today, a tuesday, is remarkable. one year ago i pulled into Tucson, checked myself into a hotel and immediately began to fret about what i would wear the next morning as i began my new career as an educator in the non-profit world.  everything about my life was in transition at that moment. i had no idea where i would live…if i would like my co-workers or if they would like me…where i could find a good cup of coffee…what the local music scene was like…if i could make friends in a town where i knew only one person…if i would be able to work with youth. if i would even like Tucson…if it would ever feel like “home”.

as i write this post, i sit on my sofa with my feet upon my beautiful vintage Lane coffee table inside my quaint 1938 adobe home. my vintage dishes fill my kitchen cabinets. local blues musician Tom Walbank is on my iTunes and i have plans with friends every night this week. i survived my first year working with youth and i soon came to realize that teaching is deeply rewarding to me in ways that i could never have anticipated. i totally and completely adore my co-workers and i think they have come to appreciate my steel will and off-beat sarcasm. i had a good cup of Mexican organic coffee this morning from a local coffee shop and a youth i mentored this year stopped into the office to say hello.

anniversaries always make me stop for a moment…take a breath and give thanks for all that has come my way. they are a moment of reflection. i am thankful for the spectacular individuals in my new “home”-town that have added me into their lives, enriching mine in the process. i’ve written about them all here. i also give thanks for the support given to me from out-of-state, especially during my early months here.

i feel incredibly fortunate. i feel proud. i feel creative. i feel challenged. i feel strong and free. most of all i feel closer to my continual goals of stability and clarity.

i (heart) Tucson.

after a whirlwind weekend that ended abruptly, leaving me with a slight case of emotional whiplash and a small contusion of the heart, i spent this evening back in my cocoon of live music with my super fabulous friends Mel and Sean. we went to see Thao with The Get Down Stay Down at a Tucson venue I had not been to yet - Solar Culture - which is basically an art gallery/live music venue. how many ways can i say it was totally dreamy to have my two loves combined in one space - creative local art and live music. it was inspiring…so i made this photo with Sean’s iPhone…

the opening band, Horse Feathers (from Portland, Oregon- which is ironically where my new friend - Friendly Ben - flew to this morning for a camping trip with his brother. Hi Ben! Go to the Tillamook cheese factory. I insist.), was really impressive. beautiful vocals with a lilting and moaning violin accompanying. Thao has a voice that reminded me of a fancy-free Edie Brickell. i loved them so much i came home and immediately downloaded their latest album from iTunes. i’m listening to it right now. love, love it….”as sharp as i sting, it just soothes you, doesn’t it like a lick of ice cream”..

i want to thank Lauren for reminding me that i have a blog. i have had lots to blog about, but i’ve been lazy about making the time. i also want to thank Miss Mel for bringing me her awesome vegan sushi tonight. i promise to blog more in the next few days. cheers to everyone.

Happy 4th of July, folks.

The Revolution will not be Televised.

A friend of mine here in town forwarded a link to me today that I felt I needed to share. This link will take you to a salon.com story about how the word “gay” is automatically replaced with the word “homosexual” in all stories published on the extremly conservative American Family Association’s OneNewsNow website.

http://www.salon.com/politics/war_room/2008/06/30/afa/index.html

Obviously the folks at AFA don’t read dictionaries. “Gay” does not equal “Homosexual”. Can you hear my blood boil? Grrrrrr.

in one of those painfully beautiful moments where life imitates art, this past weekend i momentarily toyed around with changing my name to Bridget (as in Bridget Jones and her diary). while working a wedding for my sister this past weekend, i was stuck in the car with a friend of Julie’s. the conversation went as follows:

“So! Are you daaaaating anyoonnnnee?”

“No. Not at the moment.” (clue: this is my contribution to the conversation)

“Awwwwww….well, then….”

and for the next ten minutes i got the “pep-talk-for-single-girls” from said friend who is married and just had her second child. “go! go, do EVERYthing that you want to do! meet everyone! travel everywhere! go dancing!…..” and so on….you get the picture.

i nearly laughed out loud for the sheer comedy of the moment. you see….over the winter i binged on romantic comedy/drama movies. i was on a serious bender. here’s a visual: me, in pajamas, tucked into my sofa surrounded by lots of pillows and wrapped up in cozy blankets with a bottomless glass of cheap red wine in my hand. ‘Bridget Jones Diary” was most definitely included in the movie mix (i won’t admit the exact number of times i watched the film, so don’t bother asking). anywho….the movie begins with Bridget beginning her 32nd year unmarried and without any prospects or boyfriends…which at the time did make me laugh aloud because my life (at the time) was a near exact mirror of the opening sequences of the film.

fast forward to my saturday pep talk, provided by a “smug married” with kids. it was obvious that my personal motivational speaker had nearly no clue about the life i HAVE lived up to the moment of that brief car ride. the thing is…over the past decade i HAVE done nearly EVERYthing i wish to have done, including a heck of a lot i didn’t know i wanted to do. i HAVE traveled enough to feel content and begin to desire to put some roots down in one place. i HAVE moved, moved, moved, moved and moved again. i HAVE gone dancing, on a few continents. the thing i haven’t done is find that “one” to continue my great adventure with…that “one” to dance with on the remaining continents…that “one” to plant a family tree with.

so, i channel my inner Bridget and continue my search for my version of “Mr. Darcy”, but i warn ya’ll ahead of time…i am NOT going to chase after him in tiger print knickers on a snowy night after he mistakenly reads my tell-all diary. my ass looks better in black lace.

the rains have returned to the parched desert. thick, heady aromas are sped through the air on gusts of wind.

“it’s still a heart. it’s just a little bent out of shape.”

my former fiance introduced that phrase into my life. it has stayed with me, well past my dramatic valentine’s day departure from the life we shared for six years. this phrase is the impetus for a deeply personal photo project that i have been working on for over four years now. my “found heart” series.

i am an artist, a creator. my medium is photography. capturing and creating images is my vocation and method of self-expression and exploration. my chosen art form is so central to my life that it truly defines the woman i am, the life that i lead. i am a photographer, as is he, which deepens the mystery of his betrayal.

on my recent road trip, i moved the last of my belongings from Nebraska to Arizona. space was limited in my car. i went through my belongings and chose the most important things to keep. this process is excruciating. painful in ways that are beyond explanation. every time i go through a move i am reminded that there are two boxes that have been missing since my split with my former fiance. two boxes that he took from me. two boxes that contained 12 years of my life. twelve years of family memories - sister’s graduating high school, my nieces entering the world, my dad in his signature Izod polo shirts. twelve years of my professional development as a photojournalist - my documentary projects, original negatives from my coverage of 9/11 while interning at The New York Times. twelve years of my life. Stolen? Destroyed? the detectives that investigated the case and questioned him were sympathetic and kind to me. they said he was sullen and cagey. uncooperative. with no absolute proof of his actions, the investigation could go no further.

twelve years of images created and captured by me…removed from my life for reasons that i shall never be privy to understand. my mind does not work in such twisted and inhumane levels. i do not possess the ability to hate anyone so strongly that i would attempt to destroy them, as he did me.

it has been years since this happened. years. i am only now able to speak about it in any kind of way. the ripple effect of his actions continue today.

one box did remain. a box of correspondence. love letters, cards, postcards. all from him. romantic, he was. he rarely called me by my name. he called me “Love”. simple. succinct. full.

i did not move that box to my new home. it went directly into the trash, which is the word that i now use to refer to him. trash. simple. succinct. full.

my heart, while deeply scarred, it is just as he said. it is still a heart, just a little bent out of shape. i find my misshapen heart everywhere i go. graffiti on the walls of bar restrooms…

when i remove my jewelry at the end of the day…

outside coffee shops where i lock my mountain bike…

in patterns in the linoleum of old churches while on assignment with the youth i now teach photography to…

on hikes in the desert with dear friends…

the hearts that i find are precious to me. with each heart that i find, i heal a little bit more. my heart opens up. my capacity to love deepens and my faith in the healing power of love solidifies. my hearts, in all their forms, prove to me that love is out there if i am willing to see it.

what do you do after a day of driving through intense wind storms? you share a fabulous dinner with a dear friend (mine = William), slowly sip a refreshing glass of white wine and savor every bite of a dinner you can’t really afford.

William and i had dinner in Tulsa, Oklahoma before getting back on the road toward my desert home in the southwest. there is a certain fun factor to choosing a restaurant in random fashion, not looking at the menu before being seated and ordering food that will make you swoon with pleasure. the restaurant we ate at, Oliver’s Twist, was on Peoria, just down the street from the restaurant my Dad asked my Mom to marry him. the meal was lovely, conversation splendid. it was William’s first trip to Tulsa. i drove him around Oral Roberts University, which he found scintillating.

William insisted that we take this photo for our mutual friend Becki.

apparently, if Becki (Roberts) ever enters the adult entertainment business, she has her name picked out already. hmm. even i’d pay cash money for that.

i insisted that William and i stop in Albuquerque, New Mexico for some serious carnage at my favorite BBQ place. yes…it’s a chain…but i’m cool with that. i was introduced to Rudy’s BBQ while living in San Antonio, Texas nearly a decade ago. it is a testament that i still think it is the best BBQ if i’m still talking about it.

super yummy. total carnage. vegetarians need not apply.

William stayed for a lovely, long visit with me in Tucson. i adore having him in town. he fixes things around the house for the single woman that i am. he makes us fabulous dinners every night - over which he listens to me yak incessantly about how much i love my job and the people i work with. we went for a series of small hikes at Saguaro National Park. it was already in the mid-90’s by 10am, so we took it easy.

William thinks the Saguaro cacti are fascinating. last time he was here for a visit he got into a bit of a tussle with one. he was smarter this time round, but i wasn’t. i backed right into one. yikes!

when i think back upon my childhood, this is the house i think upon most. 1911 E. 53rd Street in Tulsa, Oklahoma. my parents purchased the house and spent a couple months renovating the house before they told us kids about it. this is the house my youngest sister Abby was born into. this is the house where my Mom, Melody, made me walk up and down the wood parquet floors with a book atop my head in an (successful) effort to correct my poor posture and pigeon feet. this is the house where my Dad awoke us via the built-in intercom one Christmas morning as he pretended to be Santa Claus - he scared us to death actually and we stayed in our beds until he came to assure us that Santa was not a deranged lunatic loose in our house. this is the house where my older sister Julie taught me her cheerleading routines in the front yard and taught me how to dance (once upon a time i had no rhythm). this is the house where my sister Holly would lead Heidi and Abby in goofy dress-ups and act out even sillier skits. this is the house where i received an emergency breakthrough call telling me that my sister Heidi had been hit by a car (she was okay. suffered a concussion and from then on looked both ways before crossing an intersection).

on my return drive from Nebraska, we (my co-pilot William and i) took a detour to Tulsa. i was in search of a connection with my past. i was in search of a connection with my Dad, Mark Niles, who died in 1995 of a brain aneurysm. i was 20 at the time and he has been gone from my life for nearly 13 years now - longer than he was a part of my life. over the past four years, as life presented me with trials, tribulations, great successes and greater challenges i have come to miss him more and more.

Dad was a comedian. funny. intelligent. he drove a fabulous British red Triumph TR7, which was representative of who he was as a man - compact, sporty, fun, bright, unique. he was addicted to “fire” jolly rancher candies. taught me to play chess. he was quick to laugh. he married my mom - a single mother with four young daughters - and together they brought one more Niles Girl into the world to make a solid 5 daughters. when i broke both my wrists in 5th grade and was stuck at home over spring break with plaster casts on both arms, Dad brought me lunch every day - a cheeseburger and fries from Braum’s. the first day, he laughed when he caught me staring at my lunch with concentrated perplexity (the casts prevented me from holding the burger). he cut the burger in quarters every day after that.

in a family of seven, one-on-one time with a parent is a near impossibility. i had one main objective in returning to Tulsa - to find the place where i spent a small, but great, period of time alone with my Dad. i was in 5th grade and he picked me up downtown after i toured an insurance company while on a field trip for “smart” kids. that afternoon he took me to a hot dog place, The Original Coney Islander. it had mahogany wood paneling along the walls. you ate standing up. there were no tables, just a long, skinny wood bar with a few stools along the wall. Dad pulled one of the stools over so that i could reach the bar. i remember black and white historical photos on the walls, but more importantly i remember how special i felt in that moment. my Dad had that effect on people. he made you feel special. his deep brown eyes would focus on you when you spoke.

(photos/William Lauer)

thanks to William, we found the place. it wasn’t open on Saturdays. i’m actually glad that it wasn’t open. if it was, i would have been compelled to go in and have a hot dog - just like i did with my Dad (steamed hot dog with melting shredded chedder cheese and diced white onion) - but it would not have been the same. recreating memories never achieves what you wish it would. standing in front of the place (which has a different name and has been renovated since i was there) i realized that afternoon i spent eating hot dogs with my Dad was over 20 years ago.

i wonder what advice my Dad would have given me over the past 13 years. i wonder what kind of father he would have grown to be to his adult daughters and what he would think of the men we have chosen as partners. i wonder what kind of grandfather he would have been to the children my sisters all have now. his death has had a profound and prolonged effect on our family, especially my mother who has never recovered from it.

the sunday evening before Dad died unexpectedly, my entire family gathered for dinner at Julie and Jason’s apartment. i’m fortunate. the last words i ever said to my dad were, “I love you” as i gave him a big hug goodbye that night. the next time i saw him two days later, he was gone. his spirit had left his body, his eyes were without his intense vibrancy.

my Dad wasn’t a saint. he was a man. he had faults. he was exceedingly stubborn with a quick temper. he and i argued more than he and any of my sisters ever did. our last major fight created some positive change in both he and i, which i am thankful for now that i am an adult. i have a deeper respect and admiration for the challenges that my Dad accepted without question when he married “his family”. the house at 1911 E. 53rd Street is also where my Dad ran after my biological father’s car with a baseball bat when the biological father brought us home hours late after court-appointed visitation and my parents were worried that we had been abducted. this is the house where my parents nursed the newly-pierced ears of Julie and I after biological father took the earings out with pliers because he thought our tiny smiley face earrings were tawdry. the house on E. 53rd Street is also the family Home we lost due to my parents five-year battle to retain custody of my sisters and i when our biological father and his family repeatedly took my parents to court and all money was devoted to court and lawyer fees.

one of the greatest compliments my Dad could receive was when someone would tell him that his daughters looked like him (an impossibility due to the technicality that we were not related through blood but through choice). on the day of his memorial service, i stood in the receiving line to greet all who came to honor my Dad. the service was delayed due to the incredible turn-out of people. it was standing room only, even with the anteroom that was opened to handle the overflow of people. that day I listened to story after story about my dad from people that knew him as Mark. until that day i really only knew him as my Dad. i’m thankful for those stories. they provided me with a more complete vision of who my dad was as a man. the laughter these stories were shared with, despite the sorrow of the event, is a testament to the nature of my Dad’s spirit.

i do resemble my Dad. i have his traits. tenacity. insatiable curiosity. deep and unwavering devotion to those i love. i have a love of laughter and practical jokes, as he did. i have his sarcasm and quick wit. i carry these parts of him with me in a loving attempt to keep his engaging spirit alive.

my thoughts have been pulled into a black hole of focus that has paralyzed my ability to redirect my mind towards creative projects. this has resulted in a major case of writer’s/creator’s block lately. i’m trying to work through it. i’m hoping that accomplishing my goal of a serious blog update will release my mind.

my trip to lincoln was fabulous. it felt wonderful to be in a place that is deeply familiar and full of people that i have deep friendships with. it was very filling for my soul to be in a place that is lush and green.

(photo/William Lauer)

Nebraska really does look like this. farms with windmills and red barns. rows and rows of corn. puffy clouds slowly moving through bright blue skies. it is pure Americana, and i have a love affair with it. there were tornado warnings nearly every day that i was there…with lots of rain, thunder, lightning…even was teased by sirens announcing a tornado that never materialized.

thankfully, i had opportunities to spend quality connection time with some of my favorite people on this planet. i had an awesome photo shoot with the Green family: Tom, Amy and Grace.

Amy, the matriarch of the Green family, is one of the most lovely and precious people in my life. she is an old soul, a sage. her insight and intuition has guided a great many people through this thing called life. Tom and Grace are fabulously intelligent and challenging young people. the Green family owns the most magical ice cream shop in lincoln - Ivanna Cone - where i spent hours learning how to make fabulous home-made ice cream. Ivanna Cone is special in ways that are hard to quantify in words. it truly is an experience unlike any other.

Becki and i joined another incredibly fabulous matriarch, Joellen, for an evening of music. Joellen’s four “kids” are all not only smart and creative folks, but all have deep connections to music. this evening Jo’s daughter Terri was performing on the “fiddle” with her old-time music band, which included a wash-tub bass. Terri’s vocals are lovely - haunting and strong. beautiful evening all around.