I am willing to put almost any amount of time, any amount of effort, and all of myself into making what I truly love.
Photography has been a long journey to get to the making of pictures not just by me, but for me.
And now I am almost there. I can feel it every day as I transfer the raw files from camera to computer. I can’t wait to see them and gently shape them to my vision. More often than not, they surprise me, and take on a form or direction I did not foresee. This is where magic happens – when the picture is so much more than I’d imagined.
The process is much like mothering my children, where the work and the sacrifices are so worth it, where it feels so right your heart nearly breaks, and some days tears of joy and grief intermingle to create a kind of knowing that is beyond words.
There are few things in life that compel me with such ferocity. And I’ve been hiding from one, thinking I do not have what it takes, telling myself I have enough already, and don’t deserve to want one thing more.
But this one-more-thing, the need to write the stories of my pictures, will not let me rest. It is relentless, with its prodding and coaxing, leaving me longing. I feel as though parts of me are stretching, like one hand reaching the fingertips of another, to hold on tightly.
I could tell you about the scene, describe where I was and what I saw that drew my heart in. But how do I tell you how I feel? As though what was used up and cast aside was really only hiding, waiting to reveal its whole other purpose, surely there must be words worthy.
And surely I must be worthy.