Treasured

When we first moved into our house in 2007 we knew that there was a quiet elderly woman that lived next door to us and that’s all we knew. We rarely saw her except for when she watered her plants. It wasn’t until one day when she struck up a conversation with my daughter, over the fence, about how nice it was that Olivia was helping with our family dogs. A few weeks later she and I conversed in between our yards. That was the day that she said she never heard our [noisy] house. That was the day I realized she must have some hearing problems.

All joking aside, Miss Beverly is a treasure to us. We’ve had her over for a spur-of-the-moment birthday gathering, a Christmas dinner, and most recently a birthday celebration for Olivia. She’s also had us over for tea and even watched Olivia one weekend while I attended a small blogging conference. She was extremely flattered that we trusted her with our daughter. Truthfully, she’s a surrogate grandmother to us while we live far from all the actual grandparents.

A few days before Olivia was to stay the weekend, Miss Beverly called me over to her house. She wanted to show me where my daughter would be sleeping; to make sure it met my approval. We walked down the hall to the bedroom and I immediately noticed that the furniture was antique and extremely beautiful. You just don’t find that kind of craftsmanship anymore. As she ran her hand on the footboard she told me that it was her bedroom suite when she was a little girl. Smiling she told me that there hadn’t been a little girl to sleep in that bed for many years. We both felt a sense of peace as we smiled at each other.

Walking back down the hallway she asked me to come into her room as there was a picture she wanted to show me. Naturally, I followed her. She picked up an old wooden frame and handed it to me. The picture was a three quarter length shot of a relatively young man in a distinguished three piece suit.

“That’s my Daniel.” she breathed.

“He’s so handsome in this portrait, Miss Beverly.” I commented to her.

“He certainly was. A week after that portrait was taken he died,” she said heavily as she laid both her hands over her heart.

I sighed, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” as I handed her back the portrait of her beloved son.

She swept her fingers lovingly over Daniel’s face as she set the frame on her bedside table, and out we walked.

******

A few weeks ago my husband was making salsa for us. I had my camera in hand and I was documenting the process. The colors of all the ingredients along with the beautiful afternoon sun that was shining through our kitchen compelled me to photograph him while he worked.

Then the doorbell rang, and with camera in hand I went to answer it. It was Miss Beverly and I invited her in. We came into the kitchen, chit-chatted about Michael’s salsa making abilities, her naiveté in regards to salsa consumption, and then about my camera and how it didn’t use film. She was shocked when I explained how it worked.

“Mishelle, I came to ask you a favor that actually involves your camera. Do you see that tree at the top of my yard?” she asked.

“Yes, I absolutely love that tree!” I replied.

“Well, I planted that tree in honor of Daniel when I first moved in here. You remember my Daniel, right?”

“Of course I do; what a beautiful thing to do.” I comforted.

She went on to tell me that she planted it for Daniel and that his two sons were now old enough to understand the sentiment behind it. She hoped that I might be able to capture the tree in photograph for her to give to her grandsons. Without hesitation I told her that I would take pictures of Daniel’s Tree for her, for her grandsons, and in honor of dearly departed son.

She grabbed me, hugged me tight, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “You are a treasure to me!”

“As are you to me,” I whispered back through the lump in my throat.

*****

Parents should never have to bury their children. It’s cruel, heartbreaking, and seemingly wrong. Why it happens no one will know for sure. What we do know, though, is that there is genuine goodness in the world amidst all the cruelty. It starts with one person, one kind word, one smile, one embrace, one tree blooming, one camera pointed, one blue sky, and one hope that our loved ones---even the smallest of the small---watch over us while we remain on this earth becoming a treasure despite the pain.

Photo and words courtesy of Guest Blogger / Honorary Sister Mishelle Lane or as many of you know her Secret Agent Mama.

the gift of a photo

 

Alexa - Shepard mix puppy, looking for a home

Volunteerism; it knocks on the edge of my mind, the where, the when, the how. Some feed the homeless, some offer legal services pro bono, some clean up the coast.

I reach for my camera, think of my love of animals, think of how so many don’t have homes. I can help, I tell myself. Make them look cute and cuddly. Capture their essence in a photo. Make them stand out in a crowd.

I start my Google search for rescue organizations, reach out, offer my services. A few bite and say how desperately they need photos.

When I meet the dogs, I extend a hand for a nuzzle. I stoop down to their level, offer a soothing voice, tell them how cute they are. Their handlers tell them to sit, to stay, and I say, “No. Just let them be. I want their personality to come out.” I move when they move. I call the name they barely know. I whistle. I wait. I get dirty.

And I love every minute. The photos I create present them to the world, lure in the curious. My style evolves over time. I see how bright and happy and sparkling works best online, how tongues and smiles translate to adoption inquiries despite my love of the moody and the thoughtful images. But it’s not about me; it’s about the dogs and finding them homes.

Each time I photograph the homeless pets, I feel a combination of joy and sadness. Joy from time spent with them. Joy from trying to help. Sadness that I can’t offer them homes, that I can’t do more.

As photographers there are countless ways we can donate our services—capturing the brief life of a terminally ill child for the family or finding the charity of our choice that needs the gift of our photos.

Outside of photographing shelter animals, I’m always looking for opportunities to put my skills to use. It takes imagination, and I suspect that as a community we can build a list of ideas.

So here’s the question: how and where can you be a charitable photographer?

Picture and words courtesy of Honorary Sister /Guest Blogger Debbie Zeitman.

cracking up

In a recent email exchange with Shutter Sister Sarah-Ji, I was struck with the quote that was at the footer of her email:

There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.

It’s a perfectly simple idea—a sage lyric from Leonard Cohen—but I’m not sure I never thought about the cracks in things or in ourselves quite like that. The idea that the cracks actually bring the gift of illumination is a huge sigh of relief.

I repeat the lines in my head over and over again and I feel liberated. Why try to hide an imperfection that brings with it light? Imagine, if we begin to see the cracks like this, what happens to the rest of our fractures and flaws? There must be a silver lining to more of the less-than-perfect traits that we too often try to cover/mask/hide.

As I muse on the idea of celebrating my own imperfections, I encourage you to do the same. Let’s turn self-consciousness on its ear and willingly reveal the fissures that run through each of us. Perhaps if we begin to look at the cracks under a new, gentler, more tolerant lens, perhaps we can bring to light all the beauty—the big perfectly imperfect picture—of who we are.

on letting go

Recently, I have been reminded of the importance of letting go; of baggage, of clutter, of resistance, of desperation, of fear. Why does it seem so hard to release the things that clearly do not bring us joy? My head tells me it should be easy to relinquish all of what no longer serve me well. My doubt, insecurities, hestitation...I wish my head would give a gentle nudge to my heart. It needs to be reminded too.

Whether we’re on the threshold of something big, like some sort of soul breakthrough, or something a little less monumental like cleaning out a closet, there is the clear and obvious need to let go. So why, if this would help us get on with things already, do we continue to hold on so tight?

The other day my husband brought home a large bag of grapefruit. As my daughter unloaded the bag and arranged all the colorful orbs into the fruit bowl, she marveled at the one that was still adorned with one last tiny leaf. She set it right on top, on display.

Don’t pick that leaf girls, it’s so sweet, I have to get some photos of it.

Admiring this tenacious little wrinkled leaf—a delightful burst of green against the warm yellow and oranges of the sphere—I shoot one photo after the next; studying the leaf, the light, the fruit and the relationship between them all. And all of the sudden it occurs to me, maybe it’s not the leaf that is holding on, maybe it’s the grapefruit that won’t let go. The leaf is drying out, getting brittle, no longer offering the fruit anything it needs to survive and grow. And yet, the fruit refuses to let go, desperate to hold on.

I will be watching that grapefruit perched up on our counter each day...encouraging it to drop it’s last leaf as I get ready to do the same.

The last of the letting go might be the most difficult but I assure myself, there’s no need to fear. What we choose to release is something that is no longer is a part of us; no longer necessary to our growth; our wholeness. As I admire the fruit bowl, I daydream about what perfectly round, robust and sumptuous grapefruit will remain when it finally lets go.

the right words

I’ve never really been good at finding the right words when they matter most. I stumble and stammer and sometimes even say nothing at all for fear of saying the wrong thing.

 As dear family friend is experiencing the sorrow of loss I’ve wracked my brain, what to say? What can possibly be said to ease her burden? Someone commented, it isn’t time for words now. It is time to just let it be. I know that she’s right and that there are those instances in our lives when words can fail us. It is important for me to let her experience it for what it is. The only thing I can do is to be there for her; the unspoken support of a true friend. I know my words would only fall short.

 As I was walking out the door, tissue box in hand my daughter gently put this note in my hand. Please give this to her.

 Leave it to the purest, truest kindness and love of a child to find precisely the right words.

 It’s Love Thursday at Chookooloonks today. Share the love