact that my kids are growing, I should of course just be rejoicing that we are all healthy and relatively happy and whole to enjoy and love one another. A wonderful friend who I love and respect dearly lost her son to war. A woman I never knew but whose writing I admired died recently, and her 4 little children now grow up without their mother. My own mother, who had just begun to get sick when I watched Finding Nemo for the first time, is 10 years gone from this Earth. I watched the movie at my parent’s house, and tried to get her to watch, too, telling her it was quite good even for a kid’s movie. She watched some, standing and pacing at the back of the living room, the pain in her back from as-yet-undiagnosed cancer already too painful for her to sit down. Life is so fucking unbelievably unfair, inexplicable, and unrelentingly painful that I’ve no real right to weep over the perfectly normal growing up of my children. Or have I? </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The truth, I guess, is that all of life holds some exquisite pain for those who choose to live it fully. Even the happiest moments and joys bring with them a tinge of sorrow at their fleeting, like that last full day of vacation when you want to just have fun on the beach but in your heart you are sad knowing that tomorrow you go back to reality. If I wasn’t weeping into my son’s sweet smelling hair once in a while, perhaps I would just not be caring about his life at all. Perhaps the fact that I can cry over my kids losing their silly pronunciation quirks is a sign of (a bit of) mental health, a sign of emotional fitness whereby the beauty of life is not just appreciated but felt, noticed, loved, mourned, held on to with tightly grasped fingers praying for time to slow. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The only real answer I seem to have is to say it - to speak it or write it down and allow the tears to roll down my cheeks, allow myself to say openly that watching my children grow up is as painful as it is beautiful. I have no choice but to admit to the world that there are evenings when I cannot wait for them to just be asleep so I can have a moment alone, and there are also nights when I can hardly pull myself away from watching their sweet slumbering faces. I am as far from an ideal parent as one can be, at times, but the love I have for Oscar and Dora runs through me like my blood, like an energy source, like something unstoppable that has to move and flow and, at times, break free of its bonds through my tears, to drip onto the pillow of my slumbering son like the tears of all the others mothers in the world, past and present, whose unstoppable force of love cannot be contained. </span></span></div>
carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-65618627847994944942015-03-25T22:06:00.000-04:002015-03-26T09:38:36.799-04:00What I've learned so far <div class="p1">
I am slowly realizing that it’s ok if things aren’t perfect. I know this sentence sounds a bit ridiculous, but it’s really true. I have spent so much time - way too much - pondering and lamenting and generally feeling bad when things haven’t been “just right”. Is it possible that it is finally sinking in that life itself is a process, that to be moving forward in a generally positive direction is the goal, as opposed to some unrealistic, perfect endpoint that doesn’t exist? </div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">A couple of years ago a high school classmate of mine died of cancer, at a ridiculously young age. Her two little girls, nearly the same age as my own kids, left without a mother before any child should have to face such a thing. I spent so much time thinking about her, and those little girls, wondering how on earth they would be ok, wondering who could possibly comfort them in those moments when only mama would do. I see through mutual friends that they are, of course, doing ok - because grief may feel like it can kill you but it actually doesn’t - but I can only imagine how much they yearn for their mother’s arms. </span><br />
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<span class="s1">And recently I’ve witnessed - from very afar and without even truly knowing the people involved - another <a href="http://www.mundanefaithfulness.com/" target="_blank">young mother die of cancer</a>, far before her time. She had the same birthday as Brian, and was a year younger than me. The youngest 2 of her 4 children are close to my kid’s age - though I think Oscar is actually older than her youngest. A child younger than Oscar has lost her mother. This fact is unbearable, unfair. I see photos of this beautiful, smiling woman, full of life and love, taken at a time when she did not know that the full experience of her life would be only 38 years. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I wonder if there is some sort of tiny perfection in all of this, however. Because perhaps what we can see in these lives cut short is that perfection does not exist. What does, though, is doing our best to love fully, to forgive ourselves and others, and to take notice of the moments that matter. My children are growing quickly and the moments of their littleness seem to be fleeting and ethereal, nearly like the comet’s tail that you cannot really see. I have moments when they won’t listen or are fighting when I just want to walk away, sit in the backyard with a glass of wine and let them tear the house apart while I check out. There is no getting beyond the fact that parenting is an inherently messy thing, and there will be lots and lots of imperfect moments. What IS perfect, however, is that I love my two littles with my entire, imperfect heart. I love them so much it feels like my heart could burst into a thousand pieces. It feels like a love that could damage one of my internal organs, the way I used to worry that Dora’s screaming as an infant would actually permanently injure her somehow, that the pressure of her cries would cause her spleen or liver to burst inside of her. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am learning to see and accept and forgive myself for the things that I need: time to myself, time with the kids, time to create - to write, to imagine, to take photographs, to cook, to (sort of) clean the house. Not every day allows for that time. Not every shoot is perfect, not every image is in focus. Not every moment with my kids is without flaw. In fact, most of them are flawed. Maybe that is what love really is - perseverance in spite of imperfection. Loving our children - and ourselves - deeply and imperfectly. Accepting that life is about progress, and imperfection is inherent. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Those who die young are no more perfect than anyone else. But their terminal diagnoses do push them to the borders of love and relationship. They make clear all that really matters. And I know from walking through death with my own mother that imperfect moments occur even when knowledge of imminent death is present. You might think that if you know someone is dying, you will be nothing but kind and understanding to them, and never pick a fight. But it isn’t true. Life is messy and imperfect to the end. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Perhaps a terminal illness or a premature death allows us to see - all of us, not just those in the midst of such trials - that love in all it’s imperfect, messy, inconsistent beauty is all that matters in this life. That to love the best you can, to create beauty in your own way, and to try for progress where possible, is all that we are really called to do. </span></div>
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carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-32847838765927245862015-01-11T21:12:00.003-05:002015-01-11T21:16:13.741-05:00wild<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A year ago, I sat on a plane to Salt Lake City for the job I had at the time, worrying about flying and trying to distract myself with two new books I had purchased just for the trip. One was "The 100 Foot Journey" by Richard Morais (which I loved). The other was "Wild", by Cheryl Strayed. I started with Wild - I had heard it was wonderful. And on about page 15, as the details of the author's mother's demise from cancer became clear, I closed the book with tears in my eyes. Not ready. 9 years, and I'm not ready. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, there is a movie. The book has been sitting untouched on my bedside table for a year. I am still not sure, at 10 years out, that I'm ready to delve into this story that - excluding the heroin and copious sex with strangers - feels remarkably like my own. But, a few nights ago, I went to the movie with a friend who has also lost her mother. She had ended up reading the book after seeing one of my posts about it, and when the previews for the movie came out we made a plan to see it together - knowing it would be hard thing for both of us to do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>me, probably on my first day of kindergarten, photo by my mother </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;">The movie was wonderful. I cried, a lot, as I knew I would. A few times, I thought I might have to step out so as not to disturb the other viewers. I watched it all and, though I am quite sure I will never hike the entirety of the Pacific Crest Trail, I do think falling on my knees in the wilderness and screaming "I miss you" might be really therapeutic for me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Primarily told in flashbacks of Cheryl's childhood and the loss of her mother, one thing that surprised me about watching the movie was that it made me as weepy about my own children as it did about losing my mom. Maybe it's that the movie kids are an older girl and a younger boy, like mine. Maybe it's that, though they seem to be poor and uprooted a lot, the mom is really happy and always loving with the kids. She doesn't seem stressed out, worried about money, or frustrated with her kids. Maybe I will understand this when I read the book - will see she was actually more flawed, or that she has been accepted into the sainthood of the dead and just appears perfect in memory - but I found myself worrying if my own children have as many sunny memories of me. When I am gone, will Dora think fondly of when we say goodnight and blow each other kisses? Will she remember how much she loves my chili? Will she think of all the times she told me I'm the best mommy in the world? Or will she remember my tired, stressed out, overworked self, easily annoyed and nowhere near as patient and nurturing as I would like to be? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>my mother's coffee mug and turquoise ring, which I wear every day. photo by Dora </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After the movie, I sat in my car in the parking garage of the Aloft hotel and wept, loudly, covering my face with my black fingerless gloves. The pain of missing someone you love - of missing your mother, the one who nurtures, cares for, and protects you - it is a shitty, relentless, ominous beast of grief that patiently waits for you to feel slightly ok before jumping out and beating you up again. It doesn't go away - at least not in 10 years - and strangely I wouldn't really want it to anyway. As another friend told me recently, in the remembering and grieving the one we have lost is kept alive. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The movie transported me back to the feelings of total helplessness, fear, and exhaustion we felt when my mom was sick. It reminded me of how we started out hoping for big things like trips and ended up just hoping for a pleasant meal together. It reminded me of that claustrophobic little room where the doctor tells you it's terminal cancer. In the movie, Cheryl's mother asks, "can I still ride my horse?" My mother said, "You know, you're really ruining my dinner plans right now." Sigh. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I sat in bed with Dora the following night, helping her fall asleep. I scratched her back as she closed her eyes, brushed her hair away from her face so I could watch her relax, so I could stare adoringly at her 7-year-old face that still looks like the infant I remember. I was flooded with an unexpected memory of my own mother, sitting on my bed and "checking me in" - drawing little checkmarks along my back with her fingernail as I fell asleep. I wondered, did she sit and stare at my face, wondering over my beauty, wondering about my future, feeling her heart swell with love for me? Did she stare at me and see my infant face hidden in my childhood features? Did she weep with love for me? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>first pair of rollerskates, being put on by my mom at my 8th birthday party</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The day my mother died, there were a lot of phone calls to make. We divided them up and plodded through them, letting family and close friends know she had died. I don't really remember who I spoke to, or what I said, or even how I got through those calls. But I do remember one conversation. I called the bookstore where my mother had been working when she got sick, and told the store manager that she had died. "You were the light of her life, you know?" was his response to the news. What he said to me meant more than nearly anything else I heard on those calls, or in the wonderful cards that were sent, or in the thoughtful embraces at the funeral and beyond. To hear from someone else - someone outside our circle but who knew my mother well - tell me how she loved me, was a gift. It was so priceless - so meaningful, as meaningful as my own flashbacks and memories, as meaningful today as it was 10 years ago. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Where am I now? I'm not doing heroin, I'm not a famous author, there hasn't been a movie made about my story. I'm not hiking thousands of miles by myself. I never will. But, I'm on my knees, in the wilderness, crying out how much I miss my mother. I'm in the wilderness trying, as much as I can, to ensure that my kids have happy memories of me when I'm gone, that they know they are the light of my life in every possible way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And, I'm finally reading the book. I'm not really ready, but I'm reading it anyway. </span><br />
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carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-26623823575124097422014-12-30T09:14:00.000-05:002014-12-30T09:14:06.942-05:00namaste <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Last week, after a seriously busy December and in the midst of various deadlines, I started my day with yoga. I haven't taken a yoga class in years. The last time I plopped myself down in a room full of barefooted strangers, I had a baby growing inside of me. I found prenatal yoga to give me a deep connection to the little life beneath my heart, a chance to breathe and relax when doing so felt nearly impossible, and - surprisingly - a place where I connected with other soon-to-be moms who, 7 years later, are still friends of mine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Since then, I've started my own business, had a second baby, changed to a work-from-home job for a national non-profit, and generally worked myself into a corner with a to-do list that will melt your face. I love what I do, and I honestly feel like it's killing me. Meals are eaten in front of my computer, sleep is a long-forgotten luxury I can barely afford. I can actually feel the impact on my body - let alone my relationships - and I don't like it. People I know are facing illness and death at a very young age, and I'm guessing my current lifestyle is putting me at a much higher risk for such a thing to occur in my own life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, I was offered a complimentary class at West Asheville Yoga, and I took it. Though I have fond memories of pre-natal yoga, there are definitely some things about yoga that I just don't like. I'm not a fan of bare feet, mine or anyone else's. It's just too much information. And some poses are just plain uncomfortable. Downward Facing Dog? Not my favorite.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But my yoga class a few days ago felt really good, a pause to breathe and focus and just not be in the midst of all of life - the communications, the to-do list, the glow of the computer screen. It was just me, and my breathing, and a room full of other breathers. Sometimes hearing other people breathe is annoying, but during the class I felt the room inhale and exhale together like some collective being, and it felt kind of awesome. At some point, the sun started shining in through the window to my right. As I tried to focus on my breathing and stretching, I also thought "come on, lady, shut those curtains - that sun is right in my face!" But as we wound down to Shavasana, the room suddenly felt too cool, my bare feet freezing against my borrowed and hopefully previously-sanitized mat. I turned my face towards the sun, with my eyes closed. It felt great - like it was there just to warm me up. It felt like a gift, a surprising one, that I had thought wasn't a gift at all. Today will be different, I thought. And perhaps tomorrow can be as well. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Indeed, 2015 will be very different for me. My life is changing, some of it in ways I cannot control and some of it in ways that I can. My non-profit job is ending. I'm being laid off, which is new territory for me. I've got a little over two months to build some wings for a gigantic leap of faith I'm taking. I'm not going to look for another job. Instead, I'm going to do something I've wanted to do for years - I'm going to focus on <a href="http://www.carrieturnerphotography.com/" target="_blank">photography</a> full-time. I've got some other work lined up too - a bit of consulting perhaps, and some studio management for <a href="http://www.brianturnerpiano.com/" target="_blank">Brian</a> and for <a href="http://www.orangekrushband.com/" target="_blank">Orange Krush</a>. But the primary focus is going to be my photographs, my family, and finally burning the candle at only one end. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You'll be hearing more about this in the weeks and months to come. If you're so inclined, your positive thoughts, referrals, and general good juju will be much appreciated as I step off this cliff. Like the sun in my face during yoga, I'm seeing this as a gift. Namaste, y'all. Here we go! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">xoxo, </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Carrie </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Yoga image courtesy of my <a href="http://www.carrieturnerphotography.com/blog/2014/7/portrait-maggie-yoga-poses-and-portraits" target="_blank">lovely photo shoot</a> with yoga instructor Maggie. </i></span>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-56083789941865783422014-06-07T22:27:00.003-04:002014-06-07T22:29:23.541-04:0020 Locally Grown Weeks, Week 2: Garlic Scape Pesto <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I had been hearing that you can make pesto from garlic scapes for a long time, but this is the first time I tried it. WHY did I wait so long?! It was delicious and the kids really enjoyed it. Dora often complains that true basil pesto is too spicy (from the raw garlic), but garlic scape pesto is milder, and stays green! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_b35NUssstMftjpF-s-7qHvI415xRll8FX0bnthQBxESP7l5ZmSRjPO7hFFKsOixuuji5B33FlCogfCElufsV47GVxgtliDeni-3yFCbUpmlY20VndOUJtrOrFbvEE9stVVjgqKMYXTC/s1600/CSA+week+2-7403.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_b35NUssstMftjpF-s-7qHvI415xRll8FX0bnthQBxESP7l5ZmSRjPO7hFFKsOixuuji5B33FlCogfCElufsV47GVxgtliDeni-3yFCbUpmlY20VndOUJtrOrFbvEE9stVVjgqKMYXTC/s1600/CSA+week+2-7403.jpg" height="422" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;">The recipe I found called for pine nuts and parmesan like a traditional basil pesto, but I used what I had on hand. I rarely use pine nuts because they are just so stinking expensive (although they are, of course, delicious). I found cashews to be just right, adding the butteriness that you usually get from pine nuts. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I rarely measure anything when making pesto - just go for it until the consistency and taste is right (requires tasting as you go). </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVO6uKKhiS2vdN4lQFW54oJmKHmLpNX4rFT10DaRueatFhVGcZl15-euil-yhuIhsjfacGP5mKsvQ_xUDewfQOdRwcr2rFo2V4G63FUW7OHz5xNZIb4bUQsF68f-g0E6-0b6sCgGgDPqEx/s1600/CSA+week+2-7410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVO6uKKhiS2vdN4lQFW54oJmKHmLpNX4rFT10DaRueatFhVGcZl15-euil-yhuIhsjfacGP5mKsvQ_xUDewfQOdRwcr2rFo2V4G63FUW7OHz5xNZIb4bUQsF68f-g0E6-0b6sCgGgDPqEx/s1600/CSA+week+2-7410.jpg" height="422" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Use as you would any pesto - ours went into pasta with halved cherry tomatoes, grilled sausage, and a little pasta water. Mmmm. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZgXJqBUokWCIrAmh0t8UIfB3RfU7UhM6wx3XodUNDWP7gQ45VjolwA34PgXAOx6gTdSrR9I2RRUef5xUOdcrBFdkuQ-nyvvXqNMw8r1EK3QXdcUURkgELQg-Afxs67vD2wVxH6DuAZfv/s1600/CSA+week+2-7413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZgXJqBUokWCIrAmh0t8UIfB3RfU7UhM6wx3XodUNDWP7gQ45VjolwA34PgXAOx6gTdSrR9I2RRUef5xUOdcrBFdkuQ-nyvvXqNMw8r1EK3QXdcUURkgELQg-Afxs67vD2wVxH6DuAZfv/s1600/CSA+week+2-7413.jpg" height="422" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Garlic Scape Pesto (adapted from <a href="http://food52.com/recipes/22491-garlic-scape-pesto" target="_blank">Food52</a>)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In a mini-food processor combine:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1 bunch garlic scapes, sliced</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1/2 cup (or so) roasted cashews (I like the "not too salty" cashew pieces from Trader Joe's) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1/2 cup (or so) grated Asiago </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">olive oil (until it reaches the right consistency) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">freshly ground black pepper </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Keeps in the fridge for a week-ish. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Bonus: This week I also made Minestrone Soup with Collards and White Beans. I used <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/338170/minestrone-with-collard-greens-and-white" target="_blank">this recipe</a>, subbing in chicken broth for the water. Also I pureed some of the beans with some water (instead of smashing with a spoon). </span>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-86536187873511921342014-06-02T21:26:00.000-04:002014-06-02T21:28:55.323-04:0020 Locally Grown Weeks, Week1: Napa Cabbage 2 ways <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This post is late. Oops. But let's not let that get us too off schedule - I made a delicious garlic scape pesto tonight that I can't wait to share! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For now, we'll return to last week with 2 great Napa Cabbage recipes. I know - I'm whimping out a little because Napa Cabbage is such an easy ingredient to work with (I think). It's great sliced thin and turned into a salad or slaw, or tossed into a stir fry with ground pork, garlic, ginger, and fish sauce. But I made two different salads last week that are worth sharing here. </span><br />
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<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;">One final note:</b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;"> I am no chef. I am definitely not a recipe writer. I'm a recipe </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;">reader, </i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;">though. I love to read recipes and often do just for entertainment. I've gotten good at (usually) choosing ones that work well, making small adjustments that will suit my family, and adapting them to what we have on hand. So, I'm not promising to present original recipes here - just sharing what's working for us, what changes I've made, and illustrating things along the way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Recipe 1:</b> <i><a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/317154/shredded-napa-cabbage-salad-with-radishe" target="_blank">Shredded Napa Cabbage Salad with Radishes, Golden Raisins, and Dijon Dressing</a> (click link to view) </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We had this as a side dish with ... wait for it ... hot dogs and corn on the cob for Memorial Day. The kids thought it was kind of spicy (Napa Cabbage and radishes both have a bit of bite) but I have to say this is one of my new favorite ways to use radishes. I always think radish slices in salad are too much, but using matchsticks was perfect. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Added bonuses: </span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While we had the grill hot, I grilled some chicken cutlets to cut up and add to salads through the week. I added leftover grilled chicken to this salad the next day and it was even better than the day before. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This recipe calls for fresh chives. When I have a new recipe calling for fresh herbs in summer, if I don't already have it growing in my garden, I just buy a pot at the store and plant them for use all summer (or longer if they winter over). </span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Recipe 2: </b>Next we enjoyed the second half of our Napa Cabbage as a slaw with fish. The original recipe called for salmon, but I'm honestly not a big salmon fan so I used tilapia (sorry - I know there are tilapia haters out there). </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Napa Cabbage Slaw with Curry Dusted Fish (adapted from Martha Stewart) </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1/2 head Napa Cabbage, cored and very thinly sliced </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3 - 4 carrots, shredded </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">a handful of fresh mint leaves (<u>don't</u> plant this in your garden. I learned the hard way. I tore it all out last year and it's already back in my garden) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1/4 cup-ish fresh lime juice</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2 Tbs olive oil </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">tilapia filets</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2 teaspoons curry powder</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">coarse salt and freshly ground pepper </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Combine the cabbage, carrots, and torn mint leaves, then dress with a mixture of lime juice and olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. Heat broiler. Season fish with salt and pepper, then rub all over with curry powder. Place on a lightly oiled, broil-proof pan and broil until it's done - which means watching it like a hawk and taking it out pronto so it doesn't get overcooked. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I served this with rice. The next day the slaw was even better, again delicious topped with grilled chicken. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thanks for reading! More to come later this week and beyond!! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">#20LocallyGrownWeeks! </span>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-70594721214529097922014-05-26T22:52:00.000-04:002014-05-27T08:06:09.322-04:00the launch of 20 Locally Grown Weeks: our CSA experience <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When Dora was a baby, I had a conversation with a colleague whose child is close to Dora's age. He was boastfully telling me how she had never seen Elmo. "She has no idea who Elmo is!" This was because, apparently, he and his wife were the only parents in the history of the world to uphold their pre-baby, "our kids will not watch TV" plans. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Moments later, our conversation shifted to food, and he explained that his daughter's favorite food was a can of Chef Boyardee. Luckily, my inner voice that had been berating me for the brain damage I had already caused to poor baby Dora by allowing her to watch TV paused just long enough for me to absorb this statement. "Well," I offered, "Dora might know who Elmo is, but she definitely does not know Chef Boyardee."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so went an early lesson in parenting - we all have different, and equally valid, goals and aspirations as parents. For some people, what their children do (or do not) watch on TV is more important than the toys they play with or the food they eat. There are so many battles in parenthood, you can't face them all. In our family, food wins. Yes, my children watch TV. But, most nights, we eat something homemade. Not saying that is right or better than the alternative, nor am I saying we always eat perfectly, it's just what we choose to <i>try</i> to do well <i>most of the time</i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One way food wins for us is that we have been members of the <a href="http://www.flyingcloudfarm.net/csa/" target="_blank">Flying Cloud Farm CSA</a> for years - so many I've lost count, but farm owner Annie and I figure it might be as many as six or seven. That's 20 weeks every May through October of Western North Carolina's freshest produce, grown, nurtured, and harvested right from this beautiful mountain land by our friends and neighbors in Fairview. Being a member of a CSA has made me grow and expand as a home cook, and has helped us connect more fully to our home and community. It has helped me get into a routine with shopping, meal planning, and cooking that works well (usually) for our family. And, for the most part, my kids do well with eating their vegetables, in part because they have no other choice. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have my faults with this, of course. I'm not a big fan of yellow squash, but they grow plentifully in Western North Carolina. Kohlrabi? Yes, it baffles me. And turnips are low on my list of priorities. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But, this year, I'm upping the ante on using the contents of our CSA box in delicious and creative ways. I love food, cooking, and photography, so this year I'm launching "20 Weeks" where I'm going to (try) to share photos, recipes, successes, and failures from this experience. Thanks for joining me on this adventure! I hope to share something that you enjoy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If you're a social media whiz you can follow this project on <a href="http://instagram.com/carrieturnerphotography" target="_blank">Instagram,</a> hashtag <b>20LocallyGrownWeeks.</b> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I know. A hashtag for my project. Please forgive me. </span><br />
<br />carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-81869044630142563082014-01-07T22:33:00.003-05:002014-01-08T08:27:26.240-05:00long in time<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dora did not have school again today, so I made up some little math word problems for her. If Oscar has two trucks, and daddy gives him three more trucks, how many trucks does Oscar have? She spent a good part of the day working on these. I have to remember this the next time she says to me, in her whiniest, teenager voice, "I don't know what to dooooooo!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, here's a word problem for you: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oscar is 2 and a half. Dora is 6 and a half. 2.5 + 6.5 = 9. I have 9 years of kid between the two of them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You know what else I have 9 years of? Missing my mother, who died 9 years ago today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At first when I realized this today I thought this would be true forever, that every year my children's ages would add up to the number of years since my mother's death. But in doing the math on a piece of paper now, it doesn't. Next year, if I don't include the half years, it does add up (3+7 = 10). But the following year, 4+8 = 12. Someone smarter than I, a mathematician or a statistician, could tell me what, if anything, this means. I guess it's just a little coincidence, a little oddity that happens when stars (or something) align. I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. It seemed like a morbid, freak-show kind of thing at first, and then it seemed like a bit of a comforting oddity, like the cowlick at the base of Dora's neck that she inherited directly from me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Regardless, I guess it's me trying to find some pattern, order, or level of understanding in this chaotic and desolate landscape of grief I find myself 9 years into. It's this crazy, elastic, unpredictable space that comes and goes, waxes and wanes, and evolves in ways I didn't know possible. Nine years later and I still have days where it feels like it happened THIS MORNING. I have days where I can still feel exactly how much dread I felt driving down the driveway away from my parent's house, knowing I would never again return to that place with my mother alive. I have days where my jealousy that my kids don't get to know their grandma is alive like another person in the room, standing in the corner up against the wall, a bit out of sight but there just the same. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dora, in her old age, has become increasingly perceptive about my feelings about my mom. Simultaneously she is also very curious about death, I think, and talks a lot about Grandma Carol in heaven, about how much I miss my mommy, about how sad she is not to meet her, and about how sad she will be when I die. She has even suggested that, when I die, I'll get to see my mother again. I know much of that is her mirroring my emotions - after all, she has seen me cry openly about my mother on many occasions - but I also have to believe that, in some way, this open dialogue she and I share about grief and love between mothers and daughters is influencing her own understanding of love and it's power. I want, I need, her to believe that our love lasts forever. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I believe that it does and, also, I struggle to believe that the love between my mom and I lasts forever. I know mine is still going strong, but I don't always feel whether or not that love is getting picked up on the other end, or that it's being returned. I have faith and I'm a Christian and all that jazz, but when you lose someone you love like this - well, you WANT to believe they're on the other end of the love you send to them. You WANT to feel them watching over you, you WANT to sense their presence. But, my friends, it isn't that simple - at least not for me. She's no Casper on my shoulder. She's in my heart, yes, but I seldom - if ever - feel the love coming back to me. I want to believe that she's out there in the universe or in heaven or in God reflecting that light back to me, but, honestly, the signal ain't coming through. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And here I am in that rubbery landscape of grief and I've found a whole new area I didn't know existed. That's what's so shitty about death - the person still living simply has no proof of whether the deceased still loves them. We want to believe it, we really do, but the flow of love from that other person feels like it ends when they do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, I want and need my little Dora - and Oscar, when he's old enough to talk about it - to know that MY LOVE for them lasts forever. That our love will keep us connected no matter what. That when we are separated by death, our hearts remain fused, our love goes on into eternity, our light shines between us forever. My own mother, though she had many great qualities, never talked about her own death - even when she was terminally ill. This was a conversation we never could have had. As a mother myself, I know how much she loved me, but she never said, "Carrie, even when I die, our love lasts forever." I really wish she had. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Grief is a rubbery landscape and also a place where we continue to look for answers, even when we know there are none. We look for something to make sense of, even if it's that our kid's ages somehow mysteriously add up to the number of years of loss we've experienced. I keep turning over the rocks, keep looking around for some clue. I cannot make sense of this, but at least I keep asking. At least I keep feeling it, at least I can still cry about it. If I lose that, well, then she would be even more lost to me. If I ever stopped exploring this landscape at least a little, it feels like I'd be closing the door on my relationship with my mother forever. Feeling the sadness, at least, feels a little like life, and a lot like love. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2.5+6.5=9 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">9=long in time</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">May my connection to you, mama, be long in time...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Always, your girl </span><br />
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<br />carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-68379720100544887372013-10-07T21:01:00.000-04:002013-10-07T21:04:04.324-04:00Best Spaghetti and Meatballs<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It was a perfect fall afternoon here - cool but sunny, windy with a bright blue sky. We're in that space where Mother Nature straddles two seasons, where the leaves skitter by on the pavement while the orange Mexican sunflowers continue to bloom in my garden. It was cool enough tonight for a warming meal, and warm enough to grab handfuls of fresh herbs from the garden after walking the dog. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">If I were Italian, I could call these Nona's Meatballs. But, I come from a line of skinny German, Welsh, and Irish people, with a bit of Cherokee tossed in. Nonetheless, these are the best meatballs I've ever made, good enough to write down. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For this recipe, I use my mini-food-processor several times. You can do this stuff by hand, of course, but I love that little food processor - I use it all the time to shortcut chopping onions, for example. A knife works fine too! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mangia! </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Best Spaghetti and Meatballs</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1 pack plain Melba toast (4-5 crackers) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">a few sprigs each of fresh thyme, oregano, and basil </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1 small onion</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">4 small garlic cloves</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">grated Pecorino Romano</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1 egg</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1 pound ground beef </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">olive oil</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">salt and freshly ground black pepper </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1 28 ounce can crushed tomatoes in puree </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1 28 ounce can tomato sauce </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1 pound spaghetti </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">1. Toss the Melba toast into the mini-food-processor and pulse until crumby. Or, smash with a heavy rolling pin. If you don't want to do this, substitute bread crumbs (I didn't have any on hand, and found the Melba toast to be really delicious). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">2. Pull all of the leaves off the herbs and toss together in a small bowl. It's fine to leave the basil leaves whole for now. Using the mini-food-processor, finely chop the onion and garlic. Scoop out half of the onion/garlic mixture from the food processor and set aside in another bowl. Toss in half the whole fresh herbs, and pulse again to make a finely chopped mixture of deliciousness (garlic+onion+herbs). Set aside the leftover chopped onion/garlic and remaining whole herbs for the sauce. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Put up a pot of salted water to boil. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">3. In a large bowl, whisk the egg. Then, stir in the garlic/onion/herb mixture, about half of the melba toast crumbs (or a little more) and a small handful of grated cheese. Season with salt and pepper. Add the beef and smash it up with your hands until mixed. Meatball recipes always say "don't overmix!" and I have overlistened to this advice. Take it easy, but don't be afraid either. Divide into 16 or so evenly-sized meatballs. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">4. Heat a few Tablespoons of olive oil in a large skillet over medium. Sautee the remaining chopped onion/garlic for a few minutes until fragrant, then add all of the crushed tomatoes in puree and about half the tomato sauce (or more, if you like it really saucy). Season with salt and pepper, tear up the remaining basil leaves, and toss the fresh herbs into the pasta. Totally fine if they are just torn up and uneven. Stir to combine and bring to a simmer. Add meatballs, spoon sauce over, cover, and simmer gently until the meatballs are cooked through (10-15 minutes). Add a bit more of the tomato sauce if you feel like it needs it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">5. Cook the spaghetti while the meatballs are simmering. When all is ready, toss together, top with some more cheese, and enjoy! Tastes especially good when the kids ask for seconds. </span></div>
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carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-25212572282948345422013-08-04T22:33:00.000-04:002013-08-04T22:33:28.337-04:00light of my life <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">There are things in this life that can't be fathomed or understood or even truly seen until you experience them yourself. Swimming in the ocean, falling in love, eating a really great meal, biking a beautiful trail, losing a parent, having a baby. I remember being pregnant the first time, the first day I found out, lying in bed awake that night, terrified by the fact that somehow this baby would have to get out of my body. I devoured birth stories and information for the next nine months, only to have my own unique and completely unexpected (and amazingly beautiful) birth experience - unlike any I had read about. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Then once you have the baby, you are completely unprepared for how you feel - the intense love, the terror, and the exhaustion. I cried that first week at every meal, thinking that my days of enjoying food without a crying infant in my arms were over. And as every parent knows, there is one comment you will hear over and over and over again once you are out in public with your new little one, your ticket into the parenthood club. "Enjoy it while you can, it goes by so fast!" is helpfully offered to you by every grocery store clerk, elderly man in church, and austere businesswoman on the street. Anyone whose child is at least a week older than yours will offer this advice. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Tonight, 6 years after I first entered the world of parenthood, blinking my eyes as I emerged from the darkness into bright light, while clutching my newborn babe to my chest, I can tell you this is absolutely true. It goes by in the blink of an eye. One day you're trying to get your worn out eyes to focus on the beautiful face of your newborn and the next you're struggling to carry her long, lanky body to bed. One day you're trying out rice cereal and the next day she's trying out make-up. You can't even imagine it until you see it for yourself, until you watch the way it all unfolds in the mere blink of an eye. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I suspect though that we parents experience the lives of our children in this time-compressed way for a reason. It serves a physiological purpose, for sure - intense growth and development is a normal part of the life of babies of most (if not all) species. But maybe it happens this way to protect our hearts a little, too. There is so much intensity in this love, so much power in it, maybe we have to keep moving through it fast so as not be consumed entirely. Maybe the days have to burn past like rays of the sun so our hearts don't combust, don't catch fire like dry blades of grass. Maybe it's like running across hot coals, where you save your feet (a little) by going as fast as you can. It's just too much for any of us to handle, so we have to get it over fast - like ripping off a bandaid. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It still hurts like hell, though. My heart breaks a little as I watch both of my kids grow so fast, feel there grip on my hand lessen just a bit each day. I hope I've done a good enough job. I hope I've savored it enough. I hope I've written about it enough and taken enough photographs. I hope I will always remember every detail of the day Dora was born, looking through photos of her birth and remembering what it felt like. I hope I'll always remember how, right before she was delivered, everything seemed to pause. I looked out the window and saw the afternoon sun glowing against the mountains, realizing that the world was still going on outside, even if it felt like time and space had stopped for my little, growing family. I hope I'll always remember the smell of the top of Oscar's head, or the way he sounds when he says "mama". I hope I'll still be happy when all of this is said and done, when the kids are grown and moved away. I hope I'll be the kind of mom they want to come home to, whose cooking they miss, who they call regularly without being reminded. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I hope, most of all, that these babies know how much I love them. I tell them both every day, over and over and over again. But here's the thing about life - they won't know. They can't, not until they have babies of their own. When my mother died, I called the bookstore where she last worked to tell them. The man who answered the phone, the store manager, said, "you were the light of her life, you know?" I knew that then, but not really. I didn't really understand it, didn't really know what it meant, until August 4, 2007. That day, my heart broke open, and the light of my life arrived. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Happy 6th birthday, beautiful girl, light of my life. I love you more than you can possibly understand for now. </span><br />
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carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-78072889955974690702013-05-28T22:36:00.002-04:002013-05-28T22:37:44.768-04:00in a spring garden<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This is the first year I've really felt good about my garden. Now, that being said, I have a few caveats. One is that I've enjoyed many, many small successes in gardening over the years: morning glories that took off at my apartment in Athens, Ohio; potted plants cheering many a front porch and entryway; a thriving peony transplanted from my dad's garden. I've got a few really hardy, flourishing lavender plants (my favorite herb), and my day lilies are pretty spectacular. The other caveat is that, though I'm pretty happy, we have a long way to go. We're reworking all of the landscaping right now, replanting the beds on the side of the house, and converting our backyard to sod and a fruit garden (it is currently gravel). The work appears to be endless. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The difference this year is that I'm accepting that it's endless. If I do even one small gardening thing each day - even if its just deadheading something or making sure everything is watered - that's enough. All these years I've been frustrated and felt inadequate because I expected too much of myself, thought I'd have results and a full and productive garden in way less time than its taken. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">There's a reason I've been so unrealistic. My mom was an exceptional gardener, and my dad still is. I grew up selling vegetables with them at the farmers market, way, way, WAY before selling at the farmers market was the cool thing to do. We sold tomatoes, beans, peppers, lettuce, herbs, and flowers, flowers, flowers. My mother grew many varieties, but some favorites were zinnias, snapdragons, globe amaranth, nicotiana, statice, cosmos, purple coneflower, sweet Annie. She would cut flowers Friday night and early Saturday morning, arranging them in old coffee cans and olive oil tins for sale at market. We would drive the flowers into town in crates in the back of our squeaky red and white Blazer, the whole car filled with the scent of plants, blooms, and earth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">With this as my backdrop, I thought I'd be a natural. After all, I literally grew up in the garden, eating raw green beans straight from the plant.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So when my first vegetable garden was an utter failure - choked with weeds, leggy and unproductive tomato plants, cucumbers and zucchini that cross-pollinated into a mushy, flavorless mess - I felt like I'd lost out, like some gardening gene that my mother surely had was lost in translation. Incidentally, her father was also a master gardener, champion roses still gracing the borders of homes he hasn't tended since well before his death 30 years ago. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Today, though, sitting in the shade, enjoying newly bloomed peonies, day lilies in full leaf, coriopsis covered in buds, I noticed Dora playing in the dirt. It struck me that perhaps gardening skill isn't what's inherited, but instead what we pass down is the desire to garden, the need to put our hands in the soil, the willingness to take a chance. It has never occurred to me before that my mother probably also had gardening failures, that there was probably also a time in her life when she wondered if Carl Brady's gardening prowess has skipped a generation. It was so freeing and forgiving for me to imagine that, to realize that perhaps there was a day, in a spring garden so many years ago, when my mom thought, "I feel good about the garden this year, finally".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It is so easy to see in ourselves only imperfection, while seeing in so many others all of the things we wish we could be and c</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">an</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">not. Consider this for a moment, though. In your chosen field, or in the field of your passions, imagine the master, the one you most admire, the one who appears to have it truly figured out. There was a time when they didn't know what they were doing either. Even the master was once the apprentice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I don't know why this thought was so surprising to me, but it was. But what 's so great about it is not only that it allows me to forgive myself the garden failures, but it reminds me of my mother's humanity as well. And as I am finding now, as one whose mother has been gone for 8 years, those glimpses of her humanity are a precious and far too rare pathway to reconnection. If I can, for a moment, imagine us having the same shortcomings or uncertainties, then we are together again, even if for only a brief sliver of time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The new side garden will be planted soon - cleome, nicotiana, peonies - all things my mother grew. Dora and I will go out in the foggy morning to water our new plants, all of them stretching up to the heavens with spindly green arms and pink flowers. We will tend to them with gentleness and imperfection. We will spell out their names like memories. </span>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-32231457341495420712013-05-06T21:07:00.000-04:002013-05-06T21:08:28.281-04:00on rejection<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">OK, I'm just gonna come right out and say it. I'm probably taking a risk here, dropping all that positivity we're supposed to exude in the cyber-world. But, here's the thing: I've been getting rejected a lot lately. I don't know what to make of it. It feels so bad. It feels like it could be a sign. It feels...like something I have to deal with, like something I have to figure out. It's like a rash, or a leaky faucet - there's got to be a reason this is happening, and I have to figure out why.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So, the other day, after receiving another "no" email, I posted something in a Facebook group I'm part of, and I asked people in the group what they do when it feels like the doors are closing. What do you take this as - a bump in the road, an obstacle I need to go around, or a sign I'm just on the wrong damn road? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Somewhere between eating a poorly thought-out lunch, ignoring a phone call, and texting with my husband about childcare logistics, it dawned on me. Here's what to do with the rejection. Put it out there. Write it out. Speak it. Just let it go. I mean, we've all seen those inspirational memes with portraits of Steve Jobs and Michael Jordan and Oprah and others, writing about how they got fired, rejected, thrown out. But how many times do you see the average, every day, "just like me" person say, "shit, I just got rejected again"? Well...never, I guess. Because somehow the experience of a regular Jane like myself isn't worth as much as Oprah's? Because little successes in the face of rejection aren't valued as much when from an average person as opposed to the richest woman in TV/guy in basketball/computer nerd? Because nobody has ever told the mortals among us that it's ok to be just that, mortals. Imperfect. Not always smiling and positive. And vulnerable, to the judgment of others, and to ourselves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I have been trying desperately to find positivity in how things haven't been working out so well for me lately. For one, I have had more time with my kids and with Brian. The house is STILL a major mess, but not as bad. The garden still needs a ton of attention, but I've started this recycled brick edging project that's actually starting to look pretty cool. I've photographed some new and different things that I wouldn't have done otherwise if I'd had more of the jobs I've been seeking, and I've found I love it immensely. I've been there for friends who needed me. And, when my beloved Murphy was dying, I had space and time in my life to care for her, and my grieving daughter, and myself, which I would not have had if some of this rejection hadn't happened.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But I could only think about how rejection has it's positives for so long. The wonderful thing, and also the hard thing, about having little kids is that it forces you back to reality all the time. You can't sit around feeling sorry for yourself and wallow in the latest no. There are little hands to be held, meals to fix, boo-boos to kiss, homework to do. And usually being pulled back out of myself to tend to the needs of my children is, in fact, just what the doctor (or, in this case, the therapist) ordered. Because, though these tasks are great symbols of the mundaneity of life, they are also reminders of life's bottom line, love. To my children, I am perfect, no matter how many rejections, no matter how many dead ends, no matter how many no's. They love me, in their perfect, innocent, ideal, ferocious way. They see beyond my flaws, draw me with a big beaming smile surrounded by hearts, light up when I walk into the room. When there is a boo-boo to be kissed, or a meal to be made, I'm the right woman for the job. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Part of what makes rejection so painful, at least for me, is that it feels so personal. This is particularly true, I think, when the part of you getting rejected is some creative outlet, some product that represents your vision of the world. It's that double whammy of both your work and your vision, YOU in the truest sense, being turned down. Beyond that, it only adds fuel to any fire of self-doubt already present within. When we're rejected by others, the negativity goes right from the words on the page, through your eyes, into your brain, and jumps into the pool with the other self-doubt party-goers, drinking martinis and doing cannonballs in the afternoon sun. It all gets mixed together, till we're swimming in our own uncertainty, surrounded with every negative sentiment ever directed our way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What if, though, instead of letting the pool party get totally out of control, we chose to set aside our own feelings of inadequacy for just a moment? What if instead we allowed ourselves to bask in the warm light of those who love us unconditionally, who see in us perfection (or, at least, lovable imperfection)? What if, when one door closed, the other door that opened let in the warmth and light of our partners, our pets, our friends, our families, our children? Instead of seeing ourselves through the eyes of those who tell us no, why not see ourselves through the eyes of those who would draw us with a big smile, surrounded by hearts?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">If for no other reason, do it for those who love you like that. For me, I need to do it for my kids, to show them that turning towards the light is a possibility, to show them that love of oneself, even when things aren't going so well, is ok, is possible. I want them to love themselves as they love me, with innocence, without judgment, with warmth and perfection. I want them to bask in the light of their own love, as well as mine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">If I can teach them that, then I really am the right woman for this job. </span><br />
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<br />carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-54142867952180337012013-04-05T21:59:00.000-04:002013-04-05T21:59:46.219-04:00chaos and light<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">4/1/2013</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I wonder: do all parents of small children feel like their lives are out of control? Or is it just me? Or is it that we just had a really hard week, and today we had a hard day, and tonight I'm exhausted, the house is a mess, my worries are swirling around my head like bees, and I can't make bedtime happen fast enough? I mean - I have to work on my taxes, tonight, for God's sake, and that actually seems preferable to trying to bring this whirling dervish of a life under control. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">There are two things that make coexisting with young children so difficult. The first is that everything - and I seriously mean everything - is SO intense, dramatic, and extreme. It's not just that you experience a full range of emotions in one day (you do). It's that you experience the full range of human emotions in an hour (and sometimes less). Just this morning, I was telling a friend how good, how wonderful it is to have two kids. And it is, of course. And it is also basically impossible! By this evening I was trying to figure out how to get through the last hour of bedtime preparations without completely losing my mind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Meanwhile, 90% (or maybe even more) of this extremely intense stuff happens in a vacuum. There are times when I guess this is a blessing - I mean, if you could've seen the simultaneous tantrums that went on today having to do with a (minor) injury from a broken piece of furniture followed by a cancelled trip to gymnastics due to car trouble, all while my husband was trying to get AAA to come out and deal with said car and I was making an attempt to write a business email....lets just say it wasn't pretty. But otherwise the fact that we often undergo the extremes of parenting completely on our own is pretty alienating, and only serves to intensify our feelings of self-doubt, anxiety, and insecurity. </span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What forums are there for these moments of great parenting intensity to go from the private to the public sphere? Well, there's social media. Yay! What better way to increase our collective self-disrespect than to endlessly compare ourselves to an unrepresentative and overly positive sample of the population? In all seriousness, I love many things about social media - the new and old connections, the ease of sharing creative expressions that are so meaningful to me like photography, writing, and cooking, and the hybrid public/private sphere it creates where it's (usually) acceptable to share even very intimate details. A week ago today, as I bid tearful goodbye to my beloved dog Murphy, I was able to reach out to a broad and loving community who surrounded my family with warmth and prayer, in a way that previously would have been cumbersome at best, and most likely impossible. But I also know that the propensity - at least within myself - to teeter on the edge of the abyss via ongoing social media comparisons is a dangerous one. True community - in it's most pure form - lifts up and supports, without simply being a space where one's impeccably decorated home/smiling children/baked cake can be compared. </span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Social media criticism aside, out in the real world, parenting is still often an oh-so-lonely adventure. When you see a mother with a young child melting down at the grocery store or elsewhere, you sympathize, you smile kindly, you might even offer a word of encouragement or more to help out. But, in the end, if its not your kid melting down, well...it's not your kid melting down. I realize this is counter to the whole "it takes a village" concept (which I wholeheartedly believe!) - but who's kidding who here? When it's someone else's kid, there just isn't the angst and anguish you feel when it's yours. It doesn't diminish your empathy, but deep inside you're just thankful it isn't your kid lying on the floor of Earthfare while you try to wrest the opened box of bunnies away from him (not that I know this from experience or anything). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">One good thing about parenting being intense and primal and occurring in, essentially, a dark cave full of sharp rocks, is that the tiniest pinprick of light can often illuminate even the most out-of-control day. At the end of this crazy day I have had, the tantrums were over, dinner was eaten, baths were given, and I put my kids to bed with love. I nursed Oscar to sleep, kissed his slightly damp, clean hair, and laid him down in his crib on his tummy. I snuggled on the couch with Dora to read a few books. After she was asleep, I looked through her school binder. Her report card shows her excelling in Art. She brought home a sweet drawing of "Princess Dora" with "I love mom" written at the bottom. Her teachers sent home 4 "good behavior" notes from the past semester, when she got "star student" stickers for good behavior. One of them says, "cleaned up whole classroom without being asked". She might have had a wicked-bad temper tantrum earlier today, but guess what? We must be doing something right. She's navigating being 5-years-old, and most of the time she's doing wonderfully and being a sweet, empathetic, funny, and loving little girl. </span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Maybe the whole point is that it's supposed to be messy and out-of-control. Maybe the point is that we all need to have the moments of complete chaos and mess against which to compare the moments of light and beauty. It's like needing Lent to prepare for Easter - we need time for contemplation, chaos, winter, darkness, caves full of sharp rocks. Otherwise we'd run right past those Bradford Pears and Weeping Cherries breaking into blossom without even noticing. Food never tasted so good as the first time you're really feeling hungry after an illness. The sun never felt so warm on your face as it does on the first real day of spring. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">And the next time it's cloudy and cold, and I'm feeling all alone in that dark cave full of sharp rocks, I just have to remember that everyone feels that out-of-control now and then. There are other parents (and people) there in the cave, too. It's just SO dark in there, you can't tell there's anyone else there, until that little pinprick of light sneaks in and illuminates the whole place, all of us squinting our eyes and feeling the new warmth of sun on our faces. </span><br />
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<br />carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-10794864958072235102013-03-26T21:42:00.000-04:002013-03-27T12:34:01.205-04:00my little dog <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">My little dog - a heartbeat at my feet. --Edith Wharton</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I keep looking for her, thinking I see her out of the corner of my eye. I keep listening for the sound of her nails clicking on the hardwood floor, of her sighs as she settles down into her bed to rest. I keep waiting for her to walk over and curl up at my feet as I sit at the computer and type or edit photos, as she has done night after night for (nearly) as long as I can remember. I baked buttermilk biscuits yesterday, and one fell off the pan when I pulled them out of the oven. I waited for her to swoop in, eat it up, wolfing it down with steam curling up around her whiskers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But she
isn't here. And she never will be again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What is left? A little bag of
fur I've been collecting all week, hoping to craft it into some memory
of her that's more fitting than a hairball. Memories. Lots of them. And
photos. Many, many photos. I am so thankful right now for my love of
photography, so thankful that I have spent years documenting every little thing we did. I am so very thankful that a friend suggested I take some photos
of her before she died - and that I asked my husband to take some photos of us together. I didn't want to - the house was a mess, my
hair was a mess, I'm out of contacts and was wearing my glasses. The
kids were barely dressed - Dora was wearing hand-me-down SpiderMan
underwear (for boys) and Oscar was wearing a t-shirt and a diaper. The
blanket Murphy was lying on had stains on it. But I am now so in love with
these photos of our goodbye, so thankful to have them. I will cherish
them forever, cherish the memory of how much we loved her, and how much
love we showed her and each other even at the very end. </span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Murphy came to me so long ago, 16 years ago (give or take). I was single, just returned from studying photography abroad in Scotland. I was about to leave for a photojournalism internship in Michigan. I didn't have any children. In fact, though I knew I wanted to be a parent someday, children were less than a twinkle in my eye. She was one of my first three pets that were mine exclusively (though that would eventually change), and my first dog that I adopted myself, that I chose and took home and made my very own. I had loved and lost countless dogs (and cats, donkeys, hamsters, and bunnies) as a child. But this was my first dog aquired and loved as an "adult". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She lived with me in a tiny one-room studio in downtown Athens, in a two-bedroom college apartment on the campus of WMU when I worked nights at the Kalamazoo Gazette as a photography intern. She lived with me in a farm house on Vore Ridge Road, where my housemate would get up in the middle of the night and paint the toilet pink, or smoke from a bong made from a teapot. She lived with me at my parent's house, when lack of money or failed relationships sent me home once again. She lived with me in my little house on Lorene Avenue, first with two wonderful roommates, and then with a guy who turned out to love animals as much as I do. She came to the party we had after I married that same guy, snuggling with us on the couch in our formal clothes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She actually played a part in picking said husband. Early in our relationship, we went for a hike at Strouds Run. I brought Murphy along, having long ago decided that pets are excellent at helping make decisions about which people to keep in our lives. Not only did they hit it off instantly, when we sat by the edge of the trail about halfway through the hike, my future husband stroked the ears of my little dog and said, "she has the softest ears I've ever petted." He said later he knew then that he wanted to marry me, in part because he just loved my dog so much. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She slept on my bed - usually under the covers, spooning with me, with her head on my pillow - for years. Countless nights I cried myself to sleep with my face buried in her yellowish-red fur, terrified or sad or just lost, with only the love of my dog (and my two cats) to carry me through. She went on every trip with me, and the one time she did not (our honeymoon), we spent all our time in the car repeatedly looking into the back-seat, forgetting she wasn't there with us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She was imperfect, too. She hated kids (except for mine - she tolerated them). She once barked fiercely at an old woman crossing the street with a walker. She terrorized patrons at our yard sales if they didn't suit her taste (meaning basically everyone but us). She and my female cat had an interesting relationship. She loved to clean out the cat box. She got car sick, and always found a way to throw up in the most inconvenient place possible (i.e. down into the gearshift, or into the little slots on either side of the parking brake). She adored rolling in something dead, preferably something old, dried out, and intensely stinky - like a flattened, caramelized frog carcass or a fragment of garbage. She loved to kill innocent little things, including baby birds, moles, and crabs at the beach (earning her the nickname "crab-killer"). In her younger years she rolled over onto her back and peed with excitement when someone new entered the room, or when we came home from work or school. Then she would wag her tail, splashing pee around. She even did this once when being examined by a well-to-do canine orthopedic surgeon, who had the audacity to examine dogs wearing an expensive shirt and tie. We showed him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I loved her though, intensely, and she loved me back just the same. She was my perfect, loyal, short, blond, beagle-barking, table-scraps-eating, loving, ever-present companion. My life will never be the same without her, but it was (and is) better for having had her in it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I love you with my whole heart, Sergeant Murphy, and I shall see you again one day. I shall never forget your cuddles, your unending love for me, your excited frenzies in the backyard, your soft, sweet ears. My love for you goes on and on, and I'll be holding you in my heart forever. Thank you for giving me more than I ever could have given you. Rest in Peace, Murphy girl. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Visit me in my dreams. </span></div>
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carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-7754224874458189382013-03-19T23:07:00.000-04:002013-03-19T23:07:50.144-04:00home<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
When you travel home - or to a place that you lived long enough for it to be part of your mosaic of home - the memories are there waiting for you, almost as if you never left. They're like rowdy guests at a party, pushing and shoving each other, trying to get to the front of the room where the band is playing, or the keg is, or the food table awaits. Different ones arrive at the front of the crowd, with no pattern, rhyme, or reason. The long walk in knee deep snow when you thought you might freeze to death. The spooky man who jumped out of the woods and scared you and your boyfriend, sending you running down the other side of the street in the darkness. The night you drove home from a party the back way, on tiny two lane roads through the countryside, when you really shouldn't have. They don't appear in order, either. Shopping with your mother at Martings at age 7 appears right next to holding the infant son of your first friend to become a mother, completely awed at the thought of producing something like that straight out of your body.</div>
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I spent this past weekend in Ohio, traveling home for my aunt Erma's funeral. She was 83, the widow of my mother's brother (who's funeral conjured <a href="http://www.iwantnina.blogspot.com/2010/04/slip-between-sheets.html" target="_blank">this blog post</a>). Aside from attending the funeral, the entire trip was designed around visiting other family, seeing a friend here and there, and eating at a couple of my favorite places. I stayed in Athens Thursday night, at my dad's house, snuggling into the bed of my childhood with both kids. Friday morning, before leaving for Cleveland, I ran 3 miles on the Hock-Hocking Adena Bikeway, a place that holds so many memories for me it could fill an entire book: riding on the back of my dad's bike some 35 years ago, back when the trail was only 3 miles long. Rollerblading with my dog Murphy, a spry little thing in her youth at the time, now old and dying of kidney failure. Riding my first purchased-with-my-own-money bike all the way to Nelsonville and back on my first day of ownership, putting in about 30 miles in one day after having not ridden a bike AT ALL for about 10 years. I couldn't move the next day. Biking from my house to Clippinger to the hospital to visit my mom, when I was juggling graduate school, a new marriage, and the illness and impending death of my mother. And the walk through knee-deep snow? That happened there, too. </div>
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On that path, I contemplated my life so many times. I pondered decisions. I ruminated on relationships. I wondered about boyfriends - all of them, even the last one, who ended up being my husband. I rode and walked and bladed in sun and rain and shade, trying to get away from the past or get to some unknowable future that surely, somehow, would be better than the life I was living now. I walked that path with Murphy every single day the years I lived on Lorene Avenue, cursing the Army Corps of Engineers for turning such a beautiful river into a drainage ditch, even though I walked the path every day, watching the birds, soaking in the sun.</div>
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Friday morning was frosty, and the first mile of my run was painful - I didn't think I'd make it. But I have a 5k on Saturday - my first - so I had to complete the run. By the time I got to the golf course I felt good, and by the Ping Center I probably could've kept going, but we had to get on the road, I had to get home.</div>
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As I ran, I thought about how time skews our perception of place and events and narrative. It even skews our perception of people, frozen either innocent or guilty in the tar pits of our minds. As I ran, I felt so in love with that place, felt so nostalgic for living there. I thought about moving back, about picking up an ANews and looking for a job, about buying a nice house on the East Side, having Saturday morning coffee at the bakery, running on the bike path three days a week. Dinner at Casa. Hikes at Strouds Run. Basketball games at the Convocation Center. It would be like...coming home.</div>
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The question of "where is home" is as complicated as the question of "who am I", except it doesn't show up in your face quite as often. It's more subtle, more rare, but just as profound. You know a place is in the mosaic of home when you're in it, no matter how long you've been away, no matter how short a time it actually was your home. It's familiarity is unexpected, physical, etched inside of you. You think you're over it and then, bam, you spend one night there and you feel the magnetic pull again. It's like running into an old lover on the street, one you haven't seen in years. You can remember right away what it was like to be in their arms, what it was like to lie in bed watching them dress, a few drops of water from the shower still clinging to the skin on the small of their back. </div>
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How do we reconcile the question of home, when so many considerations rest on these decisions? Logistics, friends, jobs, family, schools, housing, opportunity. The list goes on and on. I love Asheville and yet, the ghosts and memories of my other home pull at me, make me question my undying loyalty to our (current) home. </div>
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On this trip I also took a tour through many favorite albums of my youth, using the search function in my husband's Rhapsody account like a digital tour-guide of my past. Cyndi Lauper. Edie Brickell. Sting. Elvis Costello. U2. Dave Matthews Band. The soundtrack to Pretty in Pink. Some of it sounded great, some of it sounded absolutely terrible. I hadn't heard a lot of the songs in years, and I still knew every single word. Just like being home, these songs turn out to be some deeply ingrained part of me, so deeply part of my memory that even after not hearing them in years and years, the words still spring right to the front. Like home, I've romanticized them, idealized them. I absolutely loved Elvis Costello's "Spike" in high school and it sounded contrived and tinny today. I'm not sure this trip down my musical memory lane really solves anything, but it certainly serves as warning. Flipping through memories like album covers is a cozy, if bitter-sweet, way to revisit the past. But if you really delve in - really get in there and listen to every single song - you see it maybe isn't so great. The question of home is just as complicated, and can't be answered with a quick perusal through the slideshow of memories conjured in a day. If I ever do go home, I'll have to go beyond the nostalgia to coming to terms with all of the memories, and the ghosts, - good and bad - and decide whether or not we can coexist.</div>
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For now, I'll take my runs along a different river - the French Broad - and let those memories go back to a less-rowdy party, where they don't have to fight to get to the front of the crowd. They can float in and out, perhaps visit me in my dreams, be familiar and nostalgic like flipping through album covers, but not tested like listening to every song. Home isn't going anywhere. Just like "who am I", it's a question that will contentedly wait for it's next opportunity to surprise me, to jump out of the woods in the darkness, to trudge through knee-deep snow, to run into me on the street like a lover I haven't seen in years. </div>
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carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-30681861144557056522013-02-25T20:36:00.001-05:002013-02-25T20:37:09.698-05:00vegetable frittata<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Well, I haven't posted here since LAST year, so, I guess it's time for me to put up something. Whew. Let's just say I've been busy, and leave it at that. I still love you, Nina, so much - and someday I shall have more time for you. I promise. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This is super-easy, adapted from a Martha Stewart Food recipe. It's even feasible on a weeknight with two little kids, if you've got the broccoli left over. You can sub in any veggies - cook anything other than tomatoes ahead of time. Serve with a simple green salad or fresh fruit salad. Almost as delicious as quiche (though not quite - I love a good crust!) - and a lot easier. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i>Vegetable Frittata</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Ingredients: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">olive oil</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">salt and freshly ground black pepper</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">8 eggs</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">1/2 cup sour cream </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">1 cup roasted broccoli florets (preferably left over from last night's dinner)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">1/2 cup halved grape tomatoes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">1 cup shredded cheddar cheese </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">-Preheat oven to 425, with rack in top third. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">-In a large bowl, lightly beat eggs with sour cream until blended (doesn't have to be perfect). Season with salt and pepper. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">-Heat 10-inch cast iron skillet over medium, add 1 tbs olive oil. When hot, toss in broccoli and grape tomatoes, saute briefly (1 minute or so). Add egg mixture and stir to combine. Sprinkle cheese on top, and cook undisturbed about 2 minutes, until edges are set. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">-Transfer skillet to oven and bake 8-10 minutes, until puffed and nearly set. Remove from oven and heat broiler. Broil until cheese is browned and bubbling, 1 minute (or less - mine only takes 30 seconds and has to be watched closely!). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">-Now the fun part - loosen edges with a rubber spatula and transfer to a plate. If you have a disaster, no worries. Just watch Julia Child's potato episode (where she totally mangles a potato casserole, then picks pieces up off the stove top and puts them into the serving dish) and be reminded that food doesn't have to be perfect to taste good. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Love...</span>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-24839133692983275342012-11-26T20:26:00.003-05:002012-11-26T20:26:47.131-05:00the thinking woman's guide to motherhood So, today I was in a public speaking training - a very good one, I might add - and a comment was made that caught me totally off-guard, and then got my hackles up - just like my old dog Murphy gets when a kid walks past the house. We were asked to give an impromptu, two-minute speech on a topic of our choice - didn't have to be work-related (although it could be). The primary requirement was that it be something we know a lot about, and it be something we are passionate about. I immediately started tossing around topics in my mind like photography, creativity, environmentalism, and, of course, motherhood. But then came the zinger - the instructor said, "don't talk about childbirth, or motherhood - something intellectual, not sappy". Um - okay. Hmmm.<br />
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I looked at my friends across the room - mothers, too - and thought, "I can't let that comment just slide by." After all, we work <u>far too hard</u> as it is to make motherhood and working coexist peacefully. It's no picnic, that's for sure. I asked, "can we talk about how motherhood <u>is</u> intellectual?"<br />
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This is not verbatim of course, and I definitely did not deliver this perfectly, without stumbling or misspeaking - but this was the general sentiment:<br />
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<i>Even if you are not a parent, you know there are plenty of things about motherhood that are not intellectual. Changing diapers, doing laundry, feeding and bathing children, walking around in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation. These wouldn't necessarily be considered intellectual activities. In fact, it's not uncommon for me to try pretty hard to keep the activities of motherhood separate from my intellectual, professional life. After all, I still have to look and act and sound professional during the day, even when my 15-month-old was headbutting me at 2 AM the night before. </i><br />
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<i>But motherhood is definitely an intellectual activity. I'm shaping my children's morality, helping them understand the world, showing them the humor in life. And my daughter, who is five, is becoming more and more inquisitive. She is asking all sorts of questions: "How old are you?" "How long is 4 hours?" "How does the car work?" </i><br />
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<i>Lately, she has been talking about death - about my death, about what will happen to us when I die, about her fears about my death. These are <u>hard</u> questions to answer. What a huge responsibility this is - calming her fears, explaining these difficult facts of life, answering these hard questions. </i><br />
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<i>If that's not an intellectual activity, then I don't know what is. </i><br />
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Tonight, I reheated some dinner. I chased Oscar around the table, threatening tickles. I gave him a bath and nestled him into bed in his clean, slightly too-big Elmo PJs. Dora and I read three books from her Curious George readers, her doing most of the reading and astounding me with her ability. Then she and I talked about lying - she had tried to tell a little lie at dinner. I told her about the boy who cried wolf, about why it's important to always tell the truth. As I tucked her into bed, we kissed and hugged and said we love each other. And then we blew kisses to each other like we do every night, each of us catching the other's kiss and holding it close to our heart. "Mommy," she whispered, "I took your kiss and put it on my heart. My real heart." That is my girl - smart and beautiful and learning to be empathetic, loving with all of her being, venturing into the world and trying to make sense of it all - all of that done, at least a little bit, with my help and guidance.<br />
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Motherhood is many things - sad, funny, challenging, physically draining, emotionally taxing, and, yes, intellectual.<br />
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I won't let anyone tell me otherwise.<br />
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<br />carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-47534891947214253762012-10-21T21:25:00.003-04:002012-10-21T21:26:57.694-04:00pretend, and then don't In my new normal, with two kids and two jobs, it sometimes takes me a while to get things through the entire writing/editing/illustrating/posting process. So, this happened about a week ago, but it's still all true. <br />
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I'm going to pretend that last night was more civilized than it was.<br />
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I'm going to pretend that I didn't let Oscar walk around the house gnawing on a stale loaf of french bread. I'm going to pretend he didn't put it on the floor, let the dog sniff it, then pick it up again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lPgELkXXYWqhKYyLIeKyFf2syNLkSPbU2J0RB_EdLVfw4_HXhO6Xn7sjDaaz6TXu6xPNMmZ3g7Lx3i6dAxQAx0UxcR9OpjnlhEHo0f4susqJGORp75YuD277o5wYvi9iI70HRJwc-7RV/s1600/DSC_0967.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lPgELkXXYWqhKYyLIeKyFf2syNLkSPbU2J0RB_EdLVfw4_HXhO6Xn7sjDaaz6TXu6xPNMmZ3g7Lx3i6dAxQAx0UxcR9OpjnlhEHo0f4susqJGORp75YuD277o5wYvi9iI70HRJwc-7RV/s640/DSC_0967.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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I'm going to pretend that I didn't completely make a disaster of my kitchen while I made dinner because the kids were out of control and it was all I could do to just get through it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvOJWCu6rCij6I4rpNaWS_Vqzl7FNQv3VXqvJR7YwsI8BjeRiKIDEKN3V-V2Cf3sn0khTEEdT2Boa3z1PH5vnJkh7qZVgWNTBO1EvkwqY3k-OvIHF26d-N62w9E0Ys-eJULtT78V79ZFN/s1600/DSC_0942.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvOJWCu6rCij6I4rpNaWS_Vqzl7FNQv3VXqvJR7YwsI8BjeRiKIDEKN3V-V2Cf3sn0khTEEdT2Boa3z1PH5vnJkh7qZVgWNTBO1EvkwqY3k-OvIHF26d-N62w9E0Ys-eJULtT78V79ZFN/s640/DSC_0942.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8vcUS3-e2NpZ-GaSw1wJKVop_tEGOOKaw-f1NvVvg3k0MEpSKXhNVHmcdkmk0USKnT_LeNHbQOfHycYpLu3xtGBCbNFzj6I7SGKEuQhHJ5HNERBSr1pd01eNIFNCPIeXjtRDsuaLAOChp/s1600/DSC_0957.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8vcUS3-e2NpZ-GaSw1wJKVop_tEGOOKaw-f1NvVvg3k0MEpSKXhNVHmcdkmk0USKnT_LeNHbQOfHycYpLu3xtGBCbNFzj6I7SGKEuQhHJ5HNERBSr1pd01eNIFNCPIeXjtRDsuaLAOChp/s640/DSC_0957.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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I'm going to pretend my 5-year-old didn't ask me to turn the lights off so we could eat by "candelight" from a battery-powered, Halloween candelabra that my husband bought to put on the piano.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCTo5kEiiOJGn1iPG0_fBJzOWmD7KgdXSiAfDRKUotTD03DZamkT_z0ZBdgQn7f1B8vTnPdmsL5B04IFlhqjN29xotD04vvtxMql005ZxqXCXZn3Behg3JXf8avs0E2QDjHBLd5RBw-_B/s1600/DSC_0977.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCTo5kEiiOJGn1iPG0_fBJzOWmD7KgdXSiAfDRKUotTD03DZamkT_z0ZBdgQn7f1B8vTnPdmsL5B04IFlhqjN29xotD04vvtxMql005ZxqXCXZn3Behg3JXf8avs0E2QDjHBLd5RBw-_B/s640/DSC_0977.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br />
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I won't pretend that my favorite version of "La Mer" came on my Pandora station right when I was putting dinner on the table, as if on cue, because that really happened. I don't have to pretend that my whole house smelled like Mela after dinner, because it did, and it was wonderful. I don't have to pretend that I can do a lot of things while holding a baby on my hip, including safely transferring an entire hot pot of rice into a serving bowl, because I can.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuuiQenlnQcpDyH9SJdC45JkOidX_mUrzKVcBvIa5pTtrr8pxNg51ygRlHZA7NJBiqkckfvOBZTlcDQSm2Vp6jpiusVAGQU4KIKQzUrSHosdQsLziem0bGV5oorNwkwln-BqshrqRqKND/s1600/DSC_0947.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuuiQenlnQcpDyH9SJdC45JkOidX_mUrzKVcBvIa5pTtrr8pxNg51ygRlHZA7NJBiqkckfvOBZTlcDQSm2Vp6jpiusVAGQU4KIKQzUrSHosdQsLziem0bGV5oorNwkwln-BqshrqRqKND/s640/DSC_0947.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br />
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Last night I made adapted versions of South Indian Potato Curry and Greens with Cashews. I used up a lot of my delicious local vegetables and, for the most part, my kids ate their dinner (especially the rice). The whole scene was so entirely chaotic, I decided snapping a few pictures and turning this moderately successful night in the kitchen into a blog post wasn't too much more to ask. <br />
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When I first started writing this blog, I really thought it was mostly going to be about food. I had been inspired by blogs like Orangette and movies like Julie and Julia, so I jumped in with plans for something along those lines. I like to cook, I like to bake, I like to read recipes, I like to eat, and I like to take pictures of food. Seems like the perfect recipe for a food blog. Except - the further I get into parenthood, the less time I have for experimentation in the kitchen. And, really, what I love about cooking is following recipes, not making up my own. I'm all about making substitutions (a necessity with kids, I think) - but it didn't take me long to realize I would never have enough "original" material to focus just on food. So, I slowly migrated towards writing mostly about being a mom, even though "food" remains in the subtitle of the blog.<br />
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So here I am tonight, with a food blog, and I'm doing what I'm trying to do as a mother and photographer. I'm going to stop pretending. I'm trying hard to just be myself, not trying hard to be someone else. I follow recipes, and I pride myself on being really skilled at that. I pick out good combinations of things (usually). I can read a recipe and figure out if I want to make it, and whether or not it will taste good (most of the time). I know how to chop an onion efficiently. I love the way olive oil smells when it's heating up in my cast iron skillet. Recipe-writer, I am not. Recipe-follower, I am.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZ1lqS2KG579QNGe61jI7wokKblP7IS4rgjSEAP44nkiSdAFXGIyDHeHqtjrytp5yrQVeidJRXlpI2PtWsXdf2cbnVOyixXRaRNXgYlr-lsfTbI6EcYcsm43vfjfFp1wCqiHKM_QXO6SL/s1600/DSC_0973.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZ1lqS2KG579QNGe61jI7wokKblP7IS4rgjSEAP44nkiSdAFXGIyDHeHqtjrytp5yrQVeidJRXlpI2PtWsXdf2cbnVOyixXRaRNXgYlr-lsfTbI6EcYcsm43vfjfFp1wCqiHKM_QXO6SL/s640/DSC_0973.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br />
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So, tonight, two recipes, from other people, that I made. I left out the ingredients that make these dishes really spicy. I added in a couple of comments about my experience making these recipes. I'm no expert - I just love good food, and sharing that love with all of you. Enjoy. Or at least commiserate with my chaos.<br />
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South Indian Potato Curry<br />
adapted from At Home with Madhur Jaffrey by Madhur Jaffrey<br />
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3 Tbs olive oil<br />
1 tsp whole brown mustard seeds<br />
1/2 tsp yellow split peas<br />
1/2 medium onion, chopped<br />
1 pint grape tomatoes, halved<br />
2 tsps ground coriander<br />
1 tsp garam masala<br />
1 lb red potatoes, peeled and diced 3/4 in<br />
1/2 tsp salt<br />
1/2 can coconut milk<br />
chopped fresh cilantro<br />
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Heat oil in medium saucepan over medium heat. When hot, add mustard seeds and split peas. When mustard seeds begin to pop, add onions. Turn heat to medium, and stir fry onions for about 3 minutes, until soft but not brown. Add tomatoes, coriander, and garam masala. Stir for 1 minute. Add potatoes and stir one minute. Add 1 cup water and the salt. Bring to boil, cover, turn heat to low, and simmer 20 minutes, or until potatoes are tender. Add coconut milk and stir. Top with a bit of cilantro.<br />
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Greens with Cashews<br />
adapted from Moosewood Restaurant Celebrates<br />
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8 cups rinsed, stemmed, chopped greens (I like kale best, but chard or collards, or a mixture, also work)<br />
2 Tbs olive oil<br />
1 chopped onion<br />
2 garlic cloves<br />
1/2 cup roasted cashews<br />
2 Tbs fresh lime juice<br />
1/2 tsp salt<br />
1/2 can coconut milk<br />
1 teaspoon curry powder<br />
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Heat oil in a large skillet over medium. Add onion and garlic, and cook, stirring occasionally, for 10-12 minutes.<br />
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Make dressing: In a food processor or using an immersion blender, combine the cashews, lime juice, and salt until smooth. Add coconut milk and process until well combined.<br />
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Add greens to pan, stir to combine, cover, and simmer until wilted (time varies depending on greens - less time for chard, more for kale or collards). When wilted, remove from heat and stir in dressing until well combined. Serve hot or room temperature. SO delicious!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7H5Qj7LmcNgEoWjuMOyaEWefbAd44gF3iJG5lt7AEtVBP0YUgMPIac4wjtAcJfROEl7lpIYn7sJ7WhZs2E623zloAwxdx7r70I-_AYfielFKvlh1Vd1ZolqWi_7GVDU2lMdMI9Pb_2ih9/s1600/DSC_0981.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7H5Qj7LmcNgEoWjuMOyaEWefbAd44gF3iJG5lt7AEtVBP0YUgMPIac4wjtAcJfROEl7lpIYn7sJ7WhZs2E623zloAwxdx7r70I-_AYfielFKvlh1Vd1ZolqWi_7GVDU2lMdMI9Pb_2ih9/s640/DSC_0981.jpg" width="640" /></a> carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-52427473513177138002012-10-09T21:12:00.001-04:002012-10-09T21:14:53.018-04:00more photos than words <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In parenting, there is no shortage of comparison. “When’s your due date?” “How much does he weigh?” “Who’s her teacher?” etc. etc. etc. Asking these questions of each other isn’t necessarily a bad thing. For me, it’s often a vehicle for validation. Whew, I’m not the only one who lets my kid watch TV while I make dinner. Ooh, interesting - her baby ends up in bed with her, too. It’s a way to seek out a familiar face in an ever-increasing competitive world, to find another common soul on this journey of imperfection. <br /><br />The comparison activity gets ramped up to a whole new level when you become a parent for the second time. Now, not only do you have two sets of peers to compare yourself to, you have yourself to compare yourself to. Me as parent of 1 vs. me as parent of 2. It is literally the most exhausting sport on the planet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In many ways, I feel I’m doing a “better” job this time around. It’s easier, at least. I’m more relaxed (not without the aid of a professional!) and I worry about things less (most of the time). I’m not obsessing about schedules and milestones and food the way I did before. I’ve realized that, as long as there is plenty of love to go around, most of the other stuff has a way of working out. <br /><br />But this realization doesn’t remove the guilt, or the comparison of current self to past. For one, this baby - my sweet little Oscar man - has many, many less words written about him. For the record, he started walking last week - 13 months old and he is toddling around the house, throwing things. Quite the little devil, cute as can be, sweet and tough all at once. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When Dora was an infant, this blog was one of my only creative outlets, and I poured my heart into it (nearly) every day. As a result, I have many of her milestones recorded - if not in a baby book (and don’t worry, I have guilt about that, too), then in a “virtual” baby book that just happens to be a public document. <br /><br />What Oscar has that Dora did not have so much of is a multitude of photos. I took a lot of photographs of Dora, too, but she was 2 years old when I upgraded to a much better DSLR. Before that I still used my old SLR film cameras, but not with the frequency that digital allows. That was the beginning of a big shift for me, a return to an art I have always loved. As the photo population increased, the words went down. With Oscar, it’s more photos than words. I’m photographing him (and Dora) almost every day. Of course - I will probably never get to all the editing I need to do (another source of guilt!) - but at least they are captured, saved, and backed up - and someday I will get to them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Last week a friend of mine sent me <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/allison-tate/mom-pictures-with-kids_b_1926073.html" target="_blank">an article</a> about how important it is for the mom to be in the picture. Even those who are not photographers know that it is often the mother who ends up taking the pictures (not always, but often) and the result is that momma isn’t in the picture very much. In my own family, my mom did take a lot of photos (mostly with her Kodak Instamatic). As the blog post that my friend sent me so deftly points out, our children need to have pictures of us with them. Now that my mother is gone, I cherish those old, square, slightly yellowish/orange images of her - a young woman in a plaid shirt, looking a little tired and a little annoyed at having her photo taken. Next to her is a 2-year-old me, with a shock of straight blond hair just like Oscar’s, and on the other side is my brother at 8, getting tall and thin and probably annoyed by me already. It doesn’t matter if she didn’t look perfect to herself - to me, she is perfect - my mom, my friend, a woman who I still love and admire deeply. I cherish the photo of her and the chance to remember her as she was, to love her imperfections as much as her good qualities, to see in front of me the woman who still visits me in my dreams. <br /> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The point is - be in the picture, because to your kids, you are perfect. You are their mother, and that’s all that matters to them. <br /><br />The same is true about all of this comparison. A little healthy discussion is fine, but in the end, all that matters is that you are yourself, the mother your children love and cherish and want beside them. Whether you take loads of photos of them or spend hours writing about the experience of mothering them, your love, your hugs and kisses, your home-cooked food (or not), your messy (or clean) house - all of these are perfect in the eyes of your children. Dora was only 2 days old when someone told me, “you already know exactly what this baby needs”. Imperfections aside, I believe this to be a divine truth. We are what our children need. They already believe in us. Now all we have to do is try to believe in ourselves. </span><br />
<br />carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-2741105140424912422012-08-15T23:34:00.002-04:002012-08-15T23:34:49.975-04:00baby girl <div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
My baby girl goes to kindergarten tomorrow. Now, I know its a big cliche to say, "it goes by so fast". But guess what? It does. I seriously remember exactly what it felt like when the nurse wrapped her up and handed her to me right after she was born. I can remember the music we listened to in the hospital the night of her birth. I can remember the first time I realized how much I was falling in love with her. It's all so fresh it's like it happened yesterday, and yet so much of it is also foggy I fear I'll lose the details forever. It's a funny thing - like something slippery you just can't quite grasp hold of. </div>
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I was feeling really good about her going to kindergarten - just really very excited and happy for her. I know she is ready, and the school is just down the street from our house, and she has friends in her classroom who we already know. I know a lot of parents at her school already - people from the neighborhood and parents of her friends. And she's been going to daycare or preschool since she was 12 weeks old. Sending her into someone else's care is not something new for me. </div>
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But today, I had a thought about school - about how hard it is, about how mean people can be. Like Dora, I was skinny, and smart, and loved my parents a whole lot. I feel like I had kind of a sheltered childhood - we just had a very stable home life and things were generally very good for us. Our parents read to us and loved us, and loved each other. I got through school ok and feel relatively unscathed by it (overall), but I can think back on being teased for being smart, or skinny, or whatever. I can remember how hurt I was by friendships turning sour, by being left out of things, by not being in the "in" crowd. I guess going through those things is a part of becoming independent and adult, but I think about Dora going through it and I just want to find some sort of shortcut, some detour that protects her from all the bad. </div>
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Dora knows that my mom is in heaven. We've talked about it a lot, for a lot of reasons. We've looked at pictures, she's seen me cry (a few times!) about my mom. We've talked about how Grandma Carol is up in heaven with Mackeson (our cat who died a couple of summers ago). I don't know how fully she comprehends death but she knows that when you die, you go somewhere else. She knows we don't get to see Grandma Carol. </div>
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I don't know if it was because of this or because of something someone said at her preschool, but a couple of weeks ago, in the car and out of the blue, Dora asked me, "mommy, are you going to die when I grow up"? Wow. I had to think about how to respond to that, and then I did the best I could. I tried to explain that yes, everyone dies, but that it was a long way away, and that as long as we love each other, we'll always be together. I explained that love goes beyond everything, that because we love each other we stay connected all the time, even when we're apart. I think this really sunk in because she says it all the time now. </div>
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Tonight after her bath she wanted me to blow dry her hair. I brushed it out and she laid down on the bed next to me while I nursed Oscar. Her hair was so shiny and blond, spread out around her on the bed. I looked at her little tiny body, stroked her back, and said, "tomorrow is a big day. You start school tomorrow. I just want you to always remember you are strong and you are smart, and I love you very much". I was thinking about those hard times in school, those people who are inevitably going to be mean to my child at some point. "As long as we love each other, we'll be together forever," I said. She smiled and shook her head yes, sucking on her two fingers like she has since the day she was born. </div>
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Tomorrow, I have to let go of her hand, have to let her walk into that big school with her lunch box and her backpack and trust that she will be protected by our love. Like a spotlight that love will follow her wherever she goes, giving her a little cushion against the hard surfaces of the world, keeping us together even when we're apart. I've got to remember her spotlight is on me, too, there to protect me from all that is harsh and cold in this world, to remind me of her love, to keep us connected, even when we're apart. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I love you baby girl. Stay strong and stay safe. </span>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-67922979937328345902012-06-15T00:04:00.000-04:002012-06-15T00:04:34.579-04:00Mom UR Awesome<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
We were running late, as usual. Of course. But before I could spend the entire drive berating myself for always running late these days, Dora sang a little song about loving me, and said, "you're the best mommy in the whole world"!</div>
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This little comment could not have come at a better time. Between work, photography, trying to keep the house from becoming a complete disaster, and juggling two kids, I haven't felt like a very good mommy at all lately. Some of that is just part of the territory - guilt, self-doubt, negativity - all are normal places in the landscape of motherhood. But some of it stems from being truly, deeply, entirely over-commited, in every sense of the word. I am happy - and blessed - to have the work that I do, but finding some balance between work and home and everything else seems endlessly elusive. </div>
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It's pretty easy to feed that negativity with the vast availability of data these days. Someone else's superiority at writing, photography, housekeeping, organization, time management, cake decorating, sex, marriage, child-rearing, cooking, make-up application, fashion sense, or self-care is accessible 24-7 with the click of a button. All we have to do is hop on Facebook, read a blog, check out someone else's photo albums, or - worst of all - visit Pinterest to feel inadequate. </div>
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But here's the beauty of what Dora said to me - it's not just that she thinks I'm the best mommy in the world - though that in itself would be a lot. It's that she's such a special, loving, wonderful human being that she thought she should tell me I'm the best mommy in the world. Some of that comes from her inherent wonderfulness, I'm sure, but I think it's ok to take a little credit for it, too. In other words - the fact that Dora knows that much about expressing love is proof of what a good job I'm doing. My little Dora is empathetic enough to know when someone needs to hear loving words and giving enough to share them - and she had to learn that somehow. What a revolution would it be if as mothers we viewed our children with adoration and, in turn, let that adoration reflect back on ourselves, allowed ourselves to take a little credit for these beautiful little human beings we've brought into this world. What if we loved ourselves the way we love our kids? </div>
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Of course, taking credit for the good means we have to take credit for the bad, too. When she's stalling at bedtime I know it's partly my fault - if only I'd been stricter earlier on this wouldn't be an issue. When she's rough with her brother, I know it's partly just because we haven't been doing a good enough job of spreading out the attention more evenly between the two of them. When she struggles with her temper, I know it's not just my freakishly long second toe she's inherited. </div>
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I'm essentially juggling two jobs right now, and though I often try to convince myself it's an investment in our future, and it won't always be this challenging, it is also a great source of guilt. I often wonder if, in 5 years, I will look back on this crazy time where I work all day and then am up late at night editing photos and feel like it was all a big mistake. I love photography so much, it feels a little like I'm being selfish spending so much time on it. After all - I <i>have</i> a job. I don't have to do this. But I want to anyway. I have felt most fulfilled in my life when I've had some kind of creative outlet - a writing project, a blog, knitting, crafting, cooking, photography. Creativity lets something out of me that needs to get out, and it also lets something in - gives me some return of energy like nothing else. It's like breathing - it's value (and necessity) is as much in the exhale as it is the inhale. And it does something so vital for me, I think it makes me a better mother, too. Maybe that's a little revolutionary as well - finding that which fulfills us and indulging in it, even when it doesn't necessarily give us more time with our kids. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I got in my car to drive home from work today and I saw a car with "Mom UR Awesome" scrawled on the back, the way the wedding getaway car has "just married" written on the rear windshield. I know it was written by some teenager, probably one that had either gotten in trouble or was trying to get out of it, but I kind of felt like it was a message meant for me. Dora's words and the scrawled message were like little bookends on my day, little reminders that - at least to the two people whose opinion about this matters most - I'm ok. To them, I'm the best mommy in the world - even when I'm running late, over-tired, over-committed, a master of nothing. To them, and maybe even to myself, I'm Awesome. </span>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-63232720471936139982012-05-13T23:06:00.001-04:002012-05-13T23:06:15.441-04:00points on the horizon<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
I was running around in a panic this morning trying to find a photo of my mom and I together. It's Mother's Day, and I woke up wanting to post a photo of my mom and I together on Facebook, along with some thoughtful and slightly sad status update about how much I miss her. I flipped through the few photo albums we have in our dining room and couldn't really find anything suitable. There is one image of my whole family at the bicentennial celebration in Amesville, Ohio, probably July 4, 1976. I'm about 8 months old, about the same age as Oscar is now. I'm as pudgy and fat as he is, being held in a sling by my dad. My brother is in the photo, too, tall and skinny and about to turn 7. Mom is in the frame, but just slightly, her back turned to the camera. Most of the other photos are of pets, or my brother and I, or of the two of us kids with my dad. Like me, mom was usually the photographer. And this morning I was hit with the sudden realization that I have very, very few photos of us together. </div>
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One of the things that's so hard about losing someone you love is how, as your life goes on, the time that you had with the person who is gone shrinks, fades away into the distance like the horizon line in one of those perspective drawings of a road, a tiny dot in time receding to the edge of the universe. The artifacts of your time together, the photos, letters, and memories, become valuable currency, precious archeology you will do just about anything to preserve. You know they are finite - there aren't any more of them to be made - so you are desperate to find and keep the entire inventory. This morning when I realized I have so few photos of mom and I together, I tried for a moment to remember actually having a photo of us taken, and could hardly think of one. </div>
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There are the group family photos at the Outer Banks, one taken every year from early childhood on, standing around the bronze busts of Orville and Wilbur Wright at the Wright Brothers' Memorial, which we faithfully visited every year. There are Christmas, Easter, and first day of school photos, usually taken by my mom, who had walked us down the driveway to meet the bus, or who was in charge of the Instamatic while dad played Santa or hid Easter eggs. There are funny ones, too - me at 2 surrounded by dry spaghetti I had thrown all over the kitchen, me at about 5 completely upset - crying even - because our television had been hit by lightning and destroyed, me at about 7 amongst the spring daffodils, to this day my favorite flower. </div>
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In my desperation this morning I flipped through our wedding album, knowing there is at least one photo in there of just my mom and I. I didn't find it, and instead settled upon one from the evening of our wedding. We got married at 10:30 AM, with a lunch reception following, and had a dinner at my parent's house that evening for immediate family. It was my mom's birthday, too - June 19 - so we surprised her with a birthday cake, even though by then we were all completely "caked out". We sang happy birthday to her and someone - maybe Kendra? - snapped a photo of her blowing out the candles. It was a beautiful day, of course, and a happy way to end it - giving my mom a little party of her own. We did not know then that it would be the last birthday she got to celebrate. </div>
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People can say whatever they want about grief fading. It's true that it does become less sharp and bright, becomes dulled with age - like a piece of sterling silver left out to tarnish. But it's still hard metal, still something so basic and elemental that even time doesn't truly break it down. There are people - and animals - whose loss we never get over, never fully comprehend. What changes, I guess, is us. I was 28 and newly married when my mom died. Now I'm 36 and a mother of two, married almost 8 years. Before she died, when she was very ill and unconscious much of the time, I sat in her room with her alone. I asked her to please find a way to be with me forever, to send me a sign or something when I really need her advice, or when I'm really screwing something up. I guess at the time I thought the signs might be really big - like billboards, obvious and impossible to ignore. But they are not. They are like tiny points on the horizon, like comets - more visible when you look away just a little bit. The place I feel my mother's presence the most, usually, is from somewhere inside of me - in my memories, my sense of humor, in my heart. In the woman I've become - the mother, the wife, the baker, the photographer, the writer of to-do lists that never quite get completed. Now I am the one almost never in the photo. Just like that - I became her without even realizing it. </div>
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A friend today wrote of my mother that "<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">she was funny, smart, earthy, practical, a great cook, a deep thinker, who loved her children passionately". Almost never a day passes without me wishing my mom was here to know my kids, to share motherhood with me. She can't be here, though, to see her grandkids or to give me guidance. Instead, she has to experience this through me, share mothering by being here in my heart. I can only hope I bring as much friendship and love to mothering as she did. It was such a comfort to read someone else's words about my mother - to hear their memories. I dare say I saw a bit of myself in my friend's description of my mom. I can only hope to be all those things that she was, to bring some of those qualities to my own mothering. </span></div>
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<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Happy Mother's Day, mom. My love for you is still so big. Like we always used to say, "Es enorme! Que importa? Me gusta!" I love you and miss you. Always. </span></span><br />
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<br />carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-10990978239249111002012-02-10T22:52:00.000-05:002012-02-10T22:52:09.513-05:00slow down<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Oscar is an old man of nearly 6 months now. Tonight I was nursing him after work, on the couch, where the setting sun shines into our living room, and I noticed that his hair is growing over his ears. Unlike his sister Dora, he never went completely bald, and now has a full head of whispy, strawberry blond, baby hair. In the back, like a Japanese chonmage, he has a little three inch ponytail of darker brown infant hair, the hair he was born with. It's like his little status symbol, his little warrior marking from our birth journey. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">He is surely a mammal, with the little white hairs I notice on his tiny, plump hands. But he is no longer an infant. Gone is the downy fur that covered his back and shoulders, over which I would run my finger when we nursed in the heat of summer, curled up on the bed in the back of the house in the air conditioning, whiling away my maternity leave and our early days together in a blur of nursing and sleep and diapers. Gone is the rest of his dark baby hair, slowly falling out or washing out or floating away mysteriously, disappearing into thin air like those early days. He is growing so fast, so immediately becoming more little boy than infant, I feel like his infancy is running through my fingers like sand, trailing away like water that can't be held. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I promised myself that I'd enjoy this time around more, that I'd let the early newborn days be what they are - fleeting - without the fear that comes when you are a brand new parent, crying at dinner at the thought of never having another meal that doesn't involve a fussy baby. I promised to soak it in, to be truly present, to slow time down at all costs. And while I'm certainly enjoying it, I'm failing miserably at the slowing time down part. If anything, it is flowing by more quickly than ever. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">After Dora was born, as I slowly began to realize how immensely powerful my love for her would be, I longed to return to her birth somehow, to experience again those first moments of her life with the knowledge of what she would become to me. That being impossible, I had hoped to deepen my experience of the birth of my second child with that same knowledge. Oscar's birth ended up being so different from Dora's, so fast and so incredibly intense, that although it was quite beautiful and truly amazing, I still couldn't get that perspective I'd hoped for. Now, 6 months later, I'm still amazed at how much I love him, still as unprepared for how completely he has taken up residence in my heart, filled up my life and soul with a total dedication to meeting his every need, holding him close, loving him forever. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When I was pregnant, we did not find out the gender with an ultrasound, yet I knew I was having a boy. Though I was excited about having another baby, I wasn't sure I would love having a boy. I was so happy with having a girl, so focused on what that experience has been, I was afraid I wouldn't bond with a boy in the same way, or wouldn't feel as close to him, or just wouldn't know what to do with him. Now I have said over and over again, "how could I have ever been unsure about having a boy?" He is so absolutely perfect in every way - it is absolutely the way that it is supposed to be for us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Oscar's infancy has flown by, and meanwhile Dora is growing taller and more intelligent and more challenging every single day, and yet when she's asleep next to me at night, I can still see her as an infant, too. Both of them seem to be moving forward at the speed of light, while I am desperately wishing that things would just slow down a little, wishing I could hold on to these days a little tighter. Perhaps it is this experience of great love that awakens in us a hunger, a desire that was never there before (or at least not so strongly) to cherish our time. Maybe it's that the love is so powerful, so all consuming, that it feels like something we need to have more time to fathom. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHvhA0sZhGVe4buEeDcIMDeH4DPVbvYlTvlT5VZlCfIkHXTKGJrs_xjwXJ11y7EjIdyBy1XSstj77L7PvMOdzrcTHL4L5aWQO-KwRbi2zzOI1HVz5xH1iifJtx6MeHdFzp6oa76sBEUza/s1600/DSC_0108.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHvhA0sZhGVe4buEeDcIMDeH4DPVbvYlTvlT5VZlCfIkHXTKGJrs_xjwXJ11y7EjIdyBy1XSstj77L7PvMOdzrcTHL4L5aWQO-KwRbi2zzOI1HVz5xH1iifJtx6MeHdFzp6oa76sBEUza/s640/DSC_0108.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I heard a Radiolab episode once about how time seems to slow down when we're experiencing something really terrifying - the way a car accident feels like it's happening in slow motion. I don't remember all the details but I think the basic premise was that our brains are taking in many more details than usual when we're under the stress of a potentially life-threatening incident so that, if it ever happens again, we know what to do to survive. The result is that we feel that time has slowed, even though it hasn't. In other words, there is some inherent drive to slow time down, to capture all the details, as part of our survival mechanism. Love for our children is as intense in some ways as a life-threatening experience - it takes over our minds and our bodies with the same ferocity anyway. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So maybe its only natural that we want to slow time down, want to record all these details - the downy fuzz on the shoulder, the chubby hands, the chonmage ponytail. It is part of our very survival to take it all in and use it to fuel the fire of love within us, to make sure we love our babies so much we'll do absolutely anything to ensure that they survive and thrive. It's the monkey inside of me trying to slow time down, then - the same monkey who I let out, who I tapped into, to bring these babies into this world. I love that I can find her within - I love that she is a part of me, and a part of all of us, waiting to come out when we need the animal mind to take over. I just wish she were more successful at slowing time down, because I'd give anything to make these days last just a little bit longer. </span>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291554543495236486.post-24479075833158928642011-10-29T20:55:00.001-04:002012-04-03T08:02:35.515-04:00click<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Growing up, we had a Hoosier in our kitchen, an antique wooden kitchen cabinet with drawers, shelves, and a metal countertop that could be pulled out to make extra space for rolling out pie dough or letting cookies cool. Inside one of the cabinets was a flour sifter, which fascinated me even though my mom chose to keep her flour in the silver tin with the red metal lid instead. The cabinet held cookbooks, a box with stamps and unused greeting cards, tape, glue, odds and ends. And, for a while, it held a couple of old Instamatic cameras, the very cameras which my mom had used to capture so much of my childhood. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEcrDQKKHkNjlbLcMw7sWCJ7KL_U0FPEahmo3hWlXzdDhDi-aNN2K5UqQj3k_EPA15y1bCaOkBj9KA_hLxSNY8FXpxgWR39F4EW0UUbJ3dVskM2zRMMvKbpBdJ4bqD0SVjKHh7eMzcgc9/s1600/d%2526o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEcrDQKKHkNjlbLcMw7sWCJ7KL_U0FPEahmo3hWlXzdDhDi-aNN2K5UqQj3k_EPA15y1bCaOkBj9KA_hLxSNY8FXpxgWR39F4EW0UUbJ3dVskM2zRMMvKbpBdJ4bqD0SVjKHh7eMzcgc9/s640/d%2526o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">There were a few other older cameras around the house, old twin-lens reflex cameras in leather cases, with two lenses on top of one another and a flap at the top which opened up to reveal the viewfinder. There were cameras in our house for as a long as I can remember, and I almost cannot remember a time when I wasn't trying to use them. The first camera I ever used was one of my mom's old Instamatics, and eventually my parents got me a little red Pentax which I used for years, until they gave me my first single lens reflex camera. Photography, carving up life into what I can see through the viewfinder, is as much a part of me as any other part of my childhood - red Ohio clay, the smell of donkeys eating corn husks, Fiestaware, tomato leaves crushed on a bee sting. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I had breakfast with a photographer friend recently and she talked about how it feels when you know you've gotten a shot just right, when the light and the action and the composition all come together and you know the image is perfect. You can feel it when it happens - everything just clicks into place. She said it feels like a drug, like an addiction. To me it feels like a rush of energy, a transfer of some spark between me and the universe, me and my subject. It feels...right. Like what I'm meant to be doing. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I love that feeling of a perfect composition captured, but it's more than that. When I'm looking through the lens I can clean up the world, edit all the messiness out of the frame that makes life so difficult. That's what makes a great composition - space. It's as much about what is not in the frame as it is about what's there. What else in life can do this, can simplify life down into what fits inside a little rectangle or square. It's the only tool I've found that creates real simplicity, that lets us push out all the mess and focus on what we want to see - the hands together, the kiss, the baby's bright eye, the smile. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It lets us stop time, too. Whenever I'm doing something I really love, or with people I love, I want my camera there, too. Walking on the beach, sharing a great meal, the changing of seasons. Even when they are things we've done before I want to capture them, want to try to freeze those images so I can savor the feeling a little longer, feel the sand and waves on my feet even when I'm back home with the furnace running and my slippers on. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1oD-RSC5PKOtsrgmAVeeYVLqXa8CfY_x0i_Z4IlSEy6TDt4s-y4KLmVkmWXPefqxt2P6kOJszovL4PVJs0bRYpxYcurosrVpcGzRpB2sA5Ayo9AfFPKtf0Mzzt1ekBA-v6byLBpnbBi6O/s1600/feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1oD-RSC5PKOtsrgmAVeeYVLqXa8CfY_x0i_Z4IlSEy6TDt4s-y4KLmVkmWXPefqxt2P6kOJszovL4PVJs0bRYpxYcurosrVpcGzRpB2sA5Ayo9AfFPKtf0Mzzt1ekBA-v6byLBpnbBi6O/s320/feet.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0HXrNUHjlRVxpE9sYEaBlkNyUZtQ7EDp1hhlNu6OmNIEdEOSbOMpwKaRpWT6Ogydi7tuU93p35erUENT3uIt9biMymHmd0xX9ln0og5b1wGds0CFWV9ggWvr6hhy6VzSYVqb77KqwGkc2/s1600/ocean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0HXrNUHjlRVxpE9sYEaBlkNyUZtQ7EDp1hhlNu6OmNIEdEOSbOMpwKaRpWT6Ogydi7tuU93p35erUENT3uIt9biMymHmd0xX9ln0og5b1wGds0CFWV9ggWvr6hhy6VzSYVqb77KqwGkc2/s320/ocean.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Right now i feel like time is moving faster than ever, watching my sweet kids growing up before my eyes. The weeks are tumbling by like all those crisp leaves on my street, scraping across the pavement in the wind. I have one more week of maternity leave, one more week where my focus can be on my home and family, where I can sit on the couch with Oscar's warm little head nestled under my chin if I want to. I'm thankful for the time I have had - I know it's more than most are blessed with - and thankful for my job. But I am sad to leave this sweet boy, sad that the brutal reality of life is that working full time and being a mother are not really compatible, not matter how family friendly the work environment. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So, I'm trying to stop time with my photos, trying to capture the new smiles and the soft hair that sticks up so funny after bath and the way Oscar makes a fist with his thumb stuck between his first two fingers. I'm trying to get it all down on film so it doesn't really go away, so that somewhere - even if its in some digital cyber universe - there is a new sweet boy kicking his legs and babbling and smiling at me, waiting for the next opportunity to nestle his head under my chin. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJ-dDgCmaVKrz83JGLjac9IzKTCtaCNkWbXCEYOWNoHDmWU_W03p0N14IlhgZJUa0J-U8ZH3kwNAKPatbQUsHx6cdq3e1gyiv073Ecjl_NSg7978QvvrA9Dp5EaHb71FYy1UfqzZKlJdO/s1600/me%2526o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJ-dDgCmaVKrz83JGLjac9IzKTCtaCNkWbXCEYOWNoHDmWU_W03p0N14IlhgZJUa0J-U8ZH3kwNAKPatbQUsHx6cdq3e1gyiv073Ecjl_NSg7978QvvrA9Dp5EaHb71FYy1UfqzZKlJdO/s400/me%2526o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>carrie turnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12250137396901908731noreply@blogger.com1