land of trees

Portland: a city that holds my most beloved memories and my darkest of moments. A city where my deeper love for photography was fostered, where I got to see my friends play house shows in gritty basements, where I got to experience bone-chilling cold on the coast, and where I got to meet such like-minded people it often felt like I was talking to myself. I remember sitting in an old house turned cafe, looking out the window and watching the soft flutter of autumn leaves, knowing there was something special about what I was experiencing. Though Portland can sometimes be a polarizing city, there’s an ease of existence felt there that I don’t know if I’ve felt anywhere else. Much like the surrounding environment, the people there are wrapped in a hard exterior, but exhibit a certain tenderness once prompted.

An ode to the city that has brought me some of the most profound sadness I’ve ever felt, but also the most insane amounts of joy and contentment. There’s something about being in the depths of a moss-covered forest, always slightly damp, that brings such a certainty of being. A deep inner peace is felt in those moments, even if it’s being padded by a severe sense of loneliness. Maybe the loneliness is what drives the simplicity of just being?

But yeah, writing about Portland feels a little too big for the words I possess, so here are some photos in the language I best know how to speak.

home by the river

For a period of my childhood, I lived on a flower farm with my parents, my mom’s best friend, Suzy, and a hoard of animals. This included a goat, a peacock, chickens, dogs, rabbits, the list goes on. When I reminisce on my years as a kid, my mind immediately turns to the memories of eating flower salads, swimming in river eddies, bathing with baby ducks, and being chased by an angry goose. Clearwater Farm will always be the most special place I have ever known.

Let me paint a picture of this wild and complicated place. The front house, where my family lived, is old and, quite frankly, falling apart. But that is so much a part of its character. It butts up against an unkempt but well-loved garden, where I spent my days wandering through flowers taller than I was, getting lost amongst the smells of sweet peas and pansies. A pond sits alongside the garden, where ducks would swim and chatter at each other. The hen house is in the back, where I learned to reach under the hens’ warm bodies to find a treasure in the form of an egg (this lesson was not learned without a few pecks on the hand). Suzy’s soap-making shop is in the front as well, a simple wooden structure with the scents of soaps filling it up. Down the winding road where the trees grow so close that they scrape against both sides of the car (and where I learned to drive), a tiny little hut stands that was made for me as a playhouse. We found a few too many spiders in it though, so it sits sentinel and quietly amidst the forest.

Here comes my favorite part: Suzy’s house. The first sight to see is an old yellow truck from the mid-20th century that Suzy used to drive her goods to the farmer’s market in. A pack of dogs will usually run up in greeting, barking and playing. At the entrance of her house is another garden, one that has taken over the stone path leading to the front door and grows up the sides of the house. Words can hardly do justice for how overwhelmingly wonderful the inside of her house is, so I’ll just allow the photographs to do the work. (To note, the black & white images were taken in the winter, the colored ones in autumn)

I thank my lucky stars every day that a place like this has existed in my life. Thank you Suzy for having creating it.

cabin in the woods

My family’s got a cabin in the woods. Deep in the plains of Wyoming, it sits as sentry surrounded by wheat-colored grasses and trees that flutter softly in the breeze. There used to be more trees, before the fire that came and surrounded the cabin, saved only by the clearing of forest my grandma had thought to undertake. Paths carved out by my grandpa lead family members to an outdoor oven known for its participation in making grandpa’s famous sourdough pancakes. Along the wandering flagstone are benches to rest on, an outhouse built for a king, an older, smaller cabin outfitted with an early 20th century fireplace where my parents stayed for their wedding, and many other relics representative of an old cowboy lifestyle.

The main cabin is filled with cookery from the 1960s, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. A dining table destined for playing cards sits near the screen door leading out onto the covered porch where a quilted bed sits. Upstairs, four cots await sleepy grandchildren to crawl into, carrying lanterns to light their way.

This place is a collection of many different lives lived, welcoming more lives to come and add their own touches. It is a safe haven for many, a site for gatherings, celebrations, and memories made.