in a dream…

… that was the title of an email I received a couple weeks ago.  This is what it said,    ‘… I had this dream the other night, I honestly can’t remember what about. There was a group of maybe 6 or 7 people in a room, most of whom I knew as friends and family. There was also this other woman there too. She was sort of behind and a little quieter than the others, but no less of a presence (maybe more so even). She was so familiar but I couldn’t quite place her. Then later it dawned on me, like clarity through a morning fog on a bridge somewhere… that’s seafield!!!… ‘

I recently began a journey back to myself.  Wasn’t my idea, but I suppose it’s necessary when you wander away.  So far, it feels like those sundays, when my brother and sisters and I would be driven around. With the windows up.  And my dad smoking his pipe.  And I would get car sick.  Every time.  But we did it. Because it was Sunday.

So, I’m here, wherever that is.  And feeling a little car sick.  And unlike those sunday drives, I am questioning almost everything about this journey.  This morning, after a provocative conversation yesterday, I am questioning my photography, thank you.  It’s role.   It’s direction.  It’s purpose.  And that dream. What was that dream?

How it ends…

It’s really just the name of a song I like, by Devotchka.  It’s haunting but somehow uplifting because it seems to speak to a higher purpose.  I thought of it this morning and in my efforts to rise above my own smallness, I listened to the lyrics.  Nothing complicated.  But enough.  I saw some things yesterday that made me realize what I have lost by not listening.  I lost my quiet.  And then I lost a whole more.  It’s funny what you see when you listen.

By the way, I’m pretty sure I got scolded for not listening when I was shooting this image.

so… blueberry pavlova

Did you ever get so tired of thinking about the same thing that anything else, no matter how random, was a relief?  My brain is tired.  And it hurts almost as much as my heart.  So, I found myself going to my “happy place”.  That’s right, I have a happy place.  It’s an old happy place, but I guess that doesn’t matter.  It works.  There is a kitchen in Monkstown, Ireland.  Not far from Dublin.  And a woman named, Maura, who was my mother during my junior year in college.  She was lovely to me.  She yelled at me for not eating more at dinner.  And breakfast.  And lunch.  She scolded me when I forgot my key.  She fixed me hot tea when I was sick.  It made me sleep.  And to this day I haven’t tasted tea like that.  huh.  … She made pavlova.  I miss her.  I hope she knows how often I think of her.  How much I wish her happiness.

there was fog today

Sister S shared this with me today.  Or yesterday.  It’s all been one long day.  And I can’t cite it because I don’t know where she got it.

“to enter the mystery of timelessness is to enter the sanctuary of the heart,where we are given a chance at every moment to begin our lives again.  Not one of us is perfect, and sorrows press upon us all.  But the universe is a merciful one, in which unlimited opportunities for new beginnings are built into the very essence of things.”

I like it.

Today there was fog.  And there was my camera.  And  me.  And I couldn’t stay inside as much as I wanted to.  I just kept thinking about this passage.  And the fog.  And my camera.

more lemonade…

I was reminded of an old post on my flickr account today.  The text was this… My 11 yr old son is the smartest guy I know. He doesn’t know how to lie. He smiles when he’s happy, which is almost always, and art class is that thing you have to do to get to the stuff you want to do. So, we were talking the other day and it went like this: Me: J, what do you do when you want something, but you can’t have it no matter what? J: You can’t have it no matter what? Me: Nope. J: Want something else. Man, I love that kid.

Today, my sister, who also believes that she is my personal emotional trainer, insisted on dragging me off my comfy red couch before I became part of it.  There was a party going on in my apartment.  Pity was the host.   I lost someone very special last night.  When I say lost, what I really mean is, he left.  Reasons only matter when something can be fixed.  In this case, reasons don’t matter.  The truth is, people leave.  I know why.  I understand it.  I didn’t want it.

At the end of the day, I bought books instead of next week’s groceries.  And my son, who is now 13, is still the smartest guy I know.