Today, I am reminded of what keeps me rooted to this small town I call home.
Off and on for years I have railed against living here, railed against the astonishing familiarity so many people have with my life, railed against the proximity of people I wished to escape, and railed--ferociously--against the numbing sameness of a small town.
But today . . .
Today, someone I've known nearly all of my 39 years, someone my parents and aunts and uncles grew up with, took her own life. It had become a tragic life, punctuated by pain and sorrow none should feel--a life so sad, so broken, that she couldn't find her way back out to peace.
She tried. She clung to her church and to her faith. In the end, though, her despair was overwhelming.
In thinking about her life and death, the web of people around her astounds me. There aren't six degrees of separation. There are no degrees; there is no separation. In this community, with its maddening, smothering, ultimately touching closeness, there is no separation.
No, no separation. Instead . . .
There will be another empty spot in my pew at church.
Her neighbor, who will live the rest of his life with today's images burned in his mind, is one of my father's best friends.
The students in our school will have a new cook.
My parents have lost another life-long friend.
Our rescue squad is made up of her neighbors and friends, her children's classmates, and her coworkers.
All of these are personal to me; for every person who knew her or knew someone who knew her, another list exists.
Our lists overlap.
Our hearts break together.
Our tears fall in sorrowful rhythm.
Our prayers reach out to her tonight.
Together.
Yes, I have railed against much of what makes a small town, but tonight there is no rebellion. Tonight, there is only the comfort that comes from all that makes this small town my home. Because tonight, so many of us are searching for comfort in the familiarity, the proximity, and the sameness. Tonight, we are one, and we are wishing peace for Debby.
August 25, 2009
August 2, 2009
I Hear You're Into That "PHOTOGRAPHY" Stuff!
Since I enjoy being in denial about being middle-aged, this cannot be a mid-life crisis. Instead, I like to think of the evolving adventure of photography as a developing hobby and potential source of income.
After all, it can't be a mid-life crisis if I feel like a kid playing grown-up, can it? Really?
A few weeks ago I was approached by a woman I've known for over thirty years--I grew up with her kids. "I hear you're into that photography!?" My soft response--"yes."
"Well How'd you learn?!" "I study, I mean read, a lot. And I take a lot of pictures. I practice."
Then it was my turn to ask who'd told her. She decided it must have been her daughter-in-law. I thought that made sense, because the daughter-in-law is on Facebook and has commented on my photos. I mentioned the connection.
"I hate that Facebook. It's too damn nosy!" was her proclamation, obviously disregarding the nature of her own questions.
A simple conversation, the likes of which I've often had with this woman, makes me nervous. The idea of doing something new makes my head spin a little. Saying "Photographer" when I describe myself makes me throw up in my mouth a little. Maybe a lot. Putting myself out there is terrifying. People won't choose me. There will, inevitably, be rejections. There will be comments made behind my back and maybe to my face about the quality of my work.
Perhaps my work is nothing special, except to the families and friends of the subjects. Perhaps my work is mundane, and there is nothing remarkable in the thorny beauty of a thistle edging up to a rusty barbed wire fence, both softened in the light of a setting sun. Perhaps the babies I love to photograph could be just as well served by their parents' point-and-shoot cameras and far less fuss.
Perhaps. After all, I don't know the answers to these possibilities.
Perhaps. Yes, putting myself "out there" makes me nervous. Nervousness aside, even though I feel like a kid playing grown-up, I also feel that this is a step I'm ready to take. When my camera is in my hand, the confidence chases the butterflies away. When I feel my camera resting in the small of my back, waiting patiently, I am sure, content and perfectly happy. Anything that makes me feel like that must be right.
Perhaps it is.
After all, it can't be a mid-life crisis if I feel like a kid playing grown-up, can it? Really?
A few weeks ago I was approached by a woman I've known for over thirty years--I grew up with her kids. "I hear you're into that photography!?" My soft response--"yes."
"Well How'd you learn?!" "I study, I mean read, a lot. And I take a lot of pictures. I practice."
Then it was my turn to ask who'd told her. She decided it must have been her daughter-in-law. I thought that made sense, because the daughter-in-law is on Facebook and has commented on my photos. I mentioned the connection.
"I hate that Facebook. It's too damn nosy!" was her proclamation, obviously disregarding the nature of her own questions.
A simple conversation, the likes of which I've often had with this woman, makes me nervous. The idea of doing something new makes my head spin a little. Saying "Photographer" when I describe myself makes me throw up in my mouth a little. Maybe a lot. Putting myself out there is terrifying. People won't choose me. There will, inevitably, be rejections. There will be comments made behind my back and maybe to my face about the quality of my work.
Perhaps my work is nothing special, except to the families and friends of the subjects. Perhaps my work is mundane, and there is nothing remarkable in the thorny beauty of a thistle edging up to a rusty barbed wire fence, both softened in the light of a setting sun. Perhaps the babies I love to photograph could be just as well served by their parents' point-and-shoot cameras and far less fuss.
Perhaps. After all, I don't know the answers to these possibilities.
Perhaps. Yes, putting myself "out there" makes me nervous. Nervousness aside, even though I feel like a kid playing grown-up, I also feel that this is a step I'm ready to take. When my camera is in my hand, the confidence chases the butterflies away. When I feel my camera resting in the small of my back, waiting patiently, I am sure, content and perfectly happy. Anything that makes me feel like that must be right.
Perhaps it is.
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