Being married to a travel photographer, I often find myself in sensitive situations when it comes to photographing indigenous peoples. No matter how familiar, I always end up tiptoeing around nervously, lurking in the hintergrund.
People ask me if I miss making music now that I'm a mother. I usually respond with, "You mean, spooning with my bass player in a Best Western in Salt Lake City because there weren't enough beds for the band? Nah!
April is almost upon us, we have our route situated and our tickets booked! I'm feeling a combination of excitement, nervousness and the unfortunate grief that comes when leaving a place.
Music plays a much larger role now in our day-to-day because Sia is so much more engaged and physically independent.
Being a musician, I thought I'd spend the first months of motherhood penning lullabies, singing "Hush Little Baby" while our newborn slept peacefully to Mozart. Well, that was a pipe dream:
Leaving anywhere you love is bittersweet. I never thought I'd fall so hard for Germany, but it's the best things that tend to sneak up on you.
Today is my birthday! I'm furiously writing this before the little morning sounds come from the bedroom and the guy fixing the dryer rings the doorbell. (Yes, our dryer is broken! No doubt he'll have a tried and true Franconian dialect, but I've navigated rougher waters).
Three weeks have passed since we brought Sia home. While I tend to think of myself as a woman of many talents (.350 batting average of catching grapes in my mouth, cut my own hair, uncanny memory for the details of 24) nothing has given me a run for my money more than navigating the territory of new motherhood.
When a baby is born in the Maasai tribe of Kenya, the midwives whisper in her ear, "You are responsible for your life as I am for mine."