{a rose by any other name} St. Louis Park Maternity Photographer

There should be a song for women to sing at this moment or a prayer to recite. But perhaps there is none because there are no words strong enough to name that moment. "
— Anita Diamant (The Red Tent)

Waiting for a new little person. After such a long time of knowing each other but in a different way. There is an intimacy, closeness and love that cannot be named. Even at the moment when he finally is welcomed into the world. Breathing on his own. Completing the family after a long period of anticipation and wonder.

{one} Twin Cities Children Photographer

“Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it”-Albert Einstein

I think after working with children for quite sometime I have realized that maybe we should age in reverse. This came to me as I spent the morning with this wonderful family. The littlest man just turned one and his eyes, soul and sense of wonder displayed the glorious first year where everything is new, fresh and ready to be explored. Included in our time was a 3 year old big brother who helped me navigate his house, engaged me in fun and interesting conversation while I captured both of their stunning blue eyes, delicate features and enjoyable personalities.
I concur with Mr. Einstein, in a sense, that perhaps wisdom is a product of a lifelong unschooling and remembering what we started with. Those glorious first years when everything was a discovery and anything could be where your imagination could take you, including a stack of yellow lego blocks, that, just happen to be mom's princess hat.

{Summer Sun} Twin Cities Fine Art Photography

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

Summer Sun by Robert Louis Stevenson