In my grandma’s house, everything (and I do mean everything—the antiques, the leftovers, the contents of the refrigerator, the gardening tools, Grandpa’s newspapers with the crossword puzzles they worked, even the dishes she loaded into the dishwasher) had a place, a purpose, a pattern.
A daughter of the Depression, Grandma refinished antique furniture, repaired clocks, and repurposed nearly everything.
When she cooked, everything was measured. She was so precise in her portions, I could write down recipes as she made them from memory.
Nothing was messy. She cleaned as she went. I remember watching her carefully dust the crumbs from the tablecloth into her hand as she cleared up after the meals we shared. And then she swept the floor, just in case the crumbs had dropped anyway.
While I was learning to drive, Grandma taught me how to increase the gas mileage by coasting downhill when I could, and leaving a little more room between the accelerator and the floor.
With thorough care and efficiency, she modeled industry to me. Rhythms. Creative organization. Making space for things that meant something—making spaces that meant something.
I don’t know why she went about her life this way. I don’t even know if she always had.
What I do know is that she was afraid that somehow she’d gotten it wrong.
No matter how she had measured, how careful she had been, how intentionally she remained, she still ran out of life. As we all must.
But she didn’t get it wrong.
She didn’t know she hadn’t measured her love.
She didn’t know that I could see it anyway.
She didn’t know that all her patterns, purpose, and placement had kept her present with me, had allowed me to be present with her.
She didn’t know she’d shown me how to have enough.
The last time we spoke before she died, she grasped my hand hard and told me she loved me in the most unmeasured way, desperate for me to hear her. I whispered back through tears, “I know,” and I felt like it wasn’t enough.
But then I realized.
No matter how we measure, when we are present with ourselves and with each other, it is always enough.
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Today, I am beginning a series of essays here to share about some of the people that I carry around inside my heart. I’ve moved 35 times in my 42 years, lived in 9 states here in the U.S, and traveled internationally. I’ve had hundreds of photo shoots and met thousands of people, and I have so many memories of what has proven to be a rather wonderful life to this point—however much LIFE has occurred to make me think otherwise.
So as I’m a bit of a magpie about pretty, shiny things (and magical experiences with other humans), it feels rather natural for me to make a collection of these stories and share what it’s like to see people, to learn from them, and to hold both the good and the bad with an open heart.
Love!