emmz || unapologetic, overturning
"To die is not a bad thing. Cells die every day. Paradoxically, it is how the body lives. Casings shed. Coverings fall away. New growth appears. It is how we stay vital. Likewise, ways of thinking die like cells, and we suffer greatly when we refuse to let what's growing underneath make its way as the new skin of our lives. It is the stubbornness with which we we refuse to let what's growing underneath come through that pains us. It is the fear that nothing is growing underneath that feeds our despair. It is the moment that we cease growing in any direction that is truly deadly...
...When resisting this process, we become a troubled guest, moaning like a human crow. We double the pain of living when we try to stop the emergence that all life goes through. Imagine if trees never shed their leaves, or if waves never turned over, or if clouds never dumped their rain and disappeared...
...I say this as much to remind myself as you: Little deaths prevent big deaths. What matters most is waiting its turn underneath all that is expending itself to prepare the way." - Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening: August 9th
bean n bopper n bubbles n bread
She finished her midterms and we went to the sea and drank some bubbles and ate some bread and bundled up and told our stories. She kept her hands warm in my armpits and the sun came out enough to inspire us to take some photos. That's all. Enjoy, friend.
Down the Coast, Through the Desert: Part One
It's been five days since we left Seattle for the green hills of Northern California, headed south for the families and the soul tribe and the sunshine (and the wedding I'm shooting on Sunday, but that's really just the monetary reasoning for this trip; we've needed an exhale).
We have sat with brews in hand in the Portland dusk, pranced with the mountains, discussed philosophy with many creatures, awoken to the California springtime sun grazing the tips of hillsides around our tent. We have painted one another and breathed and sat by the fire in reverence. We have continued to learn that self love begins with realizing that you don't have to apologize for existing. We have affirmed one another in our bodies, reminding each other there is no shame in the physical space we inhabit. We have held one another in gratitude and grace.
I am thankful for Butch and Laurie, Shannon and her husband, my dear Elise, and all the other souls who we have encountered and helped us along on this lovely journey we seem to have embarked upon.
(photos of me and Elise by my beloved Austin and Elise)
a KallieD birthday bash
Kallie is a woman of deep, fierce kindness. Last night, we celebrated her 25th trip around the sun with whiskey, nail painting, Big Little Lies, the best damn birthday cake I've ever had, and lots of belly laughs.
These are people who know how to lift up their loved ones; it was an honor to bounce along in the festivities. We were all very full, and our eyes were dancing with light.
recently (mostly photos of sam and danny)
We hiked the Oyster Dome outside of Bellingham for Evan's birthday. He got banana all over his backpack and snacks. We went to Aslan Brewing after our uphill jaunt and drank tasty 21 oz brews and ate mac n cheese. My sister, Austin, and I went to the sunrise Easter service at St. Paul's. We went to Brooks' apartment for brunch. We went to the Fremont market and sat by the canal, then went to Gasworks, then took my sister to the Discovery lighthouse for the first time. Austin and I drove home to West Seattle and went to the 5 pm St. Paul's bonfire service on Alki. Sam and Danny came over and we played Carcassone and we laughed a lot. It was a holy weekend of sorts.
Today I finally restocked on loose leaf licorice and rose and bought hops for my tea for the first time! I treated my friends and I to a 100% cocoa chocolate bar. Miro isn't going to serve crepes anymore (truly a staple of my time in Seattle tbh it's a sad sad thing), so I savored my last bite of their brie and fig jam crepe glory alongside a pot of red roobios. Hannah and Austin sat beside me quietly and we did our separate works. And it rained. Today was life, and it was good, whatever that means. And now I sit alone in West Seattle, listening to Hozier and drinking my new teas and exhaling.
to the moon and back
after the trembling
and the, “oh, --, here we are,”
there is moonrise
and our assumptions about light
are put to shame
humbled, an attempted alignment
we are amateur chiropractors for our souls
and we stretch further, deeper, with every crack
and discover muscles we never knew existed
bits of home, gentle nostalgia, new traditions, etc
I have become a professional at the flight from Seattle to Orange County. Ever since I moved to the Pacific Northwest four and a half years ago (that feels bizarre to type), I have probably made the journey 15-20 times, to the point where now, I am not even exhausted from the frantic ordeal of security and cramped legroom for two and a half hours. It is wonderfully normal to be picked up by my best friend and trot off to lunch or a tasty luxury treat and enjoy each other for a few hours before I head south to my silly beach hometown. It is a nostalgic thrill to sit in her small white car and blast mediocre pop songs and laugh, simply at each other's company. It is good to sit on the upstairs balcony of Pizza Port with my partner and drink good brews and watch the final remains of the warm Southern California sunset. It is good to drive to the top of the world, carelessly listening to a new album, and watch the flickering headlights of strangers careen down I-5, perhaps to San Diego, perhaps even to Seattle eventually. It is good to walk on the beach trail without shoes and sip a lavender caramel iced latte and pour water on my dog's head to keep her from overheating in her winter coat. Salt and sunscreen and seaweed and two day old bonfires are the smells of my adolescence. Cracked heels from hot pavement and light sunburns on my forearms are grounding, in a peculiar and comforting kind of way.
I will never return to this place, but it is good to return to this place.
tanisha, my friend - a first blog post
I don't know how to curate a blog. But I know what it's like to connect with another human and share stories and wine and walk on the beach with local cider in hand and watch the sunset, however dim it might be due to winter's residue. I don't know much about most things, but I know sunlight spilling onto the bodies of people I love, an illumination of gold, and glory. I know a fair amount about sending texts that say, "We don't have to have intentional one on one time, in fact, I have a lot to do, but I want to just be near you," and then lo and behold, having most of the time be spent in conversation without expectation. I now know about laughing as we plop blackberries onto our tongues and scoop goat cheese onto fig and olive crisps (praise the good Mother for Joe the Trader and all of his delicious snacks). I met Tanisha a week(?) or so ago and I photographed her for my Space series. And here we are! I am hopeful. Here's my first blog post. It's not much, but it's true.
