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A shaggy-haired guy with a toothbrush in one hand and an empty plastic gallon-sized milk bottle in the other approaches me as I walk down Stark Street and asks if I know where he can find some water. I tell him I have no idea, and he gives me a smile and thanks me and keeps walking. At Pioneer Square a man with a blue face leans against a bike rail and smokes a bowl of weed. I ask to take his picture and he smiles his yes, and after I take the shot, he blows smoke in my face. Head spinning, I cross the street and stop near the Starbucks to watch a game of chess. People gather in groups, talking and greeting passers-by, so different from how people act where I live that I just stand staring in awe until they start staring back. On my way back to my hotel I pass a musician playing buckets with a friend. ...

Finding nourishing food while traveling in a new city is a challenge, but it’s important to me to not eat junk while on the road. I Yelped my way to Prasad for an amazing dinner of lightly steamed kale, cabbage, beans, avocado and quinoa. I sat at a high counter in the front window and enjoyed the bowl with a fresh green lemonade. Two guys passed by the shop, deep in conversation. One then stopped in his tracks, turned around, came inside and ordered a wheatgrass shot at the counter behind me, his skeptical friend watching through the glass.

We managed to slip out of town to the beach house and have enjoyed a few warm and sunny days, but now a cold front is rolling on in. At the ready are Playmobil sets, plastic Civil War soldiers, vintage Hardy Boys hardcovers, two decks of playing cards, and a variety of other wet weather beach house staples. I have good chocolate and a good book on hand, and am snuggled underneath a fleece blanket, so I say let the weather come.

I’m headed to Portland today. I’m listening to jazz on satellite radio, looking out the window at the canyons colored with dawn and just feeling so in awe of creation. A dirt road carved into the deep red earth below folds into a sharp angle, looping around a little town as an afterthought.

Alastair and Jacqui were once “the church sound guy and his worship singer wife” to me, little more than strangers. In fact the first real conversation I had with Alastair went something like this: Alastair, standing in front of me, a microphone stand between us: “Sing louder.” Me: “I can’t.” Alastair: *sigh* Slowly we became good friends, and now ten years later, Alastair and Jacqui are as close to my heart as family. They invited us over for dinner this past Saturday evening. The meal Alastair cooked was just incredibly delicious and satisfying, and our conversation was comfortable, as it should be between old friends. Isn’t it a wonder and a gift that today’s stranger can become a sister or brother ten years on?

I slip outside with my camera, leaving behind the chatting and smiling that always makes me self-conscious, uncomfortable, embarrassed. I walk the property line, trailed by dragonflies, and stoop down to touch soft mosses and strange willowy seed pods. I descend to the culvert to look for frogs, but the heat has shrunken their pond to a puddle where a lone tadpole circles, believing himself to be the only of his kind.

I’m hoping to begin this book with the little ones as soon as we’ve settled into our new dinner–>cleanup–>schoolwork–>bedtime routine.

Sauerkraut experiment #1 is underway. I love the deep purple color of the cabbage juice in the jar. I found postcard art by illustrator Phoebe Wahl tucked into Issue 3 of Taproot Magazine, and it now hangs on our kitchen line, reminding us of the colder weather heading our way. I dusted off the kitchen scale and about a thousand other neglected kitchen tools to make a ri-DI-culously good Coconut Layer Cake for a special birthday.

A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked. ~Anais Nin

I keep my distance, as usual, camera as buffer and coping mechanism. The cast and crew of my friend’s film are called into the poolhouse in groups to watch behind-the-scenes clips on his laptop. The kids steer chunky white rafts around the water. I am called to bear witness to a ritual that is strange to me, but apparently is a very traditional part of this sort of celebration: the throwing of the directors into the pool. I ask no questions, just lift my lens and get the shots, pleased that I chose photography over movie-making.