It’s official. Everything is moved in (you can’t see most of it because it’s on the other side of the room).
It’s scary. Being this official.
But here we are. No turning back now.
This is officially my job.
Ohhhhh, God. Please help me be good enough.
tunes: The Beatles … Something (In the Way She Moves), accoustic
Sometimes I forget there is much you don’t know about me.
I haven’t driven in almost ten years. Legally, anyway.
A few bouts of rebellion, I suppose. But mostly no time behind the wheel.
I have been arrested more than once. More than twice.
More than thrice.
It is what it is. I am who I am and I’ve been where I’ve been, like it or not.
Once there was a time when you couldn’t get me away from the road. I was unsettled and lost, I packed up a car at a moment’s whim and ran for it. Across the deserts and mountains, putting miles beneath me like whiskey under the riverbed. Cats and all.
I’ve never found anything like driving hard through the desert in the middle of the night.
There is much to be said of music worthy of such a place in time.
If you are a gypsy, a driver, an outsider with a veiw, then you know. You know what it is to awaken before the dawn, to greet the day with the wheel with nowhere but witness the mountainside make its transitions, day in and day out.
Airplanes are no place for me.
I’ll take my miles slowly, deliberately, with no expectation.
So much…so much has changed. I ran back to Montana after 9/11. Not many people know that. I wanted to be safe. I wanted to be home, far away from the big, bad world. In the mountaintops where the space can unfold properly.
I know what it is to close your heart to a great love. To be quiet and still for a decade. To trade one love for another. To be still and listen. And wait. And watch.
With desert skies close beneath the skin.
So the dude got his very own camera for Christmas, which he happily toted around for the entire day. It was pretty awesome to sit back and let someone else take the pics, especially one with such a fast and blurry view of the world.
The shots that stand out from his day of shooting are the strange ones. Full of color, the ones that make you wonder what he was doing at that moment.
And this horrible picture of me keeps cracking me up. Let’s just say I’m happy dairy and chocolate season is finally over.
Simple things that he finds importance in, like the light fixtures. There are several pictures of the lights in the house.
Amazing plays of color, completely unexpected and unedited. I want to know how he did this one in particular.
This would make an awesome website backgound (go ahead–you can dowload it from the set on Flickr).
Making use of his camera’s features.
Shadows and light…I know he didn’t set this up on purpose, but it has certainly drawn my eye into an unexplored perspective.
I read somewhere that kids who grow up in the country create pictures with a large horizon, concentrating less on what else is in the scene, and kids that grow up in the city create pictures with a small horizon and large focal points (like buildings). From all of his shots outdoors, it’s pretty evident that he’s a country kid.
Self portrait. Age three. Nicoman.
photo by nico, age 3
This one will be easy.
I resolve to be more artistic. To pursue a more serious devotion to the discipline of art. To practice. To try.
To let go of self doubt.
To be fearless.
To bring it into the eyes of the world.
After two solid years of cracking open the catacomb of the left brain there, I deserve it.
Happy New Year!
Thanksgiving can kiss my ass. That’s how I really feel about it. Grateful, thankful, appreciative of life’s bounty both great and small? Yes. I like that. I like doing that every day.
Celebrating the love of family and friends with food? Yep. I dig it.
This day. Thanksgiving.
Pause. Reflect.
This day, to me, shouldn’t be illustrated in words anywhere but behind a cold beer in person, but I’ll try.
I am an advocate of Indian Rights.
I am also a white lady of Irish descent, ferociously devoted to family and tradition.
Hence the conundrum.
I have longings to fast on Thanksgiving, to refuse sustenance in any form, to stand firmly behind my middle finger.
I also appreciate the love and fortitude of food. My grandmothers taught me that. In my family, food is a means of communication. I can tell you a hundred stories about gravy alone if you’re eager to listen. It’s true.
Should I tell you that our kids are Indians? Ottowa. Registered.
But this is about who I was before they were who they are.
My mind gets very cluttered about this, this holiday commenced between Natives and Newbies. The Dances With Wolves/Last of the Mohicans phenomenon that happened with my generation. The New Age ideals of Indian ways. Growing up in the American Southwest, the Culture is as natural as water. We didn’t have reservations, we had Nations. There was respect. They weren’t all drunk Indians.
Do you want to know my first impression of the Indigenous People? Sheep. There were sheep. The kids didn’t have to go to school, they tended sheep. They hung out in quiet places all day long where the wind spoke and it wasn’t a big deal. Navajos. The Weavers.
It’s different here in Montana. It confuses me. It was one of the first things that I noticed when I came back home–the difference in attitude about Native Americans.
I don’t know what else to say about that. I’m not really speaking from a place of power, I’m speaking from a place of observation. Interactions that bounce off of human shells.
Have another beer, friend.
Break bread.
Pass the pipe.
Pull the steps up to the stove and tell the wee girl about gravy.
Be awkward. Speak and drink and laugh and love. This day. Every day.
Sokape.
Lookit! I’m official. Legit. Real.
The wee Peaceful Peacock has a fancy new logo. Take a looksee.
Done by the wonderful and spectacular PixelPaper on Etsy.
I’m kind of at a loss for words about weaning my girl.
She’s standing next to me as I type, talking about bubbles and monster trucks, walking and talking and singing. Now she’s climbing up a chair, wayward morning hairs catching the morning light just right. Eating her brother’s cereal without even a second thought about holding the spoon.
Confident and strong. A successful 19 month old.
We began our weaning process about three months ago, cutting down to before-bedtime and in-the-middle-of-the-night nursing. Almost two weeks ago, we took the plunge and decided it was time to wean completely.
No more nursing, for the first time since I began my journey into motherhood just over three years ago. The last couple of years have been intense, to say the least, and weaning is a milestone which I looked forward to with great fervor. It was a celebration to shed the arsenal of tiny baby toys and the piles of newborn clothes, to see our girl take her first steps, to watch her go from “baby” to “girl”. Weaning is just one more step in that process, right?
Logically, I’m proud of us. I see her thrive and grow, laugh with her at the funny things she does and says. My logical mind says, “Yes. Good work, mama. She’s ready, you’re ready, you can stop now. It’s ok.”
My heart, on the other hand, is a catastrophe.
I can’t help but feel like I have failed in some way. Like I’ve broken something that can never be fixed. Like this is the end of something huge and I can never have it back. It’s more than just letting go of that bond–it’s so much more. There’s no more easy fix–I can’t just pop her on the boob and everything is instantly all better.
I feel like I’ve lost a Super Power.
I thought I would feel an answer come through once I wrote all of this down. I thought I would tell you about how I’m crazy busy preparing for the MissoulaMADE Fair and it has distracted me from the loss of this enormous rite of motherhood and that everything is ok and I’m just fine.
But I’m not just fine.
I feel really sad.
Even though I know it will be ok, I feel really sad.
Even though my girl is thriving and beautiful and healthy and hilarious, I feel really sad.
Even though I’m STOKED to have a sense of complete independence, I feel really sad.
I feel really sad because this is the end of BABY. The part that everyone has told me to enjoy and cherish and savor.
I get it.
Though I doubt I’ll feel this way when they graduate from diapers.
I am .so. grateful for every moment of my children.
