tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-97999072024-03-23T14:32:10.990-04:00writing as jo(e)jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.comBlogger2562125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-34332629642833665952020-04-20T18:00:00.000-04:002020-04-20T18:04:32.140-04:00Family of fiddleheads<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/49799583762/in/dateposted/" title="fiddleheads"><img alt="fiddleheads" height="640" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49799583762_0ab1b0800e.jpg" width="480" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
Far back in my woods, in the grove of hemlock and beech, the fiddleheads have appeared. Each little clump looks like a family of aliens, huddled together, keeping their distance from any other clump.<br />
<br />
That's what my extended family feels like right now. Nine households, all within fifteen miles of each other, but each little group being forced to keep to themselves. We wave through front windows and talk from porches. We chat over computers and smart phones. My husband and I have several times driven to my oldest son's house, just to talk to Totoro Grandson through the glass window. What a weird impression of the world that six-month-old is getting. Maybe he thinks his grandparents are characters on a television show.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, the weather was sunny. Beautiful Smart Wonderful Daughter and Sailor Boy found out that a local Italian bakery had takeout service, so they picked up boxes of treats and delivered them to family members. My daughter wanted to paint the shelves in the baby's room, so I found some leftover paint in my basement and put it out on the front porch for her to pick up. They chatted with me through the front window for a few minutes before heading to the Cottage (With-a-Why's house) and then to the Kitchen, where Boy in Black and Blonde Chef live. Later, when I was making meatballs and sauce for my parents, I drove to my daughter's house to get the egg she'd left out on her porch. She gave me a keyboard to deliver to Shaggy Hair Boy, so I drove out the Farm before going to my parents' house to drop off the sauce for their dinner.<br />
<br />
It's really like a game of musical chairs, except with the chairs spread really far apart. We're always calling and texting, and someone is always delivering something, but the only time we are all together is on zoom.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-44337439893831750502020-04-15T15:52:00.003-04:002020-04-20T18:03:38.512-04:00First green<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/49777840606/in/dateposted/" title="Woods in April"><img alt="Woods in April" height="640" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49777840606_0e39f22ab2.jpg" width="480" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
The whole world has paused, it seems, but that hasn't stopped the seasons from changing. On this morning's walk through the woods, it was snowing, but I could also see green everywhere, ferns and mayflowers and trilliums, and buds just beginning to open on trees.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-30255540460580063332020-04-12T14:42:00.002-04:002020-04-12T14:42:32.079-04:00Easter During a Pandemic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My husband and I drove to the houses of the family members nearest us to wish them a happy Easter. We don't own any masks, so we made do with bandanas.<br />
<br />
"You look like bank robbers," my son Shaggy Hair Boy said, laughing. "Is this a thing people do now?"<br />
<br />
It feels very odd not to be making a big meal or having everyone over. Family members have been sending photos and putting them up on facebook, but it's not the same. We're all safe and healthy, though, so I'm thankful for that.<br />
<br /></div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-1024608054898085182020-04-10T09:54:00.000-04:002020-04-10T09:54:02.790-04:00Spring snow in the swamp<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/49756871756/in/dateposted/" title="April Snow"><img alt="April Snow" height="500" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49756871756_b2296a8c08.jpg" width="389" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script></div>
It's snowing today. The air is cold and moist, and it felt good to breathe it deeply as I walked through the woods. A swamp is lovely during a spring snow. The white outlines the high spots, and the bugs haven't hatched yet. I'm lucky, during this time of quarantine, to have acres of land to roam each morning.
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-27675074354984505472020-04-08T15:46:00.000-04:002020-04-08T15:58:04.370-04:00No chatting in the aisles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/49750610346/in/dateposted/" title="Bunny cake"><img alt="Bunny cake" height="500" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49750610346_d11b3633d2.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
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Normally, I’d be busy this week: teaching my classes, going to meetings, and preparing for Easter dinner. Usually, I complain that the timing of Easter is inconvenient, falling during a hectic time of the semester. Each year, I try to get the grocery shopping done by Thursday if out-of-town family is arriving on Friday, and that means shopping on Wednesday afternoon since Thursday is a long day on campus.<br />
<br />
But here’s something I’ve discovered during this pandemic: I complain about the busyness every year, but now I'm missing that busyness. I'm sad that I won't be going to the grocery store today.<br />
<br />
I’ve shopped at the same grocery store my entire adult life, and during holiday shopping, I run into high school friends home to visit their families. Often the friend is clutching a list of items written in a shaky scrawl. “My mother wants artichoke hearts,” he’ll say, after giving me a hug and showing me smart phone photos of the newest grandchild. “Any idea where I can find them?”<br />
<br />
The produce section is always crowded with old women, who don’t trust anyone else to choose their vegetables. I’ve heard many a spirited discussion over how to tell if a cantaloupe is ripe. (Some swear by the sound you hear when you thump on the cantaloupe, while others say you have to hold the fruit close to your nose and smell it. Either method seems horrifying during a pandemic.) Our carts are always fuller than usual. Before a holiday, for instance, I buy twenty pounds of potatoes; I’ve got a big family.<br />
<br />
Holiday shopping takes longer than usual as shoppers circle back for specialty items they forgot or search for something they only buy once a year, which means it’s been moved from one shelf to some other place in the store. But we call out greetings to each other, we get into conversations while we wait in line at the deli, and we hug friends. We help each other find a bottle of molasses for the baked beans Dad wants or the pitted olives for Mom’s special tortellini salad. The store is filled with the energy of anticipation. Our loved ones are coming home, and we want plenty of food in the house.<br />
<br />
I miss that ritual. I haven’t been to the grocery store in a month: my son-in-law has twice delivered groceries to our front step, and I’m grateful that our house is stocked with everything we might need. I know how very privileged we are. But still, it feels wrong not to be shopping for Easter.<br />
<br />
<i>The photo is the Easter bunny cake my mother usually makes. No bunny cake this year!</i></div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-48353844578825646522020-04-06T09:43:00.000-04:002020-04-06T09:43:59.275-04:00Through the window<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/49742739037/in/dateposted/" title="my home office"><img alt="my home office" height="375" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49742739037_1f0914b60e.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
My home office is a little room at the very front of the house. I've always had my desk pushed up against the window, so that when I'm working, I can look down the driveway and at the river birches on my front lawn. When my kids were young, I'd know when they came home from school.<br />
<br />
After several weeks of quarantine, I've turned the desk so that I can sit right up against the window, which I've been opening on even the coldest days. When my son-in-law drops off groceries, I can say hello through the window. When neighbors walk past, I wave and ask how they are. Red-haired Niece came by one day with her two-year-old and her infant. She dropped a box of chocolate on my front porch, along with an Easter card colored by my grand niece, and we chatted through the window.<br />
<br />
I'm privileged enough to have technology. I've been talking on the phone and videochatting with friends and family during this time. But still, nothing is quite like seeing a real live person on the other side of my window.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-25796619754893735752020-04-04T19:02:00.000-04:002020-04-04T19:02:54.617-04:00Across the lawn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/49735756688/in/dateposted/" title="my pregnant daughter from twenty feet away"><img alt="my pregnant daughter from twenty feet away" height="375" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49735756688_2c34042a8d.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
Beautiful Smart Wonderful Daughter is expecting a baby in June, on her 34th birthday. We’d planned to spend our spring break together. She works at the big university that borders the small science college where I work, and we have the same academic calendar. We’d planned to take the train into the Big City Like No Other, one last mother-daughter trip before her first child arrives. We’d planned to wander the streets, browse through the shops in Chinatown and Soho, eat at little restaurants, and watch street performers in Washington Square.<br />
<br />
But, of course, the City That Never Sleeps is now the epicenter of the pandemic. We cancelled our trip and spent spring break shifting our courses online. We now both spend a considerable amount of time each day reading the news, checking on family and friends, and worrying about our students. She keeps giving me reports from an online forum of pregnant women, where the anxiety about giving birth during a pandemic is running high.<br />
<br />
It’s hard to live 2.7 miles away from my daughter and not see her. I talk to her on the phone multiple times each day. One cold sunny day, she drove over to sit in a chair in my backyard. I sat on the backstep, bundled in my winter coat, and we talked to each other, a good twenty feet between us. At my request, she stood up to stand sidewise and show me her pregnant belly, even pulling up her shirt so I could get a good look. Then we waved goodbye across the lawn, and she drove home.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-72917645291969492972020-04-03T09:37:00.000-04:002020-04-03T14:20:01.474-04:00Without zombies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Always, when my family joked about the Zombie Apocalypse, we would make plans of where we were all going to meet. That, I thought, would be the advantage of having four grown kids who all live within fifteen miles of me: in any kind of disaster we’d all be together.<br />
<br />
Our houses have nicknames. My husband and I live at HQ, the home that all the kids still regard as headquarters. Beautiful Smart Wonderful Daughter and her partner live less than three miles away, in the Palace. It doesn’t look like a palace, it looks like a house in the woods. It’s the home where her partner was born (and I mean that literally), the home where he grew up. My son Boy-in-Black, his wife, and their six-month-old baby will soon be moving to the Kitchen, a house they are in the midst of renovating. It’s a modern house with lots of glass that would not offer much protection against zombies. My middle son Shaggy Hair and his wife live at the Farm, which might be ideal in a post-apocalyptic world since they raised chickens and have room for a huge garden. My youngest son With-a-Why and his partner live in the Cottage, walking distance from my home, which gives us a place to run when the zombies infiltrate HQ.<br />
<br />
Any post-apocalyptic scenario has always involved lengthy discussions about where we’d gather and who would bring what. Never did we imagine this, each little family staying in their own house, communicating only via smart phone or computer, sending videos to each other as if we lived thousands of miles away.<br />
<br />
Anxiety is high, of course. I live in the state that so far has been hit the hardest: more than 102,000 cases of coronavirus as of this morning, more than 300 in my small county alone. Those numbers will be higher tomorrow. The hospitals are overwhelmed already, which means that no visitors are allowed. I worry about my parents, who are 86 and 89, and live about six miles away, in the house that my father built. Living on their own lowers their risk considerably, but they are used to lots of contact with family members. We can deliver groceries to them, and send emails, and talk over the phone, and wave at them through their picture window, but none of that is the same as the family gatherings that we are all used to, when they get to hold babies on their lap and listen to the ridiculous conversations their grandchildren have.<br />
<br />
It’s been three weeks since I’ve left my house, and more than a month since the last family gathering. I've already cancelled Easter dinner. My husband is an essential worker, so he’s now working crazy long days, seven days each week, with a skeleton crew. I’m alone most of the time, with my computer and my smart phone connecting me to the rest of my family and the rest of the world.<br />
<br />
One thing that’s saved my sanity over the last few weeks has been a long visit from my grandpuppy Appa. I’ve always been a cat person rather than a dog person, but I’ve come to value his companionship. Like me, he loves long walks in the woods behind my house, and he wants to go outside no matter what the weather. So rain or shine, I’ve been tramping through the woods, noticing the brilliant mosses, and looking for signs of spring, which surely must come.<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/49731113062/in/dateposted/" title="Dog on mossy log"><img alt="Dog on mossy log" height="500" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49731113062_2b467d6cd7.jpg" width="375" /></a></div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-64301238342058064812019-11-11T06:24:00.000-05:002019-11-11T06:24:12.734-05:00In the arbor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/49048482752/in/dateposted/" title="In the arbor"><img alt="In the arbor" height="335" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49048482752_c1d71302d2.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
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The mountains are gorgeous in the fall, but the air is often chilly, especially if there’s a wind. When my Wild Women friends and I gathered for our annual retreat, the first thing I did was build a fire in the old stone fireplace. “I don’t think we’ll be skinny dippping this year,” Signing Woman said as she sat down with a bowl of hot soup.<br />
<br />
She was wrong. Both QuiltArtist and FolkSinger managed to sneak off for a swim the next day, although that air certainly didn’t indicate swimming weather to me. “I wanted the cold,” QuiltArtist told me when she returned with wet hair and shining skin. “It’s therapeutic. Better than any medicine.” She was smiling and full of energy, so perhaps plunging into the icy water was just what she needed.<br />
<br />
I was content to stay bundled in my thick fleece shirt, but I needed to take a naked photo. It’s been a couple of months since the last one I posted on my blog, and I knew my readers were getting impatient. I figured that every day, late afternoon, we had a window of about fifteen minutes when the air would be warm enough for me to convice a friend to strip naked. So that afternoon, when I went for a walk with QuiltArtist and GardenGirl, I brought my camera.<br />
<br />
Our walk led us to a small stone chapel that overlooked the lake. “They’ve got a nice little garden,” said GardenGirl. She treats plants the way most people treat puppies; she can’t resist them.<br />
<br />
It was a pretty little garden that reminded me of an English cottage garden: small and nestled against the side of the chapel. Many of the plants had been cut down for the winter, but the vine-covered arbor that runs along the side was still green. The sun warmed the stone walls and the stone walk beneath our feet, filling the space with green and yellow light. I knew we had to seize the moment.<br />
<br />
“I think it’s warm enough for a naked photo,” I announced.<br />
<br />
“We’re in a churchyard,” QuiltArtist protested. Then she looked down through the arbor, and she admitted, “It would be perfect.”<br />
<br />
The garden was sort of private. Well, there was a road just ten feet away, where people where strolling about in the sunlight, taking photos of foliage and admiring the view of the lake, but at that moment, at least, we had the little garden to ourselves.<br />
<br />
“Okay,” said GardenGirl. “I’ll do it.”<br />
<br />
Without hesitation, she stripped off her clothes, tossing them onto the stone wall. QuiltArtist and I began calling out instructions. “Step forward just a little! Reach up and touch a leaf!”<br />
<br />
We were quick. By the time a young family came tromping through, she had already pulled her clothes back on. I’m sure that all they saw were three grey-haired women, admiring the arbor on a sunny fall day.
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-82193780076357360262019-11-08T09:49:00.001-05:002019-11-08T09:49:05.129-05:00Transitions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/49033124648/in/dateposted/" title="First snow"><img alt="First snow" height="335" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/49033124648_fc54f25481.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
This morning, we woke to a snow-covered world. Winter has arrived. It seems the older you get, the faster the seasons change.<br />
<br />
The last few months have been a time of transition. In September, I became a grandmother! Boy-in-Black and his wife BlondeChef have a little boy now. Well, actually, he’s not all that little. He was over ten pounds when he was born, and he’s been growing steadily since. TotoroBaby is a sweet, sleepy baby, much like his father was. The best part is that my husband and I get to see him as often as we’d like, since my son and daughter-in-law live fairly close by.<br />
<br />
Within 24 hours of becoming grandparents, my husband and I became Empty Nesters. Yes, my youngest son, With-a-Why, bought a house. He and ShySmile moved in that weekend. I’d feel sad about the baby of the family being all grown up, except that I’m so pleased at what a nice young man he’s become. Besides, his house is less than two miles away. All four of my kids live within 15 miles of me.<br />
<br />
Other changes are happening too. My parents, who still live on their own about six miles away, are in their late 80s now. In September after a mini-stroke, my father was admitted to a hospital for the first time in his life. There was no lasting damage, and he is back to his old self, but still, it was an incident that made everyone in the family realize that we need to treasure what time we have left with my parents.<br />
<br />
The snow outside my window is making me look forward to the holiday season. In my family, the get-togethers, the cooking, and the celebrating begin the weekend before Thanksgiving and go all the way to January. Red-haired Niece is expecting a baby in December so by Christmas, we’ll have seven little ones in the family, which will make the holidays that much more fun.
</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-91566379579942249652019-09-22T09:39:00.000-04:002019-11-08T09:28:56.020-05:00Waiting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Tomorrow is my daughter-in-law's due date. That means every time a message chimes on my phone, I run to grab it, hoping for news. And then I'm disappointed when it turns out to be my youngest son, asking where the scissors are.<br />
<br />
Boy-in-Black is not really a boy anymore, but a full-grown man although his favourite colour is still black. He and his wife BlondeChef live about 15 minutes away from us. My husband and I stopped there Friday night to see the baby's room. Everything is all set: the crib, a chest of drawers with a changing table, a rocking chair, and a bookcase filled with children's books. It's an exceptionally cute room because they've chosen Miyazaki's Totoro as their theme. BlondeChef's sister even made a mobile with knitted Totoros that will dangle above the baby.<br />
<br />
BlondeChef is tall, so even though her belly is huge, she still looks great. She and Boy-in-Black were nestled on their couch, with their little dog Webster and Tilly the cat. BlondeChef began her maternity leave two weeks ago, and she's enjoyed the time off.<br />
<br />
"I'm no longer on my feet all day long," she said. "Besides, it's the first time I haven't worked since I was seventeen. It's been nice to relax."<br />
<br />
Of course, everyone is getting impatient to meet the new baby, who has not shown any signs of emerging.<br />
<br />
"It's weird," said BlondeChef. "It's like getting ready for a marathon, but no one gives you the start date. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week ...."<br />
<br />
Boy-in-Black laughed. "It'll be like someone waking you up in the middle of the night, saying, 'Okay, time to go run a marathon. Start running, right now.'"<br />
<br />
Exactly.<br />
<br />
And in the meantime, I'm sleeping with my phone next to my bed, ready for the call.<br />
<br /></div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-44615805822441393522019-07-17T22:29:00.001-04:002019-07-17T22:33:45.834-04:00The snake days of summer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/48311928252/in/dateposted/" title="Snake"><img alt="Snake" height="335" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48311928252_43db8fbd60.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<br />
<br />
We've hit the part of summer when snakes come into our garage to get cool. </div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-25708092936349191682019-07-09T11:22:00.002-04:002019-07-10T22:20:11.537-04:00The naked fishing photo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/48187564711/in/dateposted/" title="Fishing"><img alt="Fishing" height="335" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48187564711_9ab122ba18.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
I was at an academic conference in the Golden State, discussing Thoreau with several colleagues over breakfast, when my phone dinged. The text message read, “Ready to go. Naked and afraid.”<br />
<br />
I stood up. “I’ve got a photo shoot.”<br />
<br />
My male friends sighed with relief as I hurried away from the table. I heard Chicago Friend mutter, “I’m just glad it’s not me.”<br />
<br />
It was time for some men to step up to the plate and shed their clothes for my camera, and my friends at the breakfast table knew it. Women have been carrying <a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html">Project Naked</a> for long enough.<br />
<br />
Two friends, Copper John and Kestrel, have joked for years about posing together. “It will never happen,” I told them last conference. “Men are weird about getting naked together. I think it’s some kind of homophobic thing. Men aren’t used to that kind of intimacy.”<br />
<br />
Apparently, my words were a challenge. Copper John and Kestrel showed up at Friendly Green Conference with fishing poles, a car, and directions to a scenic river spot. What’s more, they’d convinced a third man to join us.<br />
<br />
This is the kind of cooperation that gives me hope for our culture.<br />
<br />
Besides, it's always fun to leave an academic conference and go visit a creek. We acted like kids playing hooky as we drove through the Golden State countryside.<br />
<br />
Copper John gestured to the third man in the car. "You can explain the Project Naked to him."<br />
<br />
I stumbled through an explanation — really, it's a feminist project about body image — and added, "You can choose your own pseudonym."<br />
<br />
"Really?" he asked. "Aren't I just Subject X?"<br />
<br />
"You need a cool name, " Kestrel said. "Like River Otter."<br />
<br />
Flashing lights in the road cut short our conversation. As Copper John slowed the car, we saw firefighters in full gear swarming the hills while flames devoured the dry brush. A controlled burn.<br />
<br />
“Oh, I should get one of them to pose,” I said without thinking.<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/48239884066/in/photostream/" title="Firefighters"><img alt="Firefighters" height="371" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48239884066_96d480c660.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<br />
<br />
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Kestrel said. He gestured to the other men in the car. “AREN’T WE GOOD ENOUGH?”<br />
<br />
Yes, yes, I assured them. I’d chosen the three best-looking men at the conference. If I had thoughts about the fragility of the male ego, I kept them to myself.<br />
<br />
Leaving behind the scorched earth, we drove to a turn-off and climbed down a path to the creek. The men had picked a perfect spot. The water rushed and swirled beneath golden hills dotted with dark green trees. Before stripping off their clothes, the men discussed props. They'd brought fishing poles, binoculars, and fishing vests.<br />
<br />
"Look at this," Copper John said, showing me the fabric he wore around his neck for sun protection: the brand name was BUFF. I laughed, which was perhaps not the appropriate response.<br />
<br />
"Who goes first?" River Otter asked. He was still fully dressed.<br />
<br />
"We're posing together," Kestrel said. "That's the point."<br />
<br />
"It's a milestone for my naked photo project," I said. "Multiple men getting naked together."<br />
<br />
For most people, I think, getting naked involves vulnerability. And trust. I knew that Copper John and Kestrel were close friends who weren't afraid to be vulnerable with each other, but I didn't know how River Otter fit in. I looked over at him to see if he was comfortable with the plan.<br />
<br />
He nodded. "Okay."<br />
<br />
He continued talking as he pulled off his shirt. "So many of our feelings about our bodies are cultural,” he said. “If you walked into a store in your underwear, people would react. But a bikini? Perfectly acceptable. And what’s the difference?”<br />
<br />
He offered his experience in Japanese <i>onsens</i> or hot springs, where men bathed naked together all the time. “Men often have this little towel – the size of a washcloth – and they cover their genitals with it when they’re walking around. But the towel doesn’t go into the water. You take it and put it on your head once you’re submerged. It's a protocol that everyone is used to.”<br />
<br />
Unlike a hot springs, this water was icy cold. As the men plunged into the waist-deep water, Kestrel nudged Copper John and joked. "Oh no! This could ruin the shot."<br />
<br />
No matter how sophisticated or sensitive the man, he will always make jokes about shrinkage in cold water.<br />
<br />
"Go stand on the rocks!" I yelled above the rushing water. "So I can get your whole bodies into the shot."<br />
<br />
Obligingly, the men waded over to the shallow spot. A bird called from the other bank, and Kestrel pointed to it. I couldn't hear their conversation above the water noises, but they were so busy discussing birds that they barely noticed me clicking photographs.<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/48239806317/in/dateposted/" title="Birdwatching"><img alt="Birdwatching" height="335" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48239806317_b941b32f7c.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
Afterwards, of course, we went swimming. I love cold water, the way it makes my whole body come alive. And submerging your whole self was the best way to get to know a creek. It would have been rude, really, to leave this creek without a swim.<br />
<br />
“You can take another photo,” Kestrel offered. "This one of us swimming." As River Otter walked out, he began to slip on the rocks. Kestrel reached out his hand, and Copper John gestured to me. “Capture that moment.”<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/48239798116/in/dateposted/" title="Going for a swim"><img alt="Going for a swim" height="335" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48239798116_27f5e82998.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
<br />
<br />
I loved the way these men weren't afraid to reach out for help, or be tender and vulnerable with each other.<br />
<br />
Playing in the water didn't last long. It was too cold, and we needed to get back to the conference. But it was a lovely morning. I could catch the scent of burning on the wind, and I thought of the firefighters, less than a mile away, wearing heavy suits to protect their vulnerable human bodies from the flames while we swam in this creek of cold, rushing water.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-42095020346702043062019-06-24T12:06:00.002-04:002019-06-24T22:11:51.339-04:00Women's stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/48093251176/in/dateposted/" title="Gazing"><img alt="Gazing" height="500" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48093251176_3857fda5fe.jpg" width="335" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
All across the country, women are talking openly and publicly about issues that were once taboo – rape, sexual assault, and abortion. Many established writers have made the decision to go public with personal stories. “When my friend published the story of her assault, I decided I would stand with her and publish mine,” a writer explained to me. “Solidarity.”<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/48093250791/in/dateposted/" title="Flyer"><img alt="Flyer" height="500" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48093250791_8d3c020bcf.jpg" width="335" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
Another woman said, “Our stories are important. That’s how we will change this culture.”<br />
<br />
The women who pose naked for me are women who are willing to be vulnerable, who are willing to tell their stories. I’ve decided, to add a measure of protection, to put several of their photos up without any identifying information, to allow them to stand together.<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/48093290878/in/photostream/" title="Safe"><img alt="Safe" height="500" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48093290878_f8c5cb1c6c.jpg" width="335" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
These are women I’ve met at conferences, who have talked to me about intimate details of their life and willingly posed for my camera.<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/48093451722/in/photostream/" title="From the balcony"><img alt="From the balcony" height="500" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48093451722_b61da58aeb.jpg" width="335" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
One woman is a writer. One woman is an artist. One woman does yoga. One woman likes to surf. One woman likes to knit. One woman has given birth. One woman has chosen not to have children. One is happily married. One is divorced. One woman was taught as a child that she should stay quiet, that she should be polite above all else. One woman was taught to always speak up.<br />
<br />
One woman says it’s our moral obligation to tell stories.
One woman was sexually assaulted when she was a teenager. One woman says she is afraid to travel alone because she doesn’t feel safe, but she travels alone anyhow because she doesn’t want fear to rule her life and cost her opportunities.<br />
<br />
One woman has worked as a full-spectrum doula. That is, she is a doula willing to support a pregnant woman no matter what her decision is. So she has many times accompanied a woman as she undergoes an abortion. Her philosophy is that people having abortions should have nonjudgmental physical and emotional support just like people giving birth.<br />
<br />
The best part of the naked photo project has been listening to the stories of women from all over the place, women are smart and strong and scared and brave. I have learned so much from them.
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-11288794019721617912019-01-13T19:01:00.001-05:002019-01-13T19:01:48.112-05:00Winter walk<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/46008098404/in/dateposted/" nbsp="" title="Waterfall"><img alt="Waterfall" height="500" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4910/46008098404_6e973e0643.jpg" width="375" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
I've spend the last couple of weeks at home with a bad cough. I've done lots of reading and writing, as well as cleaning and organizing the house. But today when the sun was shining, I needed to get outside, even if the temperatures were in the single digits. A friend suggested a walk through an urban park down in the valley. Four of us went, hiking through the snow, feeling the sun on our faces, and breathing the cold, fresh air. A nice way to spend the last day of my winter break. Classes start tomorrow.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-14987962434523727532018-11-21T14:57:00.000-05:002018-11-21T15:52:00.821-05:00Turning point<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Usually, when I post naked photos on my blog, I tell a funny story. Even though the naked photo project is a serious feminist project about body image, our sessions are usually filled with joking and laughter. Trying to take a naked photo, often in a public space and in a hurry, can be silly and utterly ridiculous. But during the intimacy comes from those sessions, there are deeply serious moments as well.<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/32687796961/in/dateposted/" nbsp="" title="Strength"><img alt="Strength" height="640" src="https://farm1.staticflickr.com/571/32687796961_b73ff788d7_z.jpg" width="457" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
Today I'm posting photos I took two years ago of a friend who had agreed to pose during a weekend in the mountains. I had intended to post the photos right away, but something dramatic happened in the days right after I took them. Donald Trump was elected President of our country. Suddenly, women all over the country became more vulnerable, more at risk. I just couldn't write my usual light-hearted post. My goal has always been to empower women, and I wasn't sure I still lived in a country where that was even possible.<br />
<br />
Someday when I look back at the last two years, what I will remember the most will be the gatherings of women. We've met in homes, mostly, usually with mugs of hot tea and platters of chocolate. At kitchen tables, we've written thousands of postcards and letters. We've written editorials and poetry. We've signed petitions, and we've knitted pink hats. We've gone to rallies and protests. We've made signs. We've marched.<br />
<br />
To each other, we've talked about our families, our fears, and our future. We've listened to each other's stories. We've shared our worst memories.
In my experience, women have always done this. By the fire or at the kitchen table, we gather and tell each other our stories. In intimate circles, we allow ourselves to be vulnerable.<br />
<br />
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/31968190514/in/photostream/" nbsp="" title="In darkness"><img alt="In darkness" height="500" src="https://farm3.staticflickr.com/2154/31968190514_956fe3c3ab.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
During the naked photo project, women I've just met have told me all kinds of horrifying stories -- as well as uplifting stories about healing and growth.
With the #metoo movement, I've watched these stories reach a bigger audience. All over this country, women have been speaking up publicly about sexual assault. They are stepping up to microphones. Women are writing their stories, and publishing their stories. When I look at facebook or twitter, story after story fills my feed.<br />
<br />
I admire those women -- their frankness and their courage -- just as I admire the teenagers from Florida who have taken a horrifying experience and made the choice to use that experience to create necessary change.<br />
<br />
"Did you read her piece?" a male friend said to me after a mutual friend published her account of getting raped at a young age. "I was shocked."<br />
<br />
"What do you mean?" I asked. "You didn't know that this kind of thing happens?"<br />
<br />
"I guess I did," he said. "But not to her … not to anyone I know." He seemed genuinely surprised. He is a kind and sensitive person, but because of his gender, he's been protected from this knowledge. Women in our cuture live with sexual harrassment and sexual assault on a daily basis, but when you're a man, it's possible not to see it.<br />
<br />
The last two years have been shocking to those of us who live in privilege. Many white people have been surprised to discover how much prejudice is still based on skin color, how racism is still built into the fabric of our institutions, and how there are people who will still march in white supremacy rallies. In the past, it's been easy for white people to not notice this stuff, but during the last two years, the heightened level of racist rhetoric and action has become impossible to ignore. Many men are surprised to discover that women are still harassed, assaulted, and raped, and that sexism still exists. They thought some of these problems had gone away. Straight people thought that homophobia was something that had disappeared over the last decade. Many of us thought that we lived in a country that welcomed immigrants, that valued a free press, and that allowed religions of all types to flourish without persecution.<br />
<br />
These are dark times, but they are times of enlightenment as well. It's getting harder and harder for anyone to pretend that we live in a country where people are treated equally and have equal opportunities.<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/31996740823/in/photostream/" nbsp="" title="Pensive"><img alt="Pensive" height="640" src="https://farm3.staticflickr.com/2902/31996740823_d3f8b9a4f7_z.jpg" width="432" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
As I continue the naked photo project and I continue to spend time in circles of women, I've noticed that our conversations are getting even more intense. Something is happening in the country. Women are speaking out, women are running for political office, and women are getting more powerful. Women (and their many allies, including most men I know) are fighting back against misogyny, racism, homophobia, xenophobia and all forms of injustice. I hope someday when I talk to my great grandchildren about this period of history, I'll describe it as a turning point.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-22052847261532422722018-11-21T13:28:00.000-05:002018-11-21T13:28:00.805-05:00No place like home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Thanksgiving might be my favourite holiday. It involves all the usual holiday traditions -- gathering with friends and family, plus lots of food -- but it's the one holiday that I don't host, which means I don't have to do any of the work.<br />
<br />
We used to have Thanksgiving at my mother's house, but now that she's in her eighties, the holiday has moved to my daughter's house, skipping over me altogether. It's perfect. In fact, we've even cut down on the drive time. My parents live only six miles away from me, but my daughter lives even closer: only 2.7 miles away.<br />
<br />
I've got the week off from classes so Thanksgiving week is a relaxed week at home, enjoying the new snow and grading student portfolios in front of the fire. Last night, my husband and I watched a movie about Charles Dickens.<br />
<br />
This morning, I mentioned to my son With-a-Why (the only one of my four kids still living at home) that I'd invited a student to join us for dinner. "She's from Kansas," I explained. "And it doesn't make sense for her to fly home so close to the end of the semester."
"<br />
<br />
He looked at me seriously. "Can't she just click her heels three times?"
</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-35800016251475004302018-09-17T17:22:00.000-04:002018-09-17T17:28:03.035-04:00Wildflower: Naked in the campus garden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/30876893888" title="Wildflower"><img src="https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1896/30876893888_b8fa664793_z.jpg" width="428" height="640" alt="Wildflower"></a><script async src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js" charset="utf-8"></script><br />
<br />
When I read creative writing at conferences, I don't use pseudonyms. But otherwise, the way I write an essay isn't much different than how I write a blog post, except that it gets revised a million times. So I shouldn't have been surprised when I read an essay at the Maple Leaf Version of the Friendly Green Conference, and a woman in the audience — I'll call her Wildflower -- came up to tell me that she'd recognized me from Blogging Days of Yore.<br />
<br />
Any blogger knows what happened next: we immediately began talking as if we'd known each other forever, comparing notes about which blogs we read, and sharing intimate details about our own lives. By the time we left the building to walk across campus for lunch, she'd agreed to pose naked for my blog. It's a tradition, after all.<br />
<br />
"Let's go to the botanical gardens," I said. The gardens were marked clearly on the campus map. I wasn't sure how private they'd be, but all that lush green would make a lovely backdrop.<br />
<br />
So we walked quickly along the road, talking the whole time, and soon we came to a small gate: the gardens! Stepping past the gate, we stepped into another world: one where ferns brushed against our legs and flowering trees dangled their branches into our faces as we walked along the path. We were both still carrying laptops and wearing conference nametags, but even so, I could feel the weight of the conference slide off my shoulders as we followed one curving path and then another.<br />
<br />
We weren't alone. A young couple wandered hand-in-hand, a teenage girl had stopped to sketch something in her notebook, and a man in a blazer was checking his smart phone as he walked. But I led Wildflower confidently towards the back of the garden. Surely we could find a private spot.<br />
<br />
Once all humans were out of sight, Wildflower stripped off her clothes and stepped off the path, walking carefully to make sure she didn't tread on any little plants.<br />
<br />
"Listen," she said, turning her head slightly.<br />
<br />
Perfect, I thought, I'll get a photo of her listening to birdsong.<br />
<br />
But it wasn't birdsong she was hearing. The noise grew louder: squeals, chatter, laughter. As Wildflower posed naked amidst the trees, we could hear the unmistakable sounds of a party. I could even hear the clinking of glasses.<br />
<br />
Had we walked in a circle back to the entrance? Was the botanical gardens holding some kind of gala event?<br />
<br />
I snapped the photo quickly, and Wildflower began putting her clothes back on just as a man in a white dress shirt and black pants came around the corner. Curious, we walked towards the party, which was easy since it was about twenty feet away. The gardens, in turns out, had more than one entrance. In my confident stroll to the back of the garden I'd led us right to the back gate, and to a reception held just outside the gate. We waved to the bartender as we walked through, and then found our way back to campus.
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-85724026101085679292018-09-12T14:56:00.001-04:002018-09-12T14:56:47.742-04:00Candles for Algernon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I couldn't figure out what the smell in the kitchen was. Finally, I pulled out the drawer underneath the stove and there, at the very back, was a dead mouse, caught in a mousetrap that I'd left there last spring. I pulled the mouse out and gave it a proper burial by tossing it into the woods, and then I scrubbed the linoleum.<br />
<br />
But still, the odor lingered. So I grabbed the two small yellow beeswax candles in glass votive candle holders that were sitting on a windowsill. I lit the candles and set them on the floor in front of the stove. Surely that would get rid of the smell, now that I'd removed the source.<br />
<br />
My youngest son, With-a-Why, the only one of my four grown children still living at home, came downstairs and looked at the candles curiously.<br />
<br />
With-a-Why: What's that?<br />
Me: There was a dead mouse.<br />
With-a-Why: So you're having a vigil?<br />
<br />
Yes. That's it exactly.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-86185540049988358882018-03-21T22:22:00.001-04:002018-03-21T22:37:47.759-04:00Naked in the sunshine state<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/39138770460/in/dateposted/" title="Sunshine"><img alt="Sunshine" height="500" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4780/39138770460_a48707ca5c.jpg" width="334" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
Last month, when my usual conference roommate had to cancel her plans to come to the Big Creative Writing Conference, I found myself scrambling at the last minute to get a roommate. I sent out a plea, and within a few minutes, Gorgeous Writer Who Likes to Ski sent me an email.<br />
<br />
Her quick willingness to invite me to share her room was lovely and gracious, but seconds later, another email chimed in. Her message got right to the point: "But I'm not posing naked for you."<br />
<br />
Well, then.<br />
<br />
I figured that with 10,000 writers all gathered in one place, surely I could find another volunteer.<br />
<br />
First I asked a certain Red-haired Activist, who keeps promising that he'll pose SOMEDAY. I suspect by now that SOMEDAY will never come, but it's a tradition me to ask him. At the end of a ridiculous conversation in which he made promises about poses that weren't even possible unless he was secretly a contortionist, he admitted, "I'll probably never pose. I'm really just a tease." Yeah, I knew that.<br />
<br />
It's my experience that women are more likely pose anyhow. "It's because we're used to it," one woman said when we talking about it at the bar. "We know it's expected of us."<br />
<br />
"But this project subverts that," said another woman. "We're used to posing for the male gaze, but instead, we get to choose the pose that we like."<br />
<br />
I love how my women friends get me. And I love how quick they are to volunteer.
I turned to my friend Free Woman and said, "Hey, what are you doing tomorrow morning?" And she responded, "Posting naked for you." That's the attitude I like to see.<br />
<br />
We were in the Sunshine State, so of course we immediately made plans to take advantage of the warm weather. "I've got a balcony," she said. Perfect.<br />
<br />
It was still chilly outside when I arrived at her room the next morning. Free Woman and her partner had just finished eating breakfast on the balcony. I began moving the furniture into the room while she looked down at the river walk below, a lovely and it turns out, a very public place.<br />
<br />
"There's a whole group of people just standing there," she said. It's true. I'd seen them on my way up. They were waiting for a tour or something.<br />
<br />
"Oh, they aren't looking this way," I assured her. So she stripped off her clothes, while I tried to wedge myself into the farthest corner of the tiny balcony. I wanted to get her whole body into the picture, but the size of the balcony made it difficult. I could probably have gotten a great shot if I'd climbed onto the railing and leaned way out, but we were several stories up. I thought risking my life for the project might be just a bit much.<br />
<br />
Free Woman's partner sat inside on the bed, looking at his laptop. That's usually what happens when there's an extra person in the room during a photo shoot. They generally try to stay out of the way. But then he looked up. I could tell from his face he didn't think me climbing up onto the rail would be such a great idea. "Take the shot from here," he said. "You could frame the shot with the door."<br />
<br />
I moved quickly inside. "Just act natural," I called to Free Woman. But she wasn't even listening. She was leaning on the rail of the balcony with one elbow and looking out to see if anyone was looking at her. That's when I snapped the photo.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-35744946386134428112017-11-17T09:51:00.000-05:002017-11-17T09:51:08.516-05:00Reaching for the sky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/37622399554/in/photostream/" nbsp="" title="SkyWoman"><img alt="SkyWoman" height="334" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4520/37622399554_df72e816bf.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
Our conference last weekend was held on a campus the size of a small city, nestled into a desert ecosystem. The walkways, shaded by tall arrays of solar panels, were crowded with students who are seemed to be in constant motion: walking, running, zooming by on skateboards, or weaving through on bicycles. Amidst this swirl of young energy, we conference folks gathered outside an art gallery to drink wine, meet new colleagues, and find old friends.<br />
<br />
I'd been at the party for about twenty minutes before someone asked, "Who's going to pose naked for you this year?"<br />
<br />
I looked at Sky Woman. We hadn't seen each other in a few years and were in the midst of catching up. "Want to pose?" I asked. I wasn't even sure if she remembered the project, but she grasped the point quickly.<br />
<br />
"Naked?" she asked. "Sure."<br />
That's the level of cooperation I like to see in a friend.<br />
<br />
"I just can't get arrested," Sky Woman said. "Or at least, if I get arrested, I need to be out of jail and on a plane on Sunday. I don't want to miss my plane."<br />
<br />
"We're white, middle-aged women," I said. "We won't get arrested."<br />
"That's true," she said. "We're invisible. We can use that to our advantage."<br />
<br />
We decided to meet early Saturday morning before the sunlight became harsh. I asked Local Friend, who worked on campus, if she knew of a private place where we could take a discreet nude photo. She said, "I can't think of any. There are always people around. We have 90,000 students."<br />
<br />
She said helpfully, "But if you get arrested, call me. I'm good for bail." That was reassuring.<br />
<br />
I'd seen a place earlier that I thought was worth exploring. It wasn't exactly private. In fact, it might well be the most famous building on campus. My roommate and I had walked past it every day, and we called it the Fancy Cupcake Building. Huge and circular, it was a performing arts center designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.<br />
<br />
When we met up Saturday morning, Sky Woman said she loved the idea of posing with such a famous building. And the campus, as we walked along, seemed surprisingly quiet. Perhaps all 90,000 students were still asleep.<br />
<br />
As we walked, we talked about the grey hair and wisdom that comes with age. "I have no fucks left to give," she said. "It's very freeing. I wish I could give that feeling to younger women."<br />
<br />
Sunlight shone on the long curving walkway that led up into the building. About halfway up, we paused. We had a great view of the campus, with parking lots below us. Sky Woman stripped off her clothes and began stretching in the sun.<br />
<br />
"I think yoga is paying off," she called out. The sunlight bounced off the building, off her skin.<br />
<br />
"Woo hoo!" Someone yelled from the parking lot. We both looked down. Cars were pulling in, perhaps to begin their workday. A woman had stepped from her station wagon, and she raised both arms in what we could only assume was an encouraging cheer.<br />
<br />
Sky Woman laughed and reached toward the deep blue sky. I snapped the photo.
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-15781715776671291192017-11-08T09:45:00.001-05:002017-11-08T09:45:21.586-05:00The naked splashing woman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/38210368166/in/dateposted/" nbsp="" title="Splash"><img alt="Splash" height="500" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4565/38210368166_cd61f03da6.jpg" width="334" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
Every fall, I join women friends for a weekend retreat in the mountains. We bring food, and books, and stories about our lives. We dance by the fire, give each other massages, and hike through gorgeous fall foliage. This year was no different. The lovely lodge where we stayed, with it's floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a mountain lake, was filled with conversation and laughter.<br />
<br />
But it was a somber weekend too. We're all in our 50s and 60s. We've all been through difficult life experiences. Many of us have aging parents that we help care for. Some of us have been through divorce or difficult break-ups. We've lost siblings and friends. None of us are untouched by death or heartbreak. We're a group of friends who confide in each other, who listen to each other's stories, and we talk as we eat or walk or sit by the fire.<br />
<br />
None of us have advice for each other. We know there is nothing we can say. But just telling stories and knowing that your friends are listening: that has value. By Sunday, we were all feeling lighter, happier, and more at peace. Sharing burdens has that effect.<br />
<br />
And the weather was in our favor. The sun shone down as if it were July rather than October. Few of us thought to bring bathing suits, but that didn't matter. Skinny dipping is our tradition, after all. As we left the lodge, bringing towels with us, I grabbed my camera.<br />
<br />
"This will be the perfect setting for a naked photo shoot," I said.
<br />
Dancing Woman shrugged, "I'm in."<br />
<br />
There were a few motorboats on the lake, but I assured Dancing Woman that they were far away. She stripped off her clothes and waded into the water.
"Splash !" I yelled to her. I stepped in the lake too, up to my knees, in order to keep the sun behind me.<br />
<br />
Dancing Woman splashed, tentatively at first, and then in bigger and bigger splashes of water. Pretty soon, she was playing in the lake the way a child would, getting everything around her wet. Any self-consciousness disappeared as she danced along, spraying lake drops into the sky, so that it fell onto her hair, her bare arms, her whole body.<br />
<br />
She kept going long after I was done taking my photo.
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-38919674166260064732017-07-20T14:08:00.000-04:002017-07-20T14:08:04.014-04:00The two-for-one naked photo shoot<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/35878477922/in/dateposted/" title="Reflection"><img alt="Reflection" height="334" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4307/35878477922_ab16beec7a.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
When LovesBooks told me that she was coming to the Friendly Green Conference, I knew that she’d get naked for me. Heck, she <a href="http://writingasjoe.blogspot.com/2015/04/blogger-meet-up-naked-of-course.html">practically risked her life</a> to pose for me two years ago – and she stripped naked <a href="http://writingasjoe.blogspot.com/2016/04/naked-in-snow.html">IN THE SNOW</a> to pose for me last year. I wondered what she’d be willing to do this year. I soon found out: she brought her husband and got him to pose too.<br />
<br />
That’s one of the things I love about the naked photo project — the way it gathers momentum. Once someone poses, they usually start coercing their friends to get naked for me as well. When Great Blue Heron finally posed for me, after years of pressure from his friends, he said to me, “I’m relieved to be in the club.”<br />
<br />
All the cool kids pose naked for my blog. Everyone knows that.<br />
<br />
I had a fun time getting to know Trail Mix, the husband of LovesBooks, and we all agreed to meet on the last morning of the conference for an early morning photo shoot. I figured everyone would be relaxed because we’d have all of our obligations out of the way. What I forgot to factor in was how sleep-deprived we’d all be.<br />
<br />
As the three of us stumbled sleepily out of the dorm, I looked around at the campus buildings, filled with windows and people, and wondered where the heck we could find a secluded spot. I was so tired that my head felt like someone had filled it with jello which was congealing nicely.<br />
<br />
Luckily, Trail Mix had given the enterprise some thought. “Remember that building where we had the opening reception? There were reflecting pools. And even naked statues.”
I knew the spot he meant. It wasn’t terribly private. In fact, it was right in the middle of the campus.<br />
<br />
But he led us confidently over to the spot, stripped off his clothes, and handed them to his wife. It helped, actually, having an assistant. It’s nice to have someone to hold the clothes.<br />
<br />
He walked barefoot over to the sculptures and began posing, while I yelled ideas. “Put your arms in the air! Now, maybe a sitting down shot? Like you’re doing yoga?”<br />
<br />
“Ouch,” Trail Mix said as he sat down obligingly. “The stones are a little rough on my butt.”<br />
<br />
“Think of it as a massage,” LovesBooks said helpfully.
I snapped the photo pretty quickly, just as the sun was coming up over the building.<br />
<br />
“You might as well get a shot of me,” LovesBooks volunteered, before I even asked. Seriously, I love this couple. She sat down near the water, her legs stretched out, and I took the shot.<br />
<br />
We didn’t even have time to look at the photos on my computer. We squinted at the photos in the back of my camera and exchanged hugs all around before they went back to pack up for their journey home.</div>
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/35915224741/in/photostream/" title="Morning Sun"><img alt="Morning Sun" height="334" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4303/35915224741_5c2a82ec2c.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.
</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-65272551279941808652017-06-29T19:04:00.003-04:002017-06-29T19:25:03.154-04:00Out on a limb<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This spring, I got the distinct impression that my friend Maine Writer had changed careers. On facebook, I saw photos of her hanging upside down, supported only by a long stretch of silky fabric, and photos of her swinging from a trapeze. There was a fabulous photo of her body stretched out in mid-air, poised and confident, supported only by an aerial hoop.<br />
<br />
Clearly, she’d run off and joined the circus.<br />
<br />
I could imagine it all: raucous music playing under the big top, the smell of popcorn and elephant manure, the sawdust floor, the bright silks – and Maine Writer swinging from a trapeze to thunderous applause. I figured she would quickly make friends with the lion tamer, the clowns, and the ringmaster. She’s got that personality. Within days of joining a circus, she’d be star of the show, and what’s more, she’d be friends with EVERYONE.<br />
<br />
But when Maine Writer arrived at Friendly Green Conference last week, she seemed just the same. Still a writer. Oh, she had the shiny brightness of a trapeze artist, for sure, but she was talking about a book she just wrote and brainstorming ideas for the next book. When I asked about the photos, she said, “I went to circus camp!” Ah. A once-per-week camp? That made more sense.<br />
<br />
Her circus camp training, we both felt, would come in very handy for a naked photo shoot. We just needed to find a tree with smooth branches so she could dangle naked. We planned to get up at dawn — really, we intended to venture out early, before a single soul was out — but of course, the Friendly Green Conference means late nights with friends we hardly ever see, and so it happened that the campus was populated with colleagues walking to sessions by the time we began strolling about in search of a place for a naked photo.<br />
<br />
Our friend Ocean Breeze came with us, and rain began to sprinkle down as we walked along. Conditions weren't ideal -- but then again, they so rarely are.<br />
<br />
We’d been talking, that morning, about relationships, and the ways in which we are vulnerable. At Maine Writer’s reading the night before, she’d read a piece in which the emotion was so raw that half the room was crying by the time she was done.<br />
<br />
“There are people coming this way,” Ocean Breeze warned in her quiet way, as we stopped by some trees and Maine Writer stripped off her clothes. We hadn’t gone very far. We were right in the middle of campus, in fact. And it was daylight.<br />
<br />
“I’ll just climb into this tree,” said Maine Writer. It’s true that being naked in public can make most of us feel vulnerable. But perhaps it’s different for writers. I mean, once you’ve taken the smashed pieces of your heart, held them up to the overhead lights of a bookstore, and shown them to a roomful of friends and strangers and people who love you – perhaps being naked physically is easy in comparison.
<br />
<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/35618689165/in/dateposted/" title="Out on a limb"><img alt="Out on a limb" height="334" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4033/35618689165_6e0124d0df.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.
</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799907.post-88224131266082656302017-06-28T13:28:00.001-04:002017-06-28T14:04:53.913-04:00The Man with the Great Blue Heron Tattoo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/writingasjoe/35462613351/in/dateposted/" nbsp="" title="GreatBlueHeronTattoo"><img alt="GreatBlueHeronTattoo" height="500" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4217/35462613351_321e375681.jpg" width="334" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
<br />
You’d think it would be awkward, asking a man to come back to my room to strip off his clothes, but really it wasn’t. I’ve known the Man with the Great Blue Heron Tattoo for many years, but we only see each other at conferences, so we were both talking like crazy as we walked across the campus where the Friendly Green Conference was held. He shared with me the story of a dramatic health crisis (now safely in the past), and we were so busy catching up on the goings-on of our spouses and grown children that, before you knew it, we were in my dorm room.<br />
<br />
The room was private, but otherwise not an ideal place for a photo shoot: lots of wooden furniture crammed into a small space, with a single window and a bed across the space in front of the window. My friend wanted his tattoo in the photo, but not his face (I assure all who pose for me that the photos will be anonymous), and unfortunately, he’s not a contortionist.<br />
<br />
“I think you should pose with a computer,” I said. “You’re so quick to reply to emails, no matter what time of day.” I grabbed my laptop and handed it to him.
He leaned over the computer, touched a couple of keys. And then he was so startled that, naked or not, he turned to look at me. “YOUR COMPUTER ISN’T PASSWORD-PROTECTED?”<br />
<br />
I held up my camera and looked at my friend standing stark naked in my room. “THAT is what you find startling about this situation?”<br />
<br />
“But really, you ought to have a password,” he said, patiently, gently, the way he likely talks to his daughters. He pulled up a photo of a great blue heron so that the picture on the screen would echo his tattoo. Yes, we are THAT clever. Then I told him that my smart phone wasn’t password protected either. It seemed ironic, somehow, for the naked man in my room to tell me that I’m too trusting. He’s probably right.<br />
<br />
In the end, we managed to get the great blue heron into the shot. And we did find time later in the conference to sit and talk about how much we love that beautiful, graceful, ageless bird. He shared with me his decision to get a tattoo, to mark a moment in his life or perhaps, I should say, the graceful passage from one moment to the next.
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Read more about the history of </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/p/about-project.html" style="font-style: italic;">the naked blogging project </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and check out </span><a href="http://nakedblogphoto.blogspot.com/" style="font-style: italic;">the gallery of photos</a>.</div>
jo(e)http://www.blogger.com/profile/01488562158252331555noreply@blogger.com14