Searching for Hope--Raw and Real

Around this time every year, something in my brain flicks a switch.  Just like the bud of a newly forming leaf is triggered by enrivonmental and genetic cues, these same signals and accompanying consequences--the emergence from winter darkness, spring rains, blossoms shooting up overnight, the cheerful chatter and melodies of songbirds--rouse in my subconscious an homage to and remembrance of one of the most significant experiences of my life.

Seven years ago, almost to the day, I received news that my father was dying of inoperable pancreatic cancer.  One month later, the day after his 64th birthday, he was gone.  During those short final weeks of my dad's life, I developed an intimate relationship with my then-new digital camera.  Perhaps it was the shock of imminent loss that opened my eyes in a new way and motivated me to search for the hope I so desperately needed wherever I went. 

It was during this time that I developed a deep and abiding love for wandering the streets of my city, camera in hand.  Much of what caught my eye back then wouldn't be considered beautiful in the conventional sense of the word.  In fact, I found myself often drawn to the weathered, beat-up and forgotten images that most people would rush by without a second thought (or even a first).  Maybe it was because I was feeling somewhat weathered and beat-up and forgotten myself that I was trying to comfort my soon-to-be-crushed inner daddy's girl by gathering up these overlooked mementos and treasuring them, savoring the moment in which I found them.  It was as if I needed to know that I could find light in the midst of darkness and decay and even death, because if I could, then I would be able to find hope no matter how dreary the circumstances.

I find it quite timely that now, when my thoughts and emotions are conjuring up the memories and feelings from that month of watching my father succumb to cancer, our Shutter Sisters have embarked on this voyage to Picture Hope.  I am thrilled because I know the power of images to stir our hearts and minds and to plant hope in the midst of dispair.  I think Stacey Monk said it quite eloquently in her comment, "Hope is the most beautiful direction in which a lens can be pointed."

Will you share with us today your images of the weathered, beat-up and forgotten that nevertheless convey to you a hope and beauty that's raw and real?  It would mean ever so much to me...

A Slice of (my) Life

I spend much of my time shooting pictures of my children, my home, my yard, and now my dog. And I blog freely about all of the above as well. A lot. Although much of my personal life is online and live the man in my life (in our lives) remains behind the scenes. It’s intentional I guess; leaving him ‘out of things’ out of respect for his privacy. Our privacy.

The other day we were discussing something and laughing (as we like to do) and he said, This is blog worthy. I smiled and mused out loud that I rarely blog about our stories. About us. About him. I wasn’t sure if he knew that but saying it felt like I may have relieved his mind a bit. I’m not really sure. But, it got me thinking about him and how much I love him. How much I depend on him and his character, his strength, his sense of humor. He’s the most amazing father, husband and all around human being. And then there’s the smashing good looks.

The other evening as we shared dinner duty (the best way to do dinner) he took his rightful place at the grill.

Swoon.

Did I mention I love this man?

Are there subjects that you hold close that are rarely caught by the snare of your lens? And what would happen if you caught them, if only for a moment, to capture, to be reminded of their magic?

in the dew of little things

Grade twelve, it was, when we met, both of us The New Girls in the last grade of high school. And so we joined forces, cliques be damned. We were shrill with beer and opinions, bristling, ants in our pants, trailing conspiratory snickers wherever we went.

Wait. Now we sound insufferable. C'mon. We were eighteen. We were cool, if only because when uncool has company, it becomes cool.

This is Daphne, truthful and fierce and completely without drama, quite possibly the most sensible, go-anywhere person I know. As maid of honour she spoke at my wedding. Afterwards, we cracked up at the self-fanning she instinctually attempted to fend off the tears. It didn't work. Daphne, you see, is both ruthlessly graceful in the calling-out of bullshit and is easily verklempt. At her wedding, guests introduced me as her sister and we giggled. It wasn't the first time.

Please, for the love of god, do not make me do the math of 1991 to now. Let's just say A Long Time and take a deep slurp of wine. I watch her with her Sadie and the shock never fails. Were we ever those girls? Are we really these mothers? Either way, she is my sister, because I say so.

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This week, let's see the camera turned upon longtime friends. Has it changed with life? Have you?

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter and the sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.  ~ Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931), The Prophet

magic

A couple weeks ago, in the spirit of the season, we decided to download the movie Fred Claus. Simple enough. Until the eight year old wheels of logic started turning in my son's head, and the interrogation began. "But how does Santa get in here if we don't have a chimney?" "Does he know the code to the alarm?" "How does he fly through the night when it's daytime on the other side of the world?" (That one made my head hurt). But we dutifully lied through our teeth as the questions got to be more and more detailed. "YES! We mailed him the key to the front door, ALRIGHT?!!"

A few days passed, and I guess it had been eating my husband up. Because the next thing I know, he waltzes into the room to casually announce that he has single-handedly informed our children (the youngest is THREE) that Santa Claus is indeed NOT REAL.

Me: "Are you serious?"

Him: "Yep, I was sick of lying to them."

Me: "Well, why don't you just tell them about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. And while you're at it, tell them how babies are made. For good measure, why don't you just pour them a drink?!"

But the damage had been done. Or so we thought. A few more days passed, when my oldest asks my husband, "If Santa's not real, then who always eats all those cookies after we go to bed?"

My husband could see in his eyes how much he desperately wanted Santa to be real. He said, "You know what...I never thought about that. But you're right...the cookies ARE always gone the next morning. Maybe he really IS real afterall!" All three children tuned in. And by the end of the conversation, Santa was alive and well again. And so was the possibility of magic. It made me realize that sometimes it's not important to have all the answers, because so much joy comes from just having the faith to believe.

What do you believe in this Christmas Eve?

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the love of family

Kate and her husband Nigel, photographed on Maenporth beach in Cornwall, England on November 22, 2008.

As I type this, it's morning in Falmouth, Cornwall. I'm waking up in my sister-in-law Kate's house -- my husband is English, and we've been visiting his family for the past 10 days.  I love visiting his family -- they're so close, and always welcome Marcus back home like the prodigal son, with open arms.  All of Marcus' family members (and there are many!) are unabashed about showing each other pure, genuine love -- and letting me capture amazing images like the one above.

Today (and for those of you in the United States, in the spirit of family-filled Thanksgivings), I'd love for you to share images of your family members expressing their love.