Cardstock to make cards from scratch: $5

Colored pencils, pens and stickers to decorate cards: $15

Postage to overnight the cards to the messenger: $45

A chance to send hope notes to the girls of Rwanda: priceless

As many of you know, our lovely Jen is leaving to take her sweet self, her zines, blank journals, pens, hearts, these handwritten hope notes and a film to share with the girls of Rwanda. Girls who need encouragement and support more than we can ever imagine.

For those of us who remain here while Jen single handedly delivers these messages (indeed, she is a superhero of hope), the photos and videos that she captures over there will be the only way we can truly share the trip with her. But beyond that, her photographs will serve as the only recent record that one mother has of her daughters. Imagine how it would feel to see a photo of your child after 2 years of not seeing any. Two years. And then comes a day when a rare and beautiful gift is handed to you through one photograph. A single image that would surely take any mother’s breath away.

Simple truths like this remind me that when we hold our cameras, we hold incredible power. How lucky are we to shoot photo after photo of our own children, of friends and family. Each image a gift. A gift that is indeed priceless.

As we send our sister off on the journey of a lifetime, let’s honor her with links to our own priceless photographs, shall we? It’ll be our little way of showing her our Shutter Sisters support.

Safe travels Jen, we will all be eagerly awaiting stories and photos. Lots and lots of glorious, priceless photos.

"What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?'  Mary Oliver

 That question has been with me long before I had heard of the poet Mary Oliver or dared to picture myself on  daring adventures to faraway lands.  I couldn't have imagined then, that a ten day trip to Rwanda would be in my future.  In a little over a week, I will be visiting villages, making new friends and trying to uncover the plans waiting to be revealed for more than one African schoolgirl like my little friend above. 

 I'll be taking not one camera, but two.  One for me, and one for my host.  Of all the things he could ask me to bring, he's wishing for a camera more than anything.   He has an artist's eye, my friend tells me.  He knows how to see things.

 I hope I'll know how to see things, too, when I finally arrive.  I don't know if I'll have the luxury of waiting for late afternoon to capture my subjects in the best light.  I don't know if the sun will work against me in a place not too far from the equator.  I'm still such a new photographer that I'm still learning how to see the shot when the sun is shining bright.

 Do you have one capture in particular that really shines in bright light?  What are your best tips for taking photographs under these kinds of conditions?  Bring them one and all--I'll be taking notes.  I don't want to miss the moments that are waiting for me in what is sure to be a wild and precious chapter in my life. 

All day I wandered through the house searching through little stacks of papers. Of all things, how could I have lost this? My friend had entrusted me with her most important picture--a snapshot of her with her two daughters taken on the day they said good-bye. She didn't know that it would be two years with only this shot to remind her of how hopeful they all were--and must continue to be until they are together again.

And now I have lost one of the only records of their last time together. Great.

"I'll scan it for you," I said. "That way we can keep it safe."

Safe. What was I thinking? In two short days I misplaced the picture and experienced a catastrophic hard drive failure. At least a thousand of my own photographs gone--poof!--never to be seen again. Searching the house, looking for my friend's photo--the key to her most important memories--I was reminded of what a critical role pictures play in telling our story, keeping our history. Without them, I start to lose the very things I vow always to remember. Without them, as in the case of my friend, we hold our children in our heart without knowing how they've grown or how they felt--the last time we said good-bye.

I'm thinking this is an occasion where sisterhood might really make a difference. Let's promise each other right now we'll scan those old photos (and memories) and that we'll back those babies up at least once a week. Leave your tips and tricks for keeping all your photos safe in the comments below along with links to the photo you must never lose.

Thanks to Flickr, I still have the originals of some of my most treasured moments. And thanks, to a flash of memory right before I sat down to type this post, I remembered that special "safe" place where I'd left my friend's photo. You better believe I'll be returning that picture first thing in the morning. I don't ever want to lose something so important ever again!

What do you say, Shutter Sisters? What's the plan to make sure we don't lose all the magic (and memories) we make with our cameras (and our dear ones) everyday? I know for certain, that here is one sister who desperately needs your help!

I could capture her in her perfection.   The bold silver of her hair or the light magic of her eyes when she's listening in close to every word you say.   With any luck, I could take that image and make it shine even more with my fingers at the keyboard, as her years and her flaws slip away.  I could do all this and make you see her, make you love her, make you understand who she is without any imperfections holding you back from the truth. 

 This is my work, I tell myself.  To eliminate the distractions.  To take the flaws of the photo or the subject and minimize them until all you can see is the beauty.  This is why we have the tools right?  This is what it means to be an artist in a digital age.

 But what if the beauty is in the lines that show with each passing age?  What if the magic of knowing her is to see the way that love (and sorrow) has made her face worn and kind?  What if the only way to know the truth is to make the imperfection plain?

I worry I am using my photography to tell a story about my life that isn't always true.  I wonder if I am clicking away all the rough edges, only to make pictures that tell half truths of my raw, messy, beautiful life.   How would things change if I used my post-processing skills to highlight all the places truth resides when things are anything but perfect?

Show me the photos where beauty shines in the absence of perfection.  I want to see your real life--the one that celebrates what is true, no matter what.

This is my father.
Nicotine stained, work-worn, full of fire, fueled by possibility.

He is a rascal, a maverick, a speculator, a pirate.  
He is hopeful.  He is unchanging.  He is mine.

He takes the long way home, so I can see the sunset across the bridge.  He tells stories about the car, how he bought it for seven hundred and eleven dollars a few months ago.  How they charge him next to nothing for insurance because they don’t expect him to be able to drive a thirty-year old car this fast.  I can barely hear him over the roar of the engine, over the sound of the wind whipping my hair around my face.  

We soar down the road like a rocket.

My whole life I can barely remember him even though I grew up in the house we both call our home.  He is busy.  He is traveling.  He is gone.  My mother pulls her coat over her pregnant belly in the winter and goes out to the patio to chop wood for the fireplace.  I’m sure there is a good reason for this, but I cannot remember it.  Where is my father?  I do not know.

The parts I do remember are like this.  He is calling home.  He is helping some homeless guy he just met. He is bringing home some Austrian backpackers who are shocked that they lock the churches here, and now they have nowhere to sleep.  He is talking to the man who is determined to end his life.  He is driving some guy to the emergency room, because he found him stabbed on the street.   He is collecting wildflowers off the side of the highway, because they are beautiful.  He is bringing home flowers for all of us, because we are his little women.

All this, I understand, with all my heart.

When he doesn’t call it is because he is smoking cigarettes in his office, adding up his dreams in lines of little numbers written in pen on paper napkins.  He is at the airport.  He is with the client at a restaurant.  He is selling something.  He is working harder than any man has ever worked before. He is waiting for this deal to come through.  He is waiting for his ship to come in. No matter what, there is always work and traveling and the sound of the television and the numbers on the napkins.  No matter what.

This I make peace with over years, over time.  I extract all the numbers until dreams form like poems on my napkins.  I learn to follow these dreams (just as he followed his) with all my heart.  

We are almost to the bridge now.  He tells me about the car, and how happy it makes him.  He tells me how beautiful the stars are overhead, when he drives with the top down late at night.  He tells me how they make him think of me.  How much he knows I would enjoy the view.   In this moment, his heart is as expansive as the sky above, and I can’t believe how lucky I am—to experience his love for me in this moment, so perfect, so complete.

He slows down at the top of the bridge, so I can capture the sunset.   I take twenty pictures as fast as I can, but in the end none means as much to me as this.   What more could I need than this love?  This forgiveness?  The memory of his hand at the wheel as we follow our dreams all the way home?

 +++++++++++++++++++++

May you discover the story of your life today, dear sisters, as you look through the lens with love in your eyes and hope in your soul.  Do you have a photo that is dear to you because of the story it tells your heart?   I'd be delighted to see your links in the comments below.