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15 Jan

My best friend in the world is having a baby any day now.  Needless to say, I am over the moon.  But I’m here, on her behalf, just incase that stubborn little fetus has some kind of smart phone up in thrr to say before all-y’all on the interwebs (and possibly said stubborn fetus) that IT’S TIME – GET OUT!  YOU’RE GETTING DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO LOSING YOUR DEPOSIT!  Ladies who’ve gestated can attest to the fact that at the very end you become FUCKING DONE.  Not “done.”  “Done” is a state you semi-peacefully enter a week before FUCKING DONE.  “Done” is uncomfortable.  FUCKING DONE is sharpening knives and making visual aids to assist you in your plan to peel your own skin off.  “Done” is hopeful if a little exasperated.  FUCKING DONE is a wellspring of despairing tears generated by the realization that you’re going to spend the rest of your life with a douchebag of a baby lazing the days away on your bladder.  “Done” is a state of curiosity:  “I wonder when tiny love will be born?  Gosh, I sure hope it’s soonish.”  FUCKING DONE is inserting a twix like a tampon, crazy eyes ablaze, in the hope that your bundle of jerk will clamp his awful jaws down and that you’ll be able to just kind-of pull him out.

Did I ruin fishing for you?  At the very least I think I probably put us all off twix bars for a while.  Rest assured, my pal hasn’t attempted any of these things (and won’t because, you know, she’s not sick in the head like certain best friends of hers…).  But the fact remains, the tail end of the homestretch of pregnancy is a bitch.  Now, as you may recall, I absolutely loved giving birth.  Loved it.  It remains my absolute favorite day(s) of my life.  And let me be clear, my favorite part was NOT the baby-in-my-arms-at-the-end part – that part was pretty good too – but it was the labor itself.  I loved labor and really hope I have the opportunity to do it again.  I say this so that you’ll know that I’m not one of those “everything sucks about having children/your life is over/awful thing about hotdog-hallway” types.  But let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?  It’s no fun waiting for a totally unknown experience after months and months of waiting for a totally unknown experience.  The fact that our culture presents labor as something overwhelmingly negative doesn’t help, but funnily enough, the part that no one is talking about that actually does suck your gross uncle’s balls is the waiting at the very end.

Do you enjoy a quick transition?  Good.  Me too.  So here’s this thing I wrote for my BFF’s blessingway (click on that to confirm that yes, it’s exactly as mystical/naked-in-the-woods/drinking (menstrual) blood as it sounds).  I hope you think it’s pretty.  More than anything, I hope that little (sure-to-be-adorable) asshole has the good sense to get hisself born-d.  Because it’s no fun to be FUCKING DONE.

I Think You Might Be The Lion

What is there to say other than what we said the other day?  That it’s an absolute mystery until you are waist deep in it – always with the water.  In tides.  Ebbing and flowing.

That the only difference is the input.

And you and I know all about that.

All of a sudden I remember you.  I am standing by that piece-of-shit stereo.  It’s playing some track – that Sufjan album, or Regina Spektor or Animal Collective.  I’m watching.  Not facing you, but looking at the mirror.

You stepped up onto Rachel’s back, impossible, but onto the back of her neck and I knew for sure that you were going to be okay.  Because even though it was dangerous and didn’t make sense – it shouldn’t have worked – it was so so beautiful and charged with the third thing.  The essential real movement.  And Jamie was an asshole like always.  He reached for your hand, but you were already gone.  Up.  Up.  Up.

That should have been such a mess.  I saw you, perfect – strong without trying – in being.  Balanced.

And so I know that you are smart enough.  Not in the way of knowing how to, or working, or any of that – you’re those things too – but this is to say smart in the deep way of falling with a welcome spirit for the ground – a deep trust that you already have what you need.

In freedom.  In radical subversive tenacity.  Not with gritted teeth, but screaming out an open window in March.  Still snow on the ground,but on the first warmish day.  Flying down Broomfield, Meridian, Isabella.

In not even stepping up onto her neck, but finding yourself there and making – deep inside –  the shift to say yes.  “Yes, and.”  Responding to whatever part pulled you up there in the first place.  Knowing that it’s Rachel underneath you.

And of course, this is the leap – that birth is the best improvisation.  You will never have to reach for the third thing because it will be the current you’re in.  Instead of snatches – seconds long miracles of presence – your attention will be perfectly wrapped – knit into the intensity that becomes a total reprieve from everything else.   Physical, immediate, intuitive.  You have prepared so long.  Before you knew your body like now.  Getting ready even back when your hair blew like a lion’s mane in the parking lot – sweaty and cold.  The new magic is brave from the outside but impossibly clear and free from choices inside – so that after this long I am anxious and glad for you to know perfect work in birth, because I know that it will mean so much to you.

And that small fierce punch of color that wells up inside of you, and defies anyone to ask if you could love something that’s so hard and withholding, will gush out again – carrying you up, up, up, just like I remember.


Baby’s First Bathroom Humor

28 Aug

The other day, while Ida was on the toilet, she told me a hilarious joke:

Ida:  Poop comes out of Ida’s butt.

(pensive beat – affirmative and somewhat aloof nods from mother)

Ida:  Macaroni comes out of Ida’s butt.

(maniacal laughter)

I’m not even going to pretend that I didn’t (and do not still periodically) crack up.

A Mother’s Day?

18 May

Sometimes I feel invisible.  Most of the time I think it’s fantastic.  I feel like a superhero with my awesome power.  Ida provides a nearly foolproof deterrent to semi-strangers asking me about my accomplishments or current undertakings (let’s just set aside for a moment the fact that this shield is equal parts Ida and rampant sexism that assumes that since I’m a mother of course my kid is my only concern and that money just somehow magically appears in my bank account).

Sometimes though, it feels like junk.  Sometimes I want someone(s) to see how hard I’m working.  Sometimes I want someone who can talk and wipe their own butt to witness my work, the way that they used to when I was running a business or going to school.  Since many of my current endeavors have to do with mothering and homemaking/homesteading, I’m often the only one who knows just what exactly is the work that I’m doing all day.  Since the other things are modern dance………. that joke pretty much makes itself, no?

Anyway, maybe this is a result of too much internet-half-life-site time and my constant impulse to frame my experiences in terms of status updates (just a sec, I barfed in my mouth), but I thought I’d share what my actual days are like, given that it’s mother’s day (or at least it was when I started writing this little ditty).  So here we go: allow me to present a glimpse into this mother’s day.

I have two types of days:  Days when I am teaching and days when I am not teaching.

They all start the same:

I wake up at 6AM without an alarm clock.  I will forever be unable to sleep-in due to my college years working as a barista and always working the opening shift.  I turn on the coffee pot which Nathan or I prepped the night before.  While the coffee is brewing, I check my email (read: diddle around on aforementioned time-waste-vortex).  Once the coffee is ready, I pour myself a cup and settle back into bed with a book which I read until 6:50.  I read everyday – a variety of fiction and non-fiction, reputable and disreputable.  This is one of my favorite parts of the day.  I semi-ferberized Ida in order to get this time.  I don’t feel even sort-of guilty about it.  At 6:50 I take a 5 minute shower followed by 5 more minutes of beautification efforts.  They are half-assed at best and usually come to a conclusion with some kind of encouraging words to myself  like “not great.”

Ida is up by 7AM and I go into her room.  She is usually naked as the day she was born and jumping up and down in her crib singing or screaming depending on her mood.  I get her ready for the day and ask her if she’d like to use the toilet.  Then we go visit our dog Maude who has gone back to sleep in our bed.  I often worry that Maude hates this ritual as it usually involves lots of mauling on Ida’s part.  Ida and I retreat to the kitchen and I fix her some breakfast while she sits in her high chair.  We listen to the radio and discuss our plans for the day.  I usually load and start the dishwasher and sort-of clean the kitchen (excluding the microwave, which is the site of a very important research project entitled “what will happen?”) while she eats breakfast.

Sometimes after this we do some errands (usually groceries or Target).  Other times we just hang out in the living room  – I eat breakfast and Ida plays or creates unsanctioned murals on the entryway wall that is obscured from my post on the couch.  Sometimes we go for a walk or bike ride to the coffee shop and get coffee and a treat.  Sometimes we go to the park, or out to the yard to garden.  On Wednesdays we sometimes go to children’s story time at Women and Children First (you know, the feminist bookstore just up the street.  I heart my neighborhood).

Ida usually takes a nap around 9AM and sleeps until 11 or 12.  Sometimes if I have to teach a morning class, she (a champion of flexibility) skips this nap and goes to one of the wonderful friends that comprise our ramshackle childcare network.  If she is napping I usually clean, cook, do laundry or occasionally do some writing or dancemaking work.  I was in the habit of doing self-led yoga during her nap, but I’ve fallen off that wagon of late.  I’m now doing a self-led cookie eating thing that I find equally fulfilling.

My favorite household work is cooking.  I like to make a giant batch of something and put meal-sized portions in the freezer, or I like to prep all of the stuff for dinner that night.  I also sometimes put together a meal for one of the lovely folks who take care of Ida while I’m at work, or bake bread or make other staples like stock or yogurt.  I’d say on average, I spend at least 3 hours of every day doing some aspect of food work (shopping, gardening, preparing, cooking, cleaning up).  My other favorite is laundry.  I don’t actually like doing the laundry, but I eat candy and watch television on the internet while I fold it, creating an irresistible bribe for myself.  It’s gotten to the point where I feel a modicum of excitement when the dryer buzzer goes off.  Yikes.   Have you recovered from the sadness of that?  Do you need a moment?  Take a moment.

Every monday I clean the whole apartment (I say “whole” because this undertaking is impressive to me.  I used to triage cleaning, employing a “disaster management” philosophy, but of late, I’ve been more proactive.  I feel that this deserves special recognition).  It takes 3-4 hours and I mostly dislike it.  I try to make it as pleasant as possible and to find pleasure in the aspects I can, but for the most part, I just face my drudgery and try to get it over with.  I should say here that Nathan is more than willing to do this – he would gladly be in charge of the cleaning, but his filth tolerance is much higher than mine (see note below re: living in a van) and I find his work to be unsatisfactory in this department.  Since I can’t seem to make a dollar to save my life, this 1950s style arrangement seems (in our circumstance) to be an equitable trade.  I know how it looks, and if you’d have told me this is how it would all shake out I’d have smacked you in the jowls, but here we are.  Truth be told I usually feel like I got the good end of the deal.  I like my life.  I’m not trapped, unfulfilled or lonely or any of those other things Betty Friedan talked about.  I have a number of theories about this, which I will save for another time.  The only thing I will say here is this: if one more badass feminist pal questions the fact that Nathan doesn’t do much by way of cooking or cleaning and assumes that this means something about me or him and our respective views on women, I’m going to blow a gasket.  You’re telling me I’m a woman and I’m doing it wrong?  That’s suspiciously familiar…

When Ida wakes up from her nap, our day goes one of two routes:  If I’m working, we usually pack up our stuff (my teaching supplies and her diaper bag with lunch, snacks, milk, etc.), get in the car and drive to wherever I’m teaching, dropping Ida off along the way at a kind friend’s house (as a side note, working for a few hours in the middle of each day is anathema to finding professional childcare and basically ensures that you will become a major pain in the ass to your friends and family as you try to get someone to watch your beloved kid).  A few days a week, a friend comes over to my place and watches her while I’m gone.  I’m gone for 2-4 hours on teaching days depending on commute and if I have more than one class.  I am almost always astounded by how challenging it is to get where I need to be on time, teach well, and be a good parent to Ida all at the same time.  I can usually do two of these things at once.  I often don’t eat lunch because adding one more thing to the list just isn’t possible.  Correction, I often eat Wendy’s chicken nuggets for lunch and semi-try to hide what I’m doing from Ida (in the back seat).  Should you feel moved to nominate me for a parenting award, remember that my last name is SAND (like a sand beach) BERG (like iceberg lettuce).

Once I’m done teaching I head home (picking up Ida on the way if she was staying with a friend).  Ida used to take another nap at this point in the day, and I’m mourning this loss.  Now she mostly yells, demands impossible snacks that haven’t been invented, and passionately wants the legos to be both in and out of the basket SIMULTANEOUSLY.

If I’m not teaching, Ida and I usually do something fun in the afternoon.  Sometimes we take a bike ride or walk.  Sometimes we do an art project at home.  Sometimes we go visit a friend or go somewhere cool in the city like a museum or a park.  We like to get out of the house and find that just hanging out at home all day results in double-whammy mother-daughter meltdowns.

Nate usually gets home from work at 4:15.  At this point, if Nate isn’t on deadline for a music project, I sometimes leave for a couple of hours to work/make dances or run errands while he plays with Ida.  Every monday a friend and I go out for coffee and do our self-led Heretics’ Bible Study.  This is exactly like it sounds.  Sometimes Nate, Ida and I do something together.  If Nate is on deadline for a music project, he spends a little time with Ida and then heads back to his studio to crank out the tunes.  I have never met a person as productive as Nathan is when it comes to writing music.  I attribute this largely to his having had to complete his graduate degree in writing film music while working and taking care of a newborn.  His threshold for sleep deprivation and chaos are off-the-charts high.  This coupled with his humongous talent means that he is creating a pretty fat composition roster of late.  Which is great, but at some point, he’s going to need to start recreating for at least a couple of hours a week.  And sleeping for more than 4 hours a night.  I worry about him…

Ida begins eating dinner around 5:30 in her high chair in the kitchen.  We’re working on a plan to regularly have dinner together as a family, but we’re sad at the prospect of losing that time alone together (Nate and me).  Nate often does the dinner and bath evening routine while I cook.  I kind-of hate the dinner-bath rigmarole so this suits me just fine.  I don’t know why.  There isn’t really anything unpleasant about doing these things with Ida.  Maybe it’s just that at the end of the day, it’s nice to have a little break from wiping/picking up/dressing/etc.  She also sometimes tries to bite me when I brush her teeth, so there’s that too.

After her dinner and bath Ida plays a little, we read approximately 90 books and she goes to bed at 7.  I finish making dinner and we usually eat around 7:30.  If I’m rehearsing that evening, I usually leave around this time, leaving something for dinner in the fridge, which Nate heats up right before I’m scheduled to get home.  On nights that I’m rehearsing we usually eat around 9:30 or 10.  Nate has absolutely no time-oriented feelings of hunger, which I attribute/blame on the fact that he lived in a van with 8 guys for a while subsisting mainly on gas station foodstuffs (he was in a band that toured quite a lot).  This is convenient.  And messed up.

I’m not totally sure what happens to the remaining few hours of the day.  Reading?  Television?  Conversation?  Your guess is as good as mine.  Sometimes I craft.  Occasionally I go see dance performances.  The time just seems to elapse.  Maybe I’m relaxing?  Unclear.  I go to sleep around 10 or 11 after reading or watching something Stewart/Colbert/Fey/Poehler on the computer, and usually have blissfully dreamless and uninterrupted sleep.  I’m grateful for this – from what I hear, it’s pretty uncommon for the parents of small children to have a 12-on, 12-off work schedule in parenting.  Ida, if you’re reading this, please don’t mess around with this aspect of our lives.

So there you have it, this mother’s day.  Here’s to you having a great one today!

Ida’s First Concert in the Park

5 Jun

I’ve been dreaming of this day since I found out I was pregnant (okay, well, maybe a week after I found out I was pregnant).

There is something about seeing loads of people drinking wine, listening to music and having a wonderful time in the park that restores my faith in humanity.

Ida's first concert in the park!

Nathan, Ida and our pal Yigit enjoying the first concert of the Music Without Boarders series.

Mothers Day

11 May

I had a wonderful Mothers Day.  I guess I technically celebrated my first MD last year (Nate got me a gift cert for a massage, which I hoarded until 8.5 months gestation – a wise choice), but this year it felt like I was going pro.  I was really looking forward to it.  I wondered what Ida would get me…..

The day was jam-packed.  Ida was baptized at Berry, we had a little party at our place and had lots of family in town to celebrate with.  The baptism was so incredibly beautiful and I’m glad that I took a leap of faith and did it.  I was on the fence for a while – not really knowing how I felt about the whole “salvation from damnation” aspect (not good – I did not really think my tiny redheaded meatloaf was doomed until dunked – and also, I do not think anyone is doomed), but I felt really excited about a ritual that recognized Ida as part of our little community and commenced her journey of discovering the world.  I think this tension pretty much sums up my feelings about Christianity in general – I’m not on board with some of the cultural tenants of American Christianity (and as those professing them would say “Biblical Tenants” – potAYto, potAHto….), like, for instance, believing homosexuality to be an abomination, thinking that Buddhists are barking up the wrong tree, or giving two shits about whether or not folks have loving and respectful sex before they buy me and their other friends and relatives some chicken kiev. But at the same time, I love the community that this faith can inspire (don’t get me wrong, it can make some ugly stuff too).  Like lots of my evangelical baggage, these issues were neatly and peacefully addressed in a meeting with our church‘s wonderful shepherd, Pastor Sherrie.

Photo by the truly amazing Sarah Rhee (

You know those people who just seem to ooze calm, and love, and serenity?  That’s Pastor Sherrie.  Every week she stands up and delivers brave messages of inclusion and peacemaking and advocacy for the voiceless.  She is wholly herself in these talks – going about communicating in her own perfect way that conforms to none of the expectations of my idea of “pastor.”  She is not bossy, loud, or aggressive – always pushing us gently toward more love and acceptance.  I adore this woman with my whole heart and have a really hard time keeping it together when she says “everyone is welcome”.  In fact, the first time I came to Berry (after performing with think/dance collective in their basement), I bawled my eyes out when I heard the words “In the United Methodist Church we practice holy communion.  Everyone is welcome.”  And then she said…….. nothing.  That was a revolution to me.  In my experience, taking communion was always proceeded by lengthy explanations of who qualified – of who was committed enough – of who was NOT welcome.  Everyone is welcome – now THIS was a church I could get on board with.  In exploring Berry more, I discovered a community that is committed to fair trade, CSA, full participation by children (they are very much seen and heard and loved at Berry), the arts, GLBT rights and advocacy, feminism, and a slew of social justice clauses.  I’m pretty sure this is the place Glenn Beck had in mind when he made his insane comments a few weeks ago.  Don’t worry, we turned Pastor Sherrie in.

So anyway, at this meeting, Pastor Sherrie, Nathan and I talked about baptism.  We talked about welcoming Ida into our community, recognizing the light inside of her and sharing in a ritual that would celebrate the beginning of her journey of exploring the world.  I was nervous that there would be talk of hell and damnation (why?  Who knows.  I’m not sure I’ve ever really heard Pastor Sherrie talk about hell outside of the context of poverty or injustice) but of course, there wasn’t.  Ida grabbed at the hymnal pages, trying her best to rip them out and eat them.  She has a hunger for hymns, this one.  I felt so glad for a place where we could all be, and explore, and grow.  Berry is one of the main reasons that I can’t imagine living anywhere but Chicago.

Seriously, Sarah! How do you do it?! Everything looks so beautiful through your camera.

As always, at Ida’s baptism, the folks at Berry did not disappoint.  Pastor Sherrie is a genius of human kindness and finding the important stuff – she talked about the idea of a neighborhood, about taking care of each other, and about Ida flourishing however she will.  We sang “This Little Light Of Mine” and all lit candles from the big candle that Pastor Sherrie and Ida lit together after Ida was baptized – Ida’s candle.  The choir sang, and the band or miscellaneous instruments played in their wild and jubilant way.

I held my little light (Ida) and felt so glad for the millionth time that I had all of these beautiful people with me to help with the awesome responsibility of letting Ida shine.  Have you seen the kid smile?  I think she’s got the whole shining thing down…. She’s going to shine no matter how much I screw it up, I think.  Okay, mama moment, I’m done.  Pastor Sherrie walked Ida around the room to see everyone.  I watched the faces of all of these people adoring my daughter – glowing with gladness that she had come to be with them – and I felt like I might burst out of my skin with the fullness of it all.  Parents, you know what I’m talking about here, right?  Like, it’s one thing to love me – that’s great, but when you love my kid my loyalty to you – my love for you gets ferocious and strong.  I literally felt relief when the service was over – it was almost too much goodness to take.

Berry hearts Ida (Photo by Sarah Rhee)

So my first Pro Mothers Day was great.  Nathan got me a book I really wanted, I Don’t Care About Your Band,

My husband sure is dreamy. This book is right up my alley.

Aeropress coffee maker = AWESOME

an Aeropress coffee maker, and a day of my choosing to do whatever I want, during which he will make me coffee, breakfast and leave me alone to read in bed all day whilst taking care of our lovely daughter.  This combination was absolutely perfect and reminded me again why he’s such a great partner and co-parent.

Happy Mothers Day, Everybody.  I hope yours was grand.

Hummingbird/A Love Letter to the Mothers at Berry

10 May

I moved here and I had no idea why.  In the hindsight of these last two years – you are the ones who crop up everywhere – the most tenacious ones.  My guides.

I saw you.  Not like “I noticed you” – it was not casual.  I mean, I saw you in this room– all the time – all of my watchful energy pulled to your steady balance. I can see your hand on her/his back – this image is so clear to me.  You’re sitting about a foot behind them in the pew – they’re leaning forward with their armpits pinching the restraint – the pew in front.  Your elbow is resting on the pew behind and your hand is in the middle with your fingertips pointing to the right.  Your palm is open and touches both of their scapulas at once.

I saw you in this room.  In all of your ways – all of the very small things you were always humming with.  Your bodies moving with perfect economy always in these small tasks that you can’t even know now, they’re so inseparable from you – the way cells make a body.  Your children flowed – flowered right out of these economies.  The stream of your care like a fuse and their tiny shocks of hair at the end bursting into the space like fireworks.

I have so many questions for you.  Like, “how do you keep humming with all of these moves – all of the pickups of dropped things, finding of lost things, wiping, spooning, holding, whipping of hair – so quick! Into a neat little elastic, pulling up, tucking in, unwrapping, ENDLESS – how do you keep humming like this and still clearly sing your song?”

“How did you trust the long line of that fuse – your care?”  Because that fire – it smolders on the fuse – taking forever to make that burst of color – that firework.  Work.  So very much work.  Which sometimes – best ones – feels like steady, and consistent and purposeful and love, and fullest fullness, but other times feels like monotony, and numbness and an endless ebbing away.

I have watched you looking exhausted in a million different ways – have catalogued the differences between your tiredness that comes from stress, or sickness, or sleeplessness or loneliness.  But still there is a hum and that smoldering work burning along that fuse.  Braiding, and lighting and stoking in this sort-of wild and unimaginable sustenance I see you masterful – strong and flexible.

And the hum is steady and just right.  In the same way that our swaying from side to side is universal – Amy told me once – your hum is part of this larger, openly secret thing.  I saw it and it consumed me – first taking root in my mind where you were always laying hay – tending – and later in the form of Ida – my initiation, my amazing membership.

These doings, your being – the sum-hum of these million things was, is the holiest thing to me.  I still feel compelled, whenever we are together to say that I’m just so glad I get to be here looking at you. Every time, with brand-new excitement and discovery, I want to tell you that you are amazing and that I knew, from the moment I saw you doing this incredible work that your story was a big deal to me – that I loved you all of a sudden.  I know now – and it’s weird for me to make such a mystical statement – but I know it, so I’m going to.  I know now that I came to be here, to you, on purpose – that your lives were, in part, for me to witness and that the force of your love for your children drew me from Michigan to Chicago – pulling me with those thousand tiny, unknowable things.

And if I were being perfectly honest – which you really should in a love letter – I would raise my hand every week.  It would be a joy and a concern and one of those splatter-y, fruit-bursting-out-of-it’s-skin kind of things – and say the same thing over and over because it is always on my mind.  “I am so grateful for you.  I am so glad for the way that you share your children with me.”  And if I were being perfectly honest I would get crazy and be crying and shaking my head and trying to find bigger and bigger gestures to express just how intense this gratitude feels and I’d try and press my gratefulness into you – so you’d know, and feel as loved as you are.

I’m telling you this so that maybe you can think about yourself this way – who you are to me – when you feel invisible or when you feel like someone’s grubby little hands are extracting the last of your wits or will, or when any encouraging thing just feels like a platitude.  When you make a steely decision to laugh and play. When you just really want to eat a sandwich in the bathroom with the door closed – when the idea of that seems luxurious and not at all sad.

So all of this to say that I love you ferociously, and that to me, there is no ebbing away of you but only flourishing.  And that even though there are times when it feels like the end of everything, there are other times, like right now, when it feels like a holy gift to flex in these thousand moves and know that I’m humming too – to know that I’m part of this most amazing collection of women doing this most mysterious work.  I am so very glad that we are mothers here, together, right now.

Like all the best love letters, this one will just go hoarse and lose it’s voice, exhausted from trying so hard to say everything, of never being able to say it just right – to tell you how much, and how fully your life has inspired my own.

A Hummingbird.  A frantic pulsing that’s performed so expertly that it looks like stillness – like nothing.  Moving your whole being all the time until those movements disappear from view.  We say “oh look!  A hummingbird!  How nice!”  But we know, we see each other, and that is not nothing.

Musical Stylings

2 May

We all know that Ida is musically gifted.  Given her obvious aptitude, Nathan decided it was time to include her in his compositional process.  Here is Ida, hard at work during a Logic session with her papa.  She may or may not be mugging for the camera throughout……