I’m so glad you’re here. February was a bitch this year and you’re a sight for sore eyes.

I love you because you always bring me liberation. The extra daylight you give is a much needed dose of anti-depressant and the knowledge that full-on spring is near helps me breathe easier. Passover falls within your days and it always helps to officially close the door on winter and usher in the new season.

So far since you’ve been here I’ve:
started swimming classes with my two year old
visited with my brother (who lives on the other coast)

taken my boys on a tour of some of their mamma’s childhood landmarks

spent hours trying to remove Vaseline from my eleven year old’s hair. (Don’t waste your breath leaving me comments with your suggestions as to how this can be accomplished. I promise you if it’s a ‘trick’ for removing Vaseline from your hair, I already know about it.)
sorely neglected my dear blog
started designing three new website projects
attended the inaugural meeting of the NYC Metro Mod Quilter’s Guild
had lots of fun searching through overlooked photos to play along with ‘For the Love of Color’ week on Flickr

Before you leave I hope to:
photograph a dozen sunrises

put away my wool socks (until October)

watch my son in his first middle school play (guess what: It’s Grease. The Vaseline thing starting to make sense now?)
launch a new collaborative photo project with a friend
travel somewhere warm and tropical with my family
procrastinate about finishing a few lingering projects

paint my toenails pink.

Thanks for everything March.

Love,
Amy

I knew this guy in college. He wasn’t attractive by traditional standards. He was short, a little out of shape, kind of funny looking, actually. But he always had a woman on his arm (or in his bed). These women were all spectacular in one way or another. Smart, creative beautiful women. And they flocked to this strange creature.

I had seen it before, this phenomenon of unlikely men or women drawing throngs of admirers to their sides. And it’s not limited to college campuses. It happens all the time.

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of watching a duet of teenagers perform at a small coffee house. One sang, the other backed her up on guitar, harmonica and vocals. These kids were talented. Really talented. Watching them, I was moved. But it wasn’t the music. What struck me was their passion.

And there it was. The answer to the question that I had asked a thousand times.

Passion.

It’s a primal force. Some people have it and some are drawn to it. Some strive to achieve it and others run screaming when they feel it coming.

That guy, the one from college, he had it. He was passionate about everything he did. It doesn’t even matter what he did. Just the fact that it oozed from his being drew people to him. These young performers had it. My son has it when he sings or plays guitar or keyboards.

Mick Jagger has it. (Really, what else could women find attractive about him? Even his money couldn’t overcome that face.)

I like to think I have passion but I’m not sure how it looks to others. I feel passion for sure.

My children. Light and color. Writing, designing, making. Being.

And I’m drawn to passion. I get a thrill out of watching people do what they love. What makes them happy. To me it’s contagious and infectious and I always come away inspired.

Does passion appeal to you or does it scare you? Are you living your passion or hiding it away?

What gets your blood pumping?

so many things on my mind. composing essays in the shower (the only quiet place these days) but no follow-through.

i’ve been here before. time comes around in stages.

without the writing or sewing or time to otherwise be creative i feel at a loss. something is missing.

it’s the paradox of motherhood really. finding a way to be whole while putting the needs of others before my own.

i do have my camera though. and i’m thankful for what it helps me do.

i find myself looking more closely at everything around me and composing shots in the most mundane of places.

little bits of beauty mixed into a day in the life.

i’ll be back when i can.

I’ve been quiet here because things are noisy at home.

Two boys. ‘Tween and toddler. No school. Cold weather. I was overwhelmed at the thought of it before it began so I enlisted some help. A few hours of babysitting. An extra set of hands. A luxury to be sure. But one we allowed ourselves this week. I believe it’s good for my kids. To be able to say goodbye to me for an hour. To learn that I’ll come back. To feel secure without me for a short time. (Or at least that’s what I tell myself.) And that it’s good for me, goes without saying.

And it’s not like we haven’t made the most of our time together—

A day spent in New York City. (It never stops being strange to be a visitor in my hometown.)

An unexpected snowfall.

Old friends are new again.

Breakfast in bed at the hands of my eldest.

Hours spent camping out in the living room.

Just your average commonplace February week.

New plan:

when February kicks your ass—

fight back.

Today Shutter Sisters challenges you to ask the question: when was the last time you wrote a love letter to yourself? Or just generally spent a little time loving yourself?

For me, it only took a few extra minutes of me-time getting dressed. Some earrings and a moment spent on my hair. More than most days. A gentle reminder about what being beautiful means. It helped. It’s easier to give to them what they need when I have a store of reserves at the ready.

Does it sound like I’m complaining? I don’t mean to.

But you’re a mother. You know. It’s depleting. And it’s easy. Very easy. To forget to pay attention to yourself. I can’t remember the last time I had a physical. My asthma is out of control and I’m having trouble talking. I’m scraping the bottom of the energy barrel. I’ve forgotten the cardinal rule of mothering: if you’re out of the game, there’s no one there to pinch hit. Stretch and warm up before you play.

Time spent on me comes back as time to spend on them.

Love yourself a little today.

a child’s creativity

he played with that paintbrush and cup of flour for long enough for me to knead the whole batch.
and then some.

sunshine

the way it sneaks around the corners in my home

the way it warms the winter sky

bright colors

they make even a messy house feel cheerful

naked babies

just because

my kitchen

and trying new recipes.

What’s inspiring you today?

It felt a little disingenuous, writing yesterday about such a happy thing. Our love story. The quilt which is supposed to remind me, every time I run upstairs to shove a stinky diaper in the bin. Every time I run downstairs to get ice from the freezer to soothe a boo-boo. Every six a.m. wake up call after getting grunted at by my ‘tween on my way for the coffee. It should remind me of all the love and the circumstances that brought us here. Truth is though, that it doesn’t always — remind me. I am able (much to my own disappointment) to walk past it a hundred times a day and not be moved. Someone carved squares from work-shirts and muslin and collected scraps from church-dresses and quilting bees to create an artful expression and warm their family. Decades later it has made it’s way into my life for a reason, and I forget. And even as I write this I understand that I wish for it’s symbol to bring light to my day and still it feels dark sometimes.

Last week was tough. Maybe it’s just January. I’ve been here before. We’re all cooped up. My body isn’t soaking up enough sunshine. I have a cold. The easy baby I nursed for the last two years now has his own opinion about everything and guess what? It’s the extreme polar opposite of mine. My eleven year old is fully steeped in middle school drama and moody behavior and guess what? He’s taking it out on me. My husband was AWOL at work. I found myself snapping.

And I walked by that quilt, seven hundred times, and I still felt dark.

But this place. This place causes me to take a closer look, to put things in perspective and for that, I’m grateful.

His passion and talent.

Giving something back.

A few warmer moments.

Company in my sick bed.

An entire day in NYC.

Wrapped in something I made for him.
(Photo and baby toes credit: Stephanie Hatzenbuehler)

A successful project.

Family tradition.

This week I will try harder. I will focus on the positive. I will live up to the story of that quilt.

Now, I know it’s not the camera that makes the photographs. Any more than the box of sharp colored pencils makes the illustrator. Or owning Photoshop makes you a web-designer.

But it helps.

For example. I’ve never showed you this

because I didn’t have a fast enough lens (or a tripod) to get a shot of my window-less stair hall.

This quilt was a wedding gift from my husband.

On our wedding day he gave me a handwritten note (most of which I won’t share here) with the promise of a stop at this shop on our honeymoon in Maine. (For the sentimental among you: we chose Maine because we met there almost fifteen years earlier during a time when we both worked there. Also, I needed to go someplace where we could hop in the car and be home in less than a day’s time since my then-seven-year-old-boy was to be staying behind.)

We spent hours looking through quilts at Betsy Telford’s shop trying to choose one that we both loved (and that was in the budget). While I appreciate the craftsmanship of a traditional quilt (which is mostly what she stocks), my heart belongs to patchwork. And this one tells a poignant story of African American tradition in Alabama in the 1950’s.

And it’s pretty.