Last week, the Pacific Northwest was hit with a winter storm that left us stranded at home due to snow, wind and ice for 5 consecutive school days.  During that winter storm, I am sad to admit that I didn’t take a single photo.

Day 1.  I did not take any pictures of my boys playing in the snow because I knew there were would be time later, with “plenty of snow” in our forecast.  On day 1 of our snow days I missed photos of the building of the igloo and snow ball fights.  I missed images of us sitting around the kitchen table drinking hot chocolate with swirls of whipped cream.  I missed capturing the wide-eyed excitement of my boys enjoying Winter’s first snow.

Day 2.  While on the phone with fellow Life Story Photographer Laura with Laura Morita Photography, I proclaimed to her my decision that my Life Story images needed to be 1) in “portrait worthy” attire, and 2) worthy of being framed on the wall.  I told Laura that because my son’s hair was too long, that I wasn’t worried about taking any pictures of the boys during their snow days, because I wouldn’t be using it for a Life Stories project.  Consequently, on day 2 of our snow days, I missed photos of the boys sledding on the front hill, roasting marshmallows in the fireplace, bundled up boys with layers of coats and scarves, cold noses and a dog with adorable snow paw prints.

Day 3.  I came to my senses.  What kind of mom am I to skip pictures of my son because of his hair?  I love those thick, tousled curls.  What kind of mom am I that I won’t take pictures of my kids in everyday clothes?  Is not the true portrait of my oldest son a boy who wears shorts in the winter and a football jersey at every opportunity?  I put my foot down to the nonsense.  I made a new declaration.  I was not going to let my life memories be held hostage to haircuts (or lack thereof) or so-called portrait worthy clothes.  I was going to embrace the everyday moments, embrace the snow, and take pictures!  I was excited about the day.  I didn’t have a plan, but the day was going to be “our day” and I was once again, going to document the memories.

On Day 3, in preparation for “our day”, while the winds gusted with a shivery 3-degree wind chill factor, I started early and cleaned and vacuumed the house, I made a homemade coffee cake that made the house warm with the smell of vanilla and cinnamon, I built a cozy fire in the fireplace and prepared ourselves for fun (Monopoly anyone?).  And then, just as quickly as I had decided to embrace our everyday moments in pictures, I was thrown another curveball.  I had stepped outside to restock the firewood and while carrying a large load of firewood in my hands, I stepped back onto our wood floors into an unseen puddle of snow that had fallen inside.  Before I could catch myself, I slipped and fell to the ground pounded by the 7 pieces of firewood I had in my arms.  I hollered.  I screamed.  I even cried.  I definitely scared the boys.  I had severely bashed my forearm (which was bleeding) and smashed a finger that was turning a dark shade of blue.

Day 4.  The snow turned to ice.

Day 5.  The snow melted.

And I don’t have a single picture.

How is this related to The Life Stories Project?  Well, I was blessed to finally realize that life is “Perfectly Imperfect”.  That while I love a classic portrait with boutique clothes and impeccable styling, I had somehow lost sight of my roots in photography, and my love for authentic and real moments.  I love my kids for who they are, and it is the everyday moments that I desperately want to hold onto.  When I slipped, I realized that sometimes in life you fall, and sometimes you can’t hold on.  So while I can, I am going to embrace the imperfect moments and hold onto them for as long as I can.

As my arm and finger heal, I am left to think about the perfectly imperfect photos that are buried in the gigabyte cobwebs of my computer.  Lost there, or not there at all, due to my ridiculous standards I have imposed for “perfect portraits”.  Perfect is overrated.  Perfect is boring.

This month, my project is to resurrect a few lost images and embrace them for what they are: wonderful images of my family, perfect in EVERY way.  With an open heart and mind, I am now embracing their perfectly imperfect moments and welcoming them not only onto my walls, but also into my portrait work (this is life changing, really!).

This is Life.  Perfectly imperfect.  The times that we want to remember.

I love the lazy days of summer, when you roll out of bed, eat breakfast, and throw on some clothes to run outside and pick the juiciest blackberries before the birds get there first.  That’s the way it was this day.  A fun morning picking blackberries with my sister and my nieces.  I later taught my sister how to can homemade blackberry jam.

Blackberry Picking Time

Do you remember the nights when you could snuggle with your kids and read them bedtime stories.  Do you remember when they were EXCITED for the story?  Did you also have one that would listen intently and then the another that would be lost in her own world?

Story Time at Bed Time

Do you remember when playtime was your day’s only appointment?  A time to be carefree.

Play Time

(Sadly, this is also a eulogy for Humphrey the Hamster (honorary class pet of my niece’s classroom).  While my nieces so lovingly doted upon Humphrey while in their care, he met his demise to a dog, while being cared for at another classmate’s home.  RIP Humphrey.  You were a good hamster.)

To add insult to injury, here are my memories of 2012’s first snow.

Snow Time | The First Snow of 2012

Thank you snow storm of 2012.  Somewhere along my photographic journey, I fell out of step with my true self and drifted away from the photography that I love and cherish, photography that speaks of the essence of a child.  It IS those imperfect moments that I love the most.  Thank you snow storm of 2012.  You have opened my eyes AGAIN to the magic and purity of photography and the importance of tightly holding on to our everyday memories.  You never know when YOU will slip and fall and be unable to hold on.  Are you prepared?

Thank you for allowing me to a bit long-winded this month. Thankfully, photography is more than an occupation for me.  It is a journey.  A journey where I am continually finding myself and growing in character.  When I am lost, I am grateful that the journey has provided a path to get back on track.

The next Life Story in the chain is by my friend Laura from Laura Morita Photography.  She’s a rare and unique talent in photography.  You are lucky if you live in the San Francisco Bay area, because you can pick up the phone and book her right now.  You can read her Life Story post HERE.

87 years of stories can be told through my Grandma’s hands. Just looking at them, I feel like a witness to 87 years of happiness, love, hard work, compassion, and sorrows. Her hands are a testament to a life WELL lived in character and through God.  Her hands have nurtured, rocked, loved, and disciplined 3 generations of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Born in 1924, my Grandma was the youngest of 5 children. My Grandma enjoyed her life on the family farm in Sand, Texas, where her family grew watermelon, corn, wheat, maize, and cotton. She lived in a brand new house, without electricity, toilets or hot water. As a child she earned the nickname “Bunny”, because she would pad through the house in her footie pajamas, and everyone would say she looked like a little “Bunny”. To this day, it is fun to be around my Texas relatives, as they all still lovingly call her “Aunt Bunny”.

As a pre-teen, my Grandma was bed-ridden for 3-years with Nephritis. For the first few months of being sick, my Grandma’s sister would bring home her schoolwork. But in short time, the doctors gave her an estimated 6-months to live, and the homework stopped coming home. But my great grandmother persisted in prayer and faith, and the doctors called it a miracle when 3-1/2 years later, a last-hope procedure made my Grandma well again.

In 1942, after graduating from High School, my Grandma moved west to California. In 1944 she worked on the Rhor Aircraft assembly lines in Chula Vista, California, cutting wire for boxes, and then moving up to the South 40, where she earned her position as Rosie the Riveter, assembling airplanes used in battle for WWII. It was at the aircraft assembly lines that she met, and later married, my Grandpa.

My Grandma’s beautiful hands are so woven into my childhood memories. I remember being 5, and standing on a step stool in my Grandma and Grandpa’s kitchen watching as my Grandma whipped the 7-minute frosting and then perfectly frosting my Barbie doll cake with beautiful peaks of white, shimmering frosting.  I can see her hands quickly picking the figs from her favorite backyard tree.  I remember sitting under her desk at the hospital watching her as she sorted and processed the data entry cards.  I vividly remember lying on her bed at night and watching her “roll” her hair so methodically and with such perfection. Her bedtime stories always made us giggle, and her back-scratches were memorable. In the morning, the ritual began with “putting on her face” followed by “Grandma Pancakes” (the thinnest pancakes imaginable).

Grandma’s hands lovingly beaded my wedding gown 19 years ago. They crocheted much-loved blankets for my own babies, and binded the seams on my son’s favorite blankie, which as shabby as it has become through the years, is still loved by him today. If I close my eyes I can hear my Grandma’s voice softly singing my boys to sleep, to “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral”.

These hands have many stories to tell, and despite the Parkinson’s Disease that is robbing her hands of their steadiness, they have many stories yet to write. I was blessed to be able to spend this Christmas with my Grandma along with my husband, children, parents, Aunt and Uncles, sisters, brother-in-laws, cousins and nieces (19 of us in all).  It was a full house, and it was the highlight to my Grandma’s Christmas to have “all her chickadees” together.  And you could see her fingers tap with joy.

My Grandma’s hands.  Every crease and line holds a beautiful memory.

My sisters and I always fear getting “the finger” from my Grandma.  This is not the traditional “bird” that we fear.  It is the wagging of the finger, pointed in our direction.  It either means 1) something is very wrong, more likely not in line with Grandma’s plan, or that 2) my Grandma has something very important she needs to immediately share.  Either way, she has earned the reputation as PoKEahontas (yes, pun intended).

My Grandma is fun, witty, sprite (she’s great at e-mail and even has an iPad (doesn’t that seem a universe removed from her humble roots?)), and we love her so much.

Watch out, listen up, here she goes with the finger….

And she always has a hug to share.  To read the next story in our series, please click on the blog of Amber Anderson Photography, of Vancouver, Washington.

Have a Happy New Year!

From MY family to YOURS….Merry Christmas!

On an iPhone or iPad?  Click here to view the video clip!

(Here’s a tip….give the clip a chance to load…press “play”, then press “pause” while the clip fully loads)

I hope to see you in 2012.  Have a Happy New Year!