Change I Can Believe In

Obama is officially president. Finally. After the hum of last Tuesday quieted, I found time for a little reflection. And honestly, despite how much I believe in this new administration and the change it has the power to bring, I found myself still a bit depressed, still struggling to pull out some hope for the time ahead. I think a lot of this darkness, for me, is the fact that it's going to be a long time before things truly improve in this country, and this world. Obama's leadership isn't an antibiotic that will cure a sinus infection in 2 days. It's going to be a slow dose of radiation over a period of years, coupled with therapy, acupuncture, diet change & yoga. It's going to take time to heal these wounds. That is probably what's hardest for me personally, because I'm impatient and like so many of us, am always looking for the quick-fix.

I think the other part that's hard to swallow about this new "change" is that it's not directly affecting my own life. Sure, I feel the recession in my own way, the global crisis, the war. I do. But when I think about change in my life, I think about finding a partner, a home I can afford, a way to contribute to society in a meaningful way and a lifestyle that inspires me. These are selfish things, I know, but they're changes I want for my own life that haven't happened. Yet. And as much as I want to believe this can all happen simultaneously, it just seems that God/Obama/the rest of us have a hell of a lot on our plates.

And so despite all that doom gloom talk I wrapped myself up in, I decided to stop moping and force myself into some art. A trip to the SFMOMA almost always shakes me out of a lull and this time was no different. The thing I most appreciate about art is that it allows us to both escape and embrace the time we're in & the emotions we face. It honors the pain & the joy and also supersedes them and allows us to escape them.

Aside from the many great photography exhibits I saw, the thing that moved me most was a book I stumbled upon in the bookstore on my way out the door. The book is called "A Year of Mornings" by Maria Alexandra Vettese and Stephanie Congdon Barnes. These two women, who met through their online blog/website presence, collaborated to document 365 mornings last year and share them with each other. They live 3191 miles apart (one in Portland, Oregon and one in Portland, Maine). The images in this book are beautiful glimpses into the mundane intimacies each woman faced each day. They pay homage to routine, to ritual and to taking the time to notice the quieter moments.

I feel a bit guilty that a book on morning photographs has allowed me to forget the current world crisis and my own loneliness in it, but at the same time, I think it's a true example of how I want to handle the next few years. It's going to be messy. It's going to take time to heal. And in the process of that recovery, it's all we can do but to find joy in the lives we're trying to lead, the love that we are building and the morning moments we receive each day that bring about a fresh start, the change we are seeking.

Italy In Our Hearts

This past April, I ventured across the globe to Tuscany and spent a week at La Loggia with my favorite poet, David Whyte, and a group of 30 strangers. What transpired over that week was a string of small and large miracles, adoption into an "instant family" and dozens of meals, hikes & conversations that are still emblazed in my heart. The hardest part of a great trip though, is keeping that trip alive long after you've returned home again. It's easy to forget the perfection of fava beans and goat cheese at a simple picnic table, the peace of mornings around a fireplace reading poetry, the quietly changing angles of sun over landscape. There is a certain kind of vulnerability that arrives when you travel and disappears when you get home. It's that exact vulnerability that allows the miracles to happen. It's so easy to forget how to stay open and how to receive.

Eight months after we all returned home, I am happy to say that I've stayed close with my new Italian family and have been especially blessed to live in the Bay Area with a few of them. And last night, in all her beauty, Italy came back to us. Our fellow David Whyte-follower, Eric, was in town visiting from Seattle. Dee, Ward and I met him at my favorite family-run Italian restaurant, Tommaso's in San Francisco's North Beach neighborhood. We tucked ourselves into a cozy booth, shared glasses of a beautiful Super-Tuscan red wine and nibbled on fresh mushroom pizza. We let ourselves truly reminisce -- the kind of reminiscing you can't do with people who didn't take the journey with you.

We also reminded each other of how important and influential that trip to Italy was and how valuable an investment travel can be, especially within the backdrop of poetry, agritourism and philosophy. This is the kind of travel that matters. These are the kinds of trips we all need to be taking.

I'm lucky because I work for a company who's main goal is to inspire travel. I realize that some travel experiences have been more accessible to me than to others. For all of those trips, I am deeply grateful. It is my wish for 2009 that those closest to me can experience an amazing trip of their own - a trip that rocks your core, a trip that brings you closer to yourself than ever before. It doesn't have to be across an ocean to Italy. Sometimes it just takes a drive down Highway 1 or a weekend painting retreat. Whatever your dreams are, let me know about them - I'll do anything within my travel expertise to help you make them real.

The Old World

In a culture that places a huge amount of value on speed, productivity and general new-ness in all that we buy, I've been digging deeper for the old. I've been searching for the antique keys, the scribbled vintage postcards, the historic, un-changed buildings. I want to go back in time when things were slower. I want to go back before the ipod. Heck, before electricity.

While San Francisco boasts gorgeous Victorian and Edwardian architecture and a plethora of historic buildings and landscapes, I still have trouble finding old, homey hangouts that authentically feel like they are from another era, that they haven't been changed.

Thankfully, I've befriended a few lovely British friends who introduced me to the Pelican Inn, just a short drive north of San Francisco beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. Located just steps from dramatic Stinson Beach, the Pelican Inn is an incredibly homey (and ancient) English pub and inn (with just 7 rooms). I don't think it's changed much since it was built in 1855 and locals couldn't be more thankful. On Sundays, the Pelican Inn hosts its weekly "Sunday Roast" where you can enjoy a bottomless plate of roast, mashed potatoes, salad & local blue cheese. The cider and beer flowly freely, as does the whiskey and live music. This is how a Sunday should be spent.

What I love most about the Pelican Inn was the feeling that the building radiates. She's unapologetic and graceful all at once. Her carpets are worn straight through but their faded colors are comforting. It's drafty and dark when you're not near the fireplace but you've never been cozier in a wool seater. Single, dripping candlesticks line each table without pretense. The cloudy windows turn sunlight into single, lemony beams that streak the dusty air.

I'm not sure how we passed 5 hours there on Sunday afternoon. We moved in and out of the main room at the dining table & spent time sprawled out on old quilts on their lush lawn. We ordered pint after pint of cider and held the old mugs tightly as the sun got lower.

Later, at sunset, we walked down to the beach and watched the pelicans glide low in their perfect lines against the horizon.

Then, it was time to go home.

Querencia

I spend a lot of time seeking miracles outside my home, whether it's the perfect graffiti message, inspiring local events or the tiny magic places no one knows about.

Maybe it's because autumn is really starting to settle down in my bones and the early edge of winter and darkness is here. Maybe it's the foggy-gloom that makes home feel more homey. Either way, the past few weekends in San Francisco have reminded me not to overlook the Urban Miracles that exist in my own home and the querencia that can be found in this funky Victorian apartment above Church Street. In the Spanish language, the word querencia describes the feeling of home, "the wanting place", the place in which we are most ourselves. I am learning how to build and re-build querencia in my life every single day.

I recently started reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver and it's rocking my world. The general basis behind the book is a story of a family (the author's) who chooses to spend a year living off the land in the southern Appalachia Mountains. Their goal is to eat mostly locally-grown food (their own or their friends') and to truly get in sync with the earth, mother nature and her seasonal gifts. They explore, in their own way, the idea of designing their own Querencia from the land they live on. Along with her own, her husband's and her 19 year-old daughter's narratives, Kingsolver includes the seasonal recipes she creates as she watches her land turn from spring to summer, autumn to winter.

Reading this book has pushed me to spend a bit more time at the Noe Farmer's Market which is held each Saturday down the street in the (only) parking lot in my neighborhood. It's prompted me to seek out seasonal recipes and to turn the stove back on. It has reminded me of the power that a home-cooked meal, good wine, and friends can have on a drained spirit.

Last weekend, I gathered the ingredients for my favorite autumn recipe: Roasted Garlic, Potato & Leek Soup (thank you, Whole Foods). I found every single ingredient at the farmer's market and spoke to the farmers who grew them. I now know most of them by name. The soup cooked on the stove all day and friends stopped by whenever they could for a warm bowl and fresh bread. The whole house was enveloped in the earthy-sweetness of simmering leeks & garlic. Some people burn sage to turn negative energy into good. I cook leeks. And drink wine.

There's something truly magical about leaving a pot cooking all day, filling the house with music and watching the fog roll in across the Twin Peaks hilltops. There's something incredible about living with, and a few houses from, close friends. There's something to be said for slowing down...and staying home.

New Photography Site Is Live!

...don't forget to check back with the Urban Miracles blog for more inspiring happenings around the world...

But in the mean time, my very own photography website is live and in need of some open eyes and tender hearts to view it.

http://www.sarahroosphotography.com/

Enjoy!

Photography Show This Weekend!

Thanks to San Francisco's MAPP organization, which I've blogged about previously, I have my very first opportunity to host my own photography show this weekend.

My space will be at Harrison and 24th St. -- stop by the Red Poppy Art House around 7pm to get a "MAPP" of the participating locations/studios and you'll be directed to my spot (there are 17 total).

Pending a dry evening, the show will be in a lovely garden, surrounded by twinkle lights, candles & a cozy chiminea. My new friend Jorge will be providing the live jazz/world music with a group of his friends.

Hope to see you all there!

20 Slides x 20 Seconds

You can say anything you want. It's great if you stick to the evening's theme. It's fine if you don't. You get 20 slides at 20 seconds each. 6 minutes total. Not a second more.

That's the structure for Pecha Kucha.

Last night, I had the chance to experience my very first Pecha Kucha night here in San Francisco. Pronounced "pay-cha-ka-cha", Pecha Kucha nights were born in 2003 by a small group of designers as a place to pitch their ideas and projects to each other within the guidelines of a short presentation infrastructure. Given how long-winded artists and designers can be about their work, the structure of the evening gives everyone a chance to have the spotlight for 6 minutes. The word Pecha Kucha means "the sound of conversation" in Japanese which aptly describes the buzz in the room of 400+ people listening to each other's ideas.

Today, Pecha Kucha nights can be found in hundreds of cities around the world and have expanded far beyond the scope of design projects. Each Pecha Kucha event centers around a certain theme, which can be used for inspiration but is in no way required. Last night's theme was "Verde, Verte" which some used as a platform to talk about urban green design projects. However, you certainly don't have to be a designer or architect to present. In fact, some of the more interesting speakers last night were photographers and community activists sharing their work that was completely unrelated to the theme. The blessing and the curse of the event is the strict 20-slides/20 seconds guideline, which gives you just enough time to pitch an idea but not enough time expand upon it and/or lose your audience's attention.

Starting a Pecha Kucha evening is fairly easy and fully supported by the organization. Most major U.S. cities already have their own Pecha Kucha chapter -- click here to see events from your city. I'm considering presenting in the next San Francisco Pecha Kucha, providing I can muster the courage to be the center of 400 people's attention for 6 entire minutes. Stay tuned!