humpty dumpty sat on a wall...

Child molestation is not a happy topic, especially when an American college football coach is in the middle of the scandal. You've probably heard enough about the man they call Jo Pa, too much in fact. His kingdom is crumbling and he is partially to blame. I have no sympathy for him and the wall of lies built around his unhappy valley.  I want to know where are the stories about the traumatized children and their families?

  

I am enraged.  I am sickened.  I am embarrassed, once again, for our country.  We are socially inept.  We've proven this in several ways.  We claim to help the world, yet at home, our residents are flailing.  Morality and ethics are lost a midst team jerseys and statistical polls.  Blinders must have been on sale this past decade, on the shelf next to the foggy glasses and rosary beads. 

Yes, I'm referring to the Catholic mess.  The entity who raped my generation of dignity and trust.  The church I trusted to teach my children about honor, respect, loving one another, and helping those less fortunate.  My fault, I didn't read the disclaimer:  'priests may seem holier than they appear.'  The Vatican cover up and the Penn State cover up are huge.  Two powerful, public, influential groups who have been revered and praised for good deeds.  Two groups of human beings choosing to look the other way, brush under the rug, deny, create excuses, and harm.  Once wronged, shame on you.  Twice, shame on me.  Action is needed.  

My interest is twofold.  I am a mother.  I am a psychiatric nurse. Protective maternal instincts cannot be matched.  Like the wild animal charging the invader too close to her babies, this mom feels like kicking butt and taking names.  My patients have shared horror stories of child molestation and abuse, sometimes  at the hands of their loved ones, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles...stories that explain the psychosis, dissociation, self-hatred, and self-harm of adulthood.  Where does the cycle end?  How?  When?  

I promise each of you this:  if I see an adult sexually molesting a child, I will be talking to 911 dispatch sooner than that predator can pull up his pants.  Period.  No second thought.  I knew this 22 years ago when my daughter was gracefully growing inside of me.  I know this everyday and forevermore.  Help is my middle name, even when I may be requesting, I can feel others' pain.  Maybe there in lies the motive for my anger today.  Maybe my anger is ever present because I so strongly feel the hurt around me.  I hurt for the children unnecessarily put in contact with predators, unhealthy adults who were given multiple chances to prey, given permission from their bosses, their confidants, their elders, their bishops and cardinals.  I hurt for the children who lost their youth and live daily with doubt, and wonder why they deserve their horror.  I hurt for the students at Penn State who do not understand the severity of their university's indiscretions, their judgement clouded by the pedestal's shadow.  I hurt for the believers who follow doctrine, blindly and unquestionably, their muteness deafening.  

Yes, to be human is to err.  I, of all humans, am a walking err.  I will not cast the first stone.  Too late for that pebble.  I'm looking for a rock to chuck, a boulder to roll, a stick of dynamite, anything I can use to awaken senses and knock heads.  Wanna' join me?

go green!

peace and love

~L

emergence

I've tended my garden,

hoed and tilled and fertilized. 

Ignored it too.  

The muddy path and tangled roots are clearing.  

My seedlings are planted, 

sheltered from the wind and snow that will fall again. 

Spring will come. 

I didn't realize how lost I was.  

I didn't understand my need to recover passions, dreams, and to answer unanswered questions.   

A spark lit inside of me that I had no idea was dying.  

I had no inkling of its existence, of the flames preparing to ignite.  

I found an old friend.  

And everything changed.

I opened my eyes and pointed my gaze inward. 

He reminded me of a lifetime where my heart was clean and fresh and trusting.  He represents a part of myself, of my life, that was forgotten and left for dead.  His contact revived me without intention.  He assured me by proxy.  My friend did what I remember of him three decades ago:  shared kindness.  

I felt encouraged to bust open my soul’s windows, 

to enter cautiously into the dark depths of myself, kept hidden and cold. 

And I ran. 
I ran into my fire. 
The warmth engulfs me and I become complacent and charred. 

I've been running through my fire for months,

 fanning flames with beer and chocolate, 

throwing on logs made of restlessness and doubt, 

walking over hot coals instead of walking with God.  

Such is life.  Life worth fighting for. 
Life lived once on earth and life of grace to live later. 
No matter how fast I run, or how hot my soul’s fire, life will lead.  
I am life’s follower.  

I am part of the massive picture, the one I cannot begin to see unless I believe. 

Unless I allow my talents to emerge positively. 
Unless I allow others inside, even when I doubt they will understand. 


Unless I turn my face to the sun especially during the dark of night.  
Unless I forgive myself for my past.  


Unless I open my perspective to possibility I fear.  
Unless I slow down enough to hear my soul’s song.  


Unless I tend my garden and share my laborious fruits.  
Unless I look around the blinders and stretch my head out of the sand.  


Unless I ask and unless I answer.

I live

I see 

I love

I am grateful for who I am 

and who surrounds me.  

Peace

Hugs

Light

Love~L

How did I get here?

I am the face of depression. 

I am the face of mental illness.

I am the face of mental health.

I am the face of recovery.

I am the face of emotion.

I am the face of misunderstanding.

I am the face of change.

I am the face of passion.

I am the face of humanity.
I am the face of generosity.

I am the face of frustration.

I am the face of negativity.

I am the face of a wife.

I am the face of a mother.

I am the face of a sister.

I am the face of a daughter.

I am the face of family.

I am the face of your friend.

I am the face of creativity.

I am the face of a nurse.

I am the face of reality.

No longer can I hide. 

No longer may I crawl away.

I started writing here two years ago, when I felt like I found buried treasure.  My writing voice tucked away and safely stored.  My passion, masked by the veil I so proudly learned to cover my inadequacies.  My feeling, my soul, my longing for more, all gradually reappeared as I looked inside myself, as I honestly asked, and stubbornly demanded answers.  I have some now.  I will hear more soon.  I’m on the path of redemption.  I am serving penance for my missing years.  Years began a lifetime ago this month.  Years I was granted by God and years I lived unconsciously, mind and soul split into pieces, like torn paper floating downstream.  I was lost and now I’m found.  Or something equally dramatic and less prophetic.  How did I get here?

cue Johnny Cash...

I thought about this keyboard all day.  Thoughts positive and light, waiting to be pieced together and shared.  Here goes…

Been kinda’ down the last few months for whatever reason or sense of something missing.  Been searching, yearning, reaching…for something undefined and needed.  Overanalyzed everything.  Pushed people’s buttons til they walked away.  Hid from others because they could not see.  Blah, blah…the same old story I tell with every breath I take.  Evolution of L.  Sad saga.  Life goes on.  And WTF!

Pullin up those proverbial bootstraps and beginning again.  I fired and rehired myself.  Not sure when the metamorphosis ensued, or the event that triggered.  Not gonna’ over think this one, just gonna describe the feelings.  Hands inside the car, seatbelts fastened, tray tables set for lunch…I’m feeling better.  I feel good.  Smiling.  Positive.  My thoughts are turning toward the sun and my shoulders feel looser.  Cluttered cobwebs be gone!

So what?  So let’s enjoy, shall we?

I was called to give advice to a friend whom I’m just beginning to know.  The subject matter was only familiar because the problem involved a female, which I sometimes play on TV.  My friend is a man and I have no experience giving this kind of advice to a man. Long story shorter, I found my perspective intelligent and fair and I came away feeling strong and straight and alive.  Although my friend’s situation is heartbreaking for him, a door has opened within my soul and I feel the fresh air circulating in my brain.  Placing myself in another woman’s shoes in order to fulfill his answers, in order to create temporary solace, with hope that he can see the bigger picture before his cliff rises to meet his doubts and fears, wishing I could make sense of the unknown in order for his heart to continue beating…I listened for hours and I played my part.  He claims I helped him.  He thanked me for caring.  He continues to battle against his broken dreams.  And I pat myself on my back.

Something’s shifted.  Energy movement from him to me?  Chakra, karma, ying, yang?  Insert a profound quote.  Re-tweet from Buddha or to write love on her arms (TWLOHA).  Read a paragraph from my nurse’s notes in a resident’s chart.  Clicking. Jiving.  Dancing.  Mentally moving to the beat of another part of myself.  My confident self.  Shit I feel good typing these words.  Thinking this way, claiming this land as my own.  By myself, using my learned skills and practiced talents.  I work my earth to produce more.  More me.  More of my mind.  More to share with you.  If you’ll have me.

I have a garden metaphor pertaining to my growth.  I’ve sprinkled my garden throughout one or two blog entries, hoed and tilled and fertilized over time.  Ignored it too. Today the muddy path and tangled roots are clearing.  My seedlings are planted and  sheltered from the wind and snow that will fall again.  Spring will come, says my French class friend.  From afar I watch his moves.  Learning what he began teaching me last year.  To live today and love today.  To be grateful for who I am and who surrounds me.  Tragedy lurks and fate occurs and only God knows what time schedule we fly by.  No use to worry or ask why.  Create, elate, celebrate! 

Jb, you opened my eyes and pointed my gaze inward.  You encouraged me to bust open my soul’s windows, to enter cautiously into the dark depths of myself, kept hidden and cold.  You reminded me of a lifetime where my heart was clean and fresh and trusting.  You represent a part of myself, of my life, that was forgotten and left for dead.  You revived me without intention.  You assured me by proxy.  You did what I remember of you three decades ago:  shared kindness.  I didn’t realize how lost I was until you helped me find my passions, my dreams, my unanswered questions.  You lit the spark inside of me that I had no idea was dying.  I had no inkling of its existence, of the flames preparing to ignite. 

FIRE!!!!

So I ran.  I ran into my fire.  I’m a slow learner, a procrastinator, distracted and unstructured.  I’ve been running through my fire for months, fanning flames with beer and chocolate, throwing on logs made of restlessness and doubt, walking over hot coals instead of walking with God.  The warmth engulfs me and I become complacent and charred.  Such is life.  Life worth fighting for.  Life lived once on earth and life of grace to live later.  No matter how fast I run, or how hot my soul’s fire, life will lead.  I am life’s follower.  I am part of the massive picture, the one I cannot begin to see unless I believe.  Unless I allow my talents to emerge positively.  Unless I allow others inside, even when I doubt they will understand.  Unless I turn my face to the sun especially during the dark of night.  Unless I forgive myself for my past.  Unless I open my perspective to possibility I fear.  Unless I slow down enough to hear your soul’s song.  Unless I tend my garden and share my laborious fruits.  Unless I look around the blinders and stretch my head out of the sand.  Unless I ask and unless I answer. 

Peace
Hugs
Light
Love
~L

moved by mosaic

happy new year

to the street people I met in March

on the sunny side of the skyscrapers

who brought me reality bites

while I walked through my fantasy.

happy new beginning

to my soul's lost butterfly

repaired wing no doubt sending her farther than imagination

allowing smiling

introducing potential

one mile at a time

happy new dreams

for the lost boys and girls

walking the thin line

and sitting on that ledge

the one with the cliff and long drop

may their minds clear

and their hearts open

to possibility

of recovery

hope

health

happy new memories

for family

playing on the floor

laughing

sharing

comparing

dependent on siblings and aunts and best friends

for home and hugs and hope

climb up your tree

pick out your leaf

make your mark

remember

happy birthday

little babes wrapped in pink and blue

eat first cake

sleep deeply

shoulder to cheek

rocking your mama awake

and alive

 born free

be

happy home

happy hear and now

happy whistling songs through forested limbs

happy running tails

between seasonal colors

among winds of change

songs in the key of sky

blues faded grey

into white 

listen to nature's tune

swoon

melting melody of seagulls and splash

stand at the edge of sand

catch the waves with your tongue

taste the vastness of God

and universe

deep into the water your ears covered by silence

jump for air

reach, stretch, long for 

life

love

home

happy new fear

knowing thyself before others do

showing yourself the truth

and believing it

flowing on the stream

of meaning and reason

even though your headlights dim and flash every few miles

fear not for you are alive in the world

hold tight to your goals

grip that steering wheel

or shake hands with the devil

face your fears

fear your fears

while you fight and flail

make that basket

hit that home run

salute the crowd

beat the clock

run the race

write the words to open the story

tell the story to feel the pain

feel the fear

embrace the challenge

enter

begin

new

you

RN again

yep, I got the job I interviewed for last week and wrote about here.  Thankful for your support as well as that of my family, extended family, fb friends, and of course God...who, by the way, always leads me on the path I need to walk.  Duh! 

Why I freak out over an interview when I've been describing myself to social workers and psychiatrists and family members for decades, I'll never know.  Just me and my insecurity dueling at the front of the line.  Step right up, see the middle-aged nurse doubting herself again.  Place your bets on the time she takes to SNAP OUT OF IT!  

uh, hello, where am I?  I'm employed?  I survived the self-sell?  

I earned opportunity!  I will be working! as an RN!   Wait, what?

AND MY JOURNEY CONTINUES~~~

to the middle

toward community

hearts mending

hopes growing

view, frame, focus

begin again

again

PEACE,

~L

chicago chronicles, part 1: A river runs through it...backwards

In honor and elation of the Chicago Blackhawks hockey team playing in the Stanley Cup finals, I have written a two part post, essay, ode to, obsessive rant...about a city I love and why.  The Hawks skate Saturday night at home in game #1.  The caliber of hockey during May has been outstandingly exciting, so if you've not really liked to watch because it seemed boring or like slow motion (because it can sometimes), then NOW is the time to experience how furious and fast and ferocious men can be with pounds of sweaty padding taped onto their already buff bods while balancing on two blades, slamming against bodies and boards, sprinting and slashing and scrumming on ice, all the while strategically planning the puck's next route into the net.  Genius!

Chicago seemed so far away.  The big buildings and bright lights.  The long car ride on the busy highways.  The unexplored territory heard so much about on the TV, radio, in song lyrics.  Didn't Frank Sinatra sing that song?

Suburbs of Chicago.  That's where we lived.  Wheeling first, then Palatine.  You may or may not have heard of them.  Famous for nothing.  My husband grew up in...wait for it...Arlington Heights!  Yep, the one with the horse race track.  Now that's special, if you gamble or own horses or live nearby.  So we are suburbabies (I just made that up).  Where our parents landed.

As the big city grew and caught up to our forests and farmlands, as the highways and byways widened and exited into our lanes and boulevards, the mess meshed and we emerged as one.  One big happy family called Chicagoland or Chicago Area or northwest suburbs of Chicago.  My kinda' town, she is.  No matter what you call her, she's a gem of the Midwest.  Really.  Trust me on this.  The city is unique and cultural and secretive and warm. 

...walking among the sky scrapers, which claim the tallest of the world at one time or another, watching the walkers and noticing news, visiting Sue at the Field Museum and touching everything scientific and industrious, catching a ball game at the friendly confines or Sox park (I refuse to rename any of it:  what you talkin' 'bout Willis?).

Fireworks and music and parks and gardens. Museums and galleries and mom and pop greasy spoons. Street vendors and tour guides and homeless citizens begging for attention.  Daley and Ditka. Peyton and Picasso.  Buckingham fountain and the Flamingo business district.  Blues on the Mall and Taste of Chicago.  The Bears and Blackhawks and bus routes and boat tours.  Ferris Beuhler and ferris wheel at the pier.  North Avenue beach volleyball, Lincoln Park zoo.   Namesake University, O'Hare's airport,  remnants of the fire.   I-90, I-94, I-80, the Kennedy, the Borman, the Eisenhower, the Skyway, the Loop, the circle and the "L."

Regardless of my address, this city is where I LIVE.  My family, my friends, my schoolmates, my memories live there.  Elementary school field trips, family outings with Annie and the Nutcracker, visits to friends living with doormen and valet parking,  hosting relatives from out of our town, Water tower shopping and Michigan Avenue wishing, fancy restaurants serving escargot and baked Alaska, Frango mint sundaes at Marshall Fields on State.

Chicago is my constant.  My rock steady.  I count on the colors and comfort of the usual suspects.  I visit for verification, for reminder of my reality.  She sorts me into my slot and nudges me nearer to now.  Change doesn't wait for me to catch up.  Names and numbers and nuances must be relearned.  Even mine.  She's keeping me aware and awake as I age.  Teams and tourist traps guide my growth.  The elevated train drives me to reconnections and new views.  I believe in this metropolis and she believes in me.  We're friends.  Old friends.

I may have mentioned my infatuation with Chicago sports teams once or twice.  Chicagoans are fanatic for sure.  Affiliation with a team may be in your blood or inherited from your best friend.  Lifelong.  Games and stats and predictions fill bars and coffee shops and water cooler conversations.   Lovable losers and the billy goat.  Jim McMahon and the Superbowl Shuffle.  Jordan's air and Harry's specs.  WGN and WFLD.  Jerseys and ball caps and banners decorate children's walls and parents' party rooms.  Flags fly on game days and our own private civil war rages April through October.

I've attended each men's pro events.   With or in place of friends, tickets purchased or gifts received, sporadically or seasonally, icicle eyebrows or sweaty seats, win or lose...each experience remembered and savored and enjoyed like no other since.  Despite my lack of organized athleticism, I learned to respect the rules of Chi-town fandom.  Even today, living in Michigan and paying several sums of money to Michigan State University to educate our daughter, even despite my enthusiasm for the young Red Wing who skated into our community's heart, besides the fact that I graduated from a college in Indiana, my love for Chicago sports reigns supreme.  Wherever I travel I spy Chicago team logos.  Chicago fans relocate but never jump ship.  Next time you watch a Chicago team play an away game, notice how many supporters are in those unfamiliar seats and listen for the chants and cheers made famous only in Chi-town...my kinda' town.

...to be continued soon.
PEACE,
~L 

just one thing

Recently a friend asked me what I was afraid of, why I'm not opening my heart and "using my gifts" on my blog, like I used to do...Challenge!  

Well he's not too far from right:  I have held back a bit. Since my words to important people in my life, people of my life, people I live for, set off a firestorm of anxiety. Some people are hurt.  Some are helped and some helped me.  Some wonder and watch.  Some question my processes.  Human beings I love, know more me.

I responded with face to face conversations, more truth, and putting my best work back into 'draft' mode.  Why?  To settle what I stirred.  To see what soup I created out of spontaneous epiphany.  To wait for the dust to settle.  To step back and peer through the window.  To talk to my husband instead of write about talking.  To assess my artistic senses with God's lead.  To watch my world through opened eyes.  

Perspective gained.  Respect delivered and received.  Confidence soaring on mended wings and meaning.  I've found and discovered something new each day since I wrote this piece.  Each moment lived with my blessings and family and friends, lived and loved and longed for more.

Here is more of me...just one thing.

 And I want it so bad, it's the first thing I see when I wake~my morning jacket

 

You may or may not have noticed a change in me. I've made a discovery about myself.   I've unwrapped a few layers and found perspective.  My new view.  My eye for the shot and my feel for the words. Talent.  Art. I am artistic. Two hobbies restarted in the past 6 months for the purpose of sorting and compartmentalizing priorities, goals, and next steps...Poof!  These ARE your priorities, goals and next steps. Really?  Who says?  How do you know?  Do you have proof?

They fit me.  I fit into them.  Yes, like a glove.  The feelings of satisfaction and purpose and knowing...priceless and unexpected and warranted.  You may understand this passion for self discovery.  You may understand how you look in your mirror and congratulate yourself.  You may know feeling accomplished because you completed, finished, succeeded, attempted, adhered.  You may have felt satisfaction and pride.  You may know how I feel now.

I am the lighting for my shot.  I am the thesis for my essay.  My fingers unconsciously moving across the keyboard produce comprehension.  My eyes hunt and search for composition among the mundane.  Naturally talented, gifted, surprised.

And I have proof.  This is not random thought trying to fit into specific challenge.  This is not a whim suggested by behavior of another.  I did not choose these creative expressions.  They chose me.  God chose me.  I accept my gifts and promise to handle them with care.  Thank you.

So now what?  Where to go, where to take my writing and shooting?  How do I use them for the greater good?  Funny how the expression, "starving artist" keeps popping into my mind.  Making money from my recently found completeness may be difficult or unnecessary.  Maybe my talents are not meant for production.  Maybe I should be shooting and writing to spread the word, the news, to educate, initiate, expedite.  This is not all about me.  It's bigger than me.

I am filling with spirit and my soul is awakening. I've worked at nothing purposely.  My work, my creative work, is my purpose.  My meaning.  ME.  I feel defined for the first time ever.  Not labeled with the role I must play or the line I should walk.  I feel discovered and highlighted and glowing.  The cracks of my years are aligning into a supportive foundation.  Goodbye fog, hello structure.  My structure.  This crashing force, energized by fresh purpose, keeps me breathing.  Breathing easier now.  Breathing the breath of my future.

My entire life has been a search party for this very day.  My day of unconditional love and honest acceptance.  My day to prove to family and friends, past and present, that I can do it.  Not just say I can.  Mean I can.  BE I can.  This unconditionality does not originate from the love of a human being as I believed it always would.  Should.  No, this brand spankin' new confidence, joy and longing, grows from within myself.  My soul and mind have enmeshed into a shining colorful aura and has settled peacefully into the chambers of my heart, the recesses of my skin, and rides gently the rapids of every breath I take.

I don't want this feeling to end.  Rough, raw, and rare with a sprinkle of humility.

People who know me and my search history, may think my methods have been haphazardly conducted.   I had to follow the threads, no matter where they went, as long as I felt loved along the way.  Acceptance by proxy.  Patterns formed and habits stuck.  Four decades makes marks and leaves scars and develops self reputation.  Self labels are applied and the consequences are invisibly damaging.  Beliefs form out of fragments of behavior, theirs and mine.  Settling comes with the territory of balance.  Expression dims as necessary and whole pieces break off the core.  My core.  My wishes and dreams.  My wants and needs.  My self, my being, my id and ego.  Cracking up and cracking open.  Investigations initiated and specialists referred.  We can rebuild her.  

Writing sporadically I soothed demons.  Shooting infrequently, I shared love.  Sparks not strong enough to create fire yet.  Keep rubbing those sticks together...you'll get it eventually.  Don't give up.  Keep trying.  You can do it.  Do what?

I don't want to list the ventures, a-ha moments, or sure things that strung me together over the years.  Sacrifices were made for my eventual success and martyrs wait patiently for their reward.  Here it is.  This is it.  I have found what I've been looking for.  I am ready to continue to self-nurture my strengths.  For the first time.  For the last time.  For now.  No more looking.  No more wonder.  This is my talent, my being, my core.  Nice to meet you.

Fresh perspective

I am re-posting an essay/letter I wrote four months ago, when I realized that I wanted to buy a digital camera and revive my photographic view.  This contains personal accounts of my childhood, however tame, but  if you (family) don't want to relive them with me, no worries.  

  A FRESH perspective for YOU CAPTURE @ I should be folding laundry:

all photos taken from my yard

in the past week

front, back

high, low 

blessed to live 

in Michigan

fresh blooms

acting fresh!

fresh air

 freshen up the joint

fresh clouds

Photography...seeing is believing.

I started shooting as a grade-schooler.  Remember the multiple flashcubes on a stick?  The Kodak pocket camera with the winder to advance?  Then the Polaroid let us shake the card into a photo. I asked for cameras for Christmas and birthdays.  I filled albums with snapshots of our family at Disney in 1976.  I recall how the album pages crunched when I opened a space for our poses.  My brag book contained wallets of fourth grade friends whom I would not see again.  And shoe boxes have been filled ever since.

Dad started my addiction to peering.  He carried a heavy, black, delicate camera inside a felted, camera-shaped leather case on a long strap.  Every trip to Santa's Village or Lamb's Farm or the Milwaukee Zoo included the black strapped camera.  Dad's choice of developmental medium was slides.  I keep memories of the thrill I felt watching myself shine onto the blank living room wall, larger than life, and the anticipation of which pose would follow. I can hear the unique sounds:  the hum of the whirring motor, the clatter and crash of the tray locking onto the machine, the clicks of slides dropping into place, the snap of the remote controller.  I wanted to advance the slides, hold the small rectangular box in my hand and control the tempo of our show.  That job belonged to dad.  His perspective, his order, his show.

We three kids would sit on the carpet, legs crossed, patiently awaiting with our craned necks pointed at the blank wall.  Our home stills showcased family vacations and outings, Christmas mornings and New Year's Eve parties, out-of-state visitors, pool parties, neighborhood cook-outs, training wheels to two wheelers, the yellow duckling, calico cat, and white terrier, Mom's decorated homemade birthday cakes, stockings on the mantle, hand sewn Halloween costumes, egg hunts and Easter dress-up, Grandma's gathering porch, the Falls, the Dells, the zoo...the three musketeers lined up by age and size, on our bikes, in our sleeping bags, floating on rafts, riding on the carousel, snoozing in the back seat of the car, holding up our favorite gifts, holding hands, shading our eyes, saying cheese, waving, smiling...lots of smiling.

This week I realized how I can fill a crack or two in my perspective.  I'm going to shoot again.  And again.  And again.  Without conscious decision, I gave up my passion for searching.  Searching  for movement in the crowd,  for the unique within the ordinary,  for the spontaneity in the routine. And, most importantly,  searching within myself for more.

I dug out my telephoto lens.  The one I bought several years ago for the used Nikon my brother gave me.  Found 5 rolls of new film too.  Film!  The camera is a gem.  The clerk at the local camera shop enjoyed cleaning it for me.  I guess the glass lens is a rarity today and I should take good care.  The camera took good care of me.  Took me to places I didn't know existed.  Seeing is believing...the colors crisp, the movement clear, the expression tight, and the joy of giving away part of me.  My production signed, sealed, and delivered to any and all unsuspecting subjects.  Delightfully dabbling in the development of my talent.

So the camera started acting up or maybe it got sick.  I stopped.  I put the black parts into my leather satchel and placed it strategically at the back of my closet.  And my talent took a nap.   The old Nikon will stay put for a while.  She'll have the film to keep her company.  I'm moving my perspective into the next generation of convenience.

Much more to explore...digitally.

tears of a clown

I wrote this piece a few weeks ago, after my weekend city shoot in Chicago.  "Four Seasons" is an outdoor mosaic created by artist Marc Chagall.  His work stands proudly on a plaza among the historic business district of the south Loop.  When you next visit Chicago, please find this oasis among the steel and brick and business.

I cried while looking at the Chagall.  They just started, filled my wide open eyes.  Sitting alone in the middle of giants, beauty beyond any expectation.  I wept and felt relief. The pigeons kept me company and the sound was unbearably quiet.  Or maybe I tuned out everything that wasn't on those tiles.  The colors spoke to me, all randomly ordered.  The scenes and suns pulled me closer.  After walking the perimeter twice, I knew where to find Marc Chagall's six signatures.  I shot all six. Shot every wall, every angle, every sun in every scene.  A Sunday morning oasis where I recognized hope.  Walking away felt uneasy.  Looking back through damp eyes, I promised my return.

My mind and heart don't line up on the same plane as they did last week.  Chicago changed everything.  I changed.  I chose and I changed.  Walking alone but with my camera, my other eye, and meeting whatever I wanted to shoot.  Choices belonged to me alone.  Each one wrapped in me.  Wrapped with my freedom, security, knowing.  Passion fires burning for three days.  Passion for pursuit.  Pursuing my future one minute at a time.  One shot plus one more plus the next one.  All lining up for me, because of me, in spite of me.  When I look into my new mirror I see through the viewfinder.  The camera fits me.  I am the camera.  

And how do I move from this intersection of reality?  Remains to be seen is creeping closer.   Feels like the first time and feels like forever.  Life is never boring and I like it.  Building my puzzle is challenging, especially when I find new pieces so often.  Is God trying to tell me that I am running out of time?  You and I both know the answer to that one.  Life is now.

Since I posted my chi-town pics, 4 more people have clicked my blog follow button and many compliments have been sent my way.  Never have I been validated like this.  I'm an amateur.  My talent is raw.  I'm flattered and overwhelmed.  I feel like I'm in a dream sequence where all that was status quo is suddenly dropped upside down and shattered into millions of pieces.

I'm not a strong-willed personality.  I need people to prop me.  That's how I'm built.  At 43 years old with two giant passions overtaking my daily sensibilities, I need to share and see my fire spark more.  I need to-know-me-is-to-love-me.  The gloves off and the cards laid on the table.  The benefit of the doubt.  The trust.  My blog has been good for me, and I  keep shooting, and transforming.  With each click of the keyboard and each snap of the shutter, I move away from the fork in my road and away from empty.  I'm filling up.  finally.