Still Life with Chamomile Flowers and Kiwi

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Every day I move my body. I stretch, roll, bend, twist, squat, lift, balance. I practice lengthening for posture to make space between vertebrae. I do breath work to strengthen the tiny weakened muscles along my spine (hello, mulitifidus). I do all of this to maintain mobility. Sometimes the movement feels like joy—fluid and rhythmic and easeful. But sometimes it’s hard to move when I am stiff, out-of-practice, unmotivated. In my sixties, exercise is more about mobility than performance. I’m not training for a 10K or participating in a plank challenge or trying to do a pull-up. What I am trying to do is to keep moving. To maintain function so that I can continue to create. Sometimes my photography practice is similar to my movement practice. I place a few simple objects on a table and set the camera on the tripod. I practice with the digital camera to get a sense of things, and then try both the 35mm film camera and the medium format film camera. Nothing is perfect. Not the light. Not the styling of the scene. And yet, I practice anyway. What I am trying to do is keep moving forward.

Winter Porch

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The home where I grew up didn’t really have a front porch, but we had a big patio off the side of the ranch-style house. The patio had a table or two, rocking chairs and lawn chairs and an old metal glider—plenty of places to sit and visit. There was almost always a gentle cross breeze as our home was situated midway between the Potomac River and Monroe Bay. In my mother’s later years, she spent most all day out on the patio, as much as the weather would allow. She could count on a steady stream of visitors as people taking their daily walks would stop for a little chat, a cold glass of water or occasionally a trip to the bathroom. The patio was where I had my first kiss. It was where my sister got married and my son had his high school graduation party. It was simply a wrap-around porch unwound and spread out. Nowadays, when I see a front porch, especially one that is clearly used, I almost always take a photograph. Memory connects us to loss and longing.

 

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For some people, I imagine Christmas is a season to linger over. Keeping decorations up well into January must be like a cup of really good coffee at the end of a delicious meal. You never want this perfect time to end. I can understand this feeling. But not about Christmas. Too much of a good thing is just too much. Happy to give in to the feeling that things need to be put right, with order restored, I take my decorations down right away. For years, I’ve taken some good-natured ribbing about this behavior and even felt a bit ashamed. As though I had, in some way, diminished the meaning of the season by rushing it along. Nowadays, I stand firmly proud of myself for simply being myself. There is no wrong way or certain length of time to celebrate.

Christmas just a little longer

Nature’s Wreath

 

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I love being immersed in nature, being outside, especially in the forest. I did not grow up hiking, this being an activity introduced to me by my husband. He has a deep love for and interest in trees and animals, weather and water, skies and the history of things. This knowledge he shares readily with me and I try to listen and learn. But my way of knowing things is different than his. I experience the forest through my senses, feeling my way. I carry my camera but I’m not sure what I’m looking for. All of the pictures are explorations in how to see things differently. The forest in winter looks like a season of sticks and vines. It is beautiful, but how can I capture this overgrown woodland with its dappled light and tangled arrangement? Back at home, I look at the images, not sure what to make of my efforts. When I am in doubt in this way, I do research. I go to the work of one of my favorite photographers, a mentor I have never met in person, Janelle Lynch. I study her project, Fern Valley (2020-2021), a photographic meditation that “ … follows an abiding belief in the strength of the human spirit to persevere and the transcendent power of nature.” From Janelle’s work, I see the possibility in my own photographs, a way to map the contour of the forest. Describing the beauty that was there all along.