Love for Momma Love

mommalove

Nearly two years ago, I posted this, about discovering Ali Smith, being smitten, and my quest to get my hands on her seemingly elusive book.  The mystery was solved when she responded directly to me, letting me know that I couldn’t find it because it hadn’t yet been published.  She was close, very close, to finding a publisher.  Her photographs were so stunning, felt so important, that I just assumed the publication was in progress, the details of which can be drawn-out over years, and I’ve been here, twiddling my thumbs, waiting.

Turns out her publisher folded, along with the funds she had put towards the book.  Today I made my first foray onto Kickstarter to contribute to get this book, (now twelve years in the making), published at last.  I knew about Kickstarter, mostly via swissmiss, and found it both mystifying and heartening that people were helping other people get projects off the ground, strangers, simply because they believed in the work or product.  It is, in reality, not an investment, but a gift.  The “return” on your “investment”, in this case, is that something you believe in, that has meaning to you, will exist in the world.  There was an interesting article about this in the New York Times (click here to read).

I am so not into trying to separate people and their money. You will never find me on any fund-raising committees. Can’t do it.  So consider this a Public Service Announcement.  Her Kickstarter campaign ends tonight.

August Break: Rain

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Rainy day on the ferry.

Not to get all, like, *deep* on you, but doesn’t this picture just feel like the end of summer?

Endings and beginnings, always. I could just ride the energy of this time in between forever. So much to do, so much to look forward to. New and unknown.

My husband tells me I like “new” things. He’s wrong.

I love them.

August Break: Osa

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This week Osa is our houseguest. My friend, Karen, is off fetching her sons at camp, and we are playing house with Osa. I knew her from the countless sweltering summer evenings Karen and I spent watching our sons play baseball from our folding spectator chairs, discussing over-scheduled kids, over-invested sports dads, raising boys, and what we’d been writing. Osa sat with us, patiently. She’s one of those fiercely intelligent, mild mannered, soulful dogs. It’s all in those amber eyes.