30 :: Summoned

Pulled in different directions.

A dozen tasks on my
morning list.
Trying to attend to one,
just one.
To give it the space
to bloom.

But then I am interrupted.
I get interrupted
each day.

It happens so often
that maybe I should consider it
as something else?
Call it by a different name?


28 :: Game Boy

I’m trying to channel some of this uncertainty so many of us are feeling into hope and creative work. Jeffrey, the girls, and Wallace have been helping me work on a piece about our favorite games for an upcoming wild+free homeschool magazine. This little man may just grow up to be our most enthusiastic game player!

18 — 22 :: Go Dark

Amidst a great deal of talk about our country this week: the transition in leadership; the grace of President Obama as he left office; the inaugural address; what it means to be trustworthy; the importance of our words; the value of integrity and respect . . . While all the while wondering what we can do, in our relatively quiet part of the world, to reach out to our neighbors . . . there was a whole lot of quiet work (and play) happening in our home.

January feels very dark. Not just this year, but especially this year, I feel a heaviness that I cannot shake. I do not know if I should try harder to shake it or try to sit with it. But when I sit here, trying to enter in, fully, to the weight of this darkness, I find myself simultaneously celebrating life — life and the joy that is so very present in each day shared with our beautiful children. Their curiosity. Their wonder. Their questions. Their pureness of heart. This is light.

I think of this poem by Wendell Berry (forgive me if I have quoted this recently. It has really been on my mind.)

To Know the Dark

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry, Counterpoint, 1998: p. 68.

Did Wendell Berry march in the Woman’s March yesterday (or would he have in his younger days)?
Does he outwardly protest? Or inwardly? Or both?
Does he speak out in body? And on paper?
In the light? Or in the dark?

308 :: Landscape


“Poems are taught as though the poet has put a secret key in his words and it is the reader’s job to find it.  Poems are not mystery novels.  Instead we should go closer and closer to the work.  Learn to recall images and lines precisely as the writer said them.  Don’t step away from their warmth and fire to talk ‘about’ them.  Stay close to them.  That’s how you’ll learn to write.  Stay with the original work.  Stay with your original mind and write from it.” — Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

That’s how I feel about the landscape too: stay close to it. Stay with the original. Taking photos from my bedroom window may be easier when I have a sleeping baby and can’t go out at the moment . . . but what I really need to do is step into the warmth and fire that is just beyond the glass.

270 :: Table Tops


The day begins with a clear table. By 2:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon, the top is completely covered with the bits and pieces of homeschooling life. Cleaning it up again before dinner can be a daunting task. But taking a photo of it first seems to help.

203 :: Childhood Discovery


My parents met at a little resort called The Homestead in the summer of 1970. My Mom was from Cincinnati and my Dad was from East Lansing, and they were both “up north” in Michigan to work for the summer. Their love story started in Leelanau — and perhaps because of that, after they were married they always wanted to move here for good. But it took them a while to realize their dream. Although they came up on summer vacations for many years, it wasn’t until 1992 — twenty-two years after they’d met — that they bought a home overlooking Good Harbor Bay. My parents had settled in Leelanau at last; they were here to stay. And so they gave us, my siblings and me, the gift of growing up in Leelanau.

I was ten years old when we moved. There was little I loved more then than my dog and the woods.

My parents owned a modest two acres at the base of the hills. But our land was surrounded by hundreds more acres of wild places. And pretty much as soon as we’d settled in to our new home, my brothers and I started to explore.

There was the meadow in front of our house that stretched down to orchard land; there was the National Park land beyond that; and, of course, there was the beach.

But for me it was the woods. The woods held the greatest appeal. I could walk behind our house, disappear up the valley into the woods, and explore for hours. Day after day. While my brothers climbed trees and built forts, I walked up and down the hills with my dog, following the ridge lines — learning my way back home from every direction.

On top of the tallest hill in the area there were incredibly tall beech trees, with their smooth gray trunks reaching up into the blue sky. Arms of branches waving up so very high. They had the best view, I thought: Sugar Loaf Mountain; Little Traverse Lake; Pyramid Point, and the Manitou Islands beyond. I didn’t know the names of anything then, but I liked to lie beneath the trees and look up, imagining what they saw, looking out.

* * *

One summer day when I was wandering through the woods, I followed an old logging trail farther south than I had ever walked. I went down a trail, in the cool, dark shade of ancient oaks . . . and then came to the forest edge, where the trees ended abruptly. I stepped out into a clearing and stood quiet while my eyes adjusted to the light. What I saw then took my breath away. I was standing on the edge of a farmstead that looked as if it had been frozen in time. A massive barn stood in the center surrounded by smaller outbuildings and a house nestled at the base of the hills behind. Immaculately tended gardens lined the rock walls and the edges of the house. The fields were newly mowed and the gravel drive well maintained. It was picture perfect and so very still.

It was as if I had stumbled upon the scene of a favorite childhood story. And I was completely taken.

After my first glimpse of the farm, I went back again and again — lurking on the edges, wondering who lived there and hoping I’d find clues. Then one morning, as I stepped out of the forest darkness into the clearing, I saw a man on a tractor, mowing.

I waited until he saw me and then I waved. He waved back and cut the motor. I walked toward him as he climbed off the ancient machine and then he greeted me by gesturing toward my dog as he said, “Now who is this fine meat hound?”

And that is how I met Ted Lanham. Ted introduced me to Tali, and the two of them welcomed me to explore their land — a ten-year-old girl and her dog given free reign over some 200 acres . . . and the only place I was instructed not to go was Ted’s workshop.

So began my friendship with Tali and Ted Lanham.

As I became acquainted with them and their land, they shared their love for their home with me and my family. They told us which ski hills were best in the winter (and which to avoid); they shared their names for the trails and the meadows; they told us the story of the old seep where a farmer had watered cows decades ago; and they shared dreams for the flat field above the house where Ted wanted to land his airplanes. They even gave away some of their favorite spots for spring wildflowers and morel mushrooms.

Their land became woven into my childhood and into my adolescence. When I needed to think, to pray, I went to those woods. They were as much my home as any place ever had been. They were a place to be quiet, reverent. In them I felt small and yet completely held in something much greater. And Ted and Tali were the generous caretakers, who opened up this wild place to me. Because of Ted and Tali, I always felt welcome in the woods.

In the spring of 2000, I graduated from Leland High School. Tali and Ted came to my graduation celebration and they gave me a gift.

Tali told me that she and Ted had decided to donate a conservation easement on 167 acres of their land to the Leelanau Conservancy. I was stunned. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what a conservation easement was, or what a complex process they had committed to — I just knew that their land would remain wild and undeveloped. And I was incredibly moved. It was the best “gift” anyone could have given me, and it was especially meaningful coming from Ted and Tali.

The gift wasn’t really for me, of course. But Tali and Ted’s decision made a tremendous impact on what I decided to study in college and, in effect, what I’ve come to value most in my life.

Because it wasn’t just the idyllic Lanham Land that I walked on as a child.

To the north of my family’s home was another stretch of forest ridgeline with incredible views of Lake Michigan. I walked there as well when I was young. My dog and I watched from a distance as those 40 acres were bought by a developer. We watched as the land was stripped of its trees. We watched as a wide, paved road was put in. We watched as electrical boxes hummed to life. There were no houses then. Just infrastructure. Building sites. And a view.

The story of those 40 acres of stripped forest land lived in my consciousness; but the story of the Lanhams’ land was stronger. Much stronger. And to go away to college, knowing that the land I so loved would remain wild — well that was a joy and a peace that is impossible to put into words.

So I went off to college. I studied French and Environmental Science and Sustainable Agriculture. Then I got married and moved to Pittsburgh with my husband Jeffrey. We said we’d return home to Leelanau in a year.

Seven years and two little girls later, we did move back. And now when we go to visit my parents, my daughters’ Grandmommy and Grandfather, we all walk together in Ted and Tali’s beautiful woods. My daughters know the land that I knew. They walk where I walked when I was a girl.

They stand on the edge of the woods and look into the meadow that holds the storybook farm of my childhood dreams.

(From a piece I wrote for the Leelanau Conservancy in the winter of 2014)

90 :: 365


I’m gathering more moss and thinking about this 365 project.  Here we are at day 90, nearly a quarter of the way through.  Already?

Looking over my 90 photos, I recognize simple themes of family and daily life — mostly close to home.   When I go deeper, I see my growing awareness of this project as a creative practice.  The act of capturing a moment, reflecting on it, and sharing it daily (except for one weekend day each week, when I take a break) is filling my cup in ways I did not anticipate.

This daily practice has helped me to keep my eyes and heart open during a particularly exhausting chapter of motherhood (nourishing and nurturing an exquisite little being).  It makes me laugh to realize that some of my favorite photos thus far were taken on the bed.  The bed?!  Well, isn’t that where we spend a lot of time with our little babies?

This daily practice has helped me to welcome other creative work.  Or as Pablo Picasso famously said (and Jenny recently quoted), “Inspiration exists but it has to find you working.”  I’m working!

This daily practice has helped me to remember that I am at my best when I spend a significant amount of time outside in wild places.  I can handle only so many inside photos in a row.  And then I tell myself: I need to get out!  And I do.  Taking a camera along holds me accountable.

Finally, this daily practice has connected me with a very encouraging group of photographers — Jenny’s listeners!  You know by now that Jenny is one of my dearest friends.  Listening to each episode of her podcast is a bit like having a conversation with her, an hour I look forward to every week.  The fact that many of you listen to her too, and take the time to share windows into your lives through photography and connect with others in the flickr group — is a wonderful thing.  So, thank you.  And to family and friends who are a part of my project, thank you too!  Having a community to share with (simple as the project may be) makes all the difference in the world.