Thinness

The Irish have a descriptive phrase
   with which a contemplative photographer will resonate:
      “thin places.”
A thin place is anyplace on earth where the veil
   separating the seen world from the unseen world
      is so slender, so permeable, that these two worlds
         can momentarily touch, even overlap.
In such a spot the unseen breaks in upon the seen.
The sacred slips in through the apparently ordinary.
Mahatma Gandhi described it this way:
   “There is an undefinable, mysterious power
      that pervades everything.
   I feel it, though I do not see it.
   It is this unseen power that makes itself felt
      and yet defies all proof,
         because it is so unlike all that I perceive
            through my senses.
   It transcends the senses.”
The fortunate photographer is one who,
   coming upon such places,
      finds a way to position the camera
         quite near that delicate veil.
Then she or he releases the shutter with held breath,
   hoping that a bit of the unseen will filter onto the final image.
It may not.
The transcendent is known to transcend cameras too.

The Adjective "Contemplative"

One of the reasons for putting the word contemplative
   in front of the word photographer
      is to be found, I believe, in word origin.
In the middle of that first word is temple,
   which comes from the Latin templum.
The root word is tem and it means “to divide.”
In Roman times a templum was a sacred building
   built on ground that had been “tem-ed,” divided—
      special ground that had been separated
            from the ordinary ground all around it.
As I understand it, to be contemplative
   means to attempt to be in touch with “templeness,”
      wherever it is to be found.
I once spent two weeks alone
   photographing the cathedrals of England,
      surrounded by templeness from morning til night.
Daily I was captured by loftiness and grandeur,
   by rich quietness and inviting mystery.
I was enveloped by architecture that announced,
   “Sacredness is right here.”
I believe our role as contemplative photographers
   is to stay open to the sacred,
      to watch for its appearances,
         to listen for its sounds.
We are to remain alert for any hint of templeness
   we may find on earth.
It may be in a soaring cathedral.
Or a grove of quaking aspens.
Or a solitary tulip stretching for the sky.
It may even be in two smooth stones
   resting in the crevice of a rock.
Something says, “Look! Templeness!”
And the contemplative photographer pays attention,
   responds internally,
      then responds with camera.

A Gift

Last fall Bernie and I were staying in Southwest Harbor, Maine.
I photographed alone each morning and evening,
   not venturing more than 20 or 30 miles,
      so we’d have time to go to breakfast each morning,
         and to dinner afterward each evening.
By the time the last morning arrived,
   I felt I had run out of nearby places to explore.
Then I remembered a small sign
   where a gravel road disappeared into a woods:
      “Seal Cove Pond.”
Why not?
I found the road, then drove, and drove, and drove.
Two lanes turned into one;
   the gravel became dirt;
      the trees crowded in on each side.
Twice I almost turned back.
Then the lane turned right and abruptly ended.
I remember I took a quick breath.
Before me lay utterly still water.
An utterly diaphanous fog.
Utterly muted autumn colors in the distance.
Without knowing what I’d find, or if I’d find,
   I was given a gift of finding more than I hoped for.
At this time of the year,
   I am reminded all the ways we’re gifted, unexpectedly.
We turn right, or left,
   we look up, or down,
      and there it is: the freely, generously offered.
Our best response is always the simplest:
   thank you.

Lightwriter

Lightwriter.
That’s what the word photographer means.
Phot or phos is Greek for "light"
   and graph in its various forms
      means "write," "writer," "written."
Whoever crafted that word pointed toward a truth:
   a photographer’s medium is photons, light.
Without light, nothing lands on the retina,
   where the constructing of images in the mind begins.
Without light, nothing registers on film or sensor,
   leading eventually to an image appearing
      on paper or glass or some other substance.
While photographers may be considered lightwriters,
   the reality is that light actually writes itself.
Luminance bursts from its source,
   hurling itself forward at 670,616,629 miles an hour.
Light itself provides its own energy.
Light itself gives color and shape to objects,
   creates contrasts and hues in subjects.
It is the light itself
   that does the fundamental, behind-the-scenes work
      for which we photographers are prone to take credit.
How much we take for granted!
Ultimately, at the very basis of all that is,
   light is not even a given,
      as natural as it appears.
For truth is that light does not have to exist;
   it never did.
Yet somehow, somewhere, at some time,
   light was given birth.
For what reason?
By what agency?
To what end?
It is a mystery.
Each time an aware photographer exposes an image,
   she or he is responding in some small way to that mystery,
      a mystery too large to fully comprehend.
At best it can only be acknowledged,
   and photographed,
      through the grace of light.

"Oh!"

Recently I drove alone down the coast of the Pacific Northwest.
Among other things, I was looking for a cover photograph
   for my 2007 Willowgreen catalog.
I knew exactly what I wanted:
    stately redwood trees enveloped by fog.
Near the end of my trip I found what I was looking for.
Hour after hour I composed image after image.
Yet when it came time for Katherine, my graphic artist,
    to do the artwork, none of these images quite worked.
Her design was just right,
    but my photographs looked ever so commonplace within it.
Now what?
“Oh!” she said as I scrolled quickly past other images
    from that trip.
She was responding to a simple photograph—
   some flowers at a lavender farm
        where I had stopped for a few minutes
            on my way to a rainforest in northern Washington.
A breeze kept blowing when I wished it wouldn’t,
    creating a blurred effect.
I thought of these images as throwaways
    until the moment Katherine said, “Oh!”
The catalog is now printed.
On the cover is a square image of three angled rows of lavender.
One of the rows is disturbed by the gust that blew through.
A couple of errant weeds stick up where they’re not supposed to.
No majestic redwoods,
    no feeling of stateliness,
        no mysterious fog.
Just a pastel field, some low flowers, and the late afternoon sun.
“Oh!” my wife Bernie said when she held the first printed copy.
Every so often, if not always,
   I am taught I must nudge my own thoughts out of the way,
        my own self out of the way,
    if I am going to be ushered to that place
        that rises above, and sinks beneath, all thinking.
The place of “Oh!”.

Standing on that Shore

It is easy for me to think "contemplative"
   when I look at this image.
A four-year-old stands on the shore of Lake Michigan,
   taking in the first large body of water
      she has ever seen.
The waves go on and on
   until the horizon swallows them.
Such vastness!
Such utter blueness!
Such out-of-the-ordinariness
   for someone who, to that point in time,
      had made Indiana and its fields her home.
She stands there in the sand,
   being opened, and opening, in the same movement.
She is all of us,
   at one time or another,
      through one experience or another.
She is also my daughter, Christen,
   who on this day turns 35.
She is still one who stands looking,
   wondering,
      opening.
Happy birthday, Little One.
Feel that sand.

Seeing the Grand

A few mornings ago I stood on a hill outside Lone Pine, California,
   and watched the sun bring to life
      the unfamiliar landscape before me.
The sky glowed, then radiated.
Mountains shone in the distance.
In the foreground unusual rock formations competed for attention
   with their dark, dramatic shapes.
My shutter sounded steadily.
Too quickly, however,
   the sun’s rays burned brighter and brighter.
Saturated colors receded as heavy shadows intruded.
The beauty before me developed an uncompromising edge
   it didn’t have moments before.
So I turned away and wandered the nearby hills,
   finding places behind tall boulders
      where the shade still revealed subtle, alluring details.
Simpler shapes.
Gentler curves.
Softer hues.
This was such a contrast to the enormous panorama at my back,
   yet it was a revelation that called just as truly.
The expansive mountain vista had led me to breathe deeply,
   to photograph gratefully.
The existence of three close, coarse rocks though,
   revealed only partially through my camera lens,
      led me to breathe ever so quietly
         and to photograph as if I were receiving a blessing.
Indeed, that’s exactly what happened.
Three silent stones blessed, informed, inspired.
It was grand.

It's All in the Naming

Several times a week I drive down a narrow rural road,
   taking a back way to my office complex.
I’ve used this route for years.
In one place the road dips slightly for about fifty yards.
It took a number of trips before I noticed what lay to the south,
   just behind some tall brush.
“Oh, standing water,” I said to myself as I shifted gears.
That was the name I gave it—
   first name, “Standing,” last name, “Water.”
It appeared to be a field that had flooded years before.
Every once in a while I glanced that way as I drove by,
   seeing little.
One day, taking more than a glance, I said to myself,
   “That’s not standing water. That’s a pond.”
“Pond” became its last name.
Its first name was “Nondescript.”
I still paid it little attention.
A few days ago, sailing past, something caught my eye.
In one spot the color red hovered just above the water.
The color green floated on the surface from one side to the other.
Slender tree trunks stood silent guard.
I turned my car around and drove through the dip again,
   slowly, quietly.
The next day, on a leisurely Saturday morning,
   I made my way to that road, parked my car,
      and walked, for the first time,
         that narrow stretch of pavement.
A fog had dropped by.
Never leaving the roadway,
   since there was no other place to stand,
      I photographed for an hour.
That small body of water introduced itself to me
   as I stood silently nearby.
“First name, ‘Created,’ last name, ‘Wonder.’”
Only when I listened for a name to come,
   rather than supply my own version,
      did I begin to sense this loveliness for what it is.
Only when I got the name right
   could I photograph it with any hope
      of showing its truth.
Now, each time as I drive by, I breathe a little hello.
Often I hear one in return.

So It Begins

I can’t quite believe I’m doing this.
And I can’t believe I’ve waited this long.
Early in my career I regularly wrote words
   for people I knew well.
They sat in pews and I stood in a pulpit;
   the words were an attempt to make sense,
      to find hope, to search for truth.
In the middle of my career I wrote words—
   it was called “copy” at that point—
      for people who hired me
              to communicate professionally for them.
I often did photography for them.
Later in my career I wrote and published books
   for the ill, the dying, the grieving, those in transition.
I combined my photography and words with other people’s music
   to create audiovisuals for hospitals, hospices,
           and other caregiving organizations.
My entire professional life I have written and photographed
   for specific projects, particular people, identified needs.
I had been raised, after all, to be a dedicated worker for others.
I worked with my words and my photographs,
   and then these finished results went on
      to do their own work afterward.
And now, suddenly, right here, I’m not doing that.
Here I’m writing whatever I feel like writing.
I’m photographing whatever comes my way,
   like the small red rose
      that happened to make its home in my back yard,
         blooming away brightly
            with frost just around the corner.
I’m putting words and photography together
   in whatever way pleases me,
      whether or not it pleases anyone else.
Right now I can’t quite believe I’m writing these very words.
Even more, I can’t believe it took me this long to do it.