A mother of four, photographer, nature lover. Someone trying to make sense of it all, through photos and stories. 

I try to be free in all senses of the word, so I made the leap and now work with what I love doing; taking pictures, storing this life in moments, both for myself and for clients. My heart is in photographing birth and motherhood, but I take on just about any photography job. 
(See my birth photos at www.birth.no and the rest of my work portfolio at www.mariavatne.no.)

I live on a farm in Norway with my man Nik and my children Ronja, Freja, Falk and Ulv, plus a bunch of animals. We grow our own food as far as the seasons allow it, we don't go to kindergarten, the three youngest ones will be homeschooled.

We govern our own lives, we strive for independence, we want to be in this life wild and free and full of love.

A funeral march for miracles.

We move from the vivid, clear freshness of October and into the bleak beauty of November. Full of stillness and quiet, sparking the impulse to hibernate, this month opens up for peaceful contemplation. It is a month where nothing really happens. The trees have let go of their last leaves, birds have moved south, the air is quiet in the absence of flies and crickets. The world darkens. 

One of my favourite quotes about November is written by Stephen Soule, and goes like this:

It's late now, and the cold gray days settle heavily into our bones as the weight of impending darkness pushes down a willing and tired sun, draped in clouds. The sharp autumn winds remain to shake the last leaves free from the slipping grip of their trees. Temperatures stick toward freezing as a light rain falls steadily to dampen ground and spirits alike. The earth dies every November, hosting a funeral march for miracles that rose gracefully out of the spring rains and shimmered prominently in the warm breeze of July amidst a sea of admiring smiles. The fireworks of a vibrant autumn bring the dance to its end, and we file out of the theatre in bittersweet procession, grateful to be witness to such a show. The curtain closes, and we are left standing in a field of matted grass surrounded by the stark forest, black, imposing, and raw.

(From the book The Rhythm of Family)


I miss you.