swallow down embers, me disappear into peat smoke if you can’t smooth out turn obsidian again don’t appear at all, me nettle strewn carpet break down another layer elements shift again duff becomes humus, me sorry, can’t make it shattering too messy they were right run away from, me write until it stops tiny seeds open gravity threads again split the bedrock, me
*35/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day.
**All photos are mine, taken with an Olympus E-M1 MarkII and edited with Lightroom Classic.
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are”—E. E. Cummings
Last week I escaped to my favorite place at Dillon Beach with a few good friends. The weather was warmer than usual and the tide extremely high. However, on the very last morning, a bit after sunrise, the fog rolled in, the tide rolled out, and I took these photos of my dear friend and July model, Heidi.
I met Heidi about seven years ago in an online support group for surrogates who were pumping milk. Odd, I know! Turned out not only did she live near me, but she also was a writer. She invited me to her writing group, and after a few years of dragging my feet, we finally met.
Thank goodness! Heidi’s now one of my favorite people. She cares not only about her friends, but about the world. She’s smart, ambitious, kind, devoted to her children, an incredible middle school teacher, a talented writer, and she makes damn good guacamole. I’ve witnessed her incredible strength as she’s navigated some really hard things, and she impresses me with her dedication to growth and healing.
These photos are some of the first I took with my new 25mm f/1.8 lens, and it really was dreamy. Unlike most of my sessions, I barely edited these. Heidi fully trusted me and we worked together with such joy and ease that I think it really translated to these images.
Let me know if you have a favorite and give Heidi some love.
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What makes you proud? I’m most proud that I had the courage to dismantle every belief system that taught me to abandon myself in pursuit of acceptance. I’m proud that I’ve been brave enough to walk away from people and places committed to shrinking me, or unwilling to truly see or respect me. And I’m incredibly proud that I’ve chosen authenticity over belonging again and again, even when that authenticity and honesty have cost me security, community, and every version of myself I thought I would become.
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What makes you feel brave? My children make me feel brave because they remind me everyday that every time I choose courage, or step out of hiding and fully into my truth, I’m handing them a permission slip to do the same. To stand in the face of their fears and declare: “You don’t get to tell my story. I do.”
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What gives you hope? Nature gives me the most hope because in her I see the truth that everything is energy. Nothing is ever truly lost, merely transformed. Being in nature has shown me that we are not separate from her; we are her. When I can be still and return to Earth’s natural rhythms, she returns me to mine. In her, I am reminded that life knows how to adapt, regenerate, and begin again. She reminds me that transformation is always possible. And if Mother Earth can do it, so can I.
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Here’s here’s a few bonus shots I wanted to add. A dog we met on the beach named Nova thought reminded me of the dog in Peter Pan. A few shots in black and white, deer prints in the sand, a seagull eating a crab, and a crazy bug that was close to Heidi’s face in the cave.
These were taken with my Olympus E-M1 MarkII, using several different lenses and edited with Lightroom Classic. Let me know what you think, and check out the others in this series if you missed them.
“She did not succumb to the battering of the brutal elements in her life. No, instead, with nourishment and strength from those surrounding her, and from her own deep, strong roots, she continued to grow; not just grow but thrive! So much so that she did not buckle under the weight that was not her own.”—Claudia
For the month of June, my model was my lovely friend Claudia. We met during sunrise, to avoid the heat, and our time together was magical. We wandered the same wooded area I had taken photos in last month, but it looked different, more golden and less dark green. I focused my camera on capturing her lovely energy, smile, and how she connects to nature.
I met Claudia when our kids started first grade together. My first memory of her is volunteering together to paint the school office. She was working hard (something I learned is how she’s wired) and we got to talking. I instantly knew she’d be someone I wanted in my life. She’s caring and kind, but doesn’t allow boundaries to be crossed. She’s a loving mother who taught her kids to speak up for themselves and is the very epitome of unconditional love.
I’ve seen my friend go through some very rough times in the last few years and really focus on healing. She’s in such a good place right now and I saw it, radiating off her (see the photos at the end for photographic evidence, maybe?) I’m really loving these sessions with my friends and can’t wait to keep growing and sharing my photos with you all.
Enjoy!
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What makes you proud? Watching my kids advocate for themselves and set boundaries, and knowing that I provide well for them, not just physical needs but in all of the ways that matter makes me really proud.
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What makes you feel brave? Reminding myself of how much healing and growth I have done these past few years makes me feel brave.
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What gives you hope? Trusting the path that the universe has set for me, believing that it has good things for me, and reminding myself that it has always taken care of me (even though I endured a lot of pain and trauma), gives me hope.
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When we first starting taking photos together, I told my friend to just take a moment to look around the woods. Relax a minute and feel the energy. I snapped this shot. Although it’s most likely just a unique sun flare, my first thought when I opened the image was “did I capture her aura?” I had to share it with you all too.
And here’s some extras, just because I like them:
These were taken with my Olympus E-M1 MarkII, using several different lenses and edited with Lightroom Classic. Let me know what you think, and check out the others in this series if you missed them.
For a moment I lost hope. Fear stuck in my belly and made me sick. I didn’t recognize my country anymore so I chased the moon with my camera. I couldn’t go over the pain. I couldn’t go under it. Oh no! I would have to go through it.
I’m not through it, not even close, but I found a few things to help. Rice fields at sunrise. Cranes taking flight. Gold-tinged farmland. You. We’ve got a long way to go and we need each other. So this is me holding my hand out to you. We are in this together.
“We all—adults and children, writers and readers—have an obligation to daydream. We have an obligation to imagine. It is easy to pretend that nobody can change anything, that we are in a world in which society is huge and the individual is less than nothing: an atom in a wall, a grain of rice in a rice field. But the truth is, individuals change their world over and over, individuals make the future, and they do it by imagining that things can be different.”—Neil Gaiman
*In case you didn’t recognize the reference above, it’s from the delightful children’s book We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.
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As always, all photos were taken by me with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW. Let me know if you have a favorite and have a wonderful week. Only ONE full moon left! What?!!
Mom said she wanted witchy photos in the woods. She wanted to dance in the moonlight and howl. She wanted pointy hats and dark makeup. She wanted her vision of us to be captured forever.
What she didn’t say is generational pain lives in our bones and she wants us to be free. She didn’t say mortality knocks and time moves oh so quickly. She didn’t say let’s be stronger, my dearies, and stop letting others control our happiness. She didn’t have to.
Mom said she wanted witchy photos in the woods. I gave them to her, minus the hats.
This is for you Mom, the one who gives and loves so big, who taught me to be strong, and who carries so much and still laughs. I hope you like the photos and know how much you are loved.
“You’re breaking generational curses. That’s why this doesn’t come easy for you. You’re who your bloodline has been waiting for.” —unknown
These photos are of my mom, my daughter, and me. All photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW, except the last one and it’s a screenshot from a small video I took on my iPhone 13. My talented daughter took the photos I’m in.
masked moonlight wakes me pulling dreams backward, inward pulling body forward, outward five steps and I’m outside bare feet on weathered wood yes, moon, what do you want watch me descend, it says casting legato light across waves as sapient stars nod, blinking in agreement what else can I do but listen
opalescent ocean dances below sings softly of forgetting or is it forgiving maybe it wants me to bleed shedding mawkish memories dance, move, swing your arms let go, it calls can it be so simple
silver moon transforms briefly mimics sunlight before sinking below the waves below the horizon below my pained core with a final golden gasp it calls out to me yes, I hear you
folding, folding I tuck the words inside— my moonset gift swaying, swaying I rock with the waves under billowy blankets until morning comes
Note: Both of these photos are of the moon setting at around 1 a.m. If you look closely in the second one you might see stars.
“You’ll never run again,” he says without looking at me. Cutting words. Biting words. Meant probably to inspire words. Didn’t mean it like that words. Nevertheless, hurting words. Shutting the door behind me, I eat my words. Chocolate-covered words that push back oceans. Candy-coated red words I keep in my purse. Fast food words meant to stop accident words and cops at my front door words and friends who don’t call any more words and razors cutting my baby’s arms words and a dad who won’t talk to me words and it’s probably time to move on words and some people I love have died words.
“I used to run,” I tell the faint sliver moon. Used to, but now my knee hurts, my hip feels tight, and there’s so much more of me. I’m too big. Too big for clothes in the regular part of the store. Too big I might break lawn chairs if I sit down too fast. Too big I must turn sideways to fit through turnstiles. Too big but still the pain swells to fit in all the cracks. Too big but still men like the one who slipped something into my drink and took me in the bathroom still look at me and smile. Too big for feeling this lost. Too big for all this love I have. Too big for all the love I don’t have.
I walk in my new bright shoes. I walk in the dark, so nobody will see me. But I see. I see how the shadow of a bush can look like a dolphin. I see how the street lights turn the gutter into a golden river. I see a tiny solar light create a white starburst across the dark pavement. I see how my breath comes easier when I move. I see how I’ve fallen in love with words and Peter Pan and vulnerability and truth. I see how pain can be stuck but then unstuck. I see how running isn’t the goal, but that nobody should ever say nevers to people they love. I see how I’m still walking. I’m still walking.
nobody cried when sweet smoke arrived. we soot danced, our eyes half-open, bodies ash-drunk on sugar promises plucked endlessly on old guitar
strings. winding streets slowly filled with smoke, siren calling hearts to believe not our choking breath, but it. singing praises like honey symphonies, words
of control. hushing words. lies laying beneath. it quick burns papery thin childlike-hope into dying embers. we believe it all until you
speak. standing atop stacked rocks bright hair blowing, tender eyes locked on us, you say “listen to the wind.” we do. it bends flowers, stops dragonflies, sings
towns alive. go—sweep floors, hug trees, wipe ash from foreheads, clean water, move air. listen to stone, earth, plant. grab my hand tight. don’t ever let me go.
Note: Is this poem inspired by Barbenheimer? Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.
Bridgette Tales 