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Uniting

My good friend Charles sent me a note yesterday.
He had printed the card himself,
   placing appropriately one of his photographs
      on the outside.
His image, made a year ago,
   is quite reminiscent of one of mine,
      made last month.
We share an appreciation for meadow salsify.
He had taken the time to write his reflective thoughts
   in his careful handwriting,
      pure black on pure white.
In part, this is what he wrote:
"Your writing and your photography
   are a perfect match.
You find your way into poetry very much, I think,
   as you find your way into a photograph.
There lurks in a corner of my mind
   a passage in Robert Frost
      that seems a commentary on the way
         your work relates to your life.
Yes, here it is:

But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes are one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes."

I would like to think
   that I am living my way
      into my friend's kind words.
In the meantime I'll hold on to his thoughts
   as I tramp that field
      just south of here.

Proper Response

The proper response
to the world
is applause.
William Carlos Williams

I like that.
But more I believe it.
A fitting response?
Not a long-winded tribute.
Not a well-crafted sonnet.
Not a blog with words and photographs.
Not even a melodious psalm.
Applause.
Vigorous handclapping.
A standing ovation,
   one that might last
     the better part of our lifetime on earth.
At which time
   we would cease doing the clapping
      and then become the clapping.

Don't Think

Don't think,
look.
Ludwig Wittgenstein

I don't know the exact context
   in which the Austrian philosopher
      composed these words.
Odd that a man of thought
   would eschew thought.
And yet isn't that the mantra
   that brings into being every photograph
      that is contemplative in nature?
Isn't that the inner voice
   that is heard when such photographs
   are about to come into being?
Don't think—
   look.
Don't study—
   see.
Don't try to reason it all out—
   go with your God-given intuition.
Don't stay in your mind—
   let go of it
      and allow it to let go of you.
Dare to be in your eyes
   and see with your soul
      and live with whatever results.

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.

Wholly Infused

How wholly infused with God
is this one big word
we call the world.
John Muir

It is easy for me
  to tire of the words of theologians.
I embarrass myself to put that in writing.
Sometimes I even tire of words from scripture.
That embarrasses me even more.
Then, every now and again,
  a man like John Muir comes along.
Born in 1838, and never graduating from college,
  he was a ferry operator, sheepherder,
   bronco buster, and industrial engineer
    before becoming one of the greatest naturalists
       in U.S. history.
Using mostly one-syllable words,
  John Muir says simply and freshly
   what is, for me, divine truth.

The Smallest Things

I discover everywhere in the smallest things
that omnipotent hand which supports
the heavens and the earth,
and which seems as it were in sport
while it conducts the universe.
Francois Fenelon

Fenelon's perfectly stated truth
 forces me to drop my pen
   in homage.

Inspired Garden

I hung out at the Chicago Botanic Garden
  yesterday and today.
The floral variety there is overwhelming—
  all the colors, shapes, sizes, complexities.
How could there be so many?
Why are we on earth showered
  with such extravagant, unnecessary beauty?
During my visit today
  something additional caught my eye
   and made its way into my soul:
  the Garden is prepared with such artistry, such sensitivity.
Each tulip bed is arranged in strikingly complementary colors—
  a vividly bright bed here,
   a study is subtle pastels there.
In one bed half of the flowers are deep purple in color
  and the others are a rich burgundy,
   one strong color playing off the other.
Only after sitting there awhile
  did I see that quiet detail
   some thoughtful spirit had carefully planned:
At the base of these foot-tall plants
  was a blanket of cheerful pansies,
   each of which had three petals of the same purple color
    and two of the same burgundy hue.
Why do I write of this?
Because I believe we are at our best
  when we take that which is God-given
   and combine it lovingly and joyfully
    with that which is humanly inspired,
     our humanly inspired.
I believe that may be when
  God is at God’s best too.

Noise

In The New Yorker this week
   there's a short piece about Michael Holleran,
      "the only Carthusian living in New York City."
Carthusian monks usually live in silent monasteries,
   shut off from the world.
They obey a rule that calls for no speaking,
   except for emergencies, while chanting in worship,
      and for a few hours of quiet conversation on Mondays.
Father Holleran left the cloistered life after nineteen years
   because he "wanted to catch up with the modern world."
Here is the point I am getting to:
   he reported that the noise of New York City life
      did not bother him.
"The battle," he said, "is in defeating the noise inside you."
His truth is my truth.
Doing something about the noise inside me takes work,
   real work.
Often I don't do this work well,
   and the noise ricochets inside my head.
It's not a pretty sound.
I do wish, however, to take slight issue
   with the Carthusian father on one point.
I don't believe that defeating the noise within,
   as if in militant combat,
      is the only way to proceed.
I believe that sometimes the racket within
   can fade quite noticeably,
      and even drop away altogether,
   without there having to be a battle to overcome it.
I believe an invitation to let the noise go
   can also be effective.
It's true: the noise doesn't always disappear
   when that invitation is sounded.
But many, many times it does
   when I intentionally, lovingly, slowly,
      and, yes, quietly,
         spend time in fertile places
   with my camera resting lightly in my hands
      while it touches gently my forehead and my nose.
And my soul.

Silence

The fruit of silence is tranquility.
Arabic proverb

Silence most often surrounds me as I photograph.
I’m thinking now of kneeling in front of
   a bed of gently swirling poppies,
      waiting for them to come to rest.
I’m thinking of standing beside
   a glassy pond at sunrise,
       unsure where earth and sky parted,
         and not needing to know.
I’m remembering planting myself on a stone outcropping
   as the sun opened the Grand Canyon below me,
      knowing that words would only diminish
         what was unfolding in front of my eyes.
Such silence is not intentionally practiced.
It is just the result
   of becoming attuned to that which is around,
      of becoming present to that which lies before.
The resulting photographs are a product of that silence,
   and equally they help produce that silence,
      both in that moment and later moments.
I cannot explain this.
I only know it happens.

Openings

Perhaps they are not stars,
but rather openings in heaven
where the love of our lost ones pours through
and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.
Eskimo proverb

On this Easter morning
   this proverb speaks to me
      with great hope.

Simple

Is!
Parmenides

The mystical Greek philosopher
   who lived and worked in 5th century Italy
      could not have stated his wonder any more simply.
In English his entire statement is made up
   of a vowel, a consonant, and an exclamation point.
My interpretation is this:
Time is!
The universe is!
This solar system is!
Our earth is!
This life is!
This moment is!
When we are aware in our aliveness,
   and alive in our awareness,
      then each of these statements deserves,
         even more, requires,
            an exclamation point.

Being Coaxed

A few days ago the morning was warm and damp.
As I dressed to go to my office,
   I chose clothes that coordinated with mud,
      for I felt the urge to photograph daffodils.
I have photographed them before, of course,
   singly, in pairs, in groups.
But this time I wanted to photogragh, not daffodils,
   but daffodil-ness.
Not what a daffodil looks like
   but what one feels like.
Not its external structure so much
   as something of its created essence.
I photographed two hours in a morning drizzle,
   then another two hours under late afternoon clouds.
I knelt and sat in wet mulch and mud
   most of that time.
I had hundreds of daffodils from which to choose,
   but in my four hours of lying and sitting
      there was only enough time
         to be with seven or eight flowers.
I wish I could say that I photographed daffodil-ness,
   but I don't believe that happened.
Oh, I have images.
But the essence of daffodil vibrancy, daffodil joy,
   daffodil poignancy, daffodil meaning?
I'm afraid my camera and I fell short.
Fortunately, my craving for daffodil-ness remains,
   and for a few days, daffodils will too.
Each time I see one,
   it seems to be encouraging me, coaxing me.
Who am I to resist?