The Book About Summer

I am working on a collection of summer images for a photo book I am tentatively calling A Virginia Summer. I’ve been building the book all summer long, using the MILK photo books editor, swapping pictures in and out, trying to see how the images relate to one another and how the story might unfold. Edit ruthlessly. Change up photo sequences. Look for connections. Leave room for the unexpected. This is work that does not feel like work.

You can find the book-in-progress over on my PROJECT page under the heading, A Virginia Summer. I still have some editing to do. Maybe some writing. I’d love to add some little element of surprise. I’m considering leaving a blank page for a tipped-in image (Yes, this is another book vocabulary word. A Tip In is a printed sheet inserted into a book by gluing or stapling it to the back edge of an existing page.) I’m hoping MILK will have a Black Friday sale and I can print my book at a discount. (Really, the quality of these books is phenomenal!)

I’m deep in a book, My Friends by Fredrik Backman. My friend Cathy said she loves this book, and since I love her style, I figured I might love the book, too. (Her blog, Knee Deep in Weeds, is one of my all-time favorites. She shares her life authentically, with gorgeous photography, and never tries to “influence me” beyond a gentle book share.) I won’t spoil the story, but so far, it’s about the friendship between three teenagers and a painting, The One of the Sea. This photo, taken at Westmoreland State Park, reminds me of the painting in the story. Where families are formed by the friendships we forge.

I’m keeping a list of my favorite lines from the book. Here are a few:

He was good at seeing the beauty in everything. That happens if you’re no good at seeing it in yourself.

With kind eyes and a tender smile.

Art is empathy.

There are beautiful things that are free.

Someone else needs to think something first so they’re allowed to know what they love.

His heart reached out to them like a plant reaching for the sun.

Life is Art When . . .

. . . the film scans arrive. It’s like opening a surprise from a friend who knows you deeply.

Beneath the Umbrella, Riverview Motel, Colonial Beach, September 2025

. . . the barista calls me sweetheart and I almost cry with joy for the simple kindness.

Crab Apple Tree, Colonial Beach, September 2025

Monroe Bay, Colonial Beach, September 2025

. . . my cheeks flush and I cannot hide this physical trait. I wish I could wear a sign that explains. I blush with joy and enthusiasm, when I am deep in thought and excited about a new idea. I blush with shame or embarrassment, too. But more often, I flush when someone connects with me and shows that they see me, all of me, even when I thought I was hiding those parts so well.

Add Water, Richmond, September 2025

Mellow Yellow Pumpkins, Toano, September 2025

. . . I sleep with the windows open and the chill in the autumn air swirls around me, but I am warm and cozy beneath the down blanket.

Ghost Sign, Williamsburg, September 2025

Pumpkin Oldsmobile, King George, September 2025

. . . the acorns have been falling for days from the big oak trees in the front yard. They sound like the captions from comics when they hit the roof. BOOM! BANG! KAPOW!

By-the-Pound, Toano, Septbember 2025

Mops Hanging to Dry, Williamsburg, September 2025

. . . again, the film scans arrive! And even though I worried that the pictures would all be out of focus because of my old eyes and the manual focus thing, they look pretty good. And I remember why I love film and Kodak Portra in particular. And even when some of the pictures were taken in both digital and film format, I still love the film versions best. Because they are not perfect. So far from perfect that the distance separates them to a whole different category where comparison is no longer necessary. It’s okay to love what I love. No explanations needed.

Slow Down, Do Less, and Rest

I walked the farm again this morning, but this time the skies were overcast. I squatted down many, many times to take these photos (and the 100 others that are not shared here). For the first 10 or so squats I stood back up easily. But by the 20th time, I needed a few work-arounds. To my husband: Here, you take the camera and then I will stand up. And by the 40th squat, Okay, you’re going to have to help me stand back up. I can do lots of mini-squats but these full squats where I need to be to take pictures . . . well, they are getting tricky. But this does not make me sad. Instead, I revel in my own resourcefulness. How can I modify this activity so that I can still participate? This is the physical therapist part of me—the part that loves to solve problems. I try to take my own advice. Slow down. Do a little less. Rest. Which seems like a lovely approach to life at age 65.

I couldn’t decide what to write to accompany this post. Other than the obvious . . . Here are some more pumpkin pictures . . . I wish you could hear me giggle.

Pumpkins in Watermelon Box, Braehead Farm, September 2025

Layers

There are times when I love a clean space. 
A counter without a thing on it. 
A table open and inviting, wide open and clear. 
A closet with a few clothes that fit well and feel comfortable for the life I lead and the body I have now. 

Flower Garden on the Shore, September 2025

Not a Cloud in the Sky, September 2025

Bring Your Own Sunshine, September 2025

And then there are times when I love the complexity of layers. 
The way that they reveal themselves slowly. 
Like adding a sprinkle of silk chili flakes, a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, or a dollop of creme fraîche to an autumn soup. 
Like draping a quilt across the foot of the bed. 
Or layering a second necklace around your neck. 
These small things add depth and make the story more compelling.