Sense of place.

When Matt and I were first married, we lived in a 750 sq ft apartment less than a mile from Kailua Beach. There was a little courtyard with picnic tables and palm trees in the center of the apartment block where I would study and practice with my camera and a stack of books. At the end of our sidewalk, there was this old, wide tree that stood obtrusively in the intersection, covering the block in dappled shade and the feeling that you were both here and 500 years ago at the same time.

If I walked to the left, I'd come across this cute little surf shop that doubled at a kayak rental and served Italian Ice, steps away from the beach. And the green siding of Kalapawai Market on the corner where you could get sandwiches and snacks and cold drinks from the wall coolers. And the sand. And that turquoise, clear water with the hint of salt in the air.

If I turned right, I’d go towards town - a few sidewalks worth of cute boutiques, a Whole Foods where they’d set up an open farmers market every Thursday night and I tried things like seaweed in a cup, and a cozy coffee shop next to a bookstore that was crowded with tall wood shelves and tables toppling over with books in every possible corner.

A little further down, there was the most amazing wine bar owned by a gay couple who became everybody’s best friends. Once when my mom was visiting, we closed the place down with them and then went next door to take tequila shots. We bottled our own red for Matts birthday that year and they let me hang a large landscape metal print in the shop, which maybe felt like no big deal to them, but felt like one of the first times that somebody random in a place where I had no connections though my picture was good enough to hang on their wall.

We’d get legendary red velvet pancakes from the open-air seating at Cinnamon’s and burgers with big slices of pineapple from Teddy’s and the best risotto and sushi I’ve ever had from the tiny restaurant just steps away from our front door.

I had a true love affair with that little beach town and barely any photos of it. For someone who was learning to use a camera and taking so very many pictures, most of them are garbage. And cell phones didn't have cameras yet.

My memories of that place, though, are simultaneously visceral and ideallic. I spent so much time there alone, just exploring, while Matt was deployed in places I couldn't know doing things I didn't want to know.

I think being there saved my life a little.

Last week, someone reached out about a session and said - "My vision is home, simple, dressed as we always are and silly! We would love to have you at our house; we live on 5 acres with land next to us that we love to explore. Mostly I just don't want to wear a dress or force H (*daughter) to either- I know you get this! :)”

I have a session coming up in May with a family who is moving weeks later and just wants some photos to mark the season they lived in this town, by these lakes and fields, under this part of sky, at this size, with these teeth.

All my 30 minute sessions take place at the same sweet little nature preserve near my house. I have folks who book that session every year, and even though the place itself was somewhat random to them at first, we made it mean something because it's the place we do photos every year. Same place, same people, year over year. Everything is the same, but everything has changed.

I guess I'm glad that the people who reach out to work with me seem to understand that you don’t really need a special place to make family photos. Special is relative.

And they seem to get that you don't really need a good “reason” to get family photos, either, or a than maybe it feels like your heart is happy about right now and you’d like to keep a piece of that feeling for later.

I remember redecorating my room as a kid with my mom one weekend and feeling so pumped about the aesthetic. We chose a dolphin/undersea themed wallpaper border in the middle of the wall and sponge-painting the bottom half blue and purple.

Chefs Kiss.

I don’t really have pictures of it and I’m not suffering because I don’t have those pictures, (even though I'd really like to and I bet my kids would get a kick out of it, too).

But you better believe that anytime I’m allowed into a kids room during a session, I take pictures there. I don't really care about how tidy it is or whether or not it has matching furniture or is just a mattress on the floor. It means something to that kid, just the way it is. It's theirs.

Making a picture of something just the way it is is my way of saying - what matters to you matters to me.

This is allowed. This is acceptable. This is safe.

It can mean a lot of things and it can mean nothing if you want it to.

You should know by now I like to make things mean way more than they have to.

A family sent me a video walkthrough of their space for our family sessions next week at the retreat, including the field they’re in the process of planting 600 peony bulbs in that won’t bloom for a few more months.

Right now it’s just rows of dirt. I can’t wait to take some pictures there.

I know what it will mean to look back in 5 years or 10 years and say “remember what it looked like before?”

"Remember how it was just rows of dirt and now look what we’ve built…”

We don’t want to need those reminders… but we do.

We need the reminders that winter comes and so does spring and every time we make it through.

Place does something to us that we don't fully understand until we're somewhere else.

The tree at the end of the sidewalk.

The spaces you tromped in the summer with your sister. The town you called home before the moving truck came.

The blue and purple walls you painted on a Saturday afternoon with your mom.
The rows of dirt that will be peonies one day.

We carry these places in our bodies long after we've left them — the light, the smells, the tastes, the feeling.

I tell people a lot that the background is the least important thing about your pictures, but that's not entirely true.

I could care less if it's scenic or not, but someday, when you're somewhere else entirely, I want you to be able to find your way back.

// new + noteworthy //

This letter was long enough, so a few short things I saved this week that made me think, laugh, or share:

GOOD THINGS ON THE INTERNET I SAVED THIS WEEK //

Guess who's thanked most at the Oscars every year?

Would drive to DC to do this. GET ME IN THIS ROOM

Coffee shop + a good walk = my favorite kind of date, with or without kids. This roundup gave some great combos I haven't tried yet!

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CREATIVITY | FAMILY | SIMPLE JOYS

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