Remember the project I did with my friend Kate? I made the project into a book, From Here to There. Kate let the project simmer and it came to represent for her, more than anything else, our friendship. She’s produced the entire series of photographs as a set of 42 heavyweight postcards, Dear Friend, and they’re available for sale in her Photography Shop.

Just in time for holiday gift-giving.

There is an ease in a really good friendship marked by give-and-take, mutual respect, and the commitment to keep getting to know one another. The year long project, based on the simple act of correspondence, became a grounding force for us both. We’ve continued our friendship long past the end of the project—even though Kate moved from Virginia to Georgia!

I can’t wait to get my set of postcards! And I’m buying extra sets for the dear friends in my life.

Sharing a photo here that didn’t make the cut as one of my responses to Kate, but still makes me smile.

That’s my Dad and me, feeding the seagulls on our family vacation to Miami, Florida in January 1967.

Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People won't even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.

—Any Morning, William Stafford

We can seek out “little corners like this, pieces of Heaven” where we can just be ourselves, where we do not feel the need to try or work harder or do anything. When we reconnect with ourselves throughout the day, we can let go of stressful striving. We can stop pretending, pleasing and competing. We can be grounded and open-hearted and fully present.

I am learning to pause and embrace a bit of space in each day. Today I’m listening to Being Well Podcast: Perfectionism and Unhealthy Striving. How can we aim high, achieve our goals, and get what we want out of life without falling prey to unhealthy striving and excessive perfectionism? I see myself in the discussion, and I feel joy over the prospect of change and growth.

It’s the day after Thanksgiving. I awoke with the beginning of a migraine, and for a little while I felt sad, down in my heart.

I am grateful for the medicine that lifts the veil so that I can think with clarity and curiosity again.

I like to read the catalog of workshops offered by Maine Media. Earlier this week, I noticed an online class, the photo-poetic project, taught by one of my favorite photographers, Janelle Lynch. Here is the description:

Photography, like poetry, is a language that speaks to our hearts as well as our minds. It can be precise and detailed, but not the language of mere fact. It holds the unsayable and the complexity of human experience. This workshop will use short poems and other prompts as a springboard toward creating a suite of images of personal and universal significance.

Discussions about the creative process will support students’ connection to discovering their unique voice and vision. Critiques will allow space for constructive feedback, the development of aesthetic principles and technical skills. Extensive followup notes will introduce students to a range of historical and contemporary practitioners. Familiarity with poetry is not necessary. Play, joy, and experimentation will be encouraged.

Doesn’t this sound wonderful?

I’d love to take this class, but the price may be out of reach for our budget. Still, the idea of photographs as poems suits me. Immediately, I think of my friend, Janice Falls and her online space, Heart Poems. Without fail, the poems she chooses to feature are those that speak to me. She does the work of finding poems, sharing them with her readers with hospitality and grace. What a beautiful offering. I wonder if I might do this work—use short poems and other prompts as a springboard toward creating a suite of images of personal and universal significance—on my own. Could there be a way to make this a collaborative project? I consider writing to Janice to see if she would mind if I use her heart poems as my prompts.

I visit the library to look for books of poetry. I find two that I love right away.

homebody by rupi kaur

and

How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope, Edited by James Crews

While I am waiting for the migraine medicine to do its work, I read poetry and sip hot coffee. I read this one out loud to my husband. I can barely hold back tears and when I look over at him, he is crying, too. These are tears of joy for us both, a watershed moment.

THANKSGIVING FOR TWO
by Marjorie Saiser

The adults we call our children will not be arriving
with their children in tow for Thanksgiving.
We must make our feast ourselves,

slice our half-ham, indulge, fill our plates,
potatoes and green beans
carried to our table near the window.

We are the feast, plenty of years,
arguments. I’m thinking the whole bundle of it
rolls out like a white tablecloth. We wanted

to be good company for one another.
Little did we know that first picnic
how this would go. Your hair was thick,

mine long and easy; we climbed a bluff
to look over a storybook plain. We chose
our spot as high as we could, to see

the river and the checkerboard fields.
What we didn’t see was this day, in
our pajamas if we want to,

wrinkled hands strong, wine
in juice glasses, toasting
whatever’s next,

the decades of side-by-side,
our great good luck.

Out of the blue, I receive a lovely message from Janice—full of encouragement and kindness. I take this as a sign that I am on the right path. I will write back with gratitude.

When I think about this season, purposefully defined by gratitude, I feel a deep unrest. It’s not that I am unthankful, but more that I am fearful of the uncertainty that lies ahead. The remedy for such melancholy is always the same. Get up and get out. Talk to people. Connect. Extend kindness.

When my photographer friends told me about a goose named Gary who lives at the City Docks and has his own facebook page, I thought they were pulling my leg. But today I met Gary and the gentleman who has been feeding and nurturing Gary the goose for the past 6 years. Spending time this close to a goose, trying to focus on a constantly moving target, keeping up conversation with the folks at the docks . . . it felt so good to be lost in the work of making.

When I stopped to take a picture of the morning light on the side of the old house, the one with the ladder perched along its side, the owner came out to talk with me. Instead of chasing me off, she drew me near, embracing my icy cold hands in her own warm ones. She told me the history of the house and how she had climbed that ladder to try to do the painting herself. Older than me, I feared for her safety. She beamed with pride over the work she had accomplished and talked with love about what still needed fixing.

When I am a part, even a very small one, of these places, and when I touch, even in a very small way, one of these people, I am alive. Thankful to be both rooted and raised.