Garden Works

 
 

New favorite quote: In a society that profits from your self doubt, liking yourself is a rebellious act. —Caroline Caldwell

Thing I did that I’ve been putting off for a very long time:
Mailed 90 rolls of film negatives, the childhood years of my boys from before I started taking digital images in 2005, to Photo60 in Woodbridge, Virginia to be scanned and returned on one tiny little USB stick.

Considering: Submitting six images to Slow Exposures. The deadline is June 18th.

Not for me: I tried listening to music while writing or processing photos. Used playlists from really good friends and photographers and really famous writers. No luck. I cannot concentrate without complete silence, which probably explains why I do my best work in the middle of the night.

Tired of: being good, trying hard, aspirational articles, self-help books

Excited about: poetry, body liberation, curse words, forest bathing

Embracing: I get homesick. And by homesick, I mean that I hate to be away from home for more than a day or two. I really love home. I don’t feel the need to take a break from my regular life, to get away, or to escape. I know that I am privileged in many ways. I love my life and my home and my people. And this is worth noticing and appreciating.

My Finds

I doubt there is a secret to living a good life. If there were one, I wouldn’t keep it a secret.

It seems to me that life is one long process of discovery and change. Everywhere I go I find more pieces of the puzzle. Even when I thought the border was complete, it turns out there is another section. Another way to see. Even another way to breathe. I spend a lot of my time in physical therapy working on breathing exercises designed to help my body let go - a kind of down regulation. And when I can calm my nervous system . . . I see the world with greater clarity and every picture feels like a new direction, a new piece of the puzzle.

Piano, Strange’s Florist, May 2023

Bloomia

Peony Field, King George, Virginia, May 2023

Only a day earlier I had driven past the field, covered with thousands of cotton candy pink puffs. But on Mother’s Day morning, the harvest of peonies was nearly complete. Like the phantom pain of a missing limb, I could smell their fragrance even as the blooms were long gone.