Snakeskin Journey

I am ready for summer reading on the swing.  Yes, I am. (But I will settle for spring sunshine and gentle breezes…I’m not picky.)

Four siblings:  Me (…looking grumpy, but you would too with that hair style!), David, Karen and Pam

Growing up, my brother wasn’t much of a big brother.  For starters, he was only a year and a half older—just one grade level above me—and he was always shorter than me.  At times he was much shorter, poor thing.  Try making it through 6th grade with a bossy, younger sister looming over you while you try to engage in a respectable fist fight.

In school David struggled academically while his sisters breezed through.  He was always causing some sort of ruckus…little things like starting a fire in his closet-turned-chemistry lab (can you believe the chemicals they used to put in those kid sets back in the 60’s?) or taking the family station wagon instead of his bike on his early morning paper route in junior high.  So while my brother was usually good for some new crisis or entertainment, he wasn’t much of a big brother to me.

Eventually he landed on our doorstep when I was married and the mother of three young children.  His appearance was wraith-like.  He was strung out on drugs and alcohol.  He moved in with us and over time and many troubling incidents, David came to the fork in the road:  it was either get sober or get (more) lost.  He chose sobriety and as of January 31st has been sober for 15 years.  He and his family moved to Arkansas not long after he came to himself and it was with tears that I watched him go.  When he returned a few years later to attend the funeral of my husband, the man who had helped love him to health, I was so thankful to see him.

For he had become my big brother, I needed him, and he was present.

Me and my big brother, David, in front of his boat dock in Little Rock a couple of years ago.  (Doesn’t he look fabulous?)

I have been taking pictures for decades—with great pleasure.  Occasionally I managed a good shot, but mostly my mission was simply to record events and people that I loved.  My camera has been a constant, if neglected, companion…usually a better piece of equipment than my skills deserved.  I did not call myself a photographer.

This past summer my early morning porch swing reading focused on photography.  Cameras, light, exposure, flash, f-stops, apertures, lenses, great photographers, post production, and on.  Like a child learning a language, as I focused and read and practiced it began to come together.  The pieces I knew combined with the pieces I was learning and I understood (talk about “ah-ha” moments).  The vocabulary made sense and became language.  All the blocks that had been building for years were merging into recognizable shape.

My eyes and heart—now ready to open—have begun to trust what they know and what they see.  While I am still loath to throw caution to the wind I think I am willing to step out and see which way that wind is blowing.

The moon coming up through clouds over the meadow.

Sublime.

Lovely.

And again:

At times I am asked to take photos that matter.  These occasions are often filled with emotion and moments of intimacy.  To be trusted, to be given the task of recording and capturing with care taken not to overstep or intrude, is humbling.  That trust was extended this past week.  I was honored.

Where does this archway lead?  Alas, I did not enter and let only my mind wander.

The gal who cuts my hair had a new business card at the counter where I was making my next appointment.  “Got a problem?  Something broken?  Call…Handy Ben”.  Intrigued, I picked one up (she mentioned this Ben was her husband) and read on.:  “Household & Automotive/motorcycle repair, restoration, modification & maintenance.  Electrical, lighting, trim, windows, stained glass, doors, gutters, small engine, fiberglass & more”

More?!?  The card put a smile on my face and I took one with me to keep as an encouraging reminder that there is a man out there, going by the name of Handy Ben, who is multi-talented and unafraid to proclaim it.  I’m almost hoping for an occasion to make the call.  Almost.

The little guy below is eleven days old.  I knew his daddy when he was a tiny kid.  I was blessed to meet little William today and watch as his daddy comforted him, held him in his hands, and cradled him on his lap.  After yesterday’s post about letting go, here’s something to hold on to.

Sitting here in the early morning quiet, a lamp lit to brighten the dim room, it comes to me in waves.  Letting go.  It’s still about—it’s always been about—letting go.

I heard from a friend this morning of the loss of her father.  By any standard he was old…and yet he was her one and only father.  I sat digesting the information and, like a tiny wave lapping at my feet, I heard the phrase “letting go.”

Letting go can be a freeing thing and most certainly a necessary thing.  But it is often a hard thing.  The image that comes to mind is standing on a depot platform, the train slowly pulling away with dear faces pressed to the windows while I wave and jump and smile a teary smile.  ”Good luck!  Go with God!  Do good things!  Let me know when you get there!”  And then it’s gone.

Of course true letting go is a long process born out of love and frustration and birth and joy and death and all sorts of messy things. It’s a leap of faith and a blindfolded groping all wrapped into one.  It can take awhile…don’t forget your sweater.

I’ve said this before: coyotes eat apples.  Watched this guy (or gal…I’m no expert) eat apple after apple down in the orchard.  Finally ran to grab my long lens so I could show you.  The clicking of my camera, even from far away, was a puzzlement but not enough to distract from the apples.

See the apple in his mouth?