Unfortunately, I suffer with migraines. I’ve lost days of my life to pain, squinting at light and fighting nausea. It’s hard to see the good in the world when you are in pain. Recently, I’ve tried a new medication that brings relief in an hour or so and it’s been life-changing. When the pain subsides, everything has a beautiful clarity and there is a sense of euphoria. Like ornaments strung along the roof line of a little house sitting on Monroe Bay where the light is golden. Where soft and sharp live in complete harmony.

 

A Walk in the Woods.

I have photography friends who are immensely gifted at walking in the woods and finding the most amazing pictures. My friend, Kate, zooms in on tiny details in pockets of light. She wanders trails, watching clouds, chasing light, savoring the scene one vignette at a time. Then there is my friend, Cathy. She finds beauty in her yard, in the park, over the lake and anywhere she walks with her sweet dog, Baker. She makes ethereal images, soft and glowing, of wildflowers and weeds and tiny mushrooms. She takes landscape images that remind you why it’s important to stop what you’re doing and look out the window. Or better yet, get outside.

I do not have this gift. I took a walk with my husband through the North Anna Battlefield in Hanover County, Virginia today. I love to be outdoors and I love to hike. But mostly all I see is brown. Brown stick figure trees. Brown curled leaves. Brown-ringed mushrooms growing on tree bark that look kind of like oyster shells. The light is dappled and everywhere I point my camera looks messy to me. It’s no secret that I lean toward perfectionism. I start down that old familiar road, the one where I am hard on myself for being myself. And then I stop and begin to look for the pictures that are mine to make. They are always there. Like old friends they step forward to greet me. They are not in the woods or on the trail but at the entrance, where light and color call out in invitation.

 

Because of the pandemic, I didn’t go to the Farmers Market very often this year. But on the day before Thanksgiving, I unexpectedly found a a few farmers set up selling produce in Hurkamp Park. I stopped to talk with one of the farmers. “It’s been slow today, not many people stopping by.” When I asked if I could take a few pictures, he beamed with pride. He led me around his booth, pointing out each item, telling me about vegetables, fruits and nuts in the same way a parent brags on their children. I said I didn’t want to keep him . . . he was ready to pack up for the day. But he was insistent I stay and take pictures of every little thing. It made me so happy to make him happy.

In the world of photography, it’s fairly easy to get lost in the crowd. After all, we live in a picture-taking world, often super-saturated with visual imagery. Whenever I question my craft or doubt my vision, I come back to this place—where pictures are connections. And connections are all that really matter. How many of these small connections stay with us? Sometimes they meld into the background and simply become a small part of who we are. But sometimes they surface with incredible clarity, power and presence. The friend that reached across the desk to hold my hand when I found out I was miscarrying. Or the time my husband, before he was my husband, walked miles in the snow from his home to mine, just to see my face and give me a hug. The times my sons smile at me and I see my own father’s smile beaming back at me. It is no small thing to see what is right in front of me.