Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor

Head Over Lens Cap

 

I can explain why I've been absent for the last few days. I’m not trying to neglect you - it’s just that I’ve been… distracted.

I’ve been falling, you see. Falling in love.

I know what you’re thinking: Slow down, girlfriend. You’re not a real blonde, remember, so please don’t act like one. Don’t say That Word until you know for sure that this is the Real Thing.

I hear you. I do. I’m usually the cautious sort when it comes to matters of the heart, but this time – I can’t help myself. I’m tumbling, heedless, into an exciting new relationship, and it's more wonderful than I could have hoped. 

It all began weeks and weeks ago, when we were introduced through a friend of a friend. I felt an immediate surge of attraction, but I held myself back. Don’t go there, I warned myself. You’re not ready yet.

But when I got home, I did what anyone does these days when they have a crush: I turned to my BFF Google to find out more. I mean, a girl has to protect herself, right? Think safety, not stalker. Right?

I found photos, essays, all kinds of information – that Google is scary smart – but surprisingly, I didn’t uncover any shocking revelations. Everything I found out made me think that I should make a move.

But still I waited, unsure. I felt so... vulnerable.

Then last week, I happened to mention the name of my crush, oh-so-casually, to a couple of friends. “I’ve been thinking a lot about… the 40D,” I mumbled.

“We know the 40D well,” they exclaimed. “We think the two of you would hit it off. In fact, you just might be perfect for each other.”

My heart skipped a beat. What if the 40D was The One?

“Go for it,” they urged me.

So I did. Why not? Love waits for no 30-ish San Francisco-ite. I headed home and sat down at my keyboard. Tap, tap, tap: I want you, I wrote. I want you bad.

36 hours later, there was a knock at my door. On the other side of the door was the 40D – my 40D. My heart did a flip-turn. Muscular and strong, with strapping shoulders and a hefty 135mm lens, it was everything I had dreamed of in a... camera.

I turned it on – wait. Who am I kidding? It turned me on. My 40D has dials and buttons and gauges and screens. Macro and Av and AF and M. If I were the kind of girl who makes a list of everything she is looking for – I would tell you that it delivers on every count.

Ever since that first day, we’ve been inseparable. I know what you’re thinking: this is the honeymoon phase. Sooo predictable. Once the first blush fades, you’ll be putting your 40D on the shelf.

But this time is different. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

I’ll be back soon. I promise.

That is, if I can possibly manage to tear myself away from my new love.

mysterious gifts of memory

It has happened countless times: in the middle of a yoga pose, chapped heels pressed against the bubbly surface of my mat, arm stretching towards the ceiling, I am suddenly assailed by a memory, a bright, stinging arrow from the distant past.

These memories are distinct from the normal chatter of my restless mind, that weary chorus I know so well: What will I… Why did he… When will it…

These vivid, emotional scenes unreel in rapid motion, short films projected on the screen of my skull. Where is memory stored, I wonder? In the dusty crease of a hip joint, to fly out when that joint is eased open? Or is it the angle of light against the studio wall that flashes against my brain and triggers a memory of the same light on a different day, millions of minutes and thousands of hours ago?

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Summer. 1996.

I'm still living in Oregon, driving a short distance to visit an elderly couple I dearly love. Silver-haired, bright-eyed, they both speak with faint Scottish brogues, rolling their r's, a gentle purr that prowls beneath their sentences.

He was the pastor of the church my family attended while I was a teenager; he and his wife singled me out from my brothers and sisters. “If you didn't already have such wonderful grandparents,” they said, “we'd want you to be our granddaughter.”

They were both dapper dressers; he, in trousers creased razor-sharp, shoes shined, shirt crisp; she, in tweed skirts and ruffle-necked blouses with pearl buttons. When he squeezed my hand in his, I could feel the bones of his knuckles. She would often wrap her arm around my waist, pressing her soft, wrinkled cheek against my shoulder. Unused to such affection, I stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do, not wanting to move an inch.

It was he who met me at the front of the church one Sunday morning when I walked down the aisle during the closing hymn, declaring my decision to be baptized. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, he said, his hand on my back as he guided me out of the water several weeks later.

Whenever I went to visit them, they sat close together, knees touching. They recalled the story of their courtship in exultant voices, stealing glimpses at each other, tears pooling in the corners of their eyes. She sent cards after every visit, covering the white space in her neat, looping script: Thank you for coming to see us. We love you. We pray for you and thank the Lord for you every day.

A Letter from the Editor

Today seems like a good day for a State of the Blog Address. After a week of dizzying heat that delivered summer on a sweat-soaked platter, San Francisco is cool and foggy once again. It’s Monday: time to get down to business.

I’m envisioning this post to be like a letter from the editor that prefaces so many of my favorite magazines - you know the type: in the top left corner is the editor’s photo, often in crisp black and white, eyes looking calmly at the camera, shoulders square. A cozy chat follows: “Here at Thus-and-Such Magazine, we’ve always believed that…”

I love those letters - that sense of purpose, that warm, reassuring tone. It makes me feel like I’m gathered with all of the other readers in a dark auditorium, or around a crackly fire, and someone is saying: Here's the inside story, people. We've got a plan, a map, a vision. Just follow along, and all will be revealed.

As editor-in-chief here at the Jennifer Jeffrey blog, I’m here to tell you – just as you suspected, we don't have a plan at all. I know – you're not surprised. But it feels good to say it just the same, to put it out there, to acknowledge that I have no idea from one day to the next what I'll post, or if I'll post, or even if I should bother posting at all.

And to admit that I'm truly amazed that anyone still checks this space out, because it's so inconsistent and haphazard. And to say that I'm really grateful for those of you who do, because you know what: I like you. I like you a lot. Those of you who comment, and those of you who don't; those I've met and those I haven't met yet - you're good people, all of you.

I know it's gotten a bit weedy and overgrown around here – I get it, I do – and it feels terrific to say so, even though I don't have a prescription for it.

Remember when this blog thought it might be a food blog? When I posted pictures of swiss chard + ice cream and wondered if feminism was compatible with eating SLOE? Ah. Then there was the introspective period, when “we” became “me,” and I drew the curtains while I grieved. Then there was the Little Bit of Everything phase.

Lately, this space has become more of a clipping site, a place where I post pictures and links to things that inspire me. Over the last few months, I’ve found myself craving beauty, seeking out light + bright, dark + quiet, beating down the door to every museum and gallery opening in town, soaking up color + texture, images + words. Art has been the balm for my soul, and I who love words have just wanted to look and listen, not write. Even the pages of my personal diary are largely blank.

The result, of course, is very untidy, and it certainly doesn't make for responsible blogging. Every day, I talk to my clients about Staying On Message, and Creating a Consistent, Authentic Voice, and Sticking To a Publishing Schedule, and on and on.

AND I DON'T DO ANY OF THAT.

But I want to, I do.

And eventually, I will. I'm feeling the itch to write again – slowly, you understand. I don't want you to start Expecting Things.

But I do want to say: thank you. Thank you for hanging in there through the twists + turns + dry patches. I know you have many marvelous reading choices, so the fact that you check back in now and then means a lot.

And fear not: here at this blog, we've always known that we’re going to find our way eventually. We aren't sure when that will be, exactly, but we hope you'll stick around while we meander towards that glorious day. As a token of our appreciation, we'd like to extend a special offer to you, our loyal readers – if you subscribe today, we'll give you 60% off the cover price for the next TWO YEARS! What can we say – we're feeling generous.

Who loves you, baby?

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(Oh, and while I'm in housekeeping mode: that black bar near the top of the page? Several of you have politely coughed and murmured: um, that bar thingy doesn’t work. When we click on those words? Nothing happens. Yep, I know. Those words should be clickable, and soon they will be. I’ve always believed that when you experience tremendous frustration on a website, you're that much happier when things finally start working… Wait. No. I don’t believe that at all.)

Random Photo Friday: Words in Sumi Ink

A Weekend with Sabrina Ward Harrison

I first discovered Sabrina Ward Harrison back in 2000, after her first book came out. Spilling Open: The Art of Becoming Yourself was like no other book I had ever seen - filled with pencil sketches and inky scribbles and scraps of poems, it was like peeking into someone's diary. This was pre-blogging, before everyone posted their diaries online for all the world to see, and so it seemed intensely revelatory.

I pored over the book for hours. Sabrina’s words were often similar to my own reflections, and in some ways it felt like looking into a mirror. From Spilling Open:

"I catch myself trying to cover up parts of myself that I don't accept. It's like a mask. I use my long black skirts to cover my legs that feel thick sometimes. I put make-up on that attempts to look like I don't have make-up on just to cover any shadows of acne. Why? I want to be accepted and loved as is..."

I continued to buy her books as they came out over the years, and they joined the others in my Creative Inspiration pile.

Then, a few months ago, I found a link online to a workshop that Sabrina was giving in LA. I signed up immediately.

I had this grand idea that I'd drive down, and make it a road trip - fun, right?! - even though, honestly, I'm not much off a road trip person. Partly because my long limbs get stiff and restless after a couple of hours in the car, and partly because I get so intensely focused on GETTING THERE that I don't enjoy the journey very much. A friend of mine once said: "you're like a horse on the way back to the barn - you just can't get there fast enough." I've been on the backs of horses that have caught sight of the barn, and I know that beady-eyed focus and wild, thundering momentum, so OUCH.

But knowing these things about myself, and wanting to grow into a less-Type-A person, I thought: I’ll do better this time. I’ll get an In-N-Out Burger along the way. I’ll stop at Tejon Ranch and take pictures of the trees. I'LL ENJOY THE RIDE.

Then, two weeks before the workshop, my slipper-clad foot slipped on the stairway at 6:30 am as I was blinking the sleep out of my eyes, and I thumped down several wooden stairs on my tailbone.

Hi. My name is Jennifer, and I fall. A lot. I trip, I fumble, I tumble. I want to glide gracefully through my life, sleek and sure-footed as a dancer, but I don't. Instead, I've collected knee surgeries + bruises + scars from my falls like so many trophies. I’ve stopped being surprised when I fall, but can I just put it out there that I’d like to fall on sand or soft grass next time?

For days after the fall (and still now), I was in excruciating pain. Every time I sat down, or stood up, or shifted in my seat, or wiggled my pinkie finger – ANY MOVEMENT AT ALL – glorious waves of red-hot pain shot up my back and down my legs.

But I really wanted to go that workshop, and I figured that I could be in pain here or be in pain there, and so I got into the car as scheduled and made a beeline for LA. I did not stop at Tejon Ranch. I did not take pictures of trees. I won’t tell you how fast I got there, but I will say that I’m lucky I didn’t run anyone off the road in the process.

The workshop was held in the gorgeous home studio of artist Carol Parks. Perched on the corner of a winding street, the home is wrapped in wisteria vines and bougainvillea. It’s like a fairy tale cottage – art and beautiful objects are displayed everywhere – paintings + photographs + peeling steamer trunks + stern-faced wooden dolls. A huge outdoor patio, festooned with paper lanterns and grapevines, looks out over a park.

 

A place to relax into, and listen, and breathe.

Random Photo Friday: Trust the Unfolding

I haven't been able to finish the post I've been working on about my recent trip to LA, so I decided to choose photos today that would offer a sneak preview:

Remember this poem?

I was pretty excited to see those words written out on the sidewalk.

Life's serendipities are so... awesome.

Have a fabulous weekend, everyone. Get out and soak up this rocktastic summer sunshine.