Real

One morning last fall Bernie and I
   left our B&B on the coast of Maine,
      agreeing we would drive inland,
         not knowing where we would end up.
I was looking for color to photograph;
   Bernie was simply out to see.
Noontime found us in Union, Maine.
Union is home to 600 families,
   a tiny village green,
      and Hannibal's Cafe.
Naturally, we pulled over for lunch.
The atmosphere was clean, casual,
   well-worn, and friendly.
Both coffee and soup were great,
   warming us nicely.
We enjoyed listening to the talk
   that jumped from table to table—
      these folks had gathered there before.
Over one spoonful I spotted a T-shirt
   on the far wall.
"Hannibal's Cafe" it read, in outdated graphics,
   a steaming coffee cup to one side.
I knew right away I needed that shirt.
Nowadays I pull it over my head often.
Each time I remember with fondness
   that warm atmosphere,
      the day filled with color,
         our lovely stay in Camden, Maine.
That plain red-orange cotton shirt, already fading,
   brings me easy joy.
That's how most of my photography works.
I see, for example, the image
   of the wet leaves found on the bush
      along the edge of San Antonio's Riverwalk last month,
         and I smile inside.
I remember our walk in the overpowering rain,
   the dinner overlooking the water,
      the unusual morning sounds.
I believe one mark of contemplative photography
   is that it's about the real,
      wherever that appears—
   beside rivers,
      in fields just down the road,
         inside white-washed village cafes.
I believe it's less about what's grand
   and more about what's authentic.

Scratch

If you wish to make
an apple pie from scratch,
you must first create the universe.
Carl Sagan

Sagan's words are a wake-up call
   every time I come upon them.
When we photographers take complete responsibility
   for the images we make,
      we will do well to be reminded
         of Sagan's admonishing wisdom.
If we're going to call that image of a rose completely our own,
   then we'd best start with having designed
      the rose from the ground up.
Otherwise the true creation of that image
   is not ours alone, but shared.
In fact, a photographer's role in that creative act
   is terribly minor, bordering on insignificant.
I believe most photography says,
   "Hey, look what a person with a camera came upon and saw,"
      not, "Look what a person holding a camera
         made from scratch."
While the photographer may boast otherwise,
   the photograph knows.
So does the rose.

The Simple

It is always the simple
that produces the marvelous.
Amelia Barr

I wanted to photograph the simple
   without any distractions:
      an ordinary weed
         with nothing else in the frame,
            not even a color.
So my brother Mike built me
   a world-class backdrop,
      then I did some serious shopping
         for some weeds in a nearby field.
I set up to photograph outside,
   but when the wind refused to cooperate,
      I moved everything indoors.
I stationed a weed where I wanted it,
   turned on a light,
      and proceeded to photograph.
It felt weird photographing this way—
   I had never posed a weed before.
Having done this type of photography once,
   I don't imagine I'll do it a lot,
      but I imagine I will do it more.
In the finished image,
   I found the stark simplicity
      of this piece of God's creation
         rather intriguing.
It's so simple.
But look at its amazing complexity!
It's so ordinary.
But think about designing something
   as extraordinary as this!
I'd say it's nothing less than divine.

Contemplative Born

Children are born contemplatives.
Fr. Laurence Freeman

We were visiting relatives in San Angelo, Texas recently.
San Angelo, if you're not aware, is home to
   the International Waterlily Collection.
I've tried to photograph waterlilies many times
   but I have few images to show for it.
It's hard to get close to them,
   to get a good angle on them.
Then there's the problem that one's tripod
   doesn't work all that well
      standing on the surface of a pond.
So when I heard about the International Waterlily Collection,
   I made my way there.
It's lovely.
More than that, it's all a photographer could want.
Many varieties of lilies grow in well-maintained pools
   of various heights.
The small park is sunken below street level
   so it feels private and quiet.
Concrete paths meander throughout.
I photographed there two mornings,
   one afternoon, and one evening.
Calmly and quietly I photographed the calmness and quietness
   of my subjects, making over 200 images.
I studied each one as I downloaded it
   on my laptop after each session.
A representative one is below.

The morning of our last day in San Angelo,
   the local newspaper ran a large, full-color photograph
      on an opening page.
It was of a waterlily.
It had been taken the day before
   at the International Waterlily Collection.
The image was serene and restful,
   soft in color and tone,
      a delight to the eye and the soul.
It was more evocative than any image I had made
   in all my trips there.
I knew it the moment I saw it.
My eyes then fell to the caption below the image.
The photograph had been made by a nine-year-old girl.
Somehow it seemed only fitting.

The Only Prayer

may I be I is the only prayer—
not may I be great or good
or beautiful or wise or strong.
E. E. Cummings

First things first:
While E. E. Cummings sometimes wrote his name
   by decapitalizing the initial letters,
      he did not always do that,
         nor did he expect others to decapitalize his name.
Sometimes he capitalized "I" in his poems,
   sometimes he did not.
He did, however, as far as I can determine,
   always capitalize "God,"
      and any pronoun referring to God,
         and any synonyms for God.
Second things second:
I believe the poet's prayer
   ("may I be I...")
      is the true contemplative photographer's prayer.
Not "may I become great."
Not "may my work be regarded by others as beautiful."
The Cummings prayer—
   our prayer—
      simply goes "may I be I."
May my photography be my photography
   and no one else's.
May my eye see as my eye has been given to see
   and may that be the vision
      that I leave as the legacy of my work with camera,
         of my play with life.
May I offer to the world
   what is my most authentic offering—
      clearly, essentially, purely mine—
         with equal parts of gratitude, humility,
            and, in the largest sense, love.

Kisses

One regret, dear world,
that I am determined not to have
when I am lying on my deathbed
is that I did not kiss you enough.
Hafiz of Shiraz

This Persian mystic and poet calls to me
    across the span of seven hundred years,
        nudging me, urging me.
"Before death calls you,
    make sure you plant plenty of smooches
        on the earth itself.
Cherish creation.
Hold dear the days.
Caress that which is caressable.
Nuzzle that which invites nuzzling.
Nestle close to life.
Make time to enfold and be enfolded.
Be lavish with your love."
The words of Hafiz remind me of my own deathbed,
    and the numbered days I have between now and then,
        and the unnumbered kisses that are mine to give,
            if I only will.

Every Blade

Every blade of grass has its angel
that bends over it and whispers,
"Grow, grow."
The Talmud

I came across this quotation several years ago.
I've always thought it innocently playful,
   like the mental image it conjures.
A tiny sprite leaning over every blade,
   bobbing to and fro,
      a miniature cupped hand to its miniature mouth.
A chorus of elfin voices softly repeating
   "grow...grow...grow...grow"
      until it sounds like a high-pitched "ommmmm."
Blades of grass rousing themselves,
   stretching themselves,
      reaching upward.
All a bit fanciful, I'd say.
A bit over the edge.
And yet...
Is that image much more over the edge,
   when you get right down to it,
      than the image of the deep, rich color of green,
         rather than no color at all ever being created?
Any more over the edge
   than the amazing molecular structure
      that goes into every single blade of grass?
Any more over the edge
   than how each blade is a photosynthesis factory,
      turning sunlight into chemical energy
         in a surprisingly complex way?
Any more over the edge
   than how each blade innately knows
      when to come to life each spring,
         when to return to rest each fall?
Maybe creation itself is one breathtakingly enormous angel,
   whispering, "Go ahead, grow."

Apologies

If you are going to do something tonight
that you'll be sorry for tomorrow morning,
sleep late.
Henry Youngman

I did something for the last two months
   that I am sorry for today.
I didn't post.
I knew I wasn't posting, and I knew it had been awhile,
   but I tried not to think about how long it had been.
Then someone called my office yesterday and asked,
   "Is Jim okay?
      He hasn't posted on The Contemplative Photographer
         since May 7th!
            Has something happened to him?"
Nothing special has happened to me.
I vacationed.
I worked.
But mostly I devoted myself to a new blog
   that's called "The Thoughtful Caregiver."
It also uses my writing and my photography,
   but it's especially designed
      to support and encourage family caregivers.
It took longer to start than I imagined,
   and it required more of my creative energies than I anticipated.
But now "Thoughtful" is up and running
   and now I'm ready to return to "Contemplative."
I won't be posting with the fixed regularity
   that I've committed to with the other blog,
      but I will be posting here more often
         and with more consistency.
I promise.