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.

India: A Lesson in Humility

Allowing opportunity

I knew my time at Sakura Bloom as their in-house photographer was going to be special from the get-go. First of all, here was a company that actually saw value in what a photographer can bring to a team. Not many companies follow this lead until they are much larger. Even then, the norm seems to gravitate to hiring us on a need-to basis.

From large seasonal campaigns, how-to videos, or simple little behind the scenes videos, keeping me in the fold 5 days a week (ok sometimes 7), provided Sakura Bloom with a dedicated photographer, videographer, Instagram storyteller, etc. Even though I had no children at the time, I thought about baby carriers 24/7. I was obsessed with ethical and transparent production as much as they were.

Within one year, it felt my dedication and ambition paid off. Lynne and her family invited me to to document a textile sourcing trip to four different cities in India.

Fast forward past immunizations, lost reservations, and massive language barriers, I met up with the Banach family in Jaipur to start our quest.

Setting expectations

It wasn’t lost on us that we were entering a whole new world where this lesson in textile education was going to be tricky to document. Customs and language barriers aside, there were two major concerns we always had on our minds: 1) How not to glamorize the hard work of the weavers, and 2) Don’t reveal your sources. Not glamorizing was simple if I only shot what I saw, but not revealing where we were was tough.

If I may digress for a moment, the amount of imitators in the baby carrier industry was a level 10 stress for us many days of the week. A version of almost every campaign I shot showed up on a competitor’s feed within weeks. Whole concepts were stolen and lazily covered up, or in some cases, copy was taken verbatim. I feel the freedom to discuss this now, not being with Sakura Bloom anymore, but I urge every consumer to thoroughly research the brands they buy from. Because, at the heart of this one, was a compassionate, brilliant woman, who was and is trying to provide a life for her family. Anyone who steals from that sacred space can frankly GTFOutta here.

But India! Here we are with the help of family friend Dinesh. His guidance leads us around the impossible to navigate streets where like the films promise, elephants and camels saunter alongside your tiny auto (think Tuk Tuks). Cars and motorbikes zip past you in no apparent fashion. But harmony (and horns) find a middle ground where this chaos transforms into order. There is enough beauty and color and delicacy to fill a 9000 page novel, but there are equal parts soot, literally. Wondering out loud what all the fires were about that surrounded our commute, I was met with a light hearted chuckle from Dinesh, “garbage day!”

Understanding origins

Everything comes into focus when we meet the weavers. Before working at Sakura Bloom, I gave zero percent of my thought process to where my clothing came from. One of their most well known baby carriers is made from dupioni silk, which comes from the mulberry trees of India. Little silkworms shed their magical cocoons which are then collected and spun to form one of the most incredible textiles on this planet. Don’t get me started on bamboo and khadi. All sustainable, and all natural. My new goal in life is to have a wardrobe only made from natural fibers.

Skills that save

Then there’s the artistry behind the weaving process. Over the course of my time with Sakura Bloom I’ve had the chance to work with and meet so many talented weavers. A special kind of soul that honors tradition, art, and patience. I believe that in this world of climate uncertainty, it will be the weavers, gardeners, and other earthly cultivators that will find solutions for our dying planet. The traditional will become the progressive, mark my words.

If I’m being honest

There were many times I felt in over my head with this project. Would I be able to capture this authentically? Would I do this country justice? Would we even educate our customers like we had hoped? Will we piss anyone off? (note: we always pissed people off) Will I miss any important moments?

I’m not going to lie to you, dear reader. As much as I’ve been told to secretly sell my talents in my blogs, I also know nobody wants to hire a self-touting jackass either. You know the one who talks about gear all day long or shows you their portfolio after five minutes of being introduced to you? Instead I want to reclaim the “portfolio blog” as a place where you can see who I am with all my questions in tow.

The fruits of collective labor

Fast forward again to a few months after our trip, once the precious textiles arrived at our workshop in Oceanside, CA. Now it was our turn to craft. We hand cut and sewed each piece into a cozy little baby carrier for parents around the world. I’m not too sure of the exact number of people who have a baby carrier from the Seek Collection, but I hope that with their purchase, they received more than just a tiny human tool belt.

The industry is far from perfect, but I know we’re inching closer. I hope that those who have bought from Sakura Bloom feel educated on the textiles they purchased. Ideally this hunger for understanding the origins of consumable goods pours over into everything they buy. It was my pleasure to provide the imagery to help aid that journey.

Getting to Know Coco

Preferred method of chair: hammock.

Selling myself IS WEIRD

I could spend all day plugging in photos and re-tweaking my portfolio, but the second I get to the “About” page, I freeze. What do you really want to know about me or my past that would make you hire me as your photographer/videographer/copywriter/etc? Is my University experience really that necessary? If it is, I should let you my four years in fine art were some of the last of the darkroom era. Meaning - I had maybe 3 months in front of a digital lab.

Approximately the same amount of laughter that erupted from my face after learning that the real world didn’t much care to spend money on film photographers.

Educating myself

It’s true, I graduated from Bishop’s University with approximately less than one year of digital experience. (Am I hired yet?!) I could walk around a darkroom with my eyes closed but excuse me, how did you get your aperture to follow your subject automatically? My options for photo delivery were negatives, negative scans on a CD, or a print. What do you mean “what is a CD?”

Thanks be to the internet trinity of Hurley, Karim and Chen to provide me with Youtube.com, aka my post-grad program that I greedily consumed every night after work. Now a student of digital photography, I was able to learn exactly what I needed to know on the spot. Often times, quite literally. 8 times out of 10 out on a gig, I’d get questions about gear and flash functions I’d Google after bullshitting my way out of the conversation.

Still figuring out how a digital flash works, at a Sandman Viper Command show in Toronto, 2010. Hilarious side note, I am photographed for a street style piece where my tights-under-shorts look finally gets validation.

Shut the F*** up and let me do my job

This constant on-the-spot quizzing might have happened in any field I started in, but I had to choose the music industry where the photo pit ran rampant with older, not-so-gentle men, ready to smirk at every blank look you’re forced to give after they ask you 100 questions about your gear. Sure I’ve seen a couple point and shoot cameras in the pit and thought, “um can you please try harder?” but my judgement is always followed with - you’re at the foot of this stage because you love music and art, and showing up with a cheap camera also proves you have some balls. I change my mind and think, right on. Plus half of these photographers are all going to produce the same version of the same photo, so you might be onto something here, dear punk rock minimalist.

Over the years, my work (and digital know-how) improved. I (literally) stepped over the other seniors in the pit and moved on to shoot bigger bands and better festivals. Sure I showed up to shoot Neil Young, Arcade Fire and Shania Twain with a teeny portrait lens while my fellow paparazzi neighbor laughed and said my photos would get me fired (They didn’t and jokes on you I snuck in here for the free food). But all this constant proving myself gave me two upper hands that gear heads didn’t possess, that ability to say, “Oh shit, I didn’t know that!” And the second: I was never the lone wolf. I reminded myself that being jealous of other people’s success leads nowhere. I worked best with other creators too, not only photographers. In surrounding myself with talented movers and shakers, I went on to be in some pretty incredible company.

Me and Camille Byrne: Babes Boardroom co-founder, Cambie Design owner.

In summary

My lack of confidence dissipated, because after years on my own, supporting myself entirely with my camera was proof that I had skin in the game. But I’ll never forget that scared kid, trying to get gigs straight out of school.

Some tell me an About page isn’t really needed at all, and if it isn’t this journal entry is absolutely over the top. But if I wrote it right, it will expose me to the brands out there who need a fresh look and want to work with someone who doesn’t take themselves too seriously. (Exception to rule: Deadlines, contracts, not being late. Always take yourself seriously in these categories)

Having one leg pedal away from my art-world institution, I felt determined to travel deeper into what it means to be a good photographer. It wasn’t until the other foot was in the real world that my journey became balanced and came into focus. Now I can glide with ease through projects of any size and guarantee you you’re going to have a lot of fun too.

Gnome hunting in Bergen, Norway.

Was that bicycle metaphor too much? I told you, selling myself is weird. Let’s just work together already…