{Originally Published on Rimarama}

In my violin teacher’s living room this morning, I was fumbling through a rhythm exercise I had executed perfectly just hours before in the privacy of my home.

“I want you to know” I said, “That I sound so much better when I’m practicing by myself and doing it backwards. But then I come over here, and by the time you’ve corrected my hand position and bow hold and reminded me to relax my neck, everything just goes to pot!” I said, by way of a joke.

My teacher considered this, but did not let it roll. “I will always be correcting you,” she said. “That is my job. You can’t come in here, no matter how hard you’ve been practicing, and expect to play perfectly. It’s not like one day you’ll show up and I’ll say, ‘That’s it! You’re done! On to the symphony with you!’ There is always room for improvement, and I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t point that out.”

I was dying to explain myself further, to stress the fact that I wasn’t expecting perfection, I only wanted her to know that I play much better when she’s not breathing down my neck. But if I’m honest, in my heart of hearts I am always sort of hoping that one day she’ll say, “You know . . . you have real talent!”

But she continued: “Being so hard on yourself is no way to live. When you expect perfection of yourself, it spills over into your relationships with others. You expect them to be perfect, too. And no one wants that.”

She had imparted this wisdom with no hint of malice or judgment, but still my jaw dropped to the floor. Was my violin teacher lecturing me about personal relationships? The last time anyone besides my mother had offered up unsolicited advice was in 1997, when a close friend counseled me to quit the job I hated or stop bitching about it, already.

And then my teacher brought up my old nemesis, the adorable eight-year-old violin student.

“I think I’ve mentioned him to you before” she said. “He can barely get through one measure without me adjusting something, but do you know what he does? He just laughs, shrugs, gives me the cutest little impish look, and keeps on going! He is totally unfazed! And SO JOYFUL! I wish we could all be more like him!” she said, sunbeams shooting out of her ears and reflecting off her dangly silver zen earrings.

Originally posted at My Marrakesh:

It’s morning, and I am meeting my friend Benoit, a French interior designer.

We are meeting at Bab al Khemis, which means Thursday’s Door in Arabic. All around Marrakech’s old city, known as the medina, there are babs, or huge carved entryways. Each bab has its own name, and Bab al Khemis it is the entryway to the city’s equivalent of the flea market. Outside the bab, vendors are beginning to throng, displaying broken bits and bobs, as well as an occasional gem or two.

Benoit arrives, and we kiss, French-style, on both cheeks. For a number of years, Benoit designed interiors for the King of Morocco. Now he and his young family have moved to Marrakech and recently have bought a piece of land. Close friends of ours, Benoit and his charming wife Zoo, also a designer, are giving us a helping hand with our guest house interiors.

In T-shirts and cargo pants, we are ready for action. Today we are looking for antique doors and other architectural remnants that will help give our guest houses some character. We have brought along with
us one of Chris’s employees, Khalid, who can be counted on to negotiate in Moroccan dialect so fast that it makes your heads spin.

{Originally posted in Goodword Editing}
First appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on October 16, 2008

(Scroll down to find the audio link to hear the poem read by Marcus Goodyear.)

for David Tulley

The pianist plays alone every time
learning not to let the world decide
when he creates and when he rests.
Studios, concert halls, practice rooms
hallowed, not hollow, never empty.
The walls, the chairs, the carpet tremble
with potential decisions. Synthetic
fibers of carpet twist together,
their friendships forming expectant
berber curls, their voices hushed
waiting for the performer’s approach.
He clacks the cover from its keyboard,
coughs once and begins to say this
I am
Meaning something more than self,
more than These hands are mine. These legs
pump pedals, sustain notes, build chords.
This room was not empty before.
I have not filled it except with thanks.
Though as for that, no thanks
depends on him or the one listening,
who wandered into the studio looking
to kill time and fighting music instead.
The battle lost, the audience slumps
low in the back row and hears
practice give voice to everything here.

{Originally posted on Bitch Ph.D.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on August 5, 2008

So here is the biggest, most annoying problem with having a feminist marriage:

No matter what you and your partner have agreed on, other people will cling to their antiquated notions.

It’s the biggest evidence to me that marriage is not just a contract between two people; it’s also a kind of social contact (for better or for worse). Like, if you and your partner decide to reverse conventional gender roles–you work the day job, he stays home with kids and kitchen–and you are perfectly happy with this arrangement (ok, reasonably happy). Lovely! You win! You and your partner have done all the hard work necessary in arriving at this decision, you have had principled discussions about division of labor, you have made sure that neither one of you is feeling coerced, that this is how you both want it to be, blah blah blah and now you can sit back and enjoy your domestic life. WRONG. Because now you have to deal with constantly explaining to everyone around you that, “no, this really is what we both want, no, I am not an emasculating bitch, actually this was his idea, no really you can ask him, no, he isn’t doing it “for” me, no, we’re not doing this to “prove” something, really, we are doing this because it works for both of us, individually and as a couple.”

Of course, you could refuse to explain all this, and then you have the fun of hearing the whispered comments, the second-hand hints from, oh, say, your sisters-in-law: “well, of course it’s none of our business, but we do wonder. . .”or “oh, I think it’s fine,” (gee, how big of you) “but you know, mother-in-law thinks you’re emasculating Mr. B.” And I like my mother in law, but jesus. Or things like snide comments about how little housework you do which make you want to scream about how you did the lion’s share of the housework for TEN YEARS, goddamnit, including while you were writing your dissertation and all that time you were teaching but of course that was always invisible.

It starts when you decide not to change your name, of course. You explain it to everyone, and then they get it wrong on the letters anyway. Which, you know, fine; I realize that people kind of default to the “normal” pattern without thinking. But my own father?!? Dude. It’s the same name I always had. It’s YOUR name. Get it right. And stop acting hurt when I get irritated by it. And then there are the casual acquaintances or new friends who, at some point, you have to tell–“well, actually Mr. B.’s last name is not B.,” and instead of just saying, “oh, okay” (I mean really. It’s unusual but not unheard of.) they say “really? Why did you do that? Did he mind? What did your parents think? What did his parents think? What about the kid? Don’t you think he’ll be confused? Why did you give him the last name you gave him? Isn’t that weird? Isn’t this kind of a weak feminist statement since you just have your dad’s name anyway?” and so on. Most of the time I really don’t mind this stuff. There’s a reason why I teach, and it’s because I love to explain shit. But occasionally I’ll step back and think, lord. Do I really have to explain all of this to every single person who asks? Do they really have the right to ask? Do they have the right to be irked if I’m feeling tired of it that day and just say something snotty like, “why the hell should I change my name?” and try to leave it at that?

{Originally posted at [b]ecker’s Blog.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on July 7, 2008

I was recently chatting with some friends at a party, and I was asked if I knew what my favorite wedding image was. I laughed at the notion that I could ever narrow it down to a single frame, but it did get me thinking of some of the more memorable images I’ve captured over the years, and today I’d like to share with you 20 of my all time favorite wedding photographs. Of course, if you ask me tomorrow, I may have a completely different set of images. I am always striving to create better images that capture moments in time that the subjects will cherish forever.

I define my style of photography, as capturing relaxed portraits, amazing details and real moments. I feel these images do a good job representing my abilities in doing just that.

These first few images are scans from back in the film days… the 90′s!

I absolutely still love this portraits of a bride from July of 1999. Her expression was real, and she was just a gorgeous person inside and out.

{Originally published on Halushki.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on August 6, 2008

One of the most important responsibilities – nay, obligations – of any parent is, I think, to encourage our children’s daily awareness of all that is magical and mysterious in our great, big fantastical world.

And, yes, I am a hippie.

To point our children toward a sly glimpse of the crystalline fairies in a drop of dew….

To wonder in awe at Titan voices booming across the evening sky during a summer thunderstorm….

To marvel at orchestras captured on silver discs, musicians trapped like microscopic genies to be released in song only at the listener’s wish and command….

Ah bliss! Ah joy!

To support and stimulate their creative selves and thusly nourish their hearts and souls with the food of poets and saints!

(And I’m not talking cigarettes and day-old baguettes.)

But, as a bittersweet fact of life, every day my children grow a bit older and, so too, a bit too wise for the world’s magic.

Mostly, I blame science.

(That honeymoon was over quickly.)

One golden-hued afternoon, my girls are sitting on their bed happily naming the angels they insist they can see dancing on the head of a pin. The following week, they’re discussing the atomic force microscope and how the sharp point of the carbon nanotube would determine once and for all whether and how many angels were actually boogying down, even though the super sharp point would probably poke the bejeezus out of most of the angels such that from thence forward, angels would stay the hell off pinheads altogether and begin dancing on clouds, where they belong. Although, then they’d remind me that in their lesson on the weather, they learned that clouds were made mostly of condensed water droplets and could probably support the weight of a few very small celestial beings, but not an entire host of seraphim because, c’mon, six wings each? The whole shebang is becoming suspect.

{Originally published on Mamapreneurs, Inc.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on July 7, 2008

-I have insomnia and I’m tired.

-I work 7 days a week but Mondays and Fridays are my FT kid days during the summer.

-E-mail is the best way to communicate for me; if you leave me a voicemail, you honestly might not get a call back. If you leave me an e-mail, you will definitely get a response.

I tell you all this not because you are my friends, my family, my colleagues or my clients (although you may be one or all of these things): I tell you this because being transparent about who I am as the owner of three companies and as mama to two kids is essential to the success of my businesses and peace in my personal life.

Being a mamapreneur means that my businesses don’t just rely on the products or the services, they rely on the entire brand package—and that includes me as the owner. As mamapreneurs, like it or not, we ARE the brand.

When I meet with mamapreneurs who want PR help but tell me they can’t mention their kids in any press releases or bios, or when mamapreneurs say they have to lie about their odd work hours because their clients wouldn’t understand, I am more than disappointed. Maybe it was growing up with Elizabeth Cady Stanton as my hero, but I’ve always felt that we have a responsibility as women not to conform to the rules but to help MAKE the rules. As a mamapreneur, I feel immense pride in being part of this amazing group of women who run businesses and raise families. I came from the corporate world where I’d pretend I didn’t have a life outside of the office persona, to the life of a mamapreneur, where personal and business often gets all tangled up. Why? Because I am the boss.

It doesn’t matter whether you work from home or are the owner of a multi-billion dollar company with thousands of employees: you are still a mom who runs a business, you are still the one who calls the shots. You have a family at home. To pretend that part of your life doesn’t exist when you’re in business mode is doing a disservice not only to yourself, but to the entire business world and to your fellow mamapreneurs in general. Once I understood this, accepted and embraced it, I found the balance, the harmony, the peace I have always been searching for. It’s right there, if you’re willing to let go of traditional corporate thinking and just BE YOU.

One of the reasons I chose to make Mamapreneurs, Inc. an S-Corp instead of a non-profit was because I know that American corporations can do better. We CAN come back to a time when corporations aren’t looked at as mega-monsters, but as teams of individuals who are working to make the world a better place. My goal is to have Mamapreneurs, Inc. model what corporations SHOULD be. Mamapreneurs Inc. is about following through with family friendly policies and not just maintaining rhetoric on paper for appearances or awards. We’re about supporting the success of employees and members as moms, women and as business professionals. Here, working toward your version of success is important, but in doing so you don’t have to pretend to be the perfectly glossed CEO or the perfect mom.

{Originally published on The Bloggess}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on September 28, 2008

Yesterday someone asked me how to deal with trolls and haters. I have no damn idea.

Trolls are just like you and me. Only shittier. Or more honest. Or likely to murder gypsies. Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know the motivation of everyone reading your blog but what I do know is that in real life you come across assholes and weirdos and someone out there is selling computers to these people. People like the guy who left me this comment:

“I was right, you aren’t that hot. Damn.”

I didn’t mind that some stranger thought I was un-hot but what was disconcerting was that in the photo the guy was referring to? I was seven. And totally hot.

Or that comment I got on my I-invented-a-scooter/flame-thrower/cookie-warmer post which simply said:

“Your retarded.”

{Originally posted on At Home Redesigns}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on August 13, 2008

In my line of work, I help people beautify their homes by using, mostly, what they already own. My feeling is this: Many of us have plenty of stuff, plenty of stuff we really like, we just don’t know how to pull it all together to create pleasing, comfortable, organized spaces. In fact, sometimes too much stuff is what keeps us from creating those pleasing, comfortable, organized spaces.

If that is the case in your home, listen to this: It’s OK to get rid of things.

Perhaps to you that seems obvious, but I have run into numerous (wonderful) people who don’t see this as an option: Because someone they love owned the thing, gave them the thing, or maybe just because they have Always Had The Thing.

I’m here to tell you: People you love or who love you really, really don’t care if you get rid of stuff associated with them. Stop calling them, sending them money on their birthday, or smiling at their memory, that’s a problem. Getting rid of the stuff that bottles up your home and gets in the way of loving where you live, that’s not a problem.

Same with stuff you’ve owned for ages. These items are not your friends. Friends don’t let friends live in cluttered houses.

Stuff isn’t people.

So what to do with it all?

Originally posted on Ponderings.
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on August 12, 2008

I attended a funeral for the father of new friend of mine recently. In our understanding he died too soon. He was only in his early 60′s. Although I never had the opportunity to meet this man, his funeral impacted my life. The tributes and memories shared by family and friends were beautiful. We viewed a slide presentation set to music, tracing the journey of his life. The one thing that really spoke to my heart was that this man had truly lived.

He was an adventurer. Fear didn’t hold him captive. He lived out loud. He wasn’t afraid to follow the dreams God had placed in his heart, and yet he didn’t take foolish risks. He enjoyed life to the full. In many ways he has gone from living to living.

My life in comparison would be such a shadow. Many of us would be likened to “dead men walking” in contrast. Oh, maybe outwardly we’re going through the motions. Jumping through all the right hoops. We know how to play the “Game of Life”. For generations it’s been the same. We’ve read the rules. We know the expectations. Years go by, but our passion is getting buried deeper and deeper. We are allowing ourselves and others to dig our own grave…only we’re still breathing. We’re being buried alive.

I read recently of someone who, though living, described themselves as dead. Have you been there? Have you been to that dark place that numbs the heart. Apathy is your new normal. You feel indifferent…listless. You’ve lost interest in all your surroundings. Dejection and weariness characterize your existence. You are no longer a participant, but a spectator. You have eyes that see, without seeing. Ears that hear without hearing. A heart still capable of loving has become your prison. You feel empty, drained, alone.

Unbelievers are not the only ones held captive. Many Christians live life behind locked doors. Self-imposed cells. Discouragement, pain, rejection, insecurity, fear, accusations, past, present, future all build up walls. Gasping for breath you feel smothered, yet weakness and familiarity keep you hostage. It’s often comforting to stay in the security of this new normal. Realizing work and effort may lay ahead, awakening holds too many uncertainties. A strange part of you enjoys the attention, pity and compassion from others. Silence is your truest friend and your most consuming enemy.

The problem? Right now life seems too overwhelming. Negatives far out-weigh the positives. Somehow your focus has shifted from what can be, to what is. Often it’s a slow fade. Unfulfilled desires in a marriage, demanding children, a stressful job, painful, abusive memories, illness, …disappointment in God. Oh, you’d probably not come right out and say that, but somewhere along the line, you’ve felt God has let you down. You had plans. You had desire. Your life was filled with enthusiasm and drive. You’ve been robbed in the cruelest way possible. You don’t have to worry about being one step closer to the grave, you’re already there.