winter, photos

looking off the front porch, © 2015 Amber Schley Iragui

Winter in Portland is mild. Snow is unusual, and lasts a few hours or maybe a day. It usually changes to rain, freezes again, coats trees and walkways in ice—and the city literally shuts down. Mostly though, winter here is wet. It is damp and cold and dark and rainy. But it is not bitter. It is the end of January and already daffodils are sending up green shoots, the crocuses are blooming. I have the window in my office open a crack and I hear the crows making plans outside.

At this cheerless time of year, an hour of sunlight is like gold. Yesterday afternoon it was sunny for a bit, and joggers appeared in running shorts. A boy walked down the road in bare feet. A quarter of an hour later it was dark again and raining.

after morning drop-off, © 2015 Amber Schley Iragui

walking to the grocery, © 2016 Amber Schley Iragui

puddles, © 2016 Amber Schley Iragui

ice storm, © 2015 Amber Schley Iragui

{More winter photos over at Day's Dearest Wish and Eine Hand voller Stunden}

photo friday: the poetics of space

The house in which we were born
is physically inscribed in us. 
It is a group of organic habits...
[However] the word habit is too worn a word
to express this passionate liaison of our bodies

—which do not forget—with this unforgettable house. 

– Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

When I was eight or perhaps nine I had a serious conversation with God about interior decorating. At church I had heard that he, God, was preparing "mansions in heaven" for the faithful, and this led to some anxiety on my part. The mansion itself was not the source of my concern, however; it was the descriptions I'd read of heaven, particularly this New Jerusalem—the place where I assumed my mansion was being built—that caused my uneasiness. The Book of Revelations had it that the city was to be a perfect gold cube, encrusted with all manner of precious jewels, crystal, and pearls. Horrible! My pre-teen aesthetics felt a headache coming on. A showy city teeming with sparkling mansions (no doubt done out with cold marble and polished gold)—ugh! Thus my pleading conversation with God that he (pretty please?) not prepare my mansion this way. Didn't he, being God, know there were people who preferred a more rustic setting? I was partial to wood, stone, calico. And I was hoping he could just hole me up some out-of-the-way heavenly farmhouse with lots of books. In my prayer I referenced photos I'd seen in my mother's Country Living magazine, just so God would get a clear picture of what I was after. A sylvan setting, a nice view, a cat or a horse or two milling about. As long as I didn't have to do chores, that would be paradise enough for me.

Some things don't change. I have remained demanding when it comes to my living quarters, despite the challenges of Manhattan housing. I expect my apartment, however small, to adhere to my particular vision of home: a certain mix of elegance and homespun, books and art, with a clear flow of energy (something alike feng shui ), high ceilings, decent light, a view that includes trees, and nothing higher then six floors above the ground. And we have this, more or less.

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I took three sets of photos for this week's theme. The first set, above, were all taken after my children had gone to bed and husband had fallen asleep on the couch. If you look carefully at the top image you can see him. (And so that you may truly appreciate the size of my kitchen, the second image gives you full view the the entirety of my kitchen counter space.) The second set of photos (directly below) were taken in the kids' room on a lazy Sunday morning. And the final set (at bottom) was taken yesterday morning after everyone had left for either work or school.

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The great function of poetry is to give us back the situations of our dreams.
The house we were born in is more than an embodiment of home,
it is also an embodiment of dreams. 

Each one of its nooks and corners was a resting-place for daydreaming. 

And often the resting-place particularized the daydream.
Our habits of a particular daydream were acquired there. 

The house, the bedroom, the garret in which we were alone,
furnished the framework for an interminable dream,
one that poetry alone, through the creation of a poetic work,
could succeed in achieving completely.

– Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

My children's favorite game for over a year now has been making nests. They build an indoor home of blankets, pillows, dolls, legos, bath toys, plastic figurines, snacks, art supplies, and anything else they can find. After which they "cozy in" and commence familial negotiations for more space or objects in high, silly-sweet voices. As much as it annoys me to open the closet and find a nest of legos and stuffed animals settled in on top of my shoes, I appreciate this innate desire to create intimate spaces of their own.

Much of my desire to orchestrate a elegant but modest home rises from a strong impulse to fashion the backdrop of my children's lives and dreams. I am aware of the ways in which the space they inhabit affects them, and I want their memories of home to both secure and propel them. The objects in our home are rarely random, but instead chosen for spiritual, aesthetic, moral, educational, or cultural reasons —and each contains a story or message. My hope is that this space we inhabit places in them fertile fodder for dreams, creativity, and a longing for God (with whom I've made some peace since my fears of bling mansions in heaven).

photo friday: abundance

It has taken years for this to sink in, but I think I can go ahead and say it: I want for very little. Abundance is abundant. I do not have to worry about cutting corners when buying groceries—I don't feel guilty for not soaking beans, or comparing price per pound (something I rarely did even when I had no money), and I no longer feel luxurious when I purchase whole roast chickens. If the children need shoes or sweaters or raincoats, I do not stop to fret about the cost, I find something well-made and tasteful, and then look at the price.

This has not always been the case, there has been plenty scarcity in my life, even for a privileged American. When my son's school recently sent home free lunch forms, I dutifully started filling them out, but paused when I got to the part about income. Obviously we don't qualify for free lunch. But having always qualified for free lunches growing up, it took a moment to register that my children most certainly will not.

And while only real scarcity in my present life is space, we spend much of our family time in grand, spacious, and public places—museums, parks, mansions, conservatories. It is in these settings that I feel the amazing abundance of my life most keenly. That expansive beauty paired with careful tending is so readily available to us—the magical herb garden at the Cloisters a mere ten-minute walk—leaves my heart more generous, my mind less crowded, my spirit at ease.

And for all this, and so much more, I am truly grateful.

photo friday: complicated

The most complicated thing in my life right now is the kindergarten and preschool pick-up & drop-off schedule. Which is both to say that my life is not truly complicated and that the pick-up & drop-off schedule is a bear. Two five-year-olds, two two-year-olds, two schools, five days, four adults and no two days, or weeks, alike. So that's, like, complicated. The most complicated thing in my home is my miscellaneous tech drawer (which I considered shooting for this week's theme, but merely peeking in the drawer brought a panic attack). That or my three messy knitting baskets... No, the tech drawer is far worse—at least I have some idea what to do with all those needles, hooks and unraveling yarn.

a modest return—photo friday: pale

Nothing too fancy to begin with, just some shots I took this week using my iphone.

We are headed upstate today to see the foliage and sip coffee without the joys of family life distracting us. My mother will be handling family life while we're away, a win-win for everyone. She'll even be able to take the kids to a birthday party over the weekend—the kind where every kid in class is invited. Meanwhile, I plan to get a massage.

Birthday parties are one particular part of parenting I'd be happy to fob off on anyone else. Last weekend there was another one of those everyone-is-invited birthday parties, and as C was out of town I had no one to send in my place. I've given up on buying birthday presents (I either re-gift or make a present), so the kids and I spent the morning fashioning our own Sculpey beads, and then strung a necklace for the birthday girl. But the party was lovely despite my curmudgeonliness, and G was wildly entranced with the cake. Pink, fluffy, floral (and homemade)—she spotted it coming from afar and ran over to me with a level of excitement that I can't say I've seen in her before. She darted back and forth between me and the cake in a state of ecstasy. When they lit the candles and starting singing she could barely contain herself. She repeatedly asked me how long it was till her birthday. What can I tell her? Child, your birthday is a few days before Christmas—one of the busiest times of year—and even if that was not so, your mother abhors parties?

Truth was, I wasn't even planning to stay for the cake. My son was at a playdate and I had to get him. However, it was clear that G was staying for the cake. It was arranged that my son would be dropped off at the party; G could eat her cake. There was a face painter at the party, a patient and talented woman who went by Sparkle Tiger. G (along with more than half the little girls at the party) had asked to be a butterfly. But as G settled into a plate of pink-frosting, meticulously eating each bite, Sparkle Tiger spotted my clean-faced son. "Do you want your face painted?" she asked him, "you can be a tiger." He hesitated, "can I be a snow leopard?" Sparkle Tiger beamed. I must say I think she did an excellent job.

oops! photo friday: orange

 
So, well, I think I'd better put Photo Friday on hiatus for awhile. I totally forgot about it today and only now, midday, did it occur to me it was Friday. Ike is sick, and I'm off to the doctor with him in less than an hour. And Genevieve is also sick, I was with her at the doctor yesterday. Charles, too, has come down with something. I am the holdout.

Besides all the sickness, there have been other dramas to try my patience and wisdom. Not the kinds of things to blog about now. But there are also some lovely things to share—the heart necklaces Ike and I made for his classmates on Valentines, the coffee & muffin ritual Genevieve and I share at Buunni Cafe, Genevieve's new haircut (so cute with a bow), and Anely. Anely—our nanny of five months—is superb. I've had such problems with nannies in the past. Anely is truly a delight to have in my home.

So I will reopen Photo Friday in the summer, when I hopefully have enough time to pay it proper attention.

photo friday : blurry

We woke to large snowflakes lazily eddying past our widows, the river hidden in white. By now—or at 10:00 am when I've had time to sit and compose this post—the flakes are smaller and fall straight and quickly, like New Yorkers rushing off to work.

I have been busy, the reason this post is up so late today. Doctor appointments, teacher meetings, school tours, applications, worrying. Worrying is the most time consuming thing, just thinking through all the choices and possibilities takes far too much time. I want three choices, not twelve. I want one thing, not the many many things all thrown at me at once. Including the army of "no!"s that my son has found in his chest lately, making his feet too heavy to walk down the hall to wash his hands or take off his coat or put on his shoes or eat his dinner or say "please" or just not cry every time he wants what he cannot find.

I don't have enough time to write; there are things to do. So I post these few blurry photos... the first two were accidents, the last the result of me shooting one shot after another at the Museum of Natural History while the crowds walked through the Hall of Biodiversity. 

photo friday: sepia

What delights us in visible beauty is the invisible.

—Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach 

photo friday: license—to post as you wish

It has been bitterly cold here. Walking the children to their respective schools I've noticed how quickly the dog pee freezes in little puddles all along the sidewalk, an odd advantage of such weather when you have small children in a dense urban neighborhood teeming with dogs. Our lives have been mostly uneventful lately. We've had some illness (but luckily not the dreaded flu), a handful of tantrums, an unending supply of daily dramas arising from the running of our little school, the introduction of some new words (Lola and Ike built a "sex-slide" yesterday, and today one of Ike's made-up songs starred a "six-E laid-E"). Mostly I've been working, or trying to work, and cooking dinner, or at least attempting to. Charles discovered itunes and has stayed up late downloading classical albums and operas.

In the midst of this—the cold, the paid and unpaid work, the endless effort of raising two children—I found myself daydreaming about composting. A strange thing to daydream about, I concede. I recall as a child watching my father composting in our backyard, the steam rising from the black beds of soon-to-be-soil; he could stay out there for hours with the wheelbarrow and spade, processing his compost from one "station" to another. I remember walking back from high school, nearing home, and knowing absolutely that my Dad was out back, turning the decomposing matter. You could smell it a block away. We burned everything that could be burned in the wood stoves; took the plastic, metal and glass to the dump oursleves; and composted everything else.

And now here I am in Manhattan, daydreaming of taking the leftovers of our meals and making them into soil. With maybe a few chickens pecking around. And what's this, tears welling in my eyes? Oy Vey!

photo friday: simplicity

As I prowled around for simplicity photos (since the paltry few I took this week were anything but inspired), I found myself drawn again and again to summer photos. Maybe summer seems simple to me this time of year because going outside with two children in warm weather does not involve twenty minutes of bundling. Or maybe I was drawn to these photos because they were all taken on vacation, on uncomplicated days where what to eat was the most pressing concern.

The first photo was taken after a walk on the Jersey shore with my niece and nephew. We build sand castles and kicked around a ball. We walked back to the hotel and washed off the sand in the outdoor shower, then my husband and nephew dove into the deserted pool. The sun had gone down but the air was still warm, and we were the only ones using the pool in the darkening evening.

The second photo was taken at Kainalu Elementary School in Kailua, Hawaii, where my husband attended school as a child. He says he always went to school barefoot.

The last was taken in the carport at Edward Gorey's house on Cape Cod. Jenny and I visited the house this summer. It wasn't a house of simplicity—Gorey collected many things: cats, rocks, Coptic crosses, cheese graters, fur coats. But after the tour Jenny and I went outside and poked around. It was quieter without our tour guide's rehearsed anecdotes, and the old house and grounds were full of delights. There was a simple ease in each others presence—on the same continent, in the same time zone, without children or husbands or a bad cell phone connection.

Today is also my birthday. 

photo friday: pattern

addendum to light

I'm adding this image as a post script to Friday's posting on the theme of light, taken this weekend at the Cloisters.

photo friday: light

Four days into the new year.

The first day of 2013 I made a list of things to do. Not resolutions mind you, things like "make dentist appointment" and "buy happier hen book for J" and a slightly guilt-produced "potty training!" Then I got sick, and all I've done since is update my pinterest boards. That and take down the Christmas tree.
 
Our Super decided to take the tenants' Christmas tree disposal in hand. I called to schedule its removal and, to my surprise, he arrived with an industrial-sized roll of saran wrap to swaddle the tree. He bent its prickly branches up in a cocoon of of plastic and dry needles. In my amazement I forgot to ask whether he planned on removing the plastic when he put the trees out for pickup—I imagine a plastic-wrapped tree isn't likely to be recycled. He, however, asked why such a large tree, and why a live one? He recommends fake: cheaper, less mess.

But our apartment now seems much larger, an empty space in place all that twinkling. I've been burning candles to keep the cheer. Which brings us to light, the subject of today's Photo Friday. Outdoors has not been much inspiration, I admit: when it isn't snowing or gusting, it's been very cold and gray. Little sunlight here and there, but not the kind of weather for someone with sniffles to hang about in, waiting for the clouds to move off. So these photos are old.

I have other things to say. Things about resolutions I think I should make. Like eating more greens. Or doing a sketch a day. Less grouching at and threatening of the 4-year-old. My mind has been full of things that I could blog about, but now that I'm here my thoughts are all blankish. I want a new camera, but that is not a resolution.

So: Happy posting, Happy New Year, happy, happy.

photo friday: christmas

Merry Christmas to all, particularly any of you with enough time on your hands to post photos four days before Christmas. I'm pretty much ready for the holiday, besides of course any kind of food preparation that might be expected of me. I can't really get into that sort of thing, I prefer to languish around in the hope that some kind neighbor will show up with a plate of frosted cookies. And then, I can always rely on Charles to procure some sort of meaty dish when he realizes all his wife has the inspiration for is broccoli. That said, I may make traditional palacinkas Christmas morning.

And, in case you were worried, that ghostly thing in the foreground of the last diptych is not the Ghost of Christmas Past, but a glow-in-the-dark Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton Ike was trying to get into the photo.



P. S. Here's our Christmas card—Christ is born!

photo friday: cool colors

photo friday: warm colors

It was difficult to chose only these photos for warm colors, I had far too many possibilities to choose from. The persimmon in the first photo came home with us from California, and grew on a tree in Charles' aunt's yard in La Cañada. It showed up in last week's fruit bowl in beginnings and endings. The photo of the man painting in the pink tee was taken about a month ago when Charles and I had a date downtown. I was struck how similar the two pinks were. Uncle Mark should be able to spot something fishy about the fourth photo. And finally, my son likes to embellish the rocks in his collection; I have to keep him away from my rocks.