Unexpected Gift

Her husband gave her an unexpected gift this morning, and he didn't even know it. She was dressed in her jeans and t-shirt, grocery list tucked into her purse, ready to head out the door. She grabbed her camera as a last minute thought. Maybe she would have time to stop at the beach after groceries, maybe the thick fog that hung in the air would still be there. Her husband noting her camera bag, asked his usual question, "Where are you going?" She said she might stop at the state park after groceries, hoping that the fog would still be there. He knows she loves fog. Then he gave her the gift, "Why don't you stop at the beach first, and then get groceries?"

The thought had occurred to her, but she really likes to get to the grocery store early, before the crowds. Although, how much of a crowd there would be on a Tuesday morning is questionable. With a "love you", she walked out the door and got into her car. Backing out of the driveway, she thought maybe she would just drive to the beach and see what the fog was like there.

Five minutes later, she parks her car in the parking lot and sees the heavy layer of fog that blankets everything. Fog has a way of making the ordinary look extraordinary.  She still questions the light, but she does have her tripod in the back of the car, that should provide the stability she might need for low light. She gets out, gathers her gear and sets off.

Walking across the wooden boardwalk, she hears a mourning dove calling in the trees above her and then the echo of another from across the channel. The sound amplified in the moisture laden air.

As she walks along, she thinks about what she is reading in her new book of ideas. What story does she want to capture today with her camera? If she had a long lens with her, and she could see the mourning dove, that would be her story.

She keeps walking. The big red lighthouse comes into view, she stops to set up her tripod and take a few shots. That can always be her story if she doesn't find anything else. Although she feels she has told that story a lot lately, still it's a good backup plan.

She reaches the leading lines of the blue pier, she loves the blue in the mist. She feels the story pulling her down the walkway. As she glances into the water to the right of the pier, she sees something eerie floating below the water, at first she thinks it is a fish. Carp are not desired catches for the fishermen on the pier, even though they catch plenty of them. Then she sees the pointed bill and the black webbed feet. Sadness envelops her. She hurries on.

She needs something to erase the image of the black webbed feet pointed skyward. She is at the end of the blue now, before her are rocks and open water, she needs to find a happy story. She turns slightly and sees the spider web stretched between the blue rails, sprinkled with raindrops. There is a breeze lifting and releasing the web, but she sets up her tripod anyway. With any luck she still may catch a good enough photo for the day.

She hears footsteps behind her. A man with fishing gear. He stops beside her, and looks at the screen of her camera. "Oh, nice spider web," he says. They strike up a conversation. He knows a thing or two about photography, but from the film days. He has never quite caught the knack for digital. He asks about the lens she is using. She tries to explain an unconventional lens to him. She thinks he understands. He stays while she takes a few more photographs, watches the screen as the images appear. He shifts his pole and bucket to his other hand and prepares to depart. They wish each other good luck and a good day. She watches him leave. She has found her story.

Book of Ideas

Monday morning. Thunder rattles the windows, and streaks of lightening spread across the sky. She has decided to skip her usual Monday morning chore of getting groceries. Choosing instead to stay in and write. She loves morning thunderstorms, they smother the light that always draws her outside like a siren's call. Instead she can stay in, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket and drink a cup of warm cinnamon tea.

It's a new week, and she has returned to this space. Over the weekend she realized how much she missed this place. It allows her freedom to explore who she is, who she wants to be. Writing has always been the path to discovery for her. On her other blog, where she is her confident photographer self, people expect just that - pretty pictures with a brief story. They are not tolerant readers, they don't want her to wander self-discovery for too long, maybe because it will touch too close to something in their own lives.

She needs a space where she can explore ideas, keeping those that ring true and discarding the rest. She does that to some degree in her daily Morning Pages, written as soon as she gets up. But the photographer in her also needs a visual piece that embodies the story. This place allows her to have intimacy, freedom, discovery, and visual delight. It also provides accountability, she has let a few people into this secret world. She works best if she has a purpose, even if the purpose is self-serving.

Ideas either come like a meadow full of wildflowers or they wither and dry up completely. She wishes they were more like a monthly seed club. Then she get some growing before the next batch arrived. A new idea catalog came in the the mailbox this weekend. She started reading it yesterday, she is pretty sure it is going to bring a meadow of abundant color.

Climbing

Today is the day, fifty days until she is fifty.

Her plan was to sign up for Weigh Watchers today, that would give her fifty days to lose the ten pounds she needs to lose. But after searching Pinterest for inspiring Weight Watchers recipes, she realized none of them motivated her to enjoy cooking. She wants to take pleasure in making food not just calculate points. She has decided to return to her Whole 30 and Paleo ways, healthy recipes that are fun to make, a joy to the tastebuds and a feast for the eyes. Instead of spending money on monthly fees, and time on humbling weight-ins, she will invest in some cooking classes where she can learn new recipes and techniques, and maybe make some new friends in the process.

She is going to up her exercise goals, 15,000 steps everyday, and at least one day a week at the gym lifting weights. She is going to take the stairs, climbing everyday towards her goals, which are bigger than just ten pounds.

Frumpy to Fantastic

It was scary pushing that publish button yesterday. It is one thing to have all these thoughts and ideas in her head, but it is another to share them with the world, not that she is expecting others to gather here. She is the one who needs this space, a place to be accountable to what she wants to do. If someone stumbles upon this journal and it helps them in some small way, who is she to stand in the way.

Her forties have been, for the most part, fabulous. She finally found her calling - photography. She has gained bucket loads of confidence through the wielding of her camera. But as she is in the final days of her forties, she realizes she has gone from fabulous to frumpy. Rarely does she put makeup on, or even real pants. An early morning trip to the grocery store in yoga pants, bedhead hair, and a plain face is just fine, or is it?

She wants her fifties to be fresh and alive, full of wonder and excitement. She wants to change from frumpy to fantastic. So with fifty-one days to go until she is fifty, she is going to start putting on make-up every morning before she leaves the house, she will wear real pants whenever she goes out, yoga pants are still fine for around the house, she will act like she matters until she believes it, even if it takes the whole fifty-one days.

The Voice

She didn't bring an extra notebook on this vacation, which is unusual for a vacation where she stays in the same place for the whole week. Maybe she didn't bring one because she didn't have faith that her writing voice would ever return, it has been gone for such a long time. But she should know by now, when she least expects it, is when the voice returns.

So instead of writing in a notebook, she is going to have to type directly to this page, and maybe that's okay. It seems to be how it has been in this last year: typing, editing, typing, editing, and reading and rereading for what seems a hundred times. Maybe this is her new process and she just needs to embrace it. Maybe though, she needs to let some of that perfectionism go, and just let the words flow. Maybe this is where she needs to find the truest, rawest, uncensored voice.

She knows she wants the voice so she can become a better writer, but she needs the voice to find and express emotion, she needs the voice to find herself.

She can't let the voice slip away again.