Hidden Roses | Roadside Pokeweed

I am not sure about these recent photographs. I am working on a project with my friend Susan and the pictures that do not fit well with that body of work kind of live in limbo. They are not part of anything and yet not discards either.

I recall seasons of discontent with photography, times when I thought I might give it all up and stop sharing in this format. But that was back when I was convinced I needed to turn my hobby into a job. Once I let go of that idea, I never looked back. It was good decision for me, and my love for picture-taking has only grown sweeter and stronger for this boundary.

In the meantime, I keep posting the pictures of my everyday life. The summer’s long quest to make a decent picture of pokeweed. The searching for wonder and awe—never really hidden at all.

Whispering to myself. Have compassion. Be curious.

Driving down route one, I caught a glimpse of something on a sideways sweep. Was that a lamp on the side of the road? I turned around and pulled over, and, yes, there was a lamp on the side of the road. I made a series of photographs in that scene, and those are pictures for another day (or maybe for my photo-poetic project with my friend Susan). At this point, I was turned facing the wrong direction for my drive to my physical therapy appointment, so I turned on a side road to turn around - again. I noticed a sign to Taylorsville Baptist Church and figured I’d take a look at the small church, but there were a few people in the parking lot and I didn’t want to disrupt their gathering. I passed the church and saw a sign that warned, caution - one lane tunnel ahead. Who doesn’t want to go through a one-lane tunnel? I stopped, in the middle of the week, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the road to take pictures of this tunnel, a bridge with train tracks on top, a cut through beneath. The date 1929 neatly stamped in stone.

I’ve been holding onto the picture of the tunnel of sunflowers, too. The tractor parked just at the pass-through. Mountains in the background. The dead tree. I know this tree must be dying because there are no leaves, even in July. Though I love sunflowers with their bright shiny faces, I seldom take pictures of them. I am not called to make such pictures. But these sunflowers, almost spent, leaves curled and heads hanging low . . . they speak of joy in a different way. The joy of being used up, of giving all that you have, and the pride of having done what you could.

Hot & Cold

Forty years ago, when I was a physical therapy student at the Medical College of Virginia we studied heat and cold as modalities of healing. And while each treatment had its benefits, we also learned about the potential of combining both hot and cold. This treatment was called a contrast bath, and it involved submerging, say a sprained ankle, in first warm water for a short time and then plunging the foot and ankle into a tub of icy water. This back and forth between extremes would lead to an increase in circulation and help to decrease inflammation, thereby facilitating healing.

Learning in those days, it all felt like one big experiment—days filled with awe and wonder. I moved through life vacillating between exhilaration and exhaustion. Like the contrast bath, it was experiencing those extremes that helped me to locate middle ground, my place of healing. I’ve found this to be a pattern for most of my life, this need to swing wide in one direction and then equally wide in the other direction, before coming to rest in the middle. The arc of this pendulum is often a wild and bumpy ride . . . and sometimes I struggle to find that middle place. I’ve learned to respect the gentle rocking, back and forth, that happens just before I come to rest, feeling as though I am home at last.

I pass this goat farm every week. In a small unincorporated community called Golansville. I keep hoping to introduce myself to the owner and ask for permission to take goat portraits. I haven’t had any luck so far. For now, I content myself with an occasional photograph taken from across the road. The goats don’t turn away. They look at me with mild curiosity and then go on about their business.

It was much the same with the dragonfly warming itself in the last of the evening’s sun. On a nearly dried towel on the line. I kept walking closer, expecting the dragonfly to fly away, but it remained still. Nearly as still as me—holding my breath, trying not to shake as I pressed the shutter on the film camera. A single frame left, no room for error.