The utility of suffering, then, is the opportunity it affords us to become better human beings. It is the engine of our redemption. —Nick Cave

There are many realizations these days. Self-awareness. Curiosity. Understanding and compassion.

I read Nick Cave’s The Red Hand Files, Issue #147, and I was blown away by his insight, at once simple and profound. What is the value of suffering? Nick’s reply wasn’t some Pollyanna version of silver linings or optimism fueled be denial or ignorance.

No, his response was about how we might transform pain into beauty by not transmitting our pain to others in any one of a hundred ways - abuse, blaming, shaming, hatred . . . the list goes on. Left untreated and unresolved, we pass our suffering on to others. But when we seek help, we have the opportunity to break these unhealthy cycles.

On the surface, these musings have little to do with photography. But really, they do.

By acting compassionately we reduce the world’s net suffering,
and defiantly rehabilitate the world.
It is an alchemical act that transforms pain into beauty.
This is good. This is beautiful.

What is the act of taking a picture with a camera if not a transformation of looking to seeing.? A way of making meaning. Photography is one of the ways I transform my pain to beauty.

I am grateful to Janice Falls who introduces me to heart poems. It’s easy, in this world, to lose sight of what matters most. To feel as though we do not measure up. It’s hard to remain faithful to those values, decisions and people we hold dear in the face of difficulties. Like Janice, I believe that art has the power to heal and and that poetry gives voice to our deepest longings.

stop asking: Am I good enough?
Ask only
Am I showing up
with love?

Life is not a straight line
it’s a downpour of gifts, please—
hold out your hand

—Julia Fehrenbacher

I didn’t want to take the picture of the vibrant yellow building. It was so darn bright—both the color of the building and the color of the day. The sun shone full force but it was chilly as the wind whipped around my bare legs while I studied how to best take the picture.

I didn’t want to take the picture of the Abundant Life Church. The orange clay seemed all wrong. Not fertile ground for an abundant life. That dirt red clay reminded me of my struggle with the teachings of my small town Southern Baptist upbringing.

I didn’t want to take the picture of the silos, because well . . . it’s silos. I’ve lost or maybe just passed through my joy over taking pictures of barns and silos. Still, I climbed the roadside bank and squatted low to make the picture through the wispy yellow flowers. When I got home I tried to look up their name. I think it’s St. Johnswort, though I can’t be sure. I can say that the scene reminded me of my mother who taught me how to be good at making bouquets from roadside flowers.

I didn’t want to take the picture of the pink magnolia blossoms. I was trying to take a picture of something else and they just happened to be near. I took them to relieve the pressure of trying so hard.

There are days to walk away and put the camera aside. And there are days to press on. To trust that my creative spirit is growing even when I seem to be dormant.

. . . where a house once stood

there are many places like this where an old driveway leads to nothing, where trees make a circle around the place where something once stood, where an old well sits nestled in a briar patch, where the gate still stands, and there are only ghosts of what once was . . . bittersweet