No Bad Parts

Wow, it just feels like there are so many people trying to influence me these days. Articles on how to improve my wellness from start to finish—morning routines and sleep hygiene habits. Programs that encourage me to move and tout the importance of strength training as I age. Advice on supplements and ways to journal my way to happiness and gratitude. Gadgets to track my blood glucose and sleep and stress and heart rate and steps. Most of this influence comes with a price tag, in money and time. And the requirement that I increase my motivation, discipline, and deprivation. If I just do the right things and behave properly, I will have a long and healthy and happy life. I think all of this is simply bullsh*t.

I doubt very seriously that we have nearly as much control over things as we would like to imagine. This life is so precious. It seems a shame to waste it by trying to outrun it. All I really want to do is enjoy a snack and sit in a nice chair and let go. To soak in the sun, breathe deeply the thick summer air, talk to the next person who sits beside me, read a few pages of my book, and connect to myself.

I’m a sucker for these influences (what my counselor refers to as external validation). Somehow I got it in my head that parts of me were “bad” and needed to be banished, or at the very least monitored and controlled. I’ve been trying to listen to these parts with curiosity and let them have their say. There is the part that tries to tell me I am wrong to like myself. That part that says I could do better or be more. The part that tells me I am never good enough in ways both small and large. I call her Marge because she is large and likes to steal the show. She acts as though she is in charge. She is loud and relentless. It’s hard to hear words of kindness over her bossy directives. As I sit and rest, I ask her what she is trying to tell me. When I am quiet and still, I can hear her whisper. I am afraid that if I do not keep trying to be better, I will be hopelessly left out and left behind. I will be different and different is not acceptable. I will not belong. It turns out that Marge is trying to help me. She is trying to protect me from pain. She is not a bad part. She simply wants reassurance from me that we will be okay. That we can withstand the ways we are different.

Kindness

I have a way of turning everything into work. And if I am not careful, I forget to rest. Forget to sink into presence. Stay in my mind, thinking things to death. But he helps to keep me grounded. He doesn’t think of the idea or even plan the event, but he shows up. This is what really matters to me. The showing up.

We had a leisurely lunch at the Floris Tea Room this week. A well deserved respite with the man I’ve known and loved since I was 18 years old. He is the person who knows me best. I don’t think he always understands me, but he tries to. And I am grateful to be known and loved.

Still Working . . .

I woke up around 4am with digestive distress. (I wish I could say this is uncommon but it is not. I’ve been working through a flare-up of IBS-D which is just not fun). Distraction, along with a heating pad, often helps to lessen my discomfort so it makes me feel better to work. I spent the early morning hours updating my current project, A Guidebook For Small Travels.

I’ve been working on this travelogue for over 6 months and it’s been enlightening to see the benefits of the long and slow approach. The focus of the book has become sharper with the scope limited to local travels—rather than my first go round of just any picture that fit the theme of travel and the aesthetic of colorful. I’ve weeded out pictures that just didn’t work for one reason or the other. And considered what I might like to add to finish things off. I’m thinking of trying to work in some sort of collage page that features all of the places I love to pick fruit. This would be orchards and farms. That might work. And I have 3 rolls of film to develop from our recent travels that might have a picture or two worth adding to the book. I’m still holding out for our Richmond zoo trip and Patterson mini golf, too. But it’s important that the project be about the process and not the product. This travelogue is not a bucket list of places to tick off. That’s one of the great things about making a book using images I’ve already made. It reflects our actual life and places we really go and things we really love to do. It’s not aspirational or performative.

I want to add a dedication page. I’d love to see if I can stretch my creative skills and write a short essay, though I’m not sure at all what I have to say. It’s worth trying.

Virginia Fine Arts Museum Photo Exhibition

Nothing Gold Can Stay.

The title Nothing Gold Can Stay takes its inspiration from a Robert Frost poem about the fragility and transience of youth.

The exhibition includes nearly 20 photographs that explore themes related to childhood and adolescence by artists working from the 19th century to the present. They include Diane Arbus, William Eggleston, Dawoud Bey, Issei Suda, Emmet Gowin, and others.  

Jacob, 2005

The large format polaroids by Dawoud Bey made me recall photographs I took of my youngest son in a makeshift photo studio in our garage when he was about 8 years old. He sat before the camera and smiled with all of the innocence of youth and not an ounce of pretense or self-consciousness. It took me a while to dig through the archives to locate the pictures but it was worth it. My images might not ever make it to a museum, but they will always be placeholders for the love and devotion I feel for my sons.