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This birthday, the one just before turning 40, needed to be quiet, calm. Not least of all because it came on the heels of an emotionally dense weekend with the family.
So, David and the dog and I hunkered down at home. Didn't stop us from breaking into the stash of Burgundy we brought back from our trip last year, though.
Nowruz (Persian New Year) is probably my single favorite holiday. It's a celebration of Spring, renewal, and love. It doesn't require gifts, it's totally secular, and its most important traditions fill the house with light and fragrance. It's pretty perfect, as holidays go.
Of course, when Iran is in the kind of turmoil it's in today -- crippling sanctions, horrific inflation, and an oppressive, deeply corrupt government -- the joy of Nowruz is somewhat clouded over by the knowledge that people "back home" are really suffering.
Still, I set up my Haft Sinn, gathered a small group of loved ones, and made the traditional meal. As the two Americans, two Israelis, one Kiwi, and I made a toast to the new year, I couldn't help but make a wish:
I hope, so deeply, that within the next few years, it will actually be possible for the same six people to sit down to just such a meal together in Iran.
With that, I say, Eideh Shoma Mobarak, and may you have a wonderful year ahead!
It's difficult to know, in those times, which is harder: feeling untethered or being locked in place.
Very late, this post. But I was lucky enough to spend Thanksgiving in Israel thanks to a partner who had to be there for work, and who invited me to tag along.
I spent a day wandering Tel Aviv with my camera, chasing the street art that was everywhere. Huge wall-size pieces, tiny rat-sized ones. Black spray paintings, colorful wheatpastings. Aggression, sadness and whimsy, sometimes all at once.
More of the set here.
Father's Day. People tell me it "gets easier every year," but that hasn't been my experience. Trouble is, I keep thinking it WILL get easier, and so get bowled over when it's not.
This year, I was in Manhattan for work, with the rare gift of total anonymity.
I went for a run on the High Line, walked the city, took in a magnificent sunset, and ate dinner alone. In the absence of expectation to engage with people, I engaged with memories of my childhood in New York. And in those memories, I found my dad's company.
Sometimes, I just need to be reminded that grief and solace both come in many forms.
For four years, I've been going to Burning Man. The last three of those, I've helped coordinate Camp Pendant, a lively, warm, lowkey group of friends and relatives who've become my bona fide playa family.
The memory of the morning this photo was taken -- walking across the dusty lakebed, watching people frolic as the icy night air was slowly, gently warming from the reappearing sun -- is one I hope never to forget.
After visiting the temples of Angkor last November, I made a point of telling nearly everyone who would listen that Cambodia should be on their Life List (or Bucket List, if you prefer.)
Since then, three friends have made the trek, with a fourth on her way there now. Each of them has come back feeling awed by the scale and beauty of the temples, and grateful for the experience. It's a nice feeling to inspire someone.
You can see my complete set of Cambodia photos here.
This past January, I spent a weekend in Bodega Bay at a friend's weekend home, reading, shooting (photos!), watching movies, and doing very little else.
I took this photo at dusk on our first evening there, just as the mist was rolling in over the bay. It's hazy, out of focus, blown out. I took the photo again, adjusting setting to make it a technically better image.
But the truth is, it's this one that turned out to be the perfect one.
Full circle and then some.
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