Coco's Blog is Now on Substack as Coco's Echo!

Every writer talks about the importance of voice so Coco is using bi-weekylish newsletters to hone it in. Join her as she discovers new writing techniques, works with a creative muse, and tests chapter ideas for her unfinished memoir.

Whether it’s labeled a blog or a newsletter, the focus of Coco’s Echo is to not just test what ideas are the stronger reverberation, but what resonates deepest with her surrounding community.

Dream Client Rebrand: Atheism

Dostoevsky once wrote: “If God did not exist, everything would be permitted”; and that, for existentialism, is the starting point. Everything is indeed permitted if God does not exist, and man is in consequence forlorn, for he cannot find anything to depend upon either within or outside himself. He discovers forthwith, that he is without excuse.” ― Jean Paul Sartre, Existentialism is a Humanism

Hello! I am an Atheist.

Whew, that made me feel dizzy. Before I continue I feel the need for two disclaimers:

Disclaimer #1: The goal …

The following is an extremely brief recount of my personal journey from being a part of a religion to not being a part of one anymore. In this leap of anti-faith I have landed where thousands of others have also wandered, except there is no church or community to welcome us. I hope that in discussing this topic I do not offend, I instead provide a different perspective on what Atheism means to me, and how much positivity it’s brought into my life. My goal is to be more open about it, so that others might feel the same urge to spread some joy over a topic that has been so shrouded in darkness.

Disclaimer #2: Is this discussion appropriate for your professional website!?

As a photographer and writer I hope that my pursuit of art is an authentic one. A safe space to publicly reflect on the nature of the world in which I create that art has not been made obvious to me, so I will start here. I’ve been given the third degree at dinners and at social gatherings (which we can’t have now anyways), so really there’s nowhere better place than here and time than now. The mountain of lukewarm, “blah-g” content out there has company enough, I want to introduce something else. I’d like you to meet the weirdo on the fringe who is waiting to be brought into the circle. Simply put, if you came here for a blog about Lightroom presets and how to get your subjects to laugh on cue, you’re going to get more than you bargained for today!

Back to it, shall we?

Hi, me again, your friendly Atheist. It sounds like a dirty word, and I even put the word friendly before it! I mean it makes sense, check out the company it keeps on thesaurus.com & in Merriam-Webster:

• agnostic (technically not accurate)

• skeptic (I’m way past skepticism)

• infidel (wow, ok)

• free-thinker (sweet, a positive one!)

• Pagan (what the actual?)

• Non-believer (negative energy much?)

• Misbeliever (ok, now I prefer non-believer)

• Giaour (don’t even get me started on this ancient slur)

So where are all the positive attributes to being an Atheist? There aren’t many I can find online. It’s just a soup of Richard Dawkins videos with terrible comments about him being satan, and some terribly designed memes about science. Our godless “community” can’t hold a Wiccan candle to the all-powerful Christianity that has taken over celebrity culture, pop star acceptance speeches, every sport ever, the top job in the USA, and yes, even every corner of the mom-fluencer market on social media.

In my hopes to bring a more positive light to this oft-described “dark art,” I need to figure out why I personally feel ashamed in talking about it without guilt. And with that trigger word, cue next topic:

It’s more than likely I struggle with labelling myself as an Atheist because I was raised Catholic from birth through high school. I don’t just mean church on Sundays, I mean, prayers 5+ times a day (plus sometimes when a siren wails), from Kindergarten until 12th grade. I’ve acted as both Mother Mary and Mary Magdalene, and yes that is also a metaphor. I’ve once donned a fake beard and carried the cross as Jesus in an Easter play. I’ve been through four of the seven rites (Baptism, Eucharist, Confirmation and Reconciliation) and spent many hours reading the Bible and watching Sunday school cartoons.

In 1990, when I was at the start of my religious education at the way-too-tender-for-this-shit age of four, over 85% of the population identified as Christian. 2019’s study is now closer to 65%. There are two takeaways here for me. 1) Being a part of a religious society (Christianity, Catholicism, etc.) is still the majority, however, 2) it is declining.

The dissent of people like me choosing to leave a religion is done in a whisper if a sound is even uttered at all. The only discussion with my family happened almost 20 years later when I asked my dad if he had any regrets in life (we don’t love small talk at our table) and he said, “I regret you didn’t stay the course with your religion.” For context, my dad has always loved and supported all of his kids’ paths in life. But the very fact that the person I am closest to in my life was thinking silently about my religious choice for over a decade, proves to me how religion remains such a closely guarded topic.

“You are -- your life, and nothing else.” ― Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit

My journey “out” is ironic when studying in hindsight. The very schools that gave me detention if we didn’t sing hymns loud enough, also hired teachers that exposed existential authors like Sartre. That rabbit-hole led me to pursue more teachers and ask more questions. I found writers like Kerouac who wrote unlike anyone else I had studied before. He said things like, “I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted,” (Dharma Bums). It was the complete opposite of how a good Catholic was supposed to live, and I knew deep down I couldn’t be the only girl in the world who clutched On The Road to my heart like a floatation device.

Add on top my buddhist ancestry and the questions started to pile on - none of which my parents or priests could answer to my satisfaction. I should note I have glazed over a segment of my life where I rebelliously pursued Wicca (that joke above was no joke) but after spending all my allowance on spell books I realized I was still praying to something out there that was supposed to take care of my problems for me. I had traded hymns, confessions, and white gloves for Veruca Salt, potions and eyeliner.

While I continued to chip away at these questions the heaviness of the unknown actually started to melt away. Having myself at the “wheel” instead of “Jesus” gave me a control in my late teens that had only belonged to my parents and God before. Movies like I heart Huckabees and Waking Life paired with books like The God Delusion and The Stranger, eventually cracked the floodgates open.

I had a new bible and it wasn’t one book, it was every book. I devoured literature and movies like it was no one’s business and eventually decided I wanted a career in it. My life turned on. Instead of being scared of death and my “sins,” I reveled in the beauty of the life I had. Up until then I was spending all my free time returning the favor for this “gift” of life in places that favored empty ritual over actions. When you stop living with the cloud over your teenage head that no one died for you, well, wave goodbye to the guilt. I began to respect and revel in the world, and in the now, there was simply no time for a distant and unknowable salvation.

My appreciation for life made me feel more in control than ever. It wasn’t a dark and scary “what does it all mean?!” moment, it was an excited exclamation that “it doesn’t really matter, and therefore life is precious, rare, and unlikely to return,” or even more shocking, “it ends.” Live the life you’ve always wanted. How amazing are you to be here, now, in this moment?

Mary Oliver famously asks, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do, with your one wild and precious life?” and I’ve found so much joy in my attempts to answer her.

Between the ages of 12-18 I went through this transformation and it also aligned with some of the hardest years of my life. Proof in my case that religion didn’t need to save me from a hard upbringing, in fact, the severing of it gave me hope again. But, it was better than hope, because I wasn’t idle, waiting for my future to be created. In the absence of an all-seeing eye that controlled my path, you step into the shoes as destiny-maker, and what 18 year old wouldn’t love to be that?

In summary, This is just the beginning.

Freedom from religious persecution is a real and dangerous topic. I understand the weight, the historical reasons why we must protect and let patrons of faith practice without judgement. However, I also want to create space for myself and others like me. Where are our societies and after-school meetups? Would my daughter’s future school accept an “atheists club?” Would there be a safe place for us in a town hall meeting, or dare I say, at the federal level? If my dreams can come true of a minority woman as vice-president, are my dreams of an Atheist one far off?

I’ve been told that writing about being an Atheist is not a great idea because I might be rejecting future friendships of anyone belonging to a faith. Who knows, in my ramblings I may have lost getting close to some people, but some of my closest friends come from different religions, so that’s not really the issue I am concerned about. That question only railroads the purpose of my writing about Atheism in the first place. I am here exposing myself to this sensitive topic and baring all, because I am curious what are our rights? If I did not want to say the religious part of the national anthem, could I be denied citizenship? And what of acceptance? Could I comfortably bring up the separation of church and state at a family dinner the way that many bring a prayer into a family circle without asking?

I would like to think that if we can be more comfortable writing these sort of thoughts down in places that might get others involved, the tide could turn for the positive. We could choose from a list synonyms that represent more accurately our excitement and joy for life. I am sick of being a heathen. But finally, I am at a loss for words, any suggestions?

Writing a Memoir: What I've learned so far...

“None of us can ever know the value of our lives, or how our separate and silent scribbling may add to the amenity of the world, if only by how radically it changes us, one and by one.”

― Mary Karr, The Art of Memoir

I hesitate to advertise to the world that I am writing a memoir, because in a way I have been telling people since I was 11. It feels like I’ve been perpetually scrambling for loose paper in the middle of the night to write down chapter ideas and my list of book titles outweighs any to-do list I’ve ever written. Between iPhone notes, lost cocktail napkins, and the 100 journals that litter my bedroom floor there is no organization to the process of this dream of mine.

Last spring, I was rounding out a fourth year at a job I loved. Somewhere deep inside I knew that I was too comfortable again. I was executing photoshoots like clockwork as if I were on cruise control, and my imagination was on pause. I decided to save up money to give myself a writer’s retreat of my own. I left my comfy job and Ian and I rented a cabin near Mt. Hood in Oregon. I had nothing on my agenda for the next two months but a blank canvas, some pens, and a charged laptop.

Within two weeks of moving to Oregon, Ian and I found out we were expecting our first baby. Very quickly, reality slapped the romantic ideas of whiskey glasses and typewriters out of my head. Instead I had two months of morning sickness and a brand new kind of deadline. I couldn’t diddle the days away in a forest talking to deer. If I wanted to make use of my time both in Oregon and before I became a mother, I needed some structure.

The tools that I used in the weeks to come were crucial to getting down a basic timeline of the book I wanted to write. Whiskey I discovered, was not even necessary, and today I have a solid outline for the beginning of what I hope to be a manuscript in the coming years.

Tool 1) The Internet // Research Phase

A couple chapters take place at the apartment where I lived in Toronto between 2010 - 2013. Luckily I have a ton of photos from those years that I can study. Certain furniture, pieces of art and even the clothes we wore, helped trigger memories I may have otherwise forgotten about.

The internet. Duh right? Well guess what you’re researching if you’re writing a memoir? Yourself. And no, I don’t expect a Wikipedia page to unfurl for most of us. This is more about cementing dates and getting your timeline correct. Have you ever found yourself on a roll with writing and then you suddenly freeze because you forget how old you are exactly? Or what important things happened that year? I wrote every year of my life in a grid with my age, grade, what I studied in school, and filled in little notes that seemed to feel important: Teachers, where we lived, what books and movies I loved. Anytime I reach a block on what year a certain memory was, I pull out this grid to help me place the moment in time.

Other than just looking at dates in history, your photos, whether on social media or not, can also be incredible windows into your past. We take so many and forget about them. I started organizing images by placing them in the same grid.

Don’t forget: Keep a scratch pad handy to catch any surprise flows when you’re looking at dates or photos. They’re almost guaranteed to evoke some words.

Tool 2) Book // Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

Writer Anne Lamott gives us instructions on writing and life in her book Bird by Bird. When she was little, her older brother was struggling to write a paper on birds the night before it was due. While he struggled, their father said to him, “Bird by bird buddy. Just take it bird by bird.” 

Basically, the best time to start is now. Forget all the years you should have started writing, or how much longer it will take you to write. Get words in front of words and soon enough the stumble becomes a rhythm.

Lamott effectively emphasizes this notion again here: “E.L. Doctorow once said that 'Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.' You don't have to see where you're going, you don't have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice on writing, or life, I have ever heard.”

TLDR: Want to write? Start now, get it on the page. Don’t judge just drive. It will take you somewhere.

Tool 3) Book // The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr

The Art of Memoir was a huge help in clarifying what I was putting on the page. Figuring out how to scale back is so important for memoir writers because we have a lifetime of memories up for grabs. Plus, our ego is constantly saying, “Yes! That’s great, write about that! And that! And that too! Let’s keep it all in!” Which if we did write everything our book would be a million pages long with no audience. How do we know what stories are worth the reader’s time?

Too many ramblings can flood your message. Where did your theme go, and why are you telling this story? It might be a great anecdote at the dinner table, but it may have no place in Chapter 3. Revision is where the magic happens. For all my film nerds, we know there is no best director award without a killer editor.

Karr reminds me, memoirs are about themes less than chronological happenings. The people who are reading your story want to know about the emotive propelling of your life. Unless you’re a famous war hero, or well known public figure that’s already being documented in history books, a step by step recounting of your life is basically, boring.

Mary Karr threw away over 1200 pages of her last memoir.  “I revise and revise and revise,” she writes, “Any editor of mine will tell you how crappy my early drafts are. Revisions are about clarifying and evoking feelings in the reader in the same way they were once evoked in me.”

TLDR: Re-read and revise often and get friendly with your delete key.

Tool 4) GTFO // Seriously, do something else writing related that isn’t about your memoir.

Find the time to get a gig or volunteering where writing is needed. Whether it’s in a similar vein to what you want to write or not, it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s a part-time job writing - the deadlines will instill practice. Maybe you’re helping tutor kids in English - a second shot at your failed academic dreams (OK just me?). Maybe it’s one of those open mic poetry slam things - you need to get used to putting yourself out there if you want to write authentic work.

Maybe it’s not even writing related at all, and your brain needs a break. If you have an inkling that something is calling you outside of the bubble between your laptop and your eyes, answer it.

Tool 5) Social Media // Even if you hate it.

Social media isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, so you might as well start befriending it.

Get over how you feel about bloggers or social media. It’s a free and useful practice for writers. Blog, post to your Facebook/ Instagram / IG stories. Tik Tok your thing? Go nuts. Find a creative outlet on a social platform that has even the smallest audience. This is a test for how you handle putting yourself out there.

I am in constant doubt that what I write here on this blog or even in an Instagram caption will have any resonance. I worry about what I might look like to my friends and family. Then I remind myself I’m trying to write a memoir. Ha! This is kid shit. This is the test kitchen and the lab. Throw things, words, ideas, concepts, poems and art at the wall - see what sticks. What draws a reaction with your friends and family? What caused a comment, good or bad? Relish in the experiment, and leave your judgement at the door.

Tool 6) Read S’MORE // …And not just memoirs. 

Best friend to a writer’s desk? A writer’s library. My friend Marie’s beautiful kitchen nook in Malmö.

After reading 5 bestselling memoirs in a row, I started to panic. How the hell was I going to match Karr’s brilliant voice? Was my chapter about adolescence starting to sound like David Eggers? Do I need more poetry a la Sherman Alexie? I have learned so much from reading from some of the greats, but take a pause after 1 or 2 in a row. Your voice needs room to grow too and I find that most of my ideas bloom after reading genres not related to memoir at all. I especially love diving into fantasy and historical fictions, where I can take notes on how to best enrapture an audience using drama and suspense.

Tool 7) Vision board your space // …within reason.

Little collages around my house help spark new thoughts.

Post little reminders around your house or apartment that help kick you in the butt. I have a little poster that says “What are you waiting for?” and I like to make collages for my screensaver to help give me a good boost. You may not want 100 post-its all around your house yelling at you to get to work, but the idea is to remind you once in awhile that you are a writer and you can fucking do this.

My “vision board space” includes having clean work space that I can cozily dive into when the mood strikes. For me this means a large desk free of clutter, a charged laptop, a vase of fresh flowers, family photos stuck around the wall, and a blank notepad.

In summary

The ideas on napkins can only take you so far. Like a fine artist starting a business, your creative ideas need concrete places to land. Beside me right now isn’t a glass of whiskey, but the tiniest and most powerful tool to get me writing at all, my daughter.

Hyperion! Why we gave an ancient word new meaning…

Hyperion everywhere.

Have you ever felt that rush…

The few seconds when a loud concert hall darkens, comes to a hush, and the audience roars as the band arrives on stage?

Waking up in a new city in another country and not knowing where your day will take you?

Hiking up the last crescent of the mountain, knowing your eyes are about to be rewarded?

Walking into your favorite restaurant on an empty stomach? Walking into a brand new restaurant you’ve always wanted to try?

During a first kiss? Or maybe during what you think might be your last?

Origin Story

It was 2017 and my dear friend Linda was coming to visit me in SoCal. It was her third time flying down to San Diego’s coast from Toronto, so we decided a weekend in LA would be the best jaunt this time around. There was a show at the LA Philharmonic that included free drinks on the garden rooftop. Any excuse to dress up and high brow around town! Plus there was a yurt in someone’s backyard via Airbnb that was calling our names. I wonder if any neighbors happened to peek over their fence only to see two girls putting on cocktail dresses outside on a deck raised above Silver Lake, sharing a locker sized mirror. I wonder if between big gulps of cheap white and discussing the possibility of alien life, we knew we were about to invent a word.

Hyperion Avenue

Linda and I met a handful of years ago, while working for Collective Arts Brewing. Her love for travel, conspiracy theories, music, and art always made for wild ivy-like conversations that branched from Canadian/ US politics one second, to our forever battle we endure when it comes to dying our hair “blonde.”

We were in the cab on the way to the Phil when one of my favorite conversations happened. It wasn’t our deepest by any stretch, but it would have a lasting effect on how we’d communicate thereafter. Maybe it was the mind-bending Gehry-designed building, the epic classical concert, or the roof views of one of our favorite cities, that punctuated the conversation, but this was a moment we wouldn’t forget:

“Do you ever get little jolts of excitement before certain moments that kind of take your breath away?”

“Yes! Wait, like the excitement before a really good meal, or before an epic trip across the country?”

“Exactly! Like, it’s not really the action coming up that matters, but the elation of anticipation just knocks you off your feet.... I feel like there isn’t a word for that.”

“Right. Excited is too overused. Elated seems …. inflated.”

“Yeah, there is no appropriate word. I can’t think of any.”

We were silent while the taxi turned onto Hyperion Avenue. We looked up.

“Hyperion?”

Later that same evening the hyperion continued with an epic taco truck meal.

But why?

Yes, this journal entry is about how we made up a word. Or rather, gave a very ancient word new meaning. Hyperion is already named in the dictionary. But imagine our meta-hyperion when we find out why it’s there in the first place. It’s both the tallest tree in the world and one of the 12 greek god children of Gaia.

Over the course of the next year, I would try to explain this new idea to a handful of friends and family. Sometimes just sliding in a little “Oooh, hyperion,” before taking the first sip of a delicious beer. Most laugh and more than a few lovingly joke that I’m ridiculous. After all, what’s the point of any of this? On more than one occasion I have heard friends use it (perhaps sarcastically) in conversation without my prompts. For a writer, that shit gets you going.

In a way, I’ve reverse-bucket-listed something I never thought I wanted to accomplish. Whether this goes anywhere or not, Linda and I know we came up with a word that we use often and we like to say among friends. 

Send your imagination in hyper-drive > why can’t we invent words or give them new meaning?

Forget the why - Why not?

When we are children, our lives are filled with group projects. Invent a country! Spend a day in the life of any career of your choice! Make your own newspaper! These creative endeavors taught us organization and dedication, but most importantly these little projects teach us how to think outside the box. Put something on paper that hasn’t been put there before. We’re adults now and we don’t get to play in this world unless we assign ourselves these tasks.

So consider this our continuing-ed project. We invented a word and we damn well think we deserve an A on it. What’s your next group project going to be?

Hot dude hugging a kitty? HYPERION

Hyperion

hī-ˈpir-ē-ən

Verb and/or Interjection

An emotional state of extreme excitement which usually precedes an event that the subject is “looking forward to.”

I am trying this new Michelin star restaurant tonight and I am so hyperion right now.

I don’t want to come off too hyperion on the first date.

“First day in London!” “#hyperionforyou”

Synonyms:

Excited

Elated

Wow

Stellar

Antonyms:

Indifferent

Whatever

Dull

Blah

When you combine autumn with hiking, it’s the ultimate hyperion.

Other definitions:

Hyperion

A titan, father of Helios (sun)

Of Hyperion we are told that he was the first to understand, by diligent attention and observation, the movement of both the sun and the moon and the other stars, and the seasons as well, in that they are caused by these bodies, and to make these facts known to others; and that for this reason he was called the father of these bodies, since he had begotten, so to speak, the speculation about them and their nature.

— Diodorus Siculus (5.67.1)

Hyperion is a coast redwood (Sequoia sempervirens) in California that was measured at 115.85 m (380.1 ft), which ranks it as the world's tallest known living tree.[1]

Might as well end this with a moonset. Hear the loons? Hyperion, baby.

Movies for the Pregnant Film Geek

Grieving the loss of options in pregnancy-related movies. Yet, Jessica Brown Findlay in This Beautiful Fantastic delivers some unexpected maternal feels for me.

I’M A FILM Nerd…

I always have been and I hope I always will be. One time a film professor opened a class by describing the movie theater experience as the superior way to watch a film. He spoke in slow, simple sentences and he may as well have been describing erotica.

The smell of freshly vacuumed carpet and buttered popcorn envelopes you. The cushioned seat that welcomes you home for the next two hours. The excitement escalates when the dim of the lights signal to everyone it’s about to start. The flicker of the projector. The thrill of the sound-system blaring on suddenly. Everyone is in it together, with no pause button, no interruptions allowed.

I had a big dumb grin and half-closed eyes the whole time he was speaking. I went to go see a movie immediately after that class.

Nothing has changed much today, well, except the fact that I am 21 weeks pregnant and feeling a whole lot of, well, everything. I’ll catch feelings from any previews out right now. Try me, I’ve cried during all of them. I’m looking at you Jojo Rabbit. 

On the other side of things, my extra-credit earning hormones are also in overdrive when it comes to seeing movies about parenthood that I can’t identify with what.so.ever. I got so irritated during the last 20 minutes of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, I turned it off. I get what they were trying to accomplish by showing “all the shades of pregnancy grey,” but multi-storyline rom-coms are hard to pull off. Plus I didn’t see a shred of me in any character.

(Exception: She almost exclusively talks about parenting and child birth, but I can watch Ali Wong’s stand up all day long)

I started looking at other preg-flicks and realized there weren’t any other moms on screen I was identifying with. Even my favorite as a kid, Father of the Bride II was now hard to watch (but maybe that’s just because Diane Keaton 9 months pregnant was messing with my head). Honestly though, I’m just not the kind of woman who looks down at her growing belly and sees God for the first time. My birth plan is whatever safest exit route that will do the least amount of damage. Don’t write me off yet, I am in awe, but where are the movies about the soon-to-be mom who sees her pregnancy in a foreboding mushroom trip? The one where she goes on one last road trip across the country alone before the baby comes? The one where she writes an existential volume of poetry about the whole thing? Nope. Just moms shopping for nursery shit, fighting with their husbands, and planning baby showers.

I know the answer to my issue is pretty obvious, stop watching movies about pregnancy. And maybe go see a psychiatrist.

Alas, my roller-coaster ride of the maternal film hunt has led me here. To a list of movies that excite me for the next chapter of my life that doesn’t have Pottery Barn Kids as the main sponsor. If you identify with any of these sentiments above I hope you find some gems in here too.

Watchlist for expecting parents who don’t need a reminder of how crazy labor is, or how much kids cry:

Movies about gardening

Dare to be Wild is the true story of Mary Reynolds, an Irish pioneer in the gardening world.

It checks all the boxes. Budding life. Season and cycles. Good looking women and men falling in love around gorgeous gardens, around the world. When a little monologue happens about the beauty of budding life, the impermanence of life, and the joys of creating a better world, I think how cool it is I get to participate in being a greenhouse myself.

This Beautiful Fantastic - Watch Downton Abbey’s Sybil play a reluctant gardener. Andrew Scott steals the show as usual.

Dare to be Wild - I had no idea who Mary Reynolds was until now, and I’m so glad I do. Plus, Tom Hughes.

A Little Chaos - For a loftier, all-engrossing period piece about the garden designer’s of Versailles. 

Movies about kickass teenagers

The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys is early work from Emile Hirsch and Kieran Culkin and it’s good.

Forget movies about the overwhelming duty of childbirth, a changing body, and impossible newborns. Watching movies about pre-teens makes me excited for the day I have a couple of my own of whom I’ll likely try to desperately prove I’m cool to.

C.R.A.Z.Y - Jean Marc Vallee writes and directs one of the best coming of age tales I’ve ever seen. Set in the 60’s and 70’s, this is a reminder that each human is their own, no matter how much parents wish they’d conform to their wishes.

Boyhood - This film is practically a child, taking over 12 years to film an authentic peek into the life of one family. So many good lessons in this one for kids and parents.

The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys - Can you tell I was raised Catholic? Four boys growing up under the thumb of an excellent Jodie Foster as a villainous nun. Plus, a teenage Emile Hirsch and Kieran Culkin? Come on!

About a Boy - If you haven’t seen this yet, run to your TV and throw it on. There is no better film about a hesitant father-figure, a quirky mom, and an even weirder little kid. Who wouldn’t want Nicholas Hoult as their child? Except that he’s older and handsome now, so yeah maybe not.

Movies about the even cooler elderly

Winona swathed in 90’s patterns, haircuts, and advice. What’s better?

Talk about putting life in perspective. Nothing like watching an old man pine over a photo of his grandkids that never visit that make you want to procreate and try your luck at the same game.

A Man called Ove - Swedish book turned Swedish film (both excellent) about a grumpy old man and his new neighbors. The sadness in his story is so tangible, which makes the moments of happiness so much sweeter.

How to Make an American Quilt - Winona Ryder in her 90’s heyday, surrounded by the wisdom of some seriously cool g-mas. She and her mother struggle with following up to the label of mother and daughter, which give this solid 1990’s coming of age film extra credit from me.

Calendar Girls - It’s a true story, it’s hilarious, and the English rolling landscapes are A+. Plus you have to respect any movie that addresses the frustrations that come with being an older woman. There aren’t many.

Super sexy movies

This scene in Call Me By Your Name should have every parent taking notes.

For some, being pregnant does not equal feeling sexy. Here’s a little spark to get the wheels turning again. This section could be interchangeable with “Movies starring insanely sexy women & men who have had children and still slay.” (Re: Charlotte Gainsbourg, Armie Hammer, Marion Cotillard, well done, well done.)

Call Me By Your Name - Nothing like a romp in the Italian countryside to instill a feeling that age doesn’t matter. Plus the father-son scene near the end is one of the best parenting moments I’ve ever seen on screen.

In The Mood For Love - Good lord this movie is good. You’ll be on the hunt for form-fitting day-dresses and touching every stair bannister a little longer after watching this. Maggie Cheung is a work of art. Every frame of this is a work of art.

Nymphomaniac (vol. I and II) - Figured I’d end with a bang! Lars Von Trier gets unreal performances out of Charlotte Gainsbourg and Shia LaBeouf. One that will stay with you long after you watch it.

In summary, watch what makes you feel good and watch as many as you can in theaters. From what I hear going to the movies isn’t easy as a new mom. Bonus points to the ones that stay on your mind long after they’ve ended. These ones did it for me.

West Coast to East: Why we traded

Ocean, check. Sand, check. We’re in! (Higgins Beach, ME)

It’s official, we’re mainers

About 3,000 miles, as the crow flies, from our cozy little beach house in San Diego, our new little Victorian apartment in Portland’s West End awaits. It’s always been tricky to navigate the conversation politely to our SoCal friends in attempting to explain why we’re leaving the land of year round flip flops and perfect weather for a city that will likely be under snow for half of the year. 

So, let me do my best to explain why we barely hesitated in packing our lives up in our cars (yet again), and drove across the country.

Checking out the beach scene in Oregon.

Family first

We should start with the most obvious reason. Returning to the coast on which we were raised is our most rational talking point. Our families scatter the east from Ontario, through Vermont, New Jersey, and Europe. The call to come “back home” made sense to us as we dig our heels into the trenches of our thirties. Usually we can end a conversation that starts with “why move?” with a simple “family!” and that’s the end of that. It should be noted that we haven’t actually chosen the actual cities our families live in to keep our sanity in tact. Hey, we love them, and we want to keep it that way!

Ian is happiest up high, and cold AF.

Four years of sunny and 75 was making us soft

Yes. We actually like winter. But in San Diego, we would wince if it was too cold (below 70) or too hot (above 78). Great weather expectations chipped away at our appreciation of a four seasons landscape. All the sunny warm weather that was delivered to us on a silver platter, eroded our grit.

Back east if you can ice pick your car out of it’s parking spot in less than 5 minutes, or make the walk to work without breaking off a piece of hair, you had a successful winter commute. Maybe it’s because it’s how we were raised, but I don’t think I could relate to my own children if they didn’t know how to drive in a blizzard, or shovel the driveway. It’s a life skill that one day they might choose to leave behind, but for these formative years you bet your ass they’re learning how a snowblower works.

Ice hikes are fun, I swear!

Those Spectacular Shoulder Seasons

Most people often concentrate only on the hazards of the polar vortex, but it’s the fleeting 2 months of spring and autumn that make a 5-6 month winter so bearable. It might even be the main reason we’re coming home. Spring blooms and first signs of patio season erupts a joy unbeknownst to sun-kissed southerners. The frost melts away S.A.D. and the turn of season can feel like the turn of a century. That springtime buzz felt in every city after winter should be bottled. It’s the best high on the planet.

The slightest hint of warmth in an east coast city, and everyone’s outside “sunbathing.”

A quick existential reflection

I wonder if all the years as a young child, raking dead leaves, harvesting root vegetables, and learning about a garden’s seasonal cycle was a slow introduction into questioning my own life cycle. There’s something poetic about the bursts of vibrant orange, yellows and reds, before everything becomes quiet and still. You start to realize that your hours of daylight are about to minimize profoundly, so you better start making every moment count. 

So far, so (really) good

In Portland, the ocean is still within grasp, and the coastal pace of life remains relaxed. The wind is salty, warm and yet crisp. It wakes the senses. Plus the city has an abundance of art galleries, amazing restaurants, and great music venues. It’s bustling, but very small and community based. In a five minute walk we’re downtown, in a five minute drive, we’re in the country.

Plus, if we crave the electricity of a much bigger city, Boston, Manhattan, Montreal, and even Toronto are all within a day drive.

From what we can tell so far, Maine’s rugged and craggy silhouette is tracing nicely against our own. The ancient fog that sits on the shores of the Atlantic, illuminated slightly by the little fishing villages and lighthouses, ultimately became a more appealing landscape to us in our constant search for a coastal town to call home.

San Diego, LA, and many of California’s gems will always hold a special place in our hearts. Especially all the friends and loved ones who are there. Who knows, one day we might return. For now, it’s the green and white mountains, the endless freshwater lakes, and the old brick cobblestone roads that have our full attention.

This is technically Switzerland, a little more east than Maine, but now our flights to Europe are cut in half!

How I took a 3 month Mini-Retirement

When You Actually Listen To Self-Help Books

There was a period of time where my bedside table was only filled with self help books. You Are A Badass. Mindset. Outliers. Rich Dad Poor Dad. The Four Hour Work Week. In my mid-twenties, I was bouncing between finding new ways to torment my liver, and searching for nirvana (usually via Eckhart Tolle quotes…)

“Don't wait to be successful at some future point. Have a successful relationship with the present moment and be fully present in whatever you are doing. That is success.”

So with Tolle’s permission, back to the bars I’d go.

Concerts and pool-hopping in Toronto summers aside, I was starting to see change, and in a really positive way. My little photography business was starting to get bigger clients and my husband Ian and I started to talk about moving to California. (Hot tip: In a relationship make sure you share your books so no one is left behind!) It seemed that surrounding myself with these words of wisdom were somehow seeping into my everyday actions.

You’re Not Broke, You’re bad with money

Ian and I especially loved Rich Dad Poor Dad. Cheesy at times, these simple, yet powerful anecdotes on money matters still reverberate in our minds to this day. Author Kiyosaki writes that those who believe they are broke tend to perpetuate that reality. How many of us know (or admit to being) someone who complains about their financial status, but don’t do much to change it? Yes, there is truth in serious poverty, but if you are living paycheck to paycheck, spend $24 on brunch, and then pout about your friend’s destination wedding, you’re simply bad at managing cash flow.

Another symptom of the perpetually-broke-person-with-a-perfectly-good-job, is the complainer. One step in breaking this vicious cycle, is changing the dialogue: “I can’t go to brunch because I am broke,” could be, “I am saving for a wedding, let me cook us breakfast instead.” It’s a mindset switch and when coupled with an honest re-arranging of your spending priorities, can lead to a surprising spike in savings.

Just like you ‘fake it until you make it’ as an entrepreneur, why can’t you apply the same logic to being someone with a million in savings? Let no goal sit too far from reach. Soon you’ll be brunching the day after your friend’s wedding, and maybe even have a couple vacations planned.

But what about the 3-month vacation?

Some of my favorite advice came from Tim Ferris’s wildly popular The Four Hour Work Week. He asks, why wait until you are old, grey, and likely lower in physical ability to enjoy retirement? It’s completely backwards. There is a very possible way to take little ‘sabbaticals’ during your life, and the best part is, spreading the joy through your 30’s and 40’s could very well prolong your life.

I spent years saying I was a struggling artist. I was that broke girl complaining about everything that cost money. But my first lesson appeared. I HAD to save to move to California and I HAD to save for a wedding. It wasn’t easy changing our lifestyle, but it wasn’t impossible either. I realized how malleable our lives were when you gave up certain luxuries. (Luckily buying clothing second hand is also embedded in our brains, and we prefer plane tickets over fancy clothes).

Within one year we had more than enough to move, and within two years, we also hit our goal to have the celebration of our dreams. It dawned on me that it was very possible to give myself a three month “sabbatical” of sorts, for a fraction of the wedding savings. The wheels started turning. 

When was it time to take a break?

Fast forward four years. Ian and I have spent some of our best years here in San Diego. We adopt a kitten. I work for a company I adore. We travel every weekend. The weddings don’t stop and we make it to nearly all 25 of them. We make awesome friends. Routine settles. Dust settles (literally). The dry landscapes of Southern California, once glittering, begin to feel - well - dusty. We knew this SoCal journey would be a test if we could call it home. Something begins to feel off, but we can’t quite put our finger on it. I can feel those words of wisdom trying to spark something in the corner of my brain. It’s time for one of those little escapes.

Get to work before the play

I take Kiyosaki’s advice first - plan on how not to feel broke for three months. What is the middle ground amount I need to survive, and what can I put away each paycheck to get to my goal? To be specific, my goal is three months rent plus a stipend for food, travel, basic needs and a two month rent cushion. It seems shockingly large at first. But then each week, I see the account get fatter and fatter. It’s addicting. Each dollar saved is a day in the woods, writing, practicing yoga, each dollar is a well deserved minute of reflection.

Finally, we get to the fun part. We research areas where a lush landscape will re-invigorate. After talks of Montana, Idaho, and parts of Northern California, we decide on the Mt. Hood National Forest in Oregon. We barter with a lovely Airbnb owner to bring down the rent. We book.

Within a year, I have hit my savings goal. I say goodbye to my work family. We list our apartment for rent. We sell our things. We pack away our most important possessions. The rest is packed in the car. I sharpen my pencils and buy all the memoirs. I am ready for my first mini-retirement, and I am only 32 years old.

You can do it too.

Headshot Day: San Diego, July 20th

What’s the deal?!

This coming Saturday, July 20th, I have a limited handful of spots open for mini headshot sessions in Barrio Logan, San Diego. Refresh your LinkedIn or spruce up that Tinder profile for just $150.00. This includes 1-2 wardrobe changes, and approximately 50 edited, high res images.

The studio session is in a naturally lit, industrial space at 2001 Main Street in Barrio Logan. There is parking on site. If you require a specific look, backdrop, etc, please note that in your inquiry, along with a preferred time window.

Can’t make the 20th work? I’m still in the sunny city until the 29th, and headshot rates begin at $250*

On The Road: Toronto - San Diego

Side of the road, somewhere in New Mexico

The following are journal entries from a one-way road trip, across the USA in 2015. Friend and fellow photographer, Emma and are about to trade in Canadian winters for the California coast.

The journey begins: Toronto

I barely slept two hours before waking to a nauseous feeling and non-existent morning light. 6:15am. Emma and I were about to depart on a 6,000km road trip of a lifetime.

Driving away from the city I call home, we pass a shelled out Toronto streetcar being hauled on the back of a transport truck. It's empty windows look ghostly with the cold rain pulling apart an ad for iRobot on its side. It's saying, you've got what you needed girls, there's nothing for you here right now. Ominous and comforting. We approach the USA border just as the guards change. A handsome officer calls our Gus Van Sant forward. He smiles, I pass the passports, we tell him where we're headed, and he makes fun of our rickety 97’ Dodge Caravan. "Stylin’ ride!" he grins, the gate opens, the rain parts. We're suddenly in the US and you can tell. The autumn leaves are glowing, the road is open, and we're on our way to California.

Ohio is pretty pretty

We arrive in Cincinnati, the Over-The-Rhine district to be specific, just as the golden hour sets in. Our Airbnb is a great little private room with sweet hosts and an adorable cat (Pickles) and pup (Sasha). Some roads remind us of an alternate San Fran, except with very old colonial style brownstones that are more eastern than west. We dart off to the Eagle, a great pub playing the Jays game where I get to embrace some local beers and bacon smoked mac-and-cheese. It's a super hip little hood, that is very broken up and the class divides are apparent. Reclaimed wood + neon signed bars serving tapas to young professionals in one storefront, and abandoned buildings with masses of street kids hanging outside by the next. Turn a corner and the eerie feeling sets in that we're definitely not in Kansas anymore. We wonder if we look as foreign as we feel.

Oct 23rd, Downtown Nashville

We love that we’re staying in East Nashville, but we want to see what all the hype is about downtown. I've been told by so many that I'll love it here and almost planned a bachelorette without visiting first. The streets feel empty until we hit Broadway. Then Nashville is revealed to us in all of its neon and country music glory. I understand immediately why bachelorettes are had here, it seems every one on the street is in one. From far it is impressive and exciting. We load our film and run down to the center of it all. 

Getting closer was kind of like hearing a handsome man open his mouth at a party to the worst small talk of all time. The crowds were a welcome change to the sleepy towns of Ohio, but upon closer inspection we were just among hoards of tourists with matching Music City t-shirts and plastic cowboy hats. 

We wandered a few streets out of the main strip to find some more authentic shops and inhabitants, but the city seemed to die down again. We were feeling worn from the road and the bustle of the city so we head back to our rental. For some reason, lighting candles, making tea, and watching American Horror Story felt more like road trip worthy activity. We soon fell asleep to the sound of crickets in the Tennessean moonlight.

Side Note: It feels unfair to write negative comments about a city only experienced so briefly. We head back into Nashville today with some locals and we are certain our experience will change.

Side Note #2: When I was a kid, insulting what someone was eating or about to eat was a really big deal. Even if we were unfamiliar with the cuisine or didn't believe that particular thing should be eaten, saying “gross” before someone was about to dig in, was a HELL NO. I feel the same about talking shit about cities.

Side Note #3: Getting unadulterated advice about the "pratfalls" of moving to the big and bad USA is becoming comical to us. With Emma moving to LA, she especially gets grilled - people just love to hate LA. Hey, that person you're in love with? I hated that person. That book you're halfway through? It's shit. You like this thing enough to change your life for it? Well, I wouldn't have done that. As frustrating as it can be, we feel more free after each mile we add to our journey. The "you should knows" are dissipating - for us it's only forward, and the road gives new perspectives.

GRAVEYARDS & LORE

We pull into the gorgeous neighborhood of Jackson in Louisville to find the Wiltshire Cafe and stunning Thomas Edison’ era style homes. Everyone has been incredibly friendly since we started our journey and this cafe was no exception. My cold brew coffee was passed to me in an icy brown beer bottle, and we were told to take a walk to Cave Hill Cemetery, just a few blocks away. Both of us are already in a supernatural state having the podcasts "Lore" and "World's Most Horrific Deaths" guide our ears along I-71. A theme is starting to emerge and we're running with it.

HOLY SH*T, The Shack Up Inn, MS

An hour and a bit down 51 South, we breach one of the poorest towns in the poorest state, Clarksdale, Mississippi. 695,000 people live under the poverty line in this state. The weather reflects this gloom in addition to our energy levels. The rain turns from grey to black and hearing our friend's ghost stories from the night earlier gets louder in our heads. Eerie can't even hold a candle next to the desolate, abandoned energy of this forgotten town. You know there's a flicker of light with the musical history, but then you remember it's the birthplace of the blues for a reason. Morgan Freeman has a bar here, but we couldn't bear to drag ourselves around anymore. It appears segregated, even though I am sure that can’t be right. The most harrowing part of Clarksdale reveals itself when we find out that in 2013 an openly gay man running for mayor was murdered by a 22-year old kid from a nearby town. It's too surreal. The radio blasts Trump support rallies, sermons, and country music. We turn off the radio but the voices seem to echo.

We pull about five 3-pt turns (thanks to non-existent power steering) in the scattered lot of the Shack Up Inn - a unique hotel on the old Hopson Cotton Farms. The compound houses different buildings that you can explore here. By the time we get to our trailer, it's completely dark outside with no sign of the rain subsiding. We crack the door open and an old tv is playing static and blues songs. I appreciate the sentiment, but it's the complete opposite of inviting. Old portraits and carvings are on the wall, and a dim red light beams from the covered porch. Let's just say I ran into town for two tall cans (50 cents a pop) of Rolling Rock and soon I was asleep waiting for a sunrise that technically never came.

That sounded morbid. Obviously I woke up, but it was 6am and exactly as dark as it was when we went to sleep. We hit the road for a grueling 5 and a half hour drive in torrential rain with 18-wheelers dousing our Gus every so often. Wind carried the car in drifts when we hit open plains. Regardless, he handled well. Arriving in Louisiana was a welcome change, and New Orleans was the biggest most beautiful rainbow waiting for us at the end of the storm.

But first, Memphis

Driving down to Memphis was beautiful and the autumn leaves continue to inspire. We see the landscape changing as the accent sets in heavier at each stop. A few hours pass and the "Birthplace of Rock n Roll," is on the horizon. Haunting old mills and factories with broken windows clump closer and closer until The National Civil Rights Museum appears. It's rainy and cold as Hurricane Patricia's outer wisps fizzle out from Mexico. We see a line emerge into the front courtyard and wait in the rain. It's not for a few minutes until we realize that the hotel Lorraine is actually the place where Martin Luther King was murdered in '68 and as we look up, it's the exact same, preserved building. A wreath of flowers hangs where he stood when he was shot. We are overcome with emotion and it doesn't go away.

HallelUJiAH louisiana!

The second we hit the Louisiana state line, the energy shifts again. We're still feeling the halloween vibe as we pass the swampy bogs and baldcypress trees but the heaviness dissipates. It's almost completely gone by the time we arrive at our destination - a stunning home in the heart of Tremé. We are now flanked by palm trees, colour on every wall, and music pouring from the streets. I see pride flags and my heart lifts.

We have one of the best dinners on the trip at the Three Muses on Frenchmen while a jovial man sings 1920's showtunes. There is a Canadian couple sitting next to us who just lived through a health scare and decided their money didn't belong in a bank.

The next day our eager feet take us into the Garden District. Holy mother of god, this neighbourhood was something out of Interview With the Vampire - literally! It was filmed here and in Lafayette Cemetery no. 1. Anne Rice staged her own funeral here once, attending it herself. All the tombs are above ground to avoid "watery graves" as the land is essentially on levees or high ground on the Mississippi Delta. The house where they filmed Coven is our next stop and it's just as creepy in person as on American Horror Story. 

Westward, ho!

Austin is the perfect city to slowly prep for desert life. The music is just as gracious as in New Orleans, but we’ve traded in jazz for some authentic Texan country and rock and roll. Our last night we spend a couple of beers time at Ginny’s Little Longhorn. A true country bar with some serious locals. The no-crap-takin' bartender also looks like she both bakes a mean pie and gives the best hugs. The ages of our patrons are older and the men are all in cowboy hats. They dance and we stare.

A SWIMMING HOLE ADVENTURE: NSFW

It was hot in Austin yesterday and I couldn’t wait to get in some water. Our friend recommended the highly popular Barton Springs swimming hole and we made our way as soon as some much needed vintage action was had along South Congress.

The body of water that flows through Austin is a pretty shade of jade and I am so eager to hop in. When we arrive at the flat rock, a few people are already there. Most noticeably three kids definitely not from Austin. Swearing commences now!

“Hey you ginger redneck f**k!” One yells at the other. “Whur’s my purple!?”

“You shut yer goddamn mouth you stupid bitch, we’re trying’ to get back aginst this here current.” A girl in her underwear slips on the rocks and her body slides towards us. We try to look away but they’re splashing right in the middle of our view. A scrawny kid with a mop of red hair, looks severely burnt from the sun. He emerges from the creek, trying to keep up with his girlfriend.

They finally make it to the bank where we sit, and she plops down on the algae shore. The red-head slides on top of her, using her body as pillows while they continue to yell and scream at each other in an accent we recall from somewhere on our trip. He then starts sucking the river water out of her neck and spits it out in the water. The first kid is yelling again, asking where their pot is. I can’t look away from this strange couple sucking water out of their folds and spitting it back in the river. I’m so goddamn hot I tell myself the current is washing away the spit and I could jump in maybe behind them. It’s right when I’m thinking this that a massive bulldog jumps in the water in front of us and takes a massive shit. 

So, the cops are here now, giving the kids warnings (or tickets?) for having pot. It’s at this point I see my chance to put my toes in the water. I walk down to the slope away from the scene of the body fluid crimes, and slowly put my feet in. I don’t see the thick layer of algae is also here and within seconds I am swept away by the current and am submerged in the water. It’s cold and refreshing and for a second I don’t care about the last hour of events. Until that is, the current takes me right to where the dog took his huge poo.

I stumble out and the cops ask how my swim was. They proceed to warn us about meth heads and heroin needles in the area. They said they’ve picked up 87 needles here on shore, and in the water this past month. It’s time to leave!

The next morning we wake up to another thunderstorm. I’ve never heard a storm so loud. Two tornadoes reported to have touched down just south of us and we decide to wait it out until it calms down. By 11am, it looks manageable and we hit the road anyways. 

I won’t get into details, but in summary, the hurricane returned full force, and I drove white-knuckled for hours and hours. Without Emma’s steady guiding voice, I really don’t think we would have made it. Water splashed on the windshield in sheets.

It wasn’t until we hit Buchanan Lake that the clouds parted, and blue skies actually appeared. Our knuckles slowly relaxed and we were in clearer skies. Now it’s a different country all over again. We’re somewhere between Sonora and Sheffield. Cacti line the roads. Blue skies, with wisps of white clouds and it’s beautiful. We’ve listened to about 10 ghost and alien stories about the West Texan desert and Marfa is just around the corner.

Marfa, Finally.

Marfa is a strange place, in history, among friends, and in reality.

This tiny town of 1800-ish has been a hotbed for extra terrestrial sightings and artists alike for a few decades now. 

In 1956 a little movie with James Dean and Liz Taylor (Giant) was filmed here/ in the hotel Paisano, which still stands. We opted for groovier lodging at El Cosmico just on the south side of highway 67, super close to the Chinati Foundation for you artist/ concrete block lovers. We checked in late to a checked out girl at the front desk. She pointed us in the direction of our glamp sahara tent, but that's about all she said. After 6ish hours on a hurricane addled road, we were craving a little more human interaction.

We unzip our tent which is in the furthest corner of the campground. It's much colder than we thought but the plush queen size bed is equipped with down comforters and pretty linens. I step back outside and take a deep breath in. It may be cold but the stars are clear and we're in a stunning desert.

Yes, we did see Prada Marfa (actually in the town of Valentine, about 30 miles west,) It’s fine.

Truth or Consequences, NM - Nov 1st

The second we get to Truth or Consequences we are in actual heaven. Another half-abandoned town but with the secret to Geronimo himself - hot springs! Hot Springs actually used to be the town name, but in the 50's Ralph Edwards, host of radio show "Truth or Consequences," said if an American town would change their name to his show's name, he would broadcast from there from then on. Now here we are, in the gorgeous little town in my favourite state so far. New Mexico's motto is "Land of Enchantment," and it couldn't be more accurate. The air is clear, and the desert sky is alive at every turn. We are in love and the Blackstone is incredible. King sized bed, a hot spring tub in the room, and it's huge. TV softly plays some new age synth and the decor is themed off Lucille Ball. My mom used to be obsessed with I Love Lucy, and thus I am reminded of her, making me feel a little melancholy - but I try to take it as a sign that things will heal. And speaking of, there is a spa room at the Blackstone with a geyser channeled straight into a gorgeous hottub and waterfall. We spend 45 minutes basking in peace, and healing our tired, rainsoaked souls in this place of magic.

Unfortunately, my journals were lost between Sedona + San Diego, so enjoy a reading break. Thanks for sticking it to the end! xo

Ireland: The Northern Road

The road to Giant’s Causeway

Mixed feelings

The question "What are you?" flicks my autopilot switch on: "Yep, so: My dad's family is Chinese, my mom's family is Irish." This is followed by a couple ooh's and aah's, or a sturdy head-nod as if to say, “yep, yep, knew it, knew it.”

My sister, Dakota, brother, Kyle, and me as kids. As the mixed kids, we are privy to a club where we are constantly questioned.

Get to the root of it

The thing is, even though I’ve had versions of this conversation 100+ times, I still did not know what this “it” was that people understood. Once they pinned down my ancestry, did my face make better sense to them? This stranger now has context as they plug in the puzzle pieces of my black hair, almond eyes, and … freckles?

But I never really dug deeper into answering the question for myself. Saying where my parents and grandparents were born felt like I was reciting a story I’ve heard many times, but never lived or experienced. It didn’t help that my grandmother left Ireland when she was a teenager and preferred not to speak about her childhood. She passed away in her early 70’s when I was barely waking up to the importance of asking her questions about her youth. To me, ‘Ireland’ was a flat word on a page, with little to no shape at all.

That is, until my 30th birthday where my husband’s mom, Carole, gifted me something that was so much more than a holiday. A journey to the city where my grandmother was born (Bangor). Followed by a yoga + horse meditation retreat at the incredible Macalla Farm. We were going to need some space to rest after all of this detective work.

Almost every local in Ireland likes to ask, or, rather state, to tourists right away “ah, you must be here to trace your roots.” (By the 21st century, an estimated 80 million people worldwide claimed some Irish descent.) But taking one look at me I didn’t get this once. I appreciated, for once, the mask of being a simple tourist. It helped me avoid the noise of small talk and let me concentrate on the task ahead.

Dublin

Our journey begins safely in Dublin, at an Airbnb on the River Liffey. I say safe because this city delivers an expected dose of cozy pub, enough cobblestone to make you feel far from home, and a city accent easy enough to understand. Plus my fear of not actually finding anything about my grandmother was far enough in the distance of next week, and time seemed to be standing still here.

Dublin city does not disappoint with its rich history apparent on every edifice. Every stone begs to be inspected for hints of poet etchings and historical revolt origins. I fit the bill of every ancestry-obsessed Irish descendant before me, I feel immediately at home.

BELFASt,THE TITANIC + PRONI

Just a quick two hours north lay Belfast & Bangor. The latter is the seaside city where my grandmother was born and raised until her departure to Canada at sixteen. But Belfast was equally important. Obviously the famous Titanic museum is worth the trip alone, but beside it is PRONI - or the Public Record Office of Northern Ireland. This is one of the most impressive establishments I’ve set foot in. A massive modern building with thousands upon thousands of archives. Basically the ground-zero for researching any family member who has ties to Northern Ireland. Most records of course are hand-written and painstakingly recorded digitally.

So with hopeful tears in our eyes, Carole and I registered and received a badge, which allowed us access to a library of computers. Typing in all versions of my grandmother’s name as well as her address, it would hopefully ping a hit in the handwritten record room. Unfortunately the only item that surfaced was a letter from one McNeilly to another requesting a sum of money from the addressee. Our search would have to continue.

Luckily, I already had a pretty amazing document from my aunt. I often pour over the passenger record from my grandmother’s journey to America. It is only one line of text, but there is so much weight behind every word. What are the numbers beside her name? Her essence is boiled down into two simple words, “Sales Girl.” What happened before this voyage?

BANGOR, 118 victoria road

A little drive across the coast brings us to Bangor. It is more beautiful than I remember my grandmother describing it, however, the country was in a very different state back then. The streets are narrow and lined with cute cottages. Part of the city we’re staying in is up on a hill, so views of the water are visible from every angle.

Walking her streets, I felt beside myself. I finally was able to touch and see McKee Clock: a place where she'd tell soldiers to meet her so she could peer around to the corner to see if they were good looking enough for the date. If they passed the test, she’d emerge from the clock with a smile - if not? Run off the other way and see a film with her girlfriends instead.

Before the internet, microfiche

The first of two emotional revelations:

I knew the year she left Ireland so I started with the local library’s microfiche reader. I grabbed a section of The County Down Spectator issues between 1950-1955. Little rolls of history illuminated before me. News about the Queen. Amazing vintage ads. And then suddenly, there she was. It only took me about an hour to hit my jackpot. The original article that proclaimed her a final contender to be Miss Northern Ireland. I would later be told that she could choose her prize between a new car or a trip to Canada. Whether this is true or not, I definitely know she chose Canada at one point. Either way, I was now staring at a possible spark that led to my existence; a shattering feeling I can barely describe.

Pawn shop discovery

And then a chance encounter that unfolded so fast I barely had time to register what was happening. My mother-in-law wanted to get me a ring from my grandmother’s era to remind me of this place. After lots of searching, I set my eye on a ruby ring from the 40’s. The shopkeeper asks what brings us here. I tell her.

“Where did your grandmother live?” was all it took.

“You’re kidding, I lived on that street too!” she’s got to be messing with me. I ask if she knew a McNeilly family.

“Joan McNeilly? Absolutely yes, I do, she dated my brother.”

I am dumbfounded. A weak ‘no…’ is all I can muster. She continues happily.

“Oh, she was the Elizabeth Taylor of Bangor. I remember hearing her high heels click clack along Victoria Road as a young girl. She took me to my first film ever. I believe it was Lassie. I don't think Bangor had anyone more glamorous living there. This town was too traditional for her, she was a bit … wild.”

As expected I cried while trying to absorb all these statements. This was worth 100 newspaper articles because it brought the woman I already knew to life in a place that was previously flat. Things were beginning to take shape. As expected, we took photos, we hugged, we bought the ring.

Giant’s Causeway, Cliffs of Moher, and the road to Clare Island

There was a lot bouncing around in my mind after Bangor. Thankfully, the northern roads gave plenty of space and endless vistas for one to meditate on. The open green fields, ancient stones, the clicking and clacking of weaver’s looms, the sea crashing on the rugged coast, all most welcome sights as I took in this long awaited acknowledgement of my history.

MACALLA FARM

Did you think Id’ drop the words horse & yoga retreat earlier without explanation? Enter Macalla Farm, a magical place my mother-in-law had been eyeing for years.

Beautiful Clare Island exists off the coast of western Ireland by way of Westport. 145 inhabitants make up the community, and Macalla Farm is a big part of it. Rooted in teaching the ways of meditation, farming, and equine care, this retreat is a place for those who want to get to know Irish land and quiet the mind.

A calm state of mind is coincidentally great for connecting with horses. On our first day, we walked the farm to see horses straight out of a fairytale, grazing the grounds. We hiked through an ancient forest. We practiced a type of yin yoga that I call on to this day. We ate the most incredible food from the gardens. Carole milked a sheep and I filmed it. We met people from around the world who all relished in this land. I will never forget Macalla Farm.

Endlessly thankful for this woman who jumped right in and said “ain’t no time like the present.” Sure, ancestry is a bloodline, but there’s something magical about the people that come into your life regardless of lineage, and root for you every step of the way.