May 30, 2012 | Quiver Tree Photography
Hey guys and gals. If you don’t hear much from me for the next week or two, you’ll know it’s because we’re scrambling to get things together in hopes that we can open our gallery space in just a couple of weeks! You’ll forgive me right? I’m looking forward to things slowing down a little bit after that — but I wonder if I’m being overly optimistic about the possibility of slowing down. Reading in the Proverbs for the last several months, I felt like the Lord was consistently reminding me about the causal relationship between hard work and prosperity. We sure would like one without the other, wouldn’t we?
I’m off task already.
Okay. So I’m working on narrowing down photos to what we will actually print and put on the walls to start out with in the Quiver Tree gallery. There will be a section of examples of the Hubs’ work with people to advertise his services as a people-y photographer, and I have some ideas for that section, but where I could use your help is with the fine art prints.
So. If I drop a bunch of photos into this blog post with a number beside them, would you mind just telling me what your Top 5 would be? Just assume you have vast amounts of cash and are planning on collecting some fine art photography prints and canvases to redecorate that second home you have in that magical destination nobody knows about. What might you choose for the space?
You can be as specific as you want. “I like the black and white zebra and I’d make it a 16 x 20 on canvas and put in on the mantle above my marble fireplace beside the moose antlers.” Or, you can just list the numbers of your top five, in order of preference, if you can.
Ready? Here we go!
Oh! And just an FYI — I uploaded these images in a Low Resolution because I didn’t want this blog post to weigh six gabillion gigabytes and cause your browser to reach out and smack you in the face for trying to open such a heavy page. They will be much sharper and crispier and prettier in real life.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
I can’t wait to hear your responses, friends! And for those of you who come around here often and have seen more of the Hubs’ photos — are there others that come to mind that you think are missing? Thanks so much!
xCC
May 28, 2012 | Quiver Tree Photography
It was one of those funny moments where we just felt like something really special fell in our laps. It started a couple months ago when the Hubs was knocking on doors and shaking hands and letting people in the community know that there was another photographer in town. He’d been to a couple of neighborhoods and wanted to introduce himself to some other local photographers in case they ever needed a second shooter or wanted someone to refer clients they didn’t want to.
HH moseyed down Market Street and nearly hit the waterfront when he realized he should’ve passed the studio by that point. He headed back up the street again, and realized the only photography studio in the downtown area had closed. (The photographers there had decided to begin shooting and doing their studio work from home.)
Around that time, he also moseyed into (he was doing a lot of moseying) a big storefront in the downtown area called the Inner Banks Artisan Center. ‘Course we would’ve spelled it “Centre,” but to each his own. The IBAC {sorry, I am just not going to keep typing that out, even though the abbreviation sounds like “I-Back” when you read it} houses a large communal gallery space in the front section of the store with gorgeous paintings and watercolors and sculptures and pictures and crafts. The second and third sections of the store house individual gallery/studio spaces for a number of artists who work in several different mediums. The last section of the building (it’s a rather big building) is a coffeehouse, where the Beaufort County Traditional Music Association plays on a regular basis, and other types of artsy events are held from time to time.
About the time the Hubs moseyed into the IBAC, a large gallery space was about to become available because the art supply store that it had previously housed was closing. And the Hubs asked what likelihood there might be that he, as a photographer, could take a space in the building. It’s rather amusing to recall that he was actually told his chances were not very good at all, until he pulled out his iPad and began sharing some of his work. The tone changed quickly, and the Possibility Train rolled away from the {imagination?} station, chugging fast.
He came home and we talked about the idea of opening a gallery. The train was rolling with the idea that in our own little space we could 1) sell some of the Hubs’ fine art photography 2) advertise his photographic services, and display images from previous photo shoots as examples 3) potentially host photography workshops in the coffee shop, for people interested in getting more familiar with their cameras and the magical medium of photography, 4) sell other crafty stuff I might like to make just for fun and 5) somehow use all this to be a blessing to our local community, and our global community.
There were more ideas after that, which included purchasing a printer so that we could print a lot of our photos and canvases ourselves, and this might also be another stream of income — printing for others. And when the ideas just kept coming, and my Dad was willing to get involved to help make it possible, and there was clearly space available upstairs for the Hubs to potentially use as studio space, the Possibility Train started chugging really fast, and it seemed like it might just pull into Reality Station.
So we prayed, and thought about it and talked about it and thought about it and asked for opinions about it and thought about it and prayed.
And sure ‘nough, it seemed like i’twere the right thing to do.
So we did what any sensible people would do. We signed a contract, ordered a big printer, and got on a plane for a wedding (and a month) in South Africa. But we dreamed and talked and thought and planned, and here we are, back on this side of the pond.
And this morning, we went into the gallery space where we’d hung a coming soon and a few example photos about all of the art supply stuff that had to be cleared out, and we spackled six gabillion holes, cleaned the walls, put up painters’ tape, and got ready to jump into what feels like a bit of a risky painting idea but I’m really stoked about it. {Because it was my idea, of course.}
So here’s a before shot, at the beginning of Day One via instagram:
If you just said Shew-whee, they got some werk ta do! you’re right. But it’s exciting at the same time.
So! I’ll bring you along for the ride, through pictures, as we transform this space into the Quiver Tree Photography gallery. But I was wondering, if you’re near enough to wee Washington, do you think you’ll come visit in person? Because that would be extra special.
Let me know in the comments?
{And care to guess what color those walls are about to get painted?}
xCC
May 26, 2012 | South Africa, Stories
I tried to tuck my hair into the back of my dress to keep it from blowing in the wind. The baby was sitting on my lap, dressed in a baby blue shirt, khaki pants and brown sandals. Wedding-white pacifier clenched between his tiny teeth. His brother beside him, in very similar attire.
We cruised along in an open-top landy, kept our game-spotting eyes on just in case. Pointing out a friendly giraffe to the boys, pausing for a moment to stare at the magnificent creature, then heading on again so as not to be late. It was a beautiful afternoon in the bushveld.
We weren’t the first to arrive: several guests were admiring the scenery, looking out over the cliff to a river below, hills in the distance, a Land Cruiser leaving behind a cloud of red dust as it sped across a well-worn trail, cutting through the game reserve.
The scene was minimalist, and perfect. White ribbons draped from a tree, holding clear glass bottles that each held a single protea. A cascade of flower petals formed a makeshift aisle, leading to a small carpet, nicely framed with a tall bush on either side.
Under the flower-tree a table laid with canapés and champagne — all ready for the arrival, the event, and the celebration to follow.
The arrival was simple, and elegant. The bride in a Land Cruiser, escorted by her father, and of course the ranger who drove the vehicle. The bouquet, a single protea — beautiful and large and surrounded with bright green leaves. Her dress, vintage — the one her mother wore on her wedding day years before.
The moment, too, was simple and elegant — without the fanfare of bridesmaids and groomsmen or flower girls and ring bearers. Blushing and sturdy declarations of love and intention, laced with words of grace and hope.
This kiss captured by the camera — one of my favourite shots from the event.
The quiet elegance that surrounded the affair was interrupted in a most glorious fashion by a number of ladies who worked at the reserve — dressed traditionally from head to toe, arriving to sing, to dance, to serenade the newlyweds with overwhelming joy and good cheer.
Guests gathered to enjoy the entertainment, and one eager photographer grabbed the opportunity to capture the moment while everyone else soaked it in.
There were drinks and laughs and smiles in every direction.
As the sun set, a super moon rose, and we gathered ourselves back into the Landys for a reception at one of the lodges on the reserve.
What a beautiful way to create an unforgettable moment – the understatement of the manmade surroundings unwilling to detract from the glorious beauty of creation surrounding us on every side. A perfect setting for saying “I do” and “I will” — I was joyful to be a witness to it.
Congrats to Penny — you looked stunning and the wedding was amazing.
Congrats to Vaughan — I’ve never seen you smile so big before! It was magical.
xCC
If you would like to see more of the Hub’s fabulous photos from the wedding, please click here to head over to the Quiver Tree Photography site.
May 25, 2012 | The Parenthood
Among the multitude of privileges I’m enjoying, this parenthood gig is consistently giving me food for thought at the Faith table. Pull up a chair and dig in to the latest musing, if you like. It all started with this unusual, unexpected fork in the road that I like to call Being the Parent of More than One Kid. Now in my mind, and yours if you’re anything like me, Parenthood Part Two is the round where you get kind of excited about being a parent, and a little less afraid, because hey, you’ve already got one kid and he’s almost made it to his fourth birthday so maybe you’ve got some things right, right?
And you figure — no worries, kid #2, we’ll just do with you the same stuff we did with kid #1. It worked the first time around, so it’ll definitely work again, right?
Here’s the invitation to those of you who find occasional hand pops and bottom pops an offensive method of discipline for parenting to leave before you get mad at me and never want to come back. First enjoy this happy picture and then you can head out…
{One little shot from the wedding in the bush…more to come!}
Are you still here?
Think it through. I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings.
Okay. If you’re sticking with me, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
In my personal experience, I found that with child number one, also affectionately referred to ’round these parts as the Bear, a little pop on the hand went a very long way. Once I could clearly tell that the Bear understood the difference between yes and no, and understood my intentions or HH’s intentions when we said No, we thoughtfully and purposefully decided that hand pops were about to be part of the equation.
Basically, in our experience, we found that a child who is too young to be reasoned with can still understand cause and effect. Bear, don’t touch that stove it’s hot and it could burn you and that would hurt availeth little, whereas, Bear, no, do not touch that stove. Do not touch that stove. Bear touches the stove even though he is clearly aware that he has been instructed not to, and gets a hand pop. Bear learns to listen, that there are consequences for not listening and not to touch the stove. (Obviously we aren’t letting our kids touch hot stoves to learn lessons, this is just an example.)
Fast forward a couple of years and another pregnancy and a nine minute delivery, it’s Tiger Tank’s turn to learn that No means No. {Which sure is hard for this Mama who just thinks her boys are the best thing since bacon-covered cherries and doesn’t really want to admit that they ever even need to hear the word No.} One little Mr. Double T has taken a special interest in the keyboard that sits in front of the desktop computer in our family room.
That keyboard cannot be moved far enough away from Double T’s hands. If it is too far away, {or too far late, as the Bear would reference a place or thing at some distance} #2 will find some sort of object — toothbrush, pencil, hammer — with which to reach those inviting little keys, so that he can gently tap? — oh no, amigo, violently bang on them.
I have observed this precious little creature, repeatedly listen and obey the word No on numerous occasions, but this blooming keyboard is just too blooming intriguing. He can’t stay away. And we use this keyboard throughout the day, every day, so moving it is not a viable option.
Some folks baby proof their house, but to a certain extent, we lean towards house-proofing our baby.
We have observed that the word No becomes of little consequence when it is not backed by some consequences. But Double T thinks hand pops are funny about half the time, so they are of little consequence.
And all this indirection is finally leading to direction: On Jet-Lag Saturday, while bless his heart, the Hubs was shooting a wedding on a hope, a prayer and a coffee, I was at home with the boys. And the more wee of the two kept finding a way to climb a stool, or seemingly thin air, to reach, and pound, on the keys of the keyboard. His precious chubby thigh got an unhappy tapping. He was removed from the situation.
He returned.
He banged.
His didn’t listen to the consistent No’s and warnings.
He precious chubby thigh got an unhappy tapping.
He was removed from the situation.
He returned.
He banged.
Twice more, this pattern continued. A none-the-wiser wee lad drawn like a moth to a flame, his brother just hoping he would chill out so he could enjoy Little Einsteins in peace, and me, immediately thinking — aren’t they all pre-programmed to respond to this stimulus with the same response?
Stimulus! Response! Stimulus, response! My ninth grade biology teacher reiterates between my ears.
Mayhaps this child is a different species entirely.
And that is where the lesson rang true.
Have you ever expected God to do the same thing for you that He has done for everybody else? Ever thought “Where are my rewards?” “Where are my well-done-good-and-faithful tokens of appreciation?”
If she has a husband, why don’t I?
If they have children, why don’t we?
If everything they ever wear comes from Banana Republic and White House Black Market, why must my budget limit me to Target and Old Navy?
Where’s my new house, sweet job, swish car, posh clothing, fill in the blank?
What if this difference is because we believers are children of the same Father — and He’s the One who knows us best?Â
I was certainly hoping our second son would sleep as nicely as the first did. Drink from a bottle without a hassle and be easy to wean. Respond quickly to discipline and learn No when it was time to learn it. But our second son is just that — our second son. Not our first. Not the Bear. Not cautious like the Bear at this age. Not calm and easily entertained like the Bear at this age. Basically, not easy like the Bear at this age.
Because the Tiger is not the Bear.
And trusting in grace to show me how, I will learn the ways of the Tiger. And instead of trying to make fair about doing things with the second the way I did them with the first, I see the glory in rather focusing on what is right for this child. I am allowed to let go of that pesky, unreasonable fairness expectation. I’m allowed to ask What is the best decision for Tiger Tank? — regardless of what the best decision was in a different country, with different circumstances, for a different kid, two and a half years ago.
Somehow I forgot this lesson, and I was thinking fair was about doing things the same way for each kid — and here is this blatantly obvious epiphany, an iridescent lightbulb, suddenly a ding and pop, just above my noggin — Oh yeah! Same isn’t necessarily best. Fair isn’t necessarily same. In this parenting gig, a path of individual decisions based on an understanding of the child, an understanding of the circumstances awaits me.
The Truth in the Word remains the same, and I trust God to guide us through this adventure. I see now — the Father who knows what’s best for each of us, even though it isn’t an equal distribution of resources, husbands, and clothing from Banana Republic. He is our Father, and in His infinite wisdom, He has chosen something other than what we might call fair.
Since the Saturday of the epiphany, Tiger Tank has begun responding to No again. It almost seems as if his digression from expected behavior was really an opportunity for me to learn a lesson. Our usual methods are bearing fruit, but I am now more watchful, more keen to observe, more willing to take hold of the reality that round 2 is very likely to look completely different from round 1, and that’s okay.
Will he give up the binker/pacifier/dummy at 18 months without a fuss?
Will he potty train at 2 and 1/2 with the simple incentive of smarties/M&Ms?
Does it really matter? If we can help this little one become the man he was created to become, everything else is secondary.
And could the Father also have that glorious goal in mind: each of us, doing all the good things He created us to do and planned ahead for us? {Eph. 2:10} Could the bumps and turns and twists and dips in our individual road maps actually be a part of His progress? His way of helping us grasp His goodness, grab hold of the Jesus who gave His life for us, gain access to the life that is hidden in Him? {Col. 3:3}
Each of my children, are different, like me, and I’m convinced that you can’t love anybody without really loving them the way they are, meeting them where they are. And the God-who-sees knows better than anyone else where each of us is.
 xCC
May 21, 2012 | A Repat, The Parenthood
We survived the journey and thank heavens we’re home. {And what do you think about the look around here by the way? Do you “get” what the red and blue stripes are supposed to be about? Please don’t say a barber shop. There are still some more tweaks for me to sort out but I didn’t want to go too wild and have you show up and think you’d lost me and someone else had taken over.}
Jet lag isn’t helping me focus on talking about one thing at the time. Sorry. The journey. Thursday night was the worst night of travel we have probably ever experienced. And honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Although the Hubs referred to it as a night from the bad place. British Airways kind of let me down. I’ve always loved them and been impressed with their service and happy when it works out for us to fly with them. But this time around, tweren’t so. Nuh-uh, it just tweren’t.
{Saturday’s instagram of the mega-tired, jet-lagged, teary-eyed, temporarily-happy-with-an-animal-cracker baby}
Would you believe that all the lighting on the place was functioning properly except for a broken sidelight directly above our seats on the plane? Now please note I’m not talking about a teency lil’ reading light. I’m talking about those bright mamajamas they turn on when it’s time for you to wake up at an unnatural hour for breakfast, because it’s really dark and 3 am but you’re headed for a new time zone and they won’t be ready to land on time if they don’t serve you your breakfast now.
So everybody’s lights were doing just fine until dinner had been served and duty free had been hollered about, and the lights were finally dimmed for sleep, and we discovered this tragic matter of disrepair while poor Blakey who had managed to sleep in the bassinet and survive all the flight attendants who just weren’t interested in using a quiet voice when they came to speak to us even though they could see his tiny little self sleeping. right. there… poor Blakey stirred at some point for some {noisy cart getting slammed into place in the galley} reason, and he woke to a nice bright light shining down on him, and we took turns trying to settle him down and I think the Hubs managed like three hours later.
But he never slept in that little bassinet again for the rest of the flight, because, ya know, a glorious luminescent sunshine was beaming in his wee face. And mine too since I was seated by the window. And the Hubs, too because even though he was on the aisle, that thing was bright.
{And in case you’re wondering, yes, we were the only family with two kids on the whole plane, seated there beneath a broken light trying to settle a wide-eyed sleepy baby while everyone else slept soundly. Ya jerks! Yes, we did think about breaking the light. I may have punched the plastic surrounding it with my fist. Twice. No, we weren’t allowed to cover it up somehow (fire hazard.) Yes, the Bear who can hibernate at any time did sleep through the whole night anyway (thank heavens.) And no, they could {would?} not change our seats. And yes, we do think a flight attendant fibbed to us about whether this had been a problem before. And. to top it off, the food was lousy. That never happens with BA!}
We had a shorter layover in London than we thought, so we just took our time collecting our lion-tired selves and changing terminals. When we told the Bear we were in London again, he said, “No we’re not! This is Gordon’s Bay!” I suppose he was confused.
The next flight just seemed really long, even though it was shorter, because it was a day time flight and there wasn’t much napping happening (although the Hubs has a magic touch for getting babies to sleep on airplanes — reason #684, why the Hubs is a Hero, and Blakey slept beside him for a while.) Another little girl who was on the flight played with the boys for a while and the Bear called some friends we made who were seated behind us and moving from the UK to the Carolinas his new pals. Very sweet.
After a taxi ride to get our car and a two hour drive, my Dad and Claudia came to the rescue, meeting us with food at our house. After the boys went to bed, we pretty much collapsed. And (#685) the Hubs got up Saturday morning to drive to New Bern and shoot a wedding. And he didn’t get home till after half past one. Meanwhile, it was all I could do to unpack the dishwasher and keep the boys from causing themselves bodily harm for a day.
I am dizzy a lot.
Off to the first of his last three days of preschool (summer break) went the Bear this morning. The Tank is taking morning naps like his life depends on it right now. And I am washing Mama Africa’s red dirt and rough sand out of the boys’ clothing, and rejoicing when it doesn’t quite come out of their socks, because I want it to still be there, be with us.
A visit to the gallery I need to tell you more about is ahead of us today. I am planning to get our house in order, one room and one day at a time. {Close your eyes if you come over.} And the Hubs is doing what he does best — juggling a task list a mile long, spinning thirty-seven plates in the air, and still managing to love the boys and me like a champ.
I’m starting to feel settled, and hopeful, and it’s good, very good, to be lowercase-h home.
xCC
I create resources to help people find deeper, more meaningful relationships with God through pursuing, pondering, and prayer. The "Shop" link above will take you to the home of many of the lovely resources I’ve created to help you keep walking one day deeper with Jesus.