Leaking Hearts Magazine Volume Two: Generations

L E A K I N G H E A RT S VO LU M E T WO : G E N E R AT I O N S

L E A K I N G H E A RT S “He said, ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’”

T H E V E LV E T E E N R A B B I T

COV4E R P H OTOGRAP HY BY A L L I X RUBY

WELCOME One of the first novels I ever read as a child is one that has stayed with me over the years—about love and loss and friendship and family. Reading it, I wept and laughed and practically became the heroine of the story. I felt a bond, deeper than I can explain, between her and I; a connection that linked my deepest desires, greatest fears, and most passionate loves to hers. Reading the schoolgirl’s words of adoration for her father made me get warm goose bumps all over my arms, and as she lost her best friend, I became determined to cherish each occasion with my own Daddy. It was the words on the pages of that book that first instilled in me an appreciation for those I hold closest to my heart. It was then that I first listened in terror to the second hand of the living room clock and promised myself to not waste even one minute. As I grew up, like all of us do, I forgot about the thief that is time and let it trick me into wishing I were older, smarter, taller, and stronger. Living in the ‘now’ is a seemingly impossible way of life; a misinterpreted lifestyle that many spend carelessly.

Some things stay the same: the kettle humming on the stove and how he sings her name, the same way he did on the day they first met. She has lost her chub and her rolls and her lisp, but somehow when she laughs, her mother sees her big girl as a baby cub all over again.

In the short time I’ve been walking the Earth, I’ve fallen flat on my face, dropped a plastic plate out of the car window while driving on the freeway, eaten rotten yogurt (by accident), mistaken “pro-nun-ciate” for “enunciate,” and walked into a glass door among many other embarrassingly hilarious mishaps. I have made friends and lost friends, moved across the world, had best days and worst days, cried until my eyes turned raw, and let countless unproductive hours go by. But I have also come to see that although recovering lost time is impossible, recounting past highs and lows keep the memories alive in my soul.

This edition of Leaking Hearts is our attempt to make you think about your own life, your own past, and the past of those who came before you. It is a challenge to write, to take photos, and to make every effort to remember. By reading the contents of this small book, we hope and pray that you will see the beauty of generations in a different way; a way that inspires you to tell your young ones bedtime stories from your childhood; to make home videos; to appreciate every second; and to savor every crumb of chocolate—or crust of bread—that you get.

CLAIRE GRUVER, EDITOR IN CHIEF

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PHOTOGRA PHED BY L AU R EN APEL

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CONTRIBUTORS

C AT WAT S O N Illinois

RACHEL CLARKE

R.J. HOPKINS

ROXANNE COLIN

A M A N DA WAT T E R S

GILLIAN STEVENS Vancouver, Canada

SAILI GRUVER

Johannesburg, South Africa

AMY NYSTROM

LAUREN & MARK APEL

LAURA HARRIS Kingston, Canada

STEVEN WOOLLEY

Johannesburg, South Africa

RUTH STOEBENER

CAROLINE LEE

DANIELLE VAN METER

J O V A N V A N S T E LT E N

LOGAN COLE

KRISTEN MORRIS

J O R D A N & K E L LY C L A R K

Kansas

Texas

Maryland

Ohio

Johannesburg, South Africa

Oklahoma

8 P H OTOGRAP H E D BY C L A I R E G RUV E R

Ohio

Johannesburg, South Africa

Paris, France

Kansas

Kansas

California

Kansas

CO NT R I BU TO R S 9

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S 07

WELCOME

08

CONTRIBUTORS

12

THE IMPORTANCE OF HOME

20

BANANNA CREPES

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RAINBOW BLURS

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WHAT I HAVE LEARNED

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A NEW IDEA: POVERTY PORN

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LIVE BIG, LOVE HARD, GIVE BACK

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SEEDS

44

ANON

50

STRAW HOUSE

52

KIDS

60

YOU WILL SEE HIM

66

PRESERVES

69

SPREAD

76

HIM & HER

78

NO PLACE ON EARTH

86

SIX SECRETS TO SPRING CLEANING

90

LIFT OFF

96

THE PLACE OF GOING

100

A LETTER FROM THE TOOTH FAIRY

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LO N G D AY S , S H O RT Y E A R S A N D S I LV E R L I N I N G S

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T H E I M P O RTA N C E O F H O M E

BY AMANDA WATTERS, IN-HOME PHOTOGRAPHY BY LIZ RUDMAN

My husband and I have always been in love with the idea of growing our family in a forever home. A place all our own where we can spend those balmy summer months soaking up the sun as our barefooted babes run around the yard, a place where our little one’s names are carved in the side of the wood trim telling us how much they’ve grown over the years, a place we can really sink our teeth into and make lasting memories that we will carry with us into the later chapters of our lives.

Although adventure, exploration and travel are something our family enjoys, we favor a slower pace at home over being constantly on the move. We are homebodies through and through, and wouldn’t have it any other way. The four of us, soon to be five, relish in the rituals that we have cultivated here at home together. Our everyday habits have turned into necessities for the sheer amount of comfort and delight that they bring: fairytales before bedtime, setting and gathering round our table for dinner, drip coffee in bed on Saturdays, and afternoons making crafts in the kitchen. These are some of the little things that we do on a regular basis that continue to ground us as a family and set the tempo of our life.

What attracted us to this home was its unmatched character and romantic 1920’s charm. This old colonial, standing proudly on a tree adorned street in Kansas City, caught our eye and gave us butterflies from the moment we laid eyes on it. Walking in felt right, like this was where our family was supposed to grow up. Moving in was like giving an old friend a hug: calm, warm and inviting. Despite the lapse of time since moving in, these sentiments are ones that are only growing stronger.

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We are finding, as our roots in this new home grow deeper with each leaf that falls and blade

But before the baby arrives, the four of us have little projects we are eager to start. In the

of grass that grows, that some of our traditions and family rituals compliment the changing of

coming weeks we look forward to growing our family garden three times the size it was last year.

seasons. Living in the Midwest offers an abundance of beauty year-round, and as a family we like

There’s nothing quite as satisfying as making a beautiful meal out of something grown from seed

to take advantage of each, embracing what Mother Nature throws our way, albeit sunshine or

just a stone’s throw away. With our oldest turning four, she is eager to help me plant, dig, and

snow. These chilly winter months were made up of my husband building a fire on the weekends,

taste once our herbs and vegetables have fully ripened. I often think about the evening that I can

sipping hot tea before going to bed, lounging with the newspaper in hand, and giving the kids

walk into my backyard and pick a few peppers to chop and add to a pasta salad we can share in

long lavender bubble baths when it was far too cold to play outdoors. As the birds start to chirp

picnic supper.

and the wind brings along warmer air, how we spend our days will take on a different shape and new rituals will take the place of the old. Spring will creep in like a love song, and slowly, color will

Just last summer, our oldest learned the difference between the five herbs we grew in our garden.

find its way back to rolling lawns and flowerbeds.

Her job, one she did with a beaming smile, was to gather them depending on the recipe we chose, a little mint here or a little parsley there. Once in awhile, she would bring in something different

Somewhere in that fleeting phase where spring greets summer, we will bring home a brand new

altogether, like a bright green unripened tomato, giving us all a laugh. Having her there by my

baby to this place we’ve so lovingly tended to for the last year now. Together as five, we will make

side as a little helper was far more delicious than anything I could ever whip up in the kitchen.

new memories and it will be hard to recall life before three children. As our needs change, the

Those moments, ones we collect daily, are the marrow of life and the beauty of everything.

makeup of our home will too. The newborn nursery now nestled in our bedroom will move into one of the kid’s rooms, where two of our children will share a space for years and years, and heaps

Sharing simple moments such as these with my children and husband is what has really given

of giggles before bedtime, I am quite sure. The thought of that togetherness brings me more joy

this home life. Although we love the crown molding and antique fixtures of this home, they are

than words on a page can express.

not what give it its breath. It is the pitter-patter of tiny feet across our hardwood floors in the middle of the night to climb into dad’s side of the bed, the little boy who would rather spend an afternoon following his mama with a wooden broom to pretend sweep up the entryway, and nights spent cuddled up on the large chesterfield in the living room eating popcorn and watching movies. That is home, because ultimately, home is family.

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BANANA CREPES

BY LIZ RUDMAN This is a recipe close to my heart because of the nostalgia that it brings. As a little girl, I remember my grandparent’s pretty white home in Alaska that we would visit every few years.

We would arrive late in the evenings feeling jet-lagged and sleepy but happy to be at this, our most cherished place. Our time there was filled with hiking and rock collecting, whale-watching and bear-spotting, glacier-awing and iceskating. More treasured than these, though, were the memories made around the table while eating my grandma’s scrumptious food. Grandma’s baking and cooking, alone, would be a good enough reason to make the twelve hour trip there.

I’m going to be boastful here and tell you: my grandma’s food is the most yummy of yummies.

All of us kids excitedly woke every morning to the oh-so-sweet aroma that had taken over the house. All of our itty-bitty, happy selves shuffled up the stairs to see what deliciousness might fill our tummies. “OH BOY. Banana Crepes.” Cue the squeals and roaring stomachs. We scarfed them down one after another, thanking grandma over and over. Breakfast would end with happy hearts, full tummies, and food comas. But the good kind. I hope that you, too, might squeal with giddiness over this recipe and make some memories of your own. Enjoy.

1. CREPE MIXTURE

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour, powdered suagr, and the eggs. Gradually add in the milk

1 cup flour 1/4 cup powdered sugar 1 cup milk 2 eggs 3 Ta b l e s p o o n s m e l t e d b u t t e r

and vanilla, stirring to combine. Add the salt and butter; beat until smooth. Heat a lightly oiled griddle or frying pan over medium high heat. Pour or scoop the batter onto the griddle, using approximately 1/4 cup for each crepe.

Tilt the pan with a circular motion so that the batter coats

1 teaspoon vanilla

the surface evenly brown. Cook the crepe for about 2

1/4 teaspoon salt

minutes, until the bottom is light brown. Loosen with a spatula, turn and cook the other side. Serve hot.

2. CARAMEL FILLING

In a sauce pan, melt together the butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Slowly pour in

1/4 cup butter 1/4 cup brown sugar

cream while whisking. Heat until bubbly and slightly thickened.

1/4 teaspoon cinnamon 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg 1/4 cup of half & half 3. TO FINISH

Layer the inside of the crepe with sliced bananas and a little caramel filling.To finish it off, fold the crepe, dollop the top with whipped cream, and drizzle with the caramel filling.

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R A I N B OW B L U R S

BY DANIELLE VAN METER

Whenever newborns lived with us, it felt as though shady hues were peeled away- my mother’s rosy hands held the world together by kneading bread; the way he looked at his mobile was the way an astronaut first saw the earth from space. All orphan care involves an element of distortion, and brokenness shouldn’t be romanticized, but what other explanation could there be for devastation like this than that molecules and atoms had no choice but to explode from trying

Black. Soot black.

His hair, the only part of him not covered by his blanket, stuck up greasy and curly.

This was our introduction.

His mother went to a social worker when he was a few months because it was becoming more costly to care for him. We began that day unaware of each other’s lives, until my mom received a call that a baby boy who would be coming home to us.

It had been five months since our last baby found a forever family, the longest stretch without newborns for a long while. The first time I saw him, he was already bathed and dressed in cartoon robot pajamas. We welcomed him with distressing joy; a little boy slept in a stranger’s house, and somewhere that night, a mother was going home without her baby. The ceiling fan clanked above us while we watched him in the topaz kitchen light. With no warning, his bottom lip pushed out defiantly and he gave a heartbreaking wail.

We giggled and kissed his face like indulgent aunts, “Have you ever beheld anything this darling in all your life?”

There are no instructions for falling in love- it’s not science- but I think it must happen this way: Blow bubbles on his belly as you dress him in the morning. Serendipitously video the first time he laughs. Dance with him in the kitchen. Change all the lock-screen photos.

With routine feeding, his cheeks grew indiscernibly chubby; ruby shaded; made his eyes disappear when he smiled.

It wasn’t only he who developed. My sisters had evolved from housemates to mothers with every little one welcomed into our home, but we were awed watching each baby gravitate to our mother as though they somehow suspected she had the most experience of us all. One Saturday morning, I awoke to her softly singing over the splashes of a bath to our little boy. I walked into the bathroom as she covered his face with little kisses. He lifted his arms towards her, blinking slowly like ‘do that again’.

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to contain such wonder. Baby boy, he was the most iridescent thing to be born from chaos.

We sisters knew that adoption was a journey we would only be able to take when we were married and moved out of our parent’s house, so newborns grew in our homes only for the time it took the social worker to find a family. Our twenty-something hearts raged for the day we could keep the ones we harbored. And me? I wished mine could begin with this one.

He came the way he left. In rainbow blurs.

“The social worker called,” my mom measured yeast into her dough, “and his mother wants him back. She shows up in the social worker’s office daily looking for him.”

We were quiet.

She loves him with the fierce love of a mother, she can’t feed him, and this is not her fault. How mangled stories are sometimes.

Sometimes this house wasn’t big enough to contain our grief. I’d pass my sisters in the kitchen after the news that the baby we had mama’d together would go next week to the house of need and we couldn’t even look at each other with this defeat in our eyes. It was worse for my mother, who tried to carry the combined heaviness of our spirits alone. Those arms, those soothing arms that patted me through childhood illness and sleepless nights, they had changed like mine.

They were just trying to carry this grief like a Truster, but it was heavy. The first night after he left, the municipality switched off all electricity. The night turned amethyst with storms while we stood around holding our palms against the sockets praying they would feel our heat. A tinned roof house, an urban area, and five women trying to fortify a baby against everything; this is how realms collide.

I had watched my mother whisper a prayer for only them two and kiss his face for the last time through her lament.

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PHOTO G R APHED BY R AC HEL C L AR KE

Then they had driven on, taking him far into the ashen land where he is not unique- townships strewn with fatherless infants and unprotected women.

My mother comes to each of us.

“Are you going to be okay with this?” She asked.

“What?”

“Having to Entrust.” She capitalized the word.

“I don’t know.” But really, I wanted to say I’m trying to, I swear.

A woman’s heart, it was not designed this way. For the sake of human citizens in crisis we awaken love before its time. When children are alone, we split open our homes like willing veins, kidneys, marrow, take ours if his is not sufficient because families will try anything to rescue each other.

Though we attempted to guard them, our hearts only believed our arms that had held this baby in the sapphire silence, the voice that hummed lullabies over robot pajamas, and the hands that shook bottles to appease three AM screams- all these nerve endings designed to signal belonging.

“What wreckage.” I say, and my sister nods like she had already accepted it.

I crave retreat, but my mother leads us on by unflaggingly stretching out her arms to the next marvel. Three million orphans live here, and for that we take up our place to fill the gaps in universal guardianship.

The social worker texts us. “He has arrived back home safely.”

I pack away his clean robot pajamas. Our electricity is switched back on.

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W H A T I H AV E L E A R N E D Fo u r t e e n l i fe l e s s o n s f r o m R u t h ’ s e i g h t y - s i x y e a r s o f e x p e r i e n c e .

ONE

EIGHT

Trust God.

Smile and laugh often and think

He will help you through anything

good thoughts. Kindness pays off.

if you will let Him. TWO

NINE

Everyone you meet has problems.

Listen to other people’s

Probably worse than yours.

problems and opinions.

THREE

TEN

If this is a bad day, tomorrow

Be respectful to people you don’t agree with.

will be better.

Everyone has a right to their own opinion.

FOUR

ELEVEN

Two very important words are “Thank you”.

Learn from your mistakes

Say them often.

as well as others.

FIVE

T W E LV E

Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

Watch what you say and how you say it.

SIX

THIRTEEN

Don’t spend money you don’t have.

Don’t be afraid to say, “I’m sorry”

Money is not the most important thing

or “I was wrong.”

in this world, even though

You don’t always have to be

we all need some of it.

right.

SEVEN

FOURTEEN

Tell your friends and family often that you love them.

Be thankful for your many blessings. •

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A N E W I DE A : P OV E RT Y P OR N

BY RACHEL CLARKE, PHOTOGRAPHY BY CLAIRE GRUVER

My family and I are crazy about Planet Earth. I could probably watch it all day. Seeing our beautiful world so incredibly documented makes the wheels in my brain start spinning out trips I want to take, stories I want to tell, sites I want to see, smells I want to breathe. My brain engine is greased and ready, revving, eager to embark on some new journey, and then I remember I’m sitting on the couch with my sisters in our house in Ohio. We’re somewhere in the world, and it’s beautiful, but it’s not like the elephant herd creating a cloud of dust as they storm across the African plain, or the cave with a 300 ft. tall pile of bat droppings that millions of bats call their home, or the great barrier reef in Australia, or the artic fox hunting geese in the tundra.

Watching from our plush seats as the smell of mom’s homemade artisan bread makes it’s way into the room makes what’s on the screen feel so distant...yet so close. Because at that moment, I do know the world is rotating, tides are sweeping in and out, and some man is floating down the amazon on his hollowed-out tree boat, fishing in electric eel-infested waters. We’re all doing life somewhere.

I always knew these things and imagined how life moves in another cultures and continents. The foreign unknown is nearly always on my mind. However, there is something so shaking about exposure to a place you’ve only dreamed of traveling to. Suddenly you’re not just sitting on your nice comfortable couch staring wide eyed at a screen depicting only a sliver of what a place is like. You’re walking on the ground of a new-to-you country and seeing strange birds’ nests in the trees, smelling the air at sunset you can’t even recognize, freaking out as you make your way through an intersection on the opposite side of the road than you’re used to, hearing many languages (you don’t know how many, you just know you can’t understand), and learning when someone looks at you and says, “you’re big”, not to take it offensively.

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Even Planet Earth can’t prepare you for this kind of experience. When we went to Winterton, South Africa last March, a culmination of wonder, excitement, and heartache hit me. The best pictures and videos don’t ease the eye opening impact received when you see life in rural mountain villages. It can’t prepare you to see a three year old walking down the highway without shoes, or when you realize you have more just in your bedroom than these people probably have in their entire house.

I’m not trying to take you on a guilt trip or make you wallow in forced sympathy or incite self-deprivation. I am broaching the idea of poverty porn. The concept that we are fascinated to see poverty in magazines and advertisements, intrigued that “wow, that person only makes $1 per day,” and curiously amazed at the woman who has to carry water five miles home on her head every day. Gawking, not giving. Concerned, not convicted. Interested, not impacted.

“Nothing that you have not given away will ever really be yours.”

C.S. LEWIS

Sympathetic, not empathetic. We’ve been so bombarded we’ve become desensitized.

This isn’t love. Love is seeing a photo of an impoverished region and praying for the people. Love is keeping granola bars in your glove box to hand to the man who always sits on the corner trying to sell newspapers. Love is building relationships and pouring yourself out into lonely, desperate people who need love, too. It’s aching for that face in the picture, not dismissing it as if the person is only imaginary. Love is grasping that this is actually real life for people.

Let me change my egotism to compassion. Let me learn from where I have been. •

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AN INTERVIEW WITH LAURA HARRIS

L I V E B I G , L OV E H A R D, G I V E BAC K Living in the beautiful, sea-side city of Victoria on Vancouver Island, artist Laura Harris spends her days dreaming and doing what she loves: painting. Laura’s talent has provided opportunities to work with companies like Mercedes Benz, The Ritz Carlton, The Keg and Canaccord. She also enjoys hosting sporadic creative workshops to encourage and build up young creatives who are just starting out.

For the most part, she lives in VINCE, Eileen Fisher, Helmut Lang and Levis, and aspires to one day start her own clothing line. Other bucket list items include returning to Australia with her family, buying a Volkswagen Westfalia and roadtripping for three months, and designing and building an oceanfront modern home.

Laura’s greatest joy is her daughter. “Maddie’s very being resides in the deepest part of my heart… it’s there, ever-present like a continuous beautiful ache. And, the miraculous reality is that her thirteen year old self has no idea. When she was born I remember thinking, ‘there goes a big chunk of my heart, literally… it’s been placed in this little girl and she’s going to carry it for me.’ Beautifully unaware, she moves through her world free of this knowing… unencumbered by it, and expanding into the gorgeous young woman she is.”

By Claire Gruver Photography by Gillian Stevens

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F R O M T H E T I M E A N I D E A I S S PA R K E D I N YO U R M I N D, TO T H E F I N I S H E D P I EC E H A N G I N G O N T H E WA L L , D E S C R I B E YO U R C R E AT I V E P R O C E S S . W H AT PA R T O F T H E J O U R N E Y I S M O S T I N V I G O R AT I N G ?

A lot of my work has a ‘big sky’ feel to it, a theme conjured up on my daily walks through the forest and by the sea. It is while I’m on these walks with my dogs that I feel immense connection and am compelled to work it out on canvas, as painting from emotion is the only route. While I move the paint around the canvas, I connect to something big, something I cannot quite name, but that feels fantastic and true, and rocks my soul open. There is nothing more exhilarating and fulfilling for me, than the very first stroke of colour on a fresh white canvas. That moment never fails to bring me deep joy, offering a certain freedom, liberation, and there’s always a small twinge of fear to confirm that I’m in exactly the right place, doing exactly the right thing. I’ve learned time and time again to respect the painting process, for it knows best how to get to the honesty and beauty of a piece. Armed with my big old brushes and the spark of an idea, the magic only comes when I let go and trust… trust that my hand and heart know, and my mind will catch up when it needs to. One consistent thought I have is to paint what I ache for… nothing less. I’ve heard it said by other artists that the best parts of the process are in the beginning and the end … I completely agree. The middle bit is ‘work’ (if you can call it that!). Layer after layer bring my paintings to life and it takes time, patience and a gentle hand. I know my creative work is done when I stand back and witness a painting breathing on its own. I apply a thick coat of varnish to protect the work and then send it off on a journey unknown. It is my deep hope with every piece, that it is truly loved and brings joy in return.

I F T H E W O R L D W E R E B L I N D, H O W W O U L D YO U D E S C R I B E YO U R PA I N T I N G S ?

My paintings have been described as beautifully imperfect, and I love that description.

They are semi-abstract in their approach with a process that’s rooted in memory, imagination and discovery. A lot of my work has a ‘ big sky’ feel to it, a theme conjured up by my surrounding of woods and sea. They have the ability to stir powerful emotions… they are drippy, textured, bold, unapologetic, colourful… moving and still all at the same time. They are large in proportion and emotion, and some of them (if I’m lucky) ask you to come in and stay a while.

They speak about truth, about love, about knowing and opening and trusting… in all its messy glory.

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W H A T D O E S Y O U R M O T T O , “ L I V E B I G , L O V E H A R D , G I V E B A C K ,” M E A N T O Y O U ?

W H AT S T E P S D O YO U TA K E TO S T R I V E TO L I V E T H I S O U T I N YO U R E V E R Y D AY L I F E ?

W H E N YO U ’ R E N OT PA I N T I N G O R S N U G G L I N G YO U R P U P P I E S, N O R R I S A N D C H E S T E R , HOW DO YOU FILL YOUR TIME?

This motto is my barometer, my reminder, my guide. It is always on my wall and it always

When I’m not painting or snuggling those dear children with four legs, my general goal is

brings me back to where I know I want to be. I want to say ‘yes’ to life’s precious experiences,

nourishing my body and soul. I take daily long walks, I practice Ashtanga Yoga with some of the

but be a risk taker and not live in a shadow. I want to love with my whole heart and do it well

most accepting, beautiful people I know; I meet dear friends for morning coffee and a laugh;

in all areas of my life. And most-importantly, for this truly remarkable life and all it’s precious

I fill our kitchen with fresh yummy food, family and friends; and with the sweetest soul-ache, I

gifts, I would like to give back… give openly and always.

support my daughter as an intelligent, beautiful, young woman.

D U R I N G YO U R C H I L D H O O D, YO U R FAT H E R TA U G H T YO U B A S I C D R AW I N G T E C H N I Q U E S , S PA R K I N G I N YO U A LO V E F O R C R E AT I N G W H I C H L AT E R D E V E LO P E D A PA S S I O N F O R PA I N T I N G . CO U L D YO U E X PA N D O N T H I S ?

A R E T H E R E C E R TA I N PA I N T S O R B R U S H E S T H AT YO U F I N D YO U R S E L F U S I N G M O R E THAN OTHERS?

Both my Mom and Dad are creative, and freedom of expression was strongly encouraged in our family home. My first art teacher was my Dad, a mechanical draftsman by trade, who

My brushes are pretty beaten up just the way I like them! I keep them for years and the wear on each one is different. I definitely have my favourites. With a few exceptions, they are all hardware brushes and up for the task. There’s nothing pretty or easy about it!

showed me the principles of accurate drawing and perspective. Easily bored and frustrated by this approach (and never one to conform) I rebelled and chose to break all the rules I learned and to be free and playful in my approach to art. My style now is largely the product of that

YO U S AY T H AT M U S I C , C O F F E E , A N D A N U N DY I N G PA S S I O N F O R W H AT YO U D O A R E T H R E E T H I N G S T H AT K E E P YO U G O I N G W H E N T H E D AY S A R E LO N G . W H I C H B L E N D S A N D A U D I O D O YO U S WA L LO W W H O L E , W I T H O U T H E S I TAT I O N ?

unfettered experimentation. My parents could not be more proud or supportive. If it weren’t for

There’s nothing better than a strong, smokey blend of french coffee with full cream.

my Dad’s guidance and my spirited response to it, I truly believe I wouldn’t have known how to

Heavenly!

find my own path. I knew intuitively from a very young age to always invest whole-heartedly in

Oh I love music!! So hard to pick a few but Alt-J and Chet Faker are on serious repeat these days

the things that ‘felt good’… whatever brought that spark, that glow, that feeling in the pit of your

along with Ben Howard who’s been in my creative pocket for years. His music literally moves

stomach that told you ‘I can be good at this’, ’this makes me happy’, ’this is JOY’. I always knew

my brush like magic. Bon Iver, Angus and Julia, the National, London Grammar and of course

how I wanted to feel in the world, rather than what I wanted to do. This simple, ’trust your gut’

Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, James Taylor and Leonard Cohen.

approach has never failed me and serves as my guide.

W H AT S O R T O F C O M M U N I T Y O F A R T I S T S A R E YO U S U R R O U N D E D BY ? H O W D O T H O S E C LO S E S T TO YO U M OT I VAT E YO U TO P U S H TO T H E N E X T L E V E L O F EXCELLENCE? Now in my 45th year, I feel like I’ve found my place in the most amazing tribe.

THIRTEEN YEARS IN THE INDUSTRY AND YOU’RE STILL GOING STRONG. THEY S AY T H AT T H E H U R D L E S W E J U M P M A K E U S J U M P H I G H E R . I F YO U C O U L D, W H AT LEARNED-LESSONS WOULD YOU SHARE WITH YOUR YOUNGER SELF? Talk less and listen more. When in doubt, LOVE. Honour your gift, don’t take it for granted. Don’t be apologetic about your own work, EVER. Take time to master your craft. It’s

Relationships that were not healthy for one reason or another have just fallen away and I am

all coming and it’s better than you imagine. Trust that ’no’ means ’there’s something better

surrounded by good, healthy, pure love. I feel respected, supported, championed, understood

coming’. Be patient. Put LOVE into it. Rest when you need to… take care of that arm and that

and loved in the arts community and in my personal circle. It is liberating. Emotional safety is

heart.

of the utmost importance, especially for the creative heart and I no longer hear criticism, accept selfish demands or comparisons and I will not be held to any standard. I am accepted as is, I have

F R O M YO U R P E R S O N A L E X P E R I E N C E , W H AT H A B I T S A R E M O S T B E N E F I C I A L TO A N

friends and family that will rise to my call without question and I have a beautiful man by my

ARTIST’S GROWTH?

side that loves without agenda, restrictions or boundaries. My artist-soul thrives in this place and my motivation rises from it.

Get into the habit of seeking joy. Be still and feel it all. Fill that cup. Be afraid and do it anyway. Break the rules and do it often. Trust your process. Whole-heartedly accept that your mistakes are golden. Don’t compare. •

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SEEDS

BY ELIZABETH BRISTOL PHOTOGRAPHY BY CLAIRE GRUVER

“For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone. The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes. To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.”

Cynthia Occelli If you were to ask me a year ago what I yearn for most in life, what means the most to me, what I strive for, what twists and turns the depths of my soul? Growth. A year ago I would have told you so.

I never could have known what idealizing, believing in such a mantra would come to mean.

How a full year of hard, bitter, rubber-meeting-road could bring the gravity of my own vision to weigh so heavy in my heart. Contrary to illusionary appearances, most of the things we call our lives are not birthed in rosy light – tranquil and streaming through an open window. They come into this world in brokenness. In pain. In sorrow. In death.

Sometimes broken feels like way too much in your arms with nowhere to go. Sometimes empty feels bigger than more, fuller than nothing. It’s thicker than humid. That’s the worst kind of empty. Of broken. More often than feeling nothing, the living hell of feeling everything and still - your limbs being powerless. This is fate? This is ‘supposed to’ be?

You’ve come to the end. Beyond wasted – rocking back and forth. Hope lost to the open sea.

And you keep getting up in the morning just to go to bed again. Days rolling end over end taste like sawdust. You want to be alive. But all you can see is destruction. You exist...what is it to live?

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“It’s a process.” People say. Cold water over a restless spirit. What does that even mean? That it will take a long time? That I won’t understand? That the knots in my stomach turn and tighten because they must? Because ‘that’s life?’ It is never enough. I really just want to know the why.

Why this process, this thing called growing must be hard. Must be strange. Must be twisted roots, broken glass, stained cheeks and dirt.

But then…when has a seed (if that be truly what we are) ever understood its growth? Ever seen its pain as sanctifying grace? The cracking through unborn earth - a brave venture. Sometimes we forget that hands are moving, though the clock stands still. It’s surprises us, the way the sun is still here. Not the way that it comes out, as if waking from a long, sluggish dream, but fully here, and always here. Shining.

And out of the rays there is a voice. It’s calling. Dear child, you’ve watched your limbs take strange form. You’ve moved them about, and cried when it hurt. Let me tell you a secret. You will feel like you’re being buried. Buried alive. You will feel the dirt fall heavy on your head and know the sensation of water filling your lungs. I know it is brutal. It will be. But let me tell you

“They tried to bury us.

They didn’t know we were seeds.” • MEXICAN PROVERB

a secret. You were born for this. You were born for now. You were born to grow. And I know growing is not what you thought it would be or you aren’t the person you had in mind. But what form would you rather take? A rose for adoration? A garnet? See, I am making you a tree. A tree to see the world. Those near the ground receive attention, yes, but can never ever know the weight of what it means to feel the sun at the earliest part of day. To breathe the wind between its boughs and watch the earth change with time, foster hope. You, my child, are made for greater, fuller. You are made to reach skies and play with color.

And you won’t know – you can’t believe just now that inside of you, dear one, you will pour out.

You will grow so tall and fill so full, your insides will pour like water – into seeds that are just beginning to make their way. Out of the cracked shell of yourself, will grow fields and forests, flowers and beautiful weeds. That day comes not quite yet. Each one towards it brings a little more opening, a little more becoming. Waiting. And rain.

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CONFE SSIONS

Anon Meaning “Soon” PHOTOGRAPHY BY CLAIRE GRUVER

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01

I envy those who are comfortable in their own skin.

Vulnerability is my worst weakness.

04

I desire comfort much too often and forget that this life is not about me.

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02

I have never been kissed.

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06

A coffee a day keeps the stress at bay.

I feel like I have had so many dreams that I’ve tried to pursue and they have failed and now I hesitate to chase my dreams at all.

My brain is always going 100mph, yet I have a fear that I will run out of things to say when I’m with people.

Ultimately, I fear silence.

“ T h i s i s p a r t o f t h e b e a u t y o f a l l l i t e r a t u r e . Yo u d i s c o v e r t h a t y o u r longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated f r o m a n y o n e . Yo u b e l o n g . ” • F. S C O T T F I T Z G E R A L D

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“STRAW HOUSE” POETRY BY AMY NYSTROM PHOTOGRAPHY BY LIZ RUDMAN I twiddled thumbs in painful wait,

I held the power in my hand

As days marched ever by.

To move forward and feel.

I cursed my childhood as a fate

My youth was but a grain of sand.

That kept me from the sky.

My future, now, was real.

Trapped in a slowly melting cage,

So onward at a rush I sped,

A match struck in my soul-

Feet pounding with my heart.

Showing the shackles of my age

For when I have a life ahead,

To be broken and dull.

Why wait for it to start? •

The blaze grew bright behind my eyes.

My faulty prison burned.

The secret to break all my ties Did not have to be learned.

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KIDS AN ONGOING SERIES

Saili Marie

Steven

Age: Nine Born in: Minnesota

Age: Nine Born in: South Africa

IF YOU COULD BE AN ANIMAL , WHAT WOULD YOU BE?

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?

I would be a mustang horse, because they’re pretty and they get groomed.

I want to be a lawyer. I know this one guy who’s a lawyer and he owns a fancy car. So I want to be a lawyer.

IF YOU HAD TO MAKE ONE RULE THAT EVERYONE IN THE W O R L D H A D T O F O L L O W, W H AT R U L E W O U L D Y O U M A K E ?

I would want the world to stop fighting and killling each other. Because that’s happening right now.

WHAT IS YOUR CRAZIEST MEMORY? We were at Pilanesberg riding in the car really early in the morning . . . There were two rhinos. The dad rhino was in the road, so we reversed to let it pass. When we started moving away, it started chasing us. I was scared! I thought it would catch up to us and eat us all.

W H AT M A K E S Y O U R FA M I LY S P E C I A L? I like my family because I like their hearts.

IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY SUPERPOWER, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

WHAT DO YOU LOVE ABOUT SOUTH AFRICA? I love Sandton. I love how clean the streets are. There are nice houses and nice cars.

Flying. And I’d have a suit that I could use to call my friends. And I would have an invisible plane to fly around in.

IF YOU COULD BE AN ANIMAL , WHAT WOULD YOU BE?

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WHAT ’S YOUR FAVORITE PL ACE IN THE WORLD? WHY?

I’d be a wild hyena because they’re strong. And my mom told me that one time, eight hyenas overtook one giraffe. I want to be the leader

South Africa. Because the people are the nicest people on earth and because God loves them.

of the pack.

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Roxane Jeanne Odile

Jovan

Age: Five Born in: France

Age: Eleven Born in: South Africa

IF YOU COULD BE AN ANIMAL , WHAT WOULD YOU BE?

WHAT WOULD YOU SAY IS THE MOST EMBARASSING THING YOU HAVE EVER DONE?

I would be a cheetah because they’re fast.

One time, my cousin, Marco, and I borrowed quad bikes from a friend. We got in a wreck and drove them into a lampost. All of these people started crowding around me and were saying “Ah my word that kid is going to be in so much trouble.” It was quite embarassing.

WHEN YOU VISIT YOUR GRANDPARENTS IN FRANCE, WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO DO WITH THEM? My grandfather on my Papa’s side has hens and rabbits. Sometimes we go out and collect the eggs, and he has even let me ride the

WHAT HAVE YOU EATEN THAT YOU WOULD NEVER WANT TO EAT AGAIN?

tractor! When I go to my grandmother’s house on my Mama’s side, we walk to a nearby field where a white horse grazes. Sometimes I

When I went to visit Marco on his farm, we slaughtered a chicken together, cut out its heart, and layed it out to dry in the sun. Then we

feed her dry bread, carrots, and leaves from the hazelnut trees--her favorite!

ate it. It was the most disgusting thing ever. The two of us are always getting into mischief.

YOU LOVE TO TRAVEL . WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PL ACE IN THE WORLD?

IF YOU COULD GROW UP TO BE FAMOUS, WHAT WOULD YOU WANT TO BE FAMOUS FOR?

I love France because it is where I am from. I espeically love chocolate crepes and sometimes, my Mama makes them on Sunday mornings

I would either want to be a famous Olympic fencer, or I would want to be on a professional paintball team. I love paintball because it

for a special treat.

gives you the feeling that you are in war . . . the adrenaline just surges through you. Fencing is also fun because it’s technical and builds muscle since you always have to have bent legs. As a kid, I always wanted to try it, and I just started lessons and I love it!

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? A mom, just a mom.

AT W H AT A G E I S A P E R S O N A N A D U LT ? W H Y D O Y O U T H I N K S O ?

Maybe 21. Because they are usually finishing varsity and quite mature.

IF YOU COULD GIVE SOMETHING TO EVERYONE, WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE THEM? I would give them a necklace with a pendant. Because I like necklaces.

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“Pretty much all the honest truth-telling there is in the world is done by children.” • OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

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YO U W I L L S E E H I M If your words appeared on your skin, w ould you still be beautiful?

BY KRISTEN MORRIS PHOTOGRAPHY BY CLAIRE GRUVER

I’ve always enjoyed a startling word, or joke, or analogy. “I like good strong words that mean something” (Louisa May Alcott).

In middle school I described something as being like “sweet strawberries in spoonfuls of salt.” I was trying to convey how too much of a good thing can ruin another good thing. It’s a confusing description, but I remember it being one of the first times I didn’t want to be cliche. Storms.

Oceans. Day and night. Seasons. Blah. I wanted to say something new... and startling. I like words and have always been drawn to writing them, being around people who use them carefully and well. The idea of wearing words on my body is fascinating.

This past year, quite accidentally, I felt I came across the answer to “Why am I here? What’s the point of my life?” The answer to such questions can be looked for, waited on, hunted. But I don’t believe you can “decide” when you know. You can’t clear out a weekend and journal a lot and return home with a mission statement. You can acquire clues that will point you on your way, hints for you to know when you do come across that treasured answer. Some never find it.

(Though some don’t look, they hide).

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I believe God put me on this earth to see, and then point out to others, beauty. The answer came

might say “lucky,” others might say “exhausting.” Whichever of the words are true (and I

to me while I was enjoying a rose garden in southern California. My mother had just died, and

would give testament that they all are), I have been a part of a beautiful life. I’ve been given a

the baby in my body had too (but I didn’t know that yet). I’m the perfect, unlikely candidate

beautiful body, a beautiful mind, a beautiful group of beauties who know me. I was a blonde-

for such a spot: I’m messy and disorganized, I’m critical and boldly opinionated, I’m blunt and

haired, blue-eyed, white-skinned woman raised 16 miles from the capital of the “most powerful

even a bit pushy. I’m friends with cancer, acquainted with grief and am somewhat enchanted

country in the world” by parents who gave me opportunity and all their love. My scholastic,

with the pain of child-birth. I feel most attractive when I’m sweaty after hard physical work.

athletic and artistic endeavors have been successful. I’ve never wondered how I will eat. In

I’m not delicate with pretty ankles, and I carry myself around on a short thick boxy waist (one

fact, I’ve never wondered how I will pay a bill. In nearly every way life has been bountiful and

doctor said I have “an unusually large rib cage.”) Even in my fittest, slimmest years I always had

luxurious and rare, historically. I would be a horrible spokesperson for beauty if I’d only known

a squishy tummy -- no matter how many miles I ran or sit-ups I sat. Those sweet dresses never

the roses, if I’d never been forced to lay in the thorns. To sit in the bathtubs of blood. To feel the

look lovely on me. I’m not afraid to yell, argue, debate, or fight. Going out and letting people

sour rain that is broken relationship. To watch her chest never rise again.

see me without make-up, without being “done,” in lame clothes, makes me feel brave. I’m not a mask or painted piece in a frame on the wall for you to stare at and admire. I’m (mostly) okay if

I have not been pierced as deeply nor as long as others, though I do know more than

you see me as I am. My acne scars, my cellulite in and around my thighs. My nails that do get

“annoyance” or “confusion” or “disappointment.” My heart has been broken, and I know it

dirty and aren’t always tended to immediately. My full cheeks and soft self. We all grow hair

could break quite more. It probably will. It’s beautiful to be able to be broken, to start on the

on our legs, will you still enjoy me if you see mine? Of course. And if not, the problem probably

journey leading to “Healed.”

isn’t with my prickly calves. I’m the opposite of OCD, I love pressure and chaos, I rather like being tough and capable, I am comfortable in the messes of being alive.

If my words appeared on my skin, would I still be beautiful? Yes. Beauty isn’t about being cleaned up instead of dirty. It’s not about saying what’s ‘right’ when you’re thinking something

I believe God made me these ways. And I also believe He is making me, still. I’m half-baked,

else versus just saying what you’re really thinking (and hurting someone’s feelings). It’s not

unfully grown. My dad told me once: “You’re outspoken, sometimes even mouthy. Some might

about pretend, but it is about imagination. And math. And the sound of opening up the oven

think that’s wrong. I don’t - I think that’s just who you are.” I think he’s right. But with grace,

door. Beauty isn’t necessarily pretty, but it could be. Beauty doesn’t always make sense, and

empathy, and a willingness to shut up and understand, I will develop. Hopefully with less sass

is never hallow. If you could calligraph the words from me onto my body for all to read, there

and rambling; hopefully while being more limpid and tender. I err on the side of intense, but I

would be trouble. And offense. And curiosity. And connection. And disagreement. And

am learning about the powerful ways of the gentle.

conversation. And the tedious work of trying to understand. And amusement. And being weirded out. And unkindness. And stupidity. And jerkiness. And a bundle of love. And ideas

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“Beauty” wouldn’t be the natural first thing you’d say when you looked at myself and my life.

sparked. And ideas acted on. And some very very dark places. That might somehow relate to

Full. All over the place. Artless. Some might say “stressful,” others might say “fun.” Some

another and be where a friendship starts. And color. And speechlessness. And signs of life.

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If my words were on my skin, and if your words were on your skin, and if their words were on their skin, we’d all still be beautiful. Maybe we’d be more scared of each other, and maybe more disgusted.

Or maybe we’d be more informed, more tearfully ready to use grace. “ B E A U T Y I S W H A T E V E R G I V E S J O Y .”

E D N A S T. V I N C E N T M I L L AY

How, well, beautiful is it that even the impulsive, nasty, ashen, regretful, alone words can become a part of the story of joy, the story of “remade,” the story of me, written by Beauty itself. Yes, look at me as I am, write my words on my skin, know the heavy parts of me; and you will see beauty. You will see Him. •

P R E S E RV E S MARK APEL And how Grandpa took the brothers and I Past the fishing spot to shoot his old rifle I was always drawn to the little jars

coated in cosmoline

of clear orange liquid,

with some long story about crates,

queer breakfast paste,

soviets, and surpluses.

Preserves, Grandma called them,

The unsuccessful jams as targets,

peaches in the sugary formaldehyde,

we roared when one of us would

Chilling in the fridge,

land a round in a jar of pistachio-melon, or even a rare batch of apple-muscadine,

Reminds me of the fetal pig I butchered in Coach Taylor’s class

And the salted venison Grandpa kept in his pocket

in the name of Science,

for the way back home,

the smell of that new word

never telling the same story twice,

shouted out loud in the old musty hallways,

seemingly fabricated tucked away in mothballs

I remember the way

to surprise the grandkids decades later.

our towels smelt after pickling in the wash

And I’d just chew that peppered jerky

and fermenting in the football lockers,

hoping not a moment of this would ever fade. •

And how the scent stuck in my hair well into third period,

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SPREAD Tw o d i p s a n d o n e s a l a d f o r a n y o c c a s i o n

BY CLAIRE GRUVER

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S OUTH AF RI CAN CHUTNEY

This is an easy, practical, favorite South African spread of ours. And when I say easy, I mean easssyy.

INGREDIENTS 1 can of onion and tomato mix 1/2 cup of Mrs H.S.Ball’s Peach Chutney Mix and heat to taste. This is delicious with practically anything, but especially meat and cheese. Serve with hot ham sarmies, cheese boards, BBQ or BRAII meats, or just plain french baguettes.

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N A N N Y ’S THREE MI N UTE APPLE D IP

This dip is famous in my house. We make it for sugary snacking,dessert, and everything in-between. Whip it up in three minutes, chop up a few green apples, and enjoy the sweet and savory delectable-ness.

INGREDIENTS 1/2 cup of brown sugar 1/2 cup of powdered sugar 8 ounces of cream cheese 1 teaspoon of vanilla

Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo

Mix all of the combined ingredients in an electric mixer for three minutes with a whisk attachment. Once it’s smooth and fluffy, serve with apples and salted peanuts (optional).

You didn’t know it would be that easy, did you?

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M IGN ON ’S P OMEG RAN ATE SAL AD

I’m a fan of pomegranates not matter what they are served with, hands-down. This salad then, to no surprise, is my go-to side when I’m craving greens, which I wish I could say is more often than not.

INGREDIENTS 1/2 cup pomegranate seeds 2 handfuls of fresh spinach 1/4 cup toasted almonds 1/2 cup micro greens Greek Feta Combine and toss.

DRESS I N G

INGREDIENTS 1/4 cup of olive oil 2 Tablespoons of red wine vinegar 2 Tablespoons of sugar or honey 1/2 teaspoon of salt Blend dressing and add to your liking.

This salad is lovely on its own, but nothing beats a block of dark Lindor chocolate to follow up the salad experience.

Enjoy. x

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HIM & HER Wr i t t e n b y J o r d a n a n d Ke l l y , m a r r i e d t w o y e a r s a g o .

HER BY HIM She is known only by me, and yet I knew her before I met her. And finally she is and was known before the foundation of the world; her beginning and our ending already intertwined. But what a gift beyond measure

HIM BY HER

that with her I am able to go through life. She, the greatest earthly proof of transcendent love.

When I first meet her I was attracted. It didn’t take long afterwards before we started to date, and even

What comes to mind first is the strength of his arms, an embrace. He makes a still point for us, quiet in the

shorter after that I knew, given a million years, I would find no better woman So why keep searching? I

turning world. He’s good at helping me step off the rollercoaster (though he’s sometimes the cause of its

found her. It was true and easy to see, gor I was looking for her; waiting for her all along, often without even

soars and falls). The water in his eyes says, “stillness.” He hammers out his speech into bronze, silver, gold.

knowing it. She entered my world like a sleepy snowfall, taking over the landscape of my reality while I was

His mind is always fit to trek any hill that better shows him wonder. In between the beats of his heart, I

waking, foggy eyed, with the morning light. Fully awake I saw her like a blanketed world of gold-colored

detect largeness unimaginable. We’re boxers, fighters, friends and he’s got rights to this well of grace that,

snow, warm to the touch, emphasizing all the beauty of the world I could not see on my own.

when tapped, fills canyons. We forgive. He likes to take my hand in public parks when it’s snowing. We

She is the reflection of me, and of God, the Image. Her soft hands and heart nurture me. And as an acorn

exchange glances, eyes soft with knowing. Our secret is that we’re children still holding hands, taking the

reaches its full beauty when becoming an oak, and the magnolia tree the most heart warming and tender in

reigns.

the spring, I become fully me when serving her with a loving heart. She is understood and worthy of all my attention. She is my dear forever friend, companion through life She is my joy. •

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N O P L AC E O N E A RT H CAROLINE LEE

There is a common cliche that “there is no place on earth like India.” The moment I set foot in that country, I knew it to be true.

India is a place of extremes, simultaneous pleasure, and assault to the senses. One second I was smelling the warming, mouth-watering aroma of jasmine and fresh spices; the next moment I was inhaling the eye-watering stench of cows expelling their business into the open sewer systems that run through the middle of town.

Among the first of our scares in India was the traffic . . . A chaotic multi-streamed highway of auto- rickshaws, trucks, scooters, motor-bikes, bicycles, taxis, and buses. Even pedestrians make their own pathway on the roads, dodging one another within a half-an-inch grace, and somehow making it through alive with all their limbs still attached. Add to this mix a loud cacophony of horns tooting and wailing, simply a method of notifying the drivers nearest you of your existence. To any outsider, such carrying-ons would suggest a system-less road-culture based on suicidal dare. Chickens, dogs, cats, buffalo and monkeys were common, waltzing along the open streets. Cows, however, were another matter. In India, cows rule the streets. In fact, the traffic tends to form based on where the cows happen to be. Being a sacred animal, everyone is very conscious of letting them roam at will, which, in my opinion, makes driving in India all the more fun. The longer we stayed in India, the more this traffic system became a fluid, organic experience, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss it or find traffic in America and Australia to be a bit of a boring normality in comparison.

The cultural spectrum of India is a wondrous, fascinating thing; something that, after eight visits, I still cannot fully express in words. Having spent most of my time in South-Eastern India, I can tell you, without a doubt, that family is at the core of the people’s focus. They love being together, even if nothing exciting is happening. This is something that is often seen as nonsensical and unproductive in America and Australia, where my husband and I grew up and live. In India, maintaining consistent interaction with loved ones propels professional, spiritual, and personal directions. The typical South-Eastern Indian home houses up to four generations of family! Everyone finds his place, and has his function and responsibilities, all the while showing care to younger members of the family. This was a beautiful thing to witness and be apart of as we were ‘adopted’ into our own Indian family as one of their own.

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We can confidently say that we have family there who we often miss and long to be with.

If family is the core portion of a functioning home in India, food is not far off! Passing traditional curries and steamed rice, japarti, spiced chicken drumsticks, or curried and roasted cashews are central to Indian traditions. Eating together, gathered around a table is standard and the food is delicious and plentiful. We eat with our hands. There is even a refined technique of forming a ball of rice and curry, and flicking it into your mouth. Even after all the time I’ve spent in this wonderful land, I still feel I am a novice. Watching my Indian family eat with their hands like pros is incredible - so natural and effortless. If you finish your plate, someone will fill it up when you aren’t looking - you have to get good at leaving a few mouthfuls to communicate: “I’m full!”

On our last visit, I had my birthday and our family gathered around me and stuffed my face with super rich, sugary, dense, icing-laden birthday cake - by hand of course - until I never wanted to see cake ever again! Apparently, when it is someone’s birthday, this is what is done. At firs,t I felt like it was a typical ‘foreigner-trick,’ but soon recognized it as just their way of showing me I was loved and remembered.

Even without traveling to India, the divide between wealth and poverty in India is undeniable.

I think a lot of people are afraid to see what deep poverty might look like. I know that I was scared the day I woke up knowing that I would be visiting a place that didn’t have running water, electricity, or even roads. Walking through a remote village for the first time changed my life. But I didn’t feel scared. Seeing such poverty hurt our hearts, and inspired us to begin actively fighting in poverty-stricken areas (our company, Elephant Landing, employs and educates women in India). However, what shocked me more deeply than the poverty was the people’s wealth of generosity. Joy, contentment, gratitude and love poured out of the villages in ways I simply could not have expected. It was in their faces, in their voices, and in their eyes. As a nineteen- year-old kid, I felt ashamed to think about my problems in comparison to the problems of these wonderful people. My troubles seemed so fickle and my heart so void of gratitude for the blessings in my life. I had a loving family and friends, access to endless clean water and electricity, a cobra-free bedroom, the resources to receive an education, a healthy body and healthy mind. This village gave me a gift I will never be able to return: a snapshot of what heartfelt gratitude looks like. This alone changed my life trajectory forever. India challenged and inspired me, filled my belly full of deliciousness and laughter, and brought to my eyes visions of humanity and reality, often through tears. I believe everyone should visit India. If and when you do, it will never leave you. •

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SIX SECRETS TO SPRING CLEANING

BY CAT WATSON PHOTOGRAPHY BY LIZ RUDMAN Snow still cloaks the trees, they wear it like shawls, with the promise of more to come in another few days. They line the street, tall, and with each changing season provide Cleveland Ave with a different canopy. Their spindly branches are almost within arm’s reach of our second story window, the one right by the bunk beds and dressed in colorful bunting in the kids’ room.

One of the reasons I love this space is because of the windows. I know that November through February won’t allow me to ever open them, but thankfully light is not hindered by glass. Even if I can’t have the sun’s heat, I must have its light.

We have been in Chicago nearly a year now. We moved into our home just as the trees were burgeoning, readying themselves for the life and green of spring, then summer. This has been my first Midwest winter, and it has been cold. I am more than ready to see blossoms replace the snow on the branches. And with the blooms comes the need for a thorough sweep of all the pent up dust, a fresh start. A proper spring cleaning is something I even start to look forward to; it means that winter is finally giving way to warmth.

Still, it’s a big undertaking, so I’ve put together 6 secrets to spring cleaning that I’ve found help the process to be a bit more enjoyable and smooth running.

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OPEN THE WINDOWS. This is small, but not inconsequential. After months of hearing the same sounds, it’s such a welcome change to listen to different voices, whether that be the voice of nature in birds and

START WITH THE FRIDGE. I like to do the fridge first for two reasons. One, I really don’t like this job, so getting it out of the way first makes me happy. And second, it helps to get the purge going.

gusts or the voice of unknown persons, passing underneath our windows with fresh cut flowers or groceries or kids, or all of those, in tow. The spring months inspire the city’s dwellers back

STAY THE COURSE.

into the habit of walking. Fresh air not only does amazing things for my (and my kids’) moods,

This is a hard one for me. I often will be going through one section of the house and then walk

but it will clear out all the stale air and provide movement in your space--and movement begets

over to the trash and get distracted by some other corner or pile, or worse, by my phone. It’s

more movement. Hopefully it will inspire you to get to it!

really easy to start and only half finish the job because of distractions or losing motivation or, in my case, because my three littles need me. Whatever the case, if you find you need to step away,

TEA AND TUNES. Another simple but effective way to motivate. Open up iTunes and put on the kettle or coffee

by all means do so—but be sure to go back and finish the job. •

pot to help you stay upbeat. If you really want to set the scene, have some chocolate chip cookies baking as you get started. They’ll go great with your tea and you can treat yourself to a break when they are finished cooling. Plus, what’s better than the backdrop of the smell of freshly baking cookies?

PURGE. Over the last year or two my husband and I have been trying to lessen the amount of stuff that we own. This should, in theory, make the cleaning go faster. If you own less stuff, there will be less to manage and less to clean. So start with a good purge. Go through your closet, every drawer, under the beds, in your cabinets, in the kid’s toy bins, and get rid of all the things that are just taking up space. It really is freeing.

happy cleaning

LIFT OFF

Interview with Logan Cole

YO U S TA R T E D P H OTO G R A P H Y AT S U C H A YO U N G A G E A N D H AV E C O M E S O FA R , H O W W O U L D YO U D E S C R I B E YO U R J O U R N E Y ? W H AT H A S B E E N T H E M O S T E XC I T I N G PA R T ?

My photography journey has been surreal. It’s funny to realize that it all started from a little “aspiring photographers” get together. We would set-up themed shoots for us to practice and it all began with a fascination. When I was asked to photograph my first engagement shoot, I was hesitant. Engagement shoots, at that time, were cheesy so I remember saying to the couple, “If you let me photograph the way I want to shoot, then I will do this.” Hilarious enough, that engagement shoot ended up being featured in Green Wedding Shoes which was followed by many wedding inquiries. It was a rush of excitement and newness. I suddenly overnight became a wedding photographer. It continues to be an ongoing amazement at all the opportunities that I have had, all the places I have been able to go, and all the people I have had the privilege of meeting. I remember the first destination wedding I photographed was in Vermont and I couldn’t’ quite fathom that I was getting paid to travel to this beautiful place and photograph these people in love. My journey as a whole has been far beyond what I could have ever imagined. It has been full of life lessons and opportunities I would’ve never experienced had I not become a photographer.

LO O K I N G B A C K , W H AT D O YO U W I S H YO U C O U L D H AV E TO L D YO U R S E L F W H E N YO U S TA R T E D I N T H E P H OTO G R A P H Y I N D U S T R Y ? W H AT W O U L D YO U T E L L OT H E R YO U N G ARTISTS? I would have invested time in learning what other photographers were out there and what they were creating. It’s easier with Instagram now, but back then I didn’t know much outside my own little community of people. I think it would have pushed me more in the beginning had I known what other stuff was out there. I, also, wish I had made more time to build a photography community at the start. Having a community of people with your same vision is so important.

Logan Cole is a wedding and editorial photographer, but more so, he is a storyteller, a dreamer, and a doer. Logan, 21, has not only photographed weddings in over fifteen countries, but has worked with celebrities such as Debby Ryan and Beyonce. He isn’t easily held back by the thought of failure. He isn’t afraid to turn his dreams into reality, or his aspirations into actions. Logan Cole is an all-or-nothing sort of guy.

His photographs tell honest and authentic stories that reflect beauty and the essence of who people are. This California-born creative is an artist with a constant drive to reach his fullest capability.

You can push each other as artists to reach your dreams and goals. You can talk about your failures and accomplishments, lessons learned and lessons to learn. You can bounce ideas off of each other and help each other through creative ruts. I can’t voice it enough, community is one of the most important things as an artist, especially at the beginning.

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W H AT WA S YO U R C H I L D H O O D L I K E A N D H O W H A S T H AT P L AY E D A R O L L I N W H O YO U A R E A N D H O W YO U C R E AT E ?

Basically my whole family are artists. My mom was a painter, one of my brothers was a graphic designer and my other brother is, also, an artist and works with sound. My parents always supported me no matter what. If I told them I wanted to move to Africa for six months and not do anything, they would say, “That’s cool. Go for it.” When I told them I was going to go on a mission trip to China by myself, they were all for it. When I told them I wanted to graduate when I was sixteen, they didn’t have a doubt about it. When I told them I wanted to be homeschooled, they were all for it. When told them I was going to be a wedding photographer, they said “great, go do it.” They have been behind me, supporting and encouraging, each of my dreams. They have fully trusted me and my choices; they didn’t keep me inside the limits of a box. They have been such a impact on my life and the way I create since they constantly have been cheering me. I was taught to hold nothing back and jump all in.

W H A T H A S B E E N T H E M O S T D I F F I C U LT R O A D - B L O C K Y O U H A V E F A C E D I N T H E P H O TO G R A P H Y- I N D U S T R Y ? H O W D I D YO U P U S H PA S T I T ?

My age has been an issue for a variety of reasons. Thankfully I am at a point where my age isn’t a problem anymore, but in the beginning when I was eighteen and nineteen my responsibility and talent were often questioned. My clients, and especially some of their families, found it hard to trust me fully sometimes because I was so young. I encourage my clients and people that age has nothing to do with the quality of what you can create.

W H AT G E T S YO U R U N N I N G ? ( I N OT H E R W O R D S , W H AT M A K E S YO U G E T S T U F F DONE?) Redbull and coffee.

W H AT P E O P L E H AV E H E L P E D YO U A LO N G M O R E T H A N A N YO N E E L S E ?

My mom and dad have been the most supportive of all my dreams, as I mentioned.

Another person who I am overly thankful for is my assistant, Candace. She is the one who keeps me organized.

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HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR PHOTOGRAPHIC VOICE? My style is raw. My wedding work is a mix between lifestyle and editorial. I believe in honest and authentic photos that tell stories. I will never ask a groom to fake putting on his bow tie, but when it comes to the portrait session I am confident in voicing setting them up. I believe in capturing real moments and real people, but at the same time I love telling a story through editorial photography. During a wedding day, I photograph what I see.

HAVING SPENT EXTENSIVE AMOUNTS OF TIME IN OVER 15 COUNTRIES OF THE W O R L D , W H A T H A V E C U LT U R A L & P E R S O N A L I T Y D I F F E R E N C E S T A U G H T Y O U A B O U T YOURSELF? During my multitude of travels, I quickly came to realize how much I take for granted. I reflect back and realize that my life would have been totally different had I grown up in some of those other countries. The simple things in America are luxuries in many other countries. I, unlike many other kids in a variety of countries, was able to buy a camera at a young age, I was able to start a business, I wasn’t forced into going to college, and I constantly have had provision, a rooftop over my head, and food. These things I take way too easily for granted, but they are huge blessings that many others don’t have.

LO O K I N G FO RWA R D, W H E R E D O YO U S E E YO U R S E L F I N T H E N E X T 5 Y E A R S ? B OT H I N YOUR ART AND IN YOUR PERSONAL LIFE. Ever since the beginning, I have had the mindset of, “I’m going to keep going until I feel like I have succeeded all that I am capable of.” Although there is always room for growth, I am thankful to say that I feel like I have reached that spot of, “I have reached my goal.” Although I love weddings and I will most definitely keep doing them for the coming years, I have decided to take a little step back in the wedding industry and put a bigger step into editorial photography.

I photographed 52 weddings last year and made little time for anything else. I’m changing that up a little bit this year. I’m investing more time, as said, in the commercial and editorial world of photography so I can reach my goals in that area. •

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Photograph by Rachel Clarke

T H E P L AC E OF G O I N G R.J. HOPKINS

at such a moment severed from everything held in this passage of light calloused by the wearing footsteps of those who come and go—

The place of going

everything I have in the world

it is filled

I hold in the shallow

with the quickening

cupping of my hands

of those who have come late I am one face it is the home to a family

in a river of faces

of strangers

and I blend and fade

who have come hungry

into the turbulence and roar

and exhausted

of morning breath and sleeplessness and greasy hair

I look into their eyes

and all that moves to the rhythm

darkened with loss of sleep

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we have everything in common

of the endless stamping

here in the place of going

of passports

yet I cannot speak across the distance

this song which ushers us

which separates us

into the presence of the world. •

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A LETTER FROM THE TOOTH FAIRY

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Ever since I can remember, the tooth fairy has been sending us letters in exchange for our lost teeth. The tooth fairy, in our family, has never been portrayed as a real person, but rather as a game that we all know Dad is orchestrating. My siblings and I have found these letters under our pillows, taped to our doors, or sitting on our beds. I remember one time that my brother lost four teeth during one really long plane ride. He just kept handing them up for safekeeping: one, two, three, four teeth!

Even though he struggles with timeliness, our tooth fairy turned a potentially scary experience like losing our first teeth into a game that made us want to wiggle wiggle wiggle all of our tiny white pearls away, just to be able to see that signature in Dad’s handwriting . . .

Love, The Tooth Fairy. •

BY CLAIRE GRUVER

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L O N G DAY S , S H O RT Y E A R S , A N D S I LV E R L I N I N G S CLAIRE GRUVER

“Fingerprints don’t disappear from the souls we touch. Paintings don’t fade away from the canvas of our minds. Pictures don’t change from the second they were taken in our memory.

People don’t die when they live in our hearts. And the red string is never cut on both ends.”

There’s something I’m realizing more and more, these days: that youth is a season of mass discovery. The kind of brilliant, heartbreaking rediscovery that you read about in books and watch on television—but better. The kind that makes you regret; the kind that makes you happy-cry; the kind that makes you breathe deeper and feel more. As the years go by and as I attempt to collect random thoughts into journals or new note tabs on my phone, I can’t help but wonder if ‘wonder’ is good.

We wonder about the unknown. We wonder about our future. We fantasize and over-think and analyze to the point of possible insanity; at least I know I do. We feel guilt and regret. We experience like and really like and every now and then, love. We hate being hurt, but even more, we hate hurting the ones we care about. This time, the fading shadow called youth, is a time of asking questions and learning the hard way. Who am I? What is my purpose? What captivates me and catches my interest? How often do I find myself laughing? Really laughing? When I cast my line, how is my aim? What am I aiming for? Deep down, honestly, what am I hoping to catch?

I love it and I hate it. If you’re in my same boat, you probably feel the same way. Or perhaps, you have outgrown this shadow and find yourself in a different light of a different hue and nature; one which is more distinct, more sure, but just as curious.

I have, for as long as I can remember, loved music. Sound is a sense that fascinates me; it turns a wheel of my mechanism that would otherwise remain still. I’ve tinkered here and there,

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pairing words with tune, but never have I sung my work and felt a string of my soul chime to

start over. You wish you could know the master plan of your day, your year, your life.

my liking. There is no step-by-step ‘to-do’ for how to create what I love. Music that makes

But if you’re like me, you’re thankful for the emotional roller-coaster ride called growing up and

me feel something, that reminds of me of my purpose and gives other people the same sense of

growing old. Because all of the wondering and wishing and dreaming and discovery has brought

belonging, comes from my heart. It comes from periods of time spent trying, erasing, writing,

you here: to yourself.

listening, waiting, wondering, guessing, and trying again. It is not produced in a quick snap or strum of the strings. A good song is a product of perseverance and a sign of a person’s journey in

I believe that my Creator loves laughter, and as we are made in His image, I find myself

expressing their struggle, embracing Love, and becoming better for it.

imagining what His laugh sounds like. Full, roaring, rich. I’ll bet it sounds like the feeling of the best kind of hug: strong and warm; one that says “you’re safe. You’re home.” After everything

Life is a lot like making music, I think. There is no formula for growing up, studying, getting

else, I want to be so sure of Him that nothing else matters.

married, not getting married, growing up even more, or growing old. Yes, everyone grows up, but the manner of their youth, the lifestyle they lead, the people they fellowship with is

And so, chasing the sun is a song I am still writing, and so are you, if you’ll listen. If there’s one

entirely unique from case to case. Every little motion leaves an imprint in the mold of our life.

thing I don’t want to do, it is to become dull to conviction because I’ve kept the volume at max

Realizing my purpose as I hum my way through youth is a process that requires a spirit of

for the whole day. The days, though they seem long at times, are short as they are. I don’t even

determination—a spirit that seeks guidance. Of trying, and trying again . . . Of realizing dreams

want to blink. But I will. And so will you. And all of a sudden I will no longer be sixteen and

and of waiting and wondering about those ideas.

asking rhetorical questions like “Will I still be blonde when I’m thirty?” or “What will my kids look like?” or “Do other people think as hard or as long as I do?” And neither will you.

I guess writing out all of these thoughts helps me know myself and my struggle better. I hope

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that you are able to glean something, some tidbit of hope from my jumble of words. If you’re like

The long days, the years racing by, the silver linings . . . are all notes on the staff of your song. In

me, you want to live well and full, and love even bigger. You want to give your love, every last

the end, when my time has run out, I want to hear the music of my life play—the missed beats

heap of it, away. If you’re like me, you wish (wishing again) that you could fix yourself to your

and the funky rhythms—and be able to gladly raise my hands and say with assurance, “You

liking. That you could get the permanent marker off of the dining room table (regret again) and

knew what was best and you brought me through. Glory be. Glory be to you.” •

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SPECIAL THANKS Our heartfelt thanks to our contributors for the ways that you have poured out your hearts into this edition of Leaking Hearts. You make this adventure the joy that it is.

To our families, thank you for being gracious in the craziness and for never ceasing to push us to “go for it.�

It is this mentality that makes dreams come true.

And to the One who surpasses all creativity, space, and time, thank You for gracing us with the gift of this magazine and for enabling us to share our hearts with those around us. This voice is from You. Let us use it well.

XO, Claire, Elizabeth, and Liz

PHOTOGRA PHED BY L AU R EN APEL

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Where I create, there I am true.

RAINER MARIA RILKE

W W W. L E A K I N G H E A R T S M A G .C O M