Keep Dreaming

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Namaste. 

Thanks to Dora for being my photo assistant today. All photos including me were taken by her. 

Please, let me remember

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”. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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? 

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. 

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. 

What I've learned so far

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? 

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. 

And recently I’ve witnessed - from very afar and without even truly knowing the people involved - another young mother die of cancer, 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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

wild

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. 

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. 

me, probably on my first day of kindergarten, photo by my mother 

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. 

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? 

my mother's coffee mug and turquoise ring, which I wear every day. photo by Dora 

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. 

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. 

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? 

first pair of rollerskates, being put on by my mom at my 8th birthday party

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. 

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. 

And, I'm finally reading the book. I'm not really ready, but I'm reading it anyway. 

namaste

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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 photography full-time. I've got some other work lined up too - a bit of consulting perhaps, and some studio management for Brian and for Orange Krush. But the primary focus is going to be my photographs, my family, and finally burning the candle at only one end. 

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! 

xoxo, 

Carrie 

Yoga image courtesy of my lovely photo shoot with yoga instructor Maggie. 

20 Locally Grown Weeks, Week 2: Garlic Scape Pesto

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! 

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. 

I rarely measure anything when making pesto - just go for it until the consistency and taste is right (requires tasting as you go). 

Use as you would any pesto - ours went into pasta with halved cherry tomatoes, grilled sausage, and a little pasta water. Mmmm. 

Garlic Scape Pesto (adapted from Food52)

In a mini-food processor combine:

1 bunch garlic scapes, sliced
1/2 cup (or so) roasted cashews (I like the "not too salty" cashew pieces from Trader Joe's) 
1/2 cup (or so) grated Asiago 
olive oil (until it reaches the right consistency) 
freshly ground black pepper 

Keeps in the fridge for a week-ish. 

Bonus: This week I also made Minestrone Soup with Collards and White Beans. I used this recipe, subbing in chicken broth for the water. Also I pureed some of the beans with some water (instead of smashing with a spoon). 

20 Locally Grown Weeks, Week1: Napa Cabbage 2 ways

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! 

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. 

One final note: I am no chef. I am definitely not a recipe writer. I'm a recipe reader, 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. 

Recipe 1: Shredded Napa Cabbage Salad with Radishes, Golden Raisins, and Dijon Dressing (click link to view) 

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. 

Added bonuses: 

• 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. 
• 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). 

Recipe 2: 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). 

Napa Cabbage Slaw with Curry Dusted Fish (adapted from Martha Stewart) 

1/2 head Napa Cabbage, cored and very thinly sliced 
3 - 4 carrots, shredded 
a handful of fresh mint leaves (don't 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) 
1/4 cup-ish fresh lime juice
2 Tbs olive oil 

tilapia filets
2 teaspoons curry powder
coarse salt and freshly ground pepper 



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. 

I served this with rice. The next day the slaw was even better, again delicious topped with grilled chicken. 

Thanks for reading! More to come later this week and beyond!! 

#20LocallyGrownWeeks!