"What heaven can be more real than to retain the spirit-world of childhood?"
If i could do over a childhood, I think Easter would be one of wax paper crayon flowers and butterflies, real bunnies and grass fields. Of a picnic in a meadow of early spring wildflowers. For me it’s a longing for the fragrance of new blooms…the turning of a season, the renewal, a certain kind of hopeful wandering. It is a moment to step onto a warm ray of a moonbeam.
“The garden of the world has no limits except in your mind. Its presence is more beautiful than the stars with more clarity than the polished mirror of your heart.” - rumi
It was as if stardust danced at the edge of one season opening up to the next. Iced rain echoed on the glass as delicate crystals sang in the dark.
How does one express the undertow of a span of time when references aren’t tangible; when letters just won’t fall into words that shape the emotional underbelly of the thing.
I made this picture at the beginning of 2020 as a comment on the struggles of the prior year and stepping into the light of the unknown ahead. Looking at it a year later, it feels like a premonition for all that arose in a few months time.
While I’d attempted a daily journal, it quickly dissolved into repetitive nonsense. It seems so trivial - as if my own little perspective had any merit. I guess I had certain aspirations that were quickly abandoned; instead, I spent an awful lot of time in my head trying to make sense of a million and one things at once.
I didn’t feel “connected” and ached for the sort of community that played out…the nightly applause, the acts of kindness, of care, of giving. It feels like I didn’t show up and was instead swallowed up into a petty drama of aging, of weight, of tight clothes, of longing for a desire to find a rhythm, a project, something meaningful.
That didn’t really happen.
What did instead was an escape into work.
I was fortunate to remain employed; and not just in a job, but one I truly love. In that area I’ve frankly thrived. It’s where I’ve poured everything missing. I’ve lived for the meetings/calls, for seeing colleagues and clients faces. I’ve been truly gifted with kind spirited clients who’s grace remains inspiring. I’ve contributed, mentored and for the first time really felt a part of. I guess it’s the bright space that filled the void.
And in warmer months, those days biking to the bluff for yoga, the backyard dinners with a friend, the one visit with parents, the calls with family and friends helped time feel more bearable and march on.
Yet a year later, there’s no denying the sadness… the unsettledness that’s landed. The endless tears that won’t stop. I’ve been told I’m empathic. Super sensitive. Tuned in. And what i feel is honestly a collective grief for all that’s been stolen unnecessarily. It didn’t have to be that way. And for that, I feel a rage of unforgiveness.
I’m anxious for what’s next… loathing the desperation that’s settled under my skin as suddenly the world is tilted. The pandemic forced a stillness I can’t outrun or deny. It’s thrust a middle agedness into my head that I can’t shake. Kudos to those who step gratefully into this time. I’m frankly terrified of it and would do anything to reach my younger wild carefree confident self.
So there are issues. Plenty of them. And at odds with them all is the duality of these as luxury problems. I’ve not lost anyone I love. I’m employed. I have a dwelling I still appreciate and the kindest of landlord friends, a lovely warm furry friend, food, water, power.
Just writing this is grounding and puts the noise in its place; reminds me to get up, face the world, do my best, look for the good, accept sometimes the darkness emerges but to know there’s a crack to let the lightness in.
Birds - Truro, MA | 2020
An entire year since last year’s first day
No more me+him
Just me now
So much happened over last year that it’s a blur and unexpected.
The world as I knew it blew up with a whack on the head and a punch in the gut
And left me with grey matter
And space
Walking seaside and yoga were saving graces
As were those who spent hours, days and months with me - hugging my tears, accepting my silence, cheering me on from the sidelines with love and strength
While I wanted to make it all mean something tangible, somehow pictures seemed irrelevant and words vanished. So while I may not have a living document of that time, I have images that linger ... and a few stolen moments along the way.
I'm still in that in between space
Finding my way
Feeling my feet
Breathing
Taking it in as best I can
Doing it as it unfolds
Trusting the path that's wide open
With an unknown destination
I was unable to write this at the time so doing my best to remember those first impressions
Words were fired across the room; one’s that can’t be retracted. A million cracks inside shattered. I felt each piece as they fell to the floor. Exposed, vulnerable, those remaining shards cut through to the bone. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t feel my face. I trembled. A million and one things flashed through my mind.
There was no sleep or food; i couldn’t taste my tongue.
I walked. I walked more. I walked until I couldn’t then I walked more.
There were tears. Hysterical grief. For all I’d lost of myself. For all I’d left behind for another.
Grief turned to anger turned to numbness.
These are from that first walk; the loop taken slowly with sea legs and tears.
Why is it that the older we get, the more we struggle with time?
Me & Him | Salem Willows, 2019
What used to feel like a structured, manageable, time for everything / everything in its place span, now feels chaotic and often overwhelming even without having kids or a larger family to take care of.
Is it simply more chaotic and more cluttered between emails, social media, projects, digital vs analogue, cell phones, more people, more traffic, more time to get between here and there and back again.
I don’t have answers to any of these but painfully aware of the slow evaporation of things that feed my spirit - taking pictures, exploring, music, cooking, reading a book, a cup of coffee in a cafe, the beach at sunrise or sunset, yoga, exercise etc.
Certainly there are additions that weren’t in place decades ago but I’m determined to squeeze in things I’ve missed. I’ve made subtle commitments and accept imperfection. One of those was photographing more frequently for myself.
It was a year of scenes more than people, ones that now feel still. The times I had to simply walk around and be were far and few between. Looking at these now, I remember each day; some shared with others, most on my own. And despite the few personal trips here and there, most were from Salem.
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. – T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
Here’s to another year … and a continuation of our voices.
This day. The first that really felt like the turning of a season. A long walk...lingering conversation, beautiful silence. And these kids in the water. Not even as a kid would I have gone in on this day. Not even on a dare. I don't like freezing cold water in the summer so getting into this in APRIL - never. But I can't deny a deep appreciation for their joyfulness & ability to frolic like it was July.
Swimmers in April | 2018
Given our times, I was prepared for just about anything when I saw this from a distance - a political ad, a call to action, a #Metoo moment. The last thing I expected - an advertisement. A well done one as well and apparently one that he does fairly regularly in sand or snow. This realtor with a rake and a message.
Man Raking an Advertisement | April, 2018
When we first moved here from Seattle, I insisted on a water delivery service until we tested our tap and found it rated higher. But sadly, in the past few years, things have changed. It just doesn't look/taste the same. And so one of us (not me) did a little investigating and came across this hidden gem.
Jesus, Cross & Adirondack Chairs | 2018
I was intrigued enough after hearing about this place, but what I wasn't prepared for were the artifacts - a VW Van with plastic flowers, the Jesus, Cross & Adirondack Chairs, the Altar with a rake and fire extinguisher....and then the springs themselves. And then there's the water. If you're in the area - - Pocahontas Mineral Springs in Lynnfield.
We arrive again in the frozen glaze of nature's looking glass.. And considering the chaos most of us processed and absorbed (and resisted), the ending of this year finds me feeling a bit worn.
And busy.
2017 was a hell of a year in every way.
It was a year of making my voice heard; it was also year filled with another kind of work .... clients with stories to document and events - my day profession. When the two collided, it was a combination which led to difficult choices ... not being able to do the things I've grown accustomed to and to letting go of blogging and newsletters and website updates and social media. Being ok with a cluttered house, a million projects on hold and apparently holiday cards which remain sitting on a table waiting for me to sent. There were many months spent literally at a computer from 6am to midnight (my husband will attest to that!)
I'll also admit that I've fallen a prey to mainlining news (a diet I don't recommend) as I simply haven't been able to shut it off (despite the moments i've been forced away were beautiful blessings) . But I see a need this year to trim it down. The whirling dervishes will whirl as they say and the toll it's taken on my psyche is noted.
Overall, I was left with an impression of last year as one of work, news and intermittent photography and was pleasantly surprised in looking through last years pictures to see a range of colors and shapes and faces and places. While I don't deny a need to step outside more frequently and consistently, there is proof I've actually been more than a few places.
And even though most of my time in many of those places was spent in a hotel room or convention center, there were a few stolen moments (and pictures) ... where I forgot about the the day and simply took it all in while taking pictures. Here is a sample of my year in review.
While I give my heart to every story, this one was a first - a Bar Mitzvah for the son of a Rabbi. While we’d planned to begin with a Home session, we ended up with Friday at the Synagogue, the Party and Sunday Brunch. And while I knew emotions would run high, I wasn’t prepared for the heartfelt joy that permeated every moment from his siblings, parents and family. While it may seem ordinary to document the moments leading to Shabbat, it is actually far from it - here in particular, with the Rabbi draping the Tallit over his son. In returning for Habdala and photographing in candlelight without flash, it was the beam of light that shone on the faces that formed a circle around the room. The transition to the Party was jublient and the fleeting imipressions of time as it sped by so quickly during the Party. And then there was the brunch held on a beautiful warm summer day; the light, the love, the color and relaxed exhaustion among family.
THE STORY IN A BOOK
A SELECTION OF PERSONAL FAVORITES
“Great dancers are not great because of their technique, they are great because of their passion. ”
― Martha Graham
Imagine you’re about five months from a major move with three boys ranging from four to ten and a daughter with a Bat Mitzvah - one who’s danced in the Boston Ballet Nutcracker, has played the harp since she was a tiny girl not to mention her love of gentle bunny.
The meaning of "beatifiul chaos" is an understatement. And while there were more than one concern on documenting at their home let alone on the Friday before the ceremony, it was within those stolen moments at home, and in those at the Synagogue following that tell the story of a calm among the storm. The love that’s expressed in the most everyday of moments to stolen vignettes that felt near epic in their rendering.
While we began earlier in the week to document a Rehearsal (one in which the girl asked her Mom to wait outside), it was the Friday sessions - first at home, later at the Synagogue - when the true story surfaced: one of love, family, chaos and calm. We opted for portraits on Saturday afternoon at their new home and finished up on Saturday night with photography of an intimate and moving Habdala ceremony through the joyful Hora celebration. This is her story in 140 pictures over one hundred beautiful pages.
THE STORY IN A BOOK
A SELECTION OF PERSONAL FAVORITES
It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. Aristotle Onassis
Read MoreA sea of love colored by pink hats and warm smiles. Despite the darkness on screen and the shadows many of us have felt these past months, we rose and came together in a bonded band of unity and unshakable love.
Read MoreSitting. Meditation. Mindfulness. While these practices have become more mainstream, they are ones I've wanted to commit to more formally.
Read MoreFifty two images shared each week with other photographers from all over the world who became friends after participating in one of Deb Schwedhelm's online or in person workshops.
Read MoreSomehow as the years tick by, my birthday becomes more of reflection than of celebration. And this year was sobering
Read MoreI've been eager to offer a different kind of experience for the kids, immersing them into an introduction of art; one filled with nature and light, laughter and memory. And imprinting this as a picture.
Read MoreIt's hard to know what lies ahead in a world that feels upside down and flooded in a shadow of murky waters except for the weight of the long uphill climb that we've arrived at.
Read More
