Lessons from a Tourist's Photos: What Happens When You Reach That Bridge

Waffle Guy and I lagged behind the pack on our hike to the top of Multnomah Falls, Oregon, absorbed in the photographic possibilities that a few great lenses and phenomenal scenery had to offer, but the Littlest Waffler was waiting for us when we reached the bridge over the lower falls.

She trembled. Her weeping was silent, the tears leaving disorderly little trails on her cheeks.

"I wanted to cross it, Mama," she said. Her gaze was fixed on her dusty shoes. "I am so scared of heights. I couldn't."

"You don't have to cross that bridge," I told her. "But take a minute before you decide to go back down. Do you think you'll be really proud of yourself if you make it across?"

I picked her up and buried my face in her neck, the same spot I'd nuzzled when she was a newborn. Her arms reached easily around my shoulders now. She shook, but she held tight.

"I can feel your heart beating," I whispered. "Can you feel mine?"

"Mmmm-hmmm," she whimpered.

"That's the feeling of my heart taking all of the fear from your heart. Pay attention to that feeling."

We stood silently at the side of the trail for a long, long time. And then, "I'm ready, Mama."

I carried the Littlest Waffler out onto the bridge. She leaned in close to my ear and whispered, "I have to walk across myself." Her hand held mine tightly, but each step was her own.

Later, at the top of the Upper Falls, she would perch on a rock at the river's edge and beam with pride.

A time will come when she realizes that her mother is just a regular old person. But on that day, I was relieved to discover that I still have super powers. I scooped all of her fear out of my heart, held it in my hand, and blew it into the rapids below.

Brain Dump, or Therapy for the Impatient Mother

The youngest two Wafflers road-tripped back from the west coast with my parents after the wedding, stopping to play in all sorts of places along the way. I'm thrilled that they had the opportunity to create memories like that with my folks. When I think about the trip they're taking now, I think of my daughters as their future selves, snuggled in bed with daughters of their own, telling them the stories of the summer they hightailed it through the mountains with Mema. I can only imagine the silly conversations going on in that vehicle. They're due home any minute now. I'm delighted that they had the experience. It's awesome.

But.

I miss my kids.

I miss them so much that I cleaned their rooms today in anticipation of their arrival. And I asked Waffle Guy to hang new curtains for them. I baked them my Super Top-Secret Recipe Chocolate-Butterscotch Cookies of Ridiculous Goodness (with sea salt flakes). I laundered all their bedding with extra fabric softener, so it smells good, like the Middlest likes. I really miss them.

The weather, however, is not cooperating. Two lines of severe thunderstorms have moved through the area, slowing my family's homeward progress by a couple of hours. I normally love a good storm more than just about anyone, but this time, I miss my kids so much that I want boring weather.

And so, I'm here, writing to kill time. This sucks for you, the reader, because I have nothing to say, really. So you might be bored. In the spirit of consideration, however, I thought of some stuff to show you. Some of it might even be fun. We'll get through this together. It will be okay.

First, here's a picture of a palm tree in the sunshine through a rain-covered window. I took this photograph from a bus in Puerto Rico, where I went with the Middlest's school in June. It was one of the best weeks of my life.

If you hate trees, that's okay. I have a photograph of a baby bird, too. I didn't actually take this one. My amazing "escalator daughter" Taylor took it. We found the baby bird in Brooklyn. He was drowning by the side of the road in one of the craziest rain storms I'd ever seen, and there was no mama bird trying to save him. We watched. No mama.

So...we found a great organization in Manhattan that agreed to take him in and rehabilitate him, but first we had to smuggle him on the Subway from Brooklyn to the Upper West Side at rush hour. Every time the sweet little baby bird squeaked in hunger, I glared at the escalator daughters and told them to stop squeaking their shoes. It worked out perfectly. At the Wild Bird Fund, they named the bird Kate, which was nice of them, except I'm pretty sure it was a boy bird. There is absolutely no scientific basis for the male gender assignment to the bird, as I don't even remotely understand how to sex a bird. But I just have a gut feeling that it was a dude-bird named Kate. It's good to see that we've come far enough that the fellas want our names, no?

If you're the sort of person that hates trees and birds, all is not lost. Try this one on for size. Here's a photograph of a Ninja Turtle with Paul Bunyon in his head. He was made at an event at my new gallery by my awesome brother, Tylo, who knows a lot about what goes on inside the heads of Ninja Turtles.

If you're the sort of person who hates birds and trees and Ninja Turtles who have Paul Bunyon on their minds, then I'm afraid I can't help you. As a consolation prize, here's me with a motorcycle dude who is dressed up like a cow, and has a giant, helmeted stuffed cow on the back of his bike.

Now don't you wish you'd acted interested in palm trees?

Destination

At our wedding, my mother-in-law read these words, borrowed from a Hopi blessing:

"And there are things to be considered:

Where are you living?
What are you doing?
What are your relationships? Are you in right relation?
Where is your water? Know your garden.
It is time to speak your Truth.
Create your community. Be good to each other...

There is a river flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid.
They will try to hold on to the shore.
They will feel they are being torn apart, and they will suffer greatly.

Know the river has its destination.
...We must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river
Keep our eyes open and our heads above the water.
See who is in there with you
And celebrate.

At this time in history we are to take nothing personally.
Least of all, ourselves.
For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt.

...Gather yourselves!
Banish the word "struggle" from your attitude and your vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.

We are the ones we've been waiting for."

It was special for a lot of reasons. The words are stunning, to be sure. Deeper than words, there was a lovely connection to Waffle Guy's roots--his father worked for the US Public Health Service, and Waffle Guy was born on the Navajo reservation. His parents developed deep ties to the Navajo and Hopi people, and still exhibit tremendous respect for the traditions of those nations. The connection to my husband's genesis, and to his parents' history, was a powerful thing to include in our wedding.

Deeper yet was the challenge to our future. I stood in front of my closest family and friends, and listened to those words, and marvelled at what a big thing it is to do all that we do in "a sacred manner and in celebration." In my trials, at my darkest hour, I wondered, will I truly find it in myself to celebrate? Could I do that for my husband, for my marriage?

Later that night, I looked at photographs I'd taken the night before our wedding, when we took a caravan to Oregon's Cannon Beach. My new in-laws arrived with a bag of kites, and my children, and Waffle Guy's children; my brothers, parents, friends--everyone dear to me--launched them into the constant offshore wind. The beach was alive with color and laughter. We squealed when the icy Oregon ocean lapped at our feet. Some of us took photographs in an effort to preserve those precious moments. Some of us held hands with our partners, or snuggled with family.

All of us celebrated.

It occurred to me, looking at photographs from the beach, that this is why I love my family--the one into which I was born, the one to which I gave birth, and the one into which I have joined. The past two years of my life have been rich with sacred, incredible moments like those.

My family is here with me, far from shore, and celebrating. God willing, I'll find a way to thank them, someday.

God, I love Belgium.

K.I.S.S.

Silly Hafiz, always making me cry. What can I say? The fella had a way with words.

Every child has known God, 
Not the God of names, 
Not the God of don’ts, 
Not the God who ever does Anything weird, 
But the God who knows only 4 words. 
And keeps repeating them, saying: 
“Come Dance with Me , come dance.”

-Hafiz

And what if that was all? What if we kept it so simple, and danced?

Shedding Light on the Subject

It all started in March of 2010, when I stumbled on a blog post by Laura Zabel, who works at an amazing organization called Springboard for the Arts. 

Zabel boldly pointed out that it might do the arts community a bit of good if more people had the guts to call themselves artists. 

...I think that in our effort to command greater respect for the profession of being an artist, we’ve excluded people from identifying as artists and prevented them from seeing the art in their everyday lives. We want artists to get paid, obviously, this is something I feel strongly about. But in order to do that, we’ve created all these ways of defining who is a “professional artist” and that’s usually linked to those who make their living as an artist. But what about the hobbyist? The avocational artist? Aren’t they real artists? Those who used to practice but don’t anymore? At what point do you lose the privilege of calling yourself an artist? ...I’m not sure excluding people and having fewer people who identify themselves as artists is a good route towards public support of the arts.

It blew my mind. So you mean, all that creative stuff that I make and do might actually mean that I'm an...artist? 

It was one of those moments that changes absolutely everything. For the first time, I understood art as something other than a thing that I did. Artistry was now something I identified as a characteristic of who I am.

There are implications to realizations like that.

First and foremost, I'd spent years wondering about what my life would look like if I was one of the painters, photographers, or dancers whom I so admired. I'd see works by Edward Burtynsky or Steve McCurry, and I'd wonder what it would feel like to use my insight to connect with people so profoundly with an image. In my mind, those artists were different than me, somehow.

Zabel challenged those of us with artistic tendencies to acknowledge them as part of the package:

“I’m a doctor and I’m an artist.”

“I’m a teacher and I’m an artist.”

“I’m a senator and I’m an artist.”

“I’m a lawyer and I’m an artist."

Was it possible? Would anybody really buy that I was an underpaid, bored copywriter, server and an artist? And if that was the case, what did that mean?


First, it meant that the pet project that had already consumed weeks and weeks of my time was more than just a hobby. It was art.

Second, it meant that the big-time photographers whose works gave me goosebumps weren't actually all that different from me. To be sure, their talents were more cultivated, practiced, refined. They were artists, as they'd always been. But I knew then that I was, too.


A lot has happened in a year. That little project has actually garnered a fair amount of attention, and there are big plans in the works for a tour this year (knock on wood).

And, in a slightly more terrifying twist of fate, some opportunities have arisen that can't be passed up...but I'll have to work as an artist. Full time. For myself. In a studio that I own and operate (in partnership with the amazing Waffle Guy). Gulp.

My studio and gallery will be open for business in the next few weeks. I've got some of the most amazing and creative minds I know planning to work with me on this next "pet project," which will live in a building that had been abandoned for 40 years. My kids hang out there. So does Waffle Guy. My oldest plays with my camera while the middlest investigates the dungeon of a basement for clues about its history. There's even a perfect Daydreamin' Window for the Littlest Waffler.

Everytime we're in that beautiful space, I swear it whispers a "thank you" to us for bringing it back from a forgotten place. And I murmer a "thank you" in return, because I know that the space will take care of my family and friends. You'll hear lots more really soon. In the meantime, you can find us there, trying to figure out where the outlets should go...

The other day, I sat at a desk in my newly acquired studio, my iPod on shuffle. And that's when I heard it:

This little light of mine
I'm gonna let it shine...

Don't forget that you're an artist, too, completely qualified to share your own unique and beautiful perspective with the world. But be careful. There are implications to realizations like that.

How Oscar Mayer Changed My Life

This version of the Oscar Mayer Bologna song became famous before I was born. No matter. It was one of those jingles that embedded itself deep in our culture's collective ear. By the time I was old enough to fully appreciate the flavor of the spongy, pink "meat product," I knew how to spell B-O-L-O-G-N-A.

It's amazing what marketing can do.

This version came out later in my childhood, and I remember it clearly.

Really, the power of a good jingle astonishes me. Not only did this company teach two generations of kids to spell correctly a total phonetic anomaly, but it made us all admit out loud that we wished we were Oscar Mayer Wieners---so that everyone would be in love with us!!!!!

It was a more innocent time in our country's history, and the wing-nuts had not yet learned that they could garner a lot of attention for protesting the promotion of open love affairs between children and processed foods. This is why Waffle Guy and I have an open relationship: he is totally supportive of my propensity for an occasional late-night rendezvous with a bag of kettle chips. But I digress.

It's been a long time since I've considered the powerful influence of the company that produced the original "Meats of Good Taste" in my life, but Oscar Mayer has reappeared in my life.

My Eldest Waffler's school participated yesterday morning in a sandwich-making service project extravaganza yesterday for a touching Minneapolis-based charitable project called "363." Founded by a retired Minneapolis school teacher named Allan Law, the organization is a formal recognition of the fact that we're great at feeding the homeless and hungry among us on Thanksgiving and Christmas. They're there to take care of the other 363 days of each year.

Mr. Law talked to the students a day in his life. He personally picks up sandwiches from the storage facility where they're safely stored, and spends his nights making the rounds. He focuses on hungry kids first, and then visits "safe-bay"sleeping shelters where the lucky among the homeless can sleep on a mat on a floor in a warm room. Mr. Law discussed how those in need appreciate his gift--none among the hungry turn away the sandwiches because they're not in the mood for a sandwich.

And then, for 20 wonderful minutes, the kids turned into a fantastically animated assembly line, carefully placing American cheese and slices of Oscar Mayer Turkey Bologna on enriched white bread, bagging them up, and sending them on their way.

Last year, Mr. Law distributed half a million sandwiches to the hungry and homeless in Minneapolis. In a city so clean, pretty and affluent, it can be hard to imagine that there is need so great. There is.

The 363 Web site estimates that it takes 6 people half an hour to assemble 150 sandwiches. There's a link to order supplies directly from Coborn's Delivers  on 363's page.

After talking to my Wafflers, we've decided that we'll take one day per month, and make sandwiches. On that night, we'll have bologna and cheese, to help us remember how lucky we are to have the choices that we have.

I no longer wish I was a wiener, Oscar Mayer or otherwise. Still, despite all my food snobbery, I'm starting to see bologna in a whole new light.