Today is her birthday, and the day is filled with small celebrations. All day long friends and family call or text or stop by. Her granddaughter is on the way to visit, bringing her newest great-grandchild, who is only three months-old. But the baby is fussy and her granddaughter calls to say she turned around to head back home; the trip is too much. She remembers what it was like, those early mothering years. She tells us a story—the time she sent my husband, when he was only six years-old to go get Aunt Punny to come help with his little brother who was colicky. She opens small gifts and enjoys dinner out with her children. Just this week she shared that she is sad to say goodbye to so many friends that have passed on. She faces her own health challenges, too. But her mind is sharp and she is interested in everything. She is quick to laugh and easy to love. I watch her, sitting on her patio on this beautiful June day. She is barefooted and relaxed. And I think to myself, I want to be just like her when I am eighty-nine.

Happy birthday to my mother-in-law.

I’m reading the books recommended by Austin Kleon for his new book club: Read Like an Artist. I’ve just begun The Summer Book by Tove Jansson. Our library didn’t have this one and so I had to buy it. As I read the first chapter, Morning Swim, I found my mind wandering. When was the last time I went for a swim? When did I last go barefoot outdoors? This nagging thought stayed with me all day. What if I never learn to “get ready and let go of everything and just dive?” Just to make myself feel better, I walked barefoot in the yard, around the garden path, through the puddles of summer rain that came with a cool front today.

Mentally, I began to construct a simple summer checklist of things to do.

  • Try a new ice cream flavor. I did this one already - Blue Bell Blackberry Cobbler (oh my gosh . . . so wonderful).

  • Play backgammon with my husband on the screened-in porch, well into the evening, twinkling lights glowing. Listen to our favorite records when it gets too dark to play.

  • Take a whole day’s worth of photos with a disposable camera. Not the artsy kind, just for fun.

  • Make the peach cobbler from the King Arthur flour website. And enjoy it with ice cream, too.

  • Read a few good books. Make a trip to a real bookstore or two.

  • Watch fireworks with my husband who loves them so very much.

  • Hike a new-to-me trail.

  • Wade in the water. Ride my bicycle. Eat cotton candy or a funnel cake.

 

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.