I’ve been giving thought to how photographs speak to each of us. And how much of that conversation is grounded in the viewer. Or perhaps I should say reader . . . because those of us who love photographs don’t just look at pictures. We read them, study them, absorb them, and even feel them.

I have Nasturtium growing in my raised garden bed this season. I am delighted by the big green leaves tumbling over the edge of the cedar walls, floating like lily pads in mid-air. The jewel-toned blossoms hidden like little gems, delicately attached to long dangling stems. The plant is lush and lean and highly sculptural. This is a plant that I sought to grow. It was one of my mother’s favorites and growing it represents the healing I’ve experienced since her passing and the love I feel so deeply for her.

I’ve taken many floral photographs over the years. Sometimes I take them to celebrate their beauty. Or perhaps to study the botanical details. Or because I am overcome with their heady fragrance and I somehow think the picture will act to save the scent. Lately I’ve taken to making small installations in the garden, where the pictures live next to the real plants and flowers. A small surprise tucked among the stems and leaves . . . a peaceful place where love washes over me like rain.

No matter where I go, I always end up in a place that reminds me of home.

The truth is that I don’t love to travel. I always want to come home early. I get homesick. I worry that we are spending money that could be put to more practical uses. I can barely tolerate the confinement of a train, plane or automobile. Because of my back, I need to get to get out of any seat and move around every few hours, so it takes forever to travel with me. I cover my neck with BioFreeze. Unless you love the smell of menthol, I am decidedly unsexy. On the the way home from this trip, it felt like my bra was going to cut me in half and I had to wiggle out of it on Interstate 95. My digestive system is sensitive so we do a lot of picnicking with packed meals. Think ham and cheese sandwiches and yogurt parfaits.

In short, I am pain to travel with. No one should want to ride with me.

But my husband loves me as his co-pilot. We navigated 8 hours of interstate travel to reach our destination. Traffic, traffic and more traffic. Road work where very little work appeared to be happening. Lanes shifting and cars crawling. Speeding up and slowing down like a slinky. The deafening chorus of cicadas along the way. Traveling by a sliver of moonlight, windows down, laughing and talking all the way.

A forty-year marriage is a beautiful place to live. Worth the trip to sit on the lake . . . in love with him still.