adorn {8/23/14}

August 23, 2014Kelley Clink

I've always wanted to wear lots of fun, funky jewelry and bright, interesting makeup. I see other women doing it and they look fantastic. The problem is whenever I try it, I don't look like "me." I don't feel like me. I feel the most like myself with clean skin, comfy clothes, and no more jewelry than my wedding band. (Fun fact: the band in the picture below is actually my second one. You can read the back story here, on my old blog).

I do, however, love tattoos. Had my husband not gently suggested I wait two years between each one, I'd probably be covered in them. I think his approach is a good one, though. It forces me to really think about what I want to put on my skin and why. The more thought and meaning that goes into each, the better. The next one I'm planning is going to be pretty big (in size and significance), and it will probably be more like three to five years before it happens. Maybe in the meantime I'll try some dangly earrings.

It is REALLY freaking hard to photograph your own back tattoo.

shadows {8/22/14}

August 22, 2014Kelley Clink

Crazy beautiful evening light on my back steps:

keeping it real {8/21/14}

August 21, 2014Kelley Clink

Day 21: wherein I am too tired to get half the stuff on my list done, it rains all day, and all the pictures I take look shitty.

Hey, a plant.

late bloomer {8/20/14}

August 20, 2014Kelley Clink

Today's prompt: Peaceful

black and white {8/19/14}

August 19, 2014Kelley Clink

A long, long time ago, in this galaxy, I took pictures with film.

It was something I started about two months after my brother died. The darkroom was my sanctuary. I spent hours in that muted, orange light, thinking of nothing but the images in front of me. I don't know that I've ever been as present as I was in those moments, and honestly, it saved my life.

I miss it sometimes; the focus, the immersion. I miss the meditative nature of the process, the depth of tones, the texture of film.

But I don't miss being constrained by black and white. It was appropriate, then. It felt right and simple and good. It took me years to stop seeing the world in shadows, to let in the colors all around me.

My life is full of color now, but I will always find an aching beauty, a particular memory, in black and white.

and the net will appear {8/18/14}

August 18, 2014Kelley Clink

Last year my lovely friend LW packed up her life, left her job and her home, and moved to the Rocky Mountains to pursue a new career path.

Today's prompt: Jump! Here's LW, taking a celebratory leap in front of a building that once housed her great-grandfather's delicatessen.

I don't think I have to tell you what an inspirational act of bravery that is. We all know how hard change can be. I can't count how many times I've stayed in dysfunctional, or even destructive, situations because the alternative--The Unknown--was just too scary. I can't tell you how many opportunities I've missed out on because I was afraid to take a chance. And I certainly can't total up the hours I've spent suffering because I tried to fight changes that were inevitable, that were beyond my control.

Like most humans, I am a creature of habit. And, like most humans, I crave variety and adventure. I hem and haw and stress and yearn and over-think. I weigh and want and dream. And then, eventually, I jump.

It's terrifying and wonderful all at the same time. Sometimes it works out for the best, and sometimes it doesn't. But I can tell you this: I have yet to regret a single leap.

a long-distance love affair {8/17/14}

August 17, 2014Kelley Clink

I discovered Paris in the summer of 2005. Throngs of tourists packed the Champs Elysee and Luxembourg Gardens, the sky over the Eiffel Tower was a washed out, heat-scorched blue, and I was laying on a blanket on my small patch of front yard in Chicago.

I've never actually been to Paris. My first meaningful encounter with the City of Light came (as so many of my first meaningful encounters do) through the pages of a book. This time it was A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway. It had been a little more than a year since my brother died. I was 26 and attempting yet another career change. I hated nearly everything about my life--about life in general. But in the pages of that book I found a city pulsing with creativity. History. Beauty. I walked the narrow, winding streets and wide, majestic boulevards. I sat alongside the rushing river and sipped coffee and aperitifs on sidewalk cafes. I was somewhere different.

I was someone different.

I can't say that Paris became an obsession--more like a dream. An alternate universe I could escape to when I needed escape. In the decade since reading A Moveable Feast for the first time, I've developed a small collection of passages to Paris (seen above). When life becomes more than I can manage, I trace the pages of walking tours. I drink in the spectacular colors and details of photography books. Or, most recently, I pound the pavement with Georges Simenon's Inspector Maigret (talk about a not-so-guilty pleasure).

Visiting Paris is still at the top of my bucket list. I know the odds that the brick-and-mortar will match up with the Paris of my mind are slim, and I don't care. No matter what reality reveals, I know it will be spectacular.

look down {8/16/14}

August 16, 2014Kelley Clink

As someone who writes about suicide, mental illness, and grief, I have felt compelled to respond to the death of Robin Williams. The problem is, I haven't known quite what to say. What do you say, when a beloved celebrity takes his own life? What do you say when anyone dies by suicide?

There are the initial, obvious truths: my heart hurts for him, for the pain he experienced throughout his life. My heart hurts for his family and friends, for the grief they will experience for years. My heart also swells with gratitude for the body of work he created. I suspect the depth of feeling that led him into depression and addiction was also the root of his ability to capture and reflect the full spectrum of human emotions. What a gift. What a burden.

Here's the thing about suicide: it can seep backward and stain an entire life. For years after my brother's suicide, I could only think about him in terms of his death. Any moment of joy or happiness was called into question. He'd suffered so deeply for so long--had any of the pleasure in life he'd expressed been real?

It took a very, very long time for that stain to fade. For me to allow my brother's life to be about more than his death. He, like Mr. Williams, made people laugh. He comforted. He celebrated. He loved.

Robin Williams's work may be tinged with bittersweetness, for a while. Some people may be angry. Some people may judge. I think most people will just feel sadness, and hopefully compassion. Eventually the stain will fade, and we will be left with his beautiful life. In the meantime, I hope the discussions that his death have sparked will continue. I hope we will think more deeply and more compassionately about helping each other through this sometimes overwhelming shit-storm called life. I hope we will talk more about suicide prevention and destigmatizing mental illness. And I hope we will remember to be gentle with each other, and ourselves.