• Flying all night to be with my friend, Tim.
• Sitting shiva with Susan and Jill.
• Making music with Peter. It's like being held, in the best way.
• Meeting Rose Polenzani.
• A surprise from Jonatha.
• Watching my girls play at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge.
• Seeing North by Northwest on the big screen. The crowd applauded all through the opening credits and Hitchcock's cameo, and the gentleman behind me told stories about seeing it the first time around.
• Being with my whole family at The Swell Season concert in Prospect Park, and with Andy and Colleen, who are like family.  Laying on the blanket with Lucy and looking up at the trees and the night sky.
• Watching my friends jump behind the mike at a hot dog stand concert that brought us to our feet.
• A magical hike that led to what felt like the edge of the world.
• Road-tripping to New Hampshire with my sister and seeing our aunt and cousin on the way home.
• Bonus time with Hula, which is always so good. Like if time could be the yummiest ice cream flavor ever--that's how time with her is. 
• A swimming hole that felt like something out of a movie, rope swing and all.

All the summer rest and play has filled me with all kinds of possibilities and dreams for the fall.  For me, after sowing and planting and tending and lots of lots of waiting, fall is always the time for harvest.  For gathering the fruits of our patience and sinking our teeth into them.

What memories of summer are you carrying with you into the coming months? Share them in the comments below. And if you have dreams you're ready to sink your teeth into, it's not too late to join Mondo Beyondo's fall session and create a harvest all your own. 

Coney Island, Horizon Perfekt, xpro Lomo 200 film

I believe more and more every day that love makes us brave.  Sink into love--reach out and take a hand--to find your courage today.

From a recent walk along Brighton Beach, Horizon Perfekt with cross-processed Lomo 200 film

I can't remember when my foot pain started--around April or May.  About a year after I started running.  That I could run at all felt like a small miracle to me, that I kept running through the winter seemed like another.  At first I thought I needed new shoes.  Then I thought it was the new shoes getting broken in. Then I thought I had overstretched my feet in yoga class.  Then came the run-walk combo.  A trip to the doctor.  A daily foot care regimen and new shoes.  And finally, things were looking up.

Then a couple weeks ago I hit my little toe on my husband's shoe, so hard that a good portion of my foot bruised.  Earlier this week it was feeling better, and then I hit it again on a chair while cleaning my studio.  It's been back to limping ever since.

I tend to believe that life will do whatever it takes to teach us the lessons we most need.  After nearly five months of issues with my feet, I promise:  I'm listening.

I've had a chronic problem with speed--I can't feel it well, the way some people can't feel if they are hungry or full.  You're going really fast, my friends have told me before.  Really?  I say.  I couldn't tell.

I'll do some things to slow down, like knitting a hat and reading a book at the same time.  It's hilarious, usually, to see how bad my attempts are. Even in leisure, I pick things that allow me to measure and mark my progress.

I remember during the run-walk combo days, looking at the runners and bicyclists shooting by me with envy.  Why couldn't I go fast, too?  Why couldn't I run? Even children can run.

But today I went back up to the meadow, gingerly stepping and spending more time on my left foot than on my right.  I went because I needed to see the morning sun and be with the trees.  Hobbling along, I finally knew that nothing was wrong.  I shared the lanes with dog-walkers, runners, bicyclists and I could see that we are all on the same path.  I know this in my work more and more all the time, too--that it's not about my work, but about the work.  That I am just one voice in a larger conversation.  Others are sprinting through it, or racing in crowds.  But the people going fast may not know what it's like to feel the rising sun soak slowly into their faces; they are probably unfamiliar with the feeling of the tree trunks beneath their hands.  They bring something of their own to the path, to the conversation, but even limping along--so do I.

The more slowly I go, on foot or through my daily tasks or creative work, the more I sense there is something old and wise underneath the bustle.  Some treasure to unearth in the slowness that will become my gift to my fellow travelers, my contribution to the path.

I can use all the help on really learning this lesson that I can get, so if you have any wisdom to share about slowing down--and I mean REALLY slow--please share it in the comments.

An outdoor fruitstand--redscale film, Horizon Perfekt

"Spaciousness" is the word of the month over here.  From time commitments to wardrobes, I'm editing down to essentials and delights.  Freeing up computer memory and table tops, preparing the soil of my life for a new crop of possibilities.

Click on the link below to listen. Right-click the link to save it on your computer or in your iTunes folder.

Horizon Perfekt, xpro Lomo 200 film

Horizon Perfekt, xpro Lomo 200 film

My friend, Gin Ferrara, on The Brooklyn Bridge, which is over 150 years old. All photos taken with Horizon Perfekt camera and cross-processed Lomo 200 film. Scanned, unedited.

The physical imagery is so helpful, like an alternate version of, say, walking a labyrinth.  Walking the bridge, and even looking back at the pictures later, can really show you a lot about crossing over. 

There's the way a journey can look in the beginning--vast, inviting or daunting.

It can feel larger than life.  It can make you feel small.  Or, you might not believe your good fortune as it invites you in, like the magical chalk drawings the children lept into with Mary Poppins.  Whether you jump in with both feet or tread cautiously ahead, you are on your way.

Sometimes, you look left.

And then you look right.  To get your bearings, to enjoy the view. 

You remind yourself that this bridge is old, in a good way.  That it has delivered perhaps millions of people safely across without failing.  The motion is normal, you tell yourself.  And you try not to clench the railing too hard.

At some point, you find yourself somewhere out there:  in the middle.

With neither shore in close reach, and only water below. 

The worst are those times that feel like being in the middle in a great fog--times in which you can't see where you are heading.  There is just a path beneath your feet.  To keep going, you have to trust that the path is there for a reason and that it leads somewhere good. 

The further I go, the less I get to see and the more I am asked to trust.  In the middle, I do not appreciate this quality of crossing over as perhaps I will from the other side.

After you pass center, the path slopes downward.  The end of this journey, the beginning of the next, is near.  You can see your destination with more clarity and in greater detail than before.

I wish I could write about arrivals or destinations, but I'm not there yet. 

I'm still somewhere swinging over the water in a fog, dreaming of what surprises, adventures and delicious Belgian treats await me on the other side.