L E A K I N G H E A R T SV O L U M E T W O : G E N E R A T I O N S

“He said, ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or

who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and

you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are real you can’t be ugly, except to

people who don’t understand.’”

L E A K I N G H E A R T S

T H E V E L V E T E E N R A B B I T

4COVER PHOTOGRAPHY BY ALL IX RUBY

76

W E L C O M EOne of the first novels I ever read as a child is one that has stayed with me over the years—about

love and loss and friendship and family. Reading it, I wept and laughed and practically became

the heroine of the story. I felt a bond, deeper than I can explain, between her and I; a connection

that linked my deepest desires, greatest fears, and most passionate loves to hers. Reading the

schoolgirl’s words of adoration for her father made me get warm goose bumps all over my arms,

and as she lost her best friend, I became determined to cherish each occasion with my own

Daddy. It was the words on the pages of that book that first instilled in me an appreciation for

those I hold closest to my heart. It was then that I first listened in terror to the second hand of

the living room clock and promised myself to not waste even one minute. As I grew up, like all of

us do, I forgot about the thief that is time and let it trick me into wishing I were older, smarter,

taller, and stronger. Living in the ‘now’ is a seemingly impossible way of life; a misinterpreted

lifestyle that many spend carelessly.

Some things stay the same: the kettle humming on the stove and how he sings her name, the

same way he did on the day they first met. She has lost her chub and her rolls and her lisp, but

somehow when she laughs, her mother sees her big girl as a baby cub all over again.

In the short time I’ve been walking the Earth, I’ve fallen flat on my face, dropped a plastic

plate out of the car window while driving on the freeway, eaten rotten yogurt (by accident),

mistaken “pro-nun-ciate” for “enunciate,” and walked into a glass door among many other

embarrassingly hilarious mishaps. I have made friends and lost friends, moved across the world,

had best days and worst days, cried until my eyes turned raw, and let countless unproductive

hours go by. But I have also come to see that although recovering lost time is impossible,

recounting past highs and lows keep the memories alive in my soul.

This edition of Leaking Hearts is our attempt to make you think about your own life, your own

past, and the past of those who came before you. It is a challenge to write, to take photos, and to

make every effort to remember. By reading the contents of this small book, we hope and pray

that you will see the beauty of generations in a different way; a way that inspires you to tell your

young ones bedtime stories from your childhood; to make home videos; to appreciate every

second; and to savor every crumb of chocolate—or crust of bread—that you get.

C L A I R E G R U V E R , E D I T O R I N C H I E F

PHOTOGRAPHED BY L AUREN APEL

98 PHOTOGRAPHED BY CL AIRE GRUVER

C O N T R I B U T O R S

R . J . H O P K I N SOhio

S A I L I G R U V E RJohannesburg, South Africa

S T E V E N W O O L L E YJohannesburg, South Africa

J O V A N V A N S T E L T E NJohannesburg, South Africa

J O R D A N & K E L L Y C L A R KKansas

R O X A N N E C O L I NParis, France

A M Y N Y S T R O MKansas

R U T H S T O E B E N E RKansas

L O G A N C O L ECalifornia

C A T W A T S O NIllinois

A M A N D A W A T T E R SKansas

L A U R E N & M A R K A P E LTexas

C A R O L I N E L E E Maryland

R A C H E L C L A R K EOhio

G I L L I A N S T E V E N SVancouver, Canada

L A U R A H A R R I SKingston, Canada

D A N I E L L E V A N M E T E RJohannesburg, South Africa

K R I S T E N M O R R I S Oklahoma

CONTRIBUTORS

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W E L C O M E

T H E P L A C E O F G O I N G

C O N T R I B U T O R S

B A N A N N A C R E P E S

R A I N B O W B L U R S

W H A T I H A V E L E A R N E D

A N E W I D E A : P O V E R T Y P O R N

L I V E B I G , L O V E H A R D , G I V E B A C K

S T R A W H O U S E

K I D S

Y O U W I L L S E E H I M

P R E S E R V E S

S P R E A D

H I M & H E R

N O P L A C E O N E A R T H

S I X S E C R E T S T O S P R I N G C L E A N I N G

L I F T O F F

T H E I M P O R T A N C E O F H O M E

S E E D S

A L E T T E R F R O M T H E T O O T H F A I R Y

A N O N

07

08

12

20

22

28

30

34

40

44

50

52

60

66

69

76

78

86

90

96

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L O N G D A Y S , S H O R T Y E A R S A N D S I L V E R L I N I N G S104

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S

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T H E I M P O R TA N C E O F H O M EB Y A M A N D A W A T T E R S , I N - H O M E P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y L I Z R U D M A N

My husband and I have always been in love with the idea of growing our family in a forever

home. A place all our own where we can spend those balmy summer months soaking up the

sun as our barefooted babes run around the yard, a place where our little one’s names are carved

in the side of the wood trim telling us how much they’ve grown over the years, a place we can

really sink our teeth into and make lasting memories that we will carry with us into the later

chapters of our lives.

Although adventure, exploration and travel are something our family enjoys, we favor a slower

pace at home over being constantly on the move. We are homebodies through and through, and

wouldn’t have it any other way. The four of us, soon to be five, relish in the rituals that we have

cultivated here at home together. Our everyday habits have turned into necessities for the sheer

amount of comfort and delight that they bring: fairytales before bedtime, setting and gathering

round our table for dinner, drip coffee in bed on Saturdays, and afternoons making crafts in the

kitchen. These are some of the little things that we do on a regular basis that continue to ground

us as a family and set the tempo of our life.

What attracted us to this home was its unmatched character and romantic 1920’s charm. This

old colonial, standing proudly on a tree adorned street in Kansas City, caught our eye and gave

us butterflies from the moment we laid eyes on it. Walking in felt right, like this was where our

family was supposed to grow up. Moving in was like giving an old friend a hug: calm, warm

and inviting. Despite the lapse of time since moving in, these sentiments are ones that are only

growing stronger.

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We are finding, as our roots in this new home grow deeper with each leaf that falls and blade

of grass that grows, that some of our traditions and family rituals compliment the changing of

seasons. Living in the Midwest offers an abundance of beauty year-round, and as a family we like

to take advantage of each, embracing what Mother Nature throws our way, albeit sunshine or

snow. These chilly winter months were made up of my husband building a fire on the weekends,

sipping hot tea before going to bed, lounging with the newspaper in hand, and giving the kids

long lavender bubble baths when it was far too cold to play outdoors. As the birds start to chirp

and the wind brings along warmer air, how we spend our days will take on a different shape and

new rituals will take the place of the old. Spring will creep in like a love song, and slowly, color will

find its way back to rolling lawns and flowerbeds.

Somewhere in that fleeting phase where spring greets summer, we will bring home a brand new

baby to this place we’ve so lovingly tended to for the last year now. Together as five, we will make

new memories and it will be hard to recall life before three children. As our needs change, the

makeup of our home will too. The newborn nursery now nestled in our bedroom will move into

one of the kid’s rooms, where two of our children will share a space for years and years, and heaps

of giggles before bedtime, I am quite sure. The thought of that togetherness brings me more joy

than words on a page can express.

But before the baby arrives, the four of us have little projects we are eager to start. In the

coming weeks we look forward to growing our family garden three times the size it was last year.

There’s nothing quite as satisfying as making a beautiful meal out of something grown from seed

just a stone’s throw away. With our oldest turning four, she is eager to help me plant, dig, and

taste once our herbs and vegetables have fully ripened. I often think about the evening that I can

walk into my backyard and pick a few peppers to chop and add to a pasta salad we can share in

picnic supper.

Just last summer, our oldest learned the difference between the five herbs we grew in our garden.

Her job, one she did with a beaming smile, was to gather them depending on the recipe we chose,

a little mint here or a little parsley there. Once in awhile, she would bring in something different

altogether, like a bright green unripened tomato, giving us all a laugh. Having her there by my

side as a little helper was far more delicious than anything I could ever whip up in the kitchen.

Those moments, ones we collect daily, are the marrow of life and the beauty of everything.

Sharing simple moments such as these with my children and husband is what has really given

this home life. Although we love the crown molding and antique fixtures of this home, they are

not what give it its breath. It is the pitter-patter of tiny feet across our hardwood floors in the

middle of the night to climb into dad’s side of the bed, the little boy who would rather spend

an afternoon following his mama with a wooden broom to pretend sweep up the entryway, and

nights spent cuddled up on the large chesterfield in the living room eating popcorn and watching

movies. That is home, because ultimately, home is family.

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B A N A N A C R E P E SB Y L I Z R U D M A N

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour,

powdered suagr, and the eggs. Gradually add in the milk

and vanilla, stirring to combine. Add the salt and butter;

beat until smooth. Heat a lightly oiled griddle or frying

pan over medium high heat. Pour or scoop the batter onto

the griddle, using approximately 1/4 cup for each crepe.

Tilt the pan with a circular motion so that the batter coats

the surface evenly brown. Cook the crepe for about 2

minutes, until the bottom is light brown. Loosen with a

spatula, turn and cook the other side. Serve hot.

This is a recipe close to my heart because of the nostalgia that it brings. As a little girl, I

remember my grandparent’s pretty white home in Alaska that we would visit every few years.

We would arrive late in the evenings feeling jet-lagged and sleepy but happy to be at this, our

most cherished place. Our time there was filled with hiking and rock collecting, whale-watching

and bear-spotting, glacier-awing and iceskating. More treasured than these, though, were

the memories made around the table while eating my grandma’s scrumptious food. Grandma’s

baking and cooking, alone, would be a good enough reason to make the twelve hour trip there.

I’m going to be boastful here and tell you: my grandma’s food is the most yummy of yummies.

All of us kids excitedly woke every morning to the oh-so-sweet aroma that had taken over the

house. All of our itty-bitty, happy selves shuffled up the stairs to see what deliciousness might

fill our tummies. “OH BOY. Banana Crepes.” Cue the squeals and roaring stomachs. We scarfed

them down one after another, thanking grandma over and over. Breakfast would end with happy

hearts, full tummies, and food comas. But the good kind. I hope that you, too, might squeal with

giddiness over this recipe and make some memories of your own. Enjoy.

1 . C R E P E M I X T U R E

1 c u p f l o u r

1 / 4 c u p p o w d e r e d s u g a r

1 c u p m i l k

2 e g g s

3 Ta b l e s p o o n s m e l t e d b u t t e r

1 t e a s p o o n v a n i l l a

1 / 4 t e a s p o o n s a l t

2 . C A R A M E L F I L L I N G

1 / 4 c u p b u t t e r

1 / 4 c u p b r o w n s u g a r

1 / 4 t e a s p o o n c i n n a m o n

1 / 4 t e a s p o o n n u t m e g

1 / 4 c u p o f h a l f & h a l f

3 . T O F I N I S H Layer the inside of the crepe with sliced bananas

and a little caramel filling.To finish it off, fold the

crepe, dollop the top with whipped cream, and

drizzle with the caramel filling.

In a sauce pan, melt together the butter, brown

sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Slowly pour in

cream while whisking. Heat until bubbly and

slightly thickened.

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Black. Soot black.

His hair, the only part of him not covered by his blanket, stuck up greasy and curly.

This was our introduction.

His mother went to a social worker when he was a few months because it was becoming more

costly to care for him. We began that day unaware of each other’s lives, until my mom received a

call that a baby boy who would be coming home to us.

It had been five months since our last baby found a forever family, the longest stretch without

newborns for a long while. The first time I saw him, he was already bathed and dressed in

cartoon robot pajamas. We welcomed him with distressing joy; a little boy slept in a stranger’s

house, and somewhere that night, a mother was going home without her baby. The ceiling fan

clanked above us while we watched him in the topaz kitchen light. With no warning, his bottom

lip pushed out defiantly and he gave a heartbreaking wail.

We giggled and kissed his face like indulgent aunts, “Have you ever beheld anything this darling

in all your life?”

There are no instructions for falling in love- it’s not science- but I think it must happen this way:

Blow bubbles on his belly as you dress him in the morning. Serendipitously video the first time

he laughs. Dance with him in the kitchen. Change all the lock-screen photos.

With routine feeding, his cheeks grew indiscernibly chubby; ruby shaded; made his eyes

disappear when he smiled.

It wasn’t only he who developed. My sisters had evolved from housemates to mothers with

every little one welcomed into our home, but we were awed watching each baby gravitate to our

mother as though they somehow suspected she had the most experience of us all. One Saturday

morning, I awoke to her softly singing over the splashes of a bath to our little boy. I walked into

the bathroom as she covered his face with little kisses. He lifted his arms towards her, blinking

slowly like ‘do that again’.

R A I N B O W B L U R SB Y D A N I E L L E V A N M E T E R

Whenever newborns lived with us, it felt as though shady hues were peeled away- my mother’s

rosy hands held the world together by kneading bread; the way he looked at his mobile was

the way an astronaut first saw the earth from space. All orphan care involves an element of

distortion, and brokenness shouldn’t be romanticized, but what other explanation could there be

for devastation like this than that molecules and atoms had no choice but to explode from trying

to contain such wonder. Baby boy, he was the most iridescent thing to be born from chaos.

We sisters knew that adoption was a journey we would only be able to take when we were

married and moved out of our parent’s house, so newborns grew in our homes only for the time

it took the social worker to find a family. Our twenty-something hearts raged for the day we

could keep the ones we harbored. And me? I wished mine could begin with this one.

He came the way he left. In rainbow blurs.

“The social worker called,” my mom measured yeast into her dough, “and his mother wants him

back. She shows up in the social worker’s office daily looking for him.”

We were quiet.

She loves him with the fierce love of a mother, she can’t feed him, and this is not her fault. How

mangled stories are sometimes.

Sometimes this house wasn’t big enough to contain our grief. I’d pass my sisters in the kitchen

after the news that the baby we had mama’d together would go next week to the house of need

and we couldn’t even look at each other with this defeat in our eyes. It was worse for my mother,

who tried to carry the combined heaviness of our spirits alone. Those arms, those soothing arms

that patted me through childhood illness and sleepless nights, they had changed like mine.

They were just trying to carry this grief like a Truster, but it was heavy. The first night after he

left, the municipality switched off all electricity. The night turned amethyst with storms while

we stood around holding our palms against the sockets praying they would feel our heat. A

tinned roof house, an urban area, and five women trying to fortify a baby against everything; this

is how realms collide.

I had watched my mother whisper a prayer for only them two and kiss his face for the last time

through her lament.

PHOTOGRAPHED BY RACHEL CL ARKE

26

Then they had driven on, taking him far into the ashen land where he is not unique- townships

strewn with fatherless infants and unprotected women.

My mother comes to each of us.

“Are you going to be okay with this?” She asked.

“What?”

“Having to Entrust.” She capitalized the word.

“I don’t know.” But really, I wanted to say I’m trying to, I swear.

A woman’s heart, it was not designed this way. For the sake of human citizens in crisis we

awaken love before its time. When children are alone, we split open our homes like willing

veins, kidneys, marrow, take ours if his is not sufficient because families will try anything to

rescue each other.

Though we attempted to guard them, our hearts only believed our arms that had held this baby

in the sapphire silence, the voice that hummed lullabies over robot pajamas, and the hands

that shook bottles to appease three AM screams- all these nerve endings designed to signal

belonging.

“What wreckage.” I say, and my sister nods like she had already accepted it.

I crave retreat, but my mother leads us on by unflaggingly stretching out her arms to the next

marvel. Three million orphans live here, and for that we take up our place to fill the gaps in

universal guardianship.

The social worker texts us. “He has arrived back home safely.”

I pack away his clean robot pajamas. Our electricity is switched back on.

29

W H AT I H AV E L E A R N E DFo u r t e e n l i fe l e s s o n s f r o m R u t h ’ s e i g h t y - s i x y e a r s o f e x p e r i e n c e .

O N ETrust God.

He will help you through anything if you will let Him.

T W OEveryone you meet has problems.

Probably worse than yours.

T H R E EIf this is a bad day, tomorrow

will be better.

F O U RTwo very important words are “Thank you”.

Say them often.

F I V EDon’t make promises you can’t keep.

S I XDon’t spend money you don’t have.

Money is not the most important thing in this world, even though

we all need some of it.

S E V E NTell your friends and family often that you love them.

E I G H TSmile and laugh often and think

good thoughts. Kindness pays off.

N I N EListen to other people’s problems and opinions.

T E NBe respectful to people you don’t agree with.

Everyone has a right to their own opinion.

E L E V E NLearn from your mistakes

as well as others.

T W E L V EWatch what you say and how you say it.

T H I R T E E NDon’t be afraid to say, “I’m sorry”

or “I was wrong.” You don’t always have to be

right.

F O U R T E E N

Be thankful for your many blessings. •

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My family and I are crazy about Planet Earth. I could probably watch it all day. Seeing our

beautiful world so incredibly documented makes the wheels in my brain start spinning out trips I

want to take, stories I want to tell, sites I want to see, smells I want to breathe. My brain engine

is greased and ready, revving, eager to embark on some new journey, and then I remember I’m

sitting on the couch with my sisters in our house in Ohio. We’re somewhere in the world, and

it’s beautiful, but it’s not like the elephant herd creating a cloud of dust as they storm across

the African plain, or the cave with a 300 ft. tall pile of bat droppings that millions of bats call

their home, or the great barrier reef in Australia, or the artic fox hunting geese in the tundra.

Watching from our plush seats as the smell of mom’s homemade artisan bread makes it’s way

into the room makes what’s on the screen feel so distant...yet so close. Because at that moment,

I do know the world is rotating, tides are sweeping in and out, and some man is floating down

the amazon on his hollowed-out tree boat, fishing in electric eel-infested waters. We’re all doing

life somewhere.

I always knew these things and imagined how life moves in another cultures and continents. The

foreign unknown is nearly always on my mind. However, there is something so shaking about

exposure to a place you’ve only dreamed of traveling to. Suddenly you’re not just sitting on your

nice comfortable couch staring wide eyed at a screen depicting only a sliver of what a place is

like. You’re walking on the ground of a new-to-you country and seeing strange birds’ nests in

the trees, smelling the air at sunset you can’t even recognize, freaking out as you make your

way through an intersection on the opposite side of the road than you’re used to, hearing many

languages (you don’t know how many, you just know you can’t understand), and learning when

someone looks at you and says, “you’re big”, not to take it offensively.

A N E W I D E A : P O V E R T Y P O R NB Y R A C H E L C L A R K E , P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y C L A I R E G R U V E R

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Even Planet Earth can’t prepare you for this kind of experience. When we went to Winterton,

South Africa last March, a culmination of wonder, excitement, and heartache hit me. The

best pictures and videos don’t ease the eye opening impact received when you see life in rural

mountain villages. It can’t prepare you to see a three year old walking down the highway without

shoes, or when you realize you have more just in your bedroom than these people probably have

in their entire house.

I’m not trying to take you on a guilt trip or make you wallow in forced sympathy or incite

self-deprivation. I am broaching the idea of poverty porn. The concept that we are fascinated

to see poverty in magazines and advertisements, intrigued that “wow, that person only makes

$1 per day,” and curiously amazed at the woman who has to carry water five miles home on

her head every day. Gawking, not giving. Concerned, not convicted. Interested, not impacted.

Sympathetic, not empathetic. We’ve been so bombarded we’ve become desensitized.

This isn’t love. Love is seeing a photo of an impoverished region and praying for the people. Love

is keeping granola bars in your glove box to hand to the man who always sits on the corner trying

to sell newspapers. Love is building relationships and pouring yourself out into lonely, desperate

people who need love, too. It’s aching for that face in the picture, not dismissing it as if the

person is only imaginary. Love is grasping that this is actually real life for people.

Let me change my egotism to compassion. Let me learn from where I have been. •

“ N o t h i n g t h a t y o u h a v e n o t g i v e n a w a y w i l l e v e r r e a l l y b e y o u r s . ”

C . S . L E W I S

35

Living in the beautiful, sea-side city of Victoria on Vancouver Island, artist Laura Harris spends

her days dreaming and doing what she loves: painting. Laura’s talent has provided opportunities

to work with companies like Mercedes Benz, The Ritz Carlton, The Keg and Canaccord. She also

enjoys hosting sporadic creative workshops to encourage and build up young creatives who are

just starting out.

For the most part, she lives in VINCE, Eileen Fisher, Helmut Lang and Levis, and aspires to one

day start her own clothing line. Other bucket list items include returning to Australia with her

family, buying a Volkswagen Westfalia and roadtripping for three months, and designing and

building an oceanfront modern home.

Laura’s greatest joy is her daughter. “Maddie’s very being resides in the deepest part of my

heart… it’s there, ever-present like a continuous beautiful ache. And, the miraculous reality is

that her thirteen year old self has no idea. When she was born I remember thinking, ‘there goes

a big chunk of my heart, literally… it’s been placed in this little girl and she’s going to carry it for

me.’ Beautifully unaware, she moves through her world free of this knowing… unencumbered by

it, and expanding into the gorgeous young woman she is.”

L I V E B I G , L O V E H A R D , G I V E B A C K

B y C l a i r e G r u v e r P h o t o g r a p h y b y G i l l i a n S t e v e n s

A N I N T E R V I E W W I T H L A U R A H A R R I S

36

F R O M T H E T I M E A N I D E A I S S P A R K E D I N Y O U R M I N D , T O T H E F I N I S H E D P I E C E H A N G I N G O N T H E W A L L , D E S C R I B E Y O U R C R E AT I V E P R O C E S S . W H AT P A R T O F T H E J O U R N E Y I S M O S T I N V I G O R AT I N G ?

A lot of my work has a ‘big sky’ feel to it, a theme conjured up on my daily walks through

the forest and by the sea. It is while I’m on these walks with my dogs that I feel immense

connection and am compelled to work it out on canvas, as painting from emotion is the only

route. While I move the paint around the canvas, I connect to something big, something I

cannot quite name, but that feels fantastic and true, and rocks my soul open. There is nothing

more exhilarating and fulfilling for me, than the very first stroke of colour on a fresh white

canvas. That moment never fails to bring me deep joy, offering a certain freedom, liberation,

and there’s always a small twinge of fear to confirm that I’m in exactly the right place, doing

exactly the right thing. I’ve learned time and time again to respect the painting process, for it

knows best how to get to the honesty and beauty of a piece. Armed with my big old brushes and

the spark of an idea, the magic only comes when I let go and trust… trust that my hand and heart

know, and my mind will catch up when it needs to. One consistent thought I have is to paint

what I ache for… nothing less. I’ve heard it said by other artists that the best parts of the process

are in the beginning and the end … I completely agree. The middle bit is ‘work’ (if you can call it

that!). Layer after layer bring my paintings to life and it takes time, patience and a gentle hand. I

know my creative work is done when I stand back and witness a painting breathing on its own. I

apply a thick coat of varnish to protect the work and then send it off on a journey unknown. It is

my deep hope with every piece, that it is truly loved and brings joy in return.

I F T H E W O R L D W E R E B L I N D , H O W W O U L D Y O U D E S C R I B E Y O U R P A I N T I N G S ?

My paintings have been described as beautifully imperfect, and I love that description.

They are semi-abstract in their approach with a process that’s rooted in memory, imagination

and discovery. A lot of my work has a ‘ big sky’ feel to it, a theme conjured up by my

surrounding of woods and sea. They have the ability to stir powerful emotions… they are drippy,

textured, bold, unapologetic, colourful… moving and still all at the same time. They are large in

proportion and emotion, and some of them (if I’m lucky) ask you to come in and stay a while.

They speak about truth, about love, about knowing and opening and trusting… in all its messy

glory.

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W H AT D O E S Y O U R M O T T O , “ L I V E B I G , L O V E H A R D , G I V E B A C K ,” M E A N T O Y O U ? W H AT S T E P S D O Y O U TA K E T O S T R I V E T O L I V E T H I S O U T I N Y O U R E V E R Y D AY L I F E ?

This motto is my barometer, my reminder, my guide. It is always on my wall and it always

brings me back to where I know I want to be. I want to say ‘yes’ to life’s precious experiences,

but be a risk taker and not live in a shadow. I want to love with my whole heart and do it well

in all areas of my life. And most-importantly, for this truly remarkable life and all it’s precious

gifts, I would like to give back… give openly and always.

D U R I N G Y O U R C H I L D H O O D , Y O U R F AT H E R TA U G H T Y O U B A S I C D R A W I N G T E C H N I Q U E S , S P A R K I N G I N Y O U A L O V E F O R C R E AT I N G W H I C H L AT E R D E V E L O P E D A P A S S I O N F O R P A I N T I N G . C O U L D Y O U E X P A N D O N T H I S ?

Both my Mom and Dad are creative, and freedom of expression was strongly encouraged

in our family home. My first art teacher was my Dad, a mechanical draftsman by trade, who

showed me the principles of accurate drawing and perspective. Easily bored and frustrated by

this approach (and never one to conform) I rebelled and chose to break all the rules I learned

and to be free and playful in my approach to art. My style now is largely the product of that

unfettered experimentation. My parents could not be more proud or supportive. If it weren’t for

my Dad’s guidance and my spirited response to it, I truly believe I wouldn’t have known how to

find my own path. I knew intuitively from a very young age to always invest whole-heartedly in

the things that ‘felt good’… whatever brought that spark, that glow, that feeling in the pit of your

stomach that told you ‘I can be good at this’, ’this makes me happy’, ’this is JOY’. I always knew

how I wanted to feel in the world, rather than what I wanted to do. This simple, ’trust your gut’

approach has never failed me and serves as my guide.

W H AT S O R T O F C O M M U N I T Y O F A R T I S T S A R E Y O U S U R R O U N D E D B Y ? H O W D O T H O S E C L O S E S T T O Y O U M O T I V AT E Y O U T O P U S H T O T H E N E X T L E V E L O F E X C E L L E N C E ?

Now in my 45th year, I feel like I’ve found my place in the most amazing tribe.

Relationships that were not healthy for one reason or another have just fallen away and I am

surrounded by good, healthy, pure love. I feel respected, supported, championed, understood

and loved in the arts community and in my personal circle. It is liberating. Emotional safety is

of the utmost importance, especially for the creative heart and I no longer hear criticism, accept

selfish demands or comparisons and I will not be held to any standard. I am accepted as is, I have

friends and family that will rise to my call without question and I have a beautiful man by my

side that loves without agenda, restrictions or boundaries. My artist-soul thrives in this place

and my motivation rises from it.

W H E N Y O U ’ R E N O T P A I N T I N G O R S N U G G L I N G Y O U R P U P P I E S , N O R R I S A N D C H E S T E R , H O W D O Y O U F I L L Y O U R T I M E ?

When I’m not painting or snuggling those dear children with four legs, my general goal is

nourishing my body and soul. I take daily long walks, I practice Ashtanga Yoga with some of the

most accepting, beautiful people I know; I meet dear friends for morning coffee and a laugh;

I fill our kitchen with fresh yummy food, family and friends; and with the sweetest soul-ache, I

support my daughter as an intelligent, beautiful, young woman.

A R E T H E R E C E R TA I N P A I N T S O R B R U S H E S T H AT Y O U F I N D Y O U R S E L F U S I N G M O R E T H A N O T H E R S ?

My brushes are pretty beaten up just the way I like them! I keep them for years and the

wear on each one is different. I definitely have my favourites. With a few exceptions, they are all

hardware brushes and up for the task. There’s nothing pretty or easy about it!

Y O U S AY T H AT M U S I C , C O F F E E , A N D A N U N D Y I N G P A S S I O N F O R W H AT Y O U D O A R E T H R E E T H I N G S T H AT K E E P Y O U G O I N G W H E N T H E D AY S A R E L O N G . W H I C H B L E N D S A N D A U D I O D O Y O U S W A L L O W W H O L E , W I T H O U T H E S I TAT I O N ?

There’s nothing better than a strong, smokey blend of french coffee with full cream.

Heavenly!

Oh I love music!! So hard to pick a few but Alt-J and Chet Faker are on serious repeat these days

along with Ben Howard who’s been in my creative pocket for years. His music literally moves

my brush like magic. Bon Iver, Angus and Julia, the National, London Grammar and of course

Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, James Taylor and Leonard Cohen.

T H I R T E E N Y E A R S I N T H E I N D U S T R Y A N D Y O U ’ R E S T I L L G O I N G S T R O N G . T H E Y S AY T H AT T H E H U R D L E S W E J U M P M A K E U S J U M P H I G H E R . I F Y O U C O U L D , W H AT L E A R N E D - L E S S O N S W O U L D Y O U S H A R E W I T H Y O U R Y O U N G E R S E L F ?

Talk less and listen more. When in doubt, LOVE. Honour your gift, don’t take it for

granted. Don’t be apologetic about your own work, EVER. Take time to master your craft. It’s

all coming and it’s better than you imagine. Trust that ’no’ means ’there’s something better

coming’. Be patient. Put LOVE into it. Rest when you need to… take care of that arm and that

heart.

F R O M Y O U R P E R S O N A L E X P E R I E N C E , W H AT H A B I T S A R E M O S T B E N E F I C I A L T O A N

A R T I S T ’ S G R O W T H ?

Get into the habit of seeking joy. Be still and feel it all. Fill that cup. Be afraid and do it

anyway. Break the rules and do it often. Trust your process. Whole-heartedly accept that your

mistakes are golden. Don’t compare. •

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S E E D SB Y E L I Z A B E T H B R I S T O L

P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y C L A I R E G R U V E R

“For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone. The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes. To someone who doesn’t

understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.” Cynthia Occe l l i

If you were to ask me a year ago what I yearn for most in life, what means the most to me, what

I strive for, what twists and turns the depths of my soul? Growth. A year ago I would have told

you so.

I never could have known what idealizing, believing in such a mantra would come to mean.

How a full year of hard, bitter, rubber-meeting-road could bring the gravity of my own vision

to weigh so heavy in my heart. Contrary to illusionary appearances, most of the things we call

our lives are not birthed in rosy light – tranquil and streaming through an open window. They

come into this world in brokenness. In pain. In sorrow. In death.

Sometimes broken feels like way too much in your arms with nowhere to go. Sometimes empty

feels bigger than more, fuller than nothing. It’s thicker than humid. That’s the worst kind of

empty. Of broken. More often than feeling nothing, the living hell of feeling everything and

still - your limbs being powerless. This is fate? This is ‘supposed to’ be?

You’ve come to the end. Beyond wasted – rocking back and forth. Hope lost to the open sea.

And you keep getting up in the morning just to go to bed again. Days rolling end over end taste

like sawdust. You want to be alive. But all you can see is destruction. You exist...what is it to

live?

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“It’s a process.” People say. Cold water over a restless spirit. What does that even mean? That it

will take a long time? That I won’t understand? That the knots in my stomach turn and tighten

because they must? Because ‘that’s life?’ It is never enough. I really just want to know the why.

Why this process, this thing called growing must be hard. Must be strange. Must be twisted

roots, broken glass, stained cheeks and dirt.

But then…when has a seed (if that be truly what we are) ever understood its growth? Ever seen

its pain as sanctifying grace? The cracking through unborn earth - a brave venture. Sometimes

we forget that hands are moving, though the clock stands still. It’s surprises us, the way the sun

is still here. Not the way that it comes out, as if waking from a long, sluggish dream, but fully

here, and always here. Shining.

And out of the rays there is a voice. It’s calling. Dear child, you’ve watched your limbs take

strange form. You’ve moved them about, and cried when it hurt. Let me tell you a secret. You

will feel like you’re being buried. Buried alive. You will feel the dirt fall heavy on your head and

know the sensation of water filling your lungs. I know it is brutal. It will be. But let me tell you

a secret. You were born for this. You were born for now. You were born to grow. And I know

growing is not what you thought it would be or you aren’t the person you had in mind. But what

form would you rather take? A rose for adoration? A garnet? See, I am making you a tree. A

tree to see the world. Those near the ground receive attention, yes, but can never ever know the

weight of what it means to feel the sun at the earliest part of day. To breathe the wind between

its boughs and watch the earth change with time, foster hope. You, my child, are made for

greater, fuller. You are made to reach skies and play with color.

And you won’t know – you can’t believe just now that inside of you, dear one, you will pour out.

You will grow so tall and fill so full, your insides will pour like water – into seeds that are just

beginning to make their way. Out of the cracked shell of yourself, will grow fields and forests,

flowers and beautiful weeds. That day comes not quite yet. Each one towards it brings a little

more opening, a little more becoming. Waiting. And rain.

“ T h e y t r i e d t o b u r y u s . T h e y d i d n ’ t k n o w w e w e r e s e e d s . ” •

M E X I C A N P R O V E R B

45

C O N F E S S I O N S

Anon

P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y C L A I R E G R U V E R

Meaning “Soon”

0 1

I envy those who are comfortable in their own skin. Vulnerability is my worst weakness.

0 3

I feel like I have had so many dreams that I’ve tried to pursue and they have failed and now I hesitate to chase my dreams at all.

0 2

A coffee a day keeps the stress at bay.

0 4

I desire comfort much too often and forget that this life is not about me.

0 5

I have never been kissed.

0 6

My brain is always going 100mph, yet I have a fear that I will run out of things to say when I’m with people.

Ultimately, I fear silence.

48

“ T h i s i s p a r t o f t h e b e a u t y o f a l l l i t e r a t u r e . Yo u d i s c o v e r t h a t y o u r l o n g i n g s a r e u n i v e r s a l l o n g i n g s , t h a t y o u ’ r e n o t l o n e l y a n d i s o l a t e d

f r o m a n y o n e . Yo u b e l o n g . ” •F . S C O T T F I T Z G E R A L D

51

I twiddled thumbs in painful wait,

As days marched ever by.

I cursed my childhood as a fate

That kept me from the sky.

Trapped in a slowly melting cage,

A match struck in my soul-

Showing the shackles of my age

To be broken and dull.

The blaze grew bright behind my eyes.

My faulty prison burned.

The secret to break all my ties

Did not have to be learned.

I held the power in my hand

To move forward and feel.

My youth was but a grain of sand.

My future, now, was real.

So onward at a rush I sped,

Feet pounding with my heart.

For when I have a life ahead,

Why wait for it to start? •

“ S T R A W H O U S E ”

P O E T R Y B Y A M Y N Y S T R O M

P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y L I Z R U D M A N

K I D SA N O N G O I N G S E R I E S

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S a i l i M a r i e

I F Y O U C O U L D B E A N A N I M A L , W H A T W O U L D Y O U B E ?I would be a mustang horse, because they’re pretty and they get groomed.

I F Y O U H A D T O M A K E O N E R U L E T H A T E V E R Y O N E I N T H E W O R L D H A D T O F O L L O W , W H A T R U L E W O U L D Y O U M A K E ?

I would want the world to stop fighting and killling each other. Because that’s happening right now.

W H A T M A K E S Y O U R F A M I L Y S P E C I A L ?I like my family because I like their hearts.

I F Y O U C O U L D H A V E A N Y S U P E R P O W E R , W H A T W O U L D I T B E ?Flying. And I’d have a suit that I could use to call my friends. And I would have an invisible plane to fly around in.

W H A T ’ S Y O U R F A V O R I T E P L A C E I N T H E W O R L D ? W H Y ?South Africa. Because the people are the nicest people on earth and because God loves them.

Age: NineBorn in: Minnesota

S t e v e n

W H A T D O Y O U W A N T T O B E W H E N Y O U G R O W U P ?

I want to be a lawyer. I know this one guy who’s a lawyer and he owns a fancy car. So I want to be a lawyer.

W H A T I S Y O U R C R A Z I E S T M E M O R Y ? We were at Pilanesberg riding in the car really early in the morning . . . There were two rhinos. The dad rhino was in the road, so we

reversed to let it pass. When we started moving away, it started chasing us. I was scared! I thought it would catch up to us and eat us all.

W H A T D O Y O U L O V E A B O U T S O U T H A F R I C A ?I love Sandton. I love how clean the streets are. There are nice houses and nice cars.

I F Y O U C O U L D B E A N A N I M A L , W H A T W O U L D Y O U B E ?I’d be a wild hyena because they’re strong. And my mom told me that one time, eight hyenas overtook one giraffe. I want to be the leader

of the pack.

Age: NineBorn in: South Africa

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R o x a n e J e a n n e O d i l e

I F Y O U C O U L D B E A N A N I M A L , W H A T W O U L D Y O U B E ?I would be a cheetah because they’re fast.

W H E N Y O U V I S I T Y O U R G R A N D P A R E N T S I N F R A N C E , W H A T D O Y O U L I K E T O D O W I T H T H E M ?My grandfather on my Papa’s side has hens and rabbits. Sometimes we go out and collect the eggs, and he has even let me ride the

tractor! When I go to my grandmother’s house on my Mama’s side, we walk to a nearby field where a white horse grazes. Sometimes I feed her dry bread, carrots, and leaves from the hazelnut trees--her favorite!

Y O U L O V E T O T R A V E L . W H A T I S Y O U R F A V O R I T E P L A C E I N T H E W O R L D ?I love France because it is where I am from. I espeically love chocolate crepes and sometimes, my Mama makes them on Sunday mornings

for a special treat.

W H A T D O Y O U W A N T T O B E W H E N Y O U G R O W U P ? A mom, just a mom.

I F Y O U C O U L D G I V E S O M E T H I N G T O E V E R Y O N E , W H A T W O U L D Y O U G I V E T H E M ?I would give them a necklace with a pendant. Because I like necklaces.

Age: FiveBorn in: France

J o v a n

W H A T W O U L D Y O U S A Y I S T H E M O S T E M B A R A S S I N G T H I N G Y O U H A V E E V E R D O N E ?One time, my cousin, Marco, and I borrowed quad bikes from a friend. We got in a wreck and drove them into a lampost. All of these

people started crowding around me and were saying “Ah my word that kid is going to be in so much trouble.” It was quite embarassing.

W H A T H A V E Y O U E A T E N T H A T Y O U W O U L D N E V E R W A N T T O E A T A G A I N ?When I went to visit Marco on his farm, we slaughtered a chicken together, cut out its heart, and layed it out to dry in the sun. Then we

ate it. It was the most disgusting thing ever. The two of us are always getting into mischief.

I F Y O U C O U L D G R O W U P T O B E F A M O U S , W H A T W O U L D Y O U W A N T T O B E F A M O U S F O R ?I would either want to be a famous Olympic fencer, or I would want to be on a professional paintball team. I love paintball because it

gives you the feeling that you are in war . . . the adrenaline just surges through you. Fencing is also fun because it’s technical and builds muscle since you always have to have bent legs. As a kid, I always wanted to try it, and I just started lessons and I love it!

A T W H A T A G E I S A P E R S O N A N A D U L T ? W H Y D O Y O U T H I N K S O ?Maybe 21. Because they are usually finishing varsity and quite mature.

Age: ElevenBorn in: South Africa

58

“ P r e t t y m u c h a l l t h e h o n e s t t r u t h - t e l l i n g t h e r e i s i n t h e w o r l d i s d o n e b y c h i l d r e n . ” •

O L I V E R W E N D E L L H O L M E S

61

I’ve always enjoyed a startling word, or joke, or analogy. “I like good strong words that mean

something” (Louisa May Alcott).

In middle school I described something as being like “sweet strawberries in spoonfuls of salt.” I

was trying to convey how too much of a good thing can ruin another good thing. It’s a confusing

description, but I remember it being one of the first times I didn’t want to be cliche. Storms.

Oceans. Day and night. Seasons. Blah. I wanted to say something new... and startling. I like

words and have always been drawn to writing them, being around people who use them carefully

and well. The idea of wearing words on my body is fascinating.

This past year, quite accidentally, I felt I came across the answer to “Why am I here? What’s

the point of my life?” The answer to such questions can be looked for, waited on, hunted. But

I don’t believe you can “decide” when you know. You can’t clear out a weekend and journal a

lot and return home with a mission statement. You can acquire clues that will point you on your

way, hints for you to know when you do come across that treasured answer. Some never find it.

(Though some don’t look, they hide).

P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y C L A I R E G R U V E R

Y O U W I L L S E E H I M

B Y K R I S T E N M O R R I S

I f your words appeared on your skin, would you s t i l l be beaut i ful?

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I believe God put me on this earth to see, and then point out to others, beauty. The answer came

to me while I was enjoying a rose garden in southern California. My mother had just died, and

the baby in my body had too (but I didn’t know that yet). I’m the perfect, unlikely candidate

for such a spot: I’m messy and disorganized, I’m critical and boldly opinionated, I’m blunt and

even a bit pushy. I’m friends with cancer, acquainted with grief and am somewhat enchanted

with the pain of child-birth. I feel most attractive when I’m sweaty after hard physical work.

I’m not delicate with pretty ankles, and I carry myself around on a short thick boxy waist (one

doctor said I have “an unusually large rib cage.”) Even in my fittest, slimmest years I always had

a squishy tummy -- no matter how many miles I ran or sit-ups I sat. Those sweet dresses never

look lovely on me. I’m not afraid to yell, argue, debate, or fight. Going out and letting people

see me without make-up, without being “done,” in lame clothes, makes me feel brave. I’m not a

mask or painted piece in a frame on the wall for you to stare at and admire. I’m (mostly) okay if

you see me as I am. My acne scars, my cellulite in and around my thighs. My nails that do get

dirty and aren’t always tended to immediately. My full cheeks and soft self. We all grow hair

on our legs, will you still enjoy me if you see mine? Of course. And if not, the problem probably

isn’t with my prickly calves. I’m the opposite of OCD, I love pressure and chaos, I rather like

being tough and capable, I am comfortable in the messes of being alive.

I believe God made me these ways. And I also believe He is making me, still. I’m half-baked,

unfully grown. My dad told me once: “You’re outspoken, sometimes even mouthy. Some might

think that’s wrong. I don’t - I think that’s just who you are.” I think he’s right. But with grace,

empathy, and a willingness to shut up and understand, I will develop. Hopefully with less sass

and rambling; hopefully while being more limpid and tender. I err on the side of intense, but I

am learning about the powerful ways of the gentle.

“Beauty” wouldn’t be the natural first thing you’d say when you looked at myself and my life.

Full. All over the place. Artless. Some might say “stressful,” others might say “fun.” Some

might say “lucky,” others might say “exhausting.” Whichever of the words are true (and I

would give testament that they all are), I have been a part of a beautiful life. I’ve been given a

beautiful body, a beautiful mind, a beautiful group of beauties who know me. I was a blonde-

haired, blue-eyed, white-skinned woman raised 16 miles from the capital of the “most powerful

country in the world” by parents who gave me opportunity and all their love. My scholastic,

athletic and artistic endeavors have been successful. I’ve never wondered how I will eat. In

fact, I’ve never wondered how I will pay a bill. In nearly every way life has been bountiful and

luxurious and rare, historically. I would be a horrible spokesperson for beauty if I’d only known

the roses, if I’d never been forced to lay in the thorns. To sit in the bathtubs of blood. To feel the

sour rain that is broken relationship. To watch her chest never rise again.

I have not been pierced as deeply nor as long as others, though I do know more than

“annoyance” or “confusion” or “disappointment.” My heart has been broken, and I know it

could break quite more. It probably will. It’s beautiful to be able to be broken, to start on the

journey leading to “Healed.”

If my words appeared on my skin, would I still be beautiful? Yes. Beauty isn’t about being

cleaned up instead of dirty. It’s not about saying what’s ‘right’ when you’re thinking something

else versus just saying what you’re really thinking (and hurting someone’s feelings). It’s not

about pretend, but it is about imagination. And math. And the sound of opening up the oven

door. Beauty isn’t necessarily pretty, but it could be. Beauty doesn’t always make sense, and

is never hallow. If you could calligraph the words from me onto my body for all to read, there

would be trouble. And offense. And curiosity. And connection. And disagreement. And

conversation. And the tedious work of trying to understand. And amusement. And being

weirded out. And unkindness. And stupidity. And jerkiness. And a bundle of love. And ideas

sparked. And ideas acted on. And some very very dark places. That might somehow relate to

another and be where a friendship starts. And color. And speechlessness. And signs of life.

If my words were on my skin, and if your words were on your skin, and if their words were on their skin, we’d all still be beautiful. Maybe we’d be more scared of each other, and maybe more disgusted. Or maybe we’d be more informed, more tearfully ready to use grace.

“ B E A U T Y I S W H A T E V E R G I V E S J O Y .”

E D N A S T . V I N C E N T M I L L A Y

How, well, beautiful is it that even the impulsive, nasty, ashen, regretful, alone words can become a part of the story of joy, the story of “remade,” the story of me, written by Beauty itself. Yes, look at me as I am, write my words on my skin, know the heavy parts of me; and you will see beauty. You will see Him. •

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P R E S E RV E SM A R K A P E L

I was always drawn to the little jars

of clear orange liquid,

queer breakfast paste,

Preserves, Grandma called them,

peaches in the sugary formaldehyde,

Chilling in the fridge,

Reminds me of the fetal pig

I butchered in Coach Taylor’s class

in the name of Science,

the smell of that new word

shouted out loud in the old musty hallways,

I remember the way

our towels smelt

after pickling in the wash

and fermenting in the football lockers,

And how the scent stuck in my hair

well into third period,

And how Grandpa took the brothers and I

Past the fishing spot to shoot his old rifle

coated in cosmoline

with some long story about crates,

soviets, and surpluses.

The unsuccessful jams as targets,

we roared when one of us would

land a round in a jar of pistachio-melon,

or even a rare batch of apple-muscadine,

And the salted venison Grandpa kept in his pocket

for the way back home,

never telling the same story twice,

seemingly fabricated

tucked away in mothballs

to surprise the grandkids decades later.

And I’d just chew that peppered jerky

hoping not a moment of this would ever fade. •

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S P R E A DTw o d i p s a n d o n e s a l a d f o r a n y o c c a s i o n

B Y C L A I R E G R U V E R

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SOUTH AFRICAN CHUTNEY

This is an easy, practical, favorite South African

spread of ours. And when I say easy, I mean

easssyy.

I N G R E D I E N T S

1 can of onion and tomato mix

1/2 cup of Mrs H.S.Ball’s Peach Chutney

Mix and heat to taste. This is delicious with

practically anything, but especially meat and

cheese. Serve with hot ham sarmies, cheese

boards, BBQ or BRAII meats, or just plain

french baguettes.

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NANNY’S THREE MINUTE APPLE DIP

Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo Filler photo

This dip is famous in my house. We make it

for sugary snacking,dessert, and everything

in-between. Whip it up in three minutes, chop

up a few green apples, and enjoy the sweet and

savory delectable-ness.

I N G R E D I E N T S

1/2 cup of brown sugar

1/2 cup of powdered sugar

8 ounces of cream cheese

1 teaspoon of vanilla

Mix all of the combined ingredients in an

electric mixer for three minutes with a whisk

attachment. Once it’s smooth and fluffy, serve

with apples and salted peanuts (optional).

You didn’t know it would be that easy, did you?

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MIGNON’S POMEGRANATE SAL AD

I’m a fan of pomegranates not matter what

they are served with, hands-down. This salad

then, to no surprise, is my go-to side when

I’m craving greens, which I wish I could say is

more often than not.

I N G R E D I E N T S

1/2 cup pomegranate seeds

2 handfuls of fresh spinach

1/4 cup toasted almonds

1/2 cup micro greens

Greek Feta

Combine and toss.

DRESSING

I N G R E D I E N T S

1/4 cup of olive oil

2 Tablespoons of red wine vinegar

2 Tablespoons of sugar or honey

1/2 teaspoon of salt

Blend dressing and add to your liking.

This salad is lovely on its own, but nothing

beats a block of dark Lindor chocolate to follow

up the salad experience.

Enjoy. x

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H I M B Y H E R

What comes to mind first is the strength of his arms, an embrace. He makes a still point for us, quiet in the

turning world. He’s good at helping me step off the rollercoaster (though he’s sometimes the cause of its

soars and falls). The water in his eyes says, “stillness.” He hammers out his speech into bronze, silver, gold.

His mind is always fit to trek any hill that better shows him wonder. In between the beats of his heart, I

detect largeness unimaginable. We’re boxers, fighters, friends and he’s got rights to this well of grace that,

when tapped, fills canyons. We forgive. He likes to take my hand in public parks when it’s snowing. We

exchange glances, eyes soft with knowing. Our secret is that we’re children still holding hands, taking the

reigns.

H I M & H E RWr i t t e n b y J o r d a n a n d Ke l l y , m a r r i e d t w o y e a r s a g o . She is known only by me, and yet I knew her before I met her. And finally she is and was known before the

foundation of the world; her beginning and our ending already intertwined. But what a gift beyond measure

that with her I am able to go through life. She, the greatest earthly proof of transcendent love.

When I first meet her I was attracted. It didn’t take long afterwards before we started to date, and even

shorter after that I knew, given a million years, I would find no better woman So why keep searching? I

found her. It was true and easy to see, gor I was looking for her; waiting for her all along, often without even

knowing it. She entered my world like a sleepy snowfall, taking over the landscape of my reality while I was

waking, foggy eyed, with the morning light. Fully awake I saw her like a blanketed world of gold-colored

snow, warm to the touch, emphasizing all the beauty of the world I could not see on my own.

She is the reflection of me, and of God, the Image. Her soft hands and heart nurture me. And as an acorn

reaches its full beauty when becoming an oak, and the magnolia tree the most heart warming and tender in

the spring, I become fully me when serving her with a loving heart. She is understood and worthy of all my

attention. She is my dear forever friend, companion through life She is my joy. •

H E R B Y H I M

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N O P L A C E O N E A R T HC A R O L I N E L E E

There is a common cliche that “there is no place on earth like India.” The moment I set foot in

that country, I knew it to be true.

India is a place of extremes, simultaneous pleasure, and assault to the senses. One second I was

smelling the warming, mouth-watering aroma of jasmine and fresh spices; the next moment

I was inhaling the eye-watering stench of cows expelling their business into the open sewer

systems that run through the middle of town.

Among the first of our scares in India was the traffic . . . A chaotic multi-streamed highway of

auto- rickshaws, trucks, scooters, motor-bikes, bicycles, taxis, and buses. Even pedestrians

make their own pathway on the roads, dodging one another within a half-an-inch grace, and

somehow making it through alive with all their limbs still attached. Add to this mix a loud

cacophony of horns tooting and wailing, simply a method of notifying the drivers nearest you

of your existence. To any outsider, such carrying-ons would suggest a system-less road-culture

based on suicidal dare. Chickens, dogs, cats, buffalo and monkeys were common, waltzing along

the open streets. Cows, however, were another matter. In India, cows rule the streets. In fact,

the traffic tends to form based on where the cows happen to be. Being a sacred animal, everyone

is very conscious of letting them roam at will, which, in my opinion, makes driving in India all

the more fun. The longer we stayed in India, the more this traffic system became a fluid, organic

experience, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss it or find traffic in America and Australia

to be a bit of a boring normality in comparison.

The cultural spectrum of India is a wondrous, fascinating thing; something that, after eight

visits, I still cannot fully express in words. Having spent most of my time in South-Eastern

India, I can tell you, without a doubt, that family is at the core of the people’s focus. They love

being together, even if nothing exciting is happening. This is something that is often seen as

nonsensical and unproductive in America and Australia, where my husband and I grew up and

live. In India, maintaining consistent interaction with loved ones propels professional, spiritual,

and personal directions. The typical South-Eastern Indian home houses up to four generations of

family! Everyone finds his place, and has his function and responsibilities, all the while showing

care to younger members of the family. This was a beautiful thing to witness and be apart of as

we were ‘adopted’ into our own Indian family as one of their own.

85

We can confidently say that we have family there who we often miss and long to be with.

If family is the core portion of a functioning home in India, food is not far off! Passing traditional

curries and steamed rice, japarti, spiced chicken drumsticks, or curried and roasted cashews are

central to Indian traditions. Eating together, gathered around a table is standard and the food is

delicious and plentiful. We eat with our hands. There is even a refined technique of forming a

ball of rice and curry, and flicking it into your mouth. Even after all the time I’ve spent in this

wonderful land, I still feel I am a novice. Watching my Indian family eat with their hands like

pros is incredible - so natural and effortless. If you finish your plate, someone will fill it up when

you aren’t looking - you have to get good at leaving a few mouthfuls to communicate: “I’m full!”

On our last visit, I had my birthday and our family gathered around me and stuffed my face with

super rich, sugary, dense, icing-laden birthday cake - by hand of course - until I never wanted

to see cake ever again! Apparently, when it is someone’s birthday, this is what is done. At firs,t I

felt like it was a typical ‘foreigner-trick,’ but soon recognized it as just their way of showing me I

was loved and remembered.

Even without traveling to India, the divide between wealth and poverty in India is undeniable.

I think a lot of people are afraid to see what deep poverty might look like. I know that I was

scared the day I woke up knowing that I would be visiting a place that didn’t have running

water, electricity, or even roads. Walking through a remote village for the first time changed

my life. But I didn’t feel scared. Seeing such poverty hurt our hearts, and inspired us to begin

actively fighting in poverty-stricken areas (our company, Elephant Landing, employs and

educates women in India). However, what shocked me more deeply than the poverty was the

people’s wealth of generosity. Joy, contentment, gratitude and love poured out of the villages

in ways I simply could not have expected. It was in their faces, in their voices, and in their

eyes. As a nineteen- year-old kid, I felt ashamed to think about my problems in comparison to

the problems of these wonderful people. My troubles seemed so fickle and my heart so void of

gratitude for the blessings in my life. I had a loving family and friends, access to endless clean

water and electricity, a cobra-free bedroom, the resources to receive an education, a healthy

body and healthy mind. This village gave me a gift I will never be able to return: a snapshot

of what heartfelt gratitude looks like. This alone changed my life trajectory forever. India

challenged and inspired me, filled my belly full of deliciousness and laughter, and brought to my

eyes visions of humanity and reality, often through tears. I believe everyone should visit India. If

and when you do, it will never leave you. •

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S I X S E C R E T S T O S P R I N G C L E A N I N G

Snow still cloaks the trees, they wear it like shawls, with the promise of more to come in another

few days. They line the street, tall, and with each changing season provide Cleveland Ave with

a different canopy. Their spindly branches are almost within arm’s reach of our second story

window, the one right by the bunk beds and dressed in colorful bunting in the kids’ room.

One of the reasons I love this space is because of the windows. I know that November through

February won’t allow me to ever open them, but thankfully light is not hindered by glass. Even if

I can’t have the sun’s heat, I must have its light.

We have been in Chicago nearly a year now. We moved into our home just as the trees were

burgeoning, readying themselves for the life and green of spring, then summer. This has been

my first Midwest winter, and it has been cold. I am more than ready to see blossoms replace the

snow on the branches. And with the blooms comes the need for a thorough sweep of all the pent

up dust, a fresh start. A proper spring cleaning is something I even start to look forward to; it

means that winter is finally giving way to warmth.

Still, it’s a big undertaking, so I’ve put together 6 secrets to spring cleaning that I’ve found help

the process to be a bit more enjoyable and smooth running.

B Y C A T W A T S O NP H O T O G R A P H Y B Y L I Z R U D M A N

O P E N T H E W I N D O W S .

This is small, but not inconsequential. After months of hearing the same sounds, it’s such a

welcome change to listen to different voices, whether that be the voice of nature in birds and

gusts or the voice of unknown persons, passing underneath our windows with fresh cut flowers

or groceries or kids, or all of those, in tow. The spring months inspire the city’s dwellers back

into the habit of walking. Fresh air not only does amazing things for my (and my kids’) moods,

but it will clear out all the stale air and provide movement in your space--and movement begets

more movement. Hopefully it will inspire you to get to it!

T E A A N D T U N E S .

Another simple but effective way to motivate. Open up iTunes and put on the kettle or coffee

pot to help you stay upbeat. If you really want to set the scene, have some chocolate chip cookies

baking as you get started. They’ll go great with your tea and you can treat yourself to a break

when they are finished cooling. Plus, what’s better than the backdrop of the smell of freshly

baking cookies?

P U R G E .

Over the last year or two my husband and I have been trying to lessen the amount of stuff that

we own. This should, in theory, make the cleaning go faster. If you own less stuff, there will

be less to manage and less to clean. So start with a good purge. Go through your closet, every

drawer, under the beds, in your cabinets, in the kid’s toy bins, and get rid of all the things that

are just taking up space. It really is freeing.

S T A R T W I T H T H E F R I D G E .

I like to do the fridge first for two reasons. One, I really don’t like this job, so getting it out of the

way first makes me happy. And second, it helps to get the purge going.

S T A Y T H E C O U R S E .

This is a hard one for me. I often will be going through one section of the house and then walk

over to the trash and get distracted by some other corner or pile, or worse, by my phone. It’s

really easy to start and only half finish the job because of distractions or losing motivation or, in

my case, because my three littles need me. Whatever the case, if you find you need to step away,

by all means do so—but be sure to go back

and finish the job. •

h a p p y c l e a n i n g

91

Logan Cole is a wedding and editorial photographer, but more so, he is a storyteller, a dreamer, and a doer. Logan, 21, has not only

photographed weddings in over fifteen countries, but has worked with celebrities such as Debby Ryan and Beyonce. He isn’t easily held back by

the thought of failure. He isn’t afraid to turn his dreams into reality, or his aspirations into actions. Logan Cole is an all-or-nothing sort of guy.

His photographs tell honest and authentic stories that reflect beauty and the essence of who people are. This California-born creative is an artist with

a constant drive to reach his fullest capability.

LIFT OFFI n t e r v i e w w i t h L o g a n C o l e

Y O U S TA R T E D P H O T O G R A P H Y AT S U C H A Y O U N G A G E A N D H A V E C O M E S O F A R , H O W W O U L D Y O U D E S C R I B E Y O U R J O U R N E Y ? W H AT H A S B E E N T H E M O S T E X C I T I N G P A R T ?

My photography journey has been surreal. It’s funny to realize that it all started from a

little “aspiring photographers” get together. We would set-up themed shoots for us to practice

and it all began with a fascination. When I was asked to photograph my first engagement

shoot, I was hesitant. Engagement shoots, at that time, were cheesy so I remember saying to

the couple, “If you let me photograph the way I want to shoot, then I will do this.” Hilarious

enough, that engagement shoot ended up being featured in Green Wedding Shoes which was

followed by many wedding inquiries. It was a rush of excitement and newness. I suddenly

overnight became a wedding photographer. It continues to be an ongoing amazement at all

the opportunities that I have had, all the places I have been able to go, and all the people I have

had the privilege of meeting. I remember the first destination wedding I photographed was in

Vermont and I couldn’t’ quite fathom that I was getting paid to travel to this beautiful place and

photograph these people in love. My journey as a whole has been far beyond what I could have

ever imagined. It has been full of life lessons and opportunities I would’ve never experienced had

I not become a photographer.

L O O K I N G B A C K , W H AT D O Y O U W I S H Y O U C O U L D H A V E T O L D Y O U R S E L F W H E N Y O U S TA R T E D I N T H E P H O T O G R A P H Y I N D U S T R Y ? W H AT W O U L D Y O U T E L L O T H E R Y O U N G A R T I S T S ?

I would have invested time in learning what other photographers were out there and what

they were creating. It’s easier with Instagram now, but back then I didn’t know much outside

my own little community of people. I think it would have pushed me more in the beginning had I

known what other stuff was out there. I, also, wish I had made more time to build a photography

community at the start. Having a community of people with your same vision is so important.

You can push each other as artists to reach your dreams and goals. You can talk about your

failures and accomplishments, lessons learned and lessons to learn. You can bounce ideas off of

each other and help each other through creative ruts. I can’t voice it enough, community is one

of the most important things as an artist, especially at the beginning.

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W H AT W A S Y O U R C H I L D H O O D L I K E A N D H O W H A S T H AT P L AY E D A R O L L I N W H O

Y O U A R E A N D H O W Y O U C R E AT E ?

Basically my whole family are artists. My mom was a painter, one of my brothers was

a graphic designer and my other brother is, also, an artist and works with sound. My parents

always supported me no matter what. If I told them I wanted to move to Africa for six months

and not do anything, they would say, “That’s cool. Go for it.” When I told them I was going

to go on a mission trip to China by myself, they were all for it. When I told them I wanted to

graduate when I was sixteen, they didn’t have a doubt about it. When I told them I wanted to be

homeschooled, they were all for it. When told them I was going to be a wedding photographer,

they said “great, go do it.” They have been behind me, supporting and encouraging, each of

my dreams. They have fully trusted me and my choices; they didn’t keep me inside the limits of

a box. They have been such a impact on my life and the way I create since they constantly have

been cheering me. I was taught to hold nothing back and jump all in.

W H AT H A S B E E N T H E M O S T D I F F I C U LT R O A D - B L O C K Y O U H A V E F A C E D I N T H E P H O -T O G R A P H Y- I N D U S T R Y ? H O W D I D Y O U P U S H P A S T I T ?

My age has been an issue for a variety of reasons. Thankfully I am at a point where

my age isn’t a problem anymore, but in the beginning when I was eighteen and nineteen my

responsibility and talent were often questioned. My clients, and especially some of their families,

found it hard to trust me fully sometimes because I was so young. I encourage my clients and

people that age has nothing to do with the quality of what you can create.

W H AT G E T S Y O U R U N N I N G ? ( I N O T H E R W O R D S , W H AT M A K E S Y O U G E T S T U F F D O N E ? )

Redbull and coffee.

W H AT P E O P L E H A V E H E L P E D Y O U A L O N G M O R E T H A N A N Y O N E E L S E ?

My mom and dad have been the most supportive of all my dreams, as I mentioned.

Another person who I am overly thankful for is my assistant, Candace. She is the one who keeps

me organized.

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H O W W O U L D Y O U D E S C R I B E Y O U R P H O T O G R A P H I C V O I C E ?

My style is raw. My wedding work is a mix between lifestyle and editorial. I believe in

honest and authentic photos that tell stories. I will never ask a groom to fake putting on his bow

tie, but when it comes to the portrait session I am confident in voicing setting them up. I believe

in capturing real moments and real people, but at the same time I love telling a story through

editorial photography. During a wedding day, I photograph what I see.

H A V I N G S P E N T E X T E N S I V E A M O U N T S O F T I M E I N O V E R 1 5 C O U N T R I E S O F T H E W O R L D , W H AT H A V E C U LT U R A L & P E R S O N A L I T Y D I F F E R E N C E S TA U G H T Y O U A B O U T Y O U R S E L F ?

During my multitude of travels, I quickly came to realize how much I take for granted. I

reflect back and realize that my life would have been totally different had I grown up in some

of those other countries. The simple things in America are luxuries in many other countries. I,

unlike many other kids in a variety of countries, was able to buy a camera at a young age, I was

able to start a business, I wasn’t forced into going to college, and I constantly have had provision,

a rooftop over my head, and food. These things I take way too easily for granted, but they are

huge blessings that many others don’t have.

L O O K I N G F O R W A R D , W H E R E D O Y O U S E E Y O U R S E L F I N T H E N E X T 5 Y E A R S ? B O T H I N

Y O U R A R T A N D I N Y O U R P E R S O N A L L I F E .

Ever since the beginning, I have had the mindset of, “I’m going to keep going until I feel

like I have succeeded all that I am capable of.” Although there is always room for growth, I am

thankful to say that I feel like I have reached that spot of, “I have reached my goal.” Although I

love weddings and I will most definitely keep doing them for the coming years, I have decided to

take a little step back in the wedding industry and put a bigger step into editorial photography.

I photographed 52 weddings last year and made little time for anything else. I’m changing that

up a little bit this year. I’m investing more time, as said, in the commercial and editorial world of

photography so I can reach my goals in that area. •

Photograph by Rachel Clarke

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The place of going

it is filled

with the quickening

of those who have come late

it is the home to a family

of strangers

who have come hungry

and exhausted

I look into their eyes

darkened with loss of sleep

we have everything in common

here in the place of going

yet I cannot speak across the distance

which separates us

T H E P L A C E O F G O I N GR . J . H O P K I N S

at such a moment

severed from everything

held in this passage of light

calloused by the wearing

footsteps of those who come and go—

everything I have in the world

I hold in the shallow

cupping of my hands

I am one face

in a river of faces

and I blend and fade

into the turbulence and roar

of morning breath

and sleeplessness and greasy hair

and all that moves to the rhythm

of the endless stamping

of passports

this song which ushers us

into the presence of the world. •

101100

A LETTER FROM THE

TOOTHFAIRY

103

Ever since I can remember, the tooth fairy has been sending us letters in exchange for our lost

teeth. The tooth fairy, in our family, has never been portrayed as a real person, but rather as a

game that we all know Dad is orchestrating. My siblings and I have found these letters under

our pillows, taped to our doors, or sitting on our beds. I remember one time that my brother lost

four teeth during one really long plane ride. He just kept handing them up for safekeeping: one,

two, three, four teeth!

Even though he struggles with timeliness, our tooth fairy turned a potentially scary experience

like losing our first teeth into a game that made us want to wiggle wiggle wiggle all of our tiny

white pearls away, just to be able to see that signature in Dad’s handwriting . . .

Love, The Tooth Fairy. •

B Y C L A I R E G R U V E R

105

L O N G DAY S , S H O R T Y E A R S , A N D S I LV E R L I N I N G S

C L A I R E G R U V E R

“Fingerprints don’t disappear from the souls we touch. Paintings don’t fade away from the canvas of our minds. Pictures don’t change from the second they were taken in our memory. People don’t die when they live in our hearts. And the red string is never cut on both ends.”

There’s something I’m realizing more and more, these days: that youth is a season of mass

discovery. The kind of brilliant, heartbreaking rediscovery that you read about in books and

watch on television—but better. The kind that makes you regret; the kind that makes you

happy-cry; the kind that makes you breathe deeper and feel more. As the years go by and as I

attempt to collect random thoughts into journals or new note tabs on my phone, I can’t help but

wonder if ‘wonder’ is good.

We wonder about the unknown. We wonder about our future. We fantasize and over-think

and analyze to the point of possible insanity; at least I know I do. We feel guilt and regret. We

experience like and really like and every now and then, love. We hate being hurt, but even more,

we hate hurting the ones we care about. This time, the fading shadow called youth, is a time of

asking questions and learning the hard way. Who am I? What is my purpose? What captivates

me and catches my interest? How often do I find myself laughing? Really laughing? When I

cast my line, how is my aim? What am I aiming for? Deep down, honestly, what am I hoping to

catch?

I love it and I hate it. If you’re in my same boat, you probably feel the same way. Or perhaps, you

have outgrown this shadow and find yourself in a different light of a different hue and nature;

one which is more distinct, more sure, but just as curious.

I have, for as long as I can remember, loved music. Sound is a sense that fascinates me; it turns

a wheel of my mechanism that would otherwise remain still. I’ve tinkered here and there,

107106

pairing words with tune, but never have I sung my work and felt a string of my soul chime to

my liking. There is no step-by-step ‘to-do’ for how to create what I love. Music that makes

me feel something, that reminds of me of my purpose and gives other people the same sense of

belonging, comes from my heart. It comes from periods of time spent trying, erasing, writing,

listening, waiting, wondering, guessing, and trying again. It is not produced in a quick snap or

strum of the strings. A good song is a product of perseverance and a sign of a person’s journey in

expressing their struggle, embracing Love, and becoming better for it.

Life is a lot like making music, I think. There is no formula for growing up, studying, getting

married, not getting married, growing up even more, or growing old. Yes, everyone grows

up, but the manner of their youth, the lifestyle they lead, the people they fellowship with is

entirely unique from case to case. Every little motion leaves an imprint in the mold of our life.

Realizing my purpose as I hum my way through youth is a process that requires a spirit of

determination—a spirit that seeks guidance. Of trying, and trying again . . . Of realizing dreams

and of waiting and wondering about those ideas.

I guess writing out all of these thoughts helps me know myself and my struggle better. I hope

that you are able to glean something, some tidbit of hope from my jumble of words. If you’re like

me, you want to live well and full, and love even bigger. You want to give your love, every last

heap of it, away. If you’re like me, you wish (wishing again) that you could fix yourself to your

liking. That you could get the permanent marker off of the dining room table (regret again) and

start over. You wish you could know the master plan of your day, your year, your life.

But if you’re like me, you’re thankful for the emotional roller-coaster ride called growing up and

growing old. Because all of the wondering and wishing and dreaming and discovery has brought

you here: to yourself.

I believe that my Creator loves laughter, and as we are made in His image, I find myself

imagining what His laugh sounds like. Full, roaring, rich. I’ll bet it sounds like the feeling of the

best kind of hug: strong and warm; one that says “you’re safe. You’re home.” After everything

else, I want to be so sure of Him that nothing else matters.

And so, chasing the sun is a song I am still writing, and so are you, if you’ll listen. If there’s one

thing I don’t want to do, it is to become dull to conviction because I’ve kept the volume at max

for the whole day. The days, though they seem long at times, are short as they are. I don’t even

want to blink. But I will. And so will you. And all of a sudden I will no longer be sixteen and

asking rhetorical questions like “Will I still be blonde when I’m thirty?” or “What will my kids

look like?” or “Do other people think as hard or as long as I do?” And neither will you.

The long days, the years racing by, the silver linings . . . are all notes on the staff of your song. In

the end, when my time has run out, I want to hear the music of my life play—the missed beats

and the funky rhythms—and be able to gladly raise my hands and say with assurance, “You

knew what was best and you brought me through. Glory be. Glory be to you.” •

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Our heartfelt thanks to our contributors for the ways that you have poured out your hearts into this edition of Leaking

Hearts. You make this adventure the joy that it is.

To our families, thank you for being gracious in the craziness and for never ceasing to push us to “go for it.”

It is this mentality that makes dreams come true.

And to the One who surpasses all creativity, space, and time, thank You for gracing us with the gift of this

magazine and for enabling us to share our hearts with those around us. This voice is from You. Let us use it well.

XO,

Claire, Elizabeth, and Liz

S P E C I A L T H A N K S

PHOTOGRAPHED BY L AUREN APEL

Where I create, there I am true. R A I N E R M A R I A R I L K E

W W W . L E A K I N G H E A R T S M A G . C O M