“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”—Heraclitus
Our bodies hold onto pain and memory. We can feel it take root within our bones and we can either address or ignore it. I’ve spent the last five years ignoring it, but recently I’ve taken up swimming daily. This practice is slowly returning me to my body. No longer a stranger, we are becoming one again. Pain and all.
I share this and these photos as part of the journey of rediscovery. Look closer. Look again. You might see something different.
I’d love to know if you have a favorite image. I secretly have my favorite. Can you guess?
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These photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW.
it can look selfish this way I’m living looking for love through a camera lens through the way my thighs move when I dance through the way my chest rises when I sing but it’s survival like the lone daffodil blooming in January a waning moon at dawn the first dandelion puff the cluster of fuzzy buds on the bare peach tree we are all looking
These photos were taken this morning in my yard with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW.
in Winter in all Winters it lays dormant inside domed darkness
you walk past it looking nowhere anywhere, but not there never there
yet it goes still growing bedrock feral mushroom bellied lichen ferocious trapping pain web-like crackling like ice smelling like bruised desperation like untouched skin like hot ash scattered by eroded winds
you don’t need to see to feel
you walk faster looking nowhere anywhere, but not there never there
yet it goes still like tides like movement Spring saplings tap-dancing on rooted tiptoes daffodils issuing battle cries thrusting spears upward dandelion puffs cooing dreaming light again there’s a light somewhere he says
your nested winds sigh your meadow grasses rustle your waters ripple gently
You’ve walked this trail a hundred times before. Usually, you have a hand to hold or a baby strapped to your chest. Tonight, you are alone. It’s not until you see milky clouds streaking across the sky you realize how weird the woods have become. A rabbit darts across the trail and the word “mad” comes to mind. We are all mad here.
Shifting your weight and shaking your head, you decide it’s the light causing everything to look wrong. Despite it being winter you feel warm and take off your jacket. A wolf howls nearby, but you aren’t scared. You listen as the sound echoes off the black skeletal trees. The branches reach toward the full moon. You feel yourself doing the same. You sway in place, moving with the wind. The moonlight feels good when it enters. Vast.
“As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.” —Pablo Neruda
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When you fail to capture the full moon properly with your camera, you create something different. I hope you enjoyed these moody shots and let me know if you have a favorite. Although I promised myself no challenges this year, I’m going to photograph every full moon. Maybe I’ll get better.
These photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW.
“How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky, how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you, even your eyes, even your imagination.” —Mary Oliver, Why I Wake Early
I’ve not been posting much. I’ve not been reading much. I’ve started rewriting my middle-grade novel, a fictional adventure story of Thor’s daughter. This means I will be less active here for a bit, but I’m not going away. I’m still around. I’m still moving.
These photos are from a brief trip I took yesterday to pick up my son in Chico. The sky showed me all the ways blue can be and how many clouds it can hold. I only found one spot to pull over as many of the sideroads were flooded from the recent storm, but I like these photos. They tell a story. Which one speaks to you?
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Photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
When children are small you can sprinkle nutritional yeast on millet and tell them it’s fairy dust. With a word, it becomes so. Such is the power of language. What if we could do the same with our dreams? Here’s a poem and flash fiction rambling on about such things. Let me know what you think.
little shadow
perched on a purple wall staring at my sleeping child
what do you see shadow bird?
do you see. see like me?
my grandfather became cloud grandmother became butterfly.
I sit in her chair. I sing with his voice.
what will be left for her when I,transform?
maybe I become you. maybe I watch from a wall.
flying with one word. staying with another. word.
dream me alive. over and over and over. clove and nutmeg. owl spreading wings.
forest hears, nothing.
another dream
Transform
One night during a dream of chaos and war a woman gives birth to a baby with hair the color of fresh snow. The baby blinks at the woman with eyes as green as ancient ferns and coos like a dove. What if instead of forgetting the baby when she woke the woman decides to name her Mabel and she becomes as real as coffee.
The woman dresses the dream baby in clothes the color of fresh marigolds and wears her close to her chest in a carrier woven of the softest wool. She takes the baby out into the rain and her laugh becomes lightning. The world sparks around them and glows brighter.
The plants in the woman’s house grow with the baby—greener and taller, greener and taller until the woman is forced to cut through them with a large knife, like an explorer in a jungle. She and the baby laugh at the silliness of it as birds make nests in her living room and a family of rabbits discovers the perfect place to live within her closet.
They spend most days outdoors so Mabel can make the grass thicker, the trees taller, and the flowers bolder. The neighbors don’t know what’s making their gardens grow and the woman decides not to tell them. Not everyone believes as strongly as she does and she fears their disbelief will pull the child away.
When Mabel starts walking the woman takes her outside in the middle of the night and upon seeing the full moon the child begins to sing. The tiny lilting notes cause the stars to dance and the moon to move closer and closer to the Earth. The woman knows this won’t go unnoticed and will have terrible consequences, but she hesitates to act because love defies logic and gravity. Love defies most things.
Mabel however makes the choice for her, wiggling out of her grasp and floating toward the moon. The baby with hair as white as snow returns back into the dream where she was born and the woman walks home alone. Her house feels different but she smiles the same because Mabel is as real as coffee and her physical absence changes nothing. She wraps herself in wool and dream walks to visit her child.
It’s the 8th day of the New Year and I’m behind. Behind in responding to comments. Behind in writing blog posts. Behind in reading blog posts. My Christmas decorations are still happily shining and my sink is full of dishes.
I share this because there’s a tendency this time of year to feel like you have to hit the ground running. January has to be YOUR month to get all the things done and to set into motion all the ways you wish to make your life better. It’s all a lie. Like so many untruths we tell ourselves, it’s just another example of perfectionism making us miserable.
Don’t let it.
I’ve chosen Movement as my word of the year. Any forward momentum toward my goals will be considered a success. No, I’ve not done much blogging, but I did take a trip to Tahoe and my photography heart got to dance in the snow. No, I’ve not done much cleaning of my house, but I’ve written a poem and short story in my journal every day this year so far. Movement. Like water over stones. It all matters.
If you’ve been around here a minute, you’ll know I have a deep love for David Bowie. Today would be his 77th birthday and last night I dreamed I was in his Lazarus music video. I was under the bed reaching my hand out to him. I woke and wrote this poem and a small flash fiction in his honor. I hope you enjoy them. They aren’t what I had planned to post but I’m learning to let my creativity go where it wants to.
like bluebirds racing sunlight like bare branches in a breeze like tomorrows that don’t come
it’s just like you to leave us quick as lightning moonman mornings starlight singings
fly free toward me
One who moves
I don’t want him to call me his bluebird one last time, although he does it anyway in a raspy voice I barely recognize. It matters to him, but I refuse sentimentality. I suppose it’s my way of fighting back. I know he understands.
“Time loops around,” I whisper when his heart stops.
Someone screams. Someone else runs to tell the people waiting on the mountain. Or maybe nobody is here at all except me. I wipe his eyes with the damp hem of my dress. I clean his face of tears, but the ones on my face are dry now.
He’s not gone, I yell to those wailing and screaming, but maybe the certainty he gave me at the end was only for me. He was fond of parting gifts. A lifetime of moon whispering, hip swaying, star gazing, and half-smiles don’t disappear. Not fully.
He’s writing everything down in a notebook beside the river while I wade up to my knees in the cool lapping water. Geese loudly scream out for attention, but I don’t take my eyes off his pen. Rocks beneath my toes are covered in slimy moss and they sing to me. The sky above is as blue as his right eye, maybe not even as blue as that. Clouds find a way to shift. Moving toward him, like we all do. Like I want to do right now.
Our years have now become days. We change nothing. We do nothing different. For certainty and love requires surrender to the forces of nature. A deer walks into the water and stands near me drinking loudly. Its side constricts and contracts—a life that does not care who we are because we are just like it. One who drinks. One who moves. One who watches the sky and feels the earth.
The pen stops and he looks at me over his notebook and perhaps he’s smiling. I can’t tell because the sun has burst through the dancing clouds and turned him into a being a light. “Free,” I think I hear him say, and just like the bluebird he takes flight. His wings sound like music.
“And did I pass?” The face of the old woman on my right was unreadable in the gathering dusk. On my left the younger woman said, “You don’t pass or fail at being a person, dear.”—Neil Gaiman
We’ve reached the end of the 52 photo challenge—one year of taking photos weekly and sharing them here. The final assignment was to create a portfolio of our favorite images from the year, which I’ve done below.
The year included more than 520 photos (more if you count photography posts outside the challenges), 2,907 comments, and 6,612 likes. Beyond the numbers, I’ve learned a lot more about what my camera can do and my editing skills are getting stronger.
Thank you to everyone who has followed along. Your likes and comments keep me going. Every artist desires an audience and you’ve been a loyal and loving one. Thank you.
So, what’s in store for 2024? That’s something I’ll write about later in the week, but for now, let’s take a look at my favorite images of 2023. Happy New Year!
Photos were taken with Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
If you want to join the 52 Photo Challenge, you can find all the information at nicolesy.com
Bridgette Tales 