Story Behind the Picture: B is for Ballet

A few months ago, a reader asked about my dance background in reference to another post, specifically why I would have started taking point classes at the age of 21. I've decided to write this post for Thanksgiving. When you read it, you will understand.

College. That one word brings back a swirl of emotions, not the least of which is nostalgia for a time in my life when I was simultaneously a genius and an idiot (for those of you who knew me then, I appreciate your silence regarding that latter part). It was my time to discover what I was good at (analyzing, writing, getting by on very little sleep) and what I was not good at (all things math, making it to 8 a.m. classes, staying awake in 8 a.m. classes). I was thrilled to find that I could take a ballet class to satisfy some of my credit requirements. I hadn't danced in years, having long since found horses more appealing than barre work, but I didn't let this deter me. I was nervous my first day, not sure what to expect of a college dance professor (Serious? Tall? French accent?). Susan was none of the three. She was a petite blonde pixie with a wicked sense of humor and an uncanny ability to not laugh at her students, no matter how horrible their performance. I saw her eyes laugh, but her face never broke form (I ought to know - most of that laughter was definitely directed at me). Still, I loved dancing in Susan's class. She knew I couldn't pick up choreography at all, and she mercifully let me hide in the back for four straight years. That fourth year, however, something changed about her. Her once thick blonde hair looked thinner, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She started wearing a sweater tied around her waist, and only one time did I glimpse the chemotherapy pouch that lurked underneath. She never missed a class.

The winter of my senior year, I decided I wanted to try a pointe class. Susan didn't teach pointe classes at the college, but she did have a Friday night class with the local dance company. For ten year-olds. I asked her permission, and I was in.

I stopped going out on Friday nights, and instead spent hours sweating and bleeding through my new shiny satin shoes. If anyone has any questions about how brutal pointe work is on the feet, let me assure you it's much like having your toes caught in a bear trap, if not worse. On full pointe, I was at least a foot taller than all the willowy little girls in that class, but again, Susan never laughed. Smiled, but not laughed. She taught me it was perfectly acceptable to be the ostrich in a room full of little swans.

I went to her house shortly before my graduation when she kindly agreed to sit for a portrait with her daughters for a final exam I was completing. I met her husband, played with her dogs, fell in love with her two little pixie blonde girls who climbed all over their mother and gave me some of the most breathtaking images I've ever shot. I aced the final.

Susan died of breast cancer two years after I graduated. She left behind two beautiful little girls and a world that was a little less sunny without her. I'm thankful every day for her influence. She was funny, but never laughed at us. She was beautiful, but never made us feel awkward in her presence. She was fighting a battle, but she never let it harden her. Thank you Susan, for showing me that grace and beauty are not reflected in a mirror, but in my actions.

Story Behind the Picture: Philadephia Skyline

This is the view from the boathouses along the river: the Art Museum, City Hall, and all the other beautiful buildings that form the unmistakable Philadelphia skyline. This is where we met almost ten years ago. There were no rose petals, shooting stars, or serenades by strolling violin players. The Cliff's Notes version? I hit him with my boat. In the head.

He was standing in the back of the boathouse, looking for something, and I walked in with my 26 foot single balanced on my head. My excuse, to this day, is that my eyes had yet to adjust from the bright sunlight.

He was not necessarily my type. I tended to like the kind of man that was "emotionally unavailable" (yes, that is an actual quote by an actual ex-boyfriend. Twenty dollars to the person who can tell me what on earth that really means). I fell for the arrogant ones who were, oddly, threatened by my own confidence. I seemed to like the ones that were less than honest and hid things about their past from me.

Yet there he was: unassuming, emotionally available, and completely honest. And, of course, grimacing and holding his head which I had just rammed with the bow of my boat. He likes to say he didn't regain full consciousness until we were at the altar. This is usually the point where I hit him again.

For ten years I have been grateful for the perfect timing of that one morning row. I'd like to think that even when I'm 90, I'll still remember the moment I realized I'd finally met the right one.

Story Behind the Pictures: Spoon, Knife, and Fork

Memories. Memories come in the strangest of forms. I never met my great-grandmother, but her four daughters were an integral part of my daily life. They shaped my world, spoiled me, taught me, loved me. Of all the things they collected and treasured, the drawers full of their mother's tarnished silverware is the most beautiful. Of all the things they sold in order to keep food on the table and clothes on their children, they always protected the silverware. I refuse to polish away the patina and fingerprints, the years of use that have darkened the monogrammed "R" that adorns the graceful handles. I never met my great-grandmother, but when I look at these pieces of silver, I have memories of her Christmas dinners and Sunday lunches. I never met my great-grandmother, but her four daughters taught me everything I needed to know: love deeply, laugh loudly, and life is too short not to use the good silverware.

Story Behind the Picture: The Two of Us

Most little girls dream of walking down the aisle on their wedding day, and dancing in high-heeled white satin shoes as the sun sets and the band plays music and their new partner amazes everyone with his fantastic waltzing ability. Or at least that's what we're told to believe (I, for one, did not see any fabulous waltzing from my husband at our wedding reception). The beauty of getting older is realizing that one girl's pair of heels is simply another's roller skates. And who says it can't be two girls standing at the end of that aisle together?

In my career as a wedding-attendee, I've worn every color of taffeta, carried every form of bouquet, and danced to every Village People song around. I've caught flowers (and promptly thrown them at the next unsuspecting girl), dried my eyes, made toasts, and carried one particular friend over huge drifts of snow so we could fit her and all her dress into the car during an epic East Coast storm. That said, I have never been to a wedding where both the brides wore skates.

It wasn't traditional. It wasn't expected. It wasn't even legal (Maryland is still a little behind the evolution curve in these matters). It was, however, the most joyous, crazy, wonderful, loving, and funny union I've ever had the privilege of witnessing. When we formed a circle at the end, so the brides could skate past and high-five everyone at the reception, I cried like the sentimental fool that I am. We should all be so lucky to live our lives like that wedding day: have fun, break the right rules, and thank your friends.

Story Behind the Picture: A Magical Night

There is something magical about trees. Maybe it's the way their branches and leaves rustle and speak when the wind rushes past, or maybe it's the way they filter the sun and create a shady carpet on which we can rest. The most magical trees are the ones that create an umbrella with their branches that touch the ground all around, yet leave a secret hiding place close to their trunks.
"Mommy, come look what I found!" called Danny during a walk on a beautiful September evening. "It's a faerie house!" I crawled under the branches with him, and saw this beautiful little spot he had discovered. We could hear the footsteps of passersby, but they could not see us, nestled quietly under the canopy of leaves. "I think the faeries come out and dance when they think no one is looking," he whispered. I nodded quietly as we watched the glow of the sunlight together, waiting for the faeries to appear.

Midweek Update: "Alphabet Soup!" Blog

I'm just popping in mid-week to let everyone know I've started a blog dedicated entirely to the books in the Alphabet Soup! series. Stop in to read more about the Stitch Your Heart Out Campaign and other updates as they come. I'll be taping a radio interview about the original Alphabet Soup! this weekend (eeek!) and will post the link as soon as the show airs.

I'll be back tomorrow with my "Story Behind the Picture." In the mean time, have a lovely Thursday!

Story Behind the Pictures: Alphabet Soup for Cross Stitchers

Every Friday I have a story to share, and this one is no different. Rather than just one photograph, I'm sharing the on-going process of an entire series that is incredibly meaningful.

A little background: Loose Thread Stitchers (LTS) and mkc photography have partnered to create a gorgeous coffee table book dedicated to the art of cross stitch. Twenty-six different letters, twenty-six different designers and companies who have supported this project, twenty-six different beautiful pages that even non-stitchers will love. Why are we doing this? Colleen (the CEO of LTS) and I are dedicated to championing causes that support women. Heart disease is the #1 killer of women world-wide, and CAROL for Heart works to educate women about heart health. When Colleen saw my original "Alphabet Soup!" book, she knew this was a concept she wanted for the "Stitch Your Heart Out" (SYHO) campaign.

When these beautiful pieces arrive to me, I can't help but marvel at the time and love poured into each one. Some are actual stitched designs, some are creative tools to make stitchers' lives easier, but all are little pieces of art. Little pieces of art that connect generations of women who teach one another and keep the traditions their mothers and grandmothers taught to them. It was once forbidden for a gathering of three or more women to stitch or weave together: the churches feared the power of such unchaperoned meetings, feared the agency and power associated with creating such elaborate and bewitching designs, feared the outcome if too many women were united in their single pursuit. Silly, isn't it, to think that something woven or stitched by a women would be dangerous? Yes, I suppose, unless you've read the story of Medea...

These images are a tribute to the beautiful art of cross stitch that should be treasured - and taught - for endless years to come. Keep stitching, ladies!