And that’s when it occurred to me, that this tragedy is bringing our community together.  I know that is little consolation for the victims, but it is helping me deal with it. People at the park are friendlier and more watchful of each other’s children. There are more parents on the bike path on the way to and from school, which makes all of the children safer. With a 6-year old and a 12-year old, one is off in her own direction, and the furthest our son goes unsupervised is to a friend’s house. The girl has earned some freedom these last couple of years, showing us the responsibility and maturity we’ve instilled in her are sticking. She’s also taking opportunities to babysit for other families, so needs some freedom to get to and from her jobs. Yesterday, I walked her a mere two blocks, because I could, and because she let me. And you know what, two blocks of walking time is a good conversation with my girl, that we otherwise wouldn’t have had.

We live in a pretty idyllic neighborhood, and have designed our lifestyle so that we can spend a lot of time with our children, and as a family.

Fall in the hood.

However, just because the leaves are changing in our neighborhood, like they are in every other neighborhood in the country with deciduous trees, doesn’t mean our children are safe. But, if anything can make our children safer, I am all for it. I can’t imagine what the RidgewayFamily is going through and hope they find peace and solace.

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For the record, the one thing I miss about California is the ocean. It can draw me in like nothing else and bring me a peace I never thought I’d find again. However, I can now gain about as much peace from a visit to the mountains: hiking, snowshoeing, or even skiing. Colorado suits our lifestyle so well, with tons of open space and mountain trails, an active community of people, and a laid back attitude and lifestyle.

This morning I was running on the treadmill and John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High” played on my iPod. I cranked it up and soaked in the view of Long’s Peak and the rest of the back range as the sun slowly lit it up for the day. I grew up listening to many classics, our friend John being one of them since my Mom is a big fan. I took so much pride in the life we’ve built here, and how much my kids love the outdoors.

Oh, and I swear that Colorado chose me a very long time ago!

Translated: About Me "I would like to be a veterinarian when I grow up. I would like to move to Colorado when I grow up..." We found this amongst my things at my dad's house in California several years after I moved to Colorado in 1993. It was written in 1980, just before I turned 9.

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In the Denver doldrums of winter, the landscape can be colorless and local produce can be sparing. Most Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) shares and farmers markets stop selling food in winter, so organic veggies are only found in the produce section of the grocery store. But now is the time to start planning for the summertime harvest, which usually lasts from May through October.

How do CSAs work?

Local farmers have a set number of shares that the public can buy. This works like a membership or subscription, which provides shareholders (or members) with a box of vegetables or other goods on a regular basis for a set duration of time. This allows farmers to receive money before any products are harvested — thereby helping to make the business more sustainable. It also allows customers fresh, local food — oftentimes delivered straight to their door. Many CSAs offer discounts if you sign up in the late winter.

Check out local farms that offer CSAs here or here.

How do farmers’ markets work?

A farmers’ market is like a one-stop-shop for customers on the hunt for fresh, local food. Usually held in big parking lots or warehouses, farmers markets allow ranchers, farmers and other local vendors to all sell their goods together. In Denver, these happen twice a week at many locations, like near Cherry Creek Mall or near Stapleton.

Which is best for you?

If you like variety in your produce — and aren’t afraid of a few mystery gourds every now and then — consider a CSA. You will automatically get a box of fresh goodies, some of which you wouldn’t normally buy. This option also helps support a specific farmer at the beginning of the season, as opposed to offering less money on a less consistent basis to whichever farmer who happens to sell you food at the farmers’ market.

If you’d rather size up your own tomatoes before buying them, you or someone in your house is a picky produce eater (aren’t most kids?) or you don’t think you can consume the amount of produce that comes from a CSA, go for the farmer’s market. This can also be a fun family outing and summer tradition that not only supports local farmers but also gets the family excited about eating veggies!

While local produce in March might mean another bunch of kale or sack of potatoes, take heart! The colorful produce of summer is just around the corner.

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Sometimes they do not wish to play in the light.  Instead, they curl up like cats on the couch and beg me to let them watch Speed Racers circa 1965.  Or they nestle into bed with a pile of books and read to each other.  Other times they wish me to stay far away so they can do sneaky things like jump off the bed frame onto the mattress or have a pillow fight.

These are some of my favorite times to photograph them, even when they do the sneaky things.  My camera in hand, I watch from behind the lens quietly, respectfully.  I want them to barely notice me so that I can capture these everyday moments exactly as they appear for this is our real life, the moments I want to remember most.

Capturing milestones, birthdays, holidays, special events, is always fun, but documenting the small moments, the quiet moments which is how I spend the majority of my days with Theo and Sully is what I want to look back on years from now.   Something in my mama-heart tells me that when their voices have lost that soft, dripping sweetness and the living room rug always scattered with toys has returned to clear and free of clutter, it will be these photographs I will treasure most.

Is there a time of day at your house when the sun kisses a spot favored by your little one?  Have you captured him there?  If not, I encourage you to get your camera out.   That “cheese” photo taken next to the Easter bunny will be adorable, no doubt, but from one mama to another, I think capturing the way your child’s eyes sparkle while playing with a favorite toy, or capturing his little fingers tightly curled around his green blankie, or that one curl that falls just so will be the memories you will cherish most.  I think about this a lot, knowing how quickly moments come and go.  Someday, I will look back at these images thin and floating like fine cotton sheets hanging on a clothesline, and I will find that swath of sunlight, still.

Katie Neuman Photography  ***  Last year I took my love for photography and passion for clicking Theo and Sully’s everyday moments and began documenting these treasured bits for others.   Needless to say, I fell in love.  Currently I am following my passion and pursuing documentary photography as my main work.

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It is a new year; a fresh start.

The other night, before I closed my eyes and bid 2011 adieu, I reread some pieces I wrote over the year here and on my blog.  Rarely do I go back and reread something I have written.  For many reasons, I just don’t like to do it.

Last summer, I found three of my old journals in a dusty box as I was cleaning out the basement.  I opened one of the fine leather bound books only to  read a piece that left me stunned.  The writing was raw, organic, me in deep water at times, and at other times me on a tranquil shore.  As I continued reading pages here and there out of all three worn and loved and disliked journals, some memories haunted me, some were simply gorgeous.  Certain pages were quite possibly some of my best writing.

I ended up throwing all three books in the box labeled “garbage”.  Yes, I did.  And I don’t regret it.  Well, maybe just a bit – like the piece I wrote while sitting on ocean’s shore about the shades of green and blue and grey and how I saw my life in those tidal shades.  I wrote something about perhaps becoming a mother some day, and in my words as I read them so many years later as a mother and with tears, threads of hope and light for my future shined.   It was sweet and musty; the piece and the journal.  It was really beautiful.

Weathered journals from fifteen years ago or published blog pages from today, no matter when I go back to read them my stories all weave and tell a similar tale.   I’m softening.  I’m coming into my own.  When I am down and out I find something – big or small – that keeps me from falling.  And even if I fall, I’ve learned to be okay on the ground.  One of those journals I threw away were my thoughts and stories, collectively, the year I read and studied anything and everything I could find by Thich Nhat Hanh; when I read “When Things Fall Apart” by Pema Chodron three times – four maybe,  my memory slips me.   And that year, when I wasn’t strengthening my ties with my spirit and trying in vain to figure out what it is that calls me, and writing about it, I apparently was playing a lot of Scrabble because I found lists jotted down between journal pages of acceptable wooden tile words.

From weblogs most recent pages to my yellowed handwritten word now long gone, I can find myself, still.

I still love to be in the kitchen or outside.  Still prefer the small things to be my guiding light.  I still yearn to dig my way down into my soul – to learn and feel – much like I still love to curl my toes in sand greeting ocean’s foam while offering up my dreams and wishes to the pillowy horizon for the taking.  The silver peak of a mountain top still takes my breath away.  I still live in jeans almost exclusively and love cats and bare feet.  Still, I have faith in God as my guide while my spirit undoubtedly yearns toward enlightenment, an ongoing quest which makes me a God loving – Buddha loving gal, equally.  I still feel those wounds that my heart knows, but time and love that I share with those closest to me and my children, and writing and photography, those are my salve, always at the ready to heal me.

I suppose in certain ways I am different from those handwritten pages.  I had not yet birthed a child.  My struggles then were not about finding the balance I search for now because I never gave like I give now; like a mother gives, and gives up.  All of this and more, merely tales to weave continually over time.

I wouldn’t want to predict for the coming year what colors I will use to paint my words or edit my images or the ways in which I will spend my days living out my many roles:  friend, sister, wife, mother, daughter, me.  I do think I’ll try to incorporate Scrabble back into my life.  And I don’t think I’ll start looking back too much.

It’s a new year.  It’s a fresh start.

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It may sound silly, but decorating our house for the holidays makes my heart ache.  It is a happy ache.  As each little one ran here and there, one hanging stockings and one hanging ornaments on the tree, my heart nearly exploded with happiness.

You see most of our ornaments belonged to my grandparents.  There’s a whole set of hand painted dough ornaments that I made with my Grandma when I was Theo’s age.  Christmas crafts she made over many years that were divided up amongst all her grandchildren after she left this world, my share placed here and there in our home to stir up fond memories of times past and exuberance for times yet to come.   There is a smell on decorating day, too – sweet, woodsy, a dash of peppermint.  I swear – it is the exact same smell that I remember as a child when we opened each and every mesmerizing box labeled “Christmas” in black Sharpie.   It is a smell that says home and gratitude and remember when…

This year, as I unwrapped each vintage ornament, I thought about my family and the traditions I would like to start.

Last year the boys and I made felt ornaments for our tree.  We gave some as gifts.  This year we’ll make them out of wood, and give some, too.  After Christmas, when the sales start, I will shop for one or two more ornaments – the kinds I love like birds and delicate glass shapes, to keep adding to our tree.

We make bottomless tins of muddy buddy and Chex mix.  I  make a visit to Hickory Farms for munchies.  The little ones beg for simple spritz cookies morning, noon, and night.  We do visit Santa, of course.  And so much more…

This year we’re trying something new with the hope that we’ll love it and want to continue doing it each year.   The Denver Botanic Gardens transforms from December 2nd – January 1st into “The Blossoms of Light”.  From 5:30pm until 9:30pm, you can bundle up and stroll through the magical winter wonderland.  I’m thinking of bringing a thermos filled with hot apple cider, a bag of Christmas cookies – my Grandma’s sugar cookie recipe, of course, to enjoy as we celebrate another radiant December night.

At the end of the day, when the little ones are tucked cozily in bed, I fall into the couch – the golden light from the Christmas tree glowing.  I pause to replay the days’ moments in my mind, and I feel an ache welling up in my heart.  It is a happy ache.  No matter what tradition we’ve created or are continuing to honor, we are together.  That is the best tradition of all.

‘Tis the season!

Information for The Blossoms of Light at Denver Botanic Gardens

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A candle is burning in the kitchen, the smell of winter and fire and woods wafting toward me and wrapping me in a soft embrace.  My little ones are only a few feet away, building pirate ships and get-away boats out of Legos on the rug, the fireplace aglow.  I’ve made a latte, the sound of Norah Jones’ voice moving through the room.  I create this scene almost daily, our afternoon ritual during the change of season.  I sit, ready to write in this space – something, anything.  But nothing comes.  I wait a little longer.  Now my shoulders feel less soft and embraced, my neck beginning to get tense.  Frustrated, I delete my start, stare at a blank screen and ultimately decide to move along to something else.

I do wonder if other mamas struggle like I do?  Something tells me the answer is yes, that I am not alone.  I do wonder sometimes how to do it all – be that mama who can create and deliver while balancing the tasks of parenting, and more importantly, how to do it all in a way that leaves me feeling like I contributed quality and not merely quantity.

For the record, I do not have writer’s block.  What I have right now is a need for quiet and contemplation.  Like the autumnal season itself,  we are busy in our home this time of year gathering, readying, preparing to make peace with the darkness that lies ahead, and carving out time to honor and celebrate the holidays.  Inside, I feel merriment and quiet change, equally.  In this place, my thoughts are still, gaining strength, and I am gathering.  Ideas move through me these days like blazing leaves flowing down a soft, trickling stream.  And then these ideas simply get stuck on a branch or a rock.  And now there is a new shape, a new form, another story.  Instead of fighting this voice in my head that says, “Yet you still must produce” , I choose not to fight.  I simply surrender.

Amidst the change of season, I could also mention the constant distractions.  For example, I’ve walked away from the computer three times already since starting this post to mediate the sharing of two tiny white windows and six thumbnail sized tires, creamy paws grabbing while soft gravelly voices declare, “No Feo.  I need dat for mine house!”, or, “Sully, those tires are part of my landing gear”.   So I’ve resolved a problem, restored peace, and I’ve also wiped out that profound thought I was just going to share with you.  Alas.

Where am I going with all of this?  Well, amidst it all I’ve been bathing myself in the solitude of these past weeks, thinking something will emerge.  I can already feel it trying to wriggle its way out.   As the leaves fade and monochrome begins to surrounds us,  I suspect a layer of quiet in my soul will remain.  But I also feel a strengthening in the hollows of my bones from all of this quiet contemplation.  And it is here that I fill up on fuel to propel my life – our life forward.  Something deeply has changed and I am looking forward to greeting that change and telling you all about it.  For now though, I think I’ll put my feet up and read a magazine while I watch my little ones create.  One inspiration at a time.

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Last year, on his first day of pre-school, after going through the motions and emotions of dropping him off,  I came home, put my littlest one down for a nap, and went through the next 2 1/2 hours feeling phantom pains.  My chest was tight, my heart cramped.  Our house felt too quiet.  I felt as if a part of me had been cut off and in its place I could feel movement, hear faint giggles, feel tiny fingers clasped around my neck.   Oh I was so reluctant to let him go that first time, to let change creep into my bones that were well and warmly padded, held tightly together with sloppy kisses and dirt smudged cheeks.

Camera in hand, I followed him out the front door.  He stood in front of our gate and let me take his picture.  Just two of them and real quick.  He even said “cheese” to the lens which is something I never ask my children to do.  Going through the motions of this first day of school, he seemed like an old soul to me.  Like he’s done this for twelve years already, like it’s a big deal, but not really.

After drop-off, the littlest little and I came home.  Our house was quieter but not silent like the last time.  This time the little one moved about freely – no more morning naps for this toddler and, if you didn’t already guess, he went straight to big brother’s most coveted toys, a treasure chest waiting to be looted.

I opened our windows and invited the cooler early fall air to dance in while I washed dishes.  As the fresh air moved all around me I thought about my little one at school, knowing that he was most likely having a wonderful time.  I listened to the littlest trying his hardest to sound like a revved up engine even though his voice is soft like spun sugar.   Inside I felt just right.  I didn’t feel my heart cramping or phantom aches and pains.  I didn’t feel breathless like the last first time, and there were no tears.   In fact, I felt real happiness and joy for myself and my boys.  They are growing, thriving.  And motherhood is growing me.

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They call out to me impatiently,  ”Mom…c’mon, Mamaaa.  Pleeeease, Mom…c’monnnn.”

Standing in the kitchen, braced against the island, I swallow the last of my morning latte.  Our front door has become the floodgate, breached daily.  Once open, we propel forward, flowing outside, into the day.  The excitement pours off the little ones and spills onto me.  And out we go to mop up the sunshine and fresh summer air.

During the winter months when we spend so much time in the warmth and comfort indoors the bulk of our days’ activities are guided by me.  I set up various art projects, cooking and baking, quiet time for cuddling and stories, playtime.  But during the warm months, spent mostly outside,  I let guidance fall by the wayside.  It’s instinctual, really.  Take children outside and let them be free to do what they want in a safe, supervised environment and watch them.  I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.

I find a slip of shade and lay my quilt on the grass.  The ducklings pitter-patter nearby.  One’s helping a neighbor water her garden.  The other one is digging a hole and filling it with water from the hose in our yard.  A robin zips back and forth overhead, every now and then a worm dangling from its mouth.  Two small butterflies, heaven white, perform a fluttery ballet over another neighbors’ spread of lavender.

From my quilt, I watch.  The ducklings zip around, giggling.  I notice when they sit down, quiet, pausing to take it all in.  I take it in and breathe a deep breath of gratitude when they pair up and play together, kindly.   Outside, they are living, thriving, shining in the moment, and to their own beat.  And while I watch, they show me an unprompted zealousness for the Now, which is really all that matters.

When I’m not under the shady tree watching, or giving a spontaneous hug or cuddle, mediating, or being told one heck of an imaginative story about a 400bcx series something-or-other with an unbelievable turning radius, I am cook and waitress.  I whip up slices of bread with peanut butter and apple slices.  I schlep out bowls of ice cold watermelon, goldfish crackers, cups of water.

Later in the day, after a nap and reprieve from sunshine, we head back outside.  Only this time it is me who is waiting for them at the floodgate.  In my hands I hold a tray of root beer floats.  I will move my quilt to a new spot of shade and we will spill back into the day.

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.  – Annie Dillard

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But on this day as I ran around the park with my family, capturing silly moments plastered on drippy-nosed faces,  I couldn’t help but notice this little message that appeared ~ not once, but twice, and not on a person at all.

And it wasn’t an expression I thought of while gazing through the lens this time, but a poem that I love.

Messenger

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird~equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old?  Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and sill not half-perfect?  Let me keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.

~Mary Oliver

It was a really good day.

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