Monday Thanksgiving week. Outside these sweet Bonica roses are still blooming prolifically, looking better now than they did in high summer when the hot sun bleaches them almost to white. More robust even than spring, when they are so eager to grow and bloom that their blossoms are small and too many, unwieldy, needing corralling with stakes and string. Right now they are perfect.
This image was taken with the Lensbaby Sweet 50. I've rediscovered my Lensbaby lenses. They've sat collecting dust since mid-spring when I had this idea that they weren't good enough for a certain project I had in mind. But with fall leaves begging to be more artfully captured, I dusted them off and here we are. They are amazing lenses. And their motto, See In A New Way. I love the way they turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, the way they expose things we cannot see with the naked eye, cannot even imagine, the unpredictability of the blur and bokeh, the way they either work or do not. How they represent life that way.
I've also left this space languishing. Another misguided idea that it had to be left behind in order to do something bigger, something "better." It's been over a year now since I left, though I've popped in occasionally. Then I logged on a few days ago, and immediately, habitually, fingers moved on the keyboard of themselves; a little housekeeping here, some updating there, a wee bit of editing on my last post. Before I knew it I was deep in creating a new banner (I know, it's blurry... trying to figure that out). The feeling of coming home swept over me; energy and enthusiasm filled me. How I've missed this space, that uses my creative energy in a wholly unique way.
In this year away I've written almost 50,000 words. A small book I am told. Not that it matters. The writing is all over the place. Lacking coherency or theme, and something more that I cannot put my finger on. Likely many things more. It's true that I have been learning to write in a whole new way. Like Lensbaby's See In A New Way. That learning, I am also told, and now know intimately, is not like climbing a hill, but more like scaling a near vertical mountain. The same as when I bought my new camera equipment and day after day, month after month I failed again and again. But then one day~
It is safe to say that I am as confused about writing as ever. And also, that I love what I have been learning. And so love the writers I have found that have helped me on this path, with their glorious words, their amazing journeys. It has been a great challenge that has also felt invigorating, sometimes quite satisfying, once or twice euphoric. But unlike my camera, it is a much longer process. Unlike with photography, which mostly bypasses the mind, I don't know quite what exactly is wanting to be created. Though what I do know is that it was a mistake to leave this space behind. I need the energy that it brings me in order to keep going, learning, experimenting on the other.
It's shocking to write that this is Thanksgiving week. I have tried to put it out of my mind. My favorite holiday of the year. Not because of its origins, which are shameful, but because it is a warm, cozy day with few expectations other than gathering together with loved ones. But those bucolic days ended with my older daughter's chronic illness and then doubled down with covid. We stay home alone, she and I, partly because she is unable, but mostly because the world is no longer a safe place for her. The same on Christmas day. Christmas on Zoom with my beloved five-year-old granddaughter whom I am over the moon for is just not the same. I know that we are not alone in lives disrupted, in aloneness. Sadness is not mitigated because others suffer too. It grows it larger; where it morphs, one hopes, to compassion, both inner and outer; to empathy.
Though this year there is a little kernel of joy hidden within this season. My younger daughter is expecting another baby right around summer solstice. The coming year will be one of dreams, of imagining, of possibilities. She is clear that she wants me there. I am clear I want to be there. But how to get to them, almost three hours away in the mountains, when the baby is born. And after, regularly so new Baby and I can bond in the way that my granddaughter and I have. How to continue to care for my older daughter, who is homebound, always at risk of severe setbacks. How to keep us safe from covid. How to not have to abandon one daughter for the other. Again and again. How to not fall into the deep, familiar, dark well of sorrow, of stress, of fear.
I have been shocked at how quickly shifts have happened. The way overnight these conundrums went from seemingly impossible to there must be a way, we will find a way, I will be there. Internal movement that will pave the way for the external. It is not so different really than photography and from writing. It is one exposure, one word and sentence, one moment and day at a time, one foot after the other. I had no idea how I would learn to take better photos anymore than I have any idea how I will continue to learn the craft of writing in a way that I dream of. Or how to know exactly how it will all work out that I will be there, in June, to meet this new, already precious family member, currently the size of a prune, but a baby shaped prune, arms, legs, feet no longer webbed; facial features recognizable, organs beginning to develop. And be with my granddaughter as she, as we all navigate the beautiful and challenging changes that will rock her little world.
This morning when I opened my curtains to the dark, pre-dawn sky there was the tiny crescent moon rising, a sliver of glowing light curving upwards as though in a tender, benevolent smile. I surprised myself by smiling back. It was involuntary; I can't help myself when it comes to the moon. There is nothing to do but move forward. Cleave a path that is both unseen and unknown, follow the heart's longings and knowings. Already ideas are arriving, thoughts, epiphanies, gifts from some unknown source showing up. Bits of light. Some blur coming into focus. Already there is seeing in a new way, gentle discussions begun, love assured all around; a peace and calm that I honestly didn't know I was capable of in this sometimes torturous, emotion-laden landscape.
