The Bottom of Everything

The bottom of everything is love.

That's what I thought to myself while she cried, while I cried, while we argued about everything without ever touching the real thing. That her heart was hurting from an old wound. That she was counting on me and I was counting on her and that we had let each other down when it mattered the very most.

We won't talk about this again. Ever. Can we agree on that?

I shrug. Sure. Whatever. We can talk or not talk but the truth is it is still here, this sadness, this fierce love, this beautiful tension between what we hope for and the way it is.

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The bottom of everything is grief.

That's what I thought to myself when he smiled, when he had tried to explain over Thanksgiving dinner how they met in Beijing without making her sound too much like a mail-order bride. It's wasn't like that at all, his eyes told me, but there was no need to explain. He had found her, and something in his heart instantly mended. I could see it all over her face.

How old do you think they are?  Fatou asked, motioning to our guests--the man and his not-a-mail-order-bride, the lovely Chinese woman in the fantastic red jacket.

I have no idea, I told her. But they have that kind of happiness that comes from understanding what it means to be sad. The kind of gratitude that comes after thinking for so long you would always be alone.

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These are the stories I think about later, looking at the shots of everyone's hands and that red jacket, shining in every picture.

These are the stories I think about when I want to get to the bottom of everything, when I wonder if grief will wreck us, when I wonder if love can truly be more than enough, when I want to know what it is exactly that will make our souls whole.

Leave a comment below and today's lovely giveaway winner will receive:

a collection of TRUST notes and a donation made to this project in the name of someone you love. We'll send a lovely card announcing your donation to whomever you choose.

Congratulations to Kristina of Meadowlark Days for winning yesterday's giveaway--artwork by Amy Ruppel.  Lucky lady.

in an instant

Last night my daughter took a tumble and landed teeth first into the leg of a chair. I know. Ouch. The incident had all the makings of a total emergency room disaster. But we were lucky enough to avoid that. Thankfully. But, there was the fear, some pain, tears (no blood believe it or not) and a front tooth that was knocked back just enough to make my little girl look totally different than she did not a minute before the fall. And from what I can tell, the displaced tooth is either staying right where it is for a while or it’s getting pulled. This is yet to be decided as we have a dentist appt on Monday to get an x-ray and assessment. At this point, I am thankful. It could have been worse. A lot worse. But even still, the whole ordeal has left me shaken.

I am the mom who will forever try to convince you that I’m OK with my kids growing up. And I am. Most of the time. I feel like now that my kids are independent and much more self-sufficient I am a better mother than I was in the early days of total dependence. I recognize how much I need my own autonomy and how much I enjoy time to myself. But this whole tooth thing has been a wake-up call.

I look at my daughter today and see a different girl. A growing, changing girl. It might sound dramatic and I realize that part of her metamorphosis is the fact that she’s swollen and somewhat discolored by the inevitable bruising but even when that fades, her tooth is still in a new place and it’s changed the way she’s always looked. Sure she’s going to be loosing her teeth in the next year or so anyway—my husband keeps reminding me—but somehow I realized that part of me is in no way ready for it. I am not ready to let my baby grow up.

The emotions I have experienced over the last 24 hours have blindsided me. I didn’t feel melancholy when she started Kindergarten a few months ago, so why now? I guess there’s just no way of knowing exactly what it is that reaches in and finds our most tender spots, our soft parts, the place in our heart that aches with the pain of life’s losses. Although this is a small scale loss (very small I know), I feel that ache deeply today.

There might not be another photograph I take of my daughter where she looks like she did 2 days ago. That’s a strange and surreal thought. More than anything I am grateful for the photos I have already captured, the ones that will always remind me of my babies, my children as they were, as they are and as they will never be again. Photographs are the only history we have besides our memories and our stories and it just reminds me that I will never regret a single picture I ever take. In fact, I will only celebrate them more.

feast

Love After Love  

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life. 

 -Derek Walcott

If there is an image that shines a light on the feast of your life, share the bounty with us today.

When Motherhood and Photography Collide

Chatting over the phone with mother/writer/author Jennifer New (of no relation to me although oddly enough my maiden name is New) I was asked to reflect on how motherhood has affected my photography for a piece she was writing for her blog Mothers of Invention. Wow. How hasn’t motherhood affected every part of me (photography included)?

She graciously listened as I spilled my guts on subjects like my dirty laundry and post-partum depression (pun intended) among many others, that for me are all tied up with my creativity and being a parent. As I recalled the days, the hours, the minutes of life with a newborn, I couldn’t help but feel cracked open again just as I did when I became a mother. It was the revisiting of those tender and tumultuous times that exposed me once more and reminded me of my intense dependency on my creativity, on expressing myself in words and pictures and seeing and documenting my life though my lens.

Did becoming a mother change my photography?

Does a torrential deluge change a landscape?

It begins as a quenching of a deep thirst; glorious, refreshing, welcomed. And as the water continues to pour down, it can seem relentless, and as everything is saturated, full, there remains no room for anything else. Then comes landslides and quicksand. And the feeling that there is no end in sight. The days are dark and the nights are darker. There is nothing to do but wait...and trudge through. Because you have to and there’s something about the smell of the rain and the clean air that sustains you.

Eventually the clouds break and the sun peeks through with the promise of hope. And if you’re lucky, a rainbow. At last, the gradual dry-out begins. Slowly the tiny sprigs of green hope emerge from the soil, fed and fertile. Blooms begin, the birds return to the sky and sing a song like no other. A world that is so new, so beautiful it’s almost painful.

I remember almost to the day when the sun warmed my face and the light almost blinded me. It didn’t come a minute too soon.

Although, the past feels so palpable when I speak of it, write about it, I do recall those early days as foggy. Spotty memories, shadows, tiny sparkles of light and shimmers amidst a hazy shadows. I recall that my camera was with me through it all as a trusted friend, an extension of myself, a microscope, seeing eye glasses, a necessity. It helped me to find impossible beauty when I didn't have the strength to see it for myself. When my camera became a saving grace, that’s when it all changed. And I have the pictures to prove it.

I encourage you to read Jennifer’s piece on photography and motherhood at Mothers of Invention. If by chance it’s not up yet when you click over (and even if it is) be sure to read Mama’s Got a Brand New Blog while you’re over there. I know you’ll love that one too!

What has affected or changed your photography? Is there an image that speaks of the transformation?

Learning to Speak Again

'Do you remember this?' My dad asked me, as we stood in my driveway, gathered around his open car boot.

He pulled a piece of card from a book and handed it to me. It was one of those pieces of card that they put in stocking packets, upon which was drawn a castle, set among trees, beneath a rainbow. The scene was faded, though possibly not as much as one would have expected, after twenty years.

'Who did that?' One of my girls asked, reaching for it. 'Your mother did, when she was ten,' my dad said smiling, 'and I still have it now.'

I didn't remember creating the drawing, though I did remember the days when I drew castles, almost obsessively, trying to place each line right so that it would look like it really was made of stone blocks. I loved to draw, to write, on any available canvas.

Other things happened, that tenth year of my childhood. Things that changed all of us forever, that quietened my creative voice and dulled the senses of those who had once listened to it. Like that tree that crashes in the forest without anyone around to hear it, there was only silence.

As I grew, occasionally I could hear the voice stir within me, but it was always quickly drowned out by life's cacophony. The serious act of growing up, becoming more than I was. The loving, the wedding, the birthing, growing and educating of those four precious girls. Be quiet voice, I have no time, no money, no energy, just leave me alone.

I fooled myself into thinking I'd rather listen to the creative voices of others, than speak my own. I was no stranger to the power of a photographic image. The ability a single picture has to touch the souls of those who view it, without regard for age or race, education or orientation. I'd experienced first-hand the effect of certain pictures, as they embraced, lifted into the air, twirled and spun me, before dropping me back to earth with a thud that left me breathless and altered. Yes, I knew only too well.

Then one day, someone asked me about my camera. It was a capable point and shoot, which I had affectionately named, Mr Fuji. I told them, and they replied that they would have to go out and buy one, because my pictures were amazing. Amazing? My pictures? These pictures? What crazy talk was this?

But my voice had been awakened, and within months I was the proud and excited owner of my very first DSLR camera. My creative voice was speaking, and people were listening. I was connecting with people all over the world through my images, my art. Every time someone emailed me to tell me how one of my pics had brought them to tears, or touched something deep within them, my voice grew stronger, louder.

These days, I'm still finding my voice. At times it cracks and becomes barely a whisper, or disappears altogether for a while. But I don't fear losing it again, because nurturing it, setting it free, was the greatest gift I have ever given myself, and I know now, that silence isn't always golden.

Photograph and words courtesy of Honorary Shutter Sister/Guest Blogger Just Hay who can also be found Flickring or Photoblogging at Hay's Fauxtography.