journal 10: light
Monday, October 14th, 2024
There is a line at the end of Maggie Nelson’s Bluets that may have changed my life. Or affirmed it. Illuminated the direction in which I was already heading, only now it seems more possible. I don’t want to spoil the conclusion because I think everyone should read this book. Many will not appreciate the way it is disjointed and unconstrained by narrative, but I believe it is worth the try. And I will speak just a little on the ending.
She wraps up this heartbreak of a book, this three-year long saga of loving the unavailable person, with the idea that love is light and that she aims to be “a student not of longing but of light”. And because I am a person who always reads the acknowledgements, you will find that she thanks her “dearest Harry” who “brought the light”. She toiled and healed through the grief of her longing, found her light-giving love and immortalized this journey in a book. Read it.
This notion became a sort of mantra for me. Maggie actually references the quote by Simone Weil that inspired it all: “Love is not consolation. It is light”. I repeated it to myself. I wrote it in my journal. I considered it, turning it over again and again in my mind. I started to become aware of how I felt leaving certain places and certain people. I noticed when this was a heavy feeling and I also noticed when it felt weightless. I noticed when it drained me and when it left me with more energy than before. More inspiration. More hope.
I realized it is confusing to the self and to the body when we feel love in one way, but not all of the other ways. It is confusing to refer to someone as a friend or family and yet walk away feeling poorly about yourself. It is confusing to be assured that you are special to someone, right before they behave in a way that suggests you are categorically very unspecial. And it is confusing to hear that you are wanted when you are treated simply as an option, and one lower on the list.
I’ve been reflecting slowly and intently on the alignment of love. I had a very limiting view of love for a really long time and it was a view perpetuated by people who mistreated me while simultaneously insisting that they loved me. I had been mistaking this longing for love and craving consolation instead. But love is not confusing and muddled, it is clear and it is bright. And I will no longer be persuaded that something that talks like love and looks like love must be love. It is not. It must feel like love. It must uplift like love. It must bring the light, like love.
May 30th, 2024
I find that I sometimes confuse my lover with my inner child. On a dark note, this feels like a deeply subconscious desire for the wounded partner. Someone I can project all of my healing onto. Someone to distract from the fact that I need healing too. On a light note, it is in my nature to help people and to give care. As it does sometimes, the darker impulse has won, so far.
Perhaps this was all a wish fulfilment to see my steadfast methods succeed, at least once. But unsurprisingly they never did and of course not. I placed the other above myself. The others’ healing, the other’s needs. Enmeshed. Entangled. An indiscernible blending of me and them. And it should be admitted that they never quite asked for this. I decided for them and off we went.
Looking at this, it’s deeply manipulative. I wasn’t sitting there scheming, but my subconscious was running rampant and unchecked, old ingrained habits dying hard. Finally I did focus this energy on myself and I did begin to heal, beautifully, miraculously so. And I stopped projecting that onto others. I could accept them where they stood, separate and whole. If things never changed, would I feel loved? No. And yet the fantasy lingers. I take your head in my hands and lay it in my lap. I know you need a safe place like that. I know because it’s what I wanted.
What is love if not a mirror, the thing with which you see yourself more deeply and more kindly? The child grows up seeking their dreams. The lovers intertwine with possibility on their lips. And love continues, transforming, alchemizing, healing. What is love if not becoming? I love you at the level I am willing to be changed by you.
July 1st, 2024
If I am fierce about my dreams, about building a safe home, a safe family, about being cared for- and I am fierce- then my choices simply must reflect this. I must choose people and places that support these dreams. I will love good people, who live life as good people. A man who is consistent and trustworthy in behaviour because he embodies these things. Who moves through the world as such, with or without me. Who simply is. How naturally this arrives when we live as love, rather than just want it or give it.
“You’re looking for perfection,” he once told me. We were breaking up.
“No I’m not. I’m looking for kindness.”
July 4th, 2024
I am trying a journaling challenge where I wake up and write down my dreams. Last night, I had a dream about a man with blonde hair and blue eyes. We were together and the romance was easy. The connection, the love. It was steady and I remember feeling that it would be there. It was a wonderful feeling of warmth and ease and being wrapped in both and I think I was dreaming of what I desire, what I will build. Both a feeling and a choice.
“There can be no happiness if the things we believe in are different from the things we do.”
August 19th, 2024
“Community is the colour yellow.” -Leah
August 24h, 2024
Listening to a boxing class outside of my apartment. They are in the park, under the trees. The muted thwap thwap against the leather mitts.
There is skill involved in this boxing lesson. The teacher has mentioned the strength of the core. She has demonstrated the technique. And yet, so much of her work is to motivate and to cheer on. Surely the most inspiring takeaway of her class is not to be the most perfect beginner boxer, but to believe you are capable and to feel proud that you tried something new.
Realizing how many people benefit from simply being encouraged. Technique is important and mastery comes from repeated practiced skills. But how excited would any of us be to even practice if it weren’t for uplifting support? The most vital, most basic ingredient is being coached to keep going. She just clapped brightly and cued a water break.
The best teachers are motivators. They help you to believe in your own potential.
September 26th, 2024
It is never enough to tell someone that we love them. We must also show it. We must also demonstrate it. We must also embody it. So that everything we are shows another human being, “You are worthy of this respect. You deserve my care.” We love in our choices, in our decisions. We love in our actions. We love in our integrity. We love in our alignment. We love when we don’t force another to second guess or to question. We love in our capacity to be direct. We love another when we, on all levels of our being, believe they are worthy. And behave as such.
We don’t simply give love or show love.
We are love, in everything we do. True love takes on a wholly complete form. We say I love you not with our fleshy human mouths but with our entire being.
It is not that I feel love for you, but that I act in, and with, love for you. I consider you. I take and ask for accountability. I show up. I see the world in you and I give energy to that light. I encourage it to shine. I lend you my support. I make decisions that respect your personhood, I will not ask you to sacrifice that. I hold you in my arms and in high regard. My love for you is so aligned in my body that there is not a single level where you are not loved. You are loved within and throughout and across all.
I am my love for you.
October 2nd, 2024
Jotting down this fleeting idea that you are moving towards something without really knowing what it is, what it’s like. You are moving towards love, one that feels good, even though you only really know what love is not. You are moving towards a family in a safe home, even though you never lived in one until you lived alone. You are moving towards some inner ideal, some desert utopia, but where did these concepts even come from?
How do you know what you are moving towards? A sort of grappling, hands fumbling around in the dark. A long series of trial and error, of not this, not this, not this either. Until you get to the part where you create it yourself. That hidden driving force within you materialized in the real world with you as its creator. You first dream it and then you make it real. And suddenly you know what to look for because you are holding it in your hands. And then you stop looking and start recognizing. You notice when something moves in the world the way you do. You are aligning instead of compromising. You are seeing instead of seeking.
My survival and my resilience is because of that inner knowing. But where did it come from?
I am these things and I always was. I am made up of everything I ever sought. I once dreamt of my own light.
the summer sweet list
August 1st, 2024
Green leaves against the blue sky
Freckles on the nose, across the cheeks
Warm rain
Clovers in the grass
White socks and tennis rackets
Big fluffy white clouds that look like animals
The shower you take after you’ve been in the sun all day
Snacks by the pool
Watermelon
Latest sunsets of the entire year
The cool breeze right before a thunderstorm hits
Bikinis that untie at the side
Flushed cheeks
Gingham for picnic blankets and sun dresses
Rolling around in the grass to play, and to kiss
A white linen button-up that is slightly wrinkled with loving wear
Drops of ice cream on the hot pavement
Lazy sex
Strawberry season
Little embroidered flowers on a cotton dress
The sweat on a cold pint glass
Blowing bubbles that contain rainbows
Locally grown vegetables spread across a communal table
Fireflies, stars and the sparkle of the lake under the sunshine
Woven picnic baskets
A Tupperware of sandwiches cut into quarters
Wet hair that drips down your back
The stain leftover from strawberry juice
Bare feet
Red tomatoes and green basil
The books you read in the summer and the particular way they stay with you
Homemade pies
The smell of freshly cut grass
All the layered pinks and oranges of a sunset
Strawberry ice cream
Walking along the sidewalk, hot and sweating, when you catch a few drops from the sprinkler in somebody’s front yard
The stickiness of bug spray
Layered dips
How a bonfire crackles and surges
Friends dropping in to say hello and leaving well-fed
White tents of local farmer’s markets
Giggles at the neighbourhood pool
The insectile buzz of a humid day
Community events
Rolling green hills dotted with wildflowers
Closing your eyes to the sun and seeing the warm orange glow behind your eyelids
The way a rosy sunburn feels tight
Waking up early to watch the sunrise
The salty taste of sweat
Flowers that burst into bloom and withstand the heat of the day
Adding ice cubes to a glass of rosé
Corn on the cob, butter and salt
Counting the seconds between a lightning strike and clap of thunder
White cotton nightgowns
White cotton boxers
The low growl of a lawnmower
Pitchers of iced tea and lemonade and struggling to decide, maybe I’ll have one of each
Taking a long drive through winding roads as the radio sings
The pulse of possibility
How time feels languid and yet fleeting all at once
return
summer 2024
On Being a Lover Girl,
and other enduring things in my nature.
My favourite part of the healing process is the return to self. I write return because it feels like that, like a coming back. A discovery not of something new, but of something old and hidden and buried. And when you can begin to love these newly uncovered parts of yourself, you begin to reclaim your power.
At heart, I’ve always been a sensitive bean. A little lover girl wanting to take care of things. But as fate would have it, sometimes cruelly so, I was born from a diagnosed narcissist (…the very real personality disorder kind) and being a soft empathetic child actually led to a sort of downfall. I was the perfect target. I empathized with my abuser, I made myself small out of a desire for peace (and out of survival and fear) and truly nothing felt as important as healing this caregiver of mine who was so clearly in pain. Because that was very clear to me. Even as a young child, in tears and in hiding, I would talk out loud to myself- something I still do to this day that brings me a familiar level of comfort- and I would speak about seeing her pain. I would wish it away so that the brief moments that were loving and warm would be the ones that stayed. Her pain made her unfathomably cruel and I thought if I could heal the pain, I could heal the hurt. I’ve since read that finding such compassion for those that hurt you is a step in the healing process that can take years and years to arrive at. But that part came easy. I was at the centre of abuse with my big beating feeling heart.
But of course I learned the tough lesson that we can’t heal other people, especially those who refuse to acknowledge their pain and their impact, and I have not spoken to my mother since I was 18 years old. She might have been absent, but I kept her with me when I repeated our dynamic over and over and over again. Throughout my twenties, I would be a lover girl to many people who did not respect, nor value it. Nor could they reciprocate. It was my pattern to be small, to hand over my power and to play Miss Fix-It. Of course, this too was an escape from my own vulnerability, my own healing. I had a sort of rescue fantasy that someone would come along and do it for me. But I learned another tough lesson that only you are responsible for saving yourself.
I am 32 years old now and I’ve always felt a bit of excitement surrounding the age of 36. Something about that turning point where I will have lived more of my life out of abuse, than in it. But I do remind myself that my precious life is happening now and I have loved these past couple of years (particularly this last one) because of this homecoming of self. This is something I am very proud of. This is something I have to remind myself to notice, to look at how far I’ve come. The distance I have travelled simply to arrive back at myself, this time around with love and safety and trust.
All of this time and all of this effort and all of this healing work (it is work, the hardest kind) and I find myself at the start. Soft and loving.
I worried that this propensity towards empathy was born out of trauma. I had 18 years of diligent practice in loving the person who hurt me, and each one passed without a single apology. I thought of my compassion as something to heal from, to let go of in my journey of moving on. I have since realized that it existed within me before, during and after the abuse. And long after the stage of grief, long after the stage of anger (this was a personal favourite), it remains. Turns out, it is a beautifully innate part of who I am, not a response to my circumstance, nor a tactic to survive. I was also fearful of it for a while and how could I not be? This quality of mine was exploited for almost two decades by someone who only used it to avoid her own pain and hurt me in the process. This sweet and loving gift made me weak, but only because I had to place it in the hands of the wrong person, the power-hungry person, the scared person. The person completely burdened by shame. But you see, now I am responsible for the life that I choose because I am not that child anymore. I am responsible for the people and the places with which I share this gift and they will be people and places that celebrate it and understand its value. That choice, that agency is my power. And my strength is never having lost touch with the softness. Cruelty has not and will not harden me, that is simply not in my nature. It is in my nature to love and to have compassion and to heal. It is in my nature to be grateful for life.
“What part of yourself did you have to destroy in order to survive in the world this year? But most importantly: what have you found to be unkillable?” -Arabelle Sicardi
Over the years I have destroyed many parts of “me” that were not me at all, but the me that was trying to survive. The me that stayed small, the me that put others first, the me that reacted, the me that felt insecure, the me that was defensive, the me that could not make a mistake. The me that slammed doors and cried fat tears at the first sign of conflict. Most recently, the me that felt undeserving. But never the soft me that feels. As it stands, I cannot kill my empathy, nor do I want to anymore. My compassion belongs to me. I am no longer scared of my depths, of this urge I have to help people, this fantasy to love into light. My “love of misfits”, as my sister once called it. I trust myself to find the most beautiful places for this gift of mine to live and to shine fully.
What parts of yourself have you felt burdened by, or perhaps afraid of? How much time and effort and wasted strength have you spent trying to get rid of them, instead of finding a new place for them to exist? People hold so much power in love- how is it that another person can make our greatest gift feel like the greatest weakness? But the problem does not lie in the gift, but in who you choose to share it with. Because if some people are powerful enough to hurt, there are some who are powerful enough to heal. Starting with you. Return there.
journal 09: raw
Sunday, May 5th, 2024
It seems to have been a season of collective discomfort. I’ve spoken with a few friends who have felt uneasy and on edge. Tired with transformation. On April 8th, we gathered to watch the solar eclipse and although it was incredible, one of my favourite parts was simply watching humans come together to look up at the sky. Our smallness on obvious display. I happen to be a spiritual person, but it seems to me that something as awe-inspiring as that really has to make you consider your life, your path, your place in the world. And this one certainly did.
For anyone who dares to grow (and I say “dare” because it really is a choice, and a brave one at that), the inevitable uneasiness follows. Growing pains, truly. It is destabilizing and don’t we all love to feel stable. But that certainty doesn’t keep us safe, it keeps us stuck, and to get moving again is a messy business.
Some seasons in life are for growth and this was one such season for me. I grappled with love and loss, confusion and the clarity of hindsight and the mind versus the body. The role that my intuition plays is an ever-increasing one. Ever since I have been able to hear it again, it just hasn’t wanted to shut up. And frankly, I don’t want it to. It has felt a bit primitive to be making decisions based solely on if something feels right and it’s taken my brain some time to catch up with this new form of decisiveness. It is uncomfortable, but I am sinking into my body and following its lead. And anyway, my mind can often find itself stuck in circles.
I notice myself gravitating towards a sense of realness, humanness. Grain. Away from what is contrived or too manicured. I want to feel. This piece started in my journal and included several random thoughts and various lines before coming together as what you’ll read below. Much of it feels dark to me, but that’s where I have found myself in this early spring. And that is what transformation and growth and change involve. These aren’t always pretty, neat things. These are things that disrupt and disturb. To have a breakthrough, you must first break before you move through. To feel the light, you must first move through the dark. The eclipse taught me that. And when the sun returned, it felt brighter than ever.
* * *
I can sense it. The coming undone.
The word raw hangs in my apartment. The sentences in my journal begin with “I feel”.
For the first time my mind asks my heart to take the lead. Something only I can feel is something only I can know.
I feel a distance growing between the me I have been and the me I am becoming.
The me that is ready to grieve the me that needs to be killed.
Becoming is also an act of destruction. Before anything else, it feels heavy with loss.
It feels like unravelling.
The healing for my type of trauma is individuation.
A page on the internet tells me to begin:
“Embodying your authentic voice. Self-mothering. Self-rescuing.
Becoming a person with personhood.”
It is letting yourself be reborn into your own arms.
I must have a presence, I must exist,
but how and as what?
My self ? I just said goodbye to one of them.
But my body knows and I listen.
The woman I am meant to be holds the child I never was,
and both are crying out for a big, expansive life.
I unsnarl me from her.
And I’m tired because I have clawed my way up and out.
To survive, then to heal and now I fight to become. Self-rescuing.
One time I wrote that in order to love, I will first have to be wrong. My instincts were born from shame. I rewrite, I create. Self-mothering.
Embody, to give a tangible form to. Becoming a person with personhood.
I must have a presence, I must exist.
I cry out. Your authentic voice. We gasp for air whether it’s our first breath or our last.
Life begins in the spring,
after something dies.
And then it’s a season of softness.
self portraits, april 30th
75 lessons of late
Sunday, March 31st, 2024
I love my cat even more than I thought (and that was already a lot).
Making something with your hands makes other things feel better.
Hugs also make things feel better.
Taking a compliment well is an art form. But so is giving one. Be gracious and genuine in both.
I am so happy that libraries exist.
Staring at the moon makes me feel small in the best possible way.
Solitude is never as lonely as being in the company of people who don’t see you.
I like being single except for the lack of kissing.
I have survived a couple of huge, unexpected expenses in the last month. For this, I am proud of myself.
The feeling of being proud of yourself for a small step will inspire you further and longer than shaming yourself for not being at the finish line.
I feel things very deeply and for years this was not encouraged.
Now I feel a lot and I am happy to celebrate it.
I enjoy baking cakes, but I don’t have enough people close by to share them with.
I am not my thoughts, nor my judgements about my thoughts.
People-pleasers are unsafe people in that they lack authenticity. I am a safer person now.
Care is the loveliest thing to receive.
I need my pink lipstick to have cool undertones.
I like falling asleep with the lamp on and book open.
The faster you let yourself feel a feeling or shed a tear, the faster it passes.
This does not mean you share every feeling.
Discernment is an underrated skill.
The human body is so complex and yet singing and dancing are proven medicine. I think that’s pretty awesome.
Some people will like you for who you are, and others will like how you make them feel.
Some people will like you, and others will care for you.
Warmth and respect outlast the chemical attraction.
It is not about the feeling, it’s how you act as a result.
“I want to make a ray of sunshine and never leave home” is a real song lyric by a real band named “The Weepies”.
You can’t change anyone. That call has to come from inside the house, on their terms, with their own effort. And you will waste time trying to connect with people based on an imagined potential, instead of what is right in front of you. We can all heal together, alongside each other, but be careful of being drawn into each other’s tired dynamics and unconscious power struggles and codependencies. For so long, I wanted romantic relationships to offer a sort of wish fulfillment- someone changing for me, being better for me, choosing me. I knew how far I had come when that exact situation fell into my lap and suddenly, I didn't want it anymore. It didn’t feel romantic, nor did it feel safe. Was I up on the pedestal again? Was I embarking on another journey of having to teach a man how to love me? I no longer wanted to participate in the dynamic I had craved for so long.
I can teach myself to wink with both eyes.
I have always dreaded running into exes, except you.
Making lists is essential.
Have parmesan on hand at all times.
Coffee drinkers are to tea drinkers, what dog people are to cat people. And I am a tea drinker who owns a cat.
It is not being a mother that scares me, but how motherhood is structured in society.
Flexibility is sexy (not the yoga kind, but that too).
I like people who say yes to random plans.
Popular clichés like “just trust your gut” and “follow your intuition” and “when you know, you know” are actually not simple and feel very complicated, especially for those who have experienced trauma. It is okay if these things do not come easily to you. Do not let your inability to connect with these phrases reinforce your perceived brokenness.
Calming my nervous system is where my healing began.
You can hold compassion for someone, while also not allowing for your own mistreatment.
Giving the benefit-of-the-doubt to people you’ve just met seems generous, but can actually be unhelpful. Instead, you can choose to extend your grace to those who actively demonstrate consideration for you.
How someone handles rejection tells you a lot about them. Pay attention.
Remaining grateful for life will carry you through pain.
If you regularly abandon yourself, you will have a hard time trusting others. Start inside, be someone you can trust.
Many people talk about the kind of partner they want without embodying those traits themselves. If you desire peace in a relationship but you are not demonstrating that peace, you are just looking for someone to fill the void of what you lack. Start inside.
Pay more attention to the ingredient list than the calorie content.
Just three deep breaths a day reduces cortisol in the body.
I still feel fear, but I have gradually gained confidence in moving forward alongside my fear.
I also can’t control anything. I’ve given up. I’m finding ways to enjoy the ride.
None of us are ever too old for an Easter Egg Hunt.
Whenever you need to, you can close your eyes and take a moment. Life is strange and wonderful.
I’ve never regretted spending money on picture frames.
Take the time to discover who you are and dare yourself to accept all of it.
Once I began to love myself, I wanted to be close to people who loved me too.
Sometimes the most exciting part of my day is my after-lunch cup of tea. Don’t feel sorry for me. This truly excites me.
Do not let your grandparents become forgotten.
Try something new and be okay with being bad at it.
I am unlucky in games of chance, but I get excited to keep trying. My biological grandpa was a gambling addict.
I might not be interested in something, but it quickly becomes interesting when someone I love is interested in it.
Spoil someone you care about.
Let someone spoil you.
It truly is less about the words and more about the actions.
Integrity is aligning the two.
When I picture my highest self, I picture warmth.
I love that I am quick to laugh and I love this quality in others.
I think Ann Patchett has convinced me to write a novel (…not personally, but, through her writing).
Challenge yourself to come off auto-pilot and often. What do you notice around you?
Move through the world as someone who is ready to help a stranger with directions, with their bags, with a smile.
You can actually talk to the people who take your coffee order. Interact. Connect.
Having compassion for yourself while simultaneously holding yourself accountable is going to do more for your self-care than a hydrating face mask.
An apology is an act of strength, not shame.
“Time is money” is most often used by people who feel that their time is too valuable to give away. But that’s what makes it the best gift.
We so often want the quick fix. The solution. The medicine instead of the prevention. Slow down, examine the roots. Tend to them.
Being sensitive doesn’t always feel like a superpower, but it is.
We are losing the ability to live with discomfort. Technology and the modern age aim to make everything easier, quicker, more available. And we have more power than ever- the exact song we want to hear, the next upgrade we absolutely need. And then we begin dating someone new or we start a new job and there are unknowns and question marks and imperfections and we don’t know how to proceed and dig deeper. There is true beauty to be found in the discomfort, for it also means discovery.
Be curious. Ask questions. Don’t stop when you think you know enough. You never will. Each day is an opportunity for wonder and what a gift it is to live in awe. To live at all.
italy: february 2023
Sunday, March 24th, 2024
Just over one year ago, I travelled to Italy with my friend Noah. Having prioritized travel with the boyfriends of my twenties, it had been far too long since I had been on an adventure with a friend. And now I can still look at these photos fondly, without a hint of grief or remorse for the romantic relationship lost. What a concept.
We flew into Rome and celebrated Valentine’s Day in the pink glow of sunset. The Trevi Fountain was bigger and more magical than I remembered, the Colosseum was breathtaking and we couldn’t stop walking by the Pantheon. Literally. Noah’s mom asked us over the phone, “Have you seen the Pantheon yet!?” We laughed. Yes we had, we couldn’t STOP seeing the Pantheon, it actually would be nice NOT to see the Pantheon. We walked through the gardens at the Villa Borghese and took a guided tour through the museum. This was a first for me and ended up being one of the highlights of the whole trip. Noah didn’t even mind when I broke the rules and climbed a stone wall to get a photo of the blooming daffodils. Anything for the shot. Especially of gardens.
Florence was next and it was all wood smoke and rosemary. These scents followed us around the city as we lined up for cured meat sandwiches and marvelled at the Duomo. Noah loved the energy in Rome, but there was something about Florence that appealed to me. It felt rustic and cozy and I was extremely grateful to be visiting in the wintertime. I would recommend it to anyone. We visited the Boboli Gardens far too near closing time and ended up getting verbally harassed by the repetitive loudspeaker announcement to kindly, get the fuck out. Desperate for the shot (again), I ducked into a small forest path and began to run, at my fullest speed, away from the guard. It didn’t work- she blew her whistle at me and I relented. But, we returned a second time because it really was that beautiful. After this second visit, we popped into a small paper store near the entrance and that is where I found the journal that I would write in for months to come. The source of the inspiration behind launching the journal on the blog at all. I will always be grateful to Florence for that.
Orvieto was our final stop and something we booked a bit last minute, while we were still in Rome. We knew that we wanted some sort of small town at the end of the trip, something to contrast the experiences in Rome and Florence. Then a friend of Noah’s insisted on Orvieto and we found the loveliest apartment belonging to a family who had lived there for generations. Booked, immediately. And honestly, it was perfect. Little Orvieto was nestled among sprawling green hills that turned golden in the sun. Climbing up the old bell tower rewarded us with a glute workout and one of the most stunning vistas of my entire life. We took a bottle of wine to watch the sunset over these hills and were treated to a free show from the local birds swooping in formation across the warm sky. We shook our heads in disbelief at the magic, and I still do, even now. It’s amazing how travel can give you those serendipitous moments that confirm you are indeed in the right place, at the right time.
The whole experience did feel very wonderful and fated. I have more of a propensity towards the “woo-woo” than Noah does, but even she could not ignore the countless times we saw repeated numbers. Everywhere. The book that I read on the trip, The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O’Farrell (excellent by the way), is set in Florence and explores the life of Lucrezia de Medici. I saw her sister’s portrait hanging in the Uffizi. And when I finished that book on the plane ride home, the final page was 333. I am not quite sure what these things were trying to tell me, but maybe it was that my priorities were finally more aligned. I was decentering romantic love from its position at the core of my entire life and instead, began investing in myself and in my friendships. I finally faced the heartbreak that had occurred about five months prior and had been willfully ignored. I began to write more frequently and took photos for no other reason than pure pleasure and inspiration. I look back on that time and see all the healing, even more than I was aware of at the time. I remember writing on one train ride that my heart was broken and sad and something about that simple acknowledgement began to set it free. Now, one year later, I am choosing the photos that I want to frame and I have nearly filled the journal from Florence. Only a few more lined pages remain empty in a book that chronicles a year of massive growth and healing and a returning to self. Beautiful things that all started with a good friend, several glasses of wine and countless laughs in the cobblestone streets and gardens of Italy.
journal 08: possibility
Sunday, March 17th, 2024
It is mid-March and I’ve been thinking a lot about possibility. And the things that come with it. Wonderful things like dreams, excitement, novelty. And the things that don’t feel so great- fear, worry, doubt.
It is no small coincidence that as I sit in bed writing this, I notice a quote written on the chamomile tea bag that dangles from my mug. “There is pleasure in the pathless woods.” Lord Byron. I let it steep for a few minutes and add honey and milk for a touch of sweetness. And calm. It can feel a bit paralyzing to be without a path, or perhaps, to be on a different one than you thought you might be. This kind of uncertainty hardly feels pleasurable, but maybe it can be. And lately that’s what I’ve been thinking about.
How can we embrace possibility with more trust? With more faith? With more thoughts of all the things that could go right, instead of worries for the things that could go wrong? Like most things in life (I am learning), I think it begins alongside a deep belief in self. I am starting to feel a certain freedom in allowing for the unfolding, however it may be. As long as I show up authentically and follow the direction that inspires, the direction that warms, the direction that supports, I will be walking along a wonderful path of my own making. And this will not be a path without its challenges or detours because while that might be steady, it wouldn’t be very human. But it will be beautiful because it offers learning. And unlearning. And relearning.
This humanness is what has inspired me through these last few months of winter. I love how we try, how we reach for things, how we fall and get back up. How we move closer to someone else by finding their lips. How we move along, all things considered. Our courage and our frailty in equal measure. And now spring approaches so we get ready to bloom. It is the perfect season to embrace the gift of possibility and to welcome new life. New beginnings. New paths that don’t even exist yet in the pathless woods. But ones that we will create by putting one foot in front of the other, slowly but surely. Forging our own ways, unique ways. Along these paths, we choose discovery over certainty. We find beauty in what is unfinished. And we believe in the most wonderful of human capacities-to wonder and to love.
* * *
December 23rd, 2023
I am writing on the plane. I asked my dad for his air sick bag and enjoyed the micro-expression of panic that flashed across his face. But I just want to write and my journal is stowed away. Plus writing in this way allows for the mess of grainy thoughts. It is difficult to be precious when you are writing on a bag that typically contains vomit. But I like the immediacy of it.
This time of year feels merry and bright. We spend too much money on gifts and fill plates with rich food and glasses with wine. But these are just ways to overdo the sentiment of I Love You. We are blessed to be able to give and we give in spades. It would be enough to hold each other but we have all of these other ways to love and so we do.
The couple behind me leans their heads together as they sleep. It’s their way of finding each other there too, that soft place beyond waking. The way we love each other gradually becomes something we no longer think about. The couple beside me touch each other with a sort of reflexive frequency. A hand on the knee, shoulders turned towards each other in conversation. Fingers intertwined. The way we reach for each other from our bodies and our hearts while our minds rest. I am often told that commitment is a choice to demonstrate effort with intention. I believe that to be true. But I am still inspired by this very unconscious quality of physical love, this very human reaching. This dreamy recognition of who it is we love and the half-asleep desire to be close. The way we surrender to it completely.
The word “surrender” has been following me around lately. Maybe that’s the quality of love I have been yearning for. That soft part in me choosing and being chosen, moving towards someone like breathing. Love that requires both conscious effort, and the human something that takes absolutely no thought at all.
February 24th, 2024
I am happy to be questioning, wondering if this path is truly mine instead of walking aimlessly. I want to walk down any kind of path as long as my eyes stay open.
March 9th, 2024
He was worried to give them to me with so many buds and too few blooms. I didn’t mind. I really loved them. The promise of the unfolding to come. And unfold they did. Within a couple of days, the careful buds broke open with a determined bravery and the petals stretched out in relief. The stems snaked this way and that and they too seemed to open further under the weight of the proud blooms. It was endearing that he worried but the gift of these buds felt sweeter. It takes a bit of patience to wait, being reminded that each living thing follows its own time. And it takes a certain stillness to notice this. I just had to swap out impatient anticipation for calm faith.
When he gave me a bouquet of buds, he gave me a dozen little possibilities. Each one unfinished but perfect. And ready to share, like a gift, all the beauty held within. Not as a choice, but an imperative. A purpose. A way of being.
March 14th, 2024
The people I view as most successful in their creative approach are those who don’t waver so much in their belief in themselves. People who can make a mistake without the immediate plunge into a spiral of shame and doubt. Instead, they treat their mistake as simply just that. A mistake. Proof of being human. And an opportunity for greater learning for those who are brave enough to accept it.
I spent a long time treating my mistakes as confirmation of my unworthiness. Signs of my deep inadequacies. And cue the comparison game- this person is busier, this person makes more money, this person is ahead of me. This person is better. I was the toughest person on myself and I’d catastrophize when I couldn’t see the complete big picture. I would forget the small steps that make up the journey. The small wins and the small moments of learning- together they made something pretty big. Still, only the failures felt big. And what a shame! To live in fear. Because at the end of the day, that’s all it is. Trembling, desperate fear. I wouldn’t say I live without fear now, far from it. But when it inevitably rears up and begs me to follow it down the spiral, I just take a deep breath and ask it to walk with me along the path. Sure enough, it gets tired after a few steps and I walk on ahead.
It is so important that you, the creative person, believe in yourself and trust your voice and celebrate your uniqueness. Through all of it. You are going to waste so much time picking yourself back up from your own self-criticism. And all of that time is simply better spent creating a whole lot more of your magic.
journal 07: warmth
Sunday, February 18th, 2024
Every new year begins with all the momentum of a fresh start and every year it takes me about three days to remember, it’s January. There is actually not much momentum at all for me in the first few months of the year. The weather outside is grey and cold and the holiday parties that crammed December create a very solitary month in comparison. Photographing families quiets down in favour of warmer weather to come and I have more time to rest, reflect and tackle some bigger items on the to-do list (such as a much-needed website update in the works).
I am grateful for this opportunity to retreat inwards as much of nature does during this time. And unsurprisingly, in one of life’s many beautiful contradictions, I have found this to be the warmest time of all. Food is made at home and piping hot. Candles are lit as snow falls outside. The social calendar gives way to time at home filled with crafts, books and play. And in this warmth, there are the people who make it even warmer. Brighter. Filling the gaps of a lonely month with friendship and intimacy.
And then it’s February and Valentine’s arrives and we all celebrate love. And I thought about warmth even further. What creates warmth, what facilitates its arrival? What ensures that it is felt? To me, it always comes back to connection. They walk hand in hand and in typical chicken/egg fashion, I am not sure which comes first. Only that they work together. The best places and people on this earth feel warm to me and it’s this joy of connection that breeds deep closeness.
There are a few more weeks of winter and a few more weeks of inviting some warmth into your home. Get curious about the people around you. Show genuine interest, intentionally so. Demonstrate care and kindness as often as you can. Serve food from the oven and linger a little longer when the plates are empty. Connect. Winter invites a sort of slowing down and perhaps when we do, we will spend that extra time looking at all the beautiful things around us. Taking notice and sharing what we find with others. It all lives in the present, right here, in the snow and the warmth.
* * *
January 3rd, 2024
First journal entry of the new year. First time writing 2024. That was the second.
I have been thinking of the concept of manifesting, of the things I’ve been feeling drawn towards, things I’ve been dreaming of in these dream-like days. Between orgasms and naps, between cups of tea that grow cold. Movies I check off my list. Thoughts that interrupt the books I am reading.
January 11th, 2024
I love the sounds as I place my book on my nightstand, done reading for the night. The wire-rimmed glasses fall to the side with a light clink. The hardcovers stack on top of each other with a muted thud. The lid clicks into place on the pen. An acoustic vignette of a warm life. Beside my bed.
The world needs a quiet sort of artist. We also need grand artists, the same way we needed the brave few who sailed across the world in the name of discovery. We need big photographs of beautiful places. We need art that makes bold statements and asks even bolder questions. But, we also need the sort of everyday artist. The creatives who are going to look at their coffee cup and see the beauty of the world, who can see each day anew. People who remind others that beauty exists everywhere, in each moment. Sometimes my art feels quiet, and other times that is exactly what I love about it.
February 5th, 2024
I lost my pen, so I am writing with a dull pencil crayon on the train back from Montreal. Belly laughs, tears streaming down our faces as we drank local white wine in hotel bathrobes.
I feel so much support from these two. We talked about our “words”- one word that would best describe each of us. They told me how I see beauty everywhere, as if it’s my very existence. How I romanticize my life. Maggi called me bold. It is inspiring to celebrate friends in a more intentional way and to say it, out loud, so they can hear it.
Maddy offers so much validation and generously so. Complete excitement, genuine interest. She really champions people and is quick to care for others- to apologize, to compliment, to inquire, to celebrate. I admire how she shows up for the people in her life. Maggi is really finding her groove. She has this incredible spirit, this spice and a real humour and wit. I feel her stepping into her power and embracing who she truly is. I am proud of my friends.
February 15th, 2024
Yesterday was Valentine’s- one of my favourite days of the year. It always makes me laugh when people protest the celebration of such a “Hallmark” holiday. Sure it might be completely commercialized, but it is also just a marked occasion of celebrating love in all of its forms. And I can’t really imagine fighting too hard against that.
February 16th, 2024, morning
I will be visiting my sister in Bermuda in less than a week. People acknowledge each other on the street. When you walk into a store, you engage in conversation before any kind of business. It is considered rude if you do not. And I am glad because that is rude. When did it become so ordinary to ignore one another? To not care for one another, about one another? I can always tell when someone’s greeting is just a quick formality en route to a favour or request. And some people just bypass that completely, launching into whatever self-centred idea prompted them to reach out. Time is money and we have stopped regarding kindness as valuable currency.
afternoon
I think of him often and how he kissed me well and held my wrist as he slept. I am happy in those small moments when I can run my fingertips through his curly hair, my touch willing his busy mind to remain still, with me. In the quiet we find each other with ease. We are better bodies than minds. He stirs awake and lives a rich life in the stories of his own making and I’m still here in this bed, in this body waiting to be picked apart and unravelled. I wish he would come to me, probing and curious. I want this man to learn me, to be hungry with questions and very tender with the answers. His mind is brilliant but I want to be seen as I am and he fills in all of my unknowns with his own creations. I become part desire, part fear and part him. His thoughts carry him away and he talks to me when he wants to be heard and I wonder where it is that I exist. I can’t find myself in the stories he makes of me.
journal 06: 2023
Sunday, December 31st, 2023
What can I say about 2023 other than it cracked me open?
I started the year with a little residual heartbreak, some fear and a few big feelings that didn’t really know where to go. I wrote, quite often, that I had trouble showing these feelings and then five months later, published my first blog entry sharing my personal journal with the internet. A small shift.
That is one of my favourite parts about journaling- it acts as a sort of time capsule. The stories and feelings of my life preserved. You will read an entry below from the spring where I close my eyes to picture this sort of safe space where I might be able to exist fully and by the end of the year, I write that I am living it. On my birthday, I reflected that my biggest accomplishment is, in fact, myself. The healing, the becoming. And there is nothing truer than that.
I wrote about change and how absolutely overwhelming it is. How destructive. I understand why people feel tempted to avoid it, to remain on auto-pilot, to not question things too deeply. But at the same time, I also do not think that is the solution. I lived over half of my life in pain inflicted by people who could not change, would not change. They would rather choose pain 1000 times over because it was what they knew. That was never going to be me and I set out to find what I did not know- beautiful things like acceptance and self-love and growth. And now I want to keep going. And I will. I will this next year and for as long as I have because life is more full when you live as yourself. Discovering new bits, unearthing, sharing, connecting.
I would be lying if I hadn’t stopped to wonder if this was all one big over-share. I also wondered why I wanted to share these entries in the first place. I still don’t really have the answer, but I am proud of myself. I have always felt things deeply- my father still shares stories of me as a child reacting intensely, sensitively to the emotions of others around me. I do also enjoy looking deeper into things- taking them apart, finding the root, the meaning. I did not always love this about myself and some days, I still needlessly worry that it’s too much. But if there is one thing I am leaving behind in 2023, it’s just that. Those limitations we place on ourselves, those small denials of self that slowly eat away at our authenticity. I read my journal and I see a woman who looks at a cup of tea and tears up at the beauty of life and honestly, god bless her. God. Bless. Her. And her flourishing tea addiction. It isn’t difficult for me to access gratitude and wonder and I love that about myself.
And that is the point from which I will enter 2024. Loving myself as I exist fully as myself, including those bits that I worry others won’t like, understand, or accept. Only I need to love them and because I do, I feel excitement to connect with the people and the places that will love them too.
Thank you for visiting this page and for reading along with tenderness and curiosity. This is a journal of big changes, big feelings and big gratitude for this beautiful life and I wish you all a very happy new year.
Hilary Victoria Dean
* * *
January 19th
I struggle with showing bigger feelings. I struggle with voicing displeasure. But I no longer want to swallow discomfort like a pill.
I am sowing seeds for the year, for my life. A quiet garden in January.
February 21st
Writing from our little upstairs kitchen in Orvieto. We watched the sun set behind sprawling green hills, birds soaring and swooping around us before disappearing from sight completely. We felt magic.
I woke up to make tea and sit at the kitchen table. I have a knit layered over my nightgown and my new Florentine scarf layered over that. The hosts even have a vintage tea cup for me to drink from. The thatched chair creaks as I shift, but it is mostly quiet. Aside from the pigeon cooing outside. Or maybe it’s a morning dove. Noah and I have discussed googling the difference, because we are exciting. Thank goodness for traveling with friends.
This little town makes me happy.
April 22nd
I think you have to be okay with disappointing people- the right ones will stick around and will give the space to be flawed, to be whole, to be imperfectly human. I close my eyes to picture it. A safe space through mistakes, conflict, success, joy. A fullness of experience not diminished by shame.
May 15th
Three hours on the phone that one night.
After a long pause, he asked me about my life. “What do you want?”
I laughed and demanded, “Be more specific.”
Laughing too, he answered, “No.”
Self-Portrait, April
May 19th
A baby bird learning how to fly almost crashed into me. Everyone at the tables around me noticed and we all laughed and forgave the little thing instantly. It is learning something important that will last its whole life. Some mistakes are to be expected.
The birds are actually quite aggressive back here. They have learned of the croissants and the butter tarts, which I would choose over bird seed as well.
June 21st
Summer solstice. To speak of such desire openly can feel vulnerable after years of trying to quiet it down.
I have always known I deserved beautiful things- love, safety, calm. But even so, that doesn’t guarantee you know what to look for. That doesn’t ensure you will know it when you see it. Instead, you keep recognizing the thing that is familiar to you, even if the thing is bad. To give up this framework in favour of the truths you will discover yourself. Scary. Who can admit three decades into their life that they may not know themselves as they thought they did? So do it now. There is no right time. There is only time you waste living a life that was defined for you by someone else.
This solstice I give it all to myself and ask for it from this beautiful world around me. I ask for it because I believe it is out there. I believe because that is the life I have chosen for myself.
Self-Portrait, August
September 15th
32. And my biggest accomplishment is myself. My becoming, or rediscovering of me. I am grateful I have been able to feel this shift and travel down this path. Ready to learn, make mistakes, feel the fire, yearn for more and soften into it all.
May this year ahead show me how life opens up when I am unafraid to embrace myself, to dream and to love fiercely.
Happy birthday to me.
September 25th
Home from five days in Bermuda. My sister made things so special- presents wrapped, homemade cards, a cake. The nieces tore through it all in under ten minutes, rushing what I would have wanted to be slow and intentional. The way of kids- the immediacy. The gift of loving adults to gradually teach them patience. The gift they give us, bringing the excitement. Balance. I wore my new birthday dress to blow out my candles. I wished for great love, as I always do. And I feel it, in the tight grip of my nieces’ hands. 20 small fingers, resting on my leg or intertwining in the webbing of mine. They seem to find me, always.
Photograph by Madeleine Dalkie
October 30th
We met when I was on a first date with someone else. His friend to be specific. My date dutifully introduced me around and then stationed himself down the bar, not so dutifully. And so this friend started to talk to me which I appreciated. I didn’t know anyone and I thought that was kind. And he had a big smile. A warm smile. And when I got excited by the song that came on, we danced. And after this first date didn’t make it past date number two, it made me laugh to wonder if I could ever find this nice friend with the warm smile who danced with me when I didn’t know anybody.
That was last October and this July, the friend and I did meet again, at the same bar. But being a few drinks in, we didn’t realize it right away. Still, we found each other again and ended up on a date later that week. I pieced it all together by date number three but didn’t bring it up until date number four, and he had pieced it together even earlier but played dumb until about date number ten. Then it came out that he had known and that he had felt the same about me on that first night, but had written me off in favour of being a good friend.
And in the weeks that followed, I would think of this coincidental or fated meeting as our personalities clashed and old wounds revealed themselves. It wasn’t seamless and I worried about it not being seamless and my mind only quieted down when I was next to him laughing or nestled into my favourite spot between his neck and white t-shirt. This man is magnetic (having drawn me in for the first time twice) and pulls me into his strong arms, one of which is covered in tattoos. And his smile is warmer still and sometimes betrays an inner tenderness. I know that’s not easy for him. And sometimes it’s not easy for me to be so soft with something much harder. Maybe I will read this journal back in a few weeks or months and realize I knew our fate long before I was willing to admit it.
Maybe I have trouble loving what is so different, replacing the need to discover with the propensity to control. Maybe he has been hurt and his fears transform into self-fulfilling prophecies that extinguish the possibility of growth from new life.
Change isn’t this delicate thing. It needs to overwhelm in order to transform. It has to destroy what was in order to make room for what will be. It isn’t easy to feel your needs deeply and ask if they could please be met. It isn’t always easy to walk away if the answer is no. But I have never minded something being difficult, if I feel it is right.
Photograph by Madeleine Dalkie
November 13th
I feel so much hope. I feel things coming. Pride in my work, in my photography, that confidence that I have something special to say. Because I do.
Today I took a self-portrait in a different style, immediately frustrated that I didn’t edit it as well as I thought. Perfectionism. I played, I tried, created something new. Good for me. What else will I create when I don’t fear such critical thoughts?
November 23rd
He often felt like a stranger to me. Not unfamiliar per se- we talked all day every day- but strange. That first time seeing each other after weeks or months during our long distance love always had a little of the uncanny. And he didn’t like that assessment. I don’t blame him. It doesn’t sound too flattering. But I think his goodness was strange to me. His softness. He might have felt more familiar if he was less kind. But his heart was disarming and although I called him a stranger, I should have celebrated his newness. I should have told him it was a compliment. You feel like a stranger because your love is consistent. I would have known exactly what to do if you pulled away.
Self-Portrait, December
December 14th
I love, without any hint of irony, the word searches online that ask you to observe which words you find the quickest. This one represented your four words of 2024. I found:
Family
Alignment
Creation
Breakthrough
December 21st
Winter solstice. Shortest day of the year. The one with the most darkness.
I finished my egg and cheese sandwich that I make for lunch most days now. I loaded the yolk-stained plate in the dishwasher and said to no one in particular that it was something special. I filled the kettle for my afternoon tea and thought about how much these little daily tasks mean to me. If it all ended this instant, I would miss making another cup of tea. Toasting another piece of bread. Washing another dish. How warm it is. How simple.
December 29th
It is not self-indulgent to love yourself. To think you are incredible. Special. Full of magic. We seem to teach children to be proud of themselves and their uniqueness. We sat around the Christmas table, smiling as my youngest niece listed off her positive attributes. When my sister and I did something similar, my father brightly quipped that we were “full of ourselves”. That is his limitation, not mine, the effects of which have not been beautiful in his life. Where along the way does this get lost? Why do we teach children to love themselves, but expect adults to dislike themselves? Or at the very least, dim themselves?
Loving myself has been the root of everything else in my life, a shift that unfortunately only really happened in the last few years. But it’s always sounded so cliché, hasn’t it? Love yourself before you can love someone else. That sentiment has felt a bit limiting to me. We all deserve to love and be loved and if healing and growing is a lifelong pursuit, we couldn’t possibly assign an arbitrary point where someone reaches their capacity to love. That seems to continue this idea of love as something to attain, to strive for, to be greater for. Instead of simply by being our imperfect selves.
But recently it’s taken on a new meaning to me. Because I feel special, I feel when someone deems me to be ordinary, or even, replaceable. Because I value my time, I feel when someone does not respect it. Because I am consistent with myself, I feel that infamous hot/cold sensation when someone is inconsistent with me. And these things feel uncomfortable. It is my new normal to be loved and appreciated and anything less produces a very tangible discomfort. And more so, I have lost interest in participating in that classic song and dance to change someone’s mind. To win someone over. The people pleaser’s performance to prove to another that we are worthy and awesome. Just wait, I’ll show you. You’ll see, eventually. At some point. Hopefully.
This year I have spent time with friends and family who love me. I hang out with them and leave feeling awesome, and also, inspired by them in turn. Mutual admiration and support. To be adored for being myself is now the beautiful standard. It is no longer this faraway, mythical, glittering thing. It is my life now and it is so real I can practically hold it in my hands. It’s a new start with new possibilities. Loving myself opened up my life.
Where will I explore, now that I can always come home to the love and safety in myself? Who will I connect with, now that loving reciprocity is the foundation? Who am I, now that I am not scared of the answer? What do I want, now that I believe I deserve it?
at-home: Madeleine Dalkie
Sunday, November 19th, 2023
When you walk into Maddy’s apartment, you will first notice the high ceilings. From there, you may notice the light streaming through the large living room windows, or perhaps the rich colours in the rug. If you have a hard time keeping plants alive, you will notice that hers are thriving. And that she has a lot of them. And then undoubtedly, you will notice the host herself. Smiling, warm and dressed both casually yet elegantly, she will welcome you in and ask you what kind of cocktail you’d like. I choose a gin martini.
Maddy always had an interest in the building and then serendipitously found a spot available. And it feels like her. Art fills the walls- various pieces she has collected over the years and found in her travels. A large bookshelf is packed with titles that I can’t wait to peruse and beside that stands an easel with recent sketches and works in progress. Across the room there is a gorgeous antique table and you can feel all the dinner parties that she likes to throw, with friends gathering around for good wine and homemade food. A playlist queues up Leon Bridges and The Eagles and as I take another sip of gin from the vintage glassware, I notice that she doesn’t even have a TV. She really is that cool.
She curls up on the couch with ease, tucking one leg under the other in the vintage jeans she found in New York. This piece of furniture is the epicentre of the apartment, the place where she edits photographs, reads and eats dinner most nights. It is plush and soft and perfectly contrasts the antique ammunition case that serves as the coffee table in front of it. Every piece in the apartment has a story and I am tempted to ask for a second perfectly-crafted cocktail and hear about all of them. But I have to be on my way and so I say goodbye and invite myself back for one of Maddy’s dinner parties. She is exceedingly generous and so she laughs off this presumption, extends the invitation and bids me farewell. Each time I hang out with Maddy, I leave feeling both inspired and grounded and seeing her at home just amplifies this completely. This friend of mine who is art and creativity and curiosity and pleasure, and who has built a home to match.
Maddy is on Instagram with her photography @madeleine.dalkie
journal 05: egg salad
October 29th, 2023
October 24th, 2023
I stand over the garbage can peeling the crumbling shells off boiled eggs and I wonder how many she used to peel. My Nana, with her elegant hands, long fingernails, hair swept up in a working bun. In her kitchen peeling eggs. It must have been a lot. It must have taken a few eggs to feed me and my sister, my mother and father, my Grampy and herself. Especially considering two of us were ravenous kids and four of us worked up an appetite on the drive to Goderich. We would plan a visit and she would peel eggs.
She always ordered bread and donuts from the local bakery and Grampy would take a walk to get them for her. It was just down the street and across the octagonal town square. An easy walk for a lifelong farmer.
Those eggs were mixed with mayonnaise and cans of tuna were mixed with mayonnaise and both were sandwiched between slices of bread. We would arrive and talk and eat egg salad sandwiches and even though they were simple, they were made by Nana and that made them special.
I peel four eggs until they are soft and white in my hand, each small piece of shell carefully discarded, and I add them to a ceramic dish to be mixed with mayonnaise. But I will wait until morning to spread them on bread. As fresh as they can be before I make the drive. And I will remember to cut the crusts off her portions.
Time makes me laugh, well and often. It keeps moving and yet things repeat themselves, only the order is different. Now I make food for my Nana. Now I peel the eggs and feed her. It is both my turn and my privilege.
A few visits ago, she complimented my egg salad. This was obviously high praise and yet this very thing came from her. We never shared a kitchen, but each of those childhood visits spent eating egg salad sandwiches remained with me. And now those precious moments of memory have evolved into a beloved ritual. This egg salad will always be hers and ours, it could never just be mine. And it will be shared again and again. In this way we practice care. It is our legacy to love each other.
October 25th, 2023
As we said goodbye at the end of our visit- a quiet afternoon in her room- she looked up at me and asked, “We will have another escapade soon, won’t we?” I nodded of course. I love her sense of humour. I love that she called it an escapade. My heart swells and breaks at the same time, filled with an impossibility that can’t be named grief, but love. Or perhaps life.
She’ll call it an escapade. I’ll call it a picnic. And I’ll bring the egg salad.
journal 04: summer
August 27th, 2023
Summer is always an interesting season for me.
It burns hot and runs fast. The days are long and filled with possibility and the short nights bring little relief to that familiar feeling of desire. It’s a season that annually knocks me off balance and before I know it, I have stayed in the sun too long, drank too many glasses of wine and wondered where it all went.
Every summer I try to remember that desire is to be enjoyed. I try to make room for this longing under the length of my tanned skin, cooling it off every so often with a swim, an ice cream, a nap in the shade. But without fail every year, I give in to this desire completely and summer becomes the season in which I, like Icarus, fly too close to the sun.
I am trying to remember that this very human thing burns within me and it means I hope, I yearn. I am trying to welcome it. I am trying to appreciate it. I am trying to feel it without demanding more from it. Without expecting relief. Without expecting the heat to break.
June 2nd, 2023
Siting outside with the sun above me, writing over shadows on paper. The leaves dance with the breeze and my words do not hold them in place. The reflections still sway, another art form in itself. Writing these thoughts of mine over a thousand flecks of light and dark.
I want to be loved by someone who makes it feel easy.
June 3rd, 2023
It was a good shoot today. They were generous with each other. Kind. At ease and yet so completely active in their affection. Intentional in their praise. The gift of what I do, or one of them, is bearing witness to love like this. For those who doubt its existence, I have a front row seat. The loneliness that has settled in recently, the desire to be touched. Today gives me hope.
When I am around these families, I suppose I feel envy. But not in the way that feels dark, desperate, or lacking. Instead, this brings the reminder that great love is out there. It brings a sense of fullness and some relief. It is unmistakable in its warmth. Envy in this way can and should be inspiring. It reminds you what you truly value in this life, what your heart calls to. I am so excited for them, for their baby to be born into such love. And I am so excited to find it myself and to be around it, not just for the couple hours of a shoot. But for a lifetime. For someone to look at me and see light.
It seems like one of the greatest things we can do is share our love so that others may feel it.
July 10th, 2023
An ex-boyfriend told me how I moved through life with ease. A former boss described me as unflappable on the company website. Well-meaning clients have remarked on the seamless transition of photography from my hobby to my entire career. And as a little kid, of course, I was the joy to have in class, the old soul, the child wise beyond her years.
These are all beautiful compliments but in my heart I know that any perceived ease is actually a series of intentional choices full of effort and that the people who hold it all together themselves often had no other choice. To choose gratitude and to see beauty every day is a practice in itself. To keep choosing life above all no matter what.
It feels lonely to never be seen needing.
July 12th, 2023
I received a message yesterday from a client who I have worked with since their first newborn baby. They are about to have their third girl and will want me to take photos. This is the gift, the passion. This stopping of time, but also bridging of time. This very human need to remember. We even want to remember things that haven’t happened yet. To hold onto them perhaps and then to experience them again and again.
We look at photos of ourselves from times that our brains can’t even recall- there I was in my sister’s arms in the hospital where I was born. I don’t remember it, but there I was. Proof. This story-telling of a life full of moments we both remember and do not remember. These photos, these beautiful things that outsmart and outlast memory, and how clever we humans are at finding ways around our own infallibilities.
August 8th, 2023
So far August is a lot cooler than July. In the breezes. In the sweaters worn in early mornings. In the quiet hinting of fall.
August 16th, 2023
My longing has always scared me a little. Does everyone yearn like this or is it just me? Insatiable at times. Or so it has felt. Or so I have been told to feel.
His fear empties him. Courage in love brings abundance.
August 23rd, 2023
I saw a shooting star last week. The exact moment I looked up at the sky. Not star-gazing, just perfect timing. I wished for what I always wish for and I am superstitious enough to not write it here, even in my own journal. But I’m thinking it. I’m feeling it.
I am sick and it is raining and the weather recently has made us all think of fall. Only one more week of August. One more week of summer that I am forced to take more slowly than all the ones before. A blessing in disguise.
I am not sure what I learned this summer, if anything. It never feels like a season of introspection for me. It moves too fast. I disconnect from myself in the heat, in the unrelenting pace.
But after this summer and all of its indulgences and unbalanced schedules and late nights, I feel more at home in my dreams. Almost like the very heat of summer burned strong enough for me to realize they are not too big. I want and I want and I want more. And it is okay to be seen wanting more. My desire simply shows me where I have more room to grow. My courage takes me there. And on a hot summer night, a single shooting star falls through the sky like a prayer to make sure it all comes true.
journal 03: questions
Sunday, June 11th, 2023
Every so often, I find journaling challenges online. They offer various prompts and questions and only ask that you find a few minutes once a day to put pen to paper. It is a great way to ensure you visit your journal, especially when inspiration wanes and you notice that it’s been catching dust.
I wrote these responses last year.
What is self-compassion? How do you practice it?
Self-compassion is grace. It seeks to understand instead of to blame, shame or cut down. It is generous in its appraisals. I am not really sure that I knew which self to be compassionate to, let alone how to practice it. I have had to discover myself first and foremost- unearth all the bits, particularly the unsavoury bits that were hiding afraid. I have found a voice inside, or perhaps not found but found again? Quieted everything else so that I was able to listen. That to me feels like compassion. To give the self space to come forward and to trust in it completely. To love into courage, to listen into expression and to follow… boldly, unreservedly, miraculously into something like the rest of your life.
What makes you feel like powerful? At ease? Like you have your life together?
What is “having your life together” anyway? You might think it is a destination you finally arrive at, something you achieve if you strive hard enough. Then life throws a curveball and changes everything. I am constantly reminded that I can’t have everything figured out. None of us can. All that matters to me is remaining brave as I go. All that matters to me is cultivating a safe place within myself and with the loved ones around me. All that matters to me is that we are committed to figuring it out together.
What do you need more of?
Compassion. Those who ask genuine questions. Those who are genuinely interested in the answers. Fries with mayo. Anything with mayo. Maybe a glass of wine with that. Dinner parties and potlucks. Community. Early morning movies where I sneak in tea and a croissant. White t-shirts that I steal from my dad because they somehow fit better than any I buy. And cheaper. Hugs from my nieces. Family shoots with babies. And toddlers. And extended families. Library books and vintage dresses- things that have lived an entire life before me and have stories to tell. To be treated with tenderness. To be kissed. To be touched where the touch gives and gives freely. To be cared for, not because I can’t do it myself, but because I can and have my whole life and because it is a kindness to take care of the things we love. Adoration. I want to be absolutely adored simply because I deserve it, but I really want this after I have been seen. In a very human way. I want someone to know me and to adore me and I need this to be something I can count on. Looking at this list and realizing how many things involve other people and although independence is a skill, we have always been meant to love each other.
If you could relive a moment in time, where would it be? With whom?
…Maybe I’d bring him back to age ten. He could see the magic of my family’s country home, the reason why I love a porch. The way you can turn up the music inside and hear it dance out through the open windows. We could play tennis and stay on the lookout for deer. Or maybe the blue heron that frequents the pond. We could pick lettuce and tomatoes from the garden for dinner and eat outside in that beautiful screened-in gazebo. How it had the perfect view of sunset over the hayfield. He could hear the things she said to me and then he could finally understand the way that I am, why I get quiet and retreat inside sometimes, why I worry. Why it feels that being myself always comes at a cost. And then we could leave, together. To find a porch and a garden of our own. To walk barefoot across the grass, hand in hand, towards something as safe as love.
Where do you hope to be? In one week? Six months? One year?
In one week, I hope to be feeling better. This flu-like sickness is abysmal. I am reminded of the blessing of health.
In six months…March of 2023…I hope to be even more connected to that voice inside. I hope the stillness of winter has allowed me to honour myself. I hope to have done more writing in my seasonal hibernation.
In one year, I hope to be filled with and surrounded by warm love. I hope to have partnerships that grow and nourish. I hope my house plants are still alive. I hope that I will be more myself with unabashed conviction. I hope all of this authenticity strengthens my art, my photography, my writing. I hope to give the gift of acceptance to others. Loving them for all that they are, being loved for all that I am. I hope I can quiet my mind a little more- notice the whirl of thoughts and let them pass. Live in the present, release attachment to outcomes, relinquish control. And be really proud, of all of it.
journal 02: mallorca
Sunday, May 21st, 2023
August 28th, 2022
It rained for the first time since May. An unforgiving storm with fat drops and the boom of thunder that echoed between the peaks. Afterwards, an ultimate quiet as mist rose up around the houses on the hill. The relentless deluge and then the calm. Mallorca lives in extremes. Rugged yet peaceful. Mountains and coves. Palm trees and pines. It is impossible not to feel inspired here. The fearless embodiment of all that one is and the unapologetic ferocity in showing it.
I feel at home here. Something else with so many contradictions.
August 29th, 2022
I will remember the way Mallorca smells.
The pine. The newness of smelling pine in the heat, but there it is. Unmistakable. Commanding. This is how the trees looked dotting the sides of the surrounding mountains. There is strength to be found here.
The sun drenches the herbs and the warm breeze carries their scent through the valley. It is fragrant. Even the heat has a smell.
I think about my life. It is hard not to do at the foot of a dozen mountains. A quiet challenge floats on the hot breeze, through the olive trees and across the turquoise waters. Down the mountainside and on the back of the horse Galette who walks slowly across the field every night for dinner. It finds me and asks me to be bold. To be strong like the houses of stone that stand cooly on the mountainside. To be passionate, like the first rain in months, enough to raise steam from the earth. To be kind, like the herbs that accept the hot sun in return for their sweet fragrance.
I will remember the way Mallorca smells because it is an invitation.
August 30th, 2022
The owner walks out to us at sunset, right as the day’s final rays are about to disappear behind the distant peak in the field of dry hay. He tells us that this place is healing and I believe him. He explains that every two weeks our cells die and are replaced, so we must forget what happened a year ago, we must keep moving, keep healing, keep honouring these new cells. Something deep inside me stirs, or maybe it is a lot of little somethings, old somethings, ready to be let go and left in this bed of hay and rock.
Are we growing new cells between us? Or are we what will be replaced.
September 2nd, 2022
It is September now. Ringing in the month, literally, to the sound of the sheep bells in the mountain beside our villa.
I wake to the day’s slow start and walk down to the kitchen for tea. Kitty is there, ready and mewing for her bowl of milk. We don’t have anything else to offer her but she seems thrilled. I do some dishes in the sink that overlooks the olive tree. Ants are crawling in through the open window and I notice other larger critters that have found their way in overnight. I have a few bites on my ankles. A small price to pay for visiting their most special home.
I take my tea upstairs to the terrace where I write. There is still a light mist across the mountain, evidence of how slowly the morning lingers here. Wasps buzz around my cup and I hear the whirr as I watch a bird, wings pinned back, diving down into the valley. It is teeming with life. Life that carries on around you, without you and all you can offer is the gift of observation. Except Kitty maybe. She has learned to mew for her milk.
September 3rd, 2022
He likes to shape things into his own experience. Comparisons. The roads here are like the roads in Greece. The trees like in his hometown. Maybe this is how he makes sense of new experiences, how he feels comfortable with what is unknown. How does he make sense of me? That which does not want to be like anything else.
September 4th, 2022
The mountains measure time differently. Measured in slow mornings, the sun rising at last over the steady peaks. Measured by the life that fills the valley below- only the most courageous birds dive down and the most skilful sheep climb up. Measured by the gradual wearing away, the creation of a new landscape entirely. By trees that grow sideways, roots clinging to the soil, trusting to be held in place. And they are, even in high mountain winds. Silent forces slowly at work, an earthy magnetism.
I think the mountains would understand us.
rose and sunday,
the journal
Sunday, April 30th, 2023
For years, I have carried a journal. It is my safe place to exist in my authentic mess.
Moments I now share here.
Read with care and with tenderness and as always, with a cup of tea. Milk and no sugar.
February 24, 2023
My morning hot chocolate habit from Italy is dying hard. I told myself I wanted this year to be about joy and so far I think I’ve listened. I’ve embraced pleasure more abundantly or maybe it just feels more abundant because I’ve shrugged off any shame or doubt with it. Pleasure, true pleasure is to be felt in the moment. I sit next to a man who is doing a crossword, both of us putting pen to paper and taking the time to sit and enjoy.
I saved a journal prompt that asked, “what does love feel like to you?” I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately and also my whole life. Love has meant everything, maybe because I craved it for so long. When I visited my Nana in November and we sat in an embrace, I felt love. Her long and delicate yet accomplished fingers stroking the hair from my face. Her pink, wrinkled lips pausing every so often to place a soft kiss on my forehead. I will always remember how that felt. An infinite moment. I think that’s what love can do.
Love used to be something that was earned and then clung to precariously. Up and down, in and out. I repeated this pattern for years to come, quite unknowingly. I denied depth and vulnerability to those close to me, yearning for intimacy while also so deeply fearful of it. That unavailability, that up and down was something I was used to. But recently that hasn’t felt so good. I can feel the distraction, the desperation. It feels hot and urgent and probably because it is- a high you know will pass soon. You want to feel it all while you can.
Recently I feel more calm in myself, so I notice these disruptions, these disturbances to the peace. Maybe first, I had to learn everything love was not.
“All this nonsense about love making you feel high, that’s not real. It should hold you like the earth.” -Coco Mellors
March 22nd, 2023
Lighter today. Still sad, there was still loss, still an end. Even things that “ended” months ago need our attention sometimes to truly let go.
Keep being myself always, with more compassion. I crave lightness. A few more days of winter- to hunker down and light candles and rest. In spring, I will bloom. One day at a time with all the tenderness to be able to say “I have no idea what I’m doing”.
April 5th, 2023
It is raining outside and my jeans are soaked through. Still, it was kind of fun to get caught in the downpour. I am grateful and ready for spring. Plus, my hot tea is steeping at the table. I am just waiting for milk. And then my eggs.
April 13th, 2023
It is sunny and will be 30 degrees today, in April. Everything feels out of balance, running too hot, struggling for equilibrium. A time of big emotions- loneliness, anger, disappointment, shame. Old wounds and big dreams for the future. I am burning up with it.
April 26th, 2023
In my dating experience (or perhaps entire life experience), I think one of the hardest things for people (including me) to learn is how to let the other exist in their fullest expression. Put simply, to allow another person to be themselves. To me that is what unconditional love is. I always struggled with that phrase- of course the act of loving has conditions- it demands communication, requires effort, asks for consistency. But I think it’s more that unconditional love places no conditions on someone’s soul. It allows the other to simply exist in all of their beautifully flawed nature. It shows the other that they can be safe to be unmeasured and messy. Authentic and raw. They will be accepted just as they are. They will even be loved.
I think this is hard for people, as it has been for me, because it is uncomfortable. There is inherent discomfort in giving someone the space to be themselves, knowing that within that space, you will get hurt. You will disagree. You will both make mistakes. It requires that you give up control and instead, observe. Listen. See. It requires you to let go of any preconceived notions you may have created about this person, about who they should be, about the kind of role they should fill. The kind of criteria they should meet. It dims the self and illuminates the other and what can feel more uncomfortable than shifting the focus off oneself, off the stories we so desperately cling to.
But it is necessary. I think of how many children felt shaped by their parents when they only wished to be seen. I think of all the times a lover smiled and sent praise up to my home on top of the pedestal I did not ask to be placed upon. To be so high up is to be lonely. We all exist down here.
And sometimes the pedestal suited me just fine. I placed others there too, to be admired, to be gazed upon. Not realizing the gaze is confinement. It sees only perfection. Its freedom-loving enemy, wholeness.
I am not sure if it takes more courage to see or to be seen, but both require a level of bravery that will only be rewarded in the absence of conditions. And the reward is your humanity. The well of compassion runs deep, its water the life force of the human heart. If you have loved another as they truly are, you know how energizing it is, how strong it makes you feel. How boundless. If you have been loved by another as you truly are, you know how safe it feels, how many possibilities open up to you, how deeply you want to explore yourself further.
I loved him in this way. Listening to his every story, I stayed curious. I bathed his past hardships in milk and sipped cups of tea while he travelled the world, seeking whatever it is he was seeking and running from whatever it is he was running from. I watched him expand in front of me, growing far beyond my first impression. I cherished each new part and he thanked me for the safety that he was not able to give me in return. He urged me to open up and did not like the answers, instead measuring my responses by how well they fit into the box he built to put me in. A box built around a person that would not make him uncomfortable. A box to hold a person within his narrative, who did not threaten with their audacity to make mistakes, to hold different views, to set boundaries. To manipulate and control give the illusion of power, while remaining the ultimate forms of weakness.
So I sit here in my softness after I woke up far too early and turned on the yellow lamp in the blue kitchen light of the morning. I turned on the kettle and made a cup of tea and remembered that he is gone, that he left when he decided that I did not fit the criteria of a person who would remain in his life. As if humans are so tidy. As if we exist to fit in, instead of grow, evolve, expand our souls into every moment of our short time here. He did not want me to grow and so he did not feed me love.
But I am hungry for love and for life and so I feed myself. My soul is already safe here humming in the kitchen, in this home of warmth and unconditional love, it need not seek outside. And my vulnerability is not the killer of true intimacy, but the creator.
I am expansive. The kindest people in my life celebrate that. The most hurt people in my life are uncomfortable with that. So I move towards the safety of those kind people and hope that anyone who hurts inside is able to heal enough to embrace the discomfort that comes with the fullness of life, of each other. I am so much better, so much stronger having loved him. Next time, I will be strong enough to welcome it in return.
“Yes, there is a place…where someone loves you both before…and after they learn what you are.” -Neil Hilborn
at-home: the Santos Family
Sunday, March 26th, 2023
I had photographed the Santos family a couple of times when Stephanie reached out about a midsummer shoot. She wrote to me that they had recently found and moved into their “forever home”- a beautiful Victorian in the sprawling hills of Peterborough- and she was eager to document a typical summer’s afternoon.
I was already excited because Steph’s style and general aesthetic is unparalleled in its beauty and as a fellow Virgo, I really appreciate her attention to detail. Not to mention, it was going to be a sunny summer day out of the city and in the rolling green hills, and nothing brings me greater joy than being in nature with my camera.
* * *
I pulled into the laneway and let out an audible sigh as I glimpsed the house on the hill for the very first time (and truthfully, I stopped my car to take a few shots). I drove up the winding drive and arrived to a very warm welcome into the most beautiful home and an offer of tea. Heaven.
We began with a few shots of the kids around the house- playing on their beds, showing me their impressive climbing skills and their even more impressive (and fearless) jumping down. They showed me their bursting bookshelves and took a seat to flip through their favourites. The upstairs stained glass window overlooks the laneway and this is where the kids sit and wait for a glimpse of Dad arriving home after work. I remember having my own seat where I waited for my dad and the nostalgia of it all pulled at me.
With a quick change, we were off into the backyard, the afternoon sun still bright but starting to dip behind the tall trees. It was one of the those perfect summer days, where the sunshine feels warm and dry and everything seems to hum quietly with heat. The kids were excited to be outside and eager to run around the yard, but they didn’t dare venture too far as they knew the barbeque had begun roasting their favourite lamb skewers.
With skewers in hand and salty juice dribbling down chins, a picnic was set-up in the front yard. The front of the house overlooks the surrounding hills and the view is something quite extraordinary. You almost don’t know whether to gaze at the gorgeous house itself, or turn around to see the verdant landscape behind. So I did both while the kids ate their fill of lamb and tired themselves out playing on the hill.
Our last stop of the shoot was the garden towards the back of the house. Rows of tomatoes and lettuces lined raised boxes and each kid was excited to personally taste the progress of their vegetables. If there is one thing I will never tire of… it’s children in gardens. And it was in this bountiful setting that Steph and Mike insisted I stay for dinner, where they served more grilled meat, fresh roasted veggies and chilled rosé. It was the most perfect summer afternoon filled with all the abundance of a warm family home and it was incredibly easy to see how the Santos’ can picture their forever in this wonderful place.
the shoot at-home
Sunday, March 19th, 2023
When organizing a shoot, clients almost always ask me for ideas about the location. If we are planning to shoot any time between May-November, chances are we will be taking advantage of the nice weather Ontario bestows upon us between bouts of winter. I have my favourite outdoor locations around the GTA and I will give clients a few options to determine what suits them the best. And then in the cold winter months when photography quiets down in general, those people still looking to commemorate life’s beautiful events are a bit more limited in location.
In-studio shoots have grown fairly rapidly across the city- new studios continue to pop up in airy lofts and refurbished industrial spaces. Sometimes these are decorated seasonally, but most often these studios are designed with white couches and coffee tables and artwork to mimic a beautifully minimal living space. And often these come with studio mini shoots- the chance to fit in a few families or individuals for portraits in 30 minutes or less. I do love studio spaces and will recommend my favourite ones in the city if the option appeals to the client. I think they can be especially beautiful for both maternity and branding shoots. And yes, I do understand the appeal of the mini shoot- a lower price point and shorter time commitment (which can be tempting given the attention span of the toddler).
But, they are not my favourite.
I am very fortunate to have photo albums full of memories from my childhood. My mother was such a talented photographer and captured everything, from weekend hikes to summer trips to everyday moments at the kitchen table. I have a few photographs framed in my apartment and they all have one thing in common- they were taken at home.
I consider my memory to be superior and still, it is a relief to know that I have the history of my life preserved in these photographs. I remember the apple tree in the background of the first house I lived in, but in photos, I see just how tall it was, how many blooms it held in the spring. I could never forget the floral upholstery of the couch that served as the epicentre of family life in the living room of our second house, in the country. But, I still have photographs of me sitting on it, during every birthday and on every Christmas morning for years. I have lived in my current apartment for the past eight years and I have taken self portraits each year. More art has been hung on the walls and more books pile on top of the coffee table and more flowers find their way into vases, somehow. And a few more wrinkles line my eyes. One day, I will be able to show my kids just how much their mom healed and grew as she lived alone in her apartment in the city. I will show them the way a home grows with you.
When I told my sister about this blog post, about how I wish more clients opted for shoots at home, she raised one very important point. As a mother of two toddlers, she is well-versed in the absolute MESS that little bodies somehow create wherever they go. And inviting someone over can thus be a stressful experience… let alone a photographer… who is going to take pictures. I told her that most families bring this up to me when I suggest a shoot at home- “our house is a mess!”. My sister’s response to this is that she would like to let everyone know how often I have been able to take photos in her home, “between piles of clothes”, and still make it look “beautiful”. Her formal endorsement.
My response is that I get it. Inviting a photographer over for a shoot at-home will require some tidying and some cleaning in an already hectic life. But, I am also insisting that it will be worth it. And I am promising you that I do not see a mess. I see dishes that were used during a family breakfast around the kitchen table. I see a pile of clothes that a toddler didn’t want to wear because they insisted on wearing their favourite princess dress instead. I see rumpled bed sheets because they were so excited to show me their “big kid bed” that they ran and jumped on top of it. I do not see the mess, I see the life behind it. A life worth remembering.
Over the next few weeks, I will be posting more of these shoots at home because I want to show the timeless beauty of it. I want to help you capture the memories and details of your unique space, whether it’s your family’s first home, the apartment you got engaged in or the one-bedroom that held you tenderly as you lived alone. Show me this life you live, this sanctuary you retreat to at the end of each day and then hold onto these memories for years to come. The lighting might be imperfect, the aesthetic might be more crowded than minimal and it might not be as tidy as a studio, but it is completely yours.
Of all the portraits I’ve taken of myself, the various ones at home are my favourite. Sitting in my warm apartment, in a rocking chair that was built by the hands of my great-grandfather. Surrounded by my collected art, my photographs, my endless cups of tea that grow cold before I can finish them. Dressed in a nightgown in the middle of the day, with a vase of flowers given to be by the man with the green eyes.
In the end, the story I will leave behind will be one of warmth and life and cups of tea. I hope you will trust me to capture yours.
intimate wedding: vitalina & jeremy
Sunday, March 12th, 2023
Some weddings have a high guest count and a full-day timeline. Often, a mega-talented planner is involved to execute everything to perfection and schedules are sent months in advance. For these events, I would often meet the couple prior to signing the photography contract and once more, a few weeks before the actual wedding.
Other weddings have none of the above. After the pandemic threw the industry into turmoil, lots of couples opted for more intimate celebrations; ones that could be organized rather quickly in case restrictions and rules changed again. Vitalina and Jeremy reached out less than two months before their wedding and after one phone call, everything was set.
So I met Vitalina for the very first time as her black sedan pulled up to Cluny, a beautiful French bistro in the Distillery District. She was sitting in the back seat, layers of white wedding dress billowing decadently around her. Luckily, this made it easy to pinpoint her as the bride I was set to meet, but even still, I am sure I would have recognized her from the smile on her face.
Vitalina tucked herself off to the side, greeted by girlfriends and family, while guests grabbed craft cocktails at the bar and took their seats.
Jeremy was hidden inside since he was going to see his bride for the first time as she walked down the aisle… and as soon as he did, tears shortly followed. It was a beautiful ceremony and with a friend as the MC, you can pretty much guarantee that there will be hilarious and highly personal anecdotes that get everyone laughing.
With a kiss, they made it official and recessed down the aisle, straight into private portrait time. I frequently suggest this to my couples because I think it is such an important moment to share with each other… a moment to slow down, take a breath and celebrate together, before the rest of the evening begins.
We wandered around the cobblestone lanes of the Distillery District and then tucked up an alley to escape the crowds. I asked a venue assistant to bring us two glasses of bubbly and the couple shared a private toast. They were beaming and joyful and each photograph exudes a warmth that I truly cannot take credit for.
Photography coverage ended with some family photographs on the patio, as well as a few candid moments at cocktail hour, before everyone sat down to dinner.
It was one of the shorter events of my year, but it just goes to show that there truly is not a one-size-fits-all approach to weddings, nor to wedding photography. Because sometimes, all you really need is a few hours of coverage to say your vows, drink some champagne and laugh with your closest friends.
bermuda holiday
Sunday, January 8th, 2022
At noon on December 22nd, my dad and I met at the airport. We checked our heavy, gift-laden bags and braced ourselves as we glanced up at the Departures screen. Delayed by two hours, but not cancelled. Wonderful news.
As fate would have it, we were flying to Bermuda to spend Christmas with my sister and her family during a “once-in-a-generation” winter storm. We were nervous but optimistic, even though we would later discover that every single West Jet flight was cancelled the day after ours. As our delay grew and grew, my dad paced and inspected the ground crew from the window (as dads at the airport do) and when the boarding announcement finally came, my sister admitted that she was relieved, albeit a little surprised. We were actually on our way.
Emilia is my older niece and at four and a half, she was determined to stay up to see us all arrive. Mike’s parents (my sister’s in-laws) were also on our flight and so the regular excitement was doubled. True to her word, Emilia had a nap in the early evening and was ready, waiting and watching until the car finally pulled in the driveway at 10pm. We shared hugs and a “midnight picnic” in the living room before we all crashed, including the toddler.
The funny thing about Bermuda is that no one knows where it is. Because it’s included in that classic Beach Boys song before “Bahama”, everyone seems to assume it is in the Caribbean. It is actually much closer. In fact, it’s in the middle of the ocean to the east of the US, pretty much across from South Carolina. It is so far east, in fact, that it is 1-hour ahead. This does not sound like a time change that would cause any kind of jet lag, but when you have a toddler crawling in bed beside you at 7am, that actually feels like 6am. And when you are used to slowly batting your eyelashes open without an alarm, some time around 9am, then you are in for a big surprise. Sure enough, my little bed bug Emilia found me and even though I was able to big-spoon her into silent submission for a couple of minutes, she eventually stirred and told me to put in my contacts and wake up. In fact, she fetched me the case from the bathroom so that I could do it even faster. So helpful.
The next couple of days were filled with pre-holiday activities, cookie-baking, holiday crafts and excitement for Santa… although my favourite times were just hanging out with everyone at home. One sunny afternoon, Emilia and I took our supplies (her sketchbook and crayons, and my camera) down the laneway. She sketched flowers and birds while sitting in my lap, and I shut my eyes to the soft rustling of the breeze in the palms overhead. I was obviously still sleep-deprived from the morning intrusions, so this was nice. Before we returned to the house, I set up my camera on a rock for a self-portrait of our outing together. Since the best way to capture a candid moment is to talk to one another, I turned towards her as the camera clicked on and asked her to make one Christmas wish. She looked at me thoughtfully, her small hand on my chest and replied, “I wish you could be here every day”. I wrapped her up in a big hug and somehow both of those moments made it onto my camera. And that is my favourite thing about kids- the small moments become the big moments because they are honest, open and fearless in speaking from their tiny, perfect hearts.
Christmas morning began at 6:15am which should be illegal. Through half-open eyelids, Auntie watched stockings get torn apart and uttered thanks for the tea and Veuve that was already in steady supply. Charlotte, my younger niece, is two and a half and follows in my footsteps as a true introvert. She was given a Paw Patrol tower and immediately played with that, on her own, ignoring her other gifts. Actually, in the middle of the present-opening, she politely excused herself to my sister’s bedroom to have “quiet time”. I have never felt more proud.
The day continued with the annual Christmas Day trip to the beach- a Bermuda tradition. And not just family tradition, I’m talking Bermuda-wide tradition, complete with Santa hats and a live DJ. While the adults sipped mimosas, my nieces in their holiday plaid got absolutely covered in sand and surf. These two Bermuda babies have been on the beach practically since birth and it is incredible to see them spin around in the tide, their curls damp and cheeks rosy. It is one tradition that feels so very different from a Canadian Christmas, but it has become one of my favourites.
After the anticipation for Santa came and went, we settled into those blurry days between Christmas and the new year. Before I knew it, a week in Bermuda had flown by and I hardly knew how. Something that Aunt-life has shown me is how difficult it can be for me to stay truly present around the girls. Or maybe, “present” isn’t the right word. Maybe it is something more like “grounded”. As parents well know, life around toddlers seems to move so quickly and while you are caught up in imaginative play or making sure that everyone is eating or playing with their OWN toy, time keeps moving right along. And as an introvert myself who is used to living alone, working alone and generally spending lots of time alone, this energy definitely became over-stimulating. I have realized this is one of the main reasons I love photography and more so than ever, family photography with young kids. When I am behind my camera, looking through the lens, I can take a breath and stop time for a moment. My camera is like a second set of eyes, one that observes with greater detail, greater presence. And even more, with my camera I can preserve the moment, so that when the flurry eventually quiets and when time slows enough for a pause, a collection of photographs remain that show what a beautiful day it was.
The last few years took away so much from all of us. And yet, I feel like I am still discovering the after-effects… such as my shrunken social battery that depletes unreasonably quickly and ends in a state of overwhelm. But as we all start to come back together, I personally want to remember that I am not supposed to be as isolated as I have been. And it’s these moments in Bermuda that remind me of that the most. When my loving and extroverted Emilia wants to sit down and draw, but also talk her way through exactly WHAT she is drawing. When I arrive home after a shoot, not to a quiet apartment, but to two curly blonde-haired girls screaming “Auntie! Auntie!” and wrapping me up in big hugs. When I try to put the kettle on, or go to the bathroom, or do anything really and can’t shake off the toddler who clings to my leg insisting, “I will NEVER let you go!” I may have arrived back in Toronto and slept in peaceful quiet for days afterwards, but my Christmas holiday was exactly how I hoped it would be- filled with family and connection, and more of each than I have had in years.
autumn in review
Sunday, December 4th, 2022
I am trying to learn
from the autumn leaves,
the way they dance
before letting go.
-pavana reddy
Autumn is the season I wait for all year. It begins with blank notebooks and sharpened pencils and even though I no longer go *back-to-school*, I still deem these necessities. My birthday soon follows in mid-September and no matter the year, I make sure it is filled with champagne and friends. Another year in this life is always worth a celebration. Seemingly overnight, the leaves turn crimson and we gather with family to give thanks, drink wine and honour the October harvest. And then before long, we welcome the November chill and the first snow, enjoying autumn’s final stretch before winter blankets us in stillness.
To me, autumn has always felt like a fresh start. I am far more likely to set intentions in September rather than on January 1st and I honestly cannot say whether this is because of my birthday or the changing season. Still, autumn feels like a reset, a call back to myself. It feels like an invitation to slow down after the sticky, hedonistic summer, to reflect on the year so far and to settle into the rhythm of gratitude for the remaining days. But maybe my favourite part about autumn is that it serves as a reminder to let go, and shows us all the incredible beauty you find when you do.
* * *
This year, I returned home from vacation and ended my relationship. The first two weeks of September were a dizzying combination of jet lag and heartbreak, neither of which can be cured with anything but time. Nevertheless, on the 15th I celebrated my 31st and almost immediately retreated to bed, infected with this year’s flu or some other vengeful bug. The remainder of the month was spent this way and I only popped out to enjoy tea and fresh air within a two block radius of my apartment. It was nasty and remains such a blur to me and the only consolation was that I could begin October with a surplus of appreciation for my generally good health. All in all, it certainly wasn’t the “You’ve Got Mail” intro to my fall season, but I was slowly feeling better and for that I was grateful.
I woke up bright and early on October 1st for a family shoot and in hindsight, that was a foreshadowing of the month ahead. October was THE busiest month in my business so far and I am still overwhelmed by the number of families that I was able to meet in just a few short weeks. The colours were beautiful, the days were temperate and lots of kiddies enjoyed hunting for red leaves in the breaks between smiling for my camera. I relinquished all semblance of a routine and honestly, I had trouble setting defined “days off” for myself- certainly one of the growing pains of running a one-woman business. But, as we all know (especially photographers) autumn is as beautiful as it is fleeting and I was determined to make the most of it.
And to my pleasant surprise, November graced us with more time!…with more mild days and the absence of snow. A few brave families booked shoots and I was thrilled to be able to work within the magic of the month. October might be warm and colourful, but November is moody and commanding and whenever I had a misty day, I was on cloud nine. My edits, by this point, had been consistent and I made sure to send each family teasers (especially ones eager to print Christmas cards!). But in spite of my best efforts, these edits eventually formed a kind of bottleneck and the longer nights offered me the chance to light some candles and make my way through them all. Slowly, but surely and always with a cup of tea.
* * *
And somehow, as I sit here writing this, it is the last night of November. December 1st arrives in the morning, Christmas is just weeks away and sure enough, as I look outside my window, a few flakes of snow dance past the streetlight that has been on since 4:30pm. Winter will be here soon and I will have to bid farewell to my beloved autumn for another year. But if there is anything I learned from autumn itself, it is how to say goodbye- how to let go in order to make room for rest, and then eventually and naturally, to make room for new growth.
At this point in my life, it feels like I have had to let go countless times and though I am exhausted by it, I sense nature reminding me that this practice never ends. I did not actually set any intentions for myself this September, but technically speaking, there are a few weeks left in autumn and I am setting one now. I want to find more lightness in the letting go, more joy. Even more, I want to celebrate it. I want to remember that letting go of what is no longer meant for me is simply creating more space for all that is. In that loss, inevitable sadness but also, infinite possibility.
Autumn is the season of change and this year, I think it was me.