“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.
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one time i stood
under a flowering pear tree
in my wild backyard
and thought, this is good.
it was warm
and i’d just finished nursing my baby girl.
she heavy-slept in a sling
on my freckled chest.
her hair was red
and my feet were bare.
“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.
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“If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?” —RuPaul
For the month of May, my model was my lovely momma. We decided to include her best friend, Olive, in the photo shoot and I’m so glad we did. My mom is a lover of animals, loyal to those who are kind to her children, and a bit silly. She knows how to make me laugh, is always there when I need someone to listen to me, and loves me more than anyone else on Earth. I credit my mom with giving me my resilience, a childhood filled with animals, and being my number one fan.
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“A winner is a loser who tried one more time.
Not the smartest.
Not the fastest.
Just the one who didn’t stop.”
—George M. Moore Jr.
For the month of March, my model was my dear friend Penny. I met her in 2013 at the table read for the Listen to Your Mother stage show. We locked eyes across the table, and instantly connected. She possesses a warmth and kindness that allows her to make people feel profoundly seen, a rare gift. She’s a singer, writer, storyteller, caregiver, and one of my favorite people on the planet.
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My skills aren’t growing as fast as I want them to. I have several photo shoots lined up in the next few weeks and I’m suddenly aware of how scary this all is. Yes, I’ve been playing with my camera for years, but it’s only been a few months since I took it seriously. I’ve jumped in with both feet and I’m flailing a bit.
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I’m not doing great.
After the tremendous high of self-publishing my book in April, I’ve spiraled into a funk so deep I’m hesitant to even speak about it. I’ve resisted naming it or giving it power, but the truth is as plain as the sweatpants I’ve been wearing for days.
I’m not doing great.
While I can rally when my friends and family need me, it takes everything out of me. My default Pollyanna attitude, always seeing the joy and wonder in everything, is slowly fading away. It’s harder and harder to put a positive spin on things, and as a result, I’m dissociating more and more. I check out for hours and days at a time by playing on my phone or binge watching TV, often doing both at the same time.
The creative spark I had just months ago seems lost.
Yesterday I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I’m picking fights with my family, crying easily, and my body hurts all the time. I feel myself stiffening in all ways. It could be stress in my life, the state of the world, perimenopause, or most likely, all of those things combined.
It’s time to seek help. Again.
Sigh.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, I think part of getting through this is going to be recommitting to blogging again. Reaching out to this beautiful community as my whole broken self and saying, hey, I sort of need a hug right now and maybe you do too, so how about we hug each other with words? That sounds weird, but you know what I mean. We aren’t alone. None of us.
So, yeah. I’m here.
How are you? I seriously want to know. Good? Bad? Tired? Energized? Did you get a new dog? Your cat do something funny? What projects are you working on? Tell me all the things.
I might not be doing great, but I’m going to show up. I’ve taken a ton of photos lately and it’s time to edit them and share them with you. Maybe the joy of the tiny details will help me in my recovery, and who knows, maybe you’ll find something about them to love too.
I’ll leave you with this photo my daughter took of me in Washington earlier this month. I remember thinking in a world where an artist creates something this magical, anything is possible. I’m holding onto that feeling, even if it’s tiny.
I hope you are too.
Kat sees the button first. A bright green light tucked into the corner of the wall. It pulses and calls to her. It knows her name.
“Do you know what day it is?”
The voice speaking loudly beside her ear is all blue and has no face. Only eyes. Where is the green? What day is it? It’s not her birthday. At least she thinks it’s not. The voice keeps speaking and moves now to her other side. She can see the button again. It glows brighter and Kat wants to press it. Instead, burning heat presses into her. It travels from her scalp to her toes. It quiets everything.
Time moves. Kat can feel minutes turn into hours. Days, she thinks. A small window to her right remains closed and covered with thick slatted blinds. A parade of blue figures touches her. Pushes things into her. She points at the green button over and over. Nobody answers her soundless question.
“Did you know Tutankhamun died 1,000 years after the great pyramids were built?”
A voice comes from across the room and Kat sees a figure leaning against the wall beside the green button. Clad in blue, his face isn’t covered. He’s got deep brown eyes with thick lashes, a large sloped nose, thin dark lips, and a small trimmed beard flecked with grey. He says his name is Ebi and Kat smells rain and wet earth when she looks at him. She hears hooves kicking sand.
“The Great Pyramid is made up of over 2.3 million stones, weighing 2.5 tons.”
Kat closes her eyes. Two million. Two tons. The majority of the universe is made of dark matter. It’s made of nothing. She opens her eyes and the green button is still there. Ebi is still there. A question vibrates inside her gut and bubbles and bubbles until the words form and come out as a whisper she isn’t sure carries sound.
“What happens if you press the green button?”
Ebi hears from across the room and smiles.
“It releases air in the isolation room, but don’t press it Kat…it will start things over.”
He winks at her. The number of trees worldwide is greater than the stars in our solar system. She once walked in an old-growth forest and felt the trees leaning forward as if wanting to speak to her. She’s not the center. Everything is connected. Don’t press the button. Press the button.
“The Great Pyramid was the tallest building in the world for 3,500 years.”
Ebi’s eyes are still far away but she can see the reflection of a round clock in the black pupils. The second-hand moves too fast. Dangerously fast. Kat tries to match the rhythm by patting the thin mattress with her hands. Sound can create patterns in sand. It can break things apart. A storm bangs against the shuttered window. Knocks loudly. Is Kat making the storm?
“The pyramids originally had a bright white smooth stone casing which sparkled in the sun.”
Ebi holds a thick book in his hands. Hands covered in thin white scars, and slash marks, like etchings on stone walls. Kat pictures those hands knowing true north and finding what is missing. The book opens and closes. Quiet and heat come again and the smell of rain is replaced with metal.
Kat wakes to find the room empty except for the green light. It calls to her. It knows her name. She can’t ignore it any longer and pulls tubes from her arms and a mask from her face. Her feet find the cold floor.
Stumbling and breathing heavily, she crosses the room in two steps. Or is it two plus two steps? She reaches out her fingers and presses the smooth, round surface of the button. Relief comes as darkness. Her body falls onto the hard floor and her head makes a terrible cracking sound. The air smells of nothing at all.
Kat rolls onto her side and presses her cheek into the warm sand. Voices call around her in celebration. Drums pound out a rhythmic beat like raindrops. Hands hook under her armpits and lift her onto a pair of broad shoulders.
“Stay close Kat,” her father says.“There are many here today to see the Pharaoh off and I don’t want to lose you.”
They stand at the base of a giant pyramid gleaming white with a bright gold top. Voices sing around her. Starting over is scary. Kat grabs the small green stone hanging from a gold chain around her neck and presses it tightly.
Author’s note: I spent a few days this week in the hospital beside my sister-in-law. She’s okay and home now, but I was inspired to write this story by a brief conversation with a nurse about Eygpt.
Bradbury calls upon writers to “go panther-pawed
where all the mined truths sleep.” Lately, I’ve
been rather horse-like; clip-clopping
through knee-high weeds which itch,
burning my skin toward a fake sunset. “Wake up,
dummy,” I say each morning, but somehow
my eyes don’t hear. Instead, I close them tighter;
stumble, trip across briar patches again
and again. “Wake up,” the bluejay mock calls
while diving beak first at my lips. I kiss away
pain by pressing my palms hard across thin
eyelids so I can’t see even a tiny speck
of light. If I don’t look maybe they will go away.
But then the doves sing from their nest. Tiny
white eggs might be under them now; new life
waiting for a chance to dive and fall from branches
into an uncertain world of cats and clovers.
“What if I do open my eyes when I sleep?” I ask
rabbit jumping across my yard. His ears twitch
which means he hears me. He knows plenty
truths, I think. Maybe I can hop wildly like him.
Note: The poem I’m referring to appears in “Zen in the Art of Writing,” by Ray Bradbury. It’s called “Truths Sleep.” The photo is of our pet rabbit named Bun-Bun.
You’ve lived nestled along
our side fence—undiscovered
until now. Touching your
water-soaked trumpet flowers
I marvel at how
perfect you are. Why
didn’t I see your
blushing bright cardinal-red
berries as more than
background noise? How could
I miss your intoxicating
honey-rich smell? Ancient
Rome called you good
luck charms, could you
be what I’ve searched
for—an answer disguised
as hidden treats plopped
into my aching hungry
mouth? Gritty, muted treasures—
arbutus gems. Help me
truly
see.
Bridgette Tales 