Thursday, January 31, 2013

i have left my heart in so many places.


i. One, the shores of Lake Superior. I lost it while looking for rocks. It may have fell from my fingers when my feet touched the chill of the water. I know it slipped from my chest and was lost in the sand that is more stone than dirt.

ii. Two, the starlit sky of Bemidji. We swam in the chilly darkness lit only by the weak light from the boat. Our towels were still damp from earlier and so we jumped, again and again, from the side of the boat, into the dark warm waters. My heart found a place in the sky, in that moment of shivery breath before you hit the water, when the stars are all you can taste.

iii. Three, the airport in Texas. It may have been strange, but my hands were full of bags and it was easy to leave behind. My heart is somewhere nestled in the seat on row nine.

iv. Four, somewhere across the midwest. Halfway between Texas and home, I lost my heart in the sky (always) and the quiet of the plane over the earth miles and miles below. I wished for sunset and drank ginger ale and let it slip from my hands when the land became green again.

v. Five, Woodland. Language is never enough for this place. And I wonder, when did I leave my heart there for the first time? Was it running from cabin to cabin the first day? Maybe I let go of a piece of my heart when I reeled in my first fish? Somehow, it's pressed between damp life jackets and sandy flip-flops and waking up to the smell of the lake in my hair and freckles from Woodland sun on my skin. I may have lost my heart all together, or maybe I've been losing it slowly, bit by bit, until coming there, I realized I was home.

vi. Six, Duluth. Like so many memories, the best are moments we recognize as important, even in their momentary seemingly insignificance. I left my heart in the visitor's center and found it on the beaches, the city, the roads between places, and the traditions that forever found a place in my summers. I have never been a tourist in that city in my life.

vii. Seven, my grandpa and grandma Maxson's home. I left my heart there, hook line and sinker, from the first moment I came and I've been finding myself there ever since. (two things I've realized: my story smells like apples and looks an awful lot like lying under blankets in their backyard watching northern lights)

viii. Eight, my grandpa and grandma Martin's home. I played under the tall trees and picked wild boysenberries from the little tree and adventured in the steps leading to their small porch like it was my own. I scattered pieces of my heart on the trail from their door to mine, like Hansel and Gretel, but unlike them, I've always known the road to home.

ix. Nine, Door County. I see the sunset and the rocks we stacked high on the beaches of stone. I skinned my knee in the circular driveway when my grandpa taught me to ride a bike and I stuck close to my dad when we went into the restaurant with goats on the roof. And it has been so long, but the thing with leaving is that you always know where to go back to be found.

x. Ten, California. It was in the long stretches of beach and the tide pools we dug out of the sand. We laid in the hollowed holes and let the water wash into them, along with gifts from the ocean, and I left some of my heart there in return. I couldn't help loving it. It's hard not to, spending days with feet sandy from the beach and hair salty from the sea.

xi. Eleven, Colorado. I lost my heart in the trees that pulled the sky to earth and the walls of rock leading into Denver. I sat up from my pillow and road trip sleep and marveled at a place where the tips of the world touched another.

xii. Twelve, New Zealand. My heart is so firmly cemented in a place I have yet to put my handprint. Sometimes we look for places but other times, they find us.

xiii. Thirteen, Minnesota. Growing up in places thick with green and deep with snow. There is no way I cannot love this place, cannot call it my home. I left my heart here in the beginning and am just now remembering why.


Wednesday, January 30, 2013

// seek Him.

"Don’t pray that God would teach you how to love like He loves; pray that He would fill you with Himself and that He would love in and through you. Don’t pray that He would teach you to have joy; pray that the living God full of joy would enter into you. Don’t pray that He would teach you how to be peaceful; ask for the God of peace, the Prince of peace to infill you. Because if you try to imitate in your own strength, you will be a miserable replica. But if you allow the impartation of Jesus Christ to overtake you, suddenly it all works because it is Him imitating Himself, and He is very good at being God." — Eric Ludy

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

gracie girl : preview

Winters breath and golden yellow.
We're waiting for spring underneath powder white snow.
Yesterday Gracie and I took a few photos, just because.
I can't wait to share these.




Monday, January 28, 2013

this is your family : luke, myrna, and avah.

Back in the fall, I was able to take photos of Avah and her family for her fifth birthday. Love these three and had such a fun time with them that fall evening. The smell of rain was heavy in the clouds, grass was hard underfoot, and I got to make a few frames of these three sweet people celebrating the beauty of family. Blessed. Have a happy Monday, friends!










































Friday, January 25, 2013

a quiet yes.

So let God work his will in you. Yell a loud no to the Devil and watch him scamper. Say a quiet yes to God and he’ll be there in no time. Quit dabbling in sin. Purify your inner life. Quit playing the field. Hit bottom, and cry your eyes out. The fun and games are over. Get serious, really serious. Get down on your knees before the Master; it’s the only way you’ll get on your feet. - James 4:10 MSG

Thursday, January 24, 2013

if a photo is worth 1000 words : story 2

Source: 500px.com via Hannah on Pinterest


The man's hands were wrinkled and white under the leathery veins crisscrossing his knuckles. His bones creaked and the wrinkles in his face lay heavy, sagging in lines etched from his temples. He was the kind of person to have been born with a secret that it took an entire lifetime to understand. He woke early, before the sun flushed pale yellow flowers on the land, before the fishermen arose to head to the deep, before the peddlers gathered their wares for the market. He liked it that way. There was a kind of quiet you couldn't find unless you stole it from the first snatches of day, when all that was noise was the small gasps of breathing, in and out, in and out. If he was lucky, he arose before the birds. That was when all was truly right, when he watched the world turn and the stars shatter on the horizon embarrassed that it was yet again light.

He knew intrinsically when to wake up. It was not an alarm except for the one in his head. It woke him every morning, half past four, and he slowly pulled himself out of the rickety bed he shared with his wife. She never complained of his snoring, though he knew he kept her up at night because she worried about his breathing. I'm an old man. He would laugh in protest, but his chuckle broke into a cough that ached in his lungs all day. Her eyes were sad. Yes, and I want you to stay that way. She rustled in the thin sheets and he smiled sadly at the outline of her sleeping form. He could not look at her without some pain, because in her, he saw his own inadequacy, his own failure to provide.

The night before, they had sat at the little cheap cafe on the corner until late into the evening. The air was chilly and she breathed in deep of the smell of earth crumbling in preparation for winter. I'm sorry, he had said. She asked what for and he tried to find a way to say, because I was a failure. because I couldn't provide. because no matter how I tried, I wasn't who you saw I could be. But his tongue stuck in his throat and he only managed to cough, brusquely in shame, that I couldn't give you more.

Nonsense. She said, patting his cheek fondly. We have lived a good life.

Yes, but it could have been a great one. He spoke in the twilight, aware that the very world around him seemed to be listening to the hum of conversations flitting from table to table. It was the sort of night that demanded fireflies, but the only bugs around he swatted as they settled onto his sagging arms. Mosquitoes he spat, if only to say something to bring light away from his words, still glowing as they sat on the table between him. Somehow, she understood.

Soon it will be winter. Her words settled softly.

Now it was morning and as he crept from their bedroom, through the kitchen (taking care to not step on the knitting needles she had left on the floor), and opened the door to the creaky balcony overlooking the river, he recalled her words. With the bitterness and nostalgia that grows thick from old age, he thought back to all that wasn't said and nursed his heartache. It was a different sort of pain than what he had felt when he stubbed his toe, or when the last of their garden died, or when they lost their first child. All pain was different and some he felt hard in his lungs, some in streaks of pain in his heart, others behind his eyes, so white and sharp he thought he would go blind.

This pain though, this pain was all the more fierce and lasting, a dull ache in his bones that persisted despite the ointments doctors prescribed him or the medicines they gave him to ease the throbbing. Death was out of his control, yet his his life was in his own hands and he had failed to do what he had wanted to do. They had been happy, yes. He had worked his fingers to the bone and they had spent nights dreaming of what was to come. There had been joy and there had been pain, but that was not unexpected. All life is filled with the dizzying dance between tears and laughter, feet being careful not to spin into complacency or bitterness. But he reflected in the morning, what more could it have been?

If only. He whispered to the air, bitter in his throat. The sun was just beginning to leak across the horizon, spilling upwards as if in defiance of the laws of nature. He rocked back and forth on a chair his grandfather had made, barely held together by frequent patch up jobs. It groaned under his strain, though he was slight, and he leaned forward, his elbows digging into his bony knees and his protruding chin held in his shaking hands.

He sat there until dawn finally broke over the land, watched the spreading light across the city, crammed and crowded yet home. His legs were numb from the cold and he felt as if his fingers would fall off, but the beauty of the quiet morning and the thrill of being awake before anyone else was one of the joys he treasured. There was a creak and the scrape of wood on wood and he turned to find the door open and his wife standing on the small, metal balcony beside him. Breakfast? She asked and her voice was a smile that could never stay sad. All melancholy was wiped from his mind and he stood, gripping the railing to steady the tremors that came with old age. He beamed at her and felt that in all his age, she had never been more beautiful.

How can you not be happy with a view like that? he whispered shyly, gesturing at the whole of the tangled landscape seen from their small iron balcony. She gripped his arm and helped him indoors. You silly old man. Each word was a kiss. How I love you.

They went in for breakfast yet kept the door open, letting the sun in.

Monday, January 21, 2013

skinny love cover.


learning to be brave with my art even in all its imperfections.
my heart for this year is to not categorize myself in a certain box, but to just be an artist.
i wasn't going to originally share this, because it's rather rough right now.
i can pick out all the mistakes (cracks in my voice, missed keys, moments of hesitation). but :
I love this song so much and I've had several people ask.
so in all it's messy beauty...here it is. :)

xx h

let life unfold.


Between coffee dates with $3.48 lattes at Target, quiet afternoons doing nothing in particular at grandma and grandpas, and writing about summer memories at the lake (in particular, the beauty of night-swimming lit only by the flickering of the stars and the dim boat light), the past few days have been rich in friendship, in simplicity, in honest living not limited by 140 characters.

Summer reminds me how life should be. Barefoot in the grass, fresh food, friends within walking distances, and a sense of adventure in the air. I wish I had left my suitcases packed, so I could unzip them and smell the salt and sand and earth on my clothes, feel that summer sun on my skin, remember the whimsy and spontaneity that comes of weeks unburdened with schedules. Perhaps the greatest gift of the summer is an understanding that this life is wild and precious. What we do matters. I want to let life unfold. Simply. Honestly. Wholly.

Blogging requires a balance that I've been lacking. As a result, I'm left trying to steady and even out the scale, searching for the fulcrum. I've been dreaming of taking a blog fast for awhile now, but I haven't because the thought of not being caught up on the internet's happenings stresses me out. The pressure to be on top of everything online is nails on a chalkboard, wet socks on a negative temperature day, a cold in summertime. All the time I invest in online relationships (or my online "presence") takes away from the relationships with people I'm living life with.

As humbling as it may be to admit it to myself, it's refreshing. Here is the truth: I am not a big deal and nor do I want to be. It's all about Jesus and I hope that every story I photograph, write, or sing would point back to Him. And the internet will be fine without me. :) People and their lives and stories are more important than a new post every day.

Where do you need to simplify?
What makes your heart beat faster?
Where do you need to change?
What do you need to cut back on, de-clutter, get rid of?
and
What is holding you back?


They're all things I'm learning to ask myself and be honest with the answer. I wish it was a school test, where I could fill in a, b, c, or d, but life isn't easily answered with a multiple choice question. I am simplifying and letting go and learning what that means in my life, and it's good.

I do know this : It means saying hello to more early mornings with the sun stretching across the sky, reading more books and less blogs, and cooking good food. It's the difference between hearing a song on the radio or listening to it live, it's the grace caught in the quiet moments when we remember this deeper story we're living out. New adventures, travels with nothing but a suitcase and a camera to see, remembering how we lived before the internet. And I see it like a gathering in the woods -- we'll each bring a homemade goodie (I'll bring the apple pie), string up some fairy lights (convinced that they're the little extra in the ordinary), and laugh late into the stars.

In case it looked like I was saying goodbye to this blog, let me tell you, no. :) I am refocusing and going back to the heart of this site, but I'm keeping this little space here. It's dear to me and I'm grateful for the opportunities that have opened up and friendships that have been formed because of it. It'll be different in ways I'm still wondering / mulling about in the next few months, but I'm excited to make some (much-needed) changes.

Have a really wonderful Monday. :)

xo h